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 and crumbling into dust. When droughts struck, hard black jagged cracks spread rapidly across its surface. Plants rose and fell. The people of Kish experienced a food shortage, so what remaining grain and wheat that the wealthy had 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—trudging through the fields each day. 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 mud was visible when scooped up.

* * * * * * *

”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 beneath the oily, thick mud, and as he lost his balance, accidentally tumbling forward, the whip came down again. The men around him kept his head low as Hirom fell in the mud. He was gasping, coated in the stuff, which stopped up in his ears and nose and mouth.

“Get up!” Bou bellowed.

“Enough.”

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. The others in the pit continued to mix in soil and straw, the slopping sound of mud filling the air beneath their feet.

”What is the meaning of this?” Anat asked.

Bou frowned and lowered his lip. Reluctantly, he lowered his whip. “There is nothing to be concerned about. He just needs straightening out. He is the weakest out of them all.”

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 worm that Utua had brought over all those years ago? It couldn’t be. The boy looked no older than fourteen moons, but had shot up like a beanstalk. His ribs and hipbones 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 large dark eyes reminded him of a hawk’s. Always on the look out for scraps of food. He’d gotten a couple of beatings for attempting to steal from the garden before, so he clearly lacked wisdom. A purple bruise still 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 young slave.

Hirom didn’t have to be told twice. His bony fingers snatched the canteen 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?”

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

Anat curtly nodded and accepted it.

Hirom avoided his gaze. The master bricklayer wasn’t exactly sure what to make of him. He’d seem to come out of nowhere when he first arrived, a screaming, wailing boy being dragged out by Bou’s hand. The overseer stated that he was no use in the villa, having attacked the master’s son and unsuccessfully running off twice.

Anat hardly heard Hirom say a word. He always kept to himself and was a decent worker, although he was indeed quite puny.

“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, climbing back up onto his horse.

* * * * * * * *

The lyre echoed in the dimly lit room.

Pale, twisted fingers glided over each string. 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—both attracting flies.

Upon ascending the stairs, Sorana paused at the sound of the notes floating in the air. She lingered at the threshold, before slowly knocking at the partially opened door. 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.

This wasn’t her child.

This was a stranger. She wondered where her carefree, cheerful little boy had gone. And that blasted instrument. She wanted to destroy it with her hands. She wanted to throw it in the fire, if it would be the only thing that would make him talk to her.

“Telal?” she softly asked.

The song continued.

She glanced at the mostly full plate. “You are not eating again. Is something wrong?”

Light, slow notes. Had he always been like this? It was quite hard for her to tell.

“Telal,” she said, trying to hide the impatience in her voice. “Will you answer me, please?”

A crescendo splashed through the air—his fingers skillfully navigated across the strings.

Sorana faintly exhaled. “Telal, your father wishes to speak with you. You have been in this room for days.” She took a few steps forward and clasped her hands together. “He has been concerned. And frankly, so have I. How could you shun me? You are bringing disgrace upon our household. Don’t you know what our neighbors are saying?”

The strumming sound echoed in her ears.

”Don’t you care about anything?”

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. 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 in 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?”

“I believe so,” 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.”

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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.

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 was spotted the sight of a dark figure leaning sideways against the wall in 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 with shock.

“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 head as they both continued down to the empty kitchen. He set it down on the table with a soft thump and pressed his palms on the surface, looking down. Strands of pale hair fell over his face, and she noticed that his tunic was stained. 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 easily towered over her. He was the spitting image of Matthias, looking so much like a man, but she could still see the boy inside him.

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

“Why not? I am worthless around here.”

”You must not speak such things, my lord.”

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 as he began to soak the potatoes 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 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 he could, he crept to the hovel at the far right end.

He banged on the crooked door with his fists, glancing around him. It was completely still.

”Leonara?” he hoarsely called out.

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.

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

“It’s a bit smaller than usual, but I’ll try to get more tomorrow.” 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 handed the bread back. “Especially not about an old crow like myself. Be off with you, before the overseer finds you are gone. You need it much more than I.”

“That’s absolute foolishness. If you get enough food, maybe you will be able to see again. Then they won’t treat you this way.”

“Foolishness?! I raise you up, and this is what I get? You don’t get to make these decisions. You do as so much as steal a hair and they beat you bloody for it. Especially Bou. He’ll take away a leg, an eye, an arm. Cripple you. And then what will you be useful for?”

”I won’t watch you starve,” Hirom fiercely said.

“I’m not going to,” she scoffed. “I was born 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.”

”I’m going to come tomorrow, whether you like it or not. I don’t care how mad you get.” Hirom glared at her. “You are not going to go hungry. And you are not going to pretend you aren’t.”

The woman slightly chuckled. “I remember when you first showed up on my doorstep. So tiny and frail. I see that you are as stubborn as always. You and Utua both were. Always demanding the world go your way. ” Her voice trembled. “I would give everything to see your face again. To see the birds, the trees. But hearing you is sustenance for my soul. So I implore you, do not put yourself at risk.”

“I’m careful as can be,” Hirom softly answered. “I can look out after myself.” He paused. “And I can take care of you.”

Leonara winced in pain and clutched her side. An old injury—where a large scar was visible. Hirom reached out, but she shook her head. After taking a deep breath, she lightly patted his shoulder. “I’m alright.”

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.

* * * * * * *

Every muscle in Telal’s body ached.

This was the eighth person of the day—another shrink from the army.

So far, no losses.

He straightened his bare back, his long fingers flexing around the hilt of the sword. His white tunic was soaked with sweat and dirt. There was a fierce pounding in his temples. A never ending headache. 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 higher ranking generals from the army. He had high hopes that he could enlist the following spring.

Telal licked his dried, scabbed lips. The cold floor was smooth beneath 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—he 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, directing a downward diagonal cut towards his opponent’s left thigh. He thought he heard Kuri shouting, but he couldn’t make out his words.

They were muffled, as if they were underwater.

Gradually, the fire spread in Telal’s veins. The growing fear and surprise in Balthu’s eyes—it made something rise inside of him. He wielded the sword with careful precision in the air, sending his opponent sprawling.

“Telal,” Kuri called. “Telal, it’s a draw.”

The boy’s heart was pounding. His blade caught against Balathu’s meaty leg, causing the man 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 Balathu’s face, cleanly knocking his sword out of his hand. Before his opponent could react, he sliced his right wrist off, blood spurting up in the air, similar to the fountain. Balathu released a scream of agony.

The blade. The blade was so close to his neck. He raised his sword—

”Telal.” Kuri shouted, roughly yanking his arm.

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 my son is to enlist. As soon as possible.”

Kuri bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

Balathu whimpered.

“And you.” He glanced at Telal. “Your footwork is incredibly sloppy. In combat, this is unacceptable. 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 will be punished. You disgrace me. You should have had him down in an instant.”

A ringing noise settled in Telal’s ear.

“How pathetic.” Papa gritted his teeth. His face was a heavy shade of red. “You slow, stupid cow. Maybe if you had spent more time practicing, you wouldn’t be this far behind. You bring nothing but dishonor to our family name. I want you out here every day—sunrise to sunset, until this is corrected. Not a single toe out of place. Do you understand me?”

The boy stared at him, partially covered in blood. His fingers slightly loosened around the hilt of the sword. Balathu loudly groaned and rolled over.

“Do you?” Papa thundered.

“Yes,” Telal 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 darkened 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! Telal!”

The boy disappeared in the woods.