The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa

by Seja Majeed

  ‘Can you feel their glare? They’re watching you die – one life sacrificed for a thousand others,’ said the Dark Warrior to his victim. Marmicus was gasping for breath. The world around him was disappearing. He could no longer see the thousands of faces that edged the horizon, watching him die. All Marmicus could feel was the immense pain of the blade twisting in his back, cutting his muscles and slicing his flesh.

  ‘You should have listened to the princess; she understands what kind of creatures we are. We are men of war. Forgiveness is a gift we were not blessed with.’ With a sudden, violent movement the Dark Warrior pulled the blade from Marmicus’s back. Blood seeped out of the wound. Marmicus fell sideways, rolling onto his back as he hit the ground. He knew he would either bleed to death or be decapitated. Whichever it was, he did not want Larsa to see. Nafridos reached for the Sword of Allegiance, lifting up his prize. It was a glorious instrument of death. The words of allegiance caught the light as he took hold of the weapon, clasping the hilt with both hands and raising it up into the sky for everyone to see that victory belonged to him. The time had come for one final act – the Gallant Warrior’s beheading.

  ‘All your life you have fought for justice. How ironic that at the moment of death the world should offer you none!’ The Dark Warrior swung his weapon, ready to behead his greatest opponent.

  ‘Stop!’ Larsa screamed. ‘Move away from him!’

  The Dark Warrior turned to his cousin, seeking his signal. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to kill the princess while his victim was still alive. The Assyrian emperor gave a subtle nod, granting his blessing for Marmicus to die in her arms. Larsa rushed to him, gently lifting his head and cradling it on her lap, her eyes running with tears as blood seeped from his back, clouding the water around them.

  ‘You should have killed him when I said. He doesn’t deserve to live. You do.’

  ‘I could never … kill a man who’s asked for my forgiveness …’ Marmicus whispered as he lay dying in her arms.

  ‘Forgive me … for failing you …’

  ‘Don’t say that. You have not failed me. You never have and you never shall. Even in death – especially in death – you will have honour.’ She stroked his face, all the while watching his eyelids slowly close, as though drifting into sleep.

  ‘I shouldn’t … have let you go that day …’ he murmured as he pressed his hand to her cheek, absorbing her beauty for the last time. He remembered all the glorious nights he had lain with her, watching her sleep peacefully. He had smiled, knowing that she was his and that they would one day grow old together, but now his vision was fading as darkness began to sweep over him. Marmicus could no longer see her face; he could only hear her soft voice and feel the lasting tenderness of her touch, and her words.

  ‘I buried my dreams the day you died, Larsa, and now they’ve come back to life with you.’

  ‘Then live, so we can share our dreams together, as we said we would.’

  ‘Our love … can never die, Larsa … not when it is true like ours. Even when we’ve submitted to death … a part of our love shall still live on in those we leave behind,’ said Marmicus. He gently touched her belly, wanting to feel the movement of his child for the first time. He knew that he would never see his infant’s face or hear his laughter across the green fields; even so, Marmicus loved him with every breath he possessed.

  ‘I can’t survive without you. I can’t bear to even try. I’ll come with you to the afterlife; we’ll be together again, all three of us.’

  ‘No, Larsa. No. Don’t be afraid. Death is but a curse … if the soul has lived without purpose … My life has been for you. Now you must live for our child, just as we lived for each other … I know you’ll be a wonderful mother … you already are …’

  Her warmth had healed his wounds, but this time it was not enough to restore him to life. The enemy had prevailed. Marmicus had breathed his last. His hand slipped from her stomach, falling to the muddy ground. Heaven had lost its sacred guardian; the Gallant Warrior was dead.

  Larsa began to wail in agony as she cradled his head in her arms, rocking back and forth in unendurable torture, not knowing what else to do. Her screams were so frightening that the lions began to roar with her.

  ‘Stay with me. Don’t abandon me here. Not now, not when freedom is so close,’ Larsa sobbed as she kissed his face tenderly. She desperately wished he would brush his lips against hers as he always had, but they remained still. It was no use. The battle had been fought and lost; her beloved husband had died trying to defend her.

