The Forty Thieves

by Christy Lenzi

  I bite my lip and walk quickly toward the tree with Jamal as I watch the devil-man. He doesn’t seem to notice us, so I pull Jamal down with me to the ground to wait, several feet away.

  The captain unwinds part of his turban cloth and dabs the sweat on his forehead. He looks as if he might sit down to rest, too, but then he stops. His body straightens. He’s seen it.

  I hold my breath.

  He bends down and plucks the knife from its pitiful hiding spot. After turning it over in his hands several times, he slips it into the sash at his waist and sits down with his legs crossed. He places the end of his turban cloth over his eyes and leans back against the tree to sleep.

  I sigh and let my head fall to the ground. No knife, no escape. I, too, close my eyes so Jamal won’t see the tears rising in them. I stay silent for a long time, until I feel a tickling in my ear as Jamal whispers, “Marjana, what’s your plan?” His eyes are bright. When his face is clean and his hair shines, he looks like a little prince. He’ll certainly be one of the first children sold at the slave market in the morning.

  The devil-man snores quietly.

  Staring at the tip of the silver knife handle poking out of his sash, I whisper back, “It’s a very tricky plan, Jamal. I need lots of help. Lots of wishes.”

  “I can wish for you.”

  “Then lie here as still as you can. Now close your eyes and think of our umi—”

  “Umi, Umi, Umi—”

  “Shh. Say it in your head.”

  His lips move as he thinks of Mother.

  “And wish with all your might for my plan to work until I come back.”

  Jamal’s eyes pop open. “Where are you going?”

  “Shh. Just concentrate on your wishes, Jamal. I’ll be back in a moment.” I glance around. The guards at their posts have their faces turned away from us, and all the men nearby are sleeping. I look at the other children and feel a pang of regret—when Mother died and we were sent to Master’s household, I snapped shut and built a thick wall around myself like an oyster builds its shell around a pearl. I never let anyone get close to me, even the girls my age. It would be nice to have a friend right now.

  They all stand huddled together in small groups like sheep. I try to get their attention to show them that I have a plan, but when they see me gesturing with my bound hands, they look so frightened. They glance nervously at the men and shake their heads at me. They don’t want to risk trying to escape. But I can’t let these men lead me and Jamal off to market, where who knows what will become of us. Never. As quietly as possible, I push myself to my knees and move closer to the devil-man. I stop and look around. No one’s watching me. I rise and move even closer, until I’m by his side, almost touching him.

  The green serpent glares at me, daring me to come any closer. The man’s loose headcloth covers his eyes and nose, and his beard hides most of his mouth, but even the fierce set of his jaw makes me tremble. The knife handle is in easy reach, but with my hands tied behind my back, I’ll have to twist around and slip it from his sash without seeing what I’m doing.

  Umi, Umi, Umi, I chant inside my head as if the thought of Mother might somehow give me the power to free myself and Jamal. I glance around one last time, lick my lips, and stretch my fingers out for the knife. His silken sash brushes against my skin, and I freeze. But my touch wasn’t heavy enough to disturb the devil-man. I try again. The shock of the cool silver handle assures my fingers, and I slide them around the hilt.

  The man’s snores continue—no one’s noticed me. I pull on the knife. It slides partly out of the sash, but in order to draw it completely free, I’ll have to move forward on my knees, away from him a little as I tug. My hands are sweaty now. If I fumble, he might wake thinking I’m attacking him and he’ll defend himself. I swallow with difficulty and steady my grip.

  Umi, Umi, Umi.

  I move forward as I pull, and the knife slips free of the sash. As the weight of it lifts from his waist, the devil-man stops snoring.

  I forget how to breathe.

  “Captain!” Shouts erupt from the guards. They’ve seen me?

  My heart races. I drop the knife behind me and crumple to the ground, bracing myself for the strike of the man’s blade on the back of my neck.

  “Captain, they’re coming!”

  The devil-man leaps to his feet and draws his scimitar.

  “Arise!” he shouts. “Mount!”

  The men spring into action the moment the words leave his mouth. He points his weapon.

