CHAPTER FIVE - SACRED COMMAND

Dawn arrived on the second day of besieged Larsa. The red war camps slowly awakened, the first cooking-fires were started in tranquil morning. It was still cool as Sjerub rode towards Larsa. He had hoped his cruelty on the Larsan prisoners would have had an effect. That the hopeless within the walls would have reconsidered. A hope that they would have surrendered and that he would find the gates of the city wide open.

But in first light Sjerub saw the prisoner he had released during the night. Still naked, the oil-drenched Larsan hung by rope from the city gates. His neck had snapped sideways in the tight noose and the hangman was slowly swaying in the wind before the closed doors. A pair of black crows were already digging their beaks into the man’s flesh. A third bird quickly swooped down to join the meal.

Sjerub held in his horse, cursing softly. He shook his head at the defiant city. Further negotiation was useless.

***

Cool dawn turned to dusty, scorching heat. An azure, cloudless heaven, and a hazy, dry earth below. Eneduanna’s throne was sheltered by palm-leaves and cloths. Around it stood her followers, skin burning in the scalding sunlight of high-summer.

Sjerub, in his white and orange attire of an Uruk envoy, lay outstretched before her throne - outside the shadow.

‘Forgive me, sacred priestess.’ His eyes were trained on Eneduanna’s elongated feet, hovering before his head ‘-They will not surrender.’ His voice was a quiver, almost a whisper, afraid to convey the words to his mistress.

Eneduanna stared at the hangman in the distance, nothing but dry soil between her and the city-gates.

‘There is nothing to forgive, Hurrian. This outcome is more preferable. Larsa can now be made an example off so the rest can see. This won't be the last city I will visit.’ Enedduanna shifted uneasily in her throne, somewhat disgusted by the man before her. ‘-But you have failed.’

She took a deep, dissatisfied breath.

‘You promised me the city. Where then is my city?’

Sjerub tried to reply but Eneduanna’s harsh tone cut through his stammering.

‘-You have failed the Divine.’ She straightened her back against the golden wings of her throne.

‘You are an utter failure. By Inanna be glad I do not order you to death at this very moment. Leave, leave quickly.’

Sjerub bit his lip and crawled backwards.

‘OUT OF MY SIGHT!’ She thundered as she deemed his crawling to slow, and in the distance the black birds flew up from the hangman.

Sjerub receded back. Mocking eyes watched him, the servants, the slaves, joying in his humiliation.

Eneduanna drew in the hot dry air of the Larsan plains. Her heart was beating a steady-strot, the ignited rage within her did not abate. She needed appeasement. Blood needed to flow before calmness would return.

‘Wait.’ She commanded the Hurrian.

Sjerub halted, still on hands and knees, halfway across the dirt towards his horse.

‘Revered one.’ He breathed into the sand, and slowly he raised his face towards her.

Eneduanna took his features in again, revisiting the lines of his face. A warrior’s face, unmistakably, but there was something soft in it, an artistic whim, coming solely from the eyes; the eyes of a poet, going so well with that distinct melancholy.

The Hurrian was still kneeling, awaiting her command.

Eneduanna pouted her lips. ‘Lower.’ She ordered her carriers, who placed her throne on the ground with audible relief.

She stepped on the earth and her long arm gestured at the Hurrian to rise. Then she pointed at one of the carriers, standing idly besides the throne.

‘Kill him.’ She told the Hurrrian flatly.

Sjerub looked up at the tall High-Priestess standing before him. His eyes said: why? But his mouth was wiser, saying: ‘I have no weapon, mistress.’

Eneduanna ignored the Hurrian’s words, turning to the awaiting carrier. His naked muscular figure was shiny with sweat. ‘Kill this Hurrian!’ She screeched.

‘For you, everything, Revered one.’ The servant proclaimed, before being handed a knife from a nearby guard. With a wild yell he charged the unarmed Hurrian, who stood in the long shadow of Eneduanna.

Sjerub cursed silently, mere days into the service of the High-Priestess and he already had to fight for his life.

The carrier was running towards him at full speed, knife raised high - bronze blade catching the glint of the sun. Thighs like trunks, biceps like boulders, with his naked member dangling about with every step. The tall woman had ordered the hulking carrier to murder, and clearly he would follow her commands blindly.

Sjerub saw the knife approach and instinctively stepped sideways, the blade slashing his shadow.

Luckily for him the naked carrier was not well-trained in combat. His movements were clumsy, predictable, though beholden with great power.

Another slash and the bronze knife-edge cut the air before Sjerub’s face. Drums of rage started beating within the Hurrian. This senseless hunk of meat was trying to murder him, and worst of all, the High-Priestess would see it all.

With a wild bark he threw himself forward into wildly lunging man.

The two of them fell to the ground, Sjerub finding the sweaty body of his opponent slippery and hard to grapple. The strength of his opponent, already evident by the muscles, was surprisingly great.

