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“The Marduk priests go to perform marriage ceremonies in the villages, I said. Other Marduk priests go to the south. We priests of Shamash prefer to perform such ceremonies in Arakhsamna, Sabatu, and Adaru.”

  “You have months for weddings?”

  Nidintulugal looked surprised. “I know the names of months vary from place to place, but certainly you understand of what I speak.”

  Shilo raised a hand to scratch her head, then stopped herself, not wanting to smear any of the nut dye. “Uhm, no. I don’t understand.”

  Nidintulugal let out a deep sigh. “I know you are from far away, Shilo, but do you not have a calendar?”

  “Of course I have a calendar.” My favorite is the Far Side cartoon-a-day calendar, and I keep it on my desk.

  “And does it not have alternating twenty-nine- and thirty-day months? And does not your king add a month three times every eight years, or more if the calendar falls too far from the seasons? And do you not have dates for festivals, such as the Festival of the Carnelian Statue of Su-Sin? The Festival for the Chariot of Nergal? Dates for offerings to Lugalasal and Lugalbanda? The Day of Anointing the Throne of Shamash? Do you not have lucky days?”

  “Ummm…”

  “We have two hundred and forty-two. And half lucky days? We have thirty. Do you not set aside days twenty-six and twenty-seven of each month for penance in preparation for the moon disappearing on the twenty-eighth?”

  “Ummm … you really have months for marriage?” Shilo tried to change the subject without altering it too much. I think I liked it better when he was quiet.

  “There are months for all manner of things. King Nebuchadnezzar recites penitential psalms in the months of Nisannu, Simanu, Arakhsamna, Tashritu, and Abu. He cleans his robes and skirts in Nisannu, Ajaru, Abu, and Tashritu. You may move out of your dwelling in Simanu, Abu, Sabatu, and Adaru, and into a dwelling in Nisannu, Ajaru, Adaru, and Arakhsamna. A palace can be founded in…”

  “Wow, where I come from we only have to worry about the first and last of a month for rents and mortgages, bills and such. And I don’t have to worry about any of those things because I’m only fifteen.”

  He shook his head, exasperated that she didn’t seem to understand the simple matter of days, and directed his full attention on the road.

  So he considers the discussion ended. Shilo, however, needed a little more information.

  “I should have asked this earlier, Nidin, but does Babylon have hotels? Motels? Super 8s of Mesopotamia?”

  “So many of your words sound pleasing to my ears, Shilo, but they are as cryptic as when we first met.” His face looked stern, but his eyes glimmered with amusement.

  “Look, I’m very sorry. When I’m nervous I tend to babble on—” She put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I made a pun.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I talk when I’m nervous.”

  “Then try not to be so nervous, Shilo.”

  “You like my company, don’t you, Nidin?”

  He drew his lips tight and shook his head again. “I find you interesting, Shilo. And I think Shamash put you in my path as a test.”

  “A test of what?”

  “I have not yet figured that out.”

  They passed into the city, Shilo shivering and drawing herself into her robe. Act natural, she told herself. Walk casual. She held her breath when she passed by a guard. All of this notion to save dragon eggs had seemed intimidating but doable when Ulbanu had spelled it out in the cave. Shilo knew roughly how heavy an egg was because she’d carried the bolt of cloth, and she knew they were in tunnels or chambers somewhere below the Hanging Gardens.

  Perhaps it had sounded doable earlier because she wanted to return to No-wheres-ville, Wisconsin … and because she wanted to save dragonkind and mankind.

  But now—in this city—guards and buildings all around, and her more than two thousand years out of sync, everything seemed suddenly impossible. She gasped for air.

  “What is wrong?”

  “Nidin, I’m hyperventilating.”

  A look of horror appeared on his face. “You are what?”

  “Not dying,” she quickly added. “I’m just real nervous, having trouble breathing. Happens every once in a while. Freshman year before a swim meet, speech team competition, before my first date.” She waved a hand in front of her mouth. “Is there someplace to stash the ox and cart? Near the Hanging Gardens?”

