by Sam Barone
“Remember the model of Akkad that Corio’s apprentices built for the first wall?” Eskkar had looked at it in astonishment: a miniature city displayed in perfect detail on a long table. “If we had something like that, something that stretched from Akkad to Sumer, we could use it to plan the marches, and even mark possible battlefields.”
“That will take a big room, indeed,” Gatus said, drawing another laugh.
“I’ll speak to Corio about it,” Trella said. “He’ll have to build the new room anyway, so he’ll be spending plenty of time here.”
“If we can do all or even most of the things you’ve said,” Hathor leaned forward, unable to conceal his eagerness, “I think we’ll be able to wage a new kind of war. Such advantages would be worth a great number of men.”
“The more we know about our enemy,” Eskkar said, “the easier this fight will be. If our spies can learn about our enemies, how many men they have, how well trained, what weapons they prefer, how they’re fed and resupplied, we can use that knowledge to help plan for battle. That will make our soldiers fight even harder.”
“And if we train them,” Gatus said, “really train them well, they’ll stand up to anything Sumeria can send against us.”
“You’ll take charge of that, Gatus,” Eskkar said. “No one understands how to train men as well as you do.”
Everyone nodded agreement. During the battle with the Alur Meriki, Gatus’s training had transformed more than a few Akkadians into the equal of even the strongest barbarians.
“So, Gatus, you will need to outdo yourself this time,” Eskkar said. “And all of you will have more ideas on how to make our forces stronger in the months to come. I’m sure we can think of even more ways to aid the soldiers.”
They continued speaking long into the night. Hathor had more to impart about cities fighting against each other, and Eskkar knew something about that, too, from his days as a soldier for hire. Trella asked many more questions, committing to memory every word that was spoken, every useful fact that she could glean from the men’s words. In the coming weeks and months, she would know, or soon learn, everything that would be needed to prepare for and support such a war.
At last Gatus yawned and declared he needed to get to sleep. A glance up at the moon showed that midnight had come and gone.
Trella had the last words. “Let us hope war never comes. But if we must fight again, then let us be well prepared. Remember, like the days when we faced the Alur Meriki, this is a war we dare not lose.”
11
Before retiring to their bedroom, Trella checked on little Sargon. The boy slept well, secure in his bed and with his nurse watching over him. She blew out the candle and slipped beneath the blanket, where Eskkar held her close against the darkness.
“I’m sorry that war must come again to Akkad. Trouble seems to follow wherever I go.”
“War would come here whoever ruled,” she answered. “The southern lands are needed to provide food for our people, and allow us to expand to the north and west. Without those farms, Akkad will not be able to grow, and would slowly begin to starve. That must not happen, especially now that we have Sargon to worry about.”
“Yes, he will rule over all these lands someday. If our luck holds true.”
“It’s more than luck that has brought us this far, Eskkar. Say what you will, but the gods favor you.”
“Yes, they brought you to me. Or my luck did.”
She knew he believed more in his luck than any of the fickle gods, who needed constant appeasement through prayers and offerings provided by the greedy priests. Or so they claimed to those who believed their every word. Nevertheless, she knew fate or some higher purpose of the gods had brought the two of them together.
Eskkar kissed the curve of her neck and she relaxed against him. Each day is a blessing, she remembered her father saying. Death may come through your door at any time, my little daughter, so live and enjoy your life as much as you can.
Death indeed had come for her father in the middle of the night, when he least expected it. She was glad that for many years he had enjoyed his life and his family so much, finding some joy in whatever each day brought.
Eskkar’s hands touched her breasts, and she put thoughts of her father aside. Instead, she sighed and arched her body against her husband’s. His strong hands always aroused the fire in her loins.
“Do you still enjoy my touch?”
“Yes, master,” she whispered. “This slave enjoys your attentions. I will try to please you.”
He laughed. “You already have, Trella.”
She laughed, too, and returned his kiss with one of her own.
