The Orphan
Authors: Peter Lerangis
J
ERAMEY
K
RAATZ
,
MANY THANKS
!
âP.L.
*
G
O
, D
ARIA
. N
OW.
My knees shook. I stood before the gate of the King's Garden, trying not to look at the magnificent people who strolled in and out. I did not want my eyes, my face, to give me away. I hoped my clean tunic would fool them. I hoped that on this afternoon they would not see me as a street urchin, a slave, a
wardum
, a creature of the dirt.
My plan was crazy. But my friend Frada lay dying, and I needed to save her. I had to do the unthinkable. And fast. Pressing down the wrinkles of my garment, I held my head high and stepped through the gate.
I was greeted by a blast of bad breath. “Step aside!” bellowed a royal guard, dragging a large sack. “King Nabu-na'id the Great approaches!”
The king? Now?
I leaped back into the street, as the guard repeated the command in several languagesâAnatolian, Greek, Akkadian, Judean, Persian. People from so many different lands had come to Babylon years ago, before Sippar came. Before Babylon had been cut off from the rest of the world. Over time, listening carefully, I had come to understand nearly all their tongues. A useful skill for one who must survive in the streets.
Looking up the hill I saw the royal chariot drawing near, attended by four miserable-looking slaves. The crowd stepped back, bowing low.
“Here it is, my lord and master!” the brutish guard yelled. With a grunt, he threw the sack into the street, the Boulevard of the Gardens. “The last one!”
The bundle thumped heavily, raising a cloud of dust tinged with red.
Blood red.
The crowd surged forward to look. They pushed me aside, blocking my view. Gasps erupted all around. An old woman fell to her knees in shock. A small boy began to cry. I wriggled my way through, and soon I saw what the ragged sack really wasâa man, dressed in tatters and beaten to a lump.
I turned away. In the reign of Nabu-na'id the Nasty, violence was more plentiful than sunshine. As the chariot stopped, the king did not bother to glance downward. His beard, elaborately oiled and curled, glinted in the sun. “Bel-Shar-Usur,” he barked, his voice like a dragon's rasp, “what says the rebel now?” Bel-Shar-Usur, the royal vizier, slid from his chariot seat. Although he was ancient and stooped, he was said to be the son of the king. His steely-gray eyes flitted wildly, as if each eyeball were possessed by an enraged, trapped insectâyet somehow, miraculously, he saw everything. Stepping toward the crumpled man, Bel-Shar-Usur used a gnarled olive-branch cane to turn him faceup. If the world were merciful, the man would be dead. But his eyes turned upward, showing unspeakable pain, as he muttered a tiny plea in the language of the Greeks. “Kind king, I am a father of four and have done nothing wrong.”
“Wretched rebel,” Bel-Shar-Usur said, “I'm afraid apologies are too late.”
The king yawned and carefully, lavishly, picked his nose. By the look on his face, I could tell this action gave him great pleasure. “Dear Bel-Shar-Usur, you must properly learn the many languages of Babylon,” he said, holding out his crusty finger for a slave to clean. “The rebel apologizes not. He speaks Persian. He tells me I stink like a dead lizard. Burn himâand let all Babylon know that the rebels have been eliminated!”
My heart sank as I tried to make sense of these lies. Both the king and his son had lied about the man's plea. He didn't apologize, he proclaimed his innocenceâand he didn't speak Persian!
But what of the rebelsâZinn's warriors, the Children of Amytisâhad they been eliminated? They were heroes to the common people, dreamers, masters of disguise and disruption. Their ancestors served the second Nabu-Kudurri-Usur, the Good King. Back then, they had been valued and encouraged. Now they were exiled and hunted by the royal guards. I had always dreamed of becoming one of them.
If they were truly dead, there was no hope.
As four slaves carried the victim away, the crowd gossiped. “What was his crime?” asked a woman with a kind, concerned face.
“The man is not a rebel,” muttered a gray-bearded man with a Greek accent. He glanced toward the Royal Garden, its walls cascading with color, its flowers exploding with fresh scents. “Here was his crime: He clipped a small sprig of ivy to put in his little daughter's hair.”
My knees turned to liquid. I had to grip a tree to keep from falling.
