AKKADIAN EMPIRE

2130 BCE

Utua wiped the sweat building up underneath his brow. The sun scorched the city of Ur; each of the many stones in the path in front of him left pebbles stuck into his sandals. With his left hand, he reached around his belt and unscrewed the leather cap of his water skin, only to raise it to his lips and find that not even a single dropped remained. He silently cursed the gods, mumbling under his breath as he gripped the rope secured around his trustworthy’s donkey’s neck, Angus. The animal released a loud bray, her hooves clacking loudly against the stone path. Even in this unbearable heat, she had not given him trouble once. The wheels of the wagon loudly squeaked behind them as they weaved through the crowds on the street. Angus released a loud snort, pawing the ground.

A group of children laughed and screamed as they rushed down the street, chasing down a kitten. The sound of water splashing to the ground next to him made him jump; a woman from the window in one of the apartments above finished dumping out her bucket, before slamming the door to her window. The smell of spices, loaves of bread, fish, roasting over flames, sewage—all settled in his nose like a melting pot. He heavily sneezed and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his tunic, scanning the place in front of him with his one good eye—the other gouged out. Angus snorted once more, her large nostrils expanding, then shrinking.

Utua patted the top of her head. “I know, I know. We shall find a well soon.” Just a bit longer, he thought. Only a bit longer.

His stomach grumbled. In the horizon, he could make out the multiple ships next to a long, wooden docks. Above the crowded people’s heads, where the market was even busier and more crowded than the street, he could make out blue in the horizon. Endless blue. He began to walk a little faster—despite the soreness in his legs, the sound of water motivated him. He was a muscular who had seen many moons, his graying hair blown by the wind. The docks. That is where Master Matthias had ordered him to go. The docks.

He’d gone as fast as his legs would carry him

The fresh salty scent of the Persian Peninsula reached his nose. He had just made it to the edge when a soldier stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Even underneath his armor, the young man’s sun burned skin was coated in sweat. His hand rested on the tilt of his dagger, which hung by his waistband.

”Halt,” he ordered.

Utua roughly grabbed at Angus’s rope, causing the donkey’s hooves to awkwardly slide across the uneven dried soil. He was struggling to catch his breath, and wiped his sweat soaked hair away from his face.

“State your business,” the soldier said.

“I have a message from my master,” Utua said in a low voice. His throat hurt. “He has sent for me to pick up his purchased goods.” With his hand, he dug into the waistband of his tunic and held out a wrinkled scroll. “From this ship in particular, sir. I am to fetch them for him.”

The soldier snatched it from him and began to read. Utua almost chuckled—here he was, looking so anxious around him, to establish a sense of intimidation. He glanced to the side and noticed a stone well. “May I please give my steed drink? We’ve come a long way.”

With a grunt, the man nodded. His eyes were still focused on the scroll in front of him, like he wanted to pitch it off into the sea. Utua drew the bucket up and presented it to Angus, who began to rapidly gulp it down, spilling it on both sides. The sensation of the cold water against Utua’s throat was heavenly, and he splashed it down his face, hair, and neck. Once his water skin was full, and Angus had gone through two buckets, soldier rubbed the back of his neck. He loudly whistled at two men from the ship, who began to load several barrels and boxes into Utua’s wagon.

“You are a Kishite?”

Utua lead Angus away from the well. Her tail was swaying back and forth. “Yes, sir. My master is a nobleman of the city.” His lips formed a slight frown when he noticed the soldier’s hesitation. “Is something wrong?”

“Your master requested multiple slaves,” the soldier murmured, glancing up at the ship. He squinted his eyes from the direct sunlight. “The trader has no more of them. Not until next week, I am afraid. You may have to return until then for the auction.”

All of the water that Utua had swallowed suddenly sat into his stomach like a pit. Return? He gritted his teeth. Matthias was not a patient man, and the scars and lacerations from the endless beatings told otherwise. If he’d learned that he had reached the Persian Peninsula with only mere hours to spare, he might not be able to walk the next time.

