The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (11 page)

‘Never!’

Jaquzan smiled. It was a rare reaction, and seemed unnatural, given what she had just said to him. The more Larsa spoke, the more Jaquzan learnt of her weaknesses without her even realising it. He was analysing her face, dissecting everything about her. She could not know that he possessed the ability to read people’s characters by their reactions and behaviour.

‘When will mankind learn that bravery is nothing more than unrefined arrogance, something which can be easily crushed by the hands? Now, watch as I begin to crush yours … I can tell from your eyes that your greatest weakness is your humanity. I shall show you what inhumanity lies before your feet. Open the doors and bring forth my slave.’

Larsa turned, watching the doors open behind her; a woman was dragged in, her mouth frothing with saliva like a rabid dog. Whoever she was, it was clear that she had lost her mind a long time ago. She bit at her captors’ hands, scowling, kicking and blabbering at them as they dragged her in; nothing she said made any sense. The slaves dumped her in the centre of the throne room. For a moment she sat there dazedly, rocking back and forth, humming as if to a baby. Larsa listened to her singing. Her voice was melancholy, while oddly soothing, but her calm persona completely vanished the moment the emperor moved in his seat; somehow, that small, subtle movement triggered something inside her, as though awakening her into madness. She began to shriek, her lungs bursting out with a relentless screech akin to a thousand screams. Larsa pressed her hands against her ears, desperately trying to block out her cries.

The slaves rushed back to her, pushing her flat against the stone floor, stretching out both her arms and struggling to throw a rope noose over her head. Larsa watched as the woman tried to fight them off, her hands crazily clawing at them, until eventually she gave in.

‘Do you know who this woman once was?’ asked the emperor, watching the princess from his colossal throne. Larsa shook her head; even if she tried to guess the answer she felt it would somehow lead to a trap.

‘She was once the mighty Queen of Persia, the wife of a king who was defiant and unwilling to submit to a power far greater than his; but power crumbles like sand in the hands of men who know nothing of its worth. Now the only crown she wears is the rope tied around her neck and her only necklace is a necklace of memories of her former life.’

The emperor rose, expressionless, from his towering throne; softly he padded, like a lion stalking prey, down the lofty set of stairs to the others. He marvelled at how quickly the Queen of Persia’s face had changed. Her glorious beauty had withered away like a rose battered by harsh winds; her once striking oval face, which had glowed with colour and life, had become dull and emaciated, her skin reduced to a sickly pallor and her nails broken and bruised. The queen shook her head, breathing heavily. The rope was slowly choking her; every time she drew in a breath she convulsed with strangled, wheezing coughs. Larsa watched the king stare at her. His green eyes were bright, like lanterns. Larsa noticed that his right pupil was not circular, but almost slit-like. It was strange. The more she watched him, the more desperate she felt to learn something about him, but every physical action seemed to be disguised by another. There was nothing she could learn about him unless he intentionally revealed it.

‘Madness is in us all,’ he said, standing in front of the Queen of Persia and examining her. Everyone remained silent, waiting for him to reveal what lurked deep in his mind. ‘Her madness came to her the day she saw her husband beheaded, her sons murdered and her people burned alive; and I know the same shall come to you if you disobey my commands.’

‘Hasn’t she suffered enough?’ Larsa asked. She looked at the Persian queen, feeling intense sympathy for what she had endured; in one sense at least, they were cruelly connected.

‘No,’ he replied calmly.

‘What are you going to do to her?’

‘The answer lies with you.’ Jaquzan turned to his cousin; he obviously had something in mind. ‘Give the princess your dagger.’

Nafridos took out his dagger and handed it to Larsa. Like the princess, he had no idea what his cousin was planning.

‘Your humanity may be your greatest strength, but in our world humanity is a hindrance to survival – only the selfish are able to survive, while the selfless are trampled on.’ He began to circle the Queen of Persia, his steps soft and silent as if preparing an incantation of some sort. Finally he stopped and, unexpectedly, put out his hand. With his index finger he gently lifted the victim’s chin, exposing her throat to him. Like a dazed animal, the Queen of Persia yielded to his power, tilting her head back and succumbing to his will without struggle or question.

