Gilgamesh the King Page 9

  It was in Kish that at last I gained full knowledge of the arts of war, which I was somewhat overdue in learning: for I had become a man in years now, and more than a man in size and strength, but I had never had a taste of battle. Agga gave me that first taste, and more—indeed, a rich banquet of it, haunch and flagon.

  His wars were conducted in the east, in the rough and hilly kingdom of Elam. This nation is rich in many things that we of the Land lack entirely: timber, the ores of copper and tin, and such stones as alabaster, obsidian, carnelian, onyx. And we have things of value to them: the produce of our overflowing fields, our barley and wheat and apricots and lemons, and also our wool and our linen. So there is good reason for trade between Elam and the cities of the Land, but the gods will not have it so: for every year of peace that we have with the Elamites, there are three years of war. They come down into the lowlands to raid us, and we must send our armies to drive them back, and then to take from them the goods we need.

  The father of Agga, royal Enmebaraggesi, had won great victories in Elam and for a while made it subject to Kish. But in Agga’s time the Elamites had grown unruly again. Now there was war all along the frontier. So in my second year of exile I went forth with the army of Kish into that broad wind-swept plain behind which lies Susa, the capital of Elam.

  I had dreamed battle-dreams for many years, from the time in childhood when my father, home in brief respite from his wars, told me tales of chariots and javelins. I had played at battle on the fields of Uruk, drawing plans of formation and leading my playmates on wild charges against invisible enemies. But there is a song of battle that only a warrior’s ears can hear, a high, keening sound that comes through the sluggish air like a blade, and until you have heard that song, you are no warrior, you are no man. I did not know about that song until I heard it, for the first time, beside the waters of a river called the Karkhah in the Land of Elam.

  All night long, under a brilliant moon, we made ready for the attack, oiling that which was made of wood or leather, scouring everything of bronze until it gleamed. The sky was so clear that we could see the gods walking about in it, great dark horned figures, blue against the blackness, striding from cloud to cloud. The giant visage of An, calm, all-seeing, seemed to fill the sky. Great Enlil loomed on his throne, conjuring storms in distant lands. The power of these gods was hot and hard in the air, like the fever-wind. We lit fires to them and sacrificed bullocks, and they came down low to us, so that we could feel the pressure of their divine weight against our hearts. And at dawn, not having had an hour’s sleep, I donned my shining helmet, and clad myself in a short skirt of sheepskin with a leather loin-guard beneath, and clambered into my chariot as though this were my twentieth year on the fields of war.

  The trumpets sounded. The battle-cry roared from two hundred throats: “For Agga and Enlil! For Agga and Enlil!”

  I heard my own voice, deep and hoarse, crying those same words, words I had never imagined I would find myself uttering:

  “For Agga and Enlil!”

  And we went forward into the plain.

  My charioteer’s name was Namhani. He was a broad-shouldered thick-chested man of the city of Lagash who had been sold to Kish when a boy, and he had known no other trade but war: scars covered him like ribbons of honor, some an angry red, some long since faded into the darkness of his skin. He turned to me and grinned just before he charged. He had no teeth, only four or five wicked yellow snags.

  Agga had given me a splendid chariot—four-wheeled, not a two-wheeler as is usually provided for novices. The son of Lugalbanda, he told me, could ride in nothing less. To draw it, the king had provided four sturdy asses, swift and strong. I had helped Namhani myself to harness them, fastening the girth-straps about their chests, fitting them to the yoke and collar, attaching the reins to the rings in their upper lips. They were good animals, patient, shrewd. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to go into battle with a chariot drawn by powerful long-legged horses, rather than our placid asses: but to dream of harnessing horses, those wild and mysterious beasts of the mountainous northeast, is like dreaming of harnessing the whirlwind. They say that in the lands beyond Elam the people have found a way of taming horses and riding them, but I think that is a lie. Now and again in distant lands I have caught sight of black horses sailing like ghosts across storm-swept basins. I see no way such creatures, if they could be captured at all, could ever be broken to our use.

