by Sam Barone
He meant to keep watch in case an Ur Nammu raiding party was on its way. Still, only five men to guard four, that was good. Obviously the Alur Meriki leader could not admit that five of his men could not defeat three men and a boy.
“Good. But if you can’t keep up, we will leave you behind. Our message cannot wait. We will ride hard from sunup to sundown.”
“We will keep up. Our horses are fresh.”
“Then we ride.” Sargon clucked to his horse, and started at a canter. Fashod and the others were right behind him, leaving the Alur Meriki behind. Sargon heard the warrior swear a mighty oath. But Sargon didn’t look back.
Before they’d covered a hundred paces, the leader of ten moved his horse to Sargon’s right side. When his horse had settled into its pace, he turned to Sargon. “What is so important that it cannot wait?”
Sargon kept his eyes straight ahead. “I do not speak with anyone who will not tell me his name.”
“My name is Den’rack.”
“Well, Den’rack, you will find out soon enough.”
“You are trying my patience, dirt-eater.”
“Ah, do not let my father hear you say those words. Eskkar of Akkad does not have my patience. He would take offense, if you know what I mean.”
“I will pray three times a day to the war gods that you are not who you say you are, so I can have the pleasure of killing you myself.”
Sargon smiled at that. No doubt in the next few days, there would be more than a few trying to kill him. For the first time since they’d started riding, he turned toward Den’rack and met his gaze.
“There should not be any quarrel between us. No matter how this turns out, you have done the right thing for your clan. You said you had a new Sarum. Is Clan Chief Urgo dead?”
The talk among the Akkadian soldiers who had returned from the battle had mentioned Urgo’s name more than once. According to Eskkar, Urgo seemed to be a wise and reasonable man.
“No, he is not dead. But Urgo is too old and infirm to lead the clan in these troubled times. He asked the Council, what was left of it, to chose another.”
Sargon heard the anger in Den’rack’s voice. Eskkar’s victory over the Alur Meriki must have sown many bitter feelings. “Who was chosen as Sarum?”
“Bekka of the Wolf clan.”
The name meant nothing to Sargon, but he guessed he would learn all he needed to know about the man in the next few days.
27
As the sun disappeared below the horizon, Sargon, the Ur Nammu, and the Alur Meriki halted for the night. Den’rack had guided them to a stream he’d camped at a few days earlier. Water, as always, was too important to ignore, even if it meant a few more miles added to their journey. Enough grass grew beside the stream, so the horses could forage without being tempted to wander off.
A small stand of trees arched up over the water, and a fallen log provided a convenient place for Sargon to pitch his blanket. He ignored the frown on Den’rack’s face at Sargon’s casual possession of the most desirable spot to stretch out for the night.
Sargon understood Den’rack’s dilemma. The warrior could have ordered Sargon to move, but if Sargon were indeed the son of the king and forced an argument, Den’rack might lose face. So Sargon pretended not to notice as the Alur Meriki leader gritted his teeth in silence, and flung his blanket on the ground ten paces away.
After seeing to their horses, Sargon and each of his companions wolfed down a few strips of dried meat from their pouches. As he worked his jaws, Sargon had no idea of what animal had furnished the chewy sustenance. Hunger made it tasty enough.
Den’rack’s men spread their blankets beside their leader. He and his warriors looked almost as tired as Sargon. They’d ridden just as far today. Tomorrow would be a greater challenge for them, as they would not have the luxury of alternating horses.
“At least we won’t have to post a guard tonight.” Fashod glanced toward the surly Alur Meriki staring at them. “Den’rack wouldn’t trust any of us anyway. Unless he decides to slit our throats during the night.”
“In that case, they would have killed us when we first met, and saved all of us a lot of riding.” Sargon finished the last of the meat, picked his teeth clean with a twig, and rolled himself up in the horse blanket. Ignoring the talk from the Alur Meriki, he fell asleep in a few heartbeats.
