The former residence of the Imperial Prefect in the heart of Uruk had been transformed. Today, the gray stone walls of the palace were draped in shimmering silks and festive banners that caught the desert sun. The air was thick with the scent of cedar incense and the jubilant roar of a city reborn.
The gates were a hive of activity, choked with the gilded litters of wealthy merchants and the fine horses of the local gentry. Although Gilgamesh, as the Sovereign of the Auric Reclamation, levied taxes to sustain his host, they were a pittance compared to the predatory extortion of the old Imperial Palace.
To the people of the Alluvium, Gilgamesh represented more than a rebel; he was the promise of a stable peace. They flocked to witness his coronation, hoping this "Golden King" would soon claim the throne of all Babylonia.
Inside the grand hall, the atmosphere was electric. The local elite mingled with battle-hardened generals and the burgeoning civil bureaucracy led by Enkidu-Sa. These veterans, who had bled for years in the mountains and plains, were the most fervent supporters of the day. As Enkidu-Sa had reasoned, only if Gilgamesh wore the crown could they officially rise to become the dukes and marquises of a new age.
"Master Enkidu-Sa, I heard it was you who finally convinced the King to take the throne. We all owe you our gratitude!"
"A scholar's words really do carry weight! Unlike us rough men—we wanted to drape the royal mantle over his shoulders months ago, but we couldn't find the words to make him see reason!"
Upon seeing Enkidu-Sa enter, Ur-Namu and several other high-ranking commanders approached him with booming enthusiasm. They performed their salutations with a new, profound respect.
"Hehe, it's not just you who wish to advance; I wish for it as well!" Enkidu-Sa replied with a polite smile. "Who wouldn't want to be a founding architect of a new dynasty? To leave a name inscribed on the tablets of history... that is the dream of every man of letters!"
"Hahaha! Indeed! We are all of the same mind!" Ur-Namu laughed heartily. "Titles shared with the state and passed down through generations!"
"Enough for now," Enkidu-Sa said, glancing toward the inner sanctum. "His Highness—as we must now call him—has not yet emerged. He is making his final preparations."
"Understood. And the Altar of the Sun?" Ur-Namu asked, his expression turning serious. "You mustn't make any mistakes, Master! Otherwise, old Ur-Namu and the boys won't be so easy on you!"
"Please, General, rest assured," Enkidu-Sa nodded gravely. "I have consulted the ancient star-charts and the rites of the Ziggurat for every sacrifice. This ceremony is designed for the rank of a King. To rashly declare oneself Emperor before the realm is unified would be a tactical error; we must win the world step by step."
"Fine, Master. I'll leave the rituals to you! But if there's a blunder, I'll be the first to tell you!"
While the hall buzzed, Gilgamesh was in his private chambers, enduring the final ritual of the Kishkanu.
"Stay still, Father. The golden pectoral must sit flat against your chest," Siduri commanded. She was dressed in the fine pleated linen of a High Priestess, overseeing the dressing of her foster father.
"I say, Siduri," Gilgamesh sighed, standing stiffly as hands adjusted the heavy fabric. "Is all this truly necessary? I am a man of the field. Couldn't I just wear my armor to the altar and announce my title?"
"You are no longer just a leader of the charge," Siduri countered, her voice firm. "You are the Sovereign of the Four Quarters. Master Enkidu-Sa was clear: 'A King must embody the splendor of the sun so that the people do not look away.' Today, you must look like the Mušḫuššu you conquered—divine, terrifying, and undeniable."
"..." Gilgamesh shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "I see Enkidu-Sa has been coaching your speeches as well. Scholars truly are a meticulous lot..."
Under Siduri's direction, the transformation was completed. Gilgamesh stood adorned in a robe of deep Tyrian purple, his beard meticulously oiled and curled in the fashion of the ancient lords. On his head sat the Agû—the majestic, multi-tiered horned crown of Uruk, symbolizing his authority to speak for both men and gods.
"Look at this... the weight of this gold could have bought enough grain to feed a province for a month," Gilgamesh remarked, his rubicund eyes catching the light of the torches.
"If the extravagance bothers you, Father, then win the war quickly," Siduri teased, handing him his scepter. "The priests are waiting at the summit of the Ziggurat. It is time to show the Alluvium its new King."
Outside the City of Uruk, The Ziggurat of the Sun
Under a heavy escort of the Immortal Battalion, Gilgamesh arrived at the base of the Great Ziggurat in the southern plains. The air shimmered with heat, and the smell of sacred cedar oil hung heavy over the thousands of soldiers and citizens gathered to witness the birth of a new era.
