The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (8 page)

‘You must keep calm. No good can come from speculating,’ replied his advisor.

‘Speculating? Why, there’s nothing to speculate about. If they don’t find the princess, one way or another I’m dead. What man wants the Gallant Warrior as his enemy? I certainly don’t, not after all he’s done for me!’ blasted the king, heatedly. His bulging belly heaved up and down with his short breaths; for once in his life he was unable to set aside his troubles in favour of food or a naked woman. The sweetness of ripened apples had finally turned sour in his stomach, leaving him choking on foul bitterness. ‘By the gods, I’ve been cursed! I can feel it within the pit of my stomach; those hungry peasants in my kingdom have cursed me with their wretched prayers, I just know it. I can hear them cursing me in my sleep.’

‘We’ve found her!’

‘Well, where is she? By the gods, I demand to see her now.’

‘I wouldn’t advise it, unless you wish to see a corpse,’ replied the commander. He had returned from the desert as quickly as he could.

‘Don’t speak to me in riddles, boy, I have neither the energy nor the patience to unravel their meaning. Now, tell me where the princess is. You said you found her – where is she?’

The commander jumped straight to the point, breaking the news without any niceties at all.

‘She’s dead. Most likely raped before the Assyrians killed her.’

King Nelaaz looked at him dazedly; it was a strange reaction, as if the news had gone over his head.

‘Dead? That’s impossible! No one would dare kill the sacred daughter of the Garden of the Gods!’ He could not bring himself to accept such news; nor could any of his advisors. Larsa was unlike any other royal soul; she was considered a deity with the purest blood, sent from the gods themselves in all their glory. Every royal from the Garden of the Gods was seen as a descendant of Ishtar herself.

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t, so I brought you this,’ said the commander. He took out a golden pendant from his pocket; its soft metallic sheen was partly obscured by the dried blood splattered over it, hiding its beauty.

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s proof,’ he said, handing it over to the king, who looked at it for a few seconds, then passed it along to his advisors. Only they could guarantee its authenticity.

‘It’s the royal pendant of Ishtar,’ said one advisor.

‘Indeed. Look at the back – see what’s written across it.’

The advisor turned it over. Engraved on the shiny metal were the sacred words of the kingdom.

‘“Allegiance lies in the heart of the sword”,’ read the advisor aloud.

‘I found it lying beside the body of a headless woman. I have no doubt in my mind that it was the princess.’

‘A headless woman?’ said King Nelaaz, sinking into his chair. The news was getting more disastrous by the minute. He put his hands over his head, not wanting to hear more. This was it; the end of his mortal journey. It was only be a matter of time before he would be thrown to the lions, just as the people had wanted. The spectacle would be a celebration for them.

‘By the grace of the gods, what am I going to do? When the Gallant Warrior hears of this he’ll crush me with his fist.’

‘Does the Gallant Warrior know of this misfortune yet?’ the advisor asked pointedly. His long nose twitched. He had a cunning ploy, one that – if implemented properly – might save them all from the fall from power.

‘I haven’t sent any news yet. I’m waiting for His Majesty’s instructions.’

‘Good. I’ve got an idea. It’s rather far-fetched but I think it may just work,’ said the advisor. All his plans had worked well in the past, and there was no reason why this one would not work too.

‘I’m listening. What is it?’

‘We can’t change the fact that the princess is dead – but, then again, we can’t afford to send a pile of bones to Marmicus. It would simply reveal this kingdom’s negligence. So if we can’t bring her back to life, then let us at least pretend we tried our best to protect her from the Assyrians. We can say that our soldiers got there and fought to protect her, and that many of our men died alongside her, but it was too late – they had already killed her. That way, we can’t be blamed for her unfortunate death, but at the same time we can preserve our valuable allegiance with Marmicus.’

He was right: the idea was far-fetched. But it did have potential.

‘We don’t have her body, unless you’re suggesting we go back and dig it up,’ said the commander. He had trained himself to always think a step ahead; it was important for military personnel to assess the strengths and weaknesses of any suggestions.

