The Forgotten Tale Of Larsa (40 page)

‘Wait, don’t kill me. I ask for your forgiveness,’ said Nafridos, begging for his life. He lay helplessly in the mud dignity, stripped of all dignity.

‘Why should I offer you mercy when you’ve offered none to your victims?’

‘I swear, everything I’ve done was forced upon me.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Marmicus. He’s lying to you, don’t show him mercy! Kill him now. Kill him!’ the princess screamed. She knew the Dark Warrior; he would never beg to live. He was planning something.

‘I’m not deceiving you. You’ve won this war and my respect,’ said Nafridos. The soldiers could see what was happening, but nobody could clearly hear the exchange of words between them.

‘If you kill me, you’ll taint your sword with the blood of a man who longs to change his ways. Look at those men’s faces – they see no sword in my hand, all they see is a man begging for his life.’

‘He doesn’t deserve to live. Kill him! Please listen to me, Marmicus. I know him better than you!’ yelled the princess, begging him to do what she said.

‘If I spare you, you must leave this kingdom at once, and take your army with you.’

‘You have my word.’

Unable to kill a repentant man, the Gallant Warrior lifted his weapon from his neck.

‘Know this – men you have fought and killed on the battlefield have shown more honour and courage than you. You may have lived your life by the sword, but today you’ve spat on it with your cowardice.’ Marmicus returned his sword to its sheath.

He turned away, desperate to free the princess from her captives, and walked towards her.

‘Marmicus!’

Suddenly he felt a sharp pain between his shoulder blades. He fell to his knees, blood pouring from a wound in his back.

Larsa had seen Nafridos heft his sword, throwing it across the battlefield like a spear. She had screamed Marmicus’s name, trying to warn him, but it was too late – the weapon had already pierced his flesh.

The Dark Warrior knelt beside his enemy, smiling cruelly as he pushed the blade further into his back, twisting it round, wanting to make him suffer before death.

‘If you have any humanity, you’ll let me be with him when he dies,’ said Larsa to the Assyrian soldier who was guarding her. He held her back, trying to stop her running to the man she loved, but as her words struck home, the soldier felt a rush of guilt for what he was doing. He freed her. Larsa ran to Marmicus, the wind pushing her back as if to shield her from further heartache.

‘Can you feel their glare? They’re watching you die – one life sacrificed for a thousand others,’ said the Dark Warrior to his victim. Marmicus was gasping for breath. The world around him was disappearing. He could no longer see the thousands of faces that edged the horizon, watching him die. All Marmicus could feel was the immense pain of the blade twisting in his back, cutting his muscles and slicing his flesh.

‘You should have listened to the princess; she understands what kind of creatures we are. We are men of war. Forgiveness is a gift we were not blessed with.’ With a sudden, violent movement the Dark Warrior pulled the blade from Marmicus’s back. Blood seeped out of the wound. Marmicus fell sideways, rolling onto his back as he hit the ground. He knew he would either bleed to death or be decapitated. Whichever it was, he did not want Larsa to see. Nafridos reached for the Sword of Allegiance, lifting up his prize. It was a glorious instrument of death. The words of allegiance caught the light as he took hold of the weapon, clasping the hilt with both hands and raising it up into the sky for everyone to see that victory belonged to him. The time had come for one final act – the Gallant Warrior’s beheading.

‘All your life you have fought for justice. How ironic that at the moment of death the world should offer you none!’ The Dark Warrior swung his weapon, ready to behead his greatest opponent.

‘Stop!’ Larsa screamed. ‘Move away from him!’

The Dark Warrior turned to his cousin, seeking his signal. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to kill the princess while his victim was still alive. The Assyrian emperor gave a subtle nod, granting his blessing for Marmicus to die in her arms. Larsa rushed to him, gently lifting his head and cradling it on her lap, her eyes running with tears as blood seeped from his back, clouding the water around them.

‘You should have killed him when I said. He doesn’t deserve to live. You do.’

‘I could never … kill a man who’s asked for my forgiveness …’ Marmicus whispered as he lay dying in her arms.

