The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (17 page)

‘I’m sorry to hear about your daughter. Thank you for telling me. When one feels hopeless, it’s easy to forget that others can be hopeful.’ Larsa hugged her tightly. She felt as though she was hugging her own mother; it felt beautiful and comforting. Larsa had grown up without her mother, but she had imagined her to be wise and kind, much like the maid. Larsa got up and walked towards the open balcony, wiping the tears from her eyes as if to make her appearance more beautiful for the setting sun. Her bare feet felt cold from the tiled floor. ‘Even so, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to change anything.’

‘There’s only one solution for you, Your Highness; you must let the Gallant Warrior know that he will be a father. I suggest you write to him tonight and let him know about the infant growing inside you. I’ll give your letter to my grandson, who will take it to your kingdom. Once Paross arrives in the Garden of the Gods, he’ll secretly deliver the papyrus to your Gallant Warrior; maybe it will force Marmicus to come to you. There must be a reason why he hasn’t come.’

‘I don’t want to burden you with my troubles.’

‘There’s no trouble.’

‘There’s one problem. The guards protecting my palace won’t let your grandson enter, and if my letter lands in the wrong hands it’ll be dangerous for both of us.’

‘Then it’s up to you to think of someone who can enter the palace gates without any trouble. Is there anyone who knows the Gallant Warrior intimately, someone who you can trust to bear such sacred news?’

‘I think so. There’s a woman Marmicus knows very well and speaks highly of; they’ve known each other since childhood, I’m sure we can trust her.’ Larsa had met Sulaf only once; she had seemed like an intelligent woman and Larsa trusted Marmicus’s judgement of character. He would never speak highly of someone unless they deserved his approval.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Sulaf, daughter of Nazzar,’ replied Larsa softly, remembering her face.

‘Then we’ll send your letter to Sulaf and she’ll deliver it to your beloved warrior. All our hopes rest on her now.’

‘How have you betrayed us?’ asked Marmicus. The confession had taken him aback. Marmicus was right – there was a traitor – but he had not expected it to be King Nelaaz of Aram; in fact, no one had. The short little king quivered like a child afraid of what his punishment might be. King Nelaaz had always had his friendship; now he would find out what it felt like to be an enemy.

‘I’ve … I’ve …’ gulped the king, staring at the Sword of Allegiance. He wished he had not said anything now, but of course it was too late to go back on his words. He had openly made the confession, and unfortunately for him there was no one standing beside him to whom he could shift the blame.

‘Answer me, or move aside so I can finish what I’ve started.’

‘I would, if only I knew how to tell you …’ he mumbled. He stepped back, trying to keep some distance between himself and the blade. The more he looked at it, the harder it became for him to whisper a word.

‘The gravest mistake you could make right now is remaining silent when I’ve commanded you to speak, so either tell me what you’ve done or regret the day you chose to remain silent.’

‘Believe me, if I could go back, I would. My wretched advisors made me do it; they’re to be blamed, not me, I just followed them. Really I did,’ gulped King Nelaaz. He wanted to make sure that Marmicus understood the full picture first. He could see the anger on Marmicus’s face – his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed. Whatever friendship they once shared had been thrown out of the window.

‘What have you done?’

‘Well, the woman you buried … how do I put it … well, she wasn’t really the princess …’ said King Nelaaz reluctantly.

The news was bewildering, stupefying; it made no sense at all. Everyone had seen Larsa’s body lying on the royal burial chariot, her lifeless body dressed in the robes of the afterlife; each priest had conducted the sacred rituals of death over her and none had suspected that it might not be the princess. Could they all have been so blind?

‘He’s lying! It was the princess; we saw her with our own eyes. He’s trying to conceal something else he’s done,’ declared a priest, his nose twitching with suspicion as he thought of what it could be.

‘I’ve got no reason to deceive any of you. I’m telling you it wasn’t her – I swear on my people’s lives.’

‘You would swear on any life as long as it wasn’t your own,’ yelled another angry priest.

Marmicus felt confused. What if the king was telling the truth? What if it hadn’t been Larsa lying lifeless before him? He remembered noticing the unfamiliar birthmark on her hand. Could this really be happening to him? It made no sense; he had mourned his wife and now he was asked to believe that his grief was a sham of some kind. He needed answers, and he needed them quickly.

