strength on the widest drum the Akkadians carried, then a long pause before the drummer repeated the same five beats. Each stroke on the drum brought forth a powerful boom that echoed through the twilight, loud enough to carry all the way to the city’s walls. That sound would be heard through Larsa, and men there would ponder its meaning. Eskkar intended to keep the drum going until the assault began.
Meanwhile, the commanders positioned the troops, checking their equipment to make sure no man forgot his sword or second quiver of arrows, which had already happened enough times when the men got excited. Once in training a spearman had forgotten his tunic, and Gatus insisted he stay naked all day.
At last Eskkar moved to where his force of men were assembled, and nodded in satisfaction. The battle for Larsa had begun.
I bi-sin returned to the hut. His brother sat at the back of the chamber, waiting. “They gave the signal.”
Dragan nodded, the movement unseen in the dark. “I heard it even here. Watch the door while I dig.”
He took his time, making as little noise as possible. Now would not be the time to alert any neighbors or soldiers passing by. It was slow work, as the three sacks were buried deep and the weight of their bodies had packed down the earth firmly over the months, but eventually Dragan pried loose the first sack from the earth and handed it to Ibi-sin.
The next two took longer, as they were much bulkier and heavy. But at last all three had been removed from where they’d been buried for so long The knives were removed from one sack and unwrapped from their covering cloths. Ibi-sin loosened the simple fastening on the other two, but didn’t open them. Each contained a thick rope, knotted at every arm length, and long enough to stretch twenty paces. The section of the wall they had chosen wasn’t that high, but the rope needed to be fastened securely across the parapet.
Dragan put his arm on his brother’s shoulder. “My heart is racing, Ibisin.”
“I know. Mine too. I’m afraid. Not of dying, but of failing.”
“We won’t fail, brother.”
“Now we just have to wait.”
“It won’t be long. King Eskkar moves quickly against his enemies.”
T he brothers sat in the darkness of their hut, waiting. Outside the city’s walls, the Akkadian army was on the march toward Larsa, its dark mass illuminated only by the moon and a few torches that bobbed about in the slight breeze. The entire force — or so it appeared to the nervous sentries on the walls — moved across the main entrance to Larsa and marched toward the south side of the city’s wall.
Larsa’s defenders moved with them, shifting most of their men to the southern wall, to prepare for the Akkadian assault. Weapons were readied, torches lit along the wall, as men pushed and shoved their way into position driven by their cursing commanders. Beneath the parapets, the city’s inhabitants shouted or wailed, everyone in dread of the coming attack.
Outside the city, Gatus directed the men toward the southern gate, one of the three entrances into Larsa. A hundred soldiers carried the same number of torches, delivered by Yavtar’s boats. One by one, each torch was lighted, until they all burned in the night, illuminating the Akkadian army as it moved into its attack position. The Akkadian archers halted first, stopping just out of effective range of the archers on the city’s walls.
Mitrac lined up two hundred of his archers. Behind them, more bowmen waited their turn, and behind them, pots of the oil that burns were opened and made ready for use. The torches were driven into the ground, one between every pair of archers. The fire-arrows were laid out in easy access.
Each fire-arrow had been carefully crafted in Akkad. A bit longer than the usual shafts, the extra distance between the point and the bow was wrapped tightly with thin cloth wound over and over, and then fastened tightly with threads. The many layers of cloth would absorb the oil, sustaining the flame until it reached its target.
Alexar ranged his men to protect Mitrac’s bowmen, guarding their rear and flanks, and held other archers ready to replace any man killed or wounded by shafts from the wall. Mitrac strode up and down the line, directing the men where to aim. He had studied the maps Trella had created in Akkad, and knew the general layout of Larsa. More important, he knew the most likely locations where Razrek would be stabling his horses. Those places were to receive the bulk of the arrow storm.
“Ready the line.” He gave the command to start the battle. Men dipped the shafts in the oil and waited a few moments to let the thick liquid soak into the cotton, then stepped forward to where the torches waited. “Light your shafts! Shoot!”