In the morning, he found the Alur Meriki warriors had awoken before dawn, no doubt determined to prove they could rise earlier than any Ur Nammu. No one had much to say, and Sargon ignored his escorts. Everyone checked their horses, mounted up, and resumed the journey.
Den’rack again led the way, but Fashod set the pace, forcing the Alur Meriki to push their horses. Two more days passed in much the same manner – lots of hard riding, little talking, and not much food.
Fashod, who had an uncanny skill at judging distances, estimated they covered almost a hundred and forty miles the first two days after leaving the Ur Nammu camp. After they joined up with the Alur Meriki, the rough terrain slowed them down somewhat, and Fashod guessed that they made only sixty miles for the next two days.
Twice they encountered other Alur Meriki patrols. Sargon endured the required delays these caused. Fortunately, they did not meet anyone of higher rank than Den’rack, someone who might have other ideas about allowing Ur Nammu warriors so deep into what the Alur Meriki considered their territory.
Just after midday on the third day of their joint expedition, they encountered the outer guards of the main Alur Meriki caravan. By then only three of Den’rack’s warriors remained. One rider’s horse had gone lame yesterday, and Sargon had refused to lend the warrior one of the Ur Nammu mounts. Den’rack had to leave the cursing man behind. After such hard riding, all of the Alur Meriki horses were nearly dead on their feet, pushed past their limits of endurance by the effort to keep up with the Ur Nammu.
In less than five days of riding, Sargon and his friends had traversed more than three hundred miles, some of that over patches of difficult country that slowed their progress.
By now, the Zagros Mountains towered over them, the higher peaks capped with snow. The base of the mountains loomed only a mile or so to the north.
When they crested one more of the seemingly endless foothills, Sargon gazed upon a mighty caravan stretched out in a long straggling line, moving slowly toward him. Herds of horses, goats, sheep, and cows ranged on either side of the column.
Unlike the Ur Nammu, most of the Alur Meriki transported their women, children, and possessions in large wagons that creaked and wheezed in a never ending sound, a rasping friction of wood on wood, that soon grated on Sargon’s ears even at this distance.
Nevertheless, the sight of a moving village impressed Sargon, and even Fashod muttered something about the size and might of the Clan.
Den’rack led the way toward the wagons, until he was stopped by a party of twenty or so warriors, who rode at the vanguard of the caravan. Den’rack ordered a halt, and Sargon slowed his horse to a stop. No matter what happened, at least the long journey had ended.
An older warrior rode up. His eyes went first to Fashod and the warriors, before giving Sargon the briefest of glances, though he rode at the head of the little troop. The stranger turned to Den’rack. “Why do these Ur Nammu scum still carry their weapons?”
Hearing the warrior’s criticism, Sargon almost felt sorry for Den’rack, who launched into a lengthy explanation of the last few days. As time passed on the journey, Den’rack had gradually relaxed his suspicions regarding Sargon and his companions.
Now Den’rack found himself explaining the unusual situation to a superior. Sargon gathered that the senior warrior’s name was Lugal.
During the latter part of Den’rack’s story, Lugal’s eyes fixed on Sargon. He guided his horse toward Sargon, moving close enough to touch Sargon’s left knee with his own. “You do not look like the . . . Eskkar of Akkad.”
Sargon had heard that many times growing up. He didn’t much look lik
e his mother, either. He refused to let Lugal’s glare intimidate him. There were, after all, only so many ways of dying.
“Who I look like is no concern of yours. My business is with your Sarum.”
“Watch your tongue, or I’ll have it cut out.” He reinforced his words by leaning forward and poking Sargon hard in the chest with his left hand.
Not so long ago, such a blow would have toppled Sargon from his horse. But all those days of training with Garal had toughened not only his muscles, but his reactions.
Without thinking, Sargon turned his shoulder, deflecting most of the blow, and keeping his balance. At the same time, he shoved his right knee hard against the side of his horse.
The well-trained animal thrust itself against Lugal’s mount. Sargon increased the pressure of his knee, and reinforced the command with a jerk to the halter.
