by Sam Barone
Instead, the scouting expedition lasted ten grueling days, at least for Sargon and the other horse boys. Fashod and the warriors appeared to enjoy themselves. They rode in a wide arc to the west, often breaking up into smaller groups. At times, they left the horse boys behind, or sent them on ahead to prepare a camp.
Aside from riding and hunting, and occasionally practicing with their weapons, Sargon noticed the warriors did little work.
“In Akkad, we would be considered slaves,” Sargon said to Timmu at the end of the tenth day. “We’re lucky they don’t beat us every night, merely for their fun.”
Just before midafternoon of the tenth day of the scouting trip, the warriors returned to the main camp. Fashod and the others exhibited the usual signs of excitement and eagerness to be home. Sargon and Timmu were so tired that they could scarcely guide their horses to Chinua’s corral. Timmu explained that they were no longer expected to take care of the other animals. Once the group returned to the camp, the warriors’ kin would see to that.
The moment he’d finished with his horse, Sargon threw himself into the stream, luxuriating in the chance to get clean again. Timmu had to call him several times before he climbed out of the water, ignoring the chill in the air.
Chinua’s household prepared a small feast for Garal and the returning horse boys. The family’s largest pot was filled with rabbit meat, along with leftovers of a deer taken in yesterday’s hunt. The women added a generous helping of wild vegetables, whatever they had managed to find. It all went into the pot, along with a handful of spices, some of which Sargon recognized as coming from Akkad.
By the time Sargon got back from the stream, the tempting odors wafted over Chinua’s camp site. Sargon gratefully took his seat on the fringe of the fire, next to Timmu, who had already started recounting each day’s adventure to his father.
Sargon understood that for Timmu, the ride was one of several rites of passage the boy would be required to complete before he could consider himself a warrior. For Sargon, the trip had accomplished nothing.
“And you, Sargon, did nothing exciting happen to you?” Chinua’s interest appeared sincere.
“I did kill a rabbit with a rock.”
Everyone smiled at that. “Fashod says that you did well, that you rode as well as any of the warriors.”
So Chinua had sought out the trip’s leader as soon as he returned. Or perhaps Fashod had come to Chinua’s tent.
“My backside is not as sore as it usually is,” Sargon admitted.
Chinua chuckled. “Then tomorrow Garal will continue your training.” He turned to one of his daughters, a girl of eight or nine seasons and nodded. She scrambled to her feet and ran inside the tent, to reappear almost at once. In her hands she carried a bow and a quiver of arrows, which she handed to her father.
Chinua passed them to Sargon. “Now that you have learned to ride, you must learn to shoot a bow and arrow.”
Sargon ran his hands over the bow, his excitement plain. To hold a real weapon in his hand after so many days with nothing but a wooden sword or knife. He’d seen the warriors practicing their archery as they rode, often taking time to charge a particular tree or hill, shooting arrows as they rode at a gallop and shouting their war cries. A deadly weapon indeed in the hands of a skilled marksman. Of course, the horse boys were forbidden to touch any of the warriors’ weapons.
“Even your father admits he never mastered the bow from horseback,” Chinua said. “Though I saw him charge the Sumerians with a lance in his hand.”
Sargon felt pleased to hear of his father’s weakness. “He told me once that he left the Clan too soon, before he’d had time to master the bow. And that he was too tall and broad to use one efficiently from the back of a horse.”
“Then you will have something to show him when you return,” Chinua said. “It is always well when a son exceeds his father.”
20
For the first time since he’d reached the Ur Nammu camp, Sargon fell asleep looking forward to the morning. He slept with the bow at his side that night. As usual, Garal awakened him just after dawn. Sargon climbed to his feet, rested and refreshed. Perhaps Garal’s foolishness about keeping the bow close mattered after all.
They washed up at the stream, then returned to the tent, where the women handed each of them a strip of dried meat. The sun had scarcely cleared the horizon when Garal led the way to the farthest end of the camp, far enough from the tents so that they would be undisturbed. The warriors had established an area there, to practice their bowmanship.
