by Garth Nix
He would not let her stoke admiration in him. He had excised that feeling.
He forced a laugh. “I was a king, akin to a god. I built great walls, slew great beasts. I accomplished more in my first lifetime than any who have come since. I have glimpsed the underworld and denied it. You think you know death because you have seen battle? You think you know life because you have birthed it? I’ve witnessed a thousand thousand lives. I have borne the death of all who’ve known me. Life is the curse, death the blessing.”
“I am sorry you feel that way,” she said, unfazed by his outburst. “I can believe you were a good man once. For your sake, I hope you can be again.”
She turned her back then, once more facing the door.
Gilgamesh drowned himself in drink, letting it muddle his thoughts. At some point, he would blink and she would be gone, the bar in some new place. He would sigh, someone else would step through the doors, and he would sweep the floor, wipe the bar, pour the ale, and the entire cycle would begin anew. Exapia was no more than a fleeting dream, and soon enough he would wake.
Eventually, a Gallic soldier burst through the doors awash in sweat and blood, armor scored in a dozen places. With him, the sounds of battle poured in, far too near to be contained to the siege lines.
“Catacus!” cried Exapia. “What news?”
Why was this man here? Why some trusted aide rather than Vercingetorix?
“Our plan failed,” the soldier said. “We nearly broke through Labienus’ lines, but Caesar himself led his elite squadron and repelled us. I’m sorry, Exapia.”
“My husband?”
“Lives,” said the soldier, and Exapia breathed with relief.
There was still hope then. Gilgamesh’s mind raced with possibility. To hear the songs of birds, to hunt, to ride.
“Roman troops harried our retreat,” the soldier continued. “Nearly six cohorts followed us through our walls. Your husband leads the resistance. He will expel them.”
Gilgamesh stepped toward the man. “Bring him here. Now.”
Exapia moved to intercept him. “He will come,” she said.
“He fought. I guarded. Our deal is done.”
“Thank you for your message,” Exapia said to the guard. “Please, tell my husband to do what he must.”
“Bring him here!” Gilgamesh roared. He would not let this moment slip by.
“Barkeep, calm yourself,” said the soldier.
Gilgamesh growled in reply. “Exapia, tell him.”
Exapia stepped close. He could hear her breath, though she didn’t even come to his shoulders. “And what will you do,” she asked, “if I refuse?”
Images of his hands wrapped tight around Exapia’s soft throat flashed through his mind. It would be simple. Despite her bravado, she was a frail thing, and a single hand could surely crush her windpipe.
Gilgamesh withdrew, shaken. He had not realized how strongly he lusted for freedom. Too long had his heart lain dormant, and now that it beat, the blood coursed through him deadly hot.
“Do what you will,” he said, retreating to the bar and pouring himself another drink.
When the soldier finally left, Exapia bolted the door behind him.
How long they sat and waited, he did not know. The sounds of fighting grew louder, closing in on the bar, but not breaching it. Not yet.
Until suddenly the door shook. The bolt that held it closed was rusty, frail from countless years of use. The door shook again. Dust fell from the rafters.
“Will you do nothing?” asked Exapia. The venom in her words was sharper than the gash in his hand. Gilgamesh looked down. The gash was already healing. Of course it would be.
He owed these people nothing.
He had helped before.
He had failed before.
The door shook.
He had felt for people, cared for people, loved. He had defended, and aided, and bled. But not one life he’d saved had changed anything. Not one life he’d ended had altered the flow of time.
Yet there she stood, defiant, her eyes a challenge to him, to the Romans, to any who would threaten her people.
“Your choice matters,” she said, as if reading his very thoughts.
The door shook.
And Gilgamesh lifted the sword from behind the bar. The weapon felt good in his hands. It was no axe, but it would do.
“Get behind me,” he bellowed, shocked by the strength of his voice.
The bolt snapped and the door thumped to the ground, dust echoing through the bar. Gilgamesh stepped forward.
A Roman lieutenant stepped in … and stopped, taking in Gilgamesh’s hulking form. A flicker of fear crossed the man’s face, but then he comported himself. A handful of soldiers fanned out behind him.
