battles would take place in the north, that no Akkadians would ever step foot on Larsa’s countryside. Now they knew that Shulgi had failed to deliver on his promised protection. Few would be resting comfortably in Larsa tonight, despite Razrek’s reinforcements.
Below the farmhouse, Eskkar saw the orderly preparations of his men. They were ready for the coming battle, and as yet they had no doubts of success. Most of the soldiers believed in Eskkar’s good fortune, his ability to snatch victory from any desperate encounter no matter what the odds. That belief had served him well, but it needed only one setback to shatter the aura of invincibility and luck they all believed in.
No sense worrying about defeat now, Eskkar resolved. He considered descending the roof and helping organize the men, but decided not to. Gatus and the others knew what needed to be done. Instead, Eskkar stretched out, flung his arm over his face, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t as tired as most of his men, and the sun still shone brightly down on the land. Still he knew he needed to get as much rest as he could, because there would be no sleep for him tonight. Despite the noise and bustle surrounding the farmhouse, he fell asleep, hoping his luck would hold for one more day.
Inside the city of Larsa, late afternoon
A spy should not be such a pathetic creature. At least that’s what Dragan told himself often enough. Still, being a cripple made him beneath notice, almost invisible, and today of all days he needed that. Dragan eased his way through the crowded lanes, trying to keep his balance, until he reached a nook where two huts joined and he could watch Larsa’s main gate without getting trampled on. Nearly every step he took brought a burning pain that traveled the length of his right leg and up his back. The faster Dragan tried to move, the worse the spasm, almost as bad as those times when he stumbled and fell, or someone bumped into him and upset his balance.
Most days he managed to control the affliction, but today’s hurried movements made his leg hurt even more than usual, and he forced himself to ignore the searing agony. Instead, he studied the crowd of people congregating near the gate. In the last two days, farmers and herders filled the city, bringing their families and even their animals. They had all abandoned their homes and sought refuge within Larsa’s walls, desperate to avoid the dreaded Akkadians rumored to be coming toward them.
Larsa had never held so many people before. Two days ago Razrek and his eight hundred haughty horse fighters had arrived, bringing word of King Eskkar’s rapid approach. The Sumerian cavalry filled the city, most of them drunk within moments of stabling their horses, often within the homes of the inhabitants, who protested futilely to King Naran. The city’s guards, outnumbered by Razrek’s men, could do nothing to stop the drunkenness, fighting and the assaults on Larsa’s women, which often took place in the lanes while the crowd watched.
The Sumerian horsemen turned into gangs of heavily armed men who roamed the city and knocked down anyone who tried to stand in their way. At least a dozen men had died, killed for one reason or another by the Sumerians, and their murderers remained unavenged.
With the addition of those fleeing the countryside, the city’s normal routine had collapsed, unable to sustain such numbers. Boisterous soldiers filled the shops and common areas, while their horses, causing almost as much trouble as their riders, were stabled in the marketplace and every open area. No one tried, or could, restrain Razrek’s Sumerians. Larsa’s regular guards refused to leave their barracks, and not even King Naran in his fine house could keep Razrek’s men in check, even assuming he had the slightest interest in doing so.
Dragan cared nothing about Larsa’s discomforts. He leaned against the house wall and took the weight off his leg, easing the pain somewhat. A hundred paces away, the big gates that sealed Larsa’s main entrance began to close, a dozen men straining to push the thick beams into position. One last handful of people, screaming in fright at the thought of finding themselves locked out and left to the mercy of the Akkadians, squirmed through the narrowing opening, to fall to the ground exhausted.
But the two parts of the gate joined at last, and the gatekeepers grunted under the effort to bar the entry. Two good-sized logs rose into the air, hefted upward by more than a dozen arms, and were dropped into place, the men breathing heavily from the effort. The head gatekeeper then hammered the four wooden blocks into place, jamming the restraining beams to prevent them from moving. Shut fast, Larsa awaited the coming attack of the Akkadians. They’d been promised that the relief forces of King Shulgi would soon arrive to destroy the invaders. But the king of the Sumerians had also promised that their city would never face the wrath of the Akkadians, led by the barbarian demon Eskkar. With the enemy without, and Razrek’s men within, no one in Larsa felt safe.
