First thing I can recall… That’d be my natal village.

Only now I realize how wretched that place was. Few people were ever strong enough to work the fields, my dad being one of them. The rest of us were too emaciated to be of much help. Our bones visible past the dirty rags we insisted were clothes.

It’s funny now, thinking back, how miserable that place was. So much, in fact, I remember the fear horses instilled in me when I saw them for the first time. I had never even seen an animal that big before, let alone one that ate so much better than I. It didn’t help that they seemed to enjoy tormenting my child self. I swear they neighed louder when I was around.

Alas, they were stuck, just as I was. Forced to pull on that blasted man’s carriage. I saw that white-haired guy waving around his signet like a magic wand, summoning the few coins the village had. So one day while he slept I jumped into his cart, through an open window, hoping to steal one of the rings. I was shaking with both fear and excitement as I sneaked through it, evading the ostentatious jewelry. As soon as I got into the shelf, a few feet from the sleeping man, I found my target: Rings of noble stature, multiple of them, so I took one and got out. That was my first hit. I escaped, leaving as little trace as I could, and went to bed. I was so excited that I couldn't sleep. First thing in the morning, I tried using it with my mom. She just laughed it off, telling me I was “adorable” and that I should "give it back next time he comes", but my immaturity insisted.

“No money?” I asked her.

“No food, more like it” she answered “Although coins would be nice too.”

I was young, much less than a decade old for sure, but old enough to realize that that man had more than just rings. He had a royal glare to himself. The gall of a man who had a kingdom backing his words. So he took what little we had, and no one dared to say much back. I didn’t get it.

I began stalking him. He never stayed for long, at most a single night, most spent in his carriage after having gone to the village elder’s home. Curiosity led me to hide behind the rotten wooden pillars of that home, hoping to not be caught. Matheus, the elder’s son, hid with me thinking we were playing some new game. Come to think of it, that was the first thing I said to him was “stay put and don't make any more noise”, and so he did. We held our breath as this man dressed in red robes with golden embroidery asked for last season’s tax. The elder simply sighed and handed him a pouch of silver pieces.

I was amazed. I had never seen so much money and, what’s more, given without ceremony, like the elder didn’t have a choice. Precious metal coins jingled as the taxman walked out.

Magic, I thought, it had to be something supernatural. Maybe the taxman manipulated minds, or maybe he had the entire village under a spell of the stories the elder tells. Maybe his strange clothes carried with him the allure of… something I couldn't imagine yet. What else could force the elder to give up so much? I had been scolded for merely keeping a copper piece, this man walked out with hoards of silver, worth ten times a copper each, and didn’t even say goodbye.

My ignorance and naivety was quickly contained. The elder saw me and Matheus bickering about what had just happened and calmly asked us to come closer. He taught us the way of life: Death and taxes. And, for the first time in my life, I wanted to listen to what an adult had to say.

“Here, children.” He said, beckoning us to come closer. “Let me tell you of what you just saw. That was the taxman, he comes in lieu of the king, charging us for protecting the village. He comes every three months, Isma, but I assume you had already noticed."

He then bored us with laws and codes of profit and loss. A grand unified theory of gold. But the elder must have been wrong. Kingdoms, armies and agriculture. Economy, feuds, and lords. That’s all the elder talked about the next few months, when Matheus and I sat down as the sun set to hear his tales. All that made sense on its own, perhaps, although it the math was hard to understand. But even if the theory was right, that’s not what we saw. I’ve never seen a sword, let alone the knights we supposedly pay to protect us. Why do they take the little we have. Why does the taxman take it when he wears a decade worth of last season's tax as clothes. Frustrated, one day I asked.

“Why pay them so much if they never help us.”

I could see it in the elder's face, he was tired, I’m sure. Attempting explain the minutia of financial codes, the necessity of hierarchy and bureaucracy to a child for a couple of months. All these fancy words passed right through me, clearly, and he realized he might have wasted too much time teaching somebody too young to understand. He simply and solemnly said.

“It’s just how it is, Isma. One day you will understand.”

He was right, but back then I did not care. Stubbornness is something that I haven't grown past yet, and I doubt I ever will. There must have been something else the taxman did, I thought back then, some way he got us to pay. And each time he came, every few months, I noticed something new.

First it was his confidence, the way he handled himself. Surely that was why nobody questioned him. Even if he contradicted the words he had said just before, they listened to him intently. The secret must be somewhere in the manner he speaks, I thought, or maybe the way his hands dance as he explained how much we owed the crown. There was also the way his body talked without words. Not only the clothes, with that air of tame but unmistakable luxury, but the way he stood, sat, and walked through the village. It all screamed certainty, authority, nobility. Coupled with his disdain for us lesser ones, the uneducated, dirty people of muddy hands and unkempt hair, he felt unapproachable, untouchable. A persona that, without speech, screamed “I don’t want to be there”. Like he couldn’t wait to leave, but was tethered here for a night four times a year.

