Conflict of Empires

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 that 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.”

“I’ll go now. It feels good to be doing something at last, after so long.”

“Be careful, little brother,” Dragan said.

He watched his brother leave, the blanket swaying from his passage. One of them always remained in the room, to guard against thieves who might slip in and steal anything they could get their hands on. In this poorer section of Larsa, none of the dwellings boasted a door, and each owner or tenant made sure a wife or child stood guard over their property every day.

Fortunately, their poverty and wretched existence provided a measure of protection from the Sumerian horsemen, who would otherwise have pushed their way in and taken whatever they wished. Razrek’s men wanted women, ale or gold, not humbly made leather trinkets.

Just as the raiders had done to his family’s farm, Dragan remembered. Almost four years ago, soldiers from Larsa had ridden across the Sippar and pushed north, looting farms and murdering their inhabitants. The evil raids had continued until King Eskkar drove them back across the river.

But by then, Dragan’s mother and father were dead, his two sisters raped and carried off to some unknown fate. Ibi-sin had been knocked unconscious, which had saved his life even though it cost him an eye. Dragan had tried to run, but one of Larsa’s archers put a shaft into his leg. Dragan managed to crawl into the wheat field and hide in the tall stalks, and fortunately the archer had no interest in following after his wounded victim, not when women and loot waited for the taking. Dragan had passed out from loss of blood, and Ibi-sin, holding a bloody rag over his face, had finally found him half a day after the raiders had departed.

Both brothers had nearly died, but next day, after the raiders had gone, their uncle, who had a nearby farm, arrived and managed to nurse them back to health. But with so many mouths to feed, the injured brothers could only impose on their kinsmen for so long. Their uncle, with his crops and house destroyed, decided to move north, to a farm given him by the Akkadians. At any rate, he had little extra food to share with two cripples. As soon as the brothers could walk, like many others whose families had been murdered or driven off, they plodded north to Akkad. It took them almost a month to make the painful journey.

Dragan and Ibi-sin found Akkad crowded with other refugees from the south, as well as those seeking something beyond long hours laboring on their families’ farm. Since the brothers’ wounds prevented them from doing manual labor, they became beggars in the lane, pleading with passersby for food.

Then one day a woman had stopped before their begging bowl, looking them over before she dropped a copper coin into the bowl.

“May the gods send you blessings, honored mother,” Dragan said gratefully. A copper coin meant a good meal for them both tonight.

“My name is Uvela,” the woman said. “You are from the borderlands?”

“Yes, Mistress Uvela. My brother Ibi-sin and I were farmers there, until the raiders from Larsa came and killed our family.”

To Dragan’s surprise, Uvela squatted beside them. “Tell me what happened.”

No one had ever asked for their story before. They told Uvela what evil fate had fallen on their family, answering every question about the hated raiders from Larsa. By then Dragan guessed that Uvela was one of those women who worked for Lady Trella, wife of King Eskkar. When he finished the last of their sad tale, Uvela offered her sympathy and left.

After that, she would stop by once or twice a week, giving them a copper coin each time, but never staying to talk. The days passed slowly, and Dragan and his brother grew weaker. Food might be plentiful in Akkad, but if one wanted to eat well, one had to work to earn it. Almost two months slipped by, and Dragan knew he and his brother were going to starve to death.

Then Uvela returned, but this time she dropped no coin in their bowl. “Would you like to earn some copper?”

“Of course, mistress,” Dragan answered. “Anything we can do, anything…”

“Then follow me,” she said, “but not too closely. It’s best that no one knows our business.”

With the two brothers trailing a dozen paces behind, she led the way to a small house near the river gate. Another woman was there, and food was spread out on a blanket. Dragan and Ibi-sin dropped to their knees and devoured bread, cheese, dates and the first ale they’d had in many days.

When they finally finished eating, the other woman spoke to them.

“My name is Annok-sur. Would you like a chance to strike back at Larsa for killing your family?”

Three months later, Dragan and Ibi-sin had regained much of their health and strength. During that time, a tanner had come by each evening to teach them how to work with leather. Tools, the most valuable things the brothers had ever owned, and for which an apprentice might work two years to obtain, were provided as well.

Annok-sur told them what they needed to do, how they needed to act, what tale they would tell while living in Larsa. When their training and instruction ended, a boat had taken them downriver, dropping them off at night a mile from Larsa’s gate. Annok-sur’s coins enabled them to enter the city and rent the hovel there that they now called home.

