Chapter Four - Gates of Larsa

Drums rang out as Eneduanna was carried forward, her throne hovering over the road on sweaty hands and exhausted backs.

The sky was a deep summer’s blue and the sun was bringing the heat of high noon.

Eneduanna sat lustlessly in her throne, back slumped and legs stretched out, arms hanging limply over the armrests. Scorching rays wrung her out, but she would not hide under leaves and parasols - not today, as she entered the Kingdom of Larsa.

Behind her marched a mass of red-clothed warriors, bronze conical helmets shining in the sun. Long lines of them, their great number forming a red serpent that stretched out from Uruk and into the Larsan plains.

She could see it awaiting in the distance; proud Larsa, the formidable city rising on the flat grasslands.

The Kingdom of the sun, walls built high and thick with undecorated tan-coloured bricks, scars from previous wars showing. Behind the walls a great ziggurat arose from the heart of Larsa, a mountain-like pyramid built from white stone; the temple to their sun-god. The ziggurat reflected the sunlight and Eneduanna was forced to avert her eyes.

By the time they reached the Larsan ramparts, the city's gates had already been closed and sealed.

‘Oh Larsa I have come to punish you for your sins!’ She called with dry voice, still slumped in her throne. She raised a hand, halting the long-stretched out columns of her devoted at her back. The drums stopped, the marching feet stood still. At her flanks banner-carriers stepped forward, holding long poles with long rectangular flags; black fabric with golden eight-pointed stars. A wind swept up, causing the banners to dance and angrily pull on their bounds. Fifteen banners fanning out at each at each side, heralding the arrival of the High-Priestess of Uruk at the gates of Larsa.

The red-clothed men ebbed out behind her, thousands of warriors lining up on the plains. They too held their standards; their images of Eneduanna, and roses and lions rising between their many spears.

Nothing but a formality, neduanna decided. She had sown the barren borderlands thick with corpses, and now this Kingdom had no men left to defend itself. But the walls of Larsa were mighty, and there would be no entry as long as the gates remained closed.

Reluctantly she pushed herself up, showing her true length in all its towering glory to her followers, causing them all to kneel.

‘Uruk, see the city that stands before you! I have led you to a Kingdom of disbelievers. They have tried to destroy me. Oh, Uruk, what will you do with those that go against your High-Priestess? Rise, Rise, and let the sinner hear your accusations.’

A general rumble erupted from the lined up warriors, clattering their arms against their shields, throats bellowing out a hateful cheer. Above their voices great copper trumpets started blowing, imposing tones that sailed over the noise of the masses; a shining golden edge over the black and red accusations. Under the guide of the trumpets, the Urukian uncontrolled and undirected voices slowly took shape in the form of Eneduanna. Soon all they repeated was their mistress name, the plain rhythmically filled with Eneduanna - Eneduanna - Eneduanna.

Eneduanna enjoyed their devotion and hoped that this display of her power would be enough to open the gates; the great city intimidated by the violence she had amassed around her, awed by the appearance of the tall High-Priestess on her great brass throne.

She waited, mouth becoming dry in the heat of day; Nothing happened, the walls soaked up the sounds and replied with silence.

Eneduanna’s wide mouth slowly took the form of displeasure, her chin jutting forward, teeth grinding. She reseated herself.

The lined up masses ejected a rider. A mounted warrior, one hand holding the reigns of seething, foam-mouthed pale horse of black manes, the other hand holding the flag of the eight pointed star - one out of a thousand.

The horse stamped its hooves in the earth and kicked his hind legs, another attempt to throw Sjerub from the saddle, but the Hurrian pressed his heels against the beast’s pale-flanks and held the reigns tightly.

Sjerub gritted his teeth, he had ridden the horse for a single day and already wanted to dispose of his mount. The beast was Uruk-bred; a half mad - half wild horse gathered from the limited Royal stables. Uruk was a barren land, its soil producing nothing but salt and its animals disinclined to serve man. The beast was called Mardu, and on its backside was branded:

: Lightning

It had been a gift from the High-Priestess, so he was forced to keep himself in the despised saddle, enduring the occasional bout of buckling madness the horse would bring whenever it deemed its Hurrian rider inattentive and tired.

He rode past the red infantry lines of Urukian warriors. Savage weapons were raised to him, accompanied by roars. The throne of Eneduanna shined ahead, surrounded by the high black and gold star banners.

‘Dont buckle now, Mardu.’ Sjerub said, tense jaw clenched. ‘-Please.’ He added.

Besides the untamed horse, the revered one had gifted him new attire. The Hurrian had exchanged his heavy bronze armour and bloodstained rags for loose-fitting orange robes that reached to his knees. A white traveler’s hood and scarf hung over his shoulders, now lowered to show his clean shaven face. Around his grey eyes were rings of black kohl.