  Shaking, I lift my eyes and follow the tip of the scimitar. I stare past the palm trees to the desert at what looks like a dust storm coming from the direction we traveled the night before.

  “Attack!”

  The men thunder by me on their horses. The devil-man, too, jumps on his stallion and races away, toward the dust cloud.

  “Marjana, how did you do that?” Jamal’s eyebrows slide to the top of his forehead. “That was strong magic. It made them all go away!”

  The dust cloud must be men who have gathered to catch the thieves. Perhaps they’ll defeat the robbers and rescue us. But perhaps they won’t. This moment could be our only hope.

  “They may return, Jamal. Let’s hurry.” I rock back and forth, moving the blade across Jamal’s ropes. As I work, battle noises rise in the distance.

  All the huddled children wear a new look on their faces: hope. They won’t want to risk escaping with us now that they might be saved by the approaching men. Am I doing the right thing? We might find ourselves sleeping safely on our mats the next evening if we just stay here with them and see what happens. The wind of fate whispers in my ear and tugs my fingers until the blade severs the final thread.

  “We’re free, Jamal,” I say when he finishes cutting through my bonds. The words sound strange and beautiful, like music sung in a foreign language.

  I run to the group of huddled children and begin cutting the binds of a wide-eyed girl—Mistress’s niece. But before I’ve barely begun to fray the rope, the sound of hooves thunders closer. We can’t afford to stay and help—if the thieves have won the battle, they’ll just capture us again. I place the knife in the girl’s palm and wrap her fingers around the hilt and squeeze her hand.

  “May Allah protect you,” I whisper.

  “They’re coming this way, Jamal! We have to leave. Now!” I untie a mule that still has jugs of water slung over its back and hoist my brother up, and then I pull myself up behind him. I tuck my heels into the mule’s sides to make it sprint forward and then we’re off.

  “Let’s go home!” I cry as we gallop in the direction of Baghdad.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Jamal names the mule Batal, Hero, for carrying us away from the devil-man and having jugs of water on his back to keep us from dying of thirst. After riding Batal for hours and hours under the blazing sun, the image of the great round city of Baghdad in the distance is like a shimmering mirage. I sigh in relief. We’ll make it before sunset, when the heavy gates close against outsiders for the night.

  By the time the sun sinks low in the sky, we cross the bridge of the first canal and can see the city in all its glory, nestled like a beautiful pendant on the silver thread of the Tigris River, the brilliant white dome of the Taj Palace shining like a diamond in its center. Home. At least, the only home we have known.

  Batal the mule picks up his weary pace to a trot as we enter the city gates. The narrow streets are emptying as people hurry to get to their destinations before Maghrib, sunset prayers. We arrive at the damaged front doors of Master’s house in the falling dark, just as the muezzin gives his call to prayer from the minaret near the mosque.

  Jamal, sleepy from the journey, mumbles, “Won’t Master and Mistress be so pleased to see us? They probably thought they’d never see us again. I can’t wait to tell Cook about the captain and the thieves, and their magic banquet, and the story of our brave escape!”

  A lump forms in my throat when I think of the other sla
ves and Mistress’s niece and nephew. “Jamal, it was exciting to escape, and we are happy to be safe, but Master and Mistress will not be as happy as you think. After all, we are only two slaves, but they’ve lost family to the thieves and many valuables.

  Jamal yawns. “Let’s go inside, Marjana. I want to drink a hundred jugs of water and eat a thousand of Cook’s cakes and then go to sleep for a million years.”

  I was right about Master and Mistress not being as happy as Jamal had imagined when we returned without Mistress’s family members. Mistress wept and shook for weeks afterward, and Master, always grumpy, was furious with his material losses and cursed and grumbled for days.

  But Jamal and I are together and safe now. Who would believe that we escaped the infamous Forty Thieves? I hardly believe it myself, even though a month of days and nights have passed since we returned. Sometimes, I lie awake on my mat at night and think of Mistress’s niece with the wide eyes, wrapping her fingers around the paring knife I’d put in her hands. She and the rest of the captives have probably been sold in Basra by now. Who knows what their fates will hold for them?

