Dawn of Empire

Prologue

– The eastern bank of the river Tigris, 3158 B.C.E…

The village lay before him like a lamb trapped by a pack of wolves.

Thutmose — sin halted his sweat — soaked horse on the crest of the hill, while his men formed up on each side. He surveyed the plain beneath him, taking in the crops in the fields and the irrigation canals that watered them. His eyes soon fixed on the village barely two miles away.

There the Tigris curled sharply around the cluster of mud huts and tents that nestled against it. Today the river that brought the very sustenance of life to the dirt — eaters would be the obstacle that prevented their escape.

Those who hadn’t fled already, Thutmose — sin corrected himself. He had planned to catch the village by surprise, but word had preceded his band, as it so often did. The warriors had ridden hard for five days with little sleep. Despite that effort, the dirt — eaters had received a few hours’ warning. News of his approach must have traveled down the river, faster than a man on a horse. Even now, Thutmose — sin could see a few small boats paddling frantically to the far side of the Tigris. Those lucky ones would use the river to elude the fate he had planned for them.

His men had settled into place. Nearly three hundred warriors formed a single line across the hilltop, with Thutmose — sin at their center. Each man strung his bow, unslung his lance, and loosened the sword in his scabbard. They had done this so many times that now they spoke little and needed few commands, as they prepared themselves not for battle but for conquest. Only after the weapons were ready did they look to themselves.

Every rider drank deeply from his water skin, then emptied what remained over the head and neck of his horse. There would be plenty of water for both man and beast in the village.

His second in command, Rethnar, pulled up just behind him. “The men are ready, Thutmose — sin.”

The leader turned his head, saw the eagerness in Rethnar’s face, and smiled at the man’s excitement. Thutmose — sin looked left and right along the line, and saw that every tenth man had raised bow or lance into the air. The warriors were more than ready. Their reward for the days of hard riding awaited them. “Then let us begin.”

With a touch of his heel to the horse’s ribs, Thutmose — sin started the descent, the men following his lead. They took their time negotiating the downslope. With fresh horses, they would have raced down the incline and covered the last two miles in an exuberant rush. But after five days of riding, no man wanted to risk a valuable but weary horse-not with the end of their journey so near.

When they reached the plain, the line of horsemen became more ragged as the land flattened out. Small bands of riders detached themselves from the wings and began sweeping the countryside. They would search the outlying fields and scattered farmhouses, driving any inhabitants toward the village.

The main body of warriors cantered through fields of golden wheat and barley, Thutmose — sin at their head. They soon reached the broad, well — trodden path that led up to the village. Two minutes at a smooth gallop and they had passed the outermost dwellings.

Now the youngest warriors on the freshest horses took the lead, their war cries ringing over the thudding of the horses’ hooves. They rode past a few scattered dirt — eaters, ignoring the screaming women, frightened men, and crying children. A rough wooden fence as tall as a man might have slowed them for a moment, but the crude gate stood open and undefended. The warriors swept through unopposed.

Thutmose — sin saw the first dirt — eater die. An old man, stumbling in fear, tried to reach the safety of a hut. A warrior struck downward with his sword, then raised the now — bloodied blade high into the air and shouted his war cry. Arrows snapped from bows, striking down men and women caught in the open. The riders fanned out, some dismounting to search the huts, sword or lance in hand, looking for victims. Anyone who resisted would die, of course, but many would be killed just for the sport or to satisfy a thirst for blood. The rest would be spared. The Alur Meriki needed slaves, not bodies.

Thutmose — sin ignored the clamor as he rode slowly through the village, the ten members of his personal guard now surrounding him in the narrow lane. He saw that a few of the dwellings stood two stories tall, a display of their owner’s wealth and prestige. Some houses hid behind high mud walls, while others had small gardens setting them back from the lane.

He reached the gathering place at the heart of the village, a large open space with a wide stone well in its center. More than a dozen carts, their dirty linen awnings flapping in the light breeze, crowded the marketplace.

A few still had their wares upon them, though all stood deserted. A rich village, as his scouts had promised.

After a pause to let the horses drink some water from the well, Thutmose — sin picked out a wider lane that led toward the rear of the village. They followed its path until they reached the river. Here he halted, then slid easily to the ground, handing the halter to one of his men. A wooden dock extended a dozen paces into the Tigris. Walking to the jetty’s end, he tightened the wide strip of blue cloth embroidered with red thread that held his hair away from his eyes. Then he stopped and stared at the opposite bank.

