Their coach swayed
along a desert grit road, its garish livery muted by fine dust, the rattle of
the air conditioning contesting the engine's growl. It described a wide circle,
rocking from side to side, whilst the exhaust spluttered alien chemistry into
wide earth and open sky.
The girl thumbed
her study notes and read words that stirred with promise. As the bus slowed she
pushed the notebook into her shoulder bag and peered bright-eyed through the
dirt-streaked window at a scarred and abandoned landscape. Raised by the
wheels, dust plumes drifted by in the heat of the day; departing spectres of
those who once lived, laughed and toiled here - or so she imagined.
For some this was
an excuse to pop another cola can, feign interest in the glossy itinerary
replete with superlatives or raise a camera and snap what lay beyond the window
to prove they had been to that famous somewhere-or-other named in the brochure.
They had seen too many ruins these last few days. Were they expected to leave
the coach again to suffer this infernal heat?
'Where are we?'
asked an aged man, chicken-claw fingers clutching a wide-brimmed straw hat that
boasted the tour operator's logo.
'Some place called
Warka,' replied his dressed-for-the-shopping-mall, wife. 'That's what it says
for Thursday afternoon, see - Warka. What's supposed to be at Warka, for God's
sake?'
'Heaps of dried
mud,' he mumbled, narrowing his eyes close to the window. 'Why they suggested
we come out here, I don't know. D'you have that damned guide book?'
A sharp tap. A
piercing electronic squeak. At the front of the coach their tour guide had
switched on his microphone.
'Okay,' announced
the stubbled face and mirrored sunglasses, 'the modern name for this site is
Warka.' Another squeak assailed their ears as he moved the microphone away from
the console. 'If you have been reading your brochure you will know that this
was once a great city - yes, a very famous city. Its ancient name was Uruk.'
Perhaps in hesitating he expected a question or two. There were no questions,
though the girl and her two male companions eyed him steadily.
'Like most sites
in the Tigris-Euphrates area,' he continued, 'known to the ancient Greeks as
Mesopotamia, this is very old. It was at least as ancient to the Classical
Greeks as the Greeks of those days are to ourselves - okay? The site was
occupied for over five thousand years - right to the third century of the
Christian era - a very long time - yes? And no matter how it looks today, this
place is very special.'
Fingers rummaged
noisily inside a plastic bag. Others stabbed and poked at smart phones. Most of
the passengers settled back in their seats as if to say, 'Fine, but I'd rather
be down by the hotel pool.'
The girl smiled at
their guide and nodded encouragement.
'You see these
ruins now,' he continued above the drone of the engine whilst prodding the
sunglasses a little higher against his nose, 'and maybe you would not think this
was once the biggest and most important city in the land of Sumer. There are no
stone temples, no marble sculptures - nothing like that. They used mostly
bricks of mud that were dried in the sun or baked in kilns. Here in the
alluvial plains of southern Iraq finding stone was not so easy and there was
little timber for building. Such things had to be brought from far away and
used sparingly. So, they made good use of what they had - clay.'
'We saw plenty of
trees some way back,' croaked one of the elderly passengers. Here was a point
to be made.
'Okay, yes, as the
gentleman says, there are trees - but these are date palms that have always
grown here. The ancients made use of the fibres, leaves and fruit, as people do
in our own time, but the wood is not strong enough to cross large spaces. So,
the people of those days built mainly in mud-brick and reeds - materials that
do not last as long as stone.'
The coach engine
roared as an angry beast. They shuddered to a halt and the guide gestured
beyond the window. 'Now, as you can see, it is dry here because the Euphrates
river has shifted far away. But long ago that river flowed close to Uruk so the
land was irrigated and fertile. Here was once a city of maybe fifty thousand.
As I explained earlier today, those people, the Sumerians, are a mystery to us.
No one knows where they came from. Their language was unique. We know of no
connection to any other. But they were the most resourceful and inventive
people in the ancient world - okay? And right here in Uruk were discovered the
world's first written records.'
'You mean these
guys invented writing?' drawled a woman with white-creamed nose and floppy blue
hat.
