The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (35 page)

‘I need this,’ said Nafridos as he held up the spear. His eyes squinted as he focused on the Gallant Warrior, and in that moment his world became still. All he could see was Marmicus, and the spear in his own hand. Nafridos waited for the right moment. With great deliberation, he leant back in his saddle and threw the spear, thrusting it powerfully across the battlefield. Nafridos watched it soar above the heads of soldiers, flighting towards its target. An arrogant smile spread across his face as Marmicus remained oblivious to its approach – or so it seemed. Just as Marmicus struck his sword against another, he caught the reflection of a spearhead hurtling down towards him. He instantly raised his shield, covering his head, and the long spear sliced through his shield, penetrating it and scraping his shoulder. He turned his head to see who his enemy was; something inside him warned him to remember it well – Marmicus had never seen such skill before. The Dark Warrior was staring back at him, his eyes unmoving and his body coated in blood. There was pleasure on his face, which spoke of excitement at Marmicus’s death. In that brief encounter both warriors knew they were made to destroy one another. The question was, who would leave the battlefield alive?

For now the battle between the two warriors would have to wait, for more pressing matters had emerged. The Dark Warrior heard his name being called, and looked over his shoulder to see the position of his soldiers on the battlefield. As he did, he saw something moving in the distance. It was a trap! A tactic which no previous enemy had ever tried. Another army, vast in number, was approaching from behind, loosing their arrows and trapping the Assyrian army in between two enemies. Marmicus had wanted the Assyrians to charge from the beginning; that was why he had not advanced – he needed to keep his front line intact. All this time Nafridos had believed that they were fighting the whole of the Babylonian army, when in fact his enemy had been divided into two sections; it was a decisive and brilliant move for the Garden of the Gods and Babylon; now the Assyrians would be locked between them, with arrows hurled at them from both positions. The Dark Warrior galloped towards the emperor’s marquee. Nafridos knew what had to be done, but he did not have the stomach or power to do it.
We will lose this war if we do not retreat now!

Larsa had been forced to sit beside the Assyrian emperor in an extravagant marquee hidden away from the battlefield. Despite being some distance away, Larsa could still hear the horror of war, knowing full well that she sat beside the one man who could stop it all. Unknown to her, missiles were being launched into the gloomy skies, the burning rocks landing on her soil, rolling and flattening anything that stood in their path. All that Larsa felt was the flutter of the tent, not knowing what awesome weapon had been unleashed against her people.

Jaquzan walked out of the marquee. His exquisite cape was held by his slaves, who made sure that the divine fabric would not touch the unconquered soil.

‘Bring the princess outside; I want my heir to see the glory of war through his mother’s eyes.’

Jaquzan believed that the horrific battle scenes would make Larsa’s womb become stronger, so that his son would be trained to love war almost before his life had begun, and to embrace the life of a conqueror. The guards moved in to take the princess. Knowing her, Jaquzan expected Larsa to refuse them, and put up a fight as she always did – but Larsa gave in without protest. She stood up and walked out, following her master from the tent towards the living portrait of war. Larsa wanted to see war for herself. All this time she had spoken of freedom as if she knew everything about it, but in reality she knew nothing. The men who were being slaughtered outside were paying the price for her freedom. Larsa knew that if she did not have the courage to look into the eyes of war, then she would never be worthy to enjoy the subsequent freedom. She placed her hand on her womb and walked out of the marquee, feeling the beauty of life growing inside her, just as the world around her was being stripped of life. The need to protect her unborn infant grew stronger; it was the last remaining granule of happiness she had left in the world. Her belly had become larger, her womb shaped by the glory of motherhood. Anyone who looked at her could see she was carrying a child.

‘Today the mighty rivers of Babylon shall run with the blood of gallant warriors, and by nightfall they’ll become an extinct breed,’ Jaquzan whispered. He stared calmly into the sea of soldiers, who hacked away at one another in the distance. Larsa stood beside him, saying nothing. She simply watched as her glorious homeland fell towards destruction. Never had she imagined looking out onto her kingdom and hearing the piercing shrieks of men replace the songs of wild birds. Thousands of soldiers were dying on her soil; their blood draining away into the land. All the dense palm trees which had once grown wild around the edges of her kingdom had been chopped down, making way for war. The long green grass had been scorched, creating a flat piece of wasteland for the battle. Larsa quietly wept, reacting to the first signs of war, and for the first time she found relief in her tears.

