“Some of these stories reached me in the form of riddles. And sometimes those riddles emerged in certain ceremonies. I see the king advancing on a chariot toward the temple of Enmesharra, the defeated god. Enmesharra’s corpse was lying on the chariot. Beside the king there was a priest and he was singing. The king represented Ninurta and in his hand he held the tongues of Anzu.

“I have thought a great deal about these stories without managing to reconstruct them in every part. One thing I am sure of, though: after Marduk, all other gods ceased to appear, as if they had become extinct, or killed one another off. And living without gods, people found, was not only acceptable, but easy.”

VIII

The emptiness stretched away in all directions. A dense, gleaming, unbounded emptiness. Of bamboo, palms, thorns, ditches, sand. This was Dilmun. But you never felt sure it would still be there, if once you closed your eyes.

“That must be because it is so near to the Apsu,” said Utnapishtim, sensing the question Sindbad was about to ask. And he went on:

“There are no temples here in Dilmun, and no houses. There are no inhabitants. No crops are sown. What grows grows. The island is rough and flat, with occasional dunes. Which look like burial mounds, tombs, of whom I couldn’t say. Here in Dilmun the only thing that happens, now and then, is that the wind shifts.

“In the times when I was king, nothing was so small as to have no importance. And this weighed on us. It was a big part of the burden the Anunnaki had loaded on us. Often we found ourselves thinking we would have gladly let be. But we couldn’t. Chance didn’t exist. Even the animals offered as sacrifices had their destinies etched into their hides.

“Then the Anunnaki withdrew. When they do reappear, very likely no one notices. For some they have become an object of curiosity. Chance, on the other hand, is now dominant, it is worshipped. And is no less inflexible. It does no one any favors. This is all that I have been given to see.”

“I’m telling these stories of the Anunnaki as if Ea had instructed me: ‘You will live and tell our stories.’ But Ea never said that. Ea never explained anything. He governed by allusion. Perhaps that’s why he chose me: I was good at guessing allusions.

“Ea even granted me a glimpse of the Underworld. They called it the Great City. Many Anunnaki lived there, gods who would never again climb the ladder to heaven. Everything converged on the point where the sovereign sat: Ereshkigal. Beside her, Nergal. Both of them silent, motionless. But if Nergal did show himself on earth, devastation followed in his path. He was greedy for the dead.

“Some thought the two had reigned as a couple from the beginning. But their story was very different. Travel between the Anunnaki in heaven and the Underworld was impracticable. Ereshkigal couldn’t go to the banquets in heaven, and the Anunnaki in heaven couldn’t go down to the Underworld to visit her. So they sent gifts and paid homage to each other. On one occasion, Nergal refused to stand up to greet a minister from Ereshkigal. This was an insult that could have upset the order of things forever. Ea advised Nergal to make amends by going down to Ereshkigal, well protected by a company of deathly powers and careful not to fall into certain traps. One of which was Ereshkigal’s beauty. Ea knew that the queen would use the excuse of taking a bath to undress before Nergal. Who, however, must resist.