Battle For Empire (The Eskkar Saga)

by Sam Barone

  Sargon didn’t have the strength to protest. He sank to the ground, jerked part of the blanket over his chest, and rested his head on his arm. With his stomach full of food and water, he fell asleep in moments, a deep, unbroken sleep that lasted throughout the entire night.

  19

  Garal and Sargon rode their horses out of the camp a little after sunrise. Traveling at an easy canter, Sargon had to admit, Chinua had spoken the truth last night. The horse he’d led over for Sargon’s use might not be anything special by Ur Nammu standards, but the powerful beast had no trouble keeping up with the fresh mount Garal rode.

  Chinua’s women had arisen even earlier than their men and prepared a quick meal for them both. Sargon was glad to see that this time, he and Garal each carried a water skin, a blanket, and a small sack containing the flat bread and dried meat the barbarians preferred. At least for today, Sargon wouldn’t be starving.

  In addition, Garal bore two extra items – wooden swords, similar to the ones used in Akkad’s own training.

  Obviously Garal intended to expand his pupil’s training. Sargon’s muscles were stiff, and his backside sore from the previous days, but Garal showed no concern for Sargon’s condition. As before, Garal kept the horses moving at a good pace, stopping only when the animals needed rest.

  Another difference in today’s ride was that Garal rode alongside his pupil. Sargon wondered why, until the first time he reached for the water skin.

  “No. No drink.” He shook his head, then pointed toward the sun with his hand, then swept his arm up to indicate midmorning. “Drink.”

  For a brief moment Sargon considered ignoring the command, but the memory of Garal knocking him off the horse ended that thought. Besides, Sargon had drunk just as much water from the stream before they departed as Garal, and Sargon’s pride refused to allow himself to drink before his teacher.

  The idea of Garal being his teacher held more truth than Sargon expected. As they rode, Garal started pointing out various details of the landscape, pronouncing the word and insisting that Sargon repeat it correctly. Bush, tree, grass, dung, rock, boulder, Garal spoke the name of each with care, repeating it as often as necessary.

  When Sargon made a mistake, Garal patiently corrected it. Except once, after Sargon grew frustrated and refused to answer. Then Garal simply smacked the heel of his hand against Sargon’s upper arm.

  The unexpected blow almost knocked Sargon from the horse. As soon as he regained control, Garal continued the lesson as if nothing had happened. Nevertheless, Sargon’s arm ached painfully, which motivated him to concentrate.

  They rested at midmorning and again at midday, each time drinking deeply from the water skins. The lessons continued until Sargon’s mind could hold no more. By then, half the afternoon had passed. They reached a small stream lined by a long wall of bushes. Sargon noticed faint hoof prints on the ground, and guessed this place served as a convenient watering hole.

  “Halt. Camp here.”

  Gratefully, Sargon slid down from the horse. He knew he was expected to care for the horse before taking care of his own needs, so he did, leading it to the water, and washing the animal down as it drank. Only when the horse willingly lifted its head from the stream did Sargon lead it out of the water and fasten its halter to an exposed root of a willow tree. Then he quenched his thirst from the gurgling stream.

  If Sargon thought that the time for rest had arrived, that idea soon vanished.

  Garal untied the wooden swords that he had bundled inside his blanket. Tossing one to Sargon, he pointed to a flat spot twenty paces away from the horses.

  The heft of the sword in Sargon’s hand banished the tiredness from his body. Unarmed, he might not be a match for Garal. But with a sword, Sargon knew things would be different. He had, after all, practiced many hours with Akkad’s best instructors, including his father.

  Garal raised his weapon. “Fight.”

  Sargon needed no further urging. He hefted the sword, getting a feel for the weapon. Its weight appeared a little different from what he’d practiced with. This blade was longer, and the wood itself seemed heavier, the grip cruder. But those differences were slight enough.

  Sargon started with a feint, swinging the sword high as if for an overhand stroke, then shortening the arc and thrusting forward with all his strength. Garal parried the stroke, catching Sargon’s thrust above his sword’s hilt and deflecting it just enough to send it past Garal’s arm.

