by Sam Barone
She recognized the look. Another man smitten by her position. Yes, Trella decided, Orodes definitely needed a wife.
Orodes realized he was staring and dropped his eyes for a moment. “Are you ready for the next step in the process?”
“Yes. And I want you to explain everything to me. Everything.”
They walked and spoke until darkness fell. Orodes explained how the raw ores were washed, inspected, and separated again and again, until each particular pile contained a high content of specific minerals. Then the materials were crushed into smaller chunks, sifted again in running water, then heated in a furnace, sometimes with charcoal or other materials, some of which were delivered daily to Nuzi. When various impurities were burned off, the resulting raw metals were examined again. Some samples were reheated and reprocessed, others bagged into sacks for storage or transport. She recognized the green of copper ore — malachite Orodes called it — and the reddish tint that signified lead.
“With most of the surface gold already gone,” Orodes went on, “we’ll have to extract it in smaller quantities from the other processes that yield copper, tin and iron. Once everything is ground down to a fine powder, we can wash it again to extract the gold dust, though, as I expected, silver will soon be Nuzi’s most valuable product. Already I need more toolmakers to fashion hammers and other implements. We’re breaking tools almost every day, chiseling our way into the rocks and floor of the valley.”
Trella paused and watched laborers hammering a bronze chisel into the rock face until it cracked, then levering the small opening until the rocks broke away. Fire, too, could be used to heat the stones. When they grew hot, a bucket of water tossed against the heated surface would split even the hardest rock.
“How many men will you need to bring Nuzi to full production?”
“Not counting the farmers and soldiers, just those working in this valley, at least a hundred slaves and as many craftsmen. With that many laborers, and the new process I’ve established to sift and sieve the ores, I think we’ll be able to extract as much of the noble metals as feasible. Of course, I’ll need a steady supply of firewood. With that I can make my own charcoal.”
She’d already considered that request. Soon as many boats as departed from Nuzi would be arriving laden down with all the dozens of specialized tools and goods that Orodes needed to operate the mine efficiently. Trella realized it would be up to her to establish and maintain such a flow of materials, some from as far away as the northern forests. And it would take a good portion of the wealth extracted just to keep the flow of the precious metal coming.
Again and again Trella asked Orodes to go into more detail. At last Trella felt she understood every facet of how the mine worked. If another goldsmith were needed, she would know how to question him.
“Orodes, you’ve done well,” she said, after he had finished his tour of the site. “When you first started, you asked for a share of the mine’s profits. After what I’ve seen today, I believe you’ve earned it. From now on, one part in fifty of every shipment will be yours.”
“My thanks to you, Lady Trella, for having faith in me. It is more than sufficient.”
By the time Nuzi ceased operating, Orodes would probably be the richest man in Akkad.
As the setting sun signaled the end of the day’s labors, Eskkar arrived, walking with Tooraj. Her husband would have spent the afternoon discussing ways to stop thieves and raiders, ensure the soldiers stayed honest and alert, and keep the ever-growing number of slaves under control. Tooraj’s labors would be almost as difficult as Orodes. Tooraj would also need to be properly paid. She would see to that as well. He, too, could probably use a wife.
“Have you finished your inspection, husband?”
Eskkar couldn’t keep the smile off his face, as happy for the good news Tooraj had given him as for avoiding a long session with Orodes. What Trella found fascinating would have bored her husband to death. Besides, Eskkar knew he could trust her to keep Orodes in check.
“Yes. Tooraj has everything under control.”
“As does Orodes. He has built a very productive site, as I’m sure Tooraj has already informed you. The silver from Nuzi will flow to Akkad, and it will be enough to meet our needs for some time.” She placed her hand on Eskkar’s arm. “Now I think it is time for supper.”
The three men standing facing her all looked guilty. None of them had given a single thought to a proper evening meal. Oh, well, that would be one more task she would have to perform.
