by Seja Majeed
‘I can’t tell you what you should do, Marmicus; the load you carry upon your shoulders can only be felt by you. No advice I offer will make the load lighter, or ease the journey you’ll have to take. But I will say this. Forgiveness is no different to any battle: it takes strength and sacrifice, and in the end there’s no guarantee that peace will follow.’
Hearing these words, Marmicus tried his best to rationalise his actions. Today he was fighting the hardest battle he had ever encountered in his lifetime; it was a struggle from within, his enemy was himself and the battle was for his pride.
‘What’s your decision? Are you prepared to pardon the King of Aram for betraying you and this kingdom?’ asked the priest. He looked at Marmicus, with no idea what the answer would be.
‘Forgiveness is but a word. If that’s what the king desires to hear then so be it. He shall have my forgiveness, and in return I shall have his army. I mourn my honour so that others do not mourn their fathers or brothers on the battlefield,’ Marmicus whispered.
‘Freedom means nothing without sacrifice. Your sacrifice makes you the wise leader you are; for this you’ve earned the people’s admiration and my sincere respect,’ said the young priest. He moved closer to the warrior, who stood in silence. Although his words were soft, they echoed powerfully with meaning.
45
Tapping his plump fingers against the arm of his chair, King Nelaaz of Aram fidgeted. He sat slouched, with his belly rolled forward, and his nose twitching from the bristles of his ginger moustache. He felt like a prisoner waiting for his fate to be revealed. The Grand Priest of Ursar watched the king scratch his belly; the sound of his nails digging into his skin made him feel queasy.
‘Do you find pleasure in irritating all those around you, or is it just me?’ asked the Grand Priest of Ursar. Too anxious to care about the remark, King Nelaaz of Aram began to bite his already short fingernails to the point that he made them bleed.
‘Do you think the young priest has persuaded him to accept my pledge?’ King Nelaaz whispered. His voice cracked with nervousness. The more he thought about it, the less optimistic he became.
‘Only time shall tell, and in that time we’ll know the direction of our fate,’ said the Grand Priest of Ursar.
46
Larsa needed all her strength today. Her day of reckoning had arrived: the slaves had come into her chamber to purify her body so that she was worthy of being touched by the Assyrian emperor. They had purposely waited for her body to heal from all its bruises – Jaquzan was not one to touch something that was unworthy of him. Every morning she was examined by slaves. Now the hourglass offered no more grains to spare; the time had come for her to kneel in surrender to the master who commanded it. Powerless to stop her imminent rape, Larsa cried and trembled. Repeating the poem written by her father, she hoped that it would instil in her the same courage.
‘I am not afraid,
I will speak louder,
I will be braver,
I will be all that I can be,
If I believe then I become,
I am free, even if shackled as a slave,
I am pure, even if painted by the hatred of others,
I am my own,
I will not hide in shadows, or disguise myself in another’s presence,
I am the love of my people.
What is destined can never be undone, but what is unwritten belongs solely to me …’
Larsa thought about Marmicus; she remembered his love, how pure it was and how lucky she had been to experience it. She thought about the way he had made love to her on their last night, how he had cradled her, wiped her tears and stroked her cheek. Never in her whole life had she ever imagined that she would betray him like this. Forgive me, she thought, unable to understand what she had done to deserve this. The more she thought about her ill fortune, the more her heart sank. She read the poem again, this time louder and more passionately. The slaves watched her as they began their preparations, the princess choking with every helpless breath. They sympathised with her, but they did nothing to comfort her. They led her to a pool filled with camel’s milk, in which she was to be forced to bathe. Larsa looked into it. All she wanted to do was drown in it, and the only thing stopping her from taking her life was the little life growing inside her.