“My name is Titus Labienus, lieutenant to Julius Caesar himself. Step aside and my men will be gracious enough not to slaughter you where you stand.”
“No,” said Gilgamesh. He preferred simplicity.
“My quarrel is not with you, but I will kill you if I have to.” The man held his head high, though his bearing bespoke compensation rather than confidence. His face was thin, with eyebrows scrunched too close together. Still, his short sword dripped blood.
“No,” said Gilgamesh. “You won’t.”
Labienus’ face reddened and he spat his words through clenched teeth. “I said stand aside! I have battle-hardened legionnaires with blood-whetted blades against what, a woman and a simpleton?” Labienus rounded on Exapia and extended his sword toward her. “You! You’re the one I want. Your ridiculous husband nearly overtook my cohort! But his men spilled the secrets of your whereabouts quickly enough when I squeezed their still-breathing lungs in my hands. Honorless curs who lessened my standing in front of Caesar. But history will know the name Titus Labienus. My sword sings a song of valor. My men ride with death by their side. And once I raise your head up in view of your precious Vercingetorix, he will fall to his knees and all will know that I was the one who ended the Gallic rebellion. I was the one who spread Rome’s glory and stamped out the last embers of resistance.”
“Your posturing does little to increase your manhood,” said Exapia. “When Caesar himself comes to the door, perhaps I will quiver, but not before. Maybe you should fetch him.”
Labienus growled, then leapt forward, his blade blindingly fast. Gilgamesh lifted Vercingetorix’s sword to meet the blow.
But he was too slow. Years had passed since he’d wielded a weapon—eons, it seemed—and now he paid the price.
Labienus’ blade bit into Gilgamesh’s shoulder, spilling blood as Gilgamesh bellowed in pain, turning with the blow to keep it from cutting him too deeply. Smirking, Labienus sent him stumbling to the ground with a kick. Gilgamesh tried to rise, but again, his muscles betrayed him—the warrior within him had atrophied, buried long ago.
“Kill them,” said Labienus, and the first of his men stepped into the bar.
From the ground, Gilgamesh watched Exapia draw two long, thin daggers from her sleeves.
Gilgamesh pushed himself up with his good hand, pain searing through him. Pain meant life. Pain meant choice. He switched his sword to his other arm, barely able to hold the blade for the blood slicking the pommel. Labienus, who had his back to Gilgamesh, must have sensed something, for he spun as Gilgamesh struck, blocking the weak, left-handed blow.
“You should not be standing,” said Labienus.
“You should not be breathing,” replied Gilgamesh.
Labienus thrust at him again, and though the angle was awkward, Gilgamesh barely batted away his attack.
Gilgamesh tried to parry Labienus’ next strike, but the short sword opened a gash along his side. Gilgamesh dropped his sword and grabbed the blade, using all his strength to keep it from digging into his gut. Blood poured from his hand. He tried to throw a punch, but Labienus grabbed Gilgamesh’s wrist with his off-hand and pulled him close, their faces a hand’s breadth apart. Gilgamesh screamed and blood flecked from his mouth,
spattering Labienus’ cheek. The kick must have broken a rib.
“A giant you might be,” Labienus hissed, “but you fight with neither skill nor fire.” Labienus cracked his helmet into Gilgamesh’s forehead and let him tumble to the ground, then turned to face Exapia once more. “If you come willingly, your husband will surrender.”
“Excellent idea. Once you’ve brought me to your camps, I’m certain Caesar will be pleased to learn that his lieutenant went behind his back to steal glory for himself.”
“Your fight is lost,” Labienus growled. “Your city will burn. Your people will be sold as slaves. Why add your body to the pyre?”
Gilgamesh locked eyes with Exapia. There was resignation there, yes, but also somehow hope, a stalwart stubbornness. “Because the fight itself is worthwhile.”
“So be it,” said Labienus. “I probably would have killed you anyway.”
