2319 BCE

The rain came and fell, leaving behind fine puddles that reflected the crystal sky. Flowers shot up from the earth, before slowly shriveling up. When droughts struck, hard black jagged cracks spread rapidly across its surface. Plants drooped and fell. The people of Kish experienced a hunger shortage, so grain and wheat were stored up in sheds to prepare for famine. Vultures flew in circles over what prey had succumbed to the unforgiving heat due to unbearable thirst.

On the plantation, the slaves struggled to get by with meager portions. The gardens were lifeless, and what irrigation channels that were set into place had begun to have a lower water supply. When a bucket was dipped into the well, only soft dirt was visible.

* * * * * * *

”Faster, you dog!” Bou shouted.

Hirom winced in pain as the whizzing sound of the whip made contact with his back. Gritting his teeth, he bit down upon his tongue, continuing to mix straw into the mud pit, which was up to his knees. His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth—what he would give to have a drink. A cool, fresh drink. His legs were slippery underneath the oily, slippery mud, and as he lost his balance, accidentally tumbling head first, the whip came down again. The men around him kept his head low as Hirom crawled in the mud.

“Enough,” came a voice. It was hard to see through his blurry vision, but Hirom could recognize Anat’s voice from anywhere. He coughed as he struggled to stand in the pit.

Bou frowned and lowered his lip. “He is lazy.”

Anat ignored him and stepped down from his horse. Hirom’s breaths were slow, and sweat was beading down his face. He stood still.

With the crook of his finger, Anat beckoned him. “You. Come over here. Now.”

Wearily, Hirom began to trudge through the thick mud, before finally climbing out of the pit. Anat nearly scoffed at the sight of him. Was this the snot faced-sobbing worm that Utua had brought over after all those years? It couldn’t be. The boy looked no older than fourteen moons, but had shot up like a beanstalk. His ribs were showing through his skin; he was awfully thin. And yet, he walked like an old man. His knees and ankles were knobby, and his dark eyes reminded him of a fox’s. Always on the look out for scraps or food. He’d gotten a couple of beatings for attempting to steal food from the garden before. A bruise lingered around his right eye.

Anat fumbled around his belt and pulled out his canteen. Unscrewing the lid with his ringed fingers, he held it out to the boy.

Hirom didn’t have to be told twice. His bony fingers snatched it up, and he guzzled it down, water sloshing down his chin. His throat rose and fell. As he gulped loudly, Bou gave Anat a look of great disgust.

“Have you lost your wits?” he snarled.

“The boy is thirsty,” Anat calmly replied. “You forget that I have the ultimate authority over here. I report everything I see to Matthias at the end of the day. If our numbers dwindle, then that responsibility falls upon me. Not you.” He climbed up on his horse. “Make sure that these men are receiving plenty of water. Otherwise, how do you expect them to continue without dropping like flies? Slaves are expensive. Mathias cannot afford more.”

Hirom wiped his mouth and exhaled with relief. As he approached the horse, he bowed and held out the canteen to him. “Thank you.”

Anat glanced at the boy and accepted it, who avoided his gaze. The master bricklayer wasn’t exactly sure what to make of him. He’d seem to come out of nowhere, dragged out by Bou’s hand. Said that he was no good in the house and tried to run off twice. He was a strange child too, talking little among the men. He kept to himself and was a decent worker, although he was indeed quite puny. And foolish at times. How he had remained here after all this years was a mystery within itself.

“Get back to work,” Bou snapped, pushing the boy forward. Hirom awkwardly stumbled in his footing as he descended down into the pit.

Anat frowned to himself as he roughly slapped the reins on his horse. He decided to keep a closer eye on him, for sure.

* * * * * * * *

The sound of the lyre echoed in the room.

Fingers glided over each string, pausing at each sound. The figure’s demeanor was calm. Poised. There were no candles, only their shadow visible on the wall. A bit of light escaped from the spaces of the closed window. On the table rested a tray of untouched food and half a glass of wine.

