Conflict of Empires es-3

by Sam Barone

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

  “Be careful, little brother,” Dragan said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You brought more ships than we expected.”

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

  “Food and the fire-arrows?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “How far back is their main force?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “We won’t fail, brother.”

  “Now we just have to wait.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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