The Death of Gilgamesh

Part Ten (the last!) of the Epic of Gilgamesh series

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Those of you who are familiar with The Epic of Gilgamesh may recall that it ends about where the last episode ended, though that’s never struck me as being a particularly good ending. Other versions include a reference to his death, but even that more definitive ending leaves a lot of unanswered questions. It ends up feeling sort of like, “Gilgamesh failed, and then he died,” surrounded by a lot of praise that doesn’t seem to fit well with his life as described.

However, there are other surviving Sumerian stories, from which I used some details earlier. While working on this serial, I found a “Death of Gilgamesh” story. It survives only in fragments, but it provides a more satisfying ending than the standard text of the epic.

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Despite failing to win eternal life, Gilgamesh ruled over Uruk for one hundred and twenty six years. Though he made grave mistakes in the first part of his reign, after the loss of Enkidu and the ending of the quest for eternal life, he did his best to work in harmony with the gods, even those he had offended in earlier times. He became famous for the number of new temples that he built to honor them.

Rather than thinking of himself, his thoughts were only for his people. He kept them safe and led them to prosperity. If he still cared about fame, about making his name live on after his death, he did a good job of hiding those feelings. Never once did he set forth in search of adventures that would glorify him while doing nothing for his people. Even the seven sages who laid the foundation of Uruk could not have spotted a single instance in which Gilgamesh behaved as he had when he was still young and foolish.

But despite his newfound virtue, the day of his death came, as it comes for all mortals. Just as Enkidu’s body so long ago had become nothing more than an empty shell, the day came when Gilgamesh’s body was empty as well. His heart stopped beating. His lungs stopped breathing. His soul slipped away, pulled toward the one place he most feared—the Netherworld.

Gilgamesh longed to stay with his people, but he no longer had any control over his own movements. Like a fish in a cistern, he could not return to open water. Like a gazelle in a trap, he could not return to the wilderness.

Yet even in the darkness that surrounded him, he was not alone. Sisig, the god of dreams and son of Utu, found him.

Sensing the presence of a god, Gilgamesh reached out with desperate fingers. “Help me! Help me, for I do not wish to die.”

“Rare is the mortal who does,” said Sisig. “I cannot bring you back to life, for I am only the god of dreams.”

“What good will dreams do me now?” asked Gilgamesh. “Do the dead even dream?”

“They can,” said Sisig. “But they seldom do. Perhaps you should try, though. In any case, I can offer you light in the Netherworld.”

“I would be grateful for that,” replied Gilgamesh. “But is there not more that you could do?”

Sisig smiled as a gentle light drove the shadows away from Gilgamesh. “Who knows what will come of a dream?”

Gilgamesh was weary of dealing with cryptic utterances from gods. He’d had more than his share of those in his lifetime. Nonetheless, he took the god’s offered hand and walked with him into a misty light that made him feel as if he were dreaming.

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The council of the Gods was in session, and Enki used it as an opportunity to express his displeasure over the way his fellow gods had handled—or ignored—Gilgamesh’s case.

“Have we not all heard the prayers on behalf of Gilgamesh? And will we continue to do nothing about them?” His voice sounded like a rushing river in full flood.

“What would you have us do?” asked Enlil, his voice roaring like a storm. “Gilgamesh is mortal, and all mortals must die. It is the law.”

“Is it, now? But was it not equally the law in Ziusudra’s time, and yet he still lives.”

“An exceptional case,” replied Enlil.

“An exception which would not have been needed if we had not been so hasty to bring the Great Flood upon mortals. But the existence of one exception implies that there could conceivably be another.”

“Agreed,” said Aruru. “Gilgamesh has suffered enough. Does he not merit some special consideration? Certainly, we put a great deal of thought into his creation. At the very least, we must put equal thought into his final fate.”

“We must also be mindful of the fact that his mother is a goddess,” said Enki. “Very few mortals can make that claim. Even Ziusudra cannot make it. Besides that, we have made Lugulbanda, Gilgamesh’s father, a god. By what rationale is the husband of a goddess, connected to divinity only be marriage, given greater status than the son of a goddess, who is partly divine by blood?”

“You advocacy is unclear,” said Anu in a tone that suggested he was tired of the discussion already. “Do you wish Gilgamesh to be restored to mortal life and live forever, or do you wish for him to be a god? Those are two completely different requests.”

“Making him a god would resolve the concern about having a mortal live forever, as Gilgamesh would be given divinity instead of just immortality,” said Enki.

“He was a notorious sinner!” said Enlil as storm clouds formed around his head.

Enki nodded. “He was, indeed. But that was decades ago, He has done much good work since then. Even we have erred at times. If perfection were the standard for receiving godhood, all of us should resign from that status at once.”

The ominous silence that followed Enki’s statement made him wonder—had he pushed too hard?"

