“The king is with the goddess in her chamber,” one of the guards said. Gilgamesh approached them.
“The heavenly queen wished to sleep alone for a while, and I yearned for the cool fresh air,” he said.
The guards now recognized him. “The air is cool indeed,” one of them said.
“Is the city quiet, its folks asleep?” Gilgamesh asked, pointing his hand beyond the gate.
“Indeed,” said the other guard, the younger of the two. “After ten days of anxiety and penitence, everyone is exhausted.”
“The rites of the New Year festival are indeed demanding,” Gilgamesh said, “even for the common people, to say nothing of the king.”
“It’s the fear, the gods’ fear,” the older priest-guard said. “Though the gods have come back from the Akitu House every year, the fear is always in the people’s hearts when the gods depart the Sacred Precinct, lest they go and don’t ever return.”
“Then the High Priest would prolong the fasting from one day to at least one week,” Gilgamesh said. There was sarcasm in his voice.
“Fasting and penitence cleanse us of our sins,” the older priest-guard said. “The people have the rest of the year to indulge in their pleasures.”
“Oh well,” Gilgamesh replied. He stepped closer to the gate as though to peek beyond it into the street. “The streets are never as quiet on other nights.” His advance made the two guards move closer together, blocking the exit with their bodies.
“No one can leave the Sacred Precinct before sunrise,” the older one said. He stared at Gilgamesh, grasping the spear in both of his hands. “Not even the king!”
Gilgamesh stared back at the priest, the gaze of their eyes locked for a long moment. Then he stepped back.
“I have just come out for the fresh air,” he said. “For a short stroll in the Garden Court. . . . This is my only chance, once a year, to view the Sacred Precinct at night, when the Lord Sin holds sway, and not in the bright daylight of the Lord Shamash.”
“Your Majesty,” a voice from behind him said, “the goddess might awaken.”
Gilgamesh turned around. A priest, huddled in his brown robe against the cold, his face hidden beneath the hood, stood against the wall a short distance away. He had approached them stealthily, for none of them had heard or seen him come. “You must return to the chambers,” the priest told Gilgamesh.
“It is one of the Gipar’s attendants,” the older priest-guard said. “They all wear those brown robes.”
The Gipar-priest motioned the king back to the pavilion. “The goddess might awaken,” he repeated.
“Indeed, a timely warning,” Gilgamesh replied. He viewed the gate again. The two guard-priests were still blocking it with their bodies, spears held tightly. “But not before I regard the awesome temples touched by the rays of Sin, my great ancestor.”
He turned and walked back into the middle of the Garden Court that separated the Gipar from the Great Temple. He stood for a while, contemplating the magnificent structure dedicated to Ishtar, a temple whose high and massive columns, decorated with multicolored clay nails, were unmatched in the whole land. By day the immense columns dwarfed the worshippers who came to deliver their offerings in thanksgiving to Ishtar for benign events or to pray to the goddess to avert evil happenings. But now, with not a person around, the columns’ mosaics reflected the moon’s rays as giants, whose prowess was replaced by immobility.
“Your Majesty . . .” a voice spoke from behind.
Gilgamesh turned to look. It was again the priest from the Gipar. Gilgamesh waved him away. “Not yet,” he said.
He turned and shifted his gaze to the Eanna, the House of Anu, which was built atop an artificial platform that rose in ever smaller stages, one atop the other. The uppermost level served as Ishtar’s private quarters, distinguished from all the others not only by its elevation but also by the series of poles bearing paired rings that flanked its doorway. It was said—but no one except the gods themselves knew for certain—that it was by way of these paired rings that Ishtar could hear words whispered far away, by Enlil in Nippur and by Shamash in Sippar, which was even more distant than Nippur. Colored streamers were now fluttering in the wind, having been attached to the poles by the assembled gods in reaffirmation of Ishtar’s destiny as the reigning goddess of Erech. Each pair of streamers bore the color of its god, a symbol of each god’s acceptance of the supremacy of Ishtar. It was too dark and the doorway was too far away for Gilgamesh to be able to distinguish the colors of the streamers, but he knew that in daylight he could distinguish those belonging to his mother, Ninsun.
