First Chapter Monday – Pride of Babylon

I’m waiting on the FINAL proof, but here’s a peek!

Chapter One

 

Hillah, Former Ottoman Empire

April 1917

 

Ana

Before the British troop transport truck shuddered to a halt, Ana Brown jumped to her feet. Hillah, a humble village made significant by the nearby archeological excavation, hummed with activity. She itched to join the bustle of the street below and push thoughts of Vernon Capehart out of her mind—again.

A herd of sheep ambled by in a billowing cloud of dust. Ana squinted against the rays of the Mesopotamian sun and raised her scarf to shield her nose from the pungent odors the sheep and their sun-ripened handlers kicked up. One little ragtag shepherdess gave a shy wave with her stick. Ana waved back, crafting a story about enchanted sheep and the children who tended them.

Mother speared her with a glare. “Must you acknowledge every peasant you see?” Without waiting for a response, she leaned heavily on the arm of the soldier helping her down from the back of the truck and grumbled about her joints jangling in their sockets.

As Mother and Father trudged up the guesthouse steps with stiff and jerky movements, a fresh-faced soldier with a rakish smile reached up to help Ana down. She placed an unsteady hand in his. After rattling around on the wooden bench for hours, she still shook. Once on the ground, she released him and arched her back like a cat to work out the kinks.

Bang. Lumbering away like an elephant, the military truck backfired. A horse squealed, and hoofbeats thundered in her direction. A riderless horse plunged headlong through the congested street, men and animals scrambling out of its path.

The little shepherdess stood frozen as her sheep scattered. Dark eyes round as the moon and mouth agape, she watched the beast gallop toward her.

Forbidding her knees to buckle, Ana hurtled toward the girl. She weaved her way through the bleating sheep. The horse reared, its enormous hooves pawing the air. The whites of its eyes showed in its disoriented panic. Any moment those hooves would come crashing down on them both.

Movement behind the horse caught Ana’s eye. A figure ran pell-mell toward them and leaped into the air.

Ana reached the girl and snatched her up. She tripped over a fleeing sheep and landed hard on her elbow. Pain shot up her arm. She rolled onto her back so she wouldn’t land on the girl. Digging her heels into the rutted road, she pushed away from danger. Huddling in the street against the guesthouse steps, Ana protected the trembling girl with her body. Someone screamed. It might have been her. She clung to the waif as hoofbeats receded.

Sandals slapped the dirt near Ana’s head, and she batted her eyes open. A young boy stared. His mouth curved from a shocked circle to a happy crescent. When the girl wriggled free, he blurted something in Arabic. The shepherdess scrambled to her feet, flashed Ana a beaming smile, and ran off with the boy.

The sheep responded to this tiny girl. They knew her voice. Just like Jesus with his sheep. What would His voice sound like if He called her?

Soon, the two tiny shepherds had their frightened sheep rounded up.

Breathing hard, Ana grabbed hold of the wooden step and pulled herself up. Her elbow throbbed, but she was alive and whole. She’d taken a risk, and she’d survived. A kernel of hope sprang to life in her heart. Maybe, just maybe, she could take charge of her life, risk the consequences, and change the course of her future.

The horse, still skittish but under control, pranced toward her. It had acquired a rider. Long, muscular legs directed the horse. Her eyes trailed upward. A firm, straight back supported broad shoulders. Sinewy arms controlled the reins with confident grace. With a shaky swallow, she lifted her gaze to the man’s face. His chiseled jaw spoke of determination. His startlingly bright eyes raked her from head to toe. But his perusal did not make her uneasy the way the soldier had. He looked concerned, assessing her for injury.

He looked wild and fierce and majestic, like an Assyrian prince masquerading as a pauper. Had she stumbled into a tale from The Arabian Nights?

She was staring. Lowering her gaze, she brushed at her skirt.

A huff sounded from the doorway above. “Christiana, good heavens. What have you done? I leave you alone for one moment, and just look at you.” Mother glared down her aquiline nose.

The rant cut through Ana’s musings. The accumulation of Mother’s insults over the year of Father’s sabbatical stung like thousands of paper cuts. Ever since Ana had defied their plan for her life, Mother had treated her like an obstinate child. Yet she was a grown woman. Some might say on the shelf.

She touched her hand to the tangled ruin of her bun. She had parted ways with her smart little straw hat somewhere between the bustling port in Basra and the dusty town of Hillah, and rolling in the dirt dealt a death blow to her coiffure.

