by Seja Majeed
Jaquzan walked out of the marquee. His exquisite cape was held by his slaves, who made sure that the divine fabric would not touch the unconquered soil.
‘Bring the princess outside; I want my heir to see the glory of war through his mother’s eyes.’
Jaquzan believed that the horrific battle scenes would make Larsa’s womb become stronger, so that his son would be trained to love war almost before his life had begun, and to embrace the life of a conqueror. The guards moved in to take the princess. Knowing her, Jaquzan expected Larsa to refuse them, and put up a fight as she always did – but Larsa gave in without protest. She stood up and walked out, following her master from the tent towards the living portrait of war. Larsa wanted to see war for herself. All this time she had spoken of freedom as if she knew everything about it, but in reality she knew nothing. The men who were being slaughtered outside were paying the price for her freedom. Larsa knew that if she did not have the courage to look into the eyes of war, then she would never be worthy to enjoy the subsequent freedom. She placed her hand on her womb and walked out of the marquee, feeling the beauty of life growing inside her, just as the world around her was being stripped of life. The need to protect her unborn infant grew stronger; it was the last remaining granule of happiness she had left in the world. Her belly had become larger, her womb shaped by the glory of motherhood. Anyone who looked at her could see she was carrying a child.
‘Today the mighty rivers of Babylon shall run with the blood of gallant warriors, and by nightfall they’ll become an extinct breed,’ Jaquzan whispered. He stared calmly into the sea of soldiers, who hacked away at one another in the distance. Larsa stood beside him, saying nothing. She simply watched as her glorious homeland fell towards destruction. Never had she imagined looking out onto her kingdom and hearing the piercing shrieks of men replace the songs of wild birds. Thousands of soldiers were dying on her soil; their blood draining away into the land. All the dense palm trees which had once grown wild around the edges of her kingdom had been chopped down, making way for war. The long green grass had been scorched, creating a flat piece of wasteland for the battle. Larsa quietly wept, reacting to the first signs of war, and for the first time she found relief in her tears.
‘You can cut a rose from its stem,’ she said. ‘But it will always grow back from its roots. The same goes for courageous men – they will always rise up, and you will always cut your hand trying to tear them down.’ She stood beside Jaquzan, breathing heavily, the scent of blood heavy in the air. Jaquzan turned towards her, placing his hand affectionately on her belly as any father would. It seemed that even in the chaos of war Jaquzan embraced his fatherhood.
‘Then you’ll be the one to bathe our infant’s hands, because they shall bleed from tearing out those roots.’
Suddenly, Nafridos appeared in the distance, galloping as fast as he could towards the emperor’s marquee. Something was obviously wrong – he cherished combat; there was no reason for him to rush back if the war had not yet been won.
‘We’ve been deceived!’ Nafridos roared as he stopped in front of them. His skin was covered in blood. He had lived up to his reputation as the Dark Warrior: just as he had told the princess, every part of him was soaked with blood.
‘We’ve been trapped! The Babylonians are attacking us from behind and—’
‘Then fight from the front – their army is like a grain of sand compared to mine. They will die either way,’ replied Jaquzan.
‘You’re missing the point, cousin – my men will be unable to fight like that, our soldiers will be attacked from both sides. They’ll be trapped in the middle. We’ll lose this war if we don’t retreat, cousin. We must fall back now.’
Nafridos knew his men well; they were accustomed to using the same military tactics they had used in every other kingdom they had crushed, and there had never been a need to change them, until now.
‘Order the retreat!’ Jaquzan blasted angrily. The Dark Warrior darted back towards the battlefield: for now, the Gallant Warrior had saved the Garden of the Gods, but the emperor would make sure that the silence would not last for long. His army remained vast; he still had a strong chance of winning.
Marmicus, my love, there’s hope yet because of you, Larsa thought. She knew then that Marmicus was still alive, and that her kingdom still had hope.
