Battle For Empire

27

As the sun disappeared below the horizon, Sargon, the Ur Nammu, and the Alur Meriki halted for the night. Den’rack had guided them to a stream he’d camped at a few days earlier. Water, as always, was too important to ignore, even if it meant a few more miles added to their journey. Enough grass grew beside the stream, so the horses could forage without being tempted to wander off.

A small stand of trees arched up over the water, and a fallen log provided a convenient place for Sargon to pitch his blanket. He ignored the frown on Den’rack’s face at Sargon’s casual possession of the most desirable spot to stretch out for the night.

Sargon understood Den’rack’s dilemma. The warrior could have ordered Sargon to move, but if Sargon were indeed the son of the king and forced an argument, Den’rack might lose face. So Sargon pretended not to notice as the Alur Meriki leader gritted his teeth in silence, and flung his blanket on the ground ten paces away.

After seeing to their horses, Sargon and each of his companions wolfed down a few strips of dried meat from their pouches. As he worked his jaws, Sargon had no idea of what animal had furnished the chewy sustenance. Hunger made it tasty enough.

Den’rack’s men spread their blankets beside their leader. He and his warriors looked almost as tired as Sargon. They’d ridden just as far today. Tomorrow would be a greater challenge for them, as they would not have the luxury of alternating horses.

“At least we won’t have to post a guard tonight.” Fashod glanced toward the surly Alur Meriki staring at them. “Den’rack wouldn’t trust any of us anyway. Unless he decides to slit our throats during the night.”

“In that case, they would have killed us when we first met, and saved all of us a lot of riding.” Sargon finished the last of the meat, picked his teeth clean with a twig, and rolled himself up in the horse blanket. Ignoring the talk from the Alur Meriki, he fell asleep in a few heartbeats.

In the morning, he found the Alur Meriki warriors had awoken before dawn, no doubt determined to prove they could rise earlier than any Ur Nammu. No one had much to say, and Sargon ignored his escorts. Everyone checked their horses, mounted up, and resumed the journey.

Den’rack again led the way, but Fashod set the pace, forcing the Alur Meriki to push their horses. Two more days passed in much the same manner — lots of hard riding, little talking, and not much food.

Fashod, who had an uncanny skill at judging distances, estimated they covered almost a hundred and forty miles the first two days after leaving the Ur Nammu camp. After they joined up with the Alur Meriki, the rough terrain slowed them down somewhat, and Fashod guessed that they made only sixty miles for the next two days.

Twice they encountered other Alur Meriki patrols. Sargon endured the required delays these caused. Fortunately, they did not meet anyone of higher rank than Den’rack, someone who might have other ideas about allowing Ur Nammu warriors so deep into what the Alur Meriki considered their territory.

Just after midday on the third day of their joint expedition, they encountered the outer guards of the main Alur Meriki caravan. By then only three of Den’rack’s warriors remained. One rider’s horse had gone lame yesterday, and Sargon had refused to lend the warrior one of the Ur Nammu mounts. Den’rack had to leave the cursing man behind. After such hard riding, all of the Alur Meriki horses were nearly dead on their feet, pushed past their limits of endurance by the effort to keep up with the Ur Nammu.

In less than five days of riding, Sargon and his friends had traversed more than three hundred miles, some of that over patches of difficult country that slowed their progress.

By now, the Zagros Mountains towered over them, the higher peaks capped with snow. The base of the mountains loomed only a mile or so to the north.

When they crested one more of the seemingly endless foothills, Sargon gazed upon a mighty caravan stretched out in a long straggling line, moving slowly toward him. Herds of horses, goats, sheep, and cows ranged on either side of the column.

Unlike the Ur Nammu, most of the Alur Meriki transported their women, children, and possessions in large wagons that creaked and wheezed in a never ending sound, a rasping friction of wood on wood, that soon grated on Sargon’s ears even at this distance.

Nevertheless, the sight of a moving village impressed Sargon, and even Fashod muttered something about the size and might of the Clan.

Den’rack led the way toward the wagons, until he was stopped by a party of twenty or so warriors, who rode at the vanguard of the caravan. Den’rack ordered a halt, and Sargon slowed his horse to a stop. No matter what happened, at least the long journey had ended.