‘We can always find a woman who looks like her. The king has plenty of women at his disposal; it’s only a matter of choosing which one,’ said another advisor. It would mean killing an innocent woman just to facilitate their deceit. The commander looked at the king, who said nothing; the idea was cunning, however deceitful. Nevertheless, it might be their only option. The choice was entirely the king’s.

‘What if Marmicus sees the body and realises it’s not her?’ said King Nelaaz. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the suggestion.

‘He won’t. Not if the body lies beneath an inch of gold. We’ll make sure she’s ready to be buried; no one will see the body below all that gold. It’ll distract the eyes,’ said the advisor.

‘By the gods, I forbid it. It’s plain wrong! I can’t lie to Marmicus, not like this anyway, especially when he’s saved me from my own people and given me his allegiance.’ For once in his life the king wanted to do something right; but in times of war it was never wise to develop a conscience.

‘This is our only option, unless you wish to greet Marmicus with a pile of tattered flesh and dried bones,’ insisted the commander, becoming convinced of the plan’s viability.

‘Don’t be silly, you fool! Of course I don’t, but I don’t want to deceive him like this. I’m not giving you permission to do this. I won’t do it.’

‘If you don’t agree to this, Your Majesty, you’ll have no throne to sit on, and no palace to shield you from your own people who, in case you have forgotten, are out to kill you,’ said the advisor, leaning towards him almost devilishly, desperately wanting to convince him to accept the idea. There was nothing to lose from trying it. ‘If it helps your conscience, then think of this act as a sign of friendship offered to a man who has just lost his wife. If Marmicus knew the true extent of his loss, he’d have no strength to shield anyone from harm, including his own people. We must try to cushion the blow. It’s in his interests – after all, sometimes we must commit a small wrong for the greater good.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said King Nelaaz. ‘Death is death. We can’t resurrect the princess, or undo the curse which has befallen her kingdom. She’s now just a pile of bones, while I’m still a king made of flesh and in need of some comfort. I suppose all we can do is let the Gallant Warrior mourn her death in the most appropriate fashion.’ He was trying his best to convince himself of the idea; rationalising their plan was already starting to make him feel much more at ease with it. ‘Very well, go ahead and kill one of my whore women, and make sure she looks like the princess. You can have all the gold you need to conceal her body. If we’re going to do this, we must do it right. By the gods, let’s just hope it’s enough to put everything right; if it isn’t, then I’ll not only lose my throne and my gold, but my favourite whore, no doubt. I can’t think which is worse.’

‘It’s a shame that such beauty has to be wasted; you should have brought her to me – I would have given her a memorable last night,’ said King Nelaaz, looking over the lifeless body of a young woman. Her smooth white skin, long dark hair, wide eyes and heart-shaped lips bore sufficient similarity to the features of the princess; it was the reason why she had been singled out and killed. ‘Who was she?’

‘A temple maid.’

‘Any man would be committed to the gods after seeing her there,’ said the king, biting his lip. Whenever he saw a pretty face, he couldn’t stop himself from imagining what it would be like to be sleep with the woman; it was a disgusting habit.

King Nelaaz loomed over her. He had not noticed any sign of violence on her body, but quite frankly he didn’t wish to know the details. The only thing that was important to him was whether Marmicus would believe it was the princess. He walked around the slab several times, watching the undertakers carry out their preparations; the powerful fragrance of frankincense irritated his nostrils. Her skin glowed brightly; it had been moisturised with a concoction of essential oils. They poured strong perfume over her, mixed with saffron leaves and fresh pollen. Using a soft brush, they gently painted the perfumed dye onto her face, spreading it evenly along her neck and down her shoulders – only the wealthy could afford such a thing. Eventually her body looked as if it had been covered in gold leaf, the scent of death had been clouded with perfume, and her skin appeared refreshed as if life still ran through her veins.

The longer King Nelaaz watched, the more he realised just how expensive this lie was becoming. The servants pulled a garment over her head, drawing it across her shoulders and down the length of her body; its encrusted jewels sparkled brilliantly as the light hit them. The dress had been stitched with gold thread. The vibrant colours contrasted with the simplicity of the white material.

