Lion Detail from Babylon’s Ishtar Gate

Author wearing Conan The Barbarian’s body

Dawn Of Empire

by  Sam Barone

                                      Prologue
   
The eastern bank of the river Tigris, 3158 BCE…
   
   
    The village lay before him like a lamb trapped by a pack of wolves. Thutmose-sin halted his sweat-soaked horse on the crest of the hill, while his men formed up on each side. He surveyed the plain beneath him, taking in the crops in the fields and the irrigation canals that watered them. His eyes soon fixed on the village barely two miles away. There the Tigris curled sharply around the cluster of mud huts and tents that nestled against it. Today the river that brought the very sustenance of life to the dirt-eaters would be the obstacle that prevented their escape. 
    Those who hadn’t fled already, Thutmose-sin corrected himself. He had planned to catch the village by surprise, but word had preceded them, as it so often did. The warriors had ridden hard for five days with little sleep. Despite that effort, the dirt-eaters had received a few hours’ warning. News of his approach must have traveled down the river, faster than a man on a horse. Even now, Thutmose-sin could see a few small boats paddling frantically to the far side of the Tigris. Those lucky ones would use the river to elude the fate he had planned for them.
    His men had settled into place. Nearly three hundred warriors formed a single line across the hilltop, with Thutmose-sin at their center. Each man strung his bow, unslung his lance, and loosened the sword in his scabbard. They had done this so many times that now they spoke little and needed few commands, as they prepared themselves not for battle but for conquest. Only after the weapons were ready did they look to themselves. Every rider drank deeply from his water skin, then emptied what remained over the head and neck of his horse. There would be plenty of water for both man and beast in the village.
    His second-in-command, Rethnar, pulled up just behind him. “The men are ready, Thutmose-sin.” 
    The leader turned his head, saw the eagerness in Rethnar’s face, and smiled at the man’s excitement. Thutmose-sin looked left and right along the line, and saw that every tenth man had raised bow or lance into the air. The warriors were more than ready. Their reward for the days of hard riding awaited them. “Then let us begin.”
    With a touch of his heel to the horse’s ribs, Thutmose-sin started the descent, the men following his lead. They took their time negotiating the downslope. With fresh horses, they would have raced down the incline and covered the last two miles in an exuberant rush. But after five days of riding, no man wanted to risk a valuable but weary horse – not with the end of their journey so near.
    When they reached the plain, the line of horsemen became more ragged as the land flattened out. Small bands of riders detached themselves from the wings and began sweeping the countryside. They would search the outlying fields and scattered farmhouses, driving any inhabitants toward the village. 
    The main body of warriors cantered through fields of golden wheat and barley, Thutmose-sin at their head. They soon reached the broad, well-trodden path that led up to the village. Two minutes at a smooth gallop and they had passed the outermost dwellings.
    Now the youngest warriors on the freshest horses took the lead, their war cries ringing over the thudding of the horses’ hooves. They rode past a few scattered dirt-eaters, ignoring the screaming women, frightened men, and crying children. A rough wooden fence as tall as a man might have slowed them for a moment, but the crude gate stood open and undefended. The warriors swept through unopposed. 
    Thutmose-sin saw the first man die, as a warrior struck down with his sword at an old man stumbling in fear, trying to reach the safety of a hut. Arrows snapped from bows, striking down men and women caught in the open. The riders fanned out, some dismounting to search the huts, sword or lance in hand, looking for victims. Anyone who resisted would die, of course, but many would be killed just for the sport or to satisfy a thirst for blood. The rest would be spared. The Alur Meriki needed slaves, not bodies.
    Thutmose-sin ignored the clamor as he rode slowly through the village, the ten members of his personal guard now surrounding him in the narrow lane. He saw that a few of the dwellings stood two stories tall, a display of their owner’s wealth and prestige. Some houses hid behind high mud walls, while others had small gardens setting them back from the lane.
    He reached the gathering place at the heart of the village, a large open space with a wide stone well in its center. More than a dozen carts, their dirty linen awnings flapping in the light breeze, crowded the marketplace. A few still had their wares upon them, though all stood deserted. A rich village, as his scouts had promised. 
    After a pause to let the horses drink some water from the well, Thutmose-sin picked out a wider lane that led toward the rear of the village. They followed its path until they reached the river. Here he halted, then slid easily to the ground, handing the halter to one of his men. A wooden dock extended a dozen paces into the Tigris. Walking to the jetty’s end, he tightened the wide strip of blue cloth embroidered with red thread that held his hair away from his eyes. Then he stopped and stared at the opposite bank.
    Even at this fording place in midsummer, the Tigris reached nearly to the tops of its wide banks and flowed deeper than a man’s height in places. A ferry provided passage to the other side, but the abandoned craft sat on the opposite bank, along with three smaller vessels, all empty. He noticed that the flat-sided ferry rested at an odd angle. Some dirt-eaters must have opened its bottom. 
    On the opposite shore, the land rose steeply into a hillside dotted with date palms and poplars. Thutmose-sin could see hundreds of people moving frantically up those slopes, some leading animals, others carrying their meager belongings, men helping their women and children. Most followed a crooked road that climbed toward a gap between the nearest hills. Almost all stole quick glances back toward the river, terrified that the grim riders would pursue them. The cowardly dirt-eaters would run as far as they could, for as long as they could, then hide in the rocks and caves, shaking with fear and praying to their feeble gods for deliverance from the Alur Meriki.
    They’d slipped beyond his reach, and the knowledge enraged Thutmose-sin, though he kept his face emotionless. The tired horses didn’t have the strength to fight the current, let alone chase fleeing villagers, nor did they have the means to bring any captives or goods back to this side of the river.
    He hated the Tigris, hated all rivers almost as much as he hated the dirt-eaters who dwelt beside them. The rivers with their boats that could travel farther and faster than a galloping horse while carrying men and their burdens. More important, the flowing waters gave life to villages – abominations - such as this, and let them grow large and prosperous. 
    Thutmose-sin took a deep breath, then walked back up the jetty. Nothing showed of his disappointment. Thutmose-sin swung back onto his horse and led his bodyguards back into the village, where the captives’ laments rose to greet him. When he reached the well, Rethnar was waiting.
    “Hail, Thutmose-sin. A fine village, isn’t it?”
    “Hail, Rethnar.” Thutmose-sin answered formally, to affirm his authority. The two men were of much the same age, a few months under twenty-five, but Thutmose-sin commanded most of the men, and the clan’s sarrum, or king, had given him responsibility for the raid. The fact that the sarrum happened to be Thutmose-sin’s father made no difference in his authority.
    “Yes, but too many escaped across the river.”
    Rethnar shrugged. “One of the slaves said they learned of our coming a few hours ago. Word came down the river.”
    “Just enough time for most of them to escape.” Thutmose-sin had driven the men without respite the last 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 half-a-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 ale-house, 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 filth 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 filled a shelf, and a large block of wood, nicked and hacked, showed where the sword-smith 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 having, 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. Another seventy or eighty dead. More than enough for our need, once we dug them out of their burrows. 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 sword point, 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 interpreted, 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.”
    Rethnar called out to his men, and they began the next phase of the slaves’ training. One of his subcommanders quickly selected two men and two women. The warriors stripped the men naked, then staked them, legs spread wide apart, on the ground. The ropes stretched their limbs as much as possible to prevent the slightest movement. At the same time, other warriors herded the remaining slaves even closer together, still on their knees, so they could see the torture. All must watch and none could turn away or close their eyes. 
    Warriors knelt next to each bound victim. Rethnar nodded and his men began, using their knives to slice into their captives, or fist-sized stones to break or crush their flesh. The helpless men cried out in terror even before the first cut or blow. When the actual torture began, shrieks of pain rebounded off the mud walls. The torture must be drawn out, so that the victims suffered as much as possible for as long as they could endure. Their fate would serve as an example to those forced to watch. A few spectators trembled uncontrollably in their fear, others cried in grief, but most just stared in shock. Anyone who turned away or closed his eyes received a blow from the flat of a sword.
    At the same time other warriors attended to the women. A cart, one used by the villagers to display fruits or vegetables, now served another purpose. Their simple shifts ripped from their bodies, they found themselves side by side, bent backwards across the cart and held down by laughing warriors, while the first group of grinning Alur Meriki lined up to take their pleasure. Each woman would be raped into near-insensibility, then cut to pieces, a practice that always instilled the proper amount of terror in newly captured women. 
