The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (28 page)

Sulaf stood up, keeping her intrigue to herself. She had already offended the oracle, and she did not wish to repeat the same mistake.

‘Give me your hand, my child.’

Sulaf presented her hand, uncertain why exactly she wanted it. As soon as she held out her hand, the oracle snatched it and reached for the sharp knife lying on the table.

‘What are you doing? Let go of my hand!’ screamed Sulaf. The oracle’s brittle body was deceptively strong, and her grip sure.

‘Don’t be afraid, child. I’m doing what you’ve asked of me,’ screeched the oracle. Her tongue hung from her thin lips in her excitement.

‘You are hurting me!’

‘Love hurts, my child. If you want it you must be ready for the pain.’

The oracle slid the sharp dagger across Sulaf’s forefinger, cutting into her skin. Her blood poured out into the basin, turning the clear water a cloudy shade of red. The knife was rusty; Sulaf had felt the iron granules enter her skin like grains of salt.

‘Look into your reflection, my child, and tell me what you see.’

Sulaf peered into the water. Instead of seeing her reflection, she saw a dark shadow ripple across the surface of the water. It only appeared for a second or two, but it was long enough for her to notice that it was not her, but some unearthly creature.

‘Who was that?’

‘The master of all angels, the one who’s come to accept your blood and sacrifice,’ said the oracle. She poised herself over the bowl, holding back Sulaf’s hair, then reached for something that lay at the bottom of the basin.

‘What sacrifice are you talking about? I haven’t offered you anything; I thought I’d be paying in gold.’

‘Fallen angels have no need for gold; gold is made by mankind to serve men alone. With your blood you’ve offered me something else entirely, something that is more rare, infinitely more precious. He wanted your soul and you freely gave it to him. The moment you looked into his eyes, you pledged your soul to him. There’s no going back now; you’re one of us.’

The oracle pulled an object from the large basin. She grinned with excitement, revealing her yellow-stained teeth. Sulaf quickly covered her mouth as the foul stench of rotting flesh filled the room, and she moved into the light, wanting to see what excited the oracle so much.

‘A man’s heart is a precious thing; it’s always so sensitive to a woman’s touch, and can be so easily torn apart by her hands,’ said the oracle. She laid the human heart on the table and reached for the rusty knife, then changed her mind, instead reaching for the axe. She hacked through it as though through infested fruit fallen from a tree. Brown blood squirted everywhere, and there was the sound of gentle dripping against the slate floor. Sulaf covered her face with her hands. The oracle showed no sympathy, while Sulaf thought about the person who had died and offered their heart – willingly or unwillingly. Then, in a seemingly haphazard manner, the oracle began to run her bony fingers across the heart’s blue veins, looking for symbols to foretell the future. Sulaf tried not to contemplate whose heart it had been, or whether they had been killed for it.

‘What future do you see?’

The oracle did not reply immediately. She elongated her neck, turning her head from side to side like a mad creature.

‘When the full moon glows with the colour of blood, the war for the Garden of the Gods shall commence. The armies of Babylon will gather together like clouds uniting in a storm. On that day, the winds shall be driven by the screams of men who will die in their thousands fighting for the taste of freedom.’

Her voice had changed from a screech to a lower, unrecognisable, masculine voice, as if she had been possessed by the heart she had sliced apart. ‘Before that happens, 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 looked back at the Black Mountain with unease. She had journeyed to the oracle for one purpose alone: to obtain a potion that would somehow cure Marmicus’s heart from the disease of love that ravaged it. But her journey had been fruitless. The oracle could provide no such cure, for she had said that, wherever there is true love, magic has no power or place.

However, she would not return to the Garden of the Gods completely empty-handed. The oracle had warned Sulaf to beware of a young boy who possessed a golden papyrus. If revealed to the Gallant Warrior, it would destroy any seed of love that could grow between them.
It’s a secret that shall of course remain hidden
, Sulaf thought, as she made her way back to the Garden of the Gods.

