Everyone was expected to work hard. If some, through favor or fortune, received easier assignments, that was just the luck of the gods. All Sargon cared about was that by the time the trip ended, he would be so much closer to taking his leave of the Ur Nammu.
Makko’s father, Skala, also rode with the party, as a leader of five and third in command under Chinua. To Sargon’s eyes, both father and son appeared much the same — dour, thickheaded, and built like an ox.
“You’re right,” Timmu whispered, just as the afternoon sun began to settle toward the horizon. “Makko does look like an ox.”
Sargon struggled to control his laughter. Makko rode only a few paces ahead, and in spite of his hard head, might have a good pair of ears. “Don’t let him hear you,” Sargon warned. “He’d snap you in two with one hand.”
Timmu snorted. “Only if he could catch me.”
With little to do during the ride, Sargon used the time to extend his knowledge of the Ur Nammu language. Timmu enjoyed pointing out anything new, and correcting Sargon’s mistakes. Since Timmu chatted almost non-stop, Sargon’s understanding of the language increased. If nothing else, the practice helped pass the time.
“Only another ten or twelve days, and we’ll be back in camp,” Sargon said. Two cooking pots and an extra food sack grated annoyingly against his right leg as he guided his horse through a sandy stretch of ground. “At least the sacks will be a little lighter each day.”
“By this time next year, I’ll be taking my last trip as a horse boy,” Timmu declared.
“Not you! You’ll need another five or six seasons.” The two had become friends, and Sargon could laugh with the boy. “You’re too small to be a warrior.”
The boy had just started his growth spurt, and by next summer, Sargon guessed Timmu would be almost as tall as his father.
For Sargon and Timmu, the actual traveling was the easiest part of the day. They merely had to keep pace with the men. Neither was burdened with weapons, only their knives. Even Sargon’s wooden sword had been left behind. If Garal or one of the other warriors decided to help him with his training, they would have to make do with sticks or what they could find along the way.
By sundown of the third day, Chinua’s party had covered more than a hundred miles since leaving the Ur Nammu camp. When their leader finally gave the command to halt for the night, Sargon noticed more than a few of the warriors stretching to ease aching muscles.
Thanks to his incessant riding since his arrival, Sargon felt no discomfort. Still, he gave a sigh when they stopped riding. Now his real work would begin.
Two warriors remained on their horses, riding out to give one last sweep of the immediate countryside for any game that might be around. Nothing had shown itself during the day’s ride, and if the men failed to bring anything down, the entire party would eat little of substance tonight. That meant the horse boys would have to make do with even less. Sargon expected to sleep this evening with his appetite unsatisfied.
Tonight was a dry camp, so there would be no water to wash down the horses. After the men secured their mounts, Sargon and Timmu brushed them down with clumps of grass to loosen any dirt that had settled under the hair. Then they used a bit of rag to flick off any remaining dust and smooth down the animal’s coat. Last they used their fingers to straighten the horse’s mane, and eliminate any tangles.
The animals stood quietly during the grooming, knowing they would be rewarded with a handful of grain.
The horses tended to, Sargon and Timmu busied themselves setting up the camp. Makko and Rutba had gone off to search for firewood, though Sargon guessed the lazy pair would return with only a few sticks. Of course Timmu and Sargon would be expected to collect more to keep the cooking fires burning.
Timmu had offered to gather some kindling, so Sargon knelt on the grass and started shoving stones together to make a fire ring. One of the warriors approached. “Where is Makko?”
Glancing up, Sargon saw the dour-faced Skala, Makko’s father, standing over him. “He’s gathering firewood.”
“Find him. Bring him to me.” Skala crossed his arms, as if expecting his son to rise up from the ground.
Without a word, Sargon climbed to his feet. He knew it would do no good to protest, though of course Sargon would be berated if the campfire wasn’t started soon. He glanced around, not sure of what direction Makko had taken. Puzzled, Sargon turned again, trying to remember when he’d last seen Makko, when Skala’s fist landed on his cheek.
Caught by surprise by the unexpected blow, Sargon crashed to the earth, his head glancing off one of the fire stones.
“When I give you an order, you will obey it!” Skala reinforced his words with a kick that landed on Sargon’s thigh and pushed him over onto his stomach.
Dazed, Sargon took a moment to clear his head. His face felt on fire. The fist had landed high on his cheekbone and sent a wave of pain through his head. Never in his life had Sargon been struck like that. Rage flooded through his body, driving the pain away. He twisted to his side and lurched to his feet, facing Skala. Without thinking, Sargon jerked his knife from his belt.
At that moment, Timmu rushed into the space between them. He flung himself on Sargon, wrapping both arms around his friend. “Put down the knife! Put it down!”
Over Timmu’s shoulder, Sargon saw that Skala had drawn his sword and taken a step forward.
“Get out of my way.” A flush of hatred raced through Sargon’s body, rage that burned twice as hot as any feelings toward his father. Sword or not, Sargon intended to kill Skala or die in the attempt.
“No! You must not do. .”
Sargon threw Timmu to the side. Skala had raised his sword and moved to attack, and the big warrior would just have likely killed Timmu or anyone else in his way. Sargon jumped back as Skala’s sword swung down. The blade flashed by Sargon’s face, the point diving almost into the grass.
Before the angry warrior could regain control of his weapon, Sargon twisted aside and lashed out with the knife, the sharp tip grazing Skala’s forearm.
The stroke, delivered off balance and at full extension, didn’t amount to much more than a deep scratch. As Skala whirled his blade around in a sweeping cut, Sargon leapt back, and the stroke just missed gutting Sargon’s stomach. On the balls of his feet, Sargon waited knife in hand for the next attack.
“STOP! Do not move. Drop your weapons.” Chinua’s shout halted everyone, and every man in the camp turned toward Skala. “I’ll kill the next one that moves.”
The camp went silent. The warriors set aside whatever they were doing, and moved quickly to watch the conflict.
Even Sargon, still blind with rage, heeded Chinua’s words. Timmu again rushed to Sargon’s side, and grasped his friend’s knife hand with both of his. “Put down the knife! You must put down the knife!”
At the force of Timmu’s words, Sargon released the knife, letting it drop to the earth.
Skala, his face flushed with anger, raised his blade. A horse boy had drawn a knife on him. Not only that, but had actually wounded him.
“Do it, and I’ll kill you.”
Chinua spoke the words in a matter-of-fact tone, and Sargon realized they were not directed at him, but at Skala, whose rage now exceeded his own.
Chinua stepped in front of Skala, their faces only a hand’s width apart. He said nothing, just stared into Skala’s face.
However Skala’s rage still controlled him. Every man in the camp could guess his thoughts. He would kill Chinua first, then finish with the boy.
A twanging sound made Sargon and the others glance to the side. Ten paces away, Garal had strung his bow and let the string snap back into position instead of easing it to the full tension. Before the bowstring ceased quivering, Garal nocked an arrow and drew the weapon, the arrowhead pointed at Skala. Chinua was kin, after all.
Only Chinua hadn’t turned his head toward the sound. When he spoke, his words so soft that Sargon and the others could barely hear them. “Are you offering me a challenge, Skala? You know what that means.”