Trella pushed her plate away. “Even the dates taste different. I don’t think the child cares for them.”
“You should rest… sleep a little more before dinner.”
“I will.” She sighed. “Eskkar is gone barely a week, and already I miss him.”
“He will be away for at least a month. And already the people accept your rule. They feel as safe with you as they do with Eskkar.” Annok-sur stopped massaging. “Now rest, for the child’s sake if not your own.”
Trella moved back to the bed, letting herself stretch out. “You worry too much about me, Annok-sur.”
“After you’ve had a child or two, you’ll know enough to rest whenever you can.” Since her marriage to Bantor, Annok-sur had delivered three children. The first died stillborn, the second from fever before it reached its first year. Only the third child, her daughter Ningal, born five years after her marriage, survived, but since the long and painful delivery, Annok-sur had not gotten pregnant again.
Trella folded her hands on her stomach. “Even now, he’s moving inside me. Can you feel him?”
Annok-sur sat beside her on the bed and placed her hand beside Trella’s. “Only six months pregnant, and already the child seems strong. It will be a boy, I’m sure of it.”
“Eskkar is a strong man. He will give me many sons.”
“Yes, mistress, you will have many sons. And I’ll help you care for all of them. Now try to sleep, while I think about this Korthac. I’ll stay here with you.”
“You’re like the older sister I never had.” Trella closed her eyes, and it took only a few moments before she slipped into sleep.
Annok-sur gazed at her mistress, watching her breasts rise and fall with each breath. She did think of Trella as a sister. As a child, Annok-sur had often longed for a little sister to be a companion. Instead she’d grown up with three brothers on a small farm just outside Akkad, and her parents admonished her childish request for a baby girl. Instead, they gave thanks to Ishtar for her brothers, who could share the farm’s labors.
Her parents soon had their only daughter selling vegetables in Akkad’s market. There Annok-sur, a plain but sturdy girl only a few months into the mysteries of womanhood, first noticed a young farmer gazing open-mouthed at her. Something about his wide brown eyes made Annok-sur smile back at him. Nevertheless, it took Bantor three days before he gathered enough courage to speak to her. A few weeks later, Bantor, only a year or two older than she, stood before her parents.
“Honorable Father, I have five copper coins for a wife. It would please me to give them to you for Annok-sur.”
Her father had asked for double that, but Bantor only shook his head.
“Five is a good price for a young bride,” he answered stiffl y. “And it is all I have.”
Annok-sur’s heart had faltered when Bantor turned away, ready to leave. But her father relented. The coins changed hands, and in a few moments, her future husband led her away from her family, while she clutched the few things she possessed to her breast. That day, she stood beside him facing the image of Ishtar, and became Bantor’s wife.
Together they worked on his father’s farm for six years, hard toil from dawn to dusk, but Annok-sur’s body grew strong from the years of laboring. She was pregnant with her third child when Bantor’s father died. His oldest brother took possession of the farm and, by the custom of ascen-sion, ordered Bantor to leave. She and her husband owned nothing but the clothing on their backs and two food bowls. Desperate, they moved to Akkad where Bantor sought work as a common laborer, eager for any menial job. The birth of their daughter caused even more hardship. Raising Ningal, the three of them lived with another family, who charged them rent to occupy one corner of their single-room hut. Annok-sur baked bread, worked in the market, and joined the farmers during harvesttime, any work she could find to supplement her husband’s efforts.
Their first two years in Akkad, they seldom had enough to eat, and Annok-sur watched her husband grow ever more dour and grim, as their life of poverty drained his spirit. When they had no coins for food, she resorted to selling herself along the riverbank with the other prostitutes.
On those occasions, Bantor would look away, embarrassed at his failure to provide for them. Even Ningal proved a disappointment, a frivolous child who complained often.
Another year went by before Bantor found work as a recruit in Akkad’s guard. He hated the long days on guard duty, each dreary task interrupted only by another just as wearisome. The occasional assignment to track down runaway slaves proved more to his liking, and provided him a chance to get away from the crowded village and breathe once again the clean air of the countryside.
Annok-sur’s world, too, began to shrink as the burden of life grew heavier and heavier. Once, while Bantor rode after some slaves, the captain of the guard had summoned her for an afternoon of pleasuring him.
That act of humiliation tortured her for months, but she had to obey, lest Ariamus dismiss her husband. Annok-sur never spoke of that incident, but somehow she felt certain Bantor had learned about it. Whatever the cause, Bantor sank into an apathy so deep that he seldom smiled or even spoke.
She scarcely noticed when Eskkar arrived in Akkad. The tall barbarian soon took charge of the horses and most of the pursuits of runaway slaves. Eskkar and Bantor worked together often enough during the next few years, but they spoke little and showed no signs of any particular friendship. Then Ariamus ran off, as word spread of the coming barbarian invasion.
“Eskkar the barbarian will be the new captain of the guard,” Bantor told her, an excited gleam in his eyes. “He has asked me to be one of his subcommanders.”
Stunned, she listened as her husband explained his new duties. The night before, Bantor had told her that they must fl ee the city; as refugees, their desperate situation would only grow worse. Now he planned to stay and fight. For a brief moment, she thought about the coming danger, but one look at her husband convinced her; his face hadn’t shown such excitement or intensity in years.
“Then you must do all you can to help Eskkar,” she said, placing her arms on his shoulders. “If he can manage to defeat the barbarians, you will be one of his subcommanders, and he will remember your loyalty.”
Bantor’s fi rst test of courage and loyalty came not against the barbarian Alur Meriki, but against one of the ruling nobles that wanted Eskkar out of the way. Instead, the rich merchant had died, and Eskkar had taken possession of the man’s house. Aware of Bantor’s difficult situation, Eskkar invited his subcommander to move into the spacious quarters. Annok-sur remembered the tears that came when she saw the chamber, a whole room they would have to themselves, the first such luxury they’d ever had.
Then she met Trella, Eskkar’s new slave. It took only a few encounters for Annok-sur to realize how sharp Trella’s wits were, how carefully she considered everyone’s words, and how deep she saw into people’s hearts.
The gods had surely arranged the joining of Eskkar and Trella. Between them, they saved Akkad from rape and ruin.
Annok-sur soon took over the task of managing the large household, leaving the young slave girl plenty of time to work with Eskkar preparing for the siege. She had labored side by side with Trella during the assault, astonished at each task Trella undertook, and more amazed at how she achieved each goal. They’d both risked death during those evil days, helping defend the wall during the attacks, and tending the wounded afterward. Even before Eskkar vanquished the barbarians, Trella set her mind to a new task: to ensure that she and her husband ruled Akkad for the rest of their days. To that end, Trella still labored, influencing all the men and councils of the new city to her will.
Annok-sur had joined the venture with all her heart and strength, determined to make certain that Trella succeeded. Even Bantor had changed under Eskkar and Trella’s influence. Now he thought more before acting and, watching his captain’s example, had learned to take heed of Annok-sur’s words.