Sunrise on the Mediterranean

by Suzanne Frank

  He pulled away, raining liquid fire on her, salt from his depths that mingled with the tears torn from her deepest heart. Pharaoh walked away, pausing at the door. “Spend a month with your bride. Return to Akhetaten as my coregent.”

  The door shut as RaEm curled up, wrapped in the cooling fire of her god.

  PART III

  CHAPTER 6

  MY FIRST WEEK OF SLAVERY passed in a drug-induced blur. Somehow we made it from Ashqelon to Mamre. The only points of clarity for me were each night when Cheftu made me shift the chains through the holes in my ears. I would cry and complain, but he was right. If I left them still, then as the piercing healed, the chains would be sealed into position. This way, at least, though the scars might be permanent, the chains would not be.

  “Keep thinking of the future, chérie,” he said. “This will not last forever.”

  As I was enduring the rawness and ache that resulted in a never-ending headache, I had a hard time thinking of the future.

  One night, as the hundreds of us from Ashqelon were gathered by firelight, a small, bent man stood before us. “Shalom, welcome to the tribes of Y’srael.”

  Cheftu and I exchanged glances, startled. It was one thing to know you are part of history and the Bible. It was entirely another to have someone greet you and confirm it!

  “You are slaves because of war,” the bent man said. “However, among the tribes we do not treat slaves as you pagans do.” He coughed and spat into the fire. “Here, any person may become a slave. Maybe because he cannot pay his landlord? Or perhaps when the husband died, there were no brothers for the widow to marry, no home for her? So she sells herself and her children into slavery. It is common enough.”

  Was this Slavery 101?

  “For seven years you will belong to the tribes. You will be slaves to the land, to the people, and to our God, Shaday. You are pagans, so it is assumed you will worship the gods you brought with you. But you will obey our feasts and fasts.”

  He started counting on his fingers. “Echad: Every seventh day is a day of rest. No working, no cooking, no walking or lifting. No work. To defy this law is to draw a death of stoning upon yourself. No work.”

  Cheftu’s hand tightened around mine.

  “Shtyme: For a week in the spring there is no yeast. Nowhere. For any reason. Shalosh: No sacrificing babies. It is an abomination. Anyone found doing so will be stoned to death.”

  He continued. “At the end of seven years, it is the year of rest. The Shabat year. You will be set free, though any children you have will still be slaves until they are ransomed back.” His black gaze flickered over us. “Tomorrow we arrive in Mamre. Some of you have been chosen for palace duty; others for the fields surrounding the city. It is the end of the barley harvest. Because adoni Yoav led this attack on Ashqelon, and because you surrendered to him, he is ultimately responsible for you.” He paused, looking us over. “Have you anything to say?”

  Were we supposed to ask questions? Cheftu glanced at me warningly. I swallowed my queries. That night the men and women were separated, then chained for the walk into the city; it was a matter of the tribesmen gaining face.

  I didn’t sleep well: images of black girls being raped by white owners, of strong men being beaten, of a section of the populace sweating on fields not their own, haunted me.

  Was this what my life was supposed to be? Yesterday a goddess, today a slave? Had I done something majorly wrong? No, it wasn’t personal, just a freak circumstance. The bigger question I had was, how could people of the Bible permit slavery?

  The lexicon scribbled on the chalkboard of my mind: Slaves here aren’t personal property. As in Roman times, or Byzantine times, slaves are an entire class within the society.

  Great, so I’m at the bottom of the food chain?

  It’s your responsibility to bring in the food chain, but yes. You’re a drone. Not a slave in southern plantation style, for you have far more rights than any of those poor souls.

  I touched my ears as I pondered that: I’m a drone.

  My first impression of Mamre was noise, confusion, and children.

  They were everywhere, running in the streets, tugging at cloaks, laughing as they played, working with their parents, climbing up trees, and scampering down alleys. Children galore.

  To someone with a splitting headache who hadn’t bathed in a week, Mamre was hell. Most of the slaves had been left to the families in the fields to help with the barley harvest.

  I’d never even eaten barley, much less harvested it.

