Angels at the Gate (22 page)

Since we are out, I decide to refresh my memory of the city's layout. It has been many summers since I was here. Abram often told us the story of his father's disillusionment with Babylon, how King Hammurabi stole a millennium of knowledge and culture from Abram's home city of Ur. But I have always been intrigued with the laws of Babylon's previous king. I remember my father taking me to see the great black stone edifice that stood near the Temple of Marduk, the chief god of Babylon.

I let memory guide my feet in that direction, toward the city's heart. Nami, more relaxed and herself in the early morning quiet, briefly investigates a small pile of refuse and then trots back to my side. I love the airy grace of her gait. She moves as though she is only partially bound to the earth, especially when she stretches out to chase prey or just to run for pleasure. She too is a daughter of the wind.

Dawn paints the eastern-facing buildings a lambent coral. I glance here and there, taken by admiration of one site and then another—until I stop before the seven-tiered House of the Gods that rises like a mountain above me, engulfing the street and opposite buildings in its shadow. The brick walls stretch farther along each edge than I can throw a stone, and as high up. I put my hands on Nami's head and make her look up at the ziggurat. “It is named Linking Earth and Heaven,” I tell her.

She is unimpressed.

We proceed just a bit further to Marduk's temple and there, just as I remembered, is the black stone, incised with writing. The angular marks are codes that govern the land. Despite my distrust of their power, I am awed in the presence of this stone.

“Can you read it?”

The voice at my back startles me. A woman has approached so quietly even Nami did not alert me, perhaps because she is absorbed smelling
beneath the tail of a dog in the nearest alley. I turn to see a woman almost my height, the quality of her robes declaring her a noble. A scarf draped low over her head hides her forehead and hair, but her eyes are a clear gray settled in a nest of fine lines. I cannot tell if age or the sun's chisel has etched them.

“Only a little,” I say, surprised at the sadness in my voice. Suddenly, I miss the mornings sitting with Ishmael in Sarai's tent, learning the history and heritage of our tribe. I miss the sound of her voice instructing us in the long litany of stories. I miss snitching an extra date from the bowl and making Ishmael laugh with a whispered-aside prediction that our grandchildren's heads will split with all they will have to know.

The woman's eyes travel my face and down my body. Instinctively, I increase the hunch of my shoulders. In the past moons, I have had to tie the bindings across my breasts tighter and tighter. Her eyes burn through me as though she can see my deception. If she does, she does not speak it, but lifts her hand to the black stone. “What words can you read of this one?”

I follow her hand, noticing the stains of age on them and relaxing a bit that she will not tear from me what I have sought to hide all my life. Have I been boy so long, I fear being who I truly am? The beats of my heart slow, and I turn to study the words, my teeth chewing on my lower lip in concentration. It was not Sarai who taught us the written word, but Abram, who had been a scribe in Ur.

“A man,'” I say in halting interpretation, “who—?”

“Takes.”

“‘A man who takes the eye of a noble, if he is a noble, shall give his eye?'”

She nods. “Close enough. And this one?”

“If a man takes a woman to wife, but has no—”

“Intercourse,” she supplies.

I begin again, wanting to please this woman as if she were Sarai or my father. “If a man takes a woman to wife, but has no intercourse with her, this woman is no wife to him.”

She purses her lips, appearing intrigued with me. “Where are you from?”

By this time, Nami has returned to stand at my side. My hand rests on her shoulders.

“From the land of Canaan and the tribe of Abram.”

Her brows rise. “The Abram who fought the kings of Chedorlaomer?”

Despite myself, my shoulders straighten in pride that she has heard of my tribe. As my father often quoted,
News is the fleetest of goods traveling the desert
. “Yes, that is he.”

Her mouth twists—in amusement or vexation? “Are you his son?”

“No, I am a cousin of Abram's house.”

“And is your father here in Babylon?”

A tightness in my belly reminds me I do not know who my enemies are. Still, I see no reason not to answer her. “No, my father is … dead.” I am surprised the word emerges without choking me.

