death.’
‘I’m not afraid to die for my freedom,’ she declared, looking upwards, her head following the long, towering tiers of the throne that overshadowed them all. The guards looked at her with astonishment. No one had ever addressed the Assyrian emperor with such courage or stupidity before. Her strength appeared to seep through the pores of her skin. It only proved what Jaquzan was already thinking; that behind her beautiful face was a naive mind.
‘Then you choose to die for nothing, for freedom is what freedom has always been – enslavement to an ideal,’ replied Jaquzan without hesitation. He moved into the light. As he did, he revealed his face to her: his features were perfectly symmetrical, almost unnaturally so, as if every detail of his face had been skilfully shaped by a sculptor’s hands.
‘You’re wrong. Freedom is to live without fear, to speak when forced to be silent, and to move when threatened by others. I will never give it up, and nor will Marmicus. He’s going to come for me; he’s going to set me free and, when he does, he’s going to destroy you. You’ll beg for your life just as you’ve made others beg for theirs.’
‘Let him come! When he does, I will crush him and scatter his ashes over your dreams. Now, bow in the presence of greatness.’
‘Never!’
Jaquzan smiled. It was a rare reaction, and seemed unnatural, given what she had just said to him. The more Larsa spoke, the more Jaquzan learnt of her weaknesses without her even realising it. He was analysing her face, dissecting everything about her. She could not know that he possessed the ability to read people’s characters by their reactions and behaviour.
‘When will mankind learn that bravery is nothing more than unrefined arrogance, something which can be easily crushed by the hands? Now, watch as I begin to crush yours … I can tell from your eyes that your greatest weakness is your humanity. I shall show you what inhumanity lies before your feet. Open the doors and bring forth my slave.’
Larsa turned, watching the doors open behind her; a woman was dragged in, her mouth frothing with saliva like a rabid dog. Whoever she was, it was clear that she had lost her mind a long time ago. She bit at her captors’ hands, scowling, kicking and blabbering at them as they dragged her in; nothing she said made any sense. The slaves dumped her in the centre of the throne room. For a moment she sat there dazedly, rocking back and forth, humming as if to a baby. Larsa listened to her singing. Her voice was melancholy, while oddly soothing, but her calm persona completely vanished the moment the emperor moved in his seat; somehow, that small, subtle movement triggered something inside her, as though awakening her into madness. She began to shriek, her lungs bursting out with a relentless screech akin to a thousand screams. Larsa pressed her hands against her ears, desperately trying to block out her cries.
The slaves rushed back to her, pushing her flat against the stone floor, stretching out both her arms and struggling to throw a rope noose over her head. Larsa watched as the woman tried to fight them off, her hands crazily clawing at them, until eventually she gave in.
‘Do you know who this woman once was?’ asked the emperor, watching the princess from his colossal throne. Larsa shook her head; even if she tried to guess the answer she felt it would somehow lead to a trap.
‘She was once the mighty Queen of Persia, the wife of a king who was defiant and unwilling to submit to a power far greater than his; but power crumbles like sand in the hands of men who know nothing of its worth. Now the only crown she wears is the rope tied around her neck and her only necklace is a necklace of memories of her former life.’
The emperor rose, expressionless, from his towering throne; softly he padded, like a lion stalking prey, down the lofty set of stairs to the others. He marvelled at how quickly the Queen of
‘I’m not afraid to die for my freedom,’ she declared, looking upwards, her head following the long, towering tiers of the throne that overshadowed them all. The guards looked at her with astonishment. No one had ever addressed the Assyrian emperor with such courage or stupidity before. Her strength appeared to seep through the pores of her skin. It only proved what Jaquzan was already thinking; that behind her beautiful face was a naive mind.
‘Then you choose to die for nothing, for freedom is what freedom has always been – enslavement to an ideal,’ replied Jaquzan without hesitation. He moved into the light. As he did, he revealed his face to her: his features were perfectly symmetrical, almost unnaturally so, as if every detail of his face had been skilfully shaped by a sculptor’s hands.
‘You’re wrong. Freedom is to live without fear, to speak when forced to be silent, and to move when threatened by others. I will never give it up, and nor will Marmicus. He’s going to come for me; he’s going to set me free and, when he does, he’s going to destroy you. You’ll beg for your life just as you’ve made others beg for theirs.’
‘Let him come! When he does, I will crush him and scatter his ashes over your dreams. Now, bow in the presence of greatness.’
‘Never!’
Jaquzan smiled. It was a rare reaction, and seemed unnatural, given what she had just said to him. The more Larsa spoke, the more Jaquzan learnt of her weaknesses without her even realising it. He was analysing her face, dissecting everything about her. She could not know that he possessed the ability to read people’s characters by their reactions and behaviour.
‘When will mankind learn that bravery is nothing more than unrefined arrogance, something which can be easily crushed by the hands? Now, watch as I begin to crush yours … I can tell from your eyes that your greatest weakness is your humanity. I shall show you what inhumanity lies before your feet. Open the doors and bring forth my slave.’
Larsa turned, watching the doors open behind her; a woman was dragged in, her mouth frothing with saliva like a rabid dog. Whoever she was, it was clear that she had lost her mind a long time ago. She bit at her captors’ hands, scowling, kicking and blabbering at them as they dragged her in; nothing she said made any sense. The slaves dumped her in the centre of the throne room. For a moment she sat there dazedly, rocking back and forth, humming as if to a baby. Larsa listened to her singing. Her voice was melancholy, while oddly soothing, but her calm persona completely vanished the moment the emperor moved in his seat; somehow, that small, subtle movement triggered something inside her, as though awakening her into madness. She began to shriek, her lungs bursting out with a relentless screech akin to a thousand screams. Larsa pressed her hands against her ears, desperately trying to block out her cries.
The slaves rushed back to her, pushing her flat against the stone floor, stretching out both her arms and struggling to throw a rope noose over her head. Larsa watched as the woman tried to fight them off, her hands crazily clawing at them, until eventually she gave in.
‘Do you know who this woman once was?’ asked the emperor, watching the princess from his colossal throne. Larsa shook her head; even if she tried to guess the answer she felt it would somehow lead to a trap.
‘She was once the mighty Queen of Persia, the wife of a king who was defiant and unwilling to submit to a power far greater than his; but power crumbles like sand in the hands of men who know nothing of its worth. Now the only crown she wears is the rope tied around her neck and her only necklace is a necklace of memories of her former life.’
The emperor rose, expressionless, from his towering throne; softly he padded, like a lion stalking prey, down the lofty set of stairs to the others. He marvelled at how quickly the Queen of
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