The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa

by Seja Majeed

  ‘Don’t hold your breath for too long, Commander; he’ll be a pile of ash by the time you finish,’ the soldiers laughed. They all knew from experience that the Dark Warrior was breathing through his nose.

  Paross began praying to the gods to bless him with the endurance and strength he needed to win the game. He coughed loudly as the smoke blew in the wind, blackening his face and burning his nostrils. Paross closed his eyes, his hands trembling in agony. He could feel the skin melting; he desperately fought against his instincts, wanting to keep them in place. He knew if he pulled his hands back, his grandmother would die, and he would be unable to live with the guilt. The only way to make it through this battle of endurance was to let the pain out. Paross screamed and stamped his feet. He could not take the agony; every second that passed was more torture. Blisters began to form on his hands. The agony was unbearable. His mind and body told him to pull his hands away, and each time he was about to, he remembered his grandmother lying, half-conscious, on the ground. He could not let her die, not when he had the power to save her. The Assyrian soldiers watched, some feeling nothing, others feeling emotions they thought had died long ago. Either way, the boy was truly brave, and for that he had won their respect.

  ‘He truly loves her,’ said one Assyrian soldier to another.

  Paross fought on; his fingers swelled up as his blood boiled beneath the surface of his skin. He opened his eyes to see excruciating blisters the size of cardamom seeds on his palms. They were bursting, and it felt as though his skin was being smothered with lava then lashed off with a whip made from thorns. Eventually, the pain was too much for Paross to endure. He abruptly pulled his hands away from the fire, and fell to the ground, weeping; he had failed to save his grandmother from her killers.

  ‘I thought you were a courageous man; now I see you’re nothing more than a pathetic boy. Throw her into the fire!’ Nafridos roared. His top lip lifted in a snarl, revealing his gums and teeth. Any kindness that had briefly appeared on his face had completely vanished, as if it had never been present.

  ‘No!’ Paross yelled.

  ‘Throw him too – let his innocence light up the darkness!’ said the Dark Warrior as he remounted his stallion and galloped away, leaving the soldiers to fulfil their orders without him.

  ‘Stay with me!’ Paross cried, reaching for his grandmother. His eyes widened in horror as he watched two Assyrian soldiers lift her and carry her in the direction of the fire. They swung her from side to side, and in one single action, they released their grip, throwing her into the mountain of fire. Paross screamed as he saw his grandmother being flung into the fire as if she were nothing more than a piece of firewood. Her eyelids remained closed; she was now, mercifully, in a state of unconsciousness. Paross ran to the fire, hoping he could pull her out, but he was powerless; she lay asleep on the burning wood, until eventually she disappeared in the smoke.

  ‘Let me kill the boy! I want to be the one who throws him into the fire,’ said an Assyrian soldier to the rest of his companions. He grabbed Paross, who had refused to move from the bonfire. Paross did nothing. He was in shock, completely unable to comprehend what had just happened. Fortunately for Paross, not all of the soldiers had lost their humanity.

  ‘Listen to me now,’ said the soldier. ‘I’m going to let you go, but you’ve got to run away as fast as you can, because if you don’t they’re going to catch you and they’ll kill you. Do you understand?’ Paross was staring straight ahead, blank and heedless, and the soldier tapped his face as though to wake him.

  Paross nodded, looking at him.

  ‘Then go! Run, boy, run as fast as you can, and don’t look back.’

  Paross did exactly what he was told. He ran for his life and he did not look back for a second. At one point he thought he could hear his grandmother calling out to him, but he kept running. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, numbing the pain in his swollen and blistered hands and instilling power into his tiny legs. Behind him, the orange fire that was so brilliantly alight slowly faded, until eventually there was only darkness. Paross kept running until the dawn arrived, and all the while he remembered his grandmother, and everything she had told him before she had died, and how he had to be brave like his mother. He took the papyrus from his pocket and held it in his hands. His journey to reach the Garden of the Gods would become a great battle of endurance, and he would do it all for his grandmother, who had given him the love of the mother who had died when he was too young to remember her.

