From what he heard spoken by the riders around him, this Eskkar had taken Korthac just as easily. The barbarian had stormed Korthac in his house, surrounded by his Egyptians, and made him a prisoner. Hathor still found it hard to believe his cunning leader had been defeated, not only defeated but captured alive. Nevertheless, as Hathor clung to his horse, he slowly realized that what his captors said must certainly be true. These men rode too relaxed, unconcerned about any danger; they must have retaken Akkad and killed all those who’d opposed them.
Thoughts of how swiftly they’d killed his men still rankled Hathor.
The Akkadians hadn’t lost a man, not even taken a wound, and they’d fi nished off his Egyptians and taken him prisoner. Bantor had personally killed Ariamus with scarcely a fight, then stood over his victim to watch his death throes. Hathor knew Ariamus could handle a sword better than most, and yet the leader of these men, by himself, had challenged Ariamus without hesitation. And this Bantor, according to Ariamus, was reckoned to be the slowest of Eskkar’s subcommanders. Hathor nearly wept in shame, but the thought of humiliating himself further in front of these warriors halted his tears.
They stopped twice on the return journey. A burly soldier named Klexor checked Hathor’s bandage each time, and gave him water, a gesture that worried Hathor even as he gulped it down, unable to resist the need to quench his thirst.
By the time they reached Akkad, the sun had started to touch the horizon, marking the end of a long day of fighting and running. Hathor, growing weaker with each step of his horse, remembered moving through streets and lanes already lit by torches and filled with revelers. People shouted and cheered at the sight of Bantor and his riders. That turned into a roar of approval as one of the soldiers reached down and lifted Ariamus’s head into view, its mouth hanging slack in the torchlight.
Some Akkadians even recognized Hathor, and yelled curses in his direction. Bantor’s men kept them away, and the soldiers led him back to Korthac’s house. When the soldiers pulled him down from the horse, Hathor was unable to stand, and he fell to the ground, helpless. Laughing, the soldiers lifted him and carried him to one of the soldiers’ rooms across from the main house. Hathor, filled with shame and weakened from loss of blood, had collapsed, grateful only for the end of the punishing ride. His hands still tied in front of him, the celebrating soldiers dropped him to the floor and went off to join the festivities. The celebrations went on and on, long into the night, while Hathor lay in the dirt, fi ghting the throbbing in his leg and contemplating the torture that awaited him.
When he woke, not sure if he’d fallen asleep or passed out from the pain, Hathor found a yawning guard watching him, outlined against a low fire in its dying throes burning in the courtyard. Twisting his head, Hathor caught a glimpse of the night sky, and realized dawn approached. At first he couldn’t believe that he’d slept through most of the night, but his wound must have exhausted him more than he realized. The coming dawn explained the silence surrounding the house, and the city; the inhabitants must have celebrated their liberation long into the night, before finally returning to their beds; aside from the occasional crackling of the fire, Hathor heard nothing.
The sky began to lighten, and thoughts of what the day would bring shook the last remnant of sleep from Hathor’s mind. Today would be the last day of his life. In a few hours the torture would begin. Today he would die. The laughter, the jeers of the onlookers, would fill his ears as they enjoyed the spectacle of his torment. Hathor would make every effort to be strong, but he knew a wounded man rarely kept his courage and his strength. The pain they would inflict would join with that already flaring in his leg, and he would soon beg for mercy. The torture would increase, until he begged them to kill him. They wouldn’t, of course, and that would make the pain and humiliation truly unbearable.
The courtyard fire died out, but moments later the first rays of the sun brushed aside the last of the darkness. Hathor swallowed, his throat dry again, as he attempted to prepare himself for the ordeal to come. The household stirred, with people getting up and about. He heard someone moaning, a low sound he could barely detect. He struggled to sit up, finally leaning his back against the wall, facing the doorway and the soldier watching him. The low, murmuring sound continued, and Hathor realized it had been going on for some time.
“Who’s that?” he muttered at the guard, a dry rasp in his throat.
The guard, who’d sat there watching him without expression, broke into a smirk. “That’s Korthac, your leader. He’s in the room next to yours.
You two are the last Egyptians alive in Akkad.”
The words sent another tremor through him. If Korthac was already unable to control his pain, Hathor, too, would soon be screaming for death.
Which of us, he wondered, would scream louder?
When Eskkar woke, the morning sun had already climbed well over the horizon. He’d slept in fits and snatches during the night, despite the tiredness in his body. The tension of the last few days couldn’t be erased in a single night. Celebrating citizens and soldiers had filled the streets, shouting, drinking, and singing for much of the nighttime hours. The unusual noises had troubled him. The middle of the night had long passed before Eskkar finally fell into a deep sleep. Then he slept right through sunup, waking to the sound of a baby crying for its mother.
He hadn’t wanted to disturb Trella and the child; he’d slept in the outer room, on a blanket. Trella and the baby slept together, both under the watchful eye of Drusala, who apparently stayed awake throughout the night. As she’d explained to Eskkar earlier, because Sargon came before his time, he needed to be watched constantly.
Entering the bedroom with a yawn, he found Trella nursing the babe.
He put his arm around her shoulders, and felt a thrill when she leaned against him, then reached up and touched his cheek.
“You look terrible, husband,” she said, her voice still weak. “Your face…”
Korthac’s fists had bruised and bloodied Eskkar’s face, leaving it swollen and covered with scratches. He could only imagine what he looked like.
“You look beautiful, wife,” he answered. She smiled at him, the way she always did when he told her how beautiful she was. “How is the pain?”
“Better. But I feel so weak, like I could sleep the whole day.” She touched the infant at her breast. “But Sargon has other ideas.”
“So I see.”
Annok-sur arrived, a bandage wrapped around her head, carrying breakfast for them both.
“Gatus is looking for you, Eskkar,” she informed him, setting the tray down on the bed. “He wants to know if you plan to sleep the whole day away. You should eat something now, before he takes up all your time.”
“I’d better go see what he wants,” Eskkar said. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.” He tore off a hunk of bread and filled a cup with watered ale from the tray, and went downstairs. By the time he reached the courtyard, the cup was empty.
Eskkar found Gatus sitting at the head of the table, hard at work. Apparently the captain of the guard had taken his post well before sunrise.
“About time you woke up and got to work,” Gatus said. “You look terrible. How are you feeling?”
Eskkar sat down and helped himself to the water jug resting on the table. “Not too bad. I could use some more sleep, but there’s time for that.
What’s happened during the night?”
“I’ve put Klexor in command of the walls, gates, and docks,” Gatus said. “He’s to make sure no one leaves the city without our approval. Alexar took twenty men and as many horses and is already patrolling the walls, looking for any of the rabble that escaped. Mitrac is going houseto-house, searching the city and making sure none are still hiding under some old woman’s bed.”
“We’ll have to promote them to commanders, then,” Eskkar said.