Lugal’s horse, caught by surprise, stumbled backwards, its rider caught off guard. With a hard kick, Sargon’s horse pushed even harder, and the Alur Meriki warrior’s horse slid to its haunches a few paces away. Lugal managed to retain his seat, but only by clinging to his horse’s mane and flailing around as he struggled to keep his balance.
No one moved or spoke, and only the creak of the approaching wagons broke the silence. Sargon raised his voice. “To lay hands on the son of the King is punishable by death. Touch me again, and I’ll see that your Sarum sends your head to my father.”
It wasn’t true, of course, but Sargon thought it sounded impressive. Apparently the others within hearing thought so, too, since no one spoke, or tried to take his head.
Having righted his horse and gotten control of the still nervous beast, Lugal ripped his sword from its scabbard. “You’ll die right here for that.”
“No! You must not! Remember your oath.” Den’rack’s bellow rose over all of them. He kicked his horse between the two.
Sargon’s hand had already gone to his sword, but before he could draw it, another voice interrupted. “What’s going on here?”
A rider guided his mount into the midst of the knot of warriors, and they moved aside to give him room. A long, jagged scar traced its way from below his left shoulder nearly to his wrist, but the copper link chain that hung around his neck proclaimed him a clan leader. Sargon took his hand from his sword and studied the newcomer. The copper chain held no medallion, so this was not the Sarum.
“These are the strangers that I brought here,” Den’rack said, speaking quickly. “Did my messenger arrive?”
“Only this morning. I did not expect you to arrive so soon. You must have ridden hard.”
Sargon glanced at Den’rack. He had underestimated the Alur Meriki warrior. Obviously Den’rack had not left all his men behind on patrol. He must have dispatched a rider, probably leading another horse, and ordered him to bring word to the caravan.
“We did, Suijan,” Den’rack answered.
Lugal, his face flushed with rage, moved forward. “This . . . boy nearly knocked me from my horse. I demand the right to kill him.”
“No, his fate will be decided by the Council.” Suijan didn’t even raise his voice or turn to face the angry warrior. “Put your sword away.”
For a moment, Lugal hesitated. Suijan turned his gaze toward the man, but said nothing.
The rage in Lugal’s eyes faded under Suijan’s stare. With an oath, Lugal shoved his sword into its scabbard, taking three tries before he could master his fury enough for the tip to enter the opening.
“You may return to your duties, Lugal,” Suijan said. “Den’rack and I will take the strangers to the Sarum.” Without another glance at the still raging Lugal, Suijan moved his horse closer to Sargon, exactly as Lugal had.
Suijan gazed into Sargon’s eyes, a scrutiny that went on for some time. “There may be a resemblance, but we will see.” He backed his horse a step away. “Take their weapons. No strangers may enter the camp armed.”
Sargon had nearly flinched under the leader’s stare. This Suijan not only had his wits about him, but he had the air of command.
Sargon glanced toward Fashod. The Ur Nammu warrior had already pulled the lances from his back. He handed them to one of Den’rack’s men, and started untying his sword. Jennat and Garal followed suit.
After a moment, Sargon pulled the lance that he wore across his back and handed it off. But he made no move to give up his sword.
“Your sword and knife, too. There are no exceptions.” Suijan’s voice remained patient.
“My father gave me this sword. I do not hand it to anyone.”
The tension in the air, which had faded somewhat as Fashod and the others surrendered their weapons, returned. Everyone turned to see what Suijan’s next order would be.
Fashod cleared his throat. “Sargon, it would be best . . .”
Sargon cut off Fashod’s words with a quick gesture of his left hand.
Suijan let a smile cross his face. “So, that is how it is.” He studied Sargon for a moment. “You have journeyed long, and are no doubt tired. Perhaps you will let me carry your sword. I give you my word that I will return it to you whenever you ask for it.”
Sargon decided that he had proven his strength and authority before the Alur Meriki. Besides, he guessed that Suijan meant what he said.
“That is most courteous. I thank you for your kindness,” Sargon answered, bowing his head in acknowledgement of Suijan’s status. Unbuckling his sword belt, he leaned forward and handed it to the clan leader.