“Coming, Mother.” She breathed a sigh of relief that her parents, already inside at the time, had taken no notice of the spectacle on the street. With a furtive glance at the mystery man’s retreating form, she turned to the guesthouse. She’d never see him again.

By the roadside, a beggar with twisted legs blinked at her. His rheumy eyes glistened. Before the truck backfired, he’d called out to the soldiers and extended his cup. Her chest tightened at the poor man’s plight. She slipped a coin to him, letting her palm brush the man’s gnarled hand.

Mother cleared her throat. “Christiana, decorum. Don’t fawn over every cripple.” Somehow, Mother made compassion seem vulgar.

Father stomped down the steps. With an impatient flick of his wrist, he gave the beggar a wide berth. When he placed his hand under Ana’s throbbing elbow to lead her into the guesthouse, she stifled a yelp. He ignored her disheveled state. Perhaps he was accustomed to it. “I was just telling your mother our plans for tomorrow. I have arranged for us to take a small detour—”

“To the ruins of Babylon? Oh, Father, I—”

Mother sniffed. “My heavens, girl, do not interrupt your father. Did your manners blow away with your bonnet? I truly hope you break that nasty habit before you and Vernon—”

Ana could not stomach another word about her anticipated marriage to Vernon Capehart. She had thought of him, of his empty flattery and his abundant threats, as little as possible on their travels. “Mother, I am not—”

“Young woman, now you are interrupting me.”

Father continued, ignoring Mother’s vexation. “We will spend the day at the Babylon excavation tomorrow before we head on to Baghdad.”

“Oh, Father, thank you. I had hoped, but never dreamed . . .” Her words trailed off, the prospect of seeing the ruins of Babylon capturing her thoughts.

“Christiana Elizabeth Brown, finish your sentences. Though you have an impressive education, you have little to show for it.” Mother threw up her hands. “It is a wonder Vernon is willing to take you on. He has his work cut out for him before he can introduce you to society in Chicago.”

“I am not a project to be undertaken, Mother. You know my position. Mr. Vernon Capehart should look elsewhere for a more suitable wife.”

“Nonsense. When we put this little expedition behind us, we will return to America and prepare your trousseau.”

And just like that, Mother directed a verbal torrent about announcements and parties and social standing—things Ana had no interest in—toward Father.

For Vernon, Ana was merely a means to an end—more acquisitions for his collection and a safeguard for his reputation. He regarded Ana as window dressing. A shiver traced down her spine.

Mother always answered Ana’s protests with genuine confusion. Vernon represented wealth, power, and prestige. What more could a girl want?

Father refused to listen to her concerns. He’d frozen her objections with his icy stare. “Your cooperation is key to our deal, Ana. Don’t make a fuss. He truly cares about you, and he has the resources to keep you comfortable.”

Ana had gone numb. Coffins were comfortable.

“I have given him my pledge and a promise to give the Institute my most valuable finds. If Mr. Capehart caught wind of any hint that you might renege on our agreement, he would not think twice about discrediting my character and ruining me professionally.”

Ana knew why. But the “our” in our agreement did not include her. She had never agreed. She pushed away the cloud of impending doom and gave herself over to daydreams of Nebuchadnezzar and the renowned city of Babylon.

 

In her room that evening, Ana fought with her trunk’s rusty hinges to pull out her most comfortable outfit. She chose a pale green, linen blouse, a brown tonneau skirt, and the well-loved boots she wore when she accompanied her father on excavations. Her fingers skimmed past the ridiculously tight corset to pluck the revolutionary undergarment of nothing but cotton and ribbons from the depths of her baggage.

The first time she had ridden a camel, before war rampaged through Europe and the Ottoman Empire, she had worn a corset. She couldn’t catch her breath and fought to keep from fainting. At the Babylon site, she would be more comfortable. She could breathe, at least, in her cutting edge Warner Brothers brassiere, while looking a tad ridiculous in the fashionable but voluminous skirt. Tonneau sounded more elegant than barrel, but a barrel by any other name would look just as ungainly. If only she could have worn trousers, she’d have sailed over that blasted sheep. Instead, she landed in the dirt, bruising her elbow and her pride—not her most graceful moment.

By the light of the oil lamp, she read everything she brought pertaining to Babylon. After reading Daniel’s account in her Bible and the manuscripts on the cylinders and tablets found at Borsippa and Babylon, she opened Robert Koldewey’s book, The Excavations at Babylon. On the morrow, she would see the Ishtar Gate rising out of the distant past, and she just might meet the famed archeologist himself.