Dawn of Empire es-1

by Sam Barone

  Dawn of Empire

  ( Eskkar Saga - 1 )

  Sam Barone

  Sam Barone

  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 sta
nding 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.