Sunrise on the Mediterranean

by Suzanne Frank

  I blinked, stunned. “What?”

  “The Jebusi worship Molekh,” Yoav said, then spat. “They sacrifice their children at the full of the moon. Are the Pelesti the same way?”

  “Uh, Dagon never wanted anything other than crab-meat,” I said. That and the odd tightrope-walking virgin.

  “Then why don’t you have children?” Avgay’el asked. “We …” I looked down, thinking furiously. Lie or tell the truth? Or embroider on part of the truth? Or fix part of a lie? “We have not been married long,” I said hesitantly. “At the first, we lost a … baby.”

  “Poor isha. May Shekina bless your womb for this victory you give the tribes,” Avgay’el said with genuine sympathy. I nodded, while hoping that God wouldn’t make me infertile for that mockery I made of women who had suffered the loss of a child. Yes, I had miscarried once … but …

  It hadn’t been exactly the way I’d portrayed it. Ach! Avgay’el stood up abruptly. “I must return. Dadua will wonder where his dinner is.”

  Yoav looked at me. “Have you decided?”

  I recapped the situation as it had been explained to me. My role would be a Pelesti widow, working her way across the country by drawing water for hire. “Will I be safe?” I asked. “Do the Jebusi honor the same laws that your tribes do?”

  “Lo. You will have to defend yourself,” he said. “That is one of the reasons I selected you.” His green gaze raked me. “Avgay’el will disguise you so it will be less of a stumbling block.”

  “So I figure out the rest on my own?” I asked. There didn’t seem to be much of a plan.

  “Go do the reconnaissance. I will meet you there in a few days and we can discuss options and actions.”

  I rose. “I’ll accompany you, g’vret, if I may?”

  Yoav was squinting at me, as though he could see inside me. He spoke to Avgay’el. “She will leave at dawn, day after tomorrow.”

  “Yoav, that is Shabat morning! She cannot walk that far! It is a stoning should she do so!”

  “She is my slave. She will do as I command.” He looked at me. “However, to keep you from avayra goreret avayra I will have you leave after dusk on Shabat. You can walk through the night.”

  Avgay’el tch’d, then hid her face, hair, and the enormous trademark stone on her wrist beneath a cloak. I slipped mine on, covering my ears and hair. Just two swaddled women to wander back to the palace. We walked in darkness and silence.

  “Before you leave, we will make you a protection,” she said.

  “Todah, g’vret.” But how will I protect myself once I’m there? Could I get away from Mamre tonight? Tomorrow? Where could I go?

  Dead or mute; these were considered options?

  The trek would take us most of the evening. Since Yoav had the city of Jebus under observation 24/7, as part of a presiege stakeout, we would see soldiers on their way home after their weeklong shift. Some training in my mind noted that these posts were therefore empty for at least four hours once a week. Did the Jebusi know that?

  There was no talking, just walking. At about two A.M. in the middle of our trek, we met up with the others. Total silence was maintained, just gestures of greeting as each tribesman passed. I kept my covered head down, my eyes averted. Yoav didn’t want anyone to ascertain his plan for getting into the city because they might steal it.

  My mind was completely blank by the time the sun rose. The colors passed through the spectrum so rapidly, I hardly had time to appreciate them. The sky turned red, then pink, with tendrils of gold etching the clouds, then the sun was fully up, pouring light onto the white stone city of Jebus.

  Zion, Jerusalem the Golden, City of Peace.

  Whoa.

  It was built of reflective stone, so it picked up the colors of the sunrise. High on the hill, it seemed showered in golden light. Below us we saw the circumscription lines on the hills.

  History was in the making.

  Seeing how it was surrounded on three sides by steep valleys, with a mesa rising behind it, I realized for the first time how secure this city was. I had not been here before, and Father never discussed Jerusalem as a destination, only as the plum of negotiations.

  All of the many tiny kingdoms around here had tried to oust the Jebusi. Despite the city’s many gates, no one had ever conquered Jebus. For one, it was impossible to approach unseen; for another, the Jebusi seemed to have an endless supply of water, food … and patience.