31
Queen Kushanna frowned at the man kneeling before her. The guards had made a half-hearted effort to clean him up at the well, probably by throwing a few buckets of water over him. They knew better than to bring someone filthy into her presence. Nevertheless, the wretch still showed the thick black bands of dirt under the chipped and cracked nails on his hands and feet, and no quick scrub with a rag could remove all the grime imbedded into his face. His thin arms and legs had almost no flesh on them, and the unruly shock of black hair already streaked with gray nearly concealed his face. Death from either hunger or exhaustion would have taken him soon, she realized.
“Are you sure this is the one, Sohrab? I’d hate to think you brought back the wrong man after all this time.”
Sohrab had departed nearly a month ago, and had returned by boat at dusk yesterday.
“Yes, Queen Kushanna. It took some time to find him. The original buyer sold him to — ”
She waved her hand to silence him. “Hand me the whip.”
Her chief spy removed the leather lash from his wrist and offered it to Kushanna. She used the stiffened plaited leather grip to lift the man’s head so that she could read his eyes. A man’s eyes revealed so much about him, much more than a woman’s. This one’s gaze appeared dull and listless, the eyes of one grown accustomed to the brutality of others. The ability to think would have been beaten out of him long ago. Now only fear of the whip could motivate a slave this far gone.
“What’s your name, slave?”
The man stared at the whip. No doubt Sohrab had used it often enough on the slave’s back.
“Almaric, mistress.”
The voice was properly humble, the brown eyes downcast. He’d been a slave for more than three years, and the gods must have blessed him to keep alive so long at the mine.
“Look at me when you speak,” she commanded. “Where are you from? Who was your father?”
The eyes blinked, as the man struggled to remember. His mouth opened, but no words came. Kushanna struck him across the face with the whip, not hard enough to break the skin but sharp enough to raise a welt. Almaric flinched at the pain, but knew better than to raise his hands or protest.
“Carnax, mistress. I’m from Carnax.” He glanced about, but saw no mercy from Sohrab or the two guards.
“And your father?”
“Ahhhaaa… my father was…” His brow furrowed, as he struggled to recall the past.
Kushanna raised the whip again, but before she could strike, Almaric found the words.
“Sargat, mistress… my father was Sargat of Carnax, advisor to the Village Elder.”
Any imposter or properly coached slave might know those facts. Kushanna, however, had spoken at length to Drusas the slaver. Even facing the usual threats, he’d recalled little about Almaric, not even the boy’s name. But Drusas remembered a wealth of detail about a young girl named Trella, how she was offered for sale as a virgin who could count and read the symbols, even that she possessed the healing knowledge. He’d sold her to a trader named Nicar on his way home to Akkad, now Eskkar’s Chief Justice.
More important, Drusas recalled having Trella kneel naked before him, while she read the symbols and counted her numbers. “Tell me about your sister. What’s her name?”
The question startled Almaric, but Kushanna lifted the whip again.
“Trella, mistress. My sister’s name is Trella.”
“Good. Very good, Almaric. Perhaps you would like some
water.” She gestured to the guard, who filled a cup from a pitcher and handed it the prisoner.
Almaric gulped the contents down in a few swallows, spilling a good portion on his chest and the floor between his knees.
Kushanna forced a smile to her face. If a servant had spilled that much water, she would have had the unlucky offender whipped. “Now describe your sister to me, slave. All you know of her.”
The story required many promptings, but Kushanna only used the whip once more. Eventually, the detail Kushanna sought emerged, as the brother recalled a small brown mole beneath the sister’s left breast. Drusas had remembered the same mark on the slave girl he sold to Nicar. No one else would know that fact, not even Sohrab.
Satisfied at last, Kushanna handed the whip back to Sohrab, then turned to the guard. “Take him down to the slave’s quarters for now. Feed him well, and give him some ale. Tell my master steward Almaric is not to be whipped except by my order.”
She waited until the guard removed the slave, then turned to Sohrab. “You’ve done well. That is indeed Trella’s brother. We were doubly fortunate to find him still alive. In his condition, I’m surprised the mine’s owner didn’t have him killed.”