For almost two years, they lived in Larsa. Every month or so a man stopped by to give them a few more copper coins. The man, who never gave his name, listened to what they’d learned, and told them what they needed to do. He even gave them weapons, two long copper knives like those Dragan had seen for sale in Larsa’s market.

Those weapons, wrapped in a sack and buried beneath the floor of the hut, had waited for over a year until the day when they would be used.

Annok-sur’s caution and their long preparation had succeeded. Since the war had broken out, King Naran’s men had scoured the city, searching for any strangers or spies who might be in the pay of Akkad. Naran’s agents collected every able-bodied newcomer to Larsa and set them to work in the slave gangs, to make sure no one tried to betray the city from within. But Dragan and his brother had lived for so long in the city that they were beneath notice, not that any soldier would pay the slightest attention to two cripples.

As soon as Dragan learned of King Eskkar’s army camped on the plain outside of Larsa, he knew that today or tomorrow would be that day — the day when he and his brother would take their revenge against King Naran and his murderers.

“W ake up, Captain.” Grond’s head poked up through the hole in the roof. When the sleeping man didn’t move, Grond reached over and shook Eskkar’s leg.

Eskkar lifted his head, his hand already on his knife. “What is it?” His voice sounded heavy with sleep, and he knew he’d slept well, though not long enough.

“Boats are coming down the river. I think it’s Yavtar.”

By the time Eskkar reached the riverbank, a whole fleet of approaching riverboats were strung out like jewels on a necklace. He counted twelve boats, more than he had expected. The first craft angled its way toward the shore, swung smartly against the current, and slid alongside the jetty. In a moment, Yavtar jumped onto the little dock as, one by one, the other vessels birthed themselves on the riverbank, where eager hands pulled them up onto the shore.

“Good to see you again, Captain.” Yavtar clasped his arms around Eskkar’s shoulders.

“You brought more ships than we expected.”

“Bisitun sent two more ships, and the builders just finished two more. I had to scrape Akkad’s docks to find crews, but we’re here now with everything you need, including a dozen ladders.”

“Food and the fire-arrows?”

“Yes, along with twenty-five jars of oil. And plenty of bread and meat. At least you won’t be fighting on an empty belly.”

Gatus and Alexar strode up to the tiny jetty, and exchanged greetings with the boatmaster.

“He’s brought the fire-arrows,” Eskkar said. “Let’s get them off the boats first. If we can, we’ll attack tonight.”

He turned back to Yavtar. “Did you see any sign of Shulgi on the way down?”

“Yes, and he saw us, too. We tried to slip by at night, but some sentry taking a piss spotted us and gave the alarm. There was nothing they could do except shoot a few arrows at us, but we were well away from shore and the light was poor. His horsemen caught up with us the next day and followed us along the river. We shot a few arrows at them, just to give the archers some target practice.”

This far south, the Tigris flowed wide and deep. Without boats of their own, the Sumerians had no way to intercept the vessels. And two of Yavtar’s boats were fighting ships. They carried little cargo, but plenty of archers.

“How far back is their main force?”

“At least two days,” Yavtar said, “maybe three. If he gets here any sooner, his men will be too tired to walk, let alone fight.”

“I don’t intend to give him the chance,” Eskkar said. “Make sure everything gets unloaded. It will be dark soon enough. And I’ve a few wounded men you can take back, plus some loot the men have picked up.”

Alexar shouted some orders, and the dock burst into activity. It didn’t take long for two hundred men to empty the twelve boats, distributing the food and weapons. Other soldiers filled sacks with sand and dirt, to ballast the boats for their return voyage upriver. In what seemed like no time at all, Yavtar and his boats were being pushed back into the water, their crews cursing at the clumsy soldiers whose excess zeal threatened to swamp the boats. Then oars bit into the river and they headed upriver, not to Akkad, but a resupply point halfway between the city and Kanesh. Only one boat remained — a small but fast craft — to carry word upriver of the army’s success or failure at Larsa.

As soon as the last boat departed, Eskkar, Grond, Gatus, Alexar and the other commanders sat around a campfire, wolfing down bread only a few days old and sharing a small cask of ale, the first since they’d left Akkad. Eskkar paused between mouthfuls.

“Get everyone into position. We’ll have to bring the archers and spearmen close to the wall, in case the horsemen try to attack our rear. Mitrac, you know where to direct the arrows. Gatus and his spearmen will protect your rear and flanks, along with Alexar and the rest of the archers. If nothing works, Drakis and his men will attempt to scale the wall. Grond and I will hold three hundred spearmen and a hundred archers in readiness, in case the gate opens.”