Even at this fording place in midsummer, the Tigris reached nearly to the tops of its wide banks and flowed deeper than a man’s height in places.

A ferry provided passage to the other side, but the abandoned craft sat on the opposite bank, along with three smaller vessels, all empty. He noticed that the flat — sided ferry rested at an odd angle. Some dirt — eaters must have opened its bottom.

On the opposite shore, the land rose steeply into a hillside dotted with date palms and poplars. Thutmose — sin could see hundreds of people moving frantically up those slopes, some leading animals, others carrying their meager belongings, men helping their women and children. Most followed a crooked road that climbed toward a gap between the nearest hills. Almost all stole quick glances back toward the river, terrified that the grim riders would pursue them. The cowardly dirt — eaters would run as far as they could, for as long as they could, then hide in the rocks and caves, shaking with fear and praying to their feeble gods for deliverance from the Alur Meriki.

They’d slipped beyond his reach, and the knowledge enraged Thutmose — sin, though he kept his face emotionless. The tired horses didn’t have the strength to fight the current, let alone chase fleeing villagers, nor did they have the means to bring any captives or goods back to this side of the river.

He hated the Tigris, hated all rivers almost as much as he hated the dirt — eaters who dwelt beside them. The rivers with their boats that could travel farther and faster than a galloping horse while carrying men and their burdens. More important, the flowing waters gave life to villages abominations-such as this, and let them grow large and prosperous.

Thutmose — sin took a deep breath, then walked back up the jetty. Nothing showed of his disappointment. Thutmose — sin swung back onto his horse and led his bodyguards back into the village, where the captives’ la-ments rose to greet him. When he reached the well, Rethnar was waiting.

“Hail, Thutmose — sin. A fine village, isn’t it?”

“Hail, Rethnar.” Thutmose — sin answered formally, to affirm his authority. The two men were of much the same age, a few months under twenty — five, but Thutmose — sin commanded most of the men, and the clan’s sarrum, or king, had given him responsibility for the raid. The fact that the sarrum happened to be Thutmose — sin’s father made no difference in his authority.

“Yes, but too many escaped across the river.”

Rethnar shrugged. “One of the slaves said they learned of our coming a few hours ago. Word came down the river.”

“Just enough time for most of them to escape.” Thutmose — sin had driven the men without respite the last three days, trying to avoid this situation. “Did the slave say how many were in the village?”

“No, Thutmose — sin. I will find out.”

“Then I leave you to your task, Rethnar.” The remaining villagers would be hiding under their beds or in holes dug beneath their huts. It would take a few hours to find them all.

Thutmose — sin dismounted and stepped over to the well. One of his men brought up a bucket of fresh water and Thutmose — sin drank his fill, then washed the dust from his face and hands. He dismissed most of his guards, so they could join in the looting. They wouldn’t be needed here.

With only three men, he began to explore. Thutmose — sin entered several of the larger houses, curious to see what they contained and how the people lived. He did the same at a half dozen shops. Signs of their owners’ hasty departures abounded, from half — eaten meals to the goods still displayed for sale on carts or pushed indoors before the owners fled.

Taking his time, he examined the leather belts, linens, sandals, and pottery scattered about. He even ducked into an alehouse, but the sour stench made him move on.

Choosing another lane, Thutmose- sin wondered how the dirt-eaters could live behind walls of mud that blocked out the wind and sky, while surrounded by the stench and fi lth of hundreds of others as dirty as one’s self. A true warrior lived free and proud, unfettered to any particular place, and took what he needed or wanted with his sword.

A larger house, nearly hidden behind a wall, caught his eye. He pushed open the wooden gate. Instead of the usual garden, he found a smith’s shop, with two forges, a bellows, and three different — sized cooling pots.

Half — mended farm implements lay on the ground or on the empty benches.

But nearly half the workspace held tools for making weapons. Clay molds for swords and daggers leaned against the garden wall. Sharpening and finishing stones fi lled a shelf, and a large block of wood, nicked and hacked, showed where the swordsmith tested his new blades. The craftsman had taken his tools with him, of course, or hidden them someplace. Weapons and tools could be as valuable as horses. The blacksmith would have made a useful slave, but so important a laborer would have crossed the river at the first warning.

The smith must be a master craftsman to have such a large house. The thought gave him no pleasure. The best bronze weapons the Alur Meriki carried came from large villages like this one. He hated the fact that village smiths could create such fine weapons with apparent ease. Swords, daggers, lance and arrow points, all could be made here, and better than his own people could make.

