The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (33 page)

Sulaf stared at the papyrus, unaware of how much hope had been invested in it, not only by the princess, but by the woman who had sacrificed her life so that it would reach Sulaf, and by the little boy who had been entrusted with its safekeeping. Perhaps, if Sulaf had fully understood this, she would have thought twice about throwing it into the fire. But envy has a way of hardening the heart. The answer was clear, just as the oracle had prophesied: if Marmicus knew about the papyrus and that the princess was alive, he would never fall in love with Sulaf. Sulaf had no choice but to destroy it. Yet there was still something inside her that stopped her from doing it. Even though she despised Larsa, the words inscribed in the letter revealed love, a feeling she herself wanted to experience with every heartbeat. Sulaf looked at the fire again. It was flickering, slowly dying as if it did not want to be part of her selfish betrayal.

‘I want you to know that, even though I envy you, I don’t hate you for loving him. I understand why you love him because I love him too,’ said Sulaf. She spoke loudly, as if she was speaking to Larsa, wanting to explain herself. ‘The world offered you everything: beauty, power and admiration. You had all of this from the moment you were born; but from the moment I was born I had only one thing to cherish, and it was him. I loved Marmicus from the moment I could say his name. But you stole him from me, and I watched you do it, saying nothing and letting him go to you. Now I’ve got the chance to revive our love. If I give Marmicus this letter, there’ll be nothing left to revive between us except heartache. I cannot let that happen to me again. I died the day he fell in love with you, and I won’t die for a second time, not when I have the power to save myself.’

Sulaf lifted up the papyrus, and gently kissed it as if saying farewell to a beloved friend. As she dropped it, the crisp wind sent it drifting it towards the flames like a leaf fallen from the willow tree. Sulaf watched it land on the fire. The edges were the first to burn, and soon the golden sheet carrying the princess’s hope had completely disappeared.

With the approach of the Assyrian army, thick grey clouds began to descend over the Garden of the Gods from nowhere; it was as if the gods themselves had sent their army of chariots to protect the kingdom from harm.

‘Cleanse my kingdom of the blood of barbarians, and with the honour of heroes instil it with a new life,’ prayed Larsa. She looked up into the skies: a thunderstorm was swelling, ready to drown her kingdom in rain and strike it with lightning. There was a risk that the Euphrates would burst its banks; it had happened a decade ago and it had never been forgotten. It was a bad omen for the Assyrian army, and equally bad for her own people; fighting through a deluge would be a challenge for both armies.

In a way, Larsa wished she could go back to her prison chamber, preferring a life of slavery and exile to watching her kingdom being threatened by war. It made more sense for one person to sacrifice their happiness and freedom than to sacrifice thousands of lives for a possibility of freedom that was far from guaranteed. Larsa knew that it was a cowardly thought; something Marmicus would disapprove of if he had heard her say it.

The shadows of soldiers covered the desert dunes, turning them dark like the skies above. Larsa looked at the mighty hearth of the temple that burned in the distance. The raging fire appeared brighter than ever before because of the dark clouds that robbed the skies of light. Larsa also noticed something else on the horizon; something she had never seen before. Orange flickers of light could be seen across the length of her kingdom’s walls. Larsa instantly knew what they were: they were beacons of war. Marmicus had seen the enemy coming, and it was his way of warning the people. The gigantic beacons were lined up on the stone walls, running in an enormous crisscross around the kingdom’s walls, proclaiming war. From where Larsa was they appeared faint, although the message they carried was clear – defiant and heartrending at the same time …

The weather had changed so drastically. Sulaf looked into the sky and saw clouds coming ominously together, merging, becoming larger, until they were so dense and thick she could almost touch them. Sulaf looked back at the fire.
If Marmicus finds out about the papyrus, I’ll say no boy ever came to me,
she said to herself. The fire had died, taking with it all traces of the papyrus, as if it had never existed; but Sulaf started to feel paranoid, and kept looking at the burnt charcoal, imagining that the papyrus was still lying there on the ground. She feared more than anything that someone would find it and give it to Marmicus. Sulaf wished she had chosen a different place to burn the letter. Whenever she walked past the willow tree she had always enjoyed fond memories of their childhood; now this place had become tainted with what she had done. Sulaf felt ashamed, but she knew she had made the right choice.
Marmicus has enough to worry about
, she thought, trying to make herself feel better.

