PERSIAN EMPIRE, 480.
"Oranges, oranges! Come get your oranges! They're cheap! Cheap, I'm telling you!"
"No, thank you," I mumbled, pulling my shawl tighter across my shoulders, quickening my pace.
Going through the market of Babylon was an honest-to-Khuda journey.
Most days, I wouldn't get any sort of attention here - the market was where a lot of the mamas liked to go to run their errands and gossip. They'd always be nicely dressed, with stacks of jewelry hanging down their arms, and the attention of a hundred hungry sellers on them and the jingle of their siglos bags.
But that was most days, and today was not most days.
The market was empty today. No surprise, of course; most of the city's gossip mongers were probably dressing up their daughters back at home, or rushing to bring them to the city square.
"Oh, you actually came today, Aliya. You're running late," Khale A'isha said, a wide smile forming on her tanned face.
Khale A'isha had recently turned 42, and she was still absolutely beautiful; though perhaps not so much in looks as she was in aura.
"Well of course I'd come. This is the only day where I can come to shop and not have to deal with the judgy mamas, no?"
Khale made a noise of agreement in the back of her mouth, handing over a bag of red apples. "Well, yes -- the apples are fresh, I saved the best ones for you -- but you really are cutting it close today. I just hope you remember what date it is."
"Thank you," I said, ignoring the latter part of her sentence in an effort that perhaps, she would too.
My efforts were wasted, of course, and I didn't know why I even tried. She was still a Persian woman, after all, and all Persian women were, if not dusk skinned and hard-headed, nosy.
"It's the first Monday of the month, Aliya," she said, leaning over her fruit boxes. "You should be in the city square by now."
Her eyes peered over me, blue eyes so vivid, I had to look away.
"Your stare is really too intense, Khale," I murmured jokingly, hoping for a smile, but her mouth stayed a thin line.
Khale was one of few women who hadn't come from Persia, but rather, from the land of sand and trade — Arabia, but for the shade of the sky in her eyes, you'd never have known.
It was both a blessing and a curse; Khale was gorgeous, but the minute people had realized the origin of her bloodline, she'd been outcasted to become a mere merchant, without ever getting the chance of a high marriage or relationship.
She'd gotten nothing. And perhaps that was why she found First Monday to be so important.
"You need to be at the square, Aliya; you know that."
"I do know, Khale," I said, looking down at my hands. They were tan and calloused from years of work in the harbor, with nails that had long been bitten and cracked down to dirty stubs, "but the sun's still high, I've still got time."
Khale made a noise in the back of her throat. "High is when it's above my head; do you see it above my head? No, it's to the side, and you haven't even gotten dressed yet. Have you even taken a shower, Aliya? Your face and neck are covered in dirt; please tell me you're not going to the square like that."
"I did take a shower, Khale; there's just a lot of flying debris today, what with the wind and all. I'll just wipe off whatever dirt I have on and head on over to the square."
"What, right now? Without even washing your face first?"
"Weren't you the one who told me to go?"
"Well, yes, but you can't go looking like that. Your clothes aren't even decent!"
I looked down at my dress, half offended. So perhaps it wasn't the most extravagant of dresses, not was it the most bejeweled, but the fabric had gone soft from its washes and the color hadn't faded. "I think I look just fine."
"Take this seriously, Aliya, please. Just how're you going to impress the palace looking like that? Don't you want to be concubine? Think of everything you'll have; the jewelry, the dresses, the horses. You won't have to step foot into this market ever again!"
But don't you want to become concubine?
I swallowed, before pasting on a dimpled smile. "Well if that were true and I can never come here again, then I'd really rather not. I'd miss you too much, Khale."
Khale groaned and rolled her eyes, but I grinned when I saw the small, unmistakable quirk on the corner of her mouth.
"You do like to butter me up, don't you, Aliya? But you know what I mean. If you were to be taken in as a concubine, you'd have a better life than all of the women in Babylon, dare I say, almost all of Persia. Besides, it's what your mother would have wanted, the best of what you can have. And I only want to give you that."
This time, my smile was genuine. Sad, but genuine.
What my mother would have wanted...?
"I know. And you did, Khale, very much so. And I thank you for that."
"But...?" She wagged a finger in front of my face, frowning. "There's always a but with you, Aliya."
"But I'm just too busy with other things for now."
"Well that's the whole point! If you became concubine, then you wouldn't have to worry about anything at all!"
"Maybe later."
"Later? Later? When's later? What does later even mean? I don't understand you, Aliya -- just look at you. You could be concubine and you wouldn't have to try."
"You know Khale, you really are one of a kind," I said, grinning.