A fterward, Trella remained in the circle of Eskkar’s arm. Somehow she always felt safer sleeping beside him. To know that someone would fight to protect you, would risk his own death if necessary, meant so much more to her now. Trella knew how easily a life could cease. In the space of one day, she’d seen her parents murdered, her brother carried off to the mines, and herself sold into slavery. Her comfortable life had ended in an orgy of blood and tears.
Just when she thought all that was behind her, Korthac had done it again. After a single night of fighting, he forced her to kneel at his feet and beg for the life of her coming child. That time, Eskkar had rescued her, and he’d fought a desperate fight to save her life and that of little Sargon right in this very room. Korthac would have tossed the baby into the fires before turning Trella over to his brutal soldiers for their amusement for a few days before he put her to death.
Now another threat had arisen, this one less immediate perhaps, but just as dangerous. The thought of the Sumerians being a danger seemed odd. She herself was from those lands, as much a Sumerian as anyone born in the city of Sumer. Nevertheless, no one in Akkad ever mentioned it, most probably didn’t even realize it. Almost everyone within the city’s walls had come from somewhere else. Those born in the old village of Orak and the nearby farms were few in number, compared to those who had sought Akkad’s safety. No, she, Eskkar, and now little Sargon were the first true Akkadians. Most of the city’s inhabitants felt the same way, Akkadians first. The old name of Orak had vanished within a few months. Now another trouble had arisen, to provide a new challenge to her plans for the future. The cities of Sumeria had grown in size almost as fast as Akkad, but the southern lands held much less fertile soil to feed their increasing numbers. They could only expand to the north. Eridu had tried and failed. His attempt would not be the last.
Trella had spoken to the prisoner several times, questioning him about life in Sumer and his city’s plans, but he said little, ignoring her as a mere woman who should stay out of the affairs of men. No, Eridu was a fool, and sooner or later someone would take his place, someone who might be vastly more cunning, someone who would be an even greater danger to Akkad.
For that reason, the Sumerians needed to be stopped now. Her husband would be happy winning another battle, driving his enemies before him in defeat. But Trella wanted more. She needed the southern cities to be defeated so decisively that it would take another generation before they dared to think once again about the lands to the north. That generation would give Akkad all the time it needed. By then all the northern villages would be brought under Akkad’s rule, and the lands to the east and west settled and cultivated. With most of the fertile lands under Akkad’s control, the Sumerians would have no choice but to accept Akkad’s borders.
The danger lay in the next few years. If the Sumerians again went to war, they would not make the same mistakes a second time. In defeat, they had learned much. Sooner or later, they would have stronger leaders who thought much as she did. They would come in greater numbers and be prepared to win out over any defenses Akkad could raise.
Hathor had indeed spoken the truth when he said they didn’t know where or when the battle would take place, or even what kind of battle might face them. If Akkad were indeed greatly outnumbered, then a single defeat could end her dreams for the city’s f
uture. No, she must plan for a brief campaign that completely mastered the Sumerians, one that defeated them so decisively that they would never again threaten Trella’s city.
So the battle must be fought and won starting today, years before the actual fighting took place. Trella would have to make sure Eskkar and his commanders planned for this great battle, the single stroke that would crush their enemies. That meant that the soldiers needed to be properly supplied, possible battlegrounds mapped, distances measured, spies set in place, food and weapons stockpiled, and men recruited and trained. The people of Akkad must be prepared as well, but subtly, so that they did not realize before time what they were being asked to do, and how much their existence was at stake.
Last, Eskkar and his commanders needed to think of total victory. Korthac had thought that way. He’d planned the battle in advance, gathered his forces in secret, launched an attempt on Eskkar’s life, and captured the city in a single night. Trella had been helpless, and only Eskkar’s determination and courage had saved the day. And his luck. Even he had not believed he could win back the city from the Egyptians, but had only intended to save his wife and son.
Now she needed to guide Eskkar’s mind, as well as his commanders, along those same channels. Akkad might have only one chance at survival. If it slipped away, Trella might yet end up as a slave once again.
