The Orphan

by Peter Lerangis

  I had to examine their faces twice before I recognized Nico.

  The breath caught in my throat. He was at the end of the row, his hair matted and stringy, his body hunched forward as he stared at the floor. He looked as if he had aged ten years.

  “Get on with it,” Numa said, his mouth full of meat.

  “Yes, of course,” I said. My voice faltered and I feared I would not be able to produce a sound.

  Swallow. Breathe.

  I began again. As the first notes left my mouth, Numa and his cohorts put down their meat. They stared at me, jaws agape, half-masticated food clumped on their thick tongues.

  The prisoners stirred, and Nico looked up abruptly, as if waking from a dream. His eyes were those of a confused old man. Worried he would betray that he knew me, I cast him a warning glance and shook my head slightly.

  He looked so weak and defeated. I wanted to wrap him in my arms, and I felt a hitch in my voice. Do not let them see any emotion, I commanded myself. Get the weapon to the rebels—now!

  But how could I do that, in full view of the guards? Their eyes were fixed on me.

  I could see the edge of my waist scarf swaying as I sang. I began to dance, letting my tunic billow outward. I turned my right side to the guards, moving my hips in rhythm, curling my hands and fingers in a complex pattern. Then I turned the other way.

  As if it were part of the song, I began to whistle—the precise, three-note signal of the rebels.

  Several of the prisoners sat up straighter. I could feel their eyes. Good. They knew.

  Quickly, imperceptibly, I dipped my twirling fingers into the folds of the scarf I’d tied around my waist. I closed my thumb and first finger around the metal shard and cupped it in my palm. I could feel the blade cutting into my skin. It hurt. I would have to do this fast, before blood began to show.

  “Do not approach these men!” Numa shouted, bolting up from the table. He placed himself between me and the prisoners.

  This would not be as easy as I’d hoped. I began dancing more wildly, picking up the tempo of the song. I lifted up a metal plate and a ladle from the guards’ table and beat them together. The guards began clapping and stomping their feet in rhythm, hooting with delight in spite of Numa’s disapproval. He yelled at them to stop, waving his hands.

  I tried to edge closer to the prisoners. But now the guards were leaping up from the table, dancing. Their beards glistening with animal fat, they jumped into the center of the room, blocking my way.

  “Sit down, you fools!” Numa shouted.

  “If the king and his fancy people can dance outside,” one of the guards said, “so can we!”

  “Especially if we have to clean up after the execution!” said another.

  Through the clutch of thick bodies, I could see Nico’s face. I could tell by the flash in his eyes that he knew what was happening—the execution, my plan, all of it. But my palm was dripping blood and he had noticed that, too. I dipped suddenly, sidling as close to him as I could, reaching out to give him the metal shard.

  One of the clumsy guards thumped into me from the left side. The shard flew out of my hand in a spray of blood. The guard stopped for a moment and looked around as if a bug had just flown past. He was about to turn, when I hooked my arm through his and danced him in a circle. I raised my voice as loud as I could, nodding for him to join in. Where was Nico? I couldn’t see him.

  All the guards were singing now—all but Numa, who was yelling angrily at the top of his lungs. Had he seen? If he had the shard, we were all dead. He would use it to cut our throats one by one.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him approach, his face deep red. With a roar of anger, he threw aside the dancing guard.

  “I know what you are doing,” he said, “and it is time to silence the music.”

  He thrust out his arm and clutched my throat.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I COULD NO longer breathe. The guards had stopped dancing. One of them let out a shout.

  As I dropped to my knees, I tried to pry Numa’s hands from my throat, but they were like iron. My eyes rolled upward, and all I saw was black.

  I felt a sudden blow from my left. I fell onto the floor, my throat free. I coughed violently, but I was being crushed by the body of a guard.

  Scrambling desperately I slid out from underneath. I wheezed and gulped for breath, staggering under the table.

  That was when I saw the filthy, bloodied feet—prisoners’ bare feet, shuffling in the dirt along with the guards. I looked up into a chaos of fighting.

