Under the scorching Arabian sun, in the city of Agrabah, where the streets were built narrow to protect the people from the snapping wind and blazing light, joyful music overwhelmed the peasant's agonized screams.

He writhed on the ground and watched with bulging, panic-filled eyes as his blood ejected from his wrist, soaking the dirt in wet crimson. On the ground beside him, his severed hand still clutched the red apple.

In the shadow of a tea shop awning, where the scent of stewed goat was richest, a young boy of twelve watched the horrified peasant crumple against the stone wall of a pottery house. When the peasant slumped over, the young boy recognized the agonized expression of a pain-filled death. Such deaths had become part of daily life in Agrabah. So much so that not even the children at the end of the block had bothered to pause their sword-fighting game.

The guard holding his bloody scimitar wiped the blade clean with the cloth tucked into his belt. He bent down to pick up the severed hand and pried the fingers open, freeing the bloody apple. He handed it back to the stall vendor who then placed it back on his apple cart.

The boy touched his olive-skinned arm where a drop of blood had landed on him and wiped it away with his finger.

“Ja’far al-Barmaki!” A stern, but loving voice called to him. “Your mother only has so many hours in the day and she spends most of it looking for you! Maybe spare her the trouble today by helping me refill the cart. You remember where the figs are?”

Ja’far nodded. “Yes, papa.”

He turned to his father, Yahya al-Barmaki, and saw the hint of a smile on his round, leather-tanned face. His skin was much darker than Aladdin’s from the years he spent peddling figs from his cart along the street. The cloth above the cart was more for the fig’s protection than his.

Today, his father had found a special place to set up is fig cart along an adjacent road from the bazaar. The bazaar was a maelstrom of activity with booksellers spreading hundreds of titles on silk sheets on the ground, and some stacking them in various towers.

Ja’far’s knew he was to bring the figs from their home, but he slowed his pace, the allure of adventure stories, foreign languages, mathematics, and insights on the culture of distant, exotic lands. He stopped altogether when he saw the stack of political books, mostly in the form of tatty hardcovers made of leather. Too expensive for his poor family to afford. Despite the beautiful silks, delicious foods, and vibrant Agrabah colors, he had witnessed the rise of poverty as goods and labor were used to build the Sultan’s palace, along with his army, and without regard to the safety of his people.

Ja’far looked up from the stack of political books as an elderly man with a thick salt-and-pepper beard gave the book vendor several gold coins in exchange for a handful of books. Embossed on the covers were a strange language Ja’far couldn’t read.

“Aren’t you suppose to be somewhere?” Another calm, feminine voice said from behind him.

Ja’far turned around. “Mother, I was just on my way to get the figs.”

His mother, Admatah al-Barmaki, smiled a beautiful smile. She was nearly ten years younger than Ja’far’s father, with a sharp angular face. When she smiled, her green eyes shimmered like emeralds.

“Today is a special day,” she said. She knelt down to look him in the eyes.

“I know. It’s Princess Jasmine’s sixth birthday today.”

“We’ll be very busy. We might even sell our entire stock. Which is why I think you deserve this in advance.”

His mother took Ja’far’s hand and pressed three coins into his hand.

He opened his mouth to protest, but Admatah cut him off. “Hurry, before the crowds take the best ones.”

Ja’far thanked her. “I will get the figs as soon as I find a good one. I won’t forget. Promise.”

Admatah placed her hands on Ja’far’s shoulder and softly touched his cheek. “My smart, young man. You’re going to do wonderful things with all the knowledge you possess. You could even rule Agrabah one day and liberate our people.”

Ja’far laughed. “Mother, you know that peasants can’t be sultans. The princess would have to marry a prince, and I’m not a prince.”

Admatah smiled. “You are to me. Now hurry. I’ll tell your father I had sent you on an errand for me.”

Ja’far had raced through the crowds and shuffled through piles of books. Mounds of books. When he heard the joyous music begin to play Agrabah’s song for the princess, he rushed back to Yahya’s cart with no intention of breaking his promise of retrieving the figs.

