The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (7 page)

‘We have a poet!’ shouted Nafridos to his comrades. They were cheering him on, urging him to taunt the princess. ‘I can taste your courage, princess, but if I were you I wouldn’t say such foolish things to a man who holds a butcher’s knife in his hand, unless you want your beauty to turn into something less comely.’ He sniffed her hair; its scent was alluring, but it was out of place on a battlefield.

‘Go ahead, kill me, I won’t stop you.’

‘And why would I want to waste such beauty? No, I’ve got better ideas.’

Nafridos began to slide his blade along her chest, cutting through the soft fabric of her garment; it was the only thing separating him from her skin. Her bravery was truly remarkable. As he cut through her dress she barely moved, giving only the slightest whimper. Nafridos had never seen such bravery. All the queens and princesses he had violated screamed loudly, but Larsa barely trembled. If only she knew that her resilience was only fuelling his desire! It was like a spark that ignited an unquenchable fire within him; nothing would stop him from doing to her what he pleased. ‘Now hush and be silent, or be silenced by me.’

The Dark Warrior turned his attention to the remaining servants. Killing men was a pleasure for him; something for which he had a talent. Only a couple of minutes had passed since he had butchered the Royal Guardsmen, offering them no mercy, and now his hunger for death had returned.

‘Kill the men first,’ he said to his men. ‘You have my permission to have your amusement with the women. Once your bodies are satisfied, kill them all. Leave no man or woman alive. Everyone must die.’ He turned to the servants. ‘Today you shall all greet death, and when you do, be sure to tell the gods that the time has come for them to surrender to a new power.’

‘What about the princess?’

‘Her fate is in the hands of our emperor; she belongs to him for now. These are your orders and this is their destiny. Kill them.’

‘No! Don’t!’ Larsa screamed. ‘Let them go, don’t harm them!’

The women were dragged by their hair. They tried to fight off the soldiers, but could not stop them from ripping their clothes and pinning them down. Chilling cries followed as the men were slaughtered, knives swiped across their necks in the manner of ritual execution.

‘Where are your hearts? Have you no compassion?’

‘Hearts?’ Nafridos said, walking back to the princess. It was as if he could taste the sweetness of her innocence against his lips. ‘They’re buried beneath the earth, where your body shall soon lie. Now say your farewells, princess, before you find they can no longer hear you.’

King Nelaaz of Aram was a man stifled by bad luck and he knew it. No matter how much energy or wealth he poured into his kingdom, hoping to gain favour with his people, they would always turn rebellious, branding his ideas as laughable and calling for a republic. The short-legged king’s round physique, his spotty and sweaty complexion, had led him to being nicknamed the Clown King of Aram; a name which – if uttered in his presence – carried an immediate sentence of death. In a last attempt to try to save his throne from the hands of disloyal men, King Nelaaz of Aram had asked Marmicus to intervene; it was his last hope of saving his slipping power from those who wanted to disembowel him. Fortunately, Marmicus had agreed to step in, buying some time for the sweaty little king to make the necessary reforms to please his people, and momentarily halting the civil war that was on the verge of erupting. King Nelaaz understood that he owed to Marmicus not only his throne, but his life. Had it not been for his pledge of support, he would have been overthrown and fed to the lions. Despite all this, King Nelaaz was not one to mull over things too long, and his lavish parties always cheered him up when protests erupted on the cobbled streets of his territory – and today was no exception.

‘I can’t imagine why your people have any reason to despise you; I’ve never seen such gracious hospitality in all my life,’ said a guest. He savoured the rich smell of roasted pig served with vegetables and wild fruits. Food was laid out along the length of the table, catering for the endless number of guests who celebrated for no reason at all. As in all parties thrown by the chubby king, they enjoyed the company of the women who sat on their laps, joyously feeding them as if they were babies.

‘Whenever I’m in the presence of food, I make it a rule never to speak about politics. I’d rather save myself from the indigestion,’ said King Nelaaz. His little nostrils sucked up the rich aroma of succulent meat; his stomach had been rumbling since his guests had arrived, and finally he could relieve the pangs of hunger.