“Oh my mother,” Gilgamesh said softly, as though she could hear him through the fluttering streamers. “How it pains me to see you subordinated . . .”
“Your Majesty,” the voice behind him firmly said, and the priest of the Gipar now touched the king’s shoulder with his hand.
Gilgamesh turned toward him abruptly. “How dare you touch the king!” he said angrily.
“Your Majesty. I am a servant of Niglugal,” the priest whispered.
“A servant of my chancellor? In a priest’s garb?”
“Unseen eyes, unheard ears,” the priest said, bowing his head lightly. “For the king’s safety . . .”
“I had no idea,” Gilgamesh said. He raised his hand toward a large structure that could be seen beyond the Eanna ziggurat. “Was it not enough that my mother, scion of the great gods, was made to stay in the Irigal, its agglomeration of chapels and sanctuaries dedicated to Ishtar’s parents Nannar and Ningal, her grandparents Enlil and Ninlil, her brother Shamash, ten lesser deities allotted to Erech, and an assortment of priestly residences?” He turned to face the priest. “Was all that not enough, that as I had begun to perform my duties of the Sacred Marriage, the goddess . . .”
He stopped short in midsentence, and his raised hand dropped to his side.
“My Lord Gilgamesh, do not prolong your absence,” the priest said. “You must be by the goddess’s side at sunrise, or on the morrow, instead of being crowned, you shall die.”
“Yes, on the morrow,” Gilgamesh said. He pointed to the western corner of the Sacred Precinct, where atop a hill a white structure gleamed in the silvery light. “There, at the White Temple that has stood from the days of yore, there will they fix my destiny.” He made a laughing sound. “The goddess and the High Priest . . .” He turned to the priest. “Do you know, faithful servant, what destiny awaits me by their hands?”
“No, my lord,” the priest said softly.
“Never mind,” Gilgamesh said.
He turned his gaze back to the side gate and surveyed it and its guards for a few moments. The gate was now locked, the guards standing together in front of it. Again Gilgamesh looked at the White Temple of Anu, then shrugged his shoulders.
“I had better be gone inside,” he said.
* * *
It was precisely at sunrise that Ninsubar, the chamberlady of Ishtar, entered the Gigunu, Ishtar’s intimate bedchamber, to awaken the king and escort him out. She did so gently, letting Ishtar sleep on undisturbed.
Outside the chamber a group of male priests was waiting. They led Gilgamesh to the main temple, to the chambers where he had been prepared for the sacred night. There they disrobed him and bathed him and dressed him in a white robe.
“Thou art consecrated unto the Queen of Heaven,” the chief of the priests intoned in the tongue of the ancient scriptures, “but are not yet king again.”
Then, in a procession of priests ahead of him and behind him, he was marched to the main gate of the Sacred Precinct while the chief of the priests proclaimed seven times, “Be gone and come back, oh consort that shall be king.”
The king’s chamberlain, Niglugal, was waiting at the Great Gate with an entourage of palace officials and armed heroes. Gilgamesh crossed arms with him. There was an unspoken question in Niglugal’s eyes.
Gilgamesh smiled and said just one word, “Perfection!”
Th
e tenseness in Niglugal’s eyes vanished. “The king has done well!” he announced to the royal group. “Benevolent fates will be decreed for the year!”
After he had thus spoken, the whole group burst into laughter and cheers, then organized itself into a procession to take the king back to his palace.
The customary route led from the Sacred Precinct that was laid out on a raised platform overlooking the city, through the Great Gate and down the Avenue of Processions to the business sections of the city, where commerce and industry thrived in many narrow streets that bordered the city’s renowned wharfs. It then went up the broader Royal Avenue to Palace Mount, in the northern section of the city, where the Royal Palace stood. As in past years, even at this early hour, townspeople were already beginning to gather at the Great Gate, expecting to gain premier admittance to the Sacred Precinct for better viewing of the afternoon’s ceremonies. But unlike previous years, there was less hailing of the king as he emerged through the gate—a fact that did not escape Niglugal, but which Gilgamesh, too absorbed in thoughts, failed to notice.
