by Sam Barone
“Perhaps luck is merely the favor of the gods,” Fashod said.
Jennat called out, and Sargon glanced up to see Suijan approaching. A young warrior walked beside him, carrying Sargon’s sword.
Sargon waited until the clan leader stood before him, then bowed respectfully. Unlike most of the Alur Meriki, Suijan possessed gray eyes. Sargon forced himself to meet the man’s steady gaze. It was one thing to stare down leaders of ten or fifty. A clan leader commanded hundreds of men, and for many years. Such a one would not be easily impressed or dominated.
“This is my son, Chennat.” Suijan nodded to the young warrior. “He carries your sword. Perhaps you could allow him to accompany you to the council meeting.”
For a moment, Sargon considered forcing the issue, then abandoned the idea. “Yes. My thanks to Chennat for his service.”
The boy inclined his head in the slightest amount.
Sargon ignored the disrespect. “Are we to be taken to meet with the Sarum?”
“You are. Your companions will remain here.”
“Fashod must accompany me.” Sargon gestured toward his companion. “He is the second in command of the Ur Nammu, and he speaks for their Sarum.”
“No. Only you are to come.” Suijan sounded firm.
Sargon decided to try another way. “When a clan leader attends a council meeting, is he not expected to bring a member of his clan with him, to make certain that what is said is plain to all?”
“Yes, but you are not a clan leader,” Suijan corrected him.
“I am.” Sargon crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, the gesture’s meaning clear to all. He would not move until Suijan acknowledged his status.
Suijan stared at Sargon for a moment, weighing the alternative, which was to collect a handful of warriors and have Sargon carried to the council. The silence dragged on.
“Very well. Fashod may accompany you. But he is not to speak unless asked to. Is that understood?”
“Of course.” Sargon smiled and uncrossed his arms. “We will follow you.”
Suijan turned and started walking, taking long strides that covered plenty of ground. His son glared at Sargon for a moment, then moved quickly to keep up. Sargon and Fashod walked side by side. As they passed through the encampment, every eye turned toward them, and every conversation ceased until they had passed by, when it resumed with more excitement.
The four weaved their way through most of the camp, dodging wagons and tents, as well as a handful of children chasing each other in some unknown game. Sargon used the time to study the wagons and tents of the Alur Meriki.
The women busied themselves with their fires and cooking pots. Others set out drying racks that held the stretched skins of small game, hunted and caught along the trail. He saw few men, and guessed they were still tending their horses as the day’s activities drew to a close.
As in the Ur Nammu camp, Sargon saw no luxuries, no goods to make life easier. Life for the steppes warriors remained full of hardship. When your family carried all your worldly goods with you, there was little place for anything but what you needed to survive. By now Sargon understood that such a demanding way of life gave the horsemen their strength, and made them so ferocious in battle.
They arrived at two wagons and two tents, set a little apart, but appearing no different from the others Sargon had seen. Only the tall standard with its dangling totems marked these possessions as belonging to the Alur Meriki Sarum.
Sargon counted eleven men clustered in a wide space set apart from all the tents and wagons. They all looked up as Suijan led his charge into their midst.
“Sit here.” Suijan pointed to a place on the grass that faced the largest and closest of the tents. “Chennat, give him his sword.”
The boy thrust the sword, still attached to the belt, into Sargon’s hand. His knife also remained fastened to the thick leather. Sargon dropped to the ground, crossed his legs, and set the sword lengthwise before him. Fashod sat on Sargon’s left, a little behind him.
Four Alur Meriki warriors detached themselves and moved to stand behind the two, no doubt with orders to restrain them if needed. Sargon glanced up and saw Den’rack and two of his men standing in the front rank of a small crowd that continued to swell. A wide space nearby remained clear. Well, at least it wasn’t Lugal. His presence would have sent an entirely different message.
The other Alur Meriki stared at the two strangers with open curiosity. Beside Suijan, Sargon counted three unknown clan chieftains, marked by their copper chains. None of them appeared friendly, and two stared at Sargon with disdain on their faces.
