by Sam Barone
“I’ll visit the caravan camp outside the city,” En-hedu said. “Perhaps we’ll find one leaving soon.”
But she returned by late in the afternoon with only more evil tidings.
“The city is sealed. No one can leave, not even the local farmers who spent the night. All the caravans are guarded. Soldiers are riding and patrolling every road and trail, stopping anyone who tries to leave. They say it’s to protect them from raids by the Tanukhs and Salibs. They say a large force of barbarian horsemen is on the loose, raiding north of Sumer.”
Tammuz shook his head. “Most of the Salibs are dead or driven into the desert. The Tanukhs have been quiet for years, especially since King Shulgi broke the last resistance of the Salibs. Why would the Tanukhs raid here, close to Shulgi’s army. Why would…?”
His voice trailed off, and En-hedu knew his thoughts. If it were the Tanukhs, then Sumer’s cavalry would be mustering to chase them down, not sit idly by in their camps outside the city, or patrolling the roads.
“The war has begun,” she said. “Whatever is going on between Sumer and Akkad is already happening.”
“But what can it be? Most of the army is here in Sumer, or camped nearby. Even Razrek’s cavalry.”
“Maybe the first attack on Akkad will come from Larsa, or one of the other cities.”
Not that En-hedu believed it. The other cities were reluctant allies, and not likely to be willing to strike the first blow against Akkad. They would join the fighting, but only after Sumer initiated it, and when victory seemed likely.
“It’s a good thing the messenger got out yesterday,” Tammuz said. “Otherwise he’d be trapped here like the rest of us.”
This time En-hedu shook her head. “No, husband. It’s bad that by chance he avoided the patrols. He will carry the news that open war has still not come to Sumer. At least if he were trapped here, those in Akkad might wonder why he didn’t return. I wish we had more ways of getting a message north.”
Tammuz and En-hedu knew they had become Akkad’s most important spies in Sumer, so important that only a few in either city knew of their presence.
“There must be some way to get word out,” Tammuz said. “There has to be something we can do. I can’t believe we failed to — ”
“By the time we get word to Akkad, they will know the worst. The war will already be on them. Now we can only hope that Shulgi’s first blow isn’t fatal.”
He clasped her hand and held it tight. “Don’t worry. Akkad is strong.”
“Yes, I know.”
But in her heart, En-hedu worried. After more than two years of living in Sumer, she realized just how vast an army the city could raise. And an army that size might not be denied.
F rom his balcony, Shulgi gazed out over the Compound. Beneath him, his commanders moved about, coming and going, or gathering in small groups. The orders to start the war had already been issued. Now the men, animals and supplies needed to conquer Akkad would be brought together, to begin the long journey north.
Even from the balcony, Shulgi couldn’t see much of Sumer, but the hum of excitement from its inhabitants carried over the walls. By now even the dullest would have figured out that Sumer was going to war. The long awaited day had finally arrived, and Shulgi would depart the city at dawn to join his army, already on the move north.
“Any last thoughts, my brother?”
Kushanna moved to his side, her bare feet soundless on the wood floor. He put his arm around her shoulders.
“No, everything is well begun. The messengers departed two days ago to the other cities, ordering their armies to join me at Kanesh. By tomorrow, that outpost will have fallen. After that, the border lands will be swept clean and the crops destroyed. Then we’ll begin moving north.”
Shulgi intended not just to invade the Akkadian lands, but to build and fortify a half dozen posts along the way, occupying the countryside in stages. Eskkar would have to come out and fight and, when he did, he’d be attacking the entire Sumerian army, over twenty thousand strong.
“You will take care of yourself, my brother. Trella may send her assassins against you.”
“I’ll take precautions. But surrounded by my army, I’ll be safe from the witch queen.” He kissed the top of her head. “You just make sure the supplies flow steadily north. It will be thirty or forty days before we stand outside Akkad’s walls. And then who knows how long it will take to starve them into submission.”
“Eskkar will challenge you before you reach Akkad’s walls.”