An older warrior rode up. His eyes went first to Fashod and the warriors, before giving Sargon the briefest of glances, though he rode at the head of the little troop. The stranger turned to Den’rack. “Why do these Ur Nammu scum still carry their weapons?”

Hearing the warrior’s criticism, Sargon almost felt sorry for Den’rack, who launched into a lengthy explanation of the last few days. As time passed on the journey, Den’rack had gradually relaxed his suspicions regarding Sargon and his companions.

Now Den’rack found himself explaining the unusual situation to a superior. Sargon gathered that the senior warrior’s name was Lugal.

During the latter part of Den’rack’s story, Lugal’s eyes fixed on Sargon. He guided his horse toward Sargon, moving close enough to touch Sargon’s left knee with his own. “You do not look like the. . Eskkar of Akkad.”

Sargon had heard that many times growing up. He didn’t much look like his mother, either. He refused to let Lugal’s glare intimidate him. There were, after all, only so many ways of dying.

“Who I look like is no concern of yours. My business is with your Sarum.”

“Watch your tongue, or I’ll have it cut out.” He reinforced his words by leaning forward and poking Sargon hard in the chest with his left hand.

Not so long ago, such a blow would have toppled Sargon from his horse. But all those days of training with Garal had toughened not only his muscles, but his reactions.

Without thinking, Sargon turned his shoulder, deflecting most of the blow, and keeping his balance. At the same time, he shoved his right knee hard against the side of his horse.

The well-trained animal thrust itself against Lugal’s mount. Sargon increased the pressure of his knee, and reinforced the command with a jerk to the halter.

Lugal’s horse, caught by surprise, stumbled backwards, its rider caught off guard. With a hard kick, Sargon’s horse pushed even harder, and the Alur Meriki warrior’s horse slid to its haunches a few paces away. Lugal managed to retain his seat, but only by clinging to his horse’s mane and flailing around as he struggled to keep his balance.

No one moved or spoke, and only the creak of the approaching wagons broke the silence. Sargon raised his voice. “To lay hands on the son of the King is punishable by death. Touch me again, and I’ll see that your Sarum sends your head to my father.”

It wasn’t true, of course, but Sargon thought it sounded impressive. Apparently the others within hearing thought so, too, since no one spoke, or tried to take his head.

Having righted his horse and gotten control of the still nervous beast, Lugal ripped his sword from its scabbard. “You’ll die right here for that.”

“No! You must not! Remember your oath.” Den’rack’s bellow rose over all of them. He kicked his horse between the two.

Sargon’s hand had already gone to his sword, but before he could draw it, another voice interrupted. “What’s going on here?”

A rider guided his mount into the midst of the knot of warriors, and they moved aside to give him room. A long, jagged scar traced its way from below his left shoulder nearly to his wrist, but the copper link chain that hung around his neck proclaimed him a clan leader. Sargon took his hand from his sword and studied the newcomer. The copper chain held no medallion, so this was not the Sarum.

“These are the strangers that I brought here,” Den’rack said, speaking quickly. “Did my messenger arrive?”

“Only this morning. I did not expect you to arrive so soon. You must have ridden hard.”

Sargon glanced at Den’rack. He had underestimated the Alur Meriki warrior. Obviously Den’rack had not left all his men behind on patrol. He must have dispatched a rider, probably leading another horse, and ordered him to bring word to the caravan.

“We did, Suijan,” Den’rack answered.

Lugal, his face flushed with rage, moved forward. “This. . boy nearly knocked me from my horse. I demand the right to kill him.”

“No, his fate will be decided by the Council.” Suijan didn’t even raise his voice or turn to face the angry warrior. “Put your sword away.”

For a moment, Lugal hesitated. Suijan turned his gaze toward the man, but said nothing.

The rage in Lugal’s eyes faded under Suijan’s stare. With an oath, Lugal shoved his sword into its scabbard, taking three tries before he could master his fury enough for the tip to enter the opening.

“You may return to your duties, Lugal,” Suijan said. “Den’rack and I will take the strangers to the Sarum.” Without another glance at the still raging Lugal, Suijan moved his horse closer to Sargon, exactly as Lugal had.

Suijan gazed into Sargon’s eyes, a scrutiny that went on for some time. “There may be a resemblance, but we will see.” He backed his horse a step away. “Take their weapons. No strangers may enter the camp armed.”

