Sam Barone: Dawn of Empire

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, muscu-lar 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. The first to swear allegiance to Thutmose — sin after the death of Maskim — Xul six seasons ago, Urgo stood a hand’s width shorter but a little broader than his cousin. Though seven seasons older, Urgo 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 mapmaking. 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.”