by Sam Barone
“Send a messenger to Ningal the merchant. Tell him that the King would be grateful if Ningal would attend him at the Compound at midmorning. And he is to bring his son, Ziusudra, with him.”
That problem, too, needed to be resolved, though she had already taken the first steps.
At the appointed time, Ningal the merchant, and his wayward son, Ziusudra, arrived at the Compound. As they climbed the steps and entered the upper chamber, no doubt the merchant expected to hear angry words from King Eskkar, followed by some sort of fine as punishment.
The passage of time had lessened the impact of the assault. Even Corio, Sestana’s father, had controlled his rage, though he administered a savage beating to his own son for his part in the drunken attack. Of course Ziusudra was no longer welcome at Corio’s house. But after the first two days with no word from the King, Ziusudra assumed the worst of the storm had blown over, and resumed his usual ways, as the city’s gossip turned to other matters.
As two more days passed without any summons, father and son smiled at each other and relaxed. But that idea disappeared the moment Ningal saw the reception that Trella had arranged.
Trella and Annok-sur sat behind the large table, flanked on either side by a Hawk Clan guard. Bantor, the Captain of Akkad’s Guard, sat at the end of the table. Behind him, Hathor, the city’s cavalry commander, leaned his sparse frame against the wall.
No scribes or servants hovered nearby, but more important, Nicar, the King’s Justice, was absent. Befitting their status as wealthy and influential citizens, any of the city’s important traders expected to plead their case in the presence of Nicar. Ningal’s complacent mood vanished as he took in the hard faces of those arrayed before him.
The door to the chamber closed, as Ningal moved into the center of the room.
“I received a summons from the King.” Ningal glanced around, as if expecting Eskkar to join them from the other chamber.
Eskkar’s planned departure had remained a secret, known only to those soldiers and servants within the Compound. The less anyone knew about his goings and comings the safer he, and Trella, too, would be.
She stared at Ningal, observing the worried look that he no doubt thought he was concealing. Ningal’s fine tunic, soft leather sandals, and etched belt did little to enhance his rotund body. The merchant had eaten far too many fine meals, each one accompanied by the most expensive wines.
A weak man despite his successes, ruled by his appetites and desires for wealth. He had fathered only one child, Ziusudra, though he possessed several wives and an extensive collection of nubile slave girls.
Ziusudra, tall and handsome, looked nothing like his father, and Trella wondered if Ningal had, in fact, sired the boy. Her sharp glance examined their ears, and noted that father and son did not resemble each other in that feature. Perhaps some sturdy household slave had taken advantage of one of Ningal’s absences to slip into his wife’s bed and cuckold his master.
Not that it mattered any more. The father’s laxity and the boy’s deviousness and subtlety had brought this punishment upon their family.
Ziusudra, mistaking the brief silence, favored Trella with his best and most sincere smile.
“Eskkar is not here.” Trella did not intend to waste any more of her words or her time. “Ningal, you are being banished from Akkad, you and your family. You have three days in which to depart. And you will make a payment of two hundred gold coins to the King before noon today. Or one hundred if you do not wish for Ziusudra to accompany you. In that case he will be put to death for treason.”
As she spoke, Trella turned her gaze to the son, the ambitious boy who had twisted Sargon to his own purposes.
The smile had left Ziusudra’s face. “I’ve committed no treason!” Ziusudra had grasped the import of her words even faster than his father. “Your own son can swear to that.”
Ningal’s mouth fell open in shock, and it took a moment before he could speak. “Banishment! For a youthful prank, a prank instigated by your son? And two hundred gold coins? Such a fine is unheard of.” Even for a man as wealthy as Ningal, that much gold would be a serious hardship. “I protest! Lady Trella, I demand to see the King’s Justice. This is not allowed and . . .”
Hathor pushed himself away from the wall and stepped across the room. Before Ningal could react, Hathor grabbed him by the throat, the powerful muscles in his arm rippling under the dark skin. At the same time, the Egyptian drew the short sword he always carried.