Sargon had nearly flinched under the leader’s stare. This Suijan not only had his wits about him, but he had the air of command.

Sargon glanced toward Fashod. The Ur Nammu warrior had already pulled the lances from his back. He handed them to one of Den’rack’s men, and started untying his sword. Jennat and Garal followed suit.

After a moment, Sargon pulled the lance that he wore across his back and handed it off. But he made no move to give up his sword.

“Your sword and knife, too. There are no exceptions.” Suijan’s voice remained patient.

“My father gave me this sword. I do not hand it to anyone.”

The tension in the air, which had faded somewhat as Fashod and the others surrendered their weapons, returned. Everyone turned to see what Suijan’s next order would be.

Fashod cleared his throat. “Sargon, it would be best. .”

Sargon cut off Fashod’s words with a quick gesture of his left hand.

Suijan let a smile cross his face. “So, that is how it is.” He studied Sargon for a moment. “You have journeyed long, and are no doubt tired. Perhaps you will let me carry your sword. I give you my word that I will return it to you whenever you ask for it.”

Sargon decided that he had proven his strength and authority before the Alur Meriki. Besides, he guessed that Suijan meant what he said.

“That is most courteous. I thank you for your kindness,” Sargon answered, bowing his head in acknowledgement of Suijan’s status. Unbuckling his sword belt, he leaned forward and handed it to the clan leader.

“Come, follow me.” Suijan accepted the weapon with respect. “We will ride ahead to tonight’s camp site.” He turned his horse to the west and started off. Den’rack and his men followed, leaving Sargon and his disarmed companions to trail along behind.

The camp site chosen was only about two miles away, but Sargon realized it would take the rest of the afternoon before the lead wagon arrived. The wagons, he would later learn, considered four or five miles a day a satisfactory journey.

A good sized stream, coming down from the mountains, wandered across their path. Suijan moved toward the higher ground, where the water would be freshest. “Den’rack, mark out a place for them here, and make sure they stay inside. I’ll return later.”

Sargon didn’t like that. “Chief Suijan, I would speak with your Sarum as soon as possible.”

“He is out riding to the south, but he will return before dusk. A rider has already been dispatched.” With a nod to Den’rack, the clan leader turned his horse around and cantered off.

Swinging down from his horse, Sargon couldn’t hold back a sigh of relief. It felt good to be off the back of his horse before dark. And still alive. He resisted the urge to shiver at what might come next.

Den’rack posted guards, and marked off an area, using sticks driven into the ground. Sargon didn’t care. He walked into the stream and let himself fall forward. The chilly water, much colder than the stream near the camp of the Ur Nammu, made him catch his breath, but he stayed immersed until his skin glowed.

Stripping off his clothes, he gave himself the first bath he’d had since Tashanella found him at the stream. Already that seemed long ago. When Sargon finished scrubbing his body, he rinsed out his clothes. It no longer felt strange to wash his own clothes or feed a horse himself, something he had never done back in Akkad, surrounded by helpful servants.

When he finally left the water, Sargon spread out his clothes on the ground. Hopefully they would be dry before he met with the Sarum.

“I see you remembered what I taught you.” Garal squatted down beside him.

Sargon managed a smile. Garal had knocked Sargon off his horse twice with that trick.

Fashod walked over and, with a grunt of relief, eased himself to the ground beside them. “Let’s hope Lugal doesn’t decide to kill you for embarrassing him in front of his men.” He sighed. “I think, Sargon, that you can stop trying to impress their warriors.”

“I agree. I’m too tired anyway. But the son of a king must always act like a leader of men.”

As he repeated the words his father had said to him many times, Sargon realized that he had seldom listened to that advice. If he had paid better attention, he might not be facing torture and death this very evening.

Sargon found a patch of grass just large enough for him to stretch out on, and he did. Covering his eyes with his arm, he breathed a sigh of relief. Within moments, his snores sounded.

Fashod motioned Garal away. They joined Jennat, who had just finished tending the horses.

“I don’t know how he can fall asleep like that,” Fashod said. “He should be worrying about being killed.”

“What do we do now?” Jennat, too, looked weary.

“Now we wait,” Fashod said. “But perhaps we should get cleaned up as well. We wouldn’t want to meet the new Sarum of the Alur Meriki looking like horses after a long run, and smelling just as bad.”

