Chapter Thirty Six - Widow of Uruk

Red dust on Kitun’s feet, exhaustion increasing its burden. Their trek had reduced to a shuffle. A day’s march, a night of battle, another day’s march. The King and his men felt it, yet they could not halt. Even the Subbar Ganbar were in better shape it seemed, frightened ankles rapidly moving at their flanks. They could flee if they tried, Kitun mulled. Wouldn’t have the stamina to follow. But the Isines kept in place, continuing with heads bowed. Kitun finally stopped, and behind him the entire army halted. ‘Water yourself. A few heartbeats and we continue!’ He commanded.

The men drank their water, dropped their heavy equipment for a moment and simply sat down on the barren dirt. Too tired to joke, too tired to laugh.

Kitun allowed his muscular body to lay down on the dirt, his eyes closed a moment. It was calm, peaceful, embrace of sleep not far away. With a grimace he opened his dark eyes again. He stared up at the sky. A bird flew high overhead. A hawk, wide wings soaring wide as it circled the area for prey.

With a sigh he pushed himself up. In the distance he could see the red domes of Uruk, simmering in the heat. Mere grasshelms on the horizon, meaning they still had a good number of leagues ahead.

‘Rise!’ He called. ‘Forward!’

Horn Blows augmented his tired command, and tired legs slogged forward. In more normal times, Kitun would have spurred on his men with promise of drink and women, of celebratory feasts followed by warm beds. Now he spoke no such words. They were marching home, into war. The High-Priestess was there, facing what by reports had seemed to be half the River-Kingdoms. Alone. Vulnerable. Determination made Kitun’s jaw clench. He increased his pace.

Smoke in the sky, plumes steadily growing and augmented by a sky turned to orange haze by kicked-up dust. He hounded his men but they didn’t reach the outskirts of Uruk before dusk, when the day’s battle had already ended.

Kitun made a quick prayer in thanks to the heavens for keeping some bloodshed in store for him, as he saw the invaders confined to their warcamps.

Countless lights already burned as the sun descended its final stretch. Many, damned many. He saw their tents stretch out from the riverbanks to deep into the arid red plains. Dangerously close to the city they roasted their lambs and drank their beer, guarded by a quickly erected barrier of earth and stakes, their multitudinous banners stuck up on the earth embankments like watching champions from each respective Kingdom, city and tribe.

The ground between the warcamps and the city itself, a good two thousand steps, was littered with corpses. Heaped up and discarded, and arrows thickly sown over the bodies.

Then, following his gaze further west, came the slums of Uruk, previously inhabited by the city’s most poor, the marks of shackles often fresh on their skin. Now it smoldered and burned, showing the source of the smoke plumes Kitun had sighted earlier. Fighting seemed to have carried over from the plains to the gates of the city itself, though they had failed to penetrate further.

Remnants of Uruk’s armies lingered from its Eastern-Gate to further into the dry land, lines running in parallel to that of the invaders. Many seemed to have returned into the safety of the city walls for the night, giving a difficult assessment of the number of surviving troops, through Kitun assumed they would be outnumbered nonetheless by that perfidious horde that had lumbered in from the east.

His heart stirred as Kitun sighted the brass glimmer of Eneduanna’s throne. He waited until the cover of darkness increased then rushed his force the final length to the High-Priestess.

Braziers had been ignited by now and flames made her throne glow in orange-red light. His approach was heralded by a trumpet and scattered cheers from tired warriors. The throne, fixed on the east, was slowly turned by its naked carriers and angled to the approaching King.

He couldn’t help but grin as he dropped himself to his knees, feeling day’s heat still in the sand.

‘Revered one, the task you have given me has been completed. The King of Isin has fallen, his men have accepted the demand to follow and are here to abide by your command.’

Despite the fire, high on the throne Eneduanna’s features were shrouded in pooling darkness. He sighted a dimpled chin, a tip of her nose, the eyes wholly inaccessible.

‘Good, King.’

Behind Kitun the rest of his force rushed in with renewed vigor, bowing all around to the High-priestess.

Before he could say more the brass throne already angled back to the East, ending the swift conversation. Instead the small silhouette of Heabani beckoned him.