Larsa felt her knees shake as she dipped into the pool. The slaves held her by the arms, trying to give her the strength to walk. She closed her eyes and dipped her head into the milk, thinking of everything she had endured up to this moment.Finally, they helped her out, and led her to another pool, filled with rose water. There they washed her body and moisturised her skin with lavender oil until it glowed brightly. Her long brown hair was combed; her lips were reddened with the pigment of saffron and orange lily pollen, and her eyes were darkened with kohl. They placed a white silk robe over her body to symbolise her rebirth, and clipped a heavy necklace made of pure gold around her neck.
‘Tonight you are a goddess,’ said the slave woman. She placed a crown upon the princess’s head, signifying her readiness for the emperor.
‘Wait. I need to see Jehan, I won’t go without speaking to her, not even if you try to drag me,’ said the princess.
‘Why do you wish to see her?’
‘I need her reassurance. I can’t disappoint your emperor, not when he’s spared my body and my life. Let her come to me, so I can be at my best when he sees me,’ replied Larsa. It was the only answer she could think of that made any sense. She wiped her tears and stared deeply into the woman’s eyes without blinking: unknowingly, the princess had mastered the act of deception; it was necessary for her survival.
‘Wait here, I’ll bring her to you.’
Larsa watched the slave women turn away. They walked out the grand doors of the chamber, one by one, like a line of soulless sheep. Larsa rushed towards the wooden divan. Her hands slid across and under the fabric, trying desperately to find the golden papyrus. Larsa grabbed it, feeling instant relief, and held it tightly in her hand, hiding it as best she could. The papyrus was the only way to protect the sanctity of her unborn child’s name. Marmicus must know of his infant! It is the only way to prevent the carvings of history from spreading deceitful lies for all eternity …
‘You called upon me, Your Highness?’
Jehan had been followed into the chamber by a guard. They knew they could not talk freely without drawing attention to their plan. Larsa embraced the maid tightly as if she were saying farewell to her own mother.
‘Living a life without friendship is like becoming a prisoner of your own flesh,’ she whispered, hugging her tightly as she rested her head against her shoulder. ‘Please give my love to your grandson. I’ve been thinking of him all this while …’
Larsa discreetly slipped the papyrus into the maid’s hand, desperately hoping that nobody had seen her.
‘I’ll send him your love, Your Highness, you can be certain of that.’
Jehan took hold of the papyrus, slipping it into the folds of her shawl; whatever the risk, she would fulfil her promise and entrust the papyrus to her grandson. It was a pledge that she would not forsake, despite the obvious danger that threatened both of them.
‘Hurry up, the emperor’s waiting,’ said the Assyrian guard.
‘Be strong, Your Highness, your freedom will be neither aspiration nor myth: it will be real’, the old woman whispered into her ear, hoping to comfort her. She could feel the princess’s body trembling in her arms. The guard’s patience had run out; if the princess was late he would be the one in serious trouble with the emperor. He tugged at her arm, trying to pull her away. Larsa held onto the maid, squeezing her hand tightly, not wanting to let go; their arms straightened until eventually Larsa was forced to let go.
‘Don’t forget, I need you!’ she shouted.
‘Be quiet, whore,’ the guard said, pulling her away.
Larsa wept all the way to the emperor’s chamber.
Rape would not be the only calamity to be
fall her that night. Unknown to the princess, one of the slave women had been secretly watching. She had seen Larsa slip the papyrus into the maid’s hands, and like any slave who longed for freedom, she hoped that her knowledge would be enough to win it.
47
The sinful deed was done. The Assyrian emperor rose from the princess’s unclothed body and drifted away without thoughts or feelings about the wrong he had committed against her. Larsa remained still, her thighs – her whole body – aching. Disgrace and shame left her in an unearthly trance, as if her soul now mimicked Jaquzan’s inhuman aura; perhaps the closeness of his body against hers had left some unseen imprint upon her, like a fingerprint on a pure and untainted surface.
