The Serpent and the Scroll
The acrid stench of charred papyrus snaked through the air as Shala al-Awir fought back the bile rising in her throat. The once-bustling Library of Edessa was now a crumbling silhouette against the ruddy horizon, its walls scarred by the siege of the imperial legions. From her perch atop the shattered remains of a colonnade, she adjusted the crimson fabric of her veil to shield her face from the swirling ash. The sun was setting, its dying light painting her flowing robes—deep shades of gold and scarlet—in fiery hues, as if the heavens mirrored the inferno below.
Shala, with her almond-shaped eyes sharp and unyielding, surveyed the chaos. Her tall, lithe form moved with the precision of a panther as she leapt down from the broken stones in a whisper of silk and bronze. The intricate patterns sewn into her robes—symbols of the goddess Nidaba, patron of scholars and scribes—glimmered faintly in the twilight. Over it, she had ensconced herself in a leather harness, laden with pouches, throwing daggers, and a coiled whip that seemed to shimmer like molten gold. Around her neck hung a jade amulet etched with Sumerian runes. She was a scholar turned rebel—a protector of the ancient knowledge that her people’s oppressors sought to erase.
The Ambush
The crack of a broken branch snapped her from her thoughts. Her fingers reflexively tightened around the hilt of her curved dagger. She crouched low, her dark braid whipping against her back, as shadows flickered in the ruins ahead. The thin reeds of her sandals made no sound as she slithered across the debris-strewn ground, glancing around a toppled pillar with narrowed eyes.
“She’s here somewhere!” barked a voice, rough and guttural, in the Akkadian tongue. Two imperial soldiers, clad in bronze breastplates and crested helmets, squinted into the gloom. One carried a torch; the other dragged a bloodstained scimitar through the dust. Their armor clinked with each movement, loud amid the eerie silence of the ruins. Shala smirked. Imperial arrogance—they never learned the art of silence.
She silently unslung the whip from her waist, letting its length curl in her hand. The gold that lined its edges shimmered faintly as if imbued with an inner light. The soldiers moved closer, their footsteps crunching over scattered fragments of ancient clay tablets. When one soldier came within striking distance, Shala sprang from her hiding place like a coiled serpent.
The whip lashed through the air, its tip catching the torchbearer’s wrist with a crack. He yelped as the torch fell, its flames sputtering on the ground. The second soldier lunged, but Shala spun, her dagger slicing a clean arc that sent his scimitar clattering away. A precise kick to his chest sent him sprawling into the dirt. Before the remaining soldier could recover, Shala closed the distance, the blade of her dagger pressed firmly against his throat.
“Where is the scroll?” she demanded in flawless Akkadian, her voice cold as the wind rolling in from the steppe. The soldier’s eyes widened, beads of sweat dripping down his temple.
“I-I don’t know—”
Her dagger bit into his skin—a warning. “Try again,” she hissed.
“The commander!” he gasped. “He took it to the Temple of Ashur. They plan to burn it during the equinox ceremony as an offering!”
Shala felt her blood freeze. The scroll—the cursed “Serpent’s Testament”—containing knowledge said to grant its bearer dominion over the earth and skies, had already brought ruin to entire kingdoms. Letting it fall into the hands of the empire’s priesthood would doom not only her people but the crumbling remnants of civilization beyond Edessa’s borders.
“How many at the temple?” she pressed.
“A full garrison,” the soldier croaked.
Shala’s eyes flicked to the distant ziggurat silhouetted against the dying light. It was a mad gamble—but she thrived on the edge of impossible odds. With a sharp twist, she knocked the soldier unconscious and melted into the shadows before the other could cry for help.
The Temple of Ashur
By nightfall, Shala reached the temple grounds, her agile frame shrouded in darkness. Blooms of smoke rose from braziers, an ominous signal of the rituals underway. The imperial priesthood was gathered on the temple’s highest tier, chanting in deep, resonant tones that sent chills skittering down her spine. Shala crept closer, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Then she saw it—on an obsidian altar illuminated by torches: the Serpent’s Testament, a scroll bound in scaled bronze casing. It pulsed faintly with an otherworldly green light, as if alive. A shiver of foreboding crawled over her skin; the ancient stories whispered that the scroll was crafted by deities who delighted in mortal suffering.
She sketched the approach in her mind. Two guards at the base of the ziggurat. Four more stationed at the top. Her fingers grazed the whip at her belt, but for now, she relied on deception. She unfurled her veil, letting it cascade around her face like a widow’s mourning garb. With slow, deliberate steps, she approached the guards, her movement matching the rhythm of the chanting overhead.
“Stop!” barked one guard, his spear leveled at her. “Who goes there?”
She allowed her voice to tremble, adopting the guise of a frightened supplicant. “Please, good sirs,” she whispered in their tongue. “I have come to offer prayers for my son. He was taken by the plague…” Her lowered head concealed a sharp gleam in her eyes.
The guards exchanged glances. One grunted, gesturing for her to pass. With her head bowed, Shala ascended the ziggurat, her grip on the hidden dagger tightening. When the guards resumed their positions, she struck.
The two guards at the temple’s peak fell swiftly—dagger to the throat of the first, a kick that sent the other tumbling to the stones below. Chaos erupted as the priests scattered, their chants dissolving into terrified cries. At the center of it all, Shala seized the scroll, its casing warm beneath her fingers as it seemed to hum with arcane energy.
The Chase
Screams echoed through the temple as imperial soldiers surged up the ziggurat. Clutching the scroll in one arm, Shala sprinted down the opposite side, her robes billowing as arrows and spears whistled past her head. The ziggurat’s sloping sides gave way to the dense wilderness of the Euphrates valley, and Shala plunged into the undergrowth, her breath ragged.
Behind her, torches bobbed in the darkness—the soldiers were relentless. But Shala had one advantage: she knew these lands with the intimacy of a lover. The serpent’s path wound its way through swamps and rocky outcroppings, and she used every twist and turn to her benefit. At last, she reached the riverbank, where a small reed boat rested against the shallows. Summoning the last reserves of her strength, she shoved the boat into the water and leapt aboard.
The scroll pulsed faintly in her hands as the current carried her away from Edessa, away from the empire’s grasp. She glanced back only once, at the faint flicker of torches fading into the night. The knowledge she now carried could either save her people—or doom the world. For now, her only goal was to ensure it remained out of imperial hands. The tides of destiny, however, were rarely so simple.
Shala tightened her grip on the scroll. The journey had only begun.
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: The Syrian Consequence: Israel's Strategic Opportunity
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