I, Gilgamesh, Rejoice! [5]

It’s over. With a tyrant like this, what will become of Uruk?

The high priest wailed inwardly as he ran. His legs were no longer obeying him. His knees were weak, the soles of his feet felt as though they were stepping on fire, and every step seemed like it might be the one that cost him his life. The pain in his shoulder had yet to fade, and now the back of his head had taken a blow too—he did not even know how he had escaped from beneath that great club.

“Gilgamesh, you tyrant!”

He shouted as he ran, his voice cracking, sounding half like crying and half like cursing.

“Even your father never treated me like this!”

That was true. When King Lugalbanda was alive, he had treated him with perfect courtesy. Every time there was a sacrifice, the king had personally placed the offerings in his hands, and his voice had never once risen. That was reverence for the gods! That was understanding the rules! Unlike this—this—

“If you defy the gods’ will, Uruk will suffer retribution!”

The high priest had shouted himself hoarse, his voice echoing across the square before the temple. He ran until he could barely breathe, his grizzled hair scattered across his face, his robe ballooning with the wind.

And Gilgamesh was still chasing him from behind.

That wooden club was light as a twig in his hands, but when it landed on the ministers, it struck with very real force.

Four or five ministers were already sprawled on the ground, some clutching their heads, some clutching their shoulders, each of them groaning as they lay on the stone floor. Several guards had not been spared either, their armor beaten crooked as they hid behind pillars, not daring to show their faces.

The high priest looked back once, and his heart nearly leapt out of his throat.

Gilgamesh’s face was getting closer and closer, his golden hair flying in the wind, his red eyes filled with an excited light—that was not the look of someone angry at all. That was the look of someone enjoying the beating!

“Did I not tell you?”

Gilgamesh’s voice chased him from behind like the low growl of a lion.

“The gods are too far away from you. But I, Gilgamesh, am right here!”

He quickened his pace and caught up behind the high priest in just a few strides.

“If you object, then come at me! Why are you running, coward?!”

Come at you?

The high priest cursed frantically inwardly, but his feet did not dare stop.

Am I insane?! That club of yours is thicker than my arm! What am I supposed to use against your absurd strength? An incense burner? A prayer?

“You tyrant who defies all order!”

The high priest squeezed out the shout with his last breath, his voice thick with tears.

“As long as I am still the high priest, I will never allow you to disrespect the gods—ah!”

Before he could finish, his foot caught on something. The high priest pitched forward, and before he could hit the ground, a solid blow landed on his back.

THUD.

He slapped flat onto the ground, his face pressed to the cold stone, stars bursting before his eyes. His shoulder, back, and the back of his head—there was not a single place on his body that did not hurt. He lay there for a long while, unable to recover.

Gilgamesh stood over the high priest curled up on the ground, the club resting on his shoulder.

“Then hear my decree,” Gilgamesh declared loudly, making sure everyone could hear him. “From this moment on, you are no longer the high priest.”

The high priest jerked his head up, the wrinkles on his face full of dust.

“What?!”

He propped himself up on his arms and stared at Gilgamesh in disbelief.

“I am protected by the gods! How can you replace me just because you say so?!”

Gilgamesh did not speak. He answered directly with action.

THUMP.

The high priest clutched his head and dropped back down.

“You cannot do this!”

THUMP.

“Tyrant!”

THUMP.

“You—!”

THUMP.

With every strike, the high priest shrank. He curled up on the ground with his head in his arms, lumps rising one after another on his scalp, the next appearing before the last could even fade.

Gilgamesh raised the club again.

Through the gaps between his arms, the high priest saw that great club lifting once more and finally could not endure it.

“Your Majesty—everything will be as you say…”

His voice squeezed out from beneath his arms, carrying a sob.

He yielded.

“Everything will be as you say, all right…?”

The high priest lay on the ground, his grizzled hair spread everywhere, lumps stacked one atop another on his head.

Gilgamesh slung the club over his shoulder and glanced down at him.

“You should have said so sooner.”

Gilgamesh turned and strode back to the front of the altar. The ministers and guards he had beaten down were still lying on the ground. Some were playing dead, some truly could not get up, and some secretly opened their eyes to peek at him, only to squeeze them shut again the instant he looked their way.

Gilgamesh stood at the edge of the steps, his gaze passing over those collapsed bodies and falling upon the dense crowd below.

The people in the square looked at one another. The farce they had just witnessed had left them badly shaken.

Gilgamesh swept his eyes over the crowd, and finally, they fixed on one person.

“In that case…”

Gilgamesh stretched out his hand and pointed at someone below the steps.

“You shall take over the duties of high priest.”

The person he pointed at stood in the crowd wearing a neatly kept green apron, still dusted with flour.

It was Siduri.

Siduri, the one who ran a tavern in the city of Uruk.

She operated a tavern of modest size, and the beer she brewed was the best on the entire street. The bread she baked was fragrant and soft as well. Everyone in the city knew her, because the beer at her place was cheap, the bread was filling, and she never shorted anyone.

At this moment, she stood in the crowd, still clutching a handful of petals that had drifted down from the sky. When she heard Gilgamesh’s words, she froze, then instinctively looked left and right.

The person to her left shrank back a step.

The person to her right shrank back a step.

Everyone around her, before and behind, left and right, retreated in unison, leaving her standing all alone in the middle of the crowd.

“Huh?”

Siduri’s mouth hung open, her expression asking, Did I hear that wrong?

“Me?”

She pointed at herself. Her voice was not loud, but in the deathly silent square, everyone heard it clearly.

Gilgamesh stood high upon the steps, looking down at her from above, the corners of his mouth lifting.

“Yes. You.”

Wind blew in from the Euphrates, stirring the flower petals left on the altar, sweeping over the people sprawled on the ground and over the dumbstruck citizens’ heads.

Siduri stood in the center of the crowd, clutching that handful of petals. Her expression went from stunned to blank, then from blank to a bewilderment that seemed to ask, What exactly is happening here?

Petals slipped through her fingers, carried away by the wind, fluttering into the distance.

She was a tavernkeeper.

How had she become the high priest?

T/N: SIDURI!!!!!!! YAAAAA BEST ATTENDANT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! TIME TO VOTE!!!!!!

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!