“You should let someone else lead the way, Eskkar,” Gatus said.

His men had argued about that before, but Eskkar refused to stand around and do nothing.

“No, that’s been decided.” He finished his bread and stood. “Grond, send the signal.”

“If the gate doesn’t open, we’ll use the ladders.” Alexar sounded confident. His men had practiced scaling walls in the dark and under the covering arrows of the archers.

Grond walked off into the darkness. Before long, a drum began to sound. Five slow beats, struck with full strength on the widest drum the Akkadians carried, then a long pause before the drummer repeated the same five beats. Each stroke on the drum brought forth a powerful boom that echoed through the twilight, loud enough to carry all the way to the city’s walls. That sound would be heard through Larsa, and men there would ponder its meaning. Eskkar intended to keep the drum going until the assault began.

Meanwhile, the commanders positioned the troops, checking their equipment to make sure no man forgot his sword or second quiver of arrows, which had already happened enough times when the men got excited. Once in training a spearman had forgotten his tunic, and Gatus insisted he stay naked all day.

At last Eskkar moved to where his force of men were assembled, and nodded in satisfaction. The battle for Larsa had begun.

I bi-sin returned to the hut. His brother sat at the back of the chamber, waiting. “They gave the signal.”

Dragan nodded, the movement unseen in the dark. “I heard it even here. Watch the door while I dig.”

He took his time, making as little noise as possible. Now would not be the time to alert any neighbors or soldiers passing by. It was slow work, as the three sacks were buried deep and the weight of their bodies had packed down the earth firmly over the months, but eventually Dragan pried loose the first sack from the earth and handed it to Ibi-sin.

The next two took longer, as they were much bulkier and heavy. But at last all three had been removed from where they’d been buried for so long The knives were removed from one sack and unwrapped from their covering cloths. Ibi-sin loosened the simple fastening on the other two, but didn’t open them. Each contained a thick rope, knotted at every arm length, and long enough to stretch twenty paces. The section of the wall they had chosen wasn’t that high, but the rope needed to be fastened securely across the parapet.

Dragan put his arm on his brother’s shoulder. “My heart is racing, Ibisin.”

“I know. Mine too. I’m afraid. Not of dying, but of failing.”

“We won’t fail, brother.”

“Now we just have to wait.”

“It won’t be long. King Eskkar moves quickly against his enemies.”

T he brothers sat in the darkness of their hut, waiting. Outside the city’s walls, the Akkadian army was on the march toward Larsa, its dark mass illuminated only by the moon and a few torches that bobbed about in the slight breeze. The entire force — or so it appeared to the nervous sentries on the walls — moved across the main entrance to Larsa and marched toward the south side of the city’s wall.

Larsa’s defenders moved with them, shifting most of their men to the southern wall, to prepare for the Akkadian assault. Weapons were readied, torches lit along the wall, as men pushed and shoved their way into position driven by their cursing commanders. Beneath the parapets, the city’s inhabitants shouted or wailed, everyone in dread of the coming attack.

Outside the city, Gatus directed the men toward the southern gate, one of the three entrances into Larsa. A hundred soldiers carried the same number of torches, delivered by Yavtar’s boats. One by one, each torch was lighted, until they all burned in the night, illuminating the Akkadian army as it moved into its attack position. The Akkadian archers halted first, stopping just out of effective range of the archers on the city’s walls.

Mitrac lined up two hundred of his archers. Behind them, more bowmen waited their turn, and behind them, pots of the oil that burns were opened and made ready for use. The torches were driven into the ground, one between every pair of archers. The fire-arrows were laid out in easy access.

Each fire-arrow had been carefully crafted in Akkad. A bit longer than the usual shafts, the extra distance between the point and the bow was wrapped tightly with thin cloth wound over and over, and then fastened tightly with threads. The many layers of cloth would absorb the oil, sustaining the flame until it reached its target.

Alexar ranged his men to protect Mitrac’s bowmen, guarding their rear and flanks, and held other archers ready to replace any man killed or wounded by shafts from the wall. Mitrac strode up and down the line, directing the men where to aim. He had studied the maps Trella had created in Akkad, and knew the general layout of Larsa. More important, he knew the most likely locations where Razrek would be stabling his horses. Those places were to receive the bulk of the arrow storm.

“Ready the line.” He gave the command to start the battle. Men dipped the shafts in the oil and waited a few moments to let the thick liquid soak into the cotton, then stepped forward to where the torches waited. “Light your shafts! Shoot!”