Sargon took stock of the barbarian archery range. Unlike the large targets used in Akkad, he found a series of tall stakes driven into the ground. A thick sack full of dried grass and weeds hung from each one, dangling about the height of a man on a horse. Each stake stood apart, at least twenty paces from its neighbor.
Examining the ground, Sargon saw the tracks of many horses, and realized the warriors must use this place regularly. This early in the morning, however, the field remained empty.
Under Garal’s direction, Sargon started by shooting at a stationary target. He had drawn the powerful Akkadian long bows on many occasions, but he’d never mastered the weapon. He was just tall enough, but the stiffness of the bow taxed his strength. His father’s archers spent a good part of every day drawing and loosing at least a hundred arrows.
That built powerful muscles in their arms and chests. As the trainer often declared, a bowman must be able to stand and draw his shafts all day long, if necessary, and in the heat of day and the thick of battle. That onerous requirement explained why most of the Akkadian archers were tall, with broad chests and well-muscled arms and legs.
The shorter horseman’s bow Garal had given him, however, with its horn tips, thickened grip, and sharply curved limbs, was a different matter all together. Meant to be used from the back of a horse and at close range, its draw was much shorter than that of the longer bows of the city. Sargon knew he could use this weapon well enough, especially after the last twenty days of riding and training.
Garal carried his own bow as they walked up to the nearest target, but Sargon struggled under the weight of four quivers of arrows.
“We will lose some shafts,” Garal explained. “Once an arrow flies into the grass or sand, it often disappears. Others will break when they impact the target, or shatter if they strike a rock. These shafts are not the best our old men and women make. Those are kept for battle. But these will do well enough for us.”
Everyone in the camp worked at something. Those men too old, or unable to fight or ride made weapons, mostly lances, bows, and arrows, scraping and carving most of the day. The Ur Nammu had few skilled in working with bronze, but Akkad filled that void, providing them with bronze swords, knives, and lance heads.
Sargon examined the shafts in one of the quivers. All had bone tips set into the shaft and bound with thread. Few looked straight enough for accurate shooting. The feathers that steadied the arrow in its flight looked jagged and uneven.
Garal halted twenty paces from the first post, and told Sargon to begin. Dropping the quivers to the ground, Sargon strung his bow, set his feet, and launched his first shaft. It struck the dangling grass sack, making it rock back and forth.
“Good,” Garal grunted. “Again.”
After launching twenty or so arrows, Sargon’s right arm started aching, and his left trembled as he struggled to keep it rigid. Some shafts flew wide of the mark. Nevertheless, Garal declared himself satisfied with Sargon’s efforts.
“Your teachers in Akkad taught you well. You know how to take aim and to release smoothly. That is good. But you must nock and aim faster. On horseback, everything happens at once. One moment you are out of range, the next you are too close. Often you get only one chance to launch a shaft.”
To demonstrate, Garal slung a quiver over his shoulder. With a smooth motion, he whipped an arrow from the quiver, nocked and drew the bow in the same motion, and released the shaft. Without pausing he
plucked another arrow from the quiver, and another and another, until he emptied his quiver of missiles, sixteen arrows in all.
Sargon stood there with his mouth hanging open. None of Hathor’s warriors or even Mitrac’s archers had ever shot so many shafts so quickly. Even Mitrac himself, Akkad’s master archer, had never accomplished such a feat. And every one of Garal’s arrows struck the target.
The warrior led the way to recover the shafts. “Your fingers must grow used to nocking the arrow to the bow. You must do this without looking down, as that will disturb your aim.”
They practiced until midmorning. By then, Sargon’s arms had turned to water, and he felt even more tired than if they had worked out with swords.
“Time to get our horses and ride,” Garal remarked. “We will each carry our bows and one quiver.”
