The King Who Refused to Die

by Zecharia Sitchin

  “It is indeed a marvel,” Gilgamesh said. “To live and live without end is indeed a divine blessing!”

  “To live and live, secluded, to know that your sons and grandsons and all who follow have been dying. . . . You call that a blessing?”

  “These are words of despair,” Gilgamesh replied. “Your seclusion has befuddled your reason. . . . As for me, life over death I’ll choose any time. Lead me to the well, that I may partake of its water and live forever!”

  Ziusudra looked at his wife. She nodded.

  “To live forever you must stay here forever,” he said to Gilgamesh. “You must constantly drink the water, or its effects will wear off.”

  “Show me the well!” Gilgamesh persisted.

  “Come with me,” Ziusudra said. He led Gilgamesh to the artificial garden and showed him the well. “It is deep, very deep,” he said. Then he turned back to the house and left Gilgamesh alone in the garden.

  Gilgamesh looked into the well but could not see its bottom. He tore off the hem of his garment and made strips of it, and with the strips he tied heavy stones to his feet. He looked back toward the house. Ziusudra and Amzara were standing in the doorway, watching him from a distance. He saw Amzara raise her hand, as though bidding him farewell.

  But I’m only going to dive and pluck out the fruit, he thought. He raised his hand to them and waved it in a friendly manner. Then he jumped into the well.

  The cool water struck him like a blow. He held his breath as the heavy stones pulled him down. Though the well was deep, the water was so pure that light from its mouth penetrated downward. When he reached the bottom, he saw a plant gently swaying in the water, for there were currents at the bottom of the well. The plant had a long straight stem with short, thick branches from which grew round fruits. He grabbed the stem, and with a mighty pull he plucked out the plant—roots and all. Holding the plant in his left hand, he used his right hand to cut loose the heavy stones with his dagger, thereby freeing his feet.

  He expected to float up with the cherished prize in his hand. But the moment he had plucked the plant the water began to whirl, keeping him pinned to the bottom of the well. His lungs were bursting for air and his eyes blurred. He was losing consciousness and felt that he was being pulled by unseen hands, sucked in by a powerful mouth. But he held on to the precious plant as one would hold on to his only life.

  15

  As the prescribed rituals and procedures that had been established in the earliest times required, the twelve-day New Year festival began with the quiet departure of Ishtar, Ninsun, and the ten other lesser deities from Erech—a symbolic act commemorating the time when the Anunnaki were not yet on Earth. This took place after sundown on the first night, when the whole populace and their household beasts were required to be indoors, for to be outside meant certain death.

  The gods moved silently from the Sacred Precinct where they had assembled, accompanied by torch-bearing priests. They arrived at the Holy Quay, there to board barges manned by priests. Sailing along the Canal of Deep Waters on their way to the Euphrates River, they passed through the Great Gate in the city’s wall.

  It was past midnight when they reached the designated shore. Alighting, they marched silently to the Bit Akiti compound, the conglomerate of reed huts called “Life On Earth Begins.” Fixing the torches in position around the compound, the priests retreated to the barges and returned to Erech, leaving the gods alone. What rituals they conducted there, what secret deliberations they held, no mortal man—not even the High Priest—had ever known.

  In the morning, pretending to discover that the gods had left the city, the priests in the Sacred Precinct blew rams’ horns to alert the populace. The gods, the source of all abundance, secure living, and essential ordinances, had abandoned their human flocks. Runners from the temples shouted as they scurried in the streets, “Penitence! Penitence! Let one and all confess their sins and ask for forgiveness!” Thus began the four days of penitence and confessionals, when the people asked forgiveness of each other and of the gods and confessed their sins—some at the main temples, some at street corner shrines, but most within the confines of their homes, at domestic altars.

  On the second morning the High Priest arose two hours before dawn, and purified and properly attired, went into the temple of Ishtar to present to her the customary morning offerings—as though by pretending that the goddess was there he had expected her to be back. But she was not, and the wailing that followed filled the town.