Turning toward Fashod, Sargon spoke in the language of Akkad. “Well, at least they haven’t summoned the torturers yet.”
Fashod leaned closer and kept his voice soft. “So, Sargon of Akkad, now you are a clan leader yourself?”
Sargon repressed the urge to smile. In less than three months, he’d gone from outcast to horse boy to warrior and had now promoted himself to the rank of clan leader in his father’s army. “My parents would be proud of me.”
Before Fashod could reply, the flap on the larger of the two tents shifted, and a stocky warrior with wide shoulders and a broad chest appeared. His forehead was broad and high, with deep set eyes and a strong jaw. A burnished copper medallion, as big as two clenched fists, hung from his neck and told Sargon that this was the Sarum.
The leader of the Alur Meriki took his time covering the thirty or so paces until he reached a place on the ground just three paces or so opposite Sargon. A folded blanket had been spread out there, but the Sarum took his place beside it.
The four other clan leaders sat on either side of him, until only the space occupied by the blanket remained. As everyone settled in, Sargon saw another clan leader approaching, this one leaning on a younger man for support.
Out of politeness, everyone looked away as the older man was assisted to the ground, settling on the blanket with a sigh and stretching one leg straight out before him. He nodded gratefully to the warrior who attended him, who now moved a step behind his clan leader.
When the Sarum of the Alur Meriki saw the old warrior settled, he nodded to Suijan, the only chief who remained on his feet. The Council Meeting had begun.
“This is the young man who claims that he is the son of Eskkar of Akkad,” Suijan began. “His name is Sargon. The Ur Nammu attending him is called Fashod. Sargon says that Fashod is one of the clan leaders of the Ur Nammu.”
One of the chiefs spat on the ground at the mention of the Ur Nammu. Sargon decided that wasn’t a good omen.
Suijan ignored the gesture, and continued. “Sargon, this is Chief Bekka, of the Wolf Clan, the Sarum of the Alur Meriki. The other clan leaders are Urgo,” he pointed to the old warrior on the blanket to Bekka’s right, “Prandar of the Serpent Clan, Virani of the Eagle Clan, and Trayack of the Lion Clan.”
The Alur Meriki clan chieftains formed a half circle, all facing Sargon.
Suijan dropped to the ground beside Bekka, on his left side. “And I am Suijan of the Fox Clan. There are two more clan leaders, but they are away riding with the scouting parties.”
Suijan turned to Bekka, who nodded approval. Behind each chief stood his attendant, alert and ready to respond to any request. Or any threat.
“You claim you are the son of Eskkar of Akkad.” Bekka made it a statement, not a question. “You say that your father has sent you to us. Why should we believe you?”
And so it begins, Sargon thought. He bowed respectfully to Bekka. “My father is Eskkar of Akkad. My mother is Lady Trella, Queen of Akkad. I was born in Akkad, not long after the Alur Meriki ended their siege. But my father was born here, in this caravan, in the Hawk Clan, one of your own. After the battle at the mountain stream, he restored the Hawk Clan. Those still alive recognized him as the son of Hogarthak, slain at a council meeting by Maskim-Xul, the father of Thutmose-sin.”
Sargon paused to take a breath. Hard eyes met his own, and he saw nothin
g that indicated any signs of belief.
“You do not resemble Eskkar of Akkad.” Chief Bekka kept his words free of emotion.
“No, I do not. My mother came from the villages of Sumeria, far to the south. But I am Sargon, just the same. And I know all the details of the battle at the stream. I know that Hathor the Egyptian with a hundred horsemen raced through the mountains to reach the stream first. He drove off the warriors who attempted to hold it against him, then defeated an attack that tried to dislodge him. The next day, my father arrived with his archers, slingers, and spearmen. He brought with him over a thousand experienced fighters, many of whom fought in the Sumerian War. By the time the full force of your warriors arrived, it was too late. From that moment, there was nothing the Alur Meriki could do to defeat him.”
