by Seja Majeed
Somehow she felt that his death was partly her fault. All this time Sulaf had rationalised her actions, believing herself to have committed them out of love for Marmicus, but in reality everything she had done was out of envy and hatred for Larsa. It was only now, in the final hours where hope and despair meshed together like a sunset in the evening sky, that Sulaf realised she had betrayed her friend. Then it dawned upon Sulaf: her father had been wrong all these years – true love could not turn to poison.
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Fortunately for Sulaf, two guardsmen recognised her, and let her enter the palace without hesitation. When she asked them if he was still alive, they both ignored the question, choosing not to answer. Sulaf felt the knot in her stomach tighten when they said nothing. She saw them flinch as if they knew the answer, but they refused to say a word. The more Sulaf thought about Marmicus, the more she felt unable to cope with everything she had done to hurt him. Her hands sweated with anxiety. The guards walked at their own pace; they had agreed to take Sulaf to the Gallant Warrior. Sulaf wished they would walk faster: every second was valuable! Then it dawned on her that maybe Marmicus really had already died, and that time had no relevance at all. It was only a short journey to the chamber, but it felt like hours. Not knowing if he was dead or alive made the journey seem to last forever.
Finally the guards stopped outside the doors, pulling them open for her to enter. They stepped away, giving her the space she needed to talk to Marmicus. Sulaf walked through the doors. She could hear herself breathing heavily. No amount of air seemed to satisfy her lungs; she was choking on her guilt. Any hope of Marmicus being alive and well was crushed when she saw his body lying still on the divan.
‘The time is drawing near. You must ready yourself for the greatest calamity,’ said the Asu. He watched her walk towards Marmicus, her lips parting as if wanting to scream but having no strength to cry.
‘Is there nothing that can be done to help him?’
‘I’ve tried everything. Maybe the voice of a friend will have the power to reach him. Nothing else seems to,’ said the Asu. He had given Marmicus the strongest herbs in the largest possible doses; they would have awoken a horse, but they could not wake the Gallant Warrior.
Sulaf looked tenderly at Marmicus’s handsome face, the warmth of his smile lost behind the curtain of sickness. His eyebrows were clenched together as though he was in great pain. He was sweating profusely, his head turning from left to right, than back again, from the fever which his body had developed in trying to combat the poison. The only time Sulaf had ever seen him stricken with illness was when they had been children; even then it had seemed impossible that anything would harm him. Now Marmicus lay powerless, caught in the grip of a sickness that was slowly killing him.
‘I wish to speak to him alone. There’s something important I must tell him.’
‘He may not be able to hear you,’ said the Asu.
‘Let me try for my sake, then. Don’t deny me this final moment, please,’ begged Sulaf. She would not give up now; she needed to tell him of his fatherhood, even if it was too late.
‘As you wish.’
Sulaf watched the Asu leave the chamber, making sure they were left alone before she spoke. At first she did not know what to say; the more she tried to force out the words, the more she choked on them. The knot in her throat became even tighter, drawing the words back. Her suffering was nothing compared to that of the Gallant Warrior, who lay helplessly, as if in limbo, unsure of which realm he should enter. It seemed that his spirit had at last decided, as the rapid movements of his head began to slow down. He was no longer choosing to fight the fever; instead he appeared to have given up altogether.
‘You once said that the smile of a friend is always a blessing in cruel times; I wish that were true. I wish I could smile at you, like the loyal friend you imagined me to be, but the truth is, I’ve been no better to you than your enemy,’ said Sulaf. She took his hand, holding it against her cheek. The smell of his skin was everything she needed to make her happy: how could she live without it now?
‘I know the gods are calling for you, Marmicus. I can hear them too, but you mustn’t go to them – it’s not your time to go. The princess is alive! She’s waiting for you here on earth, and she carries a gift; a baby. You’re going to be a father! I know that’s what you’ve always wanted.’ Sulaf kissed his hand, breaking down in tears. The same thought kept repeating in her mind: if only she had told him the joyous news when he was well, maybe then she would have seen his face react with the beauty of a smile.