“Yes, Queen Kushanna. He knew the symbols, so at the first dig, he was put to work helping count the sacks of ore. That kept him out of the pits. After two years, he was sold to a second mine. They had no need of a slave who could count or read the symbols, so he went down into the mine. He would have been dead in a few more months. They sold him for a single silver coin, and were glad to take advantage of me.”
“You could have taken him for nothing,” Kushanna said. “They would have given him up fast enough at my order.”
“I thought it best not to use your name, my queen. This way, no one knows of your interest in such a laborer.”
She smiled at Sohrab’s ingenuity. He was learning to anticipate her commands. “I see I chose wisely when I sent you to find Trella’s brother. Now we have to make use of him. His wits are addled, but perhaps with rest and good food and plenty of time, he may recover. The healthier Almaric is, the more value he will have. For now, take him to my farm south of Sumer. See to it that he is given only simple tasks and treated well. And watch over his progress. If he remembers how to think, we will send for him again.”
“Yes, my queen. And you think he will be useful in the coming war?”
“Perhaps. He is the only one of Trella’s kin that remains alive. Who knows, she may care more for him than her husband. At the least she’ll pay well to have him returned to her.”
“Shall I send such a message to Trella of Akkad?”
“Not yet, Sohrab, not yet. In due time you can deliver the message yourself.”
32
Eskkar frowned at the well-worn tracks that led to the valley north of Bisitun. Three months ago, when he and Hathor first visited the place with a dozen Ur Nammu warriors, the ground showed no sign of anyone’s passage through the land. Now the pristine emptiness of the hill country had changed. From the depth of the tracks, he knew horses, oxen, wagons, cattle, sheep, men, women and even children in increasing numbers had followed the same trail over the last three months, no doubt all of them bearing burdens of one kind or another. Probably not a day went by without another group of men or wagonload of supplies arriving. Still, when Eskkar crested the last hill, a little before sunset, and saw the valley below, he halted his horse in surprise.
“A walled village!”
Grond halted his horse beside that of his captain. “Well, I suppose it is. Not much of a wall, though. Or a village, either.”
Eskkar let his eyes take in the site below. A mud-brick wall, just tall enough to keep a horse from jumping over it, ambled its way across the entrance to the valley. He guessed it to be at least two hundred paces from end to end, maybe even more. A wide gate near the center provided access. Beside the gate, a lone lookout tower twice the height of the gate rose up, its skeletal logs providing little more than a platform where a man or two could stand. Farther behind the wall, huts and tents extended a good distance into the valley, and Eskkar could see three separate horse pens, one of them empty. Smoke rose from several cooking fires, the gray streams curling lazily into the blue sky before following the wind to the east. The ringing sound of a bronze hammer pounding on a shaping stone echoed off the valley’s walls.
As he watched, an empty wagon pulled by two oxen emerged from the gate, no doubt headed back to Bisitun to pick up another load of whatever goods Hathor and his commanders needed. The men conveying cargoes between Bisitun and here would be earning plenty of coins for their hard labor.
“All this, in only three months.” While Eskkar had seen how well villagers could dig and build during the siege, this matched anything he’d seen at Akkad.
“Hathor knows his business,” Grond said. “You picked the right man to build your cavalry.”
They rode down the hill, followed by the ten Hawk Clan guards who had accompanied Eskkar all the way from Akkad. The lookout guard saw their approach, and raised a shout that must have carried halfway up the valley. In moments, six bowmen appeared from behind the wall, readying their weapons efficiently and taking their stations without anyone shouting orders at them.
Eskkar grunted in approval. The camp’s discipline appeared sound. By the time he and Grond reached the gate, the guards had already unstrung their bows and waved them in greeting. Hathor arrived to join those standing by the gate, hands on his hips, waiting for them.
“Welcome to Horse Valley, Lord Eskkar.” Hathor had a grin on his face. “And good to see you again, Grond.”
