The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa

by Seja Majeed

  ‘Every man I kill shall die on their knees,’ whispered the Dark Warrior.

  Nafridos walked towards the giant, whose head was flung backwards as if he was searching for his loved ones in the sky. Nafridos looked deeply into his opponent’s eyes, watching them slowly roll back into their sockets. It was the sign Nafridos was waiting for; the look of hope dying just as he had promised it would.

  ‘Ask a healthy man what he wishes for in life, and he’ll always reply “more gold”, but if you ask a dying man what he wishes for, he’ll always say “one more day”.’ Nafridos tilted his head back as if mirroring the Nubian’s skyward stare, a cruel smile of satisfaction on his face. He wrapped his hands round the grip of his sword, still staring into his opponent’s eyes, and abruptly ripped it out of his neck. The giant’s body was flung sideways, his mouth open wide as he landed at his murderer’s feet. It was yet another number to be added to the Dark Warrior’s belt of death. ‘Farewell, giant. I shall wait for you by the pits of hellfire; maybe then you will redeem yourself and win your glory.’

  70

  Now that the merchant’s brutal whip was buried with his body beneath the desert sands, the wretchedness of the desert was transformed into a sanctuary of security for the little boy who had endured so much agony in his short years of life. Paross knew he owed a great deal to the slave who had not only returned the golden papyrus to him, but given him his freedom.

  ‘I never thanked you for saving my life; one day when I’ve grown tall like you, I’ll repay you with gold,’ said Paross, sitting on the back of a groaning camel. He looked at the golden papyrus, wishing it was a plate of gold, but even if it was, he knew it was not his to offer. His body rocked from side to side every time the camel took a step, leaving even footprints in the sand. He clutched the sheepskin saddle, trying hard not to fall off; it was the first time he had ridden a camel.

  ‘I don’t need gold as my reward.’ The Shadow looked up at the boy with fondness as he led his camel in the direction of the Garden of the Gods.

  ‘You don’t? Everyone wants gold or silver.’

  ‘Only a fool needs gold; he thinks it’ll make him happy, but it can’t settle his stomach when he’s hungry, or cover him when he’s cold. It’s the only thing he sees in the darkness. But a wise man dreams of greater things, like justice, because justice settles the heart when gold offers only envy.’

  ‘You’re right. I want justice for my grandmother,’ replied Paross, who looked down, remembering what had happened to her. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I wasn’t given a name at birth; only free men are given names.’

  ‘Then what did your master call you?’

  ‘He called me Shadow because my skin is black like the night. I’ve known no other name – apart from worse ones,’ said the man.

  ‘But you’re free now, so surely your soul deserves a name it can be proud of?’ Paross smiled, hoping to comfort the man who had saved his life.

  The Shadow smiled back fondly at him. He had shown so much bravery throughout his beatings; there surged through him a paternal feeling of protectiveness.

  ‘Then to you I shall be known as Abram, the guardian of my people,’ he replied, holding on to the long rope which led the camel through the stillness of the desert. The hot sands were turning cool with the arrival of dusk. The orange light of the sun was mixed with a deep blue, painting the sky in a myriad of colours.

  ‘I like that name. Is that the name of your god?’

  ‘No, it’s the name of a man who my people loved and followed for guidance. He was a man like you and I, with a body made of flesh and bones, but a soul pure as daybreak.’

  ‘So he’s like a human god then?’

  ‘No, my people don’t believe in human gods or in their powers. We believe in an unseen god, who rewards and punishes. When someone needs guidance, He draws him close to Him and helps him, and when someone does evil, He either forgives or punishes him,’ Abram whispered. He looked towards the heavens, as if offering repentance for his mistakes; he found peace there. ‘Today I’ve taken a man’s life; my god may strike me down with fever because of it, but I feel it was the only way to stop him from killing you. If there’s a punishment from my god for what I’ve done, then I’ll accept it proudly.’