Gilgamesh tested his shoulder. The initial wound wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. How easily he’d grown used to his impotence. He switched his sword back to his right hand and, with a grunt, heaved himself to his feet, keeping his left hand over the wound in his side to staunch the bleeding.
Labienus turned. “You …” he said, growing pale. “You should be dead.”
“You don’t know how right you are,” replied Gilgamesh, lunging forward. He swung with everything he had, and it was Labienus who stumbled this time, combating both the blow and his shock.
“Men,” he shouted, fear tinging his voice. “To me!”
Gilgamesh hammered down blow after blow, a relentless force, and with each pounding connection a thrill coursed through him. The fierce joy of the fight, but more than that: the thrill of purpose. He would protect these people, this woman.
Roman soldiers tried to surge past him, but he struck at them, pushing them back toward the door. Exapia stepped to his side, her daggers finding weaknesses in armor, opening flesh. Where he was a hammer pounding against the anvil of oncoming soldiers, she was a buzzing mosquito, drawn to the sweat, too fast to catch, yet always drawing blood.
Gilgamesh ran a soldier through the chest, his nearly inhuman strength piercing leather, deflecting off bone, and punching out the other side. He ripped the blade free, taking a kick to his leg. As he fell to his knees, he grabbed the attacking soldier’s throat and crushed it between his hands.
Soon the bar ran with blood instead of ale, so slick that the fight became as much a contest of balance as of strength. Yet half the soldiers remained, and the pair of them slid backward along the blood-slicked wood.
But Gilgamesh would not let them have her. He was King of Uruk, ruler of the Sumerians, descended from the gods themselves, and he would kill any who stood in his way.
He and Exapia slew together, a comingling of spirit and action and death, and never before had Gilgamesh felt so connected to anyone. As they struck, they sometimes caught each other’s eye, and it was as if some spirit flowed between them. They were as one soul, born of one purpose. Her limbs were an extension of his being, her heart thumped in time to his.
But even still, he was just one man, and the precariously mortal Exapia had to dance away from oncoming edges. Through it all, Labienus played coward, watching for his moment, pressing only when it was safe.
Gilgamesh could not defend forever and Exapia’s breathing was heavy. She slipped, falling into the path of a blade, and Gilgamesh leapt in front of her.
The soldier’s sword cut into Gilgamesh’s left leg, forcing him to lean against the bar. The pain exploded in him. He screamed.
But still he fought.
“Demon,” shouted Labienus as Gilgamesh killed another soldier.
“Not exactly,” said Gilgamesh.
Another sword struck his left arm and he roared in pain. He stared. The arm hung uselessly at his side. Never in all his years had he been so grievously injured.
His flesh was torn, his blood spilled, his body broken.
But not his will.
After all, he had already endured lifetimes of pain. What did these wounds matter?
Gilgamesh focused his will, closed his eyes, pushed aside pained, clenched teeth. This would not be the end.
“The woman!” shouted Labienus. “Get me the woman!”
Gilgamesh’s vision grew darker as he poured all his energy inward, and in the haze, a man burst through the door, a blur of Gallic armor and purpose.
Vercingetorix.
“Exapia!” he shouted, joining the fight even as he sagged from exhaustion.
The pair of them fought together as Gilgamesh watched. They were beautiful, even more synchronized than he himself had been with her. A perfect match. Gilgamesh could only imagine what kind of man their child would grow into. The son of these two would be an indomitable force.
Soon the last of the Roman soldiers lay dead and only Labienus remained.
Gilgamesh rose once more. As he had time and time again, albeit lightheaded and unsteady. “Labienus,” he called. “You cannot defeat me. I am Gilgamesh, slayer of thousands, wielder of blades, the undying, the merciless, the cruel. I have broken walls.”
Gilgamesh took a lurching step toward the trembling man. “I will not hesitate to break you.”
Labienus’ sword wavered in his hand, then he turned and ran.
Exhausted, Gilgamesh slumped into a chair, surveying the carnage around him. He would not have thought men contained so much blood.
“Your wounds,” said Exapia, stepping up to him.
“Would have killed anyone else,” he replied.
