by Sam Barone
The enemy camp slept on, unaware of the warriors’ approach. Then Sargon heard a man’s voice shouting something unintelligible from the other side of the corral. Someone must have seen or heard something.
Off to his right, Sargon glimpsed the shadowy bulk of Skala as he swung up onto his horse. He waited only a moment for his men to follow his action, then he launched the attack. By then the five Ur Nammu riders had closed to within a hundred paces from the herd.
Shouting their frightening war cries, Skala and his riders splashed across the stream and charged into the corral. The single strand of rope burst under the stress of Skala’s mount, and then the warriors were deep in the midst of the horse herd.
Sargon saw the warriors’ swords flashing in the night, rising and falling, their edges glinting in the dim light of the nearest campfire. Skala’s men never stopped sounding their war cries or attacking the horses. To the sleeping Carchemishi, Skala’s handful of men probably sounded like a hundred.
The horses screamed in pain, as the swords cut into their bodies. Not killing strokes, but slashing cuts meant to wound and frighten the suddenly aroused brutes.
Sargon’s string of animals reacted as well, tossing their heads and pawing the ground. The animals had caught the excitement. He found himself fighting with all his strength to hold onto the halters. With the need for silence gone, Sargon spoke aloud the calming words Garal had taught him, as he struggled to keep the animals under control.
Makko, too, had the same problem, though he mixed a few curses in with his attempts to keep his string from breaking loose. With a savage jerk from Makko’s left hand, he brought the most troublesome mount under control. “Follow me, Sargon.” Makko started walking down the slope and toward the camp.
Sargon did the same, and found the animals much easier to handle when he led them forward. The dumb brutes wanted to be doing something, and they always felt safe when a warrior guided them, especially following in the track of more horses. Besides, the ululating war cries of the warriors was a familiar sound to them. Still, Sargon’s hands burned from the ropes, and he kept his grip tight. He would not let one horse escape no matter what.
Moving forward gave him a better view of the chaos in the enemy camp. Sargon saw Chinua and his seven warriors spread out in a line, each about ten paces apart. They were calmly shooting arrows into the camp, shooting at every good target, and especially anyone who appeared to be trying to get the soldiers under control.
Sargon saw that this was far easier than any target practice he’d taken. Chinua’s men were practically at the edge of the stream, and they were striking at targets less than twenty or thirty paces from them.
The horses, driven mad with fear or pain, had burst through the far side of their rope corral and into the camp, trampling or knocking aside anything in their path. Nothing could halt the terrified animals now, and they swept through the camp, heedless of anyone in their path. If the enemy noticed the handful of warriors urging them on, it didn’t really matter. Before they could react, the horses had vanished into the darkness on the far side of the camp.
Inside what remained of the camp, pandemonium ruled. Jerked awake from a sound sleep, many enemy soldiers were caught in the path of the stampeding horses, their hooves pounding into the earth. Everyone seemed to be shouting at someone. Others fumbled for their weapons, but no alarm had been given, and at first some weren’t sure they were under attack.
When they realized that arrows were cutting them down, they found themselves unable to see their attackers, who shot at them from the darkness. The looming shadow of the mountain still served its purpose even this close to the camp.
One of the Carchemish soldiers near the campfire tossed an armful of dry grass on the nearest watch fire. The flames shot up, and Sargon realized that a pile of combustible grass and twigs had been prepared for an emergency. But this time it worked only in favor of the Ur Nammu, revealing the men in the camp stumbling about as they tried to comprehend what had happened. Chinua’s bowmen had even better light to shoot by.
Sargon realized most of the enemy soldiers not yet fully grasped the situation. Their first thoughts were of a stampede. Only when they heard the war cries and saw their companions dropping with arrows in their chests did they realize they were under attack.
Chinua and his men shot every arrow in their quiver with their usual speed, aiming each shot with care. With the extra shafts from Skala’s men, that meant about twenty to twenty-five arrows from each warrior. Knowing how fast a warrior could loose a missile, Sargon did the sum. Probably two hundred and twenty arrows were launched, in less time than a man could count to eighty.
