The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa

by Seja Majeed

  ‘Gentlemen, please let’s cast aside our mutual loathing for one another. Carry on, King Nelaaz, explain to us why you’ve summoned us both. We don’t have much time; preparations for war have started,’ said the young Priest of Xidrica.

  ‘Thank you, young priest. Look, I admit I need the Gallant Warrior’s allegiance. Just as you said, if I return to my kingdom without his protection, I shall be roasted like a swine on a stake and tossed into a peasant’s fire for supper. His friendship was the one thing that sheltered me from the damnable revolt of my people. But that doesn’t mean to say that I can’t offer your kingdom something in return. You see, I’ve got a proposition for you, one which could save us all.’

  The Grand Priest of Ursar raised his eyebrow, intrigued. Could it be that our clown king has played us for a fool all this time?

  ‘What is it?’ asked the young priest.

  ‘Let’s be honest. Even with the Gallant Warrior leading your army, your kingdom is still greatly outnumbered. In exchange for redemption, I’ll offer you my army to fight for your cause; I’ve got ten thousand men who will fight and die for you. All I ask in return is forgiveness and the Gallant Warrior’s allegiance.’

  ‘Your offer sounds reasonable,’ said the Grand Priest of Ursar. ‘But, my unfortunate friend, it seems you’ll still have to get used to living in exile; even if I wanted to help you, I don’t have the power to sway the Gallant Warrior. Marmicus listens to no one; he follows his wretched, moralistic heart, and the truth is, your treachery runs too deep for his wounds to heal. He would never accept your pledge. It’s a pointless pursuit. Go back to your kingdom and enjoy your last days as king.’ He was taken aback; he had not expected the fat king to have any intellect beneath all that flab. The Grand Priest of Ursar rose from the cushioned chair, expressionless, and walked away. He had spent enough time looking at the king, whose ear lobes resembled those of an elephant. But as he walked away from the canopy, he came to realise that King Nelaaz of Aram did possess a measure of tact after all; something he would not underestimate again.

  ‘Wait!’ King Nelaaz shrieked, longing to keep him for a while longer. ‘You’ve misjudged me for too long, old priest. I realise you’ve no power over Marmicus, but that doesn’t mean to say that no one here does.’ King Nelaaz glared at the Priest of Xidrica, who sat silently. ‘I think you’ll find our good friend here has the power of persuasion.’

  The Grand Priest of Ursar looked back. He was right, Marmicus did value the young Priest of Xidrica’s advice more than anyone else’s in the kingdom; he stood for something, which meant Marmicus respected him and was willing to listen to him. The young Priest of Xidrica stood up, realising that they were placing all their hopes in him. ‘Even if I could persuade Marmicus to accept your proposition, we still have a problem – we don’t have enough men to defeat the Assyrian army. Ten thousand men, combined with our own, are still too few. There’ll still be a massacre on the battlefield.’

  ‘How did I know you would say just that?’ said King Nelaaz. He wrapped his arms around his belly and laughed. He had thought of everything. ‘I’ve called upon the kings of Babylon to help us; I think you’ll find they’re willing to join forces if the Gallant Warrior could lead them.’

  ‘Impossible,’ whispered the Grand Priest of Ursar, but without conviction. The king had thought of every detail.

  ‘Not at all. The kings of Babylon are coming; all we need to do is convince Marmicus, and I leave that up to our friend here.’

  King Nelaaz of Aram had proved himself to be a genius in disguise, and for that reason he was worthy of respect, even from his enemies.

  42

  Threatening ideas must either be controlled by the hands or stamped out by the feet; the foolish king must be silenced before his ideas grow out of control, the Serpent thought. He glared at his finely engraved ring, which showed him to be a man of great calibre, and wondered at how quickly things had changed. He knew he had to act quickly before everything he worked for was ruined. He had not paid much attention to the king; in fact, he had never suspected him of becoming any kind of threat. Everyone knew his only genius lay in eating and tasting food, but it seemed he had been outsmarting everyone all along. King Nelaaz was right. There was only one man who could unite all of the kings of Babylon, and it was Marmicus. If the armies of Babylon came together, they would be strong enough to defeat the Assyrians. He could not let that happen, not when he was so close to winning his throne. He had to act quickly.