“Then the north will be conquered even sooner. If he fights, he loses. If he remains behind his walls, then he starves.”
“Be wary of his tricks.”
“In the last two years, Razrek and I have thought of everything Eskkar can do. We’ll be ready.”
“Then I’ll await your return, my brother. Your victorious return.”
“Just keep my city under control, my sister. And keep the supplies flowing. Everything depends on that now.”
Book III — Battle for Empire
37
D aro sat cross-legged near the bow of the boat, watching the land flow by. As he gazed at the green ribbon of trees and bushes lining the banks of the Tigris, a flock of small birds burst into flight, startled by an approaching hawk that wheeled back up into the sky once its prey took flight, too wise to chase after them. The birds darted across the water, to resume their hunt for food on the opposite shore, their latest brush with danger already forgotten. The river’s flowing water soothed every spirit, man or beast.
The sun descended closer to the horizon, and before long darkness would spread across the river. By then the vessel would be tied up alongside the jetty at Kanesh, and the grinning crew would be well into their first cups of ale inside the walled village. Once again Daro swore at the bad luck that had kept him riding ships up and down the rivers for the last two years.
It had all started even earlier than that, when Yavtar sailed to Sumer and needed an armed guard to protect both himself and his precious cargo of lapis lazuli. A few days earlier, Daro had made the mistake of telling his commander that he knew something about boats. As a boy, he’d worked a few seasons helping his father row up and down the Tigris. When Yavtar requested an escort who knew something about the river, Daro happened to be in Akkad, and found himself volunteered for the duty.
That trip had gone well, and Daro thought that would be the last time he sailed up and down the great river. Instead, once safe and secure back in Akkad, Yavtar had requested Daro be put in charge of another cargo. After a few more such voyages, Daro grew bored with the task. Riding the water gave him little time to practice his archery, so he asked for a return to duty with his fellow bowmen.
The next day Alexar, recently promoted to commander of Akkad’s archers, summoned Daro to his quarters. When he arrived, to his surprise Daro found Yavtar there as well. Daro knew the boatmaster and Alexar remained good friends. Both had fought together against Korthac’s forces.
“Yavtar heard you want to leave the river,” Alexar began. “He wants you to stay.”
Before Daro could protest, Alexar held up his hand. “It’s already been decided. Much as I could use your help, Yavtar needs to build a force of archers to defend the trading ships and their cargoes. He also has some wild idea about building fighting ships — ships that can carry archers and provide a platform for them to fight from. In a few years, there may be a hundred bowmen guarding and fighting from Yavtar’s new fleet of boats. You’ve more river experience than any of my archers. And if you do well, you might end up commanding all these men. You could soon find yourself a leader of one hundred.”
Fighting boats? River archers? Before Daro had time to ask a question or utter a protest, Yavtar spoke. “Well then, that’s settled.” The river-master placed his arm around Daro’s shoulder. “Come with me, lad. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
Later Daro learned that Yavtar had asked Eskkar for Daro’s services. After Eskkar’s approval
, no further discussion seemed necessary, at least to Yavtar. The shipmaster obviously had no qualms about using his position in Eskkar’s inner circle of advisors to obtain what he wanted.
Even then, Akkad’s boatmaster didn’t tell Daro everything, but Yavtar revealed enough to make Daro’s eyes widen at the prospect of war with Sumeria.
Two years had passed since then, the war approached, and by now Daro had made countless trips up and down the rivers. Months ago he’d earned the title of commander of one hundred, and his force of river archers continued to grow. With the threat of war looming ever closer, Daro decided to make every third trip down to Kanesh, to inspect those of his men stationed there.
The trading outpost would be the first target for Sumer’s army, and Eskkar had stationed a strong garrison there. As the tension between Akkad and Sumer increased, Daro wanted to ensure that his archers had prepared themselves and their boats. That inspection would take most of tomorrow, but tonight he would sip some ale with his men, relax in their company, and try not to think about what the future might bring.