    Thutmose-sin knew the process wouldn’t take long. Afterwards there would be no resistance. The new slaves would learn the lesson their new masters intended: obey every command instantly, suffer any abuse, or face even worse punishment. The Alur Meriki had few problems with their slaves, male or female. Death by slow torture for the slightest offense, real or imagined, made for an effective deterrent that kept slaves docile while their masters worked them to death.
    Thutmose-sin turned back to Rethnar and saw his subcommander pushing aside his undergarment. He’d be the first to take one, or both of the women. “Don’t let them die too soon, Rethnar.” 
    The rising screams of the victims drowned out Rethnar’s reply.
    Thutmose-sin mounted his horse and rode out of the village, three guards still accompanying him. This time he inspected the neighboring farms, studying the farmhouses, fields, and even the endless irrigation that carried water to the crops. No warrior would ever stoop to farming, but Thutmose-sin wanted to know how this village had grown so large, how so many could be fed from these fields. The answer eluded him, however, and by the time he returned, Rethnar’s lesson had ended. The four bodies, now covered with flies, lay sprawled where they had died. Silence filled the marketplace. Obeying their new masters, the slaves kept silent. They’d learned the first lesson.
    Thutmose-sin dismounted, then stepped past the bodies to where the villagers knelt, their gaze fixed on the victims as they’d been ordered. A few had glanced at the Alur Meriki leader as he approached, but one brief look at his unsmiling face, and they turned their eyes back to the grisly tableau in front of them. Ignoring the men and children, he examined the women’s faces. Three or four looked comely enough. 
    “Bring them out for me,” he ordered his bodyguards. They grabbed those he indicated, pulling them to their feet, out of the crowd of kneeling bodies. It took only moments to rip off their garments and force them to their knees in the dirt.
    These looked to be the prettiest of the lot, though Thutmose-sin knew that tears and terror could change a woman’s face. Two women, their bodies shaking, cried softly, bitter tears that would soon pass. Eyes could only hold so much water, after all. The other two just looked at him, fear and shock already fading into hopelessness. 
    Thutmose-sin examined each in turn, grasping their hair and pulling their faces upwards. The two he chose looked older, about sixteen or seventeen seasons. He liked them at that age, when they’d learned enough about how to satisfy a man. They would please him, he knew. After what they’d seen today, they’d be frantic in their efforts to give him pleasure.
    Rethnar walked over. “The lesson is ended, Thutmose-sin. Should we begin dividing the spoils? The men are eager to take the rest of the women.”
    Thutmose-sin glanced at the sun, still high in the afternoon sky. “No, not until darkness. Put the slaves to work. Anything we don’t want is to be destroyed. If it can burn, I want it carried here and set afire. Everything, including the fence, the wagons, tools, clothing, everything. Smash whatever can’t be burned. Then tomorrow, have the slaves knock down every house.  When the dirt-eaters return, they must find nothing of value. And before you begin the march back to camp, burn all the fields as well. Everything, every animal, is to be destroyed.”
    Thutmose-sin looked around at the houses surrounding him. “This village grew too large and prosperous. These dirt-eaters must be taught not to build such places again. And when you begin the journey home, load the slaves with as much as they can carry. Let only the strongest survive to reach our camp.”
    Rethnar smiled. “I’ll teach them. Then you go back to the council?”
    “Yes. Tomorrow I’ll take fifty men and return to my father. I’ll bring the choicest wine and women for him. If you like, send ten of your own men with gifts for your grandfather.” Rethnar’s grandfather sat on the council as well.
    “Grandfather will be pleased.”
    “You’ve done well, Rethnar. I’ll speak of you to my father and the council.”
    It would take Rethnar close to three weeks to rejoin the clan, burdened with so many slaves and goods. And the number of slaves would increase, as Rethnar’s men visited the farmhouses they’d bypassed in their rush to the village.
    Thutmose-sin mounted his horse, then turned to his guards. “Bring my women to the river.” He guided the animal through the lane, until he again reached the water’s edge. First he would see to his horse, then wash himself in the Tigris. The two women would also bathe, so that they wouldn’t bring the village stink to his bed tonight. 
    As he dove into the cool and cleansing water, he thought about what he’d accomplished. They’d taken much booty and slaves, and a large village would be destroyed as a lesson to the dirt-eaters. The health and power of the Alur Meriki would be greatly increased. The capture of a few hundred more slaves would have made the raid more successful, but nothing could be done about that. All in all, everything had gone well. His father and the council would be pleased.
   
      
Eleven years later, near the headwaters of the Tigris…
   
    Thutmose-sin rode slowly through the scattered huts until he reached the edge of the bluff. From this height he observed the chilled waters of the Tigris, sparkling in the sunlight and fresh from their birth-mountains, stretching all the way to the distant northern horizon. Directly beneath the hilltop, a caravan of men and animals had begun the difficult crossing to the eastern bank.
    This caravan would prove far mightier than the watery obstacle nature had placed in its path. The people of the steppes, the Alur Meriki, traveled wherever they chose and nothing stood in their path. They dominated all the peoples of the world, just as Thutmose-sin dominated them. He was their king, and he ruled the world. 
    In his thirty-fifth season, the leader of the Alur Meriki stood as strong and powerful as in his youth, with not a trace of fat on his tall, muscular frame. Around his neck hung a copper-linked chain with a three-inch gold medallion identifying the Alur Meriki leader. Unlike his followers, he wore no other jewelry or rings to show his importance or his conquests. The medallion proclaimed his power – only the strongest and most capable ever earned the right to wear it.
    Thutmose-sin regarded the scene beneath him with satisfaction. The clan extended in a wide and crooked line for nearly four miles, a snake-like procession that sent a long plume of reddish dust into the still air. Four hundred warriors shepherded them along, helping the wagons get through places where the earth turned to soft sand, keeping the flocks of sheep, goats, and cattle moving, and occasionally dismounting to add their own muscles to those of the weary animals that struggled over the rough ground. The caravan traveled slowly, but it never stopped. 
    The column consisted of horses, oxen, wagons, stock animals, women, children, old men, and slaves, in roughly that order of importance. The real strength of his people, its great force of warriors, traversed the land many days’ ride ahead and to each side of the line of march. Some searched out the best and easiest route for the clan’s travel. But most plundered the countryside, taking whatever of value they found, to enrich themselves and to keep the clan alive and growing.
    The Alur Meriki had become the largest gathering of those who’d come forth from the northern steppes many generations ago. They now numbered more than five thousand people, not counting slaves. That meant that Thutmose-sin had nearly two thousand fighting men at his command. No other steppes clan had produced so many warriors. More important, the Alur Meriki warriors had never suffered defeat in battle. It had been more than twenty years, in the days when Maskim-Xul led the Alur Meriki, since another clan had even dared to challenge them. 
    Satisfied with his peoples’ progress, Thutmose-sin turned his horse away from the edge of the promontory. As he did so, a small band of riders approached, a clan leader at their head.
    “Greetings, Sarrum.” Urgo, clan leader and kinsman to Thutmose-sin, used the formal title to refer to his lord. Urgo stood a hand’s width shorter but a little broader than his cousin and though seven seasons older, looked just as fit. Eight or ten hours a day on the back of a spirited horse kept any man in fighting shape.
    “Greetings, Urgo.”
    “I bring news, Thutmose-sin.”
    Of the twenty clan leaders who ruled the Alur Meriki, Urgo’s clan had grown into one of the most powerful, with two hundred warriors under his standard.
    Not that Urgo or any of the clan leaders made life easier for Thutmose-sin, even though half of them shared kinship to one degree or another. At times the entire Alur Meriki horde, with their endless disputes over women, horses, or some warrior’s honor, took less effort to manage than the fractious disputes of the twenty council members. 
    Thutmose-sin led Urgo back toward the crest of the hill. They left their bodyguards behind, out of earshot, and sat near the promontory’s edge where they could watch the procession below. It would take three or four days before the clan could ford the Tigris. They’d camp here for at least a week, resting while repairing the wagons, and letting the sheep and goats graze on the plentiful grass, fattening themselves before moving on.
    “A river trader told me something of interest,” Urgo began without ceremony. “He said there’s a great village far to the south. It’s called Orak. The trader claims there are two thousand dirt-people living there.”
