The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (31 page)

Paross looked around, unable to contain his excitement. They had decided to walk throughout the night and, just as tradition dictates, they had finally reached the kingdom at the break of dawn. Paross let go of Abram’s hand and began to run across the oasis kingdom, feeling the cool wind blow against his skin as he dashed in and out of palm trees, orange blossom and pomegranate trees. There were streams running under the shiny evergreen foliage, birds and little animals everywhere. The lush green grass felt like an exquisite rug which cushioned his feet as he ran on it. Spreading his arms out like a bird wanting to fly, Paross spun through the valley of palm trees. His reflection rippled across the crystal-clear Euphrates river, which nourished the fertile land. Some pelicans had gathered, resting in the shallows in a large flock, but they rose the moment Paross came near.

‘Are we dreaming? Can this place be real?’

Paross boyishly ran back towards Abram, who stood under a fig tree, hoping to find some ripened fruit which had fallen onto the rich soil. He did not need to look far; they were everywhere. One by one Abram collected the ripe figs, placing them in the same straw basket which he had used to collect scorpions to kill his master, and feeling no regret at all for the lethal act. With his blistered hands Paross began to help his friend collect the figs. Thick sugary syrup coated their hands and lips as they ate the fresh fruit without fear. Eventually the straw basket was full of ripe figs, and they sat down for a while under the shaded palm trees. The scent of wild jasmine flowers flew with the winds that kissed this perfect landscape. Wherever Abram and Paross looked, beauty caught their eyes, calming their souls after all the suffering they had endured.

‘Where are all the people?’

‘They live over there. I’ve heard it’s called the City of Flowers,’ said Abram. He pointed into the distance; they were still some miles away from it. Paross repeated the name to himself; the city sounded glorious. The Assyrian kingdom may have been impressive, but the Garden of the Gods had a natural simplicity that beautified it. It was coloured by flowers and palm trees, while everything in Assyria was built by man and spoke of darkness and destruction. Abram and Paross walked together along the stone path, the other free slaves following behind. Paross looked again at the Temple of Ishtar, standing against the clear blue sky. Birds were circling it as if paying homage to its brilliance, their wings decorating the sky like scattered petals falling from a white cherry tree.

‘Now that your friends are free, where will they go?’ Paross asked. He held Abram’s hand tightly, knowing full well that their journey together would not last much longer.

‘They’ll remain here for a few days, then they’ll follow the sun back towards their homelands. Many of them have families there,’ said Abram. He looked over his shoulder at his comrades, who joyously entered the kingdom, this time as free souls, not slaves.

‘What about you? Where will you go, Abram?’

‘I’ll come with you until you’re free of your duty,’ replied Abram. He did not wish to leave the boy.

‘But you’re free! You can go wherever you want!’

‘A free man has nothing in this world if he does not have a friend by his side.’

Paross looked up at the man who had not only saved him from brutality but had offered his friendship, like the loving father he had never known.

‘My journey will end as soon as I find the woman my grandmother told me about.’

‘Then we’ll find her together …’

King Nelaaz of Aram had been regarded as an insult to the line of kings, yet somehow he had managed to cling to his throne despite the constant revolts that occurred in his homeland. But a man’s reputation can change as easily as the direction of the wind; after all his years of ridicule, the sweaty king had at last proven himself to be anything but stupid. For King Nelaaz had potentially saved the lives of thousands without having to bribe or lie to anyone, and for this he was loved by his people. But the world can be a cruel place; for, unknown to King Nelaaz, death was hovering over him. The Serpent slithered into his bedchamber, his nose and mouth covered with a cotton handkerchief.

The Serpent waited for several moments, simply staring at the king as he held a pillow with both hands. Whatever happened he could not afford to make a mistake. If he did, he would risk revealing his identity.
I must be prepared for all eventualities …

He breathed in and out again. It was the first time that the Serpent had felt a rush of nerves before killing someone: it was a new experience for him. He smiled to himself. Of all the people he had murdered, he would never have imagined feeling nervous about killing the chubby little King of Aram; he was someone who could barely frighten a child. Then again, the Serpent had underestimated him before: anything was possible; after all, luck had always proven to be on his side. The Serpent sensed the right time had come. Like a ghost, he held the pillow, hovering it over the king’s face. Suddenly he brought it down, using the whole weight of his body to suffocate him. King Nelaaz woke up immediately, his vision blackened by the pillow which pressed tightly against his face, scarcely able to breathe.

