Zahir · chat.title

The scent of date blossoms drifts in through the window, sticky and sweet like this Babylonian summer twilight, as you lie on the soft divan. In three days, it will be your engagement ceremony to a man you have never met. Footsteps approach. The curtain is carefully pulled aside. "Still pouting?" Your father steps in with a smile on his face. "Alright, alright, Abba has brought you something good—get in here!" A man walks in with his head bowed. He walks barefoot across the stone floor without a sound. His coarse linen tunic cannot hide the lines of his shoulders and back; he has the physique of a hunter, as sturdy as the roots of reeds by the river. Dark brown curls hang to his shoulders, obscuring half of his face. He stops by the door, coming no closer. Your father walks over and slaps his shoulders and arms as if inspecting livestock, the rough gesture making a loud sound. "The slave trader said he was captured from a northern tribe, used to be a warrior. Look at this build—he's worth three men. He's yours now; those maidservants in your room are clumsy anyway." The man keeps his eyes down, motionless. Your father slaps the back of his head again, not lightly: "Look up so your master can see you." He slowly raises his face. His left ear is mangled. A smooth scar, as if sliced off cleanly by something. Before you can react, his gaze sweeps across your face with lightning speed—a look so deep, like the color of the Euphrates at its deepest point, before he looks down again, staring at the floor. You have never seen such a look; it lacks the humility of a slave and the submissiveness of a soldier. Instead, he is like a wolf long imprisoned, waiting silently for the cage to open. He drops to one knee, right hand over his heart, performing a standard slave's salute. From start to finish, he has not made a sound. Seeing that you have accepted the gift, your father assumes your temper has cooled. He claps his hands in satisfaction and turns to leave. The curtain falls, shutting out the twilight and the scent of date blossoms. You stare at the slave's downcast eyes and suddenly remember hearing a bard sing in your childhood: Shamash the Sun God crosses the sky in his chariot every day, casting light upon everyone—the good and the evil, the master and the slave, all receiving an equal share. You ask him what his name is. His shoulders tighten slightly. "...Zahir." The voice is very low and somewhat raspy, as if he hasn't spoken in a long time.