Upon descending the stairs, Sorana paused at the sound of the notes floating in the air. She lingered at the threshold, before slowly knocking. The shadow did not turn around. She wonder how her son could even see his hands in the dark. She’d spoken to the slaves, but they all had informed her that he never wanted any lamps there. None at all.

“Telal?” she softly asked.

The song continued.

Sorana faintly exhaled. “Telal, your father wishes to speak with you. You have been in this room for days.” She took a few steps closer and clasped her hands together. “He has been concerned. And frankly, so have I.”

The strumming sound echoed in her ears. It was driving her mad. Her chest tightened, and she felt the heat rush to her face. “You cannot stay here forever. I do not know what has gotten over you. Ever since your last trip, you hide here, every day.” She pressed her hand against the wall. “Do you not wish to pursue other hobbies? It is disgraceful. You speak to no one. You wish to see no one.”

Nothing. Aggravated, Sorana threw her hands in the air and began to storm off. The notes followed her down the hall, down the steps to the courtyard. Once she reached the fountain, she sat down on the edge, running her hands through her hair. An idea then formed in her head, and as she went around the house, she approached Amata, who was carrying a large basket of vegetables. She nearly bumped into her, accidentally dropping a few on the ground.

“Oh, pardon me, my lady,” she cried, delivering a bow. “My sincerest apologies.”

Sorana gave her a long look. “Amata, do you know of any physicians in the city?” She glanced behind her. “One who is close.”

The old woman lowered her basket. “None that I know of. Why?” She straightened her back. “Is the young master ill?”

“He has acting strange for weeks,” Sorana murmured, pursing her lips. “His father had taken him out for a military expedition to Babylon. When he departed, he appeared to be fine, although quiet. Telal has always been a quiet child.” She placed her hands on her hips. “But this? He has shut up himself in his room for weeks. I fear he may have caught an illness over the water. Perhaps to the head.”

“Oh,” Amata replied, picking up the vegetables. “I wouldn’t worry too much, my dear. I have two grandchildren of my own. They tend to be more on the moody side from time to time.” Wrinkles gathered on her face. “I can go into town and look around for you, with your permission. But I am sure it is nothing.” She squinted her eyes. “How old is the young master?”

“He is but sixteen moons,” Sorana murmured. “I do fear that his father ruined him. He has tried to socialize the boy. But it is no good. His brothers have never shown such ridiculous behavior.” She rolled her eyes. “All he does is play that cursed instrument. Night and day. It is driving everyone in the house insane. I’m sure you must feel the same way.”

Amata wiped her brow. “Nothing of the sort.” She grunted as she hoisted the basket over her shoulder. “When would you like for me to go, my lady? I am almost finished with this.”

The mistress sighed. “No, no. You are busy. I shall just have to go myself.” She adjusted her silk shawl over her shoulders and headed down the path. “If Mathias comes looking for me, just tell him that I shall return soon.”

Nodding slowly, Amata paused to give her a wave, before heading back through the villa to get to the kitchen. Other slaves were polishing the plates and cups on the table, while some were frantically scrubbing the floor, soap suds floating in the air. She carefully stepped around them, then went down another mostly empty hallway.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The music had stopped.

Amata wheezed and puffed under the strain of the basket. She was struggling to continue up the flight of steps when she nearly shouted at the sight of a dark figure leaning sideways against the hallway. Her grip tightened around the basket, before she felt it gently being lifted out of her sore arms. The old woman looked up.

“Master Telal,” she scolded. “There’s no need for that. Come now, please return it to me.”

The boy didn’t respond, just balanced it with ease over his shoulder. She could only see the back of his pale head as they both continued down to the kitchen, which was empty. He set it down on the table with a soft thump and pressed his palms on the surface, looking down. Strands of hair fell over his face, and she noticed that his tunic was stained and dirty. He was barefoot. A strange odor came from him, and his eyes were bloodshot, evident of sleepless nights.