Two hundred shafts flew up into the night, fleeting flecks of flame marking their flight. Almost every shaft carried over the walls, to land where the gods directed. Larsa’s wall stood crowded with men, its archers firing back at the Akkadians. But the range was great, and for this work Mitrac had selected his strongest bowmen using the most powerful bows.

A second volley flew up into the night, then a third. Mitrac didn’t try to keep the volley shooting. Better to let the men take plenty of care with the oil and fire, and shoot whenever they were ready. Mitrac had eight thousand arrows ready, but he didn’t plan on using them all. Thirty arrows per man — or six thousand flaming arrows — should be enough to put Larsa to the torch.

F rom the wall, Razrek watched the arrows arching over his head. While in flight, they showed only the slightest trace of light, but when they struck something, they turned into a finger of flame that licked at anything within reach. Many burned out uselessly, striking mud walls or the dirt of the lanes. Others were snatched up and smothered by those standing nearby. Still, plenty burned long enough to set something alight.

Damn these Akkadians and their barbarian king! Razrek hadn’t expected fire-arrows, and no one had expected a night attack, especially tonight. Eskkar’s men should be exhausted by the long march, besides being short on food and sleep. They were supposed to attack tomorrow, at dawn or during the day. Not tonight, tomorrow. Half of Razrek’s men had to be rounded up from the ale houses and brothels.

Mattaki stood beside his commander, shifting from one foot to the other in his excitement. Once Mattaki realized his cavalry wasn’t going to slow down the Akkadians, he had ridden on ahead, to warn Razrek. “They’re shooting hundreds of arrows at us! Where did they get so many?”

“Thousands, not hundreds,” Razrek corrected. “All brought downriver by those miserable boats, Marduk curse them all! Why didn’t Shulgi stop them?”

Those ships made the attack possible, Sondar realized. They must have carried the fire-arrows, the oil, even the ladders he could see out there, as well as the food that gave the Akkadians strength for tonight’s attack.

“The city is going to burn,” Mattaki said. “Those arrows will set enough fires…”

“Let the city burn. The walls will remain upright.”

Another of Razrek’s men dashed up the steps to the parapet. “Razrek, the Akkadians are targeting the marketplace, the stables, everyplace we’ve put the horses! They’ve killed dozens already, and the rest are panicking, out of control! The fires are driving them wild with fear!”

With a start, Razrek realized the implications. A good horse was more valuable than any fighter. Without the horses, there would be no escape from those cursed Akkadians if they ever got over the walls.

“Get the horses inside the huts. Make sure they’ve got something over their heads to protect them. Throw people out of their houses if you have to!”

Even as Razrek gave the order, he knew it wouldn’t work. Dragging a skittish horse into a hut through a low doorway wasn’t an easy task. The houses were burning, too. While most of the city was made from mud bricks, all the roofs and awnings were wood, usually bundles of sticks, or wrapped cloth stretched over the open roofs. All dried to the bone by a long summer of blazing sun. King Naran had done nothing to prepare for a fire attack. No water jars stood ready to put out fires, no piles of dirt to smother flames, no lines of women and children helping to fight the blaze. Larsa was going to burn, all right.

King Naran rushed up the steps, a sword at his hip and a gleaming bronze helmet on his head. “Razrek! Do something! Have your men put out the fires before the city burns to the ground.”

“No. We’ve got to keep the men on the walls. The Akkadians are waiting for us to weaken our strength. Then they’ll rush the walls.”

“But we’ll have nothing left, nothing.”

Razrek grabbed the King and pushed him to the wall. “Look out there, you fool! See those spearmen with ladders. They’ll be coming soon enough. If you want to fight the fires, use your own men. Smother all the fires! Get your women and children to work carrying water!”

He glanced back at the Akkadians, moving and shifting behind the lines of archers. From what he could see, the entire force was mustered before the south wall. They would be coming soon enough.

“What about all your men behind the Akkadians?” King Naran gestured out into the darkness, where he knew the rest of the Sumerian horsemen were watching the assault. “Why aren’t they attacking? Are they cowards?”

Razrek ignored the king’s words. “Mattaki, get every man who can fight on the wall. Forget the fires.”

King Naran shook himself free of Razrek’s grip. “Damn you, Razrek! You said you came to protect Larsa.” His voice rose shrilly over the parapet. “You and your filthy horsemen have brought this down on our heads!”

Razrek jerked his knife from his belt, and shoved the point against Naran’s throat. “Talk to me like that again and I’ll kill you. Now get off the wall!” He shoved the king away.

