by Sam Barone
By now the spearmen had covered half the distance. “Ready weapons!” Gatus had to bellow the command this time, as the noise and din of a battlefield began to grow.
As if it were a single movement, the spears were raised and held above the right shoulder. The second and third ranks moved even closer to the front, the raised shields now covering almost every part of the ranks.
“Charge!”
The spearmen broke into a run, but kept the line even and their shields held out before them. For the first time they voiced their war cries as they charged toward the enemy. “Akkad!” burst from twenty-eight hundred lungs as they charged.
Eskkar saw the first of the Sumerians turn and run. Fear spread quickly and more men abandoned their position. The Akkadians closed the gap in moments. Arrows continued to rain down on the fleeing Sumerians, and now stones from the slingers whizzed through the air, striking with a loud thud when they struck a shield, or with the softer sound of crushing flesh.
Almost none of the enemy stood their ground, and the few that did accomplished nothing by their bravery but their deaths. With shouts of “Akkad!” still ringing out over the ground, the spearmen smashed into the now abandoned barrier, scrambled over it and kept going at a run.
The Sumerians — caught by surprise at the rapid and deadly advance — turned to escape. But due to the speed of the attack, confusion reigned, as Sumerians bumped into each other as they tried to reach their horses. Stones from the slingers arched up into the sky before raining down on the confused mass, sending horses bucking and tossing riders from their backs. The archers followed, but they held their arrows until they climbed atop of what was left of the breastwork. That gave them a slight height advantage, and they stopped and began shooting.
The spearmen closed with those Sumerians still surging backwards. Most had thrown down their bows and now struggled to catch and mount their horses, escape their only thought. Eskkar never heard who gave the order, but the first rank of spearmen had reached within forty paces. They cast their long spears, drew their swords, and closed with the enemy.
The Ur Nammu — without waiting for the order — charged, sweeping around to the right, where a narrow piece of empty ground let them bypass the exultant spearmen. The rest of the Akkadian horses followed.
As Eskkar reached the crest, he pulled up and turned to see the rear. The Sumerians at their rear and flanks had hardly tried to approach. The remaining archers, staying close behind the charging ranks, had kept them at bay.
By the time he returned his gaze to what remained of the Sumerian position, the carnage had ended. Bodies littered the ground, horses and men, victims of arrows, stones, spears, swords. The Sumerians were still fleeing as fast as their horses could gallop, and more than a few were on foot and running for their lives, trying to reach the safety of their still-mounted brethren before the shouting Ur Nammu, shooting arrows as they rode, ran them down.
Gatus finally halted the advance. He gave the men a few moments rest, which they used to loot the dead of anything valuable. The Ur Nammu, too, broke off the pursuit, and devoted their time to collecting another two dozen horses.
Drakis strode up to Eskkar. “Gatus took the count, Captain. Forty-six enemy dead, probably as many again wounded. One of our men was killed, struck in the eye by an arrow. Five more wounded.”
Eskkar grunted in satisfaction, the results more favorable than he had expected. Not many enemy dead, but only because the Sumerians had fled before the spearmen reached them. A good exchange. “Get the wounded on horses, and tell Gatus to get the men moving again.” He glanced up at the sun. “We’ve wasted enough time here.” Before Eskkar’s order could reach him, Gatus and his commanders started regrouping the men, getting them into formation, and resuming the march.
T hat evening, after the men had eaten, Eskkar gathered his commanders around him.
“Today the men proved themselves, as did their commanders. You all fought bravely. There was no confusion, no doubt, no fear. The men followed Gatus’s orders, and went forward without hesitation. Watching the Sumerians run like rabbits will give our men confidence. Meanwhile, the Sumerian cavalry will spread the word of their defeat. I doubt they’ll be willing to face us again.”
The smiles on their faces showed they agreed with his words.
