a small valley.
His captors had led their prisoners through the camp, until they reached their destination, a large tent set somewhat apart from the others. Razrek caught the word “ sarum ”, which he knew meant king or leader, before the warriors bound his hands and pushed him to his knees, along with his men. When Razrek protested, a fist had hammered into his face, knocking him to ground.
“Keep silent, dog,” the warrior said, “or I’ll cut out your tongue.”
Razrek had no doubt that the man meant what he said. Razrek clamped his lips shut. He should never have let Shulgi talk him into this meeting.
Voices that rose and fell came from the big tent. Several warriors were having a heated discussion within, and Razrek felt certain it concerned him. The arguing went on and on, and the pain from Razrek’s knees began to hurt worse than his hands.
At long last the tent flap jerked aside, and four clan chiefs, including Rethnar, came out. The three warriors guarding the tent followed behind. Not that they were needed, Razrek decided. The clan leaders appeared as hard and powerful as any of the warriors they commanded.
One warrior wore a copper pendant, much larger than those of his companions, on his chest. That would be the emblem of the Alur Meriki, the sacred medallion that identified their leader, Thutmose-sin. The leader of the clans stopped two paces away and stared down for a long moment at his prisoners. About forty years old, he stood taller than any of his commanders, and every muscle on his body might have been chiseled from stone. An odd, circular scar marked his forehead, just above his right eye. The rest of his face was untouched, though there were scars enough on his arms and chest to attest to his fighting strength.
The other three men ranged themselves alongside their leader, who folded his arms across his chest. Thutmose-sin gave Razrek’s men little more than a dismissive glance, but took his time studying the Sumerian leader.
“You are the one called Razrek.”
A statement, not a question. Razrek found his mouth dry, and had to swallow before he could answer. “Yes, Sarum. My name is Razrek, and I’ve been — ”
“You’ve been sent by the leader of the village called Sumer. You wish to wage war against the village of Orak, now called Akkad, and you want us to join you in your fight. Why? Are you not strong enough to fight your own battles?”
Razrek knew better than to answer that question either yes or no. “My Lord… Sarum… the people of Sumeria are determined to fight Eskkar of Akkad, who is your own sworn enemy. My king wishes to offer the mighty Alur Meriki a chance to join in the spoils of battle. Akkad is a rich land with much gold and silver, large herds, and thousands of possible slaves. Is not the enemy of my enemy my friend?”
The saying meant the same to the barbarians as to the tribes of the desert.
“The Alur Meriki will fight their enemies at a time of our own choosing,” Thutmose-sin said. “For dirt-eaters to suggest that we fight alongside them is an insult to our honor.”
“Sarum, I mean no such thing. I spoke as one warrior to another…”
Rethnar took a step forward and kicked Razrek in the chest. The savage blow knocked the breath from his body, and he toppled over.
“Do not dare to compare yourself to true warriors,” Rethnar shouted, his face red with anger.
Razrek twisted his body upright, and managed to get back on his knees, gulping air into his lungs. If he were going to die, he didn’t intend to grovel before these barbarians. “Untie my hands and give me a sword,” he said, “and we’ll see who is a warrior and who is a coward!”
Rethnar reached for his sword.
“Hold your anger, Rethnar,” Thutmose-sin commanded, his hand staying his companion. “He is only a dirt- eater seeking a quick death. Do not give him what he wants.”
“We did agree to meet with these Sumerians,” another man said. He was the oldest of the four clan leaders, probably approaching his fiftieth year. “We should hear his words. We can always kill him later.”
“As always, Urgo, you give good counsel,” Thutmose-sin agreed. “Bring this one into my tent. We will hear what he has to say. Give him some water. It seems his mouth is dry.”
The guards untied his hands and handed him a water skin. They kept him on his knees while he drank, but that was expected. No warrior, let alone their Sarum, could admit treating a dirt-eater as an equal.