  52

  ‘From my womb I give you life. From my heart I give you love. From my soul I give you all I that I have,’ Larsa softly sang. It was a lullaby that her mother used to sing to her when she was a child. Her mother’s gentle voice soothed her to sleep like the fine strings of a Babylonian harp played into the late hours of the night. Larsa intended to do the same for her infant – if freedom should ever return to bless her. With each new morning she could feel her body physically changing: day by day, her womb was rounding. Larsa placed her hands upon her belly, and slid them down, feeling its shape. Her belly even felt heavier. The subtle change was only noticeable to her: even so, it filled her with joy to know that her infant was growing stronger, and every time her womb grew a little bigger, she felt reassured that her baby was healthy. Larsa had also noticed her emotions changing; most nights she felt suicidal, but since her baby had grown stronger, she had begun to feel inexplicable bursts of happiness. She closed her eyes, and imagined watching Marmicus hold his son or daughter in his arms; she envisioned him smiling as his baby’s tiny hands wrapped around his finger.

  ‘You’ve got a beautiful voice.’

  Larsa opened her eyes. A long face with a crooked nose poked through the door. Larsa recognised him as one of the Assyrian soldiers who had attacked her Royal Caravan in the desert; it was the same guard who waited by her door each night.

  ‘Won’t you sing me a little song of my own? I’m in need of some entertainment,’ said the guard as he entered the room. He placed his sword on the table, his crooked nose twitching.

  ‘You’re not allowed in here,’ Larsa said, standing.

  ‘You’re right, but who’s watching? Go on, sing for me,’ he said, walking to her. He had always been tempted to enter her room, and had controlled himself until now, but with her beautiful voice he could resist no longer.

  ‘Get out of here before I scream,’ Larsa said, rushing to the door. He ran after her, determined to stop her leaving the prison chamber. Larsa kicked him back, but he quickly grabbed her, and threw her against the table. Larsa felt a sharp pain in her stomach: she immediately thought of her baby. He had cornered her against the table. ‘Go on, sing me a song.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ said Larsa, and her hands stretched behind her back then reappeared.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I have your sword,’ she smiled.

  53

  The powerless princess had been transformed into an opponent of unexpected potency. Larsa realised she had one chance to take vengeance. The guard looked behind at the door, and thought about running. Larsa shook her head, and pushed the tip of the sword into his throat: if she pushed it any deeper, it would certainly wound him.

  ‘Don’t be foolish. I may be a woman but I possess the hatred of any man.’

  She glared at the guard with sheer disgust for what he was, a vile creature who bullied her into entertaining him. The tables had been turned.

  ‘My father was right; temptation is the first spark of sin. Perhaps if you hadn’t been so tempted to touch me, I wouldn’t have your life in my hands.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to touch you. I just wanted a song, nothing else.’

  Larsa began to laugh, so hard so that her cheeks went red; she had so much anger built up inside her that the only way she could express it was through laughter; it felt as though any other way would destroy her.

  ‘Look, if you let me go, I’ll help you,’ said the guard, lifting his hands up, f
earing that she had lost her mind. ‘The palace is filled with guards – you can’t escape. The truth is, you’re never going to leave this place, unless as a corpse. But if you let me go, I’ll help you.’

  ‘Do you really think death frightens me? I’ve stared into death’s eyes, and I’ve seen more humanity lying within them than in the eyes of men. Death is a friend to me: it is the ripeness of the apple when everything else has withered. Now, take me to your emperor,’ said Larsa. She tightened her grip on the heavy weapon and stared, unblinking, into the guard’s eyes.

  ‘What if I don’t?’

  ‘Then love death just as I’ve learnt to love it; for it shall be your corpse that’s taken out to be buried in the morning,’ replied the princess.

  At last, she would have the opportunity to kill her greatest enemy and save her kingdom from the barbarity of his wretched war!

  54

  The most dangerous of spirits is the one unafraid of death and willing to sacrifice life to achieve its ends. This is what had happened to Larsa; she had befriended death as though it were her companion in life. Larsa followed the guard out of the prison quarters into unknown territory: she had been caged there for so long that she felt like a bird that had forgotten how to fly. It felt strange and unnatural to be walking where her consciousness commanded her; the prison chamber had in a sense become her home. Larsa looked up. The Assyrian palace was gigantic; it was similar in size to the Temple of Ishtar, which had been created for thousands to worship, unlike this palace, which served the pleasure of only one man. The stone corridor they followed seemed to carry on forever, and she was impatient; she needed to face Jaquzan. It meant more to her than anything else; motherhood, for the moment, could wait. Jaquzan had taken so much from her: his death would restore to her the life and dignity she had once possessed.

