by Sam Barone
Eskkar swung down from his horse just as Draelin arrived. Whatever news the soldier carried, it couldn’t be bad, not with a grin that broad on his face.
“Lord Eskkar,” Draelin began, but words failed him. He threw his arms around Eskkar and hugged him tight. Some of the soldiers standing around laughed at the sight. Before Eskkar could react, Draelin pushed away. “Lord Eskkar, I bring you –”
A powerful voice from one of the boat crew spoiled whatever speech Draelin had prepared. “We won! We defeated the barbarians and drove them from the walls!”
The words echoed off the cliff and out over the river. In a heartbeat the soldiers broke out in a cheer. By now more Akkadians had wandered down to the river. They took up the cry, everyone shouting and pounding their companions on the back.
“We won! Akkad is safe! The city is safe!”
Like a raging hillside fire, the word swept through the camp. Soldiers ceased whatever task occupied them and rushed to the river’s edge. In moments every Akkadian fighter joined in the celebration. The cheers and cries of five thousand voices swelled and soared over the river, a jubilation of pure joy mixed with relief. Since leaving Kanesh six days ago, the men of Akkad had worried about the dangers facing their city. By unspoken agreement, no one had said anything about the threat to their family and friends left behind, but every man had struggled to keep the dark thoughts from his lips.
Across the river, the Sumerians clenched their fists in rage. They’d seen the ship come sailing down the Tigris, unafraid of their vast army. The enemy knew of the other ships that plied the river with the same impunity, carrying food and supplies to Eskkar’s army. And the Sumerians knew that only some great victory would have occasioned such an outburst, and that whatever good fortune cheered the Akkadians would bring only anger and gloom to their own cause and hearts.
By now Eskkar had regained his composure. Men from the boat had jumped ashore, each one shouting news about the attack. Draelin couldn’t be heard above the din, so Eskkar swung back up on his horse, then leaned down and grabbed Draelin by the arm. With one powerful swing Eskkar pulled the messenger up behind him. A touch of Eskkar’s heels sent the horse in motion, clearing a way through the still growing crowd of happy soldiers.
With Grond following, Eskkar finally broke free of the soldiers. He guided the horse back up the bluff, leaving the thousands of milling soldiers still celebrating beneath them. When he eased the horse to a stop, the cheering had started to die down.
“At least we can talk up here,” Eskkar said, as Draelin slid down from the horse. Eskkar followed, and with Grond accompanying them, they moved to the edge of the bluff, where they could see the camps of the Sumerians. “Now, tell me what happened!”
Draelin’s smile had returned. He told the story of Trella’s victory, how she had unearthed the plot and lured the Alur Meriki into the city, where the archers had riddled them with arrows.
“In the morning, we counted over seventy dead and wounded. That included another dozen cut down in the ditch as they fled. Horsemen from Bisitun arrived and even though they were outnumbered, they chased after the fleeing barbarians and killed a few more. The Alur Meriki didn’t even stop to attack or loot the outlying farms. By then they had no stomach for facing our fighters.”
As Draelin’s story unfolded, Eskkar felt a vast weight ease from his shoulders. Like his men, he had refused to think about Akkad and the danger to Trella. Now that burden could be set aside. With Shulgi’s army here, instead of ravaging Akkad’s lands and storming its walls, Trella and little Sargon would be safe. The countryside and the all-important crops would be protected. And no matter what happened to Eskkar, it would be many months before Sumer could mount another assault on the northern lands.
Another emotion grew in his breast. The Sumerians had made a pact with their hated enemy, the common enemy of all city- and village-dwellers. Shulgi sought to unleash the fury of the Alur Meriki. Eskkar determined to turn that same fury against the Sumerians.
He made Draelin tell the story again and again, each time dragging a bit more information from the messenger. At last he could think of no more details to add.
“Lady Trella asked me to give you this message. She said to tell you that the city is safe, and well-stocked with provisions. Another cargo of silver just arrived from Nuzi, and all the soldiers received their pay. She wished you good fortune in your attack on Larsa.”
