The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (22 page)

‘You’ve been blessed tonight, princess – what woman can say she’s been pleasured by a god?’ said Jaquzan. His slaves came to him; they wiped his toned body, cleansing it with aromatic water and perfume. The rich musk sickened Larsa; it was the scent that she now associated with him.

You are no god but you’ll meet him soon enough, and when you do, he’ll be unmerciful to you just as you’ve been unmerciful to others
, Larsa thought with hatred.

Once the slaves had finished with him, they quickly freed the princess’s hands and attended to her wounds, patting her wrists and ankles using a damp cloth. Larsa’s skin burned from the sharp tang of the lemon water, which irritated her open wounds.

‘Leave us,’ said the Assyrian emperor. He wrapped a swathe of long black material around his waist, and walked towards the princess, who lay on the bed curled up in a ball. Larsa thought he wanted to rape her a second time, and she closed her eyes. Surprisingly, Jaquzan sat on the bed, staring at her, doing nothing at first. ‘Now that we are united by the spirit of another, you will honour me and love me as your god, and in return I shall reward you with a hanging garden to remind you of the mountains your kingdoms once had before I flattened them. It shall be my gift to you, and your gift to me shall be the infant born of your womb, and blessed with my name.’

Larsa looked at him, knowing that what he presented as a romantic gesture was just another means to taunt her. Should he offer her the world, she would always choose to live with the stars.

‘A man who claims victory before winning his war is like a blind man who claims he can see in the darkness,’ said Larsa, looking at him. Her eye make-up had smudged, and her skin was yellow from fatigue.

Jaquzan took a deep breath. He understood she was angry, but that was no excuse for impolite behaviour.

‘I’ll tell you a secret, princess, one that will burn your heart with agony,’ said Jaquzan. He pressed his lips against her ear, and Larsa moved her face away, but Jaquzan quickly grabbed it in a shocking fit of rage, his fingers pressing into her cheeks. Larsa felt a shooting pain at the back of her neck and across her head. Jaquzan squeezed her skin, pressing her chin into her neck. Larsa looked at him as he covered her mouth with his hands, but Jaquzan’s facial expression remained unaltered; he was emotionally disconnected from what he was doing, showing anger only through his actions.

‘You have chosen a life of hardship, when you could have enjoyed a life of ease. Because of this, you will remain alive only until the day your womb brings forth my infant. I want you to hear your son cry for the first time, just as he hears your cry for the last time. So, love me or hate me, you will obey me …’

‘If the gods offered me the entire world I would still trade it in for your love,’ Sulaf whispered to herself. Her eyes followed her son Zechariah, who was playing with his dog, oblivious to war’s final approach and to his mother’s suffering. Rejection was beginning to tear her heart, shredding it into small pieces; she hated herself for allowing a man to have so much power and control over her. She had promised herself never to let that happen again. When Sulaf was married, she had fallen victim to her husband’s fists and his need for control: she may have possessed a mind and heart of her own, but her body had become his to direct, manipulate and abuse. She had promised she would never let that happen again, but it was a broken promise: her heart and mind belonged solely to Marmicus. They had become his to love, or hate, need or reject; and all she could do was wait on the sidelines, hoping that somehow he would see the good and beauty within her. But she knew he would never change his mind, not when he loved the princess so much.

She sat on the grass, recalling the cursed day when she found out that Marmicus had fallen in love with another woman. It was a memory embedded in her mind like a thread woven into the fabric of her anatomy; nothing could loosen it without damaging the rest of her body. Sulaf needed a way out. All she could think about was Marmicus and how he had humiliated her that morning, when all her dreams were about to come true. Something had to be done.

Sulaf remembered a story which she had heard as a child about a woman who lived in the cursed Black Mountain outside the kingdom. She had no idea if the story was true, but rumour had it that a powerful oracle lived there, who was able to grant requests so long as a sacrifice was made to her. The long journey to the oracle was most often made by those aggrieved souls on the verge of insanity and now, for the first time, Sulaf actually sympathised with them. Somehow she felt that the oracle possessed the answers she needed, and possibly the cure for the disease that had taken hold of her mind and body.

