In the late spring of 1893, on the mound of ancient Nippur in Iraq, a workman clearing collapsed rubble from a room found clay tablets lying on the floor where they had been dropped, more than two and a half centuries earlier. The excavators recognised the find at once as exceptional: roughly seven hundred and thirty documents belonging to a single scribal household, the archive of a family firm that had leased land, sublet it, advanced silver against it and collected taxes on it across the Babylonian plain. It remains the best-surviving archive of a private business house from the ancient world, and it comes from precisely those decades in which the Pentateuch was taking the form it still has.<\/p>\n
What makes the Murasu archive worth an hour of anyone’s attention is that it is an institution rather than a treasure. Every tablet in it was made to do a job: to record that an obligation had been created, discharged, secured or disputed. Read as a treasure hunt, the archive yields isolated gems, a horse-land bargain of great elegance, a reference to the king’s own land registry, a Jewish family recovering stolen property. Read as an institution, it yields something rarer, a working scribal office caught in the act of running, with its docket system, its seal inventory, its standard clauses, its filing habits, and its sudden silence at the end, when the firm is absorbed into a satrap’s estate administration and the tablets simply stop.<\/p>\n
The house has no name of its own, and that is the first and most instructive fact about it. When Hermann Vollrat Hilprecht examined the tablets in Istanbul in 1894 and announced his identification in 1898, he named them after a personal name, calling them the records of “Murasu Sons of Nippur”. But no term in the tablets can be rendered as the firm’s name. Matthew Stolper, whose 1985 edition remains the standard work, put the point plainly: the texts are records of a single business house, it had no ancient name, and the phrase “the Murasu firm” is a historical postulate rather than a finding. What makes the postulate reasonable is structural. The texts were kept together, in one room, in one hand. Each was drawn up in the interests of one or more members of the family descended from Murasu, or of those members’ agents. Family members acted as co-proprietors of the business, and individual agents served different members of the family in succession. That is the profile of a firm.<\/p>\n
The family name itself is an ordinary Akkadian word. Murasu means “wildcat”, and the naming of the house after an ancestor tells us nothing about its origin or its clientele. Stolper reconstructed their line in a study of the family genealogy published in 1976, and it has stood since without serious challenge. At the top stands Hatin, whose name occurs only twice in the whole corpus, both times as the patronymic of the elder Murasu, who was active from roughly 500 to 445 BCE and who is named in only two of the preserved texts. The elder Murasu’s son Enlil-hatin worked for some years in the family business between 454 and 437 BCE; he appears in only eleven texts. The great majority of the surviving documents belong to two men: Enlil-shum-iddin, active 445 to 421 BCE, and Rimut-Ninurta, active 429 to about 414 BCE, himself a son of Enlil-hatin and otherwise described simply as a descendant of Murasu. A younger Murasu appears in four documents between 424 and 416 BCE, a younger Enlil-hatin in one of 419 BCE. The only woman in the genealogy is Naqqitu, who occurs in a single fragment dated 436 BCE. Beyond differences in frequency of mention, there are no visible differences of rank or competence among them. The house was a family firm in the most literal sense, and the archive is a record of four generations of the same hands.<\/p>\n
What the family did is best described as agricultural management on behalf of other people. Around Nippur the Persian crown held its subjects to a system of land-for-service tenure. Holdings were granted as bow lands, horse lands and chariot lands, each carrying an obligation to supply a soldier of the named arm and to pay an annual tax, the ilku. Groups of such tenants, the hatru, were organised under a state foreman; several of the hatrus recorded at Nippur were settlements of deported peoples, and the texts name groups of Arabs, Armenians, Carians, Cimmerians, Indians, Lydians, Phrygians and Tyrians. The Murasus did not own most of the land they worked. They leased it from feudatories who could no longer work it for cash, sublet it to cultivators, sold the produce for silver, advanced that silver against their clients’ taxes and military costs, and took pledges of land as security. Above the fiefs stood the great estates of the royal family, administered through the firm as well: those of the crown prince, of Queen Parysatis, and of Arshama, the absentee satrap of Egypt, whose Nippur holdings Stolper dated from about 425 BCE through 404 BCE, the interval of his governorship. Nippur itself was the hinge: a transit point between the provincial capital and the southern centre at Uruk, and between the royal residences at Babylon and Susa, with six major canals and upwards of 180 settlements in the firm’s orbit.<\/p>\n
