His exploits have been immortalized in a vast poem,
considered the masterpiece of Babylonian literature, based on the
myths that had existed for centuries in Sumer.
The name Gilgamesh means, according to how it is translated,
‘He who discoverd the source’ or, alternatively, ‘He who saw all’.
This part of his legend is one of the great ‘buddy’
stories of all time.
Two-thirds god and one-third man, Gilgamesh the hero-king of Uruk,
was without peer in all of ancient Sumer. Heaven had excelled itself in
creating him, endowing him with beauty, strength and valour. In form
he was absolutely perfect, in height eleven cubits, with a chest width of
nine spans of the hand. His body was as powerful as that of a bull, and
nothing could stand up to the might of the weapons he wielded in
battle.
All this was very well, except that Gilgamesh was restless and
forever fighting with or drilling the young men of Uruk, or putting them
to work with him on the magnificent walls of his famous city. It was his
constant beating of his drum to assemble them that irritated everyone,
as he called men out to play or to work or to train for war or for
wrestling matches. That and his drumming just for the sake of
drumming, for fun and to work off excess energy, which kept so many
citizens of Uruk awake at night.
What was even worse, in some eyes, was that he would not leave
the women alone. It was not simply the eligible women he showered his
attentions on, but virtually all women. He was not content to leave a
virgin to her mother, or pass by even a warrior’s daughter or a hero’s
betrothed. He must have them all, and though the girls themselves did
not mind over much, the rest of the population was very upset about it.
Now, despite his irritating aspects, Gilgamesh was well loved, as
well he might be. He was the great protector of Uruk and its wise, strong
shepherd, a unifying force in a city ruled by a council of elders. His
tyrannies were those of the spoiled child or playful bully or overenthusiastic,
undisciplined, careless and uncontrollable friend. The
people and elders were too afraid, embarrassed, shamed and kind to do
much about his antics and outrages. In the end, those who wished his
worst excesses could be curbed resorted to prayer.
With such a deluge of complaints and laments coming
heavenwards, the gods began to take note of his disturbances and
misdeeds, and finally decided that something should be done about
them.
The divine Anu was the first to realize the extent of the problem.
He summoned the other gods, who took the glorious goddess Aruru to
task.
“Aruru,” they said. “You are chiefly responsible for creating this
man, so it is up to you to do something about him.”
“What do you suggest?” she asked, smiling.
“Create something to distract him,” Anu advised. “A rival, perhaps,
someone just as strong in body and will, someone just as wise. A
counter-weight, if you like. Contending with him will keep Gilgamesh
occupied and give the much put upon citizens of Uruk some peace and
quiet.”
Aruru liked the idea and went to work on it at once. If Gilgamesh
had been a creative masterpiece, her next work was to be very different
but of equal stature. She relished the artistic challenge. In her mind, as
a starting place, she conceived the image of the great god Anu himself.
Then, after washing her hands, she scooped up some clay and threw it
into the wilderness. There she created the valiant Enkidu.
His very essence was that of a god of war but on his head were the
long tresses of a woman. His body was hairy, too. He was covered from
head to foot with thick hair and wore no garments of any kind. He knew
nothing of people but ate grass with the gazelles and ran with the wild
beasts, who became his friends. In return, with his mind and hands and
his great strength, he became their protector.
One day a hunter spotted Enkidu at a water-hole. Terrified and yet
fascinated, the man watched this strange creature, at one with the
animals, trusted by them and alert to any danger to them. It was this
man-like thing, the hunter realized, who had been filling in his traps
lately, tripping his snares and frightening game out of the range of his
arrows.
The hunter saw the creature at the water-hole the next day and the
next and on the third day it even warned the animals of his presence
before chasing him away. The hunter went to his wise father for advice.
“The thing is horrifying,” he explained, “and I can take no game
while it’s around.”
“Can you not kill it or trap it?” his father asked.
“It’s too clever to trap and it would be death to try and kill it,” the
hunter replied. He was not a timid man, his father knew, and yet at the
very thought of the creature his face went pale.
“I see that it is so, my son.”
“This thing is the strongest beast in the country, and of great
fortitude, and its courage matches that of Anu,” the hunter went on
anxiously.
“You must go to Gilgamesh, king of Uruk, and tell him of the might
of this man, for man he is, though wild and unusual. Gilgamesh, too, is
of incredible strength and courage. He is also full of wisdom.” The old
man then outlined a plan of action to put to Gilgamesh.
“A wild man has come down from the hills,” the hunter explained
again, as he stood before Gilgamesh. “He is terrifying and of immense
strength such as only you can equal.”
He went on to describe the wild man’s habit of siding with the
beasts, who regarded him as one of their own.
“He is spoiling my hunting and threatening my livelihood.”
“Tell me about him again,” Gilgamesh requested, curious and
impressed with the reported size, strength and wiliness of the wild man.
The hunter waxed lyrical about the strange creature’s attributes,
none of which was exaggerated, Gilgamesh was certain, despite the
hunter’s agitated state of mind. Though curious, Gilgamesh had no great
interest in the matter and it did not really require his personal attention.
With a smile he thought of an excellent ploy.
“Has he a mate?”
“Not that I’ve seen. I don’t believe there could be such a woman.”
“Then, as he is a man, a man alone …” Gilgamesh grinned at
everyone around them. “Let’s get him laid.”
“What?” cried the hunter, astounded on two counts. This, more or
less, was what his father had outlined, though personally he had
believed the old man had taken leave of his senses and he had not been
disposed to suggest it to Gilgamesh.
“Yes,” Gilgamesh affirmed. “At my expense, find a whore in the
city and take her with you to this water-hole where the wild man drinks
with the animals. When he sees her, let her remove all her clothes, let
her display all the charms of her body to him. He will approach her and
be attracted to her and the animals that have lived with him in the wild
will see that he’s human and disown him.”
The hunter accepted the money Gilgamesh now handed him and
went in search of a woman who would agree to his terms. The woman
he found was attractive, even to him, but bold and greedy enough to
take on the challenge. The pay was commensurate with the nature of the
work and the potential danger and she deemed the venture well worth
her while. The deal struck, they set off together for the wilderness.
On the third day of their journey they reached their destination,
and at a short distance from the water-hole they set up camp. Two days
passed before the animals came to drink, accompanied by the wild man.
The whore stared in disbelief at him, and was sorely tempted to try to
re-negotiate her agreement with the hunter.
“There he is, whore,” whispered the hunter, preparing to withdraw
a discreet distance. “Reveal your breasts to him and your nakedness, let
him enjoy the charms of your body.”
The woman continued staring, her usual boldness and quick
tongue dulled by the surprise appearance of this new client.
“Do not recoil,” the hunter urged, sensing her lack of enthusiasm.
“Tempt him, enchant him. When he sees you he will surely be attracted
to you. Let him fall on you and then teach him the arts of lovemaking.”
The whore duly uncovered her breasts and thrust them in the
direction of Enkidu. Soon they had his full attention. He came closer
and sniffed the air. As he came still closer he touched her. Drawn
inextricably, but perplexed, he studied her. Experienced professional
that she was, the woman did not recoil and, indeed, began to warm to
her task. Soon desire was racing through Enkidu’s body, stoked by the
provocative way she discarded the last of her clothing. He fell upon her
and took her as only a green, sex-starved creature can. He was like all
the other beginners who had come to her. After he had worn himself
out, slowly and patiently she began to teach him her arts.
For six days and seven nights Enkidu coupled with the whore, and
then, satiated on her charms, he returned to his friends, the desert
animals. When he came back early that morning, the gazelles were the
first to sense his approach. They had seen him with the woman, and
now, smelling her upon him, recognized the man scent. None of the
gazelles would let him come near, and fled. The other animals of the
desert did the same. Afraid and feeling that his strength had diminished,
Enkidu found he could not run as swiftly as before, and, try as he might,
he failed to keep up with the fleeing animals.