By now the boats that had departed after the capture of Larsa would have carried word of the city’s destruction to the north.
“You’ll stay the night with us, Draelin,” Eskkar said. “There’s enough wine to celebrate Trella’s victory.”
Draelin stared at the ruins across the river. “I stopped in Larsa only a few months ago. People spat at me in the lanes when they heard I was from Akkad.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to believe it’s all gone now.”
“They brought it on themselves,” Grond said. “Now I think we should take advantage of the wine, before the men drink it all.”
“I’ll drink a cup to your victory, Lord Eskkar. But as soon as darkness falls, we’ll push off for Akkad. Shulgi is positioning men all along the river, to stop our boats. It’s best to get as far north under cover of darkness as possible.”
With so many crewmen, the little craft could row all night, even against the current.
“Then a good journey to you, Draelin,” Eskkar said. “And tell Trella that we’ll be home soon.”
“Yes, only a few more battles to go,” Grond added. He took one last look at the vast Sumerian army camped across the river and shook his head.
52
The great western desert . . .
Hathor hated the desert, had always hated it, even when he lived in Egypt, where the desert sands lapped ever closer as one moved away from the Nile. Growing up along the mighty river’s banks, Hathor never experienced the cruel heat and burning sands of the desert until his fifteenth season, when his parents were killed. To fill his belly and seek revenge against their murderers, he joined Korthac’s marauders and fought against Korthac’s enemies for the next nineteen years. In time, he became a feared and powerful subcommander.
Most of those years he lived on the border of what the Egyptians called the eastern desert, cursing the fate that brought him there. The Akkadians called it the great western desert, but it remained the same sand, dust and searing rocks that spread from the land between the rivers almost to Egypt’s border.
But Korthac, despite his cunning, had lost his great battle to seize control of all Egypt. His army almost completely destroyed and his enemies – burning with a desire for revenge – closing in on him, Korthac and a few surviving followers fled into the great desert. For months Korthac led the remnants of his men through this dry and useless land, watching them die one by one, the living feeding on the bodies of those too weak to defend themselves. The survivors had crawled out of the desert just in time to avoid dying of thirst. Hathor still remembered lying on his stomach, his face buried in a muddy irrigation ditch, drinking the sweetest water he’d ever tasted in his life.
Now once again Hathor found himself challenging the hot sands. He might well end up dead on this journey, but at least this time it wouldn’t be the desert that killed him. Death would more likely come from a Tanukh arrow or Sumerian spear. But despite his distaste for these barren and arid lands, no man in Akkad knew more about fighting in this environment than he did. So Hathor had volunteered to lead the cavalry.
With Klexor and seven hundred and fifty horsemen, Hathor had ridden north after separating from Eskkar and bypassing Kanesh, taking a little-used trail that bypassed most villages. That day they covered almost forty miles and reached the first of their supply points. Yavtar’s bobbing boats waited for Hathor’s arrival, riding low in the water with extra food for the men and grain for the horses. Another thirty horses waited there as well, guarded by a dozen Akkadians who had herded them across the river and down to meet the cavalry. The spa
re mounts, all of them battle trained, would carry food and weapons, but their main function would be as reserves for any animals lost on the long journey before them.
Akkad’s defenders would sorely miss the mounts. The decision to send them to Hathor would weaken the city, and only Trella’s resolve and support had overridden Bantor’s objections.
“A few more mounted riders won’t save the city,” Trella said, “but they may make the difference between Hathor’s success or failure.”
He wished the men who delivered the mounts could accompany him, but they needed to return to Akkad as quickly as possible. The city would be in danger, and craved every man who could swing a sword in its defense. Eskkar’s war plan had much that could go wrong, and not least was the possibility that Akkad might fall while her army struggled in the south. Hathor had observed Korthac take many a desperate gamble, but never one such as this, that required so much from so many. The blessings of the gods – or Eskkar’s famous luck – would be stretched to the limit.
