oh no

Preface: oldest texts and oldest literature

Dispelling common misconceptions has to start with a quick summary of the early history of writing in Mesopotamia. 

Cuneiform was invented in the late fourth millennium BCE, near the end of the Uruk period (Jerrold S. Cooper, Sumerian Literature and Sumerian Identity, p. 1-2). Some 4950 texts from this period have been discovered during excavations in Uruk. A smaller number of unprovenanced ones might have originated elsewhere. Nearby heavily looted sites such as Isin and Umma have been proposed as their possible point of origin. Based on this archaeological data it is assumed that writing was originally invented in Uruk, relatively quickly spread to its dependencies, and then finally across the rest of Mesopotamia (Robert K. Englund, Uruk A. I. Philological. 4th-3rd millennium B.C. in RlA vol 14, p. 446-447). In the slightly less distant past - by which I meant roughly the period from the 1940s up to the early 1970s - the remnants of hyperdiffusionism lingering here and there lead to bold proposals that all writing systems in the world must have been direct descendants of cuneiform. Their proponents argued oracle bone script was somehow derived from cuneiform, despite lack of any evidence whatsoever for the spread of the latter even to central Asia, let alone even further east to China. Maya writing, at the time still considered largely undeciphered, was dismissed as too rudimentary to count as a genuine system to avoid the obvious issue with lack of contact between Mesoamerica and Mesopotamia. Further discoveries of course made this blatantly untenable, and it was already well established by the 1990s that writing was invented multiple times independently. The Mesopotamians were in all due likeness first (though it is possible to make a case for Egyptians beating them to it), but the process which led to the creation of writing was not unique to their culture (Jerrold S. Cooper, Babylonian Beginnings: the Origin of Cuneiform Writing in Comparative Perspective, p. 71).

A typical early tablet from Uruk (wikimedia commons) To put it bluntly, the first surviving Mesopotamian texts are not exactly a thrilling read. The overwhelming majority of them are rudimentary administrative accounts of the activities of individual households and the city as a whole (Uruk A…., p. 448). This shouldn’t come as a surprise, given that writing very likely emerged to accommodate increasingly complex administration and economy in large settlements - chiefly in Uruk, sometimes outright considered the first true city in history (Babylonian Beginnings…, p. 72). The only distinct genre of early texts which doesn’t directly fall into the administrative category are lexical lists. They were teaching aids meant for trainee scribes, who had to familiarize themselves first with the individual signs and then with increasingly more complex vocabulary. They are arranged thematically, with individual examples covering fish, birds, domestic animals, professions, agricultural produce and so on (Uruk A…., p. 448). They only make up around 10% of the corpus (Babylonian Beginnings…, p. 78). Literary texts - as well as many other genres well known from later periods like letters, royal inscriptions, law codes and omen collections - are lacking altogether in the earliest era of writing, and only emerged later (Michael P. Streck, Writing in RlA vol 12, p. 287). The oldest examples come from the Early Dynastic Period IIIa, roughly from the middle of the third millennium BCE (Kamran V. Zand, Mesopotamia and the East: The Perspective from the Literary Texts from Fāra and Tell Abū Ṣalābīḫ, p. 123). Most of them have been recovered from Tell Fara (Shuruppak) and Tell Abu Salabikh, but some come from Adab, Mari (close to the Syria-Iraq border), Ebla (in the proximity of Aleppo) and other cities (Andrew R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts, p. 4-5). Probably the most famous literary text from the Early Dynastic period are the Zame Hymns - a sequence of 70 hymns, each dedicated to a different deity (Manfred Krebernik, Jan J. W. Lisman, The Sumerian Zame Hymns from Tell Abū Ṣalābīḫ, p. 13-14). 

A peculiar subset of early literary texts are the examples of UD.GAL.NUN, an early form of cryptography (Writing…, p. 287). It’s essentially a substitution cipher, though in contrast with the Caesar cipher and the like it appears to combine multiple principles. Signs are variously replaced by ones with similar meaning, phonetic value, or with specific graphic analogies, but none of those rules are universal. We don’t really know what was the motivation of scribes who used it, though it’s worth noting that most of the UD.GAL.NUN texts are relatively long and complex. Only around 2% are learning aids (ie. lexical lists). The remaining 98% are literary, with 23 compositions identified with certainty and numerous fragments on top of that (Kamran V. Zand, UD.GAL.NUN in RlA vol. 14, p. 271-273). While gods take the central stage in the UD.GAL.NUN texts (as they generally do in Mesopotamian narratives), some of them also refer to mythical human heroes. One of the relatively well presented compositions, a myth focused on the travels of Utu (each of them involves a different distant locale and a different person, deity or animal who has to be brought to Mesopotamia from it), mentions Lugalbanda (Mesopotamia and…, p. 133) - arguably the most famous Mesopotamian hero after the protagonist of this article. 

It’s worth noting Lugalbanda appears in at least one other Early Dynastic literary text - specifically an UD.GAL.NUN one. In a composition dealing with Utu bringing various other figures from distant locations, he’s one of the “passengers” transported this way (in case you were curious, the other well preserved passages involve Utu’s wife Sherida, as well as Ninshubur). This seemingly anticipates Lugalbanda’s travels through the mountains well known from later literature (Mesopotamia and…, p. 133). Furthermore, a fragmentary narrative deals with the exploits of another human, the warrior EN.UM (possibly also written EN.MES; reading uncertain, in either case), who apparently intended to conquer the city of Arawa, the “bolt of Elam”, with the assistance of Ninura, the tutelary goddess of Umma (Mesopotamia and…, p. 128-130). 

“Gilgamesh is the one Utu has selected”: the earliest history of Gilgamesh

In contrast with Lugalbanda and the enigmatic EN.UM, the first possible attestation of Gilgamesh does not occur in a literary text. It has been argued that a certain Gilgamesh-Utu-pada (“Gilgamesh is the one Utu has selected”) is already mentioned in an administrative text from Ur which might come from the beginning of the Early Dynastic period  (Gianni Marchesi, Who Was Buried in the Royal Tombs of Ur? The Epigraphic and Textual Data, p. 196-197). Alternatively, the oldest attestation might be an entry in a god list from Fara, which can be securely dated to the middle of the third millennium BCE (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 71).

Note that while I opted to romanize the early form of the name as “Gilgamesh” here, there is some debate over whether it might have been originally Bilgames or Pabilgamesh, and both can be found in modern literature dealing with the Early Dynastic references to him (Who Was…, p. 196). However, this might be erroneous, and “Gilgamesh” might very well be the default virtually for as long as the hero is documented (Gonzalo Rubio, Reading Sumerian Names, II: Gilgameš, p. 8-12). There is some evidence for the pronunciation “Kilgamesh” (replacing /g/ with /k/ in loanwords from Sumerian was common in Akkadian in general), but only as a later phenomenon, best documented in peripheral areas like Emar and Kanesh rather than in Mesopotamia proper (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 81).

The meaning of Gilgamesh’s name remains uncertain too. Interpretations such as “the forebear was a hero”, “the offspring is a hero” (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 74) and “the elder is still a youth” have been proposed (Gebhard J. Selz, Untersuchungen zur Götterwelt des altsumerischen Stadtstaates von Lagaš, p. 105).

Perhaps the most hotly debated early Gilgamesh issue is whether he was a historical figure. Arguments in favor of this view heavily depend on the theories about Enmebaragesi of Kish, as in later literary texts this king’s supposed son Akka (also romanized as Agga; the doubling of the consonant is optional in either case) is an enemy of Gilgamesh (Piotr Michalowski, A Man Called Enmebaragesi, p. 196-197). A hymn from the Ur III period (Shulgi O in the ETCSL) instead alludes to a conflict between Gilgamesh and Enmebaragesi himself (Gianni Marchesi, Nicolo Marchetti, Royal Statuary of Early Dynastic Mesopotamia, p. 99). On another hand, the Sumerian King List casts Enmebaragesi as an adversary of the king preceding Gilgamesh, Dumuzi (Douglas Frayne, Presargonic Period (2700-2350 BC), p. 5). Note this is not the same guy as the more famous Dumuzi

The SKL doesn’t limit itself to presenting Enmebaragesi as an adversary of Uruk and its rulers. It also claims he was responsible for overcoming the Elamite city of Awan (probably located in modern Khuzestan, near Susa), which as per this source controlled Mesopotamia as well for a time (Presargonic…, p. 37). Grandiose claims about his accomplishments can be found in older scholarship as a result, with Awan - a single city - turned into the entirety of (proto-)Elamite civilization (A Man…, p. 196) However, in reality SKL is an inaccurate, ahistorical source - basically a work of fiction. It includes outright mythical figures like Alulim, Etana or Ku-Bau (“Kubaba”), regularly assigns unrealistic reigns lasting centuries to past rulers, entirely glosses over a power as major as Lagash, and only seven names of pre-Sargonic kings listed in it are actually attested in pre-Sargonic sources - and two of them are Gilgamesh and Enmebaragesi… with the latter’s reign lasting 900 years. It therefore is of no use for reconstructing the history of Early Dynastic Mesopotamia (Royal Statuary…, p. 117-118). While the unreliability of the SKL is pretty much universally recognized in scholarship, the same can’t be said about assorted online sources of questionable quality. In particular, be wary of many Wikipedia articles dealing with figures from the SKL - a few years ago a single person taking advantage of the small number of editors in this field completed an utterly insane quest to present every made up ruler as authentic, complete with made up “realistic” dating. That has yet to be fully fixed. Even less reputable sites contain even worse horrors, obviously. While Enmebaragesi is far from the most phantasmal figure from the SKL, it should come as no surprise that it is sometimes questioned if he actually existed. His supposed renown for the most part only comes up in sources no earlier than the early second millennium BCE, in any case (A Man…, p. 197). It’s possible that he was accidentally invented through the misinterpretation of a hitherto unknown text containing the phrase en Mebaragesi - “the exalted Mebaragesi” - referring to a real, if sparsely attested, Early Dynastic ruler known from an unprovenanced inscription (Royal Statuary…, p. 98-99).

