three days, trying to avoid this situation. “Did the slave say how many were in the village?”
“No, Thutmose — sin. I will find out.”
“Then I leave you to your task, Rethnar.” The remaining villagers would be hiding under their beds or in holes dug beneath their huts. It would take a few hours to find them all.
Thutmose — sin dismounted and stepped over to the well. One of his men brought up a bucket of fresh water and Thutmose — sin drank his fill, then washed the dust from his face and hands. He dismissed most of his guards, so they could join in the looting. They wouldn’t be needed here.
With only three men, he began to explore. Thutmose — sin entered several of the larger houses, curious to see what they contained and how the people lived. He did the same at a half dozen shops. Signs of their owners’ hasty departures abounded, from half — eaten meals to the goods still displayed for sale on carts or pushed indoors before the owners fled.
Taking his time, he examined the leather belts, linens, sandals, and pottery scattered about. He even ducked into an alehouse, but the sour stench made him move on.
Choosing another lane, Thutmose- sin wondered how the dirt-eaters could live behind walls of mud that blocked out the wind and sky, while surrounded by the stench and fi lth of hundreds of others as dirty as one’s self. A true warrior lived free and proud, unfettered to any particular place, and took what he needed or wanted with his sword.
A larger house, nearly hidden behind a wall, caught his eye. He pushed open the wooden gate. Instead of the usual garden, he found a smith’s shop, with two forges, a bellows, and three different — sized cooling pots.
Half — mended farm implements lay on the ground or on the empty benches.
But nearly half the workspace held tools for making weapons. Clay molds for swords and daggers leaned against the garden wall. Sharpening and finishing stones fi lled a shelf, and a large block of wood, nicked and hacked, showed where the swordsmith tested his new blades. The craftsman had taken his tools with him, of course, or hidden them someplace. Weapons and tools could be as valuable as horses. The blacksmith would have made a useful slave, but so important a laborer would have crossed the river at the first warning.
The smith must be a master craftsman to have such a large house. The thought gave him no pleasure. The best bronze weapons the Alur Meriki carried came from large villages like this one. He hated the fact that village smiths could create such fine weapons with apparent ease. Swords, daggers, lance and arrow points, all could be made here, and better than his own people could make.
Not that his clansmen didn’t know the mysteries of bronze and copper.
But their smaller, portable forges couldn’t match the quality or resources of a large village. Forging a strong bronze sword required care and time, two luxuries his people didn’t have, living in permanent migration.
Few warriors among his people cared about the dirt — eaters’ ways, but Thutmose — sin had a wise father, who taught him the mysteries of life. Of all the many sons of Maskim — Xul, only Thutmose — sin had been born at the fullness of the moon, the birthing time for those to whom the gods gave extraordinary perception and cunning. By the time Thutmose — sin came of age, his father had appended the rare sin to his name, to signify his wisdom and judgment.
Thutmose — sin understood the importance of learning about his enemies. The dirt — eaters harbored a threat even to the Alur Meriki, something his father understood well. Everyone else in the clan would have scoffed at the thought of the soft villagers competing with them. To the warriors, an enemy was some other rival steppes tribe they might encounter in their wanderings. The pathetic dirt — eaters possessed few fighters and even fewer skilled horsemen. Any of his fighters, stronger, taller, and trained in fighting and horsemanship at an early age, could kill three or more dirt — eaters in battle without difficulty.
No, the dirt — eaters didn’t know the arts of war, nor could they ever become strong fighters. But they possessed another weapon deadlier than any bow or lance: the food they coaxed out of the ground. The food that allowed them to multiply like ants, without having to hunt or fight for their nourishment. The more food they took from the earth, the more they multiplied. And some day, there might be so many of them that even the Alur Meriki could not kill them all.
That day must never come, Thutmose — sin vowed. His father grew old and soon would have to pass on the authority he had wielded for so long.
On that day, Thutmose — sin, already the favorite of the clan’s elder council, would rule the Alur Meriki. It would be his responsibility to make sure the clan grew and prospered as it always had, by conquest and pillage. He would not fail in his duty.
Hours passed before he returned to the marketplace. Warriors and their captives filled the area. Most of the crying had ceased. The new slaves knelt in the dirt, crowded together, shoulder to shoulder. The stink of their fear overpowered even the five- day — old horse smell of the warriors. He found Rethnar sitting on the ground, his back against the well, awaiting his leader’s return.
“Greetings, Rethnar. How many are there?”
“Two hundred and eighty — six taken alive, after we dug the last of them out of their burrows. Another seventy or eighty dead. More than enough for our needs. All the huts and fields have been searched. Not one tried to resist.”
“How many lived here?”
“Nearly a thousand dirt — eaters, living in this filth,” Rethnar answered, a look of disgust on his face. “A few hours earlier and we could have captured another four or five hundred.”
“We’ll need horses with wings, then.” They’d ridden as hard as they could. “Did you get any horses?”
“No, not one. No doubt anyone with a horse rode south. There are some oxen still in the fields.”
Oxen had no value, not this far from the Alur Meriki’s encampment.
Thutmose — sin had hoped for at least a few horses. Extra horses could carry more booty back. He put the thought away. “Are you ready to begin?”
“Yes, Thutmose — sin. After we select our slaves, do we let the rest live?”
Rethnar fingered his sword.
Thutmose — sin smiled at the man’s anticipation. His second in command enjoyed killing. “No, not this time. Too many escaped us. Begin.”
Rethnar stood as he gave the orders. The warriors moved among the prisoners, selecting those unfit for work. At swordpoint, they separated the old, the young, the sick, and the infirm, driving them away from the original group. They pulled babies from their mothers’ hands, knocking the women down with their fists if they tried to resist. Two men struggled against the warriors and were cut down swiftly. Rethnar’s men wanted only those strong enough to endure what awaited them. The others, of no use, would die. Thutmose — sin had decreed it.
The culling went rapidly. Thutmose — sin watched as the warriors divided the dirt — eaters into two groups, his lips moving as he did his own count. Scarcely more than a hundred and forty would live.
When his men completed the division, Rethnar shouted the order and the killing began. Warriors moved methodically through those selected to die. Swords rose and fell. The smell of blood quickly saturated the air. Shouts and screams again echoed from the walls, as loved ones cried out to each other. The killing, efficient and swift, took little time.
Warriors found no glory in such slaughter. Few resisted. Three children tried to run, urged on by their helpless mothers, but the line of warriors held the victims in. Some called out to their gods, imploring Marduk or Ishtar to help them, but the false gods of the dirt — eaters had no power over the Alur Meriki.
When the carnage ended, Thutmose — sin mounted his horse and moved in front of those left alive, his guards standing before him, weapons in hand, as much to intimidate as to protect. Fresh tears streaked the terrified faces of both men and women. Silence quickly fell over the survivors as they looked up at this new warrior.
“I am Thutmose — sin of the Alur Meriki. My father, Maskim — Xul, rules all the clans of the Alur Meriki.” He spoke in his own language, even though he could speak the villagers’ dialect well enough. If the village had resisted, if some of them had fought bravely, he might have spoken to them directly. But to do so now would dishonor him. One of his men in-terpreted, speaking in a loud voice, so that everyone could hear their fate.
“In Maskim — Xul’s name, you are to be slaves of the Alur Meriki clan for the rest of your lives. You’ll work hard and you’ll obey every order. You will now learn what awaits those who disobey or try to run.”
He turned back to Rethnar. “Teach them.”