He returned to the water-hole, where the whore was still waiting,
and sat at her feet. For the first time he used the power of speech with
which he had been born. Looking up into her face, he told her of his
utter bewilderment.
“You have become wise, Enkidu,” she said. “You are now like a
god, so why roam the desert with the animals? Let me take you to Uruk,
city of the great walls, to the holy sanctuary, the abode of Anu and
Ishtar, where Gilgamesh, who is perfect in strength and might, lives.
Here,” she added, “he controls the people like a wild bull.”
Nodding, he accepted her advice and decided to go with her, for
he needed a friend. This was not the first time she had spoken of Uruk
and of Gilgamesh. The latter’s doings were on everyone’s lips then, and
due to divine inspiration she was often to complain to Enkidu of
Gilgamesh while praising his strength.
“Let’s go then to this place you describe, where Gilgamesh rules
like a wild bull,” Enkidu said, and to please her, he added. “I will
challenge and provoke him. I’ll cry out in the very heart of Uruk that I
am the strongest.”
“Ah, now Enkidu …” the whore laughed, impressed in spite of
herself.
“Yes. I am the one who changes destinies,” Enkidu shouted at the
sky. He too was inspired. “The one born in the desert is harsher and
more powerful.”
“We will go now to Uruk and let him see your face. I’ll point him
out to you because I know where to find him, and you can see our
wonderful city. You will like it, I’m sure. People wear the most beautiful
gems and there are celebrations every day. The boys are brave and the
girls are pretty and fragrant. Am I not pretty and fragrant? We can make
even the most prominent citizens leave their beds for ours,” she laughed.
“What are beds, exactly?” Enkidu asked.
“I will show you,” the whore laughed again, “Enkidu, who cries
out for life. I will also show Gilgamesh, who is delighted with life, for
you must look at him and study him. You’ll see that he is all puffed up
with virility and might. He wears splendid objects on his body, but he is
stronger than you,” the whore went on, now a little worried about
Enkidu, or perhaps trying to egg him on. “He never rests, day or night.
You’d better forget your exaggeration and bragging. Gilgamesh is
protected by the gods Anu, Enlil and Ea, who favour him with
understanding.”
“We will see,” Enkidu shrugged. He was not simply confident, and
in his soul he could not fear Gilgamesh. Perhaps the goddess Aruru
could not bring herself to cause the two great beings she created to hate
one another. Certainly, the prospect of meeting Gilgamesh filled Enkidu
with excitement and joy, even though he supposed they must fight,
perhaps to the death when they came together.
Suddenly the whore looked into Enkidu’s eyes and a shiver ran
through her. Goose flesh covered her bare skin and she knew something
absolutely without being told, without thinking it or learning it in any
ordinary way, but in an instant from somewhere outside herself.
“Before you even leave the desert, Gilgamesh will see you in a
dream,” she said, gazing at Enkidu in amazement.
And so it was that at that moment, Gilgamesh had woken from a
dream and rising had gone to his mother who had also just come down
from bed. Sitting with her over their morning meal he seemed puzzled
and she asked the reason, so he told her of his dream, hoping she might
interpret it.
“I dreamt I was walking among great heroes, when the stars
appeared and one of them fell upon me like the luminous meteor, Anu.
I tried to lift him but he was too heavy. I tried to move him but couldn’t.
The people of Uruk gathered around him, they congregated and pushed
with the heroes around him and my friends kissed his feet … Then,
strangest of all, I knew I loved him. I bent over him as I would over a
woman and embraced him, though not in a carnal way, and I lifted him
then and laid him at your feet, for suddenly you were there, too. And
then, somehow, in the dream, you made him my equal. Oddly, I now
recall a similar dream earlier, only there was this axe, discarded in the
walls of Uruk. Again the people gathered around, and again I loved the
axe and bent over and embraced it like I would a woman. Just as in the
other dream, you appeared and I placed the axe at your feet and you
made it my equal.”
The wise and perceptive Ninsun thought a moment or two about
her son’s dreams and then smiled at him.
“Gilgamesh, in the first you dreamt of seeing your equal in a
meteor from the sky. You could not lift it or move it yet you loved it and
I seemed to make it your equal. I see this as the coming of a strong
friend, a helper and friend in need. Now, the axe you saw in the other
dream was a man. Because you loved it and embraced it as you would a
woman and because I again made it your equal, it also means that a
strong friend, a helper, will come to you. He would be the strongest in
the country, of great might, as strong as Anu in his resolve.”
“Perhaps,” Gilgamesh grinned, pleased with his mother’s
explanation but wondering at the possibility of such a thing. “Yes,
perhaps this is a good omen, maybe it will come true and by the will of
the night there will be a true friend to me and I a loyal friend to him.”
Just as Gilgamesh was talking to his mother about his dreams, the
harlot and Enkidu had started to walk to civilization, though the poor,
wild man had become assailed by doubts. The whore had torn the long
hem of her dress off to make a garment of sorts for Enkidu and a very
short dress for herself. Now, wearing this loin cloth had made him selfconscious
and he sat on the ground, wondering whether he should go
on after all.
In some ways his enjoyment of the delights of passion had made it
easy for him to forget he was a son of the wilderness, but his doubts
about the wisdom of entering the city were profound.
“But Enkidu,” the whore whispered, “whenever I look at you,
you seem more like a god to me. Wandering with the animals is no
place for you. Let me show you Uruk with its great souks and holy
sanctuary, as I promised. Arise, Enkidu, and let me take your hand to
Eanna where Gilgamesh lives in perfect strength and skill …”
Suddenly she stopped, and was moved to speak as she had not
intended. “And … And you will love him as you love yourself.”
Enkidu looked oddly at the whore, who looked oddly back at him.
He watched as she shook the confusion out of her head and went on in
a more normal tone.
“So, rise from the ground, the bed of the shepherd (for I also
promised to show you a real bed), for in a city beds are warm and
comfortable and what you do in them is yet more pleasurable as a result.
Just look at the state of your elbows and knees,” she laughed, leading
him by the hand like a child.
After a few more hours walking Enkidu and the whore arrived at the
huts of some shepherds where, despite her encouraging words, she
thought it best to keep him until he was more accustomed to people and
their ways. The curious looks the shepherds cast at him told her it would
be ill-advised to introduce him to too much civilization too soon. The
shepherds were not exactly sophisticated, urbane types and yet Enkidu
both frightened and amused them. Noting the looks they gave her, she
also knew a moneymaking opportunity when she saw one, and so it was
decided that they should stay awhile.
It was in this company that Enkidu was first given bread to eat.
Having been reared on the milk of wild animals and sparse vegetation,
he did not know what to do with it.
“Eat the food, Enkidu,” prompted the harlot, “for it is the
substance of life, as grass is to your gazelles.” Then she gave him a cup
of strong drink, saying; “And drink this, for it is the custom of the land.”
Enkidu ate bread until he was full and drank seven goblets of
strong drink, which roused his spirits and made him feel ridiculously
happy. Indeed, he was so joyous his face shone brightly. He was also
taught how to clean his body and body hair, and how to anoint it with
oil. His appearance became less remarkable as a result, and when he put
on clothes, he was said to look passsably human.
To earn his keep and help his new friends, he took up his weapons
and went out to hunt lions. This very much eased the minds of the
shepherds and, as the strongest man among them, he became their
guardian and protector.
These were very good times for Enkidu, though his friend, the
whore, began to long for gayer company, and the superior comforts and
greater profits of the city. Their life together among the rough sheepmen
was not to last.
One day a traveller covered in dust, though dressed like a man
from town, rushed breathlessly into the encampment, a desperate look
on his face. Enkidu, who was unused to strangers and such excited
behaviour, was very curious about him and why he was speaking to the
shepherds with such animation and growing outrage. It was not them he
was angry at, that much was clear to Enkidu, but why was here?
