Chapter 3. The Rise of A Conqueror
Enbar, bloodied and humiliated, fled to the Prince.
"Cousin, he… he attacked us! That animal! He's a danger to the city!"
The Prince, a proud and arrogant youth named Tammuz, sneered. "Then let's see if he dares stand against royal blood."
Soldiers dragged Bilgames to the Kingdom's War Grounds, where the people gathered to witness punishment. But the King of Uruk, a stern man wary of his own council, made a decision.
"Let them settle it with honor," the King declared. "My son shall fight this boy. If he wins, justice is served. If not… the gods have spoken."
And so, before a crowd of hundreds, Bilgames faced the Prince.
The duel was brutal. The Prince was skilled but arrogant, while Bilgames fought with raw fury and Shamash's training. In the end, it was Bilgames who stood victorious, pinning the Prince to the ground.
Silence fell over the crowd.
The King rose. "You fight like a lion. What is your name, boy?"
"Bilgames," he answered, his voice steady.
The King studied him. There was something… ancient in the boy's eyes. "You will join my army. I have need of strong men."
And so, at sixteen, Bilgames became a soldier. Within two years, he rose through the ranks, earning the loyalty of men twice his age and the wary admiration of generals.
At eighteen, he commanded battalions, leading them to victories against rival city-states and mountain tribes. Tales of his strength spread like wildfire. The people whispered of his near-supernatural power, of how he cleaved foes in twain and fought like a demigod.
But his triumphs unsettled the King.
"He rises too fast," the King confided to his council. "A soldier should not cast such a long shadow."
The Prince, his pride forever scarred, spoke venomously. "He is a danger, Father. He could rally the army to his name."
And so, unknown to Bilgames, plots began to form within the palace. The throne of Uruk felt the tremor of its own undoing.
But soon a messenger sent to Girsu returned to report to the King.
The court assembled at dawn. King Dumuzid sat upon his high throne, draped in black and red, surrounded by priests, nobles, and generals. The messenger, dirt-stained and wind-worn, knelt before the throne.
"Speak," said Dumuzid.
"Your Majesty, I have returned from Girsu. King Malekhai has refused your proposal. He will not marry his daughter to Prince Tammuz. He says—"
"Say it."
"He says Uruk is a viper in the sand. He would rather see his daughter wed to a corpse."
The court erupted in gasps and shouts. Tammuz, already red-faced, slammed his goblet to the floor.
"We must answer this insult with fire! Let me lead the charge! Girsu has mocked our house and our honor."
King Dumuzid stroked his beard. "We sent a proposal of peace, and they spat on it. War it is."
"Send Bilgames," Tammuz said suddenly, voice tight with barely concealed venom. "Let him prove his worth with more than legends. One battalion only."
The court fell silent. A few generals exchanged worried glances.
One stepped forward. "Your Majesty, Girsu commands at least four battalions. To send only one is madness."
"And yet," Tammuz pressed, pointing at Bilgames, "you call him a lion, a war-god warrior, a savior. Prove it. Let him bring us Girsu. And if he fails, we lose nothing but a braggart."
Dumuzid studied Bilgames from afar. The young general, silent, stood unmoved.
"What say you, Bilgames?"
He bowed slightly. "Give me one battalion. I will give you Girsu."
The court murmured in disbelief. Some scoffed, others leaned forward in curiosity.
"So be it," said the King. "Take your battalion and march. The gods will judge your fate."
Within the week, Bilgames led his thousand men across the plains toward Girsu. The march was swift, the discipline unmatched. Veterans followed him without question, for his presence alone seemed to banish fear.
Scouts returned with grim news.
"Four battalions march from Girsu, General. They know we come. They prepare."
Bilgames looked toward the horizon. "Good. Let them prepare. The gods will decide who stands when the sun sets."
That night, under the stars, he prayed to Shamash and tightened his leather gauntlets. His men readied their blades, eyes gleaming with faith in their commander.
As the sun rose, so too did war.
The Battle of Girsu had begun.
