By now the first rays of dawn illuminated the sky. Glancing around, Sargon saw Rutba awake and moving about, along with an Ur Nammu warrior who had guarded the camp while the others slept.
Timmu saw Sargon’s questioning glance. “Chinua ordered Makko and Rutba to help guard the camp for the next three days. Each of them was up half the night on watch.”
Sargon grunted at that small satisfaction. With only half a night’s sleep, they would both be in a foul mood all day, not that he or anyone else cared. “Maybe they’ll stay out of our way.”
“Or maybe they’ll make more trouble for us.” Timmu glanced around, as if expecting someone to berate them.
Sargon realized he’d brought grief down on both their heads. Timmu had stood by his friend, and now the boy might be in as much trouble as Sargon.
A shout from Chinua awakened the rest of the camp. Most warriors began each day with a muttered prayer to the horse gods, to bring good fortune on the day’s ride. Then they took a piss, swigged from their water skins, and came looking for their horse.
By then, Timmu and Sargon, with help from Rutba and Makko, had the animals ready. The older boys, too, wanted no more trouble with Chinua. A single word from him could keep them from achieving the status of warriors for another season.
The sun had scarcely cleared the horizon before Chinua swung himself up on his horse and led the way. No one, it seemed to Sargon, appeared particularly eager for the coming day’s ride.
Varying the pace of the horses, Chinua kept them moving until midmorning, when they reached a small stream that flowed across their path. Every rider refilled his water skin and washed down his horse before settling down on the hardy grass for a few moments rest. The horses, their halters fastened to the bushes, grazed contentedly on the hardy grass.
Garal strode back to where Sargon and Timmu sat. “Your head looks like a melon.”
Sargon grimaced. “It feels even bigger.” It still hurt to move his lips. Gingerly he touched his cheek.
“Let me see.” Garal leaned in to examine the swelling. His fingers probed around the broken skin. “It looks worse than it is. If you can talk, at least your jaw is not broken, and your cheekbone seems intact. By tomorrow most of the pain should be gone. The swelling will take another few days to subside. If I had any wine, I’d give some to you.”
The mention of wine brought another surprise. Sargon realized that no wine had crossed his lips in over a month. That fact would have pleased his mother, who claimed that wine dulled the senses and weakened a man’s wits. Of course a real man could deal with any quantity of wine.
“Keep him out of trouble, Timmu.” Garal clasped Sargon’s shoulder and returned to where he’d tethered his horse.
Sargon would have replied but his mouth hurt too much to talk.
The rest period over, the warriors resumed their ride. By nightfall, when they made another dry camp, Sargon felt much better. His jaw moved without too much pain, and though a few of his teeth felt loose to his tongue, none had fallen out, and the taste of blood had left his mouth.
Another day passed without incident, as they rode westward. Chinua sent two men ahead, to act as scouts. Skala and his son Makko ignored Sargon, barely making eye contact and speaking only when necessary. Chinua must have warned Skala not to make trouble.
By the third morning after the incident, the pain had almost gone, and the swelling much reduced. Sargon felt good enough to take note of his surroundings. The last few days, the countryside had gradually changed to more rugged terrain, as the Zagros Mountains turned to the west.
Gullies and ridges slowed their way every few hundred paces. Streams and trees were more plentiful, but the grass sparser, and the riders had to waste more time letting the horses forage.
“Some call these the Taurus Mountains,” Timmu declared. “We’re following the trail that leads to the lands of Haranos.”
Sargon agreed that the name of the mountains did change. He didn’t see anything resembling a trail. As far as he could tell, they were the first living riders to pass through these lands. He hadn’t seen another person or dwelling since they left the Ur Nammu camp.
“I’ve heard of the Taurus Mountains, but no one knows how far they extend. Maybe this is all empty land.”
“Chinua says there are dirt eaters living to the south and west.”
“Probably in tents covered with mud and dung.”
A shout turned everyone’s eyes toward the west. One of the scouts appeared on the top of a hill, and waved the warriors forward. Chinua gave the command, and the riders urged their horses into a gallop. In moments they reached the crest where the scout waited.
The riders had fanned out along the hilltop. The horse boys formed a second line behind the warriors, and Sargon and Timmu halted their horses just behind Chinua’s. Sargon felt the same excitement as the others. About a half a mile away and across a series of low ridges, a party of twenty-five or thirty men, half of them mounted, coming toward Chinua’s scouting party.
As the unknown travelers moved eastward, Sargon noticed that they appeared to be well armed. About ten of those on foot carried bows, similar in size to those Chinua’s men bore.
The strangers sighted Chinua’s warriors, and a ripple of movement passed through them. A man Sargon guessed to be their leader rode to the head of the column and held up his hand to halt his followers. His men slowed to a stop. None of those carrying bows bothered to string their weapons. For the moment, both parties stared at each other.
“They don’t seem to fear us,” Chinua said.
“Maybe they have never seen warriors before.” Jennat, the second in command, rode at his commander’s left.
“We could ride in and launch a few shafts at them.”
That came from Skala. Sargon and Timmu, close enough to hear every word, glanced at each other.
“No, not yet.” Chinua, still studying the strangers, paid no attention to Skala’s words. “Subutai wants us to learn as much as we can about anyone found in these lands.”
“We could send someone ahead to talk with them,” Jennat said.
Skala snorted in disgust. “What is there to say to dirt eaters?”
“We could ask where they came from, where they’re going.” Jennat, too, ignored Skala’s words.
Sargon listened to the leaders’ conversation, but kept his eyes on the strangers. He noticed something, and edged his horse closer.
“Chinua. . those men. . I think they’re soldiers.”
Skala whirled to scowl at Sargon, but Chinua nodded agreement. “The boy is right. I’ve seen men like that before, in your father’s army. What else do you see?”
“Ten bowmen, ten swordsmen, and eleven riders,” Sargon said. “No women or children. In Akkad, that would be a strong scouting party.”
“A scouting party with so many men on foot?” Chinua sounded dubious at that idea.
“Spearmen in my father’s army can walk twenty miles in a day, carrying food and weapons.”
“I don’t see any sacks of food.” Jennat had keen eyes, and obviously knew how to use them. “Look! One of them is riding away.”
One of the distant horsemen turned his horse to the rear and rode off at an easy canter. The rest of the riders dismounted, and the men on foot settled on the ground, as if eager to take some rest. A moment later, the man who seemed to be the leader rode a few paces forward. He raised his right arm, and waved the Ur Nammu party forward.
“He wants to talk,” Jennat said.
“He wants to draw us in close until more men can join them,” Skala said.
Sargon glanced at Timmu, who smiled back. A moment ago, Skala wanted to charge the strangers. Now he worried about being attacked. Still, Sargon agreed with Skala’s assessment.
“You may be right,” Chinua said. “I’ll ride ahead and see if I can talk to them.”