Beaten and condemned to death? For clipping a vine?
Over the walls, I could see a distant canopy of leaves. It was the Tree of Enchantment, whose magic pomegranates held awesome powers. Chewing their seeds could cure ills, give life to the sick. Guarded night and day from intruders, the tree was the king's most valued possession.
I was there that day on a mission. To save the life of my dying friend, Frada. To do what no one had ever done before.
I was going to steal one of the pomegranates.
T
HERE IS ONE
cure for fear.
Insanity.
That was what I told myself as I stayed put, watching the chariot go away. I was crazy. I was temporarily not myselfâno longer honest Daria, trustworthy Daria. Being a bit loose in the head, I could afford to be brave.
Did this make perfect sense? No. But the thought, strange though it was, gave me courage. I stepped boldly toward the gate.
And then I started shaking.
Thief!
a voice cried in my head.
No. It was not thievery to save a friend's life. For weeks I'd tried to find a cure for Frada. I'd gathered remedies from the markets, oily salves and herb tonics from apothecaries in exchange for running errands. Nothing had worked. If anything, she'd been getting worse. In the time of the Good King, all Babylonians partook of the fruit's magic. It was not thievery then. It was welcomed.
In a just world, it would still be thus. But we were in the time of Nabu-na'id now.
They beat to death a man who stole a tiny clipping! What will they do to someone who steals a magic pomegranate?
They would kill me. Of course. But did I have a choice? How could I live with myself if I allowed my friend to die?
I adjusted the empty pouch that hung from my belt. Carefully I drew a gray shawl around my head and tied it in place, to hide my blue eyes, bright red hair, and fair skin. Those qualities made me stand out in Babylon. On a day when I was about to break one of the king's most sacred laws, my appearance was like a bull's-eye on my back. Dressed as I was, I would look like any other girlâor even boy.
Go. Now. Before you lose your nerve.
I stepped through the gate.
The warmth and beauty filled me with hope. Pathways wound through arbors and among flower beds. Waves of fragrance, strong and exotic, wafted over me. And these were merely the formal outlying gardens, acres and acres surrounding the grandest achievement of BabylonâMother's Mountain.
This was a structure of extraordinary height, spilling with the rarest and most colorful flowers. It was named for Queen Amytis, the wife of Nabu-Kudurri-Usur, who was called the Mother of All Babylonians. Nabu-na'id insisted we call it the Hanging Gardens, to erase the memory of the Good Queen. Now it loomed proudly in the distance. In a place so peaceful and lovely, how could there not be magic?
I stood close to a wealthy noble family, hoping people would think I was their servant. As soon as we were past the first bend, I peeled away. I wound through stone-paved paths, intoxicated by waves of perfume. When I reached a stone fountain, burbling with water spouted by stone fish, I stopped in my tracks.
There, rising high over my head, was the wall of the Inner Grove.
It was made of clay bricks and mortar, the height of at least three Darias. Guards marched to and fro, clad in gleaming metal chest pieces and headgear ornately crafted in bronze and iron. Each had a spear in hand and a sword on his belt. Any of these weapons could slice me quicker than I could open a pomegranate.
I stilled my pounding heart. But a person did not survive in the streets without wiles. I knew that my eyes were my best allies. I had to trust what I saw. I lingered by the fountain, pretending to daydream but watching fiercely.
The guards were bored and tired. They were also walking at a regular pace, back and forth, so that the closest section of the wall remained unguarded for . . . how long?
I counted slowly. At exactly the count of seven, a guard appeared again. Then he vanished and I counted again. Eight. That gave me a good idea of how much time I had.
Just above the wall I saw the spindly branches of a tree rising from the other side. If I climbed to the top, I could grab on and slide down inside. It would not hold the weight of a full-sized thief, but I am lightâand fast.
I waited. The guards' footsteps receded, leaving the wall to me.
Go!
I leaped toward the wall, digging my work-toughened fingers and sandaled feet into the nooks, crannies, and vines. But they were tiny, and the wall was slickened by sap. I would never make it in time.
As I reached for the top, I heard rustling directly below me and felt my grip slipping.
The guard's voice shouted, “
What do you think you're doing
?” as I pulled myself up, ripping free the last vine I held.