by Seja Majeed
‘I came to see if you needed anything,’ said the Priest of Xidrica. He stood by the door, waiting for a response.
‘I need nothing,’ said Marmicus, watching the procession from the balcony, his back to the priest.
‘I know losing a wife is the hardest thing any husband can face, but I do have some understanding of your grief – when I lost my mother as a child nothing anyone said could console me. But time and memories will heal us eventually, as they did me.’
‘I don’t need time or memories, they bring me no comfort. I just need her.’
The young priest nodded, understanding what Marmicus meant; his wound was still too raw; right now he couldn’t see the beauty found in memories, in fact all they did was torture rather than heal him.
‘There’s still time to join the procession; come with me, don’t regret not saying goodbye properly. I know she would have wanted this.’
‘I won’t show my weakness in front of the people. I don’t need their pity, or yours.’
‘You’re too harsh on yourself; a man’s grief is what makes him human – it’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘My weakness causes the people to fear and kings to rejoice; I won’t let anyone use my pain as their weapon, they’ve already taken too much from me,’ Marmicus said, choking on his words. He turned to look down at the burial chariot; the sight of the Grand Priests pouring holy ram’s blood over the princess’s corpse was too much to bear; he closed his eyes, unable to look. A vision of her lying in the desert, bleeding to death, came into his mind; no doubt she was calling out his name, wishing he would save her, but he didn’t. ‘I never knew how much I loved her, that’s the worst part. I always thought my body would find its grave before hers, but now I’m forced to watch hers being buried before mine.’
‘The gods are testing you, my brother. Hardship doesn’t come without its rewards.’
‘Don’t talk to me about the gods! Where were your gods when she was alone out there? If they existed they wouldn’t have let this happen! Innocence deserves to be protected, but your gods left her to die. If they are real then their hands are painted with as much blood as mine. No. Take your gods; I don’t need them or anyone here, all I need is to be left alone.’
The young priest knew he had outstayed his welcome; he made to leave, feeling only sympathy for Marmicus.
‘Wait,’ Marmicus said. ‘I may not respect your gods, but I respect you; I know you’re different to the rest of the Counsellors and for that I value you. I want you to be careful who you place your trust with. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have more enemies than I do, so be vigilant – more so now than ever before. There’s a serpent in this kingdom – there was no way for anyone but me to know that Larsa was leaving the kingdom. Once I find him, he’ll wish that he had poisoned himself before he struck others with his venom.’
Marmicus turned back to watch the funeral ceremony, his eyes firmly fixed on the Grand Priest of Ursar, whose exquisite robes were more suited to celebration than mourning.
‘What makes you think there’s a traitor?’
‘There can be no fire without a spark! Someone in this kingdom sent word to our enemy, revealing our plans, and now he’s unleashed a fire so great that no ocean in the world can extinguish the destruction I’m about to bring.’
‘Then I’ll do everything in my power to help you.’
22
‘Drink this, Your Highness, it’ll do you well,’ said an old maid who had brought her some warm camel’s milk; naturally Larsa was cautious, but there was no way to know if it was safe to consume. The maid placed the chalice in her hands, waiting for her to drink.
‘What’s in it?’ Larsa asked, not knowing what to make of her kindness.
‘Don’t be afraid; it’s nothing more than a warm drink that’ll make you feel better.’
Larsa was hesitant at first; she looked at the old woman with distrust, not knowing if her kindness was genuine or just another sadistic trap dreamt up by the emperor to punish her. Her stomach was rumbling, and she knew that if she didn’t eat soon she would collapse again. Taking a leap of faith, Larsa pursed her lips and in one go forced herself to drink the milk. It took just a couple of seconds for her to realise that the maid was right – it was nothing more than a harmless drink that would give her strength.
‘Would you like some more, Your Highness?’
‘I’m no longer worthy of that title; I’m a slave now, bound by the will of another. I deserve nothing but pity from you.’
‘Nobody deserves pity, not even a slave; but you do deserve another cupful of milk,’ said the old woman. She picked up the jug, and poured more camel’s milk into the decorated clay cup.
‘Why are you being kind to me? I have nothing to offer you,’ said Larsa. It didn’t make sense; she was a prisoner yet she was still being addressed as royalty.
‘I don’t need anything, just a thank-you will do.’
‘I’m sorry. Thank you,’ she replied, feeling ashamed of herself. She had seen so much cruelty in such a short space of time that she had forgotten kindness could still exist in others; it made her realise just how much she had changed. ‘I wish all Assyrians were like you.’
‘That’s kind of you, but I’m not Assyrian.’
‘You’re not?’
‘No, I’m not. A long time ago I was free like you,’ the maid replied quietly, and slowly pulled up her sleeve, wanting to show her something. Larsa saw a green mark on her frail wrist; it was a symbol she immediately recognised, and one which truly surprised her.