Naran stumbled backwards and fell, almost toppling off the parapet. He scrambled to his feet, his hand clutching his throat. He looked aghast as blood seeped through his fingers from where Razrek’s knife had nicked him, and fled, calling out for his guards to protect him.

“Do you think our men will attack their rear?” Mattaki kept his voice low, so that the other men crowded on the wall couldn’t hear.

Razrek stared at the Akkadians. “No, they’re not coming. This caught them by surprise, and they’ll use that as an excuse not to attack. They won’t want to risk the horses in the darkness, and they’re not going to face the spearmen on foot. We’re on our own.”

“May the gods help us!”

“Forget the gods,” Razrek ordered. “Just keep the men on the walls.”

L arsa’s north side had no gate. The main entrance was on the east. The other two gates faced the south and the river to the west. From the doorway of an abandoned hut a hundred and fifty paces away from the city, Drakis lay on his belly and watched the north wall. He had no trouble making out the sentries on guard. The fires burning in the city behind them provided enough light to outline the dark forms moving about. At present, the sentries didn’t concern him. Drakis had his gaze fixed on a point midway between the wall and the ruined huts that King Naran had carelessly allowed to intrude so close to Larsa’s walls.

One of Drakis’s men had crawled to that halfway point, to get close enough to the wall to discern the signal, should it come. The man would relay the signal to Drakis and his forty men, now bunched up behind him, all keeping low and hopefully out of sight from the guards pacing the wall.

The men waiting patiently behind him were a mixed lot, slingers, archers, swordsmen and even two men who carried no weapon except for a large hammer apiece. Drakis had trained them for this operation months ago, up in Bisitun. Now Lady Trella and King Eskkar’s foresight would be put to the test. And Eskkar’s luck, of course. That would be needed, too.

“See anything?” His friend and subcommander, Tarok, sat with his back to the crumbling wall.

“Nothing yet.”

“How long do we wait?”

“Until we see… wait!” Something was moving out there. The shadow midway between Drakis and the wall had lifted its arm and waved.

“That’s the signal. Send out the slingers.”

Tarok pulled himself to his feet and whispered the necessary orders.

Drakis kept his eyes on the wall. Plenty could still go wrong, but the next few moments might give him and his men the chance to be the first Akkadians to enter Larsa.

D ragan and Ibi-sin walked toward the north wall. Each carried a heavy sack over their left shoulder. Both were too tense to say anything, that curious mixture of fear and excitement that often accompanies men when they go into battle, magnified as always by those with no real experience in fighting. Dragan understood that a trained soldier might face an enemy, but he and his brother were farmers, and with little knowledge or skill in fighting and killing

With his injured leg, Dragan couldn’t walk too fast, especially when carrying the heavy rope. But they finally reached their destination. Guards lined the wall every twenty paces, but the open space beneath the parapet was empty of life. Every man that could be spared had been summoned to defend the south wall, where the Akkadians were massing, or to put out fires.

The brothers reached the foot of the steps, but before they could start the climb, a sharp voice halted them.

“What are you doing here?”

Dragan took his foot off the first step and faced one of the guards striding toward them. “We were told to bring bread to the sentries on the walls.” Each sack did contain a single loaf of bread, in case anyone wanted to glance inside. Dragan kept his voice low and properly subservient. The men who made up Larsa’s soldiers were known for their brutality even toward their own inhabitants. “We can leave it here, and you can take it up if — ”

“Let me see what you’ve got in there.”

The guard stepped closer, and Dragan struck, bringing his hand up from alongside his leg and plunging the knife in the man’s stomach. A moment later, Ibi-sin’s knife flashed into the man’s neck. The guard fell to the ground, legs thrashing, a low gurgling the only sound he could make, a noise that went unheard against the shouts of those fighting the flames burning throughout the city.

They wiped their hands and blades on the dying man’s tunic as they’d been taught, gathered the sacks, and made their way up the parapet. Once on top, they took only a few paces before another guard moved away from the wall to see what they wanted.

“Bread, master,” Dragan said. “Your commander said to give each man a loaf.”

The sentry scarcely gave them a glance. “About time. Half the men have deserted their posts. I’ve been up here for half the night with nothing to — ”

The man died before he could finish his words, struck down by Dragan’s fierce thrust. One of Akkad’s soldiers had taught him how to make that move, driving the blade quickly up into the man’s ribs with all his strength. It was, Dragan realized, easier the second time.

The unexpected attack made even less noise, and that, too, was easily drowned out by the tumult coming from the south. Ibi-sin shoved the second guard’s body close to the wall, where it might escape notice.

