Clash Of Empires

Chapter 6

25 five days later, the City of Sumer. .

Steratakis strolled through Sumer’s lanes, enjoying the cool of evening after a warm day completed by an excellent repast. As he wandered through the marketplace, he nodded to several acquaintances, and even paused to exchange greetings and pleasantries with many he encountered, especially those with whom he did business.

A very popular man, Steratakis enjoyed the good will of almost everyone he saw. From midmorning to dusk, Steratakis had his own stall, where he offered the famous Akkadian sweet cakes, prepared, baked, and covered with honey only two days earlier. They were a luxury good that only the well-off could afford, and to offer them to friends and visitors increased the prestige of any host.

Even the ruler of Sumer, King Gemama, favored the sweets. Each day, a buyer from the Palace purchased ten of the cakes, supposedly for the city’s Council of Advisors. However a single glance at King Gemama’s portly figure had convinced Steratakis that most of those cakes went directly into the royal stomach.

A fast trading boat carried the precious cakes down river, delivering the sought-after delight that so far none in Sumer had managed to duplicate. The bakers in Akkad claimed it was something in the well water, something unique to the city. Their frustrated counterparts in Sumer and elsewhere grumbled that the secret ingredient was dog piss. People ate them anyway.

Steratakis met the trading boat around midday, and escorted three or four baskets of the delicacy to the marketplace. Since his first day in Sumer, Steratakis had never carried the cakes himself. For the promise of a free cake, any of those laboring at the docks eagerly offered their services for the chance to transport his goods.

Sumer’s marketplace, however, changed dramatically after the sun went down. During the day merchants, traders, craftsmen, laborers, and farmers thronged the large area near the docks. At night, a different class of people frequented the stalls and tables. More women offered themselves, either on their own or at the urgings of their always frowning masters.

Wine and ale sellers, loudly praising the quality of their inferior goods, took over the tables reserved for craftsmen. As it grew later in the evening, the prices went down. When the full darkness of night arrived, shadowy figures appeared, blanket-wrapped bundles under their arms, to deal goods likely stolen during the day.

Steratakis seldom kept his stall open past sundown. By then, the eighty or so sweet cakes had vanished, and he’d collected a respectable amount of copper coins. When he first started selling the cakes, he tended to eat the last two or three cakes himself. But after nearly two years, he’d weaned himself of the habit, and now limited himself to only one per day. A necessity, he declared, to maintain the high quality of his goods for his customers.

The trading venture provided a comfortable profit, but the small house Steratakis had purchased cost far more than any trade in sweet cakes could provide. Fortunately, Annok-sur had supplied those coins. In exchange, she had made only a few demands. The dwelling must be in a good neighborhood frequented by other merchants and traders, have a private entrance, and a back door. Other than that, she’d left the choice up to him.

“You may never be contacted,” Annok-sur had said. “In any case, you’ll stay no longer than two and a half years. Then you will be free to remain in Sumer if that is your choice, or to come home.”

Home to a substantial amount of gold, Steratakis reminded himself. Once he returned, his family would be well established, and under the protection of Annok-sur. Meanwhile, his mother and sister prospered as bakers of bread and sweet cakes. The future looked bright indeed. Not that long ago, Steratakis and his family had nearly starved to death.

His father had been killed by soldiers from Larsa in the last war, and only Steratakis, his younger brother and sister, and their mother had managed to escape to Akkad. In their flight, his mother had fallen ill, and her children could do nothing to help her. Hungry, destitute, and with a dying mother, Steratakis had faced the grim choice of selling his little sister to buy food for the rest of his family.

On the very morning that Steratakis planned to bring his sister to the slave market, Annok-sur had arrived with both a healer and a handful of silver coins. Under the ministrations of the healer, Steratakis’s mother had recovered, and they soon established a small bakery where she could make her mouth-watering desserts. In exchange, all Annok-sur asked was that Steratakis work for her. For years, that had involved little more than carrying messages from one place to another.

