by Seja Majeed
‘Those who smile foolishly in life, die with an unwelcome frown,’ said the Serpent. He watched as the king’s toes curled in pain, and the sheets slipped off his bed. His body shuddered; strangely, it took the Serpent back to a childhood incident long forgotten. When he was eight his beloved cat had been bitten by a snake. As the venom had spread through her body, the animal’s suffering became more obvious. At first, he had thought she was recovering, because her muscles were twitching erratically as if she were waking up, but eventually she died in his arms. Unlike for his cherished cat, the Serpent felt no sympathy for King Nelaaz as he suffocated. Finally King Nelaaz’s eyes rolled back into their sockets, his scrabbling feet relaxed on the bed, and his body fell still. The Serpent lifted the pillow from his round face, then reached for the cotton handkerchief that lay on the divan. Leaning over the king, he dabbed away any traces of sweat on his face. In the last few seconds of his life, King Nelaaz had recognised the voice of his murderer: it was the voice of a man so revered that he could hardly believe it.
‘Farewell, dear friend, your laughter shall be missed,’ the Serpent smiled. He reached for the linen sheets, which had slipped onto the floor, picking them up and placing them over King Nelaaz’s still body. Whoever was unfortunate enough to find him would think that he had died naturally in his sleep. The Serpent gently closed the king’s eyes and walked out of the chamber. Tonight he had drawn nearer to his goal of the throne promised to him; but something else had taken over his thoughts, a secret which he could not wait to reveal to the Gallant Warrior …
74
‘My lord Marmicus, you’re needed urgently,’ said the messenger who barged into the chamber.
‘Whatever it is, it can wait,’ Marmicus replied, brushing aside his words and returning to his generals, and the map spread out before them. This was a critical time for the Gallant Warrior; the commanders of the Babylonian armies had arrived, bringing with them their forces. They now gathered to discuss potential strategies of war. There was no time to waste. They all knew that they were greatly outnumbered, and if they were going to defeat the Assyrians they needed to work together as one force. Without an effective strategy, it would be suicide for each commander and his men.
‘My lord, I’m not permitted to leave this chamber without you. These are my orders.’
‘Get him out of here! He’s not allowed to be here when we’re discussing strategy,’ yelled one of the generals, who was used to dishing out orders. Marmicus understood his concerns. In the affairs of war no man could be trusted unless he stood to lose as much as he gained.
‘Who’s ordered you to remain here?’ asked the Gallant Warrior.
‘The Priest of Xidrica, my lord. He told me to either bring you to him or wait with you here, until you finish.’
Marmicus knew he should leave. If the message had come from the Priest of Xidrica, it must be something of great importance.
‘The only reason I’m coming with you is because I don’t trust you to stay here. Now take me to him.’
The Gallant Warrior followed the messenger out of the chamber, uncertain of where exactly he was being taken. As soon as he entered the sunlit corridor, he noticed a thick wave of smoke drifting through it. The powerful incense smelt the same as the one used at the princess’s funeral, and instant memories of that awful day came back to him.
The messenger halted abruptly outside one chamber. The large wooden doors were bolted open to allow Marmicus to enter. As he walked in, he saw dark, shadowy people standing round a bed. Despite the thick cloud of smoke, and his blurred vision, he immediately recognised them to be Grand Priests, from their long headdresses and gowns. They were conducting a sacred ritual, but the ring of scholarly men was missing a very important leader.
‘Why isn’t the Grand Priest of Ursar here?’
‘We’ve searched everywhere for him; he’s nowhere to be found,’ replied the Priest of Xidrica, who placed his hand on the Gallant Warrior’s shoulder, greeting him in mourning.