Eskkar swung down from the horse, and the two men clasped each other’s arms. “I’m glad I decided to come. It looks like you’ve built a village here since the last time I was here.”
Hathor glanced around and shrugged. “This is nothing. Wait until you see the training ground. Come, I’ve much to tell you.” He called for his horse, and a soldier brought out a fine brown stallion. “Follow me.” He put his heels to the horse and cantered up into the valley.
Eskkar mounted and rode beside him. Beyond the horse pens the valley curved, and he saw another, much smaller wall blocking a cleft into the valley’s walls.
“That’s where the Ur Nammu keep their animals.” Hathor gestured with his hand. “They camp there at night. The masons built it for them in three days.”
Halfway up the valley, Hathor halted. A long house had been built here, along with another corral filled with ten or more horses. “This is where my commanders and trainers sleep. We’ll stay here tonight. That will give me time to order up a feast in your honor, and prepare the men for tomorrow. Too late in the day to start a goat roasting, but we have some chickens, enough to make a good stew. We’ll save the goat to celebrate another day.”
Eskkar glanced up the valley. In the distance, he saw a small herd of horses roaming free. “A feast? Trella told me you were starving up here.”
“Well, we were for the first month. Now we’ve plenty of food, and ale, too, for that matter. Grain, chickens, vegetables, everything we need comes from Bisitun. As the women arrived, they started building ovens, and now they bake bread, dozens of loaves each day. More than enough for everyone. We started giving some to the Ur Nammu, and they started bringing game into camp at day’s end. So everyone is eating well.”
“How many men do you have up here?”
Hathor had to stop and think. “About two hundred men, and another hundred women and children. You’ll see most of them here tonight. When we heard you were arriving in a few days, the first two companies of cavalry had just finished the first part of their training. So I promised everyone a feast in your honor. They’ll all want to see and hear their king.”
That meant another speech. Still, Hathor and the others had made remarkable progress establishing the training camp. Eskkar hadn’t expected any of the soldiers to have completed their training this soon, so they deserved at least a few words of prai
se. Unlike the steppe warriors who started riding as small children held in their fathers’ arms, many villagers knew little about horses. For them, learning to ride and fight from the back of a racing animal meant overcoming their fears, real enough considering the size and speed of a horse.
By the time Eskkar, Grond and his guards took care of their horses and washed off the dust of their journey in the stream, the preparations for the feast were well under way. Soldiers carried armfuls of wood and started new campfires. Women and children crowded about, as curious to see the man who ruled their lands as to do the cooking. Two grinning soldiers dispensed and guarded the ale supply, but provided each man and woman with at least a cup of ale. Eskkar guessed that a few soldiers would be drunk before dark.
Everyone wanted to talk to the king. Every soldier, every recruit, found some excuse to visit Hathor’s little camp. Even the laborers and craftsmen soon heard about Eskkar’s presence and joined the crowd. Children, some barely able to walk, wandered over to stare in open-mouthed silence at the dark-haired man, though most soon decided that the tall and somber figure looked no different from any other man, and they wandered off to play their games.
Many people brought their own food with them, content to sit on the grass as close to Eskkar and his companions as they could get. He wanted to talk to Hathor, to learn what progress had been made, but it proved impossible. When Fashod, Chinua and four other smiling Ur Nammu warriors joined them, a shout of welcome rose up. Eskkar had never seen or heard anything like that before, villagers cheering barbarians. He still felt it odd that excited people often shouted out his own name.
With a smile, Eskkar forced himself to relax. The feast would have to come first, and from the looks of the ale being poured, it would go on for some time.
I n the morning, Eskkar’s head throbbed with pain. He’d eaten too much food, drunk too much ale, and in general behaved more like a half-drunken warrior than a king. Now he stood outside, pissing on the rocks that lay scattered behind the house and sighing in relief. The ground in front of the house had been trampled flat, but at least none of Hathor’s men lay there in a stupor. The Egyptian had seen to that, making sure everyone got a few cups of ale but no more. By now every man, aching head or not, had returned to his station.