Battle For Empire (The Eskkar Saga)

by Sam Barone

  Eskkar jerked his head at the guard, who hurriedly closed the door. Eskkar waited while the guard descended the stairs, treading more heavily than usual, no doubt to make sure that the King could hear his descent.

  “Welcome home, Father.” Sargon acknowledged his mother with the slightest bow. “Congratulations on your latest victory.” The voice held the tiniest trace of insolence.

  Eskkar decided it might just be the lingering effects of the wine. He leaned back against the edge of the table. “Perhaps I should have stayed away a few more days. By then the King’s Justice might have sentenced you to be stoned to death in the market.”

  Sargon swaggered to the table and scooped up a handful of grapes. “Nicar would never do such a thing. Nor would Corio demand it, once he calmed down.”

  The boy spoke the truth. Nicar, the dispenser of the King’s Justice, would have stayed his hand from that punishment. And while Corio might shout and bluster for a few days, even he would not want a serious breech between his house and the King’s. Sargon was no fool, Eskkar granted his son that. “And what should I do in their stead?”

  Tossing a grape into his mouth, Sargon stepped away from the table. “Nothing happened, Father. Besides, Sestana told me she wanted me to take her. She’d been drinking wine before we got there. Then she changed her mind.”

  “And after you finished with her, Ziusudra would have taken his turn as well. Your friend knew better than to rape the girl first. He was willing to let you have all the blame.”

  Drunk or sober, virgins of Akkad’s noble families were not debauched without serious consequence. Disgraced, Sestana’s bride dowry would have vanished, and the embarrassment to Corio’s House would have had other lingering effects. Eskkar set that thought aside for a moment.

  “More important, you disobeyed both your mother and me. You left your teachers, and joined with Ziusudra, despite our orders. What should be your punishment for that?”

  Sargon met his father’s gaze. “I promise I will attend to my studies. But I already know more than most of the Noble Families about how to rule a city. There will be plenty of time to study when I am King.”

  “Ah, then you think you will rule Akkad someday?”

  Sargon seemed to realize that his words might sound presumptuous. “Not for many years yet, I’m sure, Father.”

  “And if I decide to choose your brother Melkorak as my heir?”

  Melkorak, Eskkar’s other son, had five fewer seasons than Sargon.

  Sargon shrugged, unconsciously imitating his father. “Melkorak is too young. And he is slow to learn the symbols. He will not be strong enough or wise enough to command the City.”

  Leaving only you to rule when I am gone, Eskkar thought. “You press too hard on my patience, Sargon.” He turned to Trella. “And what do you suggest we should do with our son?”

  Trella, sitting so quietly that she had almost faded from the room, fastened her gaze on Sargon. One of the candles illuminated her face, and Eskkar caught the glint of anger in her eyes and in the tension of her lips.

  Her look startled him for a moment. He hadn’t seen that expression for . . . almost fifteen years, since the night Trella had helped him fight Korthac. She’d saved Eskkar’s life by stabbing the Egyptian usurper in the leg, slowing him down just enough so that Eskkar could defeat him.

  When Trella spoke, however, her voice remained calm. Whatever emotions she felt about her son remained locked in her heart, but Eskkar recognized the signs of anger, the signs of a woman and mother pushed too far.

  “Perhaps we should ask Ziusudra. Sargon listens to his counsel.” She turned away from Sargon to face Eskkar.

  “You should know, Husband, that Ziusudra has a loud voice, and when he talks many hear his words. Yesterday he suggested that you were lucky to survive this battle with the Alur Meriki, and that you might not be so fortunate in the next encounter. He also told Sargon that the Kingship of Akkad was his for the taking. I wonder what he meant by that? Perhaps if Ziusudra spent a session with the torturers, they could obtain the explanation.”

  Sargon’s eyes widened. Obviously it had never occurred to him that Trella’s agents might be spying on him. “He never said that! I swear he . . .”