‘Forgive me … for failing you …’

‘Don’t say that. You have not failed me. You never have and you never shall. Even in death – especially in death – you will have honour.’ She stroked his face, all the while watching his eyelids slowly close, as though drifting into sleep.

‘I shouldn’t … have let you go that day …’ he murmured as he pressed his hand to her cheek, absorbing her beauty for the last time. He remembered all the glorious nights he had lain with her, watching her sleep peacefully. He had smiled, knowing that she was his and that they would one day grow old together, but now his vision was fading as darkness began to sweep over him. Marmicus could no longer see her face; he could only hear her soft voice and feel the lasting tenderness of her touch, and her words.

‘I buried my dreams the day you died, Larsa, and now they’ve come back to life with you.’

‘Then live, so we can share our dreams together, as we said we would.’

‘Our love … can never die, Larsa … not when it is true like ours. Even when we’ve submitted to death … a part of our love shall still live on in those we leave behind,’ said Marmicus. He gently touched her belly, wanting to feel the movement of his child for the first time. He knew that he would never see his infant’s face or hear his laughter across the green fields; even so, Marmicus loved him with every breath he possessed.

‘I can’t survive without you. I can’t bear to even try. I’ll come with you to the afterlife; we’ll be together again, all three of us.’

‘No, Larsa. No. Don’t be afraid. Death is but a curse … if the soul has lived without purpose … My life has been for you. Now you must live for our child, just as we lived for each other … I know you’ll be a wonderful mother … you already are …’

Her warmth had healed his wounds, but this time it was not enough to restore him to life. The enemy had prevailed. Marmicus had breathed his last. His hand slipped from her stomach, falling to the muddy ground. Heaven had lost its sacred guardian; the Gallant Warrior was dead.

Larsa began to wail in agony as she cradled his head in her arms, rocking back and forth in unendurable torture, not knowing what else to do. Her screams were so frightening that the lions began to roar with her.

‘Stay with me. Don’t abandon me here. Not now, not when freedom is so close,’ Larsa sobbed as she kissed his face tenderly. She desperately wished he would brush his lips against hers as he always had, but they remained still. It was no use. The battle had been fought and lost; her beloved husband had died trying to defend her.

‘Come back to me. Come back.’

‘Move aside, princess, his body belongs to me now.’ The Dark Warrior had returned to behead his victim; it was the last act needed to consolidate his victory in front of the armies of thousands.

‘You shall not harm him; I won’t let you! You’ve won this war, now let us mourn our defeat.’ She attempted to shield his body from the Dark Warrior’s lethal sword, which hung above them both.

‘I said move aside, or let the world remember the tragedy of your love forever.’ He directed his weapon towards her neck, his eyes lighting up with his desire to use it. Who could have imagined that he would kill the princess using the same weapon that had been sworn to protect her? Larsa turned towards the Assyrian emperor, who watched from his throne. Only he possessed the power to stop his cousin from mutilating Marmicus’s body.

‘I want the Gallant Warrior’s head to be mounted on the last pillar still standing when everything else in this kingdom has been set on fire. The Garden of the Gods shall become the ashes of hell,’ said Jaquzan flatly. He had enjoyed their display of affection, but now he longed to crush it with one last blow. Two Assyrian soldiers attempted to pull her away, but Larsa fought them, refusing to leave Marmicus’s body alone on the battlefield.

‘Where’s your compassion? Is there no one here who will stop this? Is there no one with honour among you all?’ Larsa screamed with burning despair. She looked around at the faces of the soldiers. Some turned to their commanders, waiting for a signal to help her, but none was given. ‘If death returns, let him testify to the gods that only one man among a thousand others died with honour.’ Larsa sank her head into the Gallant Warrior’s neck, wanting the sword to sever hers as well; she could not live without Marmicus, and she would not even force herself to try.

‘So you want to die?’ asked the Dark Warrior. He lifted the Sword of Allegiance above both their heads, ready to swing it. The world watched in silence, unable to deny their overwhelming love for one another and the tragedy of their story, a tale which would forever be called the Battle of Larsa, painted with the blood from their bodies until the end of time.

‘Death comes to us all, but only a few are worthy of dying for love. Today you are worthy,’ said the Dark Warrior.

