by Sam Barone
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.
15
A chill wind blew down from the hills as Eskkar dismounted in front of Subutai’s tent. Gray clouds had rolled in from the west, obscuring the sun. Subutai, arms crossed over his bare chest, ignored the brisk breeze. He motioned toward the tent, and led the way inside.
Ducking beneath the flap, Eskkar found himself facing one of Subutai’s wives, Petra, if Eskkar remembered right. She had built a small fire, so the interior would be more comfortable for her husband’s important visitor.
Layers of blankets and horsehides covered the ground, except in the center, where a ring of stones surrounded the smoky fire. A small hole at the top of the tent was supposed to let the smoke escape, but from the haze in the air, Eskkar doubted it was working today. Two small chests comprised the tent’s only furnishings.
“Wine and water for our guest.” Subutai’s words sounded inviting enough, and he managed a friendly smile for his visitor. “He’s had a long and hard ride.” He gestured toward a colorful blanket. “Come. Sit at our fire.”
Eskkar bowed in appreciation and eased himself down, shrugging the long sword off his shoulder and dropping the weapon carelessly at his side. The two men sat cross-legged on blankets, facing each other over the crackling blaze.
One of Subutai’s daughters entered the tent and helped Petra fill the cups. The young girl shyly served Eskkar a cup of wine, then returned in a moment with a water pitcher. He allowed her to pour a generous amount into the wine.
Polite conversation followed, as each man inquired about wives and children. Subutai announced that he had two new sons and a daughter. Soon the tent flap moved back and forth as the proud mothers displayed their offspring. Eskkar, as a leader of warriors, touched each child on the forehead, to give them strength and bring them luck.
At last, after refilling their cups with fresh wine, the women and children left the two men alone. Subutai waited until the tent flap settled into place.
“So, Eskkar, what brings you this far from your city? Whatever it is, it must be important.”
Eskkar took a long sip from his cup. “First, I bring good news. My soldiers and I defeated the Alur Meriki in battle. Thutmose-sin is dead.”
Startled, Subutai spilled wine from his cup, ignored it, and stared at Eskkar. “Dead? Are you sure?”
Subutai insisted on hearing the whole story, and Eskkar obliged. A lengthy discussion followed. Eskkar explained the details of the secret march, Hathor’s battle to secure the stream, and the night attack. The duel with Thutmose-sin took longer to relate than the actual fight.
When Eskkar finally finished, Subutai rocked back and forth for a moment. “It is hard to believe. Thutmose-sin ruled for so many years. Thousands have died because of him, and many hundreds of Ur Nammu warriors. He nearly destroyed our Clan. And now he is dead, and by your own hand. We owe you and Akkad a great debt.”
“I thought you would rejoice at these tidings.”
“Later, perhaps.” Subutai shook his head. “But first I must look into my heart.”
Subutai wanted to know where the battle happened, and why that stream was chosen. Eskkar explained, using directions and landmarks that would have been incomprehensible to anyone who hadn’t spent their life on a horse. Then he went into the details of the peace arrangement.
Even Subutai’s inscrutable face showed surprise at the news. “So the Alur Meriki accepted your terms? They will honor the peace?”
“Yes, I believe they will keep it. And they’ve sworn to leave the Ur Nammu alone,” Eskkar repeated. “I assume that you won’t want to challenge them.”
“No, even with their losses, they still far outnumber us. If they do not search us out, we will bide our time.”
Blood feuds between steppes clans could endure many generations, and the Ur Nammu had no intention of ending theirs. Subutai’s father had died in his son’s arms, from an Alur Meriki lance.
“Still, this is good news,” Subutai declared. “We will take our herds and turn to the southwest earlier than we planned, before we once again return to the lands north of Akkad. That should keep us out of their path.”
With that rough timetable, Eskkar guessed the Ur Nammu would not touch Akkad’s borders for at least two, perhaps three years. The Ur Nammu might still be able to help Eskkar face the Elamite invasion.
“If you stay out of their way,” Eskkar agreed, “they should honor their oaths, provided your warriors do not attack them.”
“We will speak more about that later,” Subutai said. “And you will need to retell the story of your battle for my warriors, no doubt many times. They will have many questions. Now, though your news is most welcome, what is the real reason that brings you to my tent?”
Eskkar took another sip of wine, already well into his second cup, more than he usually drank. Subutai was no fool. Sooner or later, news of the battle with the Alur Meriki would have reached him. Or Eskkar could have dispatched a messenger to carry the news.
“The reason for my searching you out involves my son, Sargon. He is at the camp with my men.”
Subutai’s eyes widened, no doubt in surprise at this breach of manners, but he said nothing. Nonetheless, Eskkar knew the heir to the kingdom of Akkad should have been seated at his father’s side during a meeting such as this, not left behind with the other Akkadians. How else could a young leader learn the ways of command?
Eskkar waited a few moments while Subutai worked it out. “Sargon has become . . . a trial to Trella and myself.
His wildness brought him into the company of those whose thoughts . . . they represented a danger to the city. He’s spent too much time in idleness and drinking and not enough learning how to rule. Nor learning how to live with honor. I thought . . . I hope . . . that if my son spent time with your warriors, if you took him into your clan for a time, he might yet grow into manhood and learn the ways of honor.”
Subutai kept his gaze on the fire. He knew how difficult such words were for any father to believe, let alone utter the thought to another. “Such a thing has been done in the past, in the days of my father. But if I accept Sargon into the Ur Nammu, it might be many years before he can return to Akkad.”
“I understand.” Eskkar reached out and poked the sticks deeper into the fire, keeping it going. He, too, preferred to not meet Subutai’s eyes.
“And if he does not accept our ways? If he is injured or killed, then what?”
“Then he will be dead. Better that than for him to live with dishonor.” Eskkar met Subutai’s gaze. “I know the danger he will face. But if he cannot accept this chance, then it is better that he not return to Akkad.”
“I see. Then my heart is heavy for my friend Eskkar. And for Trella. Did she . . .”
Subutai caught himself. One did not ask a warrior what his wife thought about the raising of his son. Despite all that Subutai knew about Trella’s influence, a son remained the property of his father, and the duty and responsibility of raising him belonged only to the head of the family.
Eskkar didn’t care. “Yes, Trella agreed with this decision. She knows that we need a strong heir to follow us, to rule in our place, and to carry our line down through the ages. If Sargon cannot be that son, then it is best that finds his own path.”
Once again Subutai stared into the fire for a few moments. “I will accept your son, Sargon, into the Clan. But I do not think it wise that I should take him into my own family. It would . . . it might make things more difficult for your son. If you agree, I will select another warrior to look to Sargon’s training.”