Turtledove, Harry - Novel 12

by Between the Rivers (v2. 1)

  “So it is,” Ereshguna agreed. “That cannot be helped, though, not when Gibil depends on its men to save it. And I have a scheme for dealing with that other business.”

  “Have you?” Sharur said. “Good.” Neither he nor his father spoke of Habbazu or Engibil’s temple or the cup within Engibil’s temple, not in front of Nasibugashi. Now Sharur pointed to the noble he had captured. “Let us give him into the hands of Ushurikti the slave dealer for safekeeping.”

  “Wait!” Nasibugashi cried. “You said I would not be a slave—well, you said I might not be a slave. Have you now changed your mind?”

  “No,” Sharur answered. “Ushurikti will house you and keep you from escaping until you may be ransomed. We will pay him for your keep, and add the cost to the ransom we receive for you. Only if your kin or your god refuse to ransom you will you be sold as a slave.”

  “It is good,” Ereshguna said. “So it will be.”

  “It is not good,” Nasibugashi said. “I believed you, Gibli. My god believed you. You deceived me. You deceived my god.”

  “I do not serve Imhursagut,” Sharur said. “I do not serve Enimhursag. I serve the Giblut. I serve Gibil.” Here, he did not bother adding that he served Engibil. He was used to deceiving his own god. Since he had done that for so long, deceiving another god came easier.

  Ereshguna said, “Come. Let us take him to Ushurikti.”

  “Let us warn Ushurikti to watch him with care,” Sharur said. “He may seek to run away, and he is clever.”

  “Were I so clever, would I be here?” Nasibugashi asked.

  Neither Sharur nor Ereshguna heeded him. They had no need to heed him. He was a captive, in a city not his own. They took him to Ushurikti the slave dealer.

  Habbazu bowed to Sharur. “Master merchant’s son, you have done what you set out to do. Engibil now surely heeds the northern border, not his own temple. This is surely the time to snatch from it the Alashkurri cup.”

  “No, my friend from Zuabu, it is not quite the time, not yet,” Ereshguna said to the thief. “Here: see. We have fine gifts for you, better than any you could steal.”

  Sharur presented the gifts to Habbazu: a bronze sword, its hilt wrapped with gold wire, in a leather sheath; a helmet of stiff leather, reinforced with bronze plate; and a leather corselet with overlapping bronze scales. “All these are yours,” Sharur said.

  “They are very fine.” Habbazu bowed. “You are indeed generous to me. Whether they are finer than any I could steal, I do not know. I have pride in my thieving, as you have pride in your trading. But they are very fine. Still, I must ask of you: why do you give me a warrior’s tools, when I am not a warrior but a thief? Why do you give me these tools now, when thievery is needed? Why do you give me them now, when fighting is not needed?”

  “Because fighting is needed: fighting against the Imhursagut,” Ereshguna answered. “After we have beaten them, while Engibil’s eyes remain on the northern border to make sure Enimhursag does not renew the fight, we shall hurry back to Gibil. Then indeed will thievery be needed.” Habbazu’s skinny face twisted into a grimace of distaste. “You think that, if I steal this Alashkurri cup while you are away from Gibil, I will keep it for myself. You think that, if I steal this cup while you are away from the city, I will take it back to Enzuabu.”

  “Yes, we think that,” Sharur agreed. “Did you stand where we stand, would you not think that as well?”

  To his surprise, the question made Habbazu grin. “Well, perhaps I might, master merchant’s son. Perhaps I might. Will you also pay me to fight for a city that is not mine?”

  “We will,” Ereshguna said, and then he grinned, too. “Who says you are not a merchant as well as a thief?”

  “I say so,” Habbazu replied with dignity. “Being a merchant is hard work. Being a merchant is also boring work. Being a thief is hard work, too, I cannot deny. But being a thief is never boring work.”

  “Not even when you have to wait and wait before you can commit your theft?” Sharur asked slyly.

  “Not even then,” Habbazu said. “While I wait, I commonly sit in taverns. I drink beer. I eat salt fish and onions. Sometimes I even eat mutton. If I see a pretty courtesan, I give her metal or trinkets to lie down on a mat with me and do as I desire. Perhaps some men would be bored with this life. If that be so, I am not among them.”