  ‘I told you, you won’t get far,’ said her captive.

  Soldiers ran towards them, encircling her and her prisoner. Larsa looked at them, remaining calm despite being completely surrounded. They made a human wall, encircling her as a ring encircles a finger. She was trapped, but unafraid of the arrows pointing at her chest. The Assyrian emperor had thought her perfect enough to bear his crown, and she knew she could not be harmed: her womb had given her prestige and power above all others; she must exploit it to her advantage.

  ‘Lightning is never far from thunder; whoever strikes me with their sword shall be struck by the emperor in anger. My soul belongs to him alone. If you kill me, then you dare to insult his authority and power,’ declared Larsa.

  ‘Ignore her words. She wants to kill our emperor. Kill her now!’ yelled the captured guard.

  ‘Choose wisely. If you kill me, you kill yourself.’

  Realising her power, two soldiers stepped aside from the human wall, creating a small passage for the princess to pass through. She smiled, nudging her captive forward: she still needed him to lead her to the emperor’s chamber. No one knew with certainty that her actions were the folly they appeared to be: but they would soon find out …

  ***

  Sulaf made her way towards the Gallant Warrior’s chamber, her tall slender body walking past lofty white pillars and the endless number of guards who stood beneath them protecting the palace walls. They all watched her, but she ignored them as if they were stone statues collecting dust. Finally, the door she had been searching for appeared. She breathed in, then came a rush of self-belief.

  ‘Open it, quickly,’ she instructed, without thanking the guard who stood by it.

  He nodded and pushed it open for her, watching her pass through.

  ***

  ‘In every kingdom you’ll find a palace and in every palace you’ll find a struggle for power. Isn’t that so?’ she said loudly.

  ‘Kingdoms may change in name, but human nature remains the same across all shores,’ replied Marmicus. He turned, surprised to see Sulaf, who had not informed him of her visit.

  ‘Then we’ve agreed on something at last.’ Sulaf gave a false smile, then paused. ‘I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to speak to you about what happened.’

  ‘There's no need to talk about what happened,’ Marmicus replied. ‘It's in the past. Today is all that matters, not what has happened in the past.’

  She did not want to hear his polite dismissal; it would only make her feel worse. And she knew she could not face another rejection; it would be like a knife in her heart.

  ‘Well, it’s good to see you,’ he said. ‘The smile of a loyal friend is always a blessing in cruel times.’

  ‘Friendship is never free from expectation, you understand that more than me. We both know that a person who offers loyalty to another is always in need of something in return.’

  ‘If that’s true, what do you want from me?’

  ‘What I want from you has no significance for the fate of our kingdom. The question is, what do the kings of Babylon want from you? I hear they’ve gathered in our kingdom, no doubt sipping wine at the expense of our people.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ asked Marmicus, curious. He suspected everyone of treachery now.

  ‘You forget that the people have eyes and ears too, Marmicus. When a king enters a kingdom it’s only a blind man who can’t see his endless train of horses and slaves walking behind him,’ said Sulaf, staring at him. He looked healthier than when she had last seen him; it was as if he had come to accept his loss. It pleased her to see this; it meant that his heart was ready to heal, and to accept another. ‘So why have the kings of Babylon come here? Are they offering their allegiance to us?’

  ‘Kings never offer allegiance; they offer what is in their interests only. They toss their armies into battle like pebbles thrown into the river, for more land and power. That’s why they’re here, so they can bargain over what’s left of our enemy’s kingdom.’

  Marmicus clenched his jaw. The cold breath of war was never far from him; wherever he went it followed him.

  ‘Then it’s up to you to safeguard the people’s interests when you’re in their presence. Remember, you are the voice of the voiceless and the hope of the hopeless. If you speak for the people, you can ensure balance in the affairs of selfish men. Be the leader you were born to be,’ said Sulaf. She walked to him, hesitantly at first. Her desire for him drove her to the depths of madness, but she would always force herself to journey back to sanity. The boy who had once loved her was still trapped in there somewhere; she just needed to find him, and release him from his imprisonment.

