Along the fertile plains of ancient Mesopotamia a slave finds he must trust a vision given to him by an unearthly stranger. Will Sargon be the first man in history to forge an empire? The maiden's song might just unlock his destiny; this ethereal melody sung by the beautiful woman he rescued from death. Sargon might win his dream and it could be the woman he comes to love who may help him claim it.

THE MAIDEN'S SONG
By Debra Tash Chapter 1

Naram-tani knew she must die.

The great king could not live much longer. The air smelled of lamp oil, incense and death. The king's breathing became more labored as two priests continued to murmur chants. Dressed to resemble fish, they honored the god Enki, ruler of Aabuz, the freshwater ocean beneath the land. Physicians hung about the bedchamber, their skills useless now. The amber light of oil lamps, propped on stands of bronze, burned steady that long night. She did not want to see the king's ashen face. His bearded chin, the pained pale-brown eyes and the king's grayed, long-wavy hair framed his kind face which was now transformed into a death mask that would soon send her own life into darkness.

The blue lapis lazuli beads dangling from her headdresses softly clicked together as she turned away from the sight before her. Bands of bright red and blue accentuated the warm dusty orange of the walls. Her headdress formed a glittering circle of gold atop her long black hair. She had seen the men digging into the deep clay of Umma. They prepared a place for their king and those chosen members of his court who would drink from silver cups filled with poison and meet him in the Underworld. The ruler of Umma would be no more alone in death than he had been in life. Whether it was considered an honor or not, she knew she did not want to die-sixteen springs and hot dry summers were not enough-but there was nothing she could do.

"The maiden," the king cried in a hoarse whisper. The queen emerged from a darkened corner. Her lovely face was streaked with tears as she looked at Naram-tani and snapped her fingers, summoning the girl forward. Her sharp beauty, the high cheekbones, the olive color of her skin and the clarity of her large dark eyes, all were unmarked by age; not a gray hair in her thick black tresses, nor a wrinkle on her face to reveal her thirty-nine years. She took hold of her husband's hand and tenderly pressed it to her breast as Naram-tani bowed before the large bed on which the ruler of Umma lay dying.

The king raised a shaky hand, silencing the priest's droning prayers. "Sing for me," he commanded her. "Sing…"

She swallowed hard. How many times had she come to this chamber to sing for him to soothe the king's mind, her voice lifting his burdened spirits? Her dress of blue and orange linen stuck to her skin as she sang a song of spring, of a time she would never see again. Her voice ran golden, as vibrant as her eyes. It cascaded from the walls, and melted into the gray baked clay of the floor. It was her song, sweet as spring but mourning for an end she could not escape. The last of the melody faded and the room fell silent. It seemed no one breathed any longer. The warm air of that summer night had stilled.

Then she heard the soft sound of weeping gently rise from the silence. The queen clutched her hands together as she bent her lovely head. The king was dead. Naram-tani's own heart ceased to beat. This queen would live on as a co-regent for her young son, but Naram-tani would be no more.

The young maiden squeezed her eyes shut. A hot anger sizzled within her, the rage of youth cut short. She turned about and quietly left the room. Outside, the moonlight painted the hard clay buildings of Umma with a tint of blue. The great temple loomed upward. Crowning the tiered platform was the holy sanctuary built of cut bricks. The palace was not far from the sacred shrine dedicated to Shara, the god who watched over Umma. Naram-tani rushed toward the sanctuary only to halt abruptly before the temple gates. The entrance had been barred for the evening. She fell to her knees outside the wall and hung her head in shame. She was a coward. Naram-tani pushed her fists into her tightly closed eyes. If she could only find the courage to drink from the silver cup.

Spreading her arms wide, she opened her eyes. "Great Shara, give me strength," she begged the god.

Last spring, she had ascended the temple steps during the New Year Festival, honored to be one of those who accompanied the king for the sacred rites.

"Shara, I remember the world. Your city spread below, a maze of mud buildings risen from your life giving plain."

The harbor was not far outside the wall. The fingers of its wooden docks stretched into the muddy blue waters of a canal.

"The great Euphrates," she gasped. It was the first and only time she had ever viewed the river, even at a distance.

"The world's so beautiful." She hungered for life. Naram-tani shivered. She realized the awful truth. No matter what curse the gods brought her, she did not have the courage to die.

* * *

It would not be a good morning. Sargon stood on one of the docks of Umma's harbor and spat. He had been in the city all night and heard the heralds crying the news in the streets. The man they regarded as their king was dead. Those in Umma would mourn. That meant no trade-no profit to be made now. Time to take the boat and head towards the Lower Sea. He could make the port of Umm-al-Nar before winter came.

