I, Gilgamesh, Rejoice! [3]

When the sun rose, Uruk awoke.

The whole city seemed to catch fire all at once, blazing out of sleep. The streets were packed with people. Men wore clean linen robes, women had pinned their finest flowers in their hair, and children rode on adults’ shoulders, craning their necks toward the palace. Vendors set up stalls along the roadsides, their cries rising and falling in waves, making the city livelier than ever.

Even the air carried a different scent.

Today was the day Gilgamesh would ascend the throne.

From this day forward, he would be the King of Uruk.

Gilgamesh was surrounded at the center of the crowd, with people before him, behind him, and on every side. The ministers wore their most respectable robes and formed a circle around him, looking somewhat cautious, as if terrified that this king, whose temperament had changed so drastically last night, might do something outrageous again. Behind him, attendants carried the crown and the golden staff. Ahead of him, the priests cleared the way, chanting prayers he could not hear clearly and had no interest in hearing.

But Gilgamesh had no time for them. His bare upper body gleamed healthily in the morning light, the lines of his muscles smooth and solid, his shoulders broad and waist narrow. Every step radiated confidence. His golden hair was blown back, revealing a young, rebellious face.

He was too busy enjoying himself.

The cheers on both sides of the street crashed over him like waves, one after another, making his ears buzz. “Gilgamesh! Gilgamesh!” The people shouted his name again and again, still shouting even when their voices went hoarse. Children scattered petals over his head, and a bold girl squeezed out from the crowd and tossed a handful of wildflowers at his feet.

Gilgamesh’s steps paused.

He lowered his head and looked at the flowers. They were only roadside blooms, casually picked, their petals crumpled and stained with mud and dew. But the person who had thrown them had already shrunk back into the crowd, leaving only a pair of bright, shining eyes visible.

“Bwahahahaha!”

Gilgamesh grinned.

He picked up the wildflowers, tucked them carelessly into his belt, and continued forward.

This was Uruk. Uruk, brimming with life!

He remembered Uruk in his own world. Every time he returned with prey, the city gates would be packed with people just like this, shouting his name just like this. Back then, he would stand on an ox cart, covered in blood, a lion slung over his shoulder, feeling like the greatest man in the world.

Now he had that feeling again.

No, this was even better.

Because after today, he would be king. He could do whatever he wanted!

At that thought, Gilgamesh’s strides grew even longer, and he walked with such force that the ministers behind him, who had to trot just to keep up, were left far behind.

The coronation altar had been set before the temple of the Sky God Anu.

It was the highest place in Uruk. Massive stone steps rose tier by tier, ending in a broad platform directly facing the temple gates. Tall stone steles stood on both sides of the steps, engraved with the names of every king from the founding of Uruk to Lugalbanda, dense cuneiform crawling over the entire surface of the stone.

The sacrifices had already been arranged on the altar. Dozens of cattle and sheep were tied to pillars, quietly chewing their cud, still unaware of what awaited them. At the center of the altar stood a stone platform piled high with fine-flour bread, dates, wine, and other offerings, all stacked neatly like a small mountain.

Gilgamesh stood at the foot of the stone steps and raised his head to look up.

The stairway was long. From where he stood to the altar at the very top, there had to be several hundred steps at least. Freshly woven carpets covered the stone, and spear-bearing guards stood on both sides, one every few paces.

But Gilgamesh did not find any of this difficult. In his own world, he had climbed higher mountains and chased prey up steeper slopes. What were a few steps?

He took the first step.

The crowd fell quiet behind him, leaving only the sound of wind passing over fabric. Everyone was watching him, watching as he climbed step by step, his golden hair dazzling beneath the sun.

He was like a young lion climbing from the foot of a mountain, ready to receive the worship of all beasts at its summit.

The ministers followed behind him, but they were soon left behind. They did not have a young man’s nimble legs, and their robes were cumbersome. After only a few dozen steps, they were already panting. Only the high priest barely managed to keep up, though his head was drenched in sweat, and the incense burner in his hand swung back and forth so wildly that the smoke was nearly scattered.

Gilgamesh paid them no mind. He climbed faster and faster, until he was practically running as he charged up the final steps, crossed onto the platform in a single stride, and turned around.

All of Uruk lay beneath his feet.

The houses had grown small, the streets had become thin lines, and the Euphrates shone as it stretched into the distant edge of the sky. The crowd packed the square below, dense as ants across the ground. He could see their faces, every one of them lifted to look up at him.