Larsa’s hands and feet had been bound. They now bled. She had been defiant, lunging and biting, hoping somehow she could save her integrity. Eventually, their bodies had connected like a rosebud to a stem; Jaquzan’s movements were rhythmic, his touch was passionate and his kiss was poison to her flesh. He stared unashamedly into her eyes throughout the ordeal, his pupils enlarging the moment he insinuated himself between her thighs. Larsa closed her eyes, thinking only of revenge: she knew if she did not, she would die from her heartache. Sounds of pleasure came from Jaquzan’s lips the moment he was inside her. Larsa cried, knowing that she had lost the battle to save her sanctity and that of her infant. His sounds reminded Larsa that he was indeed like any man. As soon as Jaquzan had finished, his cold exterior returned like plates of armour being strapped onto his chest. Larsa curled up in a ball. She felt dirty and impure.
‘You’ve been blessed tonight, princess – what woman can say she’s been pleasured by a god?’ said Jaquzan. His slaves came to him; they wiped his toned body, cleansing it with aromatic water and perfume. The rich musk sickened Larsa; it was the scent that she now associated with him.
You are no god but you’ll meet him soon enough, and when you do, he’ll be unmerciful to you just as you’ve been unmerciful to others, Larsa thought with hatred.
Once the slaves had finished with him, they quickly freed the princess’s hands and attended to her wounds, patting her wrists and ankles using a damp cloth. Larsa’s skin burned from the sharp tang of the lemon water, which irritated her open wounds.
‘Leave us,’ said the Assyrian emperor. He wrapped a swathe of long black material around his waist, and walked towards the princess, who lay on the bed curled up in a ball. Larsa thought he wanted to rape her a second time, and she closed her eyes. Surprisingly, Jaquzan sat on the bed, staring at her, doing nothing at first. ‘Now that we are united by the spirit of another, you will honour me and love me as your god, and in return I shall reward you with a hanging garden to remind you of the mountains your kingdoms once had before I flattened them. It shall be my gift to you, and your gift to me shall be the infant born of your womb, and blessed with my name.’
Larsa looked at him, knowing that what he presented as a romantic gesture was just another means to taunt her. Should he offer her the world, she would always choose to live with the stars.
‘A man who claims victory before winning his war is like a blind man who claims he can see in the darkness,’ said Larsa, looking at him. Her eye make-up had smudged, and her skin was yellow from fatigue.
Jaquzan took a deep breath. He understood she was angry, but that was no excuse for impolite behaviour.
‘I’ll tell you a secret, princess, one that will burn your heart with agony,’ said Jaquzan. He pressed his lips against her ear, and Larsa moved her face away, but Jaquzan quickly grabbed it in a shocking fit of rage, his fingers pressing into her cheeks. Larsa felt a shooting pain at the back of her neck and across her head. Jaquzan squeezed her skin, pressing her chin into her neck. Larsa looked at him as he covered her mouth with his hands, but Jaquzan’s facial expression remained unaltered; he was emotionally disconnected from what he was doing, showing anger only through his actions.
‘You have chosen a life of hardship, when you could have enjoyed a life of ease. Because of this, you will remain alive only until the day your womb brings forth my infant. I want you to hear your son cry for the first time, just as he hears your cry for the last time. So, love me or hate me, you will obey me …’
48
‘If the gods offered me the entire world I would still trade it in for your love,’ Sulaf whispered to herself. Her eyes followed her son Zechariah, who was playing with his dog, oblivious to war’s final approach and to his mother’s suffering. Rejection was beginning to tear her heart, shredding it into small pieces; she hated herself for allowing a man to have so much power and control over her. She had promised herself never to let that happen again. When Sulaf was married, she had fallen victim to her husband’s fists and his need for control: she may have possessed a mind and heart of her own, but her body had become his to direct, manipulate and abuse. She had promised she would never let that happen again, but it was a broken promise: her heart and mind belonged solely to Marmicus. They had become his to love, or hate, need or reject; and all she could do was wait on the sidelines, hoping that somehow he would see the good and beauty within her. But she knew he would never change his mind, not when he loved the princess so much.