75
The Gallant Warrior glared at the lifeless corpse of what once had been a cheerful king who enjoyed life’s pleasures to the fullest. Whether you loved him or hated him, King Nelaaz’s presence could certainly never be ignored. His cheeks were always rosy and vibrant with colour – some jokingly referred to them as ripened apples of summertime – and his laughter was always loud, like his flamboyant character. But now the cheerful king was dead, lying flat on his back with his eyes closed as if he were still sleeping. The glow of life had disappeared; his flabby chin had sunk into his neck, with his skin turning blue as his muscles hardened. Marmicus looked at his body, not expecting to feel any emotion for a man who had betrayed him. Ever since Larsa had died, he had felt nothing but anger; however, King Nelaaz’s death reawakened some emotions within him.
‘It’s always a blessing for a king to die in his sleep and not at his enemy’s hands,’ the Priest of Xidrica whispered dejectedly. He had abandoned the line of priests who were reading sacred prayers over his body. Even though Marmicus had said nothing, the young priest could tell that he had been affected by the king’s death, irrespective of the bitter feud between them.
‘Death makes no distinction: whether you’re a poor man or a king, death will always find its way into our lives and men will always try to escape it.’
‘Death may make no distinction when it selects its victims, but men always do,’ Marmicus said quickly. He looked at the body, searching for something.
‘Leave us,’ instructed Marmicus to the surrounding priests.
‘The ritual isn’t complete yet; we must prepare his body for the afterlife,’ said a priest.
‘If you don’t leave us, you can join him.’ Marmicus had lost his patience with them all; he expected everyone to do as he commanded without question. The Grand Priests abandoned their posts, breaking the circle of death; they could see that he did not trust them.
‘You need to be careful, Marmicus; making enemies isn’t a wise tactic, irrespective of how strong an opponent you may be,’ said the Priest of Xidrica. He had thought about keeping silent, but he felt it necessary to speak up. It was never right to bully anyone.
‘Who told you that the king had died in his sleep?’
The priest was baffled by the question. It was obvious that he had died in his sleep.
‘No one told me; we all assumed it. He was found like this.’
Marmicus looked more closely at the body, wanting to inspect every detail. He lifted King Nelaaz’s chin; his skin was cold and dry. His muscles were beginning to stiffen, making it hard for Marmicus to lift his chin. Marmicus saw purplish blotchy patches running across his flesh, and looked at them closely, then pulled away the covers that concealed the rest of his body. The blotches looked like leopard spots. It was not unusual for someone who had been dead some hours.
‘A poor man who has nothing is far more blessed than a wealthy king who has a surfeit of enemies and a mountain of riches,’ Marmicus whispered. He traced his fingertips down the length of the king’s neck, looking for something unusual, but he felt no trace of strangulation. There were no tears or scrapes to the flesh; no sign of a struggle.
‘What are you doing?’ the Priest of Xidrica asked.
Marmicus said nothing.
‘Not everyone who has died has died unjustly. Death isn’t always committed by men, Marmicus; the gods have this power too.’ The priest clasped the Gallant Warrior’s hand between his own, sensing desperation in his behaviour; it was obvious he wanted to find some kind of answer for the unexpected death. ‘Do you dream of her?’
Marmicus looked up, taken aback by the question, and how well the young priest had got to know him; it seemed the priest could see his inner thoughts when he had managed to conceal them even from himself.
‘Every night.’
Marmicus peered at the floor, his mind flashing with the visions he saw in his dreams. They were images that haunted him at night and tormented him during the day. Just as
he was about to speak of his recurring dream, he saw something that caught his eye. There, lying by the foot of the bed, was a white cotton handkerchief which he recognised as belonging to the Grand Priest of Ursar!
Marmicus knelt down and reached out for the handkerchief.
76
‘There are people coming, Mama!’ called Zechariah. He rushed into the large mud-brick house, wanting to tell his mother the news. He had seen them approach from a distance when he was playing in the gardens behind the house. At first, Zechariah had thought they were just passing by, but then they walked along the stone path that led towards the house.
‘Who is it?’ asked Sulaf, glad to have company. Despite resting for several days, her journey to the Black Mountain had mentally exhausted her. Since she had returned, she could not eat or drink, or even bring herself to leave the house. Sulaf sat on a chair, stringing together lapis lazuli beads to make a necklace for herself. It was nearly finished; the bright blue beads would look glorious against her sun-stained complexion.