‘We’ll be together, soon. All three of us,’ she wept, holding tightly to his lifeless chest, waiting for death to finally take her soul.

‘We have to do something! We cannot let this happen. There is no honour in this.’

‘Stay in your positions. The Gallant Warrior is dead and so too is our hope of freedom. The pledge we made must be kept if we wish to stay alive and keep our kingdom’s walls standing,’ responded the commander. He understood what that meant; every man here was a slave to his new masters, including him.

‘Don’t listen to him; the Gallant Warrior’s not dead! He’s still alive in our hearts. He can only die if we forget what he lived for. Remember what he said? That one day of freedom is worth more than thousand years of slavery. This is the time to fight, now, that a man of courage might be buried with the honour he deserves,’ shouted a soldier in defiance. ‘Who’s with me? Who’ll fight for the Gallant Warrior now when he needs us the most? Who’ll embrace their swords and keep his spirit alive in the way in which he lived?’

‘I’ll fight for him! If I die for him, then death is a worthy friend of mine.’

Soldiers began to break the battle lines, steadily marching as one force. Each step took them nearer to the body of the man who had sacrificed everything for them. The Babylonian kings watched from above: their greatest nightmare had come to pass. Not only had the Gallant Warrior been defeated, but now their soldiers were disobeying orders to remain in their positions. It would be an act of disobedience for which they would pay with their lives.

‘Who ordered them to move? They must stay in their positions!’ a Babylonian king shrieked as he watched his men defy his orders.

‘Even in death, the Gallant Warrior has the power to command spirits,’ replied one of the generals.

Larsa held Marmicus’s hand as she lay beside him; the last traces of his warmth deceived her into thinking that he was still alive. She imagined they were lying on lush green grass. Somehow the lie she told herself made death seem more bearable. She kissed his hand, smelling his skin, unaware that the Sword of Allegiance hovered above her neck, ready to kill her.

But nothing in life is ever written in stone, and her dreams of paradise would have to wait, as many voices called out to her, trying to wake her from her dream. A thousand soldiers lined the horizon, each one stretching out his hands to carry her away from the wreckage of war. The Babylonian rebellion was unexpected, but by walking forward the soldiers were unleashing war. The soldiers drew closer, all hungry for vengeance.

‘Unleash hell! Let no man live to see tomorrow,’ commanded the Assyrian emperor. Strangely, no movement came from his soldiers; it was as if he had said nothing at all.

‘Archers, unleash your arrows! Flatten them as the earth is flattened by my feet.’ Once again, there was no movement from the Assyrian lines; the soldiers remained where they were, their arrows still in their wooden quivers, unused. Although nothing had been said between the soldiers, there was silent agreement among them all.

‘Do what your emperor commands! Move forward, and unsheathe your swords, or your bodies will be used as barricades,’ declared the Dark Warrior.

Again the soldiers did not move. Instead, a loud chanting began to spread through the Assyrian army. The defiant soldiers began to roar the words of allegiance, their voices growing louder as their confidence grew. Today, at this moment, they were free. They were liberated to think for themselves and their minds submitted to the compass of their hearts. The mighty Assyrian emperor had lost control over his people, and he realised this as soon as Larsa rose to her feet, turning to him and looking deeply into his eyes with the new breath of freedom spreading through her lungs. The woman who had become the slave of an emperor had returned as the divine ruler of the Garden of the Gods.

‘Fear is the weapon used by oppressors, but courage is the weapon held by the free,’ said Larsa to her enemy. ‘Your time has come.’

Upon the battlefield lay the bodies of the ruthless Assyrian emperor and his merciless cousin Nafridos, their heads raised on spikes, to rot in the same way as any wretched man who had met such an ill fate. Who could have imagined that the indestructible Assyrian ruler, who had created an empire from nothing, would finally meet his end in the same manner as all those he had sentenced to death? His curse, however, was a blessing for many other men: those who had been his slaves were now free men, able to live the rest of their lives safe from bullying and oppression.

As for the Serpent, he had been given what he had always dreamt of: a piece of land to call his own, and a throne where he would forever rest. But it was not one that would be envied by others, for the throne his body rested on lay with his body in a shallow grave, where the Assyrian emperor had buried him.