The Orphan

by Peter Lerangis

  “It is his way of reminding the nobles what will happen if they ever dream of defying him,” Arwa said flatly. “It is what we call terror, my dear. The province of the weak and cowardly.”

  No.

  Nico, murdered in front of the wealthy awilum?

  I felt faint. Frada’s hand closed around my forearm. “I will sing,” I said softly. “But the guards may recognize me as the one who stole the pomegranate.”

  “With a scarf on your head, those dolts will not know a thing,” Arwa said. “With time, they will forget they ever saw you, even without a scarf. Their brains decay nightly with the effects of some poisonous wine delivered nightly by the hunchback Serug.”

  Frada and I shared a knowing glance. I could not stifle a laugh. “Zakiti’s Miracle Garden Wine!” I exclaimed.

  “Listen carefully,” Arwa barreled onward. “You will meet a wardum, a slave woman named Nitacris. She oversees the female slaves at the palace. After you perform, pretend to be light-headed. Near fainting. The king will send you away with Nitacris. Her Aramaic is poor but she speaks fluently in the Anatolian tongue.”

  “I will understand either,” I said.

  “How can you be sure the king will act this way?” Frada asked.

  “He’s a music lover,” Arwa replied. “He likes to seem generous to those he deems talented, and he will want you to recover quickly, to sing during the executions. But there will be no executions. Because Nitacris will take you to where Nico is. You will follow her instructions to the letter in order to rescue him. If you fail, we will not be playing music for Nico’s execution tonight but waiting for our own. Am I understood?”

  Frada nodded a little uncertainly. “Thank you, Arwa. But . . . why are you doing this—risking your life for us? Asking nothing in return?”

  Arwa’s sharp glance caught us both up short. “My father was a noble who crossed the king. His crime? He was overheard speaking of Akitu, the annual celebration of the Babylonian god—”

  “Marduk,” Frada said. “Do you not think we are old enough to remember the festival? What great fun we had!”

  “Until Nabu-na’id banned the celebration, and any mention of Marduk,” Arwa said. “At a celebration like the one tonight, my father was beheaded—by surprise, as he was happily enjoying a roast. To set an example.”

  I did not know what to say. What a horrifying secret for Arwa to carry inside her!

  “I believe in your talent, in your future—but no future is worth living under a murdering tyrant,” Arwa went on, leaning forward. “So I am indeed asking for something: When you rescue Nico, consider joining us. The Children of Amytis.”

  “You are one of Zinn’s rebels?” I asked. “But I heard they had all been—”

  “Defeated?” Arwa laughed. “The king would have everyone believe so. But rumors do not become truths by magic. We are growing in number. Zinn and her lieutenants hide in the king’s own hunting grounds—which he planted, tree by tree, irrigated by the Euphrates. They drink from his water and feast on his game. This rescue will be a slap in Nabu-na’id’s face. He will know—the city will know—that the rebels are stronger than ever and the king’s reign will soon be over.”

  I took a deep breath, letting the information sink in. Really, I just wanted to save Nico, not start a revolution.

  “But what of us?” Frada asked. “Once the court has seen us, they’ll not forget us.”

  “You will have some time before the court puts together what happened,” Arwa replied. “In the meantime you will go straight to the hunting grounds, where the rebels will give you shelter and food. I’ve already sent word. When you arrive at the forest, remember this.” Arwa whistled three precise birdsong notes. “That will let them know you’re a friend.”

  “And if we decide not to join?” Frada asked.

  Arwa shrugged wearily. “You can try to go back to your regular way of life. To Zakiti’s. Perhaps adopt a disguise. Live the rest of your life as before. As a street rat picking through garbage with no hope of equality. The rebels will respect any decision you make. Now let us go. It’s time you started bathing or we’ll never get into the palace.”

  “Bathing?” I asked.

  “When you are with Zinn, you may revel in the soil,” Arwa said. “To be present at the king’s court, you must wash.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I HAD NOT expected that my “washing” would consist of a vigorous scraping of my skin, which was now an angry-looking pink. Arwa gave me a gauzy, pure-white tunic to wear, but even that fine material felt irritating.