Almost two years ago, she had approached Steratakis with a new assignment. He would move to Sumer under the guise of selling his mother’s cakes. In reality, he would wait for a special courier who would bring an important message. But since Steratakis’s arrival, no courier had made an appearance, and by now Steratakis doubted if anyone ever would.

Tonight, he had enjoyed a good meal at one of Sumer’s better taverns, then took some pleasure with one of the establishment’s girls. She’d crouched between his knees, working his rod until he burst inside her mouth, a most relaxing ending to another pleasant day.

His housekeeper waited for his return, guarding the residence and its contents until her master came home. Then she rushed off to her own family.

Yawning, Steratakis barred the door behind her, and settled down for a good night’s rest. A most agreeable day, indeed.

Steratakis awoke with a weight crushing his chest, and a hand pressed firmly against his mouth. Terrified, he struggled to reach the knife he kept on the stool beside the bed, but when his frantically grasping hand brushed its surface, the blade was gone.

“Don’t struggle, and you won’t be harmed.”

The voice could scarcely be heard over the beating of Steratakis’s heart.

“What is your name?” The rough hand lessened its pressure on his mouth, allowing Steratakis to speak.

“Please don’t hurt me. You can have. .”

“I’ll not ask you again.” This time the chilling whisper was reinforced by the pressure of a sharp point against his throat.

For a moment, panic seized him, and he almost answered with his true name. But he remembered in time. “Steratakis! My name is Steratakis!”

“Then I have a message for you to take to Akkad. Can you remember what I tell you?”

A feeling of relief washed over Steratakis. He would survive the night. “Yes, yes, I’ve been trained to repeat any message word for word.”

“Good. Then memorize this. In less than four months time, Chaiyanar to Sumer, fifteen thousand by the sea. Modran to Akkad, thirty-thousand through the Dellen Pass. And Jedidia with six thousand, all horse, through the Jkarian Pass. Now you repeat it.”

Gulping air, Steratakis managed to stammer out the message, stumbling only once. The hooded figure, the knife still at Steratakis’s throat, made him say it four more times.

“Good, very good. Make sure you don’t forget a single word. In three days, you will leave Sumer and never return. Move out quietly, and without fanfare. If anyone asks, tell them you are ill, that you have the Bad Blood.”

The terrible punishment sent by the gods that formed pustules on a man’s penis, growing larger and more painful. In time, the disease ravaged body and mind, and reduced its victim to a gibbering idiot.

“In any case, you will leave on the third day, not a day longer, not a day shorter. Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, I understand.” Steratakis’s breathing had finally slowed. “And what is your name?”

“Give my name only to your master. I’m called Tarrata. Now don’t get out of your bed until I’m well away.”

With a quick movement, Tarrata backed away from the bed, unbarred the door, and opening it no more than needed, slipped out into the night.

Steratakis lay there until he could get his thoughts under control. He had never been so frightened in his life. Sweat had soaked the blanket beneath him. Instinctively, he touched his neck where the tip of the knife had rested. How in the name of the gods had the man gotten into the house? He’d secured the front door after his servant left, and the blocked and barred rear door hadn’t opened in a year.

The only other way into the chamber was the ladder to the roof. But that had been sealed, too, with knotted ropes and cross branches bound together. Anyone trying to enter that way would make plenty of noise.

Sitting up, he stared at the ceiling. The ropes had been cut, though the slender branches remained. A small man, Steratakis decided, one who could move like a cat and make just as little noise. This Tarrata must have cut through the ropes, then dropped through the beams, all without making a sound loud enough to awaken anyone.

Steratakis shuddered. Never had he imaged that he would be contacted this way, in the dead of night by brute force and at the point of a blade. He’d expected someone to come up to him in the market, perhaps buy a sweet cake or two, deliver the message, and be off.

He shivered. Suddenly he realized that if he had forgotten the name Steratakis, the knife would have cut his throat and he’d be dead. He’d come that close. Yes, time to return to Akkad. He didn’t think he could survive the delivery of a second message.