    “Two thousand?” Thutmose-sin’s voice rose in disbelief. That was easily twice as large as anything the Alur Meriki had ever encountered before. A village that size, if it could feed itself, would have great resources that would provide much plunder. “Can that many dirt-eaters live in one place? Are you sure your trader speaks the truth?”
    “Yes, Sarrum, I believe him,” Urgo answered. “Others have spoken of this place before. Let me show you.” He began to trace out a map in the sand.  With a few light strokes of his knife and the help of some pebbles to represent the mountains and other landmarks, Urgo made the rivers appear and the mountains to the east rise up. As always, he impressed his sarrum as much with his memory as with his skill at map-making. Urgo could re-create maps from all the places the clan had traveled as accurately as if he’d seen them yesterday, instead of five or even ten years ago. 
    “When we cross the Tigris,” Urgo said, “we’ll continue east. In a few weeks we’ll have to choose a route to the south. If we turn here, or here,” he indicated places on the map, “as we planned, we’ll pass this Orak far to the northeast. It will be too distant to raid. So if we wish to capture this place, we must turn sooner. We could head more toward this village, perhaps even following the path of the Tigris. The lands along the river are fertile. There’d be much grain and goods to capture. It’s not the line of march that we planned, but this great village would yield many spoils.”
    Urgo took a deep breath. “With whatever route we choose, when we’re a few months closer, we can send raiding parties ahead to capture this Orak. Two thousand dirt-eaters will have plenty of valuables and no way of hiding them all.”
    Thutmose-sin looked down at the lines in the sand. “This place, it seems familiar.”
    “It should,” Urgo said with a laugh. “You raided it a few years before you became sarrum. Orak was a fat village even then, and you brought back many slaves.”
    Thutmose-sin fingered the hilt of his sword, trying to recall one raid out of so many. The name meant nothing to him, but he recognized the bend of the Tigris. “Yes, I remember. A good raid. But the village wasn’t so large then, and we killed everyone and destroyed it. Can it have grown back so quickly?”
    Urgo shrugged. “It must have.”
    It seemed a simple decision, easy to make, no different from many other such choices the clan faced every day. Still, Thutmose-sin hesitated.
    “A village that big defies our way of life, Urgo,” he said, “and for that reason alone it should be destroyed. But we hadn’t planned to go so far south. If we do, we’ll add many more miles to our journey. We’d have to hurry to reach our winter camp. What we find when we reach this Orak may not be worth the extra weeks of travel.”
    “Yes, that may be so,” Urgo answered. “It’s the usual problem.”
    Thutmose-sin understood the man’s prudence. Urgo did not make such decisions. Only Thutmose-sin or the entire council could change the route. But Urgo had the responsibility of collecting information about the land through which they passed and suggesting possible raids or routes to follow. While the Alur Meriki would eventually begin to move south, what route they chose and how fast they traveled would be critical to the prosperity and health of the clans.
    The Sarrum understood the problem Urgo referred to all too well. If they sent raiding parties, that meant delays and difficulties of carrying the loot back to the main camp. A mounted warrior, burdened by weapons, water, and whatever he needed for his horse, could carry little else. Loaded-down slaves traveled slowly and required large quantities of food and water, which must also be carried. If instead they took the entire clan closer to Orak, then they’d be nearly two hundred miles west of where they wanted to be. As always, not every need could be satisfied. No matter what decision he reached, some would be displeased. 
    “If we head toward this place,” Thutmose-sin said, tapping the pebble that represented Orak, “they’ll learn of our coming. These large villages empty themselves long before our warriors arrive. Even the farmers along the way will flee, after first burying their tools and seed crops deep in the ground. No matter what route we choose, word of our coming will soon spread.”
    Ideally, they would capture this Orak with all its people and goods inside, but such an occurrence almost never happened, even with raiding parties that could travel far and fast. Tools, grain, and valuables would disappear, while horses and herd animals would be scattered or hidden. The clan would be lucky to capture a third of what the village possessed.
    Thutmose-sin turned away from the map and stared at the land below. But his thoughts stayed focused on this Orak. Such an abomination could not be allowed to exist. Villagers scratched in the dirt like pigs for their food, instead of hunting or fighting for it like true men. The dirt-eaters lived and bred like ants. You could kick over their anthill, but in a few years it grew back, with more of them than before. Just like this Orak. He had leveled it years ago and already it had risen again, with more dirt-eaters than before.
    Now Thutmose-sin wanted to obliterate it and destroy everyone within it. The Alur Meriki might tolerate small villages. They’d be plundered but not destroyed, so that they could be raided again in the future.  But a village of two thousand was more than an insult. He considered what might happen if they returned in another ten years to find the village had again doubled in size. No, this Orak must be destroyed to make sure such a thing could never happen.
    It wouldn’t be easy. Thutmose-sin needed to find a way to keep all the villagers inside, with their goods, until it was too late to get away.
    “This village,” Thutmose-sin said, “the ford there is a good one?”
    Urgo nodded. “According to the trader, it’s the only easy crossing for thirty or forty miles in either direction. Likely that is what helps the place grow so large.”
    “Then most of the important villagers will flee across the Tigris or down the river.” Thutmose-sin took his dagger from his belt and moved closer to Urgo’s map. “Perhaps there’s a way to take it before too many escape.”
    His knife inscribed fresh lines in the sand as he spoke. The plan he sketched was simple, but unlike anything they had ever done. The lay of the land would help, as would the Tigris. By the time Thutmose-sin finished, their heads nearly touched as they leaned over the map. 
    “It’s a cunning plan, Thutmose-sin. We’ll gain many slaves.”
    “The tactics are simple enough, and we’ve twice as many warriors as we need. And the dirt-eaters will do what they always do, and so help destroy themselves.”
    Finally Urgo nodded. “Yes, Sarrum, I can’t think of anything that can go wrong. We’ll capture much of value to the clan. I’ll begin the preparations. There are many months to work out the details, and we can always change our tactics if something unexpected happens.”
    “Then it’s decided.” Thutmose-sin rose to his feet, his subcommander doing the same. “We’ll discuss it tonight with the council.” They’d approve it, of course, especially if Urgo supported it. 
    He swung back up on his horse, his bodyguards again forming up around him, then rode back to the edge of the escarpment for one last look at the caravan. His people continued their inexorable march. Their traveling pace would be slow, but the rulers of the world had no need to hurry.
    Thutmose-sin smiled in anticipation as he turned his horse around and put him to the gallop. He had set in motion the route and the objectives of the Alur Meriki for the next six months. Those plans meant that some villages would be spared, their foolish inhabitants thanking the gods for their deliverance, never realizing that they existed only at his sufferance.
    This great village of Orak would be taken just as easily as the smallest farmhouse in their path. Orak’s inhabitants would die or become slaves. He, Thutmose-sin, had decided and so it would be. No clan, no village, no force of nature could stop the full might of his people. And this time when he finished with it, Orak would be sunk back to the mud from which it came. This time, the anthill would not recover.
   
                         Chapter 1
   
The eastern bank of the river Tigris, two hundred miles north of the great sea…
   
    “Awake, Eskkar, awake now! Nicar sent for you. You must come at once!” Eskkar realized the words had been spoken several times, accompanied by vigorous shaking. Now they ceased being mere sounds and became instead a message, one that slowly found its way through the haze that still clutched at his mind and body from last night’s drinking. 
    “Enough,” Eskkar grunted, swinging an arm clumsily at the messenger. But the nimble youth dodged easily. Eskkar pushed himself up to a sitting position on his hard pallet, while the room revolved around him and the blood pounded in his head from the sudden motion. His throat felt dry, like the gritty dirt floor beneath his naked feet, and his skull seemed ready to split apart at any moment as he paid the price for last night’s vinegary wine. 
    “Water,” he growled. After a few moments, the messenger placed a wooden cup in Eskkar’s shaking hands. He swallowed a few mouthfuls, though much of the liquid dribbled down his chin onto his bare chest. His eyes refused to focus, and the bright sunlight that streamed through the open doorway into the shadowy soldiers’ quarters added to his misery.
    As soon as Eskkar lowered the cup, the boy started again. “Hurry, Eskkar. Nicar awaits you now! You must come at once.”
    What in the name of the gods could Nicar want from him? But Nicar’s name and position as the ruler of the village of Orak started him moving, stumbling first to the rank chamber pot inside the soldiers’ common room, then back to his pallet to don his tunic.