The horses were long gone by then, the entire herd driven right through the camp. Sargon never heard Chinua’s signal, but suddenly Makko trotted forward, dragging his string of mounts, and Sargon followed. Now arrows were flying from the camp into the darkness, as a few of the enemy soldiers finally realized they were under attack and brought their weapons into action.
But they were shooting at shadows and noises. Chinua’s men had already fallen back, racing toward Sargon and Makko. Sargon heard the frightening hiss of arrows overhead, but none landed near him.
Then hands were grasping the halter ropes from Sargon’s grip. A few warriors found time to laugh among themselves as they swung onto their mounts. As soon as he handed off the last halter, Sargon jumped astride his own horse, clinging tight to the animal’s mane.
Chinua led the way, as the warriors galloped off to the east. Sargon saw the first rays of dawn reaching up into the sky, giving the horses a chance to pick their way.
In moments they had left the carnage behind them, though the din of shouting men and the cries of the wounded could still be heard. Less than quarter of a mile from the camp, they slowed to cross the stream. A rumble of hoof beats sounded to their right and Sargon caught sight of a shadowy herd of horses galloping in the same direction, at least thirty or forty animals.
Skala moved up in Sargon’s estimation. He would never have believed that five riders could control so many half-crazed animals in the dark.
“Skala did well.”
Sargon turned to find Garal riding beside him, the warrior’s white teeth gleaming in the growing dawn. With a shock, Sargon realized that Garal continued to keep an eye on him.
Up ahead, Chinua slowed their pace, and spoke to each of the men in his band. Only one warrior had taken a wound, an arrow that had grazed his neck. By now they were over a mile from the camp. Chinua shouted out the order to halt, and the healer moved up to wrap a strip of cloth around the wounded man’s throat.
No one bothered to dismount. Excitement rippled through their ranks. They had raided a much larger force and not lost a single man.
Sargon watched as Skala and the stolen herd moved ahead. The warrior would let the animals run until they grew tired. Then they would be easier to control.
“How soon before they start after us?”
Garal laughed, as jubilant as the others. “Not long. But first they’ll have to recapture some horses.”
“With so many men, that won’t take too long.”
“Oh, yes, we’re in for a hard chase and a long ride. But with the mounts Skala stole, we should each be able to ride two or three horses. We’ll keep ahead of them.”
Chinua shouted out the order to get moving. The sun had risen, and now the horses could see their footing clearly. Chinua followed the course taken by Skala’s horses.
Just before they rode out of sight of the enemy camp, Sargon took one last look back. No one pursued them. Not yet. But he knew the Carchemishi were going to be very angry, and they had a large force of fighters, far more men than the Ur Nammu. Sargon wondered what Subutai would do when he heard the news.
24
Three days later, a little after midafternoon, Chinua’s war party rode over the crest of a hill and saw the Ur Nammu camp below. Sargon eased his horse to a stop, as Chinua halted the party for a few moments, to give
each man a chance to enjoy the sight of home. Every man, gaunt, hungry, and dog tired, breathed a sigh of relief. They had pushed the horses as hard as they could each day.
On the return journey, Sargon had acquired a new skill, riding one horse while leading two more. During the return, each warrior alternated among the horses, enabling them to cover the ground at a rapid pace. Unless their pursuers did the same, no one was going to catch up with them.
On today’s ride, they twice encountered Ur Nammu scouts, three-man parties patrolling the western approaches to the camp.
“That means,” Garal said, “that Jennat made it back, too.”
“So Subutai knows about the Carchemishi,” Sargon agreed. “But he doesn’t know how many of them there are.”
Chinua’s shout interrupted their talk. “Make sure you ride into camp like warriors, not women!” He started down the slope, and the others followed. As Chinua urged his horse to a canter, he called back over his shoulder. “And try not to fall asleep before we reach the camp.”
