The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (21 page)

‘Whenever honourable men disappear, they’re sorely missed,’ the young Priest of Xidrica smiled. He walked towards the Gallant Warrior, embracing him with brotherly affection. ‘You look better than you did a few days ago. I’m happy to see that.’

‘I still don’t feel it,’ Marmicus said as he let go, and poured some barley beer into a cup. He needed a strong drink to make him feel better.

‘Well, that’s to be expected,’ the Priest of Xidrica said solemnly. He felt burdened by what he had to tell the Gallant Warrior. He had gone through enough already, but the Counsel had forced him to act; if he did not, he would be in the line of fire. The priest asked if they could go to the garden where no one could hear them talk, and directed Marmicus out of the chamber. It was an odd request: the weather was not fitting for a stroll, the wind was harsh, and it was beginning to pour with rain. Something was obviously on his mind. Marmicus obliged, and they walked around the palace gardens, silent at first. Eventually the priest stopped, and turned to him.

‘May I ask you a question? It’s not why I’ve come to you, but I am curious to know the answer.’

‘You can ask me whatever you wish; there are no boundaries between brothers,’ said Marmicus, trying to put him at ease.

‘I am a man of faith, who knows very little about war and death, but somehow I imagine that if I saw a man die, it would strengthen my faith in the gods – not the opposite. You’ve seen death more than anyone else in this kingdom, but you don’t seem to believe in the gods. What makes you doubt their existence?’

‘Is it my lack of faith that’s troubling you?’

‘Nothing in your character troubles me, Marmicus. I’m just curious to know the answer …’

‘I can’t believe in the gods, not when I know innocent people die, and oppressors live. If there’s a god out there, I’m still waiting to see his justice. Until then I’ll rely on myself for it.’

‘Well, you may not believe in the gods, my dear friend, but you do possess a godly spirit I admire and respect,’ said the priest. He placed his hand on Marmicus’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly. ‘Now I must tell you something which requires courage to forgive, and strength to accept.’

‘What is it?’

‘As you know, we’re on the brink of war, and in times of war, your greatest enemies can become friends. The King of Aram has made an offer of allegiance to you. He wants your forgiveness and in return he’ll offer this kingdom his army to fight in our cause. The Counsel has accepted the proposition, but it means nothing without your forgiveness.’

‘If they think I can forgive him, then they’re asking the impossible. I’ll never forgive him, not after what he’s done to me.’

The Priest of Xidrica understood how difficult the request was; it was natural that Marmicus would refuse – he was only human. The Gallant Warrior would have to swallow his pride and publicly pardon someone who had grossly and hideously deceived him.

‘I know it’s not a simple request, and I don’t blame you for rejecting it, but I’ve been compelled to ask you by the Counsel. They’re waiting for an answer.’

‘Then the Counsel has proven itself willing to accept bribes from men who offer no real allegiance,’ replied Marmicus. He walked to the stone table. Placing his hands flat against it, his hatred boiled inside him. The more he served the kingdom the more he began to loathe the Counsel and its politics. Counsellors thought only of themselves, and had sent the one man who did good to exploit him. ‘Go back and tell them that I don’t want his allegiance or his men. Nothing he can offer can make me forgive him, not after what he’s done.’

‘Are you certain of your choice? I know you hate him, Marmicus, but he’s offering this kingdom a way out. If you accept, ten thousand men will join our army, and fight alongside us. Without them, we are left alone to defend ourselves.’

The young priest was right. Marmicus was lost, on the horns of a life or death dilemma he had never expected. He had always tried to be just in everything he did; now he realised that the compassion of his heart had limits. In the end, he was like any other man, afflicted by a human desire to avenge and hate.

The priest looked steadily at the Gallant Warrior, waiting for an answer. The fate of the kingdom depended on his ability to forgive. The question was, could he find the strength to do that?

‘If I don’t accept his pledge I become the oppressor of my own people. If I do, I become the oppressor of my soul,’ he whispered, turning to the young priest, searching for an answer. ‘What would you do, if you were in my position?’