  Eskkar pushed off from the table, covering the distance between himself and his son in two long strides. For a tall man, Eskkar could move with both speed and agility, a fact that had surprised his enemies and saved his life more than once. Before Sargon could react, Eskkar’s hand clamped on his son’s shoulder with such force that Sargon gasped in surprise and pain.

  Jerking his arm, Eskkar shoved Sargon so fiercely that he staggered across the room and slammed into the wall, hard enough to send the sound throughout the house.

  Eskkar never stopped moving. He caught Sargon as he bounced off the wall, and this time his right hand fastened around his son’s throat. “You call your mother a liar to her face!”

  The grip tightened. Sargon clasped his hands on his father wrist and tried to loosen his grip, but far bigger and stronger men had failed to move that arm.

  Sargon’s face turned red, and he gasped for breath. He dropped his right hand to fumble with his tunic. But before he could draw the dagger from beneath his garment, Eskkar caught Sargon’s wrist with his left hand and squeezed. Sargon cried out as the bones in his wrist ground together. The blade clattered to the floor.

  “Damn you!” Eskkar twisted his shoulders and flung Sargon back into the center of the room. The boy stumbled and went down, landing awkwardly on the plank floor, his head within the shadow of the table.

  The door burst open. The guard, summoned by the noise, took one step into the room, his hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes darted around the room, seeking any sign of danger.

  Eskkar’s frown froze the man in mid step. “Fetch the commander of my guards. At once! And find my Hawk Clan guards, the two who returned with me.”

  “Yes, My Lord.” The soldier looked grateful for any excuse to leave the room. He turned and raced back through the door, his heavy sandals pounding on the stairs.

  Sargon twisted on his side, and started to rise, but Eskkar clamped his foot on the boy’s chest, pinning him to the floor. “Move and I’ll crush your ribs.” A shift of Eskkar’s weight brought a gasp from Sargon.

  Chandor and Pekka arrived together, rushing up the stairs and into the chamber. Saruda, the commander of the Compound’s guards, followed them into the room.

  Eskkar’s glare halted all three just inside the chamber. “Saruda, my son Sargon is to be placed in the smallest of the guest quarters. He is to see no one, speak to no one. That includes the servants. You will not obey any of his orders, and you will ignore any requests. If you fail in this duty in the slightest, I’ll have you hung from the city’s walls. Do you understand me?”

  Over the past few months, perhaps even longer, the guards had grown accustomed to taking orders from Sargon. That practice had to stop.

  “Yes, My Lord.” Saruda glanced down at the boy. “Of course.”

  Eskkar turned to the other guards. “You two will remain in the chamber with Sargon. I give you the same orders as Saruda. No one is to see him or talk to him. And he is not to speak with you. If he does, for each word he utters, I order you to punch him as hard as you can in the stomach. If either of you fails to obey my orders, you’ll both wish you’d never been born.”

  Eskkar glanced at the guards and his son. Then he turned to Trella. She remained seated on the bench, expressionless, her face drained of color. She met his eyes and nodded.

  “Get him out of here.”

  The moment the door closed behind them, Eskkar whirled and returned to the table. He wanted to strike something, someone. Instead he pounded the surface with the heel of his hand. “Damn him to the pits.” Taking a deep breath, Eskkar regained control of his emotions. He filled his cup with wine, and gulped half of it, spilling a mouthful on his clean tunic in the process.

  “My son!” The bitterness grated on h
is tongue. “I taught him everything but honor.”

  “That cannot be taught, unless the pupil already has the seeds within him.” Her eyes closed for a moment. “But perhaps it is not too late for Sargon. You know I have never approved of your idea of sending him to the Steppes People to learn the ways of war. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it is time for him to learn honor the hard way.”

  He stared at her. “Then he will have one last chance to learn it. Tomorrow he will accompany me to the north. I will take him to Subutai of the Ur Nammu. Maybe he can teach our son what I have failed.”

  Trella’s eyes closed at Eskkar’s words. She knew what they meant, and she did not protest. Her son would likely die in the north. “You have not failed, Eskkar. It is I who have put up with Sargon’s bad habits far longer than I should. Now I will have to bear the responsibility for that.”

