The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (23 page)

‘Well, what did the Gallant Warrior say?’ asked King Nelaaz, shooing away his servants.

‘Everything and nothing,’ said the Priest of Xidrica dejectedly. His eyes fell to the mosaic floor as if they were lost in memories.

‘What does that mean?’ said the king.

‘Be quick, your patience serves no one but you,’ said the Grand Priest, demanding an answer with no hidden meanings.

‘Yes, put us out of our blasted misery, we’ve been waiting in the sun for hours; if it weren’t for my sweat cooling me down I’d have roasted like a pheasant,’ said King Nelaaz as he staggered, with difficulty, to his feet.

‘Your misery is nothing compared to what Marmicus endures because of you – remember that,’ snapped the Priest of Xidrica. All they seemed to think about was themselves, nothing more.

‘Well, what did the Gallant Warrior say?’

‘He said forgiveness is but a word, and he grants it to you for the sake of the people. So there’s no reason for your betrayal to torment you any longer, King of Aram. You finally have what you desired: the gods have spared you from shame, but as a friend to Marmicus I feel it’s only right to tell you that it has come at a great cost to him. Not only has he had to sacrifice his ideals, he’s had to bury his dignity along with them.’

‘Forgiveness is all I wished for,’ said King Nelaaz. Even though he felt a release of tension in his neck, he remained stricken with a guilty conscience. He had thought that his pledge would remove his feelings of guilt; truthfully, it did nothing but reinforce his deceitful nature.

‘And you, oh great scholar, you’re free to call upon the kings of Babylon and do whatever you wish with the Counsel. Whatever command you choose to make, the Gallant Warrior will follow and uphold it. Power means nothing without purpose. I just hope that the purpose is one that serves the interests of us all, not only you.’

‘It will,’ replied the Grand Priest of Ursar, acknowledging that he had been given real power.

‘If only you knew the gravity of your actions,’ said the young priest, ready to walk away.

‘Why are you so against the idea of uniting Babylon? It’s a wise idea, isn’t it?’ asked King Nelaaz. He was beginning to distrust his own idea; the young priest’s hesitation was enough to induce reluctance in anyone.

‘A good idea? You’ve plunged this kingdom into a war that’s now far deadlier than it initially was. If the armies of Babylon unite but don’t win, there’ll be nothing left of the city of Babylon but the dust fallen from its demolished walls. Jaquzan wants just this kingdom; this land possesses the spirit of the gods, and that’s why he wants to destroy it. He never had his heart set on Babylon, but now it’s his for the taking. Everything that is Babylonian will become Assyrian. We’ll watch our future become our history, and our present become our past. I’ve followed your orders to the letter, but I’ll take no more part in destroying Babylon. I’ve already done my fair share to destroy it.’ The young priest was astounded by his own stupidity. He looked at the king, waiting for a response, but none came. King Nelaaz had learnt that sometimes the best answer was silence, and so the chubby king remained silent.

Paross heard men’s voices outside his house; he ran through the small courtyard that led to the front door and placed his ear against the wooden door, hoping that he would recognise the voices, but he didn’t. His grandmother had told him not to open the door to anyone, not even the neighbour’s children. Paross ran back through the courtyard and up the spiral staircase; the only safe way to know who was outside was to see them from the roof. He opened the door and shooed the chickens away. They always ran to him whenever they saw him, since he was the one who fed them in the mornings. Finally, he looked over the wall. To his horror, he saw Assyrian soldiers everywhere. They had gathered around his house with their horses.

‘Burn it to the ground,’ said Nafridos, seeing the boy’s face appear.

