CHAPTER SEVEN - THE BULL OF URUK

Kitun’s vision was hazy.

The priestesses had given him some substance and its bitter taste was still in his mouth.

His eyes had difficulty focusing, the road before him heaved up and down. His mind he struggled to keep clear.

King of Uruk he was, by right of blood and murder. He had always been a violent man, a man of action, with a will he imposed upon others. Whatever the priestesses had given him was oil on his spirit, excessive oil, and it flamed up painfully inside him.

His teeth were clenched, speaking was for men and Kitun was becoming something else.

A beast, a beast indeed. He had become the Bull of Uruk, a hulking physicality with long black beard, foam at his lips, eyes penetrating and nostrils of his flat nose flaring with hot breath.

He swayed in the saddle like a drunk, his large body finding no balance on the back of his horse. The streets of Larsa passed him in a blur. The first sparks of fire were on their rooftops. His pack followed behind in slow run, a tight cohort holding long blades.

An abandoned helmet, a broken cart, a rotten apple was all that opposed him.

There were no Larsan militia in the streets, only red-clothed warriors who cheered as their frothing King passed, the hulking figure almost too large for the horse.

The Larsan houses had decorated lattices and through the slits fearful eyes peered.

Kitun saw the Uruk warriors break the doors and enter into the houses. Screams from both sides, one side male, the other feminine. Axe Blades for the soft pleading shivering men in their paths, and the women they dragged out by the hair, young and old.

The red men laid their rough hands on flesh of women, ripping away their dresses and openly started fulfilling their lusts on the streets.

As women cried out, taken against their will by packs of predators, more men moved past, pulling heavy chests of riches from the estates. Gold spilled over the stones and was quickly gathered by filthy hands. From their throats a song sprang forth:

‘The sons of Uruk are here, ours are your wives.

Oh, conquered, have no fear, in our beds they will live good lives!

Bring your honey, oils and fats, your daughters as well.

Your house is fine, your table is set, everyone’s there but you I expel!’

Kitun heard, but he did not recognize. What were they singing?

He had lost the ability to understand the words of men. Their many mouths opened and closed, hoots and screams came out, but it was all brabble to him.

From a passing alley the King saw a woman pursued by four red robed men.

He blocked her off with his horse, staring at her with fury.

She looked back in panic, part of her dress torn so it showed a milky-white breast and a small pink nipple.

The King towered above her, his face covered in dark hair, eyes fire, broad chested and unsteadily swaying with a sharp edged bronze morningstar. Spittle dribbled from his near hidden mouth, accumulating in his curling beard like a rabid dog. A fierce animal, more beastly than his mount.

He saw her tremble before him, stopped in her tracks, and felt his anger only grow at the sight of this pretty thing; the rage sucking away the air like an open furnace.

Faced with the bestial enraged King, she did not even scream as she was caught by the eager soldiers and pulled back into the shadows.

Kitun continued with great effort. The houses that flanked the streets danced, up and down and from the front to the back. Creatures of brick and wood and pillars moving around, from their mouths came screams, and his men rushed inside the houses that shrunk and grew again.

He felt nauseous, his hand gripped the rough manes of his mount to remain stable.

Now the temperature also changed. Kitun finding the air around him suddenly more clingy and oppressive. A moment later brass trumpets thundered from behind, announcing Eneduanna’s arrival in the city. Clear tones, carrying far into the city wherever the red men had gone.

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Kitun raised his head, his ears filled with the sound, as did his men. All listened, and when the trumpets fell to silence they realized the Revered one was with them.

They were reminded that their rage had not been quenched and their fulfillment of lusts had been premature. Their drunken laughter and joyous song turned to silent vicious stares. Kitun slid from the horse’s back, nearly falling to the dirt below. Beasts did not ride horses.

The reigns of his now violent horse were taken up by soldiers that passed by in a blur. Around him all melted together, the world reduced to red cloth, orange flame, and black shadow.

Standing on his feet he felt more secure, the need to vomit fading and the strength in his arms growing. He swung his morningstar before him, a heavy club of forged bronze, angling out with sharp points that crushed man, animal, bone and armour.

The weapon nearly hit the shieldbearer that brought him his shield, the heavy bronze disc engraved with the face of a roaring lion, it’s manes fanning out in silver towards the edge. Banners rose around the King like cedars.

The evening sky was a faint red, but below In the narrow streets of Larsa darkness already pooled. Torchlight snapped and whispered and orange flames cast grotesque shadows on the walls.

Kitun took a step forward, unsure of his direction. He stumbled through the streets, the full extent of his anger only starting to manifest. The frothing King arrived at a wide well, and he rested his large hands on the edge, then pulled up the bucket to drink.

