The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (29 page)

But there had been a time when the merchant had nothing to live on; he had lost all his wealth in one imprudent bet. He was given a choice: he could either die a rich man, refusing to give up what he possessed, or he could live the life of a poor man, with nothing. He had chosen the latter. Unexpectedly, he had found that life as a rich man was as worthless as a slave’s and as miserable as a mule’s, and from that moment forward he made a pledge to himself that he would never shun a man or harm an animal.

As the nights trickled on and his robes became dirty and fell apart, the merchant still found a strange sense of contentment in his life, something that he had never experienced before. He found himself being happy with the simple things life offered; he ate oats for supper and drank only water. Every day he watched the sun rise and set, hearing the birds jubilantly sing, when before he had scarcely realised they were there. With no wine to poison his thoughts or cloud his judgement, the merchant would smile and admire the natural jewels of the earth that lay before him. It was an unexpected gift; paradise had come to him when he had lost everything, until one day his life unexpectedly changed again.

The merchant was crossing the desert, hoping to find an oasis where he could live peacefully with nothing else but his camel and goats. He wandered for days. On his journey through the desert he saw a caravan that had halted. For whatever reason, the caravan had lost its way and had eventually run out of water. The penniless merchant had only noticed it because of the vultures circling above it. He kicked his heels into the sides of his camel and galloped until he finally reached the caravan, and by pure good fortune he had come to the caravan’s rescue just in time. Lying on the sand were an old man and his dead slaves; the old man was dressed in exquisite gowns, like those the merchant had enjoyed in his past life. The merchant knelt down, and lifted the master of the caravan’s head, wanting to revive him, but time was not on his side.

‘I envy you,’ said the master of the caravan, uttering his last words.

‘Why? I have nothing,’ replied the merchant, and put his ear close to the dying man.

The young merchant sprinkled cool water upon the dying man’s lips, hoping to revive him. The taste of it was unlike anything else the old man had ever tasted. In his arms, the frail man slowly died and at that moment the penniless merchant, who had lost everything, was restored to wealth. Soon his robes shimmered again, and his belly grew. He had inherited everything material that the dying man had left, but over time he came to lose all that he had acquired in spirit. His heart hardened and his eyes lost the jubilant sparkle brought about by a simple life. Suddenly the sun did not seem so bright any more, or glorious; the stars appeared dull and common; and, as for the pledge that he had made to himself, it was but words lost with the breath of the wind. The compassion of his heart turned to stone, and his greed was fuelled by a desire for more, until one day he came to regret it. For the merchant was hated by many men, particularly by his slaves, who had suffered under his brutal tyranny and leather whip. He had beaten and tortured them until he had broken them; the marks on their bodies testified to this. But, wherever oppression exists, rebellion against a dictator is bound to follow …

The stillness of the night was ruffled by a shadow, which crept secretly through the desert, nearing the merchant’s resting form. He was sleeping peacefully, wrapped up in silk, unaware that a black figure was standing over his body, scowling at him. The Shadow’s eyes were shaped like a hyena’s; every time the clouds drifted away from the moon they faintly sparkled then disappeared again. He had seen how his master had treated the child, smiling cruelly as he whipped him. The boy had shown so much courage, when the men around him had shown none – not even he. For this, the Shadow felt ashamed, sickened by what he had become. How could a child who had barely lived possess so much courage and bravery? At that moment the Shadow had vowed that he would do all that was in his power to help Paross.

With his large hands the Shadow clasped a straw basket used to store hot bread; tonight, however, there was no scent of sweet dough in the air. The fire had died out, only blackened logs remaining. The Shadow had come for another purpose. He quietly lifted the straw lid, tilting the basket sideways, and began to rattle it as if he were sprinkling winter seeds over the merchant’s body. Small yellow creatures began to fall out of the straw basket, making a scuttling noise. The sand crunched beneath the Shadow’s feet as he hurried backwards, trying not to tread on the creatures.
Justice never forgets the evildoer
, he thought, lifting his arms into the lofty sky as if asking his god to send thunder down upon the merchant’s sleeping body. He had been the victim of the merchant’s torments for so long, had been ridiculed for the darkness of his skin and struck for his belief in a One-God. Each night, when the Shadow knelt before his god in humble prayer, the merchant would whip his back and the soles of his feet; for years he had clenched his fists, enduring the pain much as Paross had, but tonight he could no longer remain silent; something inside him had snapped.