Sargon saw the warriors straighten up, raising their heads and shoulders. No one wanted to display any weakness in front of the other warriors, or even their own women.
As they reached the outskirts of the camp, people emerged from tents to greet them. Excited children ran toward the approaching horsemen. Sargon understood Ur Nammu customs by now. After a successful raid, Chinua and his warriors had fought an enemy and brought home thirty-four new horses as proof of their courage and skill, and all without losing a man. Once again, he had proven himself a strong war chief.
As Chinua led the way into the camp, the shouting crowd soon slowed his progress. Men, women and children rushed to greet their returning men. Eager hands reached up to touch their kin, and others relieved the grinning riders of their extra horses.
Sargon trailed the others into the camp, and, of course, none of the waiting crowd paid him any attention. The rest of the party merged back among the tents, surrounded by a press of happy friends and family, all grateful for their safe return. As the throng cleared away, Sargon noticed someone standing alone, her eyes fixed on him. Tashanella. She, too, had come to meet the returning warriors.
Since all the others had already moved into the camp, Tashanella obviously had waited for no particular man. Instead, she met Sargon’s eyes as he rode past. Then she turned and disappeared among the throng.
Too weary to think about what it meant, Sargon soon reached Chinua’s tent and swung down from his mount. Two grinning boys darted to his side and took charge of his two horses. For once, Sargon was spared the need to care for the weary animals.
His horses. Earned by his own hand, and as far as the Ur Nammu were concerned, the mark of a true warrior. Horses meant status in the clan, even more than women or other possessions. The more horses a warrior owned, the more successful he must be as a warrior. No word of praise Sargon had ever received in Akkad meant as much to him.
Sargon paced his way to the stream. Some of the men he’d ridden with were already there, washing the horse stink from their bodies before returning to their tents. He didn’t want to get in the way of the happy reunions, so he headed farther upstream, where he could find a bit more privacy. With a loud sigh of relief, he plunged into the cool waters without bothering to remove the remaining shreds of his once fine clothing.
For a time, Sargon just clung to a rock and let the stream wash over him. The sensation of not having anything to do provided a suitably guilty feeling of pleasure.
Suddenly the water exploded beside him, sending a wave across his face and almost knocking him loose from the rock. It was Makko, who had jumped naked into the water with a mighty splash. Sargon had to laugh at the sight of his fellow horse boy splashing his way through the stream.
Unlike most of the Ur Nammu, Sargon had learned to swim in the deeper waters of the Tigris at an early age. His father had taken him down to the river almost every day, and by the time he reached his twelfth season, Sargon could swim all the way across the great river.
“You swim like a great boulder dropped in a small pond,” Sargon said.
“Better that than riding like a sack of grain,” Makko gasped, spitting water from his mouth.
It wasn’t much of a joke, but Sargon knew Makko meant well by it.
During the return ride, the two had put aside their differences. As horse boys, they still had to care for the horses, and both quickly realized that they had to work together. The night after the raid on the Carchemishi, Skala, Makko’s father, announced himself pleased with Sargon’s work with the mounts. That, Sargon decided, was the most apology he was going to get from the warrior.
Later Sargon asked Garal if Chinua had said something to Skala about the incident, but Garal shook his head.
“Skala is proud of what his son accomplished during our journey. That means he must give you the same respect. And once warriors have fought together as we have, there is always a bond that will keep them true to each other.”
“I didn’t do any fighting.”
“Neither did you run and hide, or lose the horses, or not be where you were supposed to be. Every man in a battle has to do as he’s ordered. If you and Makko hadn’t been with us, two other warriors would have taken your place, and there would have been that many fewer arrows to harry the Carchemishi.”
With another torrent of water, Makko splashed his way out of the stream. “Stop by our tent later if you can. They’ll be plenty of meat tonight.”