Her final thoughts before she slipped into sleep were that Akkad would need all the gold it could raise. Without gold to pay the soldiers and provide for their needs, the city would fall. Much of her future, and that of their city, now depended on Orodes and whatever precious metals lay in the ground to the north.
12
For Orodes, the next few days passed quickly, and he scarcely remembered all the events that took place following his talk with Trella. Once they left the Compound, Tooraj clasped his hand on Orodes’s shoulder and kept it there, as if to insure that Orodes didn’t bolt and run. The soldier might be missing an eye, but his hand felt as if it could crush Orodes’s shoulder to splinters without effort.
At the docks, he found five soldiers and a woman waiting for them. Every soldier carried a bow and a quiver of arrows, and wore a sword belted at the waist. Horses were available for everyone, and two others served as pack animals. So many horses meant a serious expedition, Orodes noted.
“My tools… I’ll need my tools at the site.”
“Already taken from your father’s house and loaded,” Tooraj said. “Can you ride?”
“Yes, of course. I’ve ridden — ”
“Good. Get him moving.”
Tooraj directed his last words to one of his soldiers, who handed Orodes a halter. Within moments, they moved onto the ferry. It took two trips to get all of them and their animals across the Tigris. As soon as the second vessel discharged its contents on the western bank, Tooraj told everyone to mount up, and the little caravan started moving north.
The one-eyed soldier apparently preferred not to waste time talking, and he said nothing else to Orodes for the rest of the day. Tooraj, a competent horsemen, rode at the head of the party, with the woman, Calla, at his side. Orodes decided that she was the one who knew where they were going. Either the rest of the party didn’t know their destination, or more likely, didn’t care. Except for their leader, all the soldiers appeared less at ease on horseback. Like Orodes, they probably rode infrequently, and needed to pay close attention to their mounts.
They made good progress. The horses, while no doubt not up to Tooraj’s idea of good horseflesh, were sound enough, and they plodded along without much urging.
They camped as soon as it grew dark. Tooraj ordered Orodes to gather firewood along with the rest of the soldiers. Calla prepared the fire pit while the men foraged for wood, animal dung, or anything else that would burn. Fortunately, this close to the river, they didn’t have to wander far from the campsite to find water.
They ate in silence. One of the soldiers produced a wine skin, which was passed around to everyone except Orodes. Even Calla took a long swig, before passing the skin across Orodes’s body to one of the soldiers. Orodes looked at it longingly, but didn’t bother asking for a portion. Tooraj obviously had his orders about giving wine to a man found drunk and passed out in Akkad’s lanes.
Still, the smell of the raw date wine made the skin on Orodes’s hands and arms crawl with longing.
“You’re the guide?” Orodes decided he might as well talk to Calla, since it didn’t seem likely he’d have much to say to the soldiers. Besides, any conversation would take his mind off the now empty wineskin. Her hair had a few streaks of gray in it, and he guessed her age at about thirty seasons, too old to consider as a bedmate, at least not this early in the journey.
“Yes. My husband and his kin found the place with the gold a few months ago.”
She told him about the mine, her family, and what evil had overtaken them all. Orodes asked her about the gold, its quality, how they’d extract it, but Calla knew little about such things. Mostly she had cooked the food, and stitched the leather skins into sacks to hold the gold the men gathered.
Frustrated by her lack of useful knowledge, Orodes put his feet toward the fire and went to sleep, ignoring the still-talking soldiers and Tooraj.
In the morning, Orodes felt better. A long drink from the Tigris refreshed him, and he splashed water over his face and neck. He hadn’t slept very well in Akkad since his return, and certainly not during the night before, when he lay down drunk in the lane. Orodes shook his head in embarrassment at the recollection.
Breakfast consisted of bread and dates, and everyone climbed back on the horses just as the sun cleared the horizon.
