The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (10 page)

‘I know this is hard for you,’ said Sibius, crouching beside him on the floor. ‘If you want to honour her, think of your revenge for now, it is the only way to survive this …’

He took the pendant of Ishtar from his pocket, handing it over to Marmicus. He had cleaned off the splattered blood that had tarnished its golden shine. Marmicus didn’t say anything; he just stared blankly at the pendant, drawing in shallow, choking breaths. Right now, he didn’t want to know how she had been killed or what her last words were or, even worse, if she had been violated first. He could barely take in the knowledge that she was gone.

‘I’ll leave you alone. Try to get some rest,’ said Sibius, feeling his agony. He got up, leaving him to grieve alone.

Marmicus held the pendant in his hands, kissing it, smelling it. The princess had always worn it around her neck. Her scent was still on it.

‘My beautiful Larsa, what did they do to you?’

‘Where are you, Marmicus? Why haven’t you come for me? I need you,’ Larsa whispered to herself. The beauty of her oval face was marred by small cuts and grazes. Every time her captors pulled the rope she was unable to stop herself from falling. Her porcelain-like skin had been battered by the sharp edges of stones on the desert floor. Larsa couldn’t understand why Marmicus hadn’t come for her – news of her disappearance must have been sent back to him by now. Even if it hadn’t, Marmicus must have sensed something was wrong, because she hadn’t sent him word of her well-being or safe arrival. Deep down, she knew he would never abandon her, but a niggling doubt ate away at her confidence. What if for some reason he had chosen to forget her altogether?

‘Welcome to the land of Assyria,’ said Nafridos as he stopped before the gates of the kingdom with his prisoner. He looked down at her from upon his horse, and the bones in his neck clicked as he twisted his head, wanting to see her reaction as she passed through the mammoth gates; it was as if she were a helpless lamb walking in the midst of hungry lions. Larsa knew he was staring at her, she could feel his eyes on her, but she looked away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of her acknowledgement. Despite everything she was going through, she still tried to present a façade of bravery – it was the only freedom she had left.

Larsa could hear the voices of slaves, pulling ropes to release the gates and let her captors in. She shuddered; it dawned on her that soon she would meet Jaquzan, the man who commanded such ruthless warriors. Larsa tried to cast the thought aside, looking instead at the two gigantic Assyrian winged bulls that stood on either side of the gates. They were tall as trees, made from solid stone, their eyes staring fiercely into the distance to terrorise any enemy that dared come their way. They couldn’t be missed; the statues imposed themselves on the flat land with their huge human heads, long bull-like bodies, and clawed feet – but even the statues looked miniscule in comparison to the towering walls of the kingdom. The Assyrian walls soared high into the sky, as though to stop even the birds from flying above them. They had been designed to prevent any enemy climbing over them to enter the city, and their existence reminded the princess of a definitive truth: that these were the gates of an ungodly prison designed to enslave people.

The mighty gates finally opened. Waiting on the other side were thousands of people lining the streets, some laughing and clapping, others standing silently as they were forced to witness her humiliating entrance. No one would have imagined that a princess walked in their midst; her clothes were tattered and ripped, her knees scarred and bloody, and her lips crusty from her aching thirst. Larsa felt that until this moment she had been living her own lie; that what she knew of mankind was all wrong. Questions kept running through her mind: what had she done to deserve this? How could any woman put up with such depravity, with being beaten until her resistance was eventually broken? Any dignity she had once possessed now trailed behind her, lost somewhere with the fragments of her inner self. Larsa wished she had died along with her servants; somehow the thought of death seemed more merciful than this …

Glory greeted her captors, who had finally returned home with their much-heralded prize, and for this they were treated like kings. Rose petals were thrown into the air, softly drifting with the winds as they fell gently onto the heads and shoulders of her captors. Larsa felt sickened: how could murderers be celebrated like this? They were greeted like heroes instead of what they truly were – brutal and sadistic killers. Larsa wished she could cover her ears; lambskin drums were beating loudly in the background, their draining, dull tone beating in pace with her heart as she walked among the thousands of spectators. Lining the long road which led to the emperor’s palace were beautiful black slave women; they were standing in front of the crowds, pouring rose water upon the ground to wash the blood and dirt from the feet of oncoming soldiers. Unknown to the princess, many of these women had once been queens who ruled the different tribes of Abyssinia; they too had been taken from their lands and turned into slaves, for each of them the happiness of their past lives was now like a thorn beneath their skin. Larsa gazed at them; she could see sympathy in their eyes for what she was going through, but in the eyes of those around them, none at all.

