Seven Wonders 3-Book Collection

  Marco gestured to his belly. “Yes! Hunger definitely souks!”

  At Marco’s shout, the guards pointed their swords. The crowd fell slowly silent. “Sorry,” Marco said, his hands in the air. “I hope I didn’t offend.”

  The head guard grabbed a pile of grilled lamb from a souk stand. Eyeing Marco warily, he grunted toward the other guards, who each helped themselves to food. Then they pushed us forward, not bothering to pay.

  “That was cruel,” Aly said.

  “Corruption always is,” Cass said.

  “Not that,” Aly said. “I meant hogging all the food.”

  The guards pushed us onward, our stomachs grumbling, down a narrow road past tight-packed houses. We headed up a hill toward the huge central tower, the ziggurat. It seemed to grow as we approached, its many windows whistling eerily as they caught the desert breezes. It may have been ten stories high, but looming over the squat houses the ziggurat looked like the Empire State Building. With windows spiraling up to a tapered top, it was like a giant, finely sculpted sand castle.

  It was gated too, and surrounded by lawns and flower beds. As we got closer, I realized it was even wider than I’d thought, maybe a city block across.

  “How exactly did they do sacrifices?” Cass said nervously. “Did they carve out the hearts while you were alive, or put you to sleep first?”

  “We haven’t done anything to make them want to sacrifice us,” Aly said. “This city was ruled by the Code of Hammurabi, which was fair and reasonable. Sacrifice was not part of the punishment.”

  “Just stuff like, you know, selling people into slavery,” Marco said. “Cutting off fingers. Like that.”

  Cass held up his hands, giving them a mournful stare. “G-G-Good-bye, old friends.”

  The guards pushed us through an entryway into a high-ceilinged room with brightly glazed walls. It was way longer side-to-side than it was deep. The windows let in a soft gray light, and candle flames flickered in wall sconces. We walked on finely detailed carpets past a sculpture of open-mouthed fish spouting water into a marble fountain. Serving maids with braided hair and long gowns carried trays back and forth, and four old men chiseled fine symbols onto stones. We walked into another chamber, where an ancient man sat at a marble table. After giving us a long, shocked look, he tottered off down a long hallway.

  “How do you say, ‘Where’s the boys’ room?’ in Aramaic?” Marco said.

  “Not now, Marco!” Aly said.

  Moments later the old man reappeared at the door and said something to the guards. They pushed us forward again.

  “Look, Hercules, I’m getting tired of this. I have to pee,” Marco said.

  The guard moved his face right up close to Marco. Pointing to the room behind the door, he said, “Nabu-na’id.”

  “Wait,” Cass said. “Isn’t that the same as King Nabonidus? I thought the Tower of Babel wasn’t the palace.”

  “Guess Nabo did a makeover,” Marco said.

  We turned toward the jewel-encrusted archway of the inner chamber. The guard smacked the end of his sword on the ground, and it echoed dully. We began to walk forward again.

  We were going before the king.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PURE AWESOME

  FROM INSIDE THE royal chamber came the music of gently plucked strings . . . and something else. Something that sounded at first like an exotic wind instrument, and then like a bird. One instant it dropped so low that the hallway seemed to vibrate. The next it was soaring impossibly high, skipping and flitting so fast that the echoes overlapped until it sounded like a chorus of twelve.

  “That’s a voice,” Aly said in awe, as we stepped inside. “One human voice.”

  The room glittered with candles in delicately carved metal wall sconces. Wisps of smoke danced up to a ceiling three stories high. Carpets crossed the polished floor, woven with battle scenes. Like the other rooms, this one was longer from side to side. On a platform in the middle sat a massive, unoccupied throne. To its right stood four bearded old men in flowing robes, one of them resting his elbows on a high table. To its left, a veiled woman was playing a flat stringed instrument nestled in her lap, her hands a blur as they hammered out a complex tune. Next to her stood another young woman, also veiled, singing with a voice so impossibly beautiful I could barely move.

  “What is that instrument?” Aly asked the head guard. When he returned a blank stare, she pantomimed playing the instrument. “A zither?”

  “Santur,” he said.