‘You can cut a rose from its stem,’ she said. ‘But it will always grow back from its roots. The same goes for courageous men – they will always rise up, and you will always cut your hand trying to tear them down.’ She stood beside Jaquzan, breathing heavily, the scent of blood heavy in the air. Jaquzan turned towards her, placing his hand affectionately on her belly as any father would. It seemed that even in the chaos of war Jaquzan embraced his fatherhood.

‘Then you’ll be the one to bathe our infant’s hands, because they shall bleed from tearing out those roots.’

Suddenly, Nafridos appeared in the distance, galloping as fast as he could towards the emperor’s marquee. Something was obviously wrong – he cherished combat; there was no reason for him to rush back if the war had not yet been won.

‘We’ve been deceived!’ Nafridos roared as he stopped in front of them. His skin was covered in blood. He had lived up to his reputation as the Dark Warrior: just as he had told the princess, every part of him was soaked with blood.

‘We’ve been trapped! The Babylonians are attacking us from behind and—’

‘Then fight from the front – their army is like a grain of sand compared to mine. They will die either way,’ replied Jaquzan.

‘You’re missing the point, cousin – my men will be unable to fight like that, our soldiers will be attacked from both sides. They’ll be trapped in the middle. We’ll lose this war if we don’t retreat, cousin. We must fall back now.’

Nafridos knew his men well; they were accustomed to using the same military tactics they had used in every other kingdom they had crushed, and there had never been a need to change them, until now.

‘Order the retreat!’ Jaquzan blasted angrily. The Dark Warrior darted back towards the battlefield: for now, the Gallant Warrior had saved the Garden of the Gods, but the emperor would make sure that the silence would not last for long. His army remained vast; he still had a strong chance of winning.

Marmicus, my love, there’s hope yet because of you
, Larsa thought. She knew then that Marmicus was still alive, and that her kingdom still had hope.

‘Wherever there are tyrants, there will always be freedom fighters to oppose them,’ she said.

‘Then tomorrow I’ll rip them out from the roots so that they can never rise up again,’ Jaquzan replied bitterly, turning back into the marquee.

Time meant nothing now. It was drifting aimlessly like the stormy clouds in the sky, without any kind of purpose. Paross rocked back and forth, waiting for war to end and peace to arrive with the new morning light. Silence gave people room to think; everyone’s minds were united in the same place, each of them thinking about the battleground where their loved ones were fighting for survival. Paross thought of Abram, and glanced at the empty space beside him where he could have sat. What had become of him? Was he dead? If he was, was his body being trodden on by soldiers, or had it been thrown onto a stack of bodies, ready to burn in a mass grave? He missed Abram’s wisdom, and the way he spoke lovingly about the One-God as if he were a friend of his who had travelled alongside him throughout the harsh years of his enslavement.

Now Paross was alone, lost in the midst of people who didn’t know his name or anything about the agonising journey he had undertaken to get here. His was just another face in the thousands who sat waiting for something to happen. Paross looked around. Women and children surrounded him. If they were not crying, then they were staring angrily at the soldiers who had refused to let their husbands and sons enter the temple for refuge. Paross could not blame the soldiers for what they had done. Deep down he knew that if Abram had been allowed in, he would still have given up his space to someone else, offering his place in the temple to another who needed it more. It made no difference now. The guards had locked the temple doors; no one could enter or leave. Everyone sat in silence, not knowing if the enemy would break down the doors or if the temple would be set on fire by the Assyrian army.