  Cheftu and I were going into the city, because we would be palace slaves. Apparently all the giborim, as Dadua’s top men were called, lived communally. Though we were slaves, at least we were going to be together. That in itself would be worth a lot. We’d rarely had that experience.

  Because Mamre was uphill, it made sense that the tribesmen—as they called themselves—would be called highlanders by everyone else. It was an old city. The buildings were heaped together, misshapen and crumbling. Even the city gates were unimpressive. But this site had been sacred to the tribesmen since lifnay, which meant “before” in the same way that “Once upon a time …” meant “before.”

  When you got up the hill, however, the view of terraced slopes and green fields was stupendous.

  We arrived at the palace, walking around the front of the dilapidated building to the muddy track in back. After all, we were slaves now. Children raced through our party pellmell, shrieking and laughing. My dress, which had been beautiful at the gates of Ashqelon, was now stained with blood, mud, garbage, wine—it was hideous, I hated even wearing it. But I had nothing else.

  Three men stood inside the small, crowded courtyard. One introduced himself as the overseer. There were three levels of slaves, he said. The youngest children were body slaves, mostly from among the tribes. The next group were also tribesmen, adults who were in slavery for some reason like poverty or homelessness. Then there was us, the lowest of the low because we were among the uncircumcised. We would fill in wherever necessary.

  “You,” said a man standing by a barred door, pointing to Cheftu. “Report to the fields.”

  “We were told we would be living in the same place,” I said. “Where is that?”

  “You are the wedded pair?” the man asked, eyeing us both.

  “Ken,” we said in unison.

  He shrugged. “There are plenty of watch houses you can occupy.”

  “But—” I protested, but he’d already turned away. “I will find you, chérie,” Cheftu said as he was hustled away.

  More children, these older and wearing nicer clothes, chased each other through the hallways and gardens. As I followed another person into another courtyard, I noticed the former were dark and narrow and reminded me of rabbit burrows; the latter needed someone to care for them.

  From morning till afternoon I sat on a step in the courtyard, waiting. Every time I moved, someone would show up and say that another someone would be right out. I almost smiled, because this was so typically Middle Eastern. Or military, for that matter: Hurry up and wait.

  I was starving by the time the fourth, fifth, and sixth stars were coming visible in the night sky, but I’d been told not to move.

  Suddenly a tiny, faded red-haired woman barreled at me. “You!” she said, pointing at me. “What are you doing sitting here?” I opened my mouth to explain, but she yanked me up and pushed me out of the courtyard. “Help there,” she said.

  It was a kitchen, built apart from the main house so the heat and smells wouldn’t bother any residents. Once I stepped over the threshold I was handed a jug of wine and told to go upstairs, on the main roof, and fill cups.

  This was not a petite jug. It was about thirty-two inches tall, with a mouth four inches wide and two handles. My handy lexicon showed me a picture of a jug, a container that would hold a liter or so. Then it wrote the “=” sign to the word jar. Apparently, in this day and age, a jug was a jar. Either way, it held a whole river of wine.
I followed other slaves, lugging my jar upstairs.

  Again, modern Middle Eastern architecture held true here. The flat roof was the venue for entertaining. Lean-tos were pitched on all four sides of the roof, providing shelter from the chilly night wind. It was springtime on the coast, but not here.

  I filled all of the clay cups—about fifty—then traipsed downstairs for another jug of wine. People had begun arriving, men and women with swords sheathed, worn more as insignia than weaponry.

  The red-haired woman, who identified herself as the king’s sister, Shana, glared at my clothes and bade me follow her. “Here,” she said, throwing a bundle of fabric at me. “Dress well.”

  After she left, I unrolled the bundle. It was a straight sheath in harvest gold, with a sash of red, gold, and brown. I stripped off my current tattered ensemble and put it on. The dress was sleeveless with an asymmetrical shoulder, but it was long enough. With quick fingers I braided my hair, which RaEm had let grow very long, then replaced the gold headband. It helped keep my hair out of my face.

  I hustled back to the kitchen, got my jar of wine, and ran back to the roof.

