Battle For Empire (The Eskkar Saga)

by Sam Barone

  At least Sargon knew better than to argue or complain. He pushed his protesting body upright, every muscle complaining at the slightest movement. Garal waited on his own mount, watching Sargon struggle with his horse. Once again, it took two tries before he could get himself astride. Without a word, Garal turned to the west and started off at a fast walk.

  They continued westward for the remainder of the day, making only two brief stops to refresh the horses. As dusk arrived, Sargon searched the land ahead of them for any signs of life, a house, a tent, a stream, even a grassy hill. But nothing presented itself, only the same monotonous landscape they had traversed all day. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, and his mouth was as dry as sand.

  When Garal at last gave the sign to halt, the darkness was nearly complete. He tied his horse to a fallen tree lying on the ground, and this time he inspected Sargon’s tie as well, redoing it to make certain that the knot would stay firm as the animal moved and pulled on it. Satisfied, Garal pointed to the ground.

  “Rest.”

  Sargon understood that word. He slipped to the earth, and once again could not hold back a groan of relief as he eased the long day’s burden from his stiff muscles. Every part of his body felt sore from the constant riding, and his neck still hurt.

  Without any difficulty, Garal sat cross-legged and stared off into the distance. He didn’t appear any different than he looked that morning, not at all tired, hungry, or thirsty.

  The two had no water, and of course nothing to eat. If Sargon had a bow or even a sling, he might have tried to bring down something to eat, but exhausted as he was, Sargon knew he wasn’t likely to find, let alone kill, any game. But his thirst had grown all day, and now he could scarcely swallow without forcing himself.

  “Water.” He knew that steppes word for that, of course. “Water.”

  Garal shrugged, that same annoying gesture Sargon’s father used so often. “No water tonight. Tomorrow. Midday.” The young instructor had to repeat his words several times before his pupil understood.

  Sargon’s mouth felt even drier than it had a moment ago. No water until tomorrow! No food, no fire, and now no water. This couldn’t be happening. Sargon had never gone so long without food, let alone water.

  And there was nothing he could do about it. Garal carried neither pouch nor water skin with him. If Sargon departed at dawn tomorrow, he would have to ride all day before he returned to the Ur Nammu camp, supposing, of course, that he could find his way back. That assumed that Garal would let him go. More likely, the barbarian would kill him.

  With a shock, Sargon realized he had forgotten another one of his father’s teachings. Sargon had failed to notice, let alone memorize, any landmarks that might show him the way back. He knew the general direction, and the sun to guide him, but with only those, he might miss the camp by ten miles, if he couldn’t follow their tracks back to his new home. He should have paid more attention to his surroundings. Instead Sargon had spent his time nursing his bruises and raging at Garal’s back.

  “Sleep now. Ride in morning.”

  With those few words, Garal stretched out on the ground, shifted his body a few times to settle in, then closed his eyes. It didn’t take long before Garal’s soft snores sounded over the dry camp. His sword lay beside him, and Sargon stared at it. He considered waiting until Garal had reached a deeper sleep, then creeping over the few paces that separated them. With the sword in his hand, one good swing would end his humiliation.

  For a time, that idea tempted him. Of course, Garal might wake up, and the sword might prove as useless as Sargon’s fists had earlier. Even if he killed the warrior, he would still have to find his way back, and Chinua would find his son’s body sooner or later. No, the thought of what the barbarians did to those who offended them didn’t appeal to Sargon.

  With a muffled curse, he laid down on his side, his back to Garal, and tried to get some sleep. The hard ground pressed against his stiff and sore muscles. Frustrated at every turn of today’s events, and with his throat feeling as dry as a cup of sand, sleep didn’t come easily. When at last Sargon did slip into a fitful sleep, dreams filled with anger at his father for abandoning him haunted what little rest he could manage.

  18

  Sargon woke in the predawn with Garal’s foot pushing against his ribs. It took a few moments before the harsh words penetrated, and by then the pressure of the warrior’s foot increased enough to roll Sargon over onto his side.

  “Get up. Ride.”

