The Orphan by Peter Lerangis Page A

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.
    â€œThe 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.

CHAPTER TWO
    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 myself—no 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 girl—or 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 Babylon—Mother’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