As I grew, my interest in him grew too. It began manifesting outwardly. I found myself talking to my own reflection at the village well, trying to sound like him. One afternoon some children found out of my little pastime and joined in. We even called it a game, it was “playing the taxman”. The other kids and I pulled out our best impressions. Personally, I’d say I was by far the most talented actor, but the other kids saw things I couldn’t. Like this one kid, her name I can’t recall, whose intonation was just like his. Or Matheus, who eventually figured out the way he walked perfectly, with that pedantic, dainty way he sat down too.

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By the time we were teen half the kids I played with were gone. Some died of hunger, some of illness, others simply fled the village. Good for them, honestly, they had a better chance on the road. Often the elder explained to me and Matheus (staying in that house past the afternoon became routine) how what they did was less of a risk, more of a sacrifice. Our food reserves dwindled during winter. Not all families could afford to survive even with the help of the other villagers. One less mouth to feed meant one more week for the rest. If those people who ran away stayed, their family’s death was certain. If they left, then everyone, including them, had a chance for another spring.

I considered it a few times myself, but if the winter didn't kill my parents heartbreak would. They always cared for me a little too much. My mother ate little most days, but when the climate was cold, it made my heart sink. Seeing how much she ate filled me with shame. She always told me “You and your dad need to eat more. I’m too small to push carts, you both need to be big and strong.” It was bullshit. She was hungry. I saw her eyes follow the bread as we picked it up, but she never accepted wanting more. Many times I lied, saying I had eaten something at the elder’s, hoping her and my dad both ate my share. It worked the first few times but we all knew what we were doing. I’m not sure if they believed me even once, but it worked every so often. My father stayed silent, and sometimes said sorry after we finished eating. Behind that simple apology laid a nebulous sense of responsibility, I thought, like he failed us. “There’s nothing to be sorry about” I answered every time, before hoping to pass out quicker than last night.

We managed, somehow. A few less people each winter meant more work to do in the fields, so I began helping more. We didn’t have a herd, so there was only so much to be done between harvests besides going to the nearby town to sell what we had sown. They didn't let me do that often, there was little need for one more mouth to feed on the road.

But there was this one year. Our harvest hadn’t been great, it had barely rained when it mattered most. By the time half the winter had passed we were already almost out of food.

I sat with the elder and Matheus that night. Silence plagued the room, infecting us three. The elder had given the order that same day, he was going to send men to a close-by town and sell some of our remaining pottery, hoping to make ends meet. But we all knew how much those cracked clay pots were worth, and it seemed like they both had already accepted fate.

I did not.

My gaze kept wandering, trying to figure something out, until my sight finally rested on my right hand. I had gotten used to wearing the signet and, as I looked at it, it struck me. An idea. I held my excitement until later, hoping to have an opportunity to talk to Matheus one on one. When the elder excused himself to his room, and Matheus led me outside, I spilled it all out.

“I have a plan.” I said.

That morning was the day before he and other villagers would go out to town to sell our stuff. Me and Matheus asked his dad to pull some strings, ask the men to leave a few days later. They all agreed, not knowing what we were plotting, and evidently not caring enough to ask questions. And so we left before the sunrise, the first day of that month. The same day the taxmen get the crown’s share off of this region of the empire and, most importantly, off of the market square.

That march through early twilight felt like a funeral rite, nothing could be heard, no noise was made. It’s like they were all already dead. We never stopped walking, but every few hours you could hear whimpers of pain as the men moved what little muscle they had left. Hours later, at the break of dawn, we arrived. Knowing what had to be done I took a bath in the river. It was the coldest I’ve ever been, but I had to rid myself of the curse that is the stench of poverty. I swear I almost died that morning with how little fat I had to keep myself warm, but Matheus was there. He gave me his shirt to dry off, half hugging me as we walked onwards. I might owe him my life.

Once we got to the town’s square, Matheus and I left the caravan behind. We scouted the place, looking for some good looking clothes, and found a suitable clothier’s stand. Matheus’ portrayal of a shady client did wonders to keep the owner’s eye on him, not on me pulling his stock from under his nose. Outfit acquired, we walked towards the market square. I went from store to store dressed like a young, apprentice taxman, wielding my signet as a weapon. Matheus was to stay outside guarding the entrance whilst I did the deed. So began my first performance. Although amateur, it was beautiful. My inexperience added to the thrill and to my ego. That day I realized something new within me. I had always thought facial expressions were purely mechanical, meant to appease or communicate to others. But the smile I had that morning, that was the first one I couldn’t control. The first true smile of my life.

By midday we had amassed a small fortune of gold coins. Gold! Neither of us had ever seen those before! We were happy with the spoils so we walked back to the village caravan, the clothes stowed away in a newly acquired backpack. The men looked miserable. Us? Our smile was constrained only by the width of our face, not the height of our elation. We approached them and asked his dad to speak to us, breaking the news to him in private. He looked conflicted all throughout it, but he could not keep himself from taking his share of the money. He’d always been an honest man, but he was gonna die one if he didn’t take the gold. We returned having sold no pottery but, instead, hoards of grain and seeds filled them. Even got some cows, hoping they could become a herd in a few years.

Did we deserve that money? Just as much as we deserved to live. Ever since, I don’t worry about those things. After all, nobody deserves anything. Not the taxman, not my parents, not my village, and not I.