  Paross listened to him speak, captivated by Abram’s belief in a One-God; he had never come across a man who prayed to an unseen creator who was neither made of stone nor covered in gold. It was all new to him, and did not seem to make much sense in relation to his own way of life.

  ‘My grandmother used to say that when a star flickers in the sky, a god is reborn. Now I think my grandmother was wrong – how can a god be reborn if they’re supposed to be everlasting? And what happens to them when there’s daylight? Where do the gods go when the light falls upon us in the day?’

  ‘A wise man first questions his beliefs before he pledges his loyalty to an idea. Now that you’ve started to question your beliefs, you have a lifetime to think of the answers – be assured, they are there.’

  From the first moment Abram had seen Paross, he knew he possessed wisdom beyond his years. There was something about him. He continued to pull the camel’s reins, his bare feet sinking through the bed of sand, which rippled endlessly into the distance.

  ‘Do you have any children, Abram?’

  ‘No, I can’t have children.’

  ‘Why not? Don’t you like women? Aren’t they beautiful to you?’

  Abram laughed, surprised by his words; they were the very opposite of what he was thinking.

  ‘A slave isn’t allowed to give life; it’s a rule forced upon us by our masters. When I was your age, my master took away my right to have any children; it means I can never be a father, even if I’ve been freed.’

  Paross did not understand exactly what Abram meant – he knew little about intimacy or the way the human body worked – but still he felt sorry for Abram. The man appeared uncertain of his newfound freedom, as if he did not know exactly what he should do with it.

  Abram halted, as did the rest of the slaves who trailed behind the long, winding caravan. The camel groaned loudly as the rope tugged back.

  ‘What’s the matter, Abram?’

  Paross felt unnerved. He turned, looking back at the other slaves who were now free from the merchant's tyranny. They too had stopped and were looking into the distance, mesmerised by something that sparkled high up in the sky. Paross looked into the sky, following the direction of their gaze, but could see nothing apart from the deepening colours of the sunset. Everything seemed normal.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Paross asked, his curiosity getting the better of his manners.

  ‘Look up into the sky – you’ll see it too.’

  ‘I don’t see anything.’ The young boy frowned, feeling rather stupid. Everyone else saw it, so why couldn’t he? All he could see were an array of endless stars shimmering like pearls on a necklace. There was one star that shone more brightly than the rest but, other than that, the horizon was normal.

  ‘Don’t search with your eyes – search with your heart. It will guide you,’ said Abram.

  Paross closed his eyes then slowly reopened them; as he did, his blindness was healed. He saw that the brightest star was in fact the hearth of the Temple of Ishtar, the magnificent burning torch which sought to guide the dwellers of the desert towards the Garden of the Gods. It was a spectacular sight, and one that drew the soul towards it. His grandmother’s words flooded back into the boy’s mind, and his heart filled up with indescribable happiness that showed in the endless tears which rolled down his cheeks. Although his grandmother had not made the journey with him, Paross felt she was near him, protecting him all the while.

  ‘We’re here at last.’

  71

  Larsa stared at her hands as if seeing them for the first time in her life. Across her palms and along the middle of her forehead were a series of tattoos – unwanted but drawn with great artistry. It was her punis
hment from Jaquzan; now anyone who looked at her would know that her soul belonged to him. A long metal needle, heated in the flames and dipped into a mixture containing copper metal granules, had been used to colour her skin, changing it into a dark brown like the dye of the henna leaf. Using her fingernails, Larsa peeled off a scab that had formed on her hand, desperately hoping that somehow she could save her skin before it was forever tarnished by the ink. Her flesh had already changed colour; the brown had turned into a dark green.

  ‘If I could have stopped my cousin from spoiling your beauty, I would have. Now, when I look at you I’m reminded of him,’ said Nafridos, admiring the curves of her body. He had met few women who could seduce him without having to do anything; he rested his broad shoulders against a pillar and watched her.

  ‘Even if your emperor stoned me to death I still wouldn’t call for your help; my lips call for Marmicus only.’

