Sargon nodded, but said nothing.
“But that matters not,” Chinua said. “Until you master these skills, you will practice with the younger boys. My son,” Chinua glanced toward the boy still holding Sargon’s horse, “will help you. Your training will be long and hard, but no different from what Ur Nammu young men receive from their fathers. All the same, I expect you will find much of it difficult.”
Sargon found the young clan leader’s words reassuring. He’d expected the Ur Nammu to be little more than savages, but Chinua spoke with a calm wisdom that belied his years. But it really didn’t matter. Sargon intended to leave as soon as he could, and the sooner Chinua accepted that, the better.
“I. . I thank you for your effort, Chinua, but I do not believe in your ways, or even the ways of my father. In Akkad, we no longer have need of such skills. The days when a ruler needs to go into battle himself are past. Now men of wealth pay others to protect them and fight for them.”
“And you have much wealth,” Chinua agreed. “Even so, Subutai and I have promised your father that we will try to teach you the code of the warrior. But I will not waste my time or even that of my son if you will not learn. So this is what I will do. The moon will be full,” he glanced up at the sky, “in two more days. When three more full moons have risen in the night sky, if you wish to leave the Ur Nammu camp, you may take your horse and depart. You may go wherever you wish, even return to Akkad if that is what you want. I do not think that would be wise, but there are many villages and cities in the Land Between the Two Rivers, and even more beyond.”
For the first time, Sargon felt a glimmer of hope. All he had to do was wait for. . less than ninety days, and he could simply ride away from all this. Chinua was right. There were other places, other cities.
And sooner or later, Eskkar would die. He was old, after all, already in his middle forties. Many men were dead by that age, and with his father’s willingness to take risks, it might not be long before Sargon could return to Akkad. Then he could claim his birth right and accept the welcome of the city’s inhabitants.
Chinua must have understood Sargon’s feelings by the expression on his face. The warrior rose to his feet.
“But until the third moon is full, you will work hard to master the skills of our fighters. If you do not, you will be punished. And if you try to leave before I give you permission, we will hunt you down. And then you will suffer the same penalty as the slaves and those who disobey our laws — your legs will be broken, and you will work as a slave for the rest of your life.”
Sargon also stood, and his own determination hardened. “I will obey your orders, Chinua, until the third full moon. Then I will take my leave and depart.”
“Good. The sooner a task is begun, the faster the time passes. My son, Garal, awaits us, and your horse is ready. He will take you for a ride. That is how all warriors begin their training.” Chinua turned and started back toward the camp.
That didn’t sound too bad. Sargon already could ride as well or better than most of Akkad’s soldiers. His father had seen to that. Ninety days would pass soon enough, and he would be on his way back home, or to wherever he decided home would be. Lagash would be the closest large city, and it was far from Akkad. Yes, Lagash would be his home for as long as his father remained alive.
17
With a few rapid-spoken words that Sargon didn’t understand, Chinua gave Garal his instructions and left the two young men alone. Sargon turned to Garal, who didn’t look much older than Sargon. Only average in height, Garal’s black hair hung down to his shoulders. A small but jagged scar ran from his right eyebrow halfway to his ear.
Nothing about Sargon’s teacher appeared impressive, except for the powerful muscles in his arms. Sargon would have recognized the mark of an archer even if Garal didn’t have a bow slung across his chest and a quiver of arrows on his hip. A sword, almost as long as the one Eskkar carried, jutted up over his right shoulder.
Garal handed Sargon the halter to his horse. Then with an ease that impressed Sargon, Garal swung onto the back of a rangy, spotted stallion, and said something in the Ur Nammu language.
Sargon shook his head in confusion. Garal repeated the word. “Teneg!” This time he pointed to the horse. “Teneg.”
Obviously Garal did not speak the language of the Land Between the Rivers. Still, Sargon realized what he meant. Without attempting to match the ease of his instructor, he climbed up onto the back of his horse.
“Utga!” Garal jabbed his finger toward Sargon. “Utga Oruulah!” This time he touched his heels to the horse, which broke into a canter.
Swearing at this foolishness, Sargon followed after the young warrior, already fifty paces ahead. How could he learn anything, if Garal couldn’t even speak the language of Akkad? Sargon urged his horse along the same path. He had no idea where they were going. He had no water skin, no weapon of any kind, so they couldn’t be going far.
But obviously Garal expected Sargon to ride. Gritting his teeth, Sargon kicked his horse into a faster pace, and gradually caught up with his new mentor, until he rode only a few strides behind.
The horses swept through the thick grass that sighed beneath their hooves as the two young men rode west. To the north stretched the snow-capped peaks of the Zagros Mountains. To the south, the hilly plains extended into the distance, gradually leveling off into the woodlands and meadows where isolated herders tended their flocks.
For the rest of the morning, Sargon matched his guide’s movements. Garal varied the pace, dropping from a canter to a walk, or sometimes a trot, depending on the ground. A few times he put his horse to a gallop, but not for any length of time. Mostly Garal rode, as Sargon soon learned, at the usual pace of the steppes warriors, cantering for a good length of time or until the horse began to tire, before falling back into a quick walk to let the animal catch its breath.
As the sun reached its highest point in the sky, Sargon wondered where they were going. Already they’d traveled many miles from the Ur Nammu camp, moving at a much faster pace than what his father and the Akkadians usually set. Already Sargon’s leg muscles and backside protested the constant movement, though Garal seemed unaffected. Finally Sargon decided he’d ridden far enough. He eased his horse to a stop.
Hearing the cessation of Sargon’s hoof beats, Garal also slowed, then halted. Twisting astride his mount, he waved his hand, Obviously urging Sargon to continue. “Utga!”
Sargon shook his head. “No. My horse needs to rest.”
Though the horse had not been ridden yesterday, Sargon had sensed the animal growing tired, while Garal’s mount still seemed as fresh as when they’d started out. His father always claimed that the steppes tribes bred the strongest horses, and Sargon decided that it must be true.
Garal turned his stallion around and trotted back to Sargon. He approached on Sargon’s right, and halted his horse close enough for their knees to touch. With a quick movement, his right arm stiffened, catching Sargon in the chest with the flat of his hand. The powerful blow caught Sargon unprepared, and he tumbled from his mount. He landed heavily on his shoulder.
“Utga.” Garal pointed to the horse, then swung his arm around until it pointed once again in the direction they had been traveling. “Utga.”
Furious at himself for being caught by surprise, Sargon pushed himself to his feet. “No! No utga! Rest first.”
With a supple movement Garal slid down from his horse. He strode three paces over to where Sargon stood. Again, Garal’s right arm snapped forward. Sargon raised his own hands to defend himself, but the blow landed so quick, and with such force, that for the second time Sargon tumbled backwards to the ground.
“Utga.” Garal’s voice held no emotion.