The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (36 page)

‘What if Marmicus doesn’t accept the proposition? What then?’

‘He’ll accept it; we can be certain of that.’

‘Why should he? Only a fool would accept it.’

‘A man in love is always a fool. If Marmicus chooses not to fight, then he shall have to watch his beloved princess being slaughtered on the battlefield before his very eyes. That’s why he’ll accept the proposition – his heart will compel him to. I hold his heart in the palm of my hand, and it shall be crushed until its beat falls silent.’

‘What about your child? If you kill her, you kill him too.’

‘You overestimate my compassion. I’ll be the one to draw the sword myself. This war shall be remembered as the battle for Larsa – one love dying for another.’

Nafridos looked at the emperor, realising that his cousin was a genius and his plan flawless. Marmicus would undoubtedly accept the challenge: he would do everything in his power to save the one he loved from harm, especially when he had thought she was dead.

‘Before we kill him, there’s work to be done and arrangements to be made,’ said Jaquzan. No detail would be ignored.

‘Arrangements to be made?’ muttered Nafridos.

‘Precisely.’

All that was left was one more stroke of wickedness. An act that could only be committed within the walls of the kingdom and by the most treacherous of men: a Grand Priest …

At last the Serpent planned to come out of the murky shadows of deceit into the light of truth. The time had come for him to commit the final act of betrayal, sacrificing the Gallant Warrior’s body in the name of the Assyrian emperor, a man he served without question or guilt. His final set of orders had been explicitly laid out, instructing him as to what to do. In exchange for his loyalty he had been promised a throne; but the Serpent sought a different prize altogether, one that had no equivalent in wealth or material goods. He wanted to reveal his true identity to the person that mattered the most. Revealing the truth was all that he needed; it would heal him as cool water heals a burn. He wanted Marmicus to know why he had betrayed the kingdom; telling him this would reveal a secret which had followed – and haunted – him since childhood.

‘Tonight, you above all others shall know what it feels like to be bitten by a snake …’ the Serpent smiled as he slithered towards the palace gates in search of the Gallant Warrior’s chamber.

Marmicus had returned to the palace after the battle, where his physician the Asu was waiting for him. The shoulder wound was deeper than the Asu had expected. He gently removed the Gallant Warrior’s heavy armour and instructed Marmicus to raise his arm, trying his best to stop the bleeding. Squeezing the cloth free of blood, the Asu cleansed the large flesh wound, dipping the cloth into a bowl containing fresh salt water and yarrow. Even though the wound was not fatal, there was still a prospect of it becoming infected.

‘I’ve met many warriors, but I’ve never met a man capable of throwing a spear like that. His aim was perfect. If it hadn’t been for the wind, it would have been on target. Whoever he was, I saw his desire to kill me.’

‘Then we must thank the gods for the strong winds they sent us,’ said the Asu.

His enemy’s face came back into Marmicus’s mind; Marmicus remembered how he had looked at him with disdain, trying to intimidate him. He was confident in his abilities, and rightly so. Somehow, Marmicus knew they would meet again on the battlefield; if they did, he would be better prepared next time.

The Asu took a long iron rod, which had been heating in the coals of the fire for some time, and hovered it over the Gallant Warrior’s shoulder. Marmicus could feel its heat against his body.

‘I must seal the wound to stop the bleeding. If I don’t do that, it will become infected. The battlefield is always filled with diseases.’

‘Do it.’

‘Brace yourself – this will hurt.’

‘Do it. I am ready.’

Marmicus clenched his arm, trying to prepare himself for the pain that would follow. The Asu held the hot iron rod against the open wound, searing the skin with its ferocious heat. Marmicus bit his lip, tried to stop himself from yelling out. The pain was indescribable. Marmicus could smell his skin burning; it was the same smell that came after battle, when bodies were piled together and set alight.

Finally, the Asu lifted the hot instrument away and quickly dipped his hands into another bowl, filled with cloves, calendula oil and lavender. The mixture was intended to numb and disinfect the area, although it offered little relief from the pain. The Asu then carefully bandaged the wound.

‘Can I come in? I want to congratulate the Gallant Warrior on his victory,’ called the Priest of Xidrica. He entered the chamber holding a clay jug filled to the brim with barley beer.

‘I recommend he rests.’

‘No, he can come in.’

‘Then I’ll leave you to talk,’ replied the Asu. He dried his hands using a cotton cloth then walked out of the chamber to attend to the rest of the day’s injured.