“Now we’ll face the next test. Tomorrow we’ll reach Larsa. The Sumerians will be in the city and the cavalry will still be nipping at our flanks at every opportunity. We’re probably three or four days ahead of Shulgi’s army, but we won’t have any time to waste. We need to take Larsa quickly. If we let Shulgi get too close, he might decided to sacrifice his horsemen just to slow us down.”
“Razrek won’t go along with that,” Gatus said, “not from what we’ve heard.”
“Razrek will do whatever he’s told,” Eskkar said, “provided there’s enough gold in it for him. I don’t want to take the chance. Remember, Shulgi will do what he thinks is needed to win. For him, victory makes up for any losses, no matter how steep. If he doesn’t win, and soon, his soldiers may begin to wonder about their leader’s plan.”
“Then we’ll make sure they all have plenty to worry about.”
“That we will, Gatus. Now let’s get the men to stop boasting about what they did today and have them get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be another long day, with maybe a hard fight facing them. They may not have a chance to get much sleep again.”
48
Day 4
Just after mid-afternoon the Akkadian army rounded a bend in the Tigris and saw the city of Larsa, about two miles ahead. A ragged cheer arose at the sight, and Eskkar didn’t know if his men were just glad to stop marching or if they looked forward to coming to grips with their enemy.
Without any distractions from the Sumerians, either last night or today, Eskkar and his soldiers made good time and reached the outskirts of the city with plenty of daylight left. Gatus had pushed the men so hard that even the strongest complained. By now the army had been marching at top speed every day for nine days, and some of the men who’d traveled down from the north even longer. Their legs might be tired, but muscles rippled on every limb. Yet all the mutterings ceased as soon as the men caught a glimpse of their destination.
In four days the Akkadians — unprotected by cavalry — had marched almost one hundred miles, a distance that Eskkar would not have believed possible two years ago. His men had accomplished something never before done, and he felt proud of them.
“Is that the farm?” Gatus had ridden up to join Eskkar and Grond atop a little hillock that gave them a better view of the city’s outskirts.
“Yes, the one with three willow trees.” Eskkar had just identified it from Trella’s description. He’d visited Larsa twice before in his wanderings, but never paid any attention to the countless farms scattered over the landscape. This particular farm was about a mile from the city, and had the slight distinction of possessing two rickety jetties extending a few paces from the riverbank into the Tigris.
“Let’s hope that Yavtar can find the place,” Gatus said.
“He will.” Eskkar had complete confidence in the master sailor, who long ago had memorized every turn and twist in the mighty river. “Now let’s get there and make camp so the men can get some rest.”
Gatus shouted to his commanders, and pointed the way forward. The Akkadians soon covered the last mile of their journey. Eskkar and Grond swung down from their horses in front of the humble house. The farm’s owners had abandoned it as soon as they caught sight of the approaching soldiers, and Eskkar could still see the family running toward the city, carrying a few possessions and driving three cows before them as they fled. A good sign, he decided. That meant that word of their arrival hadn’t yet reached every part of the countryside, or that his Akkadians had moved faster than anyone expected.
The soldiers settled in around the farm and started building their night camp. As soon as that task got under way, Gatus released the men in shifts, so th
at they could splash and bathe in the river, soak their feet, and clean themselves and their clothes for the first time in days.
Eskkar decided not to waste any daylight. “Bring the prisoners.”
The Akkadian horsemen had rounded up fourteen men and women during the last half of the morning’s march, all farmers except for one trader and his three porters, caught before they could scurry their way into Larsa. Every one of them looked terrified, not knowing what fate awaited them. Escorted into Eskkar’s presence, he saw the trembling in their limbs and fear on their faces, no matter how well they tried to mask it. One or two seemed hardly able to stand, so great was their fright.
Instead of death or torture, Eskkar greeted them with a smile. “I am Eskkar, King of Akkad. I want you to forget what tales you’ve been told about me and my men. You are all free to go to Larsa. But I want you to carry a message for me to King Naran. You are to tell him to surrender his city to me by sundown. Tell him I offer the people of Larsa this one chance to save their homes and their lives. If King Naran does not surrender, I will destroy it and all those who resist.”