  Without waiting, Garal strode to his horse, unfastened the halter, and swung himself up. “Ride.”

  Sargon’s anger rose, but he knew there was nothing he could do. The sooner they got to water, the better. Swearing under his breath, he reached his horse and fumbled with the halter. The animal was skittish. Like its master, it had grown accustomed to being fed and watered each day. It took all of Sargon’s agility to keep a grip on the animal’s mane and climb onto its back.

  As soon as Garal saw Sargon astride, the warrior turned his mount toward the west and set his horse to a canter. Sargon decided that he might as well vent his anger at both Garal and his own misfortune aloud. The barbarian didn’t understand the Akkadian language anyway. Sargon cursed his companion as an ignorant savage and one that Marduk and Ishtar would soon send to the burning pits below for punishment.

  Sargon’s anger soon faded, to be replaced by a parched throat that seemed to have rubbed itself raw from lack of water. He felt the weakness in his body, and the slowness of his movements. His lips felt parched and dry. He’d never imaged that a single day without water could weaken him so.

  No wonder his father had defeated the Alur Meriki so easily. And today, his nervous and thirsty horse required even more attention than it had yesterday.

  Garal’s horse exhibited none of these problems. The warrior tried to set the same pace as he had yesterday, but by midmorning, Garal realized the Akkadian mount needed more frequent periods of rest. Once Sargon had to fight to keep control of the animal, when it shied at a bush tumbling across their path. The result of their slower pace saw midday come and go, with still no sign of water. Of course there was nothing to do but keep riding.

  By now Sargon could barely keep his seat, and the ground seemed to waver under the horse’s hooves. Thirst had sucked the strength from his body, and his youthful vigor had vanished many miles back.

  In the end, it was the horse that saved Sargon from tumbling ignominiously to the ground. First Garal’s mount, then Sargon’s, caught the scent of water ahead. Both animals responded with a second effort. Still, they had to traverse more than a mile before they reached the water.

  No river or even a stream, only a small sinkhole of brackish water, surrounded by a wide border of mud. Animal tracks and droppings covered the ground, indicating the water was drinkable. Sargon didn’t care. His horse forced its way through the soggy ground and thrust its nose deep into the water. Sargon slid from its back, landing on his stomach, with his face in the water.

  He drank and drank, lifting himself up every few moments to catch his breath. Water that he once wouldn’t have bothered to piss in now tasted as sweet as anything that came from his parents’ well. When he could force no more liquid into his stomach, Sargon pushed himself to his knees.

  He saw Garal kneeling at the water’s edge, dipping his hand into the water. The barbarian clearly hadn’t suffered as much from thirst as Sargon had. Even Garal’s horse had already stopped drinking, while Sargon’s mount continued to slurp at the muddy water.

  Not that Sargon cared. He lay down in the mud again and drank some more, drank until he started coughing and had to stop. When he crawled away from the water’s edge, he felt satisfied, his stomach full for the first time in two days.

  By then Garal had led his mount away, and tied its halter to a low bush that had sprouted nearby. The warrior sat on the ground, his face as impassive as when they had first departed the camp.

  Chagrinned, Sargon dragged his mount from the
water. He knew the animal shouldn’t drink too much, or it might sicken.

  With a start, Sargon realized the same thought applied to him. He wiped his hand across his mouth, tasting the foul mud on the back of his hand. Looking down, he saw that his legs and tunic had turned black from the wet earth that clung to him.

  “Rest. Then we ride back.”

  Sargon eased himself down to the ground. The water had filled his belly, and his hunger had vanished, for the moment at least. He stared at his surroundings, a dreary landscape of occasional clumps of grass scattered among the sand and rocks, with a few bushes here and there. Nothing to see, and obviously nothing to eat. Sargon wondered how long Garal intended for them to rest.

  The answer came soon enough. With a sudden pain in his stomach, Sargon felt his insides heave. He barely got to his knees before the burning liquid shot from his lips, as he hunched himself over, his hands clutching the ground. The retching continued, on and on, until Sargon felt as if he had expelled every last drop of water that he’d consumed.