“What say you, Inanna?” asked Anu. “You asked for Gilgamesh’s creation, and yet you have also complained about him more bitterly than anyone else.”

The gods looked at Inanna—and not just because she was beautiful. Anu asked her for her opinion. It would doubtless hold weight with him.

“Gilgamesh behaved arrogantly toward me,” said Inanna. "There is no question about that. However, so did Dumuzid, whom I forgave. I see no reason not to forgive Gilgamesh, who suffered far longer than Dumuzid.”

Her words led to another prolonged silence. Almost no one had expected Inanna to be on Gilgamesh’s side—or in a forgiving mood. She had spoken briefly, but she had said enough.

Utu took advantage of the momentary pause to make his own suggestion. “We are clearly divided on this subject, but we cannot do nothing. The fate of mortals is in our hands. Therefore, we must strive to find common ground.

“Some of us believe that making Gilgamesh an immortal man sets a bad precedent. Making him a god does not—as long as we retain control over who becomes a god. We have made mortals gods before and will doubtless do so again. So why not do so with Gilgamesh?”

“Because—” began Enlil.

“My lord, I beg your pardon, but I have not finished,” said Utu in the most apologetic voice he could manage. “It is true that making him a god without qualifications might give mortals the wrong impression. So I make this recommendation instead—Gilgamesh will remain in the Netherworld, and he will technically remain a ghost. But we will make him preeminent among ghosts. He will rule over them and judge them.”

“Irkalla would never agree to such an arrangement,” said Enlil, though there was a little less lightning around him as he pondered.

“She will have little choice if you and Anu both order it,” said Enki. “Besides, he can remain subordinate to her. Except to keep the dead in her realm, she spends little time on them. Perhaps she will even be relieved that such a burden has been take from her shoulders.”

Inanna, who had once been killed by Irkalla, smiled. A perceptive observer might have wondered if the whole reason she forgave Gilgamesh was to saddle her sister with a subordinate she was unlikely to accept willingly.

“But if the job is so vast, how can Gilgamesh do it alone?’ asked Enlil. “Surely, it will prove too much for him.”

“Then let him be empowered to appoint helpers from among the dead. People who knew him and loved him in life would serve him well,” said Utu.

“You mean Enkidu, no doubt,” said Enlil. “But the loss of Enkidu was a punishment we decreed already. It cannot be changed.”

“Yet it was decreed because Gilgamesh had made himself insufferable in the mortal realm,” said Anu slowly. “Now that he cannot return to the mortal realm and be a nuisance again, there is no reason to continue enforcing that penalty. Let this matter be resolved in the way that Utu has suggested.”

Anu spoke quietly, but, as before, the other gods knew they had no choice but to obey. Even Enlil nodded, though there was an anger in his eyes that might have frightened Enki under other circumstances.

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Gilgamesh, still holding Sisig tightly by the hand, felt as if he had been run over by a chariot as he saw Irkalla approaching. She was as beautiful as her sister, Inanna, but even colder, as if the gods had carved her from ice. Her hair and eyes were black as shadows, and she squinted against Sisig’s light, mild though it was.

“Come with me,” said said, turning without waiting to see if anyone would follow.

“This is not the normal protocol,” said Sisig, who didn’t take even half a step in her direction.

Irkalla turned back, her face expressionless. “I offer a faster way into the Netherworld. By the will of Anu.” She added the last part as if she were spitting out the words rather than speaking them. “You will not be displeased with the outcome.”

Gilgamesh would have turned back, but there was no turning back. His feet kept stepping forward, whether he willed them to or not. His only comfort was that Sisig remained with him.

As they entered the Netherworld, a mob of the dead stood as if waiting for them. To Gilgamesh’s surprise, they cheered at the sight of him.

“What…what is happening?” asked Gilgamesh.

“By the will of Anu,” said Irkalla, who sounded as if she would rather choke than speak those words again, “you have been proclaimed first among the dead. Henceforth, you will rule over them—as my subordinate, of course.”

Gilgamesh had ruled for more than a century and a quarter, but he had no idea what it meant to rule among the dead. However, when he saw a familiar face moving through the crowd, he no longer cared.

“Enkidu!” he called out, releasing his death grip on Sisig’s hand and running to meet his oldest and dearest friend.

“What do you know?” asked Sisig, glancing at Irkalla. She looked back with ill-concealed hatred. “Dreams actually do come true.”

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Ever since the rediscovery of the epic in the Nineteenth Century, it has undergone a number of adaptations. The first was the Victorian Ishtar and Izdubar, created by Leonidas Le Cenci Hamilton. It professes to be a translation, and Hamilton apparently knew some Akkadian. However, it differs radically from any modern translation I’ve ever seen and includes a number of new scenes, as well as omitting others, so it seems more likely adapted rather than translated. However, if you like Gilgamesh (Izdubar) and rhyming couplets, you might find this interesting. As a public domain work, it appears in a number of places, including here.