Quest for Honour (76 page)

He stopped two paces away and stared down at Larsa’s king for a
moment. “I wanted you to know your city is in ruins, Naran. It will be many, many years before anyone tries to build on this site again. Larsa will suffer the same fate that you plotted for Akkad.”

“What are you going to do with me?” The former ruler of Larsa looked haggard, his hair hanging limp on his shoulders. He’d soiled himself, probably more than once. His hands shook, and his lips quivered from fear. The fate of his city meant nothing to him now, only his own life.

“Do with you? Nothing. But your wives and children are going to Akkad. They’ll be slaves there for the rest of their lives, unless anyone bothers to ransom them. At least they’ll be alive.”

A gasp came from the women as they heard their fate, but no one cried out. They had emptied themselves of tears during the night.

“What about me?” Naran had to pause to get the words out. “You’ve taken all my gold. There’s nothing left here to pay a ransom, but my sons might be able to raise enough.”

Eskkar ignored the words. Naran had two grown sons, no doubt leading Larsa’s contingent under Shulgi. Instead, Eskkar glanced behind him to where Drakis, who had stopped just outside the chamber, waited. “Come in, Drakis, and bring our friends. I want them to meet Naran, king of Larsa.” He turned to Naran. “Do you know these two men?”

Naran squinted at the two poorly dressed men who shuffled slowly into the room. “No, I’ve never seen them.”

“This is Dragan and his brother Ibi-sin. Come closer. Naran can’t hurt you now.”

The two stepped forward, one limping, his hand on the other’s arm for support.

“These men are the ones who risked their lives to lower ropes to my men. Without their help, I might not have gotten inside Larsa so easily. I told them to help themselves to whatever they wanted from your gold, but they said they wanted only one thing. Best you tell him, Dragan.”

Still leaning on his brother’s arm, Dragan moved closer. “Your men killed my family, King Naran. One of your sons led the raid. Ten days ago, I watched him leave the city. He rode proudly to fight with King Shulgi’s army, but I will pray to the gods that King Eskkar kills him in battle. Your men raped and killed my sisters, murdered our parents, blinded Ibi-sin in one eye, and wounded me in the leg so badly that to this day I cannot walk without pain. They did all this to us for no reason. We were farmers, without any weapons. We had done no harm to anyone. When King
Eskkar asked me what I wanted, I told him I wanted you, so that I could take my revenge for my family.”

Naran’s eyes had widened in horror at Dragan’s words.

“And I told Dragan he could have you, Naran,” Eskkar added. “Since I first came to Akkad years ago, I’ve heard many such tales, how you sent your riders north across the Sippar time after time, to kill and loot those who placed themselves under my protection. You should have surrendered your city yesterday when I gave you the chance. I would have kept my word, would have let you go. But this is better. Your death will be a warning to the other kings of Sumeria. They will hear of Larsa’s fall and your death at the hands of those you murdered. They will learn to stay south of the river.”

“No, please . . . King Eskkar, please spare my life. I have relatives in Sumer . . . they can pay . . .”

“Too late for that, Naran.” Eskkar called to the guards outside. “Take the women to the docks. Give them to Yavtar. A boat will be leaving as soon as it’s dark.”

The room erupted in screaming and wailing. Naran fell to the floor, his hands outstretched, his eyes wide with fright. The waiting guards had already prepared ropes, and they quickly bound the crying women, and led them away. When they were gone, Naran looked around at the empty room, his eyes wide, as if searching for his followers, his possessions, anything that might save him. He lifted his head, tears streaming down his face, and held up his bound hands piteously. “Mercy, King Eskkar! I plead for my life. I can raise more gold. I will pay whatever ransom you wish.”

Eskkar didn’t bother to reply. He turned to the brothers. “He’s yours, Dragan, Ibi-sin. But you must not take too long. Yavtar’s boat will be leaving soon, and you must be at the docks so you can return to Akkad.”

Dragan shrugged off his brother’s arm. “It will not take long.” He drew his knife from his belt. “Come, Ibi-sin. You may strike first.” Holding onto his brother’s arm, they stepped forward together.