She looked at the willow tree again. Its heavy branches were shaking in the powerful winds that heralded a thunderstorm; it was no longer safe for her to sit there. She hurried towards her home, her hair blowing in all directions in the wind. Just as she reached the mud-brick house, she noticed something in the distance; something small but with great meaning. Across the horizon were small flickering lights, as though stars had fallen to the ground. She looked more closely, trying to work out where they came from and what they meant. Sulaf ran quickly into the house, wanting to wake up her son, who was sleeping peacefully, unaware that the world had changed. Her heart thumped in panic. She had no idea how long the beacons of war had been burning; she had been inside her house for most of the day. It made no difference now; there was only one place they could go, and that was the Temple of Ishtar, like all the other women and children.

Peace had shattered like a glass dropped by the hands of chaos. Time was no longer on the side of the people; the Assyrian forces had crossed the border and were marching closer, their drums beating ever more loudly; it was the dreaded music of war, and everyone recognised it. Hundreds of people had gathered outside the Temple of Ishtar. Paross looked back at the queue, which had grown in only a matter of minutes. It went on and on, twisting around the walls of the temple like a giant snake that was trying to suffocate the building. He felt the weight of their bodies press against him; thankfully, Abram was there, and he tried his best to shield the boy from the constant pushing of the crowd. Paross watched as husbands and fathers knelt down and kissed their wives and children, some making false promises, telling them that everything was going to be alright and that they would return to them safely in the morning. Others remained silent, choosing not to lie to them or themselves.

Paross watched them closely, until a group of boys ran past him, laughing loudly as they played among the crowd. Their behaviour seemed different to everyone else’s; they were either completely unaware of the army’s approach or bored of waiting in the queue with their parents.

‘Why are all the men saying goodbye? Aren’t they going inside with them?’ asked Paross.

‘Don’t be frightened; just stay close to me and focus on yourself,’ said Abram. He held Paross’s hand as they waited by the large doors of the temple. They were just another two people in the hundreds of others who fought for a place inside the temple. Paross wanted to sit down, as his knees hurt, but he had seen an old man do the same thing and almost get trampled. It was not a good idea.

‘Only the boy can enter; you must join the army or look elsewhere,’ ordered a soldier who checked the front of the queue, making sure the right people entered. Abram turned to Paross and his heart sank for him. He felt the boy’s hand squeeze tightly around his. Paross had come all this way, expecting to find happiness, and for a few hours he had, but now he would be forced to fight another battle all alone.

‘It’s time to say goodbye, little scholar,’ Abram whispered. He knelt, and looked into the boy’s eyes, wanting to reassure him that everything was going to be alright. ‘I can’t come with you.’

‘No, I won’t leave you, we will go inside together,’ said Paross, clutching his hand and trying to drag him into the temple. The soldier leapt forward, blocking his path, not letting him enter with Abram: ‘There’s no space for cowardly men …’

‘Don’t worry about me Paross, I’ll go somewhere else,’ said Abram, trying to reassure him.

‘Then I’ll come with you.’

‘No, Paross, you can’t come with me.’

‘Hurry up, you’re holding back the queue!’ yelled an angry woman who was waiting to enter.

‘If you’re not going in, then get out of the way,’ yelled another. He waved to the soldier, trying to grab his attention so that he would remove them.

The crowds were beginning to turn hostile; people were desperate to get inside. But Paross did not care what they thought. They could wait for a lifetime – he would not leave his friend.

‘There’s no time, Paross; you must go inside. Please. It’s the safest place for you. I must fight.’

‘Don’t fight, please, I don’t want you to die.’