'Ah yes, they were
the first people we know of to use it,' enthused the guide at this modest show of
interest, 'and that was around five and a half thousand years ago - okay? The
people of these lands were also the first to use the wheel for transport but
remember, in those days they had no horses - only the ass and the ox to pull
their carts.'
'How about that,'
someone drawled wearily, 'ah got me a cart but I got no hoss.'
'It must have
taken a hell of a time to go any place,' observed another.
'That is so,'
replied the courier. 'But maybe they were not in so much of a hurry.'
The engine slowed
to a murmur and he leaned aside to speak a few words in Arabic to the driver.
Returning his attention to the party, his face broadened into a wide smile.
'Okay, here we can get out and see the ruins close up.'
'How long do we
have to stay?' asked one in pink satin dress and high heels, mustering enough
enthusiasm to stifle a yawn.
'Looks like those
pictures they send back from Mars,' remarked her blue-rinsed companion.
'How long?'
answered the courier, 'Well, we have allowed up to one hour and I will explain
what you see as we go around.'
'An hour - is that
all?' came the girl's voice from the rear of the coach. The courier perceived a
blaze of light in the lowering dusk of indifference and smiled, 'Ah, one of our
student friends. Yes, I'm afraid that is all the time we have. The afternoon is
very hot. I think an hour will be enough.'
'Perhaps we'll
hang about here for now,' nodded the blue-rinse. 'My shoes will be ruined.'
Others muttered agreement. More smart phones appeared. Some hovered momentarily
against the windows.
'As you wish,' replied
the courier, though a few began to struggle from their seats.
A serpent hiss, a
stamping-hoof clatter and the door at the front of the coach quivered open.
Most eager of the eight who clambered out to tread ancient earth were the three
students in T-shirts and jeans. They grinned at each other as someone hung
stooping from the hand rail in the coach doorway to gasp, 'Christ, how could
anyone live out here - it's a goddamned furnace!'
'It would have
been more pleasant when the river flowed close by and the city was surrounded
by green fields and palm trees,' responded the courier. 'The houses of the city
dwellers were built around shaded courtyards for comfort. They could use their
rooftops to avoid the humidity and maybe grow bushes and flowers. I think then
it was a good place to live.'
'You must know a
lot about Sumerian history,' said the girl as they moved away from the coach,
wisps of straw-blond hair shifting across her face in the hot breeze.
The man adjusted
his sunglasses again and her face was mirrored in them like a tiny votive doll
as he replied, 'I am a university lecturer in Baghdad but doing this I make a
little more money. Things are not easy in this country as you know. There has
been much violence and still there is uncertainty.'
At that point he
stopped and turned to face his diminished audience. 'Okay, people, where we now
stand would have been some way inside the city wall. That wall was once nearly
ten kilometres around and within its circuit lay temples, workshops, houses and
gardens. Most of the excavations have been carried out around the great temples
that occupied the centre of the city. Little of what we see belongs to the
earliest phase because successive generations destroyed or built on top of what
was there before. And so, the city grew upon its own ruins. The remains closest
to us,' he gestured across the rubble-strewn ground to where lay a soft edged,
irregular geometry of low walls and foundations, 'are belonging to the last
period of the city when it was occupied by descendants of Alexander the Great -
those we know as the Selucids. Afterwards, from Iran, came the Parthians.
Rising up behind,
you see what remains of the great temple of Uruk's patron goddess, Inanna. She
was goddess of love, fertility and war. Most ancient civilisations seem to have
had such a deity. Maybe you know of her by her Babylonian name, Ishtar. The
Greeks had their Aphrodite. To the Romans she was Venus.' Glancing up at the
ruined temple he continued, 'As you will have read in your guidebook, we call
this kind of structure a ziggurat. To the people of these flat lands the
ziggurat was a mountain - perhaps a stairway to the gods.' He produced a limp
handkerchief and with it dabbed his brow. 'Okay, we will walk around the
ziggurat and there you can still see reed matting they laid between the courses
of brick.'
'How old is the
ziggurat?' asked one of the male students.
'Older than most
of what you now see,' he replied. 'It dates back more than four thousand years
and was rebuilt by those who ruled from the city of Ur when they conquered all
of Sumer.'