Sargon slept through the arrival of the caravan, which usually made more than enough noise to wake anyone not used to hearing it. As the camp settled in, Fashod woke him. Sargon found that someone had covered his naked body with a blanket.

“Better make yourself ready” Fashod gestured toward the setting sun. “The summons may come at any time.”

When Sargon tossed the blanket aside, he felt the chill of the evening air coming off the mountains. The brief rest had refreshed him. He gathered up his damp clothes and donned them. A shiver passed over his body, and he stretched himself until he warmed up.

“When you meet with their Sarum,” Fashod said, “try not to antagonize him. Remember, to the Alur Meriki, he is the greatest king in the world.”

Sargon had no intention of provoking anyone. “I’ll take care.”

“You know what to say?”

“Yes. We’ve been over it enough times.”

“Good. Then just trust your instincts. We’ve done all that we can do. Whatever happens now is the will of the gods.”

Sargon shrugged. “My father doesn’t believe in the gods. He says they never helped him when he needed help. He trusted to his luck.”

“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 nothing 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 lands, 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.”

“I know that you are not bound to help the Ur Nammu, but I cannot believe that all wisdom has deserted the Alur Meriki,” Sargon said. “The Ur Nammu have three hundred fighters. If you attack them, they will kill at least that many of your own warriors. Perhaps even more. Can the Alur Meriki afford such losses? And to what end? How many of your warriors died in the fight at the stream? Close to four or five hundred?”

Sargon leaned forward. “Now I ask you to do what I know my father would ask. Join forces with the Ur Nammu, and destroy these Carchemishi invaders, before they destroy you.”

A murmur came from behind, and Sargon glanced over his shoulder, surprised to see that hundreds of people, warriors as well as women and children, had gathered in silence as close as they dared approach, to hear the words of the council. That meant that all of those present now knew of the danger.

“We do not fight the battles of others,” Urgo said. “Especially Akkad’s.”

“My father told me of a saying in the Clan. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Is that not true.”

Urgo smiled, the first time he’d shown any emotion. “A saying is not something we use to decide about going to war.”

“The Ur Nammu have broken their camp,” Sargon went on. “Abandoned their tents and possessions, taking only their women and children. If they were closer to Akkad’s forts, they would have gone there to seek protection from my father’s soldiers. But they cannot reach them in time. The Carchemishi are too close. So I urged the Ur Nammu instead to move toward the Alur Meriki. In three or four days, five at most, the Ur Nammu will be attacked, and even three hundred brave warriors cannot withstand so many.”

“And you want us to risk our warriors’ lives for those of the Ur Nammu?”

“No. To protect the lives of your own women and children. Consider this. After a hard fight with the Ur Nammu, the Carchemishi will be even more prepared and experienced to face your forces. Is it not better to fight while you have others to fight at your side? If you do this, my father will send food and herds to help feed your people, and supply whatever else you require. You will need such help to survive the journey through the now barren lands to the west.”

“And why would he do that?”

“Because the Ur Nammu are the allies of Akkad. Because they are friends to my father and mother. And because you may save the life of their son, Sargon. Because I will be returning to the Ur Nammu. I have not yet completed my training, and I must stand with my friends.”

Another murmur passed through the crowd. Urgo took a deep breath, stared at the ground for a moment, then turned to Fashod. “You are. .?”

“I am Fashod, second in command of the Ur Nammu.” He bowed respectfully to the older man. “My thanks to you, Chief Urgo, for letting us speak. First, let me say that I have fought with Eskkar of Akkad in three battles, and with Hathor the Egyptian in three more. Our Sarum is Subutai. He, too, is a friend of Eskkar. Neither of us thought to approach the Alur Meriki for help, but Sargon suggested this. May I tell you what else we have discovered about our enemy, and what we have planned?”

Sargon noticed that Trayack could scarcely conceal his impatience. That should teach him to speak foolishly. Now he dared not interrupt, if he didn’t want to be escorted from the Council.

Urgo didn’t look to his Sarum for approval. “Yes. Tell us what you’ve learned.”

Fashod told them about the hurried ride back to the camp, and of Subutai’s difficult decision to head toward the Alur Meriki. He also told them all they had learned about the Carchemishi, the size and disposition of their forces, and their probable plans.

