Book of Gilgamesh:

“Blood! Blood! Blood!” The crowd chanted. The buzz of the fighting pits had become an all too familiar affair. He could smell that some of his fellow fighting slaves had shit themselves. Their fear had just as pungent of a scent. 

The man beside him was short, with a round pot belly and wide eyes. Gilgamesh recognized him as one of the river rats of Eridu. In fact, it seemed all the men around him were from Eridu. It was impossible to mistake their squat faces and beady eyes. 

They fished and hunted on the Euphrates River. Common folk with makeshift shelters and scattered leadership, an early city-state of Mesopotamia that was all but forgotten. They lived in houses made of reeds from the marsh that they fashioned together. 

All in all, they were a pathetic bunch. Leftovers from early civilization. Gilgamesh had no doubt that it had been a simple thing for a contingent of Uruk soldiers to capture these men. They fought as well as Gilgamesh imagined they fucked. As short and round as they were, it was a wonder they managed to reproduce at all. 

It was curious to Gilgamesh that he had been placed among these men. Was he to fight them all himself? He had been in the fighting pits for many moons. Every time, he hoped the pits would gift him the sweet release of death, and every time, he had been disappointed. In truth, he had yet to even be scathed in combat. 

The men he had thus far faced were small, and they scared easily. Inexperienced warriors, some had even dropped their blades from nerves. That was the real problem. All the slaves being sent to the pits were farmers and fishers, builders that couldn’t pay their debts, nor defend their cities. 

They were here precisely because they could not fight. They may have stood a chance if only they showed a bit of courage and organization. Gilgamesh had seen this many times before, however. Whatever challenge awaited them on the other side of the coliseum’s heavy gates, the mere sight of it would scatter these men to the four corners like loose barley on an evening breeze. 

It must have been a unique challenge. Usually, arena combat was one-to-one. It was only on rare occasions, such as the Festival of Harvest, where spectacles would require multiple combatants. Only… the harvest would not be for an entire season. Something was certainly off, more so than usual. 

Gilgamesh took a few backward steps. Best to let the river rats get the first taste of whatever was to come. There was a rhythmic clicking as the coliseum gate began to rise. It was at that very moment, a strange sensation blossomed in Gilgamesh’s gut. Fear. It was his own.

He was almost surprised by it. He did not think he could still experience such a thing. There it was though, unmistakable, spreading through him like wildfire. His intuition was roaring at him like a war horn.

“Stay together,” Gilgamesh barked. “Whatever happens, keep a tight formation. DO YOU HEAR ME? DO YOU WANT TO DIE?!”

The last bit of Gilgamesh’s speech seemed to rouse the fisherman. Typically Gilgamesh didn’t bother to speak to the other pit slaves. Only a fool would get to know the man he was about to kill. This time though, he could sense that their help might be the difference between life and death.

They were particularly well-armed, another oddity… Two bowmen, one slingman, neither had armor, nor shields, only daggers at their sides and copper helmets upon their heads. The other six men were equipped like heavy infantry, long spears, three with maces at their sides, three with axes. All six carried pristine, thick shields and bronze breastplates. Among them, Gilgamesh was the most ill-equipped. He had only a general’s sword sheathed at his side. He had no shield, nor breastplate. He only had his woolen kilt and wooden sandals.

Gilgamesh also noticed that everyone had a copper helmet other than himself. This was bizarre even for a militia, which often did not have protective armor. Even professional soldiers would not be this well-equipped. Their armor and weapons would have been worn through use and age. No Sumerian citizen in their right mind would equip slaves in such a manner. This, Gilgamesh knew, was the work of the sky serpent, Enki. 

Only a god would be audacious enough to squander resources in such a manner. Gilgamesh could not figure out why though. Then again, the games had started to get increasingly complex lately.

In Gilgamesh’s last battle, he was on foot alone against two professional soldiers on horseback, both equipped with bows. He had only been given an old, splinting shield. That had been his greatest challenge yet.