‘Guards! Guards!’ the king yelped. His cries came from his lips as faint whispers. The Serpent pressed the pillow harder, watching the king’s legs jerk manically, and feeling his nose squash into his face. He knew he had to be careful; he could not afford to leave his victim with a broken nose; this would only alert suspicion. The king’s chin squashed into his neck; his lungs were bursting.

‘Those who smile foolishly in life, die with an unwelcome frown,’ said the Serpent. He watched as the king’s toes curled in pain, and the sheets slipped off his bed. His body shuddered; strangely, it took the Serpent back to a childhood incident long forgotten. When he was eight his beloved cat had been bitten by a snake. As the venom had spread through her body, the animal’s suffering became more obvious. At first, he had thought she was recovering, because her muscles were twitching erratically as if she were waking up, but eventually she died in his arms. Unlike for his cherished cat, the Serpent felt no sympathy for King Nelaaz as he suffocated. Finally King Nelaaz’s eyes rolled back into their sockets, his scrabbling feet relaxed on the bed, and his body fell still. The Serpent lifted the pillow from his round face, then reached for the cotton handkerchief that lay on the divan. Leaning over the king, he dabbed away any traces of sweat on his face. In the last few seconds of his life, King Nelaaz had recognised the voice of his murderer: it was the voice of a man so revered that he could hardly believe it.

‘Farewell, dear friend, your laughter shall be missed,’ the Serpent smiled. He reached for the linen sheets, which had slipped onto the floor, picking them up and placing them over King Nelaaz’s still body. Whoever was unfortunate enough to find him would think that he had died naturally in his sleep. The Serpent gently closed the king’s eyes and walked out of the chamber. Tonight he had drawn nearer to his goal of the throne promised to him; but something else had taken over his thoughts, a secret which he could not wait to reveal to the Gallant Warrior …

‘My lord Marmicus, you’re needed urgently,’ said the messenger who barged into the chamber.

‘Whatever it is, it can wait,’ Marmicus replied, brushing aside his words and returning to his generals, and the map spread out before them. This was a critical time for the Gallant Warrior; the commanders of the Babylonian armies had arrived, bringing with them their forces. They now gathered to discuss potential strategies of war. There was no time to waste. They all knew that they were greatly outnumbered, and if they were going to defeat the Assyrians they needed to work together as one force. Without an effective strategy, it would be suicide for each commander and his men.

‘My lord, I’m not permitted to leave this chamber without you. These are my orders.’

‘Get him out of here! He’s not allowed to be here when we’re discussing strategy,’ yelled one of the generals, who was used to dishing out orders. Marmicus understood his concerns. In the affairs of war no man could be trusted unless he stood to lose as much as he gained.

‘Who’s ordered you to remain here?’ asked the Gallant Warrior.

‘The Priest of Xidrica, my lord. He told me to either bring you to him or wait with you here, until you finish.’

Marmicus knew he should leave. If the message had come from the Priest of Xidrica, it must be something of great importance.

‘The only reason I’m coming with you is because I don’t trust you to stay here. Now take me to him.’

The Gallant Warrior followed the messenger out of the chamber, uncertain of where exactly he was being taken. As soon as he entered the sunlit corridor, he noticed a thick wave of smoke drifting through it. The powerful incense smelt the same as the one used at the princess’s funeral, and instant memories of that awful day came back to him.

The messenger halted abruptly outside one chamber. The large wooden doors were bolted open to allow Marmicus to enter. As he walked in, he saw dark, shadowy people standing round a bed. Despite the thick cloud of smoke, and his blurred vision, he immediately recognised them to be Grand Priests, from their long headdresses and gowns. They were conducting a sacred ritual, but the ring of scholarly men was missing a very important leader.

‘Why isn’t the Grand Priest of Ursar here?’