  “That is not all there is to a thief’s life,” Ereshguna said. “If it were, all men would be thieves. No one would run a tavern. No one would brew beer. No one would catch fish or salt it. No one would raise onions. No one would herd sheep or butcher them. No courtesan would lie down on a mat for metal or trinkets if she could more easily steal them.”

  “Master merchant, what you say is true, but it is true only in part,” Habbazu answered. “Many men are merchants. How many of them lead the life of a master merchant like yourself? Only the handful who are also master merchants, as you are. Many men, too, are thieves. How many of them lead the life of a master thief like myself? Only the handful who are also master thieves, as I am.”

  “Indeed, you are not to be despised in argument,” Ereshguna said slowly.

  “Indeed, he is not,” Sharur agreed. “If he can fight as well as he can argue, the Imhursagut will have yet another reason to flee the might of Gibil.”

  Habbazu said, “I am not part of the might of Gibil. I am part of the might of Zuabu.” He held up a hand. Like his face, his fingers were long and clever. “If you would call me a Zuabi mercenary serving with Gibil, I should not quarrel, over that.”

  “How generous of you,” Sharur said. He laughed to show he meant no offense. Habbazu laughed to show he took none. Sharur looked around. Shadows were thickening. Colors were fading. “Let us eat supper, then let us sleep. In the morning, we will march to the north with my brother Tupsharru. We will help beat the Imhursagut, and then we will return.”

  No sooner had the words gone forth from his mouth than Tupsharru came into the house. “I see you have given Habbazu weapons,” he said. “He will fight for us before he steals for us?’ ’

  “He will,” Ereshguna said. “He is a Zuabi mercenary serving with Gibil. He says as much, so how could it be otherwise?”

  “You mock me,” Habbazu said. “I am cut to the quick.” He mimed staggering about after having taken a deadly wound.

  When Sharur, Ereshguna, Tupsharru, and Habbazu set out the next morning, they were not alone. The Street of Smiths was emptying. The men who made the weapons for Gibil also carried them to defend their city. Even bald, heavy Dimgalabzu shouldered a long-handled ax with a great head.

  “Going to chop down some of those Imhursaggi palms, are you?” Ereshguna called on seeing the fearsome weapon.

  “That I will,” Dimgalabzu answered. “That we will, all we smiths. We shall fight in the first ranks. Being full of the power of metalworking, we dread less than others might the force Enimhursag can bring to bear against us.”

  “It is good,” Sharur said. “Kimash the lugal.is wise to arrange his line of battle so.”

  “It is good,” Ereshguna agreed. “We have had great profit by fighting thus against the Imhursagut in our past few wars.”

  Habbazu looked interested. Eventually, Sharur suspected, Enzuabu would hear of the way the Giblut fought against Imhursag, and why they fought thus. What the god of Zuabu would make of that remained to be seen.

  Dimgalabzu also looked interested—in Habbazu. “Who is this man who marches with you and your sons?” he asked Ereshguna.

  “His name is ... Burrapi,” Ereshguna answered. “He is a Zuabi mercenary. Sharur here became acquainted with him when leading caravans through the land of Zuabu. He was here in Gibil when word came that the Imhursagut have gone to war with us. We will pay him well to fight for the city.”

  Habbazu took for granted being named by a false name. He dipped his head to Dimgalabzu. The smith gave a similar walking bow in return. Chuckling, Dimgalabzu said, “Be careful that he has come here to fight, not to steal
. You know what they say about Zuabut.”

  “A few thieves have spoiled the reputation of all of Zuabu,” Habbazu complained. Tupsharru coughed, as if at dust hanging in the roadway. Sharur and Ereshguna held their faces straight. They were both more experienced merchants than Sharur’s younger brother. Sharur did not have an easy time of it, experience or no.

  On they marched. The smiths, who were men with powerful upper bodies, did not use their legs so much in their work. They were also wealthy men. They clubbed together to buy a donkey in a village through which they passed, and loaded their weapons and accoutrements onto it. After that, they tramped along with lighter loads and gladder hearts.

  Peasants marched north, too. Before long, the road became crowded, for other peasants, men and women and children, were fleeing south, often leading their livestock. “The Imhursagut!” they cried, as if men heading toward the foe with weapons in hand did not know whom they would be fighting.