How to read that is still argued over, and the argument matters because it determines whether the archive is a story of imperial extraction or a story of markets. Stolper read the firm as an accessory to the land-grant system, underwriting crown demands in silver and taking land in payment, a tendency he called rent capitalism: the conversion of insecure titles to land into more durable, intangible debt-title. Cornelia van Driel’s work recast the firm’s economics and questioned the language of agrarian crisis, and Reinhard Pirngruber’s study of the late Achaemenid economy situates the Murasus in a tight nexus of interlinked markets in land, credit and labour, treating the firm as one market actor among others rather than a mere agent of imperial pressure. The two readings make the archive mean different things, and the tablets that carry the weight of the argument are precisely those that record a crisis: at the start of the next reign the mortgages by hard-pressed smallholders spike sharply. The instrument that dates the succession crisis is also the ledger of its cost. The firm’s records break off around 414 BCE, absorbed, on Stolper’s reading, into the estate administration of Arshama; the terminal document is dated 1 November 404, the accession year of Artaxerxes II and the very year Egypt broke away under Amyrtaeus. Whether that coincidence is causal, or the archive had simply run out with the firm’s absorption a decade earlier, the evidence does not decide.<\/p>\n
Begin with the room, because the room is the archive. The tablets were found lying on a clay floor in a chamber 5.5 by 2.75 metres wide, a little over six metres below the surface, in the central part of the northwestern ridge of the ruins of Nippur, on the western side of the Shatt-en-Nil canal. That is the description Hilprecht and Clay’s 1898 edition gives of the objects. This was not a library building and not a temple treasury but a single small room, apparently used for storage, with the tablets dropped on its floor and apparently not retrieved. They are baked clay, light brown to greyish, with black spots on one or more sides; the obverse is nearly flat and the reverse slightly rounded, sometimes both faces convex. The writing is cuneiform, impressed with a cut reed stylus, in the standard Late Babylonian ductus of the fifth century BCE, with the cuneiform itself showing the steady simplification Hilprecht noted as a sign of the script’s degeneration in these hands.<\/p>\n
Two physical features distinguish this corpus from most Mesopotamian archives, and both are unusual. The first is the seal. The documents were drafted, witnessed and sealed, and the seal impression is the guarantee of the transaction’s authenticity: the fingerprints of the parties in clay. Legrain illustrated more than two hundred seal impressions from published and unpublished Murasu tablets in 1925, and the corpus of seals remains one of the largest in the ancient Near East. The second feature is stranger, and it is the archive’s most distinctive physical trait: a second writing on the same object. At least fifty of the tablets carry an additional inscription or endorsement in Aramaic, executed either in black ink or lightly incised on the tablet’s surface, summarising the content of the cuneiform text beneath it. Some of the incised examples are, as Stolper observed, evidently the remains of texts originally written in ink, the surviving marks being what a hard pen or an ink-dipped stylus left behind. Each such tablet is thus a palimpsest of two languages, two scripts and two technologies, and the Aramaic is not decoration: it is a docket, a filing label, a summary of the contract for the office that kept it.<\/p>\n
That docket system is what makes the Murasu archive legible as an institution rather than as a heap of contracts. The Aramaic endorsements are formulaic, and Clay’s 1908 study of them, published in the Harper memorial volume, set out fifty indorsements with copies, transliterations, translations and commentary, covering every Aramaic inscription on the tablets of the first two volumes, on the tablets then destined for the third, and on a number still unpublished. Hilprecht had already inserted copies of two dockets into the 1898 edition, and the 1904 volume gave partial copies of several more together with a table of the extant forms of Aramaic letters used in the dockets. It is a small body of material, perhaps a few hundred words in all, but it tells us more about how this office ran than any number of contract texts could.<\/p>\n
Beyond the dockets, the archive’s genre profile is remarkably flat, and Stolper’s census of it is the most useful paragraph anyone has written on the subject. The texts are overwhelmingly of the second of the two kinds a business archive might be expected to hold. If they are administrative records, they should be the basis of an accounting of income, expenditure, inventory or profit; if they are legal records, they should be drafted, witnessed and sealed as proof of claims and obligations. Almost all of the Murasu texts are of the second sort. Almost none are simple accounts, journals or summaries. Only three are inventories. None are administrative memoranda. The texts were entered in the archive as proof that obligations had been created or discharged, and preserved in case of litigation was brought by the other party to the contract. There is no daybook and no set of annual accounts. There is, instead, several decades of paperwork in which a scribe wrote down who owed what to whom, on what security, before which witnesses, and in which year of which reign, and then kept the document because he might one day have to prove it.<\/p>\n