  The giborim, what the Israelites called their soldiers, literally “mighty men,” consisted of both men and women. They reclined around the low, long table. Embroidered cloths in red, black, blue, and saffron lay beneath clay dishes of Pelesti design, glazed in black and red. Bowls of grain, garnished with spices and herbs, served as decoration. Meat steamed on bronze dishes, while loaves of bread made a yeasty wall down the center of the table.

  For this first time in my ancient travels, I wasn’t invited to sit down. I was nobody—or less. I was invisible.

  The music began, with Canani girls blowing on Egyptian-style double-reed flutes, playing the tambourine, and palming the drums. A blind kinor—my lexicon held up a picture of a harp and another “=” sign—player sat above them as they jammed. It was a pleasing, festive backdrop.

  Women floated up from the stairs, their hair in braids, their bodies revealingly draped in brilliantly patterned clothes. Who were they? Lounging on cushions and leaning against each other, the giborim exchanged jests and challenged each other to drinking contests.

  I was still amazed that I understood every word.

  My task tonight was simple: Keep the watered wine cups full. The large, double-handled jug rested on my shoulder as I looked from man to woman, gauging their cup levels. Shana told us that G’vret, which meant “Lady,” Ahino’am, the king’s second wife, would be serving Dadua and his private army, with the help of his concubines.

  They were the aforementioned floating women. One man to at least twelve women.

  Spying an empty cup, I strode through the crowd, dodging Dadua’s concubines, trying to keep from spilling. A female gibor held up her cup, not even glancing at me.

  This would be my first time of pouring with an audience. Fearful of spilling, I tipped the jar gently, feeling the weight of the wine inside shift. It was all in the timing. A stream poured over my shoulder, filling her cup. As it reached the top, I twisted the jug, causing the final drop to run along the rim and back inside.

  No thanks, certainly no tip. I raised my head, looking for another empty cup. As I recrossed the room, I noticed it had grown silent, expectant. Even the musicians had quieted. I turned around slowly, trying to keep the jar from overbalancing.

  Only because I was gritting my teeth did my mouth not fall open. Three people had entered the dining area. One was Yoav, looking impressive in a long, fringed robe that glittered as he moved. Another was a dark, petite woman dressed entirely in blue with an opaque stone the size of a baseball on her wrist.

  The third man was dressed in a long, one-sleeved wrap dress, but his clothes faded to insignificance beside his beauty. Mahogany red hair hung in ringlets to his shoulders. Black eyes gleamed from beneath russet brows. His surprisingly white smile was framed by russet beard, mustache, and side curls that hung to nearly his waist. He looked like a mythological hero rendered by Dante Rossetti, the nineteenth-century artist.

  He raised his hand and offered a blessing to Shaday as I was having a mini–heart attack. This was Dadua? David? I looked around for Cheftu, catching his gaze across the room. Was it my imagination, or was he as shell-shocked?

  When the prayer was over, the feasting began. After being on a diet of either corn or scallions or figs, I found it tantalizing to see the massive variety these people were consuming. First a soup of yogurt with raisins and grain for garnish, then the meats: lamb, poultry, and fish. Barley was piled in hills on copper dishes, flavored with oil and herbs. And bread, tons of bread.

  They needed lots of wine, so I was busy trying to not spill, moving through the crowd gracefully and fast so I wouldn’t hear, “Slave!” shouted out.

  Finally the dishes were removed, the drinking had slowed, and people grew quieter. Dadua reached for a kinor.

  I could not believe I was here.

  The room fell silent. He flexed and relaxed his hand, then stroked the strings to test the sound.

  Who can stand on the mountain of Shaday? Who can dwell on his sacred hill?

  Walk uprightly, walk righteously, speak truth from your heart

  Slander not anyone in whole or in part.

  Work well with your neighbor, lift up your tribesmen Despise those who curse Shaday, and honor those who trust in him.

  Truth keepers through pain, freelenders all.

  Stand up and walk through Shaday’s holy hall.

  It was a pretty melody, embedding itself into one’s brain. As the last note died away I glanced at the giborim. Tears streaked every face. Dadua lifted his head, looking out on their expectant expressions.