As they walked on,
he answered questions, dispensed more okay's and described what lay about in
greater detail. Two of the party, oppressed by the heat, retreated to the
cooler interior of the coach. But the girl's hazel eyes saw much as she studied
the great ruin. Against the harsh sky it arose - a layered mound of facets and
recesses licked almost smooth by the tongue of time; its once pristine form and
measured features long vanished beyond human memory.
'By around four
thousand years ago,' continued the guide, 'Sumerian culture and language were
being replaced by that of Babylon to the north. For a time, the land fell under
Assyrian rule, and then Persian - until Alexander, who you call, "The Great,"
came. We have to thank the scribes of Assyria and Babylonia for our recovery of
Sumerian literature. They preserved and translated into their own language the
writing of earlier days - okay? Much of what has been recovered came from the
royal library at the Assyrian capital of Nineveh, far to the north. That city
was burned by the Babylonians and Persians, six hundred and twelve years before
the Christian era. But, and here is truly a miracle, the flames that destroyed
Nineveh also baked and preserved thousands of clay tablets that otherwise would
have crumbled to dust. Amongst those tablets were discovered many religious,
historical and literary texts, including the oldest recorded tale in human
history.'
'The Epic of
Gilgamesh,' put in the girl with an enthusiastic smile.
'That is so,' he
replied, 'the Epic of Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh - the man who sought eternal life.
You know of him? You have read this?'
'Oh, sure, we
covered it at college. It's why we grabbed those spare seats on the coach -
just so we could see where he lived.'
'Okay - and this
is the very place, but the Epic as we know it was put together over the many
centuries after Gilgamesh lived and belongs more to myth than to history. Much
like your King Arthur, I think. I have read about him, also.'
'But Gilgamesh did
live,' responded the girl. 'We know that for sure, don't we? For people to have
kept his name alive over all that time, he must have been more than an ordinary
man - more than just another petty king.'
One of the party
glanced at his watch and, with two others, drifted away to smoke cigarettes and
talk amongst themselves on their way back to the coach, stopping only to pose
idly for photographs with the ruins of Uruk a convenient backdrop.
'Ah,' replied the
guide, seemingly unconcerned that his party consisted now of only the three
students, 'who can know what kind of a man this Gilgamesh was. Legend says he
conquered his enemies, rebuilt the walls of Uruk and glorified the temple of
Inanna but legend is legend and there is little more anyone can say.'
'They had so many
gods and goddesses in those days,' said the girl. 'Religion must have been
pretty complicated.'
'But perhaps more
tolerant,' replied the guide. 'Now we have Islam, a religion of one god, but it
can be very intolerant the way Christianity was in your middle ages. This I say
to you because soon you will be gone from this country with your memories. But
if you can imagine - if only you can imagine what this city was like in her
days of power and glory.'
The other students
began to put questions of their own but the girl turned aside and sat down on a
low, mud-brick wall whilst the voices of her companions and that of the guide,
drifted away. Her gaze wandered across the sun-scorched monotony of rubble,
trenches and toothless-jaw ruins. She regarded the sad and all but featureless
heap that once had soared in grandeur as the pride and spirit of once great
Uruk, a city returning to the formless earth from which it had long ago been
wrested.
'Hey, Angie!'
called one of the students.
'I'll catch up
with you!' she replied with a wave of her hand.
They were gone.
All lay still and silent beneath an empty sky. The girl drifted into fanciful
thought, all but oblivious to the desolation. Oblivious to the heat. Oblivious
to time itself.
A step away from
the wall upon which she sat lay the softened edges of a rectangular pit. It was
lined with part-tumbled bricks of baked clay. She wondered if perhaps it had
been a burial - the final resting place of someone important, because it stood
not far from the ancient temple mound. In the sand by her foot, small coloured
fragments caught her eye and she reached down, scooping up several of them to
place on the palm of her hand where she examined them closely. What were they?
Fragments of painted shell or bone? Ivory, perhaps? One was a rich, deep blue
that shimmered in the light as if trying to impart to her a memory of its past.
Were these discarded little remnants once a part of something of great value -
something wonderful?
'But they did
remember you,' she whispered. The fragments slipped as passing time through her
fingers and she spoke his name. 'They remembered you, Gilgamesh, king of Uruk.