She snorted, shaking her head. "You say that every single time you try to escape a conversation. Don't think I don't know what you're doing!"
"But it works every time, doesn't it, Khale?" I asked back, starting to walk past her.
"You better be leaving to go to the city square now, Aliya, or I'll be spanking you till tomorrow! I don't care that you're twenty-one; that's all the more reason to do so."
"Bye bye, Khale! See you soon!"
"You need a husband," Khale shouted, body half dangling over her produce, before I heard her loud, obnoxious laugh ring through the market.
My mouth twitched.
But you know that what she said is true.
But of course it was.
Sighing, I hastened my steps, looking up to the sky. Babylon was quite a poor city, which meant that we didn't have the pretty stone buildings other cities like Archaem or Mesodian did. But in those cities, the buildings blocked the skyline and you could never see the setting sun quite like you could in here.
"You'll be late, Amarta, if you don't hurry! Come, come, it's nearly five thirty. They will be starting soon!"
I watched as a mama and her daughter, one that looked barely older than fifteen, rushed past me, the latter'd pink shawl brushing against my nose as she ran.
"I hate having to run, Mama. I won't have to do this if I become concubine, will I?"
"Of course not."
"That's the best reason to get chosen so far."
"What about the marrying a prince part?"
"That one isn't half bad, either," the daughter said, laughingly chasing her mother.
I looked away, hastening my steps.
City square meetings were mandatory, as much as I wished they weren't. If I wanted to keep my head in place, I had to get home.
Most houses in the city were small, wooden, but very colorful. It was a Babylonian tradition to keep the doors of a home the color of fire and the roof the color of the setting sky; Khale A'isha used to tell me that it guarded against fallen Gods, powerful deities who'd gone mad in their lust for power.
I didn't like superstition, but it was impossible not to believe in them, and so paint and bathroom cleaners became the only housekeeping I spent my harbor salary on. The rest could wait, if I ever got to them.
Khale hated the condition of the house, of course, which was why she so rarely came to visit. But I suppose I'd be more concerned about the rotting wood and broken steps if I had actual guests -- at least, actual guests aside from Zain, the monthly tax collector.
"Mama, I'm home," I said, knocking on the door twice before I opened it, the smell of old wood and three ghosts — a mother, a father, a little brother not yet born — greeting me. "How was your day?"
"I did some grocery shopping today. Got some apples, some fish, some sugar... Maybe I could make a pie tonight?" I said again, making my way into the bathroom. The mirror was cracked, but I smiled into it the way my mother had taught me so long ago.
Happiness is greedy, she'd said, it wants to be the only one. So long as you can still fake being happy, then the real thing will come.
"Actually, I think that pie is a necessity; after all, I'll definitely need some comfort today. It feels like First Mondays come by so quick and go by so slow," I murmured, starting to rub kohl into the corner of my eyes. "I guess that's what happens when you're dreading something, hm? Time likes to play tricks with you, the way I suppose Imran would've with me, if he'd been born."
The kohl stung a little, as it always did, but as I took a step back, I noted the smudges lines around my eyes and the dirt creasing on my cheek.
Aliya, you look like a mess.
Well done.
"So long as I look ugly, then they won't pick me," I murmured, pulling my hair out of my braid, letting it fall haphazardly around my face. If Khale saw me now, she'd surely start to yell. "And I do look ugly, if I say so myself."
How funny to think that the point of my kohl-liner was to make me look worse, the exact opposite of what it should've been doing.
But in Persia, pretty girls were dangerous. Not because of us, but because of the people who'd whisper in the streets, whose eyes would linger just a little too long for comfort.
But on First Monday, the people staring would not be merchants, or riff-raffs, or teenage boys trying to act tough, but powerful men in positions of authority.
And authority was what made pretty girls so terrifying.
I'd been halfway out of the doorway when I stopped and turned back.
In Persia, painters were rare and costly, but sketchers were incredibly common, and you could find one drawing on the side of the street. They were the alternatives, the documentation poor families could afford, charging only seven siglos for a single family portrait.
But at the time when we'd had this made, money had been way too tight, and so we'd only commissioned one. That was the one that was hanging in the hallway right now, the only picture of Mama and Papa I've had or will ever have.
In the portrait, I had, for the first and last time, looked a little bit like Mama; it was the eyes, you see, the only thing of hers she'd given me.
"I'll be back," I said, my gaze lingering on the picture, on Mama's kohl-lined blue eyes, so similar to mine that it was eerie. "I promise I'll be back."
I promise.
Promise was such a strong word, don't you think? So optimistic. So lively.
But something so hopeful could be so naive.
KAY © 2019.