As he reached the first terrace, Ur-Namu stepped forward, holding a heavy clay tablet inscribed with the "Petition of the People." With a voice that boomed like a war drum, he began to read the formal address:
"Your servants Enkidu-Sa, Ur-Namu, Siduri, and all the host of the Reclamation, prostrate ourselves before the King of Kings. We address the Heavenly Ear of Shamash: We have heard that the gods are weary of the false emperor, and the shadow of the Scorpion has long haunted the Imperial stars. The people cry out for a true Shepherd, and their weeping echoes from the mountains to the sea.
You, My Lord, took up the spear from the dust, leading a righteous host to clear the pestilence. You slew the marauding beasts at the mountain pass and broke the chains of the slave-mines. You hold the life-blood of our rivers and the hearts of every warrior. How can you hesitate like a timid scribe, causing the fire in our hearts to turn to ash?
In the days of old, the gods chose the King of Kish to bring order to the chaos. Today, the emperor is muddled, building his palaces with the bones of the poor while his satraps feast on the marrow of the land. East of the Great Gaia River, the houses are empty; north of the delta, the starving dead line the roads.
You, My Lord, rescue the people from the fire—how can you watch the Alluvium burn with folded arms? Today, the sons of Uruk stand ready with shields; the brave men of the South welcome your chariots with songs of joy. The Sword of the Sun has been tempered in the forge; how can it stay hidden in its sheath?
Though the false Dynasty rots, it still holds the iron seals of the border forts. Only by taking the Royal Title of Lugal to awe the masses can the thunder and rain of your justice be felt. If you decline, you break the hearts of a million soldiers who would die for you! We risk the wrath of the gods to offer these words, trembling as we await your command. Take the Horned Crown and bring peace to the world!"
Enkidu-Sa's words, etched in the sharp high gothic of the high courts, moved the veterans to tears. They looked toward Gilgamesh with an intensity that could melt bronze.
Gilgamesh nodded gravely. He looked up the long, steep steps of the Ziggurat. Today, he would ascend as a man and return as a King.
Under the watchful eyes of the host, Gilgamesh slowly ascended the Thirteen-Tiered Altar of the Sun. He climbed the 1,313 steps until he reached the summit, where the smoke of the sacred fires rose toward the blue vault of the sky.
There, the priests had prepared the ritual—the sacrifice of sheep and goats, the ancient offering of Kings to the gods of the firmament. Enkidu-Sa had been meticulous; on this day, no ritual error would mar the King's path.
Gilgamesh knelt before the golden altar of the Sun God, performing the deep prostrations of a servant of the divine. After a silence that felt like an eternity, he lifted his voice, reciting the prayer Enkidu-Sa had drafted on the sacred tablets:
"I, your servant, proclaim to the Lords of the High Firmament and the Great Deep:
The stars move in their courses, and the Great River flows to the sea. Today, the Four Quarters are in upheaval, and the foundations of the world are in peril. Jackals occupy the temple halls, and the commoners fall into the boiling cauldron of war.
I was but a commoner, bearing a spear in the fields. Pained by the suffering of my kin, I raised the banner of the Sun, swearing to cleanse the earth.
Relying on the signs of the sky, we broke the gates of the enemy like thunder. Yet, every time I face the setting sun reflecting off my golden plate, I am filled with fear. I ask the stars: can I carry the weight of the crown?
Today, choosing an auspicious day, I burn the sacred cedar to inform the gods. It is not that I covet the throne, but truly that I seek to save the dying world. If the divine mandate lies with me, I pray for the sweet rain to moisten the scorched earth. If my virtue fails, let the lightning strike my body. I seek only for the sun to shine again, for the plow to return to the fields, and for the children to play in the streets of Uruk.
I offer my blood to the soil and my spirit to the Sky. Let the Great Gods bear witness to this heart!"
As Gilgamesh finished, his voice echoed across the plains, heard by every soldier below. He cast the sacred oils into the furnace—the final step to ensure the smoke carried his words to the ears of the gods. He turned and slowly descended the steps to stand before his people.
"Your Highness!"
The moment Gilgamesh reached the base, Enkidu-Sa was the first to drop to both knees, his forehead touching the dust in the formal salute to a monarch.
Following his lead, the civil registrars and scholars fell to their knees.
"Your Highness, restricted by my armor, please forgive my lack of ceremony!" Ur-Namu shouted, dropping to one knee and striking his breastplate. Behind him, the thousands of the Immortal Battalion followed suit, a wave of steel crashing to the earth in unison.
"Father—no, Your Highness. Your daughter offers her life to your crown," Siduri said, kneeling beside the generals.
Gilgamesh felt the weight of the Horned Crown on his head, heavier than any helmet he had ever worn. He spoke slowly, his voice resonant with power:
"Rise, my ministers."
And so, the era of the Golden King began. Future chroniclers would mark this as the day the sun rose twice over Uruk. Gilgamesh was no longer a rebel; he was the Sovereign of the Four Quarters, a force that would rewrite the destiny of the world forever.