Suddenly, the merchant felt a tickling sensation on his arm; he grunted as he scratched his skin, hoping to rid himself of whatever insect had landed on him. The ticklish feeling disappeared for a moment, but immediately returned. This time he felt it everywhere. Only half-awake, he rolled over, trying to change position, wanting to go back to sleep, until he felt a sharp pain, as if someone had prodded him with a needle. He woke up fully and opened his eyes to a nightmare. The merchant screamed: he was covered in desert scorpions. They were everywhere, scuttling across his bedding and among the folds of his robes, their segmented tails curved over their backs. Every time the merchant moved they stung him, injecting their venom into his bloodstream.

‘Now you’ll shriek like a mule and we’ll all be here to watch,’ the Shadow said, emerging from the darkness like the angel of death itself. Nothing could save the merchant now; the paralysis had begun and he was drowning from within. A trickling numbness spread throughout his body, with hot lumpy patches emerging all over his skin from the stings of the scorpions.

‘Help me, you wretched fools!’ cried the merchant, trying to wake his slaves, realising his predicament. He needed them to help him. ‘Wake up quickly! Wake up, he’s trying to kill me!’

The slaves were already awake. Not one of them moved an inch. They watched as their master struggled to breathe. Each time he moved it became far worse for him; the scorpions were darting their venomous tails into his back, leaving his joints to stiffen and his blood vessels to burst. His muscles were going into paralysis, his lungs filling with fluid. The slaves watched their master bristle in agony; instead of feeling pity for him, they felt a wave of relief. Many of his slaves had died at his hands; and finally their deaths were being avenged.

Lifting the merchant’s head, the Shadow slid his fingers beneath the silk fabric and reached for the golden papyrus which lay underneath.

‘Get away from it, it’s mine,’ the merchant groaned. Saliva ran out of his mouth. His eyes were so bloodshot he could hardly see.

‘It was never yours to start with,’ said the Shadow. He put his head next to the merchant’s ear, making sure that he could hear his every word before he entered the afterlife. ‘A poor man may have nothing, but he always has justice on his side.’

The Shadow stood up. He had at last been reunited with justice after so long. He walked towards the feeble boy, who slept on the ground, and gently woke him up. Paross rubbed his eyes. He thought it was already morning, but it was still the middle of the night.

‘Take this, I know it belongs to you,’ the Shadow whispered. He leant in and handed him the papyrus. Paross looked at him, completely unaware of what had happened or how he had come to be in possession of the papyrus. He turned around and saw the merchant lying dead, flat on his back.

‘May the gods bless you,’ said Paross. He took the papyrus from the Shadow’s hand, holding it to his chest.

‘No …’ the Shadow smiled as he looked towards the heavens and pointed upwards. ‘May the One-God bless you.’

‘Be sure to savour the warmth of the sun on your skin, because by nightfall your bodies shall be buried beneath the damp soil!’ said Nafridos. He marched past a long line of men who stood in a single row, each dressed in thick armour. They wore iron helmets, and their bulging muscles were covered in heavy metal plates to shield them from the impact of their enemies’ blades. They had all been rounded up for the same purpose; to fight the Dark Warrior on the training field so that he could strengthen his swordsmanship for the battlefield.

‘Remember my face well; it shall be the last thing you see on this earth. If any of you desire vengeance in the afterlife, then wait for me beside the pits of hellfire.’

The Dark Warrior searched for the strongest opponent who could match his fighting prowess. His eyes flickered across the long line and came to rest on one man. He was in luck. Standing at the far end of the line was a black slave whose biceps were thick like the brute muscles of a stallion.
His death is worthy of glory …

‘You shall be the first to die,’ Nafridos said, pointing his blade towards the tall man. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed a challenge, and today he would make the most of it.