Look at what the genre actually contains and the texture of the firm’s business appears. The 1898 edition’s catalogue lists, in its terse descriptive summaries, a Babylonian citizen standing surety for the release of his nephew; an agreement to abandon legal proceedings; an obligation to repay half a mina of silver with a stated penalty; a mortgage of an orchard taken as security for payment of debt; a sixty-year lease of two kinds of lands and buildings; a receipt for the advance payment of one year’s rent in shegels of silver; a receipt for two years’ arrears of rent in dates; and an official’s receipt for one year’s entire taxes on three fields. These are not unusual documents. Their ordinariness is the point: what they record is a society in which a person’s title to land existed because it had been written down, and in which the proof of that title was a piece of clay that someone had kept for forty years in case of a quarrel.<\/p>\n
One more class of object belongs with them, and it is the saddest. Along with the tablets, the excavators recovered about twenty small sealed clay tags with no writing on them at all. They are generally taken to have been attached, by their seal impressions, to perishable documents written in ink on parchment or leather, and those documents are lost. The archive therefore preserves the index and not the indexed, the tag and not the letter it sealed. Much of a working scribal office’s correspondence may have vanished without trace, while the contracts, which were durable and which the office had a professional reason to keep, survive in the hundreds. That asymmetry is a warning about every ancient archive ever written down, and the gaps here are inside the find rather than outside it.<\/p>\n
The tablets were uncovered between 27 May and 3 June 1893, in the third season of the University of Pennsylvania’s excavations at Nippur, under John Henry Haynes, and were gathered into the expedition’s fortified camp, which the excavators called the castle. The immediate consequence was not discovery but dispersal. Haynes sent the tablets to Istanbul, where Hilprecht examined them in 1894 and, in 1898, identified them as the late Babylonian records of the business house he named for Murasu. The pieces then went their separate ways. The main collections went to Istanbul and to the University Museum in Philadelphia; a group went with the Hilprecht collection to Jena; one tablet ended up at Berkeley and four in the British Museum. The count of the archive has never been settled, and the divergence is itself instructive. Haynes and Hilprecht spoke of about 730 items. Stolper’s reckoning of known texts and fragments, reduced by joins, gave 879, from which he inferred that the archive in its final ancient form contained somewhat fewer than 868 texts, and judged Haynes and Hilprecht’s estimate probably not far off the mark.<\/p>\n
The publication history is a case study in how archives of this kind get edited. The first instalment, Hilprecht and Clay’s volume of 1898, covered the reign of Artaxerxes I; its texts were published with transliterations, translations and a full catalogue of the tablets’ physical features, and it remains the best single description of what the objects look like. The second volume, Clay’s of 1904, and the third, the 1912 volume of the University Museum’s Babylonian Section, attempted the whole of the reign of Darius II, the volume of 1912 adding a study of the words and names in the Aramaic endorsements, a catalogue of the tablets in Philadelphia and a list of those in the Imperial Ottoman Museum at Constantinople. What the editors did not know at the time was that the 1898 volume contained the archive’s latest document rather than its earliest, a text of the reign of Artaxerxes II, as the 1904 volume revealed. The Jena tablets were published by Krueckmann in 1933, and Kraus surveyed the Istanbul holdings in 1947, counting 152 unpublished tablets and fragments in the Archaeological Museums there, a count Stolper considered low. A third or more of the archive remained unpublished in Philadelphia, London and Istanbul. Cardascia’s monograph of 1951, a study juridical in aim which Stolper judged to be presupposed as a companion to any further work, remains the foundational analysis.<\/p>\n
The synthesis came in 1985, with Stolper’s two-volume edition, published as volume 54 of the Publications of the International Association for the Study of Ancient Near Eastern Cultures from the Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut in Istanbul. Stolper’s 1974 dissertation had already presented the 179 remaining tablets and fragments in the University Museum and the four in the British Museum, and Appendix II gives a corrected edition of 120 of them. Stolper’s own summary of the editorial record is the sentence that any user of this archive should carry with them: those editorial choices skewed the chronological distribution of the published evidence in favour of the archive’s later years. A reader working from the editions alone will over-weight the reign of Darius II and will be poorly served on the beginning of the firm, the character of its earliest loans, and the shape of its earliest property holdings. Full publication of the unedited Istanbul tablets would extend the corpus beyond the BE and PBS volumes and put the reconstructions on firmer documentary ground; that remains the single most valuable outstanding task in the field.<\/p>\n
