The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa

by Seja Majeed

  ***

  ‘They’ve arrived, Your Majesty.’

  King Nelaaz nodded, acknowledging the servant’s words. A rush of nervous energy filled him. He wished he could have a drink to settle his nerves, but there was no time for that. Every ounce of gold spent on this deception would be wasted if Sibius didn’t believe their elaborate story. Of course, if he did not, they still had the option to get rid of him and bury all traces of the enterprise.

  King Nelaaz watched the undertakers add the final touches: they lifted a solid gold funerary mask from the table and placed it over the dead girl’s face, concealing her features. It fitted perfectly over her eyes, nose and lips. They lifted her head gently and tied an elaborate necklace around her neck, its golden leaves and white pearls cascading all the way down to her chest.

  ‘This had better work,’ said King Nelaaz. For some reason his feelings of guilt had disappeared completely when he realised how much had been spent on the plan.

  ‘He’s here!’ said a servant, rushing in.

  ‘Don’t let him see her until they’ve finished. We don’t need another body on our hands.’

  The king walked out of the chamber, preparing himself to break the news to Sibius. Only the gods can make this plan work, he thought.

  15

  ‘You’re good with children. I’m surprised you’ve waited so long for your own,’ said Sulaf.

  Marmicus laughed aloud. The boy was trying his best to attack him, but he easily dodged his strikes, despite giving him ample opportunity to beat him. He could tell Zechariah was getting exasperated; now the time had come to give a real lesson in the art of swordsmanship. Marmicus flexed his wrist; the movement was quick, but gentle enough not to harm the little boy. The weapon flew out of the boy’s hands, landing on the grass at his feet.

  ‘You should never treat your sword as just your weapon, Zechariah; you must think of it as a friend, worthy of respect.’ Marmicus handed it back to him. The optimism and determination in the boy’s eyes reminded him of his own eagerness to learn when he had been that age.

  ‘But it’s a sword, Uncle Marmicus, not a person!’

  ‘You’re wrong; it’s much more than a sword – it’s the one thing you have to protect yourself when you’re facing your enemy. You need to know your weapon better then you know yourself. If you don’t, you’ll die.’ He stopped for a minute, wanting to explain exactly what he meant. ‘Look, if you strike your sword too hard against your enemy’s blade, the blade may tremble, and you’ll fail to strike a clean blow when you need it the most. But if you strike it too softly, then the blade can bend and you’ll be left open to attack. That’s why a warrior needs to learn how to control the rhythm of his weapon; he needs to know everything about it. Only then can he protect himself and maintain perfect balance. Once you’ve done this, the power of your weapon can truly be unleashed and people will honour you because of it. Now I want you to try again but, this time, embrace your sword as if you were about to embrace your destiny.’

  The little boy concentrated hard on his weapon – the heft, the way the light shone off the metal and how his fingers closed around the grip. He tried to absorb every little detail.

  ‘Are you ready to embrace your destiny?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The boy flung himself forward, attacking with greater control and self-belief. His thin arm scythed through the air as he swiped his blade, determined to triumph; Zechariah had improved his swordsmanship in a matter of seconds. His weapon clashed against Marmicus’s own, with more skill and rhythm than before. Sulaf watched, feeling proud, and in awe of Marmicus’s way with her child. She could tell he was ready to be a father, and she wished that she could be a father to her own son. Marmicus tried to prolong the battle as long as possible so he could boost the little boy’s confidence. Finally, he angled his weapon perfectly, as he always did on the battlefield whenever he wanted to end a fight. True to his style, it resulted in a clean win. ‘You’ve learnt to let your passion ignite your strength. You’ll make a good commander one day.’

  He gently handed back his weapon to the young boy. Marmicus could see himself in the boy’s eyes, which were filled with a longing to protect and serve, just as his had been when he was young. Teaching the boy strengthened his desire to become a father, and he could not wait for the war to be over so he could realise his dream.

  ‘Do you think I can become as great you, Uncle Marmicus?’

  ‘Every man is the master of his destiny, Zechariah. You will become only what you strive to be in life. Remember this always.’

  ‘Come on, Zechariah, it’s time for you to say your prayers to the gods,’ said Sulaf. The affection between man and boy was too much for her to bear; she had always dreamt of a future with Marmicus, but her reality was too different and all too lonely.

  ‘Please, Mama, can I stay for a while longer with Uncle Marmicus?’

  ‘No, Zechariah, the sun has set and it’s late. Besides, prayers to the gods should never be delayed, you know that.’

  ‘I don’t see why I have to pray to the gods. You always say our prayers are never answered by them,’ Zechariah said. His head hung in disappointment. He wanted to spend more time with his inspiration; he knew he would be the envy of all his friends once they found out.

  ‘If only you could teach him to be more passionate about the gods.’

  ‘I’m the worst person to teach your son passion for the gods! Besides, passion can’t be taught, it can only be felt.’ Marmicus laughed. He winked at the boy as if to support his rebellion against the gods.

  ‘Don’t encourage him,’ Sulaf said. She reached for Zechariah’s sword, taking it out of his hands and tapping him lightly on the back. The truth was that she wanted to be left alone with Marmicus; spending time with him was all she had ever desired. They both watched him walk away and enter the modest mud-brick house.