Through all the centuries they remembered and you became a legend. Gilgamesh -
are your bones hidden beneath these ruins? If people have a soul, does yours
still wander this lonely place? I sit beneath the same sky and breathe the same
air as you once did. Oh yes, I do. If only -'
A movement. Her attention
was drawn to the desert haze and she became aware of a figure some distance
away - a young man dressed in white, long black hair cascaded about his
shoulders. Arms half raised, he seemed transfixed at the sight of the ruins but
she could make out nothing more. Thinking it odd that he should wander the desert
alone she looked about to see if there were others nearby, companions perhaps,
who might be waiting for him. There were none so she wondered if he might be a
nomad. Did she hear the man cry out or was it her imagination? When she
returned her gaze to the desert the figure had vanished.
A breeze sprang
up. Invisible spirals gathered about, hovered for a while then scurried away
with her thoughts.
In those brief
moments the city was whole again amidst green fields. Close by the great river
glinted sunlight. Boats swayed colourful upon the water. Inanna's temple soared
white against a smiling sky, a sacred jewel in Earth's crown. Her voice carried
his name as a soaring eagle across the land. 'Gilgamesh!'
CHAPTER 1 - GILGAMESH THE KING
Sangasu was a rough
man of the country, a hunter and trapper, his hands often stained with blood,
his clothes smelling of the animals he snared and skinned and of the earth that
often served as his bed.
Afternoon sun
still blazed fierce when he raised a hand to shade his eyes. Beholding Uruk at
last in the hazed distance, he urged the ass onward with a gruff cry and a
swish of his stick. At one side of his toiling mount hung a leather bag to
contain his sustenance of bread, cheese and dried figs. To the other, a pair of
leather-capped flagons to contain rough beer. All were now were empty.
Much wearied from
travelling, the image of the city rekindled his hope and strength. Three days
had passed since Sangasu had set out at first light from his humble home in the
wild lands, attired in deerskin cap, cape and loincloth of stitched animal
skins. By day he had detoured to where he hoped there would be water. At night
he had rested under the stars, mindful of lion and wolf but had encountered
neither. His night-time company had been the beast that carried him and the
fearful image that haunted his thoughts day and night, the image that urged him
so desperately on. In the day, buzzards and vultures had circled against a
searing sky in anticipation of their next meal - the man they saw alone in a
sea of desert. Having forded the great river where it was wide and shallow he
eventually reached one of the tracks used by traders who came and went from
marshland and desert. Some way ahead he would need to cross the sluggish waters
of canal and irrigation ditch, then finally a narrow branch of the river that
snaked in close to the city wall where stood Uruk's busy quay. Here were moored
boats that came and went to places he would never know. Worlds of dreaming.
The land no longer
stretched away as desert but had become green pasture. In time Sangasu found
himself riding through the barley fields where Uruk's people toiled naked in
the heat, wielding wooden scythes with keen, flint-edged blades. Across this
patchwork land the crops had ripened full and plentiful and the main harvest of
the year was almost done. Passing by, he watched them gather the barley, bundle
and bind it in readiness for ox and cart. Already the aroma of the orchards
laying closer to the city had livened his senses.
A short way from
the floating bridge, he dismounted, tethered the ass to a bush close by the
water then sat down against the trunk of a date palm where the shade from
surrounding trees offered modest relief. Important as his journey might be,
there was still time to rest his aching bones before crossing the river. Time
as well to feast his eyes upon the glorious sight that was his destination.
Sangasu clasped hands about his knees and breathed in deeply. Here was a
splendid view of the city and her great wall. A strong wall of burned brick,
clad with dazzling white gypsum. A wall fit to resist the guile and battering
of the enemy. Always there had been an enemy. Bright in golden afternoon light
with the long shadows of palm trees cast across its seamless face, the wall
curved about Uruk as a protecting arm.
Some way behind
this rampart arose another, higher wall that defined the temple platform within
the holy precinct called Eanna. Its cornice, sheathed in burnished copper,
blazed sunlight. Rising in majesty above this was the portal of earth and
heaven, gateway to the gods, the white-plastered, recess-walled temple of
Inanna. Inanna - she who the people of Uruk revered as Queen of Heaven. Before
it her brightly coloured banners swayed lazily from cedarwood masts. Sangasu
wondered if the hand of man might ever again enrich Sumer with wonders to equal
Uruk and her temples.