“Can’t you—”

The sound of high pitched screaming and rattling chains made them both look up. A man wearing dark robes and a turban roughly dragged a small boy with long matted hair, dressed in a filthy tunic. His skin was as bronze as the statues at the temples in Kish. The child was fighting, screaming at the top of his lungs, his stick limbs flailing in the air. As the slave trader sent the boy sprawling to the ground, Utua fought the urge to reach out for him. He didn’t know why it had come over him. He didn’t like children at all. Couldn’t stand them. He had sworn to never care of them. He attempted to maintain the still faces of the men around him.

The boy whimpered and held his shackled hands over his dark head. Utua fought the urge to look at him. He narrowed his one eye. He couldn’t be no more than five moons.

“This one the last one here,” the trader snarled through his yellow teeth. “I have none left. He is ill. He has been throwing up constantly, dirtying up my ship. I ought to have thrown him in the sea the first time I got him. No one else in his village survived.”

”Where is he from?” Utua asked. His hands were shaking. Even though Matthias had requested a slave, he hadn’t specified if it were to be an adult or a child. It was better than returning with nothing and face a more severe punishment than the one he about to get.

“Filthy Canaanite,” the slave trader replied.

Utua studied the soldier. He had a lopsided smile on his face. After a brief pause, Utua glanced at the wagon. “Load him up there. My master shall pay you full for your services.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

With a nod, the slave trader reached for the child. He released another ear shattering shriek as he was thrown into the cart, amidst the boxes and barrels. The sound of rattling chains echoed in Utua’s ears, and his breaths were slow, heavy. He could hear the boy’s limbs thumping against the wooden bottom.

Angus snorted.

“Don’t just stand there,” the soldier barked at Utua. “You return back home to your master.”

Without a word, Utua turned and began to make his way opposite down the road, Angus’ hooves clacking against the gravel ground. The boy’s cries and screams gave him a headache, but he didn’t look in the wagon. He didn’t dare. He gritted his teeth and focused on the road. He was grateful for the sounds of the people around him to block out that horrendous scream, even temporarily.

But when Utua exited the town and the valley came into view, he finally lost his temper. In a fit of rage, he released Angus’ rope and stormed to the back of the wagon. The child was curled up behind a crate, hugging his knees, tears streaming down his face.

“Silence,” Utua bellowed.

A startled look crossed the boy’s face. With a swift motion, he scooted closer to the corner of the wagon, hiding behind the crate. He began to whimper and peeked out once at Ukua, before ducking behind the box again.

Utua remained still, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He gripped both sides of the wagon with his large fingers. His breaths were heavy. “I will not tolerate any more foolishness from you. You behave yourself.”

Silence.

With a deep sigh, Utua returned to the front and continued to lead Angus forward. To his surprise, there was a hint of guilt building up inside, but he quickly pushed it away. It was about two-day trip to Kish, with one night to spare. The sooner he could return home, the sooner he could take his punishment, get rid of the child, and forget all of this. All of it. The wheels loudly squeaked against the ground.

* * * * * *

The evening sky faded away into purple and blue and orange. The sound of an approaching river filled his ears. Utua stretched his back and glanced behind him. This would be a good place to make camp, and they would be on their way by morning. The next city was only three miles away.

He jumped off Angus and slowly approached the back of the wagon. It had been quiet for the last couple of hours. After lighting up a torch, Utua held it up over the crates and barrels crowding the space. He could see a filthy bare foot visible behind a barrel, which he carefully moved the side. The boy flinched in the dull light and scooted away. He had most likely fallen asleep and woken up when the wagon stopped.

Utua pursed his lips. He fumbled into his bag and pulled out some bread. “Here.”

The boy crawled behind the box again.

“You need your strength, son.”

No reply.

Utua gritted his teeth in frustration. “Fine. But when you get hungry, don’t be crying to me.” I should at least get him to drink some water, he thought. He reached for his water skin and uncorked the lid. “You need to get this down.”