The Nubian prisoner stepped forward, his shadow covering the two men who stood either side of him.

‘I’ll take pleasure in killing any Assyrian where I may find them. I’ll crush you with my hands and leave you begging for air,’ said the Nubian.

He twisted his head from side to side, clicking the bones in his neck, than spat into his hands, the better to grip his sword. ‘Your men robbed my wife of her dignity, and killed my child; now I’ll take your life just as you took theirs.’

‘Did your wife squeal like a pig when they ravaged her or cry like a whore who enjoyed it?’ Nafridos laughed, goading him. He began to undo the black swathe which he wore around his burly chest, revealing his sculpted muscles. Unlike his challengers, he wore no armour or helmet to protect his body from harm. A slave stepped forward, holding the Dark Warrior’s armour. He lifted it to place it upon his master’s shoulders, but Nafridos pushed him away.

‘I can see your desire to kill me in your eyes, so I’ll make it easy for you, giant. Choose whatever weapon you want from my collection, and wear your armour, and I’ll fight you with only a sword in my hands. What do you say?’

There was a long silence from his opponent, laden with distrust; the Nubian slave knew that he already possessed the advantage due to his sheer size, so why would he need anything else to improve his chances of killing his opponent?

‘My lord, are you sure you don’t want your armour?’

‘If I need a shield on the battlefield I’ll use your body as one. Now choose your weapon, giant; I want to bury your body before sunset.’

The Nubian nodded, agreeing to the conditions of combat, then walked past the weapons, considering each one carefully. On the ground were a long line of swords, axes and spears used to hunt lions and butcher soldiers. Eventually he paused at one weapon designed to bludgeon any opponent to death. He was imagining how he could use each one to kill his opponent, trying to anticipate his moves. He looked at a mace made from solid iron, with razor-sharp spikes running round the ball. Connected to it was a long metal chain with a thick handle for the warrior to clasp as he swung it.

‘I’ve made my choice. I choose this. When it hits your face it shall crush your bones from the inside and leave you bleeding until death greets you.’

‘Only a giant would choose this weapon to defend his honour,’ Nafridos laughed. He directed his guards to lift up the mammoth mace and hand it to the Nubian. ‘Your words excite me. Every man I’ve met upon the battlefield knows for certain that he shall die. When I kill you I shall watch your hope die with you.’

Nafridos knelt on the ground to carry out his sacred pre-battle ritual. He took out the sharp dagger he used to slice tongues, then slid the blade against his hand, cutting into the skin. His shoulder muscles clenched for a moment than relaxed, as if being massaged by the sadistic feeling that rushed through his veins. The giant watched, slightly unsettled by the strange ritual. Nafridos grabbed his sword from his slave, and wiped his blood across the hilt and down its length. Taking sand from the dusty ground, he sprinkled it across the thick metal grip, creating a grit paste which dried instantly as his blood coagulated. Now he had the best grip possible to kill any enemy that approached him.

‘In death we find solace from life; today I’ll offer it to you freely,’ said Nafridos …

Silence filled the training courtyard. The giant faced his opponent, ready to fight to the death and obtain the justice he deserved and craved. The remaining prisoners looked on, feeling relief; they were grateful that they could live another day. Of course, it was only a matter of time before their luck ran out. Their hopes rested on the Nubian giant, who was athletic and strong. If he could not kill the Dark Warrior, what chance did they have?

The Nubian prisoner closed his eyes, remembering the faces of his wife and child; the last time he had held his daughter was when he had buried her in a shallow grave. She had appeared to be sleeping peacefully in his arms, just as she had done at night. He remembered untangling her hands from his, and placing her in the wet ditch, knowing that he would never see her again.

‘Let the battle between giants commence.’

The Nubian prisoner hoisted the mace above his head. His muscles flexed as he twirled the chain in a vicious circle, creating a destructive force capable of killing anything that stood in its path. The iron ball was flung towards Nafridos; he bent his knees, reacting quickly as the sharp metal spikes flew past him, narrowly missing his face.

‘Is that all you’ve got, giant? I expected better.’