I, Gilgamesh, Rejoice! [4]

The high priest’s eyes bulged, the wrinkles on his face pulled taut by sheer shock. His mouth hung open, his Adam’s apple bobbing several times before he finally managed to squeeze out a complete sentence.

“Y-you… what did you say?”

Even his voice had gone shrill. He had lived to this age, served the gods for so many years, presided over countless sacrifices, and never—never had any king said such a thing at his own coronation.

The guards nearby had already taken an instinctive step the moment they heard the order. But after that single step, they stopped, exchanging glances with one another, their hands suspended in midair, unable to advance or retreat.

They were the king’s guards. By rights, the king’s command was absolute. But this command… was to carry away the offerings meant for the gods. Since ancient times, no one had ever done such a thing. Would the first person to move be struck by lightning?

Your Majesty, it’s only your first day as king. Are you really going this far?

“I said, carry every last one of these offerings to my treasury—to the treasury of Gilgamesh!”

Gilgamesh enunciated every word clearly. He stood there with his hands on his hips, the golden crown flashing dazzlingly in the sunlight, reflecting a face that plainly said, I have the final say.

“Move!”

He urged them on, his brows already drawing together.

The second order was so clear and so forceful that the guards understood completely. They hesitated no longer, bending down to pick up the mountain of offerings and carry them down from the altar one by one.

“You absolutely must not!”

The high priest lunged forward, spreading both arms as he planted himself in front of the altar. His robe whipped in the wind, and his thin body trembled slightly from agitation.

“These are offerings for the gods! Gilgamesh—O King!” His voice rose until he was almost shouting. “Without them, how can we ensure good weather and good harvests for Uruk? How can we beg the gods for protection? You… you will anger the gods in heaven!”

Several elderly ministers echoed him. Their faces had gone pale with shock at Gilgamesh’s order.

“The high priest is right… The offerings must not be touched…”

“If the gods punish us, no one can bear it…”

“O King, please reconsider…”

The guards slowed again. They held the offerings in their arms, their faces troubled. On one side was the king’s command, and on the other was the high priest blocking them. The high priest was a man who served the gods. From their ancestors’ time onward, no one had ever dared defy his words.

They looked at one another, rooted in place, caught between retreat and advance.

Gilgamesh watched the scene, and a surge of anger shot straight up from his chest.

“You…”

Gilgamesh’s voice sank, like the muffled roll of thunder before a storm.

“Do you mean to defy the command of your king—Gilgamesh?”

As soon as the words fell, he strode toward the side of the altar.

There, the firewood prepared for lighting the sacrificial flame had been piled up. Thick lengths of wood had been stacked together, some thicker than a man’s arm. They were “sacred wood” specially chosen by the priests—which was to say, fine cedarwood.

Gilgamesh bent down, seized the thickest piece with one hand, and yanked hard.

With a dull CRACK, the entire woodpile shook, and several logs rolled down. He had torn that piece straight out of the pile, sending splinters and dust flying.

It was at least as thick as an adult man’s arm, with an unsplit knot at one end, yet in his hand it seemed no heavier than a light staff. Gilgamesh weighed it, shifted his palm along the wood, as though testing how it felt.

WHOOSH—WHOOSH—!

The club cut through the air with a deep hum.

Gilgamesh turned and strode back to the front of the altar. With a sweep of his left hand, he shoved aside the two guards blocking his way. They stumbled into each other and nearly fell. Now only Gilgamesh stood facing the high priest and the mountain of offerings behind him.

One end of the club struck the ground.

THUD.

The high priest’s lips trembled.

The ministers who had echoed him all took half a step back at once.

The two guards who had been pushed away only managed to climb back up after rolling across the ground, not daring to even breathe too loudly.

The high priest’s Adam’s apple bobbed several times. He wanted to say something, but the moment his gaze fell on that club, the words at his lips were swallowed back down.

Holding the club planted against the ground, Gilgamesh pointed the index finger of his empty left hand at the high priest’s nose and demanded sharply,

“You object to my decision?”

The club stood against the ground as if embedded in the stone. Gilgamesh’s palm pressed against its top, his body leaning slightly forward, looking like a bow drawn to its limit.

The high priest tore his gaze away from Gilgamesh’s face and glanced at the ministers beside him. Their eyes met in the air. He saw the fear on their faces, and also the faint expectation hidden in their eyes.