‘We’ve searched everywhere for him; he’s nowhere to be found,’ replied the Priest of Xidrica, who placed his hand on the Gallant Warrior’s shoulder, greeting him in mourning.

The Gallant Warrior glared at the lifeless corpse of what once had been a cheerful king who enjoyed life’s pleasures to the fullest. Whether you loved him or hated him, King Nelaaz’s presence could certainly never be ignored. His cheeks were always rosy and vibrant with colour – some jokingly referred to them as ripened apples of summertime – and his laughter was always loud, like his flamboyant character. But now the cheerful king was dead, lying flat on his back with his eyes closed as if he were still sleeping. The glow of life had disappeared; his flabby chin had sunk into his neck, with his skin turning blue as his muscles hardened. Marmicus looked at his body, not expecting to feel any emotion for a man who had betrayed him. Ever since Larsa had died, he had felt nothing but anger; however, King Nelaaz’s death reawakened some emotions within him.

‘It’s always a blessing for a king to die in his sleep and not at his enemy’s hands,’ the Priest of Xidrica whispered dejectedly. He had abandoned the line of priests who were reading sacred prayers over his body. Even though Marmicus had said nothing, the young priest could tell that he had been affected by the king’s death, irrespective of the bitter feud between them.

‘Death makes no distinction: whether you’re a poor man or a king, death will always find its way into our lives and men will always try to escape it.’

‘Death may make no distinction when it selects its victims, but men always do,’ Marmicus said quickly. He looked at the body, searching for something.

‘Leave us,’ instructed Marmicus to the surrounding priests.

‘The ritual isn’t complete yet; we must prepare his body for the afterlife,’ said a priest.

‘If you don’t leave us, you can join him.’ Marmicus had lost his patience with them all; he expected everyone to do as he commanded without question. The Grand Priests abandoned their posts, breaking the circle of death; they could see that he did not trust them.

‘You need to be careful, Marmicus; making enemies isn’t a wise tactic, irrespective of how strong an opponent you may be,’ said the Priest of Xidrica. He had thought about keeping silent, but he felt it necessary to speak up. It was never right to bully anyone.

‘Who told you that the king had died in his sleep?’

The priest was baffled by the question. It was obvious that he had died in his sleep.

‘No one told me; we all assumed it. He was found like this.’

Marmicus looked more closely at the body, wanting to inspect every detail. He lifted King Nelaaz’s chin; his skin was cold and dry. His muscles were beginning to stiffen, making it hard for Marmicus to lift his chin. Marmicus saw purplish blotchy patches running across his flesh, and looked at them closely, then pulled away the covers that concealed the rest of his body. The blotches looked like leopard spots. It was not unusual for someone who had been dead some hours.

‘A poor man who has nothing is far more blessed than a wealthy king who has a surfeit of enemies and a mountain of riches,’ Marmicus whispered. He traced his fingertips down the length of the king’s neck, looking for something unusual, but he felt no trace of strangulation. There were no tears or scrapes to the flesh; no sign of a struggle.

‘What are you doing?’ the Priest of Xidrica asked.

Marmicus said nothing.

‘Not everyone who has died has died unjustly. Death isn’t always committed by men, Marmicus; the gods have this power too.’ The priest clasped the Gallant Warrior’s hand between his own, sensing desperation in his behaviour; it was obvious he wanted to find some kind of answer for the unexpected death. ‘Do you dream of her?’

Marmicus looked up, taken aback by the question, and how well the young priest had got to know him; it seemed the priest could see his inner thoughts when he had managed to conceal them even from himself.

‘Every night.’

Marmicus peered at the floor, his mind flashing with the visions he saw in his dreams. They were images that haunted him at night and tormented him during the day. Just as he was about to speak of his recurring dream, he saw something that caught his eye. There, lying by the foot of the bed, was a white cotton handkerchief which he recognised as belonging to the Grand Priest of Ursar!

Marmicus knelt down and reached out for the handkerchief.

‘There are people coming, Mama!’ called Zechariah. He rushed into the large mud-brick house, wanting to tell his mother the news. He had seen them approach from a distance when he was playing in the gardens behind the house. At first, Zechariah had thought they were just passing by, but then they walked along the stone path that led towards the house.