“Let’s take the shorter route,” Gilgamesh said to Niglugal. “I must talk to you quickly, in private.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Niglugal said, and issued the necessary marching orders.
The shorter route led along the southeastern wall of the Sacred Precinct, then along its northeastern stretch, past the gate that had been visited by Gilgamesh during the night. From there a street led down to the Northern Canal that had been created by past kings, by deepening and widening a natural gully. It was then just a short walk up Royal Mount to the main gate of the palace. Having arrived earlier than expected, the throng of palace functionaries, soldiers, and servants that was usually gathered to greet the king on these occasions was not there. Those who had been alerted by the watchmen on the ramparts came running toward the gate, shouting the customary blessings of “Long Life!” and “Abundance!” as Gilgamesh passed through the gate. He waved to them and smiled, murmuring, as required, the same blessings. But he did not stop to acknowledge the individual greetings of this or that palace official, and with quick steps he walked briskly to the palace’s private chambers. Only Niglugal followed him there.
“What is wrong, my lord?” Niglugal asked.
“The goddess!” Gilgamesh said as he pulled off his robe. “She did not pronounce the required blessing, although I performed to perfection!”
“This is unheard of,” Niglugal said. “Incredible!”
“You had better believe it,” Gilgamesh said. “And she behaved most erratically throughout the rites. ‘Bizarre’ is the word to describe it! Ignoring my pleas to promise me life, she lapsed again and again into remembrances of her past loves and conjugations. One moment she imagined that her partner was Shamash, her brother, when they were children. Then her espoused Dumuzi, or even the great Lord Anu himself! She giggled and wriggled and cried and called out in anguish. And to add offense to insult, she failed to pronounce in the end, after I had performed the required fifty times to perfection, the traditional words sealing the sacred union!”
“I can’t believe it,” Niglugal said. “It is the law of Anu and Enlil, great lords. The goddess must pronounce the prescribed blessing, ‘Your coming is Life, Your entering my bed is Abundance, Laying with you is great Joy, Thou art Consort and King!’”
“The words are correct, but the goddess did not utter them. And she also ignored all my words to her, about not meeting a mortal’s end on account of my being two-thirds divine.”
“A most unusual behavior. And very perplexing,” Niglugal said.
“I suspect Enkullab to be behind it all, that scheming half-brother of mine,” Gilgamesh replied, putting on one of his own robes.
“Indeed, I’ve been trying to find out what the High Priest is up to,” Niglugal said, pointing in the direction of the Sacred Precinct.
“Ah, yes,” the king said. “I have encountered one of your spies in the night’s course. . . . A good man, that one. He stopped me from forcing my way out through the private gate . . .”
There was a puzzled look in Niglugal’s eyes. “Your Majesty?”
“I was about to take matters into my own hands, Niglugal,” Gilgamesh said. He stepped toward the long table by the wall. “Has the royal household run out of wine?” he asked angrily.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Niglugal hurried to say. “The servants must have tarried.” He clapped his hands, and as an attendant appeared he whispered to him. A moment later wine was brought in, and Gilgamesh gulped down a cupful.
“Have you heard more through your spies?” he asked.
“Enkullab has been having many audiences with the goddess,” Niglugal answered, “but no one knows what they speak of in secret. But we do know what goes on in the city. . . . The priests encourage the people to speak out against you . . .”
“The bastard!” Gilgamesh said. “Though the fifth day’s divestiture of the king’s royal attributes is just a symbolic act, the priests took away my crown, scepter, and sacred mace with earnest determination. And Enkullab, as I stood before him on my knees for the confessional, slapped my face and pulled my ears with a vengeance! I could see the burning jealousy in his eyes, as though he wished that it were he who would spend the sacred night with the goddess. What do you say, Niglugal?”
“There is more to it than that,” Niglugal said. “The people have turned against you.”
“Against me? Is that true?”
“If you wish to know the truth, Your Majesty, then that is the truth. . . . The city is full of violated brides and husbands who refuse to consummate marriages. Your wrestling matches with the newlywed grooms—the bride’s virginity being the prize—make the young leave Erech. They go to Ur to worship Nannar, or even worse, farther south to Eridu, where the House of Enki lords. Your daytime wrestlings leave behind broken doorposts and smashed carts. ‘Gilgamesh is not a worthy offspring of Enmerkar and Lugalbanda,’ is what the people are saying.”