  ‘Here, take my sword,’ said Nafridos quickly. Larsa was puzzled by his words; they appeared out of context.

  ‘If you offer it to me, then you willingly hand over your life.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think it’ll be more dignified for you to take your own life instead of watching it drain away because of a man who’s forgotten your existence,’ said the Dark Warrior, pulling out his sword.

  ‘What do you know of dignity? You strip it from men like meat torn from a bone.’

  Nafridos laughed loudly, glad to see that the princess still retained her fighting spirit, despite everything that she had endured. Of course, Larsa had meant what she said. He walked towards the chair where she sat. She looked broken and miserable. Nafridos crouched down and glared at her, wanting to look at her tattoo. It had been drawn across the centre line of her forehead, like a fine engraving etched across a ring. Larsa turned her face away, humiliated at having Jaquzan’s name inscribed on her skin. The defiant and courageous look she once possessed had for the very first time changed to one of utter shame.

  ‘Do you still think that the Gallant Warrior will save you from all of this? Even I’m not too proud to recognise when a battle’s been lost.’

  ‘I don’t think it – I’m certain of it.’

  ‘What makes you so certain?’ asked Nafridos.

  He stared at her lips, wanting to kiss them, like the last time they were together. Their fullness called out to him, making him unable to concentrate on anything else. But Larsa was the forbidden fruit that could not be touched or tasted unless by permission of the Assyrian emperor. Every time she breathed in, he felt a pressure on his chest like the push of a sweeping tide. A surge of lust urged him to touch her and be done with the desire that engulfed him.

  ‘What makes us certain that the sun will rise tomorrow or the next day? We know it because the sun has always promised it shall, and delivered on its word. It’s the same with Marmicus: our love is like a lantern that guides us to one another in the darkest night when the stars themselves are lost.’

  Even though Larsa had proven that she believed in their love, it made her appear pathetically naive. Nothing, it seemed, could destroy her irrational hope of survival.

  ‘Then where has he been all this time?’ asked Nafridos, biting his lip. ‘If there’s any lantern, it’ll come from the fire that burns his body. What you witnessed in the desert when I captured your Royal Caravan is nothing compared to what I’ll unleash when I’m on the battlefield.’ He clamped his teeth together then stood up, wanting to leave her. She knew nothing of his abilities; somehow, this amused him and frustrated him at the same time. He had a deep streak of competitiveness which made him lust for her attention. It was the same egotistic desire that propelled him to kill so savagely.

  ‘You’ll be glad to know that my cousin wants you to join us on the battlefield; he says he wants his infant to watch his mother’s homeland being flattened by the feet of his soldiers. When your kingdom loses this war, you’ll beg me to offer you my sword. Just you wait and see …’

  72

  ‘Blessed is our almighty God, for His heaven has fallen onto our earth,’ said Abram in sheer awe. He walked through the fertile land holding Paross’s hand, and the rest of the free slaves walked behind them, enjoying their new freedom to wander without fear of being beaten. The Garden of the Gods was like an oasis in the desert; whoever had named it had indeed done it justice, for there was no other kingdom quite like it on earth. This was the first time they had been here, and already they felt as if they had come home.

  Paross looked around, unable to contain his excitement. They had decided to walk throughout the night and, just as tradition dictates, they had finally reached the kingdom at the break of dawn. Paross let go of Abram’s hand and began to run across the oasis kingdom, feeling the cool wind blow against his skin as he dashed in and out of palm trees, orange blossom and pomegranate trees. There were streams running under the shiny evergreen foliage, birds and little animals everywhere. The lush green grass felt like an exquisite rug which cushioned his feet as he ran on it. Spreading his arms out like a bird wanting to fly, Paross spun through the valley of palm trees. His reflection rippled across the crystal-clear Euphrates river, which nourished the fertile land. Some pelicans had gathered, resting in the shallows in a large flock, but they rose the moment Paross came near.

  ‘Are we dreaming? Can this place be real?’