Sjerub managed to halt his horse before the High-priestess, thanking the heavens for calming the beast. The High-priestess made eye-contact with her envoy.

‘Hurrian.’ She noted, making a reserved nod at the mounted warrior.

Her long arm extended towards the city and he bowed his head in understanding. With swift movement he turned his unruly mount and rode towards the gates.

The eight pointed star of Inanna shook in the wind as Sjerub spurred his horse to greater speed. The banner of Enedduanna still felt strange in his hands, but he raised it to the great walls of Larsa nonetheless. It brought the command of the High-Priestess, whom he now served.

Submit, Larsa. Submit to her divine will.

Mardu neighed loudly as Sjerub kicked his heels in the wild horse’s flank. Powerful beast, bring me to the gate of Larsa with pride, show them I am not afraid of their arrows, let Inanna’s star dance with violence.

He saw the Larsans on the walls aim their bows but he ignored them. Sjerub doubted they would kill an envoy, and now was not the time for uncertainty. The Hurrian staggered his pale horse before the gate, looking up at the men guarding the wall; defying them.

Nervous eyes looked back at the envoy below, rigid in the saddle while the hooves of his horse slammed back to the dirt.

The Larsans held grey and white beards, or no beards at all, reddened cheeks carrying helmets twice their age. These people are hopeless, Sjerub thought, reaching into his saddlebag and taking out the severed head of their King, and his former employer, by the hair.

He held it high for all to see, then tossed the head irreverently against the gate.

Enmerkar’s head banged against the wood, then rolled a few paces over the dirt until it stopped face up with grey skin and empty eyes, grains of sand in his beaded beard.

‘Your King is dead!’ Sjerub proclaimed. ‘The high-priestess of Inanna commands you to surrender!’ He cantered his horse unpatiently back and forth before the gate. How Enedduanna will favor him if he would hand her the city.

Dry stalks, yellowed grasses his horse crushed. A dozen arrows were still pointed at him, but Sjerub remained calm as he waited. He saw how their bows trembled.

Eventually a new face leaned over the edge of the wall. An old man, heavy chains of silver hanging from his neck.

‘Your King is dead!’ Sjerub repeated. ‘The high-priestess of Inanna commands you to surrender! Have you considered, and are ready to give me reply?’

‘To you, messenger of Eneduanna, we say no. Tell your high priestess this city will not fall to her clutches.’

‘Surrender!’ Sjerub repeated, venom in his voice. ‘You have nó hope, Larsa. Your men have been slaughtered, even the sun has been subdued by the power of the High-Priestess. Enedduanna is of the blood of the divine. She is the Revered one! A Goddess stands before your gates, and you decide to reject her?’

‘I have given you my answer...’ The man said, voice resigned with deep sadness. The old man knew very well what fate he consigned his city to, but for whatever reason he rejected.

Sjerub grimaced, spat on the ground and turned Mardu’s reigns.

Enedduana awaited him, still seated on her throne that rested on the shoulders of a multitude of softly groaning servants.

The Hurrian rider returned in a cloud of dust. Her gaze pulled him from his horse and Sjerub kneeled down on the dried summer soil.

‘What did they say?’ Her warm voice enveloped him.

‘They are stubborn, most Revered one.’

‘I want the city as soon as possible, Hurrian.’ She craned her neck forward.

‘Get me inside.’ Her longing voice commanded. ‘-I want to enter.’

Sjerub stood upright, back straight, and drew his sword. The outstretched lines of warriors at Eneduanna’s flanks stirred, but remained in position.

His grey eyes hardened. ‘I will give you the city. I ask permission to show cruelty. Their understanding must be aided.’

‘You have permission to show cruelty without bounds, for it is what they will receive if you dont get their gates open. You are my hand of mercy, my voice of reason.’

The warm summer’s day passed into evening, the sun lowering on the horizon and only a sliver of orange light touching the top of Larsa’s walls, a chasm of dark shadow underneath. The first star appeared in the rapidly darkening heaven; Inanna’s sign.

Sjerub had waited for this. His robes were filthy, sweat of the day accumulated in the fabric. Fine dust had found its way into the creases of his skin, and the kohl around his eyes had smeared away.

All day he had ridden across the dry plain in front of the gates, calling on Larsa to surrender. When they had not given reply he had challenged them to a duel, his voice taunting the Larsans until it was sore and the sun had slowered.

Now his long brown hair was wet and hung down to his shoulders in sweaty strands. The filth that covered his skin did not matter to Sjerub, tonight he would not be in Eneduanna’s attendance. This night would be one of cruelty.