  In time, Ereshguna pointed toward the northern horizon. “Smoke,” he said. “They are burning our fields. They are burning our villages. They will pay the price for burning our fields and villages.”

  The Gibli camp not far from the border was a city in its own right, a city with guards and winding streets and with tents taking the place of houses. The mood inside the camp was confident. As someone past whom Sharur walked put it: “We’ve beaten the Imhursagut plenty of times before. What can be so hard about doing it again?”

  Kimash the lugal advanced with his force against the Imhursagut the next day. Sharur shouted to see the men from Imhursag drawn up on Gibli soil in a ragged line of battle. Then he shouted again, on a different note, for there near the head of the Imhursaggi force appeared Enimhursag, angry and armored and ten times the size of a man.

  9

  “Enimhursag! Enimhursag!” the Imhursagut chanted as their god strode with them toward the Giblut. But Sharur saw what they, perhaps, did not: Enimhursag did not stride out in front of them to take new land away from Gibil. Where his men had not gone before him, he had no power.

  Some few of the Gibli peasants, not realizing this, fled before his awesome apparition. Beside Sharur, Habbazu asked in a shaken voice, “Where is Engibil, to withstand the god of Imhursag?’ ’

  “Engibil does not withstand in his own person the god of Imhursag,” Sharur answered.

  “Engibil has not withstood in his own person the god of Imhursag for many years,” Ereshguna added.

  “Not even in the days of my youth did Engibil withstand in his own person the god of Imhursag,” Sharur’s grandfather’s ghost said, abruptly announcing his presence to his kin.

  Habbazu could not hear the ghost not having been acquainted with Sharur’s grandfather in life, but what the living men said was enough—was more than enough—to dismay him. “Engibil will not withstand the enemy for his own city?” he cried. “Then truly you are lost! Truly all is lost!” He made as if to flee after the handful of Gibli peasants who had fled.

  “No, all is not lost,” Tupsharru said as Sharur set a hand on the thief’s arm to steady him. “Gibil and Imhursag have fought many wars since Engibil last withstood in his own person Enimhursag. We Giblut have won almost all those wars.”

  “This is so,” Habbazu said slowly, as if reminding himself. Panic drained from his face, to be replaced by puzzlement. “I know this is so, but I do not understand how it can be so. How can men stand alone against men and a god and win?”

  “We do not stand alone,” Sharur said. “This is Engibil’s land. He has dwelt on it longer than we. He aids in its defense. But we are not his slaves, as the Imhursagut are Enimhursag’s slaves. We do not need him with us to go forward against the foe.”

  “And now,” Ereshguna said, drawing his bronze sword with its gleaming edge, “it is time to talk no more. It is time to go forward against the foe.”

  Forward against the foe they went, Habbazu dubious and rolling his eyes but no longer ready to turn and run. Men without corselets, men without helmets, men without shields gave way before them, urging them up to the forwardmost ranks, the ranks where the men with the best gear were concentrated. As Dimgalabzu had said, many of those who fought at the fore were smiths; Sharur saw friends and neighbors from the Street of Smiths.

  Others in the first ranks—the armor over the softer body of the army as a whole—were prosperous merchants (also friends and sometimes rivals whom Sharur knew) and scribes. The scribes were not so prosperous, but were fitted out with armor at Kimash’s expense. Like the smiths, they were imbued with a certain resistance to Enimhursag’s might by the power inherent in their trade.

  On came the Imhursagut, still shouting their god’s name. They, too, had wealthy men, armored men, in their front ranks. Enimhursag tramped among them, like a tower on parade. Off to either wing, archers in the donkey-drawn chariots exchanged arrows with one another and maneuvered to outflank the opposing army so they could disrupt it with their archery.

  Enimhursag waved his sword and shouted abuse at the Giblut, as if he were a peasant woman in the market square spuming an offer for a bundle of radishes. “Have no fear, men of Gibil!” Kimash yelled in reply. His voice was small beside the gods, but large enough. “Do you see how his blade cannot go a digit’s length farther than his frontmost line of men? He has no power over us, save that which his warriors can give him. Let us beat those warriors. Let us drive them back over the canal, and their foolish, loudmouthed god with them. Forward the Giblut!”

  “Forward the Giblut!” the men of Gibil cried, and stepped up the pace of their advance against the invaders.