The city of Girsu shimmered under the noonday sun, its high sandstone walls bristling with spears and watchful eyes. Four battalions—nearly two thousand men—stood ready behind the gates. The banners of House Malekhai fluttered proudly, and atop a tower, King Malekhai himself peered across the plain.
There, a single battalion from Uruk advanced.
Just six hundred men.
At their head rode a towering young general, his eyes sharp and calm beneath his bronze helm, it was Bilgames.
"Is this a joke?" Malekhai asked his captain. "Dumuzid sends one battalion against four?"
The captain chuckled. "Arrogance, my King. Or perhaps desperation."
"No," Malekhai muttered. "He sends a message. He sends the boy they speak of. The lion of Uruk."
Bilgames halted his men a mile from the walls, atop a low hill. He turned to his officers—battle-worn veterans who once questioned his command. Not anymore.
"They expect us to strike the walls," he said, voice low but fierce. "We won't."
Captain Malek frowned. "Then what? Outnumbered four to one, and they sit safe behind stone."
Bilgames smiled. "Then we make them leave it."
Night fell.
Bilgames divided his force into three parts. Two companies—two hundred each—he sent east and west through the hills, guided by scouts. They carried torches, drums, and shields painted with extra banners—enough to look like full battalions.
He remained at the center with the final two hundred, dug into a ravine directly before the city.
At dawn, the drums began.
To the east and west, fires burned, banners waved, and war cries rose.
Malekhai stood on the battlements, face tight with concern.
"Three battalions?" said his captain. "He's reinforced?"
"Must have marched overnight," Malekhai said. "But we outnumber them still. We crush them before they regroup."
He gave the order. Three battalions poured from Girsu's gates—one to face each front. The fourth remained to guard the city.
But when the eastern and western troops reached the enemy, they found only noise. Decoys. Scattered torches, rotating banners, illusions made by handfuls of men.
"Ambush!" someone shouted.
It was too late.
From the ravine, Bilgames charged.
He struck the weakened central garrison, the only real enemy presence left in Girsu's outer defense. Two hundred men roared up the slope and crashed into the stunned defenders.
Bilgames led from the front. His axe—massive, ancient—cleaved through shields and bone. His voice rallied his men like a war horn.
"FOR URUK!"
Within minutes, the central garrison broke. The gates stood open.
Malekhai saw the smoke rising from his own courtyard and froze.
"Pull the others back! Now!"
But the east and west companies were scattered, confused by ghost forces. By the time they returned, the city gates were closed—from the inside.
Bilgames stood atop the ramparts.
"Welcome, my lord," he called down to Malekhai. "Shall we discuss terms?"
Malekhai, refusing to surrender, gathered the remnants of his army for a final charge.
The battle in the streets was brutal. Arrows flew from rooftops. Narrow alleys became traps. Bilgames's soldiers used their superior mobility, training, and the layout of Girsu itself to funnel enemies into kill zones.
Bilgames struck down a dozen men with his own hands. In the chaos, he caught sight of the King himself, sword in hand.
Malekhai roared and charged.
Their blades met. Sparks flew.
"You'll not take my city, whelp!" the King growled.
"Then yield and spare your people!" Bilgames countered.
Their duel was short, fierce, but the younger man's strength and training overwhelmed the older King. With a brutal parry, Bilgames knocked the sword from Malekhai's hand and brought him to his knees.
"Kill me and be done," the King hissed.
Bilgames raised his axe—then paused.
"No. I am not here for your life. I am here to take you down. The King of Uruk will deal with you."
He turned to his soldiers. "Bind him, but treat him with honor. The war ends today."
With Malekhai defeated, the city belonged to Uruk. A few battalions remained whole among the defenders. Yet fewer than a hundred of Bilgames's men had fallen.
Captain Malek approached, bloodied but grinning. "You made them chase ghosts, General. Then struck like a serpent."
Bilgames nodded. "Fear is a weapon. So is arrogance."
He looked to the horizon, where riders carried word back to Uruk. Tammuz would hear of this. So would King Dumuzid.
And the world would remember the day one battalion took a city held by four.
Bilgames stood atop Girsu's tower, wind in his hair, victory in his hands.
The lion of Uruk had roared—and all Mesopotamia had heard.