Confessions of the Immortal

Chapter 4: Echoes of War

The tension in the air of ancient Uruk felt like a parching heat, heralding a storm brought by the merciless winds of the desert. Throughout the city – in the narrow streets flooded with blinding sunlight, in the cool, echoing temple courtyards where the smell of incense and old papyrus lingered, amid the deafening noise of crowded bazaars filled with the cries of merchants and the clanging of copper – there were increasingly alarming rumors. They whispered about border skirmishes, when small groups of warriors from neighboring cities clashed over disputed lands; about daring cattle raids, when entire herds disappeared at night, leaving behind only dust and despair; about sudden raids on remote settlements, where the inhabitants barely had time to hide behind flimsy walls. Ur, Lagash, Kish – the names of these powerful Sumerian city-states, once symbols of greatness, were now uttered with growing suspicion and outright hostility, like the hiss of a snake. Each of them, like a predatory beast, considered itself the center of the world, the chosen heir to the fertile lands of Mesopotamia, nourished by the life-giving waters of the Euphrates and Tigris, and the sole controller of vital trade routes along which precious goods such as lapis lazuli, obsidian, and cedar wood flowed. And each was prepared to defend his claims with arms, as was often the case in the unstable early dynastic period of Sumer, when peace was only a brief respite between endless wars.

I watched this growing madness with a heart as heavy as lead. Over the long millennia of my existence, spanning the ages from primitive communities to the emergence of the first cities, I had witnessed countless conflicts, from minor border skirmishes to devastating sieges. And each time, they left behind only charred ruins, the ashes of once-blooming fields, and unbearable pain that echoed through generations. But here in Uruk, in this very cradle of civilization, where people were just mastering the complex art of agriculture, transforming wild lands into fruitful gardens, where they erected majestic ziggurats whose peaks reached into the bottomless blue sky, and developed cuneiform writing, immortalizing their knowledge on clay tablets, it seemed especially tragic. Those who had so persistently built these clay cities, decorating them with skillful mosaics of fired clay, who had created complex irrigation systems, whose canals wound across the land like veins nourishing the body, who had laid the foundations of law, astronomy, and mathematics, were now ready to turn their creative genius to mutual destruction. And all this for a few acres of disputed land or a couple of jugs of grain, as if they were savage tribes rather than the pinnacle of advanced civilization.

One day, as I was immersed in the painstaking work of transcribing ancient temple hymns onto damp clay tablets, pressing my stylus into the soft clay and leaving strict cuneiform marks on it, a message rang out in the air. It was not just a stray rumor spread by idle gawkers, but an official message delivered by a dusty and exhausted messenger. His face, weathered by the wind and dust of long roads, was pale with fatigue, and his eyes burned with a feverish gleam. He brought terrible news: Lagash, a city famous for its fearless warriors, whose bronze helmets inspired awe, and skilled craftsmen, whose precious metalwork was prized throughout Mesopotamia, had declared war on Umma, its long-standing and irreconcilable rival. The cause was a border dispute, a long-simmering conflict over control of the vital Guedenna Canal, which both cities, Lagash and Umma, considered their rightful possession. In Uruk, strategically located exactly between these two warring parties, the news caused deep, almost panicky excitement. Some citizens, fearing the worst, called for strict neutrality, realizing that entering the war could result in economic ruin and human losses for Uruk. Others, especially influential merchants and warehouse owners, were inclined to support Lagash, with which Uruk historically had closer economic and cultural ties that promised mutual benefit.

Priests dressed in immaculate white linen robes and the elders of Uruk, their faces furrowed with deep wrinkles of wisdom and anxiety, gathered in the main temple of the goddess Inanna, a majestic building made of fired brick, to discuss the threatening situation. Inside the temple, there was a solemn silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of clothing and muffled voices. As the temple scribe, I had privileged access to these meetings, although I tried to remain completely inconspicuous, blending into the shadows. I carefully recorded their words, scratching cuneiform symbols onto freshly molded, damp clay tablets. Their voices, as they discussed the fate of the city, were filled with a deep, almost palpable anxiety. They understood perfectly well that a local conflict between neighbors, like a spark, could easily escalate into a full-scale regional war, which, like a forest fire, would inevitably engulf Uruk itself, threatening to destroy everything that had been built over centuries.