Trayack, the chief who had spit at the mention of the Ur Nammu, spoke. “If the warriors had held the stream, instead of abandoning it to the first group of riders, the battle would have ended differently.” He did not bother to hide the bitterness in his words.
Sargon wondered at that comment, actually more of an interruption. Unless the skirmish at the stream meant something more to one of those present.
He remembered the advice his mother had once given him – never assume that your enemy is united, or that he does not have to deal with discontent or ambition within his own ranks. Every force, no matter how strong, always has some weakness to conceal. Now that Sargon considered it, after such a defeat there must still be plenty of rancor among the leaders of the clan.
“I have ridden with Hathor the Egyptian and his horsemen,” Sargon went on, speaking slower now. “They are the fiercest fighters in my father’s army, the ones that smashed the Sumerians and destroyed them in the Great Battle of Isin. Two or three times as many warriors as Hathor found at the stream could not have defeated him.”
This time Virani and Prandar glanced at Bekka, who had ignored Trayack’s remark. Instead the Sarum turned to Urgo. “Perhaps you should speak to Sargon.”
“It seems that you know much about the battle,” Urgo said. “Yet any man present at the stream would know as much.” His deep voice matched his thick and stocky build, though he lacked the hard muscles of one who rode each day. “Still, I believe you are Eskkar’s son. Tell us why he sent you to us.”
“My father did not send me.”
Those words affected the clan leaders. Until now, everyone had assumed the father had dispatched the son. Even Bekka and Suijan’s eyes went wide.
“My father had sent me to the tents of the Ur Nammu almost three moons ago, to complete my training as a warrior. He believes in the old ways, and that only someone who has ridden with the warriors of the steppes can truly learn how to fight and how to lead. But I know that he would approve of my actions.”
“Then you do not speak with your father’s authority.” Urgo made it a simple statement, not a condemnation.
“No. He is in Akkad, and there was no time to seek his approval. But I know his ways, and I know what he would want me to do. That is why I have come both to warn you, and to seek your help.”
“Warn us of . . .?”
“I was riding far to the west, with a small scouting party. We encountered a large force of fighters. The leader of our party went to speak with them, and I accompanied him to interpret. We were attacked, and barely got away. The next day, we returned in the night and attacked them. We killed many and captured over forty horses.”
“The Ur Nammu are too cowardly to fight in the light of day.”
Sargon turned to stare at Trayack, surprised at the interruption. Obviously the chief of the Lion Clan spoke his mind without regard to his Sarum.
Then Sargon remembered that Thutmose-sin had led the Lion Clan. They would hold the most bitter feelings for the King of Akkad and his son. And possibly for the man who replaced Thutmose-sin.
Shifting his body to face the man, Sargon met his gaze. He took his time before responding. Another saying of his mother crossed his mind. Always keep your voice calm, and let your words carry your message, not your face.
“I am sure Trayack of the Alur Meriki, no doubt the bravest of the brave, would have led his fifteen horsemen against a thousand heavily armed and experienced fighters, and slain them all. And I see that the battle wisdom of the Alur Meriki has not changed. Perhaps that is why my father has defeated you so easily at every turn.”
Trayack’s mouth opened in disbelief, and his tanned face grew even darker. A thick vein in his forehead throbbed. Before he could speak, the Sarum cut him off.
“Hold your words for now, Trayack. There will be time later for you to speak.”
“I will kill him for that!” Trayack’s fist pounded on his knee.
Sargon smiled at the challenge. The number of warriors lining up to kill him kept growing. He leaned forward, the slight movement emphasizing the force of his words.
“Tell me, Trayack of the Lion Clan, which of my words offended you? You accuse me of cowardice without knowing how many men we faced. I only said you were brave enough to attack a thousand fighters. Is that not praise enough for you? Or perhaps the defeats the Alur Meriki have suffered at my father’s hand are something that has not happened?”
Sargon’s gaze swept over the other clan leaders, and he caught a glimpse of a fleeting smile on Suijan’s face.
“Do not try the patience of this Council,” Urgo said.