  “Beautiful,” she remarked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Beautiful.” I couldn’t stop staring at the musician. From under her veil I could see a shock of golden red hair. Her eyes were shut and her head swayed gently as she sang along with the santur.

  Aly smacked my arm. “Stop drooling.”

  Startled, the singer opened her eyes, which bore down on me like headlights. I turned away, my face suddenly feeling hot. When I looked back, I could see a flicker of a smile cross her face.

  She was looking at Marco.

  “’Sup, dudes?” Marco said. “Nice tune. So, greetings everyone. We don’t have too much time. Also, well, to be honest, I have to tinkle. Anyway, I’m Marco, and these guys are—yeow!”

  The head guard had thumped Marco on the back of the head. The guard and his pals kneeled and gestured for us to get on our knees, too.

  The santur player struck up a triumphant-sounding tune. The old men bustled away from us, toward an archway in the rear. A tiny, tottering silhouette appeared there.

  It was the withered old king we’d seen on the chariot. He stepped forward into the candlelight, wearing a cape of shimmering reds and golds, and a jeweled crown so big it looked like it might sink over his ears. The men took his arms as he limped toward the throne, his right foot flopping awkwardly. One of his advisers seemed younger than the others, a sour-looking dude with darting gray eyes, whose silver-and-black-streaked hair fell to his shoulders like oiled shoelaces. He took his place at the side of the throne, arms folded.

  As he sat, the king cocked his head approvingly at the veiled singer. His pointy beard flicked to one side like the tail of a bird. The song abruptly stopped. Singer, santur player, slaves, and guards all bowed low, and so did we. A slave woman knelt by him, removing his right sandal. As she massaged his shriveled foot with oils, he smiled.

  The guards prodded us to our feet and pushed us forward. I had to look away to keep from staring at the king’s adviser, whose eyeballs moved wildly like two trapped hornets. “That guy is creeping me out,” Aly said under her breath.

  “Which one, Bug-Eye or Fish-Foot?” Marco asked.

  Sitting forward, the king barked a question in a thin, high-pitched voice. As his words echoed unanswered, the guards began to mutter impatiently.

  “No comprendo Babylonish,” Marco said.

  “Accch,” the king said with disgust, gesturing toward the young singer. She nodded politely and stepped toward us.

  Smiling at Marco, she said, “’Sup?”

  “Whoa. You speak English?” Marco exclaimed.

  She pointed at him curiously. “Dudes?”

  “Marco, she’s just repeating words you said,” I told him. “She’s a musician. She has a good ear for sounds, I guess. I don’t think she knows what they mean.”

  The king said something to the girl sharply. She bowed and turned, explaining something to him in a soft voice. He nodded and sat back.

  “Daria,” the girl said, pointing to herself.

  “My name is Jack,” I said. “His name is Marco, her name is Aly, his is Cass.”

  “Nyme-iz-Zack . . . ” As she spoke, her face puckered as if tasting mango-chili ice cream. Pointing to herself again, she said, “His nyme-iz Daria.”

  “Your name is Daria,” I said. “My name is Jack. His name is Marco . . . Aly . . .” I pointed to the king. “Um, Nabu-na’id?”

  “Ahhhhhh, Nabu-na’id!” the king said. As he beamed with approval, his adviser’s eyes b
ounced like a ball on a roulette wheel. He seemed to have some kind of vision problem, like a jangled nerve that wouldn’t let him focus his eyes. He leaned low, whispering into the king’s ear. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I didn’t trust his tone of mumble.

  Marco grinned at Daria. “Yo, Daria, you’re a language person. Maybe you can help us. If you can get us to the Hanging Gardens—Hannnng-inng Garrr-dens—that would be pure awesome.”

  “Poor . . . ossum,” she replied, her face turning slightly pink.

  “She’s crushing on the Immortal One,” Cass whispered.

  “No, she’s not,” I snapped.

  “It’s obvious,” Cass said.

  “It is not!” I said, a little louder.

  “Will you curb your jealousy?” Aly hissed. “This is a good thing. This could help us. She has the king’s ear.”