  ‘Come back to me. Come back.’

  ‘Move aside, princess, his body belongs to me now.’ The Dark Warrior had returned to behead his victim; it was the last act needed to consolidate his victory in front of the armies of thousands.

  ‘You shall not harm him; I won’t let you! You’ve won this war, now let us mourn our defeat.’ She attempted to shield his body from the Dark Warrior’s lethal sword, which hung above them both.

  ‘I said move aside, or let the world remember the tragedy of your love forever.’ He directed his weapon towards her neck, his eyes lighting up with his desire to use it. Who could have imagined that he would kill the princess using the same weapon that had been sworn to protect her? Larsa turned towards the Assyrian emperor, who watched from his throne. Only he possessed the power to stop his cousin from mutilating Marmicus’s body.

  ‘I want the Gallant Warrior’s head to be mounted on the last pillar still standing when everything else in this kingdom has been set on fire. The Garden of the Gods shall become the ashes of hell,’ said Jaquzan flatly. He had enjoyed their display of affection, but now he longed to crush it with one last blow. Two Assyrian soldiers attempted to pull her away, but Larsa fought them, refusing to leave Marmicus’s body alone on the battlefield.

  ‘Where’s your compassion? Is there no one here who will stop this? Is there no one with honour among you all?’ Larsa screamed with burning despair. She looked around at the faces of the soldiers. Some turned to their commanders, waiting for a signal to help her, but none was given. ‘If death returns, let him testify to the gods that only one man among a thousand others died with honour.’ Larsa sank her head into the Gallant Warrior’s neck, wanting the sword to sever hers as well; she could not live without Marmicus, and she would not even force herself to try.

  ‘So you want to die?’ asked the Dark Warrior. He lifted the Sword of Allegiance above both their heads, ready to swing it. The world watched in silence, unable to deny their overwhelming love for one another and the tragedy of their story, a tale which would forever be called the Battle of Larsa, painted with the blood from their bodies until the end of time.

  ‘Death comes to us all, but only a few are worthy of dying for love. Today you are worthy,’ said the Dark Warrior.

  ‘We’ll be together, soon. All three of us,’ she wept, holding tightly to his lifeless chest, waiting for death to finally take her soul.

  102

  ‘We have to do something! We cannot let this happen. There is no honour in this.’

  ‘Stay in your positions. The Gallant Warrior is dead and so too is our hope of freedom. The pledge we made must be kept if we wish to stay alive and keep our kingdom’s walls standing,’ responded the commander. He understood what that meant; every man here was a slave to his new masters, including him.

  ‘Don’t listen to him; the Gallant Warrior’s not dead! He’s still alive in our hearts. He can only die if we forget what he lived for. Remember what he said? That one day of freedom is worth more than thousand years of slavery. This is the time to fight, now, that a man of courage might be buried with the honour he deserves,’ shouted a soldier in defiance. ‘Who’s with me? Who’ll fight for the Gallant Warrior now when he needs us the most? Who’ll embrace their swords and keep his spirit alive in the way in which he lived?’

  ‘I’ll fight for him! If I die for him, then death is a worthy friend of mine.’

  Soldiers began to
break the battle lines, steadily marching as one force. Each step took them nearer to the body of the man who had sacrificed everything for them. The Babylonian kings watched from above: their greatest nightmare had come to pass. Not only had the Gallant Warrior been defeated, but now their soldiers were disobeying orders to remain in their positions. It would be an act of disobedience for which they would pay with their lives.

  ‘Who ordered them to move? They must stay in their positions!’ a Babylonian king shrieked as he watched his men defy his orders.

  ‘Even in death, the Gallant Warrior has the power to command spirits,’ replied one of the generals.

  Larsa held Marmicus’s hand as she lay beside him; the last traces of his warmth deceived her into thinking that he was still alive. She imagined they were lying on lush green grass. Somehow the lie she told herself made death seem more bearable. She kissed his hand, smelling his skin, unaware that the Sword of Allegiance hovered above her neck, ready to kill her.