The boy’s dark eyes widened. He resembled a wild animal—long tangled hair all over his face, snot coated around his nostrils, dirt caked around his flesh. He began to scream as Utua lifted him off the wagon, kicking and biting. Ignoring the pain, he tried to carry him to the river, cursing each time the boy’s long nails dug into his skin. Securing him in his arms, he managed to pry off the lid of the water skin and place it over the boy’s mouth.

After a few moments of struggling, the child began to swallow the water. Utua positioned the water skin in his arms and sighed with relief as he rapidly gulped it down. He winced at the shackles around his wrists, the purple bruises that had been left on his skin.

The boy wiped his jaw with the back of his hand. He remained in Utua’s arms in a daze, still staring at the river, placing his thumb in his mouth. Before Utua could say anything, there was a gurgling sound, then the rancid smell of dark brown vomit drenching his tunic. The boy continued to cough, lines of saliva slipping from his mouth.

Utua cursed as he set the boy down on the grass, who curled up into a ball, already half asleep. By the time the stars were up in the sky, Utua had managed to get a fire going and washing his shirt in the river while Angus was feeding on grass, munching between her jaws. He muttered to himself as he set his shirt out to dry, and sat down against the wheel of the wagon.

The boy’s chest lightly rose and fell, the warm orange light of the fire illuminating the side of his face. His mouth was slightly open, his thumb still stuck into his mouth as he laid curled up sideways on the grass. His long, matted dark hair was sprawled out upon the ground like a fan.

Utua gazed at him for a moment. With a heavy sigh, he reached for his cloak and gently tucked it around the child’s frail figure, who had begun to shiver. This was for Matthias’ sake, not for his own. He needed to get the child to him alive. Then he could wash his hands free of it. The boy was huldim—another wretched creature that he had no strength for. Matthias would deal with him the best way fit.

He tried to convince himself of this.

* * * * * * *

Something tapped his nose.

Utua turned in his sleep, mumbling. There was another tap, and as he opened his remaining eye, he could make out the boy’s filthy face only mere inches away from his own. Utua groaned and rubbed his face as he sat up. It was about dawn, a murky fog settled over them both. The ashes of the fire had risen in the air, leaving a smoky presence.

The boy jabbed his finger directly into Utua’s left eye socket, where his eye had been gouged out. He began to poke harder.

“Ouch,” Utua snapped. “By the gods!”

At the sound of his voice, the child jumped and ran underneath the wagon, his chains rattling with each step. Utua sighed and straightened up, before finding his shirt finally dried by the river where he had left it before. He yanked it over his head and beckoned to the boy with one hand, reaching for the bag of dried bread he had bought down at Ur.

“Here,” he said. “Come eat.”

The boy shook his head.

“Enough stubbornness.” Utua pointed at the bag. “You need your sustenance.” How he wanted this trip to be over. He broke off a large chunk of bread and held it out. “Come.”

After a moment of silence, the boy took the bread in his right filthy hand. Instead of eating it, he crawled from underneath the wagon and slowly approached Angus, who was drinking from the river and had been unhitched from the wagon. The wind caught his long hair, blowing it over his frail shoulders as he awkwardly held out his piece to the donkey. She snorted, reached out and accepted the treat, nuzzling her nose against his shoulder.

For the first time, a small smile broke out across the boy’s dirty face. His large dark brown eyes studied the donkey’s. Tia stood up and went over to them, holding the bag in both hands. The young slave’s shackled hands tenderly went to the donkey’s head, but they hesitated once more. Angus brayed.

”You can pet her,” Utua replied. “Go ahead. If you do not want your breakfast, she will take it.” He shook his head as he picked up his cloak from the ground. He’d have to find another way to get the boy to eat. “Her name is Angus.”

“Angus?” the boy whispered.

It was a very quiet one. Utua looked up with great surprise. He had believed that the boy did not speak Akkadian, let alone understand the language, as he had only heard him softy utter Phoenician words to himself. Perhaps he had picked up a few sentences overseas. But the boy was already petting the donkey’s mane, ruffling her ears, which she seemed to enjoy very much. The sight brought a warm sensation to Utua’s throat, and he had to look away.

“Yes, my child,” he said. “Angus.”