The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (32 page)

‘Who is it?’ asked Sulaf, glad to have company. Despite resting for several days, her journey to the Black Mountain had mentally exhausted her. Since she had returned, she could not eat or drink, or even bring herself to leave the house. Sulaf sat on a chair, stringing together lapis lazuli beads to make a necklace for herself. It was nearly finished; the bright blue beads would look glorious against her sun-stained complexion.

‘I don’t know who they are. I’ve never seen them before. They look like slaves; their clothes are all torn, Mama.’

Sulaf stopped what she was doing, somewhat unsettled by her son’s remark. The beads of her necklace fell, spinning, across the table and onto the floor.

‘Come inside quickly, I don’t want anyone to see you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mama,’ said Zechariah. The tone of his mother’s voice had changed. He rushed into his room and hid behind the wooden door as he always did whenever there was danger. Sulaf had taught him to hide there; it meant he could easily escape the house if anything happened. With no one else to protect the boy, Sulaf had always thought about these things; it was ingrained in her. Her paranoia came from the beatings her husband had inflicted on her over the years – they remained with her even after his death. Sulaf hated him for hurting her, but she hated herself more for not standing up to him when he did. Her experiences had made her strong and independent, but at the same time they had instilled bitterness within her, which had been directed at the princess.

The hardest times for Sulaf had been when she lay with her husband. Every night and each waking morning she would look into his eyes, knowing that the man she loved was looking into someone else’s. She endured her husband’s touch only because she imagined he was Marmicus.

All the while, Marmicus was in the arms of another woman who never knew him the way she did. Larsa had the pleasure of seeing his face while Sulaf would lie with her tormentor and cry herself to sleep.

With war looming, the need to take precautions naturally resurfaced. Sulaf grabbed her shawl, draping the soft material over her head and across her shoulders, wanting to conceal her beauty from those who were coming. She could not think of a reason for anyone to journey out here; it was so far from the city. Someone was either lost, or had come with the intention of robbing her. Sulaf grabbed her dagger as a precaution, concealing it in the folds of her shawl. She had no intention of using it, but it made her feel safe as she walked out of her house. Sulaf looked behind her, making sure her son was well hidden. Walking towards her were a small boy and a man. It was a relief to know that there was a child; it surely meant that there was less chance of danger. Sulaf looked at the boy. He was no older than her son, possibly younger, but he wore the same wild smile as any enthusiastic child. It never occurred to her that the oracle’s prophecy was about to come true; in fact, she had entirely forgotten about it, believing that the woman was mad.

‘It’s her; she’s the woman my grandmother spoke of; I know it,’ said Paross to Abram. He saw Sulaf standing a short distance ahead. Although Paross had yet to speak to her, something inside him made him certain that she was the person he had been searching for. After all the miles they had walked, they had found her. The child had overcome every obstacle trying to reach her, and at last his journey was nearing an end. Paross ran to her, leaving Abram to trail behind him. He watched as the little boy sprinted to Sulaf. At his age, Paross could have no idea about women and their jealousies; if he had, he would have known that the greatest poison that can run in their veins is envy, and that Sulaf had plenty of it.

Sulaf looked at the boy’s hands. They were tiny, like her son’s. Unlike his, this boy’s hands were covered with brown blisters, some the size of shekels. Under his fingernails was a line of dirt the same colour as wet mud. Sulaf immediately knew that Paross was not from the Garden of the Gods, because of his unclean appearance. No child who lived within the vicinity of the Garden of the Gods appeared so filthy; even peasant men took the time to swim within the cool Euphrates river to cleanse themselves.

‘Are you Sulaf?’ asked the boy.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘I’ve crossed the desert searching for you; you’ve been the one thought that’s travelled with me,’ said Paross.

‘Why have you been searching for me?’

Paross looked up, feeling embarrassed, as would any child in front of a stranger.

‘So you can grant my grandmother peace in her grave.’ He was fighting to hold back his tears; they gathered at the corner of his eyes, until his long eyelashes forced them to roll down his dirty cheeks. He quickly wiped them away, using his tattered sleeve, and sniffed. Paross didn’t want Sulaf to feel sorry for him, but he could see pity in her eyes.