‘Wherever there are tyrants, there will always be freedom fighters to oppose them,’ she said.
‘Then tomorrow I’ll rip them out from the roots so that they can never rise up again,’ Jaquzan replied bitterly, turning back into the marquee.
87
Time meant nothing now. It was drifting aimlessly like the stormy clouds in the sky, without any kind of purpose. Paross rocked back and forth, waiting for war to end and peace to arrive with the new morning light. Silence gave people room to think; everyone’s minds were united in the same place, each of them thinking about the battleground where their loved ones were fighting for survival. Paross thought of Abram, and glanced at the empty space beside him where he could have sat. What had become of him? Was he dead? If he was, was his body being trodden on by soldiers, or had it been thrown onto a stack of bodies, ready to burn in a mass grave? He missed Abram’s wisdom, and the way he spoke lovingly about the One-God as if he were a friend of his who had travelled alongside him throughout the harsh years of his enslavement.
Now Paross was alone, lost in the midst of people who didn’t know his name or anything about the agonising journey he had undertaken to get here. His was just another face in the thousands who sat waiting for something to happen. Paross looked around. Women and children surrounded him. If they were not crying, then they were staring angrily at the soldiers who had refused to let their husbands and sons enter the temple for refuge. Paross could not blame the soldiers for what they had done. Deep down he knew that if Abram had been allowed in, he would still have given up his space to someone else, offering his place in the temple to another who needed it more. It made no difference now. The guards had locked the temple doors; no one could enter or leave. Everyone sat in silence, not knowing if the enemy would break down the doors or if the temple would be set on fire by the Assyrian army.
When the war began, Paross watched as mothers hugged their children tightly, showering them with kisses, perhaps for the last time, and wiping away their tears. It was during these moments that Paross felt the loneliest. He watched as toddlers buried their faces in their mothers’ necks for reassurance. Others lay on the floor, crying for their husbands, their backs cushioned by sheepskin blankets they had carried into the temple, one of the few possessions they had taken with them. Paross stared at the goatskin sacks lying around the temple. He could not help but think how miserable an existence it was when the life of a person could be summed up by the few possessions they clung to. He knew his own life told the same story. In the darkest hour, when the screams of war were at their highest pitch, Paross thought about his grandmother; the way she used to hug him at night whenever he was frightened, the way she used lick her fingertips to wipe the dirt off his face. It was a sensation he had hated, but now he missed it deeply. Then the Dark Warrior’s face entered his mind. Nothing could make him forget the look of his face: it was embedded in Paross’s mind like a splinter embedded beneath the skin. Paross knew that if Abram had faced him on the battleground only his One-God could save him …
88
A man who is always victorious in his endeavours finds the taste of defeat far harder to stomach than those who are familiar with its bitter flavour. This was exactly how Jaquzan felt: tonight the taste of defeat was more intolerable then he could ever have imagined. He had never lost a war before, and now his pride bore the brunt of his humiliation. Seven loyal advisors prostrated themselves before his feet, each one pressing their foreheads so hard against the ground that red pressure spots appeared on their skin. They were hoping that the Assyrian emperor would show them mercy, but they all secretly knew why they had been summoned. Defeat was
not an option; they all knew this.
‘Forgive us. None of us could have anticipated his strategy. Tomorrow our soldiers will be stronger and more prepared,’ said one advisor.
‘I do not speak the language of forgiveness,’ replied the Assyrian emperor. He clenched his hand into a fist, his fingernails digging deep into his skin. Jaquzan was not a man to show emotion, but today he found it hard to conceal his rage.
‘You’ve made a mockery of my name and my empire; now I shall make a mockery of you all.’ He turned to his guards. ‘Round up the rest; I want them to watch these fools struggle for their lives just as my army struggled to be victorious today. Coat them with blood and feed them to my lions.’
