Authors: John Koetsier
But right in front of me was the servitor that had just preceded me through the door. It turned and faced me — unusual in itself — and seemed to be waiting for something. I wasn’t sure if its basic programming covered how to treat barbarians entering uninvited into its home turf, or whether its odd behavior was significant.
Stepping around it, I walked to the wall with ovens and stoves. Farther down were grills and spits: large-scale machinery for feeding a thousand warriors. I walked slowly down the room, examining the wall as carefully as I could without knowing exactly what I was looking for. This was the wall on which an entrance to the engineering and control rooms could be. Nothing popped out to my untrained eye. Arriving at the far wall I examined it too: curiously blank, compared to all the others. Again, nothing seemed amiss, and I detected no seams, discolorations that might indicate a hidden portal, or empty-sounding hollows.
Turning, however, I had the surprise of my life. The servitor had silently followed me all the length of the room and was now paused, seemingly waiting, in front of me. I stopped, almost dumbfounded. This was unlike any servitor behavior I had ever witnessed. Generally, they brought food and drink and returned to their hole in the wall, unnoticed. They never interacted with warriors — beyond moving out of the way, or pausing until a person had moved, servitors took no notice of humans. They did not speak, they did not gesture, they did not signal with lights. They were as close to inanimate furniture as a moving robotic servant could be. But I was not finished being surprised.
The servitor raised its arm toward me, turning its gripping surfaces palm up, manipulatory digits outstretched. And stopped.
Now I was really dumbfounded. What did it want? Was this a response to my intrusion into their space, space I had no real right to occupy? But the servitor’s posture did not seem confrontational or aggressive. It was almost as if it was stretching out its hand for mine. To lead me somewhere? I reached out my own hand and slowly touched its fingers with the tips of my own, gently making contact, ready to pull back instantly at any sign of alarm.
Nothing happened.
Carefully, I rested more of my hand on the servitor’s, then gripped it. Still, nothing happened.
“What do you want?” I surprised myself by speaking to the mute machine.
There was no response, no movement, no sound. Standard servitor behavior, but I was looking for more now. Feeling foolish, but seeing no other option, I continued to speak to the mute machine.
“I am here. I am Geno. Can you show me the way to the control room?”
Still no response. Then I looked closer. The lights on the side of the servitor, which I had never seen before entering the kitchen, but had observed on the servitors backed into the wall niches, were flashing. Watching carefully, I could see that it was not random, nor was it a completely regular, even pulsing. It had some pattern, however, and I guessed, with growing excitement and wonder, that it was some kind of message.
I deflated a little when I realized that a message I could not interpret was only slightly better than no message at all, but … the fact that I was getting any message at all from what we all had previously thought were limited, unresponsive machines was itself incredible.
At that moment I faintly heard the bell sound that signaled lights out in the whole structure of the hall, and I knew I had to return to my pod, or likely be missed. I released the hand and walked back the length of the kitchen to the small metal door. Pausing beside it, I briefly wondered how to open it, then was only faintly surprised to find the servitor by my side. It advanced to the door, and the door automatically opened, whether triggered by some signal or the mere proximity of the machine, I did not know. Then it retreated, allowing me space to bend down and step through. I did, and was still gazing wonderingly back into the kitchen, back at the flashing metal serving machine, when the door hissed back down, and I was alone in the hall of feasting.
I hurried to my pod, opened it, and climbed inside. Instantly, I fell into a deep sleep. The next morning, everything was different.
Welcome back from your quest, here's another one!
- Age of Empires computer game
That night I dreamed.
In my dream I saw a cerulean ball set on the blackest of dark crushed velvet, framed by innumerable tiny flecks of white. I was disembodied and surrounded by nothing, rushing towards the orb, falling into blue. Then Hermes’ voice sounded in my head.
“I have brought you here to see, Geno.”
I looked, and the ball was a globe, and the globe was a planet. Familiar shapes of brown and green and white appeared, and I realized I was rushing up to the earth first towards the southern ocean, and then the Indian Ocean. Africa was to the left, Asia above, and Australia to my right.
Dawn was upon the shores of Kenya in east Africa, and I immediately knew this must be prehistory: west of the onrushing terminator there was no light. My perspective veered and, still closing, we centered over Arabia and entered wisps of outer atmosphere. Not burned by friction nor buffeted by wind, I knew this was some kind of projection or induced dream; it could not be real.
Staying at perhaps ten kilometers of height, I skimmed over the deserts of the Arabian peninsula, the azure waters of a gloriously pristine Persian Gulf and then shifted, flying now north-west, up to the tip of the gulf. There at the northern end of the ocean lowlands rose feebly from the waters: marshes and mounding, shifting islands all mingled and mixed with salty, brackish seawater and slow-moving tidal river for hundreds of square kilometers.
