The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa

by Seja Majeed

  ‘By the grace of Ishtar, what’s going on? Who gave you permission to barge in here like this?’ shrieked King Nelaaz. He wiped the oil from his mouth, having barely sunk his teeth into the meat. At first he had thought a rebellion had reached his palace, but the news was far worse.

  ‘We’ve been sent here by order of the Gallant Warrior.’

  Sibius barged through, pushing men out of his way as he approached the king. He handed over a clay tablet bearing the seal of their leader, which was more than enough evidence to authorise his entrance – and even if it was not, no man would dare defy such a symbol or disgrace it in front of him.

  ‘In that case, join us! Come and sit down, all of you, I expect you’re all hungry from your long journey. Send in more wine and more women; our guests from the Garden of the Gods are worthy of a thousand slaughters and more.’

  There was no better time for the princess to join them, thought the king. An image of her getting drunk and falling onto his lap entered his mind. She was a delightful creature; no doubt she would be even more delightful if she were wearing nothing.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to feast with us? There are plenty of women to go round; there’s no need to share.’

  ‘We’re not here to celebrate with you; we’ve come to seek news of the safe arrival of the princess. These are the Gallant Warrior’s orders, and we will not defy them even at your insistence.’

  ‘Arrival … what arrival? The princess hasn’t arrived in my kingdom.’

  ‘Are you certain of this?’ Sibius was in no mood to be trifled with, especially by an idiotic fat king whose face appeared to be as swollen as his feet.

  ‘Of course I’m certain. I’ve been waiting for her since I got word that she was coming. Tell me, when do you expect she’ll arrive? Will it be today, or tomorrow perhaps?’

  ‘So, all this while, you’ve neither heard from her nor sent word back to our kingdom warning us of her absence?’

  ‘Well …’ said the king, realising he was in dangerous waters, ‘I’ve been extremely busy …’

  Sibius glanced at the king; the look on his sweaty face said everything. The sheer idiocy of his behaviour was beyond comprehension. How could any rational man have failed to act, especially when they were on the verge of war?

  ‘Do you understand the gravity of what you’ve done? Your behaviour has jeopardised everything.’

  He turned to leave. The guests’ silence revealed the seriousness of the king’s offence. King Nelaaz wished he had not invited them; at this moment he wanted only to curl up in bed alone, a rare occurrence in itself.

  ‘Wait!’ he called, trying to stop Sibius from leaving. ‘Perhaps the Royal Caravan is lost. I’m told that on cloudy nights such as these it’s difficult to find my kingdom. I’ll send my men to search for them in the desert. Yes, I’m sure they are lost.’

  ‘Then let’s hope, for your sake, that the princess is still alive, because if she isn’t, rebellion will be the least of your worries,’ replied Sibius, marching off with clenched fists and fearful heart, anxious to deliver news immediately to his friend, Marmicus.

  ***

  King Nelaaz had sent a search party to find the princess in the desert, dead or alive. His soldiers had been combing the desert for days, their heads pounding with heat exhaustion as they trekked beneath the sun for hours on end. The king’s idea was folly from the start. They all knew it would be impossible to find the princess: the featureless desert stretched for miles and she could have been anywhere; it was like searching for a ring in a sand dune. What made matters worse was that none of them knew what the princess looked like, so every time they found travellers they stopped them, rushing to look into their tents. If they found a beautiful woman, they immediately suspected it to be her, dragging her away with them, only to be told by their commander that it was not the princess.

  ‘My lord, the men are growing weak, and are in need of some rest. We must give them time to recover from the sun’s daggers,’ said a lieutenant, mounted like all the officers. He trotted beside his men, watching them battle to carry on. The combination of rough sand and leather sandals digging into their skin made the journey an excruciating one.

  ‘No, we have to go on, we must keep searching. I don’t care if your skin turns to chalk and your mouths burn with thirst; none of you will leave this desert until we’ve found the princess. Do you understand? Now keep searching.’