Sargon had persuaded his master to let him undertake this three-year venture. They would share the profits; his master providing the silver needed to outfit and man this ship and himself the cunning and leadership to make the endeavor succeed.
He stretched in the morning air, turned to the sun and let it warm his bare chest. An Akkadian by birth, his copper skin was far darker than the chalky hides of the natives here. He was proud of his strong build, that of a warrior not a slave. Yet, in all of his twenty-three years, he had never lived by anything other than his wits.

He wore a white linen kilt and kept his face clean-shaven in the Egyptian manner. One day he may go to that land of mysteries. One day, but not now. He had to sail south to the Lower Sea. Sargon looked at the brightening horizon. He would be off before the late summer sun rose much higher.

The first year had proved bountiful even though it was a hard route. It started in Sutkagen near the mouth of the Indus Valley where he had obtained ivory and bloodstones, beautifully carved carnelian beads and other exotic, costly items to be bartered for a measure of silver. Then he had sailed along the shores of the Lower Sea and up the Euphrates River. When autumn's approach neared, he sailed down again. Yes, it had proved a hard route, battling the currents, escaping the bandits that infested the shores, it had been hard but it had also been fruitful. Someday, Sargon would have enough with his share of the proceeds to buy his freedom and this very ship.

He kicked Menna's thigh. The man slept soundly upon a mat laid across the wooden dock. The slave grunted and rolled over. His flabby middle rippled with his movement. He moaned, determined to stay asleep. Sargon kicked the slave's padded rump even harder. "Get up, you hyena!"

Menna was lazy and practically worthless, but he possessed a certain manner that made him easy to like. The slave groaned and slowly sat erect. Menna, an Egyptian, was always disheveled, his dark brown hair a mass of wooly tangles, his jaw shadowed by a stubble of beard. It was remarkable how Menna managed to be so fat on their poor ration of brown bread and beer. Sargon credited the phenomenon to the man's well-honed skill of minimizing any task given him. The slave grumbled, squinted at the morning light and shook himself awake. He and the dawn were mortal enemies.

"Get ready to leave," Sargon ordered. "Now!"

Menna grunted as he stood up and clapped his hands, rousing the other six members of the crew. Eight men in all constituted this small trading band. Some slept on the dock and two curled in the pointed prow of the boat itself. The craft was relatively large compared to others that ventured the Euphrates. It was outfitted to sail the Lower Sea. The cargo and ship's stores were secured behind a walled square of woven reed mats. Thick ropes ran from the two wooden stocks of the ship's bi-pole mask to the high arch rising at the vessel's stern. Those ropes supported the reed mats. It was a functional craft with room in front for a team of rowers. There was space in the rear of the makeshift cargo hold for a man to stand and guide the craft with the long paddle that served as the ship's rudder.

The men set to work. Sargon, arms folded across his chest, watched them as he stood upon the dock. A crash sounded inside the cargo hold. Everyone stopped. Sargon jumped aboard before any of the others could move. He pushed aside a reed mat and quickly spotted the cause of the disturbance. He smoothly stepped inside and let the mat fall back in place.

The woman stared at him, her golden eyes wide with fear. She was the loveliest woman he had ever seen. Her long hair was dark and radiant, framing her round and delicate face. Even her creamy complexion pleased him, for it was perfect. Sargon remained still, assessing her, the richness of her garments and the circle of lapis lazuli beads dangling from her golden headdress. How did she get in here?

"What is it?" Menna called from the other side of the reed mats.

Sargon made no move, no sound. Then he shouted, "It's only a large rat!" He picked up the fragments of a clay oil lamp the woman must have accidentally upset and sent crashing to the boat's wooden deck.

"We'll kill it," one of the slaves offered.

"I may," Sargon answered, his gaze set upon the woman. Her eyes widened even more. "But I think I'll let it live for now."

"Let it live?" Menna squawked

"Yes," Sargon answered, his mouth turning up at a corner. "But it won't escape." He backed out of the cargo bay. He stood straight and threw the clay lamp shards over the side into the water. He gave an order. "No one else is allowed in there for now."

"Because of a rat? A rat that will eat our supplies?" Menna's thick brow furrowed as he flipped up his hand in protest. "Has the hot sun of this land of mud-caked peasants finally roasted your senses?"

Sargon crossed his arms and set his jaw. "Be careful with your rude tongue. I can do you a great deal more harm than a simple kick to your soft backside, Menna." He narrowed his dark eyes. "Prepare to leave."

Menna bowed his head, but the look on his plump face was anything but agreeable. The slave freed the ropes mooring the craft to the dock as he grumbled, "A rat is dining on my morning bread."

The ship heaved as the crew began to guide it into the canal. They would soon be heading down the Euphrates. Sargon had a valuable prize in his keeping now. This beautiful woman belonged to him.