  Namhani seized the reins and leaned forward against the leopard-hide that covered the chariot’s frame. I heard the groaning of the axle-rod, the creaking of the wooden wheels. Then the asses had the rhythm of it and hit a steady stride, and we went jouncing over the soft spongy ground toward the dark line of Elamites that waited along the horizon.

  “For Agga! For Enlil!”

  And I, shouting along with all the others, added war-cries of my own: “Lugalbanda! Sky-father! Inanna! Inanna! Inanna!”

  Mine was the fifth chariot: a great honor, for the four in front of mine belonged to the general and to three of the sons of Agga. Eight or ten more came after me. Behind the clattering chariots marched the columns of foot-soldiers, first the heavy infantry protected by helmets and thick cloaks of black felt, with axes in their hands, and then the light skirmishers, all but naked, wielding their spears or short swords. My own weapon was the javelin. I had a dozen of them, long and slender, most beautifully made, in my quiver. I carried also a double-headed axe with which to defend myself when my javelins were gone, and a little sword, a handy little skewer if all else failed me.

  As we rumbled toward the enemy, I heard a music upon the wind like no music I had ever heard before: a single note, piercing and fierce, that began amazingly faintly but grew and grew until it filled all the air. It was something like the keening sounds the women make when they mourn the death of the god Dumuzi at the harvest-festival; but this was no mourning-song. It was bright and fiery and jubilant, and heat and light came from it. I did not need to be told what music this music was: it was the battle-song, bursting from all our souls at once. For we had fused into a single creature with a single mind, now, those of us who charged the Elamites, and out of the heat of that fusion came the silent song that only warriors may hear.

  At the same time I felt the aura of the god upon me, the buzzing droning sound within, the golden glow, the sense of great strangeness, that told me that Lugalbanda was stirring within me. I held myself steady and it seemed to me that I was a rock submerged in a swiftly moving dark river, but I was not afraid. Perhaps my consciousness went from me for an instant. But then I was fully awake again, as awake as I had never been in my life. At full gallop we came rushing into the Elamite line.

  The Elamites have no chariots. What they have is great numbers, and thick shields, and a thickness of soul that some might call stupidity, but which I think is true bravery. They stood piled up before us, heavy-bearded men with eyes dark as a month without moonlight, clad in gray leather jerkins and holding ugly broad-tanged spears. They had no faces: only eyes and hair. Namhani uttered a great roaring shout and guided my chariot right into their midst.

  “Enlil!” we cried. “Agga!” And I: “Inanna! Inanna!”

  The warrior-goddess preceded us, bowling over the Elamites like gaming-posts. They fell shrieking before the hooves of the four asses, and the chariot rose and fell like a vessel laboring in heavy waters as the wheels passed over their fallen bodies. Namhani swung a great long-handled axe with a sharp-angled socket, chopping away with it at any Elamite spearsman who approached us. I gripped the shaft of a javelin in each hand and took my aim. Lugalbanda had told me many times that the task of the vanguard is to destroy the spirit of the enemy, so that the other battle-chariots and the infantrymen behind them can advance more freely. And the best way to achieve that, he said, is to pick out the greatest men of the other side, the officers and the heroes, and slay them first.

  I looked about me. I saw mere chaos, a tumult of jostling forms and waving spears.
Then I found my man. When my eyes lit upon him, the battle-song grew louder and hotter in my ears, and the glow of Lugalbanda’s spirit flared up like the blue flame that comes when date-wine is flung upon a bonfire. That one. There. Kill him and all else will be easy.

  He saw me, too. He was a mountain chieftain with hair like black fur, and a shield that bore a demon’s face, yellow with blazing red eyes. He, too, understood the importance of killing the heroes first, and I think he had singled me out as a hero, though I was then hardly deserving of any such acclaim. His eyes gleamed brightly; he lifted his spear.