  Three of the prisoners were free. Despite their ragged appearances and emaciated bodies, they were punching the guards, grabbing their weapons, biting, scratching, using every tactic at their disposal. Through the shifting bodies I could see the other prisoners, still on the bench. Nico was huddled with them, trying to work their bonds free with the metal shard.

  I leaped across the room and took the shard from Nico. With free hands, I could slice into the bonds at a better angle. “I’m getting you out of here,” I said.

  “Daria . . .” he muttered, as much in disbelief as in gratitude. Up close, I could see how roughly he’d been treated. Bruises had formed around both eyes. His lip was fat and bloodied.

  I worked my way through the thick rope until it snapped. The other two men, energized by the sudden freedom, plunged into the melee.

  I took Nico’s hand and made for the door. A prisoner fell in our path, crying out in pain. Numa stood over him, dagger poised. Nico grabbed his arm, but the guard just swatted him away. With a vengeful sneer, he came at me. “A rebel, are you?”

  His neck bulged with anger—and I saw my opportunity. I pulled loose the scarf from my waist, swung it around his neck, and pulled as hard as I could.

  Eyes bulging, he gagged and grabbed at the scarf. As he sank to his knees, one of the prisoners brought a chair down over his head.

  Numa fell in a heap, and I pulled back the scarf. The prisoner, looking at me in bafflement, said, “Who sent you?”

  “Arwa,” I replied. “And Nitacris. We must escape—”

  “We will go through the kitchen and provide a distraction,” he said, nodding quickly. “We’ll charge through the front gate, into the party. Buy you some time while you escape.”

  “There are too many guards,” I protested. “They’ll slaughter you.”

  “I must stay and help my fellow prisoners,” Nico began.

  “If Nitacris said to go, you go,” the prisoner replied. “Both of you. Now!”

  Without missing a beat, he whirled around and clipped one of the guards on the jaw with a perfectly placed kick. The man fell to the floor, out cold.

  “Nico, I think they can take care of themselves,” I said.

  As we ran into the hall, I could hear the pounding of footsteps coming up the stairs to our left—the stairs I had climbed minutes earlier. But Nitacris had told me to use the back stairs. I glanced around frantically. The hall was dark.

  “It’s there!” Nico said, pulling me toward a blind turn. “I know this hallway.”

  We ran around the corner and flew down a narrow, dank set of stairs. Its walls were filthy, and a small rodent screamed at our surprise appearance, disappearing into a hole.

  As we raced through the kitchen, Nico tore off a large, gleaming leg from a roast pig. “Thank you!” he cried out. Just as Nitacris had predicted, no one seemed to notice, so frantic were they about getting the food to the nobles.

  It was not hard to find the back door, where the palace garbage was thrown daily into a ditch. The smell announced itself. As we ran for the door, Nico tore hungrily into the roast leg. “How can you eat now?” I shouted.

  He grinned. “I think I’m the one who should be asking you questions,” he said. “Like why are you dressed like that and how did you get in—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, a broad figure stepped into the open doorway. We nearly fell in our attempt to stop.

  Chtush stood sta
ring at us, idling picking his teeth with the point of a dagger. “Roast boar,” he said in Akkadian. “Very tasty.”

  As we staggered back, he wiped his dagger on his tunic. Then looking from Nico to me, he grinned. “What you did, songbird . . .” he said, his belly shaking with a deep chuckle. “Oh, what you did!”

  Chtush put his dagger away safely. Could it be? Was Chtush on our side? A rebel?

  I looked at Nico. He shrugged, tentatively joining in laughter, too. “Th-thank you,” I said, inching toward the guard.

  “One problem,” Chtush said. “I was looking forward to the executions. To some good bloody fun.”

  He reached toward a kitchen table and lifted a bloodied cleaver. “So I will make my own fun. With you, right here. But first, little bird, sing your final song.”

  I opened my mouth. No sound came out.

