by Sam Barone
Subutai, Eskkar realized, was offering him a final chance to back out. Probably Subutai didn’t want the responsibility of a wayward son he might end up having to kill, let alone explain an accidental death. Such an occurrence might bring an end to their friendship. Better another be given the responsibility.
“The choice is yours, Subutai. I am sure you have many suitable warriors to choose from. When this is over, no matter how it ends, Trella and I will again be in your debt, Subutai.”
“As I am in yours, Eskkar of Akkad, and doubly so for killing Thutmose-sin.” Subutai took a deep breath. “I will speak to Sargon myself later. Meanwhile, I will think about this, and about which warrior to choose.”
Eskkar finished his wine. He wanted another cup, but that could wait until he returned to his men. With a heavy heart, he bid his host goodnight, got to his feet, and left the tent.
A young boy stood apart from the tent, patiently holding A-tuku’s halter. As Eskkar swung astride, he felt a relief that the most difficult part of the ordeal had ended. Now he just had to face his son, Sargon, and give him the bad news.
Huddled in his cloak, Sargon sat alone, away from the warmth of the soldiers’ fire. By now even his guards had ceased watching him. If he tried to flee, they or the barbarians would gleefully hunt him down.
Despite that knowledge, Sargon couldn’t keep his mind away from somehow trying to escape. But those thoughts always brought a host of fears, and Sargon refused to give up all hope. After all, anything could happen. On the way home, his father could be attacked by bandits, or thrown from his horse and killed. Such accidents happened often enough. No, better to wait and see what the future held.
The sentry on guard called out. “The King is returning.”
Sargon lifted his head at the words. Not that his father’s coming and going from the barbarian camp meant anything to Sargon. The two hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words since the morning of their departure from Akkad. With his eyes shaded by the cloak’s hood, Sargon watched his father arrive at the Akkadian camp, swing down from his horse, and hand it over to one of the guards. The King brushed past the soldiers with scarcely a nod, and headed straight for his son.
Sargon kept his head down and remained on the ground, though he should have risen out of respect for his father.
Gritting his teeth, Eskkar considered ordering the boy to stand. But that would only add one more humiliation for Sargon to bear. Instead, Eskkar settled on the ground across from his son.
“I’ve spoken to Subutai. He’s agreed to take you into the Clan, but not in his own tent. He’s picking a warrior to see to your training.”
Sargon’s determination to keep silent vanished. “Then I’m to be a slave to some filthy barbarian?”
The anger, bottled up so long in Sargon’s breast, spat the words at his father. Sargon watched Eskkar’s jaw tighten. The King had never been very good at concealing his emotions.
“You will not be a slave. In fact, how you are treated will be up to you. It will be difficult, but you must earn the respect of your new family. If you do, then in time you will be able to return to Akkad.”
“I will never return to Akkad!” Sargon practically shouted the words in his father’s face. A few of the soldiers, startled by the outburst, glanced at the two for a moment, before turning their eyes away and pretending they hadn’t heard anything. “I will die here among these ignorant barbarians! Banished by my mother, murdered by my father.”
Eskkar stared at his son for a moment. “It is true you may die. No man knows what the gods have in store for him until it is too late. But that is why you are here. It is not yet too late for you. We thought . . . I thought we had trained you well, taught you the ways of honor. It may even be my fault that you turned away from us. All that no longer matters. Whatever fate brought you here, you must learn to make the best of it. Here you will learn honor, or die.”
“Then when you return tell my mother that I am dead. Tomorrow, the next day, I will die, and probably even before you get back to Akkad. Tell her that, and see how much her son’s death matters compared to her precious city.”
His father’s jaw clenched again. Harsh words against Trella never failed to arouse him.
Eskkar rose to his feet. “I will be leaving in a day or two. But I will not carry any such message to your mother. If you want to tell her hateful things, you’ll have to do it yourself.”
His father turned and stalked off into the night, away from the soldiers, and away from the barbarian camp.