Soon, feverish preparations for war began throughout the vast city. The atmosphere changed, becoming more tense and hectic. The men who yesterday had been working in the flooded fields irrigated by the waters of the Euphrates, their hands covered with calluses from the plow, or deftly turning the potter’s wheel, creating jugs and bowls from clay, were now learning the harsh art of wielding bronze spears and massive wooden shields. The training grounds echoed with dull thuds, the shouts of instructors, and the clang of metal. Blacksmiths worked tirelessly day and night, blowing their bellows, and the flames of their forges lit up the night sky as they forged thousands of sharp spearheads and feathered arrowheads from dull bronze. The clanging of hammers never ceased for a moment, echoing throughout the city. Women, their faces pale with anxiety but their eyes determined, prepared huge supplies of dried meat, grain, and beer for the future warriors, knowing that the army’s survival depended on their labor. There was a thick, almost tangible smell of fear in the air, mixed with firm determination, the smell of sweat, smoke, and inevitable fate.

My old mentor, the wise Ur-Shulga, was gloomier than usual, like a cloud covering the sun. His usually good-natured face, framed by a gray beard, was clouded with deep wrinkles of sadness, and his eyes gazed into the distance with unusual longing. “This is madness, Enkidu,” he whispered to me one day as we sat in silence in the temple courtyard, lit only by the flickering of oil lamps casting strange shadows on the ancient walls. “People are so quick to forget the irreplaceable value of peace and the fragility of prosperity, as if they had never seen destruction. They see only the immediate gain they crave, not the abyss of loss into which all their achievements may fall.”

I nodded silently, agreeing with every word he said, which weighed heavily on my soul. His words were merely an echo of my own bitter thoughts, which had haunted me for centuries. I saw how fragile this young but already highly developed civilization was, how easily it could be destroyed in the fires of civil strife that had shaken Sumer for centuries, leaving only ruins and oblivion in its wake. Their temples, canals, their writing – all of it could be wiped out in an instant., I knew that very soon I would have to face this cruel reality head-on, once again witnessing senseless destruction.

A few weeks later, the final order arrived, sealed with the ruler’s clay seal, which depicted a lion pierced by a spear – a symbol of power and military valor. Uruk was to immediately send a detachment of its best warriors to help Lagash. These warriors, selected for their physical fitness and experience, were the pride of the city. I, possessing extraordinary physical strength surpassing that of ordinary mortals and amazing, almost superhuman endurance, was among those called up for the militia. My skills as a scribe, so valued in the temple where I spent my days, were of no use on the battlefield. Instead of a stylus, I was given a simple but sturdy bronze helmet, a reliable leather shield covered with tanned bull hide for extra strength, and a short but sharp spear. I felt the familiar, heavy coolness of the weapons in my hands, the coolness of metal that I had felt in countless battles, fighting for vanished peoples over many millennia.

We set out at dawn, when the first pale rays of the sun barely touched the high peaks of the ziggurats, coloring their brick walls in soft pink and golden tones. The townspeople poured into the streets, seeing us off with silent glances full of anxiety and hope. A long column of warriors, their steps in sync, kicked up clouds of fine red dust that, like a golden haze, colored the rising sun a dull, ominous orange, foreshadowing bloodshed. We walked across uneven, parched land, past fields where grain had recently grown, but now lay desolate. I walked among them, sensing their barely concealed fear, their nervous excitement manifested in convulsive movements, and their firm, cold determination. Many of them were very young, almost boys, whose faces were still too smooth, and had never seen a real battle. I had seen too many, having lived through more than one generation of warriors whose names had long since been erased from human memory.