  ‘I’m only one man, Sulaf. I can’t change the world if it’s unwilling to change,’ he said, looking into her eyes. Sulaf knew he needed her, and for the first time she wanted to reassure him without any agenda of her own.

  ‘You’re not one man, Marmicus. In you lies the admiration of thousands. If you wished the day to turn into night, the people would raise their shields to the sky to cover the sunlight for you: can’t you see that kings are powerless when they stand beside you? You wear the crown of the people’s love upon your head, when they don’t.’ Sulaf pressed her palm to his cheek with a hunger that was urgent and irrepressible. She needed him to believe her. If he did not, there was no hope left of them winning this war. ‘Believe me when I say this: one day, all of mankind shall know your name, and the gods will envy you because of it. This war has been destined for you, and nothing on earth can move you from the path you were born to tread. Embrace it so that your destiny can pay homage to you.’

  ‘I don’t need the gods to envy me or destiny to bow before my feet; I just need a sword to claim my vengeance.’

  She could see his anger in his eyes for what had been wrongfully taken from him.

  ‘Then let your vengeance be the gift you offer to your people in this war.’ Sulaf stepped back; she had done her duty as a friend, now she needed to free herself from the one man that had unknowingly ensnared her.

  ‘You asked me what I wanted from you. Do you want to know the answer?’ Sulaf asked, walking towards the door. She wanted to leav
e; it was not like her to give in to her emotions, but she no longer had the energy to fight in silence.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want to be free from you, so that I can live again. I know you can’t offer me the love I need – I understand this bitter truth – but if I stay here, I’ll die.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  Marmicus looked at her, not knowing what she meant; her feelings of rejection had obviously crushed her more than he had imagined. Marmicus sincerely wished that he could give her what she wanted – but he could not.

  ‘My father was right,’ she said. ‘Even love can turn to poison, and it seems that I’ve been drinking from its deadly chalice all these years. That’s why I’ve got to go. It’s time I saved myself because, if I don’t, who will?’

  She pushed the door open, and looked back, not knowing if this was the last time she would see him.

  ‘Where are you going, Sulaf?’

  ‘A place where I can find my freedom. Don’t worry, I’m a strong woman. I have fought many battles. Just because I don’t carry a sword it doesn’t mean I haven’t won them.’

  Sulaf closed the door behind her, ready to make her journey to the Black Mountain in search of the oracle. Even though she wore no shackles around her wrists, she had been enslaved by unrequited love. Sulaf knew that if she did nothing to save herself, she would eventually die from the weight of her broken heart.

  55

  Larsa knew she was close to the emperor’s chamber; she could see it in the guard’s face; he was more fearful of entering it than the tip of the sword that was held against his neck. The long corridor opened up into a huge space; the ceiling soared and the walls immediately widened. Larsa felt dizzy and lost in this empty space; she knew from that moment that she had finally entered the emperor’s abode. It occurred to her that whatever danger she encountered now, so too did her unborn infant, and together they entered the lion’s den with only a sword to protect them from harm. Larsa looked around her. On one side of the chamber was a gigantic wall with a large carving that had been intricately painted. It told the sacred story of creation, but from Jaquzan’s perspective. Larsa looked at it. She saw the sacred twin rivers, the Euphrates and the Tigris, which joined together; sailing upon the river was a royal boat belonging to none other than the Assyrian emperor, and across the river was a huge fishing net, bulging with the catch. Larsa squinted. Looking more carefully, she noticed that the net was filled, not with fish, but with the heads of kings and queens. Larsa looked at them with disgust, wondering if a likeness of her own head would be carved into the wall should she fail to kill Jaquzan. She carried on walking, reaching a second carved story that spoke of the Fertile Crescent; like the first painting, the second revealed a distorted tale of creation, with the mountains appearing in the form of Assyrian winged bulls, and the land being ploughed by the emperor himself. He rode a chariot pulled by lions and in his hand was a bow, from which flew hundreds of arrows, as if to imply that he had sent the blessing of rain to nourish the dry land, turning it fertile once again. Larsa looked away, unable to stomach the sight of one man’s self-glorification. Suddenly, she heard a strange noise, as though from the throat of some unearthly creature. Perhaps she was imagining things? She ignored it and instructed the guard to walk on.