Silence greeted his words at first, then quick smiles as they realized they might not be killed or enslaved. Eskkar made them repeat the message twice, to make sure they wouldn’t forget it, and sent them on their way. They kept glancing behind them as they stumbled out of the camp, as if still expecting to be slaughtered.
“I never understood why men like that fear death so much,” Grond said. “We all die sooner or later. Any chance of Larsa surrendering?”
Eskkar shook his head. “No, not with Razrek and his men inside the walls. He knows he only has to hold out for a few days, until Shulgi catches up with us. Even if King Naran were willing to take a chance on our mercy, Razrek is the real power in Larsa by now. But I had to give them the chance. It’s something they and others will remember later.”
“Good. I’d rather see this place torn down anyway. It’s been a thorn in our side for years. When do we attack?”
“If Yavtar arrives by sundown, we attack tonight. If he doesn’t come, we’ll go tomorrow, with or without him.”
“Do you want me to send some scouts up the river?”
“No, we don’t want to call any attention to it yet. The Sumerians might try to intercept the ships, and we need those cargoes.”
Eskkar stepped into the farmhold’s main house, then climbed up the rickety ladder to the roof. It gave him a good view of the camp, bustling with activity, and he could even see upriver a little way. When Eskkar turned his gaze to the south, he enjoyed a good view of Larsa’s walls rising up over the swells of land. He’d kept his worries to himself, at least as best he could, but the moment of truth had nearly arrived.
If they couldn’t captured Larsa, which meant take it before Shulgi’s vast army arrived, the Akkadians would be trapped between the two forces. In that case, Eskkar and his men would have to ford the Tigris and try to battle their way north, back to Akkad, his entire battle plan in ruins. If he failed here, his commanders, every man in the army would know the truth, and he would see it in their eyes.
He shook his head, and forced the gloomy thought from his mind. Eskkar had a powerful army at his disposal, and the enemy behind Larsa’s gates would be fearing disaster. The city’s inhabitants had been told that all the battles would take place in the north, that no Akkadians would ever step foot on Larsa’s countryside. Now they knew that Shulgi had failed to deliver on his promised protection. Few would be resting comfortably in Larsa tonight, despite Razrek’s reinforcements.
Below the farmhouse, Eskkar saw the orderly preparations of his men. They were ready for the coming battle, and as yet they had no doubts of success. Most of the soldiers believed in Eskkar’s good fortune, his ability to snatch victory from any desperate encounter no matter what the odds. That belief had served him well, but it needed only one setback to shatter the aura of invincibility and luck they all believed in.
No sense worrying about defeat now, Eskkar resolved. He considered descending the roof and helping organize the men, but decided not to. Gatus and the others knew what needed to be done. Instead, Eskkar stretched out, flung his arm over his face, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t as tired as most of his men, and the sun still shone brightly down on the land. Still he knew he needed to get as much rest as he could, because there would be no sleep for him tonight. Despite the noise and bustle surrounding the farmhouse, he fell asleep, hoping his luck would hold for one more day.
Inside the city of Larsa, late afternoon
A spy should not be such a pathetic creature. At least that’s what Dragan told himself often enough. Still, being a cripple made him beneath notice, almost invisible, and today of all days he needed that. Dragan eased his way through the crowded lanes, trying to keep his balance, until he reached a nook where two huts joined and he could watch Larsa’s main gate without getting trampled on. Nearly every step he took brought a burning pain that traveled the length of his right leg and up his back. The faster Dragan tried to move, the worse the spasm, almost as bad as those times when he stumbled and fell, or someone bumped into him and upset his balance.
Most days he managed to control the affliction, but today’s hurried movements made his leg hurt even more than usual, and he forced himself to ignore the searing agony. Instead, he studied the crowd of people congregating near the gate. In the last two days, farmers and herders filled the city, bringing their families and even their animals. They had all abandoned their homes and sought refuge within Larsa’s walls, desperate to avoid the dreaded Akkadians rumored to be coming toward them.