The high priest climbed up, panting, the wrinkles of his face quivering. It took him several breaths to stand steadily. Then he took the crown from the attendant’s hands—a crown hammered from gold, inlaid with lapis lazuli and red carnelian, so brilliant in the sunlight that it dazzled the eyes.

“Gilgamesh,” the high priest said, his voice frayed by the wind, yet still striving for grandeur, “son of King Lugalbanda, descendant of the goddess Ninsun, heir of Uruk…”

He raised the crown, both hands trembling slightly, whether from exhaustion or nerves.

“From this day forward, you are the King of Uruk!”

The crown came down upon Gilgamesh’s head.

The touch of the gold was cold against his forehead, heavier than he had imagined. But Gilgamesh did not lower his head. Instead, he lifted his chin higher, letting the crown settle firmly atop his head.

At that moment, something burst open in the sky.

Petals.

Petals from some unknown place drifted down as if someone had overturned a giant flower basket in the heavens, colorful petals scattering in a fluttering rain. They landed on his shoulders, his hair, his crown. The wind swept them up, then scattered them again, shrouding the entire altar in a rain of flowers.

The crowd erupted.

“Gilgamesh! Gilgamesh! Gilgamesh!”

The cheers exploded from the square, surging over the entire city. People waved their arms.

Standing in the rain of petals, Gilgamesh felt his whole body go numb from the force of those cheers. This was the first time he had ever heard a sound so loud. Louder than a lion’s roar on the hunt, louder than thunder in a storm, louder than the waters of the Euphrates in flood—

It was the sound of thousands upon thousands of people shouting his name at once.

The corners of Gilgamesh’s mouth lifted, then spread, until at last they became a broad, unconcealed smile. He raised his arm and waved to the crowd, drawing out an even fiercer burst of cheers.

Gilgamesh’s booming laughter rode the wind.

He liked this.

He liked standing at the highest place and letting everyone see him. He liked hearing thousands upon thousands of mouths shout his name at once. He liked this feeling—he was their king, they were his subjects, and from this day forward, this city was his.

Only after he had enjoyed enough of that glory did the high priest clear his throat and signal for the attendants to bring over the clay tablet. It was longer than a man’s forearm, densely carved with cuneiform—the prayer offered to the gods, which every king throughout the ages had to recite once upon ascending the throne.

“Now,” the high priest said, holding the clay tablet in both hands, his voice solemn and grave, “let us offer the sacrifices to the gods.”

He turned toward the altar, preparing to recite those lengthy prayers, preparing to give the order to light the firewood piled on the altar, preparing to burn all of that finest grain, those fattest cattle and sheep, that sweetest honey and oil, for the gods who lived in the heavens.

Then Gilgamesh spoke.

“Now…”

His voice was powerful, carrying clearly from the top of the steps all the way down to the bottom. The cheers in the square faded. The people lifted their heads, waiting for their new king to issue his first decree.

“I am now King of all Uruk.”

The wind was still blowing, and the petals were still drifting. The clay tablet in the high priest’s hands froze in midair, his lips still shaped as though they were about to open.

Gilgamesh stood before the altar, a golden crown upon his head, his upper body bare, the crumpled wildflowers tucked into his belt. His eyes swept over everyone before him—the high priest, the ministers, the guards, and then the dense crowd below the steps.

“So,” he said, his voice carrying a certainty that brooked no question, “all of you will obey me!”

He raised both arms and waved them up and down, as if he meant to gather the entire sky into his embrace. The muscles of his shoulders rose and stretched with the motion, displaying the radiance of strength beneath the sunlight.

The square fell utterly silent.

People looked at one another. What he said… was not wrong. Of course subjects had to listen to their king. But the expression on his face when he said it, that way he waved his arms…

Somehow, it felt wrong.

The high priest was the first to react. The clay tablet in his hands trembled. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and a deeply ominous feeling rose from the bottom of his heart. He looked at Gilgamesh’s raised arms, at the way he turned toward the altar, at the sudden curve that lifted the corner of his mouth…

No.

That was not the look of someone about to offer sacrifice.

Gilgamesh strode up to the altar and looked down at the mountain of offerings piled before him.

“Attend me—”

With a grand sweep of his hand, Gilgamesh pointed at the offerings stacked like a mountain before him, his voice so loud that it echoed through the entire temple.

“Have all of this carried to my treasury—!”

THUD!

The clay tablet fell from the high priest’s hands.

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!