Paross had asked many people within the kingdom where Sulaf lived. Finally someone had told him where to find her. He had run eagerly, with Abram following behind. Every step closer to her house had made the burden he carried a little lighter.

‘My grandmother wanted you to have this letter before she died. She said that once you have read it you’ll know who to give it to. I’ve travelled a great distance to find you, so I can give it to you.’

The little boy dug deep into his pocket and took out something wrapped in cloth. Paross had ripped the material from his own clothes in his desire to protect the papyrus.

Sulaf watched him remove the cloth. As soon as he did, she remembered the oracle’s words. She stepped back, feeling frightened by the child who warmly extended his hand to her. It was as if the oracle’s breath had touched her skin, making her jolt. She remembered what the oracle had said:
There will come to you a child with great innocence in his heart and a powerful message carried within his palms. Make no mistake: this boy is your enemy. In his hands he holds a dagger capable of killing any hope of love offered to you by the Gallant Warrior. Kill the boy or kill his message. Whatever you decide, be sure that Marmicus knows nothing about the golden papyrus, for it is as much your enemy as the princess herself …

Sulaf could not believe it. The oracle had been right. Everything was happening just as she had described; she could clearly see the papyrus in his hands. Her eyes were drawn to it but she was frightened, unsure what the message would say. Paross looked at the papyrus for the last time, knowing that one final act was all that was needed; he hoped his grandmother would find peace at last.

‘I tried my best to look after it for you. I’m sorry if it’s a little dirty,’ said Paross, looking at the papyrus. It was torn around the edges and had little brown blotches of blood on its surface.

‘There’s no need to be sorry. The main thing is that you’ve brought it to me,’ said Sulaf, with a false smile. She reached out her hand, waiting for the boy to hand it over. ‘Have you read it?’

‘No, I can’t read.’

‘What about your friend? Did he read it for you?’

‘No, he can’t read either; he used to be a slave,’ said Paross, giving more information than was necessary. He turned to see where Abram was; he had chosen to remain some distance away, wishing to give the boy some space to carry out his final duty.

Sulaf believed the boy, and was sure that no one had read it: when children lied, they always showed it. The anticipation was killing her; all she wanted to do was snatch the papyrus from the little boy, and read every single word. But the boy had grown attached to it and did not want to give it to her immediately. Instead he began to rant about his dying grandmother and how she had been thrown into the fire because of the papyrus. Sulaf knelt down, wanting to move things along more quickly.

‘I promise you, your grandmother will find her peace as soon as you give it to me. I’ll protect her letter just as you did. Now, let me ease your burden by taking it off your little shoulders.’

Suspecting nothing, Paross kissed the papyrus as if saying farewell to his grandmother for the last time. It was one of the last objects she had touched when she was alive; he could almost smell her beautiful fragrance upon it. He then softly placed it in Sulaf’s hands, and looked into her eyes. As soon as he let it go, Paross saw Sulaf’s expression change, from kindness and affection to malice – the same malice as those who had killed his grandmother …

Spoken or unspoken, each Assyrian soldier had an understanding that his life meant nothing to his emperor. He amounted to dirt beneath the emperor’s sandals, to be trodden on and used without any gratitude for his sacrifices. Not even a nod of appreciation would be offered by Jaquzan. The time had come, yet again, for their lives to be sacrificed. Thousands of men marched together, heading towards the Garden of the Gods, ready to destroy it. They understood that they were waging a war against a sacred kingdom that believed in the sanctity of peace. It was one that brought no threat to them, but the Assyrian soldiers were all subject to the commands of their emperor. So large was the Assyrian army that the warriors marching in their thousands were as ants moving in a swarm across the landscape. No opponent had been capable of stopping them; this war would be no different. If anything, the Assyrian army looked stronger than ever before. Jaquzan had summoned all his troops, sparing no man from his duty. It was a precaution he had taken after the Serpent had sent him news by messenger, warning him that the kings of Babylon had joined forces, uniting in their allegiance to the Gallant Warrior. But even if the kings of Babylon came together, Jaquzan knew that no enemy could penetrate his army; the Babylonians would be as a mere droplet of water in a sea of men.