‘That explains your kindness,’ said Larsa, recognising the tattoo of Azral, a small but ancient kingdom in the east. The maid knew she shouldn’t be revealing her past life to the princess, but she had heard about the Garden of the Gods; its beauty was spoken of even by her people. It was a place of homage, so rich and pure with blessings, that somehow she felt by befriending the princess she might be doing good for her own people, or what was left of them.
‘I’m sorry for branding you with the likes of them. I thought you were Assyrian,’ Larsa said. She reached for the woman’s hand, wanting to comfort her. She was glad she had shared her story; it made her realise that they were both victims, and that she could be trusted.
‘I used to think that all Assyrian people were cruel, but I’ve realised over time that many of them are as oppressed as we are. You see, my dear, not everyone is born brave; in the end, many of us are forced to do things we don’t agree with only because we wish to protect our families from harm. It’s only human for us to keep silent for their sake.’
‘Keeping silent is cowardly.’
‘Maybe it is, but choice is a luxury that only a few of us can afford,’ said the frail woman, returning to the table. Larsa had realised that her words were sharp and inconsiderate – cruel even.
‘Are there more of your people in this kingdom?’ said Larsa, wanting to strike up conversation again.
‘Only a few of us survived.’
‘Why weren’t more of your people spared or taken as slaves?’
‘The emperor doesn’t need any more slaves; he has plenty.’
‘Then what does he want, more gold?’
‘You’re thinking of the emperor as an ordinary man when he’s much more than that; gold doesn’t tempt him.’
‘If he’s not a man, then what is he?’
‘He’s an idea, and ideas that cannot be controlled grow to be more dangerous than the men that conceived them.’
‘There must be something he desires.’
‘The only thing he desires right now is you.’
Larsa felt her body shudder the moment the maid said that; she knew it was true but she didn’t want to admit it to herself.
A loud thud came from behind them, and the maid jumped with surprise. She truly hoped that nobody had heard their conversation.
‘You mustn’t tell anyone what I’ve told you – it will lead to certain death for me and my grandson,’ said the maid.
She hurried to collect the chalice which she had placed on the wooden table while they were talking.
‘I swear I won’t say a word. You can trust me, I promise,’ replied the princess. For a brief moment Larsa had been made to feel safe by the company of another; she needed a friend to confide in, especially when she was so alone in the world. ‘Wait, before you leave will you tell me your name? I want to pray for both our souls.’
‘It’s Jehan, Your Highness.’
‘Then Jehan, if the gods should ever grant me freedom, I pray that I will celebrate it alongside you and your people,’ said the princess softly. A faint smile of hope touched her lips; but it vanished as soon as her enemy walked into the chamber.
‘Leave us,’ commanded the Dark Warrior.
***
The sacred ritual conducted by the Grand Priests had finally come to an end, and now the Temple of Ishtar could welcome the greatest mourner of them all.
Marmicus stared at the corpse, completely unaware that his grief was for another. Even in death, Larsa appeared beautiful; her body was dressed in a white silk gown and upon her head was a golden headpiece in the shape of flowers and leaves. Surrounding her were white lilies and lavender, and upon her face was a golden mask, to make her appear as beautiful as she once was.
‘Why have they covered her face?’
‘We thought it would be better to hide her wounds from you; we know how much you loved her,’ replied King Nelaaz. From the tip of his nose there hung a single bead of sweat. He fervently hoped that Marmicus’s inquisitive mind would be distracted by the abundance of gold which covered her – a foolish thought indeed, as gold was never something Marmicus craved or loved. He despised gold – to him it was the source of all wars. ‘I know my words will wound you, but I think you’d rather hear the truth than be lied to, am I right?’
‘Speak it.’
‘My advisors told me that the enemy neither spared her body nor her beauty. They mutilated her face – I don’t wish to go into the details – and my advisors said that she was left with only her mother’s eyes. That’s why they felt – we felt – she should be buried with this mask; better the people remember her for her beauty than her tragic death.’ The king hoped he had said enough to stop Marmicus from removing the mask. ‘You know, I’ve spent a large part of my wealth on her burial; I wanted to make it easy for her people to say farewell; I loved her, you see, like my own daughter, really I did.’
‘Then you have nothing to fear. You have my allegiance and thanks.’
‘Thank you, I cherish it so very much, oh Gallant One, really I do.’
‘Now leave me alone. I want to mourn my wife just as any husband would wish.’
‘Of course.’
As the king waddled out of the enormous ziggurat he gave a huge sigh of relief. For endless nights he had tossed and turned in his bed, dreaming how Marmicus would slay him once he found out the truth. Thankfully, this wasn’t going to be the case. ‘At last I can enjoy the sweet pleasure of my food without having to choke on my wretched guilt,’ King Nelaaz mumbled.
But every lie uttered by the lips is like a seed planted in the ground; all it needs is time to grow and become out of control …
***
‘You asked me once if there was anything I feared in this world, and I told you that I feared nothing, not even death itself. But I lied to you, Larsa. I’ve always been afraid of one thing, and that is living a life without you.’
