The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (12 page)

‘Then I’ll wage a war against the gods and set men free from their tyranny; at least that way we won’t blame them for the bitterness of our destinies.’

‘If we don’t win this war, the hearts of men won’t belong to the gods, they’ll belong to Jaquzan.’

Sulaf walked away angrily. It was the first time she had seen Marmicus behave like this. Although it was understandable for him to grieve, she did not expect him to turn away from the honourable code by which he had always lived.

She turned at the door. ‘What’s happened to you? If you had any respect for yourself, you would put down that weapon. Tonight you have chosen not to honour it.’

Marmicus continued to sharpen his sword, as if she had not spoken.

‘Are you willing to sacrifice everything because of the death of one woman you have loved and lost? What about the lives of thousands of others who love you? They will die in the same way if you stand by and do nothing, or do their lives have no value to you? Have they lost their worthiness to be protected?’

‘I told you to leave me.’

‘I won’t go; not until the man I once knew returns to me,’ Sulaf said. Rushing to him, she placed her hand on the sharpened blade, momentarily forcing him to pause. It was an act of bravery; Marmicus looked up, giving credit where it was due. ‘Many people have loved and lost; remember that you can always live once more and love once again.’

‘I don’t care about love. Vengeance is all I want; without it I have nothing.’

‘Then fight for your vengeance: murder, destroy everyone who has aggrieved you, and avenge the death of anyone you have loved! All we ask of you is to save this kingdom when war comes. Then, once you have taken your vengeance, return to me, for within me you shall always find the love you need.’

The funeral chariot bearing the body of the princess entered the Garden of the Gods, and with it came an eruption of mourning. Crowds from all over the kingdom had gathered, all of them coming to pay their last respects to a princess who was dearly loved by her people. No one could have anticipated that such a tragedy would occur so soon, for it had only been a month since her father, King Alous, had died. Today the kingdom had been left with no ruler to lead the people in troubled times or comfort them when in need.

‘By the grace of the gods, I think our plan has worked,’ whispered King Nelaaz as he followed the royal procession to the magnificent Temple of Ishtar. His knees began to hurt; he was not used to walking. He much preferred being carried by his servants, but in these circumstances it seemed inappropriate.

‘I knew it would, Your Majesty; gold always deceives the eyes.’

‘Yes, but the question is, will it deceive Marmicus? What if he recognises that it’s not her? What are we supposed to do then? Give him a pile of bones and apologise for our mistake?’

‘We are favoured by the gods; they will make it work.’

‘It had better work! I’ve not spent my entire kingdom’s fortune on one servant girl for nothing. Who would ever have imagined that my servant’s death would outshine my own? I think the gods have made a habit of cursing me these days.’ The king had spared no expense in attempting to conceal the young woman’s true identity: it was either that or reveal the dangerous truth, that the princess – so they all believed – had been barbarically raped and mutilated in the desert, and that his army had not been there to protect her.

‘Look at how the people mourn her, Your Majesty; she was clearly loved by them all,’ said the advisor in astonishment. He had never seen such an outpouring of grief and love in all his life; the only reaction King Nelaaz ever received from his people was abuse. He would not be surprised if King Nelaaz’s death led to celebrations in the streets of Aram. Here, the sense of loss was palpable.

‘Yes, yes, I can see that they loved her; there’s no need to rub it in.’

The chariot halted in front of the colossal Temple of Ishtar, and a thick fog of aromatic musk poured out from the gigantic entrance like a cloud of grief sent from the heavens. People threw rose petals and lilies at the casket as final sentiments of affection, for this would be the last time they would see her body before it was buried. But there was one woman among the crowd who did not mourn or shed a tear for the princess; instead, Sulaf watched and secretly rejoiced, a faint smile showing beneath her veil. Now that Larsa was dead, there was nothing to stop her from claiming Marmicus’s heart. She had always loved him.
Finally his heart has been set free
, Sulaf thought, as she coldly tossed some petals onto the slab of gold.
I shall make you love me and, once you do, I shall help you bury your memories of the princess beneath the earth, beside her wretched body.

