Battle For Empire

14

At about the same time that Ningal and Ziusudra learned their fate, Sargon slid from his horse and stretched his stiff legs. He hadn’t ridden a horse for at least ten or twelve days, though Eskkar had told Sargon often enough that he should ride every day. Now, with his father pressing the pace, Sargon’s lack of endurance showed itself. Eskkar obviously had wanted to get as far from Akkad as possible before stopping. Though Sargon knew how to ride, he’d never covered so much ground without stopping to rest.

The soldiers milled around, talking among themselves while easing their own muscles, though none of them showed any signs of weariness. No one paid much attention to Sargon, except for Chandra and Pekka, his father’s bodyguards, who had ridden at Sargon’s side during the journey. They, too, had received their orders — to keep a close eye on the King’s son.

Sargon felt tempted to tell them not to bother. He knew better than to try and run away. Any of these men Eskkar had chosen for this expedition would have little trouble catching Sargon, binding his hands, and leading him back. He didn’t intend to give his father that satisfaction.

Instead Sargon tossed his horse’s halter to Chandra and sat on the ground. Though surrounded by twenty men, he remained as alone as if he were still imprisoned in his room. The soldiers ignored him. They knew of Sargon’s banishment, and that knowledge made them keep their distance. No one wanted to get caught between the King and his son.

The guards meant nothing to Sargon. He thought as little of them as they did of him. Simple creatures, they did as they were told.

Sargon glanced up, to see Eskkar striding toward him.

“We’ve a long ride ahead of us, Sargon.” Eskkar kept his voice low, and his words cold and flat. “Don’t give the soldiers any trouble. If you try and run away, they’ll hunt you down. When they find you, they’ll break one of your legs, to make sure you don’t try it again. So unless you want to face a long and painful ride with a broken leg, do as you’re told.”

Sargon glared at his father, but said nothing.

Eskkar met his son’s gaze for a moment, then turned away and raised his voice. “Mount up. Let’s get moving.”

At that moment, Sargon’s last glimmer of hope, that his mother and father might be testing him vanished, dispelled by the grim look in Eskkar’s eyes. His father never spoke much, but when he did, especially in that tone of voice, Eskkar meant what he said.

Sullenly, Sargon mounted his horse — not his own horse, just some nag the soldiers had given him — and started moving. Four guards accompanied him, two in front and two behind. Two of them had ropes slung over their shoulders, which Sargon knew would be used to restrain him if he attempted to slip away.

Sargon’s fist tightened around the halter rope, and he fought the urge to take his anger out on the horse. He hated the soldiers, hated all of them, especially Chandra and Pekka, his father’s efficient bodyguards, both loyal members of the Hawk Clan.

The fact that Sargon was the heir to the kingdom meant nothing to them. Their loyalty lay with the King, not his son. They were too stupid to understand that Akkad’s future lay with Sargon, not his father.

His horse needed little guidance. The animal followed those ahead of it, so Sargon had plenty of time to brood. He remembered his mother’s goodbye, uttered just before they left the courtyard. This is not the end, she said, leaning forward and kissing his cheek, only the beginning. After those brief words, she moved away, to linger much longer as she whispered her farewell to the king.

Sargon glimpsed her once more, as he rode through the gate and left the city. A glance back toward Akkad’s walls revealed her, bathed in the first rays of dawn, standing atop the tower, watching the company of toughened fighters depart. But her gaze, Sargon knew, was directed at her husband, not the son that she had condemned and banished.

He decided that he hated his mother even more than his father. Despite Eskkar uttering the shocking words that he would take his son to the Ur Nammu, Sargon blamed his mother for his banishment.

Angry as his father might be, his mother always found a way to talk him around to whatever she wanted, most of the time without Eskkar realizing he had changed his mind. His mother ruled the city, if not directly, then through her husband. And the city of Akkad always came first in her thoughts, far ahead of any concerns for husband or son.

A fury of silent rage swept over Sargon. They both should have been more concerned about him, the future ruler of Akkad. Instead they had condemned him.

Sargon stared at Eskkar, riding at the head of the column, his shoulders hunched forward, as if brooding on his decision. But his father said nothing further to his son the rest of the day, and the grim soldiers guarding Sargon took their lead from their King. Sargon didn’t bother trying to talk to them. He knew they had orders which forbade them to listen to his words, let alone obey any of his requests.