Marmicus felt empty and hollow inside. This was the first time he had been able to let out his emotions, something he really needed to do. The more he kept things in, the more his anger ate away at him, turning him into a person even he hated. His world had shifted overnight, and his only solace was seeing that the princess looked peaceful; it gave him unexpected comfort to see that she appeared to be sleeping.
‘I would happily die for one more day with you,’ said Marmicus. ‘Every breath I take has always been for your sake, and now I’m suffocating without you.’
Summoning all his strength, Marmicus got up. It took all his energy and willpower to stand on his feet, but he knew he had to leave the temple before the undertakers came to bury his wife. He wished he could go with them and be buried alongside her; the only thing keeping him alive now was the promise he had made to her, for now he would live only for her sake, at least until his duty was done. Marmicus reached for her hand, wanting to kiss her one last time. He softly pressed his lips against it, and smelt her skin.
‘When war comes you’ll have the vengeance of which only a goddess is worthy, and after that day we can be together again,’ he whispered, knowing that this would be the last time he would ever see her body lying peacefully. As he pulled away, he noticed something unusual, a small detail only someone who knew the princess intimately would notice, and it caught him by surprise.
Upon the princess’s hand was a small birthmark about the size of a black seed. Marmicus had never noticed it before. Certainly, he would remember something like that – or perhaps the stress of everything that had happened had clouded his memory. Either way, something inside him told him to look closer; it was as if he could hear Larsa’s voice urging him to remove the golden mask that concealed her face. Passing his hands over the heavenly mask, Marmicus slowly leant forward. He decided to remove it, and his hands felt heavy as he placed his fingertips around its edges. Could this be happening? Could she still be alive? he thought. Just as he was about to lift the golden mask he remembered what King Nelaaz had said moments before: ‘She was left with only her mother’s eyes’.
If Marmicus lifted the mask, he knew he would see the grotesque sight of battle scars. It would destroy him. It was wiser for him to hold onto the beautiful memories than replace them with a vision which could never be washed away from his thoughts; he knew that Larsa would have wanted that.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said the Grand Priest of Ursar, who stood by the pillar. His hands were defensively folded on his chest, though his voice sounded genuine enough. Around his neck he wore a large pendant of solid gold, affordable only for the richest of men.
‘Keep your pity,’ replied Marmicus sharply.
‘I’m offering you sympathy, just as any friend would offer to another,’ replied the Grand Priest. Marmicus ignored his words completely. No matter what he said, he could never convince him of any kind of friendship between them. ‘You know we are not so different, you and I; your allegiance is to your sword and mine has always been to this kingdom’s throne. I shan’t deceive you. I wish to be king – as any man would. If you love your people as you claim you do, you would offer your sword and fight with me, not against me. We both want what is best for this kingdom, and at this moment in our history I am the best that can be offered to the people.’
‘I will never offer you my allegiance, not even if you offer me a life filled with the happiness I once knew,’ said Marmicus. His uncertainty about the princess’s birthmark had disappeared from his mind.
‘Then you’re making a mistake, Marmicus. Fight with me and together we can offer this kingdom everything it needs.’
‘If I’m making a mistake then it’s one I can live with.’
Marmicus walked away; he did not want to lose control, at least not within the temple where his wife lay lifeless. The Grand Priest stepped in front of him; he needed to convince him of what he was offering, it was crucial to his plans.
‘If you love your people, you will do what is right for them. No one in the Counsel has the stomach to do what needs to be done for this kingdom.’
‘What has my love for my people got to do with one man’s greed and his desire to be king?’
‘It’s got everything to do with it! If we build the greatest empire known to man, then we will have built the strongest weapon, to be feared by all men: no enemy would dare attack our walls. So, you see, your love for your people has everything to do with it, oh Gallant Warrior. Join me in my cause and together we can protect our people from wars they dare not
fight. The choice is entirely yours.’
‘I’ve made my choice. I’ll never use my sword to serve the desires of one frail priest who longs to be crowned a king,’ said the Gallant Warrior. He would not back down from the decision that he had made. This, the Grand Priest knew, would have negative repercussions for his plans. Winning the Gallant Warrior’s allegiance was essential.
‘Then you’ve made the wrong choice,’ said the Grand Priest of Ursar. His cold look was enough to lash anyone to whom it was directed. ‘I warn you not to make an enemy of me, Marmicus; it serves no one well.’
As Marmicus attempted to make his way out of the burial chamber the Grand Priest of Ursar abruptly grabbed his arm, causing him to pause in his tracks. It was a show of unexpected bravery from the frail priest, whose talents lay elsewhere.
‘Remove your hand, old man, or I shall remove it for you.’
‘This kingdom needs a ruler, Marmicus, you can’t deny it any longer. The princess is dead. Now the people need a leader who is capable of ruling over them. Don’t make a decision without carefully considering the risks; it’s not a wise tactic for you or the people you claim to serve.’
‘This kingdom will have its ruler, but it will never be you, old priest, I’ll make certain of that,’ said Marmicus coldly. ‘Now remove your arm or be prepared to use it as a walking stick for the rest of your days.’