‘Wake up, boy, you’re not here to daydream, you’re here to lead my camel,’ the merchant yelled angrily. He sat comfortably on his camel, gurgling water and spitting it out like a llama. The merchant was a man of moody disposition, and poor Paross was bearing the brunt of it. The little boy had been pulling on the leather reins for two days without any token of appreciation from the merchant; he was allowed to journey with him on the condition that he made himself useful. Paross felt his head thump: he could barely lift it, it felt so heavy. The afternoon sun was at its strongest, sucking all the moisture from his body and leaving him dehydrated. Paross looked up at the merchant, who sat comfortably on his camel, holding a straw umbrella over his head, spinning it around as he sang, without a care in the world. The boy watched him untie the goatskin water bottle, and drink from it again, splashing it all over his face.

‘Are you thirsty, boy?’ asked the merchant.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Good, that means my kindness hasn’t gone to waste.’ The merchant laughed as he poured water over his head, with a dash for his shoulders and a sprinkling for underneath his armpits too.

The boy looked at his hands. They were blistered, the skin peeling off, and yellow pus oozing. Flies flew about him, and he knew he would not last long if he did not wash them.

‘My lord, can you spare a little water for me?’ asked Paross. His voice trembled.

The merchant glared at the feeble boy. He had already been kind enough to let him journey with him, and now the boy was showing selfishness.

‘You want me to spare a little water for you? What do you think I am, a priest? I’m a merchant, we don’t spare anything; we only sell. If I spared you a droplet of water, then all my slaves would want a droplet too, and I’d be left with nothing.’ He pointed his finger at him angrily. ‘Nothing in life is free, not even for a child. If you want my water, you have to offer me something; if you don’t, you can die of thirst for all I care.’

Paross had nothing to trade apart from the clothes on his back and the innocence in his heart, and these were worthless to the merchant, who wanted gold or silver. The only possession Paross carried was the golden papyrus, and the loving words of affection that came with it from his dead grandmother. Knowing this, Paross remained silent; he looked at the merchant with helpless eyes, feeling no anger, but pity.

‘Don’t stare at me, boy, it’s rude. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?’ yelled the merchant. He took off his turban, scratched his bald head, then put it back on. Paross closed his eyes for a while. His legs carried on, one agonising step at a time, the rough granules of sand irritating his tiny feet. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his grandmother being thrown into the fire; the image inhabited his mind like a rippling mirage. Unable to endure the visions in his memory, he opened his eyes and looked at the blisters on his hands. They had dried up and were beginning to peel away, but the leather reins kept rubbing against them, making them bleed.

Paross bent down. Grabbing some sand, he rubbed it into his hands, hoping it would dry up the yellow pus. Maybe that would stop the flies from entering his wounds. It worked for a while, but soon his hands began to throb. The sand irritated his open blisters. Paross knew his life was worth nothing. He took out the papyrus from his pocket and looked at it. He wished he could read; then he would understand what had been written on it. He remembered his grandmother’s words. He knew he would not find peace until he had delivered the letter to the woman known as Sulaf.

‘What’s that in your hand?’ asked the fat merchant. The yellow object had attracted his attention like the flickering of gold.

‘It’s nothing.’

Realising that the child was reluctant to answer his question, the merchant became even more intrigued by the object; self-interest was the quality that seemed to bind all wealthy men. ‘If it’s nothing, give it to me. In return, I’ll give you that droplet of water you wanted.’

The merchant smiled falsely and reached out, his flabby arm flailing in the wind as he tried to take hold of the papyrus.

‘No, it’s not mine to offer you,’ blurted out Paross, shoving his hand away.

‘Give it here, boy, before I give you a thousand lashes!’ the merchant commanded. The lines around his eyes crinkled as his temper rose. Paross stood his ground. He would not trade it in, even if the merchant gave him a jug of cool spring water. His grandmother’s last wishes meant everything to him.

‘Impertinent boys should be taught how to respect their elders. I blame your parents for your rudeness; they’ve brought you up to be spoiled!’ exclaimed the merchant, frothing at the mouth in his temper. The boy had insulted his kindness by denying his trade and snubbing him! In a rush of anger, he grabbed his whip and raised it above his head.