‘Good King, please come with me.’ He urged on hushed tones.

Kitun followed and ordered his exhausted troops to the city. ‘No wine, no whores, tomorrow blood.’ He issued a swift order, before giving the eunuch his full attention. ‘The High-Priestess is displeased with me?’ Perhaps a detail has surfaced, one of treachery and deceit, details concerning a certain sapphire gem.

Heabani climbed the modest sand-barrier erected at the edge of the corpse plain. The guarding warriors quickly receded into the darkness. A torch was stuck in the dirt, showing the bodies nearby - the mass of flesh quickly fading in darkness. Black carapace reflected the light, scuttling over the corpses. ‘The Revered one endured a great loss of followers today.’ Heabani stated. ‘Wave after wave has been sent into the slaughter, all to keep the enemy occupied and prevent them from breaking through. They wished to join up with the Isines, and at the worst, cut you off. But at the price of a few thousand citizens you received a clear road back to Uruk.’

‘I see.’ Noticing a considerable number of women and children amongst the fallen. Lightly equipped, wearing the cloth of commoners, armed with daggers and axes and stones.

‘In her infinite wisdom, the Revered one kept the experienced troops out of harm's way, though they had to be deployed at the southern flank at the end of the day. The invaders have brought Chariots from Elam. Beyond the mercenaries they employ, their own forces are exceptionally strong. Kingdom of Ur and Kingdom of Eridu seemed to have long prepared for this engagement. Their soldiers wear bronze and their bows are many. Black clouds harvested Uruk life today. Tomorrow you are expected to charge their lines and break them. Eneduanna has foreseen three days of fighting. First you in the lion valley, second the massacre on the Uruk plains, tomorrow the destruction, of you, or them. How many Isines did you capture?’

‘Two and a half thousand. They’ll do nothing but hold ground, and even then I reserve my trust.’

‘I will inform Matron Amalda that they need to be initiated. The sisterhood will work on them during the night. Tomorrow you will command them.’

Kitun sighed. ‘Thank you, Heabani.’

‘For what, King?’

‘For keeping the city intact during my absence.’

Heabani chuckled. ‘Tomorrow is your day. We cant wait longer, food is reaching critical levels. Ur knows and is content to wait, we are not.’

‘How did it get this far, Heabani?’ Kitun wondered. ‘How did we manage to rile up half the River Kingdoms? Oblivion looms just after the Revered one has achieved ascendance. She says communion with the Queen of Heaven, yet from the world of clay and mud she is replied with swords!’

‘A-h-h-h, now there’s a yearning that calls for understanding.’ Heabani replied. ‘Youre asking the question to the right person, though those harpies of the sisterhood vainly try to outdo me in cunning. Guile has long been Uruk’s greatest strategy. Two, three decades ago, when you were a little orphanage youthling, this city was not as grand as it was now. A small trading town at the banks of the Euphrates, its lands poor and barren, its walls guarding a small, tenacious cult, little understood by the traders that passed through, and deemed insignificant, although hardy, by the nearby rulers. The Revered one was shrouded back then, hidden and only sighted by way of statue. We fought in wars that were not ours, supporting allies that shifted loyalties like quicksand, methodically carving out a small mercantile empire, pushing tiny concessions here and there. Gold brought people, gold brought strength, gold brought more gold. Seeds were carried over the river waters and tiny cults of devoted sprung up elsewhere, influence grew, Uruk became independent. Then, it became mighty, raiding the weak and demanding tribute when compliance was given. The Larsans saw what would become and tried to stop us, they never were inclined to deal with our proposals in the first place. Their defeat was so sudden and severe the other Kingdoms were shaken, and the unfortunate annihilation of Larsa by way of Eneduanna’s cruelty only put more oil to the fire it seems. If only they opened the damned gates... Aye, gold and silver flowed profusely, as did the assassin's blades and the harlot’s touch. There is a lot of invisible power Uruk holds, yet there are other grand cities in the world, and they have paid attention. They have kept their comfortable positions for ages and have deep coffins of their own. This is what has been amassed to the East; the old world, desperate to cling onto power. Mind you Kitun, the rest of the world is watching, breathlessly, if a new age is commencing or if the old flame shall sputter on.’ Heabani pushed a finger onto Kitun’s broad chest. ‘So tomorrow you take victory, or you shall lie in a grave.’