  Paross boyishly ran back towards Abram, who stood under a fig tree, hoping to find some ripened fruit which had fallen onto the rich soil. He did not need to look far; they were everywhere. One by one Abram collected the ripe figs, placing them in the same straw basket which he had used to collect scorpions to kill his master, and feeling no regret at all for the lethal act. With his blistered hands Paross began to help his friend collect the figs. Thick sugary syrup coated their hands and lips as they ate the fresh fruit without fear. Eventually the straw basket was full of ripe figs, and they sat down for a while under the shaded palm trees. The scent of wild jasmine flowers flew with the winds that kissed this perfect landscape. Wherever Abram and Paross looked, beauty caught their eyes, calming their souls after all the suffering they had endured.

  ‘Where are all the people?’

  ‘They live over there. I’ve heard it’s called the City of Flowers,’ said Abram. He pointed into the distance; they were still some miles away from it. Paross repeated the name to himself; the city sounded glorious. The Assyrian kingdom may have been impressive, but the Garden of the Gods had a natural simplicity that beautified it. It was coloured by flowers and palm trees, while everything in Assyria was built by man and spoke of darkness and destruction. Abram and Paross walked together along the stone path, the other free slaves following behind. Paross looked again at the Temple of Ishtar, standing against the clear blue sky. Birds were circling it as if paying homage to its brilliance, their wings decorating the sky like scattered petals falling from a white cherry tree.

  ‘Now that your friends are free, where will they go?’ Paross asked. He held Abram’s hand tightly, knowing full well that their journey together would not last much longer.

  ‘They’ll remain here for a few days, then they’ll follow the sun back towards their homelands. Many of them have families there,’ said Abram. He looked over his shoulder at his comrades, who joyously entered the kingdom, this time as free souls, not slaves.

  ‘What about you? Where will you go, Abram?’

  ‘I’ll come with you until you’re free of your duty,’ replied Abram. He did not wish to leave the boy.

  ‘But you’re free! You can go wherever you want!’

  ‘A free man has nothing in this world if he does not have a friend by his side.’

  Paross looked up at the man who had not only saved him from brutality but had offered his friendship, like the loving father he had never known.

  ‘My journey will end as soon as I find the woman my grandmother told me about.’

  ‘Then we’ll find her together …’

  73

  King Nelaaz of Aram ha
d been regarded as an insult to the line of kings, yet somehow he had managed to cling to his throne despite the constant revolts that occurred in his homeland. But a man’s reputation can change as easily as the direction of the wind; after all his years of ridicule, the sweaty king had at last proven himself to be anything but stupid. For King Nelaaz had potentially saved the lives of thousands without having to bribe or lie to anyone, and for this he was loved by his people. But the world can be a cruel place; for, unknown to King Nelaaz, death was hovering over him. The Serpent slithered into his bedchamber, his nose and mouth covered with a cotton handkerchief.

  The Serpent waited for several moments, simply staring at the king as he held a pillow with both hands. Whatever happened he could not afford to make a mistake. If he did, he would risk revealing his identity. I must be prepared for all eventualities …

  He breathed in and out again. It was the first time that the Serpent had felt a rush of nerves before killing someone: it was a new experience for him. He smiled to himself. Of all the people he had murdered, he would never have imagined feeling nervous about killing the chubby little King of Aram; he was someone who could barely frighten a child. Then again, the Serpent had underestimated him before: anything was possible; after all, luck had always proven to be on his side. The Serpent sensed the right time had come. Like a ghost, he held the pillow, hovering it over the king’s face. Suddenly he brought it down, using the whole weight of his body to suffocate him. King Nelaaz woke up immediately, his vision blackened by the pillow which pressed tightly against his face, scarcely able to breathe.

  ‘Guards! Guards!’ the king yelped. His cries came from his lips as faint whispers. The Serpent pressed the pillow harder, watching the king’s legs jerk manically, and feeling his nose squash into his face. He knew he had to be careful; he could not afford to leave his victim with a broken nose; this would only alert suspicion. The king’s chin squashed into his neck; his lungs were bursting.