Not that his clansmen didn’t know the mysteries of bronze and copper.

But their smaller, portable forges couldn’t match the quality or resources of a large village. Forging a strong bronze sword required care and time, two luxuries his people didn’t have, living in permanent migration.

Few warriors among his people cared about the dirt — eaters’ ways, but Thutmose — sin had a wise father, who taught him the mysteries of life. Of all the many sons of Maskim — Xul, only Thutmose — sin had been born at the fullness of the moon, the birthing time for those to whom the gods gave extraordinary perception and cunning. By the time Thutmose — sin came of age, his father had appended the rare sin to his name, to signify his wisdom and judgment.

Thutmose — sin understood the importance of learning about his enemies. The dirt — eaters harbored a threat even to the Alur Meriki, something his father understood well. Everyone else in the clan would have scoffed at the thought of the soft villagers competing with them. To the warriors, an enemy was some other rival steppes tribe they might encounter in their wanderings. The pathetic dirt — eaters possessed few fighters and even fewer skilled horsemen. Any of his fighters, stronger, taller, and trained in fighting and horsemanship at an early age, could kill three or more dirt — eaters in battle without difficulty.

No, the dirt — eaters didn’t know the arts of war, nor could they ever become strong fighters. But they possessed another weapon deadlier than any bow or lance: the food they coaxed out of the ground. The food that allowed them to multiply like ants, without having to hunt or fight for their nourishment. The more food they took from the earth, the more they multiplied. And some day, there might be so many of them that even the Alur Meriki could not kill them all.

That day must never come, Thutmose — sin vowed. His father grew old and soon would have to pass on the authority he had wielded for so long.

On that day, Thutmose — sin, already the favorite of the clan’s elder council, would rule the Alur Meriki. It would be his responsibility to make sure the clan grew and prospered as it always had, by conquest and pillage. He would not fail in his duty.

Hours passed before he returned to the marketplace. Warriors and their captives filled the area. Most of the crying had ceased. The new slaves knelt in the dirt, crowded together, shoulder to shoulder. The stink of their fear overpowered even the five- day — old horse smell of the warriors. He found Rethnar sitting on the ground, his back against the well, awaiting his leader’s return.

“Greetings, Rethnar. How many are there?”

“Two hundred and eighty — six taken alive, after we dug the last of them out of their burrows. Another seventy or eighty dead. More than enough for our needs. All the huts and fields have been searched. Not one tried to resist.”

“How many lived here?”

“Nearly a thousand dirt — eaters, living in this filth,” Rethnar answered, a look of disgust on his face. “A few hours earlier and we could have captured another four or five hundred.”

“We’ll need horses with wings, then.” They’d ridden as hard as they could. “Did you get any horses?”

“No, not one. No doubt anyone with a horse rode south. There are some oxen still in the fields.”

Oxen had no value, not this far from the Alur Meriki’s encampment.

Thutmose — sin had hoped for at least a few horses. Extra horses could carry more booty back. He put the thought away. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes, Thutmose — sin. After we select our slaves, do we let the rest live?”

Rethnar fingered his sword.

Thutmose — sin smiled at the man’s anticipation. His second in command enjoyed killing. “No, not this time. Too many escaped us. Begin.”

Rethnar stood as he gave the orders. The warriors moved among the prisoners, selecting those unfit for work. At swordpoint, they separated the old, the young, the sick, and the infirm, driving them away from the original group. They pulled babies from their mothers’ hands, knocking the women down with their fists if they tried to resist. Two men struggled against the warriors and were cut down swiftly. Rethnar’s men wanted only those strong enough to endure what awaited them. The others, of no use, would die. Thutmose — sin had decreed it.

The culling went rapidly. Thutmose — sin watched as the warriors divided the dirt — eaters into two groups, his lips moving as he did his own count. Scarcely more than a hundred and forty would live.

When his men completed the division, Rethnar shouted the order and the killing began. Warriors moved methodically through those selected to die. Swords rose and fell. The smell of blood quickly saturated the air. Shouts and screams again echoed from the walls, as loved ones cried out to each other. The killing, efficient and swift, took little time.

Warriors found no glory in such slaughter. Few resisted. Three children tried to run, urged on by their helpless mothers, but the line of warriors held the victims in. Some called out to their gods, imploring Marduk or Ishtar to help them, but the false gods of the dirt — eaters had no power over the Alur Meriki.