Only Draelin, his father’s second in command, exchanged words with Sargon when they halted at midday to rest the horses. “Don’t feel bad about riding that horse. After a few days, you can switch to one of the pack animals. They’re all good stock.”

Sargon didn’t bother to answer. Men like Draelin, despite his rank of commander, meant nothing, less than nothing. Simple soldiers, every one of them. They obeyed orders without question, just as they would obey Sargon’s commands when he became king.

He should be the one giving the orders. Even Ziusudra agreed that Eskkar’s time to rule had come and gone. The city no longer needed a warrior king, someone ready to pick up a sword and do battle. Even his father’s latest venture had involved him fighting, one foolish barbarian against another.

If only Eskkar had fallen in the battle. The soldiers would still have returned victorious, and Sargon would be the city’s ruler.

But, no, his father’s famous luck had spared him once again. And of course, Eskkar had to come back to the city on the same day as the trouble with that stupid cow Sestana. Her arrogant father, worse luck, was one of the few in the city who could make demands on the King. Even so, a few days later, and the prank would have been forgotten.

Then a mere slip of the tongue had betrayed Sargon and sent his father into one of his rages. Again and again Sargon relived that moment. He could still feel his father’s hand on his throat, choking the life from his body. At that moment, Sargon thought he was going to die. If only he could have reached his dagger. Then it would have been his father lying dead on the floor.

With Eskkar dead, no one, not even his mother, could have stopped him from taking the kingship. Sargon was the oldest son and the rightful heir. His popularity with the people of Akkad would have lifted him, the city’s first true-born Akkadian, to the highest power. Even Trella, his mother, would have yielded to the will of the people. His brother Melkorak was too young, and his sister didn’t matter.

Trella would have turned to Sargon out of necessity. Either her son would take charge of the city, or some favored son of the nobles would, leaving her with nothing. And once Sargon had the power in his hands, he would make sure his mother changed her ways, or she would have found herself banished from Akkad.

If only Sargon could escape and return to Akkad. Ziusudra and his father Ningal would help. They had spoken often about Sargon’s eventual ascent to the kingship. With their backing, and that of others who Ziusudra assured him had grown tired of Eskkar and his barbarian rule, the soldiers would bow down and accept Sargon as their king. If only. .

Instead he rode north, and each jolting stride of the miserable horse took him farther away from any chance of ruling. And always the grim Hawk Clan guards remained alert. They had their orders and they knew their business.

That night, exhausted, Sargon fell asleep on the hard ground, placed as far away from the horses as convenient, though he felt too weary to even think about escaping. In the morning, after a quick breakfast of already stale bread, the journey continued. Sargon’s muscles protested, but he knew showing weakness in front of these men would not help. Gritting his teeth, he concentrated on controlling his horse.

The soldiers, meanwhile, talked and laughed as they rode. Over and over, they discussed Eskkar’s battle at the stream against the Alur Meriki. Despite Sargon’s lack of interest, he heard every detail of every part of the struggle, and the role each man had played in the conflict. The simple Akkadian soldiers remained in awe of his father.

To them, this journey meant nothing more than a chance to earn some extra coins, enjoy a ride through the countryside, and get away from Akkad for a while. Occasionally one or another would break into a song, with the rest joining in. Sometimes the rough words they sang poked fun at the King, as if the ruler of Akkad were a fair target for their jests.

Sargon had listened to many soldiers’ songs before, but he had never heard such disrespect shown by common soldiers to their King. In Akkad and the nearby training camps, the men kept such coarse words to themselves. On the march, it seemed, loose discipline prevailed.

His father never complained about the lack of respect. In fact, Eskkar often joined in with their foolishness, acting as though he were nothing more than a common soldier himself, instead of their ruler. In Sargon’s mind, he heard the caustic comments Ziusudra would have uttered at such an embarrassing and humiliating spectacle.

The miles rolled by beneath the hooves of their horses. For the rest of that day and the next, Sargon clung to the forlorn hope that his father might yet change his mind and turn the column around, admitting that the whole journey was nothing more than a final test to force Sargon to his parents’ will. Sargon’s mind went over what he would say when that happened, how much he would apologize, and how much he would swear to be a dutiful son.

