I, Gilgamesh, Rejoice! [2]

The ministers and priests dispersed, each with their own thoughts.

The crowd in the square gradually thinned, leaving behind a chaos of footprints and whispered voices. Those murmurs slipped along the base of the walls—“The king injured his head,” “How is that still Gilgamesh?” “What about tomorrow’s ceremony?”—but no one dared say them aloud.

Because whether or not the man who had stood in the middle of the square, ripped open his robe, and cursed at everyone was the Gilgamesh they knew, he was still Gilgamesh.

The only son of King Lugalbanda. A descendant of the Goddess Ninsun. Uruk’s sole heir.

Now King Lugalbanda had already ascended to the heavens. Gilgamesh’s divine mother had followed him there as well. In the present Uruk, there was no one whose status stood above Gilgamesh’s.

So tomorrow’s coronation had to proceed as planned.

Not only did it have to proceed, it had to be grand.

“Add two more animals to the sacrifice,” the high priest ordered from the temple steps. “The king’s coronation cannot be shabby. As for the gods… they must not be slighted.”

Beside him, the scribe’s hand trembled around the clay tablet. He lifted his head, lips moving as if he wanted to say something, but when he met the high priest’s gaze, he swallowed the words back down.

He knew how much grain remained in the storehouses. He knew several families had already tightened their belts because of the food shortage. He knew even better that what tomorrow’s ceremony would burn away was enough to feed all of Uruk for several days.

But he also knew these things could not be said.

Because this was the rule. When a king ascended the throne, there had to be sacrifice. Only if the gods were satisfied could the nation prosper. As for whether there would be enough grain to eat… that was a matter for later.

The scribe lowered his head and carved another mark into the clay tablet.

The royal bedchamber was much larger than Gilgamesh had imagined, and much softer too.

When he pushed open the door, the first thing he saw was the bed, large enough to sleep several people. Reed mats covered the floor, with carpets laid over them, and they felt soft beneath his feet.

Woven tapestries hung on the walls, patterned with designs he could not understand. Ceramic jars stood in the corners, their mouths sealed, contents unknown. There was also an oil lamp on the table, its flame dancing on the wick and filling the whole room with dim yellow light.

Gilgamesh stood at the door and took a moment to adjust to the room.

This world’s Uruk seemed considerably more advanced than his own.

But he did not dwell on that for long. He was hungry.

“I am hungry.” Gilgamesh sat down at the table without the slightest restraint and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Bring food.”

His voice carried out through the doorway, startling the attendant waiting outside.

The attendant had followed him all the way from the square to the palace, maintaining a distance of three steps the whole time, not daring to come closer and not daring to fall back. At the shout, he first froze, because the Gilgamesh of before would never have called out like that. But after that brief pause, he immediately turned and ran.

No matter what the king had become, if the king said he was hungry, there had to be food.

Before long, the food was brought in.

A ceramic plate held several thin flatbreads, still steaming. Beside it was a small dish of honey, dark enough to look black, hanging thickly from the edge of the dish. There was also a plate of dates, dry and shriveled, not especially large, though intact enough in appearance.

Gilgamesh lowered his head and glanced at it.

It was not much. In his own world, this amount would only be enough to take the edge off his hunger. But he said nothing, because he knew Uruk was not rich in grain. Every harvest season, the storehouses would be piled full, but within a few months, the bottom would begin to show.

He had to lead people out hunting, go fishing by the river, and trade grain with other city-states just to help everyone in the city endure until the next harvest.

The flatbread was still fairly soft. He tore off a piece, dipped it in honey, and shoved it into his mouth. Sweetness melted over his tongue, making his eyes narrow slightly.

He chewed twice, then suddenly stopped and looked at the bread on the plate, then at the dish of honey.

“This bread,” Gilgamesh said, tapping the plate with a honey-stained finger, “was prepared specially?”

The attendant stood by the door, his body drawn tight and straight, his voice somewhat strained. “Your Majesty… yes. This is fine-flour bread prepared for tomorrow’s coronation ceremony. A batch was made in advance, and the kitchen said… Your Majesty should taste it first.”

“Tomorrow’s ceremony?”

“Yes.” The attendant swallowed. “The high priest said tomorrow’s sacrifice must use the finest grain to make the cleanest bread as an offering to the gods. The kitchen began preparing three days ago. The flour was sifted three times, and the water for kneading the dough was drawn from the upper reaches of the Euphrates…”

Gilgamesh set the bread down, and the expression on his face changed.

He understood.

The finest grain. The cleanest bread. All to be offered to the gods.

Was there so much grain here?

Those ministers in respectable robes who could barely stand without hunching their shoulders—what did they eat? Those people living in the tall houses—what did they eat? And the people on the other side of the city, the poor households pressed up against the city wall—what did they eat?

“How much grain will the sacrifice take?”

The sudden question startled the attendant. He stammered, “Th-this… I don’t know the exact number, Your Majesty. I only heard… heard that dozens of cattle and sheep will be burned, along with several hundred pieces of bread, and the finest wine, oil, and honey…”

As he spoke, his voice grew smaller and smaller, because he could see Gilgamesh’s face darkening more and more.

Gilgamesh remembered that in his own world, the priests put on this sort of show every year after the harvest as well. They piled the best grain on the altar and burned it for those gods who lived in the heavens, lacked for nothing, and spent all day eating grass. When he was little, he had thought it only natural. The gods blessed Uruk, and Uruk repaid the gods. It was perfectly justified. But later, when he grew up, when he began leading people on hunts, began managing what entered and left the storehouses, began seeing those who worked on empty stomachs.

He started to feel that something about it was not quite right.

Those gods lived in the heavens. They did not farm, did not herd sheep, did not repair canals, did not do a thing. But they wanted the best grain, the fattest cattle and sheep, the sweetest honey. And the people who farmed, the people who herded sheep, the people who repaired canals, could only eat what was left.

Tomorrow was his coronation ceremony. He had not even become king yet, and several hundred pieces of bread were already going to be burned.

Gilgamesh grabbed a piece of bread, took a huge bite, and chewed hard. The sweetness of honey filled his mouth, but he could no longer taste anything.

He ate another piece. Then another. He ate every last piece of bread on the plate, ate the dates as well, and finally picked up the honey dish, stuck out his tongue, and licked clean the last drop of honey.

Then he set the dish down on the table with a thud.

He stood, walked to the window, and pushed open the carved wooden shutters. Night wind poured in, carrying the coolness of river water and the rank smell of the livestock sheds in the distance. Uruk slept beneath his feet, a dark, heavy mass, and only the direction of the temple was still bright with lamplight—the priests were still busy preparing for tomorrow’s ceremony.

He had fallen, become another person, and arrived in another world. But no matter which world it was, Uruk was Uruk. There was a river here, fields, houses, people. People needed to eat. People needed to work. People needed to live.

And tomorrow, he would become the king of those people.

Gilgamesh pushed the window open a little farther, letting the wind pour in even stronger. His golden hair was blown into a complete mess, but he did not care.

“These fools of Uruk.”

Gilgamesh’s words traveled far on the wind.

T/N: huehuehuehuehuheoheoheoehoheoheoheoheueheuhuehueh gilgamesh gilgamesh gilgamesh

This is a fan translation of 我吉尔伽美什感到喜悦! by 屋顶长草 Rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!