    Leaving the barracks, his eyes half-shut against the sun, Eskkar managed to find his way to the well. He leaned against the rough stones for a moment, then upended the bucket to splash water on his face before drinking.
    Somewhat refreshed, Eskkar looked up, surprised to see the sun so high. Demons below, he must have drunk a whole skinful of that bitter date wine. He cursed himself for being a fool.
    When Eskkar turned away he saw a handful of guards, men who should have been busy at their daily tasks, standing uneasily near him. “Where is Ariamus?” he asked no one in particular, his voice sounding hoarse in his ears. Ariamus, captain of the guard, maintained the few laws of Orak and defended the village from bandits and marauders. 
    “Ariamus is gone,” a gray-bearded veteran answered, spitting in the dirt to show his disgust. “He’s run off, taken a dozen men with him, as well as extra horses and arms. The talk in the market says that barbarians are heading south, coming toward Orak.”
    Eskkar let the words penetrate as he studied their faces. He saw fear and uncertainty, mixed in with the shock of losing their master. No wonder they looked toward him. If Ariamus had run off, then Eskkar would be in charge, at least until a new captain could be chosen. That would explain the summons from Nicar.
    The grinning messenger plucked at Eskkar’s tunic. He refused to hurry, taking his time to draw another bucket from the well. He washed his hands and face before returning to the barracks to lace on his patched and worn sandals. Only then did he follow the boy through the winding streets to the imposing mud-brick and stone house of Nicar, Orak’s leading merchant and foremost among the five ruling Families that dictated the daily comings and goings of the village.
    The youth pulled Eskkar past the gatekeeper and into the house, then guided him up the narrow steps to the upper rooms. The house seemed quiet, with none of the usual visitors waiting their turn to see the busy merchant. 
    Nicar stood on the tiny balcony that looked out over the village. Quite a bit shorter than Eskkar, the gray-haired merchant carried the extra weight around his middle that marked him as a man of wealth.
    Eskkar grunted something he hoped sounded like a greeting and stood still as the most important and richest man in the village looked him over. Eskkar realized Nicar was studying him with the same care used when selecting the best slave from a bad lot. 
    Nearly three years ago, Eskkar had limped into Orak, with nothing but a sword on his back and an infected leg wound. Since then he’d seen Nicar many times, but Orak’s most important person had never paid any particular attention to the subcommander.
    When Nicar finished his scrutiny, he turned away and looked out over the village. Suddenly Eskkar felt uncomfortable in his shabby tunic and worn sandals.
    “Well, Nicar, what do you want?” The words came out harsher than intended.
    “I’m not sure what I want, Eskkar,” the merchant answered. “You know Ariamus is gone?”
    Eskkar nodded.
    “You may not know that the barbarians have recently crossed the Tigris, far to the north. The killing and burning have already begun there.”
    It took a moment before Nicar’s words struggled through the vapors clouding Eskkar’s mind. Finally he understood their meaning. So rumor spoke the truth for once. He leaned heavily against the balcony wall, aware of his aching head. His belly cramped painfully, and for a moment he thought he would vomit. Eskkar struggled to keep control of his thoughts and his stomach.
    Nicar continued. “From the far north, through the foothills, then down the plain toward the river.” He hesitated, to give Eskkar time to comprehend his words. “They’re moving steadily south. It’s likely they’ll turn in this direction, though it will be months before they arrive.” 
    Nicar spoke calmly, but Eskkar heard a faint hint of fear and resignation in his voice.
    Eskkar ran his fingers through his unruly hair, then fingered the thin beard that outlined his chin. “Do you know which clan?” Even after all these years, the word barbarian grated on his ears. 
    “I believe they’re called the Alur Meriki. They may be the same clan that raided here last time.”
    Eskkar grimaced. His own birth clan. Not his people any more, not for many years, not since they’d cast him out. “The Alur Meriki are a fierce clan with many men and horses.”
    “What clan are you from, Eskkar? Or is that a question I shouldn’t ask?”
    “Ask what you like. But I never raided this place, if that’s what you wish to know. I had barely started riding with the warriors when they killed my family.”
    “I see. You’re right, it makes no difference.”
    Eskkar’s thoughts returned to the Alur Meriki. So his family’s clan marched toward Orak. No, marched didn’t properly convey the slow and steady movement of the steppes people. Migration came closest to a real description of the steady movement that might take months to advance but a few miles. “How long have you known of their coming, Nicar?”
    Nicar stroked his gray-speckled beard. “Word came to me three days ago. I told only Ariamus. He cautioned me to tell no one for a few days while he considered how to defend the village.”
    Eskkar jerked his head in derision, the sudden movement sending a wave of sharp pain through his head that made him regret the gesture. Ariamus, as leader of the village’s small garrison, had certainly planned well. But his plans hadn’t been for the defense of the village, nor had they included Eskkar, his lowly third-in-command. The second-in-command, one of Ariamus’s fawning friends, had died a week before from the pox. Eskkar already knew he would not be promoted. He’d never bothered to toady up to Ariamus.
    Instead, two days ago Ariamus ordered Eskkar off on a chase after an inconsequential runaway slave, a task that might have taken a week except for the fortunate accident of the foolish slave breaking his leg in some rocks. Eskkar remembered the brief look of surprise on Ariamus’s face when he’d returned yesterday afternoon. 
    Then last night a comradely Ariamus had invited the soldiers to the tavern for wine and song, paying for the powerful spirits that kept flowing long into the night. Eskkar should have been suspicious after the first drink, since the tight-fisted Ariamus never bought more than one mug of barley ale for any of his men. But tired, thirsty, and smug with satisfaction at recovering the slave so quickly, Eskkar hadn’t noticed. Again he cursed himself for being so easily tricked. 
    Eskkar’s head began to throb again and his throat felt dry.
    “Well, Nicar, what do you expect me to do? Go after Ariamus and the others? I’m sure he took the youngest and wildest men. He’s probably stolen the best horses as well. He’ll be long gone by the time we’re ready to give chase, and with a dozen fighting men he can match any force we send after him.”
    The hoarseness returned to Eskkar’s voice, and he could scarcely get the last few words out.
    Nicar recognized the rasp in his visitor’s throat, and called out for a servant. The same boy who’d escorted Eskkar, no doubt waiting on the steps outside, appeared at once. Nicar turned to his visitor. “Water or wine?”
    Eskkar wanted wine, wanted it badly, and wanted it right now, but he’d shown enough stupidity for a while.
    “Water, for a start. Perhaps wine later, eh, Nicar?” Eskkar didn’t try to conceal the sarcasm. He had lived in Orak for almost three years but had entered the fine house of Nicar only once before, and then only to deliver a message. Now Nicar offered him wine, almost with his own hand. He wondered what would come next.
    While the boy poured a cup of water, Eskkar thought about the captain of the guard, who might easily have looted the village before he vanished. Eskkar briefly wondered why his own throat hadn’t been cut. The gods knew he’d argued with Ariamus numerous times. The thought of himself lying in bed helpless, a drunken pig ready to be butchered, sent a shiver through him. Evidently Ariamus hadn’t considered him worth killing.
    Eskkar drank some water, then turned back toward the balcony. Despite the grim news, the cool drink made him feel better. He remembered his manners. “Thank you, Nicar. But I ask you again. Do you want me to chase after Ariamus?” 
    “No, I don’t want him back. I was fool enough to trust him to defend Orak. Now I’d kill him if I could. What I want is to make the village ready for defense. We must be ready to fight off the barbarians.” 
    The thought of the soft merchant fighting the hard-bitten Ariamus almost made Eskkar smile. He started to speak, then hesitated, trying to think as he rubbed his hand over the rough surface of the balcony wall. Nicar hadn’t summoned Eskkar to his home for casual conversation. No, Nicar wanted to know what could be done for Orak. More to the point, what Eskkar could do for Orak. 
    The thirty-odd fighting men who remained would likely follow Eskkar, at least for a while, either out of loyalty or necessity. Most had women and children in the village or had grown too old to go looting across the countryside.
    Eskkar thought of his thirty-one seasons. He’d been fighting since he turned fourteen, when he’d killed his first man with a knife thrust in the back. His father had offended Maskim-Xul, the ruler of the Alur Meriki, and the punishment had been death for the whole family. Eskkar had seen his mother and younger brother die, and his sister carried off. But the man who killed his brother would never kill again. Eskkar had managed to slip away in the darkness, never to return to the campfires of his kindred. 
