by Sam Barone
Since that time, Hathor had discovered a measure of happiness serving Akkad’s leaders. Never before had such feelings filled his life, and he welcomed the opportunity to repay Eskkar and Trella for what they’d given him. Destroying their enemies would help pay back the debt that could never truly be redeemed.
And Hathor had proven himself a skilled leader of horsemen, second only to Eskkar himself. In the last year, he’d worked long and hard with the men he now commanded, turning farmers and villagers into a skilled force of cavalry, a name he recalled from his days in Egypt. The Akkadian cavalry numbered less than fifty men in all, and Eskkar had brought only thirty-two with him on this expedition to the southern border. The rest remained in the city, patrolling the nearby farms. Hathor’s riders had demonstrated their worth today. They’d smashed the remains of the Sumerians and defeated them for the second time in one morning. And he’d captured King Eridu.
His grinning and cheering men returned, congratulating each other and their leader. Every warrior had a story to tell, either a brave act that showed his worth, or something foolish the fleeing Sumerians had done. Even the normally grave Hathor couldn’t resist a smile at some of the stories he heard.
“Enough celebrating for now,” he shouted, at last putting a stop to all the chattering. “Count the Sumerian dead, and finish searching the bodies. Kill any of the enemy wounded that can’t walk. Then gather all the weapons and anything else of value. The prisoners can carry it all back to Eskkar’s camp. There’s no water here, so we need to keep moving.”
The men cheered again, and Hathor shook his head.
“Get moving, you fools. We’ve still got a long ride ahead of us.”
More like a long walk, since the horses were nearly exhausted. Hathor looked down and saw Eridu staring up at him, his eyes wide and mouth open in fear. “And I’m sure King Eskkar will be most glad to honor his neighbor from the south.”
The sun had begun its descent toward the horizon when Eskkar finished his second inspection of the camp. His men had established a strong position, digging a ditch across the easiest points of access, and positioning a good-sized number of pickets on the two main approaches. No force of horsemen would be able to sweep in unchallenged, not that he expected any would dare make the attempt.
Mitrac and his men had arrived a little after midday, struggling under the burden of all the weapons they had captured. Fortunately, they had rounded up a few horses, and used them as pack animals to carry some of the load.
One of the sentries gave a shout. “They’re coming in, Captain! Hathor’s men!”
Eskkar strode to the southern edge of the camp. A ragged group of horsemen appeared. Not really horsemen, he decided, but tired men leading their weary animals. Hathor had sent a rider back earlier with the news of the battle. As soon as Eskkar learned of Hathor’s victory and the safety of his men, he let himself relax for the first time in two days. In fact, he took the opportunity to swim in the stream and clean his filthy tunic. At least the garment wasn’t bloodstained.
That would please Trella, who preferred that he leave any actual fighting to others. They’d had that discussion many times. She insisted that his life was too valuable to risk on an insignificant fight. Eskkar countered by reminding her that a leader needed to fight to maintain not only his honor but his reputation. That argument between them, he knew, would continue, at least as long as he remained alive.
Now Eskkar wanted to hear the details of Hathor’s battle.
Hathor led the ragged procession toward them. A cheer erupted from Eskkar’s archers as Hathor’s men reached the edge of the camp, and soon every soldier was shouting and congratulating each other on their victory. The ragged noise soon turned into a chant. “Eskkar! Eskkar! Eskkar!”
He shook his head at the praise. Once again he had accomplished something out of the ordinary. His soldiers and cavalry had defeated an enemy force that outnumbered them greatly, and had done so with very little loss of Akkadian life. Even Eskkar had worried that he might lose half his men before he achieved this victory.
“Welcome back, Hathor.” Eskkar gave the Egyptian a hug that would have crushed anyone smaller. “You and your men have done well.” Eskkar said the words in a loud voice, so that everyone in the camp could hear. “Did you lose many men?”
“No, Captain, just two men dead and four horses. But we killed forty-four Sumerians, and captured three horses and fifteen prisoners, not a bad exchange.”