  Beside Sharur, Habbazu said, “You are all madmen, do you know that? When your line and the line of the Imhursagut collide, Enimhursag will be free to pick you like dates. The Imhursaggi god will be free to harvest you like barley.” He did not give way as he spoke, though, but kept trotting along with the rest of the Gibli army.

  “We have fought wars against the Imhursagut before,” Sharur repeated. “We have won wars against the Imhursagut before. Remember that when our line and the line of the Imhursagut collide.”

  Moments later, the two lines did collide. Sharur picked the Imhursaggi he would meet from among several on his front: a rawboned fellow with streaks of gray in his beard who bawled “Enimhursag!” like a lost calf bawling for its mother. He wore a helmet and corselet and carried a mace with a flanged bronze head.

  “Forward the Giblut!” Sharur shouted again, and swung his sword at the Imhursaggi. The foe turned it on his shield, then brought down the mace like a smith bringing down his hammer. Had it struck Sharur, it would have dashed out his brains regardless of whether or not he wore a helm. It did not strike him, for he skipped to one side.

  The momentum of the blow made his foe stagger slightly forward. Sharur dropped his own shield for a moment. He reached out, grabbed a bushy handful of the Imhursaggi’s grizzled beard, and yanked for all he was worth. The fellow cried out in pain and alarm. Sharur struck him in the side of the neck. Blood spurted. The Imhursaggi’s cries became bubbling, soggy shrieks. He toppled, clutching at himself.

  When the two lines met, all semblance of order in either one disappeared. The warriors who could reach their enemies flailed away with whatever weapons they had. The peasant levies who made up the bulk of both armies emptied their quivers as fast as they could in the general direction of the foe.

  Beside Sharur, someone yelled, “I see what you mean!” Sharur almost swung at the man before realizing it was Habbazu. The Zuabi thief pointed up and up, toward the enormous figure of Enimhursag. “What good does his huge whacking sword do him?”

  “Not much,” Sharur answered. “He can mow down ten men at a stroke with it—but half of them, in this melee, will be his own men.”

  “Ah,” Habbazu said. Then he added “God of my city, aid me!” because an arrow hissed past his face. And then, aplomb restored, he went on, “Yes, what good is he in this battle? Even if he stomps with his feet, he will trample his own men
as well as the Giblut.”

  “Even so,” Sharur answered, slashing at an Imhursaggi who stumbled back to escape the blade.

  Despite Enimhursag’s raging, despite his shouted exhortations that filled the field with thunder, the Imhursagut fell back all along the line. The fury of the Gibhit matched theirs, while the men of Gibil had more corselets, more helmets, more bronze-faced shields, more bronze blades, more of the chariots that, though slow and awkward, were still faster and more maneuverable than men afoot, and allowed the Gibli archers in them to shoot at the Imhursagut from the flank.

  “Forward the Giblut!” Kimash shouted, and the men of Gibil echoed the cry as they advanced: “Forward the Giblut!” '

  “We drive them!” Tupsharru yelled, his voice breaking in his excitement. “We drive them as a swineherd drives swine to the market.” He had a cut on his left cheek, from which blood ran down into his beard. Sharur did not think he knew he had been hurt.

  But Enimhursag was not altogether powerless: far from it. Having come far out from under the shadow of their own god, having often defeated the Imhursagut and driven north the border between Gibil and Imhursag, the Giblut could hardly be blamed for reckoning the god of their rivals reduced to impotence.

  Then Enimhursag stooped over the battlefield, seized a Gibli in his left hand—the hand not holding that immense sword—lifted him on high, and cast him down. The god bent again, grabbed another Gibli, and smashed him to the ground as well.

  Seeing the god’s great hand descending to close on yet another man of his city, Sharur thought of his dream when he had gone up to Imhursag in the guise of a Zuabi merchant. There, too, something vast and terrible had reached down to pluck up tiny men and send them to their doom. Then Enimhursag had killed a true Zuabi merchant, not the false one he had, Sharur remained convinced, been seeking. Now—

  Now, suddenly, Enimhursag let out a bellow of pain and rage; he rose without a Gibli clenched in his fist. Now his ichor dripped down onto the battlefield from a wounded forefinger. Another bellow rang out on the field, this one from Dimgalabzu the smith: “If your women haven’t taught you to keep your hands to yourself, you great overgrown gowk, let a man do the job!”