An illustration of the surviving fragment of Mebaragesi’s inscription (Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative; reproduced here for educational purposes only).

Through a truly bizarre twist of fate, the aforementioned short text, dated to 2600 BCE or so, is actually the single oldest surviving royal inscription presently known. It’s up for debate if this means the historical Mebaragesi was thus some sort of pioneer. Skepticism is advised, though - Early Dynastic royal inscriptions are generally rare with the exception of the very well documented state of Lagash, so it might very well be a matter of chance preservation and nothing more (Presargonic…, p. 5). The inscription, to put it lightly, is not very informative - it just says that Mebaragesi was the king of Kish (Presargonic…, p. 57). The same name might also occur in text from Tutub in the Diyala valley, though it’s so damaged nothing else can be said about its contents (Presargonic…, p. 56-57). Additionally, given that while technically also Early Dynastic it’s younger by a few centuries, it might very well be that the person mentioned just happens to share the same name as the earlier king of Kish (Royal Statuary…, p. 212). As far as I am aware, the only possible evidence for Gilgamesh’s historicity which has nothing to do with Enmebaragesi is the name of Gilgamesh-Utu-pada. If the reading is correct, it might very well be an example of a reverential name meant to praise a contemporary monarch, similarly to the likes of Uruinimigina-Enlille-izu (“Uruinimgina - Enlil has recognized him”) or Shulgi-Nanshe-kiag (“Shulgi is the beloved of Nanshe”), though those examples only come from later periods (Who Was…, p. 197). However, even Gianni Marchesi, who first identified this name, only tentatively accepts the possibility that Gilgamesh was historical - and rejects the historicity of the rulers from the SKL, even those associated with him (Who Was…, p. 166). In the light of the flimsy, ambiguous character of most of the sources discussed above it should come as no surprise that Piotr Michalowski characterizes the quest for the “real” Gilgamesh as Assyriology’s equivalent of a quest for a “real” king Arthur (A Man…, p. 197). As argued by Andrew R. George, it might very well be that a real king named Gilgamesh existed at some point - though not necessarily one particularly similar to the protagonist of later literary text, just like a possible historical Arthur in all due likeness would not have resembled the king known from medieval chivalrous romances. In any case, whether there really was a historical king named so at some point is of no real concern to his legacy as a religious figure or literary character (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 106; Who Was…, p. 166) - and that’s what matters the most in the context of this article.

“King of the young men”: Early Dynastic perception of Gilgamesh

In addition to debates about Gilgamesh’s historicity, a further subject of inquiries is whether he appears in any of the Early Dynastic literary texts. Most commonly it is asserted that a myth about the first meeting between Lugalbanda and the goddess Ninsun, which ends with their marriage, might have also described the birth of Gilgamesh. This relies on the well attested tradition according to which they were parents. However, the actual text contains no references to the birth of any children (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 5).  It’s a very fun read, though:

How many other compositions involving what appears to be a picnic date between a goddess and a mortal, as demonstrated on the screencap above (Jan W. Lisman, The (Inchoate) Marriage of Lugalbanda and Ninsumuna, p. 74-75), are you aware of? No other proposal that Gilgamesh appears in one of the Early Dynastic literary texts attained much traction, and most of them have been conclusively disproved by the early 2000s already. At least one seemingly wasn’t even a genuine scholarly theory, but merely a way to present an unremarkable tablet from a private collection a much bigger deal than it was in reality (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 5-6). While it cannot be ruled out that stories about Gilgamesh were already in circulation in the Early Dynastic period in oral form, no trace of them survives in writing (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 6). This doesn’t mean we know nothing about the early perception of Gilgamesh, though. As I already mentioned, he is listed in the god list from Fara - this at the very least affirms that he was viewed as divine (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 119). An assortment of early references to him as an actively venerated figure are also available from Girsu, a city located in the southeastern state of Lagash, roughly from 2400 BCE. These include entries in offering lists, place names, and the theophoric name Ur-Gilgamesh (“man of Gilgamesh”), though it is an isolated example (Untersuchungen…, p. 105-106). A text from Adab mentions a place known as the “mound of Gilgamesh”, possibly some sort of religious installation dedicated to him (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 123). We also know that mace heads could be dedicated to him, with two examples referring to him respectively as lugal guruš-(e)ne, “king of the young men” (metaphorically “king of the warriors”) and kalag-ga, “mighty one” (Piotr Steinkeller, The Reluctant En of Inana — or the Persona of Gilgameš in the Perspective of Babylonian Political Philosophy, p. 155).

While Gilgamesh’s divinity in all of the aforementioned sources is indisputable, it has to be made clear that the phenomenon of deification of rulers was blown out of proportion in the early decades of Assyriology and needs to be approached cautiously (Piotr Michalowski, The Mortal Kings of Ur: a Short Century of Divine Rule in Ancient Mesopotamia, p. 41-42). While the tangible, historical Early Dynastic kings claimed a “mandate of heaven” of sorts, presenting themselves as appointed by the gods - as best exemplified by inscriptions of Eannatum of Lagash - there’s no evidence anyone deified himself before Naram-Sin of Akkad. And even then, this sort of royal self-deification was the exception, not the rule (Jerrold S. Cooper, Divine Kingship in Mesopotamia: a Fleeting Phenomenon, p. 261). 

It’s not clear if Naram-Sin’s successor Sharkalisharri followed in his footsteps in that regard. The evidence is limited to seals of some of his servants and a number of later restorations of damaged passages, but next to none of his surviving inscriptions present him as divine (The Mortal Kings…, p. 35). 

The deification of reigning rulers was revived after the fall of the Akkadian Empire under the Third Dynasty of Ur, around 2100 BCE or so (Divine Kingship…, p. 261). It was, confusingly, not actually the third dynasty to rule Ur - nor were any of the earlier local dynasties of Ur regional hegemons. This modern moniker was coined due to excessive reliance on a later literary text - specifically the SKL - in early scholarship. You might occasionally see attempts to rename the period of its reign from “Ur III” to “Neo-Sumerian” and the like, but ultimately the former, awkward as it is, remains the default; and the label “Neo-Sumerian” in particular is arguably hardly an improvement (Alhena Gadotti, An = Anum and Related Lists. By W. G. Lambert and Ryan D. Winters. God Lists of Ancient Mesopotamia, Volume I, edited by Andrew George and Manfred Krebernik (book review), p. 325). While the Ur III period was the pinnacle of the phenomenon of self-deification, to a smaller degree it continued under some of the Old Babylonian dynasties, most notably in Isin. No self-deified rulers are attested past the times of Rim-Sin I and Hammurabi, though. Ultimately being capable of mediating between their subjects and the gods was perfectly sufficient for most rulers, and in contrast with pharaohs the royal was not fundamentally divine (Divine Kingship…, p. 261). Ironically, at the maximal territorial extent of direct Mesopotamian rule under the Neo-Babylonian Empire the ideal ruler was supposed to portray himself as a humble servant of the gods, despite ruling a state extending beyond what his self-deified forerunner from Isin or Malgium would consider basically the entirety of the world (Divine Kingship…, p. 263).

One of the many statues of Gudea created during his reign on display in the Louvre (wikimedia commons)

The fact the first instance of royal self-deification postdates the Early Dynastic period means that even if we accept that Gilgamesh was a real Early Dynastic king rather than a purely literary creation, it’s hard to imagine he was deified while still alive. It has been suggested that if his divinity isn’t simply something fundamentally tied to his status as a fictional heroic figure, the process through which it developed might have been similar to that which led to the deification of Gudea of Lagash (Who Was Buried…, p. 167). Ironically, the two have very little in common otherwise - like other kings of Lagash, Gudea presented himself as a humble servant of the gods, and his inscriptions focus on assorted temple construction projects first and foremost (The Reluctant En…, p. 154). Piotr Steinkeller argues that Gilgamesh as a literary character if anything resembles the Sargonic kings more - possibly in part due to conscious adoption of motifs associated with them (The Reluctant En…, p. 154-155).

While ultimately at best tangentially related to Gilgamesh, Gudea’s reign was one of the most remarkable in the entire history of ancient Mesopotamia. It warrants much more coverage than I can dedicate to it here, frankly. He reigned in Lagash after the collapse of the Akkadian Empire and shortly before the rise of the Ur III state. His posthumous deification was an honor unique to him, and is not attested for any other king of Lagash (Claudia E. Suter, The Divine Gudea on Ur III Seal Images, p. 309). It’s possible that it was in part a way for Lagash to assert itself in the Ur III state (The Divine Gudea…, p. 323). As a matter of fact, references to divine Gudea only start to appear during the reign of Shulgi - the first self-deified Ur III king - which might even mean it was a salient political point (Piotr Michalowski, The Steward of Divine Gudea in Ur III Girsu, p. 191-193).

Most likely the process was gradual, and the veneration of Gudea as a god initially was an extension of standard funerary offerings, which didn’t require the dead to be divine (The Divine Gudea…, p. 310). As you will see later, a myth explaining the circumstances of Gilgamesh’s elevation to godhood is pretty adamant about him actually having to die first, too (Who Was Buried…, p. 166).

“In those days, in those far-off days”: Gilgamesh narratives before the epic

While Gudea’s deification might have been a form of soft resistance to the Ur III state and assertion of pride in strictly local accomplishments, it can be argued that Gilgamesh represents the opposite. The fact he came to play an important role in the Ur III royal ideology is arguably one of the most important, if not the single most important, developments in his history. Starting with the founder of the royal line, Ur-Nammu, the kings of Ur declared themselves Gilgamesh’s brothers and friends. While claiming kinship with a ruler from the distant past was hardly uncommon, the specific terminology used here points more towards the perception of Gilgamesh as a personal deity of the members of the new preeminent dynasty (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 108-109). 