When the carnage ended, Thutmose — sin mounted his horse and moved in front of those left alive, his guards standing before him, weapons in hand, as much to intimidate as to protect. Fresh tears streaked the terrified faces of both men and women. Silence quickly fell over the survivors as they looked up at this new warrior.

“I am Thutmose — sin of the Alur Meriki. My father, Maskim — Xul, rules all the clans of the Alur Meriki.” He spoke in his own language, even though he could speak the villagers’ dialect well enough. If the village had resisted, if some of them had fought bravely, he might have spoken to them directly. But to do so now would dishonor him. One of his men in-terpreted, speaking in a loud voice, so that everyone could hear their fate.

“In Maskim — Xul’s name, you are to be slaves of the Alur Meriki clan for the rest of your lives. You’ll work hard and you’ll obey every order. You will now learn what awaits those who disobey or try to run.”

He turned back to Rethnar. “Teach them.”

Rethnar called out to his men, and they began the next phase of the slaves’ training. One of his subcommanders quickly selected two men and two women. The warriors stripped the men naked, then staked them, legs spread wide apart, on the ground. The ropes stretched their limbs as much as possible to prevent the slightest movement. At the same time, other warriors herded the remaining slaves even closer together, still on their knees, so they could see the torture. All must watch and none could turn away or close their eyes.

Warriors knelt next to each bound victim. Rethnar nodded and his men began, using their knives to slice into their captives, or fist — sized stones to break or crush their flesh. The helpless men cried out in terror even before the first cut or blow. When the actual torture began, shrieks of pain rebounded off the mud walls. The torture must be drawn out, so that the victims suffered as much as possible for as long as they could endure.

Their fate would serve as an example to those forced to watch. A few spectators trembled uncontrollably in their fear, others cried in grief, but most just stared in shock. Anyone who turned away or closed his eyes received a blow from the flat of a sword.

At the same time other warriors attended to the women. A cart, one used by the villagers to display fruits or vegetables, now served another purpose. Their simple shifts ripped from their bodies, they found themselves side by side, bent backward across the cart and held down by laughing warriors, while the first group of grinning Alur Meriki lined up to take their pleasure. Both women would be raped into near insensibility, then cut to pieces, a practice that always instilled the proper amount of terror in newly captured women.

The process wouldn’t take long. Afterward there would be no resistance. The new slaves would learn the lesson their new masters intended: obey every command instantly, suffer any abuse, or face even worse punishment. The Alur Meriki had few problems with their slaves, male or female. Death by slow torture for the slightest offense, real or imagined, made for an effective deterrent that kept slaves docile while their masters worked them to death.

Thutmose — sin turned back to Rethnar and saw his subcommander pushing aside his undergarment. He’d be the first to take one, or both of the women. “Don’t let them die too soon, Rethnar.”

The rising screams of the victims drowned out Rethnar’s reply.

Thutmose — sin turned his horse and rode out of the village, three guards still accompanying him. This time he inspected the neighboring farms, studying the farmhouses, fields, and even the endless irrigation that carried water to the crops. No warrior would ever stoop to farming, but Thutmose — sin wanted to know how this village had grown so large, how so many could be fed from these fields. The answer eluded him, however, and by the time he returned, Rethnar’s lesson had ended. The four bodies, now covered with flies, lay sprawled where they had died. Silence filled the marketplace. Obey-ing their new masters, the slaves kept silent. They’d learned the first lesson.

He dismounted, then stepped past the bodies to where the villagers knelt, their gaze fixed on the victims as they’d been ordered. A few had glanced at the Alur Meriki leader as he approached, but one brief look at his unsmiling face, and they turned their eyes back to the grisly tableau in front of them. Ignoring the men and children, he examined the women’s faces. Three or four looked comely enough.

“Bring them out for me,” he ordered his bodyguards. They grabbed those he indicated, pulling them to their feet, out of the crowd of kneeling bodies. It took only moments to rip off their garments and force them to their knees in the dirt.

These looked to be the prettiest of the lot, though Thutmose — sin knew that tears and terror could change a woman’s face. Two women, their bodies shaking, cried softly, bitter tears that would soon pass. Eyes could only hold so much water, after all. The other two just looked at him, fear and shock already fading into hopelessness.