  When the heaving finally stopped, Sargon found himself gulping air and panting like a dog. Looking around, he saw that Garal had climbed to his feet.

  “Ride. Drink first.” The warrior gestured with his hand as if scooping water from the ground. “Three only.”

  With the last of his strength, Sargon returned to the water’s edge. His throat burned from the contents of his stomach. All the same, he followed Garal’s instructions, taking only three scoops of water into his hand, and drinking each handful slowly so as to ease his burning throat. When Sargon finished, Garal had already mounted. “Ride. Home.”

  “Yes, ride, damn you.” Sargon’s rage had returned. He swore to himself that he would extract vengeance on this man if it were the last thing he ever did.

  Somehow he managed to mount his horse. Sargon faced another long ride back to the camp, and he hoped he would survive it. He comforted himself that at least they would have food and fresh water there.

  The ride back to the Ur Nammu encampment took almost two full days, and by the time Sargon saw the smoke trails from the camp leaning their way into the sky, he could barely keep his seat on his horse. Hunger, something completely unknown to him, had weakened his muscles and made thinking difficult.

  At the same time, a raging thirst consumed him. His eyes wandered, and at times he found his head nodding against his chest. For the first time in his life, Sargon had gone almost three days without food. Those same three days included plenty of hard riding and almost no water. Nothing in his life had ever prepared him for such hardship.

  By the time he approached the outer line of tents, only a grim determination kept him on the horse. Fueled by his rage toward Garal, who seemed unaffected by either hunger or thirst, Sargon refused to quit. Better to die on his horse than to give the filthy barbarian the satisfaction of seeing Sargon fall to the ground and crawl in the dirt.

  Sargon’s weary mount, in as bad shape as its master, headed straight for the stream. The trembling animal pushed its way through the line of bushes, staggered into the water, and lowered its head to drink. Sargon tried to dismount, but his hand slipped from the mane and he slid feet first into the stream. For a few moments, he just lay there, letting the cool liquid wash the heat and dirt from his body. Then he remembered to drink, and once again he buried his face into the sweetest drink he’d ever tasted.

  This time, however, he knew better than to overfill his stomach. Sargon wanted no repeat of yesterday’s vomiting. When he pushed himself to his knees, he heard Garal’s harsh Ur Nammu gutturals, and found three warriors, including Subutai and Chinua, standing behind him. Dimly, Sargon realized that word of their approach had reached the clan’s Sarum, and the Ur Nammu leader had walked to the stream to see for himself how well the Akkadian’s first lesson had gone.

  Garal spoke rapidly and at length to Chinua, using his hands expressively to convey some additional meaning. Subutai, arms folded across his chest, stared at Sargon, who lay half in and half out of the water, his already filthy tunic covered with fresh mud. The third warrior, shorter and stockier, watched from the edge of the stream, his face impassive.

  Ashamed of being on his knees, Sargon staggered to his feet with the last of his strength, leaning on his horse to help. His hunger had returned, but he refused to beg on his knees for food in front of the Ur Nammu clan leader.

  Subutai solved that problem. “Come with me, Sargon. You must be hungry.” He turned to the other warrior. “Perhaps you could help him, Fashod.”

  That would be the third man. The name meant nothing to Sargon, but he saw Fashod smiling at him.

  “Yes, I will bring him.” Fashod stepped into the bubbling water and wrapped a powerful arm around Sargon’s waist, ignoring the wet and filthy garment. “Three days without food weakens any man, especially one from the city of Akkad.”

  Despite himself, Sargon sagged against Fashod’s broad shoulder, letting the warrior take much of his weight. In that way, the man half-carried Sargon through the camp. Along the way, curious onlookers paused in their tasks to stare at the weak-kneed Akkadian youth. Sargon didn’t care, and they soon reached Subutai’s tent.

  The smoke from a small cooking fire couldn’t mask the scent of the crisping meat, speared on small sticks thrust into the glowing coals. Fashod eased Sargon to the ground beside the fire.