  With a nod, he pulled the animal in that direction.

  She slowed her breathing a little. It’s all right, she told herself. Everything’s fine. No one’s stopped us and asked questions, we look just like the locals. Heck, Nidin is a local. Slow it down. Slow it down, or someone will look too closely at me.

  They went down a road so narrow there were only inches on each side of the cart.

  “The courtyard, Nidin. We passed through the courtyard and through the Ishtar Gate. I didn’t look for two strangers. We have to turn around and—”

  “We will stable the ox first, Shilo, else we will be looked badly upon.”

  “What?”

  “Standing with an ox in the courtyard that could sully the ground with its—”

  “I understand, we ditch the ox and … we stable the ox and cart, take the nuts and robes, and go back to the courtyard.”

  “And hope that the dragon’s allies have not already come and gone.”

  The stable was about a block to the south of the Hanging Gardens, and while Nidintulugal bartered with the stable master—settling on the other pair of Shilo’s silver earrings—she scanned the edge of the garden, trying to find a way below it.

  “It’s not going to be so easy as looking for a manhole cover on a city street,” she whispered. “No such things here, it seems.”

  The stable master inspected the earrings. “How long will you be in the city—”

  “Ulbanu,” Shilo cut in, fearful Nidintulugal would supply his name. She figured Ulbanu was a female name, since it belonged to a female dragon, and so would serve as hers.

  “We will be here a few days at most, good sir. Those earrings should cover that.”

  “And if you are here longer, Ulbanu—”

  “Then I will pay you more. But we should not be here long, I say.”

  “Visiting relatives?”

  Nosey, she thought. People are the same all over. “Yes, relatives. We are here for a wedding. It is the month for it, you know.” One of the months anyway.

  He nodded and smiled, accepting the answer and apparently pleased to have a tidbit of information.

  When they left, they walked along the southern edge of the Hanging Gardens, both of them looking for a way beneath it, and Shilo avoiding Nidintulugal’s gaze. She expected him to berate her for lying.

  “The river,” Shilo said finally, “as a last resort the river.”

  “I do not—”

  “As a way to get below the Hanging Gardens. Whoever designed the machine that pulls water from the river did it by bringing the water under the ground. There are no pipes running on the surface. Not that I can see.”

  Nidintulugal smiled. “You are wise, Shilo.”

  And still terribly, terribly nervous, she thought. And wanting very much for Mission Impossible to be finished so she would be forced to come up with another excuse for missing Big Mick’s fish boil.

  “Remember that hotel I asked you about, Nidin? Babylon has places like that, right? Places for visitors to sleep?”

  “An inn?”

  She nodded. “We’ll need one, near the Gardens if we can.”

  “To the north of it, yes, another near the courtyard, one near the Temple of Shamash and the Temple of—”

  “North of the Hanging Gardens. We’ll need a place to stay.”

  “My temple, I can—”

  “Not a chance. Nidin, we don’t want anyone to know you’re here … just in case they’re looking for you. The guards might be looking for you just so they can find me. And we need a place to think, to—”
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  “I will arrange a room, Shilo.” He looked at her hands and pointed to one of her silver rings. Fortunately it was not her favorite. “The inn master would prefer food or drink for barter, but silver is acceptable.”

  “I’ll bet it is.” She tugged it off, then smudged some of the dye around her finger to even the color. “I will meet you in the courtyard, Nidin. Please don’t be long.”

  “When I have gained our lodgings, I will carry the nuts and the garments to the courtyard.” He cradled them in his arms, then turned down a side street by the Gardens, disappearing in the growing shadows cast by weeping willows.

  Shilo felt her heart speed up. Alone again in Babylon shouldn’t be so bad, especially since she looked like she fit in here. But the importance of her mission weighed her down and added to her edginess. “Don’t hyperventilate again,” she whispered. “Don’t cry, don’t—” Her father had survived his trip through the puzzle and lived to tell Meemaw about it. He was younger than her then.