  When the events of that day seem more like a nightmare that I must have dreamed, I go to the kitchen and find a paring knife like the one I had that day. I turn it over in my hands and feel the weight of it. I slide my finger over the blade to feel the coolness of it on my skin, and I remember how it felt to cut Jamal and myself free of our bindings. Then it all feels real and I know I would do it again if I had to.

  I don’t think I will ever feel safe now, knowing the devil-man is out there. I still have flashbacks of the captain’s green serpent tattoo curled around his arm. But Jamal has forgotten his fear and remembers only the glory of escaping.

  I pull my scarf over my face as we hurry to the main part of the house. We’ve been summoned. Master and his brother, Ali Baba, sit on a mountain of cushions. Master, large and portly, sprawls over the pillows and smokes a hookah. As he sucks the cooled smoke through the hose, the water in the vase bubbles. He doesn’t acknowledge us as we stand in the doorway, so we wait quietly to be addressed.

  Ali Baba, a tiny man wearing ragged clothes, smiles kindly at us. He’s a woodcutter, living in poverty with his wife, Leila, and their grown son, who is said to be a layabout, refusing to accompany his father on his daily trek to the woods.

  Ali Baba continues his conversation with Master. “Yes, Cassim, it’s a terrible thing that the thieves stole so much from your house, but praise Allah, you and your wife are safe and your shop stayed secure.”

  Master is a clever merchant of the most expensive, sought-after items. He buys beautiful, dark–wooden furniture inlaid with precious ivory and mother-of-pearl from craftsmen in the Maghreb, and giant bronze and copper engraved items—teapots and hookahs taller than I—from Iran, and sells them at exorbitant prices to the wealthy families of Baghdad.

  “Thankfully,” Ali Baba says, “your shop hasn’t been broken into by the child street gangs, as so many others have been lately.”

  Beside me, Jamal catches his breath. He listens with interest as Ali Baba talks about the gangs.

  “It’s a shame so many desperate souls in Baghdad suffer from such poverty that they turn to crime.”

  “Bah!” Master lets out a disdainful laugh. “They turn to crime because they’re lazy and bored. If any of those brats try to break into my shop, I’ll show them suffering!”

  Jamal snickers. The men don’t hear him, but it makes me nervous. I pinch his arm to hush him. His disruption isn’t the only thing that worries me. Sometimes when Jamal’s chores are done, and I’m still working, he slips away from the house. He won’t tell me where he’s been, but the gleam in his eyes when he returns, dirty and rumpled, makes me anxious. Mother would have been able to keep him from searching out these gangs he’s always chattering about, but what can I do?

  Ali Baba sighs. “Most are just poor, hungry street urchins without any families. May Allah have mercy on them.”

  “Humph.” Master blows smoke out in ring-shaped puffs that float toward us like little clouds. Jamal reaches for one. I stiffen. When will he behave? Master’s eyes narrow. He hands the hookah to Ali Baba and struggles to his feet.

  “There has been no music in the house this past month.” He glares at me and Jamal as if it were our fault that my lute and his drum were destroyed in the attack. “Evenings are too dull without music and dancing. I’ve replaced your instruments. You will begin practicing again first thing tomorrow morn—”

  “But—”

  Master frowns at my interruption.

  I don’t say what I’m thinking: that while I’d love to play my lute first thing in the morning, Mistress has already made plans to go to the baths at daybreak and I must accompany her.

  His face hardens. “What’s the meaning of this?” He gestures at my scarf—I’ve forgotten to push it back. “No slave girl of mine shall wear a veil. Who do you think you are?”

  He tears the scarf away, examining me like he examines his hookah to make sure it works properly.

  I flinch, but stare straight back.

  “How dare you defy me with those eyes of yours!” Master slaps me, stinging my cheek. I force myself to look at the floor.

  Ali Baba stands. “Brother, remember Allah is merciful.”

  Master grunts. “I am not Allah.”

  Jamal’s fists tighten into balls. Before I can stop him, he springs at Master, kicking his shin and punching him in the gut. I hurry over and grab Jamal away. Will he be beaten?

