Tiny meaningless author's note: I love these secondary characters. I love ALL of these secondary characters.
Also I love you, my readers.
Now let's all get drunk and play ping pong.
Firouz had left quite a sum in his purse at the time of his death, and that money served the boy well through fall and winter that first year. Far more clever than he'd been given credit for in the show, he would approach innkeepers and offer his services mucking their stables or feeding their livestock in exchange for a place to sleep with the animals. It allowed him to keep his precious coins for when he needed food or to bribe someone to hide him or help him.
He managed to keep his face hidden most of the time with the scarf he'd lifted from Firouz, and it was better when he could. Anyone who glimpsed his face would scream and refuse to help him, if he was lucky. Many of those who happened to see the monster that hid beneath the expertly wrapped scarf would try to kill him without hesitation.
He couldn't stay anywhere for more than a few days out of fear for his life, though perhaps it was a good thing. He saw more that way and he wasn't all that interested on settling down in any one place just yet. His entire life had been traveling; to settle down now would be outside of his nature.
Besides, he'd heard whispers in the camp of a place far beyond any of the places where the show had ever set up. A land where his face wouldn't be the death sentence it had been throughout Greece: Persia. Firouz had spoken fondly of the land and its people. Persia had been his favorite subject to just ramble on and on about when he was disciplining the boy.
He knew it wouldn't be an easy journey, especially not with summer settling in and making the temperatures nearly unbearably hot. The scarf he used to hide himself proved to make the heat more of an issue than it had in previous years. He couldn't risk taking the scarf off unless he was certain he was alone and would not be seen. His skin began to pucker and weep from lack of proper air flow to dry his sweat.
Great, gaping sores began to develop on his cheeks and forehead. They caused him immense pain anytime the scarf would move against them.
As summer hit with all its intensity, the boy approached the Turkish border. He only knew he was approaching the border because of the sudden shift in spoken language. Though he could still understand most of what was shouted at him— and people were always shouting at him— he was growing frustrated by his limited understanding of Turkish.
The last thing he needed was to stand out further than he already did. The Turkish people he'd encountered as he neared the border already distrusted him enough for the accent with which he spoke. It was strange and hardly placeable, a cross between French and Greek and the odd inflections that Firouz had impressed upon him.
Once he crossed the border into Turkey, he stopped approaching the innkeepers with intent to earn a free night sleeping out by the livestock. There was something disconcerting about the way that the locals would glare at him as he passed, even when he was determined to move only in shadow so as not to be seen.
He slept in a ditch his first night traveling through Turkey, and it was possibly the worst mistake he had made in all the time that had passed since he escaped the freak show. He hadn't wanted to stop, but there was something positively frightening about the road ahead. Even though he could see just fine in the dark, it would be much easier for someone to sneak up on him. Best to continue when it was light.
He wouldn't get the chance. Just before sunrise, the barrel of a gun was shoved into his face.
"Up," a gruff voice ordered him. Before he could react, a small, nimble hand snaked under his arm and forced him upright. Once on his feet, he nearly toppled forward into the man who held a gun on him. "Can you walk?"
The boy nodded absently as he tried to figure out exactly how many people had come upon him. Up on the road there was a cart with a line of people behind it.
"Go, then. You shall take the place of old Habib, who tragically met his end this afternoon. The Shah will be pleased to not have lost a slave after all."
"Slave?" the boy exclaimed. "Please, I—"
"That's enough out of you. Now move." The man who held the gun level with the boy's chest lunged forward, striking the boy with the gun. It took two more strikes before the boy did as he was told. Behind the cart, he had heavy chains shackled to his wrists and ankles. He was put at the end of the line of tired-looking men and women in tattered clothing that looked more pitiful than the scraps he'd been given to wear at the freak show.
The cart moved quickly, far more quickly than was comfortable for any of them to walk. Even the boy and his freakishly long legs couldn't keep up.
When they finally did stop, those who were chained to the cart were just left where they stood. Those closest to the cart had to hold their arms up uncomfortably as they sat on the uneven rocky road.
