Daro had served Eskkar, the King of Akkad, and Lady Trella, his queen, for many years. Despite his youth, he’d commanded the three fighting boats at the Battle of Isin ten years ago. Last year he’d fought again, against the barbarian horde of the Alur Meriki in the battle at the northern stream. Though trained as an archer, Daro’s early experiences as a boy on the river brought him to Yavtar’s attention. Before long, Daro had become a leader of one hundred, and in command of Yavtar’s fleet of fighting boats.
Three years ago, Daro had married Ismenne, Akkad’s most skilled Map Maker, and another of King Eskkar and Trella’s close confidants. When Daro asked her father Corio for permission to marry Ismenne, Corio had turned to his young daughter. “Is this the man you want to marry?” Ismenne answered yes. “Well, you’re more than old enough. If Lady Trella gives her blessing, then you can marry Daro.”
For all practical purposes, Corio had relinquished his authority over his daughter years ago, knowing that opportunities to work with Trella seldom came. Even before Ismenne passed through the women’s rites, she had assisted Lady Trella in the secret Map Room. For many years the Queen of Akkad had functioned as the girl’s mentor and a second mother. Since their marriage, Ismenne had already given Daro two sons.
Yavtar, another of King Eskkar’s close advisors, had used his wealth and influence in the last fifteen years to expand his river trading ventures. He, too, had fought at the Battle of Isin, working the tiller in the same boat as Daro. The two had grown close over the years, and Yavtar looked upon Daro as one of his sons.
Sabatu moaned in his sleep, and Daro glanced down at their passenger. The man could still die. After so many beatings, Sabatu might have serious injuries within his body. Not to mention that a man’s mind might also be destroyed as a result of prolonged torture and repeated whippings. Daro shuddered at the thought of undergoing the same fate, and wondered, as every man did, how well and how long he would last under the same punishment.
Pushing that gloomy thought aside, he muttered a prayer to the sea gods, asking for a fast trip back to Akkad. In the city, Lady Trella’s healers might be able to save Sabatu’s life and mend his wounds. Whether the man would regain his wits was another question. The sooner they reached the City on the Tigris, the better.
Seven days later, Sabatu awoke. Opening his eyes, he gazed at the narrow walls and ceiling of what must be a private chamber. A small window high in the wall glowed with the powerful noonday sun, illuminating the room. The bed felt soft, and a light blanket covered his body, as much to discourage the flies as to keep him warm. His head rested on a second blanket, folded over to form a pillow.
Sabatu tried to sit up, and for the first time, realized that bandages covered both his hands. He tried to speak, but only a hoarse croak emerged from his mouth. Nevertheless, the sound brought the patter of running feet, and a small boy peered at Sabatu from the doorway. Before Sabatu could speak, the boy disappeared.
A few moments later an old man, moving with care, stepped into the room. The grinning boy followed behind, carrying with both hands the heavy wooden box that held what must be the healer’s instruments, potions, and herbs.
The healer drew up a stool and sat beside the bed. He smiled and spoke, but Sabatu didn’t understand. For a moment he thought his mind had lost its ability to comprehend, but then he realized the healer was speaking in a strange tongue. By the time Sabatu understood what was happening, another man entered the room.
“It is good to see you awake. For a time, I thought we were going to lose you.”
The man’s voice and face seemed familiar, but Sabatu couldn’t recollect where or when.
“Where am I? Who. . what is this place?”
“You are in the City of Akkad, on the River Tigris, in the Land Between the Rivers,” Daro explained. “This is the home of the King of Akkad. We rescued you from the prison barracks in Sushan eight, no, nine days ago. My name is Daro, and this is the healer, Ventor. Since your arrival, he’s spent most of his days at your side, trying to mend your injuries.”
Sabatu, his mouth open, stared at the man who called himself Daro. Then Sabatu’s mind recalled the past, the disgrace, his attempted flight, his capture and the sentence of death by torture for his whole family. His head sagged back on the pillow. Sabatu’s hands fumbled at the blanket. The memory of the days of suffering and pain washed over him, and he screamed. But whether the sound ever left the prison of his mind, he couldn’t be certain. His head spinning, Sabatu slumped back against the pillow, almost welcoming the blackness that ended his thoughts.
When he awoke the second time, Sabatu knew his senses had returned. His body ached and his hands hurt, but agony had assaulted his body for so long that he seemed incomplete without it. Only when Sabatu thought of his torture did he realize that, for once, the pain seemed to have lessened, faded to little more than a dull ache. He realized there were no fresh injuries to sear his body and mind.
Soft voices penetrated his thoughts, first a man’s, then a woman’s. Sabatu opened his eyes. A clean, whitewashed ceiling overhead. He recognized the same small chamber, with its single high window and plastered over walls. He looked up from a large bed which took up most of the room. In one corner he saw two odd-sized chests, stacked one atop the other. Facing the bed stood a narrow bench, with two people seated on it.
“They said you were coming around,” Daro said. “How do you feel?”
Sabatu recognized the voice, but couldn’t recall the man’s name. Vaguely he remembered speaking to the man on a boat, a small craft that pitched and tossed on the Great Sea. He tried to lift his head. Immediately the woman moved to his side and placed another folded blanket under his head.
Sabatu kept his gaze on the man. “Your name. Can’t remember your name.” The words sounded harsh in his ears.
“Daro. My name is Daro. Do you remember your rescue from the barrack’s prison?”
The woman held a cup to Sabatu’s lips. “Drink some water. Then we’ll give you some soup.”
With the woman’s help, Sabatu emptied the cup. “More.”
She shook her head. “In a few moments. Too much might make you sick.”
“Where am I. . did we sail all the way to Akkad?” Sabatu vaguely remembered hearing the name of that city. He returned his eyes to Daro.
“Yes, we’re in Akkad, in the King’s Compound. We sailed from Sushan ten days ago. You were delirious most of the voyage. We made a very fast passage and got you here two days ago.”
The woman took his bandaged hand and held it lightly. “You are safe now. No one will harm you.”
In his weakness, Sabatu did not pull his hand away. Her voice seemed oddly reassuring, comforting. Thick dark tresses, held away from her brow by a simple silver fillet, framed the woman’s face. He returned his gaze to the man called Daro.
“Why? Why did you bring me here?”
“We know a war with Elam is coming.” Daro leaned closer. “We hope that you can help us. In the boat, you said you wanted to take your revenge for the deaths of your family. If you help us, help Akkad, you may avenge those deaths.”
For the first time, Sabatu realized that Daro and the woman were both speaking the language of Elam’s southern lands. He looked at the servant. It seemed odd that a woman servant would know how to speak his language.
“I am not a traitor.” His voice held a hint of anger mixed with the pain.
The woman shook her head. “There is nothing you need to do. All we seek is information about Elam’s armies, its leaders, its strengths and weaknesses.”
“And if I do not tell you these things?”
She smiled, a warm gesture that nearly made Sabatu smile in return.
“Then when you are well, you may leave Akkad, go wherever you wish. You’ll be given a horse, some coins, enough to establish yourself.”