  “I can do this. I have to do this.” She fixed her gaze forward, head tilted slightly down, grateful that it was nearing sunset and that the shadows cast by the taller buildings both cooled her and helped conceal her features.

  The city’s odors pleasantly surrounded her—the scents of evening meals being cooked, the fragrances of the flowers blooming in the Gardens, the sweat and perfumes of passersby. She tried to concentrate on those things to keep her mind off what was to come. The sounds were the same as before, music and laughter, and conversations that she could understand this time. Babylon was a lot like any big city in Georgia, or probably in Wisconsin, too.

  Do the people here have the same concerns as in Slade’s Corners? she wondered. Do mothers worry about the health of their children? Do men fret over their family’s wealth or lack of it? Are they happy? Bored? Excited about an upcoming marriage? Angry over an unexpected death? Do they look forward to someone’s birthday or visit? Are they planning a vacation? Do they love as fiercely? Do they get as depressed as often?

  She passed a young man and woman engrossed in each other’s company. They stood beneath a large balcony, leaning on one of the thick support columns. The woman was smiling and blushing, dipping her head and giggling softly. The man held a loaf of bread in one hand and reached up with his free hand to stroke the woman’s face.

  Shilo moved on, pleased that she recognized buildings and statues. She’d paid attention to their trip to the stables and the Hanging Gardens, and she’d remembered from the tapestry map in the Temple of Shamash that the roads were laid out like a grid—much the way roads in many American cities were. She wasn’t lost.

  So far no one had paid her more attention than a passing, polite nod. Of course, she’d not tarried anywhere to draw attention to herself. She recalled the advice her father gave her when they went to Atlanta two summers past: “In big cities, walk like you know where you’re going, even if you don’t know. Don’t look like a stranger or a tourist, it makes you easy pickings.” Shilo doubted there were many pickpockets or muggers in Babylon, not like in Atlanta. This city seemed simpler and cleaner, a place she thought she could live in if it had indoor plumbing and air-conditioning.

  Minutes later, she saw walls and building trim displaying lions, suns, bulls, and the Ishtar dragon. She knew the courtyard was just around the corner, and the gate she’d appeared in front of days ago was near.

  Don’t hyperventilate, she thought. Keep it slow, relax.

  There were more guards in the courtyard today than on her previous visit. She had spotted them when she and Nidintulugal came through with the ox and cart. She scanned the courtyard and the balconies on buildings to the south and west of the open area. There were thick columns she could stand behind, which supported railed balconies, and the shadows would help conceal her while she waited.

  Waited for whom?

  And waited for how long?

  Would she have to stay in the courtyard all through the night and the next day before the two the dragon picked to help arrived?

  Might the dragon’s two other pairs of hands not arrive at all?

  And would Nidintulugal find her if she hid herself behind a post where the shadows were the thickest?

  Would …

  She heard someone call for the guards. A horn blatted once, then again. She grasped her robe and held it up just high enough so her feet wouldn’t become entangled in it. Then she ran toward the ruckus for all she was worth.

  The dragon’s helpers had indeed arrived.

  19

  Demon Bowls

  Arshaka sat in his comfortable chair, feet propped up and a small, wheel-thrown earthenware bowl on his lap.

  He was alone, having dismissed two of his attendants, who had brought him news that King Nebuchadnezzar was safely ensconced in his vacation palace.

  The bowl he inspected was unique, not in its design, but in its inscription—similar in form to the ones on the shelf in the den he’d visited the other night, and to a larger one in his own collection. By necessity, each inscription was different, the Old One had said.

  Arshaka had already known that. An archaeologist by trade—at least in his previous occupation and residence—he’d studied bowls such as this. They were a good part of the reason he’d come to Babylon.

  He ran his fingers around the edge. It was smooth and felt pleasant to his touch, but there was a slight chip in it. Still, a marvelous specimen. Centuries from now, Arshaka knew such specimens would be found at digs in Iran and Iraq, and that his peers had dated them to sixth, seventh, and eighth centuries A.D.