The Grand Priest of Ursar walked out of the Temple of Ishtar to be greeted by a crowd of thousands. He waved to them as if he were their newly appointed king; as if, now that the princess had died, he had become their divine ruler. He was the head of the Counsel, and so by default their ordained leader. Few loved him; even so, their allegiance to the Counsel remained firm – nothing could put him in disrepute. Marmicus watched him from the palace balcony; even from there he could see the Grand Priest’s lust for power. If Marmicus was not careful, he would have more than a war on his hands.

‘Bring forth the eight sacred rams!’ yelled the Grand Priest of Ursar over the drums. The animals were brought, and each was positioned around the majestic funeral chariot; together they formed the shape of an eight-pointed star, representing the symbol of Ishtar.

‘With every curse there comes a blessing. Oh, Ereshkigal, Lady of the Underworld, we offer you these eight sacred rams as a sacrifice in your name. Let their slaughter hasten a blessing on our kingdom so that our moons will be eclipsed no further. Let their blood quench your thirst for taking further life from our lands. With their beating hearts, we offer you our own, and with their blood, we ask you to free the princess’s soul to the afterlife, where she belongs. Today the Garden of the Gods mourns the loss of a ruler, but tomorrow we shall celebrate the birth of a new ruler from among the Counsel. Let this be the blessing born of our collective loss.’

He placed a sharp butcher’s knife upon the throat of a restive ram. It struggled against the ropes that bound its legs. The poor creature’s eyes were wide open, almost popping out. Suddenly, the Grand Priest of Ursar plunged the knife into the animal’s throat, causing it to let out a strangled bleat before its head sunk slowly to the ground. The act had officially sent the princess’s soul into the afterlife. Marmicus fell to his knees in his private chamber; for him, the only blessing was that there was no one to watch him break down.

The young Priest of Xidrica looked at the chamber door for a moment. Hesitantly, he knocked, and waited for a while, hoping that Marmicus would let him in, but there was no answer. Taking the initiative, he decided to enter. No one had seen Marmicus for days; the whole kingdom had gathered to say their farewells to the princess at her funeral, and it seemed that the only person missing from the ceremony was Marmicus. The young priest knew Marmicus wanted to be left alone. All his servants had been sent away, food had always been sent back, and so too had kings who had come to pay their respects to the grieving widower. Somehow the young priest felt he would not be treated like that; they shared a special understanding that was like a brotherly bond.

‘I came to see if you needed anything,’ said the Priest of Xidrica. He stood by the door, waiting for a response.

‘I need nothing,’ said Marmicus, watching the procession from the balcony, his back to the priest.

‘I know losing a wife is the hardest thing any husband can face, but I do have some understanding of your grief – when I lost my mother as a child nothing anyone said could console me. But time and memories will heal us eventually, as they did me.’

‘I don’t need time or memories, they bring me no comfort. I just need her.’

The young priest nodded, understanding what Marmicus meant; his wound was still too raw; right now he couldn’t see the beauty found in memories, in fact all they did was torture rather than heal him.

‘There’s still time to join the procession; come with me, don’t regret not saying goodbye properly. I know she would have wanted this.’

‘I won’t show my weakness in front of the people. I don’t need their pity, or yours.’

‘You’re too harsh on yourself; a man’s grief is what makes him human – it’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘My weakness causes the people to fear and kings to rejoice; I won’t let anyone use my pain as their weapon, they’ve already taken too much from me,’ Marmicus said, choking on his words. He turned to look down at the burial chariot; the sight of the Grand Priests pouring holy ram’s blood over the princess’s corpse was too much to bear; he closed his eyes, unable to look. A vision of her lying in the desert, bleeding to death, came into his mind; no doubt she was calling out his name, wishing he would save her, but he didn’t. ‘I never knew how much I loved her, that’s the worst part. I always thought my body would find its grave before hers, but now I’m forced to watch hers being buried before mine.’

‘The gods are testing you, my brother. Hardship doesn’t come without its rewards.’

‘Don’t talk to me about the gods! Where were your gods when she was alone out there? If they existed they wouldn’t have let this happen! Innocence deserves to be protected, but your gods left her to die. If they are real then their hands are painted with as much blood as mine. No. Take your gods; I don’t need them or anyone here, all I need is to be left alone.’