Enkidu asked the whore to investigate: “Please, go and see what
that man is saying. Find out why he is here and what his name is.”
She did far more than that; she brought the man himself and most
of the band of shepherds over to Enkidu. They all seemed anxious to
know how he would react to the man’s news. Perhaps, Enkidu thought,
the fellow had come precisely because word was about that he, Enkidu,
was there. Pride mixed with trepidation gripped his heart as he saw that
this was indeed true.
“It is dreadful,” the man from town said.
“Why are you in such a hurry, fellow?” Enkidu asked “And why
have you come here on what must have been an arduous journey?”
“He broke into the meeting house,” the man said, wide-eyed with
amazement and horror. “The one dedicated to weddings. I tell you the
city is defiled and shamed. He has forced on our ill-fated city, cruel and
shameful deeds along with his slave labour. They have set up the drum
for him, to accompany his voice while he chooses the bride he desires.”
“What does all this mean?” Enkidu looked from the whore to the
man and to the shepherds in bewilderment. “And who are we talking
about?”
“Gilgamesh, the King of Uruk, of the souks and great walls.”
“The drum is to assemble the people,” the whore explained.
“And Gilgamesh would choose a bride? Is this so bad?” Enkidu
asked, nonplussed.
“They set up the drum,” the man said, gaining control of himself
and now speaking clearly and simply, “so that the people assemble and
he can choose the brides before they marry. So that,” the man went on
with particular emphasis, “so that Gilgamesh can be the first lover
before the bridegrooms.”
“He would have them all before their new husbands, before …”
“Any he wants,” the whore shrugged. She understood why
everyone was so upset, though nothing in the man’s story particularly
moved her.
Enkidu regarded the act as one of wicked arrogance. Surely, in this
world, which he had been told was so much superior to the one he was
used to, such an injustice could not happen. A firm resolve swelled
within him. If he was to become a part of this world, it mustn’t be
allowed.
Later that day Enkidu and the harlot set off for Uruk. She planned to
show him where he could find Gilgamesh and then leave him to his own
devices. The woman was fond of him, no question about it, but she had
her career to consider and lately, because of her attachment to him, it
had suffered.
People stared at Enkidu as they entered the city and gradually he
seemed to draw a crowd of onlookers in his wake. Somehow the people
had known of his coming – that is, his existence was known about, and
the people believed that one day he would be among them. By means of
some unconscious communication from the gods, through their prayers,
and their hopes and fears, they recognized Enkidu. There was relief and
joy at seeing him, though none could say exactly why, or in what
connection.
“He is in form much like Gilgamesh,” they said in whispers, when
word of where they were going spread from the whore to the people
crowding round the couple.
“Yes, like Gilgamesh, but shorter, though bigger boned.”
“He is a man of the wilderness,” they opined.
“He has suckled the milk of the wild animals of the desert,”
another surmised.
“The rattle of arms in Uruk,” someone at last prophesied, “will not
cease.”
And then they saw the truth plainly and everyone, especially the
hard worked, drilled, wrestled with, and bride-cheated younger men,
rejoiced.
“A worthy opponent and rival hero has appeared to match the
comely hero-king.”
“Yes, there has come to the god-like Gilgamesh his equal.”
Throughout the city word spread and a great throng now followed
Enkidu as he was guided to his confrontation with Gilgamesh. Everyone
wanted to see the battle royal that would surely ensue when the two
met.
As it happened, Enkidu came upon the king as he was about to lay
with a woman, but she was not some reluctant bride of another man. On
the contrary, what the two were in engaged in was part of a religious
observance that even the most prudish of the city fathers would not have
objected to, though it was a duty the king relished.
It was the rite of the divine and sacred wedding, Hirros Gamos, in
which a priestess played the part of the goddess of love, Ishkara, in
sexual congress with the king, during a ceremony dedicated to the
fertility of the land.
Gilgamesh noted the unusually large crowd as he arrived at the
temple, but thought little enough of it, intent as he was on the
pleasurable task in hand. However, as he came to the temple door and
tried to enter, from out of the crowd stepped a large man, whom he only
saw out of the corner of his eye, who, incredibly, was barring his way.
Thinking it a mistake, that the man had stumbled or had been
pushed from behind, he did not take offence. There was in the flash of
sight he had of the fellow, something suggestive of the county bumpkin,
so perhaps he knew no better. Gilgamesh side-stepped and attempted to
brush past, but to his astonishment the man, now beside him and only
inches away, shoved him back, and stood his ground, filling the
doorway.
Reacting instantly, in a temper and without thought, Gilgamesh
half-turned and grabbed the man, and the long-awaited match was on.
One was certain he was preventing an immoral abuse of power, the
other sure his rights and duties were being violated. Neither had any
thought of the recent predictions or presentiments of women.
Bellowing like bulls they threw each other against the door frame
and pillars of the building, breaking and cracking them. They heaved,
gripped and tumbled one another, neither getting any real advantage
until at one point, after turning Gilgamesh on his back and dropping
him to the ground, Enkidu saw into the temple for the first time. He saw
its furnishings and the bed on which lay the priestess, who was looking
daggers at him for causing this unscheduled delay to the ceremony.
Holding him entirely culpable, she reached out, picked up a candlestick
and tossed it viciously at his head, barely missing.
A split-second later Gilgamesh was on him, getting him in an
arm-lock from behind. Enkidu slipped out of it eventually but as he
and the king squared off and he looked Gilgamesh in the eye for the
first time, he saw the joy and love of life in the man’s face. He saw no
malice, only wonder and respect. And in truth this was so, for
Gilgamesh was not at all a bad man, but surrounded by people who
either doted on him or were afraid of him, and would not thwart him
in anything. He was like a child, seeking his limitations and, finding
none, going farther. To be checked and challenged at last was a
revelation and a relief for him. Gilgamesh had also begun, even as they
fought, to recognize that Enkidu was the axe, the meteor, the friend in
his dream.
As they stood poised for more action while noting the new mirth
on the other’s face, each now dropped his guard a little. As he saw the
other do so, each then eased some of the tension in his muscles and let
the wariness in his eyes disappear as he saw it go bit by bit in the other.
At last, they smiled and then they began to laugh.
“A drink?” Gilgamesh suggested.
“Why not,” Enkidu nodded. “But don’t you have business first?”
“Ah yes,” Gilgamesh wiggled his eyebrows. “If you’ve no
objection?”
“I have to see a lady, too,” Enkidu grinned. “To say farewell, for
she has business of her own.”
The whore winked at Gilgamesh and he knew that the worker had
been worthy of her hire. Soon he would realize it was the best money he
had ever spent. The two heroes duly had that restorative beverage, and so
began one of the greatest friendships of all times. Many were the battles
they would win together, many the women they would woo, though from
the day of their first meeting only the fully willing and single.
When the two heroes became bored with their adventures at home the
city fathers encouraged them to undertake travels to other lands.
Although the influence of Enkidu on Gilgamesh was very good, the two
of them were a handful in peacetime. Eventually, the pair decided to
embark upon an adventure of truly extraordinary proportions, an
awesome task that would test them to the uttermost and put their lives
very much at risk.
It had begun when Enkidu fell into a depression, feeling himself
weakened by the good life of the city. To be sure he enjoyed it, but he
would always be a little torn between civilization and his old home in
the wilderness. When Gilgamesh proposed a scheme to occupy their
time in an epic manner, even Enkidu baulked at it.
“The demon Humbaba lives in the forest. Let’s go and kill him and
relieve the world of all evil.”
“My friend,” Enkidu responded, arching one brow and smiling
ruefully at Gilgamesh, “I learned when I was roaming the hills and vast
prairies with the animals that the forest extends a distance of ten
thousand leagues on every side. Only a madman would dare penetrate
it.”
Gilgamesh grinned.