Thutmose — sin examined each in turn, grasping their hair and pulling their faces upward. The two he chose looked older, about sixteen or seventeen seasons. He liked them at that age, when they’d learned enough about how to satisfy a man. They would please him, he knew. After what they’d seen today, they’d be frantic in their efforts to give him pleasure.

Rethnar walked over. “The lesson is ended, Thutmose — sin. Should we begin dividing the spoils? The men are eager to take the rest of the women.”

Thutmose — sin glanced at the sun, still high in the afternoon sky. “No, not until darkness. Put the slaves to work. Anything we don’t want is to be destroyed. If it can burn, I want it carried here and set afire. Everything, including the fence, the wagons, tools, clothing, everything. Smash whatever can’t be burned. Then tomorrow, have the slaves knock down every house. When the dirt — eaters return, they must fi nd nothing of value. And before you begin the march back to camp, burn all the fields as well. Everything, every animal, is to be destroyed.”

Thutmose — sin looked around at the houses surrounding him. “This village grew too large and prosperous. These dirt — eaters must be taught not to build such places again. And when you begin the journey home, load the slaves with as much as they can carry. Let only the strongest survive to reach our camp.”

Rethnar smiled. “I’ll teach them. Then you go back to the council?”

“Yes. Tomorrow I’ll take fifty men and return to my father. I’ll bring the choicest wine and women for him. If you like, send ten of your own men with gifts for your grandfather.” Rethnar’s grandfather sat on the council as well.

“Grandfather will be pleased.”

“You’ve done well, Rethnar. I’ll speak of you to my father and the council.”

It would take Rethnar close to three weeks to rejoin the clan, burdened with so many slaves and goods. And the number of slaves would increase, as Rethnar’s men visited the farmhouses they’d bypassed in their rush to the village.

Thutmose — sin mounted his horse, then turned to his guards. “Bring my women to the river.” He guided the animal through the lane, until he again reached the water’s edge. First he would see to his horse, then wash himself in the Tigris. The two women would also bathe, so that they wouldn’t bring the village stink to his bed tonight.

As he dove into the cool and cleansing water, he thought about what he’d accomplished. They’d taken much booty and slaves, and a large village would be destroyed as a lesson to the dirt — eaters. The health and power of the Alur Meriki would be greatly increased. The capture of a few hundred more slaves would have made the raid more successful, but nothing could be done about that. All in all, everything had gone well. His father and the council would be pleased.

Eleven years later, near the headwaters of the Tigris…

Thutmose — sin rode slowly through the scattered huts until he reached the edge of the bluff. From this height he observed the chilled waters of the Tigris, sparkling in the sunlight and fresh from their birth — mountains, stretching all the way to the distant northern horizon. Directly beneath the hilltop, a caravan of men and animals had begun the difficult crossing to the eastern bank.

This caravan would prove far mightier than the watery obstacle nature had placed in its path. The people of the steppes, the Alur Meriki, traveled wherever they chose and nothing stood in their path. They dominated all the peoples of the world, just as Thutmose — sin dominated them.

He was their king, and he ruled the world.

In his thirty — fifth season, the leader of the Alur Meriki stood as strong and powerful as in his youth, with not a trace of fat on his tall, muscu-lar frame. Around his neck hung a copper — linked chain with a three — inch gold medallion identifying the Alur Meriki leader. Unlike his followers, he wore no other jewelry or rings to show his importance or his conquests.

The medallion proclaimed his power-only the strongest and most capable ever earned the right to wear it.

Thutmose — sin regarded the scene beneath him with satisfaction. The clan extended in a wide and crooked line for nearly four miles, a snake-like procession that sent a long plume of reddish dust into the still air.

Four hundred warriors shepherded them along, helping the wagons get through places where the earth turned to soft sand, keeping the flocks of sheep, goats, and cattle moving, and occasionally dismounting to add their own muscles to those of the weary animals that struggled over the rough ground. The caravan traveled slowly, but it never stopped.

The column consisted of horses, oxen, wagons, stock animals, women, children, old men, and slaves, in roughly that order of importance.

The real strength of his people, its great force of warriors, traversed the land many days’ ride ahead and to each side of the line of march. Some searched out the best and easiest route for the clan’s travel. But most plundered the countryside, taking whatever of value they found, to enrich themselves and to keep the clan alive and growing.