The digitisation of the corpus has transformed what can be done with it without transforming what is known. The Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative, begun in 1998 and funded from 2000 by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the National Science Foundation, put the collections of the University Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology at Philadelphia among the first large groups of cuneiform objects imaged and made searchable, and the project’s catalogue now records the Murasu tablets from several institutions under a single search, linked to the Oriental Institute’s integrated database and to the holdings in Istanbul. For the scholar the practical consequences are unglamorous and decisive. A fragment catalogued in Philadelphia can be compared directly with a tablet in Istanbul and with a line of Stolper’s Appendix II without anyone travelling. The seals can be pulled up as images rather than as descriptions. The dockets can be collated across the corpus, which is exactly the work that a body of fifty short formulaic texts of this kind needs, since their value is in their variants. It also means that the corpus can be queried by date, by hand, by document type and by name, which is how the twenty-first century has been able to say things about the archive that Stolper’s reign-by-reign edition could not.<\/p>\n
Read now for content, the archive is most powerful where it is least dramatic. Land is its subject. A mortgage is the commonest single kind of document, accounting for roughly a third of the corpus, and the pattern is consistent enough to reconstruct a rural economy from it. A debt was expressed in dates, the crop, not in silver, which was the unit of the crown. The debtor was usually a holder of bow land, often a group of coparceners holding undivided shares, and the security was the fief itself with its orchards and grain fields, the hatru of the tenant group named in the document so that the enforcement would attach to the right community. And because bow land was legally inalienable, the defaulting debtor could not simply be foreclosed on. The pledge changed character instead: what began as a hypothec became an antichresis, the creditor taking the use of the land while the debt stood. A man who owed silver kept his fields and paid the produce; a man who could not pay kept the fields and lost the use of them. The system converted an obligation in metal into an obligation in produce and deferred it to the harvest, which is why the archive can be read as a record of the farming year as much as of the empire.<\/p>\n
Three documents show how far the archive reaches behind the transactions it records. The first is a house. The elder Murasu claimed that a property in Nippur had been improperly sold, because the vendors did not own it, and he put his case in a form that tells us what a document in this world could do: that house is mine, it was written down for me in the king’s registry in the twenty-second year of Darius, that is, in 500 or 499 BCE. His adversaries produced a bill of sale. The royal registry took evidentiary precedence, and the house was awarded to Murasu, the suit being settled in July 445 BCE, not by Murasu himself but by his son and legal successor Enlil-hatin, Murasu being by then dead or retired. Stolper took this to show that the archive was the firm’s secondary record, answering to a primary record kept by the crown, and assembled the evidence for such a registry from three passing mentions. The Babylonian word used is an Iranian loan, karammaru, from a term meaning literally the reckoning of people, and it appears in one earlier text only, written at Babylon in 500 BCE, recording the transfer of a slave woman in the royal registry in the nineteenth year of Darius I. The implication is considerable: in the Babylon of Ezra and Nehemiah, a man’s title to his house was a line in a state ledger, and a scribal firm that dealt in land was operating in the shadow of a document it could not itself keep.<\/p>\n
The second is a horse land, and it is the archive’s most quoted document. On 8 January 421 BCE, in the second year of Darius II, Rimut-Ninurta was called up for the cavalry service owed on a horse land in which he held a share. Rather than serve, he contracted with a certain Gadalyama to go in his place, fully equipped, and the deed records the bargain in Gadalyama’s own voice, as the Achaemenica edition of the archive renders it: because Rahim-ili adopted your brother Enlil-shum-iddina, you now possess the share of Barik-ili in the field planted and in stubble, held in tenure as horse-land by Rahim-ili, give me, so that I may go to Uruk in fulfilment of the royal order, and in return I will fulfil the duty which rests on the horse-land as much as is your share. Two things are remarkable. The first is that adoption is used here as a device to transfer property rights: a man who had adopted the principal’s brother had thereby acquired a share of land, and that share could be converted into a substitute’s military service. The second is that the transaction is narrated, unusually, in the words of the counterparty, which is as close as this archive ever comes to a human voice. The archive’s other military material is drier but no less revealing, instructing subordinates to reinforce the openings of canals and the sections assigned to them along the dike of the Sin Canal so that no break occurs, since a break in the irrigation network would destroy the security on which every mortgage depended.<\/p>\n