‘Let us see if your humanity is a gift or a curse. Kill this woman, and in exchange for her life I shall offer your people salvation. I want you to show me your inhumanity, and in exchange I shall restore humanity to your world. I offer you the chance to save your people. In your hands lies the life of freedom that they have always known …’

‘How do I know you’ll keep your promise?’

‘I am a god. I am never in need of a lie.’

Larsa stared at the dagger which had been given to her; it felt heavy and cold, so foreign to her. How could she murder another human being, even if it guaranteed freedom for her people? It was surely wrong – or was it?

‘I can’t – I won’t – do it,’ she said, shaking her head, unable to comprehend what was happening to her.

‘One life for tens of thousands of others – the choice lies with you,’ said Jaquzan again.

Larsa turned to look at the queen. All she could see were the faces of her people, staring back as though taunting her, willing her to go ahead and become the murderer they needed at this moment. Was Jaquzan right? Did the life of one person really matter, if many thousands of others could be saved? Maybe it was more merciful to kill her; after all, the queen was practically dead, imprisoned in a life of madness. The choice was clear; she knew what she had to do – the only way Larsa could save her homeland was by killing the former Queen of Persia. The first step was the hardest, but she knew she had to do it. The question was, did she really have any choice? Did this all come down to her free will, or was it selfishness, her need to survive, that was drawing her like a moth to a flame?

Larsa walked towards the queen; with every pace she took towards the poor creature in the centre of the room, she felt her humanity shrink inside her like a dying star.
Could this actually be happening to me? I’m about to become a murderer.

‘You have chosen wisely,’ said Jaquzan, watching her walk towards him, her movements revealing her choice to kill, rather than to save a life.

‘I haven’t got a choice; you’re forcing me to do this.’

‘Am I? There is no one holding the dagger but you.’

‘I know she’d do the same for her people if she was in my position.’

‘Or maybe she wouldn’t – maybe her choice would be to save you.’

Larsa’s hands shook. She tried to stop them by bringing the weapon closer to her chest, as if to reassure herself about what she was doing. Whatever happened, she knew she had to remain calm; it was the only way she could give the queen a quick and painless death – she deserved that at the very least. Larsa knew if she hesitated while committing this act of cruelty, the blade might not reach its mark, causing both of them yet more agony and trauma.

‘One life for a thousand others – just one life to save so many,’ said Larsa quietly, looking at the Queen of Persia, her neck still tilted back like the dazed animal she had become. Larsa was thankful that her face was partially hidden beneath a linen smock; at least it would hide the agony from her. She stopped in front of the queen. At first Larsa felt as if the dagger was stuck to her chest. She could not move it away, her hands were clenched so tightly around its steel grip. Then, summoning all her courage, she slowly moved it away and pressed the cold metal against the queen’s unflinching throat. Larsa knew she would never forgive herself for this act. By killing the queen, she was killing her own innocence and damning herself to a life of eternal guilt.

‘I’m so sorry, but I have no choice. I have to do this, I have to save my people. I know you’d do the same,’ she said softly, her hand shaking. It seemed to those gathered that there was no chance she could give her victim a clean kill. Larsa was ready to use the sharp knife, and she took a deep breath. Just as she was about to glide her hand across the queen’s neck Jaquzan did something which made her realise just how cruel he truly was.

‘Everybody deserves to see the face of their killer, even a woman locked in madness,’ said Jaquzan as he stepped in, the better to watch his sadistic charade unfold. He pulled back the hood of the queen’s linen smock. Now, the two women could see each other. Their eyes locked.

‘Forgive me,’ said Larsa, trembling uncontrollably. Strangely, the Queen of Persia gave a small nod, as if to indicate that she was at peace with the prospect of being killed by her. She gave Larsa a look at once resigned and determined, as if she was desperate to die and be put out of her misery. It made Larsa hesitate for a second, until she gathered her courage again.

‘Now end her life, so you can set your people free,’ said Jaquzan.