“Take care of your men, Hathor, then join me at the tent. You look like you could use a bath and some food.”
“Yes, Captain. Would you take charge of this prisoner until then?”
Hathor moved aside. Behind him stood a single prisoner, held upright by a grinning guard. Eskkar glanced at the foot-sore Sumerian for the first time. Not much of a warrior, the man looked exhausted. Fear showed not only on his face, but in his every movement.”
“King Eskkar, may I present you with King Eridu of Sumeria.”
“No!” Eskkar couldn’t believe his ears. A laugh went up from Hathor’s men, who crowded around to see their commander’s reaction.
“I asked the scout not to tell you,” Hathor said. “I thought you might enjoy a surprise.”
“Now I want to hear the whole story,” Eskkar said. “Every word. But first take care of yourself and your men.” He reached out, clasped his hand on Eridu’s shoulder hard enough to make the man gasp, and dragged him into the camp. Eskkar guided the Sumerian along until they drew close to the tent. Eskkar had planned to put the prisoner inside, but now he changed his mind. He shoved Eridu to the ground about thirty paces away. “Stay there.”
“Water, King Eskkar. Please. I need water.”
Eridu’s voice sounded hoarse and dry. He might not have had anything to drink since last night. Well and good, Eskkar decided. It would put the Sumerian in a more cooperative mood. “Perhaps later, after you tell me what I want to know.”
Eskkar entered the tent. Eridu’s two playthings clutched each other at the sudden appearance of their captor. Despite his reassurances, they still believed they would end up dead or worse. He had spoken to them before, and even remembered their names. Both were pleasure slaves, fresh from the slave market. Berlit was the taller one, with brown hair that tumbled around her face. Girsu, shorter and darker of hair and skin, possessed an impressive pair of breasts. He sat down on the thick blankets no doubt once reserved for Eridu.
“Sit before me,” he ordered.
“Yes, master,” they said in unison, as they knelt before him.
“I want you to tell me some things,” he said, keeping his voice firm. “If you withhold anything, if you try to lie to me … there are a hundred men outside the tent who would be eager to show you their prowess.”
“Yes, master, anything you command,” Berlit said. She clutched Girsu’s hand, as much to reassure herself as her companion.
Berlit seemed the one with the quicker wits, so he started with her. “Describe Eridu for me. I want to know what he looks like.”
The slave girl described Eridu, and after a few sentences Eskkar held up his hand. “Enough.” The prisoner outside the tent was indeed Eridu, not some impostor sacrificing himself for his king.
“Now I want you tell me what Eridu’s plans were, why he sent men across the border, what he wanted to accomplish. I want to know everything you’ve seen and heard for the last few weeks. If you do, I’ll take you back to Akkad with me. My wife will care for you, find something useful for you to do. Otherwise …” He lifted his hand and pointed to the tent flap.
They started talking, and soon the whole story came out. They had only been with Eridu for nine or ten days, a gift from one of the king’s wealthy merchants. Eridu had taken possession of them just before he led his men out of Sumer, and decided they should accompany their new master on his campaign.
As Berlit spoke, her voice grew more confident, and the words that had first come haltingly now flowed like a steady stream. Even
Girsu joined in the conversation, waving her hands around as she spoke, filling in details left out by her companion.
They were well into their story when Grond and Alexar entered the tent, followed a few moments later by Mitrac. Hathor arrived soon after that, his tunic still wet from its encounter with the stream. The commanders sat behind the girls, so as not to appear threatening, and after a few nervous glances over their shoulders, Berlit and Girsu soon forgot their presence.
Eridu’s slaves talked and talked. Eskkar even interrupted them once to have water brought in for them. The girls had been present during almost all of Eridu’s planning sessions. For the first time Eskkar heard the name of Razrek, the leader of the Sumerian horsemen, who had ravaged the borderlands, and somehow managed to escape Mitrac’s arrows. Even to both wretched girls, this Razrek appeared to be the mastermind of Eridu’s plan.