‘What’s the world coming to? Who could ever have imagined that a temple maid would be given the burial of a queen?’ he said, watching the undertakers trying to lift her up. Her muscles had not yet hardened; she had been killed just an hour or two before, giving them enough time to conduct their ritual without difficulty.

‘They’ve arrived, Your Majesty.’

King Nelaaz nodded, acknowledging the servant’s words. A rush of nervous energy filled him. He wished he could have a drink to settle his nerves, but there was no time for that. Every ounce of gold spent on this deception would be wasted if Sibius didn’t believe their elaborate story. Of course, if he did not, they still had the option to get rid of him and bury all traces of the enterprise.

King Nelaaz watched the undertakers add the final touches: they lifted a solid gold funerary mask from the table and placed it over the dead girl’s face, concealing her features. It fitted perfectly over her eyes, nose and lips. They lifted her head gently and tied an elaborate necklace around her neck, its golden leaves and white pearls cascading all the way down to her chest.

‘This had better work,’ said King Nelaaz. For some reason his feelings of guilt had disappeared completely when he realised how much had been spent on the plan.

‘He’s here!’ said a servant, rushing in.

‘Don’t let him see her until they’ve finished. We don’t need another body on our hands.’

The king walked out of the chamber, preparing himself to break the news to Sibius.
Only the gods can make this plan work
, he thought.

‘You’re good with children. I’m surprised you’ve waited so long for your own,’ said Sulaf.

Marmicus laughed aloud. The boy was trying his best to attack him, but he easily dodged his strikes, despite giving him ample opportunity to beat him. He could tell Zechariah was getting exasperated; now the time had come to give a real lesson in the art of swordsmanship. Marmicus flexed his wrist; the movement was quick, but gentle enough not to harm the little boy. The weapon flew out of the boy’s hands, landing on the grass at his feet.

‘You should never treat your sword as just your weapon, Zechariah; you must think of it as a friend, worthy of respect.’ Marmicus handed it back to him. The optimism and determination in the boy’s eyes reminded him of his own eagerness to learn when he had been that age.

‘But it’s a sword, Uncle Marmicus, not a person!’

‘You’re wrong; it’s much more than a sword – it’s the one thing you have to protect yourself when you’re facing your enemy. You need to know your weapon better then you know yourself. If you don’t, you’ll die.’ He stopped for a minute, wanting to explain exactly what he meant. ‘Look, if you strike your sword too hard against your enemy’s blade, the blade may tremble, and you’ll fail to strike a clean blow when you need it the most. But if you strike it too softly, then the blade can bend and you’ll be left open to attack. That’s why a warrior needs to learn how to control the rhythm of his weapon; he needs to know everything about it. Only then can he protect himself and maintain perfect balance. Once you’ve done this, the power of your weapon can truly be unleashed and people will honour you because of it. Now I want you to try again but, this time, embrace your sword as if you were about to embrace your destiny.’

The little boy concentrated hard on his weapon – the heft, the way the light shone off the metal and how his fingers closed around the grip. He tried to absorb every little detail.

‘Are you ready to embrace your destiny?’

‘Yes.’

The boy flung himself forward, attacking with greater control and self-belief. His thin arm scythed through the air as he swiped his blade, determined to triumph; Zechariah had improved his swordsmanship in a matter of seconds. His weapon clashed against Marmicus’s own, with more skill and rhythm than before. Sulaf watched, feeling proud, and in awe of Marmicus’s way with her child. She could tell he was ready to be a father, and she wished that she could be a father to her own son. Marmicus tried to prolong the battle as long as possible so he could boost the little boy’s confidence. Finally, he angled his weapon perfectly, as he always did on the battlefield whenever he wanted to end a fight. True to his style, it resulted in a clean win. ‘You’ve learnt to let your passion ignite your strength. You’ll make a good commander one day.’

He gently handed back his weapon to the young boy. Marmicus could see himself in the boy’s eyes, which were filled with a longing to protect and serve, just as his had been when he was young. Teaching the boy strengthened his desire to become a father, and he could not wait for the war to be over so he could realise his dream.