The Alur Meriki had become the largest gathering of those who’d come forth from the northern steppes many generations ago. They now numbered more than five thousand people, not counting slaves. That meant that Thutmose — sin had nearly two thousand fighting men at his command. No other steppes clan had produced so many warriors. More important, the Alur Meriki warriors had never suffered defeat in battle. It had been more than twenty years, in the days when Maskim — Xul led the Alur Meriki, since another clan had even dared to challenge them.

Satisfied with his peoples’ progress, Thutmose — sin turned his horse away from the edge of the promontory. As he did so, a small band of riders approached, a clan leader at their head.

“Greetings, Sarrum.” Urgo, clan leader and kinsman to Thutmose — sin, used the formal title to refer to his lord. The first to swear allegiance to Thutmose — sin after the death of Maskim — Xul six seasons ago, Urgo stood a hand’s width shorter but a little broader than his cousin. Though seven seasons older, Urgo looked just as fit. Eight or ten hours a day on the back of a spirited horse kept any man in fighting shape.

“Greetings, Urgo.”

“I bring news, Thutmose — sin.”

Of the twenty clan leaders who ruled the Alur Meriki, Urgo’s clan had grown into one of the most powerful, with two hundred warriors under his standard.

Not that Urgo or any of the clan leaders made life easier for Thutmose — sin, even though half of them shared kinship to one degree or another.

At times the entire Alur Meriki horde, with their endless disputes over women, horses, or some warrior’s honor, took less effort to manage than the fractious disputes of the twenty council members.

Thutmose — sin led Urgo back toward the crest of the hill. They left their bodyguards behind, out of earshot, and sat near the promontory’s edge where they could watch the procession below. It would take three or four days before the clan could ford the Tigris. They’d camp here for at least a week, resting while repairing the wagons, and letting the sheep and goats graze on the plentiful grass, fattening themselves before moving on.

“A river trader told me something of interest,” Urgo began without ceremony. “He said there’s a great village far to the south. It’s called Orak.

The trader claims there are two thousand dirt — people living there.”

“Two thousand?” Thutmose — sin’s voice rose in disbelief. That was easily twice as large as anything the Alur Meriki had ever encountered before. A village that size, if it could feed itself, would have great resources that would provide much plunder. “Can that many dirt — eaters live in one place? Are you sure your trader speaks the truth?”

“Yes, Sarrum, I believe him,” Urgo answered. “Others have spoken of this place before. Let me show you.” He began to trace out a map in the sand. With a few light strokes of his knife and the help of some pebbles to represent the mountains and other landmarks, Urgo made the rivers appear and the mountains to the east rise up. As always, he impressed his sarrum as much with his memory as with his skill at mapmaking. Urgo could re — create maps from all the places the clan had traveled as accurately as if he’d seen them yesterday, instead of five or even ten years ago.

“When we cross the Tigris,” Urgo said, “we’ll continue east. In a few weeks we’ll have to choose a route to the south. If we turn here, or here,” he indicated places on the map, “as we planned, we’ll pass this Orak far to the northeast. It will be too distant to raid. So if we wish to capture this place, we must turn sooner. We could head more toward this village, perhaps even following the path of the Tigris. The lands along the river are fertile. There’d be much grain and goods to capture. It’s not the line of march that we planned, but this great village would yield many spoils.”

Urgo took a deep breath. “With whatever route we choose, when we’re a few months closer, we can send raiding parties ahead to capture this Orak. Two thousand dirt — eaters will have plenty of valuables and no way of hiding them all.”

Thutmose — sin looked down at the lines in the sand. “This place, it seems familiar.”

“It should,” Urgo said with a laugh. “You raided it a few years before you became sarrum. Orak was a fat village even then, and you brought back many slaves.”

Thutmose — sin fingered the hilt of his sword, trying to recall one raid out of so many. The name meant nothing to him, but he recognized the bend of the Tigris. “Yes, I remember. A good raid. But the village wasn’t so large then, and we killed everyone and destroyed it. Can it have grown back so quickly?”

Urgo shrugged. “It must have.”

It seemed a simple decision, easy to make, no different from many other such choices the clan faced every day. Still, Thutmose — sin hesitated.

“A village that big defies our way of life, Urgo,” he said, “and for that reason alone it should be destroyed. But we hadn’t planned to go so far south. If we do, we’ll add many more miles to our journey. We’d have to hurry to reach our winter camp. What we find when we reach this Orak may not be worth the extra weeks of travel.”

“Yes, that may be so,” Urgo answered. “It’s the usual problem.”