“Look,” Enkidu said, realizing that Gilgamesh was serious, “the
Humbaba’s roar is a raging torrent. Fire comes out of his mouth and he
is literally the very spirit of violent death.”
“I know,” Gilgamesh nodded enthusiastically.
“And yet you wish to take on this monster?”
“I have decided to go to the Cedar Mountains and to enter the
forest, the dwelling of Humbaba. I shall take an axe to aid me in the
encounter.” Gilgamesh knew his friend and also that he was often in two
minds because he had not come from a background of money and
comfort. He did not take such advantages for granted. Even if he were
as restless as Gilgamesh, Enkidu did not lightly venture out in bad
weather or willingly take on arduous trips and tasks, though when he
was actually embarked upon them he coped far better. Gilgamesh was
always the instigator, Enkidu always the reluctant one who would never
let him down.
“It’s fine if you wish to stay behind this time. I’ll go alone,” he told
Enkidu.
Enkidu used various arguments to talk Gilgamesh out of his
madcap enterprise.
“And how will we enter the Cedar Forest when its guardian is a
warrior that never sleeps?”
“What do you suggest?” Gilgamesh asked, innocently ignoring
Enkidu’s use of the word ‘we’.
“Whatever we do,” Enkidu concluded gloomily, “we haven’t got a
chance. The thing was put there by Enlil to protect the Cedar forest and
his appearance strikes terror in everybody. Humbaba’s roar is like the
waves of a flood.”
“It still remains that he is evil and therefore loathsome to
Shamash,” Gilgamesh said, ever the optimist in these matters.
“We’ll die,” Enkidu spoke with smug certainty, as if being proved
right about it would give him some satisfaction. “Yes, we’ll die.”
“But who can go up to heaven? The gods alone are the ones who
live forever with Shamash. As for humans, their days are numbered and
all their deeds are to no avail. They vanish with the wind,” Gilgamesh
laughed. “For myself, if I die, then my name will be immortal and they
will say of me, ‘Gilgamesh died in combat with the demon Humbaba’.”
“Like a fool, they will add,” Enkidu smiled, shaking his head.
“With these words you sadden my heart,” Gilgamesh laughed,
placing his hand on his chest and sighing. Then he nodded. “I shall make
an enduring name for myself.”
“Did I say you would not?” asked Enkidu, arching an eyebrow.
“Tomorrow, my friend, I’ll give orders to the armourers and they
will make the arms in our presence.”
Then they fell to the serious business of discussing the weapons
they would need, of what type and heft, the various heads of arrows and
kinds of sword blades. Leaving nothing to chance, they did indeed
oversee the making of each of them, starting the next morning until the
armourers were done.
When Gilgamesh and Enkidu emerged armed with the splendid
weapons they’d had made, they drew a crowd. The sheaths of their
mighty swords were made of gold and the size and weight of their axes
were tremendous. People gathered around to admire them and cheer on
their enterprise, but the elders, seeing the two men were serious, called
a meeting at which they attempted to dissuade them from such a
hazardous undertaking. Gilgamesh tried to infuse the old men with
some of his enthusiasm, implying that, were they to succeed in their
mission, it would enhance the reputation of the city among its
neighbours.
“I, Gilgamesh,” he told them. “Would see the one the people are
talking about, the one whose name has filled the cities with terror. I have
resolved to go and overcome him in the Cedar Forest and the world
shall hear the tale of the son of Uruk. They shall say; ‘How strong was
this descendant of Uruk!’ ”
“Oh, Gilgamesh,” exclaimed the chief of the elders and his most
senior adviser, “You are still young, your courage has carried you far, but
you do not know what you are embarking upon. We have heard that
Humbaba is terrifying and strange. So who, confronted by this, can
resist?”
He and his fellows went on to rehearse the same arguments that
Enkidu had used, to no greater avail.
“No one has yet stood up to Humbaba,” all the elders cried. “Why
would you two chance this?”
“For that reason,” Gilgamesh replied. Turning to Enkidu, who
remained silent, he asked if all this sounded familiar, then he laughed.
“But how should I answer them, my friend? Shall I say that I am afraid
of Humbaba and shall stay at home for the rest of my days?"
In the end, the elders were resigned to their going and gave their
blessing.
“May your protecting god grant you victory. May he send you back
safely to the harbour of Uruk.”
Then Gilgamesh, feeling his responsibilities as king at last, realized
that he must do more to put the minds of the elders at rest. For that
reason and his own peace of mind, he bowed down in prayer to the god
Shamash.
“Return me to my home and may my soul receive blessings and
benediction. Spread your shade over me and cover me with your
protection.”
His devotions over with, he and Enkidu went off to a soothsayer,
hoping for some more earthly reassurance, but none came. The fortuneteller
was no more optimistic about their chances than the elders had
been.
When at last they set off, the people came to see them go and small
boys begged to be allowed to carry their weapons for a short way. Again
the elders expressed concern for the king’s safety. They offered much
advice and asked Enkidu to walk before him and be his guardian and
guide, because he had been much of the way before. The elders then said
many prayers to Shamash for the success of the adventure and the safe,
speedy return of the two heroes.
“May Shamash enable you to fulfil your desire,” a priestly elder
concluded. “And when you have killed Humbaba, as you seek to do,
wash your feet. When you camp at night, dig a well and see that your
water skin is always filled with pure water. Offer fresh water to Shamash
and think of Lugalbanda at all times.”
Gilgamesh himself suggested that they visit the temple of Egalmah,
which lay directly on their route.
“Let us go to the presence of Ninsun, the wonderful queen, my
mother, the astute knower of all. She will give us an honest start and
good advice.”
So Gilgamesh and Enkidu started walking towards Egalmah, where
the king hoped they would be able to enlist her aid with the gods.
“Oh, mother,” Gilgamesh said on entering the temple and seeing
her, “I have made a decision on a momentous matter. I am to travel far,
to the homeland of Humbaba.”
Ninsun blanched and fought to control her emotions. She could see
how they were equipped and even before he explained what they
intended to do, she imagined the danger they would face.
“Intercede for us with Shamash,” Gilgamesh said in conclusion,
after fully appraising her of their plans. “And pray for us.”
Ninsun went into her room and put on a beautiful dress. She
adorned herself with ornaments, put a crown on her head and went up
to the roof where she burnt incense and held up her hands to Shamash.
“Why did you give my son a restless and anxious heart? Now you
have spurred him on and he is resolved to travel far, to the homeland of
Humbaba. He will know great struggle and walk a road that is unknown
to him. Aid and protect him and his companion in their sacrifice to kill
the giant Humbaba and remove from the face of the earth the evil you
loathe.”
The queen then extinguished the incense, pronounced an
incantation and summoned the priestesses and the sanctified and pious
vestal virgins. Next she called Enkidu to her.
“Strong Enkidu, who are not of my womb, I now take you as a
son.” She then adorned his neck with a jewelled necklace as a pledge. “I
entrust Gilgamesh to you, so return him to me safely.”
Enkidu, the strangely born, having no family but beasts of the
wilderness, was deeply touched and swore to watch over his brother, for
his own sake and his mother’s.
The two heroes were indeed blessed during the first phase of their great
task, perhaps because they did not forget to offer up a sacrifice to the
god Shamash regularly. On the first day they walked thirty leagues, and
on the second morning fifty leagues. In just three days they covered a
distance it would have taken most mortals one and a half months to
complete. They pressed on until, after many more days of dogged
travelling, they reached the entrance to the forest.
The edge of the forest was dense and dark, the mysteries beyond it
too frightening to relate. As dwellers of the plains and deserts, the two
heroes would have found this an unimaginably disturbing place. No
ordinary forest, it was the very home of the spirit of death. The evil
enchantment of the place could particularly be sensed around the
entrance, which was twenty-four cubits wide and consisted of a trail
passing under an arch of twisted vines and overhanging tree branches.
