When he recovered consciousness, Sargon found himself where he had fallen, though someone had placed a blanket under his head. Two women were tending him, one still dabbing at his head with a damp rag. Both smiled as he lay there embarrassed and trying to gather his wits.
“No more today,” the older woman said, smiling and giving his head a final pat. “Time to eat soon.”
The other woman — Sargon realized she was only a young girl — had wiped his chest and face with another wet rag. He thought he’d seen her before, though not at any of the tents belonging to Chinua or his neighbors.
She returned his gaze. “I am Tashanella.” Her husky voice sounded older than her years. “My father is Subutai, leader of the Ur Nammu. He wishes you to join him at his campfire tonight.”
Sargon pushed himself to a sitting position, assisted by both women. The movement made the blood rush to his head, and he nearly passed out again. When the dizziness faded, only Tashanella remained kneeling at his side, holding his arm.
“It is best if we go now,” she said. “My father does not like to wait, and he sent me some time ago. I arrived while you were still fighting with Garal.”
He touched his head. His right ear felt hot, as if it were going to burst into flames. “It wasn’t much of a fight.”
“Yes, I saw. He could have fought much harder. Such encounters often end with broken bones.”
Sargon didn’t need to be reminded of that. For the first time, he gave the girl a closer inspection. Young, perhaps yet a maiden waiting to be initiated in the women’s rites, she spoke with a certainty that seemed older than her years.
Her eyes, large and dark brown, regarded him with as much interest. Long brown hair hung straight down her back and reached halfway to her waist. A smile formed on her lips, revealing even white teeth.
“I know he could have fought harder.” Sargon found himself staring into her eyes.
“I am glad he did not,” she said. “Otherwise I would have to drag you back to my father’s tent.”
Despite his throbbing head, Sargon managed a smile. He pushed himself to his feet, and the girl’s strength helped him remain upright. He stood there for a moment, until he felt certain that he wasn’t going to fall. The girl, however, still held onto his arm.
“I can walk.” He realized he had forgotten her name. “What is your name?”
“Tashanella.” She dropped her hand, turned away, and started walking.
Sargon followed her across the camp until they reached Subutai’s tent. Tashanella opened the tent flap and held it so that he could enter. Ducking, Sargon slipped inside the tent and heard the flap drop behind him.
Subutai sat cross-legged on a folded blanket. “Sit.” He motioned to a blanket set opposite his own. “You were fighting?”
Sargon bowed his head in respect before sinking onto the blanket. “With Garal.”
No need to explain that they had been practicing. The Ur Nammu language used the same word for sparring and fighting. Subutai knew the difference. Sargon would be dead if the fight had been for real.
“Garal is almost as good with a sword as his bow. Someday he will be one of our greatest warriors.”
“He is. . a good teacher. Is that not as important as being a great fighter?”
Subutai nodded. “You are learning our language. And, yes, someday being a good teacher may be as important as being a strong warrior, but that day has not yet come. Meanwhile, you have already answered my question about your progress. Since you speak our language well enough, I would like you to take your evening meals with me from now on.”
Not sure what to make of that request, Sargon hesitated. Subutai had asked him politely enough, but a suggestion from the clan leader carried the same force as one of Eskkar’s commands to his soldiers.
That rankled Sargon. He felt almost the same anger toward Subutai as he did toward his father.
Subutai misunderstood the hesitation. “It has nothing to do with Chinua. But at my campfire, you will learn how the clan leaders make decisions, how they speak and plan for the future. The ways of leading are difficult to teach. Better if you watch and see for yourself.”
This time it took a moment before Sargon translated the more complex phrases. Not that it really mattered. Giving affront to the Ur Nammu clan leader didn’t seem wise. “As you wish, Sarum.”
“Good. We will begin tonight. You will sit at my left hand.” He rose to his feet, a smooth movement that took him from sitting to standing with little effort. “My wives are already waiting.”
Honored guests sat at the left side of their host. Sargon, still feeling the effects of Garal’s sword, took twice as long to get to his feet.
He followed the Sarum outside the tent, where a few warriors stood around the campfire. Waiting until Subutai sat, Sargon slipped to the ground beside him, but a little to the rear. He’d seen the same situation at Chinua’s evening fire, though he had never sat beside the warrior.
In the western sky, the crimson sun had touched the horizon. The cooking fire had already served its purpose, and now only low flames curled and crackled from the embers. Subutai took his place at the head of the rough circle that formed around the campfire.
His grown sons had their own tents and families, and only two younger boys about Sargon’s age were present, watching their elders. On Subutai’s right sat Fashod, the second in command, or what the Ur Nammu called a leader of one hundred. Although Sargon knew that title had little to do with the actual numbers of warriors under his command.
Subutai’s wives, Petra and Roxsanni, and their daughters began ladling out the evening’s meal. The simple fare was no different from what Sargon had eaten at Chinua’s tent. The customary stew of mixed vegetables and small game, usually rabbit, came first. But tonight one of the family’s hunters had bagged a wild sheep, so the thick smell of roasted mutton hung over the camp site.
Every family member had his own eating bowl, and visitors were expected to arrive with their own. Before Sargon could decide how to handle the situation, a girl appeared at his left and thrust a bowl into his hands. He lifted his gaze and saw Tashanella, as she handed a second bowl to her father. Tashanella gave Sargon the briefest glance before returning to her mother’s side.
Fashod lifted his bowl in the gesture of thanks to his host, and immediately began eating, so Sargon copied his gesture of respect.
After a few swallows, Fashod spoke. Either he was speaking slower out of consideration for his guest, or Sargon’s knowledge of the language had improved. The second in command ran through the day’s events, the reports of the scouts, the condition of the horses, even an argument over a horse between two men who had nearly come to blows.
No one else spoke, and Sargon guessed that the first order of business must be the report of the day’s activity. He took another sip of the stew, and enjoyed a pleasant surprise. Either the Sarum’s wives, being older, were better cooks than Chinua’s wives, or Subutai’s women had received the choicest cuts of meat and the freshest vegetables. Soon Sargon was scooping the last of the stew out of the empty bowl, using his fingers to get the last shreds of meat.
“You know I am one of the twelve warriors who fought with your father in our first battle together?”
Sargon realized that Fashod had directed that comment toward him. “No, I did not know that.” Now would come a long tale about his father’s battle skills and fearless courage.
“That was before you were born. It was I who first scouted the way toward Akkad. Your people called it Orak then. I remember when the few of us who survived reached the village, with its high walls still being built. Your mother came out to us, and gave us food and drink with her own hand. She directed her women to care for our wounded, and her healers saved many of our youngest, including my own daughter.”
His mother had probably calculated the value of each basket of food, and weighed it against any possible return. “I did not know that, Fashod.”