When Ja’far arrived, he saw his father’s fig cart had been filled, with several more bags of figs beside it. His father was putting a handful of figs into a customer’s sachet.

“So this was the errand your mother sent you to do for her.” Yahya finished with the customer and bid him farewell. “Language? Mathematics? Philosophy?”

“Political finance.”

Yahya laughed. “I bet you’ve read more books than the Sultan himself.”

When the music grew louder, others in the bazaar remained observant, while others stretched and craned for a better view of the palace at the center of Agrabah.

Yahya stepped aside for a better view beside Admatah.

Ja’far hoisted himself up on an empty crate so that he could see above the other adults. Standing above the shadows he looked to the palace with excitement.

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Makam music accompanied by a four-piece ensemble, a Chalaghi Baghdadi, consisting of a hammered dulcimer, a spike fiddle and two types of small drums, and the occasional tambourine drowned out the voices from the bazaar. He was so enamored with the exotic dancers, baton twirling, the vibrant silk flags raised high, and the masses surrounding the palace, that only when Yahya grabbed Ja’far’s arm did he realize his father was talking to him.

“Can you see anything up there, my boy?”

“I can see all of Agrabah!” Ja’far raised his arms excitedly. “Papa, I can even see the palace!”

“Oh?”

“But I can’t see the princess. Do you think she’ll see us?”

“I think it may be a little too far for her to see,” Yahya replied.

A look of disappointment fell over Ja’far’s face.

"But she might; from up there she can see the whole world!” Yahya slipped his arms around his son’s waist and hoisted him down from the empty crate. “Let’s get some of these figs sold and then we’ll sneak away for a closer look.”

Ja’far beamed with excitement. He turned and peered down into the crate and noticed a few figs must’ve fallen from the cart. He reached inside, a big stretch for his short arms, and scooped up the last few in his tiny hands.

While Ja’far watched the crowds surround the bazaar, he caught a glimpse of the pottery store owner without either partiality or compassion, drag the dead peasant into a desolate alley which stank of stale urine and camel manure. Then, from the side, he saw Armand Shar, the fat bearded man who owned the fig cart and stall Yahya sold figs from.

Yahya’s pleasant expression remained, though with much reservation.

Ja’far stood at the stall alone for only a few minutes, long enough to watch one of the three kids from the street—particularly the one with shaggy black hair who had reputation for being a clever thief despite his age, younger than Ja’far.

The skinny boy with shaggy hair chopped off at the shoulders slipped forward into the shadows like an assassin. He then stopped dead still. He made almost no noise with his hands straight down at his sides. His face, like most children’s, was round, and impertinent; a slight point to his chin and a tall, flat forehead, with invasive, watchful, desiring eyes that moved from vendor to vendor.

Ja’far looked away when he felt his mother’s hand fall gently on his shoulder. He looked up at her. She smiled back, but there was a hint of concern on her face. He looked past her to Yahya and Armand. Armand stood with his chest out, his chin up. Yahya’s appeared concerned and he was gently nodding.

Ja’far strained to listen through the celebratory music.

“If you let us, we can give you the leftover figs to make up for what we owe in rent, but I’m certain after today we’ll have enough. There are many hungry people in Agrabah today.”

Armand Shar squinted, and when he shook his head no his fat cheeks and neck wobbled.

Admatah said to Ja’far, “How about we have some tea?”

Ja’far watched his mother enter the tea shop behind their fig stall. Squinting into the sun, his father was still in discussion with Armand, and observing the smiles on each of their faces Ja’far could only presume their negotiation had reached a fair accord. He stood behind the stall and offered a handful of figs to a bearded man wearing a white dishdasha and a colorful shemagh to protect himself from the Arabian sun that was now blazing hot directly above. The man continued passed without even a glance and disappeared into the crowded bazaar.

Returning his attention towards the streets Ja’far noticed the shadows were gone, replaced by the high noontime light. Along with the shadows, two of the three boys had gone too. The one who had appeared with such strange countenance, slipping away into the darkness so still, so steady, was nowhere to be seen. The boy’s friend, a much younger boy with clipped hair and broken sandals carried in his hands a tambourine that he shook and banged in Ja’far’s direction.