‘You’ll regret this day, boy!’ he said. He swung his whip, using all his might, the sudden action energising him. Paross bravely stood his ground, clenching his fists. The whip came thrashing down, lashing the boy’s back and leaving lacerations that oozed blood. Long red marks appeared beneath his cotton robes; every time the merchant struck him they ripped anew.

‘Now give it here, or I’ll whip you until the sunlight fades!’

‘I can’t – it’s not mine to give you,’ cried the boy. The slaves watched as the boy stood still, enduring every blow like an animal unable to defend itself. Among them was the Shadow, who stared darkly at the merchant, his eyes filled with a smouldering hatred.

‘You stubborn child, I’ll beat you to death. Now give it here!’

The merchant struck him again as he would a stubborn mule. He no longer cared about the papyrus; he just wanted to break the boy’s will. He would not stop until the boy kissed his feet and begged for his forgiveness – it was up to him to encourage slaves and children to understand their place in society. He kept raining blows upon the helpless child. ‘You wretched slave, you’ll learn to obey. I swear by the gods you shall be buried here.’

Unable to stand any more, Paross collapsed onto the ground.

‘Now …’ the merchant mused with a childish sense of accomplishment as he jumped off his camel and reached for the papyrus that lay beside Paross. ‘What do we have here?’

‘Give it back to me,’ Paross cried. He tossed and turned in agony as he lay on the ground, the sand sticking to his back. It felt as though a thousand wasps had stung him all at once.

‘It’s mine now – you traded it in for a droplet of water, remember?’ said the merchant, who hastily opened the papyrus. He tingled with excitement: the boy was obviously carrying something of importance; no one in their right mind would be prepared to die for a worthless piece of paper.
It must be worth something; if not, it will come in handy for my fire tonight …

The merchant read every symbol; the sweat from his forehead formed rivulets on the golden sheet. His eyes widened with every passing second. He learnt of the princess’s infant, and how she planned to pass it off as the Assyrian emperor’s own.

‘Where did you get this?’

Paross remained silent; he knew if he spoke it would only make matters worse. The merchant became agitated. Whatever happened, he would not lose out on an opportunity to trade the letter for gold, but first he needed to know if the letter was real. His palms prickled with impatience. Time was of the essence! If anyone else learnt about the secret, it would lose its value.

‘I’ve always disliked children, they’re costly and stubborn. But if you tell me what I need to know, I’ll treat you like my son. Now who gave you this letter?’

Paross deliberately remained silent; the slaves looked on, not understanding why he would choose to be beaten. The boy was either too loyal for his own good, or stupid.

‘Very well. Since you don’t want to talk like a human, you’ll be treated like an animal. You’re going to scream so loud that you will sound like a mule,’ the merchant puffed.

He released his grip on the whip, wrapping the leather around his fist so he could control it better, then swung it with all his power. He struck downwards, this time aiming at the little boy’s neck. He knew it would hurt him more. The slaves watched from behind as the merchant expressed his anger; they shook their heads, wishing that the boy would speak up, for his own sake.

‘No more, no more!’ Paross screamed. His lips trembled as his defiance finally caved in. The boy had finally been broken. In a whisper, Paross revealed how he had come to obtain the golden papyrus from his grandmother; she had told him that it belonged to the princess, that it had become her epistle of hope. His instructions were simple; he had to deliver it to a woman bearing the name Sulaf, and from there she would deliver it to its rightful owner.

The secret had now been revealed, and the princess had no idea that it had fallen into the wrong hands …

Lying beneath the glory of the heavens, the merchant slept comfortably, drawing in deep breaths and blowing out large snores. His heart was content, for beneath his head lay the token of all pleasures, the golden papyrus. Tomorrow his caravan would change course and head back to the kingdom of Assyria to present the emperor with a secret that would certainly lead to the execution of the princess.
The emperor shall be pleased with me, and I shall live abundantly because of it
, the merchant dreamt, lying on a thick pillow stuffed with goose feathers. For him, resting in the desert was not much different to resting under a canopy in a palace. The merchant had everything. He lay on a thick mattress stuffed with sheep’s wool, and covered his fat body with layers of material, while his slaves tossed and turned on flat beds of straw used to feed the camels and mules.