The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa

by Seja Majeed

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘What’s the matter, Your Highness? Is there something wrong?’

  The servant was alarmed to see the princess standing in the sun when there was cool shade for her inside the tent.

  ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘I can manage, Your Highness; it would be an insult to your name.’

  ‘The only insult would be if you should refuse my help when I have offered it,’ she said softly.

  To her servant she appeared altogether too delicate to undertake such a tiring chore.

  ‘He can lift it, Your Highness,’ said another subject.

  ‘I know he can, but I want to help.’ Larsa’s voice grew stronger as her passion rose; she would not take no for an answer. ‘I want to be of some help. Please – it will mean more than you know.’

  ‘As you wish, Your Highness,’ replied the servant, making space for her hands to grip the leather sack. Only a gracious ruler would offer to use their own hands to ease the burden of their people. The princess reached out her hands to grip the goatskin sack. All this time she had felt like a stranger, lost in a swirl of sand, not knowing how to behave or what to say to her servants. But she felt compelled to find her place; there was no sense in feeling homesick. She helped her servants lift up the heavy sacks and tie them on the camels’ backs. Deep down she had feared the desert, for her rule did not extend there. Now her fear seemed petty, for the desert had become a place of liberation – it gave her the freedom to act just as an ordinary woman would. In the desert, there was no one to judge her behaviour. She wiped the sweat that ran from her forehead with her sleeve, and a refreshing breeze swept past, cooling her body. For a moment she looked out into the distance, trying to enjoy the sight of the rippling sands that stretched out in front of her, and she noticed a strange movement on the horizon – it was hard to make out what it was exactly. The blinding light made her vision turn blotchy, and coloured specks danced before her eyes.

  ‘What’s that over there?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘Look again – over there.’ She pointed into the distance. A faint shadow dipped across a hill, running down as if chased by a thick cloud of some sort, but the sky was a brilliant blue – no clouds could have created such an illusion. Larsa stepped forward. Whatever it was, it had intrigued her. The object appeared to be getting bigger, and was heading in their direction. The servants stopped what they were doing, huddling together, trying to make out what it was.

  ‘It looks like people. They must be merchants; this route is filled with them,’ said one.

  ‘No, they can’t be merchants – merchants travel only by camel, and those are men riding horses,’ said a second servant. He could make out the shape of horses galloping; the image flickered in the heat like a mirage, becoming sharper with every second. The dark specks contrasted vividly with the bright orange sands of the desert.

  ‘It looks like a small army, but not large enough to seize a kingdom, had there been one near here,’ added another servant.

  ‘Alert the guards immediately!’ declared Larsa. ‘There may be too few to seize a kingdom, but there are enough to seize this camp. They’re coming for us – I can feel it.’

  ***

  Nothing can prepare a person of conscience for watching another die. Even if they don’t know the other person, or what kind of life they may have led, somehow they will still find themselves screaming, begging their killers to spare them. But those who have unjustly killed once will find themselves repeating the same sin, for murder is an obsessive habit. Larsa could do nothing but watch the annihilation of her soldiers; vastly outnumbered, they had advanced on their enemy and been killed before her eyes like goats by grey wolves. Innocent men, who had sung and laughed the night before, were trampled by horses as they lay on the ground in agony. Their screams had slowly turned into faint whispers; those left alive were bleeding to death. No compassion or relief was offered by their attackers.

  The commander who had so lovingly spoken of his wife and newborn child was the first to die; he fell off his horse when it reared and plunged, and as he stood up, a swiping blow hit him from behind. At first Larsa thought the blade had missed him; the commander stood motionless for a second or two, staring vacantly into the clear blue sky as if he were in some kind of trance; then he fell sideways. But this was not enough for his murderer; the Assyrian galloped back, wanting to finish him off once and for all, and desecrate his body The soldier hacked at his body; his blood splattered everywhere as the blade flashed up and down. Every time the knife was plunged into his body, Larsa thought of the commander’s wife and infant, and all the things they had dreamt of doing as a family. Today all their dreams had been spat on and set alight. Finally, the commander’s body lay on the ground, unmoving; the hooves of the soldiers’ horses trampled on him, crushing his face and those of the others, until eventually all were unrecognisable. Ambitions and dreams built by good men had been reduced to rubble, and bodies lay scattered on the ground like desert rocks, ready for the vultures to feed on.

  Nothing that was said or done now could make any difference to their fate. The princess – along with her servants – was at the mercy of her attackers. None of her soldiers had had any chance of survival: they were hopelessly outnumbered from the beginning, and all they could do was try their best to fulfil their duty and protect the princess from danger.

  Larsa covered her ears, trying desperately to block out the gargling screams of her soldiers; she could hear them calling out the names of the gods, but where were they? Why had the gods not stopped this from happening? Others shrieked the names of their loved ones, wanting to remember their faces before they died.

