Welcome to the second of three posts on the Epic of Gilgamesh. This amazing story was rediscovered by modern archaeologists and the first segments translated by scholars around the turn of the twentieth century. What we know of it comes from many fragments of verse in cuneiform writing on clay tablets found in Sumerian and Babylonian archaeological sites.
The Epic of Gilgamesh was first written down at least 5,000 years ago but was probably told for centuries before that. It's a fascinating window into the stories that people in these ancient civilisations told about themselves.
Not all the verses have been rediscovered yet, however scholars believe that it is only a matter of time as there are many fragments of clay tablets, housed in collections across the world awaiting translation. A translation of the rediscovered original text can be found here.
With that backstory out of the way, we continue with tale.
Ishtar seethed with rage as she threw open the ornate cedar doors to her father’s hall with a gesture of her hand. Her wind-swept silhouette filled the doorway and the torches lining the walls flickered in the icy draft that swept ahead of her.
Anu was silent as his beautiful daughter approached his throne. Her wrath was palpable, but her words were focused with glacial intensity, “something must be done about Gilgamesh’s arrogance. Every day brings the gods a new humiliation at his hands. Not only did he slay the mighty Humbaba, he has now mocked me, me! the most beloved of the gods amongst the people of Uruk. If something isn’t done we will lose the people’s respect.”
“Give me the reins of the Bull of Heaven so I can release it against the city of Uruk until Gilgamesh is overthrown.”
Anu was certainly troubled by events surrounding Gilgamesh. As the father of the gods, he was still reeling from Humbaba’s death and the conflict this had caused in heaven. Many of the gods had criticised Shamash the sun god for aiding Gilgamesh and Enkidu. And Anu could not deny the paternal flicker of anger he felt at Gilgamesh’s insult to his daughter.
But releasing the Bull of Heaven into the mortal realm would cause devastation not seen since the great deluge. Crops would not grow for seven years on any land it scoured.
When Ishtar vowed to open the gates of hell and release the dead into the land of the living if he did not give her the Bull of Heaven, Anu relented.
The city of Uruk shook from the tops of its walls to the foundations of the great ziggurat. Men rushed to close the gates and brace the door. Soldiers trembled as they stood between the terrible apparition and the city gates. The smell of sulphur and the stench of panic filled the air.
The great Bull snorted, opening a huge pit in the Earth sending a hundred soldiers falling to their doom. It snorted again opening another pit and two hundred soldiers perished. The third time it snorted and opened the earth Enkidu fell in to his waist but leapt out and grabbed the Bull by its horns and wrestled with it. The bull strove against him showering him with its poisonous slaver but it could not dislodge his grip.
Enkidu called to Gilgamesh to help him in the struggle. As his friend rushed to his aid with knife drawn, Enkidu released the horns and grabbed the bull by the tuft of its tail and, placing his foot against one of its hind legs, he held it fast. He called to Gilgamesh to thrust his knife between the yoke of its horns and its slaughter spot. With the skill of a butcher Gilgamesh thrust his knife into the heart of the immense bull.
The Bull crashed to Earth, spilling blood across the plain in front of Uruk’s gates. Gilgamesh cut out the Bull’s heart and raised it in tribute to Shamash the sun god.
Ishtar appeared again on the city walls and called out in woe “Alas, Gilgamesh who mocked me, has now killed the Bull of Heaven!”
For the second time Gilgamesh turned his back on the Goddess of Love as he cut the bull’s horns from its head as a trophy to be hung on his walls. That night as he feasted he called to the serving girls of his palace “who is the finest among men, who is the most glorious of kings?” “Gilgamesh!” they answered as one.
Gilgamesh made merry in his palace but in the halls of Anu, the gods were not happy.
As those that have followed this blog would know by now, the characteristic most despised by the old gods of nature is human hubris. In the old tales, unlike the stories of today, there was always be a price to be paid when the arrogance of humans gets out of hand and the sacred balance was up-ended.
