Clay and Gold

A great press of people gathered at the southern gate of Uruk. The guard, headed up by the Iron Spears themselves, could do little to stem the crowds which thronged there.

Word was that Gilgamesh, Hero of Uruk, had returned.

Amid a sea of faces bronze and red and black came calls in petition to see their hero:

“We wish to see Lord Gilgamesh!”

“Is it true he slew the Giant-King?”

“My wheat for the hero!”

But a voice commanded their attention over the bristle of black spears which barred their way.

“Gilgamesh is indeed come,” he said, “And it is true he bears the head of Humbaba-of-the-Cedar in his keeping. But he sits now in audience with the King of Uruk and will not be disturbed. Return to your pastures and come another day.”

“He is a hero for all Sumer! Let us see him in his triumph!”

The crowds did not subside but grew as late day sank into evening. Their numbers swelled with farmers wielding weapons of bronze and sharpened hayforks, with mothers bearing sick children in their arms, with sheep-herds and goatsmen whipping their livestock. Before long, petty princes and wandering merchants trained by heavy-laden caravans came to see the Hero of Uruk and ask his blessing.

The guard were now overmatched not by skill but number, and soon, the circle of spears were forced to withdraw into the inner city. The green gardens of Uruk now teemed with farmers and princes and priests and spicemongers jostling to get a view of their hero.

And still, people gathered.

Eventually, the captain of the Iron Spears, a tall, dark man named Unbu, broke upon the inner sanctum of the palace of Uruk.

“Lord-between-Rivers,” he said, addressing his king with a deep bow, “The people of Sumer insist mightily upon seeing the Lord Gilgamesh. I fear we cannot hold them out of the courtyard overlong.”

The king rose from a nest of pillows and leopard hides, an empty cup held in his hand.

“Well, this is timely. The Lord Gilgamesh and I were just concluding our transaction, such as it is,” he scoffed. “They wish to see you, O Hero. Perhaps if you will not marry my daughter, you could at least be of some use to me clearing off the rabble. Begone and do not return, even if another Humbaba should die by your hand.”

Gilgamesh lifted himself on shaky knee and swept his hand before him, intoning the many names of his king as he did so.

But his king ignored this gesture and grunted in his turn, choosing instead to retire wordlessly for the evening. At once, his servants set to work lashing the great bundle of the head of Humbaba the Terrible with fresh ropes and hauling it to some other chamber. The trail of blood was mopped hastily with perfumed rags.

Unladen with the head of his enemy, Gilgamesh hobbled his way to the palace steps where he met with deafening acclaim.

As he descended slowly from that height, he awed to stand before such a gathering. There were fires among them, and the glint of spears, and a great cry of love and worship issued from them. But the sound of another’s steps turned his face, and he met again with Unbu, captain of the Iron Spears.

“Perhaps it would please the Lord Gilgamesh to offer words for those gathered here? Many have travelled far for the blessing of a man who has slain a child of the gods.”

Gilgamesh considered this for a moment, but the thought of another pulled at all that remained of him. “I would ask instead that they return to their homes so that I might return to mine, for I have a dear one I wish to see before the night is gone.”

Unbu smiled knowingly. “You are wise, Gilgamesh, but also a fool. Speak to your people, and perhaps your words as Hero of Sumer will convince them to leave.”

But as Gilgamesh turned to address the crowds, thunder rolled overhead. It grew louder and deeper until the people below shrank in fear. A bank of clouds crested of a sudden over the palace ziggurat, wreathing its walls in bright mist. But it was a rainless lour, full instead with the fire of storms and the light of stars.

Meridian flame touched down upon the highest step of the palace and whirled into a lovely shape, womanly, with shoulders spanned proud. Her crown was a fan of wet stars, and her cloak was the sky torn by twilight, and her eyes were set as twin suns which rise on strange worlds.

“Gilgamesh,” she said, “Slayer of the Giant-King Humbaba, I have seen the strength of your arm and the fire of your spirit, and I have been moved. It is you I desire above all. Come away with me and walk among stars. Take my hand and forsake all others, for I will show you a flesh which will not die.” At this, she unfurled a hand to him, dark as sable and lit with gold.

Gilgamesh made an obeisance as deep as his weary body would allow and said, “I am grateful for your notice, Queen of Stars, but I cannot go with you.”

“Are the songs of my temple not loud enough? Do you not hear men shout my praise? But these are strange words to come from clay; perhaps you do not know me for who I am.” Like a sudden dawn, the goddess before him rose in her might, a glorious daybreak unbearable to look upon, and the skies behind the temples were shaken. “For I am Inanna, who is daughter of Anu! I am she who rules the heavens at dusk and dawn! My hands are love and war, and my works are joy and ruin: I cannot be refused.”

“Lady of Stars, but for all your power and majesty, you are not my Ashat. I have loved a lesser thing before I have ever known you, and the heart’s first pull can never be denied. Your attentions are a treasure which throws down kings and sets gods against gods; to refuse them, a terrible ingratitude. But if my worthiness is no question, then know neither is the worth of what lies dearest to my own heart. I cannot go with you.”

The goddess drew back in surprise. “You would take clay over gold?”

“I take clay more precious than all the gold of this world.”

Inanna floated up before the crowds, a gleaming gem at the crest of the palace, and in that moment she seemed indeed the velificant Queen of the Heavens she claimed to be. With a sneer, she said, “Then have your clay, if like seems unto like, and be dust, and die away with a world which will forget you. But I condescend to offer you renewed spirit, Man-of-Clay, as a token of my favor—” and it was then that Gilgamesh’s arm thrilled with new strength and the bloodied bandages of his body fell dry and unused “—though it will not avail you in the end.”