  “Lovely,” Arwa said, tying a scarf the color of the bluest sky around my waist and a maroon veil around my head. “Look at yourself in the fountain, Daria.”

  At first I thought someone had cast a spell on the still water, replacing my reflected image with that of a princess. But it moved and grinned and laughed as I did.

  “Is it you?” came a familiar voice, full of wonderment.

  I turned to see a slender woman with Frada’s eyes and smile, but her hair shone a lustrous golden brown, her skin smooth and pink hued. The signs of her illness—the mottled skin and matted hair, the emaciated frame—were gone as if she had never been sick in her life. “Frada, you are beautiful!”

  “I wish we could admire ourselves all day, but we must move now,” Arwa said. Quickly she reviewed our plan. Handing Frada a santur with two soft-malleted hammers, she led us out of the building.

  The conservatory was in a cluster of structures on the opposite side of the Euphrates from the main part of the city. To reach Etemenanki, we crossed a bridge that gave us a spectacular view of Mother’s Mountain. Although the magnificent hanging gardens were sealed off to the public by King Nabu-na’id, the aromas washed over us in cool, intoxicating gusts.

  Passing through the grand tunnel of the Ishtar Gate, wardum and awilum alike bowed their heads to us. A skinny boy, Ashur, who always taunted me with jeers and disgusting noises, bowed to me without recognizing who I was.

  The palace grounds were a maze of lush flowers, winding pathways, verdant bushes. Birds sang sweetly overhead, and pigs and goats scampered in pens along the perimeter. Bowing as they passed us, royal wardum scurried about carrying urns of oil and water, tending the grounds. Despite their hollow faces and bony limbs, they looked stronger than the street people we knew. A slave was worth nothing to the king unless “it” was in good health.

  Up close, the tower of Etemenanki took my breath away. It soared to the sky, its tiers tapering to a point in the clouds. Such was the power of the structure I feared it would lift me upward, hurling me toward the heavens. Staircases led up along the outer walls that were covered in bright tiles, which depicted sacred Babylonian bulls and mushushus so realistic that I expected them to jump out. Every level of Etemenanki, right to the tapered top, was festooned with grand archways, statues, and carvings.

  On one of those levels, I knew, was Nico.

  “It must have taken years to build this,” whispered Frada.

  We passed through a guarded gate to a vast, enclosed courtyard, where men and women in fine, embroidered tunics stood laughing and drinking from jewel-encrusted glass goblets. They wore rings, bracelets, and necklaces of gold and silver, which glinted like bursts of flame, reflecting the setting sun.

  They had put on their best to watch Nico be murdered.

  I hated them all.

  Slaves stood in pairs along the walls. Most were girls. Their tunics were modest but clean and free of blemishes and holes. The male slaves wore turbans of bright colors. Most stood at attention, hands behind them. But some of the older ones were fussing over the placement of tables and chairs. The king had not yet arrived.

  “There’s Nitacris,” Arwa whispered, nodding toward a woman near the archway that led into the palace. Nitacris was dressed in a maroon robe, her hair pulled back in a simple braid. She was quite beautiful, though years of slavery had cut deep lines in her face. She looked at Arwa and me for a fleeting moment befor
e turning away. But I noticed a quick, subtle nod of the head, once . . . twice.

  A slave appeared in the archway, blowing a brief triumphal fanfare on a hollow ram’s horn. Falling instantly into a worshipful silence, the nobles turned and bowed.

  It was strange how in a courtyard decorated with such treasures and art and finely dressed people, the king could be so repulsive. He entered aloft on a platform borne by four burly slaves, who carried him toward a golden throne cushioned by thick pillows. He yawned, his oiled beard momentarily resembling a crushed rat as it compressed downward into his neck. His turban shone with tiny jewels, and his long, brocade robe resembled a fine tapestry.

  All this for a bony-faced man with bloodshot dark eyes and an expression of permanent disgust, as if he had mistakenly bitten into the remains of a dead bat.

  To the king’s right stood the captain of the guard, a tall, brawny giant with a thick lower lip, whom we only knew as Chtush, for the sound of his constant spitting. Around his waist he carried a massive pouch, made from the hide of a bull, which he set down heavily against a wall.