The trail disappeared into the darkness of the shadows, but under the
arch, standing sentinel, stood a demon whom Humbaba had appointed
to guard it.
From a distant hill Gilgamesh and Enkidu watched the entrance
with growing anxiety. If this hideous creature at the gate was only an
underling, what must his mighty lord be like?
“You go get him,” Enkidu smiled, “while he is still armed and
dangerous, for there’s more honour in that.”
Gilgamesh appreciated his friend’s humour, but only just. “Do you
have any constructive ideas?”
“I’m serious,” Enkidu replied, a plan suddenly hitting him. “You
approach him, slowly and openly. I will move by stealth round the back
of him, then, on a signal, we’ll attack together.”
Both agreed to the plan but neither of them was too keen to be the
first to begin the attack. After further prevarication, Enkidu moved off
to take up position.
When he was in place, Gilgamesh showed himself and began his
leisurely approach, intently watched by the guardian of the forest
entrance. Acutely aware of the demon’s interest, Gilgamesh would pause
to pick a stone out of his boot, to test the edge of his axe or to scratch
his backside, all the while hoping that the unseen Enkidu, still in spirit
an animal of the wild, was also inching closer.
The nearer they got to the beast the more palpable was its rage, the
more overwhelming the suffocating smell emanating from it. Gilgamesh
stopped a few yards short of where the beast was standing. He postured
a moment, howled his name, beat his chest, and then, elaborately, he
charged. This was the signal for Enkidu, who was crouched only feet
from the demon’s rear, to spring up and join Gilgamesh in the attack.
Darting forward with lightning speed, they came together and struck at
the demon, who was startled to find himself assailed on two sides.
Swinging their axes with great ferocity the heroes hacked at the
demon. Gilgamesh’s first blow was blocked as Enkidu’s, delivered
almost simultaneously, landed on the monster’s enormous shoulder.
Gilgamesh then aimed a blow at its belly as the demon half turned to
confront Enkidu. It screamed and slashed with its claws and snapped
with its teeth, even as it bled from its deep wounds, while the heroes
darted in to cleave chunks out of its massively thick hide. At last it
weakened and fell to the ground, whereupon, knowing they must not
hesitate, Gilgamesh and Enkidu leaped upon it and began chopping at
its neck in turns until the demon’s head rolled free. They collapsed to
the ground where they lay for several minutes to catch their breath.
After a brief rest Gilgamesh began to examine their dead enemy,
hoping to gain some insight into what Humbaba might be like. Enkidu,
meanwhile, walked over to the entrance to the forest. Standing beneath
the arch he suddenly groaned and looked back at his friend in disbelief.
An invisible wall of pain and fear seemed to bar his way. The wicked
enchantment had stopped him from going further and at the same time
prevented him from going back.
“Do not come closer,” he shouted to Gilgamesh. “It is horrible and
it will not release me.”
“Fight it, Enkidu, defeat it.”
“It is too much to bear, we cannot go through.”
“We can and must,” Gilgamesh said with determination, stepping
up beside Enkidu. He too was gripped by terror and held fast by the
force of the magic doorway. “We have not come this far to be thwarted
now,” Gilgamesh groaned, gritting his teeth and straining against the
power pressing against him from all sides. “Not after all the difficulties
we’ve faced, the battles we’ve fought. Be brave and stand by me.”
“We can beat it,” Enkidu screamed at last. “We will protect one
another.”
“And if we fall in combat, we’ll leave behind an everlasting name.”
“We are not going to die yet,”’ Enkidu snarled against the pain and
strain. Together they summoned all their willpower and physical
strength.
“On the count of three, we break through,” Gilgamesh hissed. “Put
everything into it, my friend.”
Enkidu nodded, barely able even to move his head.
“One, two, three …”
With a mighty howl the two suddenly hit what held them with a
burst of energy and angry resistance that broke its power. Finding
themselves racing forward head long, they could not stop and fell,
tumbling to the forest floor, rolling in the dust and pine needles.
Hooting and shouting for joy and relief, they climbed to their feet,
slapped each other’s backs and danced about, laughing and
congratulating one another.
Looking around they felt a menacing closeness, an eery silence.
They had done something all right. But, what, exactly?
Penetrating far into the forest, they were moved by its beauty as well as
haunted by it. They walked the trails made by Humbaba and came to its
very heart, where, struck dumb with awe, they saw the Cedar Mountain
of the gods. The shade of the great trees around it gave out a sense of
peace and happiness. At sunset, Gilgamesh dug a well and climbed some
way up the mountain, taking water and food with him as offerings. He
asked the mountain to send him a dream that would foretell joy.
That night, after the two friends had lain down to sleep, Gilgamesh
awakened suddenly with a start.
“What was that? What did you say?”
“Nothing,” Enkidu said after a moment, fully awake now, having
feared a threat. “I did not speak.”
“My friend, who was it who spoke to me if not you?” Gilgamesh
took a moment to emerge fully from sleep. “It was a dream. I remember
it now.”
The two men lay down again, silently staring at the stars through
the treetops.
After a few minutes, Gilgamesh spoke. “I dreamt we stood at the
foot of the mountain. Then suddenly the mountain fell and we were,
you and I, like two fleas. But there was another dream, too, and I saw
the mountain again as it was falling. Then a glow shone out. The
radiance and brightness of it grew intense and overwhelmed the earth
and carried me away from under the mountain, refreshing me and filling
my heart with joy.”
“Your dream has a good meaning,” Enkidu told him. “It signifies
good things. The mountain is obviously Humbaba and we will
overpower him and kill him.”
In yet another dream he had that night, Gilgamesh identified signs
of another good omen and in the morning, when they climbed the
mountain once more, they were both in good spirits. The time for the
confrontation with Humbaba was nearly at hand.
After sharpening his axe on a stone, Gilgamesh looked at the tree
varieties in the immediate vicinity. When he had selected a suitable type,
he brought his mighty blade down on the trunk, swung back and cut
again, chopping at it slowly, rhythmically, with hard blows that echoed
around the forest. Its thick trunk would sustain such loud but slow,
measured chopping for hours, Gilgamesh reckoned, and its splendid
foliage would hide the fact that Enkidu was concealed up there.
The two men had planned a similar deception to the one that had
worked so well at the forest entrance. Gilgamesh would attract the
attention of Humbaba, summon him with the sound of his chopping,
and when he came to investigate, Enkidu would drop onto him and
together the two friends would kill him.
Everything worked perfectly until they saw Humbaba. By
comparison, the demon they had killed at the entrance to the forest was
knee high to him and soft skinned. With hide as hard as granite, fire in
his piercing, withering eyes, a mouth like a cavern and ugly as an ancient
toad, he came at Gilgamesh, in a thundering, ground-shaking run.
“Who cuts the trees of my forest?” he roared furiously. “Who
trespasses on my mountain and disturbs its serenity?”
Gilgamesh stood gaping at Humbaba, and Enkidu found himself
being looked down upon by the giant demon, who could see him easily
through the thinner branches at the top of the tree. Slowly, Humbaba
lumbered toward the two friends, both of whom were frozen with fear.
All thought of fighting the monster vanished from their minds as they
watched it come at them. They might as well take their axes and swords
to the mountain itself. Instinctively and uselessly, Gilgamesh scrambled
up the tree and clung to it beside Enkidu, their eyes enormous and
glassy, no colour in their faces as each looked at the other, knowing that
death was coming for them and that it would be a hideous one. Battle
against an army of men each would have been preferable to combating
this evil demon.
They made no bold, noble or witty comments now, for unlike past
times and past fights, they were not simply facing death. The two heroes
were not afraid of death. They were, however, very afraid of Humbaba.
He was horrible, invincible, and the cruelty of his burning eyes terrified
them into paralysis and screaming insanity.