  On the third morning the High Priest placed two statuettes before the throne of Ishtar: one of cedar wood and the other of cypress. Both were overlaid with gold: one in the image of a serpent and the other that of a scorpion. And in the presence of an assembly of priests, the High Priest proclaimed the willingness of the people to be afflicted by these creeping creatures. Their poison would kill the sinners and chastise those who were righteous, thereby making it possible for the gods to return and have mercy and restore life and abundance.

  Symbolically recalling the times before there were cities and villages and orchards and fields, when man lived in the wilderness—bitten and stung by the creeping animals and preyed upon by the wild animals—the priests then released from their cages the lions that were harnessed to drive Ishtar’s chariot. The beasts ran wild and bewildered in the city’s streets, clawing at anyone who stood in their way, mauling the few men who, in order to prove their courage, dared run ahead of them in the streets.

  On the morning of the fourth day the High Priest ascended the great ziggurat precisely three hours and twenty minutes before sunrise, and located the Morning Star, the planet of Ishtar. Pronouncing the blessings, he lifted his hands and hailed the planet. Then, from the height of the ziggurat, he shouted to the assembled priests their instructions.

  “In Heaven, Ishtar is arisen! The heavenly queen has heard our prayers. In the Sacred Precinct, all has been done that could be done. Now it is for king and people to make Ishtar rise on Earth! Go, pass the word, let it be known in the palace and in the city!”

  * * *

  It was on that day, the afternoon of the fourth day of the festival, that Niglugal was nervously pacing his chamber. He stopped only when Kaba came in; they locked arms in greeting.

  “There’s growing unrest in the city,” Kaba said right away.

  “I can feel it even here,” Niglugal agreed.

  “Tomorrow is the fifth day,” Kaba said, “when the people march on the palace. . . . And we have no king. Urnungal must be seated on the throne at once!”

  “It is most uncommon,” Niglugal said, “to enthrone a king without the prior blessing of the goddess.”

  “But the Lady Ishtar—all the gods are in the Bit Akiti!”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Niglugal said, almost shouting. “It’s that cursed agreement reached between Ishtar and Ninsun, to await until now for the king to return or to be found dead. . . . Were it not for that, don’t you think I would have already acted?”

  “Acted? How?” Kaba asked, staring at Niglugal.

  “Never mind,” Niglugal replied, avoiding the commander’s stare. “The fact is, a king is required for tomorrow’s rituals, and there is none. On the other hand, the foremost son, even if we ignore his young age, cannot be enthroned without the goddess . . .”

  “Therefore?”

  “Therefore, there will have to be a substitute, a temporary king,” Niglugal said as he turned to face Kaba.

  “You?” Kaba asked, his hand grasping the dagger in his belt.

  “Yes, I, unless you can come up with another solution. . . . Can you?”

  “I will ponder it and discuss it with the other commanders,” Kaba told him. “I’ve sworn loyalty to Gilgamesh!”

  “So have I,” Niglugal said. “But he’s gone, and apparently no longer among the living.”

  They locked arms again as Kaba left, and there was a broad smile on Niglugal’s face when he was alone.

  Fate, he thought, had been
good to him.

  * * *

  “Open the gate and let me in!” the man shouted to the guards on the ramparts.

  They looked down and saw a haggard man, his clothes ragged, his hair grown wild, his cheeks sunken, his sandals torn.

  “Go away, beggar!” one of the soldiers shouted. “The city’s gates are closed during the New Year festival. Even beggars know that!”

  “The New Year festival? Has a year gone by?”

  “Don’t you know the seasons, beggar?” the soldier shouted down, raising his spear. “Be gone, or I’ll bring you to your senses!”

  “I am no beggar!” the wanderer said. “I am the king!”

  The soldier burst out in laughter. “Come quick and raise your weapons in attention,” he called out to his comrades. “The king of the beggars is at the gate!”

  “I am Gilgamesh, the king of Erech!” the man at the gate shouted. “Open the gate and let me in!”

  The soldiers on the rampart, summoned by their comrade to see the boastful beggar, stopped their laughter, for there was authority and command in the man’s voice. “We’d better call the captain,” one of them finally said.