It’s possible that stressing the closeness between the reigning kings and Gilgamesh was simply a way to legitimize the new dynasty by evoking the image of a well known legendary figure. It probably helped that Ur-Nammu, despite making Ur, his capital might have been a relative of Utu-hegal of Uruk, who seemingly already experimented with a Gilgamesh-themed royal ideology before the rise of the Ur III state (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 109). While treating Gilgamesh as a god was hardly a personal eccentricity of the Ur III dynasty, its members were probably the only rulers to ever attempt to elevate him to the uppermost echelons of the pantheon. This is best reflected in a short composition detailing the division of responsibilities between the most important members of the official pantheon (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 121-122):

However, the importance of the Ur III period for Gilgamesh doesn’t lie in temporarily elevating him to the uppermost levels of the pantheon. It was instead the appearance of stories about him in written form for the first time. Most likely it was a way to preserve the most popular oral compositions of contemporary courtly bards for posterity. Only one survives in fragments large enough to determine its plot - an early prototype of Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven. However, there evidently were more, as small scraps of tablets which don’t seem to belong to this composition which nonetheless undeniably deal with Gilgamesh’s adventures have also been identified. It is presumed that scribal academies established by the kings of Ur in their capital and in Nippur - which was the religious and intellectual center of Mesopotamia - incorporated the new Gilgamesh texts into their curriculum (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 7). While the Ur III state didn’t last long, and collapsed due to a combination of internal and external pressures, Gilgamesh retained his position in the school curriculum in the following Old Babylonian period. At this point, five individual myths - each of them still standalone -  were in circulation: Gilgamesh and Huwawa (two distinct versions, A and B, exist); Gilgamesh and Akka; Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld; Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven; and The Death of Gilgamesh. Note that these are simply their modern conventional titles, though - in antiquity they were typically referred to with their incipits, respectively Ene Kur Lutilaše (“The Lord to the Living One’s Land…”; the rarer second version was Ialulu, “Anointed One”); Lukingia Akka (“The Envoys of Akka); Šul Mekam (“Hero in Battle”); Uria Usudraria (“In Those Days, In Those Far-off Days”); and Amgale Banu (“The Great Wild Bull is Lying Down”), as attested for example in ancient literary catalogues (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 7-17). Of the five myths listed, Gilgamesh and Huwawa was by far the most widespread, though one of the two versions is much less common than the other. Gilgamesh and Akka and Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld are not far behind, and evidently also were copied very commonly. Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven and Death of Gilgamesh are comparatively rare (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 8). Most copies of all five come from the eighteenth century BCE (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 7). While written in Sumerian, the five poems about Gilgamesh do not really constitute “Sumerian” mythology, nor are they more “canonical” than the Epic. I repeat this often in posts about Mesopotamian mythology, but “Sumerian” myths are better characterized as myths written in Sumerian - think of the use of Latin in medieval Europe as a good parallel. There is no evidence that a unified “Sumerian” identity ever existed, nor is it possible to separate a “Sumerian” mythology from an “Akkadian” one. The evidence for Sumerian being used as an “ethnic” label is incredibly limited - to the point it might largely be considered a modern concept, not an accurate representation of identity in ancient Mesopotamia (Jerrold S. Cooper, Was Uruk the First Sumerian City?, p.54-55).

Needless to say, the individual Gilgamesh myths didn’t form a coherent whole (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 19-20). They shared the same protagonist, whose personality was more or less consistent, but the same can be said about stories about other human heroes, whether fictional or at least semi-historical, or about gods.

An Old Babylonian copy of the Sumerian King List on display in the Ashmolean Museum (wikimedia commons)

A further text dealing with Gilgamesh which was in circulation contemporarily with the five compositions mentioned above was the Sumerian King List. It might have originally been commissioned by one of the Ur III kings (A Man…, p. 196). If so, it presumably continued to be copied because the rulers of one of the new smaller states, centered in Isin, wanted to present themselves as its heirs, and were keen on seizing the preexisting royal historiography to that end. Needless to say, the SKL’s vision of a past in which one city-state always held authority over Mesopotamia as a whole didn’t accurately reflect history (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 101-102). Much as in the already discussed case of Enmebaragesi, the SKL attributes an unnaturally long reign to Gilgamesh - supposedly he remained on the throne for 129 years. We also learn that his father was a “phantom” (lil - the type of demon which in later incantations answers to Pazuzu. Not very prestigious!). No name is given, though. Furthermore, Gilgamesh is provided with a son of his own, Ur-Nungal, and a grandson, Udul-kalamma, who follow him as kings of Uruk (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 103). He is thus presented as a founder of a short-lived dynasty (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 106). Gilgamesh and his son also play a role in the Tummal Chronicle, though there the latter’s name is Ur-lugal (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 103). This text is yet another scribal school exercise, and while known from Old Babylonian copies, like the SKL it might have been originally composed in the Ur III period. It describes various construction projects in Nippur and nearby smaller settlements supposedly completed by famous legendary rulers, and juxtaposes them with Ur III ones. Some copies add an extra passage meant to present Ishbi-Erra, the first king of Isin after the fall of the Ur III state, as the next ruler to continue this tradition (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 104-105). It’s worth noting Isin wasn’t the only place where remnants of the Ur III royal ideology lingered. In Uruk, which also became the center of a small independent kingdom, the local ruler Sin-kashid invoked Ninsun as his symbolic divine mother just like Shulgi before him, and considered Lugalbanda his personal god. He didn’t claim to be a brother of Gilgamesh, though (Paul-Alain Beaulieu, The Pantheon of Uruk During the Neo-Babylonian Period, p. 107). This doesn’t mean that the memory of Gilgamesh was absent from the considerations of new kings of Uruk, though. An inscription of Anam, one of Sin-kashid’s successors, indicates that the walls of this city were believed to be his work. This tradition is also well represented in later sources. It likely predated Anam, though that doesn’t mean it necessarily reflected historical reality - it’s entirely possible that a connection between the most monumental piece of architecture in Uruk and its most illustrious legendary king developed at some point entirely due to the popularity of stories about Gilgamesh. There’s no real reason to assume that Anam stumbled upon an inscription dating to the times of the genuine Gilgamesh or anything of that sort (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 92). The veneration of Gilgamesh was not limited to kings, as evidenced by theophoric names of commoners, such as Gilgamesh-gamil (“Gilgamesh is merciful”) or Puzur-Gilgamesh (“Protected by Gilgamesh”) and more (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 122). It is also known that he received offerings in Nippur (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 125).

“Surpassing all other kings”: the first epic of Gilgamesh

While the school copies of five myths written in Sumerian are the overwhelming majority of Old Babylonian Gilgamesh literature, a further composition was also in circulation roughly contemporarily with them. It’s not preserved fully, and there are minor differences between the available fragments, but it is safe to say that it represents an early version of the Epic of Gilgamesh. In antiquity it was known as Šūtur Eli Šarrī - “Surpassing All Other Kings” (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 29). However, that still wasn’t the epic modern readers generally think of - perhaps it would be optimal to call it an epic of Gilgamesh. Technically neither Akkadian or Sumerian really had a term with an analogous meaning (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 3). Still, it meets all the modern criteria, so it’s obviously hardly incorrect to call it this way. What is incorrect is to call it a “national” epic, as was sometimes done in the early twentieth century/ To be entirely fair, it is probably justified to apply this label to many epics about historical Mesopotamian kings (like, say, Zimri-Lim or Gulkishar). However, the epic of Gilgamesh was focused not on what made one a Mesopotamian - let alone a citizen or ruler of a specific state - but rather on an universal image of heroism (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 33-34). The most significant difference between this epic and the five standalone myths is that it was not written in Sumerian, the language of scholarship and religious compositions, but in Akkadian, the vernacular across virtually the entirety of early second century BCE Mesopotamia (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 17).

It’s possible that the epic had its origin in attempts at joining together the individual school texts. A unique copy of Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld from Me-Turan adds two formulaic lines in the end to link it with Gilgamesh and Huwawa, which Andrew R. George interpreted as a possible example. However, it should be noted this was a very rudimentary connection, and no effort was made to integrate the two plots into something coherent (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 16).

Alhena Gadotti goes further and argues that based on shared plot elements, like the presence of Enkidu, travels to foreign lands, and struggle with death and what comes next, it can be assumed that while there never was an epic of Gilgamesh written in Sumerian, all of the Old Babylonian school texts - Gilgamesh and Akka being an exception - formed a loose “epic cycle” of sorts (‘Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and the Netherworld’ and the Sumerian Gilgamesh Cycle, p. 96-99). Paul-Alain Beaulieu instead suggests that all of them belonged to a longer cycle which also encompassed compositions about Enmerkar (who I’ll briefly return to later) and Lugalbanda, which he informally refers to as “the res gestae of Uruk”. However, he sees the city itself, and by extension Inanna (though she is actually absent from Gilgamesh and Humbaba and The Death of Gilgamesh), as its core (The Pantheon…, p. 106-108).

However, it should be noted that the existence of a “cycle” of Gilgamesh from which the epic ultimately arose, while plausible, is not universally accepted (Gilgamesh, Enkidu…, p. 106-107). Even the unique find from Me-Turan mentioned above might not be evidence, if it instead reflects the influence of the epic which arose independently, rather than from joining together the school texts. In this scenario, Šūtur Eli Šarrī would presumably be based on an oral composition which simply shared the motifs with them, though this obviously won’t ever be possible to prove (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 16).

Gilgamesh and Enkidu battling Humbaba, feat. a random onlooker (wikimedia commons) Since the Old Babylonian epic is only preserved in fragments, it’s not entirely certain to which degree it overlapped with the standalone poems. It is only known for sure that a large part of it revolved around the expedition to the cedar forest and confrontation with Humbaba. However, it’s not a translation or even a more or less faithful adaptation of either variant of the school text dealing with these events (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 18-19). This can be easily demonstrated through a comparison of a few basic elements of the plot.

In the standalone compositions Humbaba dwells somewhere in the east, beyond Zagros, in the highlands of modern Iran (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 93). This choice might have reflected a desire to satirize various “barbarian” leaders of states like Hamazi, Simanum and the like which the Ur III state and its successors variously allied or feuded with. Humbaba is thus characterized as boorish and easy to trick (A Man…, p.  205).