Sargon watched him go. His father could brood alone in the darkness for all Sargon cared.
The anger still burned in Sargon’s heart. His scheming mother was as bad or worse than his fool of a father. But perhaps Eskkar had said one true thing. There still remained a chance that one day Sargon could hurl those same words into his mother’s face. As long as that chance remained, Sargon decided he would do whatever it took to stay alive.
After all, these barbarians were simple people. It should be easy enough to deceive them, pretend to accept whatever concept of honor they believed in. Do whatever they asked, grovel in the dirt at their feet if need be. It might take a few months, but in time, they would accept him.
Then he would find a way to escape and return to the Land Between the Rivers. With a horse between his legs and a sword for protection, Sargon felt certain he could make his way to other cities, other places he could go. And perhaps when the time was right, he would return in triumph to Akkad.
Sooner or later the Ur Nammu would turn in that direction. All he needed to do was be patient until that time came. Then his friends and companions within Akkad would help him. Ziusudra had plenty of gold. With his friend’s help, Sargon would strike out on his own, and find a place to live for a time. Someplace where the names Eskkar and Trella meant nothing.
Perhaps Ziusudra would call upon the man he claimed to know, the one brave enough, for the right amount of gold, to kill even a king. After all, Sargon reasoned, however much gold was needed would only be a loan.
Once he became King of Akkad, all the wealth of the city would be his. That thought brought a grim smile to Sargon’s face. Yes, he would deal with these simple barbarians and await his time.
16
In the morning, Sargon awoke to find the encampment full of activity and himself the last one to arise. Though the sun had risen not long before, he saw the place where Eskkar had spread his blanket empty. His father must have left, to return to the tents of the Ur Nammu.
Before long, young barbarian children wandered over, to stare with big eyes at the newcomers with their odd clothes and strange ways. Yesterday, to Sargon’s surprise, he learned that two of the Akkadian supply sacks contained gifts for the children.
Draelin and two of his men smiled at the shy children and waved them into the camp. Before long, a few of the braver boys and girls crowded around Draelin.
Sargon stared as Eskkar’s commander distributed the pack’s contents, taking his time and drawing out the suspense. Soon the children’s shrill voices turned to happy laughter, directed as much at Draelin as the gifts they eagerly accepted. These included a good quantity of small copper knives for the boys, suitable for carving soft wood.
Some of the girls received necklaces of polished stones, strung together with a strip of leather. Others received lengths of brightly dyed linen, which could be used either as a scarf against the cold, or worn across the body for decoration.
The Akkadian commander made sure that no child received more than one present. Soon even the youngest of the Ur Nammu children had summoned enough courage to approach the strangers and extend an empty hand. Naturally, there were more children than gifts, so those who arrived late returned to the camp empty-handed and envious of their companions’ good luck.
Sargon refused to join in the gift-giving. His mother had prepared these trinkets, no doubt considering them a small price to pay to obtain a measure of good will. When the last of the childr
en had finally departed, Draelin and his two helpers picked up and carried two more sacks across the grassland to the Ur Nammu camp. These contained offerings for the women.
Those gifts, Sargon guessed, would disappear even faster than the children’s. When Draelin returned just after midmorning, each of his men carried a large wineskin. The commander handed one over to the smiling soldiers, but held the other back for the evening.
Sounds of revelry floated over the meadow from the Ur Nammu. Cheers and shouts erupted, separated by long silences. Curious in spite of his desire not to converse with anyone, Sargon called out to Draelin when he walked nearby.
“What’s going on over there?”
“Your father is telling Subutai and his people about the battle with the Alur Meriki. The Ur Nammu can’t believe their good fortune. They’ll be safe from the Alur Meriki, for a time, at least. That’s why they’re celebrating. They know they won’t be hunted when the Alur Meriki come through these lands.”
“But the noise . . . it’s been going on all morning.”