    Eskkar would have to leave Orak. He couldn’t chance being captured. His former clansmen would kill him merely for leaving the clan. And if they remembered Eskkar’s family, his fate would be even worse.
    He brought his thoughts back to the present and realized that Nicar had continued to study him. 
    “We’ll have to run, Nicar. Even with Ariamus and his men still here, the village would fall. Thirty, even a hundred soldiers will make no difference. If the clans are truly in migration, there will be many hundreds of warriors, maybe even a thousand.”
    Eskkar shook his head at the idea. A thousand barbarians, an incredible number of fighting men, mounted and well-armed, could sweep any force of mere villagers aside without pausing.
    Nicar said nothing, drumming his fingers on the same stones that Eskkar still gripped. “No. We must stay. Stay and fight. Orak must be held. If we run, there will be nothing left when we return, and we’ll have to rebuild all over again.”
    Eskkar heard determination in Nicar’s words. They turned toward each other at the same moment, standing eye to eye. 
    “This village is mine, Eskkar. When I arrived here, Orak was hardly more than a collection of mud huts. I built it myself, along with the other Families. Twenty-seven years I’ve been here, and all of us have prospered nearly every day. Everything I have is here. Never have so many men lived before in one place, in safety, with food and drink and tools to share. Look around you, Eskkar. Do you want to return to the ways of your fathers, living in tents, fighting each day for food, killing others to take what is theirs? Or do you want to dig your food out of the earth, at the mercy of any band of murderers?”
    Eskkar, like everyone else, knew what Nicar had accomplished. He also knew that the village had existed here for uncounted years before Nicar arrived. Nor had Nicar done it alone. Other powerful traders and farmers had worked closely with him to rule Orak, and together their fortunes and power had grown, until they reserved the title of “Noble” for themselves and their sons. For years, the Five Families had settled disputes and reconciled customs, as their Houses and influence increased.
    “Nicar, I know what Orak means to you. But even if we managed to drive off a small band, they’d only return with more warriors. If the main force of the Alur Meriki comes against us...”
    “No, Eskkar. I will not hear it.” Nicar’s hand smacked down on the balcony stones. “Ten years have passed since they last came. That time there was no warning. I remember how men fought to get into the boats, to get across the river. Many were trapped in the village. They became slaves or died. Those who got to the other bank, we ran until our hearts were ready to burst. When we returned, nothing remained. The huts had all been destroyed, the crops burned, the animals slaughtered and dumped in the wells. It took two years to rebuild then. Two wasted years. Do you know how long it would take us to rebuild now?”
    Eskkar shook his head. Two years seemed like plenty of time to replace mud huts and plant a few more crops.
    “Orak is more than twice as big as it was then. Now I think it would take five years to rebuild, assuming our trade doesn’t go to another village up or down the river. Orak might never grow so great again. I cannot waste five years, Eskkar. I will not.”
    Eskkar had lived among villagers long enough to understand their fears, but to complain about raiders merely wasted breath. “Nicar, bandits from the north and east have been raiding this land for generations. Nothing can be done about it. At least this time you’ll have plenty of time to prepare your …  departure.”
    Nicar looked out over the village again. “You’re like all the others. They all say nothing can be done. You surprise me, Eskkar. You’re supposed to be a fighting man, and yet you’re afraid to fight.”
    “Watch your words, Nicar. I have fought the Alur Meriki before. But I’m not a fool. Much as I’d enjoy killing more of them, I won’t fight where there’s no hope of winning. If there were some way to hold them off, if something could be done… but they’re just too strong. You’d be better off taking your gold and leaving.”
    “No. I will not run, and I will not give my hard-earned gold to the barbarians! Better to use it to try and defend Orak. I’m too old to start over again. This village is mine, and I will stay. That is, if you can defend Orak.”
    “Nothing can stop the Alur Meriki.”  
    “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps nothing can be done. But before we run away again, I want to know why we cannot defend ourselves against them. I want to understand why Orak, with so many people, is so helpless. Tell me that, Eskkar.”
    Eskkar opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking. Nicar was right about the village. In all his travels, Eskkar had never seen a village as big. A day seldom went by without someone moving into Orak. A few even used a new word to describe it, calling it a city, The City, the biggest gathering of people ever built. A place with a real stockade made from rough-cut logs and two solid gates to deny entrance. But Eskkar knew that the palisade and gates served only to deter petty thieves or small bands of marauders, not a migration of the steppes.
    Of all the raiders who plagued the land, the steppes barbarians aroused the most terror. Ruthless warriors and superb horsemen, no force could stand against them. No force ever had, at least not in Eskkar’s memory, or even in the legends of others. 
    “Nicar, where were the barbarians found? How far away are they?”
    “Many miles across the steppes to the far north,” Nicar answered. “It will be midsummer before they reach this place. The great curve of the Tigris will force them far to the east before they can head south. But this time their path seems to point toward us. It may be more than a raiding party that comes to Orak next summer. Word of our prosperity has reached even them, so the traders tell me.”
    “So we have nearly six months to prepare. Of course, raiding parties could be here sooner, Nicar, much sooner.” 
    The steppes people always had two or three groups of raiders operating around the tribe’s center, looking for opportunities to take horses, tools, weapons, or women, and not necessarily in that order, although none would pass up a good horse to waste time on a woman. A village this size would attract them as it attracted everyone. There might even be almost as many people here as in the migrating tribe. Strange he hadn’t thought of that before.
    Eskkar drained his water cup. The sharp pain behind his eyes had lessened, replaced by a dull throb. Nicar’s earlier words came back to him, and now they seemed to contain a challenge. “You want to understand why we must run, Nicar, is that it? It’s because we don’t have warriors. We have farmers, tradesmen, and a few dozen men trained to fight. The Alur Meriki can send hundreds of warriors against us. Even soldiers won’t fight against those odds.”
    “If we fight them from behind our palisade.…”
    “The palisade will not stand. A few ropes over the top and they’ll pull it down.”
    “Then we need a stronger barrier,” Nicar said, a little more forcefully. “Could such a barrier be constructed in time?”
    Eskkar glanced out over the balcony. The fence that surrounded Orak stood almost directly below him, only a dozen paces away, and he studied it as if seeing it for the first time. Not high enough, not strong enough, he knew. Orak needed a solid wall. A mud wall, if it could be built high enough and strong enough, might give the barbarians pause. But even a wall wouldn’t stop fighting men. Well, one thing at a time. They just needed something with enough resistance to make the attackers move on to easier pickings. 
    “I need to think about this, Nicar. What you ask may not be possible. Give me some time. I’ll come back to you by sundown and tell you what I think.”
    Nicar nodded, almost as if expecting the delay. “Come for dinner, then, after sundown. We’ll talk again.”
    Eskkar bowed and left the house. He walked through the twisted lanes back to the soldiers’ compound, thinking about Nicar’s words. At the barracks he ignored the idle men standing around and went instead to the stables. He called for a horse and while the stable boys readied it, Eskkar crossed back into the lane. He approached the nearest street vendor and spent the last of his copper coins to buy some bread and cheese.
    Shoving the food into his pouch, Eskkar filled a bag with water, then mounted up and rode slowly through the village. He passed through the main gate and nodded to the guard who looked at him nervously, no doubt wondering whether he’d be returning. Rumors must be spreading, fanned by the news of Ariamus’s sudden departure.
    The fresh air cleared the last effects of the wine from his mind, and Eskkar gave his full attention to the spirited horse, which seemed to be equally glad to escape the village’s confines. He put the beast to an easy canter until he reached the top of a small hill about two miles east of the village. From this vantage, he had an excellent view of both Orak and the river Tigris that looped behind it.
    He reined in the horse and began eating the good bread and poor cheese he’d purchased, letting many different thoughts drift through his head. To his surprise, he had several ideas of what could and could not be done. Licking the last of the cheese from his fingers, he studied the village, almost as if seeing it for the first time.
    Orak sat on a broad slab of hard earth and stone that forced the river to bend around it, so that the fast-flowing currents protected almost half the village from direct approach. The bedrock supporting the village had once been surrounded by marshland. As the settlement had grown, farmers had drained the marshes, growing crops and building huts on the recovered land. Dozens of canals, large and small, crisscrossed the countryside around the village, bringing water from the river to the farms. 