Satisfied with the security of the gates, its keepers returned to their posts within the watchtowers that rose up on either side of the entrance. Dragan waited until he was sure that nothing further would be done to seal the gate, then he straightened up, and limped painfully back to his home.
Between the press of the crowd and his leg, dusk had settled in by the time he reached the single-room dwelling that sheltered him and his brother, Ibi-sin.
“They closed the gate early. I could hear a few wretched people left outside, pleading to be let in.” Dragan sighed in relief as he let himself slip to the ground, extending his twisted right leg. Laying flat on the dirt floor gave him the most comfort. The tiny room held only a stool for furniture and a carrying box that contained their tools. A pile of moldy leather skins rested in a corner and, spread out on piece of hide, were the leather goods Dragan and Ibi-sin made and sold to stay alive — wrist straps, arm protectors for the archers, rings, laces, and plaited leather bands to hold back a man or woman’s hair, and a few other trinkets.
“Nothing more, just closed it?” Ibi-sin sank onto the stool. A leather patch covered his left eye. Almost three years ago, a horse fighter from Larsa had smashed the eye into jelly with the hilt of his sword, and Ibi-sin kept it covered to keep out the dust. A fleck of dirt lodged in the eye caused great irritation, and required immediate washing to hold down the pain.
“Just closed it, thank the gods. At least they didn’t nail it shut. Now we just have to wait until the Akkadians come.”
“Either tonight or tomorrow. They won’t dare to wait any longer.” Ibi-sin lowered his voice even more. “Then we’ll have our revenge.”
“Perhaps. If the gods approve.” Dragan glanced at the open door to the house, covered only by a ragged blanket. “You’ll have to go out and listen for the signal.”
“I’ll go now. It feels good to be doing something at last, after so long.”
“Be careful, little brother,” Dragan said.
He watched his brother leave, the blanket swaying from his passage. One of them always remained in the room, to guard against thieves who might slip in and steal anything they could get their hands on. In this poorer section of Larsa, none of the dwellings boasted a door, and each owner or tenant made sure a wife or child stood guard over their property every day.
Fortunately, their poverty and wretched existence provided a measure of protection from the Sumerian horsemen, who would otherwise have pushed their way in and taken whatever they wished. Razrek’s men wanted women, ale or gold, not humbly made leather trinkets.
Just as the raiders had done to his family’s farm, Dragan remembered. Almost four years ago, soldiers from Larsa had ridden across the Sippar and pushed north, looting farms and murdering their inhabitants. The evil raids had continued until King Eskkar drove them back across the river.
But by then, Dragan’s mother and father were dead, his two sisters raped and carried off to some unknown fate. Ibi-sin had been knocked unconscious, which had saved his life even though it cost him an eye. Dragan had tried to run, but one of Larsa’s archers put a shaft into his leg. Dragan managed to crawl into the wheat field and hide in the tall stalks, and fortunately the archer had no interest in following after his wounded victim, not when women and loot waited for the taking. Dragan had passed out from loss of blood, and Ibi-sin, holding a bloody rag over his face, had finally found him half a day after the raiders had departed.
Both brothers had nearly died, but next day, after the raiders had gone, their uncle, who had a nearby farm, arrived and managed to nurse them back to health. But with so many mouths to feed, the injured brothers could only impose on their kinsmen for so long. Their uncle, with his crops and house destroyed, decided to move north, to a farm given him by the Akkadians. At any rate, he had little extra food to share with two cripples. As soon as the brothers could walk, like many others whose families had been murdered or driven off, they plodded north to Akkad. It took them almost a month to make the painful journey.
Dragan and Ibi-sin found Akkad crowded with other refugees from the south, as well as those seeking something beyond long hours laboring on their families’ farm. Since the brothers’ wounds prevented them from doing manual labor, they became beggars in the lane, pleading with passersby for food.
Then one day a woman had stopped before their begging bowl, looking them over before she dropped a