Amara remembered when his head could barely reach against the side of the table. Now he towered over her and his father, with his muscular frame. He was the spitting image of him, looking so much like a man, but she could still faintly see the boy inside him.

She pulled over a stool and sat down. “Thank you, Master Telal. But you did not to do that.”

His hands wrapped around the lumpy vegetables as he set them down on the table, one by one. Amata couldn’t help but see how pale he looked. It’s like he never saw the sun. His blue eyes avoided hers, gazing down as he began to soak them in a bowl of water.

She reached for the knife to prepare to peel them, but was shocked to find him removing it from her hand. Annoyed, she placed a hand on her hip and frowned.

“Now, look—”

”I am not sick, you know,” Telal whispered.

Amata paused. “I never believed so for a moment, my lord. That was your mother.”

He pursed his thin lips, his brows furrowed with concentration. The skin bunched up around the potato in his hand. “There are a lot of sick people around me. I am not one of them.” He gazed at his reflection in the blade.

“She only wants the best for you.”

Telal slightly smirked. “Does she?”

Amata swallowed hard. “I am sure of it.”

He continued to speak softy, moving onto the next vegetable. “She always likes to imagine things to make herself better.” Finally, he glanced at the old woman and smiled. “I am glad to see a familiar face.” His voice wavered. “I don’t see people that often.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that.

Telal set down the potato and heavily exhaled. The signs of a slight shadow had gathered around his jawline—which he had tried to shave down. He smiled again at her, slowly handed her the knife. The handle was warm and sweaty. He remained still for a moment, before disappearing into the hallway and returning back to his dark bedroom chamber. In a few moments, Amata could hear the lingering sound of the lyre again.

* * * * * * *

Hirom waited until the sound of snoring men filled the air. Tiptoeing around their still frames, he peeked at the threshold of the straw hut, before running through the night. His stomach grumbled beneath him, but he tried not to think about the bread tucked into deep into the waistband of his filthy tunic.

The sound of hooves pounding against the ground made him jump from behind the bushes. He crouched below, waiting for the overseers to pass, then booked it across the fields, only stopping to duck as far as he could. An owl hooted in the distance as he followed the moonlight across the trees.

After several miles of running, Hirom pressed his back against a nearby willow tree, breathing heavily. He licked his lips as he slowly peered out from the side, where the rice and corn fields were just visible over the horizon. He glanced around again, water sloshing around his ankles before he stumbled awkwardly down the hill down the quarters. As quietly as could be, he reached the hovel at the far right end. He banged on the door with his fists, glancing around him. It was completely still.

”Leonara?” he hoarsely whispered.

Silence.

He knocked again. “Leonara, it’s me.”

The door latch shifted, and a small, shrunken figure was stooped over the threshold. Hirom could not help but stare. Strands of hair were around her face, and her expression was still. He gazed at the white film over her eyes—his heart sunk. He cursed the gods in his mind.

Leonara released a raspy cough. Clearly, she had been asleep. “Why are out here?” she snapped. “Return at once.”

Hirom pressed the bread in her hands, so she could feel the surface. “Here.”

Her face softened. “You know I cannot take this. Now leave while you still can. Please.”

“But you must! They don’t feed you anymore,” Hirom loudly whispered. His dark eyes widened. “Do they? And do not lie to me.”

“You have no business worrying about such things.” The dim firelight was highlighted the side of Leonara’s cheek. She sighed and pressed the bread back into his hands. “Especially not an old crow like myself. Be off with you. You need it much more than I.”

“If you get enough food, maybe you will be able to see again. Then they won’t treat you this way.” Hirom’s face fell. “I won’t watch you starve.”

“Starve?” she scoffed. “I was raised on the land. The gods will provide, one way or another.” She warmly cupped his face with both of her cold, smooth hands. “I know how hard it has been for you, being apart from me. But you got to watch out for yourself first.” She slightly winced in pain and clutched her side. An old injury—where a large scar was visible. After taking a deep breath, she lightly patted his shoulder.