  My right arm rose and I cast my javelin without hesitating. The goddess sharpened my aim: the point entered him at the throat, in the small place below his beard and above the rim of his shield. Blood spouted from his lips and his eyes rolled wildly. He dropped his spear and went over backward, furiously kicking his legs.

  A great cry, like the sighing of some huge beast, came from the men about him. Several stooped to drag him to safety. That opened a place in the Elamite rank through which Namhani immediately took the chariot. I cast a second javelin with my left hand just as ably as I had the first, and another tall warrior went down. Then we were into the heart of the enemy force, with four or five other chariots flanking us. I saw the men of Kish staring at me and pointing, and though I could not hear what they were saying, they were making god-signs at me, as if they saw a divine mantle in the air above me.

  I used all my javelins and did not miss once. Under the force of the charging chariots the Elamites were thrown into confusion, and although they fought bravely their cause was hopeless from the first minutes. One did manage to come up to my chariot and slash at the lefthand-most ass, wounding it badly. Namhani cut the man down with one blow of his axe. Then, leaping out over the poles, the brave charioteer slit the traces with his short-sword, freeing the injured animal so it would not slow us. An Elamite reared up with a spear aimed at Namhani’s back, but I took him down with a swing of my own axe, and turned just in time to ram my axe-handle into the gut of one who had hopped upon the chariot from the rear. Those were the only moments of peril. The chariots went on and through, and turned to fall upon the enemy from the rear, and by then our foot soldiers were at work, marching in a frightful phalanx eleven men broad. So went the day for Kish. By nightfall the river ran red with blood and we had ourselves a joyful feast, while the harpers sang of our valor and the wine flowed freely. The next day it took us almost until twilight to divide the booty, there was so much of it.

  I fought in nine battles and six small skirmishes on that campaign. After the first battle, my chariot was awarded the second position, behind the general’s but ahead of the sons of the king. None of the sons of the king showed anger toward me for that. I took some small wounds now and then, but they were nothing, and whenever I cast my javelin it cost some enemy his life. I was not then fifteen years old; but I am of the blood of gods, and that makes a difference. Even my own men seemed frightened of me. When we had won our third battle the general called me aside and said, “You fight like no one I have ever seen. But there is one thing I wish you would not do when you go among the enemy.”

  “And what is that?”

  “You cast your javelins with either hand. I wish you would throw them with one hand or the other, but not with both.”

  “But I can cast equally well with right and left,” I said. “And I think it puts terror into the enemy, when they see me do it.”

  The general smiled faintly. “Yes, that it does. But my own soldiers see it as well. They are beginning to think that you are more than mortal. They think you must be a god, for no ordinary man can fight the way you do. Which may create problems for me, do you understand? It is a good thing to have a hero among us, when we go into battle, yes; but it can be very discouraging, perhaps, to have a god in our midst. Each man of the army hopes to do miracles of valor each day, and that hope strengthens his arm on the field. But when he knows that he can never be the hero of the day, because he is in competition with a god, it saps his spirit and puts a heaviness upon his heart. So cast your javelins with your right hand, son of Lugalbanda, or with your left, but with one or the other, not both. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” I said. And thereafter I tried to use only my right hand in casting the javelin, for the sake of the other men. In the press of battle, though, it is not always easy to remember that one has promised to use only a certain hand when fighting. Sometimes when I reached for a javelin it was with my left hand, and it would have been folly to give it to my right one before casting it. So after a time I ceased to worry about such matters. We won every battle. The general did not speak of it to me again.

  10

  I THOUGHT OFTEN OF URUK at first, and then less often, and then hardly at all. I had become a man of Kish. In the beginning, hearing reports in Kish of what the army of Uruk had accomplished against the desert tribes or some city of the eastern mountains, I felt a certain pride at what “we” had achieved, but then I noticed that I was thinking of the army of Uruk not as we but as they, and the doings of that army ceased to matter at all to me.