  If the wooden tip had landed against Garal’s chest, the warrior would have been knocked down at the least, possibly even injured.

  At the same time Garal stepped into the thrust and rammed the hilt of his sword against the side of Sargon’s head.

  When Sargon regained consciousness, he found himself flat on his back staring up at the sky. His head hurt, and he felt a small trail of blood, along with a good sized lump, just above his temple. Groaning, he pushed himself up on his elbows and glanced around.

  Garal, never one to waste a moment, busied himself preparing a fire. He’d obviously had time to collect a large pile of dried wood, and now worked on arranging the sticks so that the fire would draw easily.

  When he heard Sargon stirring, he glanced over and smiled. “Good. Good thrust. Too slow.”

  Sargon had a little difficulty with the word ‘thrust’ but he figured it out as he got to his knees. By then Garal had picked up his sword once again. Sargon’s own weapon remained where it had fallen.

  Garal raised his weapon as before. “Fight.”

  Sargon shook his head. He wasn’t ready to face the warrior again. His head hurt, and his knees still felt weak.

  “You fight. Or I fight.”

  Garal took a step toward him, the menace plain in the way he gripped the wooden sword. Wincing against the pain throbbing in his head, Sargon picked up his own weapon.

  This time, however, Garal only wanted to spar. He attacked and withdrew, giving Sargon time to react and defend. Round and round they went, kicking up grass, sand and dirt, the dull thump of wood against wood repeating itself. One stroke caught Sargon on his right hand, a painful blow across his fingers that knocked the blade from his hand. Garal backed off and waited until his opponent could reclaim his weapon and grip it properly.

  Sargon used the time to remember what his trainers and his father had taught him. Watch where you step. Keep your guard up at all times. Don’t commit until you’re sure. Never waste your strength on blows that can be easily parried. At all times, watch your opponent’s eyes and his shoulders.

  These and all the other lessons he had learned returned, and for a time, Sargon held his own. But he soon felt his arm growing weak from the strain. The sword had grown heavy in Sargon’s hand. It might only be made of wood, yet it could still inflict pain and injuries.

  Garal halted when it became apparent that Sargon could do no more. “Good. You will get better. Learn to watch your enemy’s body, not his eyes. You will fight better.”

  “At my father’s training camps, we were taught to watch an opponent’s eyes.”

  “Body move before eyes reveal. Tomorrow, watch body.”

  Sargon recalled his father once saying much the same thing. Perhaps there was something to it after all. “I will.”

  “Good. Rest now. Eat.”

  They sat facing each other across the fire while they gnawed at the bread and solid chunks of meat packed in a bit of rag at the bottom of the sack. Sargon’s appetite made him wolf down the food, and he ignored the taste, or lack of it, anxious only to get the nourishment into his body. When the meal ended, the language lessons resumed.

  “Ground. Blanket. Stream. Sandal. Laces.” These words and more were forced into Sargon’s vocabulary. By the time Garal felt ready to turn in for the night, Sargon had learned more Ur Nammu words in a single day than he had ever mastered in Akkad.

  In the morning, they finished the last of the food, watered the horses, and rode out. In addition to his weary leg muscles, now Sargon’s righ
t arm complained as well, from all the sword practice. But it soon loosened up, as Garal stopped at midmorning for more practice, and repeated the effort at midday, and again in the middle of the afternoon. Meanwhile the language lessons never ceased as the two young men rode side by side.

  By the time they returned to the Ur Nammu main camp that night, they were communicating in simple sentences, and Sargon felt proud of his progress. Nothing like an encouraging blow from your teacher to keep you focused, though Garal had not needed to repeat that motivating part of his lesson today.

  After caring for the horses, Sargon followed Garal’s example and plunged into the stream, to wash away the horse smell and clean his tunic. Their garments still damp, they returned to Chinua’s tent and ate their supper.

