# The origin of rot

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*Note:* *I spent my holidays writing a bunch of biology-adjacent, nontechnical pieces. I’ll intermittently mix them between whatever technical thing I send out, much like how a farmer may mix sawdust into feed, or a compounding pharmacist, butter into bathtub-created semaglutide. This one is about history!*

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The book ‘[*Death with Interruptions*](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_with_Interruptions)’ is a 2005 speculative fiction novel written by Portuguese author [José Saramago](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jos%C3%A9_Saramago). It is about how, mysteriously, on January 1st of an unnamed year in an unnamed country, death ceases to occur. Everyone, save the Catholic church, is initially very delighted with this. But as expected, the natural order collapses, and several Big Problems rear their ugly heads. I recommend reading it in full, but the synopsis is all I need to mention.

The situation described by José is obviously impossible. Cells undergo apoptosis to keep tissues healthy; immune systems kill off infected or malfunctioning cells; predators and prey form a food chain that only works because things end.

But what you may find interesting is that what exactly happens after death has not always been so clear-cut. Not the religious aspect, but the so-called [thanatomicrobiome](https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC4764706/)—the community of microbes that colonize and decompose a body after death—is not necessarily a given. And there is some evidence that, for a very, very long time, it simply did not exist at all. Perhaps for much of the planets lifetime, the earth was a graveyard of pristine corpses, forests of bodies, oceans of carcasses, a world littered with the indigestible dead.

Implausible, yes, but there is some evidence for it: the writings of a young apprentice scribe, aged fifteen, named *Ninsikila-Enlil* who was born in 1326 BCE and lived at a temple in ancient Babylon. *Ninsikila-Enlil* kept a diary, inscribed in tight, spiraling cuneiform on long clay tablets. In these tablets is his daily life, which primarily consisted of performing religious rituals for what has been loosely translated as the ‘*Pit of Eternal Rest*’. The purpose of this pit was precisely what the name implies: to store the deceased. It is, from the writings, unclear how deep the hole went, only that it was mentioned to be monstrously deep, so deep that centuries of bodies being slid down into it continued to slip into the nearly liquid darkness, sounds of their eventual impact never rising back to the surface.

But a particular curiosity were the bodies themselves.

Here I shall present two passages from *Ninsikila’s* writings, the first from early in his service, the second from a year later. The former is as follows:

> *The bodies wait in the preparation hall for seven days before consignment. I am permitted to visit after the second washing. My mother’s mother has been waiting for three days. She is the same as the day she passed. \[The chief priest?\] says the gods have made a gift of flesh. That it will remain this way even after she enters the pit. Her hands were always cracked from work, and they are still cracked.*

There are many, many other paragraphs through his tablets that parallel this. An amber-like preservation is referenced repeatedly, described variously as “*the stillness of resins*,” or “*flesh locked in golden sap*.” But, later, *Ninsikila* put down the first observation of something new occurring amongst the bodies that wait to be placed in the pit. The second writing is this:

> *The wool-merchant \[deposited?\] on the third of Nisannu, and had been waiting for some time now. I pressed his chest and the flesh moved inward and did not return. Fluid on my hand. A smell I have not encountered before. Small, ebony things in his eyes, moving. I washed with būrtu-water seven times. I do not know what this is.*

Rot, decomposition, it seemed, had finally arrived to a world that had not yet made room for it.

We know from *Ninsikila* writings that the wisest of the period, in search of what could have caused this, posited that the whole world had been tricked. That the flesh had once made a pact with time to remain eternally perfect, and time, in its naivety, had agreed. But something in the ink, some theorized, had curdled. Some insects had crawled across the tablet while the covenant was still wet, dragging one word into another and rendering the entire contract void.

Of course, it is worth raising some doubt at this. *Ninsikila* is a child, albeit clearly an erudite one, and would be prone to some flights of fantasy. How could we trust his retelling of the story? Unfortunately, we cannot, not fully, at least if our standard of proof here is having multiple, corroborating writings from the same period. But what we do have is historical evidence, or, at least, what some have argued is corroborating historical evidence.

Just a month after the initial finding of decomposition, *Ninsikila* writings cease. Moreover, this ending coincided with beginnings of the [Hittite plague](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hittite_plague), an epidemic that, depending on which Assyriologist you consult, began somewhere between 1322 and 1324 BCE. And there is proof to suggest the fact that the true geographic foundations of the plague were, in fact, at the exact site of the pile of bodies watched over by *Ninsikila.* Some historians will protest at this, claiming that the Hittite plague was primarily a disease of the Anatolian heartland, far removed from Babylonian temple complexes. They will point to the well-documented military campaigns, the movement of prisoners of war.

But they all fail to account for, during the years in which the plague is believed to have started, there were multiple independent corroborations of the the skies of Babylon turning nearly ebony with flies, a canopy so dense it shaded the temple courtyards and drowned out religious chants with its own droning liturgy—a wet, collective susurration, the sound of ten billion small mouths working. The air turned syrupy, clinging to the skin, the foulness so thick it could nearly be chewed, metallic and rotten-fruit sweet. And the closer one got to Babylon, the more it drowned them beneath this sensory weight. We have records from a trade caravan whose leader—a merchant of salted fish and copper ingots—noted in his ledger that he could smell the city three days before he could see it. At one day’s distance, taste it, the foulness nearly making him retch.

The concentration of bodies in the Babylonian pile was higher than it had ever been not just in Babylon, not just in Mesopotamia, but in the entire known world. Tens of thousands of bodies stacked, pressed, pooled together in heat and humidity; an unprecedented density of biological matter that, prior to the centuries-long effort to gather it together, had never existed. Is it not possible that in this particular place, in the wet anaerobic environment, that new forms of life emerged? It feels obvious to posit that something was created here, something that consumed the pile, infected the air, and gorged itself on so much biological matter that it survives to this day, still swimming in our land and oceans.

*Ninsikila-Enlil’s* final entry is not particularly illuminating, but what is worth mentioning is where his resting place lies. *Ninsikila* was born with a birth defect: his sternum never fused, a fact we know from his writings. A soft hollow where his chest should have been, the bones bowing outward like the peeled halves of a pomegranate, exposing a quivering pouch of skin that pulsed visibly with his heartbeat. He noted that his priest-physicians, embarrassed, called it a divine aperture. His mother bound the hollow in layers of linen and never spoke of it again.

This is important, since it allowed us to place *Ninsikila’s* skeleton, which lies not at the top of the pile—as one may expect of a child succumbing to disease—but near the bottom. Endless bodies lay above him, centuries of death, likely nearly liquified when he encountered them. But his position is not passive, rather, his arms are outstretched, fingers cracked and blackened, the bones of his hands splintered at the ends, as though he had clawed his way down through thousands of corpses. *Ninsikila* was a child of God, born into the priesthood, spent his short life in faithful rituals to the divine, and it is perhaps only expected that his final moments were in desperate excavation, believing that somewhere below, at the base, lay the answer as to what had been corrupted, and whether it could be undone.