Kids interview Ashurbanipal
by Charactorium · Ashurbanipal (684 av. J.-C. — 630 av. J.-C.) · Politics · Military · Culture · 5 min read
That morning, two young visitors push open the door of a room where old clay tablets covered with tiny carved wedges are displayed. A man with a long curly beard welcomes them: it is Ashurbanipal, king of Assyria. He sits down near them and invites them to ask all their questions.
—Is it true that a king like you could read and write? We thought that was other people's job.
You're right to be surprised, my child. Most kings before me left writing to the scribes — those men trained to press signs into clay. I learned it myself. On my annals, I had engraved that I mastered the hidden knowledge of all the art of writing. Imagine a script made of tiny wedges pressed into soft clay with a cut reed, the calamus: that is cuneiform. I read both languages of my land, Akkadian and even old Sumerian. And I could solve difficult math problems. A king who can read sees what his ministers try to hide from him.
A king who can read sees what his ministers try to hide from him.
—What was your day like when you were little and they taught you all that?
I was woken early, and first we consulted the diviners. They looked at the liver of a freshly sacrificed sheep to read the will of the gods. Strange, isn't it? Then came writing. I sat down with a fresh clay tablet and my reed, and I copied the same signs over and over until my hand no longer trembled. Imagine hundreds of tiny wedges to align without error. When the clay dried, the text became hard as stone. I was also trained in archery, for an Assyrian prince must be a warrior as much as a scholar. Both, my child, never one without the other.
—We heard that you sent people to steal tablets everywhere. Was that true?
Steal is a strong word! Let's say I sent my scribes throughout the south of the land, to Babylon and its temples, to copy every tablet they found. And when a tablet was too precious, yes, I had it brought back to Nineveh, my capital. I wanted to gather all the world's knowledge in one place: stories, prayers, remedies, omens. Imagine an entire house filled from floor to ceiling with thousands of clay tablets arranged by subject. It was the first great library in history. An empire always falls eventually; words, however, can survive.
An empire always falls eventually; words, however, can survive.
—And is that how the famous story of Gilgamesh was found?
Exactly, my child, and it touches me that you know it. The Epic of Gilgamesh was already a very old poem in my time — the story of a king who goes in search of eternal life. My scribes copied the most complete version, and they stored it in my library at Nineveh. Long after me, the city burned and collapsed. But the clay fired by the heat hardened, and the tablets waited underground. Thousands of years later, they were dug up. If you can read that poem today, it is because a stubborn king wanted to keep everything.
—Is it true that you went to war against your own brother? That must have felt strange.
Yes... and that remains my heaviest wound. My father divided his kingdom: to me Assyria, to my brother Shamash-shum-ukin the city of Babylon. For years, it held. Then he rebelled against me. Imagine having to raise an army against someone you grew up with, ate with, played with as a child. The war lasted four years. I besieged his city — that means surrounding it to cut off supplies, until hunger. In 648 BC, his palace caught fire, and my brother perished in the flames. People think a king never cries. That is false.
People think a king never cries. That is false.
—Were you afraid of losing all that time? Four years is a long time.
Of course I was afraid, even if a king does not show it. Every morning, I had the omens examined before deciding anything. A siege, you know, is a war of patience: you wait and wait while the city weakens behind its walls. Meanwhile, another danger grew in the east, from Elam, the old rival of my land. I felt I was holding two fires at once. But I had an empire to protect, and a king who hesitates too long loses everything. So I gritted my teeth, and I held on until the end.
—We saw a picture of you eating peacefully in a garden. But there's a head hanging from a tree?!
Ah, you saw that relief! Yes, I had it carved on the walls of my palace. You see me reclining in my garden with the queen, listening to music near the trees. And there, in the branches, hangs the head of the king of Elam, whom I had defeated. It shocks you, and I understand. But put yourself in my place: I wanted every ambassador who walked through that hall to understand, without a word, what happened to those who defied me. An image carved in stone speaks louder than a threat. That was my way of making fear reign — and therefore peace.
An image carved in stone speaks louder than a threat.
—Why show such terrible things on the walls of your home?
Because the walls of my palace were not mere decorations, my child: they were messages. I had destroyed Susa, the great city of Elam, around 646 BC, and I wanted it remembered for a long time. Imagine entering a huge hall, and everywhere, on every side, the stone tells of my victories, my defeated enemies, my hunts. You quickly understand who is in charge here. In my time, few people could read; so I told stories with images. Stone does not lie and never tires of repeating my name.
—In the pictures, you shoot arrows at lions. Did you really hunt wild lions?
Almost! Listen carefully, because it is craftier than it looks. Lions were raised in captivity, then released into an enclosed space, a kind of arena, before the court. Then I pierced them with my composite bow — a bow made of wood, horn, and sinew, capable of sending an arrow very far. It was not merely a game. The lion, for us, was chaos, the beast that threatens the herd and the village. By killing it before everyone, I showed one thing: your king protects you from disorder. Each arrow said: as long as I reign, you are safe.
Each arrow said: as long as I reign, you are safe.
—In the evening, after all that, what did you do to relax?
In the evening, I liked to withdraw to the gardens of Nineveh, irrigated by canals that brought water from the hills. Banquets were held there: barley bread, roast mutton, game from my hunts, dates and figs, wine flowing to celebrate victories. Musicians played in the cool of the evening. But often I preferred something else: I had a tablet from my library brought to me, and I read. Imagine the silence, just the sound of water and the scratching of a reed on clay. A warrior king by day, a reader by night — that is who I was.
—If you are remembered today, would you rather it be for your wars or for your tablets?
What a beautiful question to end with, my child. In my lifetime, I was proud of my conquests: Egypt, Elam, the subdued tribes. I thought my glory would rest in my armies. But look: my empire collapsed soon after my death, and Nineveh was razed. What crossed the centuries is not my arrows — it is my clay tablets, my library, and that old poem of Gilgamesh that my scribes saved. So if you want to remember me, remember the king who wanted to preserve the world's knowledge. That is my true victory.
My true victory is not my arrows, it is my tablets.
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This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Ashurbanipal's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.