A body that had carried near-unbearable weight day after day, for years. All without complaining, without giving up, the mind as hardened as the body.

The two men punched and clawed, cursed and bit. The knife soon reappeared, but Sjerub managed to keep the point at bay. Struggling on the ground, he glanced up at the nearby standing Eneduanna - She watched in silence to see who would come out on top, her long shadow falling over the two gladiators.

And then they disentangled and rose again. The carrier, singular in his goal to kill, immediately lunged his knife forward again, forcing his opponent to evade.

Sjerub spat out blood , the result of an earlier fist to his face. Nearby he saw a hand-sized rock on the ground, and seeing no better alternative he quickly picked it up. Its dark surface had absorbed the heat from the sun’s rays and it was searing hot and blistering to his fingers, but he held it anyway because it was all he got.

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With the next evaded stab he struck back with the rock. The blunt force connected to the man’s nose. The sweaty maniac only staggered slightly, and the next moment Sjerub felt a slash of pain over his arm, the brute’s knife slicing a good few inches through his skin.

Sjerub roared in pain and anger. This mule-man, empty-headed beast of the field, had to die.

Again he smashed with the rock, directly striking the head a second time, and the carrier finally fell backwards. The Hurrian stalked after him. No mercy.

Sjerub jumped atop the naked carrier, pinning him down with his knee while his hand raised a final time, a black stone on the backdrop of a white-hot sun.

The sharp edge of the rock struck at the temple where the bone was thinnest and the skull cracked open. The carrier kept struggling, so Sjerub struck again, and again, until his robes and face and hair were bespattered with brain and blood. Sjerub tasted iron in his mouth.

‘Enough.’ Eneduanna said strictly.

Breathing heavily the Hurrian turned his head at her. Blood-rage pumped through his veins, and it took a moment before his red triumph had faded and his mind returned. Solemnly he bowed his head towards the Revered one.

‘Didn’t he do well?’ She asked the nearby attendants and courtiers. ‘Show your admiration to his performance.’

Around, the onlookers applauded - even the other carriers. They had fake smiles on their faces. The Hurrian watched them with distrust.

‘Anything else, Revered one?’ He asked hoarsely. He was still holding the rock, and blood slowly dripped to the sand.

‘Your arm is bleeding. Leave my presence and attend to your wounds.’

The Hurrian bowed and turned away.

Content, Eneduanna reseated herself on her throne, immediately raised from the earth by her surviving carriers.

Ants surrounded the imprints of her feet in the sand. A black circle, ceaselessly moving in an endless loop; a collective of insects maddened by the lingering presence of the High-Priestess.

***

Sjerub sat in his quarters. A simple tent holding a hard bed and a small plot of stamped earth. Around him he heard the camp-sounds, talking and laughing, the ting of cooking pans, a distant hammering as something was constructed.

Other tents surrounded him and a narrow alley between the endless red canvases ran before his entrance. Uruk warriors constantly stamped past his tent, but they had left him alone. They didn't like him, and he didn't like them, and Sjerub liked it that way. He listened to their drunken singing, their guttural laughter, an angry exchange somewhere. He had faced them in battle, now they were his allies. Such was the fate of the mercenary, Sjerub grimly decided.

His bronze armour stood on a rack beside his bed. Forged in Aratta, blessed by Kusuh.

As he looked upon the armoured frame he was reminded of the massacre on the barren fields. He smelled the rotting bodies and heard the screeching vultures feasting on the corpses. With disgust he averted his head.

Besides the armor his weapons were arrayed; The spear and the shield, the sword, his mountain-bow, a threefold of knives, and now a rock. He had used all to kill. Why he had kept the rock he couldn’t say, but he couldn’t bring himself to discard it either.

A fresh bandage was wrapped around his arm, only a numb pain emanating from the wound. It would heal properly.

He heard footsteps approaching through the dusty alley, and to his unease the footsteps halted before his entrance. Under the flap of the tent he could sandals worn by hairy calloused toes.

A moment later the fabric was pulled aside and Sjerub was stood ready with a dagger.

Two red-clothed warriors stared at him, stringed ears hanging from their necks.

Sjerub stared back, fingers tightening around the hilt of his dagger.

‘What do you want? I'm tired of spilling your kind’s blood.’

Their bearded jaws jutted forward as they inspecting him, but they said nothing. One held a wooden club studded with bronze spikes. The other had his large hand on the hilt of his sword.

The thought crossed Sjerub’s mind that the High-Priestess had a change of mind and ordered his death anyway, and that these two brutes had been sent to execute.

He bared his teeth as he prepared for more death, but then Sjerub smelled the scent of roses and the two broad warriors stepped aside to make way for a small man dressed in flower robes.

‘My, my. Aren't you tense.’ Heabani taunted. The eunuch nodded at his guards, and the two scarred hulks left the tent.