His feet were planted firmly on the road towards the gate, the doors to the city a good hundred paces straight ahead. Besides him a man with sun-darkened skin was bound to a stake.

The prisoner had the signs of exhaustion on his face and a dribble of blood ran from his mouth; his tongue had already been cut out due to his blasphemies. His hands were tied together by the wrists and fastened to the wooden stake with rough rope.

Sjerub raised a clay jar to the prisoner. Out poured a colourless liquid, strong of odour, flowing over the captives head until his skin and hair was drenched.

‘Torch.’ Sjerub calmly stated, and a priestess in red-dress carefully handed over a torch - hands trembling slightly. She was young, skin pale, a bald shaven head visible under her hood; an initiate, tasked to aid the Hurrian in his works. An excited smile was fixed on her innocent face and her eyes showed eagerness.

She touched the prisoner, gently caressing the Larsan’s thick hair. The young priestess leaned closer, bringing her lips to the prisoner’s ear. ‘You have a last chance to repent. It won't matter much for the outcome, you are going to die anyway, but you might save your soul. Accept Eneduanna’s divinity.’

The Larsan kept his bloody mouth closed and his head didn’t move an inch.

She sighed through his nose, shaking his head dismissively. ‘Very well. Then burn, disbeliever. Die a sinner.’ She nodded at the Hurrian.

Sjerub had no joy in his face. He did not enjoy the suffering he would create.

His sad grey eyes were fixed on his victim. This was Eneduanna’s will, he thought, lowering the torch to the prisoner - now desperately struggling in his bounds.

Once close enough, the flames eagerly jumped the distance from torch to oil-drenched man. Fire rapidly spread over the captive, igniting his hair and skin, turning the man in a human candle.

Tormented screams emerged from the man’s burning mouth. Tongueless screams.

With his sword he cut the rope that bound the man to the stake. Immediately the burning man surged forward, running in instinctive desperation with bright flames dancing over his skin. He got a few steps towards Larsa until he collapsed and fell, his corpse burning out as the flames gradually reduced.

Sjerub continued to the next stake, another Larsan captive now squirming in his bounds. Before he could beg Sjerub already drenched and ignited him, immediately releasing him with his sword.

This burning man got further, a good twenty heartbeats, until he crumpled like a disregarded doll.

Sjerub’s torch reached out to the third, then the fourth, then the fifth, sending out burning men to Larsa one by one. Their screams resonated and died against the dark walls of the city.

With slow patient steps Sjerub arrived to the sixth prisoner, pleading in tears for his life. This one still had his tongue, and his words were pathetic.

Sjerub poured the oil over him until the man’s hair dripped and his skin gave a slick shine in the orange light of his fire. He hovered his sparking torch near the man, inducing a last moment of terror before lowering it again.

‘I allow you to live.’ The Hurrian said. ‘In return you will tell them that Enedduana, High-priestess of Inanna, commands Larsa to surrender. You will say that Eneduanna is the Revered one. You will say a Godess stands before their gates, and that they have one last chance to surrender. This surrender must be absolute, unnegotiable. This is the Mercy Eneduanna offers. At dawn the doors will be open, or the cruelty will be for all of you.’

The prisoner nodded, still staring at the lowered torch. Each spark made him flinch.

Sjerub leaned closer. ‘One last thing. Do you repent your sins, do you affirm your belief in Eneduanna’s Divinity?’

‘I do. I do. I swear I worship.’ The man stammered with tears in his eyes.

Sjerub swung down his sword, cutting the rope and releasing the wet naked man.

He ran towards Larsa and disappeared in the dark.

For a while Sjerub listened to his desperate banging on the heavy cedar gates of the city. Then he went to his tent and sleep overtook him.

A mosquito landed over Sjerub’s heart. He moved to strike, but Enedduanna’s voice reached him first. ‘Let it drink.’ Her honeycomb voice spoke.

The parasite filled up, gorging on his blood. Its sack swollen the mosquito released from his skin, the high pitched whine of its wings audible as it flew away. Enedduanna stood before him now and her hand reached out. She circled her fingers and the insect moved towards her awaiting grasp. More mosquitoes came, flying from other directions into her aura.

Sjerub felt weakened, and looking down from where he was bitten a stream of blue blood poured out. He saw his body was covered with wounds and gashes, his skin ripped open crudely, out streaming blue.

Enedduanna now held the insect, squeezing it with her hand. She opened her mouth, her white teeth flashing and her tongue lunging out. Blood dripped between her fingers and onto her tongue. She tasted with joy. Then she brought him to a bath, and when he sat with her the water turned to blood, now bright red and thick, bubbling up until it overflowed over the edges.