This is particularly strongly emphasized in version A, where Gilgamesh initially aimed to trick Humbaba by suggesting he could arrange a marriage between him and his two sisters. The younger of them bears the name Peshtur, possibly “little fig”. It’s possible that she’s an allusion to Peshturtur, one of the daughters of Shulgi of Ur (A Man…, p. 198-199). Peshtur also appears in an uncertain context in Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven. Furthermore, a pun alluding to her might be present in the Tale of Gudam (Alhena Gadotti, Portraits of the Feminine in Sumerian Literature, p. 200), a work to which I’ll return later. Puzzlingly, Gilgamesh’s other - older - sister, who doesn’t appear anywhere else, is named Enmebaragesi (A Man…, p. 198-199). It might very well be that she is supposed to be fictional within the story, and Gilgamesh is essentially mocking Humbaba’s unfamiliarity with royal politics by claiming his rival from other compositions known to both the compilers and the copyists is actually his sister. Granted, it’s also possible they simply interpreted the name as one suitable for a high priestess - a traditional role of royal daughters - since it starts with the same sign as Enheduanna’s and many other royal daughters’ names (A Man…, p. 205). Moving back from obscure branches of Gilgamesh’s family tree back among cedar branches, in the Old Babylonian epic Humbaba guards a forest located in the west of Mesopotamia, rather than in the east. The city-state of Ebla, located in the proximity of Aleppo, is directly mentioned in one of the copies, even. This most likely reflects the influence of historical sources on literary fiction. It is known that cedar wood was already imported from the west, as far as Amanus, during the reigns of the Sargonic dynasty and Gudea. The Old Babylonian compilers must have been aware of that - and thus relocated the supernatural guardian of cedar wood precisely where a Mesopotamian king would be expected to source it from (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 93-94).

The new western location of Gilgamesh’s expedition is further emphasized by having Humbaba answer to Wer, a weather god worshiped in the north and west of Mesopotamia (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 193). To put it very informally, Enkidu hypes up Wer like he’s the next arc villain in a shonen (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 199):

However, the protagonists never met, let alone confront, him, as far as the surviving fragments go. A unique short god list from Susa might reference this passage nonetheless, since it places a deity whose name isn’t fully preserved but who might be Wer directly before Humbaba. Granted, Gilgamesh is also present in this short extract, and Wer follows him in the well known Weidner god list, so perhaps that’s what is being referenced instead (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 121). Furthermore, an allusion to Wer’s association with the cedar forest might be present in a Neo-Assyrian list of deities worshiped in Assur, which includes a “weather god of the woodland” (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 844). The addition of Wer might not be too important overall, but it does illustrate something quite significant: the early epic wasn't just an adaptation of the preexisting shorter compositions. Its compilers were more than keen on adding brand new material. 

Another good example of a minor innovation is the introduction of the alewife Siduri. Gilgamesh meets him when he’s stricken with grief after Enkidu’s death. She essentially tells him he should learn to enjoy ordinary life, though this advice seemingly falls on deaf ears (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 275).

Siduri’s name in theory has a plausible Akkadian etymology - “she is my wall”, to be metaphorically understood as “she is my protection”, well attested as an ordinary given name  - but it might instead be a loan from Hurrian. Siduri, “young woman”, is a common title of goddesses in Hurrian sources (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 149) Andrew R. George argues that while her name only survives in two later versions of the epic - Hittite and Standard Babylonian - in all due likeness it was also used in the Old Babylonian one (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 148). However, Gary Beckman notes that the Hittite version actually gives her a different personal name - Nahmazuli or Nahmizuli - and only uses the term siduri as a title. The same pattern seems to occur in the poorly preserved Hurrian version. On this basis he argues she only received her most famous name in the Standard Babylonian epic (The Hittite Gilgamesh, p. 13). Since George’s assumption about her name in the Old Babylonian epic is ultimately speculative, I lean towards Beckman’s assessment. 

Something that seems to be almost entirely missing from the popular perception of the epic is that Siduri is firmly identified as a goddess - her name is prefaced by the determinative dingir, which designated theonyms in cuneiform (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 149). This also holds true for her name from the Hittite and Hurrian fragments (The Hittite…, p. 12). Furthermore, appears in strictly theological sources like the god list An = Anum (Wilfred G. Lambert, Ryan D. Winters, An = Anum and Related Lists, p. 162). In a composition conventionally referred to as the Hymn to the Queen of Nippur today, but whose original title Ullâ Šiduri can be translated as “Extol the goddess Siduri”, Siduri functions as an epithet of Ishtar, though this obviously doesn’t apply to the Epic of Gilgamesh, where the name designates a distinct figure (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 149; An = Anum…, p. 176).

While the evidence listed above is abundant, perhaps marveling at the common trend of euhemerizing Siduri shouldn’t be a priority, seeing as a bit over a decade ago an entire monograph about the epic whose author was apparently unaware Ishtar is a deity got published (Alhena Gadotti, Review of Gilgamesh among Us: Modern Encounters with the Ancient Epic by Theodore Ziolowski, p. 728). I suppose Benjamin R. Foster hardly exaggerated when he noted that authors of many non-Assyriological publications about Gilgamesh appear to be “innocent of any knowledge of ancient texts” (A New Edition of the Epic of Gilgamesh, p. 59). In any case, I’m eagerly awaiting new studies of the Iliad which operate under the assumption that this Zeus character is just some guy. 

Putting laments about poor quality publications aside, Siduri’s main purpose in the epic ultimately doesn’t have much to do with her divinity, or even with providing sagacious advice. She is merely there to answer Gilgamesh’s request for directions, as he is seeking the survivor of a mythical great flood, Utnapishtim (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 275). The idea of Gilgamesh seeking a survivor of an ancient flood was not new - there’s a brief allusion of a meeting between him and Ziusudra (another name of the archetypal flood hero) in Death of Gilgamesh already, though no Sumerian composition focused on it is known yet (Gilgamesh, Enkidu…, p. 105). While it’s safe to assume the Old Babylonian epic dedicated much more space to Gilgamesh’s encounter with Utnapishtim, the relevant section, which likely was long enough to require a separate tablet, doesn’t survive. Only the next major version of the story provided researchers with more information on its possible contents (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 275).

“He who saw the depths”: the standard epic of Gilgamesh

While the active veneration of Gilgamesh as a god is poorly documented after the Old Babylonian period (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 125),  the epic was not forgotten. By the second half of the second millennium BCE versions of it probably derived from the Old Babylonian one reached many distant areas where Akkadian was only used as a diplomatic lingua franca, like Ugarit and Hattusa (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 25-26), where in some cases it could be altered to better suit the tastes of new audiences (more on that later). However, the most important developments were still those which unfolded in lower Mesopotamia. In the final centuries of the second millennium BCE, a major concern of scribes and other specialists was compiling traditional texts into new, canonical “series” (iškar). This wasn’t limited to a single genre, examples range from omen compendiums to literary texts (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 30) - including the Epic of Gilgamesh, which as a result acquired its most famous form, referred to as “Standard Babylonian”. As in the case of many other texts discussed in this article, in antiquity it was primarily known under its incipit - Ša Naqba Īmuru, “He Who Saw the Deep” (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 28). This phrase serves as the title of the protagonist alluding to his encounter with Utnapishtim, who resided in the realm of the god Ea - in other words, in the deeps of the mythical sea Apsu (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 445).

According to tradition the scribes adhered to, compiling this new edition was the work of a certain Sîn-lēqi-unninni (“Sin is one who accepts a prayer”). This is most evident in a Neo-Assyrian catalogue of famous texts and their authors, which attributes the “series of Gilgamesh” - in other words, the Standard Babylonian epic -  to this individual (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 28-29). It cannot be ruled out that he was an entirely legendary poet, or a figure historical at best in the way Homer is historical. However, it is evident that for scholars active in the first millennium BCE he was very much a tangible historical person. The fact that his work largely amounted to compiling what was already in circulation doesn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t himself literally skilled, and that at least some of the innovations of the standard epic can be attributed to him, though this obviously remains speculative (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 30).

We don’t actually know much about Sîn-lēqi-unninni otherwise. His name indicates that if he was a real person, he lived either in the Old Babylonian or Kassite period, with the latter generally regarded as more plausible. As attested for the first time in the seventh century BCE (over half a millennium later), it was common for prominent families in Uruk - especially those of kalû (gala; professional lamenters) and other people involved in scholarly pursuits - to claim to be his descendants. However, there’s no evidence this was rooted in truth (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 30). A unique late source, the Uruk List of Kings and Sages from the Seleucid period, indicates that at least some later members of Uruk’s intellectual elite saw Sîn-lēqi-unninni as a contemporary of Gilgamesh, specifically an “expert” (ummânu) active in his court (Alan Lenzi, The Uruk List of Kings and Sages and Late Mesopotamian Scholarship, p. 142). This obviously makes no sense chronologically - even if we accept that a real Gilgamesh reigned in the Early Dynastic period, Sîn-lēqi-unninni would be about equally distant from him as he was from the dawn of Islam, and ironically much less distant from the late scholars who cast him in the role of a sage from a long bygone era. I’d assume the fact the epic ends with Gilgamesh having an account of his deeds written for posterity (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 446) might have  at least in part led to the idea the compiler was actually his contemporary.

Regardless of whether Sîn-lēqi-unninni really was single-handedly responsible for preparing a new edition of the Epic of Gilgamesh or not, it is evident that many changes were made since the Old Babylonian period. The style is much more complex, to the point some translators refer to it as prolix (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 24). Numerous mythological references and philosophical considerations have been added, too. This appears to reflect the shifts in the intellectual life of Mesopotamia. The Old Babylonian Gilgamesh compositions were meant to exalt his heroic deeds. This is par the course for works from a period characterized by enthusiastic, royally backed development of a literary canon focused on stories about deities, heroes and kings performing remarkable deeds. The compiler or compilers later standard edition turned towards a more solemn, contemplative approach typical for their contemporaries. The result is a didactic, moralistic work whose protagonist suffers in order to attain wisdom (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 32-33).

