“What makes her such a prize?”
“She is the Sarum’s daughter, but the women say she possesses much wisdom. Some day she may even become one of the Gifted Ones.”
It took a few moments before that idea translated. “What’s a Gifted One.”
“A woman wise in the ways of the Clan, one who can be invited to sit in on the Sarum’s Council. They are rare, and the Ur Nammu have not had such a one in many years. You would be wise to give no offense to her. Tashanella is her father’s favorite, and he is quick to anger where she is concerned.”
“Maybe you should take her for a wife yourself.”
Garal laughed. “She will not be given to any young warrior, let alone one who has never fought in a battle. No, she will belong to an old and seasoned warrior, one who probably already has too many horses and too many wives.”
For the first time, Sargon realized that Garal, too, had never fought in battle. For the last thirty days, Sargon had struggled to keep up with the warrior. Garal was less than two seasons older. That thought was soon replaced by another. If Garal was so strong, how would Sargon match up against an older and more experienced fighter?
Unbidden, Sargon thought of his father. Even now when Eskkar had grown old, few men in Akkad were willing to face him in combat. Of course, his father’s famous luck and reputation might have much to do with that unwillingness. Or perhaps Eskkar’s frequent long rides and the almost daily practice with his sword had something to do with it.
“Is not your mother,” Garal interrupted the silence, “I have forgotten her name, one of the Gifted Ones? That is what Subutai’s wife claims. She has met several times with her.”
His father, and now his mother. Sargon shook his head. Even out here in these desolate lands, he could not escape their presence.
“My mother, they call her Lady Trella, is the wisest and most cunning person, man or woman, in Akkad. She rules the city even more than my father, so I guess you could say she is one of the gifted.”
Garal grunted at the unflattering description, but said nothing.
That evening, at Subutai’s tent, Sargon once again handed his empty bowl to Tashanella. It was returned filled to the brim, and he thought the girl’s hand lingered for a moment on his as he accepted it.
He smiled up at her. Sargon knew warriors, even visitors at another man’s tent, did not thank their women for serving them. Nevertheless, he nodded his appreciation.
Tashanella flashed the fleetest of smiles at him, before moving away. For the rest of the meal, Sargon’s attention drifted again and again to the women’s circle. Of course he could not stare at her, but the longer he studied the girl, the more interested he became.
He could not guess her age. Slim as a willow tree, Tashanella appeared yet a maiden. Still, her loose dress concealed much, and Sargon wondered just how ripe was the body that hid beneath the garment. He felt a stirring in his loins, a rare sensation since he had left Akkad.
Later that evening, after he returned to Chinua’s tent, Sargon approached Garal. He often sat and spoke with the young warrior before they slept. The animosity Sargon had first felt for Garal had gradually faded away. Now they were more like companions who could trust each other.
Usually Sargon wanted to know more about the next day’s activity, and tonight he managed to ask a few questions about the morning before he asked what was really on his mind.
“How many seasons does Tashanella have?” For once he was glad that he couldn’t see Garal’s face in the dark.
Surprised by the sudden change in the conversation, Garal had to think for a moment. “I think she has thirteen, no, maybe fourteen seasons. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Just that she seems old enough to be married.”
“She will be, soon.”
Sargon knew that most girls went through Ishtar’s rites between the ages of thirteen and fifteen, though some took longer. Even so, it was not uncommon for girls to be married off even if they had yet to undergo the rite of passage into womanhood. Even maidens could provide relief for a man’s needs.
“I don’t think you should be casting eyes at Tashanella while you’re at the Sarum’s camp. You may be a visitor here, but that kind of offense. .”
“Do not worry,” Sargon said. “All I want to do is get through the next fifty days with my head on my shoulders.”
By now Garal knew all about Sargon’s pact with Subutai.
“You are still keen to leave the Clan as soon as you can?”
“The Clan is your home, your family, not mine. I no longer have a family of my own. I will have to find a new place in the world, one as far from Akkad as I can.”
“Then you’d better get some sleep,” Garal said. “We have another long day tomorrow.”
Two days later, Sargon rode out of the Ur Nammu camp just after dawn. Chinua and fourteen warriors led the way, while Sargon and three other horse boys brought up the rear. Timmu, Chinua’s son, rode beside Sargon, and the younger boy grinned excitedly at the prospect of accompanying the men again.
From his evening meals at the Sarum’s tent, Sargon understood the need for this trip. In the last month, Subutai’s outriders to the west had encountered small groups of people fleeing toward the lands traversed by the Ur Nammu. The Sarum wanted to know more about these people, including why they fled whatever lands they came from, and even more important, who might be pursuing them.
Subutai had ordered Chinua to go out with a small band of warriors and collect whatever information he could. Sargon and Timmu, Chinua’s son, found themselves included in the group.
Not that Sargon concerned himself with Chinua’s orders. The trip held no excitement for Sargon. Whatever the value to the Ur Nammu, Sargon had done this before, and this venture promised more days of hard work, with little to be gained. Even though Garal rode with the party, Sargon guessed that the warrior would have little time for any training.
Though the clan’s women had packed extra food, Sargon knew the men would be living off the land, and that part of each day’s journey would be devoted to hunting the evening’s meal. If the hunt came up empty, then every rider would sleep on an empty stomach, and in the morning belts would be tightened. The horse boys, of course, would eat last, even if the hunt were successful. If not, then they would be as hungry as the men.
Chinua led the warriors almost due west, and they covered the ground at the deceptively easy canter that made the miles pass swiftly beneath the horses’ hooves. The tall green grass brushed the bellies of the horses as they swept along, much like a boat racing through the waters of the Tigris. Scattered groves of trees, mostly poplars and a few white oaks, broke the monotony.
Sargon, like everyone else, carried a small sack of grain to help his horse keep up its strength, as well as a second pouch of dried meat and fruit prepared by the women. In addition to his personal supplies, Sargon and Timmu struggled under the weight of their other burdens. Between them they carried three cooking pots and several sacks of supplies, to be shared among the warriors.
It was, Sargon decided, like riding a fully loaded pack horse and about as pleasant. The other two boys, Makko and Rutba, considered themselves far superior to the younger Timmu and the outsider Sargon. Both ignored Sargon and Timmu as much as possible, unless some opportunity arose to give them orders.
Makko and Rutba, both about Sargon’s age, boasted they would be admitted into the ranks of the warriors soon after Chinua’s expedition returned to the Ur Nammu camp. Naturally they treated Sargon and Timmu as if they were children, and expected them to do as much of the menial work as possible.
Nevertheless, Sargon had no choice, and by now he knew better than to complain or sulk. If there were one thing warriors despised more than a dirt eater, it was anyone who complained about his daily tasks.