‘If I believe you, then where’s Larsa now? Is she in hiding? Doesn’t she want me to find her?’ asked Marmicus, his heart pounding. He felt alive again. The prospect of seeing her face, kissing her soft lips and embracing her made him burst with energy and happiness. Since Larsa had died, he had been battered by emotions that would have destroyed a lesser person.

‘No, she isn’t in hiding, I wish she was,’ King Nelaaz said, not knowing how to break the news to him. He could not bear to look into the Gallant Warrior’s eyes; for a brief moment they had gleamed with restored hope. He looked down at the floor in shame, suddenly noticing his swollen feet – all this standing up in the hot sun had made them swell like goat sacks filled with water.

‘Then where is she? What have you done with her?’

‘I haven’t done anything. There wasn’t much we could do, you see …’ replied King Nelaaz, wheezing. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, as if he were about to have a heart attack.

‘Just a moment ago you said she was alive,’ said Marmicus, lowering his weapon.

‘I didn’t say that exactly. Let me explain. After your messenger came to my kingdom, I commanded my soldiers to look for her – I hadn’t heard from the princess either. My soldiers went to the desert only to find the Royal Caravan attacked, as you know, but what you don’t know is that the princess wasn’t alive when they found her, and she wasn’t intact. I mean to say – how do I put it? – her beauty was scattered on the desert floor. My soldiers buried her the moment they found her; they couldn’t bear to bring you her headless body, so they lied, and I only found out about what they had done when it was too late.’

‘See? I was never the traitor here. It was him all along,’ interrupted the Grand Priest of Ursar. He pulled himself up to his full height once more. Thanks to Nelaaz’s confession, he was no longer in the line of attack.

‘Do you mean to tell this Counsel,’ said the Priest of Xidrica, ‘that you secretly knew that the body we prayed over belonged to someone else? And, even so, you went ahead with these lies, this manipulation, to save yourself?’

‘I can explain …’ replied King Nelaaz. The flare of the sun burned his pale skin, making him appear even more ridiculous in his orange attire.

‘Then go ahead – explain, you insolent buffoon! Who was the woman you brought with you?’ demanded the Grand Priest of Ursar.

Marmicus said nothing. He just stood still. King Nelaaz stared at him, having expected a reaction which had failed to come.

‘She wasn’t important; she was just a temple maid we found. No one shall miss her.’

‘So your advisors killed an innocent woman to carry out this lie, and you did nothing to stop it?’ asked the young priest, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘I … I … I just followed their advice …’

The king’s words had sealed his fate; he had dug his own grave with that one sentence.

At last, an expression of madness came over Marmicus’s face. He clenched his fists so tightly around his weapon that his fingernails turned white like teeth; the power of his grip was enough to force the metal blade to bend. A fit of rage had taken hold of the Gallant Warrior. Marmicus suddenly lifted his weapon above his head and swung it round like a deranged forester about to chop down a tree. He had unleashed a move normally reserved for the heat of battle. King Nelaaz shut his eyes. The weapon came towards him, and gasps from all sides burst through the silence.

‘Give me a reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now,’ said Marmicus, stopping the blade at the king’s throat. It took an extraordinary degree of finesse for him to stop the blade at that precise moment; only an exceptional swordsman could have done so.

‘Because I’m your friend?’ he whispered, opening his eyes. He could feel the cold metal press against his flabby neck.

‘You’re not any more. Now give me another reason not to kill you,’ said Marmicus.

‘What insolence is this? Our traitor stands openly before us, yet you choose to reason with him? The foolish king must be punished. What say you all?’ said the Grand Priest of Ursar.

‘Punish the traitor!’

‘Kill him!’ ordered the line of priests, raising their fists above their heads. The whole Counsel joined in, apart from the young Priest of Xidrica, who watched them act like wild animals, scenting blood. King Nelaaz looked terrified. He could see the desire in their eyes to have his body strung up and roasted; it was as if they were watching a theatrical spectacle. Marmicus noticed King Nelaaz quiver, and in the same moment, as though from afar, he saw his own behaviour. What had he turned into? He remembered what Sulaf had said; how he was no longer worthy to carry his Sword of Allegiance; how he had turned into a totally different person, someone to whom Larsa would give neither love nor approval.