Fire shot from the demon’s eyes and his mouth opened to gush
forth a slimy torrent of water that hit them like a raging river. As if
caught in a storm the tree fell, torn from the ground, roots and all, and
was washed backwards as the demon’s foul breath and scorching eyes
cooked them in steam that rose from the combination of all the vile
creature’s weapons.
“Oh, what have we done?” the two friends squealed in bitter
anguish over the rashness of their adventure.
“Shamash, Shamash,” Gilgamesh wailed. “Help us.”
“Yes,” Enkidu begged the god. “Save us from this thing.”
Praying furiously, holding to the downed tree for all their worth,
they shut their eyes from the horror approaching them and pleaded with
Shamash to intercede and somehow stop the monstrous Humbaba from
annihilating them.
As they lay among the branches, shivering in terror, alternately
praying for deliverance and cursing themselves for fools, the god heard
their pleas and his heart was moved. To even have tried to face the evil
demon of death was enough to win his support. Perhaps the heroes’ mad
courage and frank repentance amused him, too.
Shamash stirred up the winds until a tremendous gale began to
blow, tearing and whipping at the mountainside, felling more trees, yet
blowing at Humbaba, who now fought against it to keep his monstrous
feet. Rocking in the great wind that faced him, he teetered violently and
seemed to topple slowly, falling almost gracefully for a long moment
until with an earth-shuddering crash he met the ground, tossing stones
and tree trunks into the air with the jarring, thunderous impact.
With no real thought but acting on warrior instinct, the heroes
scrambled out from under the branches around them, stumbled over the
shattered wood and rubble left by the torrent and the gale, found their
discarded weapons and attacked. Even as they climbed onto the rockhard
chest of the felled Humbaba, they were assailed by doubt that they
could harm him. Already the shocked and shaken demon was struggling
to rise. With his bulk it would be difficult but not impossible. They had
to act swiftly or be in the same danger they had faced only moments
before.
Noticing a fissure in the granite-like armour, just over the demon’s
heart, they aimed a sword at it and prepared to drive it in with the flat
of an axe blade.
“Wait,” bellowed Humbaba. “Do not slay me. Have pity and I will
give you this great cedar forest and all its wealth of trees.”
“No,” said Enkidu.
“I beg you,” the demon pleaded. “Do not kill me, I long to live, and
I swear to do you no harm and to cease from the evil that is loathsome
in the sight of Shamash.”
“What do you think?” Gligamesh asked, looking at Enkidu. “Shall
we spare him and show compassion?”
“Don’t trust him, evil never changes,” Enkidu swore. “If we don’t
kill him now, while we can, he’ll surely kill us once he is free and up
again, and Shamash who heard us once may not be so kind again.”
Gilgamesh reared back and hit the sword pommel with his axe,
driving it like a stake into the breast of the demon, then with its point
on the pommel of the first, another sword was driven in, pushing the
first yet deeper. With a quake-like shudder, the great demon Humbaba
died. Using their axes like chisels and working at it for days, they cut off
the demon’s head for a prize and wearily, though in glorious triumph,
the two heroes returned to Uruk.
Gilgamesh bathed, washed his hair, which he let fall to his shoulders and
polished his armour. He put on clean clothes with fine embroidery and
wrapped a belt around his waist. Finally he donned his crown. The
greatest celebration of his life awaited him as the whole city longed to
toast the victory he and Enkidu had won. The elders and heroes of the
city applauded them and showed awe and respect, the populace
worshipped them and the women of Uruk desired them as bed-mates.
Everyone, everywhere wanted them, and this was not limited to mere
humanity.
From heaven, the glorious Ishtar looked on Gilgamesh and she was
smitten. His beauty, courage and irresistible success filled her with
passion. Appearing in his bed-chamber, she admired his body as he
dressed, and then spoke in a husky, seductive voice.
“Come to me Gilgamesh,” she said, devouring him with a
smouldering look from her hooded eyes. “Be my chosen bridegroom
and give me your seed to enjoy. You shall be my husband and I shall be
your wife.”
Startled briefly, Gilgamesh returned her smouldering gaze. He
knew her to be the most beautiful and desirable female in heaven or on
the earth. For a moment he hardly knew what to say. With studied calm
he went on dressing.
“I shall prepare a carriage of lapis lazuli and gold for you,”
she continued, “with golden wheels and spokes of bronze. Demons
of lightning will pull it instead of mules.”
“A fine vehicle,” Gilgamesh said flatly.
“Our home will be filled with the fragrance of cedars,” Ishtar told
him, moving slowly and seductively towards him, her shapely body
seeming to glide and shimmer, though solid, warm and soft. “When you
enter our home, the threshold will kiss your feet and kings, rulers and
princes will all bow down to you in submission. They will offer you
wealth in revenue from the mountains and the plains. Your goats will
bear triplets and your ewes will give birth to twin lambs. Your donkeys
will carry more than mules ever can and your oxen will be splendid and
without rivals. The horses of your chariots will be the winners of every
race they run.”
“Glorious Ishtar,” Gilgamesh asked with no emotion in his voice.
“What do I have to give you if I take you for a wife? Do I offer you
ointments and clothes for your body? Do I give you bread and food? If
so, what food can I give that will be fit for you, a divine goddess?”
“All you must give to me is yourself, Gilgamesh,” Ishtar whispered
breathily in his ear, for by now she was next to him and pressing herself
against him.
“What good would it do me to have you for my wife, Ishtar?”
Gilgamesh asked sincerely. Gently he pushed her away and looked her
frankly in the eye. “You are only a hearth when the fire dies with the
cold. You are a crack in a door, that keeps out neither wind nor storm.”
“Gilgamesh!” she gasped in wonder.
“You are a castle within which heroes decay.” He was worked up
now, the full shock of her proposal having sunk in. Though briefly fun
for her, it would have been disastrous for him. Moved to righteous
anger, he waxed lyrical. “Yes, you are an elephant which destroys its
harness. You are pitch that soils its bearers, a water skin that leaks over
its carrier, a marble wall that collapses. You are a sandal that pinches the
wearer.”
“How dare you!” She slapped his face.
“Which of your lovers have you loved with any consistency?” he
demanded.
She sniffed and tossed her lovely head but did not reply.
“Let me remind you of the sad tales of your past loves, shall I?”
“What sad tales can these be?” Ishtar pouted.
“There was Tammus, the lover of your youth, for whom there is yet
wailing and weeping every year. Next you fancied the multi-coloured
roller bird but then struck him and broke his wing so that he alights in
the garden even now and laments crying; ‘My wing! My wing!’”
“An accident,” she shrugged, carelessly.
“Oh? Then you wanted the lion, so perfect in his strength and
grace, but dug seven times seven pits in which to trap and kill him. You
desired the horse yet inflicted the whip and the spur and the harness
upon him and forced him to race seven leagues without quenching his
thirst until he had muddied the waters. Then you made his mother, Silili,
weep and lament forever.”
“Vicious rumours,” Ishtar said lightly, studying her nails.
“You loved the shepherd after that,” Gilgamesh continued. “And he
brought you bread and slaughtered the kids of his flock and cooked
them for you every day, but you struck him and turned him into a wolf.
Now he’s chased by his own herd-boys and his dog bites his legs.”
Ishtar sighed heavily, feigning boredom, but inside she was seething
with anger.
“You loved Ishullanu after that, your father’s gardener, who daily
brought you baskets of dates and heaped your table with delicacies of
all kinds. You looked on him and enticed him. ‘Come on, handsome
Ishullanu and let me enjoy your manhood,’ you said to him; ‘Reach out
your hand and touch the charms of my body.’ Then Ishullanu
demurred, knowing you would do him no good, and he asked how a
hut of straw could keep out the bitter cold of winter and asked why he
should eat tainted bread. In a fury, you raised up your wand and hit
him, turning him into a frog just to make him suffer.”
“So?”
“Soon enough you’re bound to treat me the same as you have all
the others.”