‘Every meal must be blessed with a toast! We’re waiting for yours, oh beloved king,’ laughed a guest, a concubine sitting on his lap, pouring wine into his mouth.

‘Of course, only if I must.’

‘Yes, you must!’ they cheered.

King Nelaaz staggered to his feet, his knees cracking under the pressure of his weight. He raised his chalice of barley beer into the air, wanting to toast his friends and allies – many of whom he did not know, but trusted. ‘My father, rest his soul, gave me a good piece of advice. He said that a man’s body is a temple where his food goes to worship, so eat well and you’ll certainly please the gods. And, if not, at least you have a reason for your woman to stroke your belly at night! To the gods and all their women – may they be pleased with us all!’

Laughter erupted, each man toasting his fellows and digging into his food with unmannerly gusto.

At last I can eat
, thought King Nelaaz with a sense of relief as he grabbed the meat, drawing it close to his thin lips, the grease running through his ginger beard.
Ah, sweet paradise, I have patiently been waiting for you …

Suddenly the chamber doors slammed open, to everyone’s alarm, and a group of men entered, holding swords as if prepared for war.

‘By the grace of Ishtar, what’s going on? Who gave you permission to barge in here like this?’ shrieked King Nelaaz. He wiped the oil from his mouth, having barely sunk his teeth into the meat. At first he had thought a rebellion had reached his palace, but the news was far worse.

‘We’ve been sent here by order of the Gallant Warrior.’

Sibius barged through, pushing men out of his way as he approached the king. He handed over a clay tablet bearing the seal of their leader, which was more than enough evidence to authorise his entrance – and even if it was not, no man would dare defy such a symbol or disgrace it in front of him.

‘In that case, join us! Come and sit down, all of you, I expect you’re all hungry from your long journey. Send in more wine and more women; our guests from the Garden of the Gods are worthy of a thousand slaughters and more.’

There was no better time for the princess to join them
, thought the king. An image of her getting drunk and falling onto his lap entered his mind. She was a delightful creature; no doubt she would be even more delightful if she were wearing nothing.

‘Well, what are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to feast with us? There are plenty of women to go round; there’s no need to share.’

‘We’re not here to celebrate with you; we’ve come to seek news of the safe arrival of the princess. These are the Gallant Warrior’s orders, and we will not defy them even at your insistence.’

‘Arrival … what arrival? The princess hasn’t arrived in my kingdom.’

‘Are you certain of this?’ Sibius was in no mood to be trifled with, especially by an idiotic fat king whose face appeared to be as swollen as his feet.

‘Of course I’m certain. I’ve been waiting for her since I got word that she was coming. Tell me, when do you expect she’ll arrive? Will it be today, or tomorrow perhaps?’

‘So, all this while, you’ve neither heard from her nor sent word back to our kingdom warning us of her absence?’

‘Well …’ said the king, realising he was in dangerous waters, ‘I’ve been extremely busy …’

Sibius glanced at the king; the look on his sweaty face said everything. The sheer idiocy of his behaviour was beyond comprehension. How could any rational man have failed to act, especially when they were on the verge of war?

‘Do you understand the gravity of what you’ve done? Your behaviour has jeopardised everything.’

He turned to leave. The guests’ silence revealed the seriousness of the king’s offence. King Nelaaz wished he had not invited them; at this moment he wanted only to curl up in bed alone, a rare occurrence in itself.

‘Wait!’ he called, trying to stop Sibius from leaving. ‘Perhaps the Royal Caravan is lost. I’m told that on cloudy nights such as these it’s difficult to find my kingdom. I’ll send my men to search for them in the desert. Yes, I’m sure they are lost.’

‘Then let’s hope, for your sake, that the princess is still alive, because if she isn’t, rebellion will be the least of your worries,’ replied Sibius, marching off with clenched fists and fearful heart, anxious to deliver news immediately to his friend, Marmicus.