When we arrived at the site, I was met with the horrific sight of the impending carnage. It was a vast, dusty plain, already scarred by previous, smaller skirmishes, where the earth was soaked with blood and remembered the clang of weapons and the moans of the dying. Here and there were fragments of spears and broken shields, grim reminders of past clashes. In the distance, under the scorching sun, stood the impregnable walls of Umma, a city surrounded by a deep moat filled with water and protected by tall watchtowers, from which the silhouettes of archers were already visible. Between us and them stood two enormous armies, lined up in strict, dense rows: the warriors of Lagash, clad in heavy leather armor and bronze helmets, formed intimidating phalanxes, their spears thrust forward like porcupine quills. Opposite them were the soldiers of Umma, taking up their battle positions, their banners depicting lions and eagles fluttering in the wind. The sound of drums beating, steady and hypnotic, the sharp, abrupt shouts of commanders giving their final orders, and the dry, metallic clang of bronze weapons – all of this was painfully familiar to me, down to my last nerve, foreshadowing the inevitable slaughter.

I took my place in the tight formation, feeling the pressure of my comrades’ bodies on either side, preparing for the inevitable. My heart did not beat faster, my hands did not tremble, and my breathing remained steady, unlike the young warriors around me, whose chests heaved with excitement. I was a perfect machine, adapted to survive in the most brutal conditions, but deep inside me burned a quiet, unquenchable sorrow. I saw these people, my compatriots in this passing era, preparing to destroy each other with unprecedented fury, their eyes burning with hatred and fanaticism. And I, an immortal witness, was doomed to watch this madness, with no right to intervene, bearing the burden of eternal memory.

The battle began suddenly, without warning. With a piercing cry that seemed to tear the air itself, filling it with terror, two huge armies collided like two waves crashing against rocks, crushing each other. The sound of the impact was deafening, like a clap of thunder. I saw shiny spears crash into sturdy shields, breaking them and piercing bodies; sharp bronze swords cut through flesh and bone with terrifying ease, leaving bloody furrows behind them; how men fell to the ground like sheaves of wheat, their dying cries drowned out by the deafening noise of battle, turning into a single, indistinguishable howl. The dust kicked up by thousands of feet mixed with the blood settling on faces and then running down bodies, creating a sticky, suffocating atmosphere that took my breath away. I fought, as always, with coolness and striking efficiency, without unnecessary movements, protecting my comrades-in-arms, parrying blows and delivering precise, deadly thrusts, but without seeking personal glory or recognition.

The war between Lagash and Umma, this bloody feud, lasted for more than a year, sometimes quietening down during truces, then flaring up again with renewed, fierce intensity. I lived through several such military campaigns, witnessing how combat tactics changed, becoming more complex and sophisticated; how weapons improved – from primitive flint axes to more effective bronze axes and composite bows, whose arrows flew farther and more accurately. I watched as human spirits were tempered and broken, as brave warriors were reduced to emaciated shadows, their faces becoming masks of fatigue and pain. I saw those I knew die, their faces, once full of life, laughter, and hope, disappear into the endless and merciless flow of time, leaving only emptiness behind.

Each loss, each broken cry left another invisible scar on my soul, another painful reminder of my curse – eternal existence. I was doomed to be an eternal witness to their short lives, their desperate struggle for survival, their inevitable death and disappearance. And I knew that this was only the beginning of my long journey, stretching over millennia. Ahead of me lay new wars, even more massive and destructive, new empires yet to be born, whose names would be carved in stone but then disappear, and new falls of great civilizations that once considered themselves immortal. And I, Enkidu, will be here to see it all, bearing the burden of memory for those who have gone.

Chapter 5: The Lesson of Defeat and the Omen

The war with Umma, though it did not lead to the complete destruction of Uruk, left indelible scars on its body and soul, like deep scars on ancient pottery. We returned to the city not to the cheers of the crowd and the sounds of victory drums, but under the oppressive veil of fatigue and deep sorrow. Every step echoed with phantom pain, reminding us of those who remained forever on the blood-soaked battlefields, whose names were now whispered only by the wind over the Euphrates. The faces of the fallen soldiers, their carefree laughter, their unfulfilled hopes for a peaceful old age – all this became part of my boundless but equally painful memory, like the fragments of a broken stele. I watched as families mourned their dead, their cries echoing through the narrow streets, bouncing off the mud walls. Women in mourning black robes, their faces lined with wrinkles of grief, gathered at the majestic temple of Inanna, whose terraced steps rose above the city, calling on the goddess of love and war for mercy and comfort in their inconsolable grief. The air was thick with the smell of incense and tears.