‘Freedom can never be born of compulsion; my people deserve better than that, and so does she,’ said Larsa. She threw the dagger onto the floor. It was the reaction Jaquzan had anticipated, and only now did Larsa realise it. Jaquzan had proven his point: her humanity was her greatest gift and her curse. It was a lesson she would never forget. The emperor watched her step back. As she did so, he picked up the dagger and without hesitation he slid the knife across the queen’s neck, slitting her throat and ending her life in seconds. Larsa gave a heart-wrenching scream; the queen slumped sideways, her muscles in seizure, until eventually she was still. All the while, her eyes remained open and fixed on Larsa, as if wanting to commit to memory the face that possessed the last traces of humanity left in the world …

For some people, dreams have a way of uplifting their soul in difficult times, but for others they act only as a reminder of things that have been lost. If they are not careful, a dream which once fuelled hope and happiness can destroy them, poisoning their mind with bitterness and regret, until eventually it kills them. Everything that Marmicus had dreamt of was now gone: the prospect of becoming a father and being loved eternally by his loyal wife had been taken away. There was simply no pleasure left in the world to taste or to feel; all that was left was the knowledge that his life would never be filled with beauty again. The enemy’s plan had worked; Jaquzan had pierced his heart with one merciless blow, and there was nothing in the world that could ever restore it.

Marmicus sat alone in his thick-walled chamber. He hadn’t spoken to or seen anyone for days, and his face was pale and almost unrecognisable. Underneath his eyes were dark circles; his face was dirty and unshaven and his body noticeably thinner. The old Marmicus had disappeared; all that was left was a skeleton of his former self, a reflection of a desolate man in need of comfort. Every time he breathed, a choking sense of guilt wrapped itself around his throat, squeezing him until he could no longer bear it. Sometimes he would bursts into fits of rage. Marmicus had never felt so much hatred before, but his real torture came at night. Since learning about the princess’s death, he had had the same dream every night: she was standing in the middle of a battlefield, calling out to him, desperately needing him to come and save her from the army behind her, but every time Marmicus ran to her, she appeared to be further away. Her pleas grew louder, her lungs gasping with hopeless breaths, but Marmicus never got to her in time. His nightmare would always end in the same way: with a vision of her body lying lifeless on the ground, her arm broken, her eyelids blue and swollen and her nose broken and bloodied. She had been beaten to death while Marmicus watched helplessly from a distance.

‘How can I forget the first moment I saw you and your pendant, sweet Larsa?’ Marmicus whispered, clutching the royal pendant of Ishtar as if cradling his memories in his hands. The eight-pointed star shimmered brilliantly in his hands like the soft ripples of light scattered by the Tigris river. Pressing his lips against it Marmicus gently kissed the pendant, cherishing its scent, this tender act speaking of his desire to protect it from harm.

The doors creaked open, and a slender woman entered, rather hesitantly. Sulaf was immediately struck by the Gallant Warrior’s change in appearance. She had never seen Marmicus look like this. She didn’t recognise him at first.

‘Leave me – I am in no mood for company.’

He began to sharpen his sword, using a rough stone that shot fiery sparks into the air. The dark circles under his eyes became even more obvious as the bright flashes of light illuminated his face. ‘Why are you still standing here? I told you to leave!’

‘I’ve come for the sake of the people; they fear for your well-being and so do I.’

Marmicus burst into laughter, like a madman, though his eyes remained intense. He was a completely different person, someone by whom Sulaf actually felt unnerved.

‘When have the people ever feared for my well-being? They’re afraid for themselves and their wretched possessions, not for me or anyone else.’

‘Why are you saying such things? Your people love you deeply! If you wished it, they’d carve your name in stone and worship you as a god.’

‘Then they’re fools.’

He continued to sharpen his weapon, ever more vigorously; it was the only way he could take out his frustration without risking harm to others.

‘What’s happened to you? Where’s the man I once knew and loved?’

‘He’s dead. Now go and tell the people that. Let’s see if they truly mourn for me or for themselves.’

‘Why are you tormenting yourself like this? You had no control over what happened. The gods give and take life; we can only submit to their will and pray for their blessings.’