Stripping off his clothes, he gave himself the first bath he’d had since Tashanella found him at the stream. Already that seemed long ago. When Sargon finished scrubbing his body, he rinsed out his clothes. It no longer felt strange to wash his own clothes or feed a horse himself, something he had never done back in Akkad, surrounded by helpful servants.
When he finally left the water, Sargon spread out his clothes on the ground. Hopefully they would be dry before he met with the Sarum.
“I see you remembered what I taught you.” Garal squatted down beside him.
Sargon managed a smile. Garal had knocked Sargon off his horse twice with that trick.
Fashod walked over and, with a grunt of relief, eased himself to the ground beside them. “Let’s hope Lugal doesn’t decide to kill you for embarrassing him in front of his men.” He sighed. “I think, Sargon, that you can stop trying to impress their warriors.”
“I agree. I’m too tired anyway. But the son of a king must always act like a leader of men.”
As he repeated the words his father had said to him many times, Sargon realized that he had seldom listened to that advice. If he had paid better attention, he might not be facing torture and death this very evening.
Sargon found a patch of grass just large enough for him to stretch out on, and he did. Covering his eyes with his arm, he breathed a sigh of relief. Within moments, his snores sounded.
Fashod motioned Garal away. They joined Jennat, who had just finished tending the horses.
“I don’t know how he can fall asleep like that,” Fashod said. “He should be worrying about being killed.”
“What do we do now?” Jennat, too, looked weary.
“Now we wait,” Fashod said. “But perhaps we should get cleaned up as well. We wouldn’t want to meet the new Sarum of the Alur Meriki looking like horses after a long run, and smelling just as bad.”
Sargon slept through the arrival of the caravan, which usually made more than enough noise to wake anyone not used to hearing it. As the camp settled in, Fashod woke him. Sargon found that someone had covered his naked body with a blanket.
“Better make yourself ready” Fashod gestured toward the setting sun. “The summons may come at any time.”
When Sargon tossed the blanket aside, he felt the chill of the evening air coming off the mountains. The brief rest had refreshed him. He gathered up his damp clothes and donned them. A shiver passed over his body, and he stretched himself until he warmed up.
“When you meet with their Sarum,” Fashod said, “try not to antagonize him. Remember, to the Alur Meriki, he is the greatest king in the world.”
Sargon had no intention of provoking anyone. “I’ll take care.”
“You know what to say?”
“Yes. We’ve been over it enough times.”
“Good. Then just trust your instincts. We’ve done all that we can do. Whatever happens now is the will of the gods.”
Sargon shrugged. “My father doesn’t believe in the gods. He says they never helped him when he needed help. He trusted to his luck.”
“Perhaps luck is merely the favor of the gods,” Fashod said.
Jennat called out, and Sargon glanced up to see Suijan approaching. A young warrior walked beside him, carrying Sargon’s sword.
Sargon waited until the clan leader stood before him, then bowed respectfully. Unlike most of the Alur Meriki, Suijan possessed gray eyes. Sargon forced himself to meet the man’s steady gaze. It was one thing to stare down leaders of ten or fifty. A clan leader commanded hundreds of men, and for many years. Such a one would not be easily impressed or dominated.
“This is my son, Chennat.” Suijan nodded to the young warrior. “He carries your sword. Perhaps you could allow him to accompany you to the council meeting.”
For a moment, Sargon considered forcing the issue, then abandoned the idea. “Yes. My thanks to Chennat for his service.”
The boy inclined his head in the slightest amount.
Sargon ignored the disrespect. “Are we to be taken to meet with the Sarum?”
“You are. Your companions will remain here.”
“Fashod must accompany me.” Sargon gestured toward his companion. “He is the second in command of the Ur Nammu, and he speaks for their Sarum.”
“No. Only you are to come.” Suijan sounded firm.
Sargon decided to try another way. “When a clan leader attends a council meeting, is he not expected to bring a member of his clan with him, to make certain that what is said is plain to all?”
“Yes, but you are not a clan leader,” Suijan corrected him.
“I am.” Sargon crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, the gesture’s meaning clear to all. He would not move until Suijan acknowledged his status.
Suijan stared at Sargon for a moment, weighing the alternative, which was to collect a handful of warriors and have Sargon carried to the council. The silence dragged on.
“Very well. Fashod may accompany you. But he is not to speak unless asked to. Is that understood?”
“Of course.” Sargon smiled and uncrossed his arms. “We will follow you.”
Suijan turned and started walking, taking long strides that covered plenty of ground. His son glared at Sargon for a moment, then moved quickly to keep up. Sargon and Fashod walked side by side. As they passed through the encampment, every eye turned toward them, and every conversation ceased until they had passed by, when it resumed with more excitement.
The four weaved their way through most of the camp, dodging wagons and tents, as well as a handful of children chasing each other in some unknown game. Sargon used the time to study the wagons and tents of the Alur Meriki.
The women busied themselves with their fires and cooking pots. Others set out drying racks that held the stretched skins of small game, hunted and caught along the trail. He saw few men, and guessed they were still tending their horses as the day’s activities drew to a close.
As in the Ur Nammu camp, Sargon saw no luxuries, no goods to make life easier. Life for the steppes warriors remained full of hardship. When your family carried all your worldly goods with you, there was little place for anything but what you needed to survive. By now Sargon understood that such a demanding way of life gave the horsemen their strength, and made them so ferocious in battle.
They arrived at two wagons and two tents, set a little apart, but appearing no different from the others Sargon had seen. Only the tall standard with its dangling totems marked these possessions as belonging to the Alur Meriki Sarum.
Sargon counted eleven men clustered in a wide space set apart from all the tents and wagons. They all looked up as Suijan led his charge into their midst.
“Sit here.” Suijan pointed to a place on the grass that faced the largest and closest of the tents. “Chennat, give him his sword.”
The boy thrust the sword, still attached to the belt, into Sargon’s hand. His knife also remained fastened to the thick leather. Sargon dropped to the ground, crossed his legs, and set the sword lengthwise before him. Fashod sat on Sargon’s left, a little behind him.
Four Alur Meriki warriors detached themselves and moved to stand behind the two, no doubt with orders to restrain them if needed. Sargon glanced up and saw Den’rack and two of his men standing in the front rank of a small crowd that continued to swell. A wide space nearby remained clear. Well, at least it wasn’t Lugal. His presence would have sent an entirely different message.
The other Alur Meriki stared at the two strangers with open curiosity. Beside Suijan, Sargon counted three unknown clan chieftains, marked by their copper chains. None of them appeared friendly, and two stared at Sargon with disdain on their faces.