As Fashod spoke, Sargon felt the presence of the crowd growing ever larger and creeping ever closer with each word. A routine Council meeting had turned into something far more urgent.

No doubt Chief Bekka, if he had known what Sargon planned to say, would have met with him privately. But now everyone knew of the coming battle, and of Sargon’s offer to provide food and anything else they needed. The Sarum and his clan leaders’ decisions would be scrutinized by all.

Fashod finished up. “Subutai knows that he cannot ask for your help out of friendship. But he does ask it, because he knows that it will also help you. Perhaps if we survive the battle, the time may come for friendship, or at least peace, between our clans. Is not Thutmose-sin dead, and Subutai’s father? Both those leaders waged war upon the other. But I was present when Subutai’s father died many years ago, and that day Subutai declared that the Shan Kar between him and your clan had ended. With Thutmose-sin gone, is there any longer a reason for our clans to do battle?”

“Your words have wisdom, Fashod. Tell your Sarum that we have heard his words.” Urgo glanced at the other clan leaders, but no one seemed to have anything else to say. “Then we are finished. Sargon, is there more you wish to tell us?”

“Only that we would request fresh horses, so that we can ride back to join the fight against the invaders. The horses we rode are spent, but they are some of the finest we have. We would trade them for an equal number. And we would leave at dawn.”

“We will consider that as well,” Urgo said

“Then I give thanks to the Council for letting me speak.” Sargon rose to his feet, the scabbard of his sword held in his left hand. “Now I must accept the challenge of those who have spoken against me. Den’rack was the first to offer a challenge, so I will fight him first.”

Even Urgo appeared surprised at Sargon’s foolishness. But a challenge was a challenge, and every warrior could always exercise his right to fight another. Still, no one watching could now doubt Sargon’s courage. Urgo lifted his gaze, and picked out the warrior standing motionless a few paces away.

“Den’rack, do you offer the challenge to Sargon, son of Eskkar?”

“No, I do not. When I challenged Sargon, I did not know he had come to warn our people of danger. Only a fool fights with one who would offer the hand of help and friendship.”

Sargon had faced Den’rack during his reply. Now Sargon bowed to the warrior. “Den’rack is a loyal and wise warrior. I and all the Alur Meriki are in his debt for his help in bringing us here as quickly as he did.”

Sargon turned back to Urgo. “Now I must face Lugal. Is he here?”

“I am here.” Lugal’s voice came from the crowd. He stepped forward until he stood just behind Sargon.

Urgo had frowned at hearing Lugal’s name. “Lugal is a wise warrior, who fought beside me many times when we were both young. I ask you, Lugal, do you demand your right to combat with Sargon of Akkad, son of Eskkar?”

From the expression on Lugal’s face, Sargon knew the man still wanted to fight. But Lugal also understood Urgo’s meaning. If Lugal offered the challenge, he would be pitting himself against Urgo’s wishes. Fortunately, Den’rack’s words had given him an easy opportunity to abandon the challenge.

“I withdraw my challenge. I, too, did not know that Sargon came to warn us.”

“Then you have done your duty as a brave and loyal warrior,” Urgo said.

Sargon bowed again.

That left only Trayack. Sargon shifted his gaze toward the angry clan leader, but before Trayack could offer the challenge, Bekka held up his hand for silence. “There can be no challenge between a clan leader and an untested warrior. It would be beneath the dignity of any clan leader. Is that not right, Trayack?”

Sargon felt his heart racing. He hadn’t thought Den’rack would fight him, not after they had ridden together for three days. And Sargon knew he might stand a fair chance against Lugal, who had already passed his prime as a warrior. But Trayack was tall and strong and in his prime. He would cut Sargon to shreds.

Every eye in the camp went to the still truculent clan leader. A loud murmur rippled through the spectators. No one wanted to see Sargon’s blood spilled in the dirt.

But Trayack could read tracks in wet ground as well as any. He had to unclench his teeth before he could speak. “No, there is no challenge. It would be beneath my honor to fight someone as young and untried as. . Sargon.”

Sargon bowed to him, and again to the entire Council. “Then I offer my thanks to the Clan of my father. May they always ride in the lands of the steppes with honor.”

As Sargon turned away, a wave of relief flowed through his mind. His luck had held. He might just live to see another day.