    Perhaps the land could be flooded again, leaving only one main approach to the village’s gates. In his mind’s eye, Eskkar pictured a line of archers atop a wall, standing shoulder to shoulder, launching flights of arrows into a swarm of mounted attackers beneath them. The bow, he decided. Only that weapon could make the soft dirt-eaters equal to Alur Meriki warriors, and then only if the bowmen had a wall to hide behind. 
    Faced with a strong wall, most of the mounted warrior’s advantages disappeared. No storm of arrows to devastate the defenders, who could then be overwhelmed and cut apart by the charging riders. Against such a wall, the Alur Meriki’s greater physical strength and skill with sword and lance would be lessened. Yes, it might work. If Orak could build the wall, the village might have a chance. But whether Orak could transform itself remained to be seen.
    Orak resembled every other village Eskkar had seen. Small huts built from river mud and straw accounted for most of the dwellings, though the homes of the rich merchants and nobles tended to be much larger or two-story affairs. A fence surrounded the village, but numerous huts and tents had sprung up outside the stockade, including some that, against Nicar’s orders, butted up against the structure. 
    As for the villagers, they, too, were much the same as people everywhere. Most had few possessions: a cotton tunic, a wooden food bowl, perhaps a few crude tools. But the farms around Orak yielded plenty of grain, which the bakers turned into a hearty bread, the one clean smell that constantly scented the village air.
    The farmers produced enough not only to feed themselves and their families, but enough extra to trade or sell in the village. That surplus filled Orak with people who didn’t need to farm to survive, merchants, traders, carpenters, shopkeepers, innkeepers, smiths, and dozens of other tradesmen. These skilled laborers provided any craft required to support the village, the river traffic, and the surrounding farms, taking payment in grain as well as the coins hammered out by the wealthy traders and nobles.
    Only its size made Orak different from any other place Eskkar had visited. The village had been large when he arrived, and since then it had nearly doubled.
    He decided to look at Orak as the Alur Meriki would do. Taking a gulp from the water bag, he rode down the hill and headed toward the river.
    The breeze refreshed him, the air cool and invigorating. Eskkar often longed for the feel of the wind in his face. The feel of a horse on the open lands always called to him, sometimes making each day spent in the village’s confines seem a day of torment. You’ll always be a barbarian, even though your own people cast you out.
    Three years he had lived in Orak, longer than he had ever spent anywhere, and lately he’d thought about moving on, frustrated by Ariamus and his petty orders. Perhaps now was the time to forget Orak, move east. The lands there would be new, and a fighting man could always find employment.
    No matter what Nicar wanted, trying to fight off the Alur Meriki would fail, and simply get him killed for his trouble. Eskkar owed the villagers nothing. To them, he was just another barbarian, just as capable of murdering them in their sleep. He’d seen the distrust and fear in their faces often enough.
    The idea of leaving tempted him, but only for a moment. A new place would be no better than Orak and probably a good deal worse. He’d have to start again from the bottom, a mere soldier, treated scarcely better than a callow recruit. No, he felt the same way as Nicar. Eskkar wouldn’t run away to start that life all over again. Not if he could find another option, especially one that didn’t end with him dead.
    The Alur Meriki had murdered his family, driven him from the clan, hounded him across the plains, and nearly killed him more than once. Eskkar hated the thought of running from them again. Assuming something could be done that didn’t leave him with his throat cut, he wanted the chance to strike an avenging blow against them for a change.
    If he could accomplish it, Orak and Nicar would owe him much. As captain of the guard, he’d have more than enough gold to settle down for the rest of his days. Perhaps he’d join the ranks of the nobles and become one of Orak’s rulers. That would be almost as satisfying as crushing a part of the Alur Meriki.
    Eskkar put the fanciful thoughts aside. He studied the landscape, riding slowly to the southwest, stopping from time to time to examine the approaches to Orak, picturing what the steppes people would see when they turned their eyes here. 
    He rode for nearly three hours, until he completed a circle around Orak and found himself back at the hilltop where he’d begun his observations. Eskkar dismounted and sat down with his back to a rock. He let his mind turn over the ideas he had this day.
    No one had ever called him quick in his wits, but Eskkar could build a simple plan as well as the next. That ability, plus his size, strength, and quickness with sword and knife, had won him promotion until he stood at Ariamus’s side. Now Eskkar stood alone, and Nicar had asked him to do something no man had ever done before – prevent the steppes people from looting and destroying the village.
    The sheer scope of what needed to be done threatened to overwhelm him. He forced himself to remember that a plan had many parts and that each part could be considered separately. 
    Carefully, he reviewed the many tasks needed to defend the village, repeating them out loud several times to make sure he’d remember all of them. When he finished, Eskkar saw that the sun had moved far into the western sky. Grunting a little, he stood and stretched, then he mounted his horse and retraced his path back to the village and his appointment with Nicar. At least he knew what he would say tonight, though he doubted Orak’s leading merchant would like his words.
   
   
                           Chapter 2
   
    Riding back into Orak, Eskkar found two soldiers guarding the gate instead of the usual one. Both called out to him, looks of relief on their faces.  Nicar must have ordered the extra guard to reassure the villagers. By now everyone must know about the barbarians sighted in the north.
    As his horse picked its way through the narrow lanes, people stopped their activities and stared. A few tried to stop him, to ask him what he knew about the barbarians. Eskkar paid no attention to them. Everyone seemed to know that Nicar had summoned him, so now they looked at him for some sign of hope and protection. That thought deepened his frown. Eskkar had no idea what to tell them.
    At the barracks, the soldiers waited outside, squatting on the dirt or leaning against the wall, regular duties ignored, anxiety on their faces. The soldiers knew about tonight’s meeting with Nicar. Nearly thirty men, and some of their women, awaited him, eager to learn anything new. He dismounted and handed the horse to a stable boy. 
    Eskkar considered ignoring them, then thought better of it. “You know the barbarians are coming?” Heads nodded. “They won’t be here for at least five months, so you can sleep easy tonight.” He hesitated, not sure what to tell them. “I’m meeting with Nicar, to talk about the defense of the village. When I return, I’ll tell you what I know.”
    He strode past them into the barracks and dumped his gear on his pallet. Eskkar thought about moving into Ariamus’s private room, but decided that could wait until after tonight’s meal. Reminded of his meeting, he stripped to his undergarment and wrapped his rough blanket around himself. Leaving the barracks, he went down the winding street and through the village’s rear gate, heading straight to the river. Eskkar ignored anyone who tried to speak to him and pushed past those few brave enough to try to block his path.
    At the water’s edge, Eskkar tossed the blanket on a low bush, stripped, then dove in. At first he stayed in the calm of the eddy pool that hugged the river’s east bank, then moved away from the shore and took strong, overhand strokes against the current. That demanded hard work, and after a few strokes he had to use all his strength to avoid being swept downriver. When Eskkar returned to the eddy pool, he rested in the chilled water. Finally he pulled himself out of the river, reclaimed his blanket, and used it to dry off before returning to the barrack. 
    At least tonight he wouldn’t meet Nicar in a ragged garment with the smell of horses and wine on him. Putting on his one clean tunic, he considered wearing his short sword, then decided he wouldn’t need it. The men who might want him dead had left with Ariamus, and he doubted he had one enemy left in the village.
    He returned to Nicar’s house. A few paces before Eskkar reached the gate, five men came out of Nicar’s courtyard and headed toward him. 
    Noble Drigo and his son, with three bodyguards, filled the narrow lane, and Eskkar had to stand aside to let them by. Noble Drigo glanced at him and smiled as he passed, the knowing smile of a man who already had all the answers. 
    When Eskkar stepped through Nicar’s gate, he found the boy who’d fetched him that morning again waiting for him. Once inside the boy closed and bolted the door, then knelt with a damp cloth to clean Eskkar’s feet and sandals, removing the dirt of the street.
    Nicar’s wife, Creta, had nearly as many years as her husband, and her hair had long since turned to silver. Everyone knew that Nicar preferred young slave girls as bed companions, but he treated his wife honorably and she managed his household efficiently.
    Creta greeted Eskkar warmly enough, after a quick inspection to see if he were reasonably clean and presentable. She’d walked past him in the street many a time without ever noticing him. She escorted him to the dining chamber at the rear of the house, where he found a large table spread for only two. Creta gave him the briefest of bows and left him alone. A matronly servant brought wine, but Eskkar asked for water. In a few moments she returned, handing him a cup of chilled water as Nicar entered the room. 
