by Sam Barone
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.”
The 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.
From 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.”
Larsa’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.
Dragan 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.”
Drakis 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.