And he would promise anything, everything his parents wanted. Trella’s spies might have heard some of Ziusudra’s comments, but one talk Sargon felt certain that no one had overheard remained in his mind. For the right amount of gold, Ziusudra claimed, even a king could be slain by the right man. Ziusudra intimated that he knew just such a man.

By the fourth day, that slender hope had vanished. Even mounted on a better animal, Sargon knew he could not escape. Five or six riders would each take an extra horse, and they would run him down, long before he could reach the city’s walls or disappear into the countryside.

Even if Sargon succeeded in making it to Akkad, Bantor’s soldiers or Annok-sur’s spies would soon find him. And with each passing day, Ziusudra might become more unwilling to risk his father’s fortune to succor his friend.

Sargon thought often about his friend, sitting in their favorite ale house, probably with a girl on his lap. Ziusudra always managed to enjoy himself.

More days passed, and the weather grew cooler. When they made camp on the twelfth day, Draelin appeared and handed Sargon a cloak unpacked from one of the supply packs.

“Your father wants you to have this, Sargon. It will be getting colder at night as we move north.”

Sargon accepted the cloak, but turned away from Draelin without saying a word. Sargon refused to bow to his father’s will. Sargon had already decided he would speak to his father as little as possible.

The cloak, a fine one made by one of his mother’s servants, served Sargon well that night. In the morning the journey continued, each day taking the caravan farther and farther north, through country so rugged and desolate that the riders seldom encountered anyone.

When the scouts began riding back and forth, searching for the Ur Nammu, Sargon let his hope return. He knew little about the small clan of barbarians that lived in the mostly empty lands north of Akkad. His mother had a weakness in her heart for them, and Eskkar considered them important allies, though how a handful of ignorant nomad horsemen could be of value to Akkad escaped Sargon.

In the war against Sumer, the Akkadians had raised an army of more than five thousand men, more than enough to defeat and tame the Sumerians and their allies. What could a few hundred barbarians matter against such a force?

By now thirteen days of hard riding had passed. Although well-mounted, the troop had traveled a vast distance. Sargon knew his father and the soldiers had only the most general location of where the small clan of steppes warriors might be found, and the last four or five days included much searching and scouting, all of which required caution on the part of the soldiers.

Far enough from home that even the name Akkad meant little or nothing to the inhabitants, the few people living in these lands remained fraught with fear. Any large party of armed men warranted suspicion, and more than a few farmers or herders fled in fright at first sight of the Akkadians.

Sargon watched with interest when they did cross paths with a band of marauders, about fifteen well armed men, all of them mounted, who watched their progress for half a day. To the soldiers’ disappointment, his father ignored the bandits.

Eventually they abandoned any ideas of raiding Eskkar’s party. The six pack animals promised little reward when balanced against the heavily armed Akkadians and their greater numbers.

None of the soldiers appeared the least concerned, and Sargon soon realized that raiders such as these had little stomach for a tough fight, one that promised only hard knocks and empty purses even if they were successful. All the same, Eskkar ordered extra guards on duty each night, to protect both the horses and the camp. Sargon, of course, had no such duty to perform.

After another day of fruitless searching, Sargon started to believe that they were not going to find the wandering clan, and that his father might soon be forced to return to Akkad. Then Eskkar’s troop sighted a small band of five riders, outlined on top of a hill almost a mile away.

Though yet at a great distance, Sargon heard Draelin claim he could see yellow strips dangling from their lance tips. Sargon couldn’t be sure, but his father ordered the large yellow pennant broken out. Lifting that standard and waving it back and forth brought a reaction.

Two of the riders guided their mounts down the slope, heading for the Akkadians, the other three warriors holding back. If this were a trap, they could escape to the north and gather their clan.

With much care, the two riders approached. Meanwhile, Eskkar ordered his men to dismount. Sargon, at the back of the caravan, stared helplessly, hoping these were not the Ur Nammu. His last dream of returning to Akkad turned to ashes when one of the horsemen gave a shout, and urged his horse forward, calling out Eskkar’s name. The rider had recognized Akkad’s leader.

Sargon watched the barbarian pull his horse to a stop beside Eskkar. The scout, a powerfully built man with long black hair, carried a curved bow with yellow feathers dangling from the tip. A sword slung across his back, the hilt jutting over his shoulder, and he had a quiver of arrows hung on his left hip. His sturdy horse looked more like a wild beast, with a shaggy gray coat and wild eyes.