  Like many of his fellows, the commander had grown tired of rectifying problems caused by his king. If it were not for the pledge given by Marmicus, King Nelaaz would have certainly found his head mounted on a spear by now. Of course, if they did not find the princess, Marmicus would happily do the job for them.

  ‘We’ve found something,’ declared a foot soldier, pointing into the distance. ‘Over there …’

  ***

  A massacre had taken place at this spot in the vast reaches of the desert. The foot soldiers tried to dodge the scattered bodies that lay everywhere, all of them covering their noses as they tried not to breathe in the stench of rotting carcasses. They were seasoned soldiers, accustomed to the gruesome aftermath of battle, but none of them had ever seen such foul mutilation as this. Whoever had killed these people had wanted to leave a message behind for their enemies – butchering them was not enough.

  ‘May the gods have mercy on them,’ said the lieutenant. He was staring upwards. Thrust into the ground were long metal spikes, and the severed heads of the Royal Guardsmen were mounted on them, their eyes deliberately left open, while their hair blew eerily in the wind like reeds. Flies infested the area; they were laying eggs in their open mouths and nostrils. ‘Assyrian bastards! Was killing these men not enough for them?’

  ‘Forget your pity. Our orders are to find the princess, and we won’t leave this place until we’ve found her, dead or alive,’ the commander replied.

  Soldiers began to use their weapons to turn over the bodies, careful not to tread on severed arms and legs. The stench was awful. Vultures circled above, waiting for them to leave.

  ‘How are we supposed to know which one’s the princess? It’s impossible to tell by looking at these corpses.’

  ‘Search for her beauty.’

  ‘No beauty of this world can survive such brutality,’ said one soldier.

  ‘Over here! I think I’ve found something!’ yelled another soldier, picking something off the ground.

  The commander leapt off his horse and covered his nose with his sleeve.

  ‘Give it to me,’ he demanded, snatching the object. ‘Where’d you find this?’

  ‘It was over there, lying beside her body.’

  The golden pendant had been delicately inscribed with encrypted words, giving the jewellery meaning.

  ‘What does it say?’ asked the soldier as he looked on. The golden object shimmered in the commander’s rough hands.

  ‘It says “Allegiance lies in the heart of the sword”,’ he replied. His finger softly traced the engraved words.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means the princess is dead,’ replied the commander as he peered at the headless body of the young woman. Her head was nowhere to be seen in the carnage; they must have taken it with them. He knelt down and looked at the remains of her decomposing body. The young woman had obviously tried to fight off her attackers – her fingers were broken, clearly showing a struggle.

  ‘She was raped, then killed,’ said the lieutenant, brushing the flies away from his face. He hovered over her, trying to gain as much information as possible; he knew the last moments of her life must have been cruel. He examined her partially naked body; her dress had been ripped and her legs exposed. It was enough evidence to show she had been ravaged, no doubt a number of times.

  ‘We’ve found what we were searching for. Bury her body. Make sure you leave no trace of her misfortune for anyone to see. We can’t afford to anger the Gallant Warrior with such barbaric truths.’

  ‘W
hat about the rest of the bodies?’

  ‘Leave them for the animals.’

  The soldiers began to dig a large ditch, attempting to conceal the truth. If only they had known that the headless body they had found was not the princess, but a slave woman …

  ***

  ‘By the glory of the gods, what am I going to do? What if they don’t find the princess? What if she’s dead?’ shouted King Nelaaz.

  ‘You must keep calm. No good can come from speculating,’ replied his advisor.

  ‘Speculating? Why, there’s nothing to speculate about. If they don’t find the princess, one way or another I’m dead. What man wants the Gallant Warrior as his enemy? I certainly don’t, not after all he’s done for me!’ blasted the king, heatedly. His bulging belly heaved up and down with his short breaths; for once in his life he was unable to set aside his troubles in favour of food or a naked woman. The sweetness of ripened apples had finally turned sour in his stomach, leaving him choking on foul bitterness. ‘By the gods, I’ve been cursed! I can feel it within the pit of my stomach; those hungry peasants in my kingdom have cursed me with their wretched prayers, I just know it. I can hear them cursing me in my sleep.’