They returned to the camp, drank at the stream, then collected their horses and rode out. Sargon carried his bronze knife, along with the wooden sword slung over his shoulder. He carried the bow in his left hand, with the quiver fastened to his waist on his left side. In battle, Sargon’s left hand would also have to hold the halter and guide his horse, assisted by pressure from the rider’s knees. The right hand, of course, remained free, ready for sword, lance, or to draw the bow.
Most of the warriors carried their weapons in this manner, though some replaced the bow with a pair of lances. Aside from his Akkadian tunic, Sargon looked and rode like any Ur Nammu warrior.
Garal set a fast pace as they raced around the camp, crossed the stream, and headed east. They galloped up and down gentle hills covered with grass, jumped gullies, and wove their way through large collections of boulders, pausing only long enough to rest the horses when they needed it. The ride ended where the morning had started, at the archery range. This time the two men remained mounted.
“The horses are too tired for much more.” Garal patted his mount’s neck as he spoke. “But they can still serve to give you some more practice.” He started at the same twenty paces. Slipping an arrow from the quiver, he loosed it at the target, followed by five more, all launched with the same speed. “We’ll take turns. Now you shoot a few.”
Sargon found himself fumbling with the quiver. Sitting astride the horse, the quiver didn’t hang straight down, so the arrows rested inside at an angle, which made them harder to grasp. When he finally nocked one to the bow, he realized the bow could not be held straight either. The halter, which still had to be grasped, interfered with his grip, and his left thigh forced the bottom of the bow out to the side. Sargon’s first arrow flew wide of the mark. His next one, which took even longer to nock, also missed the target.
“It is difficult at first,” Garal said. “Keep trying.”
Gritting his teeth, Sargon emptied the quiver, while his bored horse pawed the ground. At least the last few shafts struck the target.
The two men climbed down and recovered their arrows.
“Now let’s try it at a walk,” Garal said. He guided his horse to a spot about fifty paces from the target. “A skilled warrior would have already shot two shafts by the time he reached this point. Set your horse to a walk, and we’ll see how many arrows you can put on the target.”
The moment the animal started moving forward, even at a plodding walk, Sargon found the entire process had doubled in difficulty. The horse’s movements jiggled the quiver, even as it made Sargon’s leg shift slightly, forcing him to fumble when he extracted a shaft and nocked it.
Determined, he kept shooting, loosing the arrows as fast as he could yank them from the quiver. Nevertheless, he managed to only get off ten shafts before the horse halted in front of the target.
Sargon glanced at Garal, who said nothing. He didn’t have to. Half of the Akkadian’s shots had missed the target.
Garal broke the silence. “We’ll collect our arrows and try again.”
And again and again, until the pain and weakness returned to Sargon’s arms. But his last effort showed improvement, as he put fourteen arrows into the target, and missed only two.
“Enough archery for today,” Garal said, glancing up at the sky to see how much daylight remained. “Another ride will do the horses good, too.”
A final quick gallop through the countryside brought them back to the camp well before dusk. “Now it’s time to practice your sword play.”
This was the first time that Sargon had done any training inside the warriors’ camp. After tending to the horses, they washed the dust from their faces, and drank from the stream. They walked back to Chinua’s tent and found themselves an open space nearby. Garal put down his sword and took up a wooden one. “Let’s begin.”
The session began, but this time with a crowd quickly forming to watch the performance. Women, children, even a few old warriors, appeared as if by magic, attracted by the thumping of the wooden blades, to watch the young Akkadian match his skills with one of their own.
Aware of the growing audience, Sargon exerted himself, defending attack after attack by Garal. With the sweat pouring from his face, Sargon matched strokes with his instructor, but Garal seemed to grow stronger with each clash of the swords.
Soon a stroke slipped past Sargon’s guard, a stinging blow on his upper arm that, if the swords had been real, would have probably severed the limb.
Garal ordered a brief rest. Sargon, breathing heavily, glanced around, and saw that about thirty people had formed a rough circle around the two men. He heard comments, most of which he didn’t understand, exchanged between members of the crowd. Half a dozen warriors watched also, but they stared in silence.