  Our handpicked team of twenty of Yoav’s men fanned out, two of us per lookout. My partner, Dov—of the sheep-jesting fame—and I had a post observing the back of the city and the mountain, since Yoav thought we might be able to do better work out of sight.

  People were already standing in line to get through the city gates. Some were there to sell, others to buy, still others to see King Abdiheba. Most of them were there seeking permission to cross Abdiheba’s land into upper Canaan. It was the on-ramp to the King’s Highway, which led from the Salt Sea straight up to Mitanni, then into Assyria—twentieth-century Arab enclaves.

  According to Yoav, Dadua said the pagan tribes—the Amoni, the Amori, the Keleti, the Edomi, Moabi, Alameda, not to mention the united tribes who were Dadua’s cousins— were watching how the tribesmen handled the attempt at Jebus.

  A victory over the Jebusi would establish Dadua’s supremacy over the remainder of the countryside. No battles would be necessary, for the other tribes, impressed by Dadua’s primacy, would be open to negotiating.

  We pitched our goatskin tent, which was nothing more than a few poles with a fleece thrown over them to give some shelter, then Dov and I took turns observing. How often and for how long were the gates unlocked? Did anyone ever leave through the wall? Over it? Under it? Were any of the windows, built high into the ramparts, ever unmanned? Dov and I watched silently, alternating which of us walked the perimeter.

  As dusk began falling we saw the gates fill up again, this time with people going outside. Unlike most cities, Jebus did not allow those who were strangers to pass the night within the enclosure. To stay overnight within the walls, one must be vouched for by a citizen in good standing. Thus an invasion from within had been impossible.

  Or at least improbable.

  Craftsmen, merchants, and families began pitching their tents on the slopes beside the road into the city. Tonight Dov and I would mingle with them, selling hot food—which another part of the team was preparing—while listening to their tales from inside the city’s walls.

  While it was yet day, for the tribes didn’t consider night to have fallen until one could see the first three stars, the Jebusi closed the gates. The clang and clatter as the gate’s bar fell into place was audible from our perch. As rehearsed, we joined a few others, all in different clothing, to hike into the visitors’ tent city.

  The humor was that those visiting the city knew they would be approached by spies. It had been happening for too many years, by too many different branches of Avraham’s far-reaching seed, for them not to know. Consequently those waiting outside the city bartered their knowledge for food.

  A merchant would begin discussing an underground path one of his customers used for storage, then abruptly ask for free seconds on dinner. Fortunately, it was such a joke that everyone knew all the tales of Jebus. They had become the original urban myths.

  It reminded me of the story about men in prison who had memorized each other’s jokes so that a guy would just shout out, “Number fifty-two,” then they would all laugh, since they knew the punch line.

  My job was to pour out the gruel we were giving away under the marketing tool of calling it “soup.” The comments—teasing, seductive, ribald, humorous—were endless since it was obvious I was female. Dov stayed close to my side, ignoring the gibes about a third wife, the joys of making love in early summer in the forest, et cetera. Fortunately it was dark, so my blushing was hidden. Having learned nothing new, we headed back to our outpost. We would divide the night, me sleeping the first watch and him sleeping the second.<
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  It might not have been a tent by my standards, but I slept. My only thought was for Cheftu’s safety. The next thing I knew, Dov was waking me up.

  He snored. Loudly. I found myself on the edge of an outcropping, far enough from him so that I could actually hear the sounds of the night, watching the city. I heard only a few rustlings and growls, but no movement. I squinted at the window in the city wall, watching it until I thought I saw movement: the square became dark, then light again. Someone had walked before a lamp, I reasoned. Walking generally meant awake, so that was not the way in.

  An impregnable city. If I could come up with another plan, could we skip the “waterway or die” program Yoav had suggested? I wanted my freedom; what a delight to tell Cheftu that as soon as he was freed we could leave, since I’d won my freedom, too. I couldn’t even consider how it would feel for Cheftu to come home and hear I was dead.

  I refused to be dead. There must be a way, a less dangerous way. Why didn’t I have the Urim and Thummim right now?