The young priest knew he had outstayed his welcome; he made to leave, feeling only sympathy for Marmicus.

‘Wait,’ Marmicus said. ‘I may not respect your gods, but I respect you; I know you’re different to the rest of the Counsellors and for that I value you. I want you to be careful who you place your trust with. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have more enemies than I do, so be vigilant – more so now than ever before. There’s a serpent in this kingdom – there was no way for anyone but me to know that Larsa was leaving the kingdom. Once I find him, he’ll wish that he had poisoned himself before he struck others with his venom.’

Marmicus turned back to watch the funeral ceremony, his eyes firmly fixed on the Grand Priest of Ursar, whose exquisite robes were more suited to celebration than mourning.

‘What makes you think there’s a traitor?’

‘There can be no fire without a spark! Someone in this kingdom sent word to our enemy, revealing our plans, and now he’s unleashed a fire so great that no ocean in the world can extinguish the destruction I’m about to bring.’

‘Then I’ll do everything in my power to help you.’

‘Drink this, Your Highness, it’ll do you well,’ said an old maid who had brought her some warm camel’s milk; naturally Larsa was cautious, but there was no way to know if it was safe to consume. The maid placed the chalice in her hands, waiting for her to drink.

‘What’s in it?’ Larsa asked, not knowing what to make of her kindness.

‘Don’t be afraid; it’s nothing more than a warm drink that’ll make you feel better.’

Larsa was hesitant at first; she looked at the old woman with distrust, not knowing if her kindness was genuine or just another sadistic trap dreamt up by the emperor to punish her. Her stomach was rumbling, and she knew that if she didn’t eat soon she would collapse again. Taking a leap of faith, Larsa pursed her lips and in one go forced herself to drink the milk. It took just a couple of seconds for her to realise that the maid was right – it was nothing more than a harmless drink that would give her strength.

‘Would you like some more, Your Highness?’

‘I’m no longer worthy of that title; I’m a slave now, bound by the will of another. I deserve nothing but pity from you.’

‘Nobody deserves pity, not even a slave; but you do deserve another cupful of milk,’ said the old woman. She picked up the jug, and poured more camel’s milk into the decorated clay cup.

‘Why are you being kind to me? I have nothing to offer you,’ said Larsa. It didn’t make sense; she was a prisoner yet she was still being addressed as royalty.

‘I don’t need anything, just a thank-you will do.’

‘I’m sorry. Thank you,’ she replied, feeling ashamed of herself. She had seen so much cruelty in such a short space of time that she had forgotten kindness could still exist in others; it made her realise just how much she had changed. ‘I wish all Assyrians were like you.’

‘That’s kind of you, but I’m not Assyrian.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No, I’m not. A long time ago I was free like you,’ the maid replied quietly, and slowly pulled up her sleeve, wanting to show her something. Larsa saw a green mark on her frail wrist; it was a symbol she immediately recognised, and one which truly surprised her.

‘That explains your kindness,’ said Larsa, recognising the tattoo of Azral, a small but ancient kingdom in the east. The maid knew she shouldn’t be revealing her past life to the princess, but she had heard about the Garden of the Gods; its beauty was spoken of even by her people. It was a place of homage, so rich and pure with blessings, that somehow she felt by befriending the princess she might be doing good for her own people, or what was left of them.

‘I’m sorry for branding you with the likes of them. I thought you were Assyrian,’ Larsa said. She reached for the woman’s hand, wanting to comfort her. She was glad she had shared her story; it made her realise that they were both victims, and that she could be trusted.

‘I used to think that all Assyrian people were cruel, but I’ve realised over time that many of them are as oppressed as we are. You see, my dear, not everyone is born brave; in the end, many of us are forced to do things we don’t agree with only because we wish to protect our families from harm. It’s only human for us to keep silent for their sake.’

‘Keeping silent is cowardly.’

‘Maybe it is, but choice is a luxury that only a few of us can afford,’ said the frail woman, returning to the table. Larsa had realised that her words were sharp and inconsiderate – cruel even.