Jaquzan gazed over his unending army, his eyes outlined in thick black kohl made from lead granules. Larsa looked at him. His sculpted face showed neither pride nor arrogance. He was simply staring at them, unmoved by their presence or influenced by the proof of his supremacy. She sat beside him, dressed in the most exquisite white gown, totally unsuitable for war; her hands were decorated with henna paintings and her hair perfumed with the fragrance worn only by the Assyrian emperor. She was like a rose among thorns, fragile and out of place in the army of soldiers who carried heavy shields and swords. Her shapely lips were stained a bright red with ochre oil, and her eyelids shaded with pollen. Larsa clutched her womb as the emperor’s slaves carried them both on processional chairs, which bumped over the wasteland. The orange fabrics sheltering them both from the burning rays of the sun that blew on the wind. Larsa sensed that the Assyrian soldiers were looking at her, and she knew what they were thinking: everyone believed that she was carrying the emperor’s unborn infant in her belly, and they feared her because of it – but only she knew the truth.

Larsa looked away. Her golden headdress made metallic sounds with every step the servants took. Long golden leaves draped across her forehead, running around her head. She was grateful that it partially concealed the tattoo that had been etched into her skin. In the middle of the elaborate headdress was the symbol of Ishtar. She had been forced to wear the very symbol that belonged to her own kingdom; Jaquzan wanted her people to recognise her, so that when they were slaughtered they would know that it was under the watchful eyes of their ruler.

Larsa began to recognise where she was in the desert; she could see the green mountains in the far distance, revealing themselves as if inviting the enemy to come towards them. A tiny flickering light could be seen in the blue sky; only those familiar with the kingdom would know that it was the enormous hearth of the Temple of Ishtar, the sacred place where Larsa used to pray and where the body of her beloved father lay buried. Now she was powerless to stop its destruction. With every breath she took, Larsa whispered a prayer to the great goddess Ishtar, hoping that she would hear her pleas and protect her kingdom from what lay ahead. She thought about Marmicus, facing the Assyrian army on the battlefield while she sat beside the emperor as though in thrall to his supremacy and power. Deep down, Larsa knew that Marmicus would never believe that she had willingly betrayed him, but the thought of it still frightened her.
What if the papyrus hasn’t reached him? What will become of our love when the world is torn apart?

After putting her son to bed, Sulaf left the mud-brick house and walked towards an old willow tree that had stood there for as long as she could remember. She had chosen this spot to read the papyrus; for some reason it called to her, reminding her of all the childhood memories she shared with Marmicus. Sulaf felt the need to be close to him now.

She looked at the old tree. Its branches flowed with green leaves that draped beautifully down, almost touching the grass; Sulaf remembered the thrill of climbing it. Whenever she and Marmicus had wanted to escape the world, they would race each other towards it and climb its branches; whoever reached the top first would be the winner. Their shared competitive streak was what had made them best friends. Sulaf remembered the feeling when they reached the top: they would stare out over the valley, feeling like kings who commanded their own future, saying nothing – the scenery had enough to say for both of them. It was a wonderful feeling. At other times, they would tell each other stories, and sometimes, when Sulaf felt angry, she would throw small pebbles at those who passed by. Sulaf was always the one to throw them, but Marmicus would always take the blame; it was his way of protecting her, not wanting her be punished by her father. She loved him for what was, itself, an act of love. Sulaf could still hear their laughter, even now as she stood alone beneath the tree on this dark night. The child she once was remained alive inside her.

A crisp wind rushed through the valley, chasing away its warmth, but Sulaf decided to stay. She made a small fire, watching its golden flames dance in front of her. Sulaf sat down, crossing her legs and resting her back against the old tree. She finally opened the papyrus and began to read the letter, her face turning pale as she did so.

‘It can’t be,’ she said. Her eyes flickered across the page. She read it again, and again, until every word had become engraved on her mind. Sulaf now understood what the oracle had meant by her prophecy: the secret in question was not that Larsa was alive, but that she was carrying Marmicus’s infant in her womb. Sulaf shook her head. Part of her wanted to run to Marmicus and tell him the news; but no matter how many times she tried to convince herself she should go to him, her jealousy convinced her not to.
You dreamt of happiness, but all you got was heartache …