As Ja’far watched the child, a figure raced passed the stall. A pair of small child’s hands dipped low for a handful of figs then sprinted towards the bazaar.

Ja’far instinctively chased after him for several steps. He quickly realized that pursuing the thief would only put himself in danger. Ja'far reluctantly stopped and watched as the criminal disappeared into the crowded marketplace. The air filled with swirling dust, and the music crescendoed in the background. The kid was nowhere to be found. The tambourine kid, too. Realizing he had left his father’s cart unattended, Ja'far turned around and raced back to it. Panic gripped him as he discovered the entire lot of figs had been stolen. As he spun around, Ja'far caught sight of the shadow boy on a wooden beam above before slipping into the darkness of an upstairs window.

The rest of their supply of figs had been stolen.

Ja'far's cheeks flushed red with anger and salty tears stung his eyes. He wiped the dirt and moisture from his face with his sleeve. He would go after them, he decided.

Ja’far saw his father approaching with a serious expression, his gaze shifting between the empty stall and the little boy who had shamed their family. Armand stood behind his father, visibly irate. As Ja’far looked up at his father, attempting to explain, he was interrupted by Armand’s thick voice calling for the guards.

“You think you can swindle me? You have been selling your figs and concealing your profits. Trying to get free rent, are you?”

“Armand Shar,” Yahya drawled, “if you will pardon my candor, I might remark that you are something of an ass.”

Armand, in a frenzy, turned purple and shrieked at the top of his lungs, punctuating his words by clenching his fists at Yahya. “You will lose your hands, the lot of you will!” Armand screamed, and again he called for the guards.

"Papa, I'm so sorry for what I've done!" Ja'far said, tears welling in his eyes.

At the end of the street, he watched in terror as three hulking guards barged through the vendors and shoppers, causing chaos and destruction far exceeding the value of the figs. They shoved a young woman dressed in fine silk, her scream mingling with the crash as she fell into a crate of fish. The vendor screamed at her and then shouted profanities at the guards who drew nearer, their faces twisted in a beastly fury.

“Ja’far!” Yahya yelled, “You have to run!”

But Ja'far, his heart gripped by fear for his family, tearfully pleaded with his father for forgiveness, the weight of the situation heavy on his young shoulders. From the doorway of the tea shop, Ja'far's ears filled with his mother's piercing screams, the sharp clatter of teacups shattering against the hard stone floor resonating in the air.

Yahya grabbed his son by the shoulders and stared him straight in the eye. "I have faith in you. You are a noble and honorable son. Take what is rightfully ours and let it shape the destiny of the stars. But you must leave. Go!"

The guards dragged Yahya back to his feet. Beside them, the vendor screamed at the guards for the destruction they had caused.

Ja'far watched his father get pulled away, while his mother stepped between Ja’far and Armand.

Armand, seeing Ja’far about to flee, pushed his mighty weight against Admatah, like she was struck by a boulder. Admatah fell into the road like a rag doll, her scream sharp and abrupt as the first set of hooves trampled her ribs and crushed her spine. Her body rolled in the dirt as a hoof caught her by the throat, causing her head to snap all the way back.

Terrified and frozen in his place, Ja’far sensed Armand’s rough hands grab him. Searing agony bolted up his arm and into his neck. For a moment, all he could see were white explosions in front of his teary eyes.

Yahya was still screaming when he broke free of the guard and lunged at Armand, his fist punching into his fat face. Armand’s cheeks wobbled and shook; blood gushed from his split gums and broken nose. His eyes went wide.

Then, from behind Yahya, appeared another guard with his scimitar drawn, who plunged it deep into his back. As the blade entered, Yahya arched his back and his arms splayed wide, the blade pushing through him and emerging from his chest. Then swiftly, the guard withdrew his blade, and Yahya fell to the dirt.

Wiping the blade clean of blood, the guard met eyes with Ja’far.