We travelled up the delta and the slow swampy waters shook off the muddy sandbars and swampy vegetation, coalescing into a single wide river. After a couple of hundred kilometers or so it split into two, and we descended swiftly to perhaps a thousand meters, following the left, southernmost river. And then I knew that this must be the ancient Euphrates river, which joins with the Tigris before emptying into the Persian Gulf.
“What am I looking for?” I asked Hermes.
“You will see,” he replied.
Small settlements started to appear as we flew upriver. Farms, rude mud-brick homes, small villages nestled by or near the river. Then a city by the bank of the river, not tall but large and bustling, with a wide wall surrounding homes and markets and temples.
“This is Ur,” Hermes said as we passed and continued on our way, back to farms and the occasional village or small walled city. Knots of travellers appeared here and there, on roads trod hard and rutted deep by feet and hooves and the wheels of donkey-pulled carts.
On the water we occasionally passed simple boats — barges perhaps, with rudimentary sails — loaded with goods, presumably to trade at Ur. Our speed increased, and the next hundreds of kilometers were a blur of river and farms and small cities. Then we slowed, and I sensed Hermes getting more intense, more focused.
“Kish,” he said simply. “Pay attention.”
On the horizon a city rose, nestled alongside the wide blue waters of the Euphrates river. We soared up to gain perspective, and I almost gasped as I saw the size: much bigger than any of the towns or even the city we had passed. Ten kilometers or more it spread in length, following the river in a band perhaps three kilometers wide.
“Hundreds of thousands must live there,” I said.
“It is the most populous city of the ancient world,” Hermes replied. “And it will be your home for some time. Study it.”
I obeyed.
Kish was a white city in a green land. Wide white-washed mud-brick walls rose from muddy river banks and grass-covered flanks to protect it from attack, and low two-story painted mud-brick homes and buildings occupied most of the interior. Wide thoroughfares stretched straight through the city from south gate to north gate and east gate to west gate, by the river, and narrow streets wound their curving ways between the thoroughfares, giving access to cramped, clustered neighborhoods of homes and hovels. Outside the city wall stood the shacks of those too poor to live within, a shantytown never less than a hundred paces from the city walls, probably for fear an attacker would use them as aids in scaling the battlements.
But the pearl of Kish lay near the center of the long city, close to the west wall, near the river. Great ziggurats with sloping walls and long ramps rose to four or five times the height of the city walls in glorious homage to the Sumerian gods: Enlil, god of the air and all-father, Inanna, goddess of love and war, Enki, god of spring and knowledge, and Utu, god of the sun.
And next to the temples, the palace and courts of the lugal, the big man of Kish, the king. All this I saw and understood in a flash, not knowing how or why or when.
“This is the city-state of Kish,” Hermes said. “A few hundred cities dot the world, few exerting control over more than the lands that supply their wheat. This one is the greatest of them all.”
He turned our gaze to the empty fields and farms east of the city, and the dry lands in between the great rivers.
“With humanity so separated and divided, progress is slow. Science is nonexistent. Belief in magic and potions and tribal religions persists. We must change this — we must initiate learning and inquiry and engineering. Progress will only happen, however, if cities and lands come together.”
He paused, breathed. I waited.
“Find and help Sargon. It is your task to birth the age of empires.”
The next morning I woke alone on the muddy banks of the Euphrates river.
I came to with a start as a wave, slightly higher than the rest, slapped at my cheek, entering my nostrils. Sat up, shook my head, and looked around.
There was nothing much to see beyond an idyllic river on a glorious early summer morning. The river banks, lush with grass and bushes and small trees, rose up behind me to the east, the river itself stretched out north and south, and across the water to the west I could see the far shore. The gentle buzz of insects and birdsong provided counterpart melody to the lapping of small river waves.
There was no trace of human existence.
I did not want to think about the loneliness of this place. It was too painful — Hermes had warned me that I would be solo on this mission. Under my questioning, he had admitted that all the others were still in s.Leep, and would remain there. I did not want to think of Livia, sleeping for days or weeks, years maybe, while I was a universe away in space and time. Only my success in this mission, Hermes had noted, would see all of us reunited. I had not liked the tone of his voice when he said that.
Pushing those thoughts away and myself to my feet I saw how dirty my clothes and body were. I waded into the gently flowing waters, splashing water over my head. I took off my short tunic and bathed, then scrubbed the rough soldier’s garment as clean as I could. Coming out to dry, I found a small pile of weapons and armor slightly above the high-water mark.