“Come, follow me.” Suijan accepted the weapon with respect. “We will ride ahead to tonight’s camp site.” He turned his horse to the west and started off. Den’rack and his men followed, leaving Sargon and his disarmed companions to trail along behind.
The camp site chosen was only about two miles away, but Sargon realized it would take the rest of the afternoon before the lead wagon arrived. The wagons, he would later learn, considered four or five miles a day a satisfactory journey.
A good sized stream, coming down from the mountains, wandered across their path. Suijan moved toward the higher ground, where the water would be freshest. “Den’rack, mark out a place for them here, and make sure they stay inside. I’ll return later.”
Sargon didn’t like that. “Chief Suijan, I would speak with your Sarum as soon as possible.”
“He is out riding to the south, but he will return before dusk. A rider has already been dispatched.” With a nod to Den’rack, the clan leader turned his horse around and cantered off.
Swinging down from his horse, Sargon couldn’t hold back a sigh of relief. It felt good to be off the back of his horse before dark. And still alive. He resisted the urge to shiver at what might come next.
Den’rack posted guards, and marked off an area, using sticks driven into the ground. Sargon didn’t care. He walked into the stream and let himself fall forward. The chilly water, much colder than the stream near the camp of the Ur Nammu, made him catch his breath, but he stayed immersed until his skin glowed.
Stripping off his clothes, he gave himself the first bath he’d had since Tashanella found him at the stream. Already that seemed long ago. When Sargon finished scrubbing his body, he rinsed out his clothes. It no longer felt strange to wash his own clothes or feed a horse himself, something he had never done back in Akkad, surrounded by helpful servants.
When he finally left the water, Sargon spread out his clothes on the ground. Hopefully they would be dry before he met with the Sarum.
“I see you remembered what I taught you.” Garal squatted down beside him.
Sargon managed a smile. Garal had knocked Sargon off his horse twice with that trick.
Fashod walked over and, with a grunt of relief, eased himself to the ground beside them. “Let’s hope Lugal doesn’t decide to kill you for embarrassing him in front of his men.” He sighed. “I think, Sargon, that you can stop trying to impress their warriors.”
“I agree. I’m too tired anyway. But the son of a king must always act like a leader of men.”
As he repeated the words his father had said to him many times, Sargon realized that he had seldom listened to that advice. If he had paid better attention, he might not be facing torture and death this very evening.
Sargon found a patch of grass just large enough for him to stretch out on, and he did. Covering his eyes with his arm, he breathed a sigh of relief. Within moments, his snores sounded.
Fashod motioned Garal away. They joined Jennat, who had just finished tending the horses.
“I don’t know how he can fall asleep like that,” Fashod said. “He should be worrying about being killed.”
“What do we do now?” Jennat, too, looked weary.
“Now we wait,” Fashod said. “But perhaps we should get cleaned up as well. We wouldn’t want to meet the new Sarum of the Alur Meriki looking like horses after a long run, and smelling just as bad.”
Sargon slept through the arrival of the caravan, which usually made more than enough noise to wake anyone not used to hearing it. As the camp settled in, Fashod woke him. Sargon found that someone had covered his naked body with a blanket.
“Better make yourself ready” Fashod gestured toward the setting sun. “The summons may come at any time.”
When Sargon tossed the blanket aside, he felt the chill of the evening air coming off the mountains. The brief rest had refreshed him. He gathered up his damp clothes and donned them. A shiver passed over his body, and he stretched himself until he warmed up.
“When you meet with their Sarum,” Fashod said, “try not to antagonize him. Remember, to the Alur Meriki, he is the greatest king in the world.”
Sargon had no intention of provoking anyone. “I’ll take care.”
“You know what to say?”
“Yes. We’ve been over it enough times.”
“Good. Then just trust your instincts. We’ve done all that we can do. Whatever happens now is the will of the gods.”
Sargon shrugged. “My father doesn’t believe in the gods. He says they never helped him when he needed help. He trusted to his luck.”