With Hathor’s horses and men resupplied, his cavalry started their journey at dawn the next morning. This time he led the way north-west. They had to get far enough away from anyone who might report a large body of horsemen moving toward the desert or the vicinity of Lagash. If King Shulgi learned of their position or even their general direction, it wouldn’t be difficult to guess their destination. Once that happened, the warning would flash down the rivers, and Akkad’s enemies would be alerted to a new danger.
All those worries mattered little now. Hathor and his force were as committed as Eskkar’s own. If the Akkadian cavalry reached their destination and found a well-armed and well-prepared foe waiting for them, they would just have to deal with the situation as best they could. Attack if possible, or extricate themselves from whatever trap the enemy might have set.
That day passed without incident. The following day, just before sunset, the Akkadian cavalry splashed across the Euphrates river two hundred miles north of Lagash. Their course, however, continued westward, as they needed to swing wide of the city, so as to avoid detection.
Every horse and pack animal now labored under the need to carry extra water. Wells and streams would grow fewer and smaller as they rode west, and those sources of water would likely be in camps or villages settled by Tanukh or the few Salib survivors that had escaped King Shulgi’s wrath.
As the sun rose and set, Hathor grunted with satisfaction at his men’s progress. The rare travelers they did encounter fled at first sight, and never came close enough to identify Hathor’s men as Akkadians. In this part of the countryside, any larger band of horsemen would more likely be either barbarians from the north, or desert-dwellers. At least, Eskkar had assured him, that was the likely assumption. Now it became Hathor’s fervent hope, and he muttered a prayer for protection to the Egyptian gods he no longer believed in, and who, if they even existed, likely had no power this far from the Nile.
Each morning they rose before dawn, gulped down a mouthful or two of stale bread, watered the horses, and continued their journey. They rode hard, but always with an eye to caring for their mounts. Hathor couldn’t afford to exhaust his valuable and well-trained animals. Whenever and wherever this journey ended, the horses would need all their strength for whatever fighting awaited them.
Another day passed without incident, and he decided that his cavalry had slipped past Lagash without encountering any of its patrols, a good omen. Late in the afternoon on the third day, Hathor lay on his belly and looked down into a vast desert basin, where he saw the first Tanukh village, a dreary-looking place named Margan. At this distance, he couldn’t make out individual tents, but saw many had fires already lit in preparation for the evening meal.
Hathor took his time counting and guessed that a hundred or so tents comprised Margan, more than he’d expected this far north. Three rope corrals held about the same number of horses. He saw few warriors, though an encampment that size should have at least three hundred men of fighting age, maybe more. No doubt many of these Tanukhs had flocked to Shulgi’s army, drawn by the promise of gold and the chance to loot the lands of Akkad.
Klexor and Fashod lay on Hathor’s left, and Muta, once a farmer whose family lived just west of the Euphrates, crouched on his right. “How many warriors able to fight remain?”
“Not much more than a hundred,” Muta said, “probably less than a hundred and fifty. And many will be boys and old men.”
Hathor took one last look at the camp. “I’ve seen enough.” He glanced up at the sun. “We’ve just enough time before sunset. Let’s go.”
He pushed himself backwards from the crest of the hill, then led the way down to where the rest of the men waited, tending to their horses and weapons.
Squatting down, Hathor used his knife to draw a crude map in the dirt, while his subcommanders crowded around to learn what they would face. It didn’t take long to give the few orders needed. They had trained for such an attack before, and Muta’s knowledge of the land had prepared them for this moment even before they started out from Akkad.
“Remember, we must make sure none escape.” Hathor looked at each of his subcommanders in turn. “If any do get away, it must be to the west, into the desert. This village is only two days’ ride from Lagash, and word of our presence must not reach them until we are well to the south.”
Klexor, commanding a third of the cavalry, led his men out first. They would swing to the south, and make sure no one fled eastward, toward Lagash. Muta took another third, and led them to the west, deeper into the desert. When both his subcommanders were in position, Hathor would start the attack from the north, and the Akkadians would strike from three directions. With any luck, they would trap all the Tanukhs between them.