A damaged terracotta plaque showing smiling Humbaba (wikimedia commons) It has to be stressed that despite being a modernization, the new Epic of Gilgamesh still faithfully adapted a lot of the old material. It obviously kept the journey to the cedar forest and confrontation with Humbaba from its Old Babylonian forerunner, though with various changes (Wer is no longer referenced, for example). Furthermore, a detailed passage only discovered recently revealed that Humbaba was essentially presented as a king in his own right, with a “court” of animals entertaining him with music. Given that the same discovery also revealed that the heroes feel guilty afterwards both about killing Humbaba and destroying the forest, it can be assumed that the goal was to further expand on the idea that despite being an “evil thing” (mimma lemnu) who had to be vanquished, he was also a rightful, divinely appointed guardian of his domain (Farouk N. H. Al-Rawi, Andrew R. George, Back to the Cedar Forest: The beginning and end of Tablet V of the Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgameš, p. 74-75).

A monster-slaying novelty was the incorporation of Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven. As in the case of Gilgamesh and Humbaba and the Old Babylonian epic, we’re not dealing with a translation or direct adaptation, but rather with two distinct stories simply using the same traditional premise (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 471).

The reasons behind the integration of the Bull of Heaven myth into the epic remain unclear. Quite notably, despite the antiquity of the standalone narrative, which as I noted earlier was already around circa 2100 BCE and circulated at least up to the 1800s BCE, slaying the Bull of Heaven is not listed among Gilgamesh’s famous deeds in compositions enumerating them, such as The Death of Gilgamesh or Ballad of Early Rulers. Andrew R. George assumes that it was absent from the Old Babylonian version of the epic. He convincingly argues that killing Humbaba was enough of a transgression for the death of Enkidu to occur roughly under the same circumstances as in the standard edition. The earliest examples of incorporation of the Bull of Heaven into longer narratives only date to the second half of the second millennium BCE. A reference notably occurs in the Hittite adaptation of the epic (more on this curiosity later), while in Mesopotamia proper it first reappears in the Middle Assyrian period (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 23-24). Paul-Alain Beaulieu suggests that the Bull of Heaven episode in the Standard Babylonian epic might reflect “anti-Ishtar sentiment” present among compilers, similarly as the unexpected emphasis on hardly actively worshiped Anu, presented in this context as the god of Uruk and even the Eanna (The Pantheon…, p. 108). Ironically, it’s possible that the older standalone versions didn’t even feature the tutelary goddess of Uruk, but rather the identically named but distinct tutelary goddess of another city, perhaps Zabalam. The hostility between her and Gilgamesh would thus reflect a rivalry between two different religious centers, which is easier to explain than a king of Uruk feuding with his own city’s tutelary deity (Douglas Frayne, The Struggle for Hegemony in “Early Dynastic II” Sumer, p. 63-64). As a side note, it’s worth noting the Bull of Heaven episode provides Ishtar with a non-standard genealogy - Anu and Antu are addressed as her parents, instead of well established Sin and Ningal. It’s entirely plausible that no direct parentage was meant though, but rather a genealogy in which Anu is the father of Enlil who in turn is the grandfather of Ishtar, with her expected parentage implicitly intact (The Pantheon…, p. 111). Regardless of where Beaulieu is right about the intent behind the incorporation of the Bull of Heaven into the new epic, the narrative purpose of the episode is ultimately clear. On one hand, it marks the point when Gilgamesh starts to be perceived as a heroic king (one who , as the epic states, “has no one to defame him”) by the general populace, rather than as a tyrant who can be only put in his place via a divine intervention leading to the creation of Enkidu. On the other hand, it provides a further reason for the gods to punish the protagonists, seeing as the Bull of Heaven, like Humbaba, is a divinely appointed being (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 477-478).

The compiler(s) of the epic also looked beyond Gilgamesh literature for inspiration. A lengthy section summarizing the earlier career of Utnapishtim was added. While Gilgamesh seeks him to learn how to attain immortality in the Old Babylonian epic too, no account of the flood is provided there. It was not an entirely novel composition, though, but rather a pretty direct adaptation of another epic, Atrahasis. There are some minor differences, for example it’s not actually explained why the flood happened (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 508-509).

A relief showing seated Ninsun (wikimedia commons)

Another major innovation present in the standard version is the considerable expansion of the role of Ninsun, Gilgamesh’s mother. This is the single Gilgamesh composition where she plays the biggest role overall (The Hittite…, p. 8). An entirely new scene has her petition Shamash, the sun god (with his wife Aya acting as a proxy) to protect her son on the way to the cedar forest (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 459-460). The passage also indicates she is aware that Gilgamesh’s fate is to eventually become the judge of the dead - a fairly standard role already documented in Old Babylonian sources (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 461). Ninsun also plays a key (but often overlooked) role with regards to Enkidu’s integration into civilized society, as I’ll explain in more detail later.

Ninsun is not the only character whose role was expanded. The same can be said about Utnapishtim’s underling Urshanabi. His name was changed slightly - in the Old Babylonian version, he is called Sursunabu. The origin of the older version is unknown (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 149), though it might simply be a textual corruption of Urshanabi. The name is basically artificial, so it is sound to assume it would be troublesome for copyists (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 150). It’s possible that it was supposed to be read as “servant of two thirds”, an allusion to his role as a helper of Gilgamesh - “two thirds god, one third human” (more on this moniker later) - in the epic (Sebastian Fink, Gilgameš und Uršanabi, p. 67-68). Urshanabi assists Gilgamesh in crossing the Waters of Death, seemingly a slightly divergent take on the well attested river believed to separate the lands of the living and the dead. Its inclusion as an obstacle on the way to Utnapishtim is probably a result of the partial overlap in the perception of the netherworld and the Apsu (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 499-500). Bringing Gilgamesh to Utnapishtim seemingly has negative consequences for him, since after the hero fails the latter’s trial, he ends up cursing his boatman for bringing a visitor, and relieves him of his duties, perhaps so that nobody can ever reach his dwelling again (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 522). Unemployed Urshanabi then accompanies Gilgamesh during his failed quest for the plant of life (which may or may not be the result of a game of telephone involving some sort of coral held to have medicinal properties) and later travels with him to Uruk. The final words of the epic - a description of the city’s monumental walls and its various landmarks - are actually directed to him (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 525-527).

While as outlined above in most cases the Standard Babylonian epic expands upon the Old Babylonian forerunner, in one case the opposite is attested. While Siduri still directs Gilgamesh to Utnapishtim’s boatman (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 499), her role is abridged. She doesn’t provide Gilgamesh with any life advice, effectively losing any distinct character traits as a result. It’s possible that this was a conscious choice meant to avoid the risk of advice delivered by a largely inconsequential side character overshadowing that provided by Utanapishtim (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 32). 

It’s undeniable that for the compilers the latter was evidently the highlight, considering the incipit is a part of a hymnic prologue praising Gilgamesh for knowledge about duties of kings he acquired from Utnaphishtim (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 445-446). Furthermore, Utnapishtim, rather than Siduri, is responsible for explaining to him that mortality is an inevitable part of the human condition (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 507) and that he should learn to enjoy an ordinary life (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 522).

On the other hand, the fact that Siduri is described as veiled in the Standard Babylonian epic might indicate she was still supposed to be understood as a mysterious divine sage, since nothing indicates real alewives were expected to dress similarly (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 498). It might also be worth noting that a possible allusion to the Old Babylonian characterization of her survived in the incantation series Šurpu, since it presents wisdom as a key characteristic of her (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 149).

The vowing of new interpretations of originally standalone Gilgamesh myths, and some myths focused on entirely unrelated characters, into a single coherent narrative occupying a total of eleven tablets has to be sharply contrasted with the oddity that is the following twelfth tablet. It has basically nothing to do with the epic, and in fact outright contradicts it. It’s essentially a relatively faithful Akkadian translation of a part of Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 48). The introductory section of the original dealing with Inanna, the ḫalub tree and its nefarious inhabitants, which culminates in Gilgamesh being rewarded with previous wood, is omitted, though. It’s possible that the compilers discarded it because of too much thematic overlap with the expedition to the cedar forest (Gilgamesh, Enkidu…, p. 80).

Despite the removal of a solid chunk of the text, tablet XII is nonetheless a pretty rare example - only a handful of other Old Babylonian scribal school texts survived for so long, with notable examples being the epics of Lugalbanda and the Instruction of Shuruppak. None of the other standalone Gilgamesh compositions did.The translation might have therefore been completed while they were still in circulation (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 48).

Due to a persistent mistake, it is (or rather was - I haven’t seen this in any source postdating the 2000s) sometimes claimed that tablet XII was added to the epic by the Assyrian scribe Nabû-zuqup-kenū in the eighth century BCE. However, while it is true that his copy is the oldest surviving one to contain it, he claims in a colophon that he depended on an older exemplar. Furthermore, other innovations of Assyrian copyists generally didn’t catch on in Babylonia, while tablet XII evidently is a part of multiple Babylonian copies. Therefore, there’s no reason to distrust Nabû-zuqup-kenū’s testimony (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 49).

No effort was made to integrate the plot - or even style - of tablet XII with the preceding story. It’s written in relatively simple prose. As for the plot, tablet XI concludes the epic with a failure of Gilgamesh’s quest for immortality and his return to Uruk. Enkidu, who is introduced alive and well on tablet XII, is long gone by the time events of the preceding tablet unfold, having died all the way back on tablet VI (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 48). Furthermore, Gilgamesh is aware of own mortality because of his meeting with Utnapishtim - he wouldn’t gain much from a much less personal confirmation of human mortality, which he receives on tablet XII (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 50-51). It should be noted that no ancient source insists on tablet XII being the part of the story relayed in the standard Epic of Gilgamesh - it is merely a part of the series of Gilgamesh. This simply means it was copied alongside the other eleven tablets because it was also a text about Gilgamesh (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 49). It might very well be that it was just the only surviving distinct earlier composition about Gilgamesh available to the compiler or compilers of the epic, and its inclusion was motivated by antiquarian interests (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 54).

