The gods were so sure that they had won. Gilgamesh, great king of Uruk, had tried to defy them, and he had been crushed. His lover was dead and remained so, and he himself had trudged back to his capital in weary defeat, frustrated at every turn in his search for the secret of immortality. Sooner or later, probably more sooner than later, the mighty king of Uruk would be dust. The gods had made their point. Immortality was theirs, and theirs alone...
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A few weeks after the great king returned to his capital, he went forth alone, in the very early morning, to the east gate of the city. He carried with him only a small cloth bag with something heavy inside. His step was light again; the guards wondered if he were starting out on another journey. In a manner of speaking, he told them, smiling. They did not dare ask him any other questions, which saddened Gilgamesh for a moment. He had so much to say now.