  Larsa shook her head like a crazed woman. The Babylonian poets had lied to her – there was no beauty in death, nothing glorious to be held or attained, just as Marmicus had explained. Everything the poets had described in their recitations was an extravagant lie. This was the real face of war: sheer brutality spawned by uncivilised actions, and for a short moment she stared into its eyes, seeing what inhumanity lay within it. The vultures circling above, and the grotesque smell of blood which drifted on the winds, brought to Larsa a deep and terrible chill. It was a smell Larsa had never come across before, and breathing it in made her feel nauseous and unclean, as if the sins of her enemy were being painted onto her skin.

  Even if Larsa survived the bloody combat, the prospect of being violated was real. To be touched by someone else, once, twice or countless times – the thought disgusted and appalled her. She would rather kill herself. She looked at her servants, who were thinking the same thing: rape was imminent for her, and death was inevitable for them. Her stomach, full from the night before, began to heave. Overcome, she fell to the ground, her head becoming light and her vision foggy.

  A servant rushed to comfort her, but the princess pushed her away.

  ‘Leave me!’ she shouted, willing herself to be strong as she tried to stand up.

  ‘You don’t need to witness this, Your Highness; the sight of death isn’t meant for a ruler of peace.’

  He pointed towards the Royal Marquee, reminding her that she could shield her eyes from the gruesomeness around her. Larsa nodded, and began to walk towards the flapping tent, until something inside her made her stop in her tracks. She remembered her father’s words: Remember, my dear child, that a ruler’s heart must always be as strong as the walls of his kingdom. So build your heart into a fortress and never surrender to a moment’s weakness. No force on earth can destroy you unless you willingly surrender to it …

  ‘No … I can’t,’ she said, turning back to face her fate. Her servants had shown bravery, when she had shown nothing but fear. ‘Only a coward would turn their head from the sight of bravery, and I’d never wish to be that person. If ever there was a time to be a real leader, it’s now, in this moment.’

  The enemy had gathered some distance away, and now she could hear the thunder of hooves behind her. They w
ere coming for her; only a few minutes separated them.

  ‘Gather together, quickly!’ she said. ‘If this is my last hour, then let me depart this world with a clear conscience.’

  Her servants rushed to her. They had served her since she was born; now they would watch her become a woman.

  ‘I will not lie to you; I am afraid. I’ve never seen war, and I know nothing of it, but what I do know is that I love my people and my kingdom. Never would I wish to disgrace them, so I’m left with a choice. I can either walk into that tent, and let my fear take hold of me and control me as it did a moment ago, or I can stand firm and look into my enemy’s eyes with the same courage as my soldiers. I know we are outnumbered, and I know we are defenceless, but – make no mistake – we are not helpless. Those men died for us – they left behind their dreams so that we can live our own. I will not disgrace them, and I know you won’t either. So let the beasts come, and when they do, let them see our strength – we will never surrender to them. No sword they possess can strip us of our humanity or make us heartless like them. Whatever is destined to become of us is by the will of the gods, but what we do right now, in this final hour, is by our will alone.’

  Larsa gripped the pendant of Ishtar. Whatever happened, she would not abandon it, not when she needed her courage the most …

  ***

  The Assyrian soldiers arrived in a cloud of sand thrown up by their galloping horses; hundreds of faces encircled the Royal Caravan, which stood like a single tree in an empty desert. Nothing could separate the soldiers now from their prize. They sniffed the air like wild dogs as they gathered around the camp, making a human wall to prevent anyone from trying to escape. Their iron jaws and slate teeth screamed madness and sexual hunger; it was clear that these men had lost their humanity a long time ago.

  The Dark Warrior jumped off his black stallion and walked towards the princess. He had not expected her to be as beautiful as she was, and her porcelain white skin was evidence that she had lived a privileged life. Nafridos wiped away the blood on his cheek, as if wanting to make himself presentable. Larsa may not have known about war, but she could tell straight away that he was a man who enjoyed killing: his broad athletic shoulders and unusual iron sword, with its jewelled pommel, defined him as someone who earned a living from it.

  He stopped in front of Larsa and glared. A face like hers was meant to be admired; it brought only tension within the bodies of men, for desire has a way of making men feel things that only a woman can satisfy.

  ‘One rarely finds a jewel among the debris.’

  ‘My beauty isn’t yours to admire. If you want to kill me then do it quickly; save me from your flattery.’

  ‘I see you’re in a rush to die? Don’t worry, it’ll come soon enough,’ Nafridos sneered, as he gently slid his blade against her cheek, running it down the length of her face. There was the pungent stench of death on the weapon, like iron mixed with salt water; it made her feel sick. ‘Shush, don’t fear me, princess, I’m not your enemy – not for now.’

  ‘You’re a liar as well as a butcher.’

  Nafridos laughed brutishly, and so did his men, who watched him play with his victim like a toy; they all knew she would afford him much amusement. Her resistance would only entertain him.

  ‘I’m much more than that, princess – I’m madness in all its glory,’ he whispered softly into her ear, his warm breath tingling the surface of her skin. ‘Do you see these hands? They’re going to set fire to your people and, after I’m done with them, I’ll go on to behead your husband.’

  ‘Threats can easily be made, but destiny is never one to be tried.’