‘I can’t tell you what you should do, Marmicus; the load you carry upon your shoulders can only be felt by you. No advice I offer will make the load lighter, or ease the journey you’ll have to take. But I will say this. Forgiveness is no different to any battle: it takes strength and sacrifice, and in the end there’s no guarantee that peace will follow.’

Hearing these words, Marmicus tried his best to rationalise his actions. Today he was fighting the hardest battle he had ever encountered in his lifetime; it was a struggle from within, his enemy was himself and the battle was for his pride.

‘What’s your decision? Are you prepared to pardon the King of Aram for betraying you and this kingdom?’ asked the priest. He looked at Marmicus, with no idea what the answer would be.

‘Forgiveness is but a word. If that’s what the king desires to hear then so be it. He shall have my forgiveness, and in return I shall have his army. I mourn my honour so that others do not mourn their fathers or brothers on the battlefield,’ Marmicus whispered.

‘Freedom means nothing without sacrifice. Your sacrifice makes you the wise leader you are; for this you’ve earned the people’s admiration and my sincere respect,’ said the young priest. He moved closer to the warrior, who stood in silence. Although his words were soft, they echoed powerfully with meaning.

Tapping his plump fingers against the arm of his chair, King Nelaaz of Aram fidgeted. He sat slouched, with his belly rolled forward, and his nose twitching from the bristles of his ginger moustache. He felt like a prisoner waiting for his fate to be revealed. The Grand Priest of Ursar watched the king scratch his belly; the sound of his nails digging into his skin made him feel queasy.

‘Do you find pleasure in irritating all those around you, or is it just me?’ asked the Grand Priest of Ursar. Too anxious to care about the remark, King Nelaaz of Aram began to bite his already short fingernails to the point that he made them bleed.

‘Do you think the young priest has persuaded him to accept my pledge?’ King Nelaaz whispered. His voice cracked with nervousness. The more he thought about it, the less optimistic he became.

‘Only time shall tell, and in that time we’ll know the direction of our fate,’ said the Grand Priest of Ursar.

Larsa needed all her strength today. Her day of reckoning had arrived: the slaves had come into her chamber to purify her body so that she was worthy of being touched by the Assyrian emperor. They had purposely waited for her body to heal from all its bruises – Jaquzan was not one to touch something that was unworthy of him. Every morning she was examined by slaves. Now the hourglass offered no more grains to spare; the time had come for her to kneel in surrender to the master who commanded it. Powerless to stop her imminent rape, Larsa cried and trembled. Repeating the poem written by her father, she hoped that it would instil in her the same courage.

‘I am not afraid,

I will speak louder,

I will be braver,

I will be all that I can be,

If I believe then I become,

I am free, even if shackled as a slave,

I am pure, even if painted by the hatred of others,

I am my own,

I will not hide in shadows, or disguise myself in another’s presence,

I am the love of my people.

What is destined can never be undone, but what is unwritten belongs solely to me …’

Larsa thought about Marmicus; she remembered his love, how pure it was and how lucky she had been to experience it. She thought about the way he had made love to her on their last night, how he had cradled her, wiped her tears and stroked her cheek. Never in her whole life had she ever imagined that she would betray him like this.
Forgive me
, she thought, unable to understand what she had done to deserve this. The more she thought about her ill fortune, the more her heart sank. She read the poem again, this time louder and more passionately. The slaves watched her as they began their preparations, the princess choking with every helpless breath. They sympathised with her, but they did nothing to comfort her. They led her to a pool filled with camel’s milk, in which she was to be forced to bathe. Larsa looked into it. All she wanted to do was drown in it, and the only thing stopping her from taking her life was the little life growing inside her.

Larsa felt her knees shake as she dipped into the pool. The slaves held her by the arms, trying to give her the strength to walk. She closed her eyes and dipped her head into the milk, thinking of everything she had endured up to this moment.Finally, they helped her out, and led her to another pool, filled with rose water. There they washed her body and moisturised her skin with lavender oil until it glowed brightly. Her long brown hair was combed; her lips were reddened with the pigment of saffron and orange lily pollen, and her eyes were darkened with kohl. They placed a white silk robe over her body to symbolise her rebirth, and clipped a heavy necklace made of pure gold around her neck.