  I buttoned my lip, staring at Daria. I felt heat rising upward from my neck into my face and tried desperately not to let myself look embarrassed. Which was about the hardest thing to do at that moment.

  Daria wasn’t looking at Marco anymore, but at the king and his strange, younger henchman. They were leaning forward, alternately listening to her words, eyeing us suspiciously, and peppering her with questions. I had no idea what they were saying, but she seemed to be calming them down.

  Marco was fidgeting. “Yo! King Nabisco! Your Honor! Can I step outside for a minute? I’ll be right back—”

  Daria whirled around. With a questioning look, she pointed to each of us, then made an abstract, sweeping gesture, as if indicating the great, wide world outside.

  “I think she wants to know where we came from,” I said.

  “America, land of the free,” Marco said.

  Daria turned toward the king and bowed again. “Meccalandothafee,” she said tentatively.

  The old king turned to his adviser, who shrugged. Another flurry of words followed between them and Daria. Finally the king sank back into his throne, waving his fingers in a dismissive gesture.

  The guards took our arms. They shoved us back through the entryway and down a hallway.

  Marco was grimacing. “Let me know if you see a door with a male silhouette on it. I really have to go.”

  “Hey . . . hey—Where are you taking me?” Aly shouted.

  I spun around. Two of the guards were forcing her down a side corridor, out of sight. Marco, Cass, and I all braced to run, but our three guards blocked the way. Gripping our arms tight, the pushed us onward with unintelligible grunts, their faces bored and impatient.

  Marco was seething. “On the count of three,” he said, “we kick these guys and run.”

  But before he could start the count, the guards veered through an open door, shoving us into a large room with rough mud-brick walls. Pale white light shone through an open window, illuminating three flat slabs of stone in the center of the room. Each was long enough for one human body, like table in a morgue.

  Next to each slab was a bearded court slave, holding a machete. They were avoiding our eyes, looking closely at our necks.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  LATER, GLADIATOR

  “ONE . . .” MARCO SAID.

  The servants shoved us closer. They shouted instructions to the slaves, who sharpened their blades on long leather strips that hung from the sides of the slabs.

  “Two . . .”

  Placing their machetes on the slabs, the three wardum walked toward us. One of them carried a pot full of liquid. Each slave dipped his hand in the pot, coating it in some kind of oil. Two of them went toward Marco and Cass, the other to me. He nodded and smiled, reaching toward my head.

  “Thr—” Marco began.

  “Wait!” I shouted.

  Fingers massaged my scalp with warm oil. The servant hummed as he worked, smiling gently. I glanced over to Cass and Marco. They looked as baffled as I felt.

  In moments my bewilderment gave way to relaxation. It felt good. Incredibly good. As if my mom were alive again, shampooing my head. As I closed my eyes I saw Marco rushing off to an alcove with a rectangular hole in the floor. And I heard a sigh of great relief.

  When my servant was done, he gestured toward the slab. Next to it, the machete gleamed in the light from the open window. Marco and Cass turned, as their slaves finished oiling their hair. “What is going on here?” I asked.

  “It’s a makeover,” Marco said.

  “Did we really look that bad?” Cass asked.

  “I mean with the knives?” I said.

  Now the three wardum, finished with their work, were all gesturing toward the slabs.

  “Easy, Brother Jack,” Marco said. “I’m betting they’re not going to hurt us. I’ll go first.”

  He lay faceup on his slab. His servant pulled him toward the top of the slab, so his hair hung over the top edge. Taking the machete, the wardum brought it down swiftly. I flinched. A lock of Marco’s hair fell to the floor.

  Marco smiled, closing his eyes. “Sweet. Can I get a back rub?”

  When they were done, our hair was trim, our feet were washed, and we had fancy new tunics and sandals. The servants gave us over cheerfully to the guards, who grunted with what seemed like admiration at our new look.

  “What the heck did we do to deserve this?” said Cass, as we were escorted back into the hallway.

  “Either they think we’re some kind of visiting gods,” Marco said, running his fingers through his hair, “or they’re preparing us for slaughter.”

  Cass gulped. “Thanks for that cheery thought.”

