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The pile of dunges squelched under the shepherd's barefoot.

Bazito cursed, using the same earthy words her father and brothers did.

She cursed not just the dung, but also the sheep who produced it.

That sheep's sire and several generations of ancestors, the general concept of sheep,

and the fact that she had to be here on this scrubby hillside,

stepping in wet, fresh dung on a hot day. All of that suffered her tongue's sharp attention.

No, Bazi too was not happy to be out here with her family's flock. She was 15 years old and ready

for a bigger world than the thin grassland on the edge of the desert. The market was far more excited.

The sound of silver clinking as it changed hands,

the smell of freshly baked pies,

stuffed with dates and mutton and spices,

the sight of interesting people from faraway Syria or Elam

who didn't spend their days stepping in sheepdom.

Bazito didn't want to go that far. Babylon was her goal, a great city, a short trip down

river.

Bazito loved the city. Her father had showed her the huge temples and the extraordinary images

of the great god Marduk and his dragon, Mushuosu. But the real appeal had been the market.

They had gone to meet a merchant, her aunt's new husband. The man wanted to start dealing in wool

and offered to buy their whole year's supply with silver, real silver. Basito had only seen

silver before once when her oldest brother spent a month digging a big canal and got paid in the medal.

...