As a star falling from earth into the heavens, the goddess surged beyond the proud skylines of the ziggurats and melted into clear night.

And there she plotted her revenge.

Taking her place at the Great Wheel of the Cosmos, she called out to the creators of the world each by name after the manner of the temples. She called to her father Anu, to Enki Who-is-Ninshiku, to proud Enlil their king: and also to Utu, Nabu, Ninurta, Nanna and the rest. Before her, like candles gathered around a single flame, they appeared bright and dewy.

“Gods, all of you, arise in wrath! For I bear grievous news: Humbaba, King of the Cedarwood, has been slain by Man.”

And the assembled gods gasped or roared in outrage. Some demanded the punishment of Man, others its eradication.

But Inanna wove their red rage between her fingers. “I know the name of the one who has done this deed: Gilgamesh, bane of the Gods of the Earth. He is their sword against makers, the ungrateful weapon unjustly raised. In his use, they grow in boldness against us, and it will not be long before they abandon the temples. But we cannot empty the houses of our making: for every master must have his slave. What, then, shall we do?”

The gods had no ready answer for this outrage, this blasphemy, and so Inanna at last showed her poison:

“Perhaps we might bring mankind to heel by punishing him alone who has done this. Let us break their spirits by breaking the body of their hero. Let us take their son who has taken ours. Would this not be just?”

Enlil, chief of these, spoke then: “You have wisdom and beauty in equal measure, Inanna; but how do you propose we do this? For he has slain a child of gods indeed and cannot be underestimated.”

Inanna came to the side of her king and knelt. “I petition you, greatest of gods, to permit me use of the Bull of Heaven.”

Whispers erupted among the quorum. The Bull was a weapon used between gods in wars unseen by mankind. What destruction could it wreak against simple Man who is made from clay?

Enlil sensed the hesitation of his brethren and dimmed in thought. Beneath his crown, a golden peak dangling with star-gems, his eyes were heavy with the deliberation. Man must be punished, he knew, and it deserves every evil that befalls it. But Inanna's words were true: it is still too valuable to destroy. For who else in all creation could love the gods, shed tears and blood for their drink, offer great plumes of incense for their pleasure? Yes, the greatness of gods is measured in tears: and so to dispose of Man's hero must be punishment enough. To that end, what weapon could be worthier than their very Bull?

At length, he said, “I grant this, Inanna, on the condition that the Bull of Heaven return to us by the rising of your Dawn-Star.”

Inanna bowed her head and laughed. “It shall be so.”

And the goddess of Love and War stirred the Stars with her hand, and tore Taurus the One-Horned from his place in the Wheel. With a breath like fire, she breathed life into him and said: “Hear, Bull, and obey my command: Seek out Gilgamesh the Destroyer and return his body to me before the last star of Dawn.”

And the Bull tossed its iron head and raced up the arm of the laughing goddess, down her shoulder and along her spine. It leapt from her heel and plummeted to Earth like a black meteor, its horn thrust down to meet its foe.

The gathered people in Uruk cried out again, pointing to the heavens and the fire which fell from it. Tumultuous with their din, the courtyard was aflow with a stampede of people, and all was chaos. Gilgamesh lifted his eyes to the threat at the sound of a drawn blade. He crossed his heart with the name of his love and wore it for his shield.

In little time, the bull crashed at the root of the palace steps, shaking the earth with its impact. Loosing an awful roar, it swiped its black horn, and hands of fleeing peasants were put to death.

Gilgamesh ascended the steps with horror. “So this is the scorn of a queen? But how like to a bull it is!”

And with that, an idea came to him.

He called to the servants of the king and to the guard which also served him, ordering them to draw down the head of Humbaba from the chambers of the palace. And so they did.

The Bull caught sight of its victim in that moment and charged, racing up the slant of the steps, a great fume billowing from its nostrils all the time. Gilgamesh threw down his weapon and caught its horn between his hands, gripping it like a lance with his great strength.

A terrible roar shattered the chaos of the courtyard as Man and Beast set to their great striving. Gilgamesh pulled himself across the length of its horn and wrapped his broad arms around its throat. The Bull would not be so easily harnessed, however, and slipped his grasp with a throw of its head. The Hero was flung back into the great atrium of the building, crumpling into a heap of travel-leathers and bruised flesh.

Through the darkening lens of his eyes, Gilgamesh could see frighted servants standing in the threshold of a hall which turned from that chamber, the silhouette of the head of Humbaba at their backs. He gathered his strength with the knowledge that this was their only salvation.

The Beast pawed the stairs once, twice, and then again, and charged Gilgamesh anew. Rising with the heat of the fight, the Hero leapt to his feet and sidestepped its onrush to take the horn once again into his hands.

Pinning it to the ground with all his might, he said to it, “Bull of the gods, see here your brother—” and the servants tore the cloth from the bundled head, revealing a face grimaced in its final moments “—And reconsider your challenge!”

The Bull was routed at once and brayed, tossing its head this way and that and scrambling backwards towards the steps. Gilgamesh took his chance and wrenched its single horn, splitting it into two – and between these the eyes of Man and Beast met.

“Return to your queen,” said the Hero of Sumer, “And tell her I will not join her alive or dead.”

And he released the animal which rampaged down the palace steps and through the courtyard before lifting itself into the heavens and fixing a new sign among the stars: that of Taurus the Two-Horned. All bulls of the world are born under these stars and take its likeness, with a horn each to remind us of the clay and the gold.

And the Hero of Sumer lived his life long and full under those stars, and his wife Ashat bore them many children, and those many more thence. Gilgamesh, Hero of Uruk and Sumer, lives on in legend, and the cult of Inanna died away in obscurity, and all the gods of the air died also in loveless days.

What was gold was melted to new purpose, but what was written in clay has ever remained.