  And yet I knew, whenever I troubled to think of it, that my life in Kish was leading me nowhere. I lived at Agga’s court as a prince, yes, and when it was the season to make war I was accorded high precedence in the camp, almost as though I were a son of the king. But I was not a son of the king, and I was aware that I had already risen as high in Kish as I was ever likely to go: a prince, a warrior, perhaps one day a general, nothing more. In Uruk I could have been king.

  Furthermore I was troubled as ever by the greatness of that chilly gulf that separated me from other men. I had comrades, yes, fellow warriors with whom I could go drinking or wenching or brawling. But their souls were closed to mine. What was it that cut me off from them? Was it my great size, or my regal bearing, or the god-presence that hovers always about me? I did not know. I knew only that, here as in Uruk, I bore the curse of solitude and had no spell by which I might lift it.

  Also thoughts of my mother often crossed my mind. It saddened me that she was fated now to grow old without a son by her side. I sent her little tokens by secret messengers sometimes, and received messages in return from the priests who went as couriers between the cities. She never asked me when I was returning, and yet I knew that that must be uppermost in her mind. Then too I yearned to kneel before the shrine of my father and make the necessary observances to his memory. For though I knew his spirit rode in my soul, and beheld everything that I beheld, nevertheless that did not excuse me from the rites that were due his ghost. I could not perform those rites in Kish. That failure haunted me.

  Nor could I banish altogether from my mind the memory of the priestess Inanna, her sparkling eyes, her slender supple body. Each year when autumn came, and it was the time of the Sacred Marriage in Uruk, I imagined I stood in the jostling crowd on the White Platform, seeing king and priestess, god and goddess, showing themselves forth to the people; and bitter anguish rose within me, to think that she would share her bed with Dumuzi that night. I told myself that she had been treacherous to me, or at best faithless; and yet she glowed in my mind and I felt a yearning toward her. The priestess, like the goddess she served and embodied, was a perilous but irresistible figure to me. Her aura was one of death and disaster, yet also one of passion and the joys of the flesh, and something more even than that, the union of two spirits that is the true Sacred Marriage. She was my other half. She knew that and always had known it, from that time I was a boy stumbling around in the dark corridors of the Enmerkar temple. But I was a warrior in Kish, and she was a goddess in Uruk; and I could not go to her, because she had made my life forfeit in the city of my birth through her scheming, or through her thoughtlessness.

  In the fourth year of my exile a priest with shaven head, who was newly arrived from Uruk, came to me in Agga’s palace and made the goddess-sign before me. He took from his robe a little black goatskin pouch and pressed it into my palm,
saying, “It is a sign to Gilgamesh the king, from the hand of the goddess.”

  I had not heard that strange name, Gilgamesh, except once, long ago. And the priest, in using it, made it clear to me who the sender of the pouch must be.

  When the priest had departed I opened the pouch in my private chambers. Within it was a small gleaming thing, a seal-cylinder, such as we employ on letters and other important documents. It was cut from a piece of white obsidian so clear that light journeyed through it as easily as through air, and the design carved upon it was intricate and fine, plainly the work of a great master. I called for a scribe and asked him to bring me his best red clay, and carefully I rolled the seal against the clay to see what imprint it made.

  There were two scenes depicted on the seal, both drawn from the tale of the descent of Inanna into the land of death. On the one side I saw Dumuzi, dressed in noble garments, sitting proudly on his lofty throne. Before him stands Inanna, clad in sackcloth: she is newly returned from her sojourn in hell. Her eyes are the eyes of death, and her arms are upraised to call down a curse on him; for Dumuzi is the chosen scapegoat whose death will bring about her release from the nether world. The other side of the seal portrayed the sequel to that scene, a cowering Dumuzi surrounded by glowering demons who cut him down with axes, while Inanna looks on in triumph.

  I did not think Inanna had sent me that seal merely to awaken in my mind some memory of that great poem. No. I took the seal-cylinder to be a sign, a prophesy, a blunt message. It kindled a fire in my soul: the blood began to flow within me like turbulent river-water, and my heart soared like a bird newly set free from a trap.