‘I must, little scholar, it’s my duty. All my life I’ve been a slave. I was born one, and if I don’t fight in this war as a free man, I’ll die as one. I don’t want to leave you, but I have to do this for myself. Remember when I told you how my masters used to whip me and beat me every night? When they did, I never stood up for myself. Now I have the chance to stand up.’ He wanted to make Paross understand. Abram had never cried in all his life, but his eyes welled up with the emotions of a free man. It saddened him to abandon the child, who had never looked at him differently because of the colour of his skin or his status in the world.

‘My prophet says, a wise man can never celebrate his freedom when his brothers in the world are imprisoned. You’ll understand this when you grow older. Now, please, Paross, you must go inside.’

Paross turned, trying to force himself to walk away from his friend, but he could not; his feet felt glued to the ground. Instead he hugged Abram tightly as he had his grandmother, not wanting to let go. His cheek rested against Abram’s shoulder. In that moment Paross felt the loneliness sweep back into his heart; for a brief moment it been washed away by happiness. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘You’ll never be alone, Paross, not when you remember the One-God – He’s always with you, even now.’

‘But I can’t see him as I can see you.’

‘He can see you and hear you, little scholar. He’ll protect you better than I can. If you ask sincerely for His help, He will reach out to you even if you’re at the far end of the world.’

‘Will he bring you back to me?’

‘I can’t promise that, but the One-God says that no burden is ever too heavy to be carried. He’ll make your heart strong like a ship, so that you can carry any load and sail through any storm,’ replied Abram. He untangled the boy’s hands, not wanting to give the child false hope of his return. The enemy army was vast, and the likelihood of his survival was small; but, even so, he would rather fight.

The soldier’s patience had evaporated; there was no time for bittersweet goodbyes, especially ones that obstructed the gates of the temple. Something had to be done. The soldier grabbed Paross by the arm and marched him away. His clasp was painful, unlike Abram’s – he had held Paross as if he were his own son. Paross cried out for Abram, hoping that his friend would save him as he had done in the desert, but this time he would not. His eyes were fixed on him; he stood out, a single figure of courage in a crowd of people fighting for their survival.

‘Forgive me, my child, forgive me for letting you down,’ said Abram.

He watched the little boy disappear into the temple. Eventually, his cries faded, along with the cries of others, until they could not be heard above the clamour of the crowd.

Paross could no longer see his friend. He had disappeared, abandoning him just as his grandmother had done, and once again he was alone in the world, with no family or friend by his side.

Dawn had finally arrived, giving birth to war and a guiltless new morning. The soft light of the sun hid behind a phalanx of stormy clouds as the morning light fought its perennial enemy, darkness. The armies of Babylon stood shoulder to shoulder with their brethren-in-battle from the Garden of the Gods. Their metal shields clattered against one another and a sand-laden wind blew hard against them, stinging their faces. Together they stood in silence, watching the sun burn the clouds with its flaring light. None of them had ever seen a dawn quite like it before: the sun was unveiling its glory before an audience of thousands, freeing itself from the horizon and crowning itself king of the sky. In the stiff silence of nothingness, the soldiers thought of their loved ones, remembering the affectionate gazes of their wives and the laughter of their children. Under their heavy plates of armour some wore locks of their wives’ hair, while others carried flowers given to them by their children before they departed for war. Unlike his men, Marmicus stood watching the sunrise, feeling only one emotion: rage. Rage was all that he carried in his soul. It burned inside him, keeping his body warm in the stormy dawn. Marmicus looked out and could hear Larsa’s voice against his ear in the wind, as if she was sitting behind him on Orisus, wanting to remind him of the love they once shared.
Your love is my throne, Marmicus. I would never need anything else in the world to make me feel like a queen, apart from you …
With those words echoing in his mind, Marmicus felt his blood boil. The final hour had come.

‘All I ever needed was you, Larsa.’

Every soldier turned his attention to Marmicus as he lifted his helmet, placing it over his head, ready for battle to commence. No man on earth could mistake the Gallant Warrior for anyone else on the battleground; his bronze helmet was one of a kind, brilliantly sculpted into the face of a fearless lion with only his eyes and wide jaw visible behind the mask of war.