A copper helmet with a soft leather lining went on my head, and a short bronze dagger tucked into a thick, heavy leather belt at my waist. I picked up and hefted a long Sumerian sickle sword and slid it into a scabbard hanging from the belt. All sickle swords were curved after a straight handle, but I was pleased to see that this blade’s angle was not extreme — it was almost a straight sword, if you ignored a little forward offset, jutting out perhaps a handsbreadth from the hilt.
Pulling out the blade to inspect it closer, I noted that this one was iron, which would be either almost inconceivably rare, or indeed a futuristic weapon. Hermes’ instructions to me had been to go south to the city, find a soldier named Sargon, and help him take the leadership of Kish. That put me still firmly within the bronze age — perhaps 2300 BC.
Hermes was being generous with his choice of weapons — iron would hold its edge much longer than any of bronze swords of this age. And, if I knew him, it would be scientifically strengthened beyond the means of even late industrial earth society.
A pointed axe, almost a mace, tucked into my belt, and a heavy leather cloak with protective metal discs woven throughout went over everything. I strapped the sandals on my feet, and a seven-foot bronze-headed spear completed my outfitting. With no mirror to view myself, I could only hope that the look and arrangement of all the weapons and clothes was more or less correct, as I had learned it months ago, or thousands of years in the future, depending on your perspective.
Then I walked up the river bank, not much burdened by the seventy or more pounds of state-of-the-art prehistorical killing machinery, seeking the south road to Kish. As I strode along the road, a thought occurred to me: in spite of the fact that I was carrying literally every single thing that I owned, I was a very wealthy man. Metal weapons in an age when metal was scarce, expensive, and worked by only a few high-status smiths — the engineers of their era. An iron sword, which I was sure Hermes would have given unfair advantages of sharpness and hardness. State-of-the art armor. A heavy spear with a massive ingot of bronze as its tip.
There might be many who would like to take this wealth for themselves, I thought. Fortunately, I would not appear an easy target. Taller and broader than the poorly-nourished folk of this age, I was fully outfitted for war, and if it came to actual blows, I had no doubt in my mind as to the outcome. Still, it was good to be prepared.
The morning was clean and fresh — a cool wind coming across the river balanced the warmth of the middle-eastern sun that I knew would soon be fierce.
As I walked I considered my options.
Sargon might be in Kish, but he was a native of Akkad. So he was a foreigner in Kish, with a different mother tongue, a different culture … how was I to make him king? Being a soldier and in the service of Ur-Zabada, the current lugal, was at least one step on the long road to leadership. But fighting man was a long way from the throne. And I knew far too little about Kish politics: I was going to have to learn. That meant contact with the locals ... ideally a travelling merchant could tell me more about Kish and the lands surrounding it: the people, the temples, the wars, and the king.
No sooner thought than acted on: I dropped off the road into the shade of a tree. There was little sense in proceeding without knowledge, and by walking I was only reducing the possibility of being overtaken by a traveller who might help, while not being likely to quickly catch up to any voyagers ahead. I checked my sightlines, ensuring I could not easily be surprised, and found a comfortable seat.
Perhaps an hour later my vigilance was rewarded with the sight of a trudging figure in the distance, followed soon by three heavily loaded wagons pulled by oxen and tended by five or six other men. Two or three on horseback — rough, rude steppe ponies — completed the retinue. I stood and walked into the middle of the path while they were still far off, to indicate that this was no ambush or threat.
They paused, seemed to discuss, then continued on their way. I was, after all, only one against their seven. And not even mounted.
“Good day and blessings of Enlil,” I greeted them with a hand outstretched as they approached.
They were hauling grain in the wagons, piled high. Dark and gnarled, these farmers and workers were maybe five, five and a half feet tall. Strong for labor, but not bulky, their bodies told the tale of a lifetime working the fields, eating scraps, and surviving without extras or comfort. They looked up at me suspiciously, somewhat fearfully.
Then the oldest, perhaps, sitting on one of the wagons, asked me my name and destination.
“I am Geno,” I told them in their tongue, marveling again at the language skills that Hermes gave so effortlessly. “I am travelling to Kish to offer my services to the lugal.”
They gathered round, apparently believing me no threat, curiously but cautiously gawking at my weapons and armor. The old one told me that he lived in lands controlled by Ur-Zabada, the current king of Kish, and that they were travelling to market to sell the first-fruits of this year’s harvest. He apologized for their caution — these lands were not without raiders and thieves — and we agreed to travel together.
I walked, he rode, and he spoke of his long life on his farm.