Once again he let his gaze sweep over the riverbank and the farmland stretching beyond. Despite the peaceful setting, something felt out of place. Still, Daro saw nothing unusual.
“A fine evening, commander.”
Daro turned to see Scria, the ship’s master, standing beside him. Scria’s face reminded Daro of a rat, thin and pointed, with yellow teeth that protruded from his lips. The lank, greasy hair added to the resemblance. But despite his appearance, the man knew the river and could sail his boat well enough. Yavtar apparently thought as much.
“Yes. I’ll be glad when we dock.”
“An empty river makes for a fast voyage,” Scria said, looking out over the prow and scratching his chest.
When Daro didn’t reply, Scria turned away and began weaving his way back to the stern.
“Wait! Come back!”
Now Scria’s rat face held a frown. He didn’t like to be ordered about by some soldier, even a commander.
“You said the river was empty.” Daro rose to his feet, bracing himself against the boat’s motion and stretching upwards to see downriver. “How long has it been… we haven’t passed a boat coming upstream.”
Since they started out early this morning, they’d waved greetings to at least a dozen ships headed north. But as the morning turned into afternoon, the sightings of ships bound for Akkad and other cities upriver had ceased.
“Mmm… has been a long time. This late in the day, we should have seen a few, unless they decided to stop in Kanesh.” Scria scratched his chest again, this time in a different place. “Maybe they pulled ashore to rest.”
A stupid answer, Daro knew. No boat captain worth his salt would sit idly on the riverbank while the sun remained in the sky. Especially with a way station not that far upstream. There should be boats. Something was wrong. He glanced at the river, then up into the sky. He saw no birds, heard no sounds other than their own soft passage through the water.
“You men! On your feet. String your bows.”
Daro had brought only two archers with him, more than enough to drive off any casual bandits or pirates. Suddenly, he wished he’d brought a dozen, though that many would have overloaded Scria’s boat. As his men scrambled to their feet, Daro turned to the boat captain.
“Get the boat in the middle of the river, away from the bank.”
The man at the steering oar followed the current, and at this point in the river, that brought them closer to the left bank, scarcely fifty paces away. “Why… what’s the problem?”
Daro gripped Scria’s shoulder and squeezed. “Just do it. Now!” He pushed the man away and reached down to grasp his own bow. With the ease of years of practice, he strung the weapon, then slung the quiver over his shoulder, letting it hang down to his waist on his left side.
The boat had already turned into a curve of the river. Scria’s shouts to his steersman brought the bow around, and the vessel moved sluggishly toward midstream, struggling against the current. Daro rested his foot on the prow, to get a better look.
A flight of arrows burst from the brush along the river’s left bank. They hummed through the air, striking the boat, the crew, and the water on either side. One shaft grazed Daro’s arm, and two struck the boat on the left side.
“Get down!” Daro shouted the order, but those who survived the first flight were already ducking as low as possible. An archer lay sprawled beside the mast, and one of Scria’s three crewmen had taken two shafts and fallen overboard.
The boatmaster — his voice rising to a hysterical shout — had an arrow protruding from his arm, as he crawled along the bottom of the vessel. Daro loosed a shaft at the shore, now filled with men emerging from the bushes and splashing into the shallow water, some still launching shafts. Fortunately, the crewman steering the boat had survived, and he kept the vessel moving toward the center of the river.
A quick glance at their numbers told Daro all he needed to know. At least twenty archers had attacked them, maybe more. He dropped his bow and picked up an oar. “Everyone row!” A few arrows launched toward the riverbank weren’t going to accomplish anything.
Moving to the right side of the vessel, he took shelter behind some sacks of grain and began pulling as hard as he could, thrusting the paddle deep into the river and dragging it through the water. His surviving bowman, Iseo, did the same, crouching down as low as he could and working the dead crewman’s oar. The boat moved farther from the left bank, slowly passed through the center of the river, and glided closer to the opposite shore. Arrows continued to fall on the ship and splash into the water, but by now Scria’s boat had moved well past the point of the attack.