“The wild-born was able to give counsel”: some notes on the development of Enkidu

In my discussion of the standalone Gilgamesh narratives, as well as the Old Babylonian and Standard Babylonian epics, I avoided focusing on Enkidu. That’s because I figured due to his sheer importance it will be optimal to leave him for a separate section of his own. Enkidu already appears in the Old Babylonian school texts written in Sumerian, though for the most part they only portray him as a servant of Gilgamesh, who he regularly addresses as a king (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p.140). He bears a completely ordinary, if antiquated name - it appears in a standard list of personal names from the Early Dynastic period, discovered in Fara. It can be translated as “the lord (en) of the good place (kidu)”. Numerous other types of personal names ending with -kidu are attested, some of them referring to specific cities, as if they were a display of local patriotism (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 138). Despite the phonetic similarity, Enkidu has nothing to do with the minor god Enkimdu (Wilfred G. Lambert, Gilgamesh in Literature and Art: The Second and First Millennia, p. 92-93).

Obviously the status of Enkidu’s name is hardly unparalleled, given that Siduri also bears a fairly standard name. A further member of this club is Humbaba, with the first attestations of this given name available from the Ur III period. However, its meaning is unknown, and it cannot even be determined which language it came from (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 144). I quite like Frans Wiggermann’s proposal that it’s an onomatopoeia representing uncanny laughter, which is based on most depictions of Humbaba showing him with a wide grin (Mesopotamian Protective Spirits: the Ritual Texts, p. 150). The first sources to feature Enkidu characterize him as a wise counsellor. This was retained in the standard epic, which regularly affirms that “the wild-born was able to give counsel”. However, it’s important to bear in mind that in the early standalone compositions he wasn’t yet the “wild man” he is now pretty much universally recognized as thanks to the epic(s). This is attested for the first time in the Old Babylonian epic, with no traces in any older compositions (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 142-143). It has been proposed that the account of Enkidu’s origins and early life was initially an entirely separate narrative about some hitherto unknown character who had nothing to do with Gilgamesh, which was later repurposed (Gilgamesh in Literature…, p. 96), but this is pure speculation. While none of the missing links which could shed more light on the process of Enkidu turning from a human character into a unique entity are available to us, we surprisingly do have a fair number of these when it comes to the change of his role from just an underling into a companion.

In Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld, Gilgamesh refers to Enkidu not as his “servant” (šubur; the same word as in Ninshubur’s name), but as a “friend” (kuli) when he realizes the latter is no longer among the living. The process of turning Enkidu into Gilgamesh’s equal might therefore started before the compilation of the first version of the epic, let alone before he received an origin story of his own. It seems it didn’t even require the emergence of the epic to reach its famous conclusion. Andrew R. George notes that it is safe to assume the compilers of The Death of Gilgamesh already viewed Gilgamesh and Enkidu as a couple (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 140-141).

Before we’ll look at the relevant passage, some discussion of The Death of Gilgamesh is in order. It’s an interesting text in general, since it also offers a unique insight into how Mesopotamians conceptualized the results of relationships between deities and humans - something that’s actually rarely, if ever, explored in Mesopotamian sources, in contrast with the Greek penchant for making just about any local hero the offspring of a deity and a mortal. It should be noted that despite placing a particular focus on Gilgamesh’s parentage, the Death of Gilgamesh is not actually the source of his famous description as “two thirds god”. This appears for the first time in the Standard Babylonian epic (Sebastian Fink, The Genealogy of Gilgamesh, p. 92). It’s unclear what is this moniker supposed to signify, though it has been suggested it might be a reflection of Gilgamesh having one fully divine and one semi-divine parent - respectively Ninsun, who was a goddess, and Lugalbanda, who was a deified (fictional) mortal (The Genealogy…, p. 98-99). It doesn’t help there are only two other instances of a person being called two thirds of something: a certain Lunanna was two thirds of an apkallu (a type of supernatural culture hero), while the Dialogue of Pessimism refers to someone as “two thirds idiot” (The Genealogy…, p. 98). There are actually no known examples of someone being described as “half god” - or half anything, really (The Genealogy…, p. 97). You can probably guess much of the plot of The Death of Gilgamesh from the title alone. As expected, it deals with the end of Gilgamesh’s life, and begins with the hero - already a senior, respected figure whose adventuring days are behind him - struck by a disease. It becomes evident that his time is running out, and the gods gather to determine what to do with him on the account of his half divine heritage. Demigods are, as I already pointed out, largely unheard of in Mesopotamian mythology - children of the gods tend to have two divine parents and are almost invariably legitimate - so there is no precedent to fall back on.

The assembly is split. The head of the pantheon, Enlil, argues that he should be treated as their fellow god. Enki opposes this position, and explains that for all intents and purposes Gilgamesh is ultimately a human (seemingly he is motivated in part by the need to keep his own favorite human hero, Ziusudra, special - the latter was granted immortality at his request). Enki’s arguments convince the divine assembly, but Enlil offers Gilgamesh a middle ground - despite his heritage he will die as a human, but in the afterlife he will act as a judge of the dead, effectively rising to the rank of a minor deity (he outright gets compared to Ningishzida and Dumuzi, who likewise resided with the dead, despite being fully divine) and as a bonus will get to be reunited with his loved ones (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 15). The relevant passages below according to George’s interpretation provides the oldest clear hint that Gilgamesh and Enkidu could be portrayed as lovers (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 141-142):

Even if you are not convinced by George’s argument about The Death of Gilgamesh, it’s hard to deny that in the Old Babylonian epic the relationship between the protagonists became something hard to even describe as subtextual. Gilgamesh has prophetic dreams before the arrival of Enkidu, one of which involves hugging a meteorite, and the other falling in love with an axe, which he then treats as a spouse (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 166).

It should be noted that the nature of Gilgamesh’s and Enkidu’s relationship, contrary to sensationalist posts you can find on this site and other social media platforms every now and then, was recognized in scholarship in the interwar period already. If anything, Thorkild Jacobsen perhaps overestimated it slightly at the time since he used it as basis to ascribe sexual undertones to a random episode from Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld which in reality describes corvee labor (The Reluctant En…, p. 166-167).

The Standard Babylonian epic added some interesting detail regarding Gilgamesh’s and Enkidu’s relationship. Before they embark on the expedition to the cedar forest, Gilgamesh’s mother Ninsun essentially accepts Enkidu as a member of her family (Nathan Wasserman, Offspring of Silence, Spawn of a Fish, Son of a Gazelle…: Enkidu’s Different Origins in the Epic of Gilgameš, p. 597). This is an entirely new experience to him. As far as the epic goes, he was an “offspring of silence” with no parents to speak of, as his creation was impersonal. The fact it involved a divine committee choosing a sculptor to form him out of a suitable material is more comparable to cosmogonic myths, or to the creation of the one-off antagonist Saltu (“Strife”) in Agushaya (long-time readers might remember it as “that one where Ninshubur has a stutter”) than to anything related to descriptions of birth, midwifery or family life (Offspring of…, p. 594-595). Presumably the change of Enkidu’s status is meant to further illustrate that he is becoming a part of the urban world Gilgamesh belongs to (Offspring of…, p. 597-598). It has also been suggested that this provides a rationale for Enkidu urging Gilgamesh to kill Humbaba even after he surrenders, since the latter, who is apparently well familiar with Enkidu’s past (and vice versa) at one point mocks him as comparable to “spawn of a fish” because of his perceived lack of family connections (Offspring of…, p. 596). Moving beyond the epics and the forerunners, regardless of his status vis a vis Gilgamesh, unlike him Enkidu was not worshiped as a deity. His name could be preceded by the determinative dingir, but it was not applied consistently in his case (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 139). However, he had no active cult, and he doesn’t appear in god lists, with the only possible exception being An = Anum (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 143).

The restoration of the relevant passage (tablet VI, line 286) remains uncertain, and it only can be said with certainty that the name of the listed figure starts with the sign en. As noted by its most recent translator, given that An = Anum is a product of a coordinated effort to compile information about as many family members, associates and courtiers of each deity as possible, it’s the most plausible place to seek such an exception from the rule - and it would be sensible for Enkidu to appear immediately after Gilgamesh (An = Anum…, p. 231). I consider this argument convincing, though until a well preserved copy emerges a degree of skepticism is in order. For what it’s worth, the placement of Gilgamesh in An = Anum seems to reflect his role as a figure active in the underworld first and foremost (An = Anum…, p. 26). The inclusion of Enkidu in this context would be hard to justify in the light of the epic, but it still seems easy enough to explain when we take Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld and especially The Death of Gilgamesh into account, in my opinion. As a pure curiosity it’s worth pointing out that Ninsun and Lugalbanda are listed far away from Gilgamesh (tablet V, lines 1-2), alongside 10 apparently fully divine children (An = Anum…, p. 184). If Enkidu really does occur in An = Anum, this would mean its compilers prioritized the bond between him and Gilgamesh over that between the latter and his parents. Aside from An = Anum, there is one more attestation of Enkidu outside of the epics and their forerunners, an Old Babylonian incantation meant to help when a baby keeps crying and can’t fall asleep, making that impossible for their family as well in the process - essentially a lullaby provided with supernatural backup. Enkidu’s role in it is seemingly a nod to a scene from the beginning of the Old Babylonian epic in which he is temporarily hired as a night watchman by a group of shepherds. Presumably the skills which made him capable of staying alert at night also made him a suitable figure to ask for help with making others fall asleep (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 143-144).

As a pure curiosity, it’s worth noting that in the oldest surviving composition about Gilgamesh - Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven - Enkidu isn’t his only helper. He is also assisted by the bard Lugalgabagal (“the king is brave”). In contrast with Enkidu he plays no active role in the battle with the eponymous creature, though he is responsible for informing Gilgamesh about its rampage (Alhena Gadotti, Gilgameš, Gudam, and the Singer in Sumerian Literature, p. 70-71). His inclusion probably hints at the context in which stories about Gilgamesh arose before being written down in scribal schools - they might have been performed by bards employed by royal courts (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 7).