Enraged, Ishtar glared at him a moment and then instantly
ascended to heaven where she went in tears to her father and mother,
the god Anu and the goddess Antum.
“Gilgamesh has cursed and insulted me,” she cried, flinging herself
dramatically at her father’s feet.
“Oh, has he?” Anu said doubtfully.
“Well, he has listed all my wicked and shameful deeds,” Ishtar said,
her lower lip protruding.
“You provoked him and got what you deserved,” Anu told her with
a smile, while Antum nodded in agreement.
“Daddy,” Ishtar said pouting and fluttering her eyelashes. “Let me
have the Bull of Heaven so that I can send it down to destroy that bad
Gilgamesh.”
Seeing her parents exchange a look of impatience and disapproval,
Ishtar stood up quickly and glared at them.
“Well,” she snapped, “if you don’t give me the Bull of Heaven, I’ll
tear down the door to the Underworld and let the dead rise up and eat
with the living.”
“But Ishtar,” her father said in alarm. “If I gave you the Bull of
Heaven then Uruk would go through seven lean years. Have you
collected enough crops for those years? Have you stored that much
fodder for the cattle and other beasts?”
“Oh yes, Daddy, I’ve stored more than enough for all the people
and animals if the lean years spread. Plenty of fodder and grain.”
With a sigh, knowing Ishtar was fully capable of carrying out her
threat, Anu gave her the chain of the leading rein of the Bull of Heaven.
Taking it gleefully, she led the creature away and down to earth where
she placed it in the middle of Uruk.
Panic and terror spread throughout the city at once. At the first
terrible lowing of the bull a hundred people died, then two and three
hundred more. When it lowed again hundreds of others were killed.
With its third lowing, it attacked Enkidu, who had come to investigate.
But bravely, Enkidu fought back.
Leaping out of the way of its charge, Enkidu grabbed the Bull’s
horns as it passed him and was pulled onto its back. Whirling furiously
and throwing foam from its mouth and dung with its tail, the great Bull
desperately tried to dislodge him. With a mighty buck it tossed him into
the dust and came at him with its giant horns aimed at his chest.
Gilgamesh, who had arrived just then, ran and threw the full weight of
his body into the animal’s side, checking its momentum and infuriating
it. Only Enkidu springing to his feet and distracting the Bull again,
prevented it spinning about and goring Gilgamesh, who then scurried
out of range.
“We’ve boasted about all our other exploits, my friend,” Enkidu
said. “But they were mostly far from Uruk.”
“And they will all have been for nothing if we don’t kill this thing
and save my people,” Gilgamesh replied, all the while watching the Bull
in case it charged one of them.
Snorting and digging at the ground with its hooves, it looked from
one to the other and bided its time. If it lowed again now many people
would die.
“We had better attack it together,” Enkidu said. “I’ll get it by the
tail and going backwards a moment, while you get on its back with your
sword drawn.”
“A thrust between the nape of its neck and its horns should kill it,”
Gilgamesh agreed. “Are you ready?”
Enkidu nodded with a doubtful grin.
“Now,” cried Gilgamesh and instantly they jumped at the bull.
Enkidu succeeded in grabbing its tail and, as hoped, pulled it
backwards long enough to stop it spinning. In those split seconds
Gilgamesh sprang upon the terrible animal’s back and fought against its
violent leaping and shaking to poise his sword point above the agreed
place. Both hands tightly grasping the hilt, using every ounce of his
strength, he stabbed downwards.
Without so much as a bellow, a shiver or a last rear or buck, the
Bull dropped on the spot, stone dead. Gilgamesh sat on its back trying
to collect his wits and Enkidu stood, still holding the tail, staring at the
sight in front of him. Suddenly, people burst from doors and windows
and climbed down from trees and roofs to take the two men up on their
shoulders and carry them in triumph around the city walls.
Returning to the Bull’s body, the two heroes were never more loved
by the people of Uruk than now. They cut out the heart of the Bull and
offered it to Shamash, prostrated themselves and prayed. Then the two
brothers, feeling utterly drained, sat down and rested. As they lay,
leaning against the carcass, Ishtar appeared hovering over the walls of
Uruk, shouting curses at them.
“Woe to you, Gilgamesh,” she raged. “For defiling and insulting me
by killing the Bull of Heaven.”
At this unjust fury of a woman justly scorned, Enkidu lost his
temper entirely. Deftly leaping up, he sliced off one of the Bull’s
haunches and he flung it at Ishtar, hitting her square in the face with it.
“If I’d caught you, I’d have done to you what I did to him, and tie
his entrails around your limbs.”
Disappearing in high dudgeon, Ishtar gathered the priests and
vestal virgins and performed lamentations and wailing over the Bull of
Heaven’s right haunch, while in Uruk, Gilgamesh summoned craftsmen
and armourers, finding uses for other parts of the dead creature.
Everyone was amazed at the thickness and size of the horns, for
each of them was lapis lazuli, weighing thirty mina. The thickness of the
outer layer was the span of two fingers and could hold six gur-measure
of oil. This Gilgamesh offered up to his protector god, Lugalbanda.
Then he took the horns and hung them in his bedroom.
The two heroes washed their hands in the Euphrates River,
embraced and rode again through the streets of Uruk to hear once more
the people’s praise. Crowds proclaimed them, and sang of their courage.
“Who is the most glorious of men?” Gilgamesh shouted with a
grin.
“Gilgamesh is the most glorious of men,” the singers cried.
“Who is the most splendid of men?” he asked again.
“Gilgamesh,” they sang as one. “Gilgamesh is the most splendid of
men.”
In his ear, suddenly worried by his own rashness, Enkidu muttered
of the consequences of so infuriating Ishtar.
“She at whom we flung the haunch of the Bull of Heaven in our
anger,” Gilgamesh assured him, “the glorious Ishtar herself, will not find
anyone to console her. She was wrong.”
Alas, Gilgamesh should not have been so certain.
They held a great celebration in the palace and when it was late, the two
heroes went up to their beds. In his sleep, however, Enkidu had a
disturbing vision and sat up violently half-awake, asking; “Why did the
gods meet for deliberation?”
The next morning Enkidu told Gilgamesh about his dream.
“My friend, it was very strange,” he said. “The gods came together
to confer and Anu said to Enlil: ‘Because they killed the Bull of Heaven
and Humbaba, the one who cut the cedar trees on the mountainside
must die.’ But Enlil said: ‘It is Enkidu who must die, but Gilgamesh will
not.’ Then the divine Shamash said he had ordered us to kill the demon
and the bull. He asked them: ‘So, why should Enkidu, who is innocent,
have to die?’ But Enlil grew indignant and said to Shamash: ‘You are too
close to them, you appear to them daily and are nearly becoming one of
them.”
Even before his eyes, Enkidu seemed to grow weak and pale and
Gilgamesh was frightened for him.
“But my brother,” he said desperately. “Why should they absolve
me and not you?”
Enkidu made no reply and inside his head Gilgamesh wondered,
beset with worry; ‘Is it my fate to watch the spirits of the dead and sit at
the gateway of death? Is it for me never to see my dear friend again?’ He
did not speak of his deep concerns but tried to encourage Enkidu and
nurse him, as daily he grew weaker and more confused.
At one point in his delirium, Enkidu spoke to the door of his room
as if it were a living being. He had chosen its wood from a forest twenty
leagues away before he ever saw the lofty cedar trees.
“Your wood, oh door,” he told it. “I have never seen the like of
before in all the land. You are seventy-two cubits high and forty-two
cubits wide. A skilled carpenter made you in Nippur and brought you
from there. Yet, if I had known that your beauty would bring disaster
upon me, I would have taken up my axe and destroyed you, I would
have made a raft of you. But what can be done now, door? I made you
and brought you and now maybe some future king will use you, remove
my name and have carved on you his own.”