As with all
dwellers in this land, Sangasu possessed some knowledge of the city and its affairs.
It was common knowledge that Uruk's king had brought low the ruthless Agga,
ambitious ruler of mighty Kish, Uruk's old rival far to the north. Since those
bloody days Gilgamesh had enlarged the city wall, had enhanced and beautified
the shrine of Inanna with coloured mosaics of precious glass and stone - all
aided by the spoils of war.
It was commonly
believed that Gilgamesh was fifth in line of the deified ones who had ruled
over Uruk since the time of the Great Flood. Born of Ninsun the Wise, herself a
minor goddess according to many, Gilgamesh was champion of the people, his rule
sanctioned by the city elders and by the priesthood of both Inanna and of
remote and mystical Anu, father of the gods and ruler of the heavens. As for
the king's father - the trapper knew nothing beyond the rumour that he was a
priest from the precinct of the Kullab district where Anu's temple stood.
Others declared his father to be a divine hero but Ninsun's private life was
shrouded in mystery and so speculation remained no more than that. Sangasu had
heard, recited by the city's children, how the deeds of Gilgamesh were a beacon
by which every red-blooded male might set the course of his own life when he
reached manhood. And when conflict came.
Would Kish rise
again? Would another town seek glory by aggression? Always the star of fortune
must rise for one as it descended for another. Passing traders talked of
intrigues and changing alliances and the nomads might also carry news of value.
There were disputes over water, over territory and over livestock though the
priests taught that such things were in the hands of the eternal gods and not
of frail mortals. The gods made themselves known in wind, in tempest, and in
the fortunes of mankind. Much of this Sangasu understood, though in his
unending days of toil it counted for little.
But what had
driven him in desperation to Uruk with no skins to trade, with nothing to
exchange for even a morsel of food or a cup of beer? He hoped someone, perhaps
the priests of Inanna, would be feeling generous. Perhaps they would offer him
beer and bread to ease the thirst and emptiness he felt within. Perhaps also a
place to rest for the night where he might think over his plans for the
following day.
Sangasu the hunter
and trapper could never have guessed the nature of events taking place in Uruk.
Events in which he, a man of so little importance in the great wide world, was
destined to play a brief yet vital role. But for now he had found unexpected
comfort. Sangasu closed his eyes and lost touch with the day. When he awoke the
sun had gone and in descending darkness a figure stood watching him.
***
The sky was
brightening when the drum rattle echoed through narrow, shadowed streets.
People moved aside to wait and watch as the party approached. 'Make way for the
king!' cried the herald. 'Make way!'
The sun had not
cut the horizon as they passed by on their progress to the Southern Gate.
Uruk's people were familiar with the chime of gilded harness that adorned the
king's spirited asses. Familiar with the ornate but cumbersome chariots whose
wooden wheels furrowed the ground. Their king often took this route,
accompanied by the royal companions, each attired in white tunic, each boasting
a finely crafted spear tipped by polished bronze.
'Keep aside!'
ordered the herald, passing on ahead with the sound of his drum giving way to
the snort of asses and rumble of wheels. Then they were gone and people
continued about their business.
The day was one of
peace within Uruk because the market stalls were closed. All but the very
youngest and the very oldest, or almost all, laboured in the field and orchard
below whilst their chatter drifted across to the temple on still, humid air.
***
Later that
morning, below the white facade of Inanna's temple, three shaven-headed priests
relaxed upon a low mud-brick bench, cushioned by the softness of lambswool
rugs. They were shaded in part from the sun by a stepped recess of the wall, in
part by an awning of woven rushes suspended above their shaven and oiled
bodies. About the limestone floor beneath three pairs of splayed feet was
spread rush matting. Upon the matting rested sandals, dishes of dates, dried
figs, fresh fruits and, casting a shadow across these, a terra-cotta jug,
round-bellied as the owners of the three copper drinking tubes that had been
placed upon the rushes next to it. The beer jug, alas, was drained almost to
its sediment-laden bottom.