Sargon said he would try, and ducked his head back underneath the water. When he finally came up for air, Makko had disappeared back into the camp, and Sargon had the stream to himself. He rose and stripped off the remnants of his tunic. His undergarment followed. He’d worn it continuously for nine days of hard riding, and it stank of horse sweat and worse. Sargon tossed it aside. He didn’t intend to wear it again.
He did use what was left of his tunic to scrub his body down, scraping away the dirt, grime, and odor of horseflesh that clung persistently to his body. As he washed, Sargon found bruises on his arms and chest, scrapes on his legs, along with burn marks on his arms and calluses on his hands from constantly holding halter ropes for the last three days.
When he felt sufficiently cleansed, Sargon crawled up on a wide ledge that bordered the stream. The sun had warmed the rock, and he lay down on it and stretched his legs, enjoying the sensation as his naked body dried in the breeze. The sound of laughter from the camp floated over the stream, but he ignored it, content to be by himself.
He thanked Ishtar that the ride had ended when it did. Sargon wasn’t sure he could have kept up with the others for much longer. With that thought in mind, he flung his arm over his eyes to shield them from the sunlight. The sounds of the stream soothed his thoughts. A few deep breaths later, he fell asleep, the water gurgling in his ears.
“Sargon. Sargon. Wake up.”
The voice pulled him back from the well of deep slumber. He forced his eyes open, only to be blinded by the sun that caught him full in the face. Something moved beside him, and then a shadow passed over his eyes, and he could see again. Someone stood over him, shielding him from the sun. Then he recognized Tashanella’s voice.
Tashanella gazed down at the naked figure at her feet, her eyes drawn to the boy’s member peeking out from beneath a crown of soft brown hair. Since his first day in camp, she thought him the most handsome boy she’d ever seen. The urge to touch his bare flesh swept over her, and she felt a burst of warmth from her own loins. She dropped to her knees beside him, but still kept his face sheltered from the setting sun.
Another urge tempted her, to reach out and caress his member. She did not, of course.
“You should not lie out like that in the sun. You’ll burn your skin.”
Sargon’s eyes focused on her face. “What . . . what do you want?”
His voice sounded thick in his ears, and Sargon knew his thoughts were muddled and slow. “I’ve come to bring you to my father’s tent,” Tashane
lla went on. “He wants to speak with you before tonight’s feasting begins.”
Propping himself up on one arm, Sargon gazed at the girl’s face. It had changed somehow, no longer the face of a child, but that of a young woman. Her voice set his thoughts racing, and he could not keep his eyes from the breasts that swelled against her dress as Tashanella leaned over him.
A shiver went through his body as his staff, unawakened for so many days, suddenly swelled and rose up. Sargon remembered he was naked, and the thought made his manhood throb and grow even harder. He reached down to cover himself, but Tashanella stopped his hand, then let her own fingers brush against his penis.
“You are very beautiful,” she said. “It’s strange. I have seen many erect members, but never have I thought any of them beautiful.”
The touch of her fingers had unleashed a wave of passion. He caught her hand in his, and held it tight. Her long hair framed her face, and the wide brown eyes remained fastened on his.
Tashanella smiled down at him. Suddenly she leaned over and kissed his lips, a brief touch that only fanned the flames of his throbbing erection. Sargon reached up to pull her down to him, but she straightened up and rocked back on her heels. All the same, Tashanella did not let go of his hand, and now she clasped it with both of hers.
“You must come to my father’s tent. It is not wise to keep the leader of the clan waiting.”
“I don’t care about your father, Tashanella.” Her name rolled easily off his tongue, and he decided that it was the most beautiful name he’d ever heard. At that moment, Sargon would have risked keeping Subutai waiting until dawn, if he could convince Tashanella to walk with him across the stream and into the trees.
The girl grew serious, and released his hand. “This is important, Sargon. I think my father wishes to hear your advice.” She stood and straightened out her dress. “Besides, I wasted too much time gazing at you while you slept. My father will be growing impatient.”