‘Mark my words, our serpent will be punished, but we won’t follow the path of our enemies. We won’t butcher kings or mutilate queens on our soil because, the moment we do, we become no different from them. So let our punishment reflect who we are and what we’re fighting for. The King of Aram will remain alive, but he’ll live in disgrace. This shall be his sentence and if there is any man who dares question my authority then they’ll answer to my sword.’ It took a great effort of will to say this, but even though Marmicus had spared King Nelaaz’s life, the look on his face was far from merciful. He had spared his enemy only because he knew that Larsa would want him to do so. Quite clearly, King Nelaaz had offended the wrong man and now he desperately wished to ask for forgiveness.

‘Thank you, I know I can’t bring back what’s wrongfully been taken away from you, but let me redeem myself. What if I give you a thousand gold amulets? Better yet, take my wives and daughters as a replacement for your loss. Let me suffer as you have suffered – that way we’ll be equal, and can be friends again.’

‘We’ll never be equal. I’ve spared you out of pity for what you are: and that’s a fool. Your people deserve better than to be led by an imbecile. I will make sure that your people know what you’ve done, and the moment they do, you’ll wish you could hide forever. Everyone will remember you as the cowardly King of Aram who betrayed his people and the Garden of the Gods so he could save himself from harm; every man will mock you and every child will laugh at you when you walk through the streets. Even after your bones have dried and your skin has turned to dust, you will still be called the king of fools. It’ll be your legacy, and it will never be washed away.’

Wealth without friendship is meaningless. It is like having a golden chalice, yet never being able to take a sip from it because you have no water or wine. Without genuine affection and smiles from friends, the heart can too easily become heavy with loneliness, and no palace, no matter how beautiful or extravagant, can fill the void of empty silence. This was how King Nelaaz of Aram felt. He had every worldly possession, but emotionally and spiritually he had nothing. No matter how much gold or wealth he spent on kings and beautiful women, indulging them all in his lavish parties and bestowing gifts upon them, no one truly cared for him or honoured him for who he was. He was a means to an end: guests would flatter him for their own purposes, and in this sense he was as cursed as any man without a fortune.

King Nelaaz understood that most of his friendships had been bought, but tonight, for some reason, he missed the only genuine friendship he had ever enjoyed, which had been with the Gallant Warrior. He had stood side by side with him, encouraging him to be all that he could be, believing in him – only to go behind his back and betray him.
The Gallant Warrior was right. I am a clown king and a mockery to my people
, he thought bitterly as he twiddled his plump fingers, lying on his bed, ashamed. He could not wait to leave the Garden of the Gods, but he knew that the moment he walked into his own kingdom, he would be taunted and abused by his people; once they heard about what he had done they would no doubt agitate for another rebellion.

King Nelaaz despised himself. He curled up into a ball, pulling the cotton sheets over his head, trying to hide from the world. In reality, his flamboyant clothes, the layers of robes, were nothing more than a façade used to distract others from his sensitivity. If he did not mend his ways, he would be forever known as the Clown King of Aram. For once the foolish king pondered hard on what he could do, this time using no advisors to help; he knew he had to obtain Marmicus’s forgiveness.

Who could have imagined that a fool would become a genius?

‘What’s the matter? Haven’t my hips satisfied my master? Shall I try something else?’ asked the concubine. She lay naked beside the Dark Warrior, stroking his face. His body was hot and sweaty; she had done everything a woman could do to make a man relax and to satisfy his desires, but it seemed that neither kiss nor tender touch could relieve the tension in his muscles. Nafridos looked at her face for a moment. She was beautiful, but he felt annoyed and agitated by her presence. Something inside him had changed; he didn’t want to be with her tonight – or with any of the remaining concubines in the palace. Nafridos hungered for one person, and until he had her, no other woman would do.

‘The hips of a whore woman will never satisfy me,’ he said, pushing her hand away from his face.