  I looked out at the city again, pondering another way in. Would the Trojan horse routine work here? No—the gate was too low, too narrow. Not even a horse and chariot could make its way through—even if the tribesmen had them. They would be a hindrance in the streets of Jebus, which Yoav said were twisty, with many flights of stairs. Would oxen and cart work? Certainly not.

  Maybe Yoav was right. Maybe water was the only pathway in.

  When Dov awoke, I told him I was going to go look at the stream. He nodded, then told me where to find it. I picked up my bulky water jar, then started downhill at a slope of at least forty-five degrees. I alternated between jogging and sliding. I was sweating before I’d gone an eighteenth of a mile.

  It was hot for this June day!

  By the time I reached the valley floor I was aching and exhausted—hiking muscles were different from date-stuffing muscles. Now all I had to do was climb up the other side, at a similar incline. Where was a taxi when you needed one?

  Above me the pilgrims to Jebus were stirring, while another band of spies was trying to buy information with breakfast.

  The empty jar rested on my shoulder, as awkward as balancing an elephant, while I picked my way along. The hills were almost solid rock. Olive trees, turning silver and then green in the wind, clustered on the hillsides.

  I found the tiny stream, noting it flowed straight for a distance, then vanished into the ground like a drain. Feeling eyes watching me, I spent some time lifting the jar from my shoulder, submerging it in the water. As I held the clay container so it could fill, I looked around, wondering what to do next.

  The jar was now too heavy to move. It was a millstone. I tried kneeling beside it and lifting it. No way. Looking around, both embarrassed and concerned that I was blowing my already flimsy alibi, I dumped out some water and tried to lift it again.

  It was still as heavy as granite. I poured more water out, then tried hefting it up from a different angle. No luck, though I came very close to dropping and breaking it— which would have been a blessing.

  How did these little women do this? I’d carried backpacks for years. I skied, I climbed, I could even do the butterfly stroke. But this, this was beyond me. Apparently I didn’t have the right muscles for doing an over-the-head lift with the weight of a small dinosaur. Or maybe I just needed to rest.

  I left the jar standing on the ground, half hoping someone would steal it, while I followed what seemed like the logical path for this underground stream. Perhaps it would pop up again? I had canvassed around half the city when I suddenly stopped. I glanced up, noting that I was standing directly below a guardhouse built into the wall, though the guard couldn’t see me from this angle. I cocked my head, listening intently.

  Running water.

  Strolling leisurely in the shadow of the walls, I walked and listened. The sound grew stronger, then fainter, then strong again. It was getting positively loud as I turned around another side of Jebus. I couldn’t see much, just enough to note some huge stones across a faint rise. Guarded by very large, very scary-looking, yellow faux dogs.

  I dropped to the ground. This must be it!

  After sucking on my finger, I held it up in the air, checking the direction of the wind. I was downwind, which was why the dogs, which weren’t exactly dogs, tied to the wall, weren’t barking. A definite sense of victory surged through me. Maybe the Jebusi weren’t as protected as they thought?

  The yellow dogs looked vicious. In fact, they looked a lot more like wolves than dogs. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to recall any Egyptian artwork featuring dogs. With the exception of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the dead—wait, those were jackals!

  As though he heard my thoughts, one of them turned my way, slowly moving his head as though he felt me. My faith in his rope wasn’t strong, so I began backing up, flat against the earth, while memories of officer’s training camp ran through my brain. Once out of the jackal’s visual range, I stood up, pressing myself against the stone outcropping.

  There was a point of entry! Despite myself I was excited. I’d discovered the secret!

  I was halfway back to my tent, going around the other side of the city, when I saw the same setup: jackals, stone, the sound of water. Were they both ways into the city? Or was one a decoy?

  Which was live and which was Memorex?

  My enthusiasm evaporated like sweat in the desert as I trudged back to camp.

  Only when I got there, soaking wet and breathing raggedly, did I recall the jar of icy water on the valley floor. Dov snorted in disgust when I told him, then left me alone. I fell asleep, leaning against a tree.