  Tonight, that warrior made sure the language lesson continued. No Akkadian was spoken, forcing Sargon to concentrate if he wished to understand what was said. Though much of the men’s talk escaped him, he caught words and phrases whose meaning he knew. The language of the steppes people turned out to be much simpler than Akkadian.

  Once again, an exhausted Sargon fell asleep as soon as his head rested on the earth. In the morning, a young boy about six or seven seasons woke him, laughing at the stranger who slept after the sun had cleared the horizon.

  Day after day, the training continued. Long rides with little food and water, to toughen his body, with plenty of sword practice and language lessons during the day. After seven days, Garal took him on a four day journey, and they rode up and down the distant lands to the west. By this time Sargon could speak the language well enough to converse, and his command of Ur Nammu words grew each day.

  A wooden knife now hung from Sargon’s leather belt, and the wooden sword projected over his right shoulder, just as it often did with his father. They practiced with sword and knife, and Garal now added regular sessions of unarmed fighting.

  “A warrior never knows when he will need to fight, or what weapons will be at hand. You must master them all.”

  As the days passed, possible weapons included sticks, rocks, dirt that could be thrown into an enemy’s face, anything that could cut or bruise or cause pain. They even practiced throwing stones at targets.

  Each night a weary Sargon wrapped himself in his blanket and fell asleep in moments. Every morning, his muscles ached and complained, but little by little, they grew stronger. His thighs now gripped his horse’s sides firmly, and his arms no longer complained with every movement. The wooden sword felt lighter in his hand with each session.

  Nevertheless, every night before he closed his eyes, Sargon counted the days remaining until he could depart. He would survive this, and he would ride away, to be free of these simple people and of his parents forever.

  By now sixteen days had passed since Eskkar’s departure and the start of Sargon’s training. On each of those days, from sunrise to sunset, Sargon had labored on his riding skills and weapons practice, with every spare moment devoted to learning the Ur Nammu language.

  That night as he sat at Chinua’s campfire, eating and listening to Garal and Chinua’s other sons speak about the day’s activities. Sargon suddenly realized the talk had turned to him.

  “Garal says you are ready to ride with the warriors,” Chinua said. “A scouting party is riding out tomorrow, to scout the lands to the southwest. The Clan will be moving that way soon. Fashod will lead the band. There will be much that you can learn.”

  Sargon nodded. Whatever he thought of the idea mattered little anyway.

  “Garal and two of my clan are also going. And Timmu will accompany them, to help care for the horses. You can ride alongside Timmu.”

  Timmu, seated only an arm’s length away, was Chinua’s oldest natural son, with eleven seasons. By now Sargon knew that Chinua had four sons and three daughters of his own, from his two wives. But Chinua once had an older brother, who had died at the hands of the Alur Meriki more than twelve years ago. Since that day, Chinua had raised his only nephew, Garal, as if he were his own son.

  Barbarians made little distinction between such offspring. Garal had fifteen seasons, close to Sargon’s age, but had only a few months ago been accepted into the warrior ranks. In Chinua’s eyes, that made Garal the perfect teacher for Sargon. Still young enough to enjoy his youth, but strong and capable enough to have proved his valor as a warrior.

  Timmu might have only eleven seasons, but he was tall for his age and sturdy enough, though he yet had many years ahead of him before he finished growing. The boy tried to conceal his excitement at the idea of his first expedition riding with the warriors, but the smile on his face couldn’t be held back.

  “You do not have to go, Sargon,” Chinua said. “If you feel you are not yet ready . . .”

  Sargon didn’t mind. Riding with the warriors would at least be a change of pace, something to speed up the passage of the days.

  “No, Chinua, I am ready. It will be an honor.” He bowed in acceptance, the proper response for any invitation from the head of a family and one of the clan leaders.

  “Then sleep well tonight. Fashod will lead out the warriors just after dawn.”

  When the meal ended, Sargon prepared his blanket for sleep. Most of the others would sit around the fire talking, check on their horses, or walk along the stream with their women, to enjoy themselves for a time under the open sky.