The day she had found out about Marmicus and the princess, she had gone to the marketplace to buy some beads to make a beautiful necklace for herself – the last one she made had been ripped from her neck by her brute of a husband, who had beaten her for serving him food he did not like. Sulaf was standing by the stall when she heard two old women gossiping. She ignored them at first; it was only when she heard the mention of Marmicus's name that she began to pay attention. She heard them say that the king had given his blessing for his daughter to marry the Gallant Warrior. Sulaf listened to every word. She was surprised that he had not mentioned anything to her. The more the women spoke, the deeper her heart sank. Sulaf pretended that she was busy searching for azure beads; she scattered them across the wooden table, searching for the most beautiful ones. She hoped the rumour was not true, for her own sake. Although Sulaf was married, she still felt connected to Marmicus, as if they were two petals from the same flower. She thought about him every night, even when her husband lay on top of her, pleasing himself but doing nothing to satisfy her needs. She only endured his touch by imagining that it was Marmicus.

The rumours continued for weeks. Sulaf heard various stories, but the underlying story remained the same, that Marmicus had fallen in love with the princess. Wherever Sulaf went, the rumours followed her, as if chasing her through the streets, but Sulaf kept dismissing them. Then, one day, a messenger came to her door and delivered to her a clay tablet. Marmicus had invited Sulaf to meet the princess at the palace. It was like a knife in her heart. Sulaf did not wish to go, but she forced herself to, taking comfort from the fact that any escape from her husband’s violent temper was welcome. The moment she entered the palace, her world collapsed, burying her. Marmicus and the princess’s happiness and love for one another were a reminder of how deeply unhappy and lonely she felt herself, sparking resentment and jealousy within her: feelings that over the months following grew out of control. Marmicus invited Sulaf to the palace many times, wanting her to be close to his wife, but she never went back again. Eventually they lost touch with one another; the stem had been cut.

Sulaf needed to rid Marmicus’s mind of the princess, and ultimately to take her place. This was her only hope. Sulaf began to tangle locks of her hair around her fingertips and think cruel thoughts about the princess. Even though she believed her to be dead, she hated her with a passion: like fire and water, nothing could have made them friends or allies.

‘Don’t turn in your grave, princess, I’m merely undoing what you did to me,’ Sulaf said, standing up. Her hair blew in the wind as she looked out, seeing the bulk of the large dark mountain in the background. Somewhere, in the distance, was a woman who could set Marmicus’s heart free, untangle it and hand it over to Sulaf to keep forever.

‘With age comes wisdom, but in your case I see you’ve traded it in for treachery,’ said Nafridos. He crouched down, glaring menacingly at the old woman who lay on the hot dusty ground. She had been left out in the sun for two days like leather being dried. Her frail hands and feet were bruised, having been handled roughly by brute soldiers. Each limb was tied to a wooden post. Nafridos held a green apple in his hand. Skilfully he twirled his knife, peeling the skin in front of the elderly woman whose torture he had ordered. He cut a piece of the green apple, and dangled it over her nose and her lips, trying to tempt her to talk. She moaned. Her lips were chapped, the flaky skin clumped and hardened by the sun.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, as he bit into the apple, crunching it loudly with his teeth. Juice burst from his lips. ‘You can have it. Just tell me what you know.’

Jehan refused to answer his question. She moaned again, turning her head from side to side in painful protest.

‘You’re an old woman. This isn’t the time for you to be brave. You should carry on living out the few miserable years left to you in peace. Now, tell me, what did the princess give you?’

‘Courage to dream … once again …’ Jehan whispered faintly, struggling to speak. She looked into the sky, feeling the white light of the sun against her face; and she imagined heaven, how pure it was, and free from suffering.

‘You mean, courage to die,’ Nafridos mocked. He rose from the burning ground and walked around her, flicking sand onto her face with his sandals. Jehan closed her eyes and remained silent. She had no idea what they were going to do to her; it was the not knowing that frightened her.

‘Where’s the informant who saw everything?’ Nafridos asked a soldier.

‘She’s not here, my lord.’

‘Go and get her.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied the Assyrian soldier, departing swiftly to carry out his orders.