  An old woman of about thirty seasons tended the blaze. She smiled at him, then plucked a stick from the fire and handed it to him. The tempting smell made Sargon lose control, and he thrust the meat into his mouth, biting hard and ignoring the burning against his tongue.

  Clutching the stick in both hands, he bit off another chunk from what he realized was the hind leg of a rabbit. In four ravenous bites, Sargon stripped the meat to the bone.

  The woman, meanwhile, spoke to a young girl, who filled a cup with stew from the copper cooking pot. She knelt beside him, offering Sargon the thick liquid.

  “Wait before you try that.” Fashod dropped to the ground across the fire from Sargon. “It’s hot.”

  Despite Sargon’s unfamiliarity with the language, he grasped Fashod’s meaning, if not all of the words. Sargon tossed the bone into the fire, accepted the cup from the girl’s hands, and raised it to his lips. Careful of his still smarting tongue, Sargon restrained himself and took only a small sip, grateful for Fashod’s warning.

  By now others had joined the meal circle, each of them reaching to the fire and selecting the nearest stick. Garal kept up most of the conversation, obviously telling the three warriors about their ride. Occasionally Subutai or Chinua would nod in approval or agreement. Out of politeness, they ignored Sargon’s filthy tunic, his arms and legs still streaked black with mud.

  Sargon didn’t care. He soon drained the cup, and the girl reappeared again to refill it for him. While she did so, he took the last stick from the fire, waved it in the air to cool, and started chewing. Only when he finished the second cup of stew did the pain in his stomach start to ease.

  Though he wanted to keep eating, Sargon forced himself to stop. He’d already eaten more than any of the others. Besides, he didn’t want to throw up again, and he knew too much food taken too fast would only make him sick.

  “We have never met.” Fashod spoke now in the Akkadian tongue, when he saw that Sargon had gotten control of himself. “But I fought with your father three times, and twice with your Egyptian, Hathor. Eskkar is indeed a great man. And now he has defeated the Alur Meriki. In all my life I never thought I would live to see this day.”

  Now Sargon recalled hearing the name of Fashod, as Subutai’s second in command. He had not been present at Eskkar’s arrival or departure. The words of praise for Sargon’s father meant nothing. Sargon had heard the same words, or some variation, all his life. To these simple barbarians, his father was a great man. No doubt any man who could fight well was considered great.

  “I am sorry that I did not greet you properly.” Sargon’s voice sounded hoarse. He ha
dn’t spoken more than a handful of words all day. However, he knew how important it was to have friends among the warriors. “I’m sure my father was saddened that you were not here to meet him.”

  “Garal says that you did well on the ride,” Chinua said, joining the conversation. “He says that if you had a stronger horse, you both would have returned before midday.”

  Fashod laughed. “Not many villagers could have done as well, Sargon. Your father would be pleased.”

  “Tomorrow he will have a better horse,” Chinua said. “I will give him one of my own, while I turn his over to my sons to build up its strength.”

  “Is Garal ready to ride out again?” Subutai’s polite question was more of a statement. No doubt every clan member always considered himself ready to ride.

  Garal nodded. “Yes. This time I will take Sargon toward the mountains. We may even see signs of the Alur Meriki.”

  That brought a frown to Subutai’s face. “Take care where you go. The Alur Meriki cannot be trusted.”

  “Yes, Sarum. I will not venture too far north.”

  Sargon’s thoughts, slowed by the food now filling his belly, realized that the warriors were talking about another ride.

  “Tomorrow? But I need time to rest, to . . .” His voice died out as he saw another frown cross Subutai’s brow.

  The conversation stopped. Sargon glanced around, and realized no one was meeting his eyes. Obviously he had shown weakness in front of these warriors.

  Subutai ended the silence. “With a fresh horse, you will have plenty of time to rest. Now you should go and sleep.” He gestured to Garal, who immediately stood. Sargon, who still wanted another cup of stew, forced himself upright, trying not to betray the stiffness in his body.

  Garal led the way from Subutai’s tent, through the camp, until they reached Chinua’s dwelling place. To the rear of the tent, two blankets had been spread on the ground. Garal pointed to one. “Sleep. Tomorrow ride.”