The two Akkadian columns tightened up, the horses nose to tail, and even Sargon could hear what was said.

“I did not believe it was you, Eskkar of Akkad. I am Unkara of the Ur Nammu.”

“Your eyes are good, Unkara,” Eskkar answered. “Forgive me for not recalling your name.”

“I was just a young warrior when I last saw you, Chief Eskkar. You are far from your lands.”

“And you wonder what has brought me so far north to these empty lands?” Eskkar laughed. “I wish to speak with Subutai. I trust he is well?”

Sargon understood the importance of the question. Men died, not only in battle, but from disease or accidents. A dead clan leader might change the situation.

“Subutai is more than well,” Unkara answered. “Our camp is but a day’s ride from here. I can guide you to him. And I will send a rider on ahead, with word of your coming.”

Sargon caught the implication in those words, too. Subutai might have no use for a visit, or might want time to organize a war party.

“That would be good,” Eskkar said. “These lands are unfamiliar.”

“These lands are dangerous,” Unkara agreed. “There are many roaming bands of fighters crossing through this territory, and none of them have any use for strangers. We hunt them down when we get the opportunity. Most have learned to avoid the reach of our riders.”

Eskkar nodded in approval. “We saw one such band. Still, we will be grateful to ride beside you and your men, Unkara. It will speed up our journey. We’re running low on food.”

“Follow me, then.” The barbarian whirled his horse around and dashed away, to rejoin his companions.

Eskkar gave the order, and the Akkadians moved forward again. Sargon followed more slowly, until one of his guards smacked the palm of his hand against the rump of Sargon’s horse.

Startled, Sargon almost slid off the horse’s back. Instead he kicked his horse forward, taking out his anger on the dumb brute.

Like a slave, he would soon be handed over to uncouth barbarians living in smoke-filled tents and sleeping with their horses and dogs. The meanest slave in Akkad would live a better life. Once again, Sargon cursed the injustice that had brought him here.

The final leg of the journey took longer than expected, as the Akkadians pack animals slowed the usual rapid pace of the warriors. Midafternoon of the next day had passed before the caravan crossed over the crest of a hill and Sargon saw the Ur Nammu encampment. Its tents nestled between the protecting arms of two long ridges extending down from a steep hill.

Despite his gloom, Sargon stared down at the barbarian camp. About four hundred horses grazed in the shelter of the hills. Tents, some made from animal skins, were pitched haphazardly along the banks of a meandering stream, and Sargon could see smoke rising from several campfires.

The camp’s inhabitants stopped whatever they were doing and watched the strangers approach. He could see children running about. A few cattle and a small herd of sheep grazed a quarter mile downstream of the tents.

The barbarian Unkara shouted something to Eskkar, and then rode on ahead. Sargon saw his father turn to Draelin.

“You’ve never dealt with the Ur Nammu before,” Eskkar said. “Our men will be quartered a short distance away from their camp. You must make sure that none of our soldiers leave that place, or do anything to give offense. Otherwise. .”

“I understand, Captain.”

Eskkar gave the order, and the little troop started down the hill. Before they reached the bottom, Sargon saw two riders heading toward them. One was Unkara.

Eskkar halted his men and waited until the two barbarians arrived. Sargon heard the name “Subutai” several times, and decided the leader of the Ur Nammu himself had ridden out to meet the Akkadians.

Sargon stared at this barbarian, who would soon be his master.

Subutai, about the same age as Eskkar, appeared fit. Tall and sinewy, Subutai had a broad forehead and deep brown eyes. A wide mouth filled with strong white teeth flashed when he smiled. Hard muscles covered his chest and his legs were thick and powerful. Only a few strands of gray in his hair gave evidence to his years.

After a brief discussion in the language of the steppes peoples, Eskkar told Draelin to take the men and follow Unkara to a campsite about a half mile from the tents of the Ur Nammu. Eskkar and Subutai left the Akkadians and rode toward the main camp.

No one paid any attention to Sargon, so he followed Draelin. No doubt his father wanted to talk in private with the barbarian chief. Sargon felt certain his presence would be the main topic of the conversation, like a head of livestock offered for sale, or a new slave, fresh on the auction block.