“It’s true,” Subutai added. “My son also was near death, and my first wife,” he gestured to the smaller circle of women and children eating their own meal, “nearly died as well. The Ur Nammu Clan would have probably starved to death and disappeared from the earth without your parents’ help.”
“Your people have repaid that debt many times,” Sargon offered. “Even in the war with Sumer, I knew Chinua and Fashod rode with my father.”
Subutai shrugged. “That was as much to train our own warriors as to help Eskkar. Even without our help, he would have defeated the Sumerians.”
“Still, we did help,” Fashod said, unwilling to concede that their effort hadn’t amounted to much. “And we led the charge against the desert rabble, though they outnumbered us greatly. I remember that many of them turned their horses away in fear when they heard our war cries.”
Fascinated in spite of himself, Sargon leaned closer. “Tell me about the battle.” Of course he had already heard it many times, told by Hathor and many others, as well as his father.
This time Sargon heard a different side to the story of the great battle. Fashod had ridden with Hathor in the remarkable raid that circled almost all of the Land Between the Rivers. Akkad’s soldiers still told the tale nearly every night in the ale houses.
Now Fashod described that ride, told how the need for speed and secrecy caused them to rush toward their enemies as fast as the wind. The Ur Nammu had provided the scouts for the campaign.
Fashod told of the attacks against the desert tribes, the fall of Uruk, even the wild ride to Isin the day before the deciding battle. And after that bloody encounter, where they broke Sumer’s army, Hathor and Fashod led their men south, all the way to Sumer’s gates, to carry the war back to those who had started it.
By the time Fashod finished, the fire had grown cold, and the full dark of night had arrived. Sargon glanced around the circle. Many others from nearby tents had moved in to surround their leaders, edging close enough to hear the story of the Ur Nammu’s greatest victory. No doubt they, too, had heard it many times, but Fashod related the adventure with the easy skill of an accomplished storyteller.
For the first time, the battle truly came alive to Sargon. Now he could genuinely appreciate the final desperate charge against overwhelming numbers, picture the arrows arcing through the sky, see the lances hurtling toward the enemy, even hear the shouts of the warriors, the thunder of the horses, and the cries of the wounded and dying.
“Each time he tells the story,” Subutai said when Fashod finished, “he kills a few more Sumerians.”
Everyone laughed, a satisfying sound that nevertheless gave praise to the brave men who fought that day, and to the memory of those who had fallen in battle.
“Now it is time to rest,” Subutai said, ending the evening meal.
Everyone was on their feet. The women collected the food bowls and picked up the discarded scraps, to keep the night creatures away from the tents.
As Sargon stood, Subutai leaned close to him. “You will make a good warrior someday, Sargon. When the need arises, you will heed the war call bravely. My sight tells me this is true.”
The Sarum, of course, was supposed to be able to foretell the future. No doubt his ignorant followers all believed it. Nonetheless, Subutai’s tone told Sargon that the Ur Nammu leader believed every word he had just uttered.
“Then I hope I will be ready when the time comes,” Sargon answered.
“Put your trust in the teachings of Chinua and Garal,” Subutai said. “Then you cannot fail.”
Sargon nodded, grateful for the kindly words. As he started back toward Chinua’s tent, Sargon glimpsed a figure standing a few paces away, watching him. By the time Sargon realized who it was, Tashanella had vanished into the shadows.
21
For the next six days, Sargon and Garal spent at least half their time riding across the countryside, and the remainder practicing with weapons. The long days of hard work now yielded results. Sargon’s skill in controlling his horse improved, even as the muscles in his arms and legs grew firm.
Whenever they stopped to rest the horses, out came the wooden swords. By the sixth day, Sargon could hold his own. No longer could Garal risk giving Sargon the slightest opening. Both men considered it a poor session if Sargon did not score at least one ‘fatal’ strike against his instructor.
Garal believed the sword and bow the most important, but he didn’t neglect the lance and knife. When Sargon’s arm grew weary of drawing the bow or holding the sword, Garal would switch to the lance.
They took turns, riding at the target at ever increasing speed, and hurling the lance. When Sargon mastered the basics of that, they would ride together, side by side, yelling war cries, and throw their lances at the same moment.
The hardest skill to master remained shooting the bow from the back of a galloping horse. Sargon swore a hundred oaths at missed targets, dropped arrows, broken bowstrings, and embarrassing times when the bow simply slipped from his hand.
Three times he lost control of his horse and fell heavily to the ground, to Garal’s amusement. Nevertheless, Sargon felt his confidence grow with each wild charge.
Whenever Sargon grew frustrated or complained, Garal brushed aside his complaints. “You have it easy. A real warrior has to practice his skills whenever he can. Much of his day is spent riding and scouting and hunting, following the Sarum’s orders. Since you’ve been here, the camp has not moved. When the Ur Nammu journey to another place, then the warriors have to work the horses, help pitch the tents, load the wagons. Every man in the camp would be grateful for an opportunity to hone their skills like this.”
“When is the camp going to move?”
“Not for another thirty or forty days,” Garal replied. “And we will not move far, just a few miles farther downstream. This country is still well stocked with game, there is thick grass to feed the horses and herd animals, and the stream provides plenty of good water. But first, in two days, Chinua will lead a large scouting party to the southwest, to check on the next campsite. You and Timmu will probably both join us.”
The only rest Sargon enjoyed, before he dropped wearily to his blanket to sleep the night through, was the obligatory evening meal at Subutai’s tent. The good food helped relax him after a long day, and by now Sargon looked forward to it.
After that first night, Sargon brought his own bowl, and it was always Tashanella who took it from his hand and filled it from the pot. After a few meals, he realized that the portions he received were as choice as those given to Subutai. Sargon couldn’t tell if that was because of his status as an important guest, or Tashanella’s doing.
One of Subutai’s wives usually attended her husband, but on several occasions Tashanella also served her father. She didn’t seem to be the eldest daughter. By the plain garment she wore, Sargon guessed that she must still be too young for the women’s rites.
Ur Nammu fathers, in much the same way as those in Akkad, married their daughters off as soon as they reached puberty. No one, barbarian or city dweller, wanted to deal with the problems a young girl turning into a woman created.
Those who delayed marriage for their daughters too long often regretted that decision. Better to get them married off, out of the household, and under their new husband’s authority. A baby or two would quickly subdue a girl’s hot emotions.
Sargon raised the question with Garal one day during their morning ride. “Chief Subutai’s daughter, Tashanella, seems different from the other girls in the camp.”
“She is.” Garal turned to give Sargon a long look. “Do not concern yourself with her. When she passes through the rites, she will be married to some brave warrior, or at least one who can afford such a prize.”