by Sam Barone
Subutai misunderstood the hesitation. “It has nothing to do with Chinua. But at my campfire, you will learn how the clan leaders make decisions, how they speak and plan for the future. The ways of leading are difficult to teach. Better if you watch and see for yourself.”
This time it took a moment before Sargon translated the more complex phrases. Not that it really mattered. Giving affront to the Ur Nammu clan leader didn’t seem wise. “As you wish, Sarum.”
“Good. We will begin tonight. You will sit at my left hand.” He rose to his feet, a smooth movement that took him from sitting to standing with little effort. “My wives are already waiting.”
Honored guests sat at the left side of their host. Sargon, still feeling the effects of Garal’s sword, took twice as long to get to his feet.
He followed the Sarum outside the tent, where a few warriors stood around the campfire. Waiting until Subutai sat, Sargon slipped to the ground beside him, but a little to the rear. He’d seen the same situation at Chinua’s evening fire, though he had never sat beside the warrior.
In the western sky, the crimson sun had touched the horizon. The cooking fire had already served its purpose, and now only low flames curled and crackled from the embers. Subutai took his place at the head of the rough circle that formed around the campfire.
His grown sons had their own tents and families, and only two younger boys about Sargon’s age were present, watching their elders. On Subutai’s right sat Fashod, the second in command, or what the Ur Nammu called a leader of one hundred. Although Sargon knew that title had little to do with the actual numbers of warriors under his command.
Subutai’s wives, Petra and Roxsanni, and their daughters began ladling out the evening’s meal. The simple fare was no different from what Sargon had eaten at Chinua’s tent. The customary stew of mixed vegetables and small game, usually rabbit, came first. But tonight one of the family’s hunters had bagged a wild sheep, so the thick smell of roasted mutton hung over the camp site.
Every family member had his own eating bowl, and visitors were expected to arrive with their own. Before Sargon could decide how to handle the situation, a girl appeared at his left and thrust a bowl into his hands. He lifted his gaze and saw Tashanella, as she handed a second bowl to her father. Tashanella gave Sargon the briefest glance before returning to her mother’s side.
Fashod lifted his bowl in the gesture of thanks to his host, and immediately began eating, so Sargon copied his gesture of respect.
After a few swallows, Fashod spoke. Either he was speaking slower out of consideration for his guest, or Sargon’s knowledge of the language had improved. The second in command ran through the day’s events, the reports of the scouts, the condition of the horses, even an argument over a horse between two men who had nearly come to blows.
No one else spoke, and Sargon guessed that the first order of business must be the report of the day’s activity. He took another sip of the stew, and enjoyed a pleasant surprise. Either the Sarum’s wives, being older, were better cooks than Chinua’s wives, or Subutai’s women had received the choicest cuts of meat and the freshest vegetables. Soon Sargon was scooping the last of the stew out of the empty bowl, using his fingers to get the last shreds of meat.
“You know I am one of the twelve warriors who fought with your father in our first battle together?”
Sargon realized that Fashod had directed that comment toward him. “No, I did not know that.” Now would come a long tale about his father’s battle skills and fearless courage.
“That was before you were born. It was I who first scouted the way toward Akkad. Your people called it Orak then. I remember when the few of us who survived reached the village, with its high walls still being built. Your mother came out to us, and gave us food and drink with her own hand. She directed her women to care for our wounded, and her healers saved many of our youngest, including my own daughter.”
His mother had probably calculated the value of each basket of food, and weighed it against any possible return. “I did not know that, Fashod.”
“It’s true,” Subutai added. “My son also was near death, and my first wife,” he gestured to the smaller circle of women and children eating their own meal, “nearly died as well. The Ur Nammu Clan would have probably starved to death and disappeared from the earth without your parents’ help.”
“Your people have repaid that debt many times,” Sargon offered. “Even in the war with Sumer, I knew Chinua and Fashod rode with my father.”