  “Sing!” Chtush bellowed. A string of saliva dropped from one side of his mouth as he stepped toward me.

  “You’re drooling,” Nico said. “Hungry? Want some boar?”

  As Chtush turned toward him, Nico threw the roast pig leg at his face. It splatted between his eyes and bounced away.

  “Run, Daria!” Nico shouted.

  I stood frozen to the spot as Chtush, with a cry of anger, raised the cleaver and lunged toward Nico.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE CLEAVER FLASHED in the light. I thrust myself into its path. If Chtush was going to kill someone, let it be me. I heard a thud and felt myself falling.

  I hit the ground, feeling crushed by an enormous weight. Chtush had fallen on top of me. He rolled away, screaming. I could smell something burning.

  I saw Frada standing in the door, a broken oil lamp in her hands. “I—I just meant to knock him out, not to—”

  Chtush leaped to his feet. His head was engulfed in flames. He slapped the fire with open palms, but it ignited the collar of his tunic, then quickly spread downward along his back. Chtush ran out into the night air, roaring with agony. We followed him. From the direction of the party, I could hear shouts and confusion. The king was screaming.

  “Help me!” Chtush shouted, staggering toward the noise.

  Two guards appeared, immediately tackling him. As they wrestled him to the ground, rolling him in the sandy soil, I grabbed Nico’s and Frada’s hands. “Come on!”

  We ran to the palace wall. Nico, his body still racked from the beating, moved slower than usual. I boosted him and then Frada over the top.

  As I hoisted myself over, my mind was reeling with what had just happened. Chtush would be fine—but he had seen us. As had all the prisoners’ guards.

  If they ever found any of us again, we were dead.

  I landed next to Nico, who was grimacing with pain. “Can you run?” I asked him.

  “Faster than both of you girls,” he said.

  Frada smiled. “Prove it.”

  We ran through the darkened streets, wanting to laugh at our newfound freedom but scared to draw attention. Some windows still shone with dull amber light, and I could hear the plaintive sounds of a flute here, a santur there. People making music with their families.

  Real families.

  I had always hoped to have one of my own. Now I knew that dream would never happen. I would have to settle for the rebels. And Nico and Frada.

  All in all, I supposed things could be worse.

  We paused at the edge of the king’s hunting grounds. Here, the land changed dramatically. Babylon’s arid, rocky soil gave way to a forest of tall trees. Nabu-na’id had spared no expense and sacrificed no fewer than nine wardum, who died in the backbreaking construction of this area. His plan was to stock it with animals for his hunting pleasure. But Zinn’s rebels had adopted it as their home, hiding from sight and shooting the king’s men at will with darts that rendered them unconscious. It was also rumored that the great mushushu, the animal that embodied the spirit of the god Marduk, was also loose in the woods.

  Nowadays Nabu-na’id’s men kept a safe distance.

  As we entered the woods, I whistled the birdsong Arwa had taught me. “What are you doing?” Nico demanded. “You’ll draw attention!”

  “It is the rebel signal,” I whispered. “When they hear it, they’ll know we are friends.” Nico fell to his knees and stood again. He was faltering. He’d been interrogated, tied up in the town square, beaten more than once, and assured that he was about to be killed all in one day. And now Frada and I had made him climb a wall and run a great distance from the city.

  Frada, too, was breathing heavily. She’d only just recovered from near death herself. The pomegranate had saved her life, but only time would bring her to full strength.

  I pricked up my ears for the sound of approaching guards. Had they seen us? Would they suspect we’d be heading here?

  I whistled again and again, desperate. In the darkness, the trees seemed like spindly hands enveloping us in a tight grip. Fragments of moonlight shone through the tree canopies, and I thought I could detect a movement to our left. “Follow me,” I said.

  But after a few steps I had to stop. From deeper in the forest came a strange noise. A hissing, as if a flock of birds had taken to the sky with snakes on their backs. In the noise’s whoosh there were fleeting yawps and stuttering sounds like sped-up voices. “What’s that?” Frada cried out.