Sjerub relaxed as the warriors left, lowering his knife. ‘I have already fought to the death once today. I think my tension is well-founded.’

Heabani red-painted mouth smiled broadly. ‘So I have heard. Sadly I had not been present to witness such an exciting contest. But news spreads quickly through the camps. It seems you have established somewhat of a reputation throughout the ranks. They call you ‘the red Hurrian’. Now I have been wise enough to decree a non-violence proclamation upon you, or there would be scores of warriors eager to test your might and thus prove themselves to the Revered one. The greater the prey, the greater the trophy, and your ears my Hurrian friend, have become quite the coveted item. Nevertheless, you shouldn’t have to worry - for the time being. You have my, and the Revered one’s protection. But watch yourself, Red Hurrian, you might have saved your own life but your actions have still displeased the High-Priestess. She asked you to open the gates of Larsa and you failed.’

Sjerub shook his head. ‘The Larsans are prideful into death. They hold to their laws like a mother clings to her child. It is not my fault.’

Heabani raised his painted eyebrows in surprise. ‘It is not? The High-Priestess gave you a sacred task.

Man have been killed for far, far lesser infractions than failing one of Eneduanna’s seemingly impossible demands. And yet, I have seen men go far and beyond to what they thought was capable, and bring success where it was thought to be impossible before. For now you remain the High-Priestess official envoy, but negotiation is over. The task to delivering Larsa unto Eneduanna has been passed to Kitun, King of Uruk. I think you two have met, yes?’

‘We have met.’ Sjerub said stiffly.

Heabani nodded. ‘Good. Larsa’s fate is sealed. Kitun will deliver them to Eneduanna’s cruelty and he will purge their misplaced arrogance with fire and blood. This city will be a burnt-out ruin by the next moon-cycle. I hope that you will be able to change the mind of the next reluctant city for the better. Cities and Kingdoms intact are of better service to the Revered one. Now, obviously, if you fail again in this matter I cannot assure your safety.’

‘Another bout of blood?’ Sjerub glanced at the rock, bits of hair and clotted blood sticking to its jagged surface.

‘I wouldn’t take the risk sweetheart.’ Heabani wetted his lips. ‘There has, however, been another request from the blessed Revered one. You may be able to regain just a sliver of favor from the grand mistress.’

‘What does she ask of me? My skills are death and survival.’

Heabani chuckled. ‘How fierce you are, Sjerub, but no, no killings today. You have done plenty already. What she asks is mere information. Her tall form leaned over to me and whispered in my ear the following question: ‘why are the Hurrian’s eyes so sad?’

‘Sad?’ Sjerub asked, frowning.

‘She has seen within your grey eyes deep grief and sadness. Do you doubt her wisdom? Now you must speak, it is not a request, it is a command.’

Sjerub’s eyes hardened. ‘I have lost my men. Any warrior would be sad and grieving that had lost his brothers, let alone a commander. Because that was who I was; a commander of a hundred Hurrian men. They depended on me and I led them into death.’

‘But not all.’ Heabani interceded. ‘A few escaped.’

‘Not all, but most. And their souls are now my responsibility. May the heavens forgive me, I left them there on those horrid sweltering, rotting plains of flies and feathers.’

Heabani nodded. ‘Those that lived and left, do you wish to know what happened to them?’

‘You tell me, do I?’

‘Oh dont be so sullen, Sjerub. I have whisperers throughout the River Kingdoms. They are steadily making their way towards the north. They speak of Aratta.’ Heabani’s painted eyes narrowed. ‘How does that make you feel?’

‘Content.’ Sjerub’s mind went to the misty peaks of his youth, the white mountains that went so high that they merged with heavens, and the warm green valleys sheltered under the mountain’s protection.

‘And I have heard another whisper…’ Heabani continued. ‘-That you are a princeling of sorts. Does the rumor hold true? Am I in the presence of royal blood?’

‘Do you see a crown on my head? My hair is long and filthy. My skin is scarred. My eyes have not seen treasuries or palatial joy, only countless battles, and every time I am more alone. What kind of prince would sell his sacred loyalty for gold?’

‘Answer the question, Sjerub.’ Heabani said as he inched closer. ‘You and your men were not without reason in the River Kingdoms, selling yourself for desperate coin. I think you were longer welcome in the court of the mountains, so I ask; Is it your kin that sits on the throne of the Aratta, or is it foreign blood that has exiled you from your birthright?’

‘I care not for the throne, nor of that city of traitors. Let them freeze in the blizzards, let the mountains rumble and bring their fortresses down, let them be preyed upon by the leopard and the harpy. My fate lies elsewhere now.’

‘Indeed, my dear Hurrian, Your fate lies with the Revered one. You have satisfied my inquiries and I will relay your words to her. How pleased she will be to know she has acquired a Princeling as servant. My, my, what a bargain you have been, and all thanks to me.’ The eunuch smiled self-contently and left Sjerub in his tiny, primitive tent.