Subutai shrugged. “That was as much to train our own warriors as to help Eskkar. Even without our help, he would have defeated the Sumerians.”
“Still, we did help,” Fashod said, unwilling to concede that their effort hadn’t amounted to much. “And we led the charge against the desert rabble, though they outnumbered us greatly. I remember that many of them turned their horses away in fear when they heard our war cries.”
Fascinated in spite of himself, Sargon leaned closer. “Tell me about the battle.” Of course he had already heard it many times, told by Hathor and many others, as well as his father.
This time Sargon heard a different side to the story of the great battle. Fashod had ridden with Hathor in the remarkable raid that circled almost all of the Land Between the Rivers. Akkad’s soldiers still told the tale nearly every night in the ale houses.
Now Fashod described that ride, told how the need for speed and secrecy caused them to rush toward their enemies as fast as the wind. The Ur Nammu had provided the scouts for the campaign.
Fashod told of the attacks against the desert tribes, the fall of Uruk, even the wild ride to Isin the day before the deciding battle. And after that bloody encounter, where they broke Sumer’s army, Hathor and Fashod led their men south, all the way to Sumer’s gates, to carry the war back to those who had started it.
By the time Fashod finished, the fire had grown cold, and the full dark of night had arrived. Sargon glanced around the circle. Many others from nearby tents had moved in to surround their leaders, edging close enough to hear the story of the Ur Nammu’s greatest victory. No doubt they, too, had heard it many times, but Fashod related the adventure with the easy skill of an accomplished storyteller.
For the first time, the battle truly came alive to Sargon. Now he could genuinely appreciate the final desperate charge against overwhelming numbers, picture the arrows arcing through the sky, see the lances hurtling toward the enemy, even hear the shouts of the warriors, the thunder of the horses, and the cries of the wounded and dying.
“Each time he tells the story,” Subutai said when Fashod finished, “he kills a few more Sumerians.”
Everyone laughed, a satisfying sound that nevertheless gave praise to the brave men who fought that day, and to the memory of those who had fallen in battle.
“Now it is time to rest,” Subutai said, ending the evening meal.
Everyone was on their feet. The women collected the food bowls and picked up the discarded scraps, to keep the night creatures away from the tents.
As Sargon stood, Subutai leaned close to him. “You will make a good warrior someday, Sargon. When the need arises, you will heed the war call bravely. My sight tells me this is true.”
The Sarum, of course, was supposed to be able to foretell the future. No doubt his ignorant followers all believed it. Nonetheless, Subutai’s tone told Sargon that the Ur Nammu leader believed every word he had just uttered.
“Then I hope I will be ready when the time comes,” Sargon answered.
“Put your trust in the teachings of Chinua and Garal,” Subutai said. “Then you cannot fail.”
Sargon nodded, grateful for the kindly words. As he started back toward Chinua’s tent, Sargon glimpsed a figure standing a few paces away, watching him. By the time Sargon realized who it was, Tashanella had vanished into the shadows.
21
For the next six days, Sargon and Garal spent at least half their time riding across the countryside, and the remaind
er practicing with weapons. The long days of hard work now yielded results. Sargon’s skill in controlling his horse improved, even as the muscles in his arms and legs grew firm.
Whenever they stopped to rest the horses, out came the wooden swords. By the sixth day, Sargon could hold his own. No longer could Garal risk giving Sargon the slightest opening. Both men considered it a poor session if Sargon did not score at least one ‘fatal’ strike against his instructor.
Garal believed the sword and bow the most important, but he didn’t neglect the lance and knife. When Sargon’s arm grew weary of drawing the bow or holding the sword, Garal would switch to the lance.
They took turns, riding at the target at ever increasing speed, and hurling the lance. When Sargon mastered the basics of that, they would ride together, side by side, yelling war cries, and throw their lances at the same moment.
The hardest skill to master remained shooting the bow from the back of a galloping horse. Sargon swore a hundred oaths at missed targets, dropped arrows, broken bowstrings, and embarrassing times when the bow simply slipped from his hand.