They moved down the wall to the next sentry. He died as quietly as the others. That gave them over forty paces of wall to themselves. Ibi-sin pulled open the sacks and dumped the heavy rope. A support beam projected out over the ground beneath the parapet, and he looped one end of the rope around the beam and fastened the knot, just as he’d been trained on Akkad’s own walls.

Ten paces away, Dragan did the same. Before he had finished, Ibi-sin leaned over the wall, clutching a long strip of white cloth and waving his arms. Neither brother could see anything in the darkness, but he hoped Akkadians were out there and watching.

“What do we do now?” Ibi-sin’s whisper sounded excited.

“We wait until… there! Someone’s coming.

A crouching shape rose up out of the earth like a spirit and flitted toward the wall. Suddenly, the rope went taut and, in moments, faster than Dragan thought anyone could climb up the wall, a boy slid over the top. At least, he looked like a boy to Dragan. He carried no weapons, just another rope slung around his neck.

He ducked his head and shrugged the rope off his shoulder. “Take this.” He handed the third rope to Ibi-sin, and pulled something from his tunic. “Help them up.”

Both ropes went taut again, and two more men pulled themselves up and over the wall.

Shappa, the first Akkadian to breach Larsa’s walls, ignored them. He dropped a stone in his sling and waited. The guards were visible enough, but most of them were facing inwards, watching the city burn. Smoke hung in the air, stinging the eyes, rasping the throat, and already carrying the stench of burning flesh throughout the city. Fire-arrows continued to rise and fall through the sky, but fewer now that most of the fires had taken root.

The first six men up the ropes were slingers, and they knelt against the wall, staying in the shadows. Shappa walked along the parapet, forcing himself to move slowly and purposefully, as if he belonged. He carried the sling in his left hand. His left hand was as his right, and he could use his sling almost as well with either hand. His right hand held a long copper knife concealed behind his leg.

The next sentry never saw the knife that flashed into his stomach. Shappa pressed his sling against the man’s mouth to muffle any cries, but the man went down without a sound. Within a few heartbeats, the rest of the slingers followed. Soon two more ropes were being fastened to the parapet supports.

Shappa returned to find Dragan and Ibi-sin still helping men up and over the wall. Archers, their bows strung and looped over their shoulders, were pulling themselves into the city. The bowmen fanned out along the wall, and Tarok led them toward the ramparts steps.

“Guards! Guards! Akkadians on the walls! They’re inside the city! ”

Someone had noticed the mass of men slithering over the wall and sounded the alarm.

Drakis, almost the last man to scale the wall, pulled himself up over the edge, his white teeth showing either a grin or a grimace as the enemy sentries sounded the alarm along the north wall. “Too late now, fools!”

The noise echoed down into the city, but it didn’t matter. With four ropes providing access, the last of Drakis’s men pulled themselves up and over.

“Let’s go!” Drakis commanded.

Forty men raced down the steps and into Larsa, pounding through the lanes, heading for the main gate.

Dragan and Ibi-sin watched them rush off, hard men intent on a single purpose. In a moment, they had the parapet to themselves.

“What shall we do now?”

“I don’t know, Ibi-sin. But we’d better get off this wall before someone notices us.”

D rakis had taken a good look toward the main gate before he descended the steps. He knew the way from studying Ismenne’s map, but in the darkness, nothing looked familiar. The lanes twisted and turned, even more confusing than those in the older parts of Akkad. Some of the houses were burning, and his men pushed and shoved through crowds of people frantically trying to put out fires, save their possessions, or escape the flames. No one seemed to recognize them as Akkadians, or if they did, had any inclination to try and stop them.

Just as he thought he’d taken a wrong turn, the lane turned into a wider passage, and Drakis knew the gate lay just ahead.

“This way! Archers, take to the roofs.”

He led the men in a wild charge straight at the gate. Two houses burned along one side, and a watchfire burned along the top of the wall. Sentries continued to sound the alarm, and now Drakis heard the panic in their voices. An arrow struck the ground beside him and skittered off into the darkness. The sentries on the wall had finally grasped the situation.

But Drakis and his men were moving too quickly to stop and too fast to hit. They made it to the foot of the gate before they encountered any opposition. Two guards died trying to stop them, and the others backed into the towers that led upwards.

Drakis didn’t care about them. “Get that gate open!”

The two men with the hammers went to work. As soon as the first stroke pounded on the brace, the gate shook, and everyone knew what was happening. The city’s guards started shooting arrows at anything that moved, including the city’s inhabitants, and a group of soldiers who had collected themselves to ready a counter-attack. But by then the twenty Akkadian archers had reached the roofs. Now Akkadian arrows, as well as stones from the slingers, began to fly from the darkness, first striking down anyone who seemed in command, then searching out anyone with a bow. That stopped the counter-attack against Drakis and his twenty swordsmen.