Two hundred shafts flew up into the night, fleeting flecks of flame marking their flight. Almost every shaft carried over the walls, to land where the gods directed. Larsa’s wall stood crowded with men, its archers firing back at the Akkadians. But the range was great, and for this work Mitrac had selected his strongest bowmen using the most powerful bows.
A second volley flew up into the night, then a third. Mitrac didn’t try to keep the volley shooting. Better to let the men take plenty of care with the oil and fire, and shoot whenever they were ready. Mitrac had eight thousand arrows ready, but he didn’t plan on using them all. Thirty arrows per man — or six thousand flaming arrows — should be enough to put Larsa to the torch.
F rom the wall, Razrek watched the arrows arching over his head. While in flight, they showed only the slightest trace of light, but when they struck something, they turned into a finger of flame that licked at anything within reach. Many burned out uselessly, striking mud walls or the dirt of the lanes. Others were snatched up and smothered by those standing nearby. Still, plenty burned long enough to set something alight.
Damn these Akkadians and their barbarian king! Razrek hadn’t expected fire-arrows, and no one had expected a night attack, especially tonight. Eskkar’s men should be exhausted by the long march, besides being short on food and sleep. They were supposed to attack tomorrow, at dawn or during the day. Not tonight, tomorrow. Half of Razrek’s men had to be rounded up from the ale houses and brothels.
Mattaki stood beside his commander, shifting from one foot to the other in his excitement. Once Mattaki realized his cavalry wasn’t going to slow down the Akkadians, he had ridden on ahead, to warn Razrek. “They’re shooting hundreds of arrows at us! Where did they get so many?”
“Thousands, not hundreds,” Razrek corrected. “All brought downriver by those miserable boats, Marduk curse them all! Why didn’t Shulgi stop them?”
Those ships made the attack possible, Sondar realized. They must have carried the fire-arrows, the oil, even the ladders he could see out there, as well as the food that gave the Akkadians strength for tonight’s attack.
“The city is going to burn,” Mattaki said. “Those arrows will set enough fires…”
“Let the city burn. The walls will remain upright.”
Another of Razrek’s men dashed up the steps to the parapet. “Razrek, the Akkadians are targeting the marketplace, the stables, everyplace we’ve put the horses! They’ve killed dozens already, and the rest are panicking, out of control! The fires are driving them wild with fear!”
With a start, Razrek realized the implications. A good horse was more valuable than any fighter. Without the horses, there would be no escape from those cursed Akkadians if they ever got over the walls.
“Get the horses inside the huts. Make sure they’ve got something over their heads to protect them. Throw people out of their houses if you have to!”
Even as Razrek gave the order, he knew it wouldn’t work. Dragging a skittish horse into a hut through a low doorway wasn’t an easy task. The houses were burning, too. While most of the city was made from mud bricks, all the roofs and awnings were wood, usually bundles of sticks, or wrapped cloth stretched over the open roofs. All dried to the bone by a long summer of blazing sun. King Naran had done nothing to prepare for a fire attack. No water jars stood ready to put out fires, no piles of dirt to smother flames, no lines of women and children helping to fight the blaze. Larsa was going to burn, all right.
King Naran rushed up the steps, a sword at his hip and a gleaming bronze helmet on his head. “Razrek! Do something! Have your men put out the fires before the city burns to the ground.”
“No. We’ve got to keep the men on the walls. The Akkadians are waiting for us to weaken our strength. Then they’ll rush the walls.”
“But we’ll have nothing left, nothing.”
Razrek grabbed the King and pushed him to the wall. “Look out there, you fool! See those spearmen with ladders. They’ll be coming soon enough. If you want to fight the fires, use your own men. Smother all the fires! Get your women and children to work carrying water!”
He glanced back at the Akkadians, moving and shifting behind the lines of archers. From what he could see, the entire force was mustered before the south wall. They would be coming soon enough.