  Eskkar sat beside her. Taking her in his arms, he felt her tremble against him, as she rested her head on his shoulder. After a few moments, she regained her composure.

  “Now the gods will decide his future.” Trella’s voice had regained its decisiveness.

  Eskkar had more faith in Subutai than any gods, but decided to keep that thought to himself.

  Loud voices sounded through the door, coming from the common room below.

  “Damn every demon, now what?” Eskkar strode to the door, flung it open so hard that it slammed against the wall, and stared down into the house’s main chamber.

  Corio stood there, his path blocked by one of the household guards. “Eskkar! I demand to speak to you. Right now!”

  The last man in Akkad Eskkar wanted to see. He considered sending the outraged girl’s father away, but decided that he respected Corio too much to avoid him. Besides, if Eskkar sent him away, the man’s anger would only increase. “Come on up, Corio.”

  A moment later, the Noble Corio, his face red with anger, stomped into the room. “Eskkar, do you know what your son has done?”

  Eskkar held up his hand and shook his head. “Save your words, Corio. If you’re not satisfied with what I intend for the boy, you can use my own knife to cut off his balls.”

  13

  That night and the next day strained Trella’s resolve. She had to set aside her own sorrow and worries to deal with her husband, who alternated between the darkest gloom and a burning fury. In his anger, Eskkar wanted to ride out of Akkad the next day, but Trella pleaded with him to wait a few days.

  “I want to prepare some things before you go,” Trella said. “And you need time to select your men and ready your supplies. It may be a long journey, and you should get some rest. Also, I want to prepare gifts for the Ur Nammu. That may help them receive Sargon more favorably.”

  Grudgingly Eskkar agreed to the delay.

  That time stretched out to four days, during which Trella prepared for Eskkar and Sargon’s departure.

  “There is much you will need, my husband,” she said, more than once. “Traveling will be difficult, so it is better to take our time.”

  She saw how Eskkar hated each day of waiting. Trella understood his dilemma – he feared that he might weaken in his resolve, and release Sargon from his confinement, to give the boy yet one more chance. On several occasions Eskkar turned to her, the anguish plain on his face. Eskkar’s unspoken plea was that she would change her mind about Sargon’s banishment.

  Those moments wrenched at Trella’s heart. She had acquiesced to Eskkar’s decision, but her love for her son shook her resolve. If she weakened the slightest, Eskkar would rescind his orders. But though the decision tested her strength of will, Trella refused to relent. The boy was counting on them doing just that. But Sargon had created a crisis that must be resolved, once and for all.

  She and Eskkar had labored for too many years to establish their place at the top of Akkad’s hierarchy. They had gambled their lives more than once, and endured too much danger, to risk everything now on a wayward son. As he was, Sargon would never be a good or wise ruler. And the fact that he would keep company with one who spoke against his father’s rule was damning of itself, far worse than anything Sargon could have done to Sestana.

  All Trella’s efforts to ensure their rule could still come to naught if Eskkar died without a suitable heir. With a weak son, several of the nobles and even some of the soldiers might be tempted to put themselves forth as the next King of Akkad.

  In her heart, she doubted that their oldest son would ever fill the role of heir. And despite Sargon’s claims that he would change, she’d seen youths such as this before. She knew that her son’s shiftlessness would only increase as he grew older. Those who took to drinking too much ale so young rarely abandoned the habit as they grew older.

  Trella dared not let the years pass, hoping that Sargon would outgrow his wildness. With the danger from the Elamites approaching, the need for a suitable heir had grown even more urgent.

  Better to remove the boy now, give him this one last chance, before he grew old enough to cause more serious trouble. Despite the pain it brought her, Trella knew Sargon had to go the Ur Nammu. He needed the hard training, both physical and mental, that Sargon had failed to receive in Akkad, with its ever-present temptations.