The rest of the day and night was uneventful. But by mid-morning of the third day, Calla began to point out landmarks. For someone who had known almost nothing about the gold, she certainly seemed to know her away around this part of the countryside. Orodes wondered if her family might have been bandits themselves.
For two days they’d kept the river in sight, but now Tooraj, following Calla’s lead, turned the party westward, and they soon moved into the low hills that overlooked the river.
Orodes frowned as they rode west. His father and his father before him had explored this part of the country many times. None of these hills had ever produced any significant amounts of gold or anything else useful. By midday they’d left the Tigris several miles behind. Orodes decided Calla had led them on a fool’s errand, when she gestured to a barely noticeable opening between two hills. They followed a twisting track of rock-hard ground that led deeper into the hills. Soon enough Orodes looked up to see a steep cliff blocking their way. A blind trail, as anyone could see.
Calla continued toward it, and as they rounded a large boulder, Orodes saw where the cliff face had collapsed, revealing a narrow defile that twisted its way through the heart of the cliffs, until, several hundred paces later, the pathway opened up and revealed a good-sized valley nestled between the hills.
Orodes, riding alone just behind Calla and Tooraj, felt his jaw drop at the sight that awaited them. A stream meandered its way through the center, appearing from one side of the valley and disappearing into the other. Orodes didn’t see any other entrances or exits to this hidden canyon, one full of large boulders scattered about that towered over horse and rider.
He scarcely noticed the ground before him. Instead, he stared at the rocks and jagged cliffs surrounding him. The land had changed completely. The soft hills with their occasional boulders had vanished, replaced by more rugged limestone deposits.
“By the gods,” he muttered, as he looked around. He could almost smell the copper and lead his instincts told him lay buried beneath the surface. Orodes had never seen such a place. Some cataclysm had ripped the earth apart, and thrust these hills upwards, carrying with them all the ores once hidden deep within their depths. It had to be an earthquake, he decided. Only a massive earthquake could shake these hills, and lift the earth in such a fashion. If he hadn’t seen it for h
imself, he wouldn’t have believed it existed, not in these lands.
The party reached the center of the valley, and Calla called out that this was where her family had camped. Orodes ignored her and the soldiers. He rode to the far end of the valley, near where the bubbling water issued from the ground. He slid from the horse and knelt beside the stream. He ran his fingers into the moving water, ignoring the chill. A glint of gold caught the sunlight. Reaching down, he picked up a nugget the size of his thumb, washed clean and pure by the running water.
He tossed it aside, and moved away from the stream. Orodes knelt again, and began digging into the earth, letting the dirt settle through his fingers. He could almost feel the ores, just out of reach. Gold and silver lay buried here, he felt certain, waiting to be taken. But there might be more, much more.
Rising, he slapped the dirt from his hands. Calla and Tooraj and the others stood about two hundred paces away, in the middle of the vale, unloading the horses. Orodes cupped his hands to his mouth. “Tooraj! Come here! Bring my tools!”
His horse had wandered off, not that Orodes cared. He moved toward the base of the hills, where the stream had broken through the rock walls and begun its journey through the little valley. A pool had formed at the water’s entrance, and he splashed through it, ignoring the biting cold on his feet. The sharp chill told him the water came from deep within the earth, forced upwards when the underground river struck the once buried cliffs.
The stream had pierced the limestone wall long ago, breaking off chunks of stone and dumping them into the pool. The rocky fragments had all vanished by now, washed away by the flowing water, but he knew they’d left behind nuggets of lead, copper, iron, and gold, buried not far beneath the silt at the bottom of the pool.
Orodes didn’t bother searching. He knew the ores were here, felt it in his bones. Instead, he concentrated on the rock wall. While working for his uncle, Orodes had often descended deep into the mountain mine, scrambling down the treacherous shafts, going down gallery by gallery, following the threads of ore. He’d stood deep underground while he examined the interior of the mine by the flickering torchlight, following the veins of ore created when the earth and rock were crushed together, often separated by thin, horizontal lines.