  “I speak of a place that is not yet ours,” he said. “It is a place where my nefesh cries el haShaday must dwell.”

  My lexicon held up a sign: Nefesh = ka = psyche = soul.

  “There,” he said, “I will build a palace for us, and a palace for the God of our fathers. No longer will he live in a tent, like a pagan deity on a journey. He will have a home, with his people.”

  They were stunned.

  “You, my faithful thirty, my giborim, will be given homes on border properties. You and you,” he said, pointing to two bearded younger men, “will be on the south side, protecting us against the marauders of the Negev. You and you,” he said to two others, “will go north, between the tribes of Zebulon and Asher against the Tsori, Tsidoni, and Mitanni.” In this way he parceled out homes to his men. Homes that cost him nothing but provided him with border patrols. The men would be fighting not only for their liege, but for their own homes and families.

  I looked over at Cheftu. He was agog.

  “We will build a fleet,” Dadua continued. “Thus the land will stretch from the desert to the cedars!”

  The men cheered; they liked being in control; they liked their victorious God. Dadua sang the song again, teaching it to us until we were all singing. Not exactly a drinking song, though that didn’t put off anyone’s efforts.

  I was pouring from my fourth jar by now.

  Dadua talked about a library he wanted to build. Also a residence for students of Shaday’s words and a section of town where foreign artisans and craftsmen could share their skills with the highlanders. All of this was to be built on a hill.

  A hill? I felt razor-stubble goose bumps against the fabric of my skirt. Not that hill; surely I wasn’t here for that? I clenched the jar to steady my trembling.

  “This hill lies just beyond our reach,” Dadua said. “However, I offer a challenge of the ages to you, my best, my most sacred brothers. We who were outlaws together in the caves of Abdullum, we shall rule together.”

  Enthusiastic shouting drowned him out. “For the commission of this one act, I will offer the greatest reward.”

  “Learned from Labayu, did you?” a gibori suggested laughingly.

  Dadua smiled. “Ken. I learned a man will do a lot to bed a woman!”

  They all laughed. Cheftu
whispered in my ear, startling me since I didn’t know he was standing that close. “According to Holy Writ, David gave his king Saul the foreskins of two hundred Pelesti to take Saul’s daughter Mik’el to wife.” He kissed my ear as he moved through the crowd.

  “Lo,” Dadua said. “This is not for the bed of any woman, who can choose to deny you even that pleasure when it suits her,” he said in an undertone. The men hooted as I wondered what woman ever had refused him. He was gorgeous, charismatic … heck, he was even a musician. None of my friends would have refused him. I glanced at the woman beside him, G’vret Avgay’el. She was his second wife, exquisite and looking at him with pure adoration, even after that comment.

  Dadua continued. “For this feat, if he should survive, Shaday willing, he will become, for now and ever after, the Rosh Tsor haHagana.”

  The lexicon in my head threw out visuals. I saw a picture of George Washington as general; then MacArthur saying, “I shall return”; finally Colin Powell. Dadua was giving an open call for the highest-ranked officer.

  “He must give me Jebus.”

  Silence fell like a stage curtain, straight down and blacked out. Dadua smiled at them. “Abdiheba, king of Jebus, claims that only the blind and lame can defeat his mountain citadel. Moreover, he claims that any man who invades will become blind and lame. I fear I don’t understand this logic.” Dadua chuckled, and the giborim joined him. “So here is the challenge: I want, and Shaday wants, to celebrate the Feast of Weeks in Jebus! As my city!”

  Jebus? Why Jebus?

  The lexicon showed me the map again, marked with the cities of the Philistines. To the east of them, high in the mountains I read the word Jebus. Then the letters melted into English, into modern English, revealing Dadua’s desire. I was braced, but imagination is nothing like reality.

  Jerusalem.

  David and Jerusalem. I didn’t know much about the Bible, but I’d heard a lot about Jerusalem. My father had spent the latter part of his career on Jerusalem. Still, I hadn’t a clue as to chronology. Did David conquer it now? Or was there a period of waiting or siege?