Her eyes and voice soften slightly. “My sorrow to your house.”

“Thank you, Lady.”

I do not know who she is, but my father taught me to read strangers and to learn their desires by listening and observing, so I would know when tongues shaped lies. I gave her the due of her rank without thinking about it.

“Was your father a trader?” she asks.

My brows lift. Did this woman read me as I read others?

The wind shifts, bringing me the scent of her perfume. This is the second time I have inhaled that fragrance, and I almost fall to my knees. The first occasion was as a child when my father and I were allowed briefly inside the temple at En Gedi where the balsam is used by the priests to entice the gods' favor.

“Are you unwell?” she asks.

“I am well.” I have forgotten her first question.

“Was your father a trader?” she asks again.

“Yes, he was.”

How did this woman come to possess the balsam? Who was she? Was it merely a coincidence? Father had possessed only a few vials of it, at least since I was born, but he could have brought it here … or it could have been stolen when the raider slew my father. It could mean our trek across the desert was not in vain, as we so feared. If the balsam is here, Raph could also be.

She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Traders travel and often speak other languages—?” She pauses, but I do not leap into the void of her question. A subtle shift in her expression makes me think perhaps I have earned a bit of respect from her, as well.

“Do you speak other tongues?” she asks directly, the softness gone from her demeanor.

“I do, Lady.”

“Do you know the language of the Egyptians?”

“I do.”

She considers me. “What is your name?”

“I am Adir, son of Zakiti of the tribe of Abram.” My shoulders refuse to hunch, though I instruct them to do so.

Her eyes narrow, her voice now all command. “Come to the king's court in two days at the hour of the sun's peak.”

Abruptly, she turns in a swirl of robe.

“Lady!” I call, panic rising into my throat. “Whom do I say sent for me?” I know better than to appear with some vague story about being summoned.

Over her shoulder, she says, “Say you are there at the will of Tabni.”

Wonder … is the seed of knowledge.

—Francis Bacon

I
N A STOLEN MOMENT OF
peace, Mika, Chiram, and I sit in the small walled garden at the back of our house in the shade of an old fig tree, drinking beer through long reed straws to avoid the floating barley hulls. Bearing a tray of full cups, our elusive slave appears and serves us, saying with a slight bow, “He who does not know beer, does not know what is good”—the first words he has spoken. It seems our hosts are happy for us to stay as long as we wish.

A chameleon crawls onto a stone ledge, catching Nami's attention. It is almost invisible, its coloring matching the stone. As a child, I would sometimes grab one by the tail to see it turn darker. Perhaps it thought that made it appear fierce. Nami takes a step toward it, fascinated.

I have told neither Mika nor Chiram of my early-morning encounter the previous day or my summons. I would confide it to Mika, but have not had the opportunity to speak to him in private. He will not leave the house.

When the chameleon rotates one of its bulging eyes toward Nami, she is unable to stand the suspense and lunges, sending the chameleon scampering into the refuge of a crack. With the sigh of a hunter that has missed, she settles at my feet.

The garden is lush with leeks, cucumbers, watercress, onions, and garlic, watered by the small canal that runs through it and also runs in clay pipes through the walls into the house. Chiram kneels in the dirt, investigating the size of a garlic bud. “Too early,” he sighs, covering it back up.

A grape vine winds up the brick wall that provides privacy, though we can hear the shouts of our neighbors' children and must keep our voices low.

“I should stay inside as much as possible,” Mika says.

Chiram looks up at that. “Why? It is your forsaken brother we are here for.”

As always, Chiram's resentment fails to provoke Mika. I wonder if Chiram would speak with such contempt had he seen the blue fire in Mika's hands. But Chiram always had little respect for anyone except my father and has never shown any interest in obedience to El. Whatever gods he worships, he keeps silent about it.

“I am fully aware Adir came here because of Raph,” Mika responds evenly, “and you are here only because of Adir.”

Chiram waves a dirty hand. “A splitting of a hay blade. Why do you stay inside while we are to tromp the streets to find word of your brother?”