When the war began, Paross watched as mothers hugged their children tightly, showering them with kisses, perhaps for the last time, and wiping away their tears. It was during these moments that Paross felt the loneliest. He watched as toddlers buried their faces in their mothers’ necks for reassurance. Others lay on the floor, crying for their husbands, their backs cushioned by sheepskin blankets they had carried into the temple, one of the few possessions they had taken with them. Paross stared at the goatskin sacks lying around the temple. He could not help but think how miserable an existence it was when the life of a person could be summed up by the few possessions they clung to. He knew his own life told the same story. In the darkest hour, when the screams of war were at their highest pitch, Paross thought about his grandmother; the way she used to hug him at night whenever he was frightened, the way she used lick her fingertips to wipe the dirt off his face. It was a sensation he had hated, but now he missed it deeply. Then the Dark Warrior’s face entered his mind. Nothing could make him forget the look of his face: it was embedded in Paross’s mind like a splinter embedded beneath the skin. Paross knew that if Abram had faced him on the battleground only his One-God could save him …

A man who is always victorious in his endeavours finds the taste of defeat far harder to stomach than those who are familiar with its bitter flavour. This was exactly how Jaquzan felt: tonight the taste of defeat was more intolerable then he could ever have imagined. He had never lost a war before, and now his pride bore the brunt of his humiliation. Seven loyal advisors prostrated themselves before his feet, each one pressing their foreheads so hard against the ground that red pressure spots appeared on their skin. They were hoping that the Assyrian emperor would show them mercy, but they all secretly knew why they had been summoned. Defeat was not an option; they all knew this.

‘Forgive us. None of us could have anticipated his strategy. Tomorrow our soldiers will be stronger and more prepared,’ said one advisor.

‘I do not speak the language of forgiveness,’ replied the Assyrian emperor. He clenched his hand into a fist, his fingernails digging deep into his skin. Jaquzan was not a man to show emotion, but today he found it hard to conceal his rage.

‘You’ve made a mockery of my name and my empire; now I shall make a mockery of you all.’ He turned to his guards. ‘Round up the rest; I want them to watch these fools struggle for their lives just as my army struggled to be victorious today. Coat them with blood and feed them to my lions.’

The Dark Warrior stood at the sidelines watching intelligent men he had worked with in past wars being led away, to be killed like goats. The smell of bloody battle that lingered on his skin had been washed away and replaced with the fresh scent of lemon and oranges; it was the soap of war, cleansing all cuts and scrapes and removing from his skin the filth of his enemies.

‘Are you sure you want them dead? If you kill these men our kingdom will have no advisors left!’ said Nafridos.

‘They’ve outlived their usefulness. The best advisor is one’s own conscience, for there the tongue can never deceive the mind.’

‘We still have a good chance of being victorious. Let the soldiers rest. By morning we’ll have a new strategy, and a new victory. Now we know how large our opponent is, we won’t be deceived again.’

‘The Gallant Warrior is only one small problem,’ said Jaquzan.

‘What’s the other?’

‘My soldiers can longer be trusted to win this war. They’ve always feared me, but today they’ve been reminded that it’s possible to defeat a god. We both know they don’t fight out of loyalty, or love for me, but out of fear of what will become of them if they refuse.’ Jaquzan ground his teeth as he considered his options. ‘Victory does not come without loyalty to a cause. I need a warrior who has shown me loyalty; that’s where you come into play. We’ll settle this war using the ancient art of combat, one warrior against another. Whoever wins the battle will claim victory as theirs before the eyes of thousands.’

‘Is this your way of instructing me to take up the challenge, cousin?’ Nafridos smirked.

‘It’s my way of offering you the glory you’ve always desired. I give you permission to destroy the man you were born to destroy, and in return I’ll burn this kingdom to the ground so that all memory of my defeat dies with it. There’ll be nothing left of this Garden apart from the blackened statues of its gods.’

Nafridos understood that his cousin had not given him this opportunity out of generosity: he needed him and it made the opportunity even more alluring. This was exactly what the Dark Warrior had been waiting for all his life! Every battle he had experienced led up to this final moment. He had agreed to set aside his own share of the glory for the sake of the ultimate prize – victory. Every droplet of sweat that poured from his brow, every drop of blood, was precisely so that he could gain the skills necessary to annihilate the one opponent who matched his capabilities in combat.