She sat on the grass, recalling the cursed day when she found out that Marmicus had fallen in love with another woman. It was a memory embedded in her mind like a thread woven into the fabric of her anatomy; nothing could loosen it without damaging the rest of her body. Sulaf needed a way out. All she could think about was Marmicus and how he had humiliated her that morning, when all her dreams were about to come true. Something had to be done.
Sulaf remembered a story which she had heard as a child about a woman who lived in the cursed Black Mountain outside the kingdom. She had no idea if the story was true, but rumour had it that a powerful oracle lived there, who was able to grant requests so long as a sacrifice was made to her. The long journey to the oracle was most often made by those aggrieved souls on the verge of insanity and now, for the first time, Sulaf actually sympathised with them. Somehow she felt that the oracle possessed the answers she needed, and possibly the cure for the disease that had taken hold of her mind and body.
The day she had found out about Marmicus and the princess, she had gone to the marketplace to buy some beads to make a beautiful necklace for herself – the last one she made had been ripped from her neck by her brute of a husband, who had beaten her for serving him food he did not like. Sulaf was standing by the stall when she heard two old women gossiping. She ignored them at first; it was only when she heard the mention of Marmicus's name that she began to pay attention. She heard them say that the king had given his blessing for his daughter to marry the Gallant Warrior. Sulaf listened to every word. She was surprised that he had not mentioned anything to her. The more the women spoke, the deeper her heart sank. Sulaf pretended that she was busy searching for azure beads; she scattered them across the wooden table, searching for the most beautiful ones. She hoped the rumour was not true, for her own sake. Although Sulaf was married, she still felt connected to Marmicus, as if they were two petals from the same flower. She thought about him every night, even when her husband lay on top of her, pleasing himself but doing nothing to satisfy her needs. She only endured his touch by imagining that it was Marmicus.
The rumours continued for weeks. Sulaf heard various stories, but the underlying story remained the same, that Marmicus had fallen in love with the princess. Wherever Sulaf went, the rumours followed her, as if chasing her through the streets, but Sulaf kept dismissing them. Then, one day, a messenger came to her door and delivered to her a clay tablet. Marmicus had invited Sulaf to meet the princess at the palace. It was like a knife in her heart. Sulaf did not wish to go, but she forced herself to, taking comfort from the fact that any escape from her husband’s violent temper was welcome. The moment she entered the palace, her world collapsed, burying her. Marmicus and the princess’s happiness and love for one another were a reminder of how deeply unhappy and lonely she felt
herself, sparking resentment and jealousy within her: feelings that over the months following grew out of control. Marmicus invited Sulaf to the palace many times, wanting her to be close to his wife, but she never went back again. Eventually they lost touch with one another; the stem had been cut.
Sulaf needed to rid Marmicus’s mind of the princess, and ultimately to take her place. This was her only hope. Sulaf began to tangle locks of her hair around her fingertips and think cruel thoughts about the princess. Even though she believed her to be dead, she hated her with a passion: like fire and water, nothing could have made them friends or allies.
‘Don’t turn in your grave, princess, I’m merely undoing what you did to me,’ Sulaf said, standing up. Her hair blew in the wind as she looked out, seeing the bulk of the large dark mountain in the background. Somewhere, in the distance, was a woman who could set Marmicus’s heart free, untangle it and hand it over to Sulaf to keep forever.
49
‘With age comes wisdom, but in your case I see you’ve traded it in for treachery,’ said Nafridos. He crouched down, glaring menacingly at the old woman who lay on the hot dusty ground. She had been left out in the sun for two days like leather being dried. Her frail hands and feet were bruised, having been handled roughly by brute soldiers. Each limb was tied to a wooden post. Nafridos held a green apple in his hand. Skilfully he twirled his knife, peeling the skin in front of the elderly woman whose torture he had ordered. He cut a piece of the green apple, and dangled it over her nose and her lips, trying to tempt her to talk. She moaned. Her lips were chapped, the flaky skin clumped and hardened by the sun.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, as he bit into the apple, crunching it loudly with his teeth. Juice burst from his lips. ‘You can have it. Just tell me what you know.’