At last Berlit and Girsu ran out of things to say. “That’s all we know, Lord Eskkar. We were just waking up when the soldiers raised the alarm. King Eridu snatched his tunic and ran outside. That’s the last we saw of him, until you arrived.”
“You’ve done well,” Eskkar said. “You will return with us to Akkad. Something will be found for you there.” Better that than turning them over to his men. Two women tossed among eighty men would start half a dozen fights before the girls died. He turned to Grond. “Send someone to untie Eridu. Make sure he gets plenty of water and something to eat.”
He turned to the girls. “Stay in the tent. You know what will happen to you if you leave. Hathor, come with me. I want to show you something.”
Eskkar slipped through the flap, and all the commanders followed. Outside, he stepped around to the rear of the tent. “We found these in the camp, more than a hundred of them.” He picked up a long wicker shield and held it up. Each shield was covered with hide, and was pierced in the center to form a grip for the hand. When Eskkar raised it up, it covered his body from the chin nearly down to the knees.
“Mitrac’s been shooting arrows at these all afternoon. Our bows will penetrate them, but only at close range.” He tossed the shield aside and stooped to pick up a slim, bronze-tipped lance. “Eridu’s men had about three hundred of these. I think that’s why he didn’t fear our archers. He intended to have the shield-bearers form the first wave, with the rest of their men behind them carrying one or two lances. A quick charge to get close enough to throw the lances, then overwhelm us with their swords.”
Hathor inspected first the shield, then the lance, wrapped at the center to provide a good throwing grip, and nearly as tall as a man. “In Egypt, many of our soldiers carried shields like these, just thick enough to stop an arrow. And the lances, flung with all a running man’s strength, would be deadly at close range. If they could have closed with our archers …”
“Our archers would still kill half of them before they got into throwing range,” Mitrac said.
“Perhaps,” Eskkar said, “but if enough did get close enough, we might have lost more than half of our fighters.”
He picked up the lance, and thought about what it implied. A simple weapon compared to the bow, which took months to shape, and relied on bowstrings that snapped all too often, and arrows that had to be straight and true, nocked and feathered, and tipped with bronze. A thrown javelin such as this would pierce a man’s body with ease, the bronze blade emerging from the body’s back. If Eridu had a few more moments to prepare, if he only lost half his men to Akkadian arrows, the remaining Sumerians might have cut down Eskkar’s archers. A grim thought indeed.
“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” Alexar said, breaking the silence. “Everyone knows about the skill of our bowmen. Our enemies will try to find a way to counter Akkad’s archers.”
“In the great siege,” Grond said, “our archers fought from behind a wall. In all our battles outside the city, we’ve had to find a way to protect our bowmen. Even in today’s battle, we were fortunate to arrive at dawn, and with the sun behind us. If the Sumerians had time to gather their weapons and take up these shields, our losses might have been much greater.”
Grond understood the implication as well as Eskkar.
“We’ll speak more about this when we return to Akkad. Now, I think it’s time to talk to Eridu.” Eskkar led the way back toward the tent. The Sumerian sat on the ground near one of the campfires, guarded by two men. His hands had been untied. Eridu looked up as Eskkar and his commanders approached.
“King Eridu of Sumer,” Eskkar said. “Have you eaten your fill?”
Eridu, his mouth hanging open, stared at Eskkar and the grim-faced men surrounding him. “What … what do you want?”
“I want to know why you attacked our lands.” Eskkar didn’t bother to keep his voice down. The more his men heard, the better.
“The borderlands belong to no one,” Eridu said, trying to put some authority in his voice. “Sumer and the other cities have as much right to the crops here as Akkad.”
“Still, for two years you recognized the Sippar river as our southern border. You did nothing to lay claim to these lands, said nothing to anyone in Akkad. Instead, you sent soldiers pretending to be bandits to kill our farmers and devastate our lands. You marched across the border with your soldiers, to kill those you knew would be sent against you, and to seize all these lands, and perhaps even more.”