Thutmose — sin understood the man’s prudence. Urgo did not make such decisions. Only Thutmose — sin or the entire council could change the route. But Urgo had the responsibility of collecting information about the land through which they passed and suggesting possible raids or routes to follow. While the Alur Meriki would eventually begin to move south, what route they chose and how fast they traveled would be critical to the prosperity and health of the clans. The sarrum understood the problem Urgo referred to all too well. If they sent raiding parties, that meant delays and difficulties of carrying the loot back to the main camp. A mounted warrior, burdened by weapons, water, and whatever he needed for his horse, could carry little else. Loaded — down slaves traveled slowly and required large quantities of food and water, which must also be carried. If instead they took the entire clan closer to Orak, then they’d be nearly two hundred miles west of where they wanted to be. As always, not every need could be satisfied. No matter what decision he reached, some would be displeased.

“If we head toward this place,” Thutmose — sin said, tapping the pebble that represented Orak, “they’ll learn of our coming. These large villages empty themselves long before our warriors arrive. Even the farmers along the way will fl ee, after first burying their tools and seed crops deep in the ground. No matter what route we choose, word of our coming will soon spread.”

Ideally, they would capture this Orak with all its people and goods inside, but such an occurrence almost never happened, even with raiding parties that could travel far and fast. Tools, grain, and valuables would disappear, while horses and herd animals would be scattered or hidden. The clan would be lucky to capture a third of what the village possessed.

Thutmose — sin turned away from the map and stared at the land below.

But his thoughts stayed focused on this Orak. Such an abomination could not be allowed to exist. Villagers scratched in the dirt like pigs for their food, instead of hunting or fighting for it like true men. The dirt — eaters lived and bred like ants. You could kick over their anthill, but in a few years it grew back, with more of them than before. Just like this Orak. He had leveled it years ago and already it had risen again, with more dirt — eaters than before.

Now Thutmose — sin wanted to obliterate it and destroy everyone within it. The Alur Meriki might tolerate small villages. They’d be plundered but not destroyed, so that they could be raided again in the future. But a village of two thousand was more than an insult. He considered what might happen if they returned in another ten years to find the village had again doubled in size. No, this Orak must be destroyed to make sure such a thing could never happen.

It wouldn’t be easy. Thutmose — sin needed to find a way to keep all the villagers inside, with their goods, until it was too late to get away.

“This village,” Thutmose — sin said, “the ford there is a good one?”

Urgo nodded. “According to the trader, it’s the only easy crossing for thirty or forty miles in either direction. Likely that is what helps the place grow so large.”

“Then most of the important villagers will flee across the Tigris or down the river.” Thutmose — sin took his dagger from his belt and moved closer to Urgo’s map. “Perhaps there’s a way to take it before too many escape.”

His knife inscribed fresh lines in the sand as he spoke. The plan he sketched was simple, but unlike anything they had ever done. The lay of the land would help, as would the Tigris. By the time Thutmose — sin finished, their heads nearly touched as they leaned over the map.

“It’s a cunning plan, Thutmose — sin. We’ll gain many slaves.”

“The tactics are simple enough, and we’ve twice as many warriors as we need. And the dirt — eaters will do what they always do, and so help destroy themselves.”

Finally Urgo nodded. “Yes, Sarrum, I can’t think of anything that can go wrong. We’ll capture much of value to the clan. I’ll begin the preparations. There are many months to work out the details, and we can always change our tactics if something unexpected happens.”

“Then it’s decided.” Thutmose — sin rose to his feet, his subcommander doing the same. “We’ll discuss it tonight with the council.” They’d approve it, of course, especially if Urgo supported it.

He swung back up on his horse, his bodyguards again forming up around him, then rode back to the edge of the escarpment for one last look at the caravan. His people continued their inexorable march. Their traveling pace would be slow, but the rulers of the world had no need to hurry.

Thutmose — sin smiled in anticipation as he turned his horse around and put him to the gallop. He had set in motion the route and the objectives of the Alur Meriki for the next six months. Those plans meant that some villages would be spared, their foolish inhabitants thanking the gods for their deliverance, never realizing that they existed only at his sufferance.

This great village of Orak would be taken just as easily as the smallest farmhouse in their path. Orak’s inhabitants would die or become slaves.

He, Thutmose — sin, had decided and so it would be. No clan, no village, no force of nature could stop the full might of his people. And this time when he finished with it, Orak would be sunk back to the mud from which it came. This time, the anthill would not recover.