They were waiting for him.

Waiting for him, the man who served the gods, to step forward and take the brunt of this storm for all of them.

The high priest drew in a deep breath, steeled himself, and stepped forward, bowing deeply to Gilgamesh. His whole body was like a bowstring pulled to its limit—either it would snap back, or it would break.

“Your Majesty!”

His voice burst from his chest. He had gritted his teeth and thrown caution aside.

“The laws of our ancestors cannot be changed!”

When he straightened, his eyes were already red, and his grizzled beard shook wildly in the wind. He spread his arms as if embracing the invisible sky above his head.

“Without the gods’ protection, where would our good weather and good harvests come from? Where would the Euphrates’ yearly floods come from, bringing us fertile fields and rich soil?”

His voice climbed higher and louder.

“It is the gods who make the river rise and fall on time! It is the gods who make seeds sprout from the earth! It is the gods who make cattle and sheep bear young, who make date palms bear fruit! Without the gods—without the gods, Uruk would long ago have been swallowed by the desert, drowned by floods, devoured clean by plague!”

He turned and pointed at the offerings on the altar, his voice thick with tears.

“These—these things are offerings we owe in return for the blessings we have received from the gods! Without them, why would the gods continue to protect us? Why would they still let the river flood year after year? Why would they still let crops grow from the earth?”

By the end, his voice had turned hoarse.

Several old ministers listened, and their eyes reddened as well. They remembered the stories they had heard as children—how one year, when the sacrifices were slighted, the river did not rise; how one year, when the offerings were not generous, locusts came. These stories had been passed down generation after generation, carved into everyone’s bones, more effective than any law.

With the high priest taking such a stand, those ministers seemed to be pushed by some unseen force and dropped to their knees one after another.

“Your Majesty, please reconsider!”

“The gods’ punishment is no laughing matter!”

“Uruk cannot be without the gods’ blessing!”

One, two, three… The sounds of knees striking stone rose one after another, dull and hurried. Heads of white-streaked hair and trembling shoulders bowed to the ground.

Gilgamesh watched the scene.

His thick brows stood on end with anger, the space between them throbbing. His lips pressed into a hard line, and the muscles in his jaw were drawn tight.

These people—these foolish people!

They credited every rain, every flood of the river, every harvest of every crop to the gods. As if without gods watching from the heavens, the Euphrates would stop flowing, the sun would stop rising, and people would not even be able to draw breath.

“You…”

Gilgamesh forced the word through clenched teeth, carrying an anger suppressed to the utmost and on the verge of eruption.

“You pack of fools!”

He yanked the club up from the ground and swung it viciously at his side, bringing up a whistling gust of wind. The ministers kneeling on the ground all shrank back at once, several of them pressing their heads even lower.

Gilgamesh jabbed the club toward the eastern sky. The sun hung there, shedding ten thousand rays of golden light, bright enough to make people unable to open their eyes.

“The sun rises in the east every day—because that is what it does on its own!”

The club swept through an arc and pointed west.

“The sun sets in the west every day—because that is what it does on its own!”

He then pointed the club toward the distant Euphrates, glimmering silver as it flowed slowly beneath the midday sun.

“The river floods every year because the snow in the mountains melts, and water flows from high places to low!”

His voice grew louder and louder, as if he meant to drive these words into the gaps between every person’s bones.

“Plant a seed, water it, fertilize it, and it sprouts and grows. Raise cattle and sheep in pens, feed them grass and water, put a male and female together, and they fatten up and give birth!”

“Anyone with eyes can see this. This is the law of nature!”

Gilgamesh’s voice rang louder and louder.

He thought of the priests in his own world, who knelt before the altar in the same way and credited everything to the gods. But every time he returned to the city with prey and watched those hungry people receive meat to eat, he knew…

What kept those people alive was not a cloud drifting in the sky. It was the bow and blade in the hands of Gilgamesh.

“Even the gods…”

He raised his head and spoke to the clear blue sky above, enunciating each word.

“Must obey that law!”

Those words dropped over the square, silencing everyone.

The high priest wanted to argue, wanted to say something.

“I…”

Gilgamesh did not give him the chance to finish.