    “Please sit down, Eskkar.” Nicar wore a different tunic tonight, one with red and blue stitching around the collar. “You had a long ride today, and we should eat first so that we have time to talk afterwards. You’ll have something to drink, I trust?”
    The servants began bringing food, one course at a time, and Eskkar found that somewhat strange. When the soldiers ate, everything got dumped on the plank table at once, to be wolfed down as quickly as possible before it disappeared.
    Eskkar copied his host’s pace and ate slowly, taking small bites of the warm vegetables after dipping them in spiced oil imported from some distant land to the west. While they ate, Nicar did most of the talking, asking Eskkar about his early life and the many places he’d seen in his travels. He even asked about the steppes clans, what kind of people they were, why they lived the way they did. He talked of everything except the coming of the steppes people.
    Eskkar realized that Nicar continued to study him, wanting to know what kind of man Eskkar was. More important, Nicar wanted to learn whether Eskkar had the wits to make any plan succeed.
    The food was easily the best Eskkar had ever eaten. But the wine, like the portions, was served in small quantities. He decided that Nicar wanted him to have a clear head. When the servants finally cleared the table and refilled the wine cups, Nicar dismissed them, then closed the door.
    Eskkar caught a glimpse of Creta sitting outside the door, sewing a garment by the light of a lamp, to make sure the servants didn’t eavesdrop on their master’s conversation. Not that it would do any good. Household slaves always knew everything that went on.
    “So, tell me about your ride, Eskkar. What did you see?” Nicar returned to the table, eyes fixed on his guest.
    “You want to know if Orak can be defended against the barbarians? It can be done, but the cost will be great, and you may not want to pay it.” He looked hard at Nicar, but his host said nothing. 
    “We cannot defeat them in battle. But we can make it too difficult to capture the village. If we can hold out for a month or two, they’ll have to move on, driven by a lack of food. So that’s what we must do – make it too costly for them to take the village, too expensive in terms of warriors and horses killed, too much time for a place that will be barren of food and horses even if they do capture it. That means we’ll have to kill many warriors, kill enough of them to make their leaders worry.”
    Eskkar saw the questioning look on Nicar’s face. “The barbarians always have too many warriors, and not enough horses, women, or food. That’s why they’re always fighting, even among themselves. The clan would actually welcome a chance to thin out the ranks, kill off the foolish, the young, or the weak. If they lose fifty or sixty warriors in return for the capture of a rich village, they’d be happy with the trade.”
    Nicar nodded thoughtfully. “I understand. So they will welcome the fight, at least at first. So what must we do to make it too painful for them?”
    “First, you must build a wall around the village. A real stone wall, something that cannot be pulled down or burned, at least four times the height of a man. And it will have to enclose a much larger area than the palisade does now.”
    “The Nobles have talked about building such a wall before, Eskkar, but nothing ever came of it. There was no need, and the cost and effort were too great. Now the barbarians come. Now, there is a need.”
    “Remember, Nicar, we have to consult the masons to see if such a wall can even be built.”
    “Yes, of course. What else is needed?”
    “Second, all the huts and farmhouses outside this new wall must be torn down, removed completely, the ground leveled and stripped bare, and the farms and fields flooded again. The marshland mud will slow the horses down, and force them to approach the village from the land in front of the main gate.
    “Third, every man must be trained to fight. That means training and arming as many archers as possible. Only the bow can drive off the Alur Meriki. We’ll need thousands of arrows and hundreds of bows, and men will have to train every day until they can hit their targets with confidence, while standing atop the wall. Also, there must be training with axes, spears and swords, and finally with rocks to hurl at the attackers and forked staves to push their ladders away from the wall. Even the women and children must work and fight. We’ll have to train every day, build every day, and prepare for every possible attack. Everyone must work as they’ve never done before, so that when the barbarians arrive, all will be ready.”
    Eskkar took a deep breath and sipped from his wine cup, grateful that he’d gotten the words out with scarcely a stumble. 
    “Orak must be stocked with food and water, enough for everyone for two or three months. The rest of the herds must be sent far away, across the river, where they’ll be safe. That will take men away from the village, as well as soldiers to guard them from bandits. The animals will be a tempting target. When the barbarians arrive, they must learn that we have no horses for plunder, no cattle, goats, or sheep.” 
    Nicar looked closely at him, sensing something more was coming. “And what else must we do?” 
    Eskkar was ready. “The slaves. We’ll need the slaves to labor as they’ve never done before, and we won’t have the time or men to guard them. They must work on their own, and use all their skill. You’ll have to promise to free the slaves, Nicar, at least some of them, so they’ll have an incentive to work and fight.”
    Nicar’s wine cup stopped halfway to his lips. “Free the slaves! You can’t be serious. After what we’ve paid for them? And if we free the slaves, how will we keep the village running?”
    “Not all the slaves. Only those we need to work on the defenses, probably no more than half of them. You ran the village before you had so many slaves, didn’t you? Besides, if the barbarians come, you’ll lose your slaves along with your lives or be enslaved yourself. Either way, your slaves will be gone.
    “If we succeed, then instead of slaves, you’ll have servants that you can pay until you find new slaves to replace them. Without the promise of freedom, Nicar, they won’t work as hard or they’ll slip away into the night, thinking that even the barbarians might treat them better. Don’t forget, many will die, both villagers and slaves, and you’ll need to replace them anyway.
    “And one last thing, Nicar. You must speak for the entire village and the Five Families. I can organize the defense and determine what needs to be done, but there must be no quarrelling or arguing amongst the nobles or from any of the leading tradesmen. We must speak in one voice to everyone, so that all can see we’re determined to resist and to win. And whatever I ask for in the defense of the village, you’ll have to supply. I will not argue with you or anyone else. My orders must be obeyed by all, and without question. Even by you, Nicar. So I ask you. Do you speak for the Five Families?”
    “You ask for much.” Nicar looked a little taken aback by Eskkar’s demands. “But there is truth in your words. The many quarrels among the Five Families are public gossip. They must be put aside to defend Orak.”
    “And you will speak for all the Families?”
    “Yes, I think they can all be persuaded, all except House Drigo. He will likely choose to go his own way.”
    Eskkar didn’t think Noble Drigo could be dismissed so lightly. For the last few months, in Orak’s day-to-day affairs, Drigo’s men often acted as if their master alone ruled the village. Even Eskkar, who rarely had any interest in gossip, knew that Drigo contested with Nicar for authority, that Drigo constantly tried to sway the other Families to his side. So far, most preferred Nicar, who was certainly a more just and even-handed administrator.
    “And if you cannot control Noble Drigo, what then?” Eskkar asked. “He’s powerful, and many will follow whatever path he chooses.”
    Nicar stared at him again, openly sizing him up. “It seems you are not quite as simple a soldier as I’ve been told.” He drank from his cup. “If you can develop a good plan to defend Orak, we may not need Drigo and his gold. Let me worry about Drigo.” Nicar waved his hand as if dismissing the matter. “But afterwards, if we succeed in fending off the barbarians, what will we owe you, Eskkar?”
    “Not that much, Nicar,” he laughed. “I have no grand ambitions. The Five Families will become six, and I’ll be your equal in the running of the village. Each of you will give me two ingots of gold, enough for me to set up my own house. For that, I will remain in Orak and we can start the planning for the barbarians’ next visit, because they’ll be back in another five or ten years. If we’re lucky enough to drive the Alur Meriki off, they will never forget the insult. They have long memories. They’ll be back someday, and we’ll have to fight them again. So I think you’ll need me again, and the sooner we start preparing, the better.”
    Nicar shook his head. “So much waste and destruction. It would be better for all of us if they’d leave us alone.”
    “They can never do that, Nicar. They live by taking what they need from others. It’s the only way they know. So, they will be back. This struggle may never be truly over until one or the other of us is destroyed.”
    Nicar obviously hadn’t considered that the barbarians might return. He said nothing for a moment, spinning the wine cup in his hands. “Enough talk about the future. Do you think we can defeat the barbarians, if we do all that you ask?”
    Eskkar met his gaze. “No village has ever surrounded itself with a wall such as the one we will need. I don’t even know if such a wall can be built before they arrive. But if it can, then we may have a chance. Whether it’s a good chance or not, we’ll find out in the coming months. If we put our hearts and bodies into the preparation, we may have a fair chance, perhaps an even chance. If we don’t prepare well, then we know what will happen.