Three times he lost control of his horse and fell heavily to the ground, to Garal’s amusement. Nevertheless, Sargon felt his confidence grow with each wild charge.
Whenever Sargon grew frustrated or complained, Garal brushed aside his complaints. “You have it easy. A real warrior has to practice his skills whenever he can. Much of his day is spent riding and scouting and hunting, following the Sarum’s orders. Since you’ve been here, the camp has not moved. When the Ur Nammu journey to another place, then the warriors have to work the horses, help pitch the tents, load the wagons. Every man in the camp would be grateful for an opportunity to hone their skills like this.”
“When is the camp going to move?”
“Not for another thirty or forty days,” Garal replied. “And we will not move far, just a few miles farther downstream. This country is still well stocked with game, there is thick grass to feed the horses and herd animals, and the stream provides plenty of good water. But first, in two days, Chinua will lead a large scouting party to the southwest, to check on the next campsite. You and Timmu will probably both join us.”
The only rest Sargon enjoyed, before he dropped wearily to his blanket to sleep the night through, was the obligatory evening meal at Subutai’s tent. The good food helped relax him after a long day, and by now Sargon looked forward to it.
After that first night, Sargon brought his own bowl, and it was always Tashanella who took it from his hand and filled it from the pot. After a few meals, he realized that the portions he received were as choice as those given to Subutai. Sargon couldn’t tell if that was because of his status as an important guest, or Tashanella’s doing.
One of Subutai’s wives usually attended her husband, but on several occasions Tashanella also served her father. She didn’t seem to be the eldest daughter. By the plain garment she wore, Sargon guessed that she must still be too young for the women’s rites.
Ur Nammu fathers, in much the same way as those in Akkad, married their daughters off as soon as they reached puberty. No one, barbarian or city dweller, wanted to deal with the problems a young girl turning into a woman created.
Those who delayed marriage for their daughters too long often regretted that decision. Better to get them married off, out of the household, and under their new husband’s authority. A baby or two would quickly subdue a girl’s hot emotions.
Sargon raised the question with Garal one day during their morning ride. “Chief Subutai’s daughter, Tashanella, seems different from the other girls in the camp.”
“She is.” Garal turned to give Sargon a long look. “Do not concern yourself with her. When she passes through the rites, she will be married to some brave warrior, or at least one who can afford such a prize.”
“What makes her such a prize?”
“She is the Sarum’s daughter, but the women say she possesses much wisdom. Some day she may even become one of the Gifted Ones.”
It took a few moments before that idea translated. “What’s a Gifted One.”
“A woman wise in the ways of the Clan, one who can be invited to sit in on the Sarum’s Council. They are rare, and the Ur Nammu have not had such a one in many years. You would be wise to give no offense to her. Tashanella is her father’s favorite, and he is quick to anger where she is concerned.”
“Maybe you should take her for a wife yourself.”
Garal laughed. “She will not be given to any young warrior, let alone one who has never fought in a battle. No, she will belong to an old and seasoned warrior, one who probably already has too many horses and too many wives.”
For the first time, Sargon realized that Garal, too, had never fought in battle. For the last thirty days, Sargon had struggled to keep up with the warrior. Garal was less than two seasons older. That thought was soon replaced by another. If Garal was so strong, how would Sargon match up against an older and more experienced fighter?
Unbidden, Sargon thought of his father. Even now when Eskkar had grown old, few men in Akkad were willing to face him in combat. Of course, his father’s famous luck and reputation might have much to do with that unwillingness. Or perhaps Eskkar’s frequent long rides and the almost daily practice with his sword had something to do with it.
“Is not your mother,” Garal interrupted the silence, “I have forgotten her name, one of the Gifted Ones? That is what Subutai’s wife claims. She has met several times with her.”
His father, and now his mother. Sargon shook his head. Even out here in these desolate lands, he could not escape their presence.