Paross heard a loud thud downstairs, and looked over the wall. The soldiers were throwing burning missiles through the open windows of his house. Then he heard what sounded like a rush of air above his head and looked up to see something falling from the sky. Instantly he ran, kicking the chickens out of his way and wrenching the door open as he tried to escape whatever was heading towards him. Arrows thudded into the roof, narrowly missing him and killing the two chickens nearest to him. Not knowing what to do, Paross stumbled down the stairs, his hands reaching out as he tried to make his way through the dense smoke. He could barely see through it. He ran into the bedroom and crawled beneath his bed. Whenever he was scared he would hide there and wait for his grandmother to pick him up after he had fallen asleep. Paross shouted for help as parts of the roof crumbled and fell around him. His lungs felt tight, as he inhaled thick smoke and dust. If the soldiers didn’t kill him, then the fire certainly would. Paross closed his eyes and waited for his grandmother to reappear, like she always did. Then by some miracle he heard her voice; she was calling out his name. He opened his eyes, not knowing if it was really her outside – or his imagination. Another loud thud came, and this time a whole section of the roof crashed down into the next room; his home was ready to collapse. Paross let out a loud scream; he kicked his heels into the ground, feeling completely helpless. He didn’t want to die here, all alone, but he was too afraid to leave his bed.

‘Paross, Paross!’ yelled a voice from outside.

It was his grandmother’s voice again; this time he knew it was real, and she was outside waiting for him. He took a deep breath and crawled out from beneath his bed. With his small hands he covered his head and ran towards the faint light that came from the windows. Just as he was about to leave, he remembered something. There was little time left; he had to get out before the house collapsed on him. He threw his pillow aside and grabbed the papyrus, remembering everything his grandmother had told him.
Find a merchant who will take you to the Garden of the Gods, and deliver the letter to a woman who bears the name Sulaf. She’ll know exactly who to give it to. Whatever happens, don’t return to this kingdom. I’ll be waiting for you in spirit in the Garden of the Gods.

Summoning all his courage, the little boy placed the papyrus in his pocket, and ran towards the front door, ready to face the men who were waiting outside.

A thick cloud of rippling smoke rushed into the air, and searing flames soared higher into the night sky – sharp, dancing daggers that probed the heavens. Paross looked at his grandmother. The Assyrians had brought her along with them; her eyes were swollen and bruised, as were her arms and legs. She had been cruelly beaten. Paross held her hand tightly, and together they watched their home burn to the ground; everything that had value for them was slowly turning to charcoal, and by morning would be reduced to ash.

‘Grandma, wake up. I’m scared; please wake up.’

‘Don’t be afraid, I’m here,’ Jehan said, trying to open her eyes.

Deep down, she knew she could not protect him from the savages that surrounded them; all she could do was lie to him and tell him that everything was going to be fine. Jehan reached out and touched his face. She looked at him, remembering her daughter’s face. He looked so much like her: so innocently beautiful and too good for the world they lived in. Paross had large brown eyes and a snub nose, common in any child his age, but he was smaller than most eight year olds. He hated being small; he wanted to feel like a man, especially since he looked after his grandmother. She had always said that when he reached the age of twelve he would shoot up and become tall like his father. It made Paross look forward to his twelfth birthday.

‘Rope her and throw her into the fire. Let her scream for her freedom just like she promised us she would,’ said the Dark Warrior, the red flames painting his face the colour of blood. Paross yelled and clung to her, hoping somehow that he could protect her body from them.

‘It’s time to let go,’ said Jehan, hugging him. ‘Be brave like your mother.’

‘Don’t leave me, I won’t let you die,’ said Paross, kissing her. Even though he did not want to admit it, even to himself, he was saying goodbye.

‘Be brave for me,’ she said again.

Paross screamed as the Assyrian soldiers moved in and grabbed her; he tried to fight them off, but he couldn’t. They pulled him away and made him watch as they strung his grandmother’s wrists and ankles together with a thick rope as if she were an animal. The only person who could possibly stop this madness was the man who had ordered them to throw her into the fire. Paross looked at the Dark Warrior; he sat on his horse, smiling as he watched. Paross ran to him; a courageous act for such a small boy.

‘Make them stop! Please make them stop!’

Paross kissed his feet and clung to them; he looked up, hoping that the man would offer his grandmother mercy. Nafridos remained silent for a moment, then his lips curled.

‘Only a boy of courage would dare kiss the feet of a man who’s murdered men ten times his size; you have my respect for that. What’s your name, boy?’

‘Paross.’

‘Then wipe away your tears, Paross, and give me your hand,’ said Nafridos as he dismounted from his horse. He took the little boy’s hands, opening them out, and looked at them for a moment. They were small compared to his brutish fists. His men had all noticed the connection he had made with the little boy; it was unique for Nafridos, and rather extraordinary. They walked together towards the fire; a surge of bright sparks flew into the air.