In addition to his association with Gilgamesh, Lugagabagal might have been a famous character in his own right in the third or early second millennium BCE, since he also appears in a myth which cannot be directly classified as a part of the Gilgamesh tradition, Inanna and Gudam (Bendt Alster, Laura Feldt, Gudam and the Bull of Heaven, p. 31). There is a theory that the Tale of Gudam is closely related to Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven - either as a different take on the same motif which arose independently, or perhaps even a deliberate humorous reinterpretation. This rests on a number of putative parallels between the two works: both take place in Uruk, and the dramatis personae include a destructive bull-themed entity (Gudam’s name means “he is an ox”), Inanna and Lugalgabagal. Granted, Gudam’s ox credentials are up for debate, and he might merely be a strongman who just happens to bear a bovine name, as opposed to a supernatural bull monster. He is consistently described as if he was anthropomorphic, which doesn’t exactly offer a good match for the Bull of Heaven. A way to reconcile the ambiguous evidence would be to assume he was imagined as a bull-man, a figure well known from Mesopotamian art (Gudam and…, p. 33-35).

A bull man on a relief from Carchemish on display in the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations (wikimedia commons)

Ironically, the same type of creature is commonly misidentified as Enkidu online. This goes back to a mistake made by George Smith all the way back in 1876, but perpetuated by other authors, who in theory should know better than to reference something as outdated as The Chaldean Account of Genesis [sic]. The misidentification of the bull-man as Enkidu is an extension of an even more puzzling misidentification of the lahmu, a hairy apotropaic creature commonly depicted alongside it, as Gilgamesh. In reality, neither entity has anything to do with them. Furthermore, while Enkidu is described as unusually hairy, he is never compared to a bull (Gilgamesh in Literature…, p. 92-93). 

I personally have no issue with many of the modern partially bovine takes on Enkidu, though. I particularly like Ludmila Zeman’s (above; reproduced here for educational purposes only), though I would argue she made him more a gazelle man than a bull man. In any case, as long as no mislabeling of actual historical art is involved I don’t think there’s anything wrong with giving Enkidu animal traits to represent his character as a “wild man”. As pointed out by Wilfred G. Lambert, while both Gilgamesh and Enkidu, despite being primarily documented in text, were also infrequently depicted in art (or rather, to be precise, the scenes of slaying of Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven were), there was no specific iconographic convention regarding either of them (Gilgamesh in Literature…, p. 108-109).

“Gilgamesh, the mighty king who had no equal”: variants and miscellanea

While the standard epic was, nomen omen, standard, it’s worth noting that a handful of Neo-Assyrian fragments indicate it was only the most successful version, not the only one to remain in circulation (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 31). While those are ultimately only minor variations, there was also another work which enjoyed considerable popularity roughly at the same time: the Letter of Gilgamesh. Copies are available from the Neo-Assyrian and Late Babylonian (ie. Achaemenid or later) periods, both from Assyria and Babylonia (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 117-118).

Needless to say, the letter was not written by Gilgamesh himself. As a matter of fact, even if we accept his historicity, he would have reigned three centuries or so before the earliest known letters, dated to the reign of Urukagina of Lagash (c. 2350 BCE), were written (Mary Frazer, Akkadian Royal Letters in Later Mesopotamian Tradition, p. 37) It’s a work of fiction - an example of a genre of literary texts imitating royal correspondence (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 118). Anachronisms are basically a norm in them. For example, there is a recurring pattern of having Old Babylonian kings recognize Marduk as the king of the gods, even though this idea only developed later (Akkadian Royal…, p. 36).

The core topic of the discussed letter is, broadly speaking, foreign policy. Or a shakedown, depending how you want to look at it. Gilgamesh demands an enormous amount of gold and precious stones from a foreign ruler (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 118). Neither his own name nor that of his kingdom are fully preserved, though - for the time being he is only known to us as “Ti[…], king of […]ranunna” (Akkadian Royal…, p. 85). In any case, he’s clearly not one of his well known adversaries from the epic or the earlier compositions. As far as more standard characters go, Enkidu is mentioned. Apparently the reason why Gilgamesh decided to pressure the foreign king to provide him with a variety of resources is related to him, but the state of preservation of the available copies doesn’t make it possible to establish why with certainty (Akkadian Royal…, p. 73). Andrew R. George suggests that the goal might be to prepare funerary goods for Enkidu (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 118). This view found widespread support (Akkadian Royal…, p. 93). Interestingly, the letter has Gilgamesh call himself the king of Ur, not Uruk (Akkadian Royal…, p. 73). This is most likely a distant echo of the efforts of the Ur III kings to link their dynasty to him (Akkadian Royal…, p. 88).

A final borrowing appears to be the subscript, “Gilgamesh, the mighty king who had no equal”. Its source are most likely omen compendiums (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 118-119). They almost invariably refer to Gilgamesh as an archetypal heroic king from a long bygone era, and don’t really provide any information about him absent from other sources (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 117).

To the cedar forest (and beyond): Gilgamesh in Syria and Anatolia

The previous section dealt exclusively with variants known from Mesopotamia itself. However, as I already mentioned earlier, Gilgamesh enjoyed some renown outside this region, in areas to which cuneiform writing, and by extension Mesopotamian literature, were exported. Isolated Akkadian fragments dated to the late second millennium BCE are known from Ugarit, Emar, Megiddo and Hattusa. The last of these sites is of particular importance here, since it also provided the evidence that in addition to Sumerian and Akkadian, myths about Gilgamesh were directly adapted in two more languages in the second millennium BCE, namely Hurrian and Hittite. In the 1990s an ill fated misreading lead to the notion of an Elamite version also existing, but it turned out that the alleged “Elamite Gilgamesh” was not even Elamite, but rather Urartian, and not an epic, but a private letter, with no Gilgamesh (or any related character, for that matter) anywhere in sight (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 24).

Evidently the copying of Mesopotamian texts about Gilgamesh was hardly uncommon in Hattusa - excavations of this site provided researchers with more Gilgamesh fragments than all the other post-Old Babylonian second millennium BCE sites combined (The Hittite…, p. 4). Gilgamesh’s position is thus fairly unique. Furthermore, few other Mesopotamian heroes ingrained themselves into Hurro-Hittite imagination to the point that new compositions were written about them. At the same time, it needs to be stressed that there is no evidence the average person on the western periphery of the cuneiform world was aware of Gilgamesh. In fact, with the exception of two brief references in direct translations from Akkadian, Gilgamesh is not attested in any Hittite source, whether textual or not, other than the new poems about his heroic deeds. It’s rather clear they were only transmitted among those with access to imported Akkadian texts (as far as I am aware, none of the Old Babylonian compositions written in Sumerian made it outside Mesopotamia) - a relatively small circle of court officials (The Hittite…, p. 1). The Hittite version considerably altered Gilgamesh’s background - he wasn’t born to Ninsun and Lugalbanda (let alone to some hitherto unidentified “phantom” like in the SKL). Instead, he is described as created by a committee of gods, including Ea, as well as a weather god and a sun god. The presence of the latter two reflects the importance of solar and weather deities in Hittite theology and literature  - Mesopotamian Shamash and Adad, while major, would be out of place in such a scene. The creation of Gilgamesh takes place in some unspecified location, too, and he only becomes the king of Uruk after wandering the world for a while. No real attention is paid to the city and no reference is made to its walls, despite their firm association with Gilgamesh in Mesopotamia (The Hittite…, p. 5).

Perhaps as a result of the way Gilgamesh comes to be, no reference is made to Ninsun at all in the Hittite version. By extension, Gilgamesh also doesn’t have any dreams about the coming of Enkidu (The Hittite…, p. 8). On the other hand, one new character was added to the cast. At some point - presumably while wandering after Enkidu’s death - Gilgamesh stumbles upon the personified sea - who following both Hittite and Hurrian conventions would be a male deity, with a notable villainous streak as far as literature goes. True to form, he curses Gilgamesh as soon as they meet:

Interestingly, we might specifically be dealing with the Hurrian take on the sea (as oppostedto Hittite) here since his undeniably Hurrian sidekick Impaluri is mentioned in a hitherto unplaced fragment (The Hittite…, p. 9-10). Since the alewife comes up in it too it’s possible that the sea affair took place immediately before Gilgamesh met her (The Hittite.., p. 53). According to Gary Beckman, who prepared the most complete edition of the Hittite fragments to date, it can be assumed that both the additions and removals were meant to make the epic more appealing to its new audience. In some cases that audience might have been Hurrians living in Syria and Kizzuwatna (modern southeastern Turkey), though, with Hittites adapting an already partially modified epic (The Hittite…, p. 10).

Shaushka (wikimedia commons) The Hurrian version itself, based on a surviving colophon known simply as Humbaba, is largely impossible to decipher, partially due to still imperfect understanding of the language, partially due to its poor state of preservation (The Hittite…, p. 4). What can be said with certainty is that Gilgamesh, Enkidu and Humbaba all appear, while Ishtar and Shamash are replaced by their Hurrian counterparts Shaushka (who you might remember from my recent article about Inanna and gender) and Shimige. The plot evidently had to differ in some regards from Mesopotamian originals, as apparently the head of the Hurrian pantheon, the weather god Teshub, plays a major role -  while neither the pantheon heads nor Adad, who both sides recognized as Teshub’s counterpart, do much of note in any version of the epic (The Hittite…, p. 23).

Sailing the waters of death: Gilgamesh after cuneiform, from Aelian to Al-Suyuti

The epic of Gilgamesh, whether as a coherent whole or a “series”, effectively died alongside cuneiform. However, Gilgamesh himself - as well as Humbaba - survived for a few more centuries, resurfacing in a number of unexpected places (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 69).