“My mother, they call her Lady Trella, is the wisest and most cunning person, man or woman, in Akkad. She rules the city even more than my father, so I guess you could say she is one of the gifted.”
Garal grunted at the unflattering description, but said nothing.
That evening, at Subutai’s tent, Sargon once again handed his empty bowl to Tashanella. It was returned filled to the brim, and he thought the girl’s hand lingered for a moment on his as he accepted it.
He smiled up at her. Sargon knew warriors, even visitors at another man’s tent, did not thank their women for serving them. Nevertheless, he nodded his appreciation.
Tashanella flashed the fleetest of smiles at him, before moving away. For the rest of the meal, Sargon’s attention drifted again and again to the women’s circle. Of course he could not stare at her, but the longer he studied the girl, the more interested he became.
He could not guess her age. Slim as a willow tree, Tashanella appeared yet a maiden. Still, her loose dress concealed much, and Sargon wondered just how ripe was the body that hid beneath the garment. He felt a stirring in his loins, a rare sensation since he had left Akkad.
Later that evening, after he returned to Chinua’s tent, Sargon approached Garal. He often sat and spoke with the young warrior before they slept. The animosity Sargon had first felt for Garal had gradually faded away. Now they were more like companions who could trust each other.
Usually Sargon wanted to know more about the next day’s activity, and tonight he managed to ask a few questions about the morning before he asked what was really on his mind.
“How many seasons does Tashanella have?” For once he was glad that he couldn’t see Garal’s face in the dark.
Surprised by the sudden change in the conversation, Garal had to think for a moment. “I think she has thirteen, no, maybe fourteen seasons. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Just that she seems old enough to be married.”
“She will be, soon.”
Sargon knew that most girls went through Ishtar’s rites between the ages of thirteen and fifteen, though some took longer. Even so, it was not uncommon for girls to be married off even if they had yet to undergo the rite of passage into womanhood. Even maidens could provide relief for a man’s needs.
“I don’t think you should be casting eyes at Tashanella while you’re at the
Sarum’s camp. You may be a visitor here, but that kind of offense . . .”
“Do not worry,” Sargon said. “All I want to do is get through the next fifty days with my head on my shoulders.”
By now Garal knew all about Sargon’s pact with Subutai.
“You are still keen to leave the Clan as soon as you can?”
“The Clan is your home, your family, not mine. I no longer have a family of my own. I will have to find a new place in the world, one as far from Akkad as I can.”
“Then you’d better get some sleep,” Garal said. “We have another long day tomorrow.”
Two days later, Sargon rode out of the Ur Nammu camp just after dawn. Chinua and fourteen warriors led the way, while Sargon and three other horse boys brought up the rear. Timmu, Chinua’s son, rode beside Sargon, and the younger boy grinned excitedly at the prospect of accompanying the men again.
From his evening meals at the Sarum’s tent, Sargon understood the need for this trip. In the last month, Subutai’s outriders to the west had encountered small groups of people fleeing toward the lands traversed by the Ur Nammu. The Sarum wanted to know more about these people, including why they fled whatever lands they came from, and even more important, who might be pursuing them.
Subutai had ordered Chinua to go out with a small band of warriors and collect whatever information he could. Sargon and Timmu, Chinua’s son, found themselves included in the group.
Not that Sargon concerned himself with Chinua’s orders. The trip held no excitement for Sargon. Whatever the value to the Ur Nammu, Sargon had done this before, and this venture promised more days of hard work, with little to be gained. Even though Garal rode with the party, Sargon guessed that the warrior would have little time for any training.
Though the clan’s women had packed extra food, Sargon knew the men would be living off the land, and that part of each day’s journey would be devoted to hunting the evening’s meal. If the hunt came up empty, then every rider would sleep on an empty stomach, and in the morning belts would be tightened. The horse boys, of course, would eat last, even if the hunt were successful. If not, then they would be as hungry as the men.