“Aye, and probably the rest of the day and all night, too. Your father will be telling and retelling the story for the rest of the day. He had to sketch a map in the dirt, so that they could see where everyone fought. Every warrior has a handful of questions. If I could speak the language better, I’d be over there helping explain, too.”
With a shock, Sargon realized that he would be expected to speak the barbarian tongue when the soldiers departed. Two years ago, Eskkar had attempted to teach him the dialect of the steppes people, but Sargon had not tried very hard to learn it.
Like most inhabitants of Akkad, Sargon saw no need to learn the barbarians’ crude language. Of course he had studied the various dialects and symbols of Sumer and the other cities in the Land Between the Rivers, as well as the language used on the trade routes. His mother had insisted on that, but those were little more than variations of the Akkadian tongue and easily grasped.
Now Sargon wished he’d paid more attention to his father’s urgings. The smattering of steppes words Sargon understood would not allow him to converse with his new clan. Not only would he be alone, but he would have to depend on others to speak. The sooner he could escape the barbarian camp, the better.
As the celebration in the Ur Nammu camp continued, Sargon watched as small groups of grinning warriors galloped out, bows in hand, to hunt game for the evening feast. A few waved at the soldiers as they rode by. In the afternoon, a handful of Ur Nammu women from their encampment dragged over a pair of bleating sheep and enough firewood to get the cooking started.
By the time the flames caught, Draelin’s men had gutted and skinned the bleating animals, and already had the still-bloody carcasses turning on spits.
The soldiers of Akkad would not be allowed to mix with their allies in the main camp, but Sargon knew his father would see to it that they enjoyed their own feast. By now the Akkadians knew they would depart for home in the morning, more than enough reason for the men to enjoy a fine meal and a few mouthfuls of wine.
Just before sundown, the noise from the barbarian camp finally died down, as warriors returned to their tents and wagons. Sargon stared at the Akkadian cooking fires, watching the smoke tendrils rise into the sky, the sheep revolving on the spit, and soldiers taking turns to keep the meat cooking evenly. Even quartered, it took a long time to cook a whole sheep, and Sargon guessed the sun would be well below the horizon before the meat cooled enough to be eaten.
A shout from Draelin turned Sargon’s head, and he saw his father, Subutai, and another warrior approaching.
Both Ur Nammu warriors looked fierce. Subutai had a powerful build, and Sargon saw the thick muscles that bulged on his chest and arms. The other, much younger, stood a hand’s width taller, but with a slim build, narrow hips, and more delicate features. Both wore their hair tied back, in much the same fashion that Sargon’s father preferred.
Eskkar called out to his son. “Sargon! Come, join us.” Eskkar’s words carried to all the soldiers.
Every one within earshot paused to watch what would happen next. Even the men turning the spits forgot their tasks, wondering if the wayward son would dare to disobey his father in front of the warriors.
Part of Sargon’s mind told him to ignore his father’s command, but he knew Eskkar would likely just order Draelin and the others to drag him over. While he didn’t care what his father or these barbarians thought, Sargon didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of the soldiers. Better not to have such a story told in Akkad, that the son of the King needed to be carried like a child to meet his destiny.
Sargon gritted his teeth. There was nothing to be gained by waiting. He climbed to his feet, his heart beating faster as the dreaded moment approached, and followed his father’s order. The three men stopped at the edge of the camp.
Still, the command in his father’s voice rankled Sargon, and he took his time walking through the camp until he stood before his father and the strangers.
“Walk with me, Sargon.”
Eskkar placed his hand on Sargon’s shoulder and guided him away from the camp. The warriors followed behind. About fifty paces away, a small circle of stones marked a place where the Ur Nammu children had played during the day. Eskkar sat on a rough slab, and his companions found places to sit facing him.
“This is my son, Sargon of Akkad.”
The two warriors nodded in acknowledgement.
The older one spoke first, using the language of Akkad. “I am Subutai, leader of the Ur Nammu. This is Chinua, one of my chiefs and third in command. He fought with your father at the great battle before the city of Isin, though Chinua had only sixteen seasons at the time.”