The first wedge broke free, then the second a moment later. “Get the beam out!” Drakis’s voice cut through the chaos.

Some of his men dropped their swords and moved to the gate. Four men lifted the top beam, grunting as they shoved it up over their heads. Then they had to move it aside. One man went down with an arrow in his chest, and the log sagged dangerously before the remaining trio could hurl it aside, letting it roll off into the darkness. They had to get it far enough away from the gate so as to not hinder it swinging open. The hammers kept pounding behind them, and Drakis glanced back to see the last wedge splinter into fragments.

He slid his sword into the scabbard and helped his men shoulder the second, and lower, beam. They had to stoop down to grasp it. An arrow slammed into the gate a hand’s width from Drakis’s head, but it didn’t matter now. With a grunt the beam rose up, scraping along the wood, and Drakis moved away from the gate, his feet stumbling in the dirt, trying to maintain his footing. The soldier with the hammer began pounding on the gate with all his might, the signal to those waiting outside.

“Throw it!” Drakis gave the command and the men heaved the beam to the side. Behind them, the gate burst open, and the first man through was Eskkar, at the head of a wave of two hundred and fifty spearmen, and fifty archers. He recognized Drakis.

“Drakis! Stay here. Make sure the gate stays open until the rest of the men arrive.”

That didn’t take long. Soon the entire force of spearmen jogged through the gate, breathing hard. The first part of Eskkar’s army was pouring into Larsa, and nothing could stop it now.

E skkar, carrying a shield like any of his infantry, led the initial force straight down the widest lane. He remembered to count his strides, and when he reached eighty a lane appeared on his left and he led the men that way. Fires burned everywhere, and the people shrank out of their way, frightened by the river of fierce men all wearing bronze helmets that glowed blood-red in the flickering light, and carrying shields and long spears whose tips glinted as they reflected the flames.

Another two hundred paces and the house of King Naran appeared, an imposing structure surrounded by a wall taller than the height of a man. Four soldiers, swords in hand, guarded the gate, but they took one glance at the charging Akkadians and fled. Two ran up the lane, and the other two ducked inside the gate.

“Open that gate!”

Eskkar dashed up the lane, his personal guards and the spearmen trying to catch up with their leader. He heard a bar snap into place as he reached the entrance, but no gate this small would stop him now. He raised his shield and flung his weight against the gate. A moment later, four more bodies hit it, and more hands reached out to push against it.

Something snapped, and the gate burst open. Eskkar stumbled through the opening, falling to his knees from the press of men behind him. Grond caught him by the arm and jerked him upright. Akkadian soldiers shouting war cries rushed into the grounds, brandishing spears or swords. Any who resisted were slain. Those who tried to flee were caught and slammed to the ground. The spearmen fanned out, filling the spacious grounds and moving to the rear of the courtyard.

In moments the king’s house was taken. Eskkar strode through the open door, stepping over a body. Two torches burned in the long common room, but it was devoid of life. A broad flight of steps led upstairs, marked by a bloody trail. Eskkar pointed with his sword and his men rushed up the steps. Another barred door held the soldiers up for a few moments, before they ripped it from its hinges, and poured into the upper chamber.

Eskkar mounted the steps and entered the room. Two thick candles mounted on the walls illuminated the first of the three rooms he knew to comprise the house’s second story. Women were dragged from the other rooms, and soon a dozen stood crammed together in the corner. Eskkar looked at the terrified women shaking in their fear, clutching each other in their panic. One, older than the others, wore a rich gown. A pearl necklace hung from her neck. Two younger women, likely her daughters, clung to her arms, as Eskkar moved to face her. She tried to shrink back, but there was no place to go.

Eskkar studied her for a moment. King Naran had several wives, but his first wife had given him two daughters. “You are Naran’s wife?”

“No!” The woman lifted her chin and held her daughters tight against her body.

“Then you’re of no use to me.” He turned to Grond. “Kill her, and the two with her.”

Grond, his powerful frame as frightening as any man alive, drew his sword from its scabbard and stepped forward, raising the blade over his head.

“Wait! Stop!” The older of the two girls holding their mother upright shouted the words. “My mother is first wife to my father, King Naran.”

“Where is he?” Eskkar’s voice rasped into the older woman’s face.

She hesitated. “I don’t know.” Her voice quivered as she spoke.