  ***

  ‘We’ve found her!’

  ‘Well, where is she? By the gods, I demand to see her now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise it, unless you wish to see a corpse,’ replied the commander. He had returned from the desert as quickly as he could.

  ‘Don’t speak to me in riddles, boy, I have neither the energy nor the patience to unravel their meaning. Now, tell me where the princess is. You said you found her – where is she?’

  The commander jumped straight to the point, breaking the news without any niceties at all.

  ‘She’s dead. Most likely raped before the Assyrians killed her.’

  King Nelaaz looked at him dazedly; it was a strange reaction, as if the news had gone over his head.

  ‘Dead? That’s impossible! No one would dare kill the sacred daughter of the Garden of the Gods!’ He could not bring himself to accept such news; nor could any of his advisors. Larsa was unlike any other royal soul; she was considered a deity with the purest blood, sent from the gods themselves in all their glory. Every royal from the Garden of the Gods was seen as a descendant of Ishtar herself.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t, so I brought you this,’ said the commander. He took out a golden pendant from his pocket; its soft metallic sheen was partly obscured by the dried blood splattered over it, hiding its beauty.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s proof,’ he said, handing it over to the king, who looked at it for a few seconds, then passed it along to his advisors. Only they could guarantee its authenticity.

  ‘It’s the royal pendant of Ishtar,’ said one advisor.

  ‘Indeed. Look at the back – see what’s written across it.’

  The advisor turned it over. Engraved on the shiny metal were the sacred words of the kingdom.

  ‘“Allegiance lies in the heart of the sword”,’ read the advisor aloud.

  ‘I found it lying beside the body of a headless woman. I have no doubt in my mind that it was the princess.’

  ‘A headless woman?’ said King Nelaaz, sinking into his chair. The news was getting more disastrous by the minute. He put his hands over his head, not wanting to hear more. This was it; the end of his mortal journey. It was only be a matter of time before he would be thrown to the lions, just as the people had wanted. The spectacle would be a celebration for them.

  ‘By the grace of the gods, what am I going to do? When the Gallant Warrior hears of this he’ll crush me with his fist.’

  ‘Does the Gallant Warrior know of this misfortune yet?’ the advisor asked pointedly. His long nose twitched. He had a cunning ploy, one that – if implemented properly – might save them all from the fall from power.

  ‘I haven’t sent any news yet. I’m waiting for His Majesty’s instructions.’

  ‘Good. I’ve got an idea. It’s rather far-fetched but I think it may just work,’ said the advisor. All his plans had worked well in the past, and there was no reason why this one would not work too.

  ‘I’m listening. What is it?’

  ‘We can’t change the fact that the princess is dead – but, then again, we can’t afford to send a pile of bones to Marmicus. It would simply reveal this kingdom’s negligence. So if we can’t bring her back to life, then let us at least pretend we tried our best to protect her from the Assyrians. We can say that our soldiers got there and fought to protect her, and that many of our men died alongside her, but it was too late – they had already killed her. That way, we can’t be blamed for her unfortunate death, but at the same time we can preserve our valuable allegiance with Marmicus.’

  He was right: the idea was far-fetched. But it did have potential.

  ‘We don’t have her body, unless you’re suggesting we go back and dig it up,’ said the commander. He had trained himself to always think a step ahead; it was important for military personnel to assess the strengths and weaknesses of any suggestions.

  ‘We can always find a woman who looks like her. The king has plenty of women at his disposal; it’s only a matter of choosing which one,’ said another advisor. It would mean killing an innocent woman just to facilitate their deceit. The commander looked at the king, who said nothing; the idea was cunning, however deceitful. Nevertheless, it might be their only option. The choice was entirely the king’s.

  ‘What if Marmicus sees the body and realises it’s not her?’ said King Nelaaz. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the suggestion.

