Sunrise on the Mediterranean

by Suzanne Frank

  RaEm couldn’t help but feel a challenge in the old man’s words. “You are dismissed,” she said through gritted teeth. Meryaten screamed again, gripping RaEm’s hand so tightly that she winced.

  Tiye came in a moment later, touching Meryaten’s forehead. “The child has been poisoned,” she proclaimed.

  RaEm’s head snapped up. “What do you say, Mother?”

  “Poisoned. Her belly is swollen but empty, her skin is hot and dry.” She turned to Meryaten. “Child, where does it hurt?”

  “My … my belly,” Meryaten whispered. “They put a knife in me, to make me believe. I want the Aten, I want my father, I want my mother.” Her voice was ragged, drifting in and out of RaEm’s understanding. Poisoned? Meryaten had been poisoned?

  Akhenaten’s voice rang in her ears: Keep my daughter happy