One of the three
began to snore. Another glanced at him disapprovingly, adjusted the folds
beneath his woollen kilt for greater comfort, leaned back against his cushion
and closed his eyes. His companion to the other side did likewise.
'Pardon, holy
ones!'
Two pairs of eyes
sprang open. Oblivious to the intrusion, the portliest of the trio, continued to
snore, each exhalation of air ending in a lip-quivering splutter.
'Ah,' exclaimed
the first priest, eyeing the lean, deep-tanned form of a fuzzy-haired slave of
the temple, as the boy knelt out of respect before them, 'I take it you have
brought fresh beer - though I see no sign of it.'
'He hasn't brought
any beer,' remarked the second priest, wafting his face with a fan of woven
reeds. 'We'd see the jar standing in front of us if he had.'
The third priest
snorted, stirred, passed wind loudly from his rear and at last opened his eyes.
'What! Is it the beer?'
'He hasn't brought
any beer,' repeated the second priest.
'Holy ones,'
nodded the boy with exaggerated anxiousness before three well-fleshed,
questioning faces, 'there are men from the town of Larsa wanting to speak with
you.'
'Men from Larsa!'
exclaimed the first priest. 'What are men from Larsa doing here at harvest time
and what do they want
with us?'
'They didn't say,
holy one,' answered the boy, rising to his feet before permission to do so had
been given, 'but they are impatient and demand to be heard. They sent me
because they could find no one else to bring their message.'
'Oh, very well,'
grumbled the first priest, glancing at the other two for signs of agreement,
'show them up here and then go for
the beer.'
'No problem, holy
ones!' With a cheeky grin, the boy scurried off bare-foot down stone steps to
the precinct, to reappear several priestly yawns and grumblings later with two
men striding close behind. One of the pair, the priests observed, was tall and
fine-featured with well-groomed hair and plaited beard. A patterned headband
kept sweat from his eyes, a fringed white gown of embroidered linen swayed
about his slender body and on his feet were leather sandals set above the toe
with semi-precious stones, their glitter muted at present with a coating of
dust. In one hand was clutched an ivory-handled flywhisk.
With leather bag
clutched to his chest, his bald-headed companion, almost as portly and as
sparingly dressed as the three priests, was evidently a slave. In recognising
the status of the taller man, the three priests arose awkwardly from their
seats as he halted before them.
'Holy ones,' he
began, showing his left hand where was fixed the bronze ring that proclaimed
him an official attached to the royal household of Larsa. 'I regret
interrupting your well-earned period of contemplation but no representative of
your king seems available today. I went to the House of Assembly but was told
the elders of your city are absorbed in council with townsmen and must not be
disturbed. I waited in the heat with no offer of refreshment and nowhere to
stable our asses. It seems I was not expected, though a messenger had arrived
here shortly after dawn to announce my visit.'
'You must excuse
our apparent laxity,' offered the first priest, 'but the king and his retainers
left Uruk at first light for their sport and we ourselves were given no notice
of your arrival. What the elders are about today I really can't imagine.'
Turning to the lithe figure leaning casually against the wall a short distance
away, he barked, 'Boy - why are you idling there? Fetch the beer!'
'Ah, that won't be
necessary,' said the envoy, thinking the request had been made on his behalf,
'I found a beer-seller by the precinct gate before ascending to the temple. I
will leave the document in your safekeeping and inform our lord that he may
expect a response within a few days - at Lord Gilgamesh's convenience, of
course.' He glanced impatiently at his mute companion who, reaching into the
leather pouch, withdrew a clay tablet, larger than a man's hand, densely
inscribed with clusters of wedge-shaped characters. 'I trust someone will read
this to the king on his return.'
'Someone!' put in
the second priest with an indignant cough. 'Our king will read it for himself.
Does the Man of Larsa not read his own documents?'
'He has others to
do that sort of thing for him,' replied the envoy with a hint of condescension.
His slave handed the tablet to the first priest, who studied it intently for
some moments before looking up at the envoy. 'Our lord won't be pleased with
this, I know it.'
'What's in the
message?' asked the second priest, straining to peer over his shoulder.