  “Hey, old man,” the captain shouted when he came on the scene. “The king Gilgamesh is long gone and dead. . . . Go away, find shelter in the fields until the gates are opened, then I’ll let you in and give you alms. Now, be gone!”

  “I am no beggar in need of alms!” the man shouted back. “I am Gilgamesh, gone but returned, and among the living! I am the son of divine Ninsun, the father of Urnungal. By the great gods, open the gate that I may enter my city!”

  The captain exchanged glances with the soldiers. “Even if there be truth in your words, the gate cannot be opened until the festival is over,” he said.

  “Call Niglugal, the chancellor!” the man at the gate ordered.

  The captain looked about him, undecided. One or two of the soldiers shrugged their shoulders. “Very well,” the captain finally said, “we’ll notify the palace. Let the higher-ups deal with the clamor of this stranger.”

  It was some time until Niglugal appeared on the ramparts. The moment he came into view, the man at the gate cried out, “Niglugal, my faithful chamberlain! I am Gilgamesh, your king! I’ve come back!”

  “The voice,” Niglugal cried out, “it is the king’s voice! Open the gate, hurry!”

  “But the festival . . .” the captain began to protest.

  “It’s the king, you fool!” Niglugal shouted at him. “Do you wish the son to inherit with a father still alive?”

  As the captain shouted orders to open the gate, Niglugal ran down the rampart’s steps. He waited for the gate to open and for the wanderer to come in through it.

  “Niglugal, my faithful chamberlain!” the man cried out, extending his arms. “Come, let me embrace you!”

  Niglugal bowed his head, then eyed the man. He stepped forward and, grabbing the extended hands, turned them sideways, looking for telltale scars. They were there.

  “Forgive my doubts,” Niglugal said, “but I had to make sure. Except for your voice and your height, you have changed so much, my king!”

  Gilgamesh pulled him closer and embraced him. They stood thus embraced for a few moments, tears in their eyes.

  “We took you for dead,” Niglugal said. “Seafarers found debris of your ship. . . . And here you are, alive! But your cheeks are sunken, your flesh is shrunken, your skin is like leather. Where have you been, how did you survive?”

  “I’ll tell you all,” Gilgamesh said, “after I regain my strength and composure. Take me to the palace!”

  Accompanied by a platoon of soldiers, they walked slowly to the palace. As they made their progress, word of the king’s return spread through the city. “Gilgamesh is alive! Gilgamesh is back!” people began to shout to each other. Throngs began to fill the streets leading to the palace. Gilgamesh waved his hand to them; some returned his salute.

  “What day of the festival is it, that the people are in the streets?” Gilgamesh asked.

  “The fifth.”

  Gilgamesh stopped his stride to face Niglugal. “The fifth day? Then I’m back in the nick of time!”

  “Indeed,” Niglugal said. “We’d better hurry, for soon pandemonium will break out.”

  Gilgamesh put his hand on Niglugal’s shoulder to halt him. “If I were not back today,” he said, “what then?”

  “By agreement between the goddesses, your mother, and the Lady Ishtar, the year had to be awaited. No one was seated on the throne.”

  “My son, Urnungal?”

  “He is well, but has not been enthroned.”

  “The Lady Ishtar favors another? Enkullab the High Priest?”

  “Enkullab is dead,” Niglugal said. “Struck down by the unseen hand of Anu.”

  “Anu be great!” Gilgamesh exclaimed. “When did that happen?”

  “Soon after you had sailed past Eridu, onto the Lower Sea.”

  “You must tell me how it occurred,” Gilgamesh said. “Who is High Priest now?”

  “By the wish of Ishtar, the priest who had served the longest was chosen. Dinenlil is his name. Of Nippur’s priestly seed he is. His father heads the academy of the ways of the stars in Nippur, and is a faithful servant of the Lord Enlil.”

  “My son is safe, then? The enmity of the temple has ceased?”

  “Yes, indeed so,” Niglugal replied. “Now you’d better hurry. Wash and change, for the demanding crowds will soon be at the palace.”

  They quickened their steps. The closer they came to the palace, the denser the crowds became, and the soldiers had to form a phalange to clear a path for the king and his chamberlain. As they neared the palace and could be seen from its watchtowers, a platoon of soldiers rushed out to their assistance. It was headed by Kaba, the troops’ commander.

