In addition, Garal bore two extra items — wooden swords, similar to the ones used in Akkad’s own training.
Obviously Garal intended to expand his pupil’s training. Sargon’s muscles were stiff, and his backside sore from the previous days, but Garal showed no concern for Sargon’s condition. As before, Garal kept the horses moving at a good pace, stopping only when the animals needed rest.
Another difference in today’s ride was that Garal rode alongside his pupil. Sargon wondered why, until the first time he reached for the water skin.
“No. No drink.” He shook his head, then pointed toward the sun with his hand, then swept his arm up to indicate midmorning. “Drink.”
For a brief moment Sargon considered ignoring the command, but the memory of Garal knocking him off the horse ended that thought. Besides, Sargon had drunk just as much water from the stream before they departed as Garal, and Sargon’s pride refused to allow himself to drink before his teacher.
The idea of Garal being his teacher held more truth than Sargon expected. As they rode, Garal started pointing out various details of the landscape, pronouncing the word and insisting that Sargon repeat it correctly. Bush, tree, grass, dung, rock, boulder, Garal spoke the name of each with care, repeating it as often as necessary.
When Sargon made a mistake, Garal patiently corrected it. Except once, after Sargon grew frustrated and refused to answer. Then Garal simply smacked the heel of his hand against Sargon’s upper arm.
The unexpected blow almost knocked Sargon from the horse. As soon as he regained control, Garal continued the lesson as if nothing had happened. Nevertheless, Sargon’s arm ached painfully, which motivated him to concentrate.
They rested at midmorning and again at midday, each time drinking deeply from the water skins. The lessons continued until Sargon’s mind could hold no more. By then, half the afternoon had passed. They reached a small stream lined by a long wall of bushes. Sargon noticed faint hoof prints on the ground, and guessed this place served as a convenient watering hole.
“Halt. Camp here.”
Gratefully, Sargon slid down from the horse. He knew he was expected to care for the horse before taking care of his own needs, so he did, leading it to the water, and washing the animal down as it drank. Only when the horse willingly lifted its head from the stream did Sargon lead it out of the water and fasten its halter to an exposed root of a willow tree. Then he quenched his thirst from the gurgling stream.
If Sargon thought that the time for rest had arrived, that idea soon vanished.
Garal untied the wooden swords that he had bundled inside his blanket. Tossing one to Sargon, he pointed to a flat spot twenty paces away from the horses.
The heft of the sword in Sargon’s hand banished the tiredness from his body. Unarmed, he might not be a match for Garal. But with a sword, Sargon knew things would be different. He had, after all, practiced many hours with Akkad’s best instructors, including his father.
Garal raised his weapon. “Fight.”
Sargon needed no further urging. He hefted the sword, getting a feel for the weapon. Its weight appeared a little different from what he’d practiced with. This blade was longer, and the wood itself seemed heavier, the grip cruder. But those differences were slight enough.
Sargon started with a feint, swinging the sword high as if for an overhand stroke, then shortening the arc and thrusting forward with all his strength. Garal parried the stroke, catching Sargon’s thrust above his sword’s hilt and deflecting it just enough to send it past Garal’s arm.
If the wooden tip had landed against Garal’s chest, the warrior would have been knocked down at the least, possibly even injured.
At the same time Garal stepped into the thrust and rammed the hilt of his sword against the side of Sargon’s head.
When Sargon regained consciousness, he found himself flat on his back staring up at the sky. His head hurt, and he felt a small trail of blood, along with a good sized lump, just above his temple. Groaning, he pushed himself up on his elbows and glanced around.
Garal, never one to waste a moment, busied himself preparing a fire. He’d obviously had time to collect a large pile of dried wood, and now worked on arranging the sticks so that the fire would draw easily.
When he heard Sargon stirring, he glanced over and smiled. “Good. Good thrust. Too slow.”
Sargon had a little difficulty with the word ‘thrust’ but he figured it out as he got to his knees. By then Garal had picked up his sword once again. Sargon’s own weapon remained where it had fallen.
Garal raised his weapon as before. “Fight.”
Sargon shook his head. He wasn’t ready to face the warrior again. His head hurt, and his knees still felt weak.
“You fight. Or I fight.”
Garal took a step toward him, the menace plain in the way he gripped the wooden sword. Wincing against the pain throbbing in his head, Sargon picked up his own weapon.
This time, however, Garal only wanted to spar. He attacked and withdrew, giving Sargon time to react and defend. Round and round they went, kicking up grass, sand and dirt, the dull thump of wood against wood repeating itself. One stroke caught Sargon on his right hand, a painful blow across his fingers that knocked the blade from his hand. Garal backed off and waited until his opponent could reclaim his weapon and grip it properly.
Sargon used the time to remember what his trainers and his father had taught him. Watch where you step. Keep your guard up at all times. Don’t commit until you’re sure. Never waste your strength on blows that can be easily parried. At all times, watch your opponent’s eyes and his shoulders.
These and all the other lessons he had learned returned, and for a time, Sargon held his own. But he soon felt his arm growing weak from the strain. The sword had grown heavy in Sargon’s hand. It might only be made of wood, yet it could still inflict pain and injuries.
Garal halted when it became apparent that Sargon could do no more. “Good. You will get better. Learn to watch your enemy’s body, not his eyes. You will fight better.”
“At my father’s training camps, we were taught to watch an opponent’s eyes.”
“Body move before eyes reveal. Tomorrow, watch body.”
Sargon recalled his father once saying much the same thing. Perhaps there was something to it after all. “I will.”
“Good. Rest now. Eat.”
They sat facing each other across the fire while they gnawed at the bread and solid chunks of meat packed in a bit of rag at the bottom of the sack. Sargon’s appetite made him wolf down the food, and he ignored the taste, or lack of it, anxious only to get the nourishment into his body. When the meal ended, the language lessons resumed.
“Ground. Blanket. Stream. Sandal. Laces.” These words and more were forced into Sargon’s vocabulary. By the time Garal felt ready to turn in for the night, Sargon had learned more Ur Nammu words in a single day than he had ever mastered in Akkad.
In the morning, they finished the last of the food, watered the horses, and rode out. In addition to his weary leg muscles, now Sargon’s right arm complained as well, from all the sword practice. But it soon loosened up, as Garal stopped at midmorning for more practice, and repeated the effort at midday, and again in the middle of the afternoon. Meanwhile the language lessons never ceased as the two young men rode side by side.
By the time they returned to the Ur Nammu main camp that night, they were communicating in simple sentences, and Sargon felt proud of his progress. Nothing like an encouraging blow from your teacher to keep you focused, though Garal had not needed to repeat that motivating part of his lesson today.
After caring for the horses, Sargon followed Garal’s example and plunged into the stream, to wash away the horse smell and clean his tunic. Their garments still damp, they returned to Chinua’s tent and ate their supper.