  ‘I thought you had forgotten this place; it’s been years since I’ve seen you stand here.’ She wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Now that the sun was setting, the valley became a cold place.

  ‘I’ll never forget where I grew up. This is where I belong.’

  ‘What are you searching for?’

  She looked at Marmicus curiously; she knew everything about him, and knew when he was being evasive. The truth was, he was lonely without the princess and he had come seeking companionship.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that? Can’t a man remind himself of the beauty he once knew and the memories he once shared?’

  ‘Every man is entitled to his memories, but why do you look to the past when your future is more glorious?’

  ‘Without Larsa, I have no future; I only have a duty that must be fulfilled.’

  ‘No, Marmicus, your future lies with the glory of your sword, or have you forgotten that?’ said Sulaf angrily. She could no longer restrain the bitterness she felt towards Larsa. It was because of her that she had been denied the sweetness of love, and now it seemed she would deny Marmicus his rightful destiny. ‘I hate it when you speak of her as if she is the centre of the world. She isn’t.’

  ‘What do you want from me, Sulaf?’

  ‘I want you to seize the glory you were born for.’

  ‘Those who have never witnessed the barbarity of war would claim glory can be found upon the battlefield, but there is no glory in death. I’ve looked into the eyes of men and I’ve seen their fear time and time again. Glory is just a word used by kings to force men into battle when they’re too cowardly to fight themselves. No man wants to die for glory, not when he has everything to live for.’

  ‘Then what are you fighting for?’ she asked. ‘What is it that keeps that sword in your hand? Is it love? If it is, then our kingdom is already doomed because soldiers will not fight for that, they will not bleed for it and they will not die for it. They fight only for glory, and for the honour of their names. They need a leader who understands this, not a warrior who follows only his heart.’

  �
�My men never fight for glory; they fight for a meaning far greater than that. This kingdom owes itself to the passion of its warriors, who die to protect their families and friends. Nothing else matters to them but their survival. This is what unites wise men and divides selfish rulers.’

  ‘The only passion in war is to conquer and to kill, but you refuse to see this – instead you’re blinded by a child’s love. What does the princess know about the sacrifices you’ve made to get where you are? She’s never suffered the way we have. She knows nothing of the ways of our world.’

  ‘Don’t disrespect the princess! I allow you to disrespect me, but never the princess.’

  ‘There’s nothing disrespectful in revealing her youthfulness compared to yours,’ said Sulaf as she shrugged off the Gallant Warrior’s threat. She knew Marmicus all too well; he would never harm her, no matter how far she pushed him. It was something she took for granted, indeed exploited. She walked towards him, staring deeply into his eyes as she stood in front of him. The man she knew was lost somewhere beneath that false façade he wore … he just needed to be awoken, stirred with the emotions he had once felt for her. She pressed her hand against his cheek, sliding it gently across his jaw, her eyes lost within his. ‘Are you willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of one woman’s love, to die for her and to bleed for her? Is this what you truly want to be remembered for?’

  ‘No,’ replied Marmicus. ‘I’ll sacrifice everything I have only for Larsa …’

  ‘Then you have chosen to sacrifice us all with you,’ she said, disappointed with his words. For a brief moment Sulaf had thought his reason had returned.

  ‘I am not the man I once was, Sulaf, can’t you see that?’

  ‘No matter how hard you try, you will never be able to escape what you were born for,’ replied Sulaf. ‘War is your throne and death is your crown; it comes hand in hand with who you are and it can never be pushed away, no matter how much you choose to deny it. Every warrior dies for glory, only to live on in legend. This is who you are, Marmicus, this is what you were born for. Deny it, and you deny your very existence on earth.’

  Her voice oozed with seductive power; still, no amount of seduction from a woman’s lips could ever tempt Marmicus to look elsewhere.

  ‘I swore to protect this kingdom and I’ll do that. Whatever my reasons, they are my own. I’ve already given you my word; now it’s up to you to believe it.’

  He walked towards his stallion. Man and beast shared a unique and unwavering friendship. He mounted, wrapping the leather reins around his hand.

  ‘How can I not concern myself with your affairs when my future and this kingdom’s future lie in your hands?’ Sulaf asked. She watched Marmicus, not knowing if this would be the last time she would see him.

  ‘Your future lies beyond this kingdom now. Take your son and head towards one that can protect you. War is something that cannot easily be forgotten, especially by a child.’

  Marmicus turned his horse and galloped away.

  16

  ‘Where is all your courage now?’

  Nafridos watched the princess being pulled behind his horse. Her wrists were tied together with dry rope, which was beginning to slice through her skin. Every time the horse jerked, she gave a scream as it cut into her. The burning friction was too much for hands that had never experienced anything but indulgence. The Assyrian soldiers looked on, saying nothing; her ordeal would not stop until she reached the Assyrian kingdom. Their commander always played with his victims as if they were toys, and killed them only when he had grown tired of them. It was just a matter of time before Nafridos lost interest in her.

