The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa

by Seja Majeed

  ‘I can explain …’ replied King Nelaaz. The flare of the sun burned his pale skin, making him appear even more ridiculous in his orange attire.

  ‘Then go ahead – explain, you insolent buffoon! Who was the woman you brought with you?’ demanded the Grand Priest of Ursar.

  Marmicus said nothing. He just stood still. King Nelaaz stared at him, having expected a reaction which had failed to come.

  ‘She wasn’t important; she was just a temple maid we found. No one shall miss her.’

  ‘So your advisors killed an innocent woman to carry out this lie, and you did nothing to stop it?’ asked the young priest, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘I … I … I just followed their advice …’

  The king’s words had sealed his fate; he had dug his own grave with that one sentence.

  At last, an expression of madness came over Marmicus’s face. He clenched his fists so tightly around his weapon that his fingernails turned white like teeth; the power of his grip was enough to force the metal blade to bend. A fit of rage had taken hold of the Gallant Warrior. Marmicus suddenly lifted his weapon above his head and swung it round like a deranged forester about to chop down a tree. He had unleashed a move normally reserved for the heat of battle. King Nelaaz shut his eyes. The weapon came towards him, and gasps from all sides burst through the silence.

  ‘Give me a reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now,’ said Marmicus, stopping the blade at the king’s throat. It took an extraordinary degree of finesse for him to stop the blade at that precise moment; only an exceptional swordsman could have done so.

  ‘Because I’m your friend?’ he whispered, opening his eyes. He could feel the cold metal press against his flabby neck.

  ‘You’re not any more. Now give me another reason not to kill you,’ said Marmicus.

  ‘What insolence is this? Our traitor stands openly before us, yet you choose to reason with him? The foolish king must be punished. What say you all?’ said the Grand Priest of Ursar.

  ‘Punish the traitor!’

  ‘Kill him!’ ordered the line of priests, raising their fists above their heads. The whole Counsel joined in, apart from the young Priest of Xidrica, who watched them act like wild animals, scenting blood. King Nelaaz looked terrified. He could see the desire in their eyes to have his body strung up and roasted; it was as if they were watching a theatrical spectacle. Marmicus noticed King Nelaaz quiver, and in the same moment, as though from afar, he saw his own behaviour. What had he turned into? He remembered what Sulaf had said; how he was no longer worthy to carry his Sword of Allegiance; how he had turned into a totally different person, someone to whom Larsa would give neither love nor approval.

  ‘Mark my words, our serpent will be punished, but we won’t follow the path of our enemies. We won’t butcher kings or mutilate queens on our soil because, the moment we do, we become no different from them. So let our punishment reflect who we are and what we’re fighting for. The King of Aram will remain alive, but he’ll live in disgrace. This shall be his sentence and if there is any man who dares question my authority then they’ll answer to my sword.’ It took a great effort of will to say this, but even though Marmicus had spared King Nelaaz’s life, the look on his face was far from merciful. He had spared his enemy only because he knew that Larsa would want him to do so. Quite clearly, King Nelaaz had offended the wrong man and now he desperately wished to ask for forgiveness.

  ‘Thank you, I know I can’t bring back what’s wrongfully been taken away from you, but let me redeem myself. What if I give you a thousand gold amulets? Better yet, take my wives and daughters as a replacement for your loss. Let me suffer as you have suffered – that way we’ll be equal, and can be friends again.’

  ‘We’ll never be equal. I’ve spared you out of pity for what you are: and that’s a fool. Your people deserve better than to be led by an imbecile. I will make sure that your people know what you’ve done, and the moment they do, you’ll wish you could hide forever. Everyone will remember you as the cowardly King of Aram who betrayed his people and the Garden of the Gods so he could save himself from harm; every man will mock you and every child will laugh at you when you walk through the streets. Even after your bones have dried and your skin has turned to dust, you will still be called the king of fools. It’ll be your legacy, and it will never be washed away.’