‘So much was clear.’ Kitun somberly said. ‘I will try to find some rest, I haven't slept in days.’

‘Dont sleep too long, you must strike before dawn.’

Kitun turned away, then halted. ‘Could use some mercenaries of our own, what ever happened to that Hurrian? I dont see him amongst the ranks.’

‘The Hurrian has departed the city on a mission from the Temple.’

‘Can we expect a Hurrian legion to aid our cause then?’ Kitun tried hopefully.

‘I'm afraid not, King, victory rests solely on your shoulders.’

***

Sjerub skulked in the cargohold of the vessel. Seemingly endless rows of amphora and chests surrounded him, leaving little space for a wounded Hurrian. His wounds hurt, but had started to heal. Arrows in his chest, a deep stab in his upper thigh, and a dark kettle filled with drowning water. It was a miracle he still lived, yet he felt little joy in his continued life. Days of being locked in a ship’s cargo hold sucks out the joy from anything, he supposed, especially when augmented with the fragrance of old vomit and his own accumulating filth. In the darkness he lived, as if he was back in the black cell of Eneduanna, but only this time there was none to break up the moments of dreary boredom and frantic rage.

He ate what he could scavenge amongst the crates, he drank what he could find in jugs and broken pottery; mostly wine, which made his state even worse.

Inebriated he stumbled in the hold, time passing, occasionally yelling up in rage and pulling on the hatch; which was locked. Heabani had made sure the merchant-captain would not let him out until he would reach his destination. ‘For your own safety.’ The little eunuch had told him, shortly before he was shoved down in the darkness and the lock turned.

It seemed his life was becoming a continuous series of suffering. Better to die on the battlefield. At least he could smell the fresh air and could cut a path to where he wished it all to end.

He carried his sword; the promise of blood, but how much longer would he had to wait?

Sjerub picked up an amphora of wine and threw it through the hold, shattering in a broken splash somewhere in the darkness. ‘Let me out!’ He hoarsely commanded anew.

To his surprise he was replied by a flash of bright, blinding light.

‘Calm, you Hurrian dog!’ An irritated voice replied. ‘I'm letting you out of your cage, better not bite.’

Sjerub’s eyes slowly adjusted to the light. He could see a blue square and an angry bearded face at the edge, peeking into the hold. ‘By the Gods, you’ve made a mess. Drank half my wares you did.’

Sjerub grunted, stumbling towards the light. ‘Get me out of here.’ He hissed.

The merchant nodded reluctantly, warily extending a sinewy hand to the Hurrian. As he was pulled up he could finally see his surroundings. They were moored at a small river-pier, reed growing thick. Further ahead a small city was visible, built of simple brick stones. The land further from the river was empty and flat, small hardy bush growing in the soil. Beyond the city to the north he could see foothills rise, and further the vague peaks of the mountains. Aratta…

A cold wind threw the Hurrian’s long hair in a whirl and he couldn’t help but smile.

‘Aye, that's where you’re going, aren't you? Back to where you hounds live?’ The merchant spat. ‘Cost me enough to transport ye, but good Heabani was insistent.’

A few deckhands gave him curious glances but kept their distance.

‘Thats Rapiqum?’ Sjerub asked.

‘Northernmost tip of the River Kingdoms, where the civilized world ends. The river bends and flows west from here on out, but I’ll be damned if I go further. Rumors of Anakim hunting.’

‘This far East?’ Sjerub asked with surprise.

‘Dont have those hungry giants in Aratta I suppose?’

‘They wouldn’t dare.’ Sjerub gave one last look at the hole he had spent in the last few days, then left the ship. Every step away from the stinking vessel made him feel better. He walked north, to home. He was not expecting a good welcome, but in service of the High-Priestess he would do anything, even face the treacherous snake-den that was Aratta’s mist-bound court. He was still serving Eneduanna after all, even after the bountiful suffering he’d experienced. A Hurrian oath is never broken.