  But nothing in life is ever written in stone, and her dreams of paradise would have to wait, as many voices called out to her, trying to wake her from her dream. A thousand soldiers lined the horizon, each one stretching out his hands to carry her away from the wreckage of war. The Babylonian rebellion was unexpected, but by walking forward the soldiers were unleashing war. The soldiers drew closer, all hungry for vengeance.

  ‘Unleash hell! Let no man live to see tomorrow,’ commanded the Assyrian emperor. Strangely, no movement came from his soldiers; it was as if he had said nothing at all.

  ‘Archers, unleash your arrows! Flatten them as the earth is flattened by my feet.’ Once again, there was no movement from the Assyrian lines; the soldiers remained where they were, their arrows still in their wooden quivers, unused. Although nothing had been said between the soldiers, there was silent agreement among them all.

  ‘Do what your emperor commands! Move forward, and unsheathe your swords, or your bodies will be used as barricades,’ declared the Dark Warrior.

  Again the soldiers did not move. Instead, a loud chanting began to spread through the Assyrian army. The defiant soldiers began to roar the words of allegiance, their voices growing louder as their confidence grew. Today, at this moment, they were free. They were liberated to think for themselves and their minds submitted to the compass of their hearts. The mighty Assyrian emperor had lost control over his people, and he realised this as soon as Larsa rose to her feet, turning to him and looking deeply into his eyes with the new breath of freedom spreading through her lungs. The woman who had become the slave of an emperor had returned as the divine ruler of the Garden of the Gods.

  ‘Fear is the weapon used by oppressors, but courage is the weapon held by the free,’ said Larsa to her enemy. ‘Your time has come.’

  103

  Upon the battlefield lay the bodies of the ruthless Assyrian emperor and his merciless cousin Nafridos, their heads raised on spikes, to rot in the same way as any wretched man who had met such an ill fate. Who could have imagined that the indestructible Assyrian ruler, who had created an empire from nothing, would finally meet his end in the same manner as all those he had sentenced to death? His curse, however, was a blessing for many other men: those who had been his slaves were now free men, able to live the rest of their lives safe from bullying and oppression.

  As for the Serpent, he had been given what he had always dreamt of: a piece of land to call his own, and a throne where he would forever rest. But it was not one that would be envied by others, for the throne his body rested on lay with his body in a shallow grave, where the Assyrian emperor had buried him.

  As for freedom, it is always born from the seed of sacrifice. The courageous lion among men lay dead, never knowing whether the woman he loved, and the child he wished for, would be able to live in the way he hoped and dreamt they would live.

  ‘Who’ll help me lift his body?’ a Babylonian soldier asked as he placed the Sword of Allegiance in Marmicus’s hands. Several warriors came forward to help lift his body off the ground. Together they walked through the ranks of soldiers, who knelt before him, placing their swords and shields on the ground as a sign of respect. The world had never witnessed such a thing: today, one man in death had united thousands in life. From this moment forward, the name of the Garden of the Gods would be changed to Larsa, reminding all others that true love had once lived here.

  104

  Paross looked into the empty blue sky, imagining what it must be like to sit with the One-God and look down upon the world from the glorious heavens. Would it be easy to find a loved one in an area covering so many kingdoms? Every day since the war had ended, Paross had come to the same spot, sitting on the large stone steps of the Temple of Ishtar, waiting for the arrival of one man. Now that Paross was free, he had become a victim of his own enslavement, choosing to believe in the false hope of a friend’s return. But time has a way of eroding hope, no matter how strong it may have felt at first. Paross saw families come and go, children like himself waiting by the doors of the temple, some playing together while women stood gossiping, others trying to comfort their mothers when they fought back the tears as the disastrous news of their husbands’ and sons’ deaths was delivered to them. Even though the war had ended, the burning of bodies continued to light up the night sky.