  The guards quickly ushered us into the hallway, where two female attendants waited patiently with Aly. She was scowling, her own hair oiled and garlanded with flowers, her tunic replaced by a flowing toga-like gown. “If you take a picture, I will kick you,” she grumbled.

  “You look nice,” Marco said.

  Aly raised a skeptical eyebrow. “But not as nice as Daria, I’ll bet.”

  Together we were led back through the snaky corridors and out another door into the sunlight. A sweet tang hit us as we marched along a stone pathway, past colorful gardens and birds bursting with song. It was an area of the palace grounds we hadn’t seen on the way in. Trellises arched overhead, their purple blossoms tickling our faces. Simply clad wardum trudged in and out of a mud hut with bowls, shovels, and gardening equipment.

  We stopped at a door, flanked by two windows—an entire two-story house was actually built into the city’s inner wall and extended behind it. The guard opened the door and ordered us inside.

  Another team of wardum bowed to us in the entry room. Two of them carried trays of fruit and flagons of liquid. Two others took us on a brief tour. The first floor had a sun-filled room with a small pool, sleeping quarters, and a locker full of salt-cured meats. The second had simple bedrooms. We ended on a roof deck overlooking the palace grounds. The air was cool and sweet. As the slaves placed the fruit on a table surrounded by cushioned chairs, I stared in disbelief. “Is this where we’re staying?”

  “I thought goggle-eyes was going to throw us in jail,” Marco said, “not paradise!”

  As he dug in to the food with two fists, Cass, Aly, and I walked to the waist-high wall around the roof. We scanned the sculpted landscape of gardens and woods. I could see a small cattle pasture, a pig pen, a vegetable garden. “Do you see anything that looks like the Hanging Gardens?” Aly said.

  “Evitagen,” Cass said, shaking his head.

  Over the treetops, I spotted a distant flash of white. Grabbing a chair, I stood on it and caught a glimpse of what looked like the roof of a temple. “Maybe that’s the top of it. Looks like a ziggurat.”

  “Orff onooway fannow,” Marco said through a mouthful of food.

  “Either that’s really bad Backwardish, or you need to swallow,” Aly said.

  “I said, ‘only one way to find out,’” Marco replied. “Let’s go see the place.”

  He headed for the stairs. We all tromped down after him to the bottom floor. As w
e flung open the front door, two guards turned, gripping their spears. “Later, gladiator,” Marco said.

  He got about two steps. The guards went shoulder to shoulder, blocking his way.

  “Whoa, peace out,” Marco said, backing into the house. “Kumbaya. Nice work on the biceps. Who’s your trainer?”

  “What now?” Aly said.

  Marco turned. “We go to Plan B. There’s more than one way to escape.”

  He strode back upstairs, followed by Cass. But Aly was looking at something over the guards’ shoulders.

  At first I didn’t see anything unusual. But I did notice the birds had stopped chirping. Totally. Another sound floated through the gardens, like the trilling of an impossibly beautiful flute. The guards seemed to melt at the sound. Smiling, they turned away from us.

  Daria appeared around a bend in the path. She was still wearing a head scarf but no longer a veil. Her face was the picture of bliss as she sang. Now I knew why the birds had stopped. They couldn’t compete with a sound like that.

  I waved and shouted hello.

  “Hello!” Daria replied, as the guards parted, gesturing for her to come inside.

  “We can’t have her around while we’re trying to escape,” Aly hissed. “Why is she coming here?”

  I shrugged. “She’s the language person. The only one who managed to pick up a few words of English. Plus, in case you don’t remember, she saved our butts. I don’t know what she told the king, but it set us free. I’m guessing they think we’re exotic foreigners. He probably sent her to get further info from us.”

  Aly shook her head. “This is a trap, Jack. Think about the history. Babylon was always under attack from Persia. Nabu-na’id would have hated the Persians. Eventually they defeated him and took over Babylon. When they found out how he’d been ruling the city, they were appalled by what a bad king he was.”

  “I could have told them that,” I said.

  “And here we are, four strangers wandering into town,” Aly barreled on. “Of course they suspect we’re enemies! This girl could be a spy, Jack. The first line of interrogation. They treat us nicely, fill us with food and drink, and then—zap!—they move in for the torture.”