"They're going to make you remove the scarf from your face soon," said a young man who was chained four people ahead of the boy.
"They can't," the boy protested. "They'll sell me back to the show."
"I thought you looked familiar!" said the elderly woman who was chained ahead of the boy. "You— You're the boy that went missing! You have nothing to worry about there, my friend. Half of us here are from the show Firouz owned. Without him, his brothers bickered amongst each other. They're probably still back there." She looked at him sadly, and he inched away from her in confusion.
She knew who he was, likely knew what he looked like, yet had not recoiled in fear. "You were oft spoken of after your disappearance that night. There was a little girl who swore up and down that you were hiding in the shadows that night, waiting for Firouz to fall asleep."
The boy was thankful that he had still been allowed to keep the scarf covering his face, for he had gone quite pale. How could she know? No one there knew my voice—
"The evidence found in his tent did suggest it was your doing," she continued, "but with Firouz gone, there was no one to organize a formal investigation. His brothers were not that bright."
"Why are you telling me this?" he replied once he was sure he would not choke on his voice. The woman smiled.
"Because talking's all we have now, child. And you looked like you needed a story."
"We're chained up here with a murderer?" another woman, a few ahead in line from the one who'd been talking, asked in horror.
"What's he really gonna do to you now? Terrifying lanky wonder that he is."
"I am no m-murderer!" the boy stammered.
"Quiet down back there!" one of the men that rode on the cart shouted. "You will wake the horses!"
Horses. The boy's eyes twinkled as he remembered the great beasts that pulled the cart they so feebly followed. If I can just get to one of the horses—
His thought was rudely halted as a rough pair of hands tore the scarf from his face. He howled in surprise and tried to wrestle the scarf away, but was met with the butt of a gun to his face. He fell back to the ground, dazed and bleeding.
"A truly hideous beast we've got here!" said the man who'd hit him with the gun. The sudden introduction of torch light all but blinded him as he was forced to his feet. "Far too hideous for such a fine piece of silk! Who'd you steal this from, boy?"
He regretted ever having stopped that first night in Turkey. The dry air caused his nose hole a great deal of pain now that it was exposed. He'd grown accustomed to the luxury of hiding. Covering all but his eyes, he'd been able to use his own breath to keep the air inside his makeshift mask breathable.
Now, especially with a torch held close enough to singe the skin of his forehead, he found breathing nearly unbearable.
"Look at the beast with which you walk, slaves. Know that he is worth more than you could ever hope to be. The Shah will be pleased for this discovery. May even allow me to marry one of his lovely daughters," the man declared with a waggle of his eyebrows. All at once, the shackles that bound the boy were undone, and he found himself held only by a firm fist around his upper arm.
"We can't have something like you walking with the slaves, boy. There'll be hell to pay if you arrive too damaged."
He was hoisted up into the cart before being chained once more, although this time the chains were far lighter.
As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he realized that he was now in the company of four unchained men, including the one who had discovered his hiding place in the ditch and the one who had shackled him in the first place.
"You really are an ugly thing, aren't you boy?" one of them said. "Do you have a name?"
The boy thought for a moment and shook his head. He'd been known as the Boy With a Death's Head or the Amazing Living Corpse in various places that the show had stopped, but he couldn't really consider either of those names. Not that he'd willingly call himself.
"Everyone ought to have a name. Myself, I am Nazir. This fellow to my left is Mateo, and the one who somehow has slept through all of this is Saeed. The one who is now angrily beating a slave, that is Yousef. He will probably not be your best friend on this journey."
The boy didn't know what to say in reply and so he said nothing, merely nodded as he tried to keep his face out of the light cast by the torches that lined the outside of the cart. How he missed having his pilfered scarf to cover his face with!
However he was quite happy to feel the weight of his few remaining coins from the purse pilfered from the dead body of Firouz. If he was careful, they might not be discovered at all. Certainly that would help matters when he managed to sneak away with one of their horses.
"We should give you a name. What kind of boy grows into manhood without a name?"