When the sharp blade pressed against Ningal’s stomach, a gasp of panic escaped from his mouth. He tried to shrink away, but Hathor merely tightened his grip.
“The penalty for treason against the King is death.” Trella kept her voice firm, letting it reach through Ningal’s fear. “And if you have forgotten, treason is not resolved by the King’s Justice, only by the King. So if you continue to argue or protest, Hathor will kill you and your son right now. I can collect the gold from your household myself.”
Far tougher and braver men than Ningal had withered under Hathor’s ruthless gaze. The merchant, lips protruding and his face now bright red, attempted to speak. Hathor released his grip on the man’s neck, and shifted his grasp to the front of the man’s richly woven tunic. But the tip of his sword remained firm against Ningal’s soft stomach.
“I . . . I will pay! Please don’t kill me. I will leave the city, I swear it!”
With a snort of disgust, Hathor released the man. Ningal would have fallen, but Ziusudra, his eyes wide with shock, caught his father’s arm and held him upright.
“That is wise, Ningal.” Trella’s voice still hadn’t risen. “There is another condition. Neither you nor your son will say anything to anyone about this matter. There will be no mention about the fine, no explanations about why you have decided to leave Akkad. You will just leave the city. The first time I hear talk about what has happened here today, that will be your last day of life. Do you understand?”
Ningal nodded. His lip trembled, and his eyes remained wide with fear.
“After you leave, you will not take up residence within two hundred miles of Akkad. If you do, then your treason will be proclaimed, and a bounty set on both your heads. Perhaps a hundred gold coins for each. You do understand what that means, don’t you, Ningal?”
For that much gold, a hundred men would set out to find the merchant and return with his head. And no city, no ruler within the Land Between the Rivers would offer succor to Ningal, not for any sum. The wrath of Akkad was too well known to take such a risk, not when it would be just as easy to seize Ningal’s possessions for themselves and then turn him over to Akkad for the reward.
“I do . . . Lady Trella. I will . . . I do.”
“Good. Then you may depart. My guards will accompany you home, and remain at your side until the gold is delivered. Do not waste their time. Leave us.”
Numbed, the merchant nodded and turned to go, still clutching onto his son’s arm. His unsteady gait showed his shock.
Trella waited until father and son had left the room and descended the stairs. “Thank you, Hathor, and you also, Bantor.”
Bantor rose and stretched. “For what? I still think you should have killed him. That would have satisfied Corio, too.”
“Come, Bantor.” Hathor slid his sword back into its scabbard. “We’ve got enough to worry about.”
Bantor glanced at his wife in resignation, and shook his head. The two commanders departed, taking the guards with them.
As the door closed, Trella breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad that’s done.”
“Bantor is right.” Annok-sur shook her head. “You should have killed them both. And confiscated all their goods.”
“No, this way is better. Eskkar and I agreed on this. Better not to give Sargon another reason to hate us.” She refused to consider the possibility that she might never see her son again. “Besides, time and uncertainty will work in our favor. You have set everything in motion?”
“Yes. Der
ina left yesterday for Lagash. She will be in place by the time Ningal arrives. The fool does not even know that he goes where we want him to go.”
Everyone knew that the merchant had kin in the city of Lagash to the west. And that place lay just outside the two hundred miles that Trella had specified. Where else would Ningal go to restart his ventures?
“And Derina’s box is ready?”
“Almost. She will make a stop or two along the way, to gather what she needs. When Ningal arrives in Lagash, he will be searching for household servants. Derina’s cooking skills will make her the obvious choice. She understands she is to wait two or three months before serving her special mushrooms.”
And that would be the end of Ningal and Ziusudra. They would die by poison in a distant land, and no connection to Akkad would ever be established. Nevertheless, many would guess the truth, and even more would respect the long reach of Trella’s power. Most of all, the boy who had poisoned her son’s thoughts would die in agony of poison himself, a fitting end to a short and wasted life.
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 so
me 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.