I guessed his age to be something like fifty — already a patriarch in a land with a life expectancy of perhaps thirty-five. When I asked of Kish, he told me of its markets and people, the miserly market stall owners to whom he hoped to sell his foodstuffs, the arrogant priests who took what they wanted, and the wars of the lugals.
“I had a brother,” he said. “Many summers ago.”
The lugal before Ur-Zabada had seen the brother on a hunting trip up-river. The brother was big and strong. (Not quite as big as me, apparently.) The lugal had conscripted the brother for his army.
“Two winters after he was taken, he came back. Magnificent: clothed, armored, weapons in his hands. Strong, well-fed.”
But there was no second reunion, and few messages. Then nine summers and a new lugal later he had news of a vicious battle with Ur in the south, and no news of his brother, ever again. It was a common enough story, I guessed. The king needed to fight wars to grow his territory, protect his city, and feed his ego, not necessarily in that order. Therefore he must have warriors; therefore he must take men; therefore soldiers must die.
Nothing new under the sun.
We walked in silence for some time, then I took a seat on the wagon at the old one’s invitation. It seemed all the walkers save the garrulous ancient took turns resting, and now it was mine. The dust from the oxen’s feet, and the rich smell of the toiling beasts in what was now the heat of the day conspired to deprive me of two of my five senses, so I stood on the wagon instead, gaining elevation and perspective.
As I stood, a shout from the man riding the back of the last wagon alerted us to the imminent arrival of a group of mounted men. A cloud of dust revealed the troop, closing from the rear. The oldster, a worried look on his face, directed the wagons to the edge of the road. The walkers clustered in as well, and the two on horses, leaving the center of the road open.
And shrinking our defensive perimeter.
As the dust cloud came closer and closer, we could make out shapes of horses and men. The old one stood up on the wagon next to me, peering through rheumy eyes.
“Soldiers of the king!” he said.
He sounded happy. I guess it was better than some of the alternatives: raiders, unknown soldiers, or even potential enemies. The other men relaxed somewhat. I stayed ready, alert, and the old one, seeing that, smiled. He too stayed intent.
He did, however, sit down again, and I sat next to him. Standing high over mounted men was not a good way to greet those who would have no doubt that they were the authorities … superiors meeting inferior subjects of the lugal.
As the noise of fifteen or so horses racing up from behind grew louder and louder, it seemed they might just pass us. But something caught the eye of their commanding officer, and at a shout, they reined in, almost sliding to a halt.
The leader came up through the dust, waited a moment, then fixed his gaze on me. I was, of course, the anomalous element, and the only possible danger for his men.
“Your name and purpose,” he said.
Before I could answer, the old one spoke for me.
“He is a warrior from a distant land. He journeys today to enlist in the service of the lugal. We have been travelling together.”
The captain did not shift his gaze for a moment, merely looked at me. Several of his men edged off the trail, walking their horses behind the wagon and cutting off my retreat.
“I am Geno. What he says is truth.”
I began to tell him the story Hermes had given me: city far to the north, not known here, battle and war and loss, and a journey to find a new life in the most famous city in the world. It was a good story, and should have been persuasive, but the hair on the back of my neck started to rise as he seemed to show no interest, just impatience.
Then I noticed the old man looking at the other soldiers, who were more visible as the cloud of dust was carried in the wind. All of whom had packhorses … of the fifteen or so horses, only seven carried men.
The old man looked suddenly nervous, and I could see why. Soldiers they might be, but marauders as well, returning home with booty.
The officer made a show of making a decision.
“You must give me your weapons. Then you can come with me to see the king. If he accepts you, we will return them.”
Small chance of that, I thought. Once this dandy with an eye for trinkets found out what my relatively high-tech sword could do to his native crap, he’d only release it from cold, dead fingers. And weaponless, I would be a tempting target to leave cold in a ditch.
“I have another plan,” I said, suddenly rising and stepping a little closer to the officer. “You leave right now, and when I arrive in the city, I won’t tell the lugal that you are thieving scoundrels who are raiding his lands and people.”
I leaned down, head close, and locked eyes with the officer. He glared back. After what seemed like minutes but was only a few seconds, I could see his decision in his eyes and the tiny changes in his posture: he was going to fight. Seven against one seemed like good odds, and the spoils were rich.
With my left hand I pushed the old man off the wagon seat, back onto the cargo. Even as the captain opened his mouth to issue orders, my right hand reached for the sword in the scabbard at my side. In a single uninterrupted motion I whipped it out and removed the captain’s head from his shoulders, slicing through his leather armor as if it did not even exist.