‘I don’t know who they are. I’ve never seen them before. They look like slaves; their clothes are all torn, Mama.’
Sulaf stopped what she was doing, somewhat unsettled by her son’s remark. The beads of her necklace fell, spinning, across the table and onto the floor.
‘Come inside quickly, I don’t want anyone to see you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mama,’ said Zechariah. The tone of his mother’s voice had changed. He rushed into his room and hid behind the wooden door as he always did whenever there was danger. Sulaf had taught him to hide there; it meant he could easily escape the house if anything happened. With no one else to protect the boy, Sulaf had always thought about these things; it was ingrained in her. Her paranoia came from the beatings her husband had inflicted on her over the years – they remained with her even after his death. Sulaf hated him for hurting her, but she hated herself more for not standing up to him when he did. Her experiences had made her strong and independent, but at the same time they had instilled bitterness within her, which had been directed at the princess.
The hardest times for Sulaf had been when she lay with her husband. Every night and each waking morning she would look into his eyes, knowing that the man she loved was looking into someone else’s. She endured her husband’s touch only because she imagined he was Marmicus.
All the while, Marmicus was in the arms of another woman who never knew him the way she did. Larsa had the pleasure of seeing his face while Sulaf would lie with her tormentor and cry herself to sleep.
With war looming, the need to take precautions naturally resurfaced. Sulaf grabbed her shawl, draping the soft material over her head and across her shoulders, wanting to conceal her beauty from those who were coming. She could not think of a reason for anyone to journey out here; it was so far from the city. Someone was either lost, or had come with the intention of robbing her. Sulaf grabbed her dagger as a precaution, concealing it in the folds of her shawl. She had no intention of using it, but it made her feel safe as she walked out of her house. Sulaf looked behind her, making sure her son was well hidden. Walking towards her were a small boy and a man. It was a relief to know that there was a child; it surely meant that there was less chance of danger. Sulaf looked at the boy. He was no older than her son, possibly younger, but he wore the same wild smile as any enthusiastic child. It never occurred to her that the oracle’s prophecy was about to come true; in fact, she had entirely forgotten about it, believing that the woman was mad.
‘It’s her; she’s the woman my grandmother spoke of; I know it,’ said Paross to Abram. He saw Sulaf standing a short distance ahead. Although Paross had yet to speak to her, something inside him made him certain that she was the person he had been searching for. After all the miles they had walked, they had found her. The child had overcome every obstacle trying to reach her, and at last his journey was nearing an end. Paross ran to her, leaving Abram to trail behind him. He watched as the little boy sprinted to Sulaf. At his age, Paross could have no idea about women and their jealousies; if he had, he would have known that the greatest poison that can run in their veins is envy, and that Sulaf had plenty of it.
77
Sulaf looked at the boy’s hands. They were tiny, like her son’s. Unlike his, this boy’s hands were covered with brown blisters, some the size of shekels. Under his fingernails was a line of dirt the same colour as wet mud. Sulaf immediately knew that Paross was not from the Garden of the Gods, because of his unclean appearance. No child who lived within the vicinity of the Garden of the Gods appeared so filthy; even peasant men took the time to swim within the cool Euphrates river to cleanse themselves.
‘Are you Sulaf?’ asked the boy.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I’ve crossed the desert searching for you; you’ve been the one thought that’s travelled with me,’ said Paross.
‘Why have you been searching for me?’
Paross looked up, feeling embarrassed, as would any child in front of a stranger.
‘So you can grant my grandmother peace in her grave.’ He was fighting to hold back his tears; they gathered at the corner of his eyes, until his long eyelashes forced them to roll down his dirty cheeks. He quickly wiped them away, using his tattered sleeve, and sniffed. Paross didn’t want Sulaf to feel sorry for him, but he could see pity in her eyes.
Paross had asked many people within the kingdom where Sulaf lived. Finally someone had told him where to find her. He had run eagerly, with Abram following behind. Every step closer to her house had made the burden he carried a little lighter.