‘Help me, please. Stop this!’ she cried. Tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving streaks in the dirt on her face. No one responded to her pleas; they simply stood there, some cheering, others watching soullessly, showing no emotion as she was dragged away. Unable to take in the humiliation, Larsa shut her eyes, wanting to block out all the faces that glared at her, but she didn’t even have that luxury.

‘Open your eyes. I want you to remember the day a queen became a slave,’ said Nafridos, but Larsa ignored his words, her naked feet bleeding as she stumbled on, her head hanging in exhaustion. It was the humiliation that was the most agonising sentence; she couldn’t bear to be watched and judged by people who saw her crippled in this way.

Nafridos turned to one of his soldiers. No one would disobey him, especially not in front of his people. The Assyrian soldier knew exactly what he had to do.

‘He said “open your eyes” – do it now!’ the soldier yelled, holding a leather whip above his head. Larsa ignored him as she shut her eyes more tightly; at this moment she found beauty in blindness. The soldier looked to Nafridos, waiting for the command to act; a small nod was all that was needed.

‘Do it,’ he said.

The soldier marched ahead, falling in a pace or two behind the princess. He swung the leather whip above his head, his wrist moving quickly and his massive biceps glistening in the sun. The people looked on as he threw his arm forward, the lash following in a long and deadly arc before landing on Larsa’s back with a resounding crack which drew a gasp from the crowd. A scream of agony rushed from her lungs.

‘Why are you doing this to me? Why? Where’s your humanity?’ she wept, unable to hide the pain. The whip scalded her back like boiling water; a deep gash immediately appeared, and Larsa could feel the rush of blood flowing from between her shoulder blades. ‘Please … I beg you … stop this.’

Suddenly, the roaring crowd fell silent, as if coerced into submission. The pounding of the leather drums also halted, and everything that had once vibrated with energy surrendered to stillness. Larsa looked up. The sunlight burned her eyes but it didn’t matter; she needed to see his face, she needed to know what her enemy looked like.

‘Jaquzan …’

Larsa knew it was him: standing before her on the highest point of the Assyrian tower was the man who now owned her soul. He was looking over his subjects, watching her from where he stood, waiting for her to come to him. The crowd knelt, bowing down like slaves before their master, their foreheads touching the ground as they surrendered to Jaquzan’s ultimate supremacy. Everyone prostrated themselves, except for Larsa, but there is always foolishness in bravery …

Pure hearts attract stained hands, for wherever there is good on earth, evil finds joy in destroying it. The unavoidable hour had come for Larsa to meet her enemy. Every minute that had passed since her capture had been leading up to this definitive moment when she would finally glare into Jaquzan’s eyes and recognise what evil lay beneath the surface of his skin. The final stretch had arrived. Larsa walked through the long corridor leading to his throne room, its high walls colourfully painted with visions of war that glorified violent death. Each carved image revealed that oppression, tyranny and conquest had prevailed above hope, honour and freedom. Larsa turned her face away, unable to absorb the grotesque depictions of war; they seemed to carry on forever, lining the corridor. If Marmicus lost this war, another portrayal of Assyrian victory would surely be added to the long list of battle scenes depicted on these walls. The idea frightened her immensely. She imagined her worst nightmare, Marmicus’s lifeless body lying on some nameless battlefield, butchered and headless like the others surrounding her now. Larsa quickly banished the thought from her mind.
I can cope with anything except that …

