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.