  Sargon, of course, only added to Trella’s woes. She visited him several times each day, and at every opportunity to speak he pleaded for another chance, another opportunity. He swore that he would drink no wine, that he would attend to his studies, and obey his teachers. Again and again, Sargon pleaded his case, and as the days passed without setting out on the journey, Trella saw that her son’s belief that they would relent increased.

  Both father and son underestimated Trella’s resolve. She needed a suitable heir to the city, someone who could rule one day, and accept Trella’s guidance.

  “The time to resolve this problem is now,” she told Eskkar. “Akkad has enemies within and without, all waiting for us to show the least sign of weakness. Many harbor hatred in their hearts toward us. You, because you were born a barbarian, and I because I was a slave. While I love my son in spite of his foolishness, others might use him to threaten us or our family. We must also think of Melkorak and Zakita.”

  That thought, in the end, kept her determination strong. Trella had other children to consider. Nor was she too old to have another child. If Melkorak did not yet display the sharp mind needed for a ruler, at least he would accept his mother’s guidance. As would Trella’s daughter, Zakita, who possessed keen wits. Both would play significant roles in Akkad’s expansion in the coming years. No, she would not risk their futures to save Sargon’s.

  Both Trella and Eskkar remembered that the boy had lied, and they remembered, too, that he had reached for the knife he’d worn under his tunic. Any son who dared raise his hand against his father might be put to death. Exile from the family would be considered a mercy.

  So the days passed. Eskkar fell back into what he did best, choosing his men and horses, and deciding what to take with him. Trella agreed that he should take Chandor and Pekka, his bodyguards, of course, along with twenty of Hathor’s best horse fighters, ten of them already Hawk Clan.

  Hathor had insisted on accompanying his king, but Eskkar refused, unwilling to waste Hathor’s time on such a mission. Eskkar did accept Draelin, one of Hathor’s senior men, to be his second in command. Six pack horses would accompany the riders, burdened with supplies for the trip and gifts to the Ur Nammu, most of those selected by Trella herself.

  On the morning of the fifth day, in the pre-dawn darkness, Trella stood in the Courtyard. A crackling torch provided the only light. Outside in the lane, the horsemen, many still rubbing sleep from their eyes, waited to begin the journey. Eskkar had insisted on an early departure. Trella knew her husband wanted none of the city’s inhabitants to witness the spectacle of the king leading his troublesome son into exile.

  “Do not blame your father,” Trella said to Sargon, who stood before her. “He . . . both of us believe this is for your own good. In my heart, I am certain t
hat you will return to us.”

  “You cannot do this to me, Mother. I am your son. You need me here.”

  The words sounded well enough, but Trella heard the anger hidden in them. Her son still could not believe his parents would go through with his punishment.

  She reached out and touched his cheek. “You must endure this, Sargon, for your own good. Just remember that I love you, and will pray for your swift return.”

  Sargon brushed her hand away. “Then I have no mother, no father! No mother would banish her own son.” The boy’s loud words echoed throughout the Compound. The servants and soldiers averted their eyes at the hurtful words.

  Eskkar, seeing to his horse a few paces away, strode over. “If you raise your voice again, I’ll have you gagged.”

  Sargon glared at them both, then turned away.

  Eskkar gave the order to move out. He led his horse out of the Courtyard, with Sargon following, with two Hawk Clan guards on either side.

  Stretching her legs to keep up, Trella accompanied them to the main gate, now called Ishtar’s Gate by the people. She gave Eskkar a brief farewell, and tried to say something encouraging to Sargon. But again her son turned his face away.

  Tight-lipped, Trella climbed the guard tower steps just as the sun’s first rays of light topped the hills to the east. She watched from the wall as her husband and son rode out. Tears streaked her cheeks, but Trella refused to brush them away. The last time she felt such grief was when she watched her mother and father die, both murdered before her eyes. As she stared, Eskkar put his horse to a canter, and the soldiers matched his pace.

  The moment Eskkar and his men passed out of sight, Trella brushed the tears from her face. She turned away from the wall and spoke to the leader of her four Hawk Clan guards, waiting patiently a few steps away.