‘My grandmother wanted you to have this letter before she died. She said that once you have read it you’ll know who to give it to. I’ve travelled a great distance to find you, so I can give it to you.’
The little boy dug deep into his pocket and took out something wrapped in cloth. Paross had ripped the material from his own clothes in his desire to protect the papyrus.
Sulaf watched him remove the cloth. As soon as he did, she remembered the oracle’s words. She stepped back, feeling frightened by the child who warmly extended his hand to her. It was as if the oracle’s breath had touched her skin, making her jolt. She remembered what the oracle had said: There will come to you a child with great innocence in his heart and a powerful message carried within his palms. Make no mistake: this boy is your enemy. In his hands he holds a dagger capable of killing any hope of love offered to you by the Gallant Warrior. Kill the boy or kill his message. Whatever you decide, be sure that Marmicus knows nothing about the golden papyrus, for it is as much your enemy as the princess herself …
Sulaf could not believe it. The oracle had been right. Everything was happening just as she had described; she could clearly see the papyrus in his hands. Her eyes were drawn to it but she was frightened, unsure what the message would say. Paross looked at the papyrus for the last time, knowing that one final act was all that was needed; he hoped his grandmother would find peace at last.
‘I tried my best to look after it for you. I’m sorry if it’s a little dirty,’ said Paross, looking at the papyrus. It was torn around the edges and had little brown blotches of blood on its surface.
‘There’s no need to be sorry. The main thing is that you’ve brought it to me,’ said Sulaf, with a false smile. She reached out her hand, waiting for the boy to hand it over. ‘Have you read it?’
‘No, I can’t read.’
‘What about your friend? Did he read it for you?’
‘No, he can’t read either; he used to be a slave,’ said Paross, giving more information than was necessary. He turned to see where Abram was; he had chosen to remain some distance away, wishing to give the boy some space to carry out his final duty.
Sulaf believed the boy, and was sure that no one had read it: when children lied, they always showed it. The anticipation was killing her; all she wanted to do was snatch the papyrus from the little boy, and read every single word. But the boy had grown attached to
it and did not want to give it to her immediately. Instead he began to rant about his dying grandmother and how she had been thrown into the fire because of the papyrus. Sulaf knelt down, wanting to move things along more quickly.
‘I promise you, your grandmother will find her peace as soon as you give it to me. I’ll protect her letter just as you did. Now, let me ease your burden by taking it off your little shoulders.’
Suspecting nothing, Paross kissed the papyrus as if saying farewell to his grandmother for the last time. It was one of the last objects she had touched when she was alive; he could almost smell her beautiful fragrance upon it. He then softly placed it in Sulaf’s hands, and looked into her eyes. As soon as he let it go, Paross saw Sulaf’s expression change, from kindness and affection to malice – the same malice as those who had killed his grandmother …
78
Spoken or unspoken, each Assyrian soldier had an understanding that his life meant nothing to his emperor. He amounted to dirt beneath the emperor’s sandals, to be trodden on and used without any gratitude for his sacrifices. Not even a nod of appreciation would be offered by Jaquzan. The time had come, yet again, for their lives to be sacrificed. Thousands of men marched together, heading towards the Garden of the Gods, ready to destroy it. They understood that they were waging a war against a sacred kingdom that believed in the sanctity of peace. It was one that brought no threat to them, but the Assyrian soldiers were all subject to the commands of their emperor. So large was the Assyrian army that the warriors marching in their thousands were as ants moving in a swarm across the landscape. No opponent had been capable of stopping them; this war would be no different. If anything, the Assyrian army looked stronger than ever before. Jaquzan had summoned all his troops, sparing no man from his duty. It was a precaution he had taken after the Serpent had sent him news by messenger, warning him that the kings of Babylon had joined forces, uniting in their allegiance to the Gallant Warrior. But even if the kings of Babylon came together, Jaquzan knew that no enemy could penetrate his army; the Babylonians would be as a mere droplet of water in a sea of men.