‘So, you see, you can’t die now. This is the time to fight, to live – not for your people or for your duty, but for something more important than all of that; this is the time to live for your family. They need you now more than ever before. So fight with your heart, Marmicus, I beg you, fight like you have never fought before. Fight for them and live for them now. No war is worth fighting unless it’s for love. Today, your battle is for love, so fight to protect it and live to embrace it!’
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Larsa could feel her infant growing stronger inside her, warning her of his impending arrival into the savage world of men. She wished he did not have to leave his sanctuary, where it was safe and warm. His innocence was like a jewel among stones roughened by the passing of time and the learning of evil. Together, they had faced this burdensome journey, walking along a path filled with uneven stones and thorns that had only been lightened by a mother’s love. Now the road was nearing its end. Larsa could feel her infant kicking at his walls, rolling around with life; he wanted to be set free. Every time he somersaulted inside her, Larsa felt a rush of excitement and unrestrained happiness. Even though she was only six months pregnant, she could feel that he wanted to be set free: his movements were stronger than ever; he was curious about the world, wanting to explore it. She imagined his tiny hands stretching open inside her, wanting to taste and touch using his own senses instead of his mother’s. Larsa lovingly placed her hands upon her belly, remembering Marmicus’s face as she did so. She wondered if her infant would look like him. Would he possess the same gentle eyes she had fallen in love with? She hoped so.
’You’re strong, like your father, and brave like him too,’ said Larsa. The softness of her voice soothed her infant, hushing him back to sleep; he had been kicking frantically all day. ‘Be patient – you’ll meet him soon. We both shall.’
96
Dawn had arrived, and with it came the final hour. The storm which had swept over the Garden of the Gods the previous night had grown stronger, and thousands of soldiers from either side lined the battleground. They watched as the Dark Warrior stood alone in the middle, waiting for the Gallant Warrior to come. Today these men would watch a war end by the bloody combat of two warriors, one who fought for love, the other inspired only by hatred.
They looked to the skies. Rain poured from dense black clouds, but no amount of force unleashed by nature could stop this battle. It had been destined, like the coming of the end of the world. The soldiers’ metal armour, which acted as a means of protection, had now become a source of danger, as lightning struck the horizon, with thunder rumbling after it. Each time it did, the horizon turned bright white, then dark again. There was no greater battle on earth, nor one that carried so much glory. Nafridos glanced into the distance, looking at the faces of thousands of soldiers who stood like a crowd of powerless spectators. He was searching for Marmicus among the faces. But he could not find him.
‘Babylon has a coward as its leader. Fight me and redeem your honour!’ yelled the Dark Warrior. He dug his sword into the sand and spat on the ground in disgust; nothing could persuade him to abandon his conquest now, not even the end of the world. The rain began to pelt harder. It would be difficult to fight in these conditions, but it meant their battle would be even more glorious.
Nafridos turned towards his cousin, wanting to obtain his approval for what he was about to do. The Assyrian emperor remained still. Jaquzan sat upon a throne
beneath a canopy, which sheltered him from the harsh rainfall, his lions guarding his feet. He enjoyed watching his cousin squirm with restlessness; it only meant that he was hungry for death – it was exactly what was needed for victory. Lifting his hand, Jaquzan gave the signal that offered Nafridos the blessing he so desperately awaited.
‘Bring forward the whore of Babylon!’
The faint cries of a woman could be heard, and the Babylonian soldiers looked on, not knowing what was happening until they saw her: the so-called whore of Babylon was none other than Larsa, Princess of the Garden of the Gods. Two soldiers dragged her forward, her hands tied behind her back like any prisoner of war. They pulled her by her hair, ripping out chunks of it, and every time she fought back they spat at her. It was a humiliating spectacle. Some Babylonian soldiers jumped forward, unable to contain their anger, but their commanders looked at them, warning them not to react. This was not Babylon’s battle; it was a battle between the Gallant Warrior and the Dark Warrior and it belonged to no one else. What was needed was a life for a life. This would spare a thousand others …
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They dragged the princess to the centre of the battlefield and pushed her to the ground, leaving her beside the Dark Warrior, who stood waiting for Marmicus. Her long white dress soaked up the muddy water as the cold rain ran over her body, washing away the humiliating spit of her enemy. Larsa felt them push her, and she fell sideways into the wet soil, her hands tied behind her back. She lifted her head, trying to breathe, but the muddy water entered her mouth. If she did not die by the sword then she would drown in the floodwaters that swept over the land.