“You…” The veins stood out on Gilgamesh’s hand as he gripped the club, his voice rolling out from his chest with anger fierce enough to rip the roof from a house. “You people! Every day, you send the best things up to the heavens! But what about you?”

He pointed at the offerings on the altar, which had been carried down and then set back again.

“When you were hungry, did the gods ever give you a single mouthful of food?”

No one answered.

“When floods swept away your houses, did the gods ever help you move even one brick?”

Still no one answered.

“When your children cried from hunger, did the gods ever drop even one date from the sky?”

The high priest’s lips trembled.

Gilgamesh looked at these people, and the fire in his heart did not subside. Instead, it burned even hotter. He tightened his grip on the club, his knuckles whitening from the force.

“You bunch of—”

Halfway through, he suddenly felt that words alone were no longer enough.

Gilgamesh abruptly raised the great club in his hand and swung it toward the high priest.

“Ah—!”

The high priest let out a shriek, his voice cracking. Somehow, he found strength from who knew where and sprang away from the spot with a jolt, scrambling and rolling to the side. His respectable robe dragged a streak of dust across the stone, and the cap on his head went crooked.

“Stand right there!”

Without another word, Gilgamesh lifted the club and chased after him.

The high priest had never run this fast in his life. His grizzled beard flew in the wind, his two legs pumping so quickly they almost left afterimages, and his flapping robe revealed the patched undergarment beneath. He ran while looking back, and when he saw Gilgamesh’s ferocious face drawing closer and closer, fright nearly tore his soul from his body.

“King—O King—!”

The high priest’s voice cracked as he ran circles around the altar, like a rabbit being chased by an eagle.

After a few steps, Gilgamesh suddenly stopped.

His gaze moved away from the high priest and swept toward the ministers kneeling nearby.

Several ministers had been privately rejoicing that they had not been the first to stand up. But when they met Gilgamesh’s eyes, their faces went instantly white.

“And you!”

Gilgamesh changed direction, lifting the club as he charged toward the ministers.

“Aiya—!”

“Your Majesty, calm your anger—!”

“Run, run!”

The ministers sprang up from the ground one after another, no longer caring about dignity. Clutching up their robes, they scattered in every direction. One of them ran too hastily, stepped on the hem of his own robe, and fell flat on the ground, then scrambled back up and kept running. Another panicked and almost slammed into a stone pillar, yet still did not dare stop.

After chasing them for a few steps, Gilgamesh stopped again.

His gaze fell on the guards nearby.

The guards had originally been standing ramrod straight, spears in hand, looking perfectly devoted to their duties. Once Gilgamesh swept his eyes over them, every one of their spines seemed to vanish, and they all shrank back a step.

“You too!”

Gilgamesh shouted and charged at them with the club raised.

The guards were trained after all, and they ran far more nimbly than the ministers. Spears were thrown all over the ground, their armor clattering as they darted away faster than rabbits. But Gilgamesh was faster. His legs were longer than theirs, his strides greater than theirs, and in a few steps he caught up to the one at the rear.

“Waaah—!”

That guard let out a miserable cry and shot forward faster. Gilgamesh’s club swept past his back, bringing up a gust of wind that scared his legs weak.

“All of you, halt! By my command, stand still and take your beating!”

Gilgamesh raised the club and chased the group as they fled in every direction in front of the temple.

“Let me tell you!”

His voice carried from the front of the temple, rolled down step after stone step, and fell into the dense crowd gathered in the square. Everyone looked up at their new king—bare from the waist up, carrying a club, wearing a golden crown, like an idol grown out of the earth itself.

“You are too far from the gods!”

Gilgamesh’s voice was like a drum, striking every heart again and again.

“They dwell in the heavens. They cannot see you, cannot hear you, cannot look after you!”

He swung the hand carrying the club with force.

“But I—Gilgamesh…”

He struck his own chest with his fist.

THUD.

“Am right here on the earth!”

The wind rose again, lifting his golden hair and revealing those shockingly bright red eyes.

“If you are hungry, I will find food for you! If you are thirsty, I will find water for you! If your houses collapse, I will lead you to rebuild them! If enemies come, I will lead you into battle!”

His voice climbed higher and louder, as if he meant to shatter the sky above.

“So—”

Gilgamesh thrust the club fiercely toward the heavens.

“You will listen to me!”

T/N: RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO FUCK THE GODS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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!