  Day three of my week’s recon, I watched Dov practice with his slingshot. He posted a branch forty paces away, then in five quick tosses he hit it. The wood was struck with five perpendicular shots as evenly spaced as a Singer sewing machine’s stitches. The guy wasn’t much for conversation, but wow, was his aim good. Antsy to do something and knowing my area of the wall was already under surveillance, I decided to try the slingshot.

  Easier said then done.

  Dov refused at first, claiming it was the skill of the Binyami tribe alone. They were the ones who wielded slingshot and bow. He repeated this reasoning until I picked up a bow and proved my marksmanship. Then I asked again. Reluctantly he agreed.

  I had no intention of using the slingshot as a weapon; it was just a way to take up some time and enjoy the gorgeous windy weather while learning something from these people. The thought of how hard the rock must have been thrown to become embedded in Goliath’s head made me feel a little nauseated.

  The slingshot was a pocket of leather at the end of two long thongs. The plan was to hold the stone in the pocket while swinging it over your head until it gained velocity. Then you released one of the thongs, letting the stone fly to the target. Split-second coordination was required; this was not a bow and arrow.

  I dropped the stone the first time and it bounced off my head, which, needless to say, smarted. Dov hid a smirk, though I sensed he was not surprised. It took some getting used to, holding the strings tight while swinging it. I knew that centrifugal force held the stone in when it swung fast enough, but I knew that only because it was the same concept that kept me from falling out of a loop-the-loop roller coaster.

  The sun was getting hotter, and the breeze had died. Once again I swung the sling around and around, listening for its whistle. “Now!” Dov shouted. The stone went flying twenty cubits to land somewhere downhill in the rocks. Dov sent me to find it since smooth and even river stones were a precious commodity. I tried again. Then again. My determination grew each time I messed up. I could get this skill down, I just needed more practice.

  My arm was aching by dusk—again, different muscles from stuffing dates. Fortunately it wasn’t our night to creep around the city, so I fixed bread, he fixed some kind of stew, and we ate in silence, watching the lights. Are you well, Cheftu? I wondered.

  WASET

  RAEM H
ELD HER WIFE’S SMALL HAND in her own capable brown one. Meryaten’s face was screwed up with pain as she panted and wept. It was a false labor; it would have to be a false labor, for there was no way under the Aten that the girl could truly be pregnant.

  Cursing herself for drawing this upon her shoulders, RaEm murmured encouragingly to Meryaten while her mind processed the newest information from the Delta.

  Plague had entered Egypt, was traveling down the Nile, taking with it the souls from bodies too long standing. Poor food had weakened them, a sickness of the heart when their gods were taken away had drained the marrow from their bones, now the plague was there to lay them out.

  Meryaten screamed, arching her neck. Pharaoh’s elderly physician stared at the space between the girl’s legs, as though he had never seen a female before.

  “Give her something,” RaEm said. “She is in pain.” From what, I have no idea.

  “She has refused the poppy, My Majesty,” the old man said, peering into the darkness. “I do not see a babe’s head.”

  “Well, of course you don’t!” RaEm burst out, then caught herself. “She is not due for some time yet,” she amended. “Give her the poppy whether she wants it or not.”

  “My Majesty—”

  RaEm turned toward the girl again. The grip on her hand had weakened. Sweat droplets moved across the newly fourteen-year-old’s cheeks, and her forehead was scorchingly hot. For a moment RaEm felt real fear. Perhaps this was more than just Meryaten’s imagination? “Touch her skin,” she commanded the physician.

  He laid a wrinkled hand on her forehead. “Ukhedu,” he said dolefully. “The battle is strong.”

  “What do you mean? What can be done?”

  “Aii! Ukhedu has entered her body, it eats her up inside. We must pray and light incense.”

  If Cheftu were here, he would have an actual medicament, RaEm couldn’t help but think. Strange that she would of a sudden think of him. “Is there anything we could give her? An herb? A medicine?”

  “Aii, since it is ukhedu, it is a spiritual battle. Best you inform Pharaoh, living forever! that the Aten needs to see to her needs, since only he speaks to the god.”