“We should get to the opposite shore!” Scria’s right hand clutched his bloody left arm. His voice had lost none of its panic.
Daro lifted his head and let his eyes scan the right bank. He saw a party of horsemen — at least twenty — following the course of the river and matching the pace of the boat. Many of them had bows in their hands. They rode easily, as if they didn’t care if the boat slipped away from them. A third party of perhaps a dozen riders trotted into view on the left bank, going down river as well. The boat was trapped between the two forces.
“Turn the boat around,” Daro shouted. He pointed to the horsemen on the right bank. “We have to go back up river.”
Scria’s eyes widened. “We can’t go back!” he screamed. “We’re too heavy to pull upstream!”
The boat captain had started with three crewmen. One had died, another lay on his back, an arrow in his shoulder. Only luck had saved the most important crewman, the one steering the boat. If he’d taken an arrow, the ship might have swung broadside and swamped. But Daro knew they couldn’t continue south, and both sides of the river appeared to be crawling with who knew how many mounted men.
“Keep the boat in the center of the river! Scria, start dumping the cargo. Iseo, help him. Get the body over the side, too. Hurry!”
Scria, crouched on his knees, remained motionless. “We can’t dump the cargo. It’s worth at least thirty — ”
“It’s worth nothing to you if you’re dead! Iseo! If he doesn’t start helping, throw him overboard.”
Daro reached down and lifted the first sack, lifted it onto the gunwale, then pushed it over the side. Soon the boat was rocking back and forth, threatening to capsize at any moment, as the three of them tossed sacks, bales, and clay pitchers overboard.
He paused to look at the shore. The horsemen still kept pace with the boat’s progress. The enemy didn’t bother wasting arrows. They seemed satisfied as long as the boat went south. That meant more enemy would be waiting ahead, and likely with some way to force the boat to shore, perhaps a vessel of their own filled with armed men.
Daro scrambled back to the rear of the boat. The steersman, his face white with fear, clenched the steering oar with a grip that made the bones in his hand stand out.
“I’ll take the oar!” D
aro snapped. “You help Scria dump the cargo. Make sure we don’t dump what we need for ballast.” An empty boat would capsize at the least movement.
In a few more moments, the craft rode higher in the water, with almost all of the cargo over the side.
“Iseo, we’re turning upstream. Start rowing, all of you. Steersman, as soon as we come about, get that sail up. Then stay low, and row for all you’re worth.”
He pushed hard on the steering oar, turning the boat first toward the right bank, then swinging it back across the center of the river and turning it upstream. As soon as he got the boat headed north, the men on shore took notice. Once again arrows flew through the air, splashing into the water, thudding into the sides of the boat, and a few striking inside the vessel.
The frightened steersman raised the sail faster than he’d ever done in his life. The soft breeze didn’t help much, but it enabled the boat to keep headway against the river’s current. As soon as Daro had the boat centered in the river and moving north, he ordered Scria to take the steering oar. With his wounded arm, the boatmaster would be of more use guiding his boat than trying to row.
Daro scooped up Scria’s oar and began stroking. His powerful arms, strengthened from years of archery, helped push the boat up the river. Soon they retraced their way and reached the point of the first attack. As he watched, a dozen horsemen moved into sight, and guided their horses down the slope toward the river’s edge. All of them carried bows.
Daro swore, dropped his oar and collected his bow. The enemy would ride into the stream as far as they could, which would bring them into killing range. They’d rake the little boat, and riddle everyone with arrows. “Iseo! Keep rowing!”
But the horsemen weren’t close enough for that yet. Daro stood, aimed, and launched his first arrow. He’d aimed for the nearest rider, but the shaft struck the lead horse in the shoulder. The animal went mad with pain, rearing up and twisting its head to tear at the arrow with its teeth. The rider slipped from the animal’s back and went into the water with a mighty splash. The wounded animal kicked out with its hind legs, and the next horse panicked as well.