‘Do you love your grandmother?’

‘Yes, she’s all I have.’

‘So you would do anything to save her?’

‘Yes, anything!’ cried the little boy, looking up at the man who offered him some hope.

‘Then she will be spared, but only if you can prove your courage to me like you did before.’

‘I will,’ cried the little boy. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He quickly wiped them away and looked up. Nafridos turned, and ordered his soldiers to untie the rope around Jehan’s feet; it was his way of persuading the little boy to trust him.

‘Have you ever played with fire?’

‘No,’ said the boy.

‘There’s a game I used to play when I was your age. All you have to do is stretch open your hands like this, and stand in front of the fire for as long as I can hold my breath. If you can keep them there for longer than I can hold my breath, then you’ve proved your bravery, and your grandmother will remain alive.’

‘But my hands will burn,’ said Paross, looking at the flames; he could feel the intense heat from where he stood.

‘Saving a life takes strength; you can either be brave like a warrior, and take the pain like a man, or you can turn away like a coward and watch your grandmother die. It’s up to you.’

Paross looked at his grandmother, uncertain what to make of the Dark Warrior’s game. The heat was ferocious; it left his skin sore. He could barely endure its wrath from where he stood, so how would he be able to stand so close to it, and for an indefinite time? Ultimately, he knew he could not live with himself if he did not try to save his grandmother’s life and, like any brave soul, he took his first steps towards the fire, wishing that the gods would bestow upon him the courage he needed.

The midnight winds grew stronger, causing the fire to grow into gigantic fireballs; the closer Paross got to the raging fire, the more bitter his saliva became. It was as if he were chewing and swallowing a lemon pip. Unbeknown to him, his lungs were filling with toxic gases that ran into his bloodstream. Paross felt light-headed and dizzy; every breath he inhaled drew in more poisonous fumes.

‘Show me your courage, and in return, I’ll show your grandmother my mercy,’ yelled the Dark Warrior from a distance. He watched the little boy descend towards the inferno, the outline of his small body flickering in the intensity of the flames.

Finally, the child reached the place where he had been told to stand. Paross stretched out his hands towards the mountain of flames; they were ready to roast like skewers of meat. Raising his arm into the air, Nafridos signalled for his heartless game to commence and took in what appeared to be a deep breath.

‘Don’t hold your breath for too long, Commander; he’ll be a pile of ash by the time you finish,’ the soldiers laughed. They all knew from experience that the Dark Warrior was breathing through his nose.

Paross began praying to the gods to bless him with the endurance and strength he needed to win the game. He coughed loudly as the smoke blew in the wind, blackening his face and burning his nostrils. Paross closed his eyes, his hands trembling in agony. He could feel the skin melting; he desperately fought against his instincts, wanting to keep them in place. He knew if he pulled his hands back, his grandmother would die, and he would be unable to live with the guilt. The only way to make it through this battle of endurance was to let the pain out. Paross screamed and stamped his feet. He could not take the agony; every second that passed was more torture. Blisters began to form on his hands. The agony was unbearable. His mind and body told him to pull his hands away, and each time he was about to, he remembered his grandmother lying, half-conscious, on the ground. He could not let her die, not when he had the power to save her. The Assyrian soldiers watched, some feeling nothing, others feeling emotions they thought had died long ago. Either way, the boy was truly brave, and for that he had won their respect.

‘He truly loves her,’ said one Assyrian soldier to another.

Paross fought on; his fingers swelled up as his blood boiled beneath the surface of his skin. He opened his eyes to see excruciating blisters the size of cardamom seeds on his palms. They were bursting, and it felt as though his skin was being smothered with lava then lashed off with a whip made from thorns. Eventually, the pain was too much for Paross to endure. He abruptly pulled his hands away from the fire, and fell to the ground, weeping; he had failed to save his grandmother from her killers.

‘I thought you were a courageous man; now I see you’re nothing more than a pathetic boy. Throw her into the fire!’ Nafridos roared. His top lip lifted in a snarl, revealing his gums and teeth. Any kindness that had briefly appeared on his face had completely vanished, as if it had never been present.