Naran’s wife had courage, but the daughter would tell him what he wanted. Eskkar reached out, caught the mother’s hair, and twisted it back, making her gasp with pain. “That’s twice you’ve lied to me, woman. Next time I’ll cut out your tongue. Where is he?”

Grond grabbed her by the face, pushing his thick fingers into the sides of her jaw, forcing it open. He shoved the sharp blade into her mouth, and a trickle of blood formed in the corner.

“Inside! Inside the bed chamber!” The same girl, sobbing now, pointed to the way.

Eskkar released his hold on Naran’s wife. “Bring them.” He entered the second chamber, a comfortable room where Naran no doubt took his pleasure. A large chest rested against the wall, the only concealment possible.

Grond went to it, placed his foot against one side, and shoved. The chest slid aside, revealing an opening cut into the wall.

“Get him out.”

Grond would have to bend over double to squeeze inside the dark hiding hole, and he knew better than to do that. Instead he took a spear from one of the grinning soldiers, and thrust it into the darkness.

“Stop! I’m coming out.”

On his hands and knees, King Naran emerged from the hidden chamber, his bronze helmet still on his head. If he had a sword, he’d left it behind.

A soldier arrived with a torch, shoved it inside, and inspected the hiding hole. “It’s empty, Lord Eskkar.”

“Don’t take any chances. Tear the wall down. There might be another hole concealed within this one. Check all the rooms, break open every wall. There will be more hiding places for his gold.”

Grond jerked the helmet from Naran’s head, turned him around, and began tying his hands behind his back.

“Guard him and his women well, Grond. I’ll be back for them later.”

T he moment Razrek heard the alarm about Akkadians entering the city, he knew it was time to go. Already the mass of soldiers outside the city had begun abandoning their position and started jogging toward the main gate. The threat against the south wall had been a ruse.

“Damn that demon Eskkar!” Razrek shook his head in frustration. “Summon our men to the river gate, and get them mounted. We’ve only moments before these bastards seal us in.”

He raced down the steps and ran as fast as he could toward Larsa’s river gate. Fires burned everywhere, and the heat from the flames would have given him pause at any other time. With swords in their hands, Razrek, Mattaki and his men rushed down the lane, forcing their way through the terrified mob of people pushing and shoving in every direction.

“Use your swords on the rabble,” Razrek shouted. “Clear the way to the corrals!”

Mattaki shouted orders to every horseman they passed, and soon hundreds of men milled about in the stable area. Razrek reached the house where he’d stabled his horse, and those of his commanders. Some were already there, others arriving breathless, pausing only long enough to fit a halter over their horse’s head.

Frantic soldiers tore loose the gate’s fastenings and flung it open. Men kicked their horses hard and burst through the opening, riding south along the river toward safety. Razrek saw a few arrows reach out from the darkness and strike down several of his men. The shafts didn’t descend in force, but he knew that would soon change as more archers reached the rear of the city.

Razrek finally fitted the halter to his nervous mount’s tossing head. He swung onto his stallion and hunched over his horse’s shoulder as he urged the big animal forward. With a thunder of hooves, Razrek and the rest of his men fled into the darkness, away from the walls and burning debris. Behind him came hundreds of the city’s inhabitants, desperate to escape before the Akkadians sealed them in. Shouting and pushing, they forced their way through the gate, running for their lives.

The Akkadian bowmen, slowed down by the tangle of broken huts that littered the ground, finally pushed their way toward the river gate, trying to seal off the most likely escape route. But only a few arrived before Razrek and hundreds of his men galloped out. Arrows flew at them, but the leader of the first group of breathless archers didn’t have enough men to contest their escape. He shot arrows at anything that moved, and emptied his quiver with the last shaft launched into the darkness.

More archers kept arriving, and now Razrek’s stragglers were cut down, arrows killing horses and riders, driving them back into the city. When men and horses littered the space just outside the gate, the exodus stopped. A few defenders tried to close the portal, but Eskkar’s spearmen arrived and took control. The last escape route out of Larsa had been closed.

A mile downriver Razrek halted in an open field. He and Mattaki bellowed commands, stopping the panicky gallop. Men and horses were breathing hard from the desperate dash through the night, and it took a long time under the moon’s feeble light before Razrek finally collected all his men and took a count.

“Damn those Akkadians!” he shouted at Mattaki’s white face. Only two out of every three of Razrek’s horsemen got away before the Akkadians sealed the city. He’d lost valuable horses, men and weapons, not to mention the city of Larsa. Shulgi would not be pleased.