The third is a theft. In the discussion accompanying the 1898 edition, the editors noted a tablet in which a man named Zabdia and his son enter the house of Zabdia’s brother Udarna and seize his property, which is then restored to its owner. Udarna, son of Rahim-ili, appears elsewhere in the archive as a litigant, and the entry is remarkable for the clause appended to its settlement: the parties agreed that no offspring of Udarna would ever bring charges against his brother and nephew, or against their offspring. A contractual injunction against a blood feud, written on clay and kept, is not a law but an instrument for ending one. Udarna is identified in the modern summary of the documents as a Jew, and his name is characteristic: a personal name compounded with the divine name in its Yah- form, the form that became standard after the exile.<\/p>\n
On the presence of Jewish names in the archive, the received wisdom has been stated with appropriate caution. Some fifty of the tablets carry names held to be Jewish, and about eighty distinctively Jewish personal names are attested. Names such as Hanan, Menahem and Minyamin, or names compounded with El, are attested in Jewish contexts elsewhere but do not establish their bearers as Jews, who may equally have been Arameans or other West Semites. The names that do carry weight are those compounded with the Tetragrammaton or a form of it, such as Achiyah, Yahulakim, Yahulunu and Yahunatanu, together with Shabbetai son of Haggai. What these names show is a community of Judean exiles living in and around Nippur, holding land, herding, borrowing and lending, and appearing in court. They also show that the archive is not silent about them because it was an Aryan document but because it was a business archive, in which a Jew and a Babylonian appear with the same professional competence and the same weight.<\/p>\n
Two areas where the archive disappoints expectation deserve naming, because expectation is usually imported rather than found. The first is women. Stolper’s genealogy contains exactly one woman, Naqqitu, and she occurs in a single fragment. Women appear in the contracts, as parties to transactions and as holders of estates, but they do not appear in their own voice; the archive preserves no correspondence from them, no account of a household, and no narrative of a marriage or a dissolution. The second is slavery, and here the archive is rich but blunt. Slaves are everywhere: chattel slaves among the firm’s own staff, a slave receiving rent, a slave leasing fields with expenses and profits to be shared, a slave receiving taxes for his Persian master, and the woman transferred in the royal registry of 498 BCE. A world in which a slave could lease a field and keep the surplus, and in which a slave’s receipt for rent was as durable as a free man’s mortgage, is a world the biblical narratives do not often show. But the archive is a ledger of obligations, and what it cannot give is interior life, and it would be a mistake to read a silence about women’s voices as a silence about women’s lives, or a slave’s receipt as a slave’s testimony.<\/p>\n
Summaries of the Murasu archive have from time to time listed a small number of items that do not look commercial at all: a set of legal decisions and precedents, a hymn addressed to the chariot of the moon, and a question-and-answer composition. The legal element is real and is where the most interesting work in the corpus is done. The rest needs stating with more caution. Neither the hymn nor the question-and-answer text appears as a separately edited composition, neither has a siglum in the standard editions, and Stolper’s explicit genre census, which records that the Murasu texts contain no accounts, no journals, no summaries, only three inventories and no administrative memoranda at all, does not isolate either of them. They surface in summary lists and in the general impression that a Nippur archive of this size must have held more than bills. The scholarly position I would take is this. It is entirely possible that such items exist in the unpublished third of the corpus, most of which remains in Istanbul, London and Philadelphia. The honest formulation is that the archive demonstrably contains a literature problem, that the problem has never been isolated, edited or argued about, and that an argument resting on a moon hymn or a question-and-answer text is resting on the least secure part of the evidence. One can say a great deal more, and say it safely, about the precedents and about the dockets.<\/p>\n