Larsa had never held so many people before. Two days ago Razrek and his eight hundred haughty horse fighters had arrived, bringing word of King Eskkar’s rapid approach. The Sumerian cavalry filled the city, most of them drunk within moments of stabling their horses, often within the homes of the inhabitants, who protested futilely to King Naran. The city’s guards, outnumbered by Razrek’s men, could do nothing to stop the drunkenness, fighting and the assaults on Larsa’s women, which often took place in the lanes while the crowd watched.
The Sumerian horsemen turned into gangs of heavily armed men who roamed the city and knocked down anyone who tried to stand in their way. At least a dozen men had died, killed for one reason or another by the Sumerians, and their murderers remained unavenged.
With the addition of those fleeing the countryside, the city’s normal routine had collapsed, unable to sustain such numbers. Boisterous soldiers filled the shops and common areas, while their horses, causing almost as much trouble as their riders, were stabled in the marketplace and every open area. No one tried, or could, restrain Razrek’s Sumerians. Larsa’s regular guards refused to leave their barracks, and not even King Naran in his fine house could keep Razrek’s men in check, even assuming he had the slightest interest in doing so.
Dragan cared nothing about Larsa’s discomforts. He leaned against the house wall and took the weight off his leg, easing the pain somewhat. A hundred paces away, the big gates that sealed Larsa’s main entrance began to close, a dozen men straining to push the thick beams into position. One last handful of people, screaming in fright at the thought of finding themselves locked out and left to the mercy of the Akkadians, squirmed through the narrowing opening, to fall to the ground exhausted.
But the two parts of the gate joined at last, and the gatekeepers grunted under the effort to bar the entry. Two good-sized logs rose into the air, hefted upward by more than a dozen arms, and were dropped into place, the men breathing heavily from the effort. The head gatekeeper then hammered the four wooden blocks into place, jamming the restraining beams to prevent them from moving. Shut fast, Larsa awaited the coming attack of the Akkadians. They’d been promised that the relief forces of King Shulgi would soon arrive to destroy the invaders. But the king of the Sumerians had also promised that their city would never face the wrath of the Akkadians, led by the barbarian demon Eskkar. With the enemy without, and Razrek�
�s men within, no one in Larsa felt safe.
Satisfied with the security of the gates, its keepers returned to their posts within the watchtowers that rose up on either side of the entrance. Dragan waited until he was sure that nothing further would be done to seal the gate, then he straightened up, and limped painfully back to his home.
Between the press of the crowd and his leg, dusk had settled in by the time he reached the single-room dwelling that sheltered him and his brother, Ibi-sin.
“They closed the gate early. I could hear a few wretched people left outside, pleading to be let in.” Dragan sighed in relief as he let himself slip to the ground, extending his twisted right leg. Laying flat on the dirt floor gave him the most comfort. The tiny room held only a stool for furniture and a carrying box that contained their tools. A pile of moldy leather skins rested in a corner and, spread out on piece of hide, were the leather goods Dragan and Ibi-sin made and sold to stay alive — wrist straps, arm protectors for the archers, rings, laces, and plaited leather bands to hold back a man or woman’s hair, and a few other trinkets.
“Nothing more, just closed it?” Ibi-sin sank onto the stool. A leather patch covered his left eye. Almost three years ago, a horse fighter from Larsa had smashed the eye into jelly with the hilt of his sword, and Ibi-sin kept it covered to keep out the dust. A fleck of dirt lodged in the eye caused great irritation, and required immediate washing to hold down the pain.
“Just closed it, thank the gods. At least they didn’t nail it shut. Now we just have to wait until the Akkadians come.”
“Either tonight or tomorrow. They won’t dare to wait any longer.” Ibi-sin lowered his voice even more. “Then we’ll have our revenge.”
“Perhaps. If the gods approve.” Dragan glanced at the open door to the house, covered only by a ragged blanket. “You’ll have to go out and listen for the signal.”