Larsa saw what looked like the entire world staring at her. Thousands of soldiers were watching her misery, doing nothing to stop it from happening. Not one soldier had the courage to step forward to protect her from the barbarity she endured; the knowledge that none did so was more agonising than any beating.
‘Where’s your humanity? Is there no one who will help me?’ she screamed with hurt and desperation. Her voice was almost strangled by her anguish. ‘Have you no compassion? Have you no shame?’ There was no reply or movement; brave men had turned into cowards. Larsa rolled across the ground, her white dress turning filthy from the mud that stuck to her body. It tortured her to know that today her baby would die along with her. She felt his rapid heartbeat in her womb, sinking with hers to the bottom of a pit of filth and betrayal. Would she never get to see his face? Would she never get to kiss his cheek and hold him lovingly in her arms, just as every mother had the right to? How close he had come to living his own life … now it would be taken away from him.
The Dark Warrior hovered over her: if he could not kill the Gallant Warrior, then she would be the next best thing. Water ran across his sword, dripping onto her neck, and the sight of her lying at his feet made him feel more powerful than he had ever felt in his life.
‘What hurts more, princess? Is it knowing that you shall die young, or realising that in this savage world of men, you don’t have anybody when you need someone the most?’ asked Nafridos. He knelt, lifting her chin from the muddy ground using only his blade. Even besmirched by mud and filth, her beauty shone like a star.
‘Beg me to let you live, whore of Babylon, and I’ll spare you. I’ll give you your life back; all you have to do is beg me like the whore you are in front of all these men.’
‘I beg you to kill me. Kill me now, while I’m dreaming of a better life …’ said Larsa. Her breaths became shorter. Every muscle within her body was stiffening in the chill wind.
The Dark Warrior laughed. Her bravery never ceased to amaze him, the words poignantly poetic, summing up her futile existence. She had once had the world at her feet, now she carried only an unrealised dream in her hands.
‘Very well, I shall.’
The Dark Warrior stood up. The time had come to put her out of her misery. Larsa closed her eyes, knowing that she was ready to die. As he placed the sword against her neck she dreamt of the two people she loved the most: Marmicus and her baby. She thought of Marmicus holding their infant in his arms, rocking him back and forth while they watched him sleep peacefully. This bittersweet thought filled her eyes with tears of sadness and joy, for she knew he would never see their child. The Dark Warrior watched as a smile slowly lit up her beautiful face, her eyes flickering as if she were dreaming, while tears rolled down her cheeks, washing the mud away.
Larsa clenched her hands tightly, as if holding onto her thoughts of love; they brought her the warmth she needed. The icy winds felt as though they were cutting to the bone through skin and flesh, reminding her how cruel the world was. The sharp tip of the Dark Warrior’s weapon pressed into her throat, just below her windpipe, and soft tingling droplets of water fell onto her. This would be the last sensation she would feel in life. She took in one last deep breath while dreaming of a better life: none of the pain or the agony, none of the things she had endured, mattered any more. Her hurt and anguish would be buried here, in this place where her body would rest; after that, everything she feared would drift away.
‘I’ll give you a clean kill. Your bravery deserves that at least,’ said the Dark Warrior. He curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword, his thumbs squeezing so hard that they turned white. Raising his sword above his shoulders, he prepared to bring it down with all his strength, severing her head with one clean blow.
‘Dream, princess, dream of a better life where men like me are never born into existence,’ said the Dark Warrior, with death ready to blow its tender kiss upon her soul …
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Every fire must die out eventually, no matter how fiercely its flames may have raged the night before; but love is unlike any fire, for true love is immortal – while mere conquest is not. Love can only die if it is not carefully tended; nothing else is capable of destroying it.