  As he threw himself down, Chinua appeared. “You will need this.” He dropped Sargon’s knife, the one his father had brought with him from Akkad, onto the ground. “Only warriors can carry a sword or bow, but anyone who rides with warriors is expected to have a knife, and know how to use it. Garal says you will carry it well.”

  “I will, Chinua. And my thanks to both you and Garal.”

  In the midst of a camp filled with armed warriors, any of whom could probably cut him down in moments, the presence of a knife shouldn’t mean much. Nonetheless, Sargon found it comforting to have his own weapon close at hand. The blade was a good one, bronze, ordered by his mother from Akkad’s master sword maker, and similar to the one his father wore at his waist.

  The reminder of his father brought back another memory. When Eskkar was even younger than Sargon, he killed his first man with a knife. In a way, that stroke had started Eskkar down the path that eventually took him to the kingship of Akkad. Perhaps there was a lesson in that after all.

  Before dawn, Timmu woke Sargon. “Hurry, we must eat and look to our horses.”

  By now Sargon had learned to come awake at the slightest touch. A few morning kicks from Garal had taught him that lesson. Timmu’s mother had prepared food and supplies for them both, and she had tears in her eyes as her oldest son snatched them from her hand and darted off, eager to begin his first ride with the warriors.

  Again Sargon remembered his manners, and thanked the woman before he, too, rushed off into the first light of dawn to find his horse.

  The sun had just lifted above the horizon when Fashod rode out of the camp. Twelve warriors followed him. Timmu, Sargon, and another boy named Meeka brought up the rear. Sargon soon learned that was where they were expected to remain. Fashod traveled fast, and Sargon found himself grateful for all of Garal’s strenuous rides.

  As they rode, Timmu warned Sargon about the slightest lapse of obedience. “We are both sons of a clan leader, so we will not be beaten unless we fail to obey. Nor will either of us end up as sleeping companions, for the same reason. At least not on so short a ride as this.”

  Sargon grunted at hearing that, and fingered his knife. He didn’t intend to share anyone’s blanket. Nevertheless, despite Timmu’s youth, the boy knew the ways of his clan. Sargon decided to heed his companion’s words, and to give no offense to anyone.

  Timmu and Meeka might be good riders, but Sargon, being older, had the stronger body. His horse knew its business, and clearly didn’t enjoy riding behind the others. Sargon had no trouble keeping up with the warriors. At midmorning the scouting party took its first rest, and Sargon got his fir
st shock.

  While the warriors sprawled out on the grass, the boys were expected to rub the horses down and keep them secure. It took all three of them to accomplish this, with the result that the boys – and Sargon knew he was considered to be nothing more – got almost no rest for themselves.

  “Is that all we’re going to do,” Sargon asked Timmu when they once again rode side by side. “Care for their horses?”

  “There is more, much more,” Timmu said. “We must gather wood for the cooking fires, make sure the horses are safe, prepare the campfire, and do the cooking. And anything else any of the warriors wants us to do.”

  Apparently the horse boys were expected to do everything. They cleaned the game the hunters brought down with their arrows, washed and groomed the horses at least once a day, sometimes oftener if a warrior became unduly concerned about his mount. They were also expected to search for and carry firewood and dried dung back to the camp.

  “And what will the men be doing while we work?” Sargon had wondered about the mission. What did the party expect to find?

  “The men will search for any signs of danger to the Clan.” Timmu spoke as if he had vast experience with such things. “They will look for good hunting grounds and possible camp sites. Some riders will range far ahead, searching for anything of value.”

  Gritting his teeth, Sargon held back his words. So now he’d become nothing more than a servant to a bunch of barbarians riding over the countryside. Garal’s lessons would have been better than this. Regardless, Sargon knew better than to complain. Several times he saw Garal glancing behind, checking up on how his charge performed his duties. Sargon realized that any mistakes he made would reflect more on Garal and Chinua than on himself.

  Swearing under his breath at this new situation, Sargon knew he would just have to endure it for the next two or three days. By then they should be back at the Ur Nammu encampment, and Sargon could resume his lessons with Garal.