Conflict of Empires (2010) (50 page)

More important, Drusas recalled having Trella kneel naked before him, while she read the symbols and counted her numbers. “Tell me about your sister. What’s her name?”

The question startled Almaric, but Kushanna lifted the whip again.

“Trella, mistress. My sister’s name is Trella.”

“Good. Very good, Almaric. Perhaps you would like some water.” She gestured to the guard, who filled a cup from a pitcher and handed it the prisoner.

Almaric gulped the contents down in a few swallows, spilling a good portion on his chest and the floor between his knees.

Kushanna forced a smile to her face. If a servant had spilled that much water, she would have had the unlucky offender whipped. “Now describe your sister to me, slave. All you know of her.”

The story required many promptings, but Kushanna only used the whip once more. Eventually, the detail Kushanna sought emerged, as the brother recalled a small brown mole beneath the sister’s left breast. Drusas had remembered the same mark on the slave girl he sold to Nicar. No one else would know that fact, not even Sohrab.

Satisfied at last, Kushanna handed the whip back to Sohrab, then turned to the guard. “Take him down to the slave’s quarters for now. Feed him well, and give him some ale. Tell my master steward Almaric is not to be whipped except by my order.”

She waited until the guard removed the slave, then turned to Sohrab. “You’ve done well. That is indeed Trella’s brother. We were doubly fortunate to find him still alive. In his condition, I’m surprised the mine’s owner didn’t have him killed.”

“Yes, Queen Kushanna. He knew the symbols, so at the first dig, he was put to work helping count the sacks of ore. That kept him out of the pits. After two years, he was sold to a second mine. They had no need of a slave who could count or read the symbols, so he went down into the mine. He would have been dead in a few more months. They sold him for a single silver coin, and were glad to take advantage of me.”

“You could have taken him for nothing,” Kushanna said. “They would have given him up fast enough at my order.”

“I thought it best not to use your name, my queen. This way, no one knows of your interest in such a laborer.”

She smiled at Sohrab’s ingenuity. He was learning to anticipate her commands. “I see I chose wisely when I sent you to find Trella’s brother. Now we have to make use of him. His wits are addled, but perhaps with rest and good food and plenty of time, he may recover. The healthier Almaric is, the more value he will have. For now, take him to my farm south of Sumer. See to it that he is given only simple tasks and treated well. And watch over his progress. If he remembers how to think, we will send for him again.”

“Yes, my queen. And you think he will be useful in the coming war?”

“Perhaps. He is the only one of Trella’s kin that remains alive. Who knows, she may care more for him than her husband. At the least she’ll pay well to have him returned to her.”

“Shall I send such a message to Trella of Akkad?”

“Not yet, Sohrab, not yet. In due time you can deliver the message yourself.”

E
skkar frowned at the well-worn tracks that led to the valley north of Bisitun. Three months ago, when he and Hathor first visited the place with a dozen Ur Nammu warriors, the ground showed no sign of anyone’s passage through the land. Now the pristine emptiness of the hill country had changed. From the depth of the tracks, he knew horses, oxen, wagons, cattle, sheep, men, women and even children in increasing numbers had followed the same trail over the last three months, no doubt all of them bearing burdens of one kind or another. Probably not a day went by without another group of men or wagonload of supplies arriving. Still, when Eskkar crested the last hill, a little before sunset, and saw the valley below, he halted his horse in surprise.

“A walled village!”

Grond halted his horse beside that of his captain. “Well, I suppose it is. Not much of a wall, though. Or a village, either.”

Eskkar let his eyes take in the site below. A mud-brick wall, just tall enough to keep a horse from jumping over it, ambled its way across the entrance to the valley. He guessed it to be at least two hundred paces from end to end, maybe even more. A wide gate near the center provided access. Beside the gate, a lone lookout tower twice the height of the gate rose up, its skeletal logs providing little more than a platform where a man or two could stand. Farther behind the wall, huts and tents extended a good distance into the valley, and Eskkar could see three separate horse pens, one of them empty. Smoke rose from several cooking fires, the gray streams curling lazily into the blue sky before following the wind to the
east. The ringing sound of a bronze hammer pounding on a shaping stone echoed off the valley’s walls.

As he watched, an empty wagon pulled by two oxen emerged from the gate, no doubt headed back to Bisitun to pick up another load of whatever goods Hathor and his commanders needed. The men conveying cargoes between Bisitun and here would be earning plenty of coins for their hard labor.

“All this, in only three months.” While Eskkar had seen how well villagers could dig and build during the siege, this matched anything he’d seen at Akkad.

“Hathor knows his business,” Grond said. “You picked the right man to build your cavalry.”

They rode down the hill, followed by the ten Hawk Clan guards who had accompanied Eskkar all the way from Akkad. The lookout guard saw their approach, and raised a shout that must have carried halfway up the valley. In moments, six bowmen appeared from behind the wall, readying their weapons efficiently and taking their stations without anyone shouting orders at them.

Eskkar grunted in approval. The camp’s discipline appeared sound. By the time he and Grond reached the gate, the guards had already unstrung their bows and waved them in greeting. Hathor arrived to join those standing by the gate, hands on his hips, waiting for them.

“Welcome to Horse Valley, Lord Eskkar.” Hathor had a grin on his face. “And good to see you again, Grond.”

Eskkar swung down from the horse, and the two men clasped each other’s arms. “I’m glad I decided to come. It looks like you’ve built a village here since the last time I was here.”

Hathor glanced around and shrugged. “This is nothing. Wait until you see the training ground. Come, I’ve much to tell you.” He called for his horse, and a soldier brought out a fine brown stallion. “Follow me.” He put his heels to the horse and cantered up into the valley.

Eskkar mounted and rode beside him. Beyond the horse pens the valley curved, and he saw another, much smaller wall blocking a cleft into the valley’s walls.