King Nelaaz had sent a search party to find the princess in the desert, dead or alive. His soldiers had been combing the desert for days, their heads pounding with heat exhaustion as they trekked beneath the sun for hours on end. The king’s idea was folly from the start. They all knew it would be impossible to find the princess: the featureless desert stretched for miles and she could have been anywhere; it was like searching for a ring in a sand dune. What made matters worse was that none of them knew what the princess looked like, so every time they found travellers they stopped them, rushing to look into their tents. If they found a beautiful woman, they immediately suspected it to be her, dragging her away with them, only to be told by their commander that it was not the princess.

‘My lord, the men are growing weak, and are in need of some rest. We must give them time to recover from the sun’s daggers,’ said a lieutenant, mounted like all the officers. He trotted beside his men, watching them battle to carry on. The combination of rough sand and leather sandals digging into their skin made the journey an excruciating one.

‘No, we have to go on, we must keep searching. I don’t care if your skin turns to chalk and your mouths burn with thirst; none of you will leave this desert until we’ve found the princess. Do you understand? Now keep searching.’

Like many of his fellows, the commander had grown tired of rectifying problems caused by his king. If it were not for the pledge given by Marmicus, King Nelaaz would have certainly found his head mounted on a spear by now. Of course, if they did not find the princess, Marmicus would happily do the job for them.

‘We’ve found something,’ declared a foot soldier, pointing into the distance. ‘Over there …’

A massacre had taken place at this spot in the vast reaches of the desert. The foot soldiers tried to dodge the scattered bodies that lay everywhere, all of them covering their noses as they tried not to breathe in the stench of rotting carcasses. They were seasoned soldiers, accustomed to the gruesome aftermath of battle, but none of them had ever seen such foul mutilation as this. Whoever had killed these people had wanted to leave a message behind for their enemies – butchering them was not enough.

‘May the gods have mercy on them,’ said the lieutenant. He was staring upwards. Thrust into the ground were long metal spikes, and the severed heads of the Royal Guardsmen were mounted on them, their eyes deliberately left open, while their hair blew eerily in the wind like reeds. Flies infested the area; they were laying eggs in their open mouths and nostrils. ‘Assyrian bastards! Was killing these men not enough for them?’

‘Forget your pity. Our orders are to find the princess, and we won’t leave this place until we’ve found her, dead or alive,’ the commander replied.

Soldiers began to use their weapons to turn over the bodies, careful not to tread on severed arms and legs. The stench was awful. Vultures circled above, waiting for them to leave.

‘How are we supposed to know which one’s the princess? It’s impossible to tell by looking at these corpses.’

‘Search for her beauty.’

‘No beauty of this world can survive such brutality,’ said one soldier.

‘Over here! I think I’ve found something!’ yelled another soldier, picking something off the ground.

The commander leapt off his horse and covered his nose with his sleeve.

‘Give it to me,’ he demanded, snatching the object. ‘Where’d you find this?’

‘It was over there, lying beside her body.’

The golden pendant had been delicately inscribed with encrypted words, giving the jewellery meaning.

‘What does it say?’ asked the soldier as he looked on. The golden object shimmered in the commander’s rough hands.

‘It says “Allegiance lies in the heart of the sword”,’ he replied. His finger softly traced the engraved words.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means the princess is dead,’ replied the commander as he peered at the headless body of the young woman. Her head was nowhere to be seen in the carnage; they must have taken it with them. He knelt down and looked at the remains of her decomposing body. The young woman had obviously tried to fight off her attackers – her fingers were broken, clearly showing a struggle.

‘She was raped, then killed,’ said the lieutenant, brushing the flies away from his face. He hovered over her, trying to gain as much information as possible; he knew the last moments of her life must have been cruel. He examined her partially naked body; her dress had been ripped and her legs exposed. It was enough evidence to show she had been ravaged, no doubt a number of times.

‘We’ve found what we were searching for. Bury her body. Make sure you leave no trace of her misfortune for anyone to see. We can’t afford to anger the Gallant Warrior with such barbaric truths.’

‘What about the rest of the bodies?’

‘Leave them for the animals.’

The soldiers began to dig a large ditch, attempting to conceal the truth. If only they had known that the headless body they had found was not the princess, but a slave woman …

‘By the glory of the gods, what am I going to do? What if they don’t find the princess? What if she’s dead?’ shouted King Nelaaz.