“They wish perchance to see another offspring on the throne, perhaps the Crown Prince?”
“My Lord Gilgamesh,” Niglugal began. “May I speak without raising the king’s wrath?”
“I can stand the truth.”
“It is out of loyalty and devotion that I speak,” Niglugal said, weighing his words. “When kingship was granted to Erech in days yore, your forefather Meskiaggasher was High Priest at the Kullab, and the gods anointed him king as well. One man was both High Priest and king. . . . Enmerkar his son, and Lugalbanda, the son of Enmerkar, were warriors and explorers seeking knowledge and glory and an everlasting name in faraway lands. Because the priestly duties require daily attendance, they were only kings and the high priesthood was given to their brothers. Now Enkullab has been saying that the time has come to recombine the functions.”
“And make me, the king, the High Priest?” Gilgamesh said, breaking into a roaring laughter. “And neglect all the maidens and wrestle not the heroes?”
“No, to make the High Priest king, after the example set by Meskiaggasher.”
Gilgamesh said nothing for a moment, pouring himself more wine. “Enkullab forgets the lineage, his and mine. Meskiaggasher was a son of the great god Utu, born by his union with the chief priestess of Sippar, and he had the mark of the sixth finger. . . . Enmerkar had the divine mark, and so did Lugalbanda, and so do I!” He held up his hands to show Niglugal the telltale scar, as though the chamberlain had to be reminded. “Yes, I have the mark on account of my descent of Utu and of being the son of the goddess Ninsun, and thus I am two-thirds divine. But Enkullab, though the son of my father he is, was born to a mortal mother. Therefore Enkullab inherited from our father the post of High Priest, but I was the legitimate son for the kingship. Has he forgotten all that?”
“He says that your sins have disqualified you.”
“A neat scheme,” Gilgamesh said. “How will he achieve it?”
Niglugal shrugged his shoulders.
Gil
gamesh began to pace the chamber. “The High Priest,” he said, “enters the Holy of Holies all alone. There is a chest there, my father once told me when I was a child, that was placed there at the time of Anu’s visit a thousand years ago. It is made of acacia wood overlaid with gold, and there are winged images cast of gold touching their wings atop it. No one knows how, but once a year, on this day of Fixing of the Fates, the voice of Anu is heard from the chest, conveying the oracle to the High Priest. Only he alone is there to hear the holy words. Then he comes out and pronounces the message of the Heavenly Father.”
“Yes, I’ve heard it told that this is what happens there,” Niglugal said.
“Don’t you see? The High Priest is there all alone!” Gilgamesh stopped to face Niglugal. “All alone! So, he can come out and say whatever he wants to say!”
“That indeed is a danger,” Niglugal said, “but even Enkullab would not dare change the holy words of Anu, for the Heavenly Father would strike him dead!”
“He must have already said things to the goddess, evil words about me that made her skip the blessing,” Gilgamesh said, hitting the table with his fist. “I wonder what’s coming next!”
“Be not too concerned,” Niglugal said. “Your divine rights are inherent, and of the divine sixth finger Enkullab is lacking. The gods will never anoint him king.”
“Your words are reassuring, Niglugal,” Gilgamesh said, embracing his chamberlain. “You are a good friend . . . which reminds me. Where is my comrade Enkidu?”
“Having gone to the temple at sunrise, I have not seen him yet.”
“Well, he ought to be at the temple rites this afternoon.”
“As a creature of the Lord Enki, he is immune to mortal fate,” Niglugal said, “but I shall seek him and relay to him your wish.” He bowed and stepped back to the door. “Now, better take a well-earned rest, my lord, for the afternoon’s rites will be long and tiring.” And with these words he departed.
* * *
In her two-story house, Salgigti was supervising the post-nocturnal activities. A broad-bosomed woman of medium height and raven hair, she was simultaneously shouting orders to her girls, supervising the baking of the sweet cakes, and counting the customers’ coins as they were leaving.
The King Who Refused to Die Page 6