As Eskkar left the chamber, the first scream erupted behind him. He touched Drakis’s arm. “Stay with them. When they’re finished, make sure Naran is dead, and bring me his head. Then give Dragan and his brother two sacks of gold, and get them to the boat.”

Outside, the sun was touching the western horizon. A hundred prisoners sat on the ground in the fading light, awaiting the command to destroy Naran’s house. Exhaustion and despair covered every face, and
they barely raised their eyes at the sight of the Akkadian king. An equal number of soldiers guarded them.

“There are three men still inside. As soon as they come out, destroy the Compound. Leave nothing standing, and burn everything. He saw the two large pots of oil that the prisoners had prepared.

Eskkar gazed about him in satisfaction. Naran and his fine house would soon be turned into rubble, like the rest of Larsa. Now it was time to go. He strode through the Compound’s gate. After a short walk through the debris that filled the lane, he reached the main gate. Fifty of Alexar’s men waited there, guarding about a hundred slaves.

“Tear down the gates. Feed them to the fire.”

With his guards, Eskkar walked one last time through the ruined city, trying to ignore the stench of death and dust that lingered everywhere. The docks were a frenzied scene of chaos and confusion. Slaves were busy tearing them apart, piling the wood up for yet one more gigantic bonfire. The last pots of oil in Larsa would feed those flames.

Eskkar watched the final preparations. Most of his men had already crossed the river, and by now were busy setting up camp. With a loud snapping sound, the river gates came crashing down, and men with axes broke the logs apart, hewing through the ropes and staves that held the logs together. Soon those logs were added to the growing piles of what remained of the dock, and flames again leaped and twisted high into the sky.

One of Drakis’s men arrived, escorting Dragan and Ibi-sin. Their hands were clean – no doubt washed in Naran’s well – but blood still clung to their clothing. They would travel north on the same boat that held Naran’s women. With all the gold Eskkar had given them, they’d never have to work again.

“When you reach Akkad,” Eskkar said, “tell Trella everything that happened. She will make sure you are taken care of.”

He wasn’t sure that Dragan even heard him. But the brothers climbed into the boat, each clutching a sack to their body. They’d help row the craft upriver, and that would take their minds off the horror they had left behind.

From within the city, fresh flames climbed into the darkening sky, and Eskkar knew the two other gates had been set afire. Two hundred slaves who had helped destroy the last of Larsa were marched up, and the final embarkation began. Eskkar planned to bring them across the river. Boats
were waiting for them, and soon prisoners and their guards were ferrying across the darkening water. The rest of the prisoners were abandoned, left to fend for themselves as best they could among the wreckage of the city.

With Grond, Eskkar boarded the last boat. They put off from the dock, but a rope held them a few paces from the riverbank. He watched his men tear up the remaining dock, then saturate everything with the oil. They scrambled through the water, and the last man tossed a torch onto the dock. It erupted in flame, a wave of fire sweeping back to the inferno that had marked the remains of the gate.

The man swam to the ship and waiting hands pulled him aboard. The captain gave the order, the rope was slipped from its fastening and hauled aboard. The boat swung with the current for a moment, then the men worked the oars, and the vessel began its journey across the Tigris.

Eskkar remained in the stern, facing the gathering dusk and watching Larsa burn. This was war, war the way barbarians waged it. Devastation, destruction and terror. Larsa would likely never be rebuilt, and when men sailed the river or led caravans past the ruins, they would tell the tale of the city’s destruction, as a penalty for bringing war to Akkad’s lands. He hoped the lesson would linger for a hundred years, but Eskkar knew how quickly men can forget.

Nevertheless, when Shulgi arrived, he would find nothing useful, not even a roof to cover his head. Meanwhile, thousands of people roamed the land begging for something to eat. All the crops in the nearby fields had been burned. No food, weapons, supplies of any kind remained in the ruins. The dead – hundreds of bodies – had been dumped in the city’s wells. They would poison the water for months, maybe longer. The city’s gold and valuables would travel to Akkad. Trella would sell them, to help pay for the war.