They were, Sargon realized with a shock, studying both antagonists, just in case they ever had to face either of them in a fight.
The practice resumed, but it didn’t take long before Sargon’s lack of endurance made itself evident. His offense vanished in moments and his defense began to weaken. Garal, stronger to begin with, seemed to grow in strength with each attack. Stroke after stroke slipped through Sargon’s guard.
In the end, his weary legs made him stumble as he failed to block one of Garal’s simple overhead strokes. The thick wood of the sword landed almost unimpeded on the side of Sargon’s head.
When he recovered consciousness, Sargon found himself where he had fallen, though someone had placed a blanket under his head. Two women were tending him, one still dabbing at his head with a damp rag. Both smiled as he lay there embarrassed and trying to gather his wits.
“No more today,” the older woman said, smiling and giving his head a final pat. “Time to eat soon.”
The other woman – Sargon realized she was only a young girl – had wiped his chest and face with another wet rag. He thought he’d seen her before, though not at any of the tents belonging to Chinua or his neighbors.
She returned his gaze. “I am Tashanella.” Her husky voice sounded older than her years. “My father is Subutai, leader of the Ur Nammu. He wishes you to join him at his campfire tonight.”
Sargon pushed himself to a sitting position, assisted by both women. The movement made the blood rush to his head, and he nearly passed out again. When the dizziness faded, only Tashanella remained kneeling at his side, holding his arm.
“It is best if we go now,” she said. “My father does not like to wait, and he sent me some time ago. I arrived while you were still fighting with Garal.”
He touched his head. His right ear felt hot, as if it were going to burst into flames. “It wasn’t much of a fight.”
“Yes, I saw. He could have fought much harder. Such encounters often end with broken bones.”
Sargon didn’t need to be reminded of that. For the first time, he gave the girl a closer inspection. Young, perhaps yet a maiden waiting to be initiated in the women’s rites, she spoke with a certainty that seemed older than her years.
Her eyes, large and dark brown, regarded him with as much interest. Long brown hair hung straight down her back and reached halfway to her waist. A smile formed on her lips, revealing even
white teeth.
“I know he could have fought harder.” Sargon found himself staring into her eyes.
“I am glad he did not,” she said. “Otherwise I would have to drag you back to my father’s tent.”
Despite his throbbing head, Sargon managed a smile. He pushed himself to his feet, and the girl’s strength helped him remain upright. He stood there for a moment, until he felt certain that he wasn’t going to fall. The girl, however, still held onto his arm.
“I can walk.” He realized he had forgotten her name. “What is your name?”
“Tashanella.” She dropped her hand, turned away, and started walking.
Sargon followed her across the camp until they reached Subutai’s tent. Tashanella opened the tent flap and held it so that he could enter. Ducking, Sargon slipped inside the tent and heard the flap drop behind him.
Subutai sat cross-legged on a folded blanket. “Sit.” He motioned to a blanket set opposite his own. “You were fighting?”
Sargon bowed his head in respect before sinking onto the blanket. “With Garal.”
No need to explain that they had been practicing. The Ur Nammu language used the same word for sparring and fighting. Subutai knew the difference. Sargon would be dead if the fight had been for real.
“Garal is almost as good with a sword as his bow. Someday he will be one of our greatest warriors.”
“He is . . . a good teacher. Is that not as important as being a great fighter?”
Subutai nodded. “You are learning our language. And, yes, someday being a good teacher may be as important as being a strong warrior, but that day has not yet come. Meanwhile, you have already answered my question about your progress. Since you speak our language well enough, I would like you to take your evening meals with me from now on.”
Not sure what to make of that request, Sargon hesitated. Subutai had asked him politely enough, but a suggestion from the clan leader carried the same force as one of Eskkar’s commands to his soldiers.
That rankled Sargon. He felt almost the same anger toward Subutai as he did toward his father.