  The Serpent rushed through the temple; the sight of godly statues filled him with revulsion and made him feel nauseous. He looked forward to the day when he could openly declare his hatred for them all, but in the meantime he had to hide his thoughts beneath the virtuous fabric of his gown.

  The young Priest of Xidrica possessed the power to influence Marmicus. The question was whether he would use it. Even though the Serpent despised Marmicus, he did possess an uncanny respect for him. He is a rare breed, he thought as he traced his finger along the scar that flowed from his elbow all the way down to his hand. And like every rare breed, he would soon become extinct …

  43

  The Serpent stretched out his left hand and peered at the green mark etched into his palm; he ran his index finger over the cuneiform symbol, remembering the intense fire and the sharp needle that had pierced his hand. Nothing could make him forget the day he lost his childhood. He remembered crying loudly, feeling agonising pain as the woman brushed granules of black charcoal into the wound, smiling at him as she did so. He remembered the intense burning, as if his hands had been placed in a fire. At the time, the Serpent did not know what the woman had written, but now he did. He read the word ‘slave’, and thought about the way the world had treated him.

  From the moment the Serpent was born, he was cursed with an impure soul; for he was the son of a whore, born through sin. Every man in the village knew his mother well, and every wife hated her; as for their children, he became their punchbag, to be beaten and ridiculed whenever they saw him. He learnt to hide behind trees, and run as fast as he could, so that he could avoid the scrapes and bruises that came with being the son of a whore.

  The truth was, he hated his mother for all the pain she had unknowingly put him through; yet, no matter how hard he had tried to forget her, he could not rid himself of memories of the warmth of her love. Without a father or loving husband, all they had was each other against the world.

  He had tried his best to make his mother happy, wanting so desperately to ease her hardship, so that she could live a better life. At the tender age of five, he tirelessly ploughed the land, and collected wood for fires, earning goat’s milk and bread as his reward. He remembered watching children play on the fields, some laughing and pointing at him as they saw him struggle to pick up heavy tools. He could barely stand on his feet due to his sheer exhaustion, but he carried on, doing it all for his mother. Deep down he hoped that it would be enough to make her happy and change her ways; yet no amount of help he offered stopped her from her doing what she knew best.

  At night, while he was sleeping, she brought men to their home. Their voices often woke him; whenever he was awake, she would tell him to close his eyes and tightly cover his ears. Not knowing why, he followed her commands. No amount of pressure could block out the noises they made. Sometimes he would hear his mother laugh loudly or giggle. He wanted desperately to see what made her cheery, but he didn’t possess the courage to open his eyes. Other nights, he would hear crying, and in the morning he would find marks around her neck and bruises on her face. On those days, she would plead with the gods to end her life; it was at these times he would tremble, and hate himself for not being able to protect her.

  But there were nights he cherished, when life seemed perfect, when she snuggled up with him on the straw bed, with the light of the stars and moon flooding through the windows. His mother would tell him stories about her homeland, and how his father was the king of the Garden of the Gods.

  �
��Why did you leave, Mama?’ he asked, playing with her hands.

  ‘Sometimes the wind draws us in a different direction than we hoped …’ she whispered. She kissed his cheek and smelt his neck. He was absolutely perfect to her.

  ‘What does the Garden of the Gods look like? Is it beautiful?’

  ‘Yes, it’s heaven on earth. You’ll see it one day. I’ll take you there when we have enough food for the journey.’

  ‘But what does it look like?’