"It really does not concern me," the boy said, trying to brush off the continued name business.
"A man's only as good as his name," Nazir continued. "And to sport a face so gruesome as yours my friend, you'll need quite the name. Especially if you're to face the Shah."
"Who is the Shah?" the boy asked. The men who were awake all turned to stare at him in amusement.
"How can one not know who the Shah is? Why, he's the ruler of Persia! All tremble before him, for he is mighty and his kingdom is vast!" This time it was Mateo who spoke. His accent was unlike any that the boy had heard yet in his travels, but some part of it made him miss England. He'd only known the inside of one grimy flat and two long streets in London, but it was still his home. That was what he felt in his heart.
The boy said nothing in return, instead he drew his legs up to his chest and sighed. All he wanted was freedom, and now it seemed he would be just a shiny new toy for the ruler of a country. He couldn't imagine what that would entail. The last person who had claimed ownership over him had abused and neglected him. Could this Shah really be any different?
The journey to Persia was long and immensely boring for the boy. The men who rode with him in the cart were mildly amusing some of the time, but mostly just bickered amongst themselves and drank to excess. The boy found that there was little to be learned from them.
He found it was best to keep his attention forward and not to allow his mind to linger too long on those who were pulled along behind the cart. He would cover his ears and squeeze his eyes shut whenever any of them was whipped; he couldn't stand the sickening sound of the whip against skin. It made him wish for death.
One particular subject that had come up quite often on the journey to Persia was a name for the boy. The four men could not decide on a name that all of them liked or could even agree suited the boy. Everything was either too common or carried connotations of beauty, and they all agreed that he deserved something unique that wouldn't fool anyone into thinking him a handsome man.
That did not leave them much to work with, but that didn't really bother the boy. It wasn't the first time he'd entertained the thought of having a name, nor would it likely be the last. Truthfully, he only knew a few names, and most of those were connected to people who had been cruel to him. He didn't want to connect himself to anybody cruel.
When they were approaching the Shah's palace and the boy still had not received a name, it was decided by Nazir that the Shah himself would be the only one wise enough to grant one to the boy. Mateo and Yousef did not seem convinced that it was a good idea. Saeed gave no opinion one way or the other, in much the same way that he had for the entire long ride in the cart.
In fact, Saeed was the only one who honestly still held the boy's attention. The man pretended to sleep almost the entire time, except at meal times or rest stops. When the other men bickered amongst themselves, he would only pipe in to say something incredibly sarcastic.
The boy figured that Saeed was the leader of the little group because of this. He saw no reason for a man who did so little to still be allowed in the cart, unless he was the leader or another freak.
The cart came to a stop just inside the gates to the palace, and it was then that the boy was unloaded into a smaller cart. It was only big enough for two people. At first, he thought that Nazir would be the one to ride with him. When Saeed plopped down next to him, he was more than a little surprised.
"Nervous yet, kid?" Saeed asked as the cart began to move, pulled along by a much smaller, older looking horse than the ones that had brought them into the country. It was a much slower ride than he expected.
"I don't know what that means," the boy replied. "I am a little afraid. I didn't want to be someone's property again."
"I assure you, you will not be treated as property." The boy looked over at the man with a curious glint in his eyes. "That is not to say you will be treated as an equal. The Shah is wise enough to know that people are best dealt with as people, not objects. You will be granted more freedom here than you ever were in the freak show."
The curiosity turned to confusion as the boy listened eagerly to the man. Saeed laughed.
"Of course you do not remember me. I worked for Firouz in Belgium. I was the one who escorted you to and from your cage. Never pegged you for a daring escape, I must say," he explained. "Even with how he repressed you. I did not think you had enough free thought in you to leave."
"Silence does not denote stupidity," the boy said. Saeed laughed even harder.
"Truly it does not!" he agreed. "My associates are still learning such things." He made eye contact with the boy then. "I have a feeling that, when you are ready, you will come up with your own name. Do not allow the Shah or anyone else to force a moniker on you purely because your lack of one makes them uncomfortable."