a thorn beneath their skin. Larsa gazed at them; she could see sympathy in their eyes for what she was going through, but in the eyes of those around them, none at all.
‘Help me, please. Stop this!’ she cried. Tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving streaks in the dirt on her face. No one responded to her pleas; they simply stood there, some cheering, others watching soullessly, showing no emotion as she was dragged away. Unable to take in the humiliation, Larsa shut her eyes, wanting to block out all the faces that glared at her, but she didn’t even have that luxury.
‘Open your eyes. I want you to remember the day a queen became a slave,’ said Nafridos, but Larsa ignored his words, her naked feet bleeding as she stumbled on, her head hanging in exhaustion. It was the humiliation that was the most agonising sentence; she couldn’t bear to be watched and judged by people who saw her crippled in this way.
Nafridos turned to one of his soldiers. No one would disobey him, especially not in front of his people. The Assyrian soldier knew exactly what he had to do.
‘He said “open your eyes” – do it now!’ the soldier yelled, holding a leather whip above his head. Larsa ignored him as she shut her eyes more tightly; at this moment she found beauty in blindness. The soldier looked to Nafridos, waiting for the command to act; a small nod was all that was needed.
‘Do it,’ he said.
The soldier marched ahead, falling in a pace or two behind the princess. He swung the leather whip above his head, his wrist moving quickly and his massive biceps glistening in the sun. The people looked on as he threw his arm forward, the lash following in a long and deadly arc before landing on Larsa’s back with a resounding crack which drew a gasp from the crowd. A scream of agony rushed from her lungs.
‘Why are you doing this to me? Why? Where’s your humanity?’ she wept, unable to hide the pain. The whip scalded her back like boiling water; a deep gash immediately appeared, and Larsa could feel the rush of blood flowing from between her shoulder blades. ‘Please … I beg you … stop this.’
Suddenly, the roaring crowd fell silent, as if coerced into submission. The pounding of the leather drums also halted, and everything that had once vibrated with energy surrendered to stillness. Larsa looked up. The sunlight burned her eyes but it didn’t matter; she needed to see his face, she needed to know what her enemy looked like.
‘Jaquzan …’
Larsa knew it was him: standing before her on the highest point of the Assyrian tower was the man who now owned her soul. He was looking over his subjects, watching her from where he stood, waiting for her to come to him. The crowd knelt, bowing down like slaves before their master, their foreheads touching the ground as they surrendered to Jaquzan’s ultimate supremacy. Everyone prostrated themselves, except for Larsa, but there is always foolishness in bravery …
***
Pure hearts attract stained hands, for wherever there is good on earth, evil finds joy in destroying it. The unavoidable hour had come for Larsa to meet her enemy. Every minute that had passed since her capture had been leading up to this definitive moment when she would finally glare into Jaquzan’s eyes and recognise what evil lay beneath the surface of his skin. The final stretch had arrived. Larsa walked through the long corridor leading to his throne room, its high walls colourfully painted with visions of war that glorified violent death. Each carved image revealed that oppression, tyranny and conquest had prevailed above hope, honour and freedom. Larsa turned her face away, unable to absorb the grotesque depictions of war; they seemed to carry on forever, lining the corridor. If Marmicus lost this war, another portrayal of Assyrian victory would surely be added to the long list of battle scenes depicted on these walls. The idea frightened her immensely. She imagined her worst nightmare, Marmicus’s
‘Help me, please. Stop this!’ she cried. Tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving streaks in the dirt on her face. No one responded to her pleas; they simply stood there, some cheering, others watching soullessly, showing no emotion as she was dragged away. Unable to take in the humiliation, Larsa shut her eyes, wanting to block out all the faces that glared at her, but she didn’t even have that luxury.
‘Open your eyes. I want you to remember the day a queen became a slave,’ said Nafridos, but Larsa ignored his words, her naked feet bleeding as she stumbled on, her head hanging in exhaustion. It was the humiliation that was the most agonising sentence; she couldn’t bear to be watched and judged by people who saw her crippled in this way.
Nafridos turned to one of his soldiers. No one would disobey him, especially not in front of his people. The Assyrian soldier knew exactly what he had to do.
‘He said “open your eyes” – do it now!’ the soldier yelled, holding a leather whip above his head. Larsa ignored him as she shut her eyes more tightly; at this moment she found beauty in blindness. The soldier looked to Nafridos, waiting for the command to act; a small nod was all that was needed.
‘Do it,’ he said.
The soldier marched ahead, falling in a pace or two behind the princess. He swung the leather whip above his head, his wrist moving quickly and his massive biceps glistening in the sun. The people looked on as he threw his arm forward, the lash following in a long and deadly arc before landing on Larsa’s back with a resounding crack which drew a gasp from the crowd. A scream of agony rushed from her lungs.
‘Why are you doing this to me? Why? Where’s your humanity?’ she wept, unable to hide the pain. The whip scalded her back like boiling water; a deep gash immediately appeared, and Larsa could feel the rush of blood flowing from between her shoulder blades. ‘Please … I beg you … stop this.’
Suddenly, the roaring crowd fell silent, as if coerced into submission. The pounding of the leather drums also halted, and everything that had once vibrated with energy surrendered to stillness. Larsa looked up. The sunlight burned her eyes but it didn’t matter; she needed to see his face, she needed to know what her enemy looked like.
‘Jaquzan …’
Larsa knew it was him: standing before her on the highest point of the Assyrian tower was the man who now owned her soul. He was looking over his subjects, watching her from where he stood, waiting for her to come to him. The crowd knelt, bowing down like slaves before their master, their foreheads touching the ground as they surrendered to Jaquzan’s ultimate supremacy. Everyone prostrated themselves, except for Larsa, but there is always foolishness in bravery …
***
Pure hearts attract stained hands, for wherever there is good on earth, evil finds joy in destroying it. The unavoidable hour had come for Larsa to meet her enemy. Every minute that had passed since her capture had been leading up to this definitive moment when she would finally glare into Jaquzan’s eyes and recognise what evil lay beneath the surface of his skin. The final stretch had arrived. Larsa walked through the long corridor leading to his throne room, its high walls colourfully painted with visions of war that glorified violent death. Each carved image revealed that oppression, tyranny and conquest had prevailed above hope, honour and freedom. Larsa turned her face away, unable to absorb the grotesque depictions of war; they seemed to carry on forever, lining the corridor. If Marmicus lost this war, another portrayal of Assyrian victory would surely be added to the long list of battle scenes depicted on these walls. The idea frightened her immensely. She imagined her worst nightmare, Marmicus’s
Similar Books