“Chief Urgo, I have ridden over three hundred miles in five days to warn you that a strong enemy is approaching, an enemy strong enough to defeat and destroy your entire Clan. I could have ridden to the safety of my father’s forts. Or I could have sent a messenger to find one of your scouting parties and convey the warning. But I chose to come myself, to warn my father’s people of the oncoming danger. And what do I find?”
Sargon glanced at Trayack. “Threats from loud talkers, who know nothing about the danger that faces them.”
“I will kill you.” Trayack’s resolve had not slackened.
“When this council is ended, I will be as eager to face you in combat. But even if you kill me, do not expect to live a long life. If any of your warriors survive the Carchemishi attack, my father will hunt them and you down, and destroy you with his own hand, just as he did Thutmose-sin. So go ahead with your foolishness. Bring down the death and the end of all the Alur Meriki on your head.”
“Silence!” This time Bekka brought the full force of his authority into the word. “Trayack, if you speak again, I will remove you from the council.”
Urgo spoke before Trayack could reply. “Who are the Carchemishi? Do you mean those who live far to the west, at the base of the mountains, in the village of Carchemish?”
Sargon turned away from Trayack as if he didn’t exist. “Yes, but it is no longer a village, but a city of many thousands. They have raised an army, and its soldiers are moving toward us. They have heard of the wealth of the lands of Akkad, and they plan to loot the countryside and claim it for themselves. They have dispatched over fifteen hundred fighters, more than half of them mounted, down the great trade route. In their passage, they have devastated the land, burned whatever crops and huts they found, and stripped it bare of game.”
“Then they mean to attack Akkad?”
Sargon shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Even the Carchemishi are not that foolish. Akkad’s walls are high, and my father can raise ten thousand fighters if necessary.”
That wasn’t quite true, but Sargon knew the number would impress the chiefs.
“I have already dispatched riders to King Eskkar’s outlying forts, to warn them of these invaders. As soon as he hears of their presence, my father will gather a force to meet them. That, however, will take time. Nor will he need so many men. The Carchemishi will turn aside when they see the numbers of Akkadian fighters opposing them. Long before then, however, the Carchemishi will have found you. They have more than enough men to destroy your caravan. And once they realize you are moving in the direction of their lan
ds, they will not hesitate to attack you. They know they cannot continue toward Akkad’s northern lands without destroying a potential threat to their rear.”
Urgo rubbed his chin. “How many horsemen?”
Sargon told him what information Subutai had gathered, and their best guess of the size and composition of the Carchemishi forces.
“Now that you have warned us, we will stand ready to meet them. Despite their greater numbers, they will not find us so easy to defeat.”
“I hope that is true, Chief Urgo. But these men will not face you in a horse battle, rider for rider. They will have their archers and foot soldiers with them, to support their cavalry. They will march toward this caravan, and force you to fight at a time and place of their choosing. They will do to you what they are already doing to the Ur Nammu. Force you to abandon your wagons and tents, and flee for your lives.”
“You seem to know much about fighting for one so young.”
“The raid against these invaders was my first battle,” Sargon admitted. “But my father and his commanders have taught me much about the ways of fighting, and I have heard many times the stories of all the battles. One thing I have learned – what my father proved in our war against Isin – is that cavalry, horsemen such as your clan, cannot prevail against a combined force of infantry and horse fighters.”
Which was exactly what happened at the mountain stream, but Sargon knew he didn’t need to remind them of that again.
“Then we thank you for your warning, Sargon, son of Eskkar of Akkad.” Urgo, at least, appeared willing to show some gratitude and respect for Sargon’s presence. “What else do you wish to tell us?”
“I wish to ask for your help in battle, to save the Ur Nammu Clan.”
Again the stoic faces disappeared in surprise. If Sargon had asked them to ride up into the mountains until they reached the moon, they could not have shown more disbelief.
“Why should we help the Ur Nammu?” Urgo kept his voice even. “We have given our oath not to attack them, but they remain our enemies. We swore no oaths to come to their assistance. If your father had not prevailed, we would have hunted them down ourselves.”