The serious looks on their faces silenced the angry words that Sargon had in his mind. He bowed to show respect. “Greetings to the Great Chief of the Ur Nammu.” Sargon remembered enough to give the proper greeting.
“Your father tells us that you do not yet speak our language,” Subutai said. “Until you learn, we will talk in the language of the . . . villagers.”
Sargon nodded his head in gratitude.
Eskkar spoke. “Subutai is a wise leader of his people, and three times we have battled the Alur Meriki together. I have asked him to teach you the ways of the warrior, and he has agreed. But since he leads the Clan, Subutai has many duties and little time to spend training a young warrior. Chinua, a most worthy warrior, has offered to guide you in the ways of the Ur Nammu. He will teach you how to ride and how to fight.”
“Your father is a mighty warrior.” Chinua’s gentle voice contrasted with the harsher tongue of his leader. “I followed him on the great charge into the ranks of the Sumerians.”
Sargon saw his father smile at the memory. “The moment I gave the order to attack,” Eskkar said, “Chinua raced to the front. His was the first arrow to strike at the Sumerians.”
Chinua laughed, too. “That arrow fell short, as I remember. It was my first battle, and the blood raced in my body.”
Almost nine years had passed since that battle, and yet his father and Chinua spoke of it as if it had been fought yesterday. Sargon nodded. He didn’t know what to say.
“Chinua will take you into his household,” Eskkar went on. “You will be treated as one of his own sons. There will be many lessons to be learned before you can be considered a warrior, but you have the battle skills, and your wits are quick to learn. Your courage and your strength will be tested, but I am sure you can master their way of living and fighting. When that day comes, you can return with pride to Akkad.”
“Yes, Father.” Sargon had to clench his teeth to hold in his rage. Whatever Sargon uttered would be meaningless. Eskkar had set these events in motion. This Chinua would now rule Sargon’s life.
Once the Akkadians departed the camp, the barbarian would have the power of life and death if he should so chose. Sargon would be alone. He wondered what instructions his father had given these men in private.
“We have prepar
ed a great feast in your father’s honor,” Chinua said. “The women labored all day to prepare it, and there will be plenty of food and wine. You are welcome to come with us and sit beside your father and the leaders of the Ur Nammu.”
The words sounded honest and respectful, and Sargon guessed they came straight from Chinua’s heart. But Sargon couldn’t . . . wouldn’t sit beside his father and pretend that all was well while these barbarians heaped praises upon Eskkar and his latest deeds. Sargon couldn’t bear such a night of endless humiliation.
“I thank you . . . Chinua.” Sargon hoped he pronounced the warrior’s name properly. “But I would prefer to spend the night with the soldiers. It will be my last chance to be with my own kind.”
If either Subutai or Chinua thought Sargon’s refusal odd or disrespectful, neither let their face betray their feelings. And while Eskkar could usually control his emotions, Sargon saw a flicker of anger twitch at his mouth.
“Then you will enjoy the celebration with your own warriors.” Subutai’s words showed no resentment. “There will be many more meals for us to share in the future.”
Subutai rose to his feet, and Chinua followed. “We will return to our camp. The meat should be well cooked by now, Eskkar, so come as soon as you can.”
The two clan chiefs strode off, leaving father and son together.
“You insulted Subutai by not joining him at the feast.”
Sargon heard the rebuke in his father’s voice. Sargon, his fists clenched, felt his lips tremble. “They are your friends, not mine. When you are gone, I will have to live with all of them, sharing a tent with four or five others, all of them stinking of horse sweat.”
“This is the path you have chosen. So be it.” Eskkar stood and stared down at his son. “Before we left Akkad, your mother told me not to weaken in my resolve. She said I would be tempted to change my mind and bring you back to the city, to give you one more chance. I was proud when you answered Subutai with the proper respect. But your mother was right. I see your heart is still blind with anger. You will have to rise above it, if you ever wish to return home.”