The Dark Warrior stood at the sidelines watching intelligent men he had worked with in past wars being led away, to be killed like goats. The smell of bloody battle that lingered on his skin had been washed away and replaced with the fresh scent of lemon and oranges; it was the soap of war, cleansing all cuts and scrapes and removing from his skin the filth of his enemies.
‘Are you sure you want them dead? If you kill these men our kingdom will have no advisors left!’ said Nafridos.
‘They’ve outlived their usefulness. The best advisor is one’s own conscience, for there the tongue can never deceive the mind.’
‘We still have a good chance of being victorious. Let the soldiers rest. By morning we’ll have a new strategy, and a new victory. Now we know how large our opponent is, we won’t be deceived again.’
‘The Gallant Warrior is only one small problem,’ said Jaquzan.
‘What’s the other?’
‘My soldiers can longer be trusted to win this war. They’ve always feared me, but today they’ve been reminded that it’s possible to defeat a god. We both know they don’t fight out of loyalty, or love for me, but out of fear of what will become of them if they refuse.’ Jaquzan ground his teeth as he considered his options. ‘Victory does not come without loyalty to a cause. I need a warrior who has shown me loyalty; that’s where you come into play. We’ll settle this war using the ancient art of combat, one warrior against another. Whoever wins the battle will claim victory as theirs before the eyes of thousands.’
‘Is this your way of instructing me to take up the challenge, cousin?’ Nafridos smirked.
‘It’s my way of offering you the glory you’ve always desired. I give you permission to destroy the man you were born to destroy, and in return I’ll burn this kingdom to the ground so that all memory of my defeat dies with it. There’ll be nothing left of this Garden apart from the blackened statues of its gods.’
Nafridos understood that his cousin had not given him this opportunity out of generosity: he needed him and it made the opportunity even more alluring. This was exactly what the Dark Warrior had been waiting for all his life! Every battle he had experienced led up to this final moment. He had agreed to set aside his own share of the glory for the sake of the ultimate prize – victory. Every droplet of sweat that poured from his brow, every drop of blood, was precisely so that he could gain the skills necessary to annihilate the one opponent who matched his capabilities in combat.
‘What if Marmicus doesn’t accept the proposition? What then?’
‘He’ll accept it; we can be certain of that.’
‘Why should he? Only a fool would accept it.’
‘A man in love is always a fool. If Marmicus chooses not to fight, then he shall have to watch his beloved princess being slaughtered on the battlefield before his very eyes. That’s why he’ll accept the proposition – his heart will compel him to. I hold his heart in the palm of my hand, and it shall be crushed until its beat falls silent.’
‘What about your child? If you kill her, you kill him too.’
‘You overestimate my compassion. I’ll be the one to draw the sword myself. This war shall be remembered as the battle for Larsa – one love dying for another.’
Nafridos looked at the emperor, realising that his cousin was a genius and his plan flawless. Marmicus would undoubtedly accept the challenge: he would do everything in his power to save the one he loved from harm, especially when he had thought she was dead.
‘Before we kill him, there’s work to be done and arrangements to be made,’ said Jaquzan. No detail would be ignored.
‘Arrangements to be made?’ muttered Nafridos.
‘Precisely.’
All that was left was one more stroke of wickedness. An act that could only be committed within the walls of the kingdom and by the most treacherous of men: a Grand Priest …
89
At last the Serpent planned to come out of the murky shadows of deceit into the light of truth. The time had come for him to commit the final act of betrayal, sacrificing the Gallant Warrior’s body in the name of the Assyrian emperor, a man he served without question or guilt. His final set of orders had been explicitly laid out, instructing him as to what to do. In exchange for his loyalty he had been promised a throne; but the Serpent sought a different prize altogether, one that had no equivalent in wealth or material goods. He wanted to reveal his true identity to the person that mattered the most. Revealing the truth was all that he needed; it would heal him as cool water heals a burn. He wanted Marmicus to know why he had betrayed the kingdom; telling him this would reveal a secret which had followed – and haunted – him since childhood.