“That’s where the Ur Nammu keep their animals.” Hathor gestured with his hand. “They camp there at night. The masons built it for them in three days.”

Halfway up the valley, Hathor halted. A long house had been built
here, along with another corral filled with ten or more horses. “This is where my commanders and trainers sleep. We’ll stay here tonight. That will give me time to order up a feast in your honor, and prepare the men for tomorrow. Too late in the day to start a goat roasting, but we have some chickens, enough to make a good stew. We’ll save the goat to celebrate another day.”

Eskkar glanced up the valley. In the distance, he saw a small herd of horses roaming free. “A feast? Trella told me you were starving up here.”

“Well, we were for the first month. Now we’ve plenty of food, and ale, too, for that matter. Grain, chickens, vegetables, everything we need comes from Bisitun. As the women arrived, they started building ovens, and now they bake bread, dozens of loaves each day. More than enough for everyone. We started giving some to the Ur Nammu, and they started bringing game into camp at day’s end. So everyone is eating well.”

“How many men do you have up here?”

Hathor had to stop and think. “About two hundred men, and another hundred women and children. You’ll see most of them here tonight. When we heard you were arriving in a few days, the first two companies of cavalry had just finished the first part of their training. So I promised everyone a feast in your honor. They’ll all want to see and hear their king.”

That meant another speech. Still, Hathor and the others had made remarkable progress establishing the training camp. Eskkar hadn’t expected any of the soldiers to have completed their training this soon, so they deserved at least a few words of praise. Unlike the steppe warriors who started riding as small children held in their fathers’ arms, many villagers knew little about horses. For them, learning to ride and fight from the back of a racing animal meant overcoming their fears, real enough considering the size and speed of a horse.

By the time Eskkar, Grond and his guards took care of their horses and washed off the dust of their journey in the stream, the preparations for the feast were well under way. Soldiers carried armfuls of wood and started new campfires. Women and children crowded about, as curious to see the man who ruled their lands as to do the cooking. Two grinning soldiers dispensed and guarded the ale supply, but provided each man and woman with at least a cup of ale. Eskkar guessed that a few soldiers would be drunk before dark.

Everyone wanted to talk to the king. Every soldier, every recruit, found some excuse to visit Hathor’s little camp. Even the laborers and
craftsmen soon heard about Eskkar’s presence and joined the crowd. Children, some barely able to walk, wandered over to stare in open-mouthed silence at the dark-haired man, though most soon decided that the tall and somber figure looked no different from any other man, and they wandered off to play their games.

Many people brought their own food with them, content to sit on the grass as close to Eskkar and his companions as they could get. He wanted to talk to Hathor, to learn what progress had been made, but it proved impossible. When Fashod, Chinua and four other smiling Ur Nammu warriors joined them, a shout of welcome rose up. Eskkar had never seen or heard anything like that before, villagers cheering barbarians. He still felt it odd that excited people often shouted out his own name.

With a smile, Eskkar forced himself to relax. The feast would have to come first, and from the looks of the ale being poured, it would go on for some time.

I
n the morning, Eskkar’s head throbbed with pain. He’d eaten too much food, drunk too much ale, and in general behaved more like a half-drunken warrior than a king. Now he stood outside, pissing on the rocks that lay scattered behind the house and sighing in relief. The ground in front of the house had been trampled flat, but at least none of Hathor’s men lay there in a stupor. The Egyptian had seen to that, making sure everyone got a few cups of ale but no more. By now every man, aching head or not, had returned to his station.

When Eskkar walked back into the house, he found Grond waiting, holding a cup of water that contained only a splash of ale.

Eskkar drank it down without pausing. It helped, but it took a second cup to quench his thirst and ease the pounding in his head.

“Grab some bread, Captain,” Grond suggested. “Hathor’s waiting with his commanders.”

Eskkar clenched his jaw. More embarrassment. They had let him sleep while others had gotten up at dawn and gone about their business. Yesterday’s ride to the valley had been long and tiring, but probably no worse than the day’s training many of the men had undergone. No doubt everyone believed he was getting old and needed his rest.

The gloomy thought darkened his brow, and he followed Grond out to the side of the house, where Hathor had set up his command post.

The Egyptian greeted them. His face had resumed its somber look. Now that Eskkar thought about it, last night was the first time he’d ever seen Hathor laughing or even smiling so much.

He motioned for Eskkar to sit on the ground beside him, and Grond took his station just slightly behind his king. Instead of the usual circle, seven subcommanders faced their leaders, and one look at the ground explained that arrangement. A rough model of the valley had been dug into dirt, showing the long valley, the horse pens, and the training grounds.

“We’ll start here, Lord Eskkar,” Hathor began. “After we explain what we’ve done, we’ll inspect the training grounds, and my commanders will give you a demonstration of their men’s horsemanship.”

“Good.” Eskkar tried not to sound impatient, though he wanted to see the recruits in action, not stare at the dirt. Still, one had to begin somewhere.

“I’ll start with the horses,” Hathor began. “The Ur Nammu still break most of them, but a few of my best riders have started helping them with that. It’s a difficult task. The men get thrown, stepped on, and one particularly clumsy fool managed to break his arm.”

Eskkar realized that one of the men facing him had his left arm in a sling. A few of Hathor’s commanders chuckled at the remark, and Eskkar saw the sheepish look of the man with the injured arm. Eskkar nodded in sympathy. Such accidents happened to everyone sooner or later. Men were thrown or fell from the horse, stepped on, scraped against trees and shrubs, and even bitten. Horses that would charge full speed into a battle might take fright at a blowing bush and either bolt or start bucking. Any such sudden motion could launch their unsuspecting rider through the air. And, of course, these things usually happened just when you thought you had the animal under your control.