That day, true love had breathed life into the Gallant Warrior’s lungs, awakening him from unconsciousness.
Marmicus galloped across the landscape, his horse unshaken by the bright bolts of lightning and the deep rumbling of thunder. It was as if all of nature’s elements were standing against them, trying to stop him from reaching the battlefield in time to save Larsa’s life. As he rode across the empty valley, Marmicus remembered what Sulaf had told him. He felt unable to comprehend what she had said, but he desperately wanted to believe that it was true.
Sulaf had stayed by his bedside all night, praying over him and cooling his head from the high fever. The moment Marmicus opened his eyes, she told him everything: that Larsa was alive and that he was blessed with fatherhood. The joyous news was quickly followed by a calamity, one which left Marmicus full of anger: he had been summoned to fight the Dark Warrior at first light. Should he fail to arrive on the battleground, then Larsa would be killed by the enemy. Marmicus immediately rose from his divan, grabbing his Sword of Allegiance and rushing to put on his armour, wanting to enter the battle. Nothing could stop him from fighting to save her life, other than the weakness of his own body. He nearly collapsed a second time; the poison had robbed him of his strength.
When Sulaf asked him if it was worth fighting, Marmicus said, ‘I would rather die in battle knowing that I had tried to save her life, than know that I had done nothing at all.’
Sulaf watched him ride away, feeling that it would be the last time she would ever see him. If he fought today it would be with half his strength.
Orisus could feel his master’s desperation. The stallion galloped tirelessly through the thrashing rain, his hooves pounding the sodden earth and whipping mud and water into the air. He galloped faster than all the temperamental winds and clouds that sailed above him through the stormy skies. But it was still not enough to make time an ally; every second lost was a second closer to the princess’s death. The land began to rise. Orisus’s hooves splashed through deep puddles, cutting through the wet turf that broke into pieces as he galloped over it. As soon as Marmicus reached the top of the hill, he saw the entire wo
rld gathered below him. The silhouettes of thousands of soldiers were visible on the open plain, armour gleaming, their flags flapping in the breeze as they silently waited. Marmicus saw movement on the battlefield; a man in black armour was standing over something. He could not make out who it was, the sheeting rain and dim grey light making it difficult to see through the haziness, and all he could see was what appeared to be a white object lying on the flooded ground at the soldier’s feet.
Then Marmicus heard a familiar voice scream just one word, not with fear but with defiance: ‘Marmicus!’ The woman who had restored him to life was calling out to him, and he spurred Orisus on, asking the stallion for one last effort.
‘Larsa!’ he cried, as rage ignited within him. He laid the reins across Orisus’s shoulders each in turn, asking him for more. He crouched forward, trying to fight off the torrential rain and the wind slamming into his body, slowing him down.
‘Release her!’ roared the Gallant Warrior, as he galloped between the rearmost ranks of his own army. He unsheathed his Sword of Allegiance, raising it high in the air, trying to get the soldiers’ attention so that they would know he had arrived. Tens of thousands of heads turned towards him as one and watched, transfixed, as one courageous man rode into battle, preparing to die for the woman he honoured and loved.
‘Free her and fight me!’
Larsa opened her eyes, hearing a voice call out her name like a warm breeze flowing out from a raging storm.
‘Marmicus …’ Larsa whispered. As soon as she uttered his name the Dark Warrior knew he had arrived. Nafridos turned, and saw the man he was born to kill emerge at a gallop from the ranks and turn towards him, sending great columns of spray into the air. The black silhouette of his wild stallion and the white light from his sword seemed to disperse the mist and render the world, in one instant, a different place. Larsa’s face began to stream with tears as she watched Marmicus ride towards her. Even if she died now, she was thankful that she had seen his face for one last time. The reminder of their unbreakable bond meant everything to her. She watched Marmicus, his armour gleaming like the rising sun lifting above a stormy battlement of clouds. She had made it through her darkest hour, and so too had her infant, but the danger was far from over, for there was one more obstacle left to overcome.