He spat it out again in disgust, the water bitter and foul for his rabid tongue.

During his intoxicated wandering bands of warriors had joined him, and a large mass of prisoners had been whipped along. Groups of half-naked men and women huddled together, bound and fearful, they shrunk under his wild stare.

‘In with them!’ He bellowed, smashing his morningstar into the side of the well.

‘In!’ He ordered, and the men of Uruk followed command, their actions a fever of cruelty.

They beheaded the captive men, dropping one head after the other in the well. From below hollow splashes sounded as the tormented faces plunged into the water.

When they had ran out of heads they continued with the decapitated bodies.

Then, no men left in the district, they turned to the women. They were too frightened to wail, huddled together in a clump of trembling bodies.

Kitun barged straight into them, enormous body ramming them to the ground. He punched and bit and raised his weapon. He slaughtered without distinction, crushing, maiming, and throwing the broken husks in the well until it was filled to the brim with stiff limbs sticking out.

He breathed heavily, the red blindness momentarily fading. He had built an altar to Inanna, the well poisoned with the corpses of those that had defied the High-priestess. Content with his work, hands drenched in blood, the mind of the King rapidly deteriorated into full blackness.

A last coherent string of words he managed to push out between his crooked teeth and black beard hanging from his head like a feral mane.

‘Their pathetic God must fall tonight! The temple....’

The King gnashed his teeth. Any further orders were broken sentences, animalistic howls and grunts, and words from foreign tongue and long dead languages.

But his men had understood. From the streets and walkways they poured, stripping the city of its wealth like burning locusts, taking and consuming until they reached the large central square of Larsa.

At the heart of the city a mountain of bricks still stood unconquered: the tall pyramid, layer upon layer rising in the sky. It was the temple of Utu, patron of Larsa, God of sun and Justice.

Steep steps led upwards, where a winged statue of Utu himself watched over the city. The marble figure was illuminated by the final ray of light, whilst below night already reigned.

Here the last of Larsa stood, gathered on the steps of their temple. They had seen the flames erupt in the city all around them, the screaming of their kin and songs of their invader closing in until the red warriors appeared and surrounded them like wolves.

Now the King of the wolves stepped forward slowly, driven mad by the lingering smell of a bitch in heat. The crowned bull, degenerating into a being that now had trouble walking upright. The blood covered beast looked up at the last defenders; pitifully little left to kill.

Priestesses came forward, their fair bodies painted in the light of flames. Their showed their breasts challengingly to the last men at the temple, small and perky, heavy and saggy, singing praise to Lady War.

Kitun disregarded the priestesses that touched him, ignored their instruments and song, swatted his hooves at the pots of beer that they offered.

A touchless whip drove him forth, every moment spent uselessly standing around an excruciating experience. Sweat dripped down his forehead and he licked the sides of his mouth tasting salt.

He charged the stairs with wild abandon, immediately beset by arrows and stones. He was impervious to their feeble attempts. His shield were a dozen shields and his arm were a dozen arms; his chosen lion-men following the black bearded Kitun into battle. The Royal-guard had picked up the frenzy of their King, who now clambered up on all fours.

The mad beast rushed up the steps.

Larsans tried to block the degenerated King, they threatened with their spears. But they collapsed and were gored on his horns. The bull raised his heavy weapon - slamming it down on heads that burst like watermelons. Brain, eyes and teeth ejected whenever he struck down.

Kitun tasted it all in his gaping mouth, face spattered with warm brain matter. Heavy breaths, heaving up and down, his chest screaming for more air as everything within him burned. Larsan soldiers were desperately running between the temple’s columns above, firing down at the red mass that crept up the stairs unabated.

Phantom pains in his head, like daggers behind his eyes, and Kitun howled. Too long he had remained unmoving. Again he trampled upwards, two steps at a time, a bull clambering up the stairs to destroy the last of Larsa.

His shield he had lost, smashed and useless. His weapon had departed with another slain Larsan. The bull foamed at the mouth, grabbing men by head and crotch, lifting them above his head and throwing him down into the depths below.

Red flowed past. The final steps were taken and Larsa’s last line of shields and blades disintegrated. Red Uruk poured into the temple to butcher the last survivors.

The statue of Larsa’s God stood useless as his last followers were hunted down and his sanctum was desecrated. And he stood useless as ropes coiled around his neck and limbs and he was pulled from his stand.

Slowly he fell, resisting until he finally toppled over and tumbled face-down, crashing onto the stones and breaking apart. His marble debris of hands, head, torso, legs and arms lay together at the bottom of the stairs, amidst the heaped-up corpses of his followers.