‘Tonight you are a goddess,’ said the slave woman. She placed a crown upon the princess’s head, signifying her readiness for the emperor.

‘Wait. I need to see Jehan, I won’t go without speaking to her, not even if you try to drag me,’ said the princess.

‘Why do you wish to see her?’

‘I need her reassurance. I can’t disappoint your emperor, not when he’s spared my body and my life. Let her come to me, so I can be at my best when he sees me,’ replied Larsa. It was the only answer she could think of that made any sense. She wiped her tears and stared deeply into the woman’s eyes without blinking: unknowingly, the princess had mastered the act of deception; it was necessary for her survival.

‘Wait here, I’ll bring her to you.’

Larsa watched the slave women turn away. They walked out the grand doors of the chamber, one by one, like a line of soulless sheep. Larsa rushed towards the wooden divan. Her hands slid across and under the fabric, trying desperately to find the golden papyrus. Larsa grabbed it, feeling instant relief, and held it tightly in her hand, hiding it as best she could. The papyrus was the only way to protect the sanctity of her unborn child’s name.
Marmicus must know of his infant! It is the only way to prevent the carvings of history from spreading deceitful lies for all eternity …

‘You called upon me, Your Highness?’

Jehan had been followed into the chamber by a guard. They knew they could not talk freely without drawing attention to their plan. Larsa embraced the maid tightly as if she were saying farewell to her own mother.

‘Living a life without friendship is like becoming a prisoner of your own flesh,’ she whispered, hugging her tightly as she rested her head against her shoulder. ‘Please give my love to your grandson. I’ve been thinking of him all this while …’

Larsa discreetly slipped the papyrus into the maid’s hand, desperately hoping that nobody had seen her.

‘I’ll send him your love, Your Highness, you can be certain of that.’

Jehan took hold of the papyrus, slipping it into the folds of her shawl; whatever the risk, she would fulfil her promise and entrust the papyrus to her grandson. It was a pledge that she would not forsake, despite the obvious danger that threatened both of them.

‘Hurry up, the emperor’s waiting,’ said the Assyrian guard.

‘Be strong, Your Highness, your freedom will be neither aspiration nor myth: it will be real’, the old woman whispered into her ear, hoping to comfort her. She could feel the princess’s body trembling in her arms. The guard’s patience had run out; if the princess was late he would be the one in serious trouble with the emperor. He tugged at her arm, trying to pull her away. Larsa held onto the maid, squeezing her hand tightly, not wanting to let go; their arms straightened until eventually Larsa was forced to let go.

‘Don’t forget, I need you!’ she shouted.

‘Be quiet, whore,’ the guard said, pulling her away.

Larsa wept all the way to the emperor’s chamber.

Rape would not be the only calamity to befall her that night. Unknown to the princess, one of the slave women had been secretly watching. She had seen Larsa slip the papyrus into the maid’s hands, and like any slave who longed for freedom, she hoped that her knowledge would be enough to win it.

The sinful deed was done. The Assyrian emperor rose from the princess’s unclothed body and drifted away without thoughts or feelings about the wrong he had committed against her. Larsa remained still, her thighs – her whole body – aching. Disgrace and shame left her in an unearthly trance, as if her soul now mimicked Jaquzan’s inhuman aura; perhaps the closeness of his body against hers had left some unseen imprint upon her, like a fingerprint on a pure and untainted surface.

Larsa’s hands and feet had been bound. They now bled. She had been defiant, lunging and biting, hoping somehow she could save her integrity. Eventually, their bodies had connected like a rosebud to a stem; Jaquzan’s movements were rhythmic, his touch was passionate and his kiss was poison to her flesh. He stared unashamedly into her eyes throughout the ordeal, his pupils enlarging the moment he insinuated himself between her thighs. Larsa closed her eyes, thinking only of revenge: she knew if she did not, she would die from her heartache. Sounds of pleasure came from Jaquzan’s lips the moment he was inside her. Larsa cried, knowing that she had lost the battle to save her sanctity and that of her infant. His sounds reminded Larsa that he was indeed like any man. As soon as Jaquzan had finished, his cold exterior returned like plates of armour being strapped onto his chest. Larsa curled up in a ball. She felt dirty and impure.