On the return journey, Sargon had acquired a new skill, riding one horse while leading two more. During the return, each warrior alternated among the horses, enabling them to cover the ground at a rapid pace. Unless their pursuers did the same, no one was going to catch up with them.
On today’s ride, they twice encountered Ur Nammu scouts, three-man parties patrolling the western approaches to the camp.
“That means,” Garal said, “that Jennat made it back, too.”
“So Subutai knows about the Carchemishi,” Sargon agreed. “But he doesn’t know how many of them there are.”
Chinua’s shout interrupted their talk. “Make sure you ride into camp like warriors, not women!” He started down the slope, and the others followed. As Chinua urged his horse to a canter, he called back over his shoulder. “And try not to fall asleep before we reach the camp.”
Sargon saw the warriors straighten up, raising their heads and shoulders. No one wanted to display any weakness in front of the other warriors, or even their own women.
As they reached the outskirts of the camp, people emerged from tents to greet them. Excited children ran toward the approaching horsemen. Sargon understood Ur Nammu customs by now. After a successful raid, Chinua and his warriors had fought an enemy and brought home thirty-four new horses as proof of their courage and skill, and all without losing a man. Once again, he had proven himself a strong war chief.
As Chinua led the way into the camp, the shouting crowd soon slowed his progress. Men, women and children rushed to greet their returning men. Eager hands reached up to touch their kin, and others relieved the grinning riders of their extra horses.
Sargon trailed the others into the camp, and, of course, none of the waiting crowd paid him any attention. The rest of the party merged back among the tents, surrounded by a press of happy friends and family, all grateful for their safe return. As the throng cleared away, Sargon noticed someone standing alone, her eyes fixed on him. Tashanella. She, too, had come to meet the returning warriors.
Since all the others had already moved into the camp, Tashanella obviously had waited for no particular man. Instead, she met Sargon’s eyes as he rode past. Then she turned and disappeared among the throng.
Too weary to think about what it meant, Sargon soon reached Chinua’s tent and swung down from his mount. Two grinning boys darted to his side and took charge of his two horses. For once, Sargon was spared the need to care for the weary animals.
His horses. Earned by his own hand, and as far as the Ur Nammu were concerned, the mark of a true warrior. Horses meant status in the clan, even more than women or other possessions. The more horses a warrior owned, the more successful he must be as a warrior. No word of praise Sargon had ever received in Akkad meant as much to him.
Sargon paced his way to the stream. Some of the men he’d ridden with were already there, washing the horse stink from their bodies before returning to their tents. He didn’t want to get in the way of the happy reunions, so he headed farther upstream, where he could find a bit more privacy. With a loud sigh of relief, he plunged into the cool waters without bothering to remove the remaining shreds of his once fine clothing.
For a time, Sargon just clung to a rock and let the stream wash over him. The sensation of not having anything to do provided a suitably guilty feeling of pleasure.
Suddenly the water exploded beside him, sending a wave across his face and almost knocking him loose from the rock. It was Makko, who had jumped naked into the water with a mighty splash. Sargon had to laugh at the sight of his fellow horse boy splashing his way through the stream.
Unlike most of the Ur Nammu, Sargon had learned to swim in the deeper waters of the Tigris at an early age. His father had taken him down to the river almost every day, and by the time he reached his twelfth season, Sargon could swim all the way across the great river.
“You swim like a great boulder dropped in a small pond,” Sargon said.
“Better that than riding like a sack of grain,” Makko gasped, spitting water from his mouth.
It wasn’t much of a joke, but Sargon knew Makko meant well by it.
During the return ride, the two had put aside their differences. As horse boys, they still had to care for the horses, and both quickly realized that they had to work together. The night after the raid on the Carchemishi, Skala, Makko’s father, announced himself pleased with Sargon’s work with the mounts. That, Sargon decided, was the most apology he was going to get from the warrior.
Later Sargon asked Garal if Chinua had said something to Skala about the incident, but Garal shook his head.
“Skala is proud of what his son accomplished during our journey. That means he must give you the same respect. And once warriors have fought together as we have, there is always a bond that will keep them true to each other.”
“I didn’t do any fighting.”
“Neither did you run and hide, or lose the horses, or not be where you were supposed to be. Every man in a battle has to do as he’s ordered. If you and Makko hadn’t been with us, two other warriors would have taken your place, and there would have been that many fewer arrows to harry the Carchemishi.”
With another torrent of water, Makko splashed his way out of the stream. “Stop by our tent later if you can. They’ll be plenty of meat tonight.”
Sargon said he would try, and ducked his head back underneath the water. When he finally came up for air, Makko had disappeared back into the camp, and Sargon had the stream to himself. He rose and stripped off the remnants of his tunic. His undergarment followed. He’d worn it continuously for nine days of hard riding, and it stank of horse sweat and worse. Sargon tossed it aside. He didn’t intend to wear it again.
He did use what was left of his tunic to scrub his body down, scraping away the dirt, grime, and odor of horseflesh that clung persistently to his body. As he washed, Sargon found bruises on his arms and chest, scrapes on his legs, along with burn marks on his arms and calluses on his hands from constantly holding halter ropes for the last three days.
When he felt sufficiently cleansed, Sargon crawled up on a wide ledge that bordered the stream. The sun had warmed the rock, and he lay down on it and stretched his legs, enjoying the sensation as his naked body dried in the breeze. The sound of laughter from the camp floated over the stream, but he ignored it, content to be by himself.
He thanked Ishtar that the ride had ended when it did. Sargon wasn’t sure he could have kept up with the others for much longer. With that thought in mind, he flung his arm over his eyes to shield them from the sunlight. The sounds of the stream soothed his thoughts. A few deep breaths later, he fell asleep, the water gurgling in his ears.
“Sargon. Sargon. Wake up.”
The voice pulled him back from the well of deep slumber. He forced his eyes open, only to be blinded by the sun that caught him full in the face. Something moved beside him, and then a shadow passed over his eyes, and he could see again. Someone stood over him, shielding him from the sun. Then he recognized Tashanella’s voice.
Tashanella gazed down at the naked figure at her feet, her eyes drawn to the boy’s member peeking out from beneath a crown of soft brown hair. Since his first day in camp, she thought him the most handsome boy she’d ever seen. The urge to touch his bare flesh swept over her, and she felt a burst of warmth from her own loins. She dropped to her knees beside him, but still kept his face sheltered from the setting sun.
Another urge tempted her, to reach out and caress his member. She did not, of course.
“You should not lie out like that in the sun. You’ll burn your skin.”