As soon as his commanders departed, Hathor returned to the crest of the hill to study the camp. Nothing had changed, and if the Tanukhs had patrols guarding the village, they had all returned for the night. From so far away, he couldn’t detect any sentries, but the village would surely have a few in place.
When he saw that Klexor and Muta had nearly reached their positions, Hathor descended the hilltop and gave the order to advance. In moments, he and his men rode up and over the top of the low hill that had concealed them. They moved at a steady trot, the usual pace for desert horsemen trying to conserve their mounts, and one that kept their dust trail low to the earth.
They rode in no particular order, just a straggling column of riders. That took some doing, as both the men and horses tended to want to form the usual column that they had trained for over the last year or two. So the leaders of ten and twenty kept up a constant stream of orders, mixed with a good amount of curses at men who either couldn’t or forgot to control their mounts.
Hathor hoped anyone noticing them would think – for a few precious moments – that they were a band of returning Tanukh horsemen. The twenty two Ur Nammu warriors under Fashod rode in the rear, where their different clothing and weapons might alert the villagers. The Ur Nammu all rode powerful mounts, the best in Hathor’s force, and could run down almost any horse and rider.
The Akkadians covered nearly half the distance before they were detected, and managed another few hundred paces before those in the camp heard and understood the alarm. Hathor didn’t bother giving an order. As soon as he saw men scrambling about, he touched his horse’s flanks with his heels, and the big stallion jumped into a gallop. In moments, nearly three hundred men thundered in a wild charge at the Tanukh camp, a large cloud of dust erupting up into the air behind them.
The Ur Nammu warriors, at last free of the restriction that kept them in the rear, pounded past Hathor, angling their horses to the right. Their frightening war cries rose above the pounding of the horses’ hooves. They would ride around or through the edge of the village, to prevent any from escaping to the west and south.
By now Hathor could see the confusion and panic in the camp. Women fled in all directions. Some men struggled to string bows, others readied thei
r weapons, while most rushed to get to their horses. But the Tanukhs had no time to prepare a defense. As soon as they saw the great number of the approaching horsemen, most abandoned any hope of resistance, and tried to flee. By then it was much too late.
The Akkadians greatly outnumbered the Tanukhs. Hathor’s men launched their first flight of arrow as soon as they were in range, about two hundred paces. Two more flights followed, before the Akkadian cavalry tore past the first tent.
Any resistance had vanished. Men fled, abandoning their wives and children, desperate to reach their horses and escape. But Muta and Klexor’s forces arrived right after Hathor’s, slamming into the village from either side, and sealing the village’s fate.
Pulling hard on the halter, Hathor slowed his horse near the center of the village, his eyes searching for any resistance. The trap had been well sprung, and all he saw was death and slaughter. His men – most of whom had felt the wrath of the Tanukhs or knew of those who had – now offered no mercy to the desert-dwellers. They had raided and pillaged Akkadian lands for too many years, and now they would be repaid for that blood debt.
Every one of the Tanukhs died in the assault. Men, women, children, the young, the old, all were killed. The Akkadians had thoughts only of vengeance for the savage attacks on Kanesh and the border outposts. Even before the fighting ended, the women were shoved to the ground and raped, most more than once. Then they, too, were slain.
Hathor watched it all without showing any emotion. They all had to die, so that none remained who could give warning of the Akkadian presence. Better a thousand Tanukh deaths than the loss of a single one of his own force. The same brutal tactics used by the Tanukhs would be turned on them, only with even more ruthless efficiency. Terror indeed was a two-edged sword.
When the screams ended and the blood stopped flowing, the task of rounding up the Tanukh horses started. Other men emptied the tents of grain, food, or anything of value, and the herd animals were butchered to provide fresh meat for the Akkadians. They rinsed and refilled their water skins from the well. Then the destruction began. His men torn down every tent and piled them together, along with everything else that would burn. As the flames took hold throughout the camp, Hathor gave orders to dump all the dead bodies – both men and animals – into the well, a horrifying symbol for any desert-dweller. He intended to make sure the water source would be poisoned for many months, so that the Tanukhs could not return and re-establish the village. Akkad wanted no more raids originating from this part of the desert.