‘Why do you want to die for the princess? She’s not one of you. She’s never been like you.’

‘I’ll die … for … my freedom,’ said the maid, using all her strength to speak. Her throat had become so dry that it felt like a hot stone had been wedged there; she could no longer see the Dark Warrior’s face; she could only hear his words.

‘You’ll never have your freedom, not while I’m alive.’

For no apparent reason, Jehan smiled. Her torturer looked at her, not knowing why she should react like that.

‘You’re wrong … I’ve already … set myself free … with my voice … and my words …’ she whispered, looking up at him. Jehan felt reborn, finding inner peace at last after all these years of suffering.

‘If you’re free, then why can’t you stop me from doing this?’ said Nafridos as he crushed her hand with his foot, using his whole weight. Jehan screamed. Her body shook violently, but she was held in place by the wooden posts. Nafridos heard the bones inside her frail hand crack as he stamped on it.

‘This is only the beginning; by the end you’ll be begging me to kill you. So why waste my time? I’ll ask you one last time: what did the princess give you? If you tell me now, I will set you free to live out your miserable existence.’

‘My lord, here’s the informant,’ interrupted the soldier, pushing her in front of him. Nafridos looked at her. Like all men, he hated traitors, even if they had provided him with valuable information.

‘What happened? What did you see?’ asked the Dark Warrior. She was youthful and striking, with smooth brown skin and short plaited hair, but her treachery made her appear grotesque to Nafridos.

‘I never saw much, just that the princess gave her a letter. She took it and hid it beneath her gown,’ the woman said, taking long deep breaths. Nobody wanted to stand in front of the Dark Warrior; in some ways he was more frightening than the Assyrian emperor because he lacked logic and reasoning.

‘Who did she give it to?’

‘No one; she took it home with her, my lord.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I followed her, my lord. She doesn’t live far from here.’

‘Is that everything you know?’

‘No. The princess asked about her grandson; I think she wanted him to take the letter somewhere.’

‘He’s … innocent …’ moaned Jehan, using all the energy she had left. She opened her eyes crazily as if some spirit possessed her.

‘No one’s innocent in this world; the day we’re born is the day we’re destined to do evil,’ said Nafridos. He looked at the informant with disgust; for some reason he felt that a woman betraying another woman was far worse than a man betraying a man, but right now he needed her to lead them to the boy. ‘You’ll take us to her grandson. If you try to mislead us you’ll join them both in the afterlife.’

‘I won’t fail you,’ she said, kneeling and kissing his feet. She was just grateful that they had not killed her. Of course, there was no guarantee they would not do so at a later stage; she knew that the only way to escape their brutal hands was to lead them to the boy. And, like any traitor, she had no second thoughts about the well-being of others, even if the person being hunted was but an innocent child.

‘What’s the matter with your robes now? I see no fleas upon them,’ the Grand Priest of Ursar puffed with irritation. He did not know what was worse – waiting for their fate to be revealed or having to spend another second with the nauseating King of Aram.
Give me patience before I lose my calm with this idiotic buffoon …

‘The gods have cursed me with a blasted sweat. I wouldn’t wish this wretched curse on my worst enemy, including you,’ King Nelaaz howled. Even his scalp seemed to sweat. He scratched his head and looked at his fingertips, picking out the white bits that stuck beneath his nails. The Grand Priest placed a handkerchief over his mouth and shut his eyes; he could not bear to watch the ghastly sight of the king picking at his flaking scalp; it made his stomach heave. Fortunately for the Grand Priest of Ursar, he would not have to endure it for much longer. Both of them had noticed the young Priest of Xidrica walking towards them – hopefully, bringing with him some favourable news. Whatever the news, their destiny had at last been sealed.

‘Where have you been? If you had taken any longer, the war would have been fought and lost by now,’ said the Grand Priest of Ursar, watching him walk back slowly as if he were some kind of passing shadow. They could only guess at the outcome; it did not help that the young priest wore a blank and empty expression, with a hint of disappointment. The truth was, he felt used, like a sacrificial goat, in pursuit of their interests, and because of this he felt ashamed of what he had become.