Attempts to seek Gilgamesh in Greco-Roman sources, in Homer’s works in particular, date back to the very early days of studies of the epic. However, while a broader phenomenon of eastern influence on Greek literature is undeniable, it’s nearly impossible to tell if the Greeks were aware of any version of the epic of Gilgamesh - whether extant or some purely speculative Phoenician or Aramic adaptation or translation. Furthermore, specific plot elements or motifs might have traveled basically independently, adopted to local contexts without any greater degree of familiarity with the originals. It’s therefore definitely best to be wary of claims as specific as the influence of tablet XII of the standard edition on the nekiya scene in the Odyssey (not least since nekiya was… an actual practice, not just an element of a single story), in any case (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 55-57). While it’s not impossible that a lost section of Berossus’ Babyloniaca dealt with Gilgamesh (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 69) as far as Greco-Roman sources go only the second century rhetorician Aelian shows a degree of familiarity with him (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 89). In De Natura Animalium (book XII, chapter 21; original here, an old translation here) he relays that he heard that once upon a time a king named Seuēchorus ruled over Babylon. Due to a prophecy he feared that his grandson would overthrow him, and to prevent his birth altogether placed his daughter in confinement. She somehow became pregnant, though (the father is left anonymous). When her child was born, the guards seized him and threw him away, fearing the wrath of Seuēchorus. However, an eagle saved the infant and carried him to a garden whose anonymous caretaker then raised him as his own and named him Gilgamos. In due time he became the king as foretold, though Aelian provides no details of that, since for him the point of interest was just the eagle. Needless to say, this anecdote is a bit of a mess, source-wise. With all due respect for Aelian, who simply used it to prove animals are capable of kindness, he probably wrote down the result of a long game of telephone involving both Mesopotamian and non-Mesopotamian sources (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 61).

While Gilgamesh’s father being nobody of importance might very well be a genuine memory of the version of his origin from the SKL (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 106), the motif of a ruler afraid he will be overthrown by his grandson and locking up his daughter to prevent that as far as I know has no Mesopotamian antecedents. I’d argue it’s a borrowing from the myth of Perseus, rather than a Mesopotamian source - Aelian himself notes that Seuēchorus sounds quite similar to Perseus’ grandfather Arcisus. Credit where credit is due - this is quite a careful approach by the standards of his contemporaries. A further possible foreign addition is the role of the eagle in the story. As noted by Aelian, a similar legend about Achaemenes, the legendary founder of the Persian Achaemenid dynasty, was in circulation among his contemporaries However, it might also be the result of cross pollination between different vaguely remembered Mesopotamian myths - an eagle plays a role in the myth of Etana (and, if we extend this term generously to cover mythical hybrids, we can add Lugalbanda, Ninurta and Nanshe to the list), after all (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 61). While I sadly can’t explore this topic here in more detail, it has been argued that there is one more genuine Mesopotamian element in Aelian’s account. It is likely that Seuēchorus’ name and his role as a predecessor of Gilgamos are a distant echo of Enmerkar (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 61; Presargonic…, p. 53), a mythical king of Uruk who according to the SKL reigned before Lugalbanda, Dumuzi and Gilgamesh. The same source makes him the son of otherwise unknown and equally if not more mythical Mes-kiag-gasher. While it has been suggested that like Gilgamesh and Lugalbanda he was originally created in the Early Dynastic period, the restoration of the sole source this assumption relies on is uncertain, and it is likely he was only invented in the Ur III period or even later (possibly in the royal court of Isin), and didn’t acquire renown comparable to his “successors” before the second millennium BCE (The Reluctant En…, p. 152). He plays a minor role in a variety of myths, and even has two of his own - Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta and Enmerkar and En-suḫgir-ana (though in the latter the protagonist is actually an old woman named Sagburu who acts on his behalf). However, he obviously wasn’t Ninsun’s father in any tradition whatsoever. Not that there is any real indication the anonymous princess from Aelian’s story has much to do with Ninsun, to be fair.

A very different new take on Gilgamesh can be found in the Book of Giants, an apocryphal Jewish text. Here the hero of old is reinterpreted as an evil giant of the sort connoisseurs of fringe Christian literature obsess over online up to this day despite the at best limited theological importance of such entities. One of his fellow giants bears the name Ḥôbabiš, seemingly a corruption of Humbaba (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 60).  However, the surviving passages do not indicate any greater degree of familiarity with Gilgamesh and his adversary - it’s just their names alone that survived in this context (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 63).  It’s entirely possible that nobody involved in the development of the Book of Giants had any greater degree of familiarity with any actual text dealing with Gilgamesh, judging from the absence of any references to Enkidu, deities involved in the epic, or other cast members (Matthew Goff, Gilgamesh the Giant: The Qumran Book of Giants’ Appropriation of Gilgamesh Motifs, p. 235; note this article contains a variety of small mistakes, like placing Gilgamesh’s deification only in the Old Babylonian period). The giant Gilgamesh is essentially a new character who has little to do with the hero of earlier Mesopotamian texts (Gilgamesh the Giant..., p. 221). Simultaneously he’s not even a particularly major character in this new context - the most prominent giants are ʾOhyah and Mahaway (Gilgamesh the Giant…, p. 252).

While the fragment in which faux-Gilgamesh was originally identified comes from Qumran, the Book of Giants actually spread quite far away from the third century CE onward thanks to its enthusiastic adoption by adherents of a new religion, Manichaeism. As a result, a copy of the passage mentioning Ḥôbabiš has been discovered far away from Mesopotamia, in Turfan in China (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 60-61).

Despite its far reaching distribution, the Book of Giants was not the only attempt at incorporating (the name of) Gilgamesh into (broadly speaking) Abrahamic tradition. In the eighth century, the Nestorian author Theodore bar Konai included him - twice, at that, though in different corrupt spellings, Gamigos and Ganmagos  - in his list of twelve kings who reigned after the deluge (or, to be more precise, after the times of Noah’s descendant Peleg - visit his wikipedia page only if you’re in the mood for some creationism-induced brain damage), but before the rise of Abraham to prominence. Ganmagos is specifically said to have been the king when Abraham was born (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 61).

While Theodore’s double not-quite-Gilgamesh seems so detached from the source material that it becomes difficult to imagine some vague memory of him circulating even later, there are actually even more recent references to him. It would appear that at an unknown point in time the Manichaean takes on Gilgamesh and Humbaba entered Arabic tradition. As a result they both occur in incantations against evil spirits collected by the Egyptian polymath Al-Suyuti in the fifteenth century (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 60-61). Less than stellar online sources additionally make grandiose claims of Buluqiya (also romanized as Beloukiya) - the protagonist of one of the tales from Arabian Nights - is derived from Gilgamesh based on the incredibly vague phonetic similarity between his name and the supposed early form of Gilgamesh, Bilgames. However, Andrew R. George pointed out (even before the validity of “Bilgames” has been seriously questioned) that this is implausible as every single other late survival of Gilgamesh’s name, regardless of the language, spells it with a /g/ or a similar sound, not with a /b/ (TheBabylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 89).

As a curiosity it’s worth noting that another Arabian Nights tale - History of the First Larrikin - does appear to be a relatively faithful adaptation of an ancient Mesopotamian source - specifically Poor Man of Nippur. It presumably survived centuries as a story passed orally (first in Aramaic, then in Arabic), with some adjustments made to reflect changing historical reality, but with no major alterations. This is a basically unparalleled case as far as cuneiform literature goes, though (TheBabylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 60).

Ultimately, as far as Gilgamesh is concerned we’re dealing with a similar issue as in the case of Ereshkigal after cuneiform, which I discussed in my PGM article quite recently - it seems that only the name, and the vaguest idea of who Gilgamesh was, survived. What unites the accounts of Aelian, Theodore ben Konai, and the Book of Giants traditions and those who drew from it, all the way up to Al-Suyuti, is the recognition of Gilgamesh as a figure from a very distant past, but not much more (The Babylonian Gilgamesh…, p. 61).

The sources discussed in this section are little more than a scholarly curiosity today. It’s hard to disagree with Benjamin R. Foster’s argument that the Epic of Gilgamesh “has become the best-known literary work from the ancient Near East besides the Bible” (Gilgamesh in Religion Past and Present Online. Encyclopedia of Theology and Religion; accessible via Brill), but its modern history only starts with the first semi-successful attempts at decipherment of cuneiform in the nineteenth century. 

Conclusions

This article was in development for… close to a year, probably? It actually started as a loose collection of trivia, not an essay - I think it still shows here and there. However, as I continued working on it, I realized posting  a bunch of Gilgamesh tidbits without any context would be at best irresponsible. It became clear that while Gilgamesh’s status as the most famous Mesopotamian literary character, and arguably one of the most famous ancient literary characters in general, is fully warranted, it seems the reasons behind his elevation to such a position online are often misguided. Thus my focus shifted to explaining how Gilgamesh developed, and why describing him simply as “the first” or “the oldest” is both inaccurate and robs the epic of its value.

Obviously, the desire to label things as “the oldest” is not limited to Gilgamesh. To use two particularly odd examples, there’s an entire ecosystem of bizarre poorly researched articles which made Tappūtī-Bēlet-ekallim, a not particularly extraordinary Middle Assyrian perfumer, “world’s first chemist” (in the process, her name was incorrectly shortened to just “Tapputi”, and the theophoric element - the name of a goddess - is euhemerized into a courtly title of the woman herself…). Some of the posts inspired by the Ea-nasir meme from a few years ago made bold claims that he is one of the first people whose personality can be described in detail -  which makes little sense once you realize how enormous the text corpora actually are. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of people whose personality we can describe reasonably well based on the cuneiform texts they left behind, many of them from well before Ea-nasir’s times. I can think of half a dozen just from the ultimately short-lived Ur III court…

To be entirely fair, the desire to seek things which can be proclaimed “the oldest” is not limited to general audiences, too. Piotr Michalowski at one point called Assyriology itself “a field uncommonly enamored of first instances” (A Man…, p. 196). On a similar note, Jerold S. Cooper jokingly remarked that “Samuel Noah Kramer dished up 25 Sumerian firsts” in his classic 1956 book which for better or worse continues to shape the popular image of Mesopotamia (Was Uruk…, p. 53). In all honesty, it’s probably better if these urges are directed as cultures which actually provide a fair share of firsts than at the quest for imaginary Ice Age civilizations or Atlantis.

It’s also not like Gilgamesh lacks any claims whatsoever to being a first. As far as I am aware, it is the single oldest story involving an at least quasi-romantic relationship between men. One which, in contrast with many other examples of such literature from antiquity, withstood the test of time effortlessly, I would argue.