In this case it was the sensitive and ever-loyal Enkidu who paid the price for Gilgamesh’s arrogance.
That night Enkidu was visited by a dream of the gods holding a great council. He heard Anu pronounce his will that for the price of slaying Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven, one of Gilgamesh or Enkidu must die. He heard Enlil state that Gilgamesh must live so it must be Enkidu who dies. He saw Shamash grow angry and declare Enkidu’s innocence, but it was to no avail.
Enkidu awoke knowing that his doom had been proclaimed.
That day a delirium took Enkidu and he lay restless with fever. He spoke to Gilgamesh of his dream and wept, knowing that the gods had sent a sickness and his death approached.
Gilgamesh did not accept this fate for his friend and decried the madness of his words. He vowed to beseech the gods in supplication, to offer gold and jewels at the temples of Anu, Enlil and Ea. He would pray to the mighty Shamash, long the patron of Gilgamesh and Enkidu.
But Enkidu had no hope for his salvation, “the word Enlil spoke is not such that the gods can rescind. My friend, fixed is my destiny, I go to my doom before my time.”
A further vision came to Enkidu that night as he lay wracked with fever. He spoke of it to Gilgamesh, “with bound arms I was led to a house of darkness along a path of no return. The people drank dust and ate food of clay. Ancient kings served at the tables of the gods before the terrible queen of the underworld Ereshkigal and her scribe Beletseri who spoke aloud as she wrote on her clay tablet. As I entered she looked up at me and asked ‘who has sent this man’.”
After this vision of the realm of the dead, Enkidu called out to his friend through his delirium “Remember me, my friend, don’t forget all I went through. One who falls in battle makes his name, but I do not fall in battle and so do not make my name”.
Gilgamesh, wept and vowed that Enkidu and his deeds would be long remembered. He said he would raise statues in his honour and ensure that his name would be praised for generations.
Gilgamesh sat at Enkidu’s bedside helpless as his friend’s sickness worsened day by day until on the twelfth day of his sickness Gilgamesh felt Enkidu’s once-mighty heart fall silent.
Even then Gilgamesh refused to leave Enkidu’s side. He covered his friend’s face like a veiled bride, all night he circled the death bed pacing this way and that like a caged lion. He tore at his own hair, he threw off his fine clothes as if cursed. For six days and seven nights he remained by Enkidu’s side, forbidding anyone from moving his body.
Finally Gilgamesh saw a maggot drop from Enkidu’s nose and it was then that he truly understood that the Annunaki, the silent judges, had taken him. In this moment of recognition, Gilgamesh also glimpsed his own inevitable fate and a great wave of grief broke upon him.
With the rising of the sun the following day, Gilgamesh gave a great lament for his wild-twin brother and sent word that the finest funeral ever seen in Uruk would send Enkidu to the Netherworld.
Gilgamesh called the greatest artisans, smiths and jewellers. He opened his treasuries and gave his precious stones: obsidian, carnelian, lapis lazuli, mother-of-pearl, alabaster, gold, silver, copper. From these a great statue of Enkidu was made, sparing no expense. Elaborate gifts to the gods of the underworld were crafted. Gold-tipped spears, jewelled-hilted swords, exquisite bows, arrows and quivers set with precious stones. Gifts of clothes, belts, hats, talismans all adorned with the finest materials from Uruk’s treasuries were to accompany Enkidu into the afterlife.
The fattest oxen and sheep were slaughtered and cooked and piled high to nourish the rulers of the underworld and to appease the great queen Ishtar.
The city of Uruk was united in grief as the child of the forest, the mighty Enkidu, was laid to rest for he had been much loved. Gilgamesh lead the lamentations and appeared to his people like they had never seen him, as a man broken by his grief. He had come face to face with a foe he could not defeat in battle, a foe that had taken his beloved brother.
Once Enkidu had been lain to rest, Gilgamesh left Uruk and roamed the Earth alone. No longer did he seek battle or glory, his will was bent solely on finding answers to the great mysteries of life and death. He sought his ancestor Utanapishtim the son of Ubatutu, who legend said survived the flood and had found the secret of everlasting life. Many tales were told of Utanapistim, but none said where he was to be found.