  “Isn’t there s-s-somewhere else we could go?” Nico asked.

  Out of the shadows leaped a figure from behind a rock. Despite the shadows, I could make out the sad, familiar face of a young girl. “The noise,” she said, “is Sippar. It is drawing close tonight.”

  “Shirath!” I cried out.

  She glanced from face to face. “We were not expecting three of you, Daria.”

  “But you—you’re—” I stammered.

  “A quiet street urchin?” she said with a smile. “Yes. And an orphan, like you. And one of Zinn’s warriors. All those things. You will be surprised at how many of us there are.”

  “You saved my life,” I said.

  “We work to save the good people of our great city,” Shirath said. “Your friend appears to need care.”

  “Never felt better,” Nico said with a groan.

  Shirath nodded. “Come. Follow closely. We will heal you.”

  As she turned into the forest, Nico and Frada followed. I brought up the rear. But the hissing sound—the noise of Sippar—was seeping into my brain.

  As wretched as it was, it seemed to be calling my name, beckoning to me.

  Walk. Follow.

  I shook the thought from my head and forced one foot in front of the other. Sippar was the Land of Death. Follow its call? What crazy notion was that? No one who had ever set foot in Sippar had survived.

  Or had they?

  Had anyone really tried to enter Sippar?

  I thought about all the horrid stories about deaths caused by Sippar. In those stories, the victims were always traitors and rebels. People who would not obey the king.

  Of course. Wouldn’t this be another convenient lie for Nabu-na’id? Perhaps these people had not gone near Sippar at all. Perhaps they were executed, and their evil demise in Sippar was a lie, to keep Babylonians from trying to escape?

  Ah, but no visitor from Persia, or anywhere else in the outside world, has visited Babylon since Sippar appeared, a voice shouted inside my head.

  But maybe Persians were cowering on the other side, just as afraid as we were. Afraid of the unknown. Maybe, on the other side, we would find shelter from Nabu-na’id.

  Confronting the unknown took courage. And courage was the unwritten law of the streets.

  I must at least see it.

  I stopped. The hissing was like a physical thing inside my brain, pounding hard, obliterating all thought. I looked toward the sound. In the daylight I had seen Sippar, a distant, waving curtain of black. Often it was too far away to see, but when it came close it had resembled a storm cloud containing black rain.

  Now, in the forest’s darkness, I could not
see it at all. But I could feel it.

  Shirath, Frada, and Nico had been swallowed up by the trees. In a moment they would notice I was missing. They would come back to find me. Shirath, no doubt, knew every inch of the hunting grounds.

  I had to act fast.

  As I stepped toward Sippar, I listened to its voices. I tried to make sense of the strange sounds and strange languages. I heard blarings and clanking, high-pitched noises like strangled birds.

  Images crowded into my brain, flashing with impossible speed—men and women in long black garments that wrapped around their legs, holding tiny boxes in their hands and thin strands coming from their ears. I saw carved metal sculptures that slid along hard black roads and stiff, shining birds in the sky. I saw ziggurats that made Etemenanki look tiny and farms the size of five Babylons. White boxes that opened outward with blasts of cool air, revealing food of impossible sweetness and coldness. People watching tiny versions of other people on flat surfaces, laughing, crying.

  What were these things?

  Go . . .

  I could feel a wind kicking up around me. A penetrating heat. Sippar was burning me up and pulling me forward at the same time.

  “Daria!”

  Who? Who was that?

  I tried to resist the pull. I tried to step back. I didn’t know where Nico or Frada were. I didn’t know where anything was. I only knew one thing. If I went any closer, I would be ripped apart.

  I tried to reverse course, but my legs would not go back. I opened my mouth to protest, to scream. But I could not resist. Sippar was inevitable.

  Sippar would be fed.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “GET BACK HERE, you idiot!” cried a guttural voice.

  I felt something grip my shoulder. My body lurched backward. I landed in a tangle of limbs.