1 AD
The boy kept his eyes on the clay bowl beside his remaining leg, waiting for the next coin to drop into it. High noon was blazing near, and he had only received a couple of coppers since sunrise. It would barely be enough to afford a loaf of flatbread even if the town baker were to take pity on him. The very thought made the boy’s stomach moan like a desert lion that had starved down to skin and bones.
Sweat beaded his brow from the baking heat despite the shade the date palm tree cast over him. Still he watched the bowl, and still it remained empty but for those two copper coins. He might as well have not existed to the passerby streaming past him in the trading souq. Even the resident priests of Zoroaster, though compelled by their faith to aid the needy, had seldom proved any more generous in his experience. This was supposed to be one of a string of ports on the northern coast of Arabia which prospered from the trade between east and west, yet none of it had trickled down to the people who needed that prosperity most.
The boy cursed the striped hyena that had taken his second leg, as if the loss of his mother and father had not been enough. Had he kept both legs, at least then he would have been able to sneak up on the souq’s patrons and snatch away what he needed. They deserved it less than he did after everything he had suffered.
The clinking of square scales of iron armor sounded over the muffled jingle of coins. The man who strutted past was no tawny-faced local, but rather a lighter-skinned type from the east of Asia who wore his straight black hair in a bun. Slung to his back were a quiver and crossbow like those Chinese soldiers were known to wield. To have ventured so far from his homeland, the man must have had enough in that purse of his to afford the trip. He might even have enough to spare with some persuasion.
The boy grabbed his wooden crutch, propped himself up with a groan, and made his way to the Chinese man with the clay bowl in his other hand. He made sure to widen his eyes like an orphaned pup as he shook the bowl with a whimper.
“Please, kind sayyid, lend me a coin or two,” the boy said.
Glaring down with narrowed eyes, the man spat onto him. “You should’ve known better than to lose your leg, urchin. Begone!”
“I am sorry, sayyid, but a hyena bit it off years ago. I beg of you, one coin will be enough.”
“You beggars are all the same. Afraid of honest work, so you take advantage of others’ pity. I bet you cut off that leg yourself for the purpose!”
The skin of the boy’s face broiled with anger even hotter than the Arabian sun that had almost reached its zenith. He rattled the bowl in his hand, jangling the two coppers within it. “Again, I ask only for one coin! Do you never feel sorrow for those in need?”
“I feel no ‘sorrow’ for those who cannot help themselves. For the last time, and for your own good, begone!”
The slap of the man’s hand stung the boy’s cheek with an explosion of pain, and the bowl dropped from his hand to break apart on the ground. Only by firmly planting the butt of his crutch in the dirt had he been able to keep himself from falling over. Baring gritted teeth in a snarl, the boy slashed his fingers at the fat purse hanging from the man’s belted sash.
The man sidestepped away. He unslung his crossbow, which already had a bolt secured in place, and pressed its front tip into the boy’s forehead. “I’ll teach you to rob your elders, you little thief!”
A bowstring creaked from behind. “Like you’ve already robbed so many, Huang Xiang?”
It was another foreigner who had interjected, an ebony-skinned man with short curly hair who wore a blue shendyt loincloth in the Kushite style. He had his longbow drawn with the arrow’s iron point glinting beneath the noontime sunlight, aimed at the man named Huang Xiang.