  34

  Wealth without friendship is meaningless. It is like having a golden chalice, yet never being able to take a sip from it because you have no water or wine. Without genuine affection and smiles from friends, the heart can too easily become heavy with loneliness, and no palace, no matter how beautiful or extravagant, can fill the void of empty silence. This was how King Nelaaz of Aram felt. He had every worldly possession, but emotionally and spiritually he had nothing. No matter how much gold or wealth he spent on kings and beautiful women, indulging them all in his lavish parties and bestowing gifts upon them, no one truly cared for him or honoured him for who he was. He was a means to an end: guests would flatter him for their own purposes, and in this sense he was as cursed as any man without a fortune.

  King Nelaaz understood that most of his friendships had been bought, but tonight, for some reason, he missed the only genuine friendship he had ever enjoyed, which had been with the Gallant Warrior. He had stood side by side with him, encouraging him to be all that he could be, believing in him – only to go behind his back and betray him. The Gallant Warrior was right. I am a clown king and a mockery to my people, he thought bitterly as he twiddled his plump fingers, lying on his bed, ashamed. He could not wait to leave the Garden of the Gods, but he knew that the moment he walked into his own kingdom, he would be taunted and abused by his people; once they heard about what he had done they would no doubt agitate for another rebellion.

  King Nelaaz despised himself. He curled up into a ball, pulling the cotton sheets over his head, trying to hide from the world. In reality, his flamboyant clothes, the layers of robes, were nothing more than a façade used to distract others from his sensitivity. If he did not mend his ways, he would be forever known as the Clown King of Aram. For once the foolish king pondered hard on what he could do, this time using no advisors to help; he knew he had to obtain Marmicus’s forgiveness.

  Who could have imagined that a fool would become a genius?

  35

  ‘What’s the matter? Haven’t my hips satisfied my master? Shall I try something else?’ asked the concubine. She lay naked beside the Dark Warrior, stroking his face. His body was hot and sweaty; she had done everything a woman could do to make a man relax and to satisfy his desires, but it seemed that neither kiss nor tender touch could relieve the tension in his muscles. Nafridos looked at her face for a moment. She was beautiful, but he felt annoyed and agitated by her presence. Something inside him had changed; he didn’t want to be with her tonight – or with any of the remaining concubines in the palace. Nafridos hungered for one person, and until he had her, no other woman would do.

  ‘The hips of a whore woman will never satisfy me,’ he said, pushing her hand away from his face.

  ‘Then let me try again; I’ll be better this time, you’ll see.’

  ‘Lie down and be quiet,’ he said, wanting to silence her. He hated women who talked too much. He wanted sex, not conversation. She followed his instruction, doing it with a cheeky smile and a giggle; but she stopped laughing the moment she saw him take a dagger from the table by the bed. Nafridos looked at the weapon. It had just been cleaned and sharpened; he smirked as he hovered it over her face.

  ‘You’re beautiful, but you’re not as beautiful as she is,’ Nafridos said as he kissed her on the cheek, then traced the dagger against it, making faint scratches like a pencil drawn over paper.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I told you to be quiet,’ he said. He covered her mouth with his hand. ‘Don’t move.’

  Nafridos would do anything to amuse himself, even killing the woman he had just made love to
. He pressed the metal tip into her cheek, slicing into her skin as if he were cutting an apple. The concubine tried to scream, and flailed her arms, but Nafridos grabbed them and held her immobile.

  ‘Stop, stop!’ she cried, as he slid the knife deeper into her cheek, drawing a cuneiform word. Blood poured from her face onto the white pillow. Her beauty was all she had, and he was taking it from her.

  ‘No, don’t …’ she pleaded.

  ‘Don’t move again, otherwise I’ll kill you.’

  He wiped off the blood against his hand, and returned to her, showing no sympathy for her agony.

  Nafridos closed his eyes, and bit his lip hard. He imagined the princess lying on top of him, touching his body everywhere, screaming and quivering just like the whore was doing right now. He wanted to taste her, and feel her body move on his own; the thoughts gave him more satisfaction and pleasure than anything the whore could offer him.

  ‘Beg me to stop, say it louder,’ Nafridos whispered into her ear, as blood poured onto her neck and hair. He was using the dagger to etch a name into her cheek.