  The sound made it clear that the pouch contained a bladed weapon, and that Chtush was the man who would carry out Nico’s execution.

  I could feel my cheeks flushing with rage. Arwa jabbed me gently in the ribs with her elbow. “Remember the plan,” she whispered. “Do not let emotions blind you.”

  The king snapped his fingers and motioned to one of the female slaves. Hurrying over, she dropped to one knee. Then she pulled off one of his sandals, exposing a swollen foot that curved inward on itself like an injured animal. Without being told, she began to massage it. The king smiled.

  I had to turn away. I don’t know what was more revolting, the foot itself or the sight of the poor woman forced to touch it.

  As Chtush approached, eyeing Frada and me warily, Arwa stepped forward.

  “I know you are expecting only one performer,” she said, “but these two are my most gifted students—particularly the singer.”

  Chtush spat and furrowed his brow as if assembling words in his mind very slowly, one by one. When he spoke, spittle flew from his mouth. His language was Akkadian, which was not the usual Aramaic language of the court. But I understood every word. “He says, ‘Only one musician expected,’” I explained.

  “Trust me, slave,” Arwa said, “the king will be very impressed. And when he expresses this to me, I’ll make sure he knows you’re responsible.”

  As I translated, Chtush’s face broke into a muscular smile that managed to release a thin line of saliva.

  He pointed to an ornate harp set up next to Nabu-na’id’s throne. Arwa sat and positioned her hands. Frada perched beside her on the ledge of a low brick wall and placed the santur on her lap.

  Guests were lined up before the king, taking turns bowing to him and expressing their loyalty and good wishes. One by one, he dismissed them with a nod and a wave of a hand. I tried not to look at the poor wardum rubbing his swollen foot, but the putrid smell was a constant reminder.

  As Arwa began playing softly, Nabu-na’id turned toward us. His eyes went from Arwa to Frada, where they rested for a moment. And then he looked at me, his lips curling upward in an expression that signaled delight but sickened me to my soul.

  “This beauty is new,” he said to Arwa, pointing a long, bony finger at me. “Show yourself to me, girl.”

  I stepped forward, holding my head high, trying not to betray what I was feeling inside.

  “She will be a very special surprise, my king,” Arwa said, speaking in a girlish, singsong fashion. “As beautiful as her face is, it cannot compare to her glorious voice.”

  The king smiled, then closed his eyes and grunted. I didn’t know if that meant “go on” or perhaps it was a reaction to the foot massage.

  Arwa began to strum again. Frada confidently struck the strings of the santur. The party slowly sank into a hush.

  I took a deep breath, my eyes scanning the third level of the ziggurat, the tapered palace of Etemenanki. In the arched opening there I saw only shadows, but I knew Nico was there. He would hear me. He had to. And then he would recognize the voice. The voice he loved to mock and imitate. The voice that I would offer now to save his life.

  Lift the back of your throat. Relax your neck and jaw. Support the breath with the strength of your abdomen. And most of all, mean the words that you sing with all your heart.

  Arwa’s instructions were etched into my brain. As I began, my voice echoed off the walls of Etemenanki, lifting into the night-bruised sky. I sang a tune that spoke of heroism and loyalty, death and enduring love. A murmur of approval spread through the crowd, and then a hush, until there wasn’t a sound except the music. I could feel the king’s eyes boring into the side of my head.

  The last high note lingered long after I stopped, as if the sound itself had been trapped in the intricate carvings on the wall, destined to swirl and echo forever. As if the tower itself did not want to let the song go. After the last notes echoed away, a gust of applause rang out into the night.

  “You have the voice of a goddess, child,” the king said. Leaning forward, he jerked his bare foot, causing the slave girl to stumble backward. He beckoned me to approach.

  “Come, let me get a closer look at you.”

  Remember your mission, I commanded myself. Singing was easy, but faking an injury would be difficult. The king leered at me, and I fought back a wave of nausea.

  Don’t fight it—make use of that feeling.

  I clutched my stomach. Below me was a crack in the floor and I purposefully jammed my toe into it. One of the slaves lurched forward instinctively and caught me by the elbow.