Exhaustion and dehydration gripped her, sucking every ounce of strength that remained inside her. Her body felt heavy; she could no longer carry herself or drag her feet further. Knowing that Marmicus was safe was the only comfort she had; it gave her the will to survive the pitiless situation in which she found herself. Larsa imagined Marmicus’s face, remembering the way he had lovingly looked into her eyes and kissed her neck during their last intimate moments together. His memory added warmth to a body that had succumbed to a world filled with cold. Since her capture, one question kept running through her mind: why had she not been killed? There must be a reason for her survival. Larsa knew her enemy could have killed her at any time, but Jaquzan had specifically ordered that she remain alive. Whatever his reason, it couldn’t be any worse than what she had already endured. Her body and mind were prepared for anything – or so she thought …

There are few men in the world who are able to command others without having to say a single word. Jaquzan was one such man. Even in silence he possessed the ability to influence others; in fact, very little ever escaped his lips. After all, words are used to impress people, but a powerful man has no one to impress. The princess recognised the depths of Jaquzan’s power almost immediately, and she saw the fear he wrought in her captors; brute men, so confident in the desert, were now hushed in the throne room, wanting desperately to disappear into the background. Even the cruel smile on Nafridos’s face had vanished; he too had surrendered to his master’s power, as if Jaquzan were able to control his mind without saying or doing anything.

Larsa was pushed to the ground in front of the emperor; her knees scraped on the floor as she was forced to prostrate herself. Now that her captors had completed their assignment, they were curious to find out what exactly was going to be done with her. After all, very few of royal blood had ever escaped the throne room alive, and those who had were thrown to the lions. Larsa lifted her head, wanting to see Jaquzan’s face; maybe he wasn’t as sadistic or cruel as his cousin? A person’s humanity can always be seen in their eyes, but the princess would have to wait to look into them, as all she could see was a faint silhouette of a man sitting upon an exalted throne which spiralled upwards as if it were some sort of dark cloud hanging from the sky. The throne was unfit for any mere mortal to sit upon; it seemed possessed of an immortal presence, as if it were some kind of mythical creature, only capable of being tamed by absolute power. Its mere existence proved that humility had no place in Jaquzan’s destructive world.

‘Untie her hands,’ the emperor said faintly, almost in a whisper. No one could tell if the gesture was done out of mercy, or if it was the beginning of another sinister sequence of events.

‘With pleasure,’ replied his cousin. Nafridos pulled her up, twisting her left arm as he did. Her skin was hot and feverish – touching it gave him an extraordinary feeling. Using his cherished dagger he cut through the blood-stained rope which bound her wrists together. A faint whimper left her lips, secretly pleasing him. Her wrists were swollen and bloody; the coarse rope had blistered them. As soon as the rope was undone, a rush of blood swept back to her fingers, which tingled with pain.

‘Bring her into the light – let me see her face!’ said Jaquzan.

Nafridos nudged her forward using the hilt of his dagger; the pommel dug into her back, hurting her.

‘What do you want from me? Why am I here?’

‘Be thankful, princess. Many have stood where you are now, begging for their lives as you now beg, perhaps, for death.’

‘I’m not afraid to die for my freedom,’ she declared, looking upwards, her head following the long, towering tiers of the throne that overshadowed them all. The guards looked at her with astonishment. No one had ever addressed the Assyrian emperor with such courage or stupidity before. Her strength appeared to seep through the pores of her skin. It only proved what Jaquzan was already thinking; that behind her beautiful face was a naive mind.

‘Then you choose to die for nothing, for freedom is what freedom has always been – enslavement to an ideal,’ replied Jaquzan without hesitation. He moved into the light. As he did, he revealed his face to her: his features were perfectly symmetrical, almost unnaturally so, as if every detail of his face had been skilfully shaped by a sculptor’s hands.

‘You’re wrong. Freedom is to live without fear, to speak when forced to be silent, and to move when threatened by others. I will never give it up, and nor will Marmicus. He’s going to come for me; he’s going to set me free and, when he does, he’s going to destroy you. You’ll beg for your life just as you’ve made others beg for theirs.’

‘Let him come! When he does, I will crush him and scatter his ashes over your dreams. Now, bow in the presence of greatness.’