  ‘Try to smile, princess; looking sad is never appealing to any man.’ He laughed, jerking the rope hard; he wanted to hear her scream again, but louder; it excited him. This unexpected wrench hurt more than all the others Larsa had endured, and she yelped, crying and screaming at once.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me? What have I done to you?’ she sobbed. Her head ached with dehydration as hot tears rolled down her face.

  ‘I’ll cut the rope if you smile for me. Now, smile, let me see the beauty behind all that misery. Go on, smile!’

  Larsa could not bring herself to do it: even if it meant that the excruciating pain would go away, she just could not do it. How could she even pretend to satisfy her enemy when he had butchered all her soldiers and servants? It would be a treachery to them.

  ‘I’m waiting …’ he whispered softly, as if he wanted to reveal a more gentle side of himself to her.

  ‘I’d rather die than gratify your cruel and perverted urges,’ declared Larsa, spitting on the ground, ready to endure her punishment.

  ‘Then die you shall!’ said Nafridos as he took hold of the dry rope again, and breathed in. ‘Be strong, princess, for I assure you that this will hurt more than you can imagine …’

  17

  Marmicus rode back to the palace, Sulaf’s words fresh in his mind. He now wished he hadn’t left so abruptly – it could be the last time they would ever see each other. What if something happened to one of them? Would this be the last memory they shared of each other? Their friendship had been strained ever since Marmicus had met the princess. Sulaf could never warm to her. It was as if she felt threatened by her existence. Whatever her reasons, Marmicus knew he had to do something about it; he couldn’t leave things the way they were. He thought about what Sulaf had said, wondering how he could have acted so selfishly. All he wanted was the life of an ordinary man. Deep down he knew that Sulaf was right: someone like him could never be entitled to such a life. The world expected so much of him, and neglecting his duty would mean neglecting his people. It dawned on him that he had overreacted. It wasn’t like him to take things so personally. All he could think about was the princess and why she hadn’t sent news of her safe arrival. Was this her way of punishing him for asking her to leave the kingdom? If it was, then it was childish and selfish of her. Maybe Sulaf was right; there was a twelve-year age difference between them. She was only twenty, while Marmicus was thirty-two.

  The gates of the palace opened for him, and Marmicus galloped through, passing the lush gardens. Waiting by the palace entrance was one of his servants.

  ‘My lord, where have you been? I’ve been searching everywhere for you.’

  ‘Has the day come when I fight for freedom but have none to call my own?’ he smiled.

  ‘Forgive me, my lord, it’s just that Sibius has returned. He wants to speak with you urgently; he says he has news about the princess.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s in your chamber. He’s been waiting there for some time.’

  Marmicus jumped off his horse, rushing to see his friend. He hoped Sibius had brought good news. He had need of it …

  18

  ‘I’ve never been happier to see you! How was your trip?’ asked Marmicus as he embraced his friend. Sibius tried to smile, but it was hard to conjure up a convincing one. He appeared tired and gaunt; he hadn’t slept for days.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Sibius, wanting to make sure Marmicus was well prepared for what he was about to hear. They were like brothers: they had met when they served as foot soldiers in the army, and every time they were reunited it felt like the ending of a war which they had somehow survived.

  ‘Well? How’s Larsa? Is she well?’

  ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you everything,’ he replied, pulling out a chair for him. His face was sombre. Marmicus felt a cold sweat break out on his face. He quickly sat down, saying nothing. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Sibius hesitated. How could he break the news gently to him? Was there even a way to do that?

  ‘She’s angry with me, isn’t she? Has she said something to you?’

  ‘I wish it was that,’ said Sibius, trying to stop him; he didn’t want him to get ahead of himself.

  Marmicus tapped his fingers on the table, waiting for Sibius to say something, but he didn’t. He felt nervous just looking at him; Sibius
had a strange look on his face; the princess must have said something which put him in an awkward position.

  ‘Come on, aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  Sibius covered his mouth, trying to stop himself from blurting out the news. He walked away quietly, steeling himself. There was no way to avoid the answer: he would have to tell his friend that his wife was dead, knowing full well that it would destroy him.

  ‘It’s about the princess … something has happened,’ said Sibius, trying to force out the words. Marmicus stopped tapping his fingers – he hadn’t expected that response.

  ‘What are you talking about? What’s happened?’

  Sibius said nothing. He froze, not wanting to say more.

  ‘Is she hurt? Tell me!’

  Marmicus stood up.

  ‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’

  The long pause sparked rage within him. Sibius was deflecting every question he asked. Unable to contain himself, Marmicus rushed to him, pinning his friend against the wall, blood rushing through his veins.

  ‘Tell me what you know, or I swear I’ll kill you!’

  ‘She—’ said Sibius. ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘How? Where is she?’

  Sibius didn’t reply. Marmicus punched the wall, his hand just missing his friend’s face as he threatened him in hope of a quick answer.

  ‘I’ll ask you one more time. Where is she?’

  ‘She’s dead, Marmicus. They all are. The Assyrians—’

  Marmicus released his grip and stepped back, stumbling as the truth hit him. This couldn’t be happening. How did this happen? The princess was supposed to be safe; she was protected by guards. Marmicus shook his head in denial, his body and mind rejecting his friend’s words.