  ‘I beg you, stop, stop!’

  ‘Good,’ Nafridos laughed as he opened his eyes and looked down at the name he had etched onto her face – ‘Larsa’.

  ‘You were right, you were better this time, but you’ll never taste as good as she does. Now leave me,’ he said pushing her off his bed. She quickly ran out, covering her face with both her hands as she tried to stop the bleeding. Nafridos smirked as he watched her run; even so, he felt frustrated and irritable. Bitter jealousy ran wildly through his veins. He wanted the princess; he needed her like the opium that poisoned the mind. His blood, his every sinew needed to either have her or draw blood. Nafridos had heard about his cousin’s plans to have a child with the princess, and was uncharacteristically hurt. Nafridos felt something for the princess. No woman had ever made him feel like this; clearly, his obsession was beginning to spiral dangerously out of control. Jaquzan had always been the visionary, while Nafridos had always submitted to his rule; but now Nafridos had found a reason to wage his own war, and to stray towards disloyalty. If I can’t have the princess’s heart, then I’ll have what her heart desires the most. His battlefield scars testified to his destructive malice. He had never lost a battle and he would make certain that he maintained this record. Your glory shall never outweigh mine, oh Gallant Warrior. When the war comes I will make sure she remembers the way you died …

  36

  Marmicus galloped across the fields where he had grown up. His wild horse pounded the earth with its hooves, and his body moved in sync with it. Together they were an unstoppable force; they chased freedom, determined to catch it as it appeared with the soft light of dawn. The peaking lantern of the sun grew stronger, appearing over the valley, growing powerful and more brilliant. Marmicus reached out his hand, wanting to touch the sun before it rose higher into the sky, away from his reach.

  ‘Unleash your fury, Orisus, unleash it so freedom can come to us,’ said Marmicus as he tightened his grip on the leather reins, and kicked his heels into his horse’s sides. The stallion charged forward at full gallop, jumping over fallen trees, beating his hooves deeper into the wet ground; it was as if he understood his master’s pain. There was no horse faster or more powerful than Orisus, everyone knew that, and everyone knew that whoever finally defeated Marmicus would not only inherit his Sword of Allegiance but would also claim Orisus.

  ‘Orisus, you’ll always be the envy of the winds,’ he said, feeling the jealous winds thrashing his face. Together man and beast were united, free and untrammelled in that moment. The forest opened up, giving way to a lush green valley that was empty of any homes or nomadic tribes; all that stood were several large oak trees, and a derelict mud-brick house. The rains had destroyed much of the house; only the stone foundations had survived. Without them, it would have completely disappeared into its surroundings, only to be found by someone who purposely searched for it. Marmicus pulled the reins and came to a stop. For a moment he felt free – he had finally reached the place where all his dreams of glory had been born.

  ‘We’re here.’ The horse threw his head back, and snorted loudly. His black coat shone in the misty light.

  ‘This is the centre of the world, Orisus, and everyone’s fighting for a piece of it,’ he said as he jumped off the stallion and knelt down. All his dreams lay rooted here, borne by this very soil, grown with every sunrise and made stronger by the rain. Marmicus reached for its soil. Taking some in his hands, he looked at it and breathed it in, wanting to smell the scent of his homeland. As he did, he remembered the faces of everyone he had loved and lost: his mother and father, his wife and the family he had never had. Marmicus remembered his childhood; how his mother used to watch him from the front window of their mud-brick house, smiling and waving at him as he ran across the valley with Sulaf; but instead of seeing his mother’s face, he saw Larsa’s and saw her as the mother he had always wished she would be. ‘If there’s nothing worth living for, then there’s everything worth dying for.’ Marmicus clenched the soil tightly in his hand, squeezing it hard, his veins expanding, his fists burning, all his hatred squeezed into his fist; the wet soil moulded itself into the shape of his palm, as if it were testifying to everything he felt.

  ‘You want a war, then I’ll give you one. When it comes, this soil will turn into a river of blood, and you’ll be the first to drown in it, Jaquzan.’