‘Tonight, you above all others shall know what it feels like to be bitten by a snake …’ the Serpent smiled as he slithered towards the palace gates in search of the Gallant Warrior’s chamber.
90
Marmicus had returned to the palace after the battle, where his physician the Asu was waiting for him. The shoulder wound was deeper than the Asu had expected. He gently removed the Gallant Warrior’s heavy armour and instructed Marmicus to raise his arm, trying his best to stop the bleeding. Squeezing the cloth free of blood, the Asu cleansed the large flesh wound, dipping the cloth into a bowl containing fresh salt water and yarrow. Even though the wound was not fatal, there was still a prospect of it becoming infected.
‘I’ve met many warriors, but I’ve never met a man capable of throwing a spear like that. His aim was perfect. If it hadn’t been for the wind, it would have been on target. Whoever he was, I saw his desire to kill me.’
‘Then we must thank the gods for the strong winds they sent us,’ said the Asu.
His enemy’s face came back into Marmicus’s mind; Marmicus remembered how he had looked at him with disdain, trying to intimidate him. He was confident in his abilities, and rightly so. Somehow, Marmicus knew they would meet again on the battlefield; if they did, he would be better prepared next time.
The Asu took a long iron rod, which had been heating in the coals of the fire for some time, and hovered it over the Gallant Warrior’s shoulder. Marmicus could feel its heat against his body.
‘I must seal the wound to stop the bleeding. If I don’t do that, it will become infected. The battlefield is always filled with diseases.’
‘Do it.’
‘Brace yourself – this will hurt.’
‘Do it. I am ready.’
Marmicus clenched his arm, trying to prepare himself for the pain that would follow. The Asu held the hot iron rod against the open wound, searing the skin with its ferocious heat. Marmicus bit his lip, tried to stop himself from yelling out. The pain was indescribable. Marmicus could smell his skin burning; it was the same smell that came after battle, when bodies were piled together and set alight.
Finally, the Asu lifted the hot instrument away and quickly dipped his hands into another bowl, filled with cloves, calendula oil and lavender. The mixture was intended to numb and disinfect the area, although it offered little relief from the pain. The Asu then carefully bandaged the wound.
‘Can I come in? I want to congratulate the Gallant Warrior on his victory,’ called the Priest of Xidrica. He entered the chamber holding a clay jug filled to the brim with barley beer.
‘I recommend he rests.’
‘No, he can come in.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to talk,’ replied the Asu. He dried his hands using a cotton cloth then walked out of the chamber to attend to the rest of the day’s injured.
‘You shouldn’t be too eager to celebrate victory: this kingdom may have won the battle, but we still haven’t won the war. Tomorrow we face a new dawn filled with new challenges,’ chided Marmicus, trying to get up. The Priest of Xidrica could tell he was in a lot of pain. He had difficulty in standing up; whoever had struck him must have been extremely skilled.
Marmicus walked towards his armour, which was covered in dried blood. Across the metal were scrapes from swords and spears. Marmicus placed his hand on the cold metal, remembering the faces of the men he had killed, though this time he felt nothing for them. He grabbed a clean cloth, squeezing the water from it, and began to wash away the traces of blood that lingered on the metal.
‘Today our kingdom’s walls will tremble with the cries of widows searching for their husbands,’ he whispered.
‘You obviously haven’t left the palace; the people are already celebrating our victory in the streets. Besides, wives who have lost their husbands still have their children and their homes. That’s enough to be thankful for.’
The Gallant Warrior said nothing. The truth was that he did not like the fact that the people were celebrating a battle that was half-won. Anything could happen – he had learnt that from life’s bitter lessons.
‘Has no one found the Grand Priest of Ursar?’
‘That is partly why I’ve come to see you. There’s something important I must tell you, and it concerns him …’
‘What is it?’
‘It can wait for a moment – you’ve already gone through enough trials to last a lifetime. Let’s have a drink, at least to celebrate our small moment of victory.’