  ‘We have a poet!’ shouted Nafridos to his comrades. They were cheering him on, urging him to taunt the princess. ‘I can taste your courage, princess, but if I were you I wouldn’t say such foolish things to a man who holds a butcher’s knife in his hand, unless you want your beauty to turn into something less comely.’ He sniffed her hair; its scent was alluring, but it was out of place on a battlefield.

  ‘Go ahead, kill me, I won’t stop you.’

  ‘And why would I want to waste such beauty? No, I’ve got better ideas.’

  Nafridos began to slide his blade along her chest, cutting through the soft fabric of her garment; it was the only thing separating him from her skin. Her bravery was truly remarkable. As he cut through her dress she barely moved, giving only the slightest whimper. Nafridos had never seen such bravery. All the queens and princesses he had violated screamed loudly, but Larsa barely trembled. If only she knew that her resilience was only fuelling his desire! It was like a spark that ignited an unquenchable fire within him; nothing would stop him from doing to her what he pleased. ‘Now hush and be silent, or be silenced by me.’

  The Dark Warrior turned his attention to the remaining servants. Killing men was a pleasure for him; something for which he had a talent. Only a couple of minutes had passed since he had butchered the Royal Guardsmen, offering them no mercy, and now his hunger for death had returned.

  ‘Kill the men first,’ he said to his men. ‘You have my permission to have your amusement with the women. Once your bodies are satisfied, kill them all. Leave no man or woman alive. Everyone must die.’ He turned to the servants. ‘Today you shall all greet death, and when you do, be sure to tell the gods that the time has come for them to surrender to a new power.’

  ‘What about the princess?’

  ‘Her fate is in the hands of our emperor; she belongs to him for now. These are your orders and this is their destiny. Kill them.’

  ‘No! Don’t!’ Larsa screamed. ‘Let them go, don’t harm them!’

  The women were dragged by their hair. They tried to fight off the soldiers, but could not stop them from ripping their clothes and pinning them down. Chilling cries followed as the men were slaughtered, knives swiped across their necks in the manner of ritual execution.

  ‘Where are your hearts? Have you no compassion?’

  ‘Hearts?’ Nafridos said, walking back to the princess. It was as if he could taste the sweetness of her innocence against his lips. ‘They’re buried beneath the earth, where your body shall soon lie. Now say your farewells, princess, before you find they can no longer hear you.’

  14

  King Nelaaz of Aram was a man stifled by bad luck and he knew it. No matter how much energy or wealth he poured into his kingdom, hoping to gain favour with his people, they would always turn rebellious, branding his ideas as laughable and calling for a republic. The short-legged king’s round physique, his spotty and sweaty complexion, had led him to being nicknamed the Clown King of Aram; a name which – if uttered in his presence – carried an immediate sentence of death. In a last attempt to try to save his throne from the hands of disloyal men, King Nelaaz of Aram had asked Marmicus to intervene; it was his last hope of saving his slipping power from those who wanted to disembowel him. Fortunately, Marmicus had agreed to step in, buying some time for the sweaty little king to make the necessary reforms to please his people, and momentarily halting the civil war that was on the verge of erupting. King Nelaaz understood that he owed to Marmicus not only his throne, but his life. Had it not been for his pledge of support, he would have been overthrown and fed to the lions. Despite all this, King Nelaaz was not one to mull over things too long, and his lavish parties always cheered him up when protests erupted on the cobbled streets of his territory – and today was no exception.

  ‘I can’t imagine why your people have any reason to despise you; I’ve never seen such gracious hospitality in all my life,’ said a guest. He savoured the rich smell of roasted pig served with vegetables and wild fruits. Food was laid out along the length of the table, catering for the endless number of guests who celebrated for no reason at all. As in all parties thrown by the chubby king, they enjoyed the company of the women who sat on their laps, joyously feeding them as if they were babies.

  ‘Whenever I’m in the presence of food, I make it a rule never to speak about politics. I
’d rather save myself from the indigestion,’ said King Nelaaz. His little nostrils sucked up the rich aroma of succulent meat; his stomach had been rumbling since his guests had arrived, and finally he could relieve the pangs of hunger.

  ‘Every meal must be blessed with a toast! We’re waiting for yours, oh beloved king,’ laughed a guest, a concubine sitting on his lap, pouring wine into his mouth.

  ‘Of course, only if I must.’

  ‘Yes, you must!’ they cheered.

  King Nelaaz staggered to his feet, his knees cracking under the pressure of his weight. He raised his chalice of barley beer into the air, wanting to toast his friends and allies – many of whom he did not know, but trusted. ‘My father, rest his soul, gave me a good piece of advice. He said that a man’s body is a temple where his food goes to worship, so eat well and you’ll certainly please the gods. And, if not, at least you have a reason for your woman to stroke your belly at night! To the gods and all their women – may they be pleased with us all!’

  Laughter erupted, each man toasting his fellows and digging into his food with unmannerly gusto.

  At last I can eat, thought King Nelaaz with a sense of relief as he grabbed the meat, drawing it close to his thin lips, the grease running through his ginger beard. Ah, sweet paradise, I have patiently been waiting for you …

  Suddenly the chamber doors slammed open, to everyone’s alarm, and a group of men entered, holding swords as if prepared for war.