It broke Gilgamesh’s heart to hear his friend speak this way and he
tried to calm his fears and inspire him to get better, but still the illness
grew worse. Even while lucid, Enkidu, in his despair, regretted leaving
the wilds for the temptations of civilization. Angrily, he cursed the
hunter and the whore.
“Oh divine Shamash,” Enkidu cried in his agony, “blight the life of
the hunter who first saw me. Take all his strength and let all his prey
escape him. May nothing he desires ever be attainable. Shamash,
Shamash damn the whore who lured me from the wilderness. Let me
predict her future, which I pray will be grim. May all my curses have
effect at once. Whore, you will never be able to build a house to befit
your beauty, may your vanity be great and may your charms fade quickly
and be horrid in your sight.”
Gilgamesh was saddened to hear this and ashamed to tell his
friend that the whore had been his idea and his gift.
“Let your food be the rubbish of the city,” Enkidu went on cursing
her. “And the corners of the dark streets your refuge. May you stand in
the shadows of the walls where the sober and the drunk will slap your
face alike. May your lovers leave you as quickly as they have satisfied
their lust for your fatal beauty.”
Then the god Shamash or Enkidu’s vision of the god produced by
his own inner guilt for what he had said, appeared to him from heaven
and asked him why he so cursed the harlot.
“She is the one who first taught you to eat bread fit for the gods
and made you drink wine fit for royalty and made you wear elegant
clothes. It was she who made it possible for you to become the bosom
friend and companion of your brother, Gilgamesh.”
“Oh harlot,” cried Enkidu in his misery and sorrow. “I that cursed
you would rather bless you. Let me tell your future again. Kings and
princes will love you dearly. No one will ever strike his thigh and
ridicule you. For you, the aged man will shake his beard and the young
men will undo their belts and offer you lapis lazuli and gold. Punishment
will fall on any who scorn you and their houses will be empty. The priest
will let you enter the presence of the gods and for you, wives will be
deserted, even if she be the mother of seven children.”
In the night Enkidu dreamt he was entrapped in a hellish
underworld and his vivid description of it so deeply disturbed
Gilgamesh that he carried the horror of it for the rest of his life. In the
dream, Enkidu recounted, the sky thundered and the earth replied and
while he stood between them, a boy with a dark and threatening face
appeared before him. The boy’s face was like that of an eagle and he
stripped Enkidu naked, holding him in his claws and choking him until
his breathing stopped. Enkidu, in his dream, was dead. The eagle then
changed Enkidu’s appearance into that of a bird, giving him feathers
that covered his body and wings where his arms had been. He was led
to a house of darkness, the house from which none who enter ever
returns, the house whose dwellers see no light, where sand is their food
and mud is sustenance. Here, Enkidu saw kings and princes, mighty in
life who were lowly now, heaped on the ground and wearing no
crowns. Only the deputies of the gods Anu and Enlil were given meat,
bread and cold water. The queen of the underworld also lived in this
place. All prostrated themselves before her, as she read from a tablet in
her hand. When she lifted her head and saw Enkidu, she said; ‘Who
brought this man here? Take him away from me.’ Enkidu then
experienced the worst of the horrors of the underworld, and when
later he woke from the dream he was convinced that it boded ill for
him.
Until now, he had often been able to move about, though weakened
and saddened. After this dream he was confined to his bed and for many
days he stayed there. Gilgamesh, in anguish, went to his mother Ninsun
for help and advice, but nothing could be done. Enkidu grew worse still
and did not rise again from his sickbed.
“A curse is upon me,” Enkidu said, fading quickly now and in great
pain, angry at his helplessness. “My friend,” he told Gilgamesh. “I am
under a curse and I will not die in the fury and action of battle. I feared
to die in battle, of course, but now it seems a good way, for I will die a
despised and ignoble death. Believe me, those who perish on a battle
field are truly blessed.”
Sitting up all through the night with his friend as he faded,
Gilgamesh attempted once more to revive his spirits and stood beside
where Enkidu lay. Patting his shoulder and smiling at him as the dawn
came up, he teased him and prayed for a retort.
“Your mother was a gazelle and your father a wild ass. You were
raised on the milk of asses …” But it was plain that Enkidu did not hear,
though lightly he yet breathed. The knowledge that his friend would
never respond, never open his eyes again, overwhelmed Gilgamesh.
“The paths you walked among the cedar trees will grieve for you,”
he said over his friend. “And he who pointed the way for us and blessed
us will weep for you. The echoes of the weeping will echo about the
land and the bear and tiger, the lynx, stag and lion will mourn you. Let
those who glorified your name weep for you, and those who anointed
your back with fragrant oils and gave you beer and wine and fruit to eat.
May all grieve for you, all the brothers and sisters of the land.”
Still, though, he could not accept that Enkidu would never recover
and he railed against it. By now the elders of Uruk had gathered around
the sickbed and stood watch with their king over his dying brother.
Turning to the elders as the horror of Enkidu’s end drew near,
Gilgamesh tried to express his feelings, even as they attempted to draw
him away, to distract him or present false hope.
“Listen to me, oh elders, and hear me,” he shouted. “It is for my
friend and companion that I weep. Mine is the lament of the mother
who has lost a child. Do you not see that he is the hatchet that protects
me, the sword and dagger at my belt, the shield that defends me? He is
my happiness, my joy, my festive attire. An accursed devil has appeared
to steal him from me. My friend and little brother, who hunted with the
wild ass in the high hills, with the tiger in the deserts. Together we
defeated the Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven, so Enkidu, what is this
sleep that has overcome you now?”
Approaching the bed, Gilgamesh touched his friend’s hand and
froze in shock, for it was so cold.
“Does the darkness of night enfold you?” he whispered. Enkidu did
not open his eyes and when Gilgamesh laid his hand on Enkidu’s chest
it was still and no heart beat within it. Solemnly, he covered the body
with a veil and turned away. Then he began to roar like a lion that has
lost its cubs, to pace up and down the room, tearing at his hair and
ripping his clothing. Through the night he sat on the floor beside the
bed, his dead friend’s hand in his, and at dawn he rose.
Gilgamesh left the bedchamber in a dazed state and ordered that a
beautiful statue of his brother be made, with lapis lazuli for his chest and
gold for the rest. He ordered also, though it was not needed – for all
would have done so out of love and honour – that all the people of Uruk
mourn and lament the death of Enkidu.
On an oath to Enkidu’s memory, Gilgamesh let his hair and beard
grow and wearing only a lion skin, he went into the desert. For a long
time he wandered there, weeping and half-mad in the wilderness,
grieving for his lost brother. When the horrible inevitability of the death
sank in, the certainty that no god could or would change it, knowing
that death was the fate of every man, he began to be frightened.
The sudden illness and lingering death, the helplessness of
watching his only friend die, had scared him, as had the hellish dream
Enkidu had experienced before his passing.
“When I die,” Gilgamesh dared to ask himself at last, “will I be like
Enkidu?”
In fear and grief he had wandered the desert, overwhelmed by
sorrow, anger, doubt and fear. Then, with some of the determination of
old, he decided to find out the truth, and see if he could defeat the very
nature of death.
Thus was Gilgamesh set on to the path of his further destiny and
the great quest with which he made even greater his heroic name.
Venturing into the underworld and up to heaven, he found his
grandfather, Utnapishtim, the only mortal to achieve immortal status.
Gilgamesh ultimately failed in his mission to win immortality for
himself, however, and even lost a plant, which rendered eternal youth,
that Utnapishtim told him how to find.
There is a legend, however, that, at last, he did become a god, reach
heaven and dwell there, but that is another story. Certainly, the lasting
name he craved and cajoled Enkidu into helping him achieve, is
immortality enough for any hero, for no such name is greater or more
enduring than his. Few friendships as that of Gilgamesh and Enkidu’s
have been as lasting, either. Indeed, it could truly be said they fight the
monsters, chase the girls, protect the people and entertain the gods to
this day.