Inside the tent, the guard pushed Razrek back on his knees before leaving. The Sumerian found himself facing the four clan leaders. He explained his purpose for visiting. A war was coming, a mighty conflict with many thousands of men on each side. The purpose of this war was to crush Akkad into the dust, to leave no stone of the accursed city standing atop another. The forces of Akkad, led by Eskkar, would find themselves arrayed against the might of all the cities of Sumeria. The Akkadians would be forced to leave their walled city and march south, to face the army of Sumer. That would leave the city almost undefended, its walls guarded by old men, women and children. The time would be ripe to pluck the city.
Razrek spoke until his voice gave out. They gave him more water, and he went on. Razrek told them he would have brave men inside the enemy’s city, men who would lower ropes for the Alur Meriki to scale the walls. Once inside, the city’s inhabitants would be no match for the fury of the mighty Alur Meriki warriors. Finally, Razrek had nothing more to say. The faces of his captors revealed nothing about what they felt.
“Take him outside,” Thutmose-sin ordered.
Razrek bowed. In his chest, he felt relief. At least the Sarum hadn’t ordered him to be tortured. Not yet.
T hutmose-sin waited until the guards dragged Razrek out. The four commanders of the Alur Meriki shifted to face each other, sitting cross-legged on the thick blanket with only a small space separating them. Thutmose-sin looked at each man in turn. “Tell us what you think, Urgo.”
The oldest clan leader shook his head. “We should not get involved in the affairs of dirt-eaters. Akkad is too strong for us to challenge for now. In another five or seven years when we have recovered our strength, then it will be different.”
“This is our best chance to attack Akkad,” Rethnar said, his voice harsh in the tent’s confines. “We need to take our revenge now, before the accursed dirt-eaters grow even more numerous. Our blood stains the ground around their filthy walls and cries out for vengeance.” He fingered the scar on his cheek. An Akkadian arrow had torn his mouth and cheek open during the final battle. “If fighting on the side of these Sumerians gets us over the walls, so much the better.”
“We can afford to wait,” Urgo replied. “Each year more of our young men become warriors. If we strike now, if we rely on these Sumerians, we may risk more than we can gain.”
“If you’re afraid…”
Thutmose-sin held up his hand to stop Rethnar’s hot words. “No one here is afraid. But we must do what is best for our clan.” He turned to the other commander, by far the youngest of the group. “What course would you choose, Bar’rack?”
“My blood cries out for vengeance against Eskkar and his dirt-eaters. My brother lies dead and unburied in some nameless ground, ambushed by the renegade Eskkar and the cowardly Ur Nammu. Since that day, I’ve sworn to take Eskkar’s head from his shoulders. But, like Urgo, I do not think we should let ourselves be used by these Sumerians.”
Rethnar swore under his breath. “Our warriors cry out for revenge, and none of you want to fight. The young men think their leaders are weak, unwilling to fight. When they learn that we have let slip an opportunity to strike Akkad, they will burn with fury.” He set his gaze on Thutmose-sin. “What do you say, sarum?”
Thutmose-sin ignored the hint of insult in the use of his title. There was already too much bad blood between Rethnar and himself, fanned to a red-hot heat since the defeat at Akkad’s walls. Rethnar was right about one thing. Word of this offer of alliance would get out. Rethnar would be the first to tell every member of his clan.
“I, too, want to see the renegade Eskkar killed.” Thutmose-sin touched the scar on his forehead. “I fought him the night he burned the wagons, and would have killed him if my sword had not shattered. One more stroke.” He shook his head at the grim memory.
“In the years since that battle, we have added hundreds of warriors. But Akkad has grown by thousands, and we know they have learned from Eskkar the way of a warrior. They are no longer simple villagers who can be swept aside. They’ve trained themselves to fight with bow and sword and lance. Even if we get into the city, the fighting will be fierce. If we attempt this, we would need to send every warrior we have into the battle. Anything less will