Eridu wet his lips. His eyes darted around, and saw that the Akkadians soldiers had moved closer, all of them eager to see and hear what would be done.
The only sound was the crackling of the nearby fire. “I will pay you a ransom for my safe return to Sumer,” Eridu said.
Eskkar smiled. “You came north to wage war upon Akkad and its people. You wanted to lead your soldiers to a great victory, and have everyone in Sumeria proclaim you a great warrior. But a real warrior should be able to fight his own battles.” He turned to Grond. “Give King Eridu a sword.”
The words had scarcely left Eskkar’s lips before Grond slipped his sword from its sheath and tossed it, hilt first, on the ground, where it landed close to Eridu’s hand. The two soldiers guarding the Sumerian moved back, as did Eskkar’s commanders, creating an open space for the two to fight.
“I won’t challenge you,” Eridu said. He moved his hand away from the sword’s hilt. “Your men will …”
“My men will give you a horse and set you free if you win,” Eskkar said. “Hathor, Alexar, you will see to that. Give your oath to let Eridu go free if he wins.” Eskkar took a step back and drew his sword. “You can ride back to Sumer and tell everyone how you killed Eskkar of Akkad in a fight. That should be enough glory for you.”
This time Eridu had to swallow before he could speak. “I won’t fight you. You’re a barbarian … you’re a skilled swordsman. I’ll meet whatever ransom you set, anything. I swear never again to send men across the border. Two hundred gold coins … three hundred. Petrah, my steward, will see to the payment. That should more than repay for the damage done to the crops and farmers.”
Eridu looked around the ring of men staring down at him and saw nothing but stony faces. He pushed Grond’s sword away with the back of his hand. “I won’t fight you. I’ll pay four hundred coins for my freedom.”
A staggering sum, enough to pay for all the damages and the cost of sending the soldiers south. Akkad could use all that gold, Eskkar knew. If he’d met Eridu in battle, Eskkar would have killed him without question or hesitation. But no one would pay for a dead man. The silence dragged on while Eskkar made up his mind.
“Your ransom will be eight hundred gold coins. From that sum, every one of my soldiers will receive one coin.”
An intake of breath passed through the soldiers at the sum, followed by murmurs of approval. That would be several months pay for most of them.
“But first there is another price to pay, Eridu,” Eskkar said. “You stretched out your hand to take my lands and kill my people. Helpless farmers tortured and murdered, their women raped and killed, their livestock plundered,
and the crops burned. For that, there is a separate price. Get him on his feet.”
Grond stepped forward and jerked Eridu upright as if he were a child.
“Alexar, Grond, take hold of his hands. Spread him out.”
The two men extended Eridu’s arms out to either side. Alexar used both hands, clasping Eridu’s left wrist. Grond also used both hands, but he grabbed the Sumerian’s right hand, leaving his forearm bare. Eridu started to struggle, but his captors held him fast, his arms spread wide. Before Eridu could understand what was to happen, before he could prepare himself or plead for mercy, Eskkar’s sword flashed in the firelight, and the sharp bronze blade, delivered with all of his force, sliced through Eridu’s right wrist. Blood sprayed out everywhere.
With a scream, Eridu collapsed on the ground.
“Get him in the fire,” Eskkar ordered.
Grond caught the now helpless Eridu around the waist with one arm, and clasped the handless arm with the other. In a moment, Grond dragged the king toward the campfire and shoved the blood-spurting stump into the flames.
This time the screams went on and on, echoing throughout the camp. Grond needed all his strength to hold the arm in the flames long enough to seal the wound. The smell of burning meat wafted on the air before he pulled Eridu away. With a sob, the Sumerian king fell on his face, his knees drawn up, weeping into the dirt. The pain racked his body again, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
“Get someone who knows how to bandage that up,” Eskkar ordered. Several of the soldiers knew how to treat wounds. He wiped his blade on Eridu’s tunic. “If he lives,” Eskkar raised his voice so all could hear, “he’ll walk back to Akkad, where he’ll stay until his ransom is paid. Tomorrow we start for home!”