  37

  The maid had brought Larsa everything she needed to reveal her profound secret. Gathering her thoughts, she gazed at the papyrus. Between her fingers she held a charcoal rod that had been entwined with a golden coil; using this, she would tell Marmicus of his impending fatherhood, and the blessing and curse of her motherhood. Larsa knew she did not have the luxury of time to contemplate the words to use. The guardsmen were always there, listening, watching; they stood beside her door like bloodhounds, carefully listening out for the soft tread of a feline’s paw; any movement would alert them. Thankfully the Assyrian guards were distracted, giving Larsa the rare opportunity she needed to write down everything.

  Two nights have passed, but a third shall not, she thought as she embraced the rare opportunity to write. Brushing the parched charcoal against the papyrus, Larsa finally began to write, her thoughts making their way onto the papyrus like a loving kiss blown from her lips. The sound of the charcoal rod stroking the delicate paper was enough to ruin her chances, but she would not draw back in fear. Larsa watched as the fine granules of coal began to splinter from the entwined rod as she drew the cuneiform symbols on the golden sheet.

  To the one I adore and cherish with every breath that still lingers in the depths of my soul, oh sweet protector of heaven and earth, Gallant Marmicus,

  Oh my love, I pray these words reach you safely, for it is this hope that leaves a candle burning brightly within my soul. Fate has overwhelmed me, sweet love, but the heavens are yet to collapse, for with this letter no wildness or grief can echo within my heart. Though our hearts are far apart, you are here with me in memory and in dream. Even among the tears that I have shed – plentiful in number and enough to fuel oceans far and wide – my grief is kissed with the remembrance of you. Oh, light of all that is good, tonight I bow before you, as do the heavens, the sun and the moon, for within my womb the jewel of your majesty grows. You are to be a father and I a mother. But among such glad tidings, oh my love, the fate of our unborn rests heavily on your shoulders, on your sword and the will of the gods.

  For my enemy has decreed the darkest kind of punishment: that I will bear his crown within my womb and thus grant him an heir of royal blood. If I should refuse the pleasure of my enemy, then such infant that clings onto my womb in refuge will fall to the same fate as all those I have loved. And if I should accept, then woe upon my soul, for I have submitted to the devil’s request.

  Oh, Gallant Warrior, I fear above all other things for your safety and that of my people. My fate rests with the gods, I have
come to accept that, but the fate of our people rests with you and you alone. Alas, do not fear for my burden, dear husband, think of your own and think of our people; they are all that matters. Although these three months have been unkind, I thank the gods more now than ever before, for even among the masked night of my enemy’s kingdom and the wretchedness that my heart has come to know, I thank the gods for the gift embedded within my womb.

  If we should ever meet once more, whether it is in heaven or on earth, know always that I love you, now and forevermore.

  Allegiance lies in the heart of the sword …

  Your love, Larsa

  38

  The morning light shone over the valley, glorifying it with a white brilliance. From her mud-brick house, Sulaf had seen Marmicus ride off in the early hours of the morning. Somehow, she felt he would come here, and she was right.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘When your stallion gallops as fast as the wind, every soul can feel the storm approaching,’ replied Sulaf. She looked at him, sitting on the ground, doing nothing but thinking. ‘I see Orisus is as untameable as ever. I never knew that animals could inherit the hearts of their masters.’

  ‘Be careful; he’s not a horse that likes to be touched,’ said Marmicus, watching her.

  ‘How do you know, if you never let anyone touch him?’ replied Sulaf. She gazed at the wild animal, her brown eyes peering into his; she wanted to entrance him with her hypnotic stare, thinking that it would make him trust her, but it had the opposite effect. Orisus began to shake his head and stamp his hooves on the ground, tossing up clumps of grass. The more Sulaf stared, the more agitated the stallion became. Few people dared to come too close to him. The stallion was infamous; his reputation ironically mirrored the Gallant Warrior’s own; but Sulaf was not like most people, she had learnt to be as daring as her childhood companion. The stallion watched her nearing him, flicking his long tail in protest as she approached.