    “That is the best hope I can offer you, Nicar. As I said, the price you will pay to defend the village may be more than it’s worth or more than you can afford. And even then, we may fail. You’ll be risking more than just your gold. All who have tried to resist the Alur Meriki have been destroyed.”
    Nicar drained the wine cup, then set it down. “So we must build a wall around Orak if we wish to resist.” He sat there, drumming his fingers on the table for several moments, before he lifted his eyes. “I can see, Eskkar, that you’re honest. You don’t promise success. If you had, I wouldn’t have believed you.” He looked at his guest for a few more moments, as if making up his mind. “You don’t have a woman, do you?” 
    The odd question surprised Eskkar, though he gathered that Nicar already knew the answer. Women, good ones at any rate, were both scarce and expensive in Orak, and fathers did not approve marriages for eligible daughters to soldiers with no futures, let alone to those who didn’t have two coins to rub together.
    “No, I haven’t been able to afford one yet,” Eskkar replied, unable to keep a hint of embarrassment from his voice.  Once a week or so, Eskkar spent a copper coin for one of the girls at the alehouse, or visited the prostitutes who sold themselves at night along the river’s edge. Nearly a month had passed since his last visit. 
    “I received some new slaves a few weeks ago,” Nicar continued, “One is a girl, still a virgin, I’m assured. I think she’s about fourteen, not pretty, but attractive enough. I was going to bed her myself when I found the time… and the will,” he added, with a smile.
    “Unlike most women, she can count, as well as read and write the symbols, and she seems level-headed enough. I will give her to you, and I think you’ll find her useful for many things in the coming months. She’ll be much more than a simple bed companion. You’ll need someone to help you with the planning and to keep you out of the alehouse at night.”
    Even through his surprise, Eskkar knew it to be an exceptional and costly gift, given graciously and with subtle advice. “I thank you, Nicar.” Eskkar suddenly realized what else it meant – that Nicar had agreed to his demands.
    “All of us will need your advice and guidance, Nicar. If we are to do this, we’ll need many men working together. So, again, I thank you.”
    “You may not have the wit of Ariamus, but you can think and I know you can fight,” Nicar replied. “The rest you can learn, and I and the others will help you. Not many men can know and do everything. Most of us need to learn to accept all the help we can be given. Don’t let your pride stand in the way of what you can accomplish with the help of others.”
    Nicar remained silent for a moment. “Know one other thing, Eskkar. If we succeed, then I will owe you much, more than I and my family can repay. And if we fail, then let us fail together.
    “I meet with the nobles the day after tomorrow, when Noble Nestor returns from the south. Until then, you are captain of the guard. When we meet, we’ll confirm our decision to resist the barbarians. Take the girl tonight and move into Ariamus’s quarters. I’ll send you some gold tomorrow so you can buy whatever else you need. In the next few weeks, I’m sure there will be a house available for you. The other Families will provide servants as well, to help free you from everything except the defense of the village.”
    Eskkar understood his meaning about the house. Despite what Nicar said, many would flee Orak in the coming months. Eskkar suddenly understood that a bond had formed between them. They shared at least one trait – neither gave up easily. They would live or die in this together.
    No matter how it ended, Eskkar knew that his life had changed – that he would never again be the simple warrior who lived by his sword for so many years. Now he’d have to learn to think, plan, prepare defenses, and train people. Not for the first time that day, he wondered whether he was up to the task.
    But he’d taken the first step – persuading Nicar that he could save Orak. To accomplish that, he would have to change even more, become someone different, someone better than the drunken fool who passed out last night in the tavern. That would never happen again, he swore.
    Nicar stood, signaling the end of the dinner. “Then it’s settled. We’ll do what’s never been done! We will save the village.”
    Eskkar smiled, already thinking of the girl who’d accompany him to the barracks. “No, Nicar, if we succeed, we’ll use the new word and call it the City of Orak.”
    “Let us pray for that day,” Nicar said. He reached out his hand and clasped Eskkar’s arm, sealing the agreement. Then the merchant strode to the door, calling to his wife, speaking quietly to her before they disappeared into the living quarters. 
    After a few moments Eskkar heard women’s voices raised in heated debate, followed by an anguished cry, cut short by the sharp sound of a slap. Then Nicar’s wife reappeared, dragging a girl by the shoulder. Creta pushed the girl in front of Eskkar.
    “Here’s the slave, Eskkar. Her name is Trella.” Creta’s voice now cut like a rasp. “Of course, you can change it to anything you like. I suggest you give her a good beating to make sure she understands her place. She’s willful and proud.”
    The girl flashed a look of hatred at her former mistress, and Eskkar guessed Nicar might have more than one reason for getting rid of the girl. Life in the rich homes of the Five Families might be more complicated than he’d thought.
    Eskkar took a step and lifted up the girl’s chin. She had large, dark brown eyes that refused to meet his gaze. Her slightly darker skin, clear except for a few faint scars from the pox on both cheeks, told him she came from the lands to the south. Her narrow face held a thin nose and small even teeth, hiding behind a trembling lip that still held a drop of blood in the corner, where Creta had slapped her. She looked rather thin and plain, but she had one treasure. Her hair, dark and heavy, fell in a wave around her shoulders.
    He saw the fear in her eyes, the fear that came to any slave handed from one man to another. Eskkar had seen that look many times before. She moved her head away from his hand and returned her gaze to the floor.
    “Listen to me, girl,” he said, again lifting her chin. “Don’t be afraid. You’re to help me, and I will need your help. Do you understand?”
    Her eyes turned up to him and he held her gaze, seeing this time the strength that lay behind the dark, wide-set eyes. Her lips stopped trembling and she gave him a quick nod, the movement making her hair swirl gently around her face.
    “Good. Come with me then.” A thought struck him and he turned to Creta. “Does she have anything of her own that she should bring?”
    “She has some things,” Creta admitted grudgingly. “She can return for them in the morning.” 
    Whatever trinkets or possessions she might have would be long gone by morning, taken either by Nicar’s wife or the other servants. He started to turn away, hesitated, then faced Creta once again. “A cloak. She’ll need her cloak against the night’s chill. She does have one, doesn’t she?” He made his tone reasonable. “Or perhaps you could find one for her?”
    Nicar’s wife must have remembered her husband’s words. She pursed her lips, then gave in. “She has no cloak of her own,” Creta admitted. “But I’ll give her one of mine.”
    She clapped her hands and another girl appeared almost instantly, no doubt standing just out of sight beyond the doorway. Creta told the servant to fetch a particular cloak. In moments the girl returned, carrying a faded and patched cloak that looked serviceable enough.
    Eskkar took the garment and draped it around the girl’s shoulders. “Thank your mistress for her gift, Trella.” He watched her closely. Now he’d start to learn what kind of girl he had acquired.
    Trella looked first at Eskkar as if trying to read his face. He said nothing, just stared at her. The silence began to lengthen. Then Trella turned to Creta and bowed her head. “Thank you, Mistress.” She spoke softly, her words properly servile.
    When she straightened up, she looked at Eskkar as if to say, “Is that what you wanted?” and he found himself hiding a smile. He turned to Creta and bowed deeply. “And I thank you, Mistress Creta. The food you prepared was delicious and well served.” He’d rehearsed the unaccustomed words earlier and was happy to get them out without stumbling.
    Out of the house and into the lane, Eskkar laughed aloud as he took Trella’s hand, finding it soft and warm in his own as he guided her toward the barracks. “Did you have a cloak of your own?”
    A shake of her head answered him, as she kept her eyes on the rough ground underfoot.
    “Good, then. At least you got something from her.”
    The girl stole a glance at him, then looked down again.
    Eskkar’s thoughts raced ahead to the big bed in Ariamus’s chamber and he quickened his pace, glancing up at the stars. Only a few hours before midnight. He’d have to be up before dawn.
    Turning the corner at the alehouse, he nearly stopped in surprise. Two torches lit the common area outside the barracks, illuminating a crowd of soldiers, their women, and villagers. Apparently they all had nothing better to do at this late hour than wait for his return. Automatically Eskkar took a quick count and guessed there might be as many as sixty villagers mixing with the soldiers, probably a hundred people all told. 
    Eskkar slowed his pace, all thoughts of Trella in his warm bed now vanished, as he remembered his promise. He would have to say something, a prospect that dried his mouth and put an uneasy feeling in his stomach.
    Everyone started speaking as soon as they spotted him. A rush