Short stories series #2

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Prologue
This story was inspired by the Italian composer Gioacchino Antonio Rossini’s (1792-1868) Semiramide overture written in 1823 for his opera, Semiramide. I was lured to do some research on her. The mystique and sheer power I discovered prompted me to write this story. Powerful women are very attractive to the romantic imagination. This is a work of pure imagination about Queen Semiramis (Sammu-ramat) of Assyria and Babylonia who lived thousands of years ago. In the historical facts there was no poet-lover so I created one for her. I have left the story hanging because I’d rather the reader make the decision as it is a moral choice. I was tempted to make the choice for Gaul but my decision might not be fair to him.

A Love to Die For

The Royal Court of Babylon was full of the noble-hearted and not so noble-hearted. The nobles and the notary public waited anxiously for the Queen. The Royal Poet, Gaul, was to be tried for high treason and if found guilty he could be beheaded. He was in chains and guarded by brawny soldiers. However, he stood tall and proud. Some of the not so noble-hearted were secretly hoping to see his head roll as they had always been envious of the special place he occupied in the Queen’s heart. Many speculated that his latest poem was an expression of his jealousy of the young, handsome soldiers on whom the Queen had bestowed her special favours.
Outside, drums rolled and the sounds of the royal standard could be heard. The herald announced the arrival of Queen Semiramis, Queen of Assyria and Babylonia and all dominions in Mesopotamia. Music depicting the grandeur of the empire was played. The nobles at court were used to the pomp and pageantry accompanying the Queen wherever she went within the empire.
The Queen serenely entered with queenly grace. She looked elegant in her royal robe of gold and blood red. All present bowed their heads in order to preserve them on their shoulders. She looked straight ahead, with nary a glance at the accused. Today, she was without her veil. It was said that if Queen Semiramis was to look upon anybody with her naked face he or she would instantly be her slave forever more.
It had also been said that all Assyrian women were beautiful but the Great Queen would pale every woman into oblivion. She would cause the fairest of them all to show like pearls against diamond. Neither man nor woman could withstand the lustre of her brilliant eyes which shone like the noonday sun. She proceeded in all her splendour to the burnished throne. It was only after she was seated did all present dare to look up but never directly into her naked face.
The notary public began the trial by hailing the Queen, mentioning all her glorious titles. He then read out the charge against Gaul. Gaul had been the Queen’s favourite but now he had fallen from grace because it was thought his latest poem disapproved of the Queen’s indiscretions.
“Do you admit, Gaul, that you had set out to dishonour us and our empire?”
“No, my Queen, but I stand accused,” answered Gaul, not daring to look into those deep eyes; that soft, perfectly chiselled face; that glorious mouth with those even, sparkling teeth. He had known that face, that mouth, those eyes; intimately. That loving glance was not there today. Today, there was no softness in her face or her mouth or her eyes.
“The choice is yours, Gaul. Admit it and retract that poem or you shall be flogged and then exiled into hard labour, or worse, lose your head. Choose, Gaul,” continued the Queen, her full, rosy mouth, prominently clean-cut jaw and delicately-moulded chin, hardening further.
“I choose to suffer for my art, my Queen.”
“It does not pay to be so obstinately proud, Gaul. I gave you a chance but you spurn me. I will decide your fate later but suffer you shall. You shall never look upon my face again, even if your life is spared. Take him away!” ordered the Queen, livid with a devastating anger that the man she loved had chosen to go against her royal command. It was obvious she could not decide. If she hadn’t had a soft spot for Gaul, she would have made her decision there and then. Gaul flinched at the harshness in her voice.
“That would be a fate more terrible than death, my Queen.”
“But you still choose your art over your loyalty to me!” thundered the Queen.
The Queen could not falter now. He had refused to back down publicly so she had no other choice. She knew he would not denounce his art. Love made fools of both men and women and her resolve was being tested now as never before when it came to matters of the heart. He had humiliated her tameless pride in public and that must be punished. The Queen had never been known to have truly loved anybody but Gaul was different. He would woo her with his sensuous and sensual poetry. He knew how to massage her overblown ego. He reminded her of King Gilgamesh of Uruk who lived about 2,000 years before her. Like the King, Gaul was similarly handsome, of great stature and magnetic in character. She had fallen in love with Gaul’s gentle approach to life. He was a philosopher-poet while she was a warrior queen. While she was the raging Tigris he was the placid Euphrates. He calmed the tempestuous fire in her. Theirs was an intense relationship – the passionate Queen and her ice-cool poet.
Gaul was taken back to the inhuman condition of the dungeon where he would await his fate. The soldiers were however ordered not to hurt him physically. The Queen still loved him but she must show her subjects she was the Queen though the final decision might truly hurt her heart this time, if she had a heart. Gaul was not surprised at her resolve. She had had her husband, King Ninus of Babylon, sacrificed, exactly the way they would the sheep every New Year’s Day – every limb torn out while the animal was still alive. She had tricked the King into making her Regent for a day on New Year’s Day. Because he had been blinded by his violent love for her he had acceded to her sweet persuasions.
Of late, she had been slaughtering many of the handsome, young soldiers after just one night of passion with them in order that they should not live to brag about their passionate encounters with the Queen. Gaul’s latest poem alluded to her heartlessness and pitiless cruelty.
Fitfully he dozed off to sleep. In the misty world of dreams, he was with his Queen again. She was resplendent on the saddle, leading her army into battle against Bactria. Looking dignified and powerful in her steel breast-plate, her gestures were both womanly and graceful. He could feel her alluring power and strength. He had loved the genius that could lead an army and the force of will that could found an empire. Those thick eye-lashes and loving glance hid the unbending resolve once she had made her decision. She turned to look full into his face.
“Gaul, you shall stay behind.” He was not a fighting man and the Queen had never allowed him to ride into battle. He was a man of love and loving words. Today, those very same words were to cause him everything that had meant anything to him in life. He would not submit to her will this time. He had lived before George Orwell who wrote Animal Farm and before Lewis Carroll who wrote How Does the Little Crocodile in Alice in Wonderland. He could not have read Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s

“Tho’ veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
Love is a sword that cuts its sheath,
And thro the clefts, itself has made,
We spy the flashes of the blade!”

He would have been wiser if he had read them. He should have realized that love could be treacherous. He should have known the story of King Dumuzi of Uruk who had to die because of the treachery of his wife, the Goddess Inanna. He wouldn’t have trusted the Queen if he had been wiser. He would never have written that fateful poem if he hadn’t trusted the Queen.
He was roughly awakened from the shadow of sleep. He knew not if it was day or night. The Queen had given him 24 hours to withdraw his poem and if he was adamant he would be transported to the far reaches of her empire to live out the rest of his days, never ever to set eyes on her majestic face again. The Queen had given him a second chance. Gaul should realize that the Queen’s love for him still existed and that he had to swallow his pride or lose his life. He was a virile young man of 30. Should he choose his art or his life? No human being should be forced to make such a choice in life. It was cruel but make it he must. What should it be? Oh, sweet dilemma!