  Nowhere else in the world had such bowls been uncovered, and the ones that archaeologists had found in Iran and Iraq had inscriptions in Pahlavi, or Persian, and in three Aramaic dialects: Mandaean, Syriac, and Jewish-Aramaic. Like the bowl on his lap, and on most of those on the shelf in the den, the inscriptions were written in spirals that started at the rim and moved toward the center. Some bowls were also inscribed on the outside. He had only two of those.

  Arshaka had been fascinated by the bowls in his other “life,” as he liked to think of it. And now he had come to be obsessed with them. The bowls, the eggs, and the red-haired girl he was confident the guards would find, all would bring him inestimable power.

  He had translated pieces of the most ancient script on some of the bowls he’d collected. Dark words of hope and hopelessness that rolled off his tongue as if he were a native speaker. With time he could translate anything; such was one of his gifts.

  The bowl in his lap was achingly easy to decipher, though words were missing because the ink had smudged. It read: Gemekaa, daughter of Apuulluunideeszu, with her twin male sons, has heard the voice of the weak. Gemekaa has heard men fighting and women raging, women who are cursed and afflicted because their descendants are tainted. Gemekaa has become cursed herself, and this vessel offers a cure. Yazdun, Ruphael, Yaqrun, Sahtiel, Prael, Dudu, and Laquip have seized Gemekaa and the raging women by the tufts of their hair and broke off their hidden horns. Yazdun and Laquip tied Gemekaa and the raging women by their braids and shouted at the demons in their heads: “Leave these women and end the bitterness of the curse. In the names of Azdai and Prael and Sahtiel, we release you. End the curse, you idol demons, surrender now and embrace the sickness you have wrought. In the names of Denday and Negray we heal these women and annul the demons’ work. Upon an unsplit stone, upon this new bowl of clay, we send back the evil.”

  The text was Mandaean, an Eastern Aramaic dialect, and had been composed on the bowl in three wedge-shaped panels. Arshaka recognized the ramblings as a spell and counterspell, both intended to protect the owners of the bowl, in this case Gemekaa and two nameless cursed women, against the demons being cast out.

  The archaeologists Arshaka had associated with in his previous life did not believe in demons, but they recognized that the people who once lived in Babylon believed in them.

  “They were fools, my so-called peers,” Arshaka said, using the Aramaic languag
e on the bowl. He liked the sounds of the words, and more than that, he liked the fact that he could speak it fluently. “Fools not to believe in demons. And fools to think these bowls had but one purpose.”

  Some of the bowls Arshaka and his colleagues had uncovered in the largest Iranian dig were decorated with names of Babylonian gods and symbols, called ouroboros, and magical motifs. A few of the bowls, the most intact that were removed from the site, had been discovered facedown, and in one case two bowls had been cemented together with pitch. They’d carefully pried them apart in a restoration room at the East Azerbaijan Archaeological Museum. Inside were fragments of a human skull and crushed eggshells. Arshaka’s colleagues were confident that based on the positions of the bowls in the digs that they were intended as traps for demons.

  “The one thing my so-called peers were correct about,” he mused.

  The bowls indeed were designed to protect individuals and places from the most malevolent of demons, and most often were put upside-down in the corner of a room. The Old One had told Arshaka that corners are the most vulnerable for demon intrusion, as where the floor, ceiling, and walls meet creates an opening to another plane of existence.

  There, demons find it easier to enter this world.

  So the bowls lured the demons to them, trapped them underneath, and held them there because of the protection spells. Trapped, the demons could not hurt the humans who lived in the home, nor could they damage anything else there.

  Bowls with certain incantations inscribed on them were found in cemeteries—where the Babylonians believed demons were plentiful. Sometimes such bowls were placed near the intended victim’s house. In almost all cases, these bowls were filled with eggshells. The archaeologists had no clue about the significance of the shells.

  At the time, Arshaka hadn’t either. But after spending a few decades in Babylon, he understood it well.

  The egg was the beginning of life, a powerful and precious symbol that could also mean the beginning of a relationship between entities, the start of a new era.

  “The beginning of the reign of Arshaka,” he hushed.