Larsa had ceased to exist. No one would organize raids to the north from this place again. Eskkar nodded in satisfaction and turned to the west. Tomorrow would be the sixth day, and then there would be only six more days remaining to defeat Shulgi’s army. Until today, he hadn’t spared much thought for Hathor. He wondered how his horse commander was faring. Everything would now depend on him.

Day 6

S
hulgi, Razrek, Vanar and the rest of Sumer’s commanders rode up to what was left of Larsa’s wall, two hundred horsemen following behind and another hundred leading the way, all of them alert for any possibility of an ambush. The sun drifted down toward the horizon in the west, but Shulgi wanted to see the damage for himself before it grew dark. The rest of his army remained half a day’s march behind, and wouldn’t arrive at Larsa until midday tomorrow.

A rage burned in Shulgi’s chest at the sight of Larsa’s devastation. The stench of death mixed with the acrid smell of burnt wood. Uncountable flies buzzed about, feasting on the rotting flesh of men and animals. Shulgi wanted to rail at Razrek once again, but he had already done that, bitterly accusing the cavalry commander of cowardice and of failing to defend Larsa. The two had nearly come to blows, and Shulgi knew he couldn’t afford that luxury yet. He still needed Razrek and his horsemen.

“They’re still across the river,” Razrek remarked, breaking the silence that lasted far too long.

Shulgi didn’t answer, but he lifted his eyes from the smoking ruins. On the other side of the Tigris, part of the Akkadian camp showed atop the bluff. No death odors up there, only clean breezes blowing off the river. At the base, more than a dozen boats lined the west bank. The camp looked peaceful. No ranks of warriors, no line of sentries stared at the riders approaching Larsa. The Akkadians didn’t care about Shulgi’s army, at
least not today. All the Sumerians understood the humiliating situation. King Shulgi’s men had no way to cross the river.

Larsa had always boasted the easiest crossing for miles in either direction. That’s why the city had sprung up here, to take advantage of the easy crossing. But while its current might flow slowly, the Tigris remained too wide and deep for horses or men to swim across. Boats and rafts would be needed to get the soldiers and supplies across, and any crossing would be vulnerable to attack until enough soldiers were established on the far side.

“I can ride north.” Razrek’s voice seemed loud in the stillness that hung over Shulgi’s commanders. “There’s a village ten or twelve miles from here where we can get some horsemen over.”

“No. We’ll cross here.” Shulgi had already made his decision. “Have the men scour the countryside. We’ll build the rafts just above Larsa.”

“Why cross the river at all? We can reach Sumer just as quickly from this side of the river.”

“If we want to close with Eskkar, we need to cross here.”

“The Akkadians will stop us. From those bluffs, they could pour arrows down on us.”

“They won’t be here to stop us,” Shulgi said. “They haven’t bothered to establish outposts or watchtowers. I think they’ll soon be on the march once again, tomorrow or the next day.”

“Heading to Sumer.”

Shulgi’s advance force had encountered dozens of naked survivors, most of them women and children, and all of them exhausted, hungry, and full of despair. The Akkadians had driven them out of the city with nothing, and the dazed inhabitants had begged Shulgi’s men for food and water. Eskkar’s men had poisoned every well with dead bodies, man and beast, that now rotted in the warm water.

Shulgi understood the trap Eskkar had set for him. If he ignored the wretched survivors, left them to starve, his troops would begin muttering against him. If he ordered his men to share their own meager food with them, his soldiers would be forced to do with less, and his entire army would be slowed down in the process. Gritting his teeth, Shulgi acceded to the need to share his supplies.

Almost all who had survived the city’s fall repeated that the Akkadians planned to march on Sumer. Shulgi wasn’t so sure. The further south Eskkar went, the greater the danger to the Akkadians increased. Even if he
reached Sumer, the city wasn’t likely to fall overnight, like Larsa. Shulgi had already dispatched a company of horsemen to warn Kushanna that the Akkadian army might be on the march toward them and to take extra precautions. And with every step farther southward, the Akkadian supply line would be stretched thinner and thinner. Shulgi already had men working to stop the infernal boats that carried men and supplies to Eskkar’s forces.