  ‘It looks like a big garden, filled with flowers and palm trees everywhere. And in the middle, running through it, is a long wide river that sparkles when the sun hits it, and glows brightly when the moon appears. I used to take long swims there with your uncles when I was your age, and we’d pick fruit from the trees whenever we were hungry. At night you can smell the sweet scent of orange blossom; it blows with the wind, and makes you so calm. It’s a beautiful place, for a beautiful prince like you. And when you go back, you’ll see all the people waving at you, happy to know that you’ve come back to be their king. My precious little boy …’ She hugged him tightly and watched him slowly fall asleep. In that brief moment both of them escaped their day-to-day reality and entered a new world but, as with all dreams, brutal disappointment can easily follow.

  One night, life had unexpectedly changed. His loving mother had not returned home as she usually did. For two nights he sat, cold, hungry and alone, waiting on his straw bed, which he had once called his throne, watching the door, hoping that she would walk in, even if it were with another man. But she did not. A third night passed, and the hot bread he had made for her on the first night had grown hard like dried clay. He knew then he had to do something; he began to search desperately in the village, asking everyone if they had seen her. Some people were helpful, but most were not; many women smiled, realising that she had disappeared; others shunned him as if he had a contagious disease. Eventually, the little boy’s energy drained away, and the small light of hope that shone brightly inside him disappeared.

  His struggle to find his beloved mother took its toll on him. Eventually he collapsed, waking up only to discover that he was trapped in another nightmare. While he slept he had been sold to a wealthy but cruel man, and the boy who thought he was a prince was now a slave. It was that night that both his palms had been tattooed with the word ‘slave’, using a sharp, hot needle. The poison spread through his veins, leaving him in excruciating pain for endless days; his hands, which had never stolen food to survive or harmed others, were no longer his to command. However, the absence of his mother’s kiss on his cheek was more unbearable than all his master’s blows.

  Soon his love for his mother drained away until it could never be restored. He secretly feared that she had abandoned him and returned to the Garden of the Gods without him. Beaten each night for what he was, a lonely slave born of a whore, the little boy would cry, knowing only that life was wretched and cruel. Eventually his eyes became bloodshot and his mind became bruised with sheer disappointment. He could no longer see the world clearly or revive in his heart the warmth it had once felt. The only comfort life afforded him was the knowledge that somewhere in the distance, beneath the lofty mountains and hidden among the plains of the desert, was a throne that sat waiting for the return of its king.

  44

  Marmicus rode into the palace. He had hoped to clear his mind of all his troubles, but he had made things worse for himself, now that he had kissed Sulaf, and shunned her as he had. He knew she would never forgive him for what he had said; but in the long run it was for her own well-being, and he hoped she would realise that.

  ‘Where did you go, my lord?’ said a servant, taking hold of the reins of his horse. He led Orisus forward, steering him to the stables.

  ‘What concern is it of anyone’s where I’ve been?’ Marmicus asked. He removed the Sword of Allegiance from his belt and gave it to the servant to hold for a moment as he dismounted from his horse. The weather had changed: the wind had become cold, and thick clouds spread over the kingdom.

  ‘Forgive me, my lord. I’ve been asked to find out.’

  ‘Who asked you?’ said Marmicus, taking back his weapon as he landed on his feet.

  ‘The Grand Priest of Ursar demanded to know where you’ve been; they were his orders, my lord.’

  Marmicus stared at him, clearly annoyed.

  ‘If every man followed orders without question, there would be more war than peace; remember that before you submit to another order, even if it’s my own,’ he said, storming into the palace.

  Marmicus still believed that the Grand Priest of Ursar was a traitor; he had a hunger for power that would lead many a reasonable man into the realms of treachery. Marmicus had a feeling that he was also spying on him; he just hoped that no one had followed him to the valley. If they had, they would have seen him kiss Sulaf and betray the princess’s memory. Now that he had returned to the palace, he felt a great guilt; he felt as if he had cheated on Larsa. Marmicus slumped down onto the wooden chair in his chamber. His back felt sore from his journey. He stared at the wall, not knowing exactly what he should do.