  “Hail to the king!” he shouted as the two groups met.

  Gilgamesh locked arms with him, in the manner of heroes. “It is good to see you, Kaba,” he said.

  “Welcome back, my lord,” Kaba replied, bowing his head. “We’ve all missed you.”

  “And where is Urnungal?” Gilgamesh asked.

  “Awaiting you, in the royal chambers,” Kaba said. “He’s well.”

  Gilgamesh exchanged glances with the commander. “I can’t wait to see him,” he replied.

  * * *

  There was a long embrace as father and son met, and there were tears in the eyes of Gilgamesh and a lump in his throat.

  “How you’ve grown!” Gilgamesh finally said.

  “They said you were dead,” Urnungal told him, “but I couldn’t believe it. . . .” He buried his face in his father’s chest.

  Gilgamesh stroked his son’s bushy hair. “You are the only thing worth living for,” he said softly. Then he pushed his son back, taking a good look at him.

  “Big and strong, and more mature!” Gilgamesh told him, smiling. “A worthy heir!”

  “Now that you’re back, I really have time to mature and learn the affairs of state,” Urnungal said, staring back at his father. “Though you’re much leaner and browner of skin, you are your old same self, but now even better, aren’t you?”

  Gilgamesh looked puzzled.

  “My grandmother, the Lady Ninsun, told me your secret, Father,” Urnungal said, smiling. “That you’d gone to obtain the Fruit of Life, as your divine ancestry entitles you to!”

  “She did?” Gilgamesh said, putting his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Alas, that is not what fate has destined for me. . . . Come, sit down and I’ll tell you.” Fruit and wine were in the chamber, and Gilgamesh sipped of the wine to garner strength.

  “After our ship was sunk by a demon,” he began to tell his son, “only Enkidu and I were saved. But Enkidu, a creature of Enki, could not withstand the saltwater of the sea. In front of my own eyes he withered. . . . I crossed the wilderness by myself, on foot, recalling the map that my mother had shown me. My sufferings and adventures I will save for later, for I wi
sh it all to be taken down by a scribe. After much adventure I crossed the sea—whose water is death—with the help of Urshanabi, a boatman of the gods. I passed through the sacred portals; I withstood the challenge of the forbidden zone’s guardians. They showed me the way through a tunnel to the valley where Ziusudra, the hero of the Deluge, has been living with his wife. They have survived all these myriad years on account of a well at whose bottom the Fruit of Life grows. Drinking the water, they were constantly rejuvenated. . . . I jumped into the well and plucked the Plant of Life, so that I might bring it to Erech, replant it, and be rejuvenated!”

  “This is wonderful news!” Urnungal exclaimed. “There was talk of my being elevated to the throne, but I told them I don’t wish to be king . . . not while you are alive!”

  The hand of Gilgamesh jerked. “That is my secret,” he said. “There’s death in my bones, my days are numbered . . . and you will be king!”

  “But the Fruit of Life—you got it, you said!”

  “After I had plucked the plant and cut loose the stones off my feet, my eyes blurred and my lungs exploded. The currents of the two rivers, joined at the bottom of the well, grabbed me in a whirlpool. I lost consciousness and was carried like a dead corpse by the swift currents. . . . When I awoke I found myself by the shore of an unknown sea, still holding on to the plant. I walked along the shore, seeing neither the valley nor the mountains that surround it. At long last I saw a fisherman; he gave me water and bread. He knew not of Erech, nor of our land. But he told me that across the narrow sea I would find a village. He took me across in his boat and showed me a place with trees that gave shade and a fountain of cool water . . .”

  Gilgamesh stopped long enough to drink water from the pitcher. “Though my ordeal was by water, somehow I was thirsty and dried out. . . . I took off my garment and laid it and the plant beside the fountain, then dove into its pool for a refreshing swim . . .”

  His hand jerked violently and tears came to his eyes.

  “What happened then?” Urnungal asked.

  “A serpent . . . a serpent robbed me of Everlife!”