  Master turns and, to my surprise, slaps me a second time.

  “Control him, or you’ll be whipped.” He returns to his hookah, dismissing us. My face burns fire, but his coldness hardens my heart to ice.

  After we finish work and are sent to bed, we find a lute, a pipe, and a tabor on our mats. Jamal smiles, but tears fill my eyes. I cradle the curves of the lute and rest my head on the instrument’s neck, breathing in its warm scent of leather and wood. It’s just like the lute Mother played when she was still alive.

  When I wake, I have ridges on my cheek from the strings. On my other cheek, the print of Master’s hand still burns.

  “Magical stories for a dirham!”

  I step around the old storyteller calling out his wares and peer around the baskets I carry as I scurry after Mistress through the busy streets of the city. Children watching a shadow play performed in front of the butcher’s shop laugh and shout, bumping into me as I try to pass them. People flood the bazaar, making it difficult to keep sight of Mistress’s billowing veil and large, swaying backside.

  Cries of merchants and the smell of raw meat and spices—saffron, cinnamon, cardamom—fill the air. During the final days of Ramadan, people are preparing for Eid al-Fitr, the feast to end their month-long fast. In the past, we would never have seen the kinds of street performers we see now, especially during such a holy month, but men say the government’s control has weakened and now tricksters work freely in public, hoping to draw in the many foreigners of other religions who now flock to the city. “Preachers” conjure water into milk or pick an apple from empty air for their audience. Some, with their booths covered in mystical signs, feature poltergeists and perform exorcisms for a fee. Others juggle snakes and promise fire-walking later this afternoon. Some people, like Master, don’t seem to mind the loosened state of affairs, but other, more devoted Muslims grumble nervously under their breath.

  Dodging street performers and beggars, I manage to catch up to Mistress and her sister-in-law as they arrive at the steps of the women’s public bathhouse.

  Mistress is already giving orders. “Try to find me the bath attendant named Saja, Marjana. Leila says the girl knows the best perfume recipes and has the hands of an angel.”

  Leila smiles. “It’s true—she has a gift.”

  Mistress clutches her sister-in-law’s arm. “Last time, my usual girl almost broke my fingers and spine when she cracked my joints. She nearly ripped the skin off my back with
her scourging.” She breathes heavily as she lumbers up the bathhouse steps. “You know how delicate I am.”

  I try not to smile at my disagreeable mistress. “Yes, of course.”

  Steam pours from the arched entrance of the stone building as we open the door. Pausing at the threshold, Mistress and Leila utter a quick prayer of protection against harmful beings. The baths are supposedly a resort of evil jinn, but Master doesn’t seem afraid of them. I’m not sure anymore what I think. I want to be a devout Muslim like Umi was, but sometimes it’s hard to believe in things that I can’t see or touch. Even Allah sometimes seems like a misty figment of my imagination, and I wonder if my prayers really ever reach His ears or if I am praying to the wind.

  We remove our sandals to the shock of cool marble. Figures appear and disappear through thick curtains of steam. Voices murmur in the mist, echoing off the mosaic walls. It would be difficult to tell whether they are the whisperings of bath patrons or jinn. The fragrance of chamomile and peppermint oils fills the air as I help the women undress near the hot, bubbly fountain and soothing water of the pool.

  While Mistress and Leila soak in the warm water, I leave to find Saja. A girl stands near the bubbling fountain; her dark braid hangs down her bare back and sways between her shoulder blades as she folds linens.

  “As-salaam alaykum. I am looking for Saja.”

  “Wa alaykum as-salaam. I am Saja.”

  The girl’s face is flushed from the steam, but I can tell she’s been crying by the redness in her eyes. I start to reach out and touch her arm, but I draw my hand back. “I’m Marjana,” I say. “My mistress would like your assistance.”

  Instead of answering, Saja closes her eyes and draws in a slow, deep breath.

  I raise my voice. “Please come with—”

  “Freshly picked jasmine.” Saja opens her eyes.

  “What?” My fingers move to my sash, where I had slipped a sprig of jasmine while leaving the house that morning.