  ‘Whenever honourable men disappear, they’re sorely missed,’ the young Priest of Xidrica smiled. He walked towards the Gallant Warrior, embracing him with brotherly affection. ‘You look better than you did a few days ago. I’m happy to see that.’

  ‘I still don’t feel it,’ Marmicus said as he let go, and poured some barley beer into a cup. He needed a strong drink to make him feel better.

  ‘Well, that’s to be expected,’ the Priest of Xidrica said solemnly. He felt burdened by what he had to tell the Gallant Warrior. He had gone through enough already, but the Counsel had forced him to act; if he did not, he would be in the line of fire. The priest asked if they could go to the garden where no one could hear them talk, and directed Marmicus out of the chamber. It was an odd request: the weather was not fitting for a stroll, the wind was harsh, and it was beginning to pour with rain. Something was obviously on his mind. Marmicus obliged, and they walked around the palace gardens, silent at first. Eventually the priest stopped, and turned to him.

  ‘May I ask you a question? It’s not why I’ve come to you, but I am curious to know the answer.’

  ‘You can ask me whatever you wish; there are no boundaries between brothers,’ said Marmicus, trying to put him at ease.

  ‘I am a man of faith, who knows very little about war and death, but somehow I imagine that if I saw a man die, it would strengthen my faith in the gods – not the opposite. You’ve seen death more than anyone else in this kingdom, but you don’t seem to believe in the gods. What makes you doubt their existence?’

  ‘Is it my lack of faith that’s troubling you?’

  ‘Nothing in your character troubles me, Marmicus. I’m just curious to know the answer …’

  ‘I can’t believe in the gods, not when I know innocent people die, and oppressors live. If there’s a god out there, I’m still waiting to see his justice. Until then I’ll rely on myself for it.’

  ‘Well, you may not believe in the gods, my dear friend, but you do possess a godly spirit I admire and respect,’ said the priest. He placed his hand on Marmicus’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly. ‘Now I must tell you something which requires courage to forgive, and strength to accept.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘As you know, we’re on the brink of war, and in times of war, your greatest enemies can become friends. The King of Aram has made an offer of allegiance to you. He wants your forgiveness and in return he’ll offer this kingdom his army to fight in our cause. The Counsel has accepted the proposition, but it means nothing without your forgiveness.’

  ‘If they think I can forgive him, then they’re asking the impossible. I’ll never forgive him, not after what he’s done to me.’

  The Priest of Xidrica understood how difficult the request was; it was natural that Marmicus would refuse – he was only human. The Gallant Warrior would have to swallow his pr
ide and publicly pardon someone who had grossly and hideously deceived him.

  ‘I know it’s not a simple request, and I don’t blame you for rejecting it, but I’ve been compelled to ask you by the Counsel. They’re waiting for an answer.’

  ‘Then the Counsel has proven itself willing to accept bribes from men who offer no real allegiance,’ replied Marmicus. He walked to the stone table. Placing his hands flat against it, his hatred boiled inside him. The more he served the kingdom the more he began to loathe the Counsel and its politics. Counsellors thought only of themselves, and had sent the one man who did good to exploit him. ‘Go back and tell them that I don’t want his allegiance or his men. Nothing he can offer can make me forgive him, not after what he’s done.’

  ‘Are you certain of your choice? I know you hate him, Marmicus, but he’s offering this kingdom a way out. If you accept, ten thousand men will join our army, and fight alongside us. Without them, we are left alone to defend ourselves.’

  The young priest was right. Marmicus was lost, on the horns of a life or death dilemma he had never expected. He had always tried to be just in everything he did; now he realised that the compassion of his heart had limits. In the end, he was like any other man, afflicted by a human desire to avenge and hate.

  The priest looked steadily at the Gallant Warrior, waiting for an answer. The fate of the kingdom depended on his ability to forgive. The question was, could he find the strength to do that?

  ‘If I don’t accept his pledge I become the oppressor of my own people. If I do, I become the oppressor of my soul,’ he whispered, turning to the young priest, searching for an answer. ‘What would you do, if you were in my position?’