Gilgamesh wandered the wild places and came to know hunger and cold. His hair grew wild and his skin cracked. One night he came to a mountain pass where a pride of lions dwelt, he retreated in fear, but under the light of the moon he went forward slaying some and scattering the rest before him. He ate their flesh and wore their skin as his clothes.
In Uruk, they heard nothing of Gilgamesh for long years. His lord Shamash grew worried fearing that Gilgamesh would never find what he sought.
Eventually Gilgamesh’s wanderings led him to the twin mountains of Mashu that guard the rising sun, whose peaks support the heavens and whose roots descend to the Netherworld.
Gilgamesh climbed though the heat of the sun and the cold of the crescent moon until he came to the great gates guarded by the Scorpion-men, sleepless sentries radiating fear with a glance that brought death to mortals. At first Gilgamesh covered his face in his hands in terror but summoning his courage he stepped forth to confront them.
Speaking in a voice as deep as the mountains they guarded, one spoke, “two thirds of your flesh is of the gods and one third mortal. You must be Gilgamesh of whom we have heard. Why have you come on so great a journey, crossing the dangerous waters?”
“Because of my friend Enkidu I come. I loved him dearly yet the fate of man has taken him. Now my life is nothing. I come in search of Utanapishtim, who it is said has entered the assembly of the gods and who alone among mortals has found the secrets of everlasting life. I wish to question him regarding the living and the dead. Open the mountain for me.”
The Scorpion-man replied, “no mortal has passed this gate. A journey of twelve leagues lies beyond and utter darkness will oppress your heart for its length. Yet if you must go, the way is open for you Gilgamesh.”
The great gate swung shut behind Gilgamesh as he began the descent beneath the mountains. Soon the darkness began to work on him as the Scorpion-man had warned. He was consumed by it, in mind, in body and in spirit. League upon league of darkness fell thick around him. Conscious thought left him until all he felt was despair. He began to lose himself to the dark and it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other.
As each league went by the darkness grew heavier until it was a great oppressive weight. After nine leagues, Gilgamesh could no longer distinguish himself from the blackness. His boundaries of self-hood fell away, his individuality dissolving into desolation and despair, he found he could not summon another step.
At this point, arising from the centre of his being, came a great primal cry of abject despair. It rang out into the void for what seemed like minutes before the dark silence resumed its vigil.
And as it happens in life, for those who have experienced the dissolution that comes from the deepest loss or from when certain truths that we have clung to for years fall apart under the weight of their own contradictions, Gilgamesh found that at the point when he was utterly broken and emptiness seemed to have claimed him entirely, something stirred from deep within.
Perhaps it was a new self being called into being in response to the vacuum created by the dying of the old-self. Whatever it was, Gilgamesh noticed a new feeling of weightlessness and a lessening of resistance. He sensed, as if from a great distance, that his legs were moving forward again.
After ten leagues he felt the whisper of a stirring of a breeze. After eleven leagues he could feel the unmistakable feeling of air moving across his skin. Soon his eyes perceived a faint light. Finally after twelve leagues, he came forth from the mountain into brilliant sunlight.
Gilgamesh found himself in a sun-drenched paradise perfumed with wildflowers. A verdant garden full of luxurious sweet-scented fruit of many kinds and vines laden with grapes glistened in the sun to the sound of songbirds and the humming of bees. Gilgamesh feasted until sated on the sweet nectar of mother nature.
Shamash himself was there and walked awhile with Gilgamesh. He gestured to a house on a distant hill overlooking a bay of azure blue. The house was surrounded by vines and fruit trees of many shapes and sizes. “There lies the house of Shiduri, the lady of the vine. There you can rest.”
At that Shamash left and Gilgamesh, exhausted in body and soul but feeling the flush of new life and the nourishment of sweet fruit, wearily made his way up the hill.