  ‘He won’t. Not if the body lies beneath an inch of gold. We’ll make sure she’s ready to be buried; no one will see the body below all that gold. It’ll distract the eyes,’ said the advisor.

  ‘By the gods, I forbid it. It’s plain wrong! I can’t lie to Marmicus, not like this anyway, especially when he’s saved me from my own people and given me his allegiance.’ For once in his life the king wanted to do something right; but in times of war it was never wise to develop a conscience.

  ‘This is our only option, unless you wish to greet Marmicus with a pile of tattered flesh and dried bones,’ insisted the commander, becoming convinced of the plan’s viability.

  ‘Don’t be silly, you fool! Of course I don’t, but I don’t want to deceive him like this. I’m not giving you permission to do this. I won’t do it.’

  ‘If you don’t agree to this, Your Majesty, you’ll have no throne to sit on, and no palace to shield you from your own people who, in case you have forgotten, are out to kill you,’ said the advisor, leaning towards him almost devilishly, desperately wanting to convince him to accept the idea. There was nothing to lose from trying it. ‘If it helps your conscience, then think of this act as a sign of friendship offered to a man who has just lost his wife. If Marmicus knew the true extent of his loss, he’d have no strength to shield anyone from harm, including his own people. We must try to cushion the blow. It’s in his interests – after all, sometimes we must commit a small wrong for the greater good.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said King Nelaaz. ‘Death is death. We can’t resurrect the princess, or undo the curse which has befallen her kingdom. She’s now just a pile of bones, while I’m still a king made of flesh and in need of some comfort. I suppose all we can do is let the Gallant Warrior mourn her death in the most appropriate fashion.’ He was trying his best to convince himself of the idea; rationalising their plan was already starting to make him feel much more at ease with it. ‘Very well, go ahead and kill one of my whore women, and make sure she looks like the princess. You can have all the gold you need to conceal her body. If we’re going to do this, we must do it right. By the gods, let’s just hope it’s enough to put everything right; if it isn’t, then I’ll not only lose my throne and my gold, but my favourite whore, no doubt. I can’t think which is worse.’

  ***
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  ‘It’s a shame that such beauty has to be wasted; you should have brought her to me – I would have given her a memorable last night,’ said King Nelaaz, looking over the lifeless body of a young woman. Her smooth white skin, long dark hair, wide eyes and heart-shaped lips bore sufficient similarity to the features of the princess; it was the reason why she had been singled out and killed. ‘Who was she?’

  ‘A temple maid.’

  ‘Any man would be committed to the gods after seeing her there,’ said the king, biting his lip. Whenever he saw a pretty face, he couldn’t stop himself from imagining what it would be like to be sleep with the woman; it was a disgusting habit.

  King Nelaaz loomed over her. He had not noticed any sign of violence on her body, but quite frankly he didn’t wish to know the details. The only thing that was important to him was whether Marmicus would believe it was the princess. He walked around the slab several times, watching the undertakers carry out their preparations; the powerful fragrance of frankincense irritated his nostrils. Her skin glowed brightly; it had been moisturised with a concoction of essential oils. They poured strong perfume over her, mixed with saffron leaves and fresh pollen. Using a soft brush, they gently painted the perfumed dye onto her face, spreading it evenly along her neck and down her shoulders – only the wealthy could afford such a thing. Eventually her body looked as if it had been covered in gold leaf, the scent of death had been clouded with perfume, and her skin appeared refreshed as if life still ran through her veins.

  The longer King Nelaaz watched, the more he realised just how expensive this lie was becoming. The servants pulled a garment over her head, drawing it across her shoulders and down the length of her body; its encrusted jewels sparkled brilliantly as the light hit them. The dress had been stitched with gold thread. The vibrant colours contrasted with the simplicity of the white material.

  ‘What’s the world coming to? Who could ever have imagined that a temple maid would be given the burial of a queen?’ he said, watching the undertakers trying to lift her up. Her muscles had not yet hardened; she had been killed just an hour or two before, giving them enough time to conduct their ritual without difficulty.