The precedents are the archive’s case law, and they are best understood as a by-product of its practice rather than as a deliberate collection. The house case is the clearest instance: a claim to property, a competing bill of sale, a reference to the crown’s own registry, and a reasoned preference for the registry over the sale, all recorded by the party who won it. When Stolper’s apparatus prints the elder Murasu’s words, he is printing a legal argument preserved because the losing side needed it kept. The same is true of the canal instruction, which is an order to subordinates rather than a record of administration, and of the Gadalyama deed, which sets out the reason for the bargain in a form that could be quoted back to a judge. A scribal firm that kept proofs of obligations for forty years could not avoid accumulating, incidentally, a record of how those obligations were construed. It is case law as a by-product, and that is exactly why it is valuable: it is not the law of a learned court, but the law as a working Nippur business house understood it, on a day when somebody was angry about a house.<\/p>\n
The dockets are the archive’s literature in the most literal sense, and they are the hinge on which the Aramaic question turns. The Murashu endorsements are Imperial Aramaic, the administrative lingua franca of the Achaemenid empire, in the cursive hand rather than the lapidary, written with ink or fine incision in a script that is not cuneiform and not yet the square script that would later carry Hebrew. The term was coined by Josef Markwart in 1927, who defined it to cover precisely the corpus we are discussing: the administrative Aramaic of the Achaemenids, in which the majority, if not all, of the Aramaic inscriptions and papyri of the Achaemenid period are written, and the Aramaic pieces in the books of Ezra and Daniel. The scholarly consensus has generally treated the Aramaic of Daniel, from 2:4b to 7:28, as an example of the same variety, and the scripts of the East, from Syriac and Palmyrene to Sogdian and Brahmi, all derive from the Imperial Aramaic alphabet these Nippur scribes were using on the edges of their contracts. The Murashu dockets are therefore not a local curiosity but a datable sample of a scribal standard, from the exact decades in which the Aramaic documents of the biblical books were being drafted and copied, and they were being produced by men who wrote Aramaic for a living. The archive is one of the few places where the documentary language of the books of Ezra and Daniel can be seen attached to an ordinary day’s work, rather than to the unfolding of a vision.<\/p>\n
It is worth remembering that the Nippur excavations produced a genuinely literary Aramaic corpus alongside the business archive, and that the two have sometimes been allowed to blur. Montgomery’s edition of the Aramaic incantation texts from Nippur, published by the University Museum in 1913, contains charms for childbirth and against the demons of the night, a text that works through the seven planets and the twelve signs of the zodiac in a cosmological scheme of creation and binding, and a charm drafted in the form of a divorce writ. These are literary and ritual texts of real sophistication, and they are not from the Murasu archive: they come from other deposits at the same site, recovered in the same campaigns. The temptation to fold them into the business archive is understandable, and it is exactly the temptation that produced the moon hymn and the question-and-answer text in the summaries. What survives the distinction is more interesting than either: an office that stored contracts on the floor of one small room, and, a few metres away, a scribal and priestly culture that could write a spell in the form of a divorce. The same city, the same clay, the same decade, two entirely different reasons for writing things down. The contracts are the ones that came with an argument about how to keep them, and they are the reason that the world of the Persian empire in the fifth century BCE can be described at all in the detail that our period requires.<\/p>\n
In the late spring of 1893, on the mound of ancient Nippur in Iraq, a workman clearing collapsed rubble from a room found clay tablets lying on the floor where they had…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":619,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[9],"tags":[232,600,598,597,599,595],"class_list":["post-618","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-text-transmission","tag-aramaic","tag-archives","tag-cuneiform","tag-murashu","tag-nippur","tag-scribes"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/masoretes.online\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/618","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/masoretes.online\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/masoretes.online\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/masoretes.online\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/masoretes.online\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=618"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/masoretes.online\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/618\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/masoretes.online\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/619"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/masoretes.online\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=618"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/masoretes.online\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=618"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/masoretes.online\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=618"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}