Ur-Shulga, our wise and faithful guardian of the city, whose figure seemed carved from history itself, met me at the massive city gates. Their massive wooden doors, reinforced with bronze plates, seemed to have absorbed centuries of history, keeping the secrets of countless comings and goings. His blind eye, as if possessed of some ancient, unearthly wisdom, saw more than the sighted, penetrating to the very essence of what was happening. He embraced me tightly, and in that embrace, tangible and strong, I felt the long-awaited warmth that could, if only for a moment, dispel the cold of battle and despair. “You have returned, Enkidu,” he whispered in a voice full of relief and deep, almost physical sadness. “This is a great blessing for Uruk. We have lost many sons and daughters whose voices will no longer be heard on our streets.”

I just nodded, unable to say a word. My voice was hoarse and cracked from the acrid dust of the roads and the shrill cries of battle that still rang in my ears. As I made my way through the maze of city streets, past cramped houses and noisy markets, I looked closely at people’s faces, trying to read the echoes of their experiences in them. In each of them, I saw not only grief, deep and all-encompassing, but also a new, deeper awareness – an understanding of the fragility of their world, their defenselessness in the face of war, like a house of cards before a hurricane. They realized their dependence on the mercy of powerful, sometimes capricious gods and the indestructible, sometimes despotic power of their rulers. The city, once bustling with life, filled with the laughter of children and the voices of merchants, now breathed a heavy, almost palpable sadness, as if the very air was saturated with grief and fear of an unknown future.

After the war, life in Uruk underwent significant, irreversible changes. The influence of the priests, servants of the gods, whose temples were the center of spiritual and political power, grew even stronger. Their calls for unity and unconditional obedience to the divine will now sounded more often and louder, spreading across the squares and temples, penetrating every home and every soul. The warriors who were lucky enough to survive the bloody clashes became revered heroes, their names whispered with awe, but their eyes were forever haunted by the shadows of the horrors they had experienced, the glimmers of the flames of destroyed settlements. I returned to my usual duties as a scribe in the e-dubba, the House of Tablets, where clay and stylus became my constant companions. But now my records included not only reports on barley harvests and livestock numbers, on the accounting of goods and taxes. I painstakingly wrote lists of the fallen in cuneiform, immortalizing their names on clay tablets, I recorded new decrees from the lugal introducing additional taxes to maintain the ever-growing army, and I compiled detailed reports on destroyed irrigation canals and devastated fields, whose soil was saturated with blood and tears.

I spent a lot of time with Ur-Shulga, our wise elder whose experience spanned decades, discussing the harsh lessons taught by this war. Like me, he saw it as more than just a territorial conflict over fertile land or trade routes, but something much deeper – a harbinger of coming, possibly catastrophic changes that were in the air. “People always seek order, Enkidu,” he mused, sitting by the cool wall of the ziggurat, cooled by the wind that carried the scents of myrrh and decay, “but their insatiable desire for power, for domination over others, inevitably leads to chaos and destruction. We build magnificent structures whose towers touch the clouds, and then we ourselves turn them into ruins, covering our own achievements with dust.”

I listened to his words, and each one resonated deep within my ancient memory, like an echo from millennia ago. I had seen it countless times – cycles of rise and fall, construction and destruction, seemingly endless, repeating themselves over and over again. It was the eternal rhythm of Mesopotamia, its inexorable, predetermined fate, carved in stone and clay.

Once, as I sat on the banks of the sacred Euphrates, whose waters carried silt and hopes from the northernmost mountains to the Persian Gulf, watching its mighty and unhurried flow, I noticed a stranger. He was different from the usual merchants wandering in caravans along dusty roads, or nomads looking for new pastures for their herds. His simple but sturdy clothing, devoid of adornment, indicated a certain independence and self-sufficiency, and his gaze was penetrating and commanding, as if he could see the very essence of things, hidden from the eyes of mere mortals. He moved alone, without an entourage or companions, which was unusual for a man of his stature, but his gait conveyed an inner strength and determination characteristic of those who carry a great destiny on their shoulders. Stopping at the shore, he gazed at the water for a long time, deep in thought, as if talking to the river itself.