The boy hesitated.

”Go,” Leonara responded. “I shall be fine.”

After a few moments, Hirom reluctantly nodded and stepped out in the dark. Once he was sure that Leonara’s door was closed, he delicately placed the chunk of bread on her windowsill, before running down the road.

In the moonlight on the hill behind the trees, Anat sat on top of his horse, watching the child’s figure disappear in the fog. He thoughtfully rubbed at the bottom of his chin.

* * * * * * *

Telal’s muscles glistened with sweat.

This was the third person of the day. He straightened his bare back, his fingers flexing around the hilt of the sword. His tunic was soaked with sweat, and there was a pounding in his temples. The trickling water from the fountain seemed to calm the voices in his head. He could feel his father’s eyes boring into the back of his skull.

In front of him was his next opponent—Balathu. A much burlier man, who probably looked close to eighteen or nineteen moons. He had a great deal of hair on his chest, and his feet were rooted to the ground like a rock. Papa had informed him that these were one of the generals from the army. He had high hopes that he could begin the following spring.

Telal licked his dried lips. The cold floor was smooth against his bare feet.

“You may begin,” Kuri said.

With a shout, Balathu rushed forward.

Telal began to dodge each of his blows, guiding his blade against his. The sound of metal clanging echoed in the courtyard. Despite sweat pouring down his face, he remained calm, acknowledging the slight pain in his biceps. It fueled him—his made sure his footing was steady against the ground. His blue eyes were focused, watching the blade.

It was only after several moments that Balathu gradually began to lose his momentum. He had initially underestimated Telal’s slender frame. What he lacked for in size was made up in endurance, and Balathu struggled for air as the boy began to gain the upper hand. Telal gritted his teeth as he directed a clean, downward diagonal cut towards his opponent’s left thigh. He thought he heard Kuri shouting, but he couldn’t hear.

The blade caught against Balathu’s flesh, causing him to release a high pitched scream. Blood spattered across the ground as he staggered back, but Telal did not slow down. He rapidly slashed at the other man’s flesh, before knocking his sword out of his hand. Before his opponent could react, he had chopped his right wrist clean off, blood spurting up in the air, similar to the fountain.

”Telal.” Kuri shouted.

The boy’s face was dripping with sweat. Balathu was on the ground, hollering at the top of his lungs, curling up underneath Telal’s shadow. He saw the fury in his instructor’s gray eyes as he marched over to him.

“I told you to stop! Are you deaf?”

Telal’s chest rose and fell.

”So,” Papa said, glaring down at Balathu, who was still clutching his stump. His hand was partially submerged in the puddle of blood. “You must inform your general that he is ready to enlist. As soon as possible.”

Kuri exhaled.

He glanced at Telal. “Your footwork is incredibly sloppy. In combat, this is unacceptable. I expect you to fully have this technique down in the upcoming months. You have completely let me down. Your brothers were twice as fast as you. Twice. If I do not see improvement in the coming week, you shall feel my justified wrath. You disgrace me. You should had have him down in an instant.”

Telal stared at him, partially covered in blood. His hand slightly loosened around the sword hilt. Balathu loudly groaned and rolled over.

“Is that clear?” Papa thundered.

“Yes,” the boy whispered, looking down.

Bou leaned against the wall of the villa and folded his arms in awe. He smirked, before whistling and making his way to the kitchen.

Telal roughly tossed the sword to the ground and walked off, ignoring the loud clanging sound that echoed in the courtyard. His head was spinning, and he spat on the grass as he began to move through the cornfield. The plants partially concealed his shadowed face.

His father took a few steps forward, making his way around the red puddle on the floor. ”Don’t you turn away from me when I am talking to you—Telal! Telal, get back here now.” His voice echoed in the courtyard. “We are not finished yet!”

The boy’s figure disappeared in the woods.