This time, however, he knew better than to overfill his stomach. Sargon wanted no repeat of yesterday’s vomiting. When he pushed himself to his knees, he heard Garal’s harsh Ur Nammu gutturals, and found three warriors, including Subutai and Chinua, standing behind him. Dimly, Sargon realized that word of their approach had reached the clan’s Sarum, and the Ur Nammu leader had walked to the stream to see for himself how well the Akkadian’s first lesson had gone.
Garal spoke rapidly and at length to Chinua, using his hands expressively to convey some additional meaning. Subutai, arms folded across his chest, stared at Sargon, who lay half in and half out of the water, his already filthy tunic covered with fresh mud. The third warrior, shorter and stockier, watched from the edge of the stream, his face impassive.
Ashamed of being on his knees, Sargon staggered to his feet with the last of his strength, leaning on his horse to help. His hunger had returned, but he refused to beg on his knees for food in front of the Ur Nammu clan leader.
Subutai solved that problem. “Come with me, Sargon. You must be hungry.” He turned to the other warrior. “Perhaps you could help him, Fashod.”
That would be the third man. The name meant nothing to Sargon, but he saw Fashod smiling at him.
“Yes, I will bring him.” Fashod stepped into the bubbling water and wrapped a powerful arm around Sargon’s waist, ignoring the wet and filthy garment. “Three days without food weakens any man, especially one from the city of Akkad.”
Despite himself, Sargon sagged against Fashod’s broad shoulder, letting the warrior take much of his weight. In that way, the man half-carried Sargon through the camp. Along the way, curious onlookers paused in their tasks to stare at the weak-kneed Akkadian youth. Sargon didn’t care, and they soon reached Subutai’s tent.
The smoke from a small cooking fire couldn’t mask the scent of the crisping meat, speared on small sticks thrust into the glowing coals. Fashod eased Sargon to the ground beside the fire.
An old woman of about thirty seasons tended the blaze. She smiled at him, then plucked a stick from the fire and handed it to him. The tempting smell made Sargon lose control, and he thrust the meat into his mouth, biting hard and ignoring the burning against his tongue.
Clutching the stick in both hands, he bit off another chunk from what he realized was the hind leg of a rabbit. In four ravenous bites, Sargon stripped the meat to the bone.
The woman, meanwhile, spoke to a young girl, who filled a cup with stew from the copper cooking pot. She knelt beside him, offering Sargon the thick liquid.
“Wait before you try that.” Fashod dropped to the ground across the fire from Sargon. “It’s hot.”
Despite Sargon’s unfamiliarity with the language, he grasped Fashod’s meaning, if not all of the words. Sargon tossed the bone into the fire, accepted the cup from the girl’s hands, and raised it to his lips. Careful of his still smarting tongue, Sargon restrained himself and took only a small sip, grateful for Fashod’s warning.
By now others had joined the meal circle, each of them reaching to the fire and selecting the nearest stick. Garal kept up most of the conversation, obviously telling the three warriors about their ride. Occasionally Subutai or Chinua would nod in approval or agreement. Out of politeness, they ignored Sargon’s filthy tunic, his arms and legs still streaked black with mud.
Sargon didn’t care. He soon drained the cup, and the girl reappeared again to refill it for him. While she did so, he took the last stick from the fire, waved it in the air to cool, and started chewing. Only when he finished the second cup of stew did the pain in his stomach start to ease.
Though he wanted to keep eating, Sargon forced himself to stop. He’d already eaten more than any of the others. Besides, he didn’t want to throw up again, and he knew too much food taken too fast would only make him sick.
“We have never met.” Fashod spoke now in the Akkadian tongue, when he saw that Sargon had gotten control of himself. “But I fought with your father three times, and twice with your Egyptian, Hathor. Eskkar is indeed a great man. And now he has defeated the Alur Meriki. In all my life I never thought I would live to see this day.”
Now Sargon recalled hearing the name of Fashod, as Subutai’s second in command. He had not been present at Eskkar’s arrival or departure. The words of praise for Sargon’s father meant nothing. Sargon had heard the same words, or some variation, all his life. To these simple barbarians, his father was a great man. No doubt any man who could fight well was considered great.
“I am sorry that I did not greet you properly.” Sargon’s voice sounded hoarse. He hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words all day. However, he knew how important it was to have friends among the warriors. “I’m sure my father was saddened that you were not here to meet him.”
“Garal says that you did well on the ride,” Chinua said, joining the conversation. “He says that if you had a stronger horse, you both would have returned before midday.”
Fashod laughed. “Not many villagers could have done as well, Sargon. Your father would be pleased.”
“Tomorrow he will have a better horse,” Chinua said. “I will give him one of my own, while I turn his over to my sons to build up its strength.”
“Is Garal ready to ride out again?” Subutai’s polite question was more of a statement. No doubt every clan member always considered himself ready to ride.
Garal nodded. “Yes. This time I will take Sargon toward the mountains. We may even see signs of the Alur Meriki.”
That brought a frown to Subutai’s face. “Take care where you go. The Alur Meriki cannot be trusted.”
“Yes, Sarum. I will not venture too far north.”
Sargon’s thoughts, slowed by the food now filling his belly, realized that the warriors were talking about another ride.
“Tomorrow? But I need time to rest, to. .” His voice died out as he saw another frown cross Subutai’s brow.
The conversation stopped. Sargon glanced around, and realized no one was meeting his eyes. Obviously he had shown weakness in front of these warriors.
Subutai ended the silence. “With a fresh horse, you will have plenty of time to rest. Now you should go and sleep.” He gestured to Garal, who immediately stood. Sargon, who still wanted another cup of stew, forced himself upright, trying not to betray the stiffness in his body.
Garal led the way from Subutai’s tent, through the camp, until they reached Chinua’s dwelling place. To the rear of the tent, two blankets had been spread on the ground. Garal pointed to one. “Sleep. Tomorrow ride.”
Sargon didn’t have the strength to protest. He sank to the ground, jerked part of the blanket over his chest, and rested his head on his arm. With his stomach full of food and water, he fell asleep in moments, a deep, unbroken sleep that lasted throughout the entire night.
19
Garal and Sargon rode their horses out of the camp a little after sunrise. Traveling at an easy canter, Sargon had to admit, Chinua had spoken the truth last night. The horse he’d led over for Sargon’s use might not be anything special by Ur Nammu standards, but the powerful beast had no trouble keeping up with the fresh mount Garal rode.
Chinua’s women had arisen even earlier than their men and prepared a quick meal for them both. Sargon was glad to see that this time, he and Garal each carried a water skin, a blanket, and a small sack containing the flat bread and dried meat the barbarians preferred. At least for today, Sargon wouldn’t be starving.