I sensed something extraordinary in him, something that set him apart from the crowd, like a rare gem among ordinary pebbles. It was that very premonition, almost tangible, which I had learned to recognize unerringly over the long centuries of my existence – a premonition of grandiose changes that would soon shake the foundations of Sumer to its very core. I did not know his name, but his image, shrouded in an aura of mystery and a certain predestination, was forever etched in my memory, as if carved on my heart.

Later, returning to the bustling city, filled with the smells of spices and the sounds of everyday life, I heard talk of a new ruler who was gaining incredible power in the north, in Akkad, a city that was gradually rising above the others, becoming a new center of attraction. His name was Sargon, and rumors about him spread quickly throughout Mesopotamia, like wildfire across the dry steppe. It was said that he was not a noble aristocrat dressed in luxurious clothes, but a humble gardener, a man of the people, yet he possessed incredible charisma, a gift of persuasion capable of winning the hearts of thousands, and unprecedented military talent unmatched in Sumer. He gathered scattered tribes and cities under his banner, uniting them into a single whole, destroying old borders and creating new ones. His ambitions were boundless, extending far beyond the known borders of city-states, heralding the creation of something unprecedented.

I immediately associated the image of the mysterious stranger by the river with these disturbing rumors. It was quite possible that it was he – Sargon, the harbinger of a new era, whose shadow was already falling on Sumer. Perhaps it was he who was destined to change the course of Mesopotamian history, redrawing its map and destiny, creating a new state. I realized that such personalities, capable of radically changing the world, appear extremely rarely, once every few centuries, and their appearance always heralds great upheavals and fundamental changes in the world order.

My inner voice, which had previously only whispered about coming events like a light breeze, now sounded louder and clearer, like thunder, heralding the inevitable. The era of scattered city-states, which had seemed unshakable and eternal, was coming to its logical conclusion. A new, unprecedented force loomed on the horizon – a force that sought complete unification, the creation of something much greater than just separate settlements divided by enmity and suspicion. An empire was approaching, a concept foreign to the Sumerians, but one that would change their world forever.

I felt that soon I would have to leave Uruk, my old home, whose walls had known me for thousands of years. My place was where great events unfolded, where powerful civilizations were born and died, where history made its inexorable march, leaving its mark on the sands. I had to witness this new, exciting chapter in the annals of humanity. And although I understood that it would bring new losses, new suffering, and that I would see the fall of the old world, a spark of insatiable curiosity burned within me like an eternal flame. What would this Sargon create? How would he change the entire known world, transforming it into something new? And how long would his great creation, this new empire, last before it too sank into oblivion?

I looked again at the ziggurat, towering majestically over the city, its stepped terraces seeming to touch the heavens themselves. It was not just a building, but a symbol of Sumer, its unshakable faith in the gods, its grandiose achievements in architecture, astronomy, and writing. But I, Enkidu, knew that even the tallest towers could collapse, giving way to new forces and new orders. And I would be here to see it.

Chapter 6: The Road North

The premonition of irreversible change, which had arisen while observing the mysterious traveler by the great river and was reinforced by the news of Sargon of Akkad, grew stronger with each sunrise, becoming more and more tangible. Uruk, once perceived as the unshakable center of the civilized world, the stronghold of Sumerian culture, now seemed to be just one of countless fragments that were about to merge into something grand – a new, unified power. My unchanging duty, my eternal destiny – to be an impartial witness to epoch-making events, a contemplator of the course of history – drew me north, to the origins of a nascent power that promised to redraw the map of Mesopotamia.

My farewell to Ur-Shulga was overshadowed by deep sorrow, the echoes of which reverberated in my eternal soul. Over many centuries, he had become the only one who had managed to break through my armor of alienation, penetrating the most hidden corners of my ancient heart. I could not reveal to him the true, all-consuming reason for my departure, limiting myself to the words: “The road calls me to unknown horizons.” This wise old man, whose blindness had sharpened his inner vision, as if seeing the invisible canvas of fate, merely nodded. “Go, Enkidu,” he said, his blind gaze seeming to pierce through me into the unknown future. “Your destiny is not in settling down and resting, like river silt. You are the wind that wanders through the millennia, knowing no attachment. But remember Uruk, remember what we have built in this sacred place.”