Lost in Babylon. Peter Lerangis

Torquin,” Torquin grunted indignantly, “who is able-bodied … er.”

      Fiddle groaned. “This is not in my job description. Or Tork’s. We were told one Loculus in each of the Seven Wonders. Not in some fantasy time warp—in the real world.”

      “The second Loculus, dear Fiddle,” Bhegad said, “is indeed in one of the Wonders.”

      “Right—so we should be digging, not spinning sci-fi stories,” Fiddle said. “You see those ruins down the river—that’s where the Hanging Gardens were!”

      “But our Select have gone to where the Hanging Gardens are.” Bhegad gestured toward the water, his eyes shining. “I believe they have found the ancient city of Babylon.”

      

       hidden compartments?” Professor Bhegad asked, reading off a list of supplies. “Leather sandals?”

      “Check,” said Nirvana. “Soaked in the river and dried out, for that ancient worn-in look. And you have no idea how hard it was to find size thirteen double E, for Mr. Hoopster.”

      “Sorry,” Marco said sheepishly. “Big feet mean a big heart.”

      “Oh, please,” Fiddle said with a groan.

      “Tunics?” Bhegad pressed onward. “Hair dye to cover up the lambdas? Can’t let the Babylonians see them, you know. Their time frame is close to the time of the destruction of Atlantis, almost three millennia ago. The symbol might mean something to them.”

      “Do a pirouette, guys,” Nirvana said.

      We turned slowly, showing Bhegad the dye job Nirvana had done to the backs of our heads. “It was a little hard to match the colors,” Nirvana said. “Especially with Jack. There’s all this red streaked in with the mousy brown, and I had to—”

      “If I need further information, I’ll ask!” Bhegad snapped.

      “Well, excuuuuuse me for talking.” Nirvana folded her arms and plopped down on the floor of the tent, not far from where I was studying.

      We were feverishly trying to learn as much as we could about Babylon and the Hanging Gardens. Professor Bhegad had been tense and demanding over the last couple of days. “Ramsay!” he barked. “Why were the Gardens built?”

      “Uh … I know this … because the king dude wanted to make his wife happy,” Marco said. “She was from a place with mountains and stuff. So the king was like, ‘Hey babe, I’ll build you a whole mountain right here in the desert, with flowers and cool plants.’”

      “Williams!” Bhegad barked. “Tell me the name of the, er, king dude—as you so piquantly call it—who built the Hanging Gardens. Also, the name of the last king of Babylon.”

      “Um …” Cass said, sweat pouring down his forehead. “Uh …”

      “Nebuchadnezzar the Second and Nabonidus!” Bhegad closed his eyes and removed his glasses, slowly massaging his forehead with his free hand. “This is hopeless …”

      Cass shook his head. He looked like he was about to cry. “I should have known that. I’m losing it.”

      “You’re not losing it, Cass,” I said.

      “I am,” he replied. “Seriously. Something is wrong with me. Maybe my gene is mutating. This could really mess all of us up—”

      “I will give you a chance to redeem yourself, Williams,” Bhegad said. “Give me the names the Babylonians actually called Nebuchadnezzar and Nabonidus. Come now, dig deep!”

      Cass spun around. “What? I didn’t hear that—”

      “Nabu-Kudurri-Usur and Nabu-na’id!” Bhegad said. “Don’t forget that! How about Nabu-na’id’s evil son? Marco, you take a turn!”

      “Nabonudist Junior?” Marco said.

      “Belshazzar!” Bhegad cried out in frustration. “Or Bel-Sharu-Usur! Hasn’t anyone been paying attention?”

      “Give us a break, Professor, these are hard to remember!” Aly protested.

      “You need to know these people cold—what if you meet them?” Bhegad said. “Black—what was the main language spoken?”

      “Arabic?” Aly said.

      Bhegad wiped his forehead. “Aramaic—Aramaic! Along with many other languages. Many nationalities lived in Babylon, each with a different language—Anatolians, Egyptians, Greeks, Judaeans, Persians, Syrians. The great central temple of Etemenanki was also known as the …?”

      “Tower of Lebab—aka Babel!” Cass blurted out. “Which is where we get the term babble! Because people gathered around it and talked and prayed a lot.”

      “Cass will fit right in,” Marco said, “speaking Backwardish.”

      Bhegad tapped the table impatiently. “Next I quiz you on the numerical system.” He plopped down a sheet of paper with all kinds of gobbledygook scribbled on it:

      “Memorize these numbers,” Bhegad said. “Remember, our columns are ones, tens, hundreds, et cetera. Theirs were one, sixty, thirty-six hundred, et cetera.”

      “Can you go slowly,” Marco said. “Like we have normal intelligence?”

      “Those, my boy,” Bhegad said, pronouncing each word exaggeratedly, “may perhaps resemble bird prints to you, but they’re numbers. Start from that fact … and read! We will have a moment of silence while you attempt to learn. And I attempt to settle my roiling stomach.”

      As Fiddle pulled him back toward a table where his medicines were set up, I slid down to the ground with a book in hand, next to a pouting Nirvana. “Dang, what did he eat for breakfast?” she mumbled.

      “He’s just worried, that’s all,” I said. “About us being in a wormhole.”

      Across the tent, Cass and Aly huddled over a tablet, studying research documents the professor had downloaded—histories, ancient–language study manuals, reports on social behavior norms. “Okay, so the upper class dudes were awilum,” Cass was saying, “the lower class was mushkenum, and the slaves were …”

      “Wardum,” Aly replied. “Like wards of the state. You can remember it that way.”

      “Mud-raw backward,” Cass said. “That’s easier.”

      “What? Mud-raw?” Marco slapped the table. “This is ridiculous. Yo, P. Beg, this isn’t Princeton. We can’t learn the entire history of Babylon in two days. We’re not going there to live. Let’s just pop over and bring this thing back.”

      I thought Professor Bhegad would freak. For a moment his face went beet red. Then he sighed, removing his glasses and wiping his forehead. “You know, in the Mahabharata, the Hindus wrote of a king who made a rather quick journey to heaven. When he returned the world had aged many years, people were feeble and small. Their brains had rotted away.”

      “So wait, we’re like that king?” Marco said. “And you’re the world?”

      “It’s a metaphor,” Bhegad said.

      “I never metaphor I didn’t like,” Marco said, “but dude, your brain won’t rot away. It’s preserved in awesome.”

      “I