  “What is this?” the king demanded.

  “I feel faint,” I said, fluttering my eyelashes.

  Arwa rushed to my side. “Oh, dear,” she said, “being in the presence of the king has taken her breath away.”

  “Ah yes, of course, this is to be expected,” the king said. Snapping his fingers abruptly, he cried out, “Nitacris! Take this girl to a dressing chamber and let her rest. Give her whatever she needs. I want her to sing for us later. Something festive after the . . . ceremony.”

  Ceremony meant executions. I doubled over again.

  A kind-looking older woman took my arm. As she led me away, I could hear Arwa playing the harp again. The king let out a loud belch, perfectly timed to a downbeat in the tune. “More wine!” he shouted. “Let us feast before the ceremony begins!”

  Nitacris took me through the arched door and into the palace. It was a small antechamber that led to a hallway on one side and a long room on the other. “You are as good an actress,” she whispered in a halting, thick accent, “as you are singing person.”

  “I can speak Anatolian,” I said.

  She smiled in surprise and launched into rapid speech in her own tongue:

  “Listen to me carefully, then. Go to the end of the hallway, climb the back stairs to the second floor, and take a right. There, you’ll see dressing chambers for the female slaves and beyond that, the baths. Use the stairs to the third floor. These stairs are open to all, but it’s the only route I could arrange. If someone questions you, you got lost. If someone asks for me, feign ignorance.”

  “Where exactly will I find Nico?” I asked.

  Nitacris pulled a small, triangular piece of metal from somewhere deep within her hair. It had been honed on one side to the sharpness of a sword blade. “Hide this in the folds of the scarf around your waist.

  “Nico is being held with six rebel prisoners. They may not look it right now, but they’re skilled rebel warriors—Children of Amytis. Slip this to one of them. Make sure no one sees you do it. Then keep the guards’ attention. Once they’ve cut their bonds, the rebels will take over. You will escape directly down through the cooking area. Those who prepare the feast will be too busy to care about you. Most of them are loyal to the king, so beware.”

  “Keep the guards’ attention?” I said. “How am I s
upposed to do this?”

  “My child, you just left half the court breathless,” Nitacris said. “Sing for them. Tell the guards you are sweetening the air, so that the condemned men will realize what beauty their treachery forces them to leave behind. Some nonsense like that. With a face and a voice like yours, they will believe anything.”

  As she turned to leave, I blurted out, “You aren’t coming in with me?”

  “If the rebellion is to succeed, we’ll need someone inside the kingdom,” she said. “I will tell the king you need a bit of time to recover. When the prisoners escape, he will suspect neither you nor me.” She smiled and gave me a reassuring hug. “May Marduk look over you, my child. Whether you live or die. And I have confidence it will be the former.”

  As she scurried away, my own confidence crumbled into the dust.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “GO AWAY.”

  I stared into a pair of bloodshot brown eyes, peering through a slit in a thick wooden door. “I have been sent here by the king,” I said as sweetly as I could, imitating the singsong voice that Arwa had used, “to enter this room and sing one last ballad to the prisoners before the . . . uh, ceremony.”

  “No one told me about this,” the guard grunted.

  “You can go ask the king yourself if you want,” I said with a shrug. “I’ll wait. But he wanted this to happen quickly, and you know how he is when underlings cause delays. Or I can simply report back that I was welcomed inside by the strong, handsome guard by the name of . . . ?”

  I heard a click, and the door swung open. “Numa,” he murmured.

  Inside was a battered wooden table, where two other guards were tearing into the carcass of whatever animal had been their dinner. Each carried both a sword and a dagger on his belt. They barely looked up when I entered. “Thank you, kind Numa,” I said. “Your obedience will be rewarded. . . .”

  But the words were detached from meaning. Every one of my senses had gathered to focus on the long wooden bench against the far wall. There, half a dozen men in loincloths sat together, bruised, filthy, and dazed. From the red marks around their ankles, wrists, and necks, I assumed they’d been chained to dungeon walls for days. Their wrists were bound together in front of their stomachs with leather straps. None of them looked up to see me.