“I’ll send for a healer,” Vercingetorix said, stepping outside.
Exapia took his hand. “Thank you,” she said.
Gilgamesh did not have the strength to respond.
Shortly, Vercingetorix returned and someone Gilgamesh did not recognize began to treat his wounds.
Vercingetorix stood tall, once more becoming the commander he had been when he’d set foot in the bar that morning. “You have my gratitude.”
“I think Exapia could have handled things on her own,” Gilgamesh said.
“Perhaps,” mused Vercingetorix, smiling, then turned to Exapia. “Caesar will not be pleased with his subordinate’s failure.”
“Is the city lost?” she asked.
“We drove out Labenius’ cohorts,” he replied, “but Caesar has repelled our best effort. Gilgamesh. I apologize, but I must break my oath.”
“What?” Gilgamesh roared, suddenly alive once more.
“I have spoken with the surviving leaders of the other tribes. Caesar demands recompense for the damage we have caused. My surrender can buy the lives of our people.”
Break his oath? Break his oath?! Gilgamesh would not allow it.
“I understand,” said Exapia, taking her husband’s hands.
“I’m sorry,” said Vercingetorix.
“Don’t be,” she said. “I love you.”
“You gave your word,” growled Gilgamesh.
“I know,” said Vercingetorix, “but before that, I gave my word to protect my people, and that oath calls to me now. If I surrender, our people will carry on. Under Roman rule, yes, but Caesar will allow us to continue our ways of life.”
“I do not care what Caesar will ‘allow,’” snarled Gilgamesh. “What of what I will ‘allow?’”
“The lives of eighty thousand Gauls supersede my personal honor. Would you truly force me to remain?”
Gilgamesh glared at the man, then turned to unleash his vitriol on Exapia—but when he met her gaze, he once more found himself staring into resolve.
Before he could open his mouth, she spoke: “I will take my husband’s place,” she said.
“Exapia, no,” said Vercingetorix.
“You have made your choice,” she replied. “Now let me make mine. Did you not marry me for my bullheadedness?” she continued, cutting him off before he could protest again. “I will take your place, Gilgameus. Will that satisfy you?”
Stunned, no answer came to his
lips. “And who would lead the Arverni?” Gilgamesh asked her.
“We are a strong people,” she said.
“This will be a time of great pain and transition,” said Gilgamesh.
“We have weathered much. We will weather this.”
“And what of your son?”
She choked on her words, then took a breath and managed to get through them. “He will grow strong.”
How could she remain so calm? How could she care so much? For so long, Gilgamesh, builder of the great walls of Uruk, had used his skill to encircle his own mind, but somehow this woman, this family, had found a weak point in his defenses. Somehow, she’d helped him remember how it felt to have purpose. The feeling was intoxicating. To be human was not to grow accustomed, but to claw against darkness, fighting with every ounce of your strength for what you loved.
Finally, Gilgamesh spoke, hardly believing his words. “I have no doubt that you would manage the curse better than I,” he said, “but the simple truth is that you have lifted it already.”
“What?” she asked.
“The real curse is not eternal life, nor the prison of this place, but apathy, and of that I am cured.”
Exapia frowned.
“As he has said,” Gilgamesh continued, “your husband must surrender to the Romans, and I cannot leave your people without a leader. I cannot allow your son to grow up without a mother. Perhaps my choice will change nothing. But it is my choice.”
“Gilgameus—” she said, stepping toward him.
“I have made up my mind,” he said, then turned to Vercingetorix. “I would ask only one thing in return.”
“Name it,” said Vercingetorix.
“Save your surrender until morning. A handful of hours will make no difference. Once you have spoken to the leaders of the tribes and made all the necessary arrangements, there are rooms upstairs. Share one last night together. In the meantime,” Gilgamesh said, “I will keep watch.”
* * *
Gilgamesh awoke slowly, then forced himself out of bed, muscles aching, back cracking. Getting up in the morning was no easy task, especially after so many years. But underneath the weariness, Gilgamesh could feel a lightness to his motion that hadn’t been there before.