I lean toward Chiram. “His name is Raph. Why can you not call him by his name?”

Chiram spits and glares at me.

I close my eyes. Why do I even make the attempt?

Mika stands, towering over us both, spreading his hands. “This is why. If you are to ask questions quietly, my presence will ruin it.”

This is true. There is no way anyone with half a mind would not connect Mika with Raph, and no way he could walk upright through the city and not attract attention. I doubt he could stay bent over in the manner he entered the city for very long. The last thing we need is for the people who stole Raph to take Mika. What would I do then?

“Why would anyone here want your brother?” Chiram grumbles, echoing the question that has plagued me countless times. I have not shared anything with him about the box, though he saw the raiders' interest in it when they took Raph. He has not asked about any connection, and I find that strange. Chiram is not stupid. Mean, yes, but not stupid.

“Chiram,” Mika says, “the longer you fight against helping us, the longer we will be here.”

Chiram cannot argue against this logic. To avoid acknowledging it, he goes to the
dâlu
, a counter-weighted dipper that dips into water and
allows one to lift it without effort. He draws a bucket, takes a long drink, and then pours the remainder over his head. It runs down his grimy face and into his beard, beading in the thick fold of his neck. We are not long enough from the desert to lose the wonder of water's abundance here. I wish he would douse himself several times more and lose the stench that clings to him, but turning my head, I sniff my own clothes, and I am not much better, despite my baths.

Finally, when enough time has passed to save his face, Chiram blinks at Mika. “So what is it exactly you want Adir and me to do?”

Mika sits back on the brick bench. “Just see what you can learn. All we know that Raph is here.”

“But we do not really know that,” I say, weaving my fingers together. “He could have been brought here and then taken somewhere else.”

“Or that son of a desert rodent might have lied,” Chiram adds, taking a knife from his belt and examining the edge.

“He was not lying,” I say. I am certain of this.

“You cannot know that.” Chiram's thick finger shakes in my direction.

It is an old argument, one rehashed many times during our long journey across the desert. I could mention the balsam, but I am not certain my father shared the secret of its source, even with Chiram, and I do not wish to endanger the people of En Gedi.

“Perhaps,” I say tightly, “we would have learned more if your knives had not been so eager to bite.”

“I killed the man who killed your father. Not a grateful bone in your body, boy.”

“I—”

“Enough!” Mika's voice is one of command, and we both fall silent. Mika's ire is not easily provoked, and I regret yielding to the lure of an argument with Chiram.

W
HEN WE LEAVE
the house the following morning, Chiram grasps my shoulders. “Stay within my sight,” he says, his fingers biting into my flesh.

“All right,” I mumble and crinkle my nose.

As soon as he turns his back, I slip away, disappearing into the throng. He will yell at me later, but his shouts, though they frightened me as a
child, have never been more than that. Then a thought arises. Perhaps he restrained his hand only because he would have to answer to my father. Would Chiram strike me, now my father is with the ancestors? And once again, that most perplexing of questions: Why did he follow me across the desert? He says it was to honor his promise to my father, but I wonder if that is really so.

The smells and sights of the bazaar swiftly capture my attention—hills of spices the colors of desert sunset mound reed baskets. Dates, figs, lentils, and barley heap more baskets. The complex scent of spices bites my nose, and both Nami and I catch the tantalizing whiff of meat fat sizzling in sesame oil. Despite the generous breakfast brought by the slave, my mouth waters, and my stomach insists that sufficient room exists should I stumble upon the smell's source. It is unfortunate such aromas must compete with those of men and women who are not wealthy enough to have the bathing rooms or, like Chiram, have simply not availed themselves of the canals or public cisterns.

A man holds out his palm with a well-oiled story about his ill fortune. I ignore him, but am unable to resist the upturned face of a thin child. He grins in delight when I press a small ring of copper into his hand. “May you be invisible to the demons!” he says and disappears. I move quickly along, lest he tell other urchins of his good fortune with me.