  The likelihood of Abram still being alive was slowly slipping away. Some passers-by sat with Paross, offering him bread and water to drink as they tried to console him. Others were blunt with their words, wanting to move him away from the gates of the temple, like unwanted vermin. One passer-by told him he was wasting his time, and that if Abram was alive he would surely have returned to him by now. The old man even went further, saying that a freed slave would find a worthless child-like him to be a burden, and that Abram had planned everything, leading him to the temple as a way of getting rid of him without guilt. Paross did not wish to admit it to himself, but the old man’s words made sense. If it was untrue, then lying somewhere on the battlefield was the body of a man who had only experienced freedom for a few days.

  Nonetheless, Paross waited by the temple, day in and day out. He could not forget Abram, no matter how many people advised him to. Something deep inside urged him to come back to this spot and wait for him there. During their short journey together, Abram had shown kindness to him as nobody else had ever done. When the entire world stood against him, he had become a friend, a father – and somehow, the homeland he needed. Paross cupped his head in his hands, the bright afternoon light stinging his eyes. It frustrated him to see the same passers-by staring at him, even if they offered him a sympathetic smile; he felt their judgement nonetheless.

  ‘Please, One-God, answer my prayers. Let him be alive,’ said the boy, trying to hold back his tears.

  ‘Why are you crying on such a beautiful day?’ asked a voice.

  ‘Because I’m alone,’ said Paross. ‘My friend’s dead, and I’ve got no one.’

  ‘Nothing ever dies so long as you believe, little scholar …’

  Paross immediately looked up. No one had ever called him that apart from Abram.

  Paross leapt up, filled with emotion, bursting with tears of happiness and relief. The One-God had answered his prayers.

  ‘Every dream has a window to reality: all you need is some faith to carry you there,’ said Abram as he embraced the little boy. He thought of Paross as his son, as well as his friend.

  105

  Few men understand that war and peace are born of the same womb; they are brothers in battle, one fighting to preserve that which exists in the world, the other fighting to destroy it. What unites them is their mother and father for, in the world of men, light cannot be seen unless there is also darkness. The only gift of war is the prospect that peace shall follow it, giving birth to new hope and a new beginning. Larsa had learnt this in the most painful of ways, for death and heartache had been worn around her finger like a wedding ring. But after hardship there follows ease: the princess had given birth to a
healthy baby boy, bringing her the comfort she needed to carry on living. As she cradled her newborn in her arms, she remembered Marmicus’s final words:

  ‘Death is only a curse if the soul has lived without purpose …’

  Although Marmicus was no longer with her in flesh, he had not abandoned her completely. Every day she saw part of him live on in her infant. His eyes and mouth had the likeness of his father, beautiful in every way.

  ‘Are you ready, Your Highness?’

  ‘Yes.’ She handed over her infant, smiling at him as he slept peacefully, unaware of what lay ahead; how, in this brief moment, his mother’s life would change forever. She walked out onto the palace balcony, her head bearing the glorious crown bestowed upon her by her ancestors, the crowds below her roaring as they greeted her with love. Thousands of people were waving their arms and cheering with excitement, for today was a new start for their kingdom. Their ruler had shed the title of princess, becoming instead their new queen.

  - The End -

  A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

  Seja Majeed is a British Iraqi with an Honours degree in Law from Brunel Law School and a Postgraduate Diploma in Legal Practice from the City Law School, London. She also has a diploma in Public Policy and Administration from the American University of Sharjah in the United Arab Emirates. She currently works for the Shell petroleum company, where she is a contract engineer working on the Majnoon Oil Field Project for Shell Iraq.

  Seja’s family left Iraq in 1980 due to the Iran–Iraq War, and Seja was born in 1986 in Algeria. One year later, her family moved to the United Kingdom, where they claimed asylum due to civil unrest escalating in Algeria.

  In 1980 her uncle, Naeem Fadel Al-taki, was executed by hanging at the age of twenty-one. He was hanged because he had joined a university club that spoke up against Iraq’s Ba’ath regime. In 1986, another uncle, Helmi Fadel Al-taki, was taken by the Ba’ath regime. He was placed in Abu Ghraib Prison in Baghdad, where he was frequently tortured. Seja’s mother was pregnant with Seja at the time. He was last seen in 1991.