‘You shouldn’t be too eager to celebrate victory: this kingdom may have won the battle, but we still haven’t won the war. Tomorrow we face a new dawn filled with new challenges,’ chided Marmicus, trying to get up. The Priest of Xidrica could tell he was in a lot of pain. He had difficulty in standing up; whoever had struck him must have been extremely skilled.

Marmicus walked towards his armour, which was covered in dried blood. Across the metal were scrapes from swords and spears. Marmicus placed his hand on the cold metal, remembering the faces of the men he had killed, though this time he felt nothing for them. He grabbed a clean cloth, squeezing the water from it, and began to wash away the traces of blood that lingered on the metal.

‘Today our kingdom’s walls will tremble with the cries of widows searching for their husbands,’ he whispered.

‘You obviously haven’t left the palace; the people are already celebrating our victory in the streets. Besides, wives who have lost their husbands still have their children and their homes. That’s enough to be thankful for.’

The Gallant Warrior said nothing. The truth was that he did not like the fact that the people were celebrating a battle that was half-won. Anything could happen – he had learnt that from life’s bitter lessons.

‘Has no one found the Grand Priest of Ursar?’

‘That is partly why I’ve come to see you. There’s something important I must tell you, and it concerns him …’

‘What is it?’

‘It can wait for a moment – you’ve already gone through enough trials to last a lifetime. Let’s have a drink, at least to celebrate our small moment of victory.’

‘I can’t celebrate a victory when my soldiers are being buried and tyrants are still being feared.’

‘Then let us pledge our allegiance to justice, and to the memory of the princess. She deserves to be honoured, no matter how small the victory may be.’

The Priest of Xidrica placed the clay jug on the table and began to pour the barley beer into two chalices. The truth was he needed a drink, but he did not want to drink alone. He offered the chalice to Marmicus, along with a reassuring smile, and lifted his own cup into the air in praise of his friend’s remarkable success on the battlefield. With no reason to question his loyalty, Marmicus took the chalice, placing his lips to it, then drank the barley beer until there was nothing left. The young priest watched as the Gallant Warrior gulped it down, the alcohol immediately relieving the intense pain in his shoulder.

‘You truly have a remarkable gift for war. Today the gods watched one man defeat an empire of thousands.’

‘If knowing how to kill men is a trait envied by gods,’ said Marmicus, ‘then I’ve been cursed, not blessed by it … How did you get that scar on your hand?’ He had never noticed it before today, as the young priest usually chose to cover it with his long sleeves.

‘My master gave it to me when I was a child,’ said the young Priest of Xidrica. He turned to the chair and sat down, looking at Marmicus as if waiting for something to happen. ‘Whenever I look at it, I’m reminded of what’s been taken away from me, and what I’ve struggled to take back all these years. If you look carefully, you’ll see it looks like a snake writhing along my hand. Doesn’t it?’

Marmicus stared at the scar which stretched along the young priest’s hand. He was right; it did resemble a snake.

‘I was a slave as a child, and I’m still a slave, even as a man.’

‘If serving the gods makes you a slave, why don’t you free yourself from their rule and become the free man you desire to be?’ asked Marmicus. He could not understand why anyone would wish to live a life that was not of their own choosing.

‘You should ask yourself the same question, Gallant Warrior. Aren’t you the slave of the people, constantly fighting for them, instead of yourself?’

‘If fighting for justice makes me a slave to the people then I’m content with that,’ responded Marmicus. An odd tingling sensation ran along the back of his tongue. ‘What was in that drink? It doesn’t sit well with me.’

‘It wouldn’t sit well with anyone.’

The young priest gave him a long, penetrating look that was uncharacteristic of him.

‘What was it?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s the same poison I gave to your beloved king.’

At first Marmicus thought it was a poor joke. The Priest of Xidrica knew how much he honoured Larsa’s father.

‘You offend our king with those words; he still deserves our respect, even after death.’

‘If I wanted to offend you and your beloved king, I’d tell you everything that I’ve done to betray you both.’

The young priest had finally shed his cloak of false humility and revealed his treacherous self. He relaxed on his chair, watching his victim begin to show the first signs of being poisoned. Marmicus turned to grab his Sword of Allegiance, but the sudden movement made his nauseous feeling worse. His head began to spin, then throb.

‘I see the poison’s working. I have to say it’s worked more quickly than I expected,’ smiled the Serpent. He noticed Marmicus trying to focus on him, but his eyelids had grown heavy. The young priest chuckled. Now the Gallant Warrior was powerless to do anything: the poison was penetrating him, turning a strong man into a helpless weakling. Marmicus felt the tingling sensation in his mouth spread. It had moved to his hands and feet, and even his tongue felt heavy.

The Serpent watched, enjoying every little flicker of pain on Marmicus’s face. He had been waiting anxiously for this, dreaming of it every single day like a child who eagerly awaits the arrival of a special gift. He threw his chalice onto the floor, and it rolled towards Marmicus’s feet. It was time to reveal all.

‘Your king was right. I remember him saying that a man will always carry two things in his hands: friendship in one, and a knife in the other. You should have taken his advice; you made a grave mistake placing too much trust in a person when you hadn’t tested them.’

Marmicus sunk slowly onto his knees, then collapsed sideways onto the ground. He remained conscious, but his body began to tremble, and saliva poured from his mouth as if it were water coming from a well. Everything around him became distorted and cloudy.

‘Why … did you … do this?’ asked Marmicus, slurring his words. It was hard for him to speak, as the poison had numbed his tongue. He could feel it roll back into his mouth; if it did, it would block his breathing passage, and he would certainly suffocate.

‘Never blame the enemy without first understanding his motives,’ the Serpent said. Stepping over to Marmicus, he grabbed his jaw, lifting his head, wanting him to hear every single word. Marmicus could not fight back; he was at the priest’s mercy.

‘If I told you that your king had a son, would you believe me? Well, you should. After the Queen died, your king became lonely at night; he would call upon my mother to keep his bed warm. She did, until one day she fell pregnant. Who could have imagined that a whore would give birth to a bastard prince? When she told him, he banished her from the kingdom, he wanted to hide what he had created with his own body. My mother was forced to live in exile, and I was forced to grow up watching her sell her body to men just so that she could feed and clothe me. One night, my mother disappeared; I looked for her everywhere, but she had vanished like the cool winds from the desert. I was forced to fend for myself, a boy of eight, who knew nothing about the ways of the world. Eventually, I gave up, and was sold into slavery. I’ll never forget the day when I pleaded with my masters to let me go, I told them that I was a prince from the Garden of the Gods; they laughed at me and beat me until I learnt to keep silent, but I never forgot who I was or where I came from. I endured the pain, biting my tongue, and enduring their punches just so that I could survive to see my father. No one imagines that their curse could become their blessing, but that was precisely what happened to me; I was sold to a Grand Priest who gave me my freedom on the condition that I loved the gods like he did. I was free in body, but my mind had become slave to a false love of temples and stone. I pretended to love them, believing in their wretched power just so that I could join the Counsel of Grand Priests and meet my father – who led them. I had pinned my every hope on that day.’

Marmicus began to lose consciousness at this point, but the Serpent would not let him slip away. He grabbed his shoulders, and shook him frenziedly, but it was no use, he had passed out.

‘Stay awake!’ the priest commanded. He got up angrily, and began to kick his chest, his heels digging into lungs and stomach. Marmicus stirred, he coughed spitting blood because he had bitten his tongue; the pain would keep him awake for a few more minutes.

‘Welcome back,’ said the priest as he knelt down, and grabbed Marmicus’s jaw again. ‘Now where was I? Ah, I remember now … after years of waiting and planning, I was summoned by your king; I saw him several times, but one night he invited me alone to his chamber. I took the chance I needed, and poured poison into his wine, watching him take sips until he collapsed. I called the guards and told them that I had found the king lying on the floor; I watched them lift him up, knowing full well that even though he was lying motionlessly, he could still hear and see everything around him. He was trapped in his own body: now he knew what it felt like to be a prisoner. I visited him every night with the rest of the Grand Priests, they were praying for him to gain strength but, unlike them, I prayed for him to suffer - I wanted him to hate his life just as he had made me hate mine. I would have been happy watching him lying there forever, but the Grand Priest of Ursar became suspicious of me when I asked to see him alone. It looked as though I wanted to confess something to the king. He began to watch me closely, but although he said nothing, I could see the suspicion in his eyes. Finally, I had the chance to see the king alone without anyone knowing, so I came to his chamber, and it was then that I noticed something – something I’d never noticed before. I saw myself in him: his eyes were the same as mine, so too were his nose and lips; and then it occurred to me why the Grand Priest of Ursar had been suspicious of me. It wasn’t because I wanted to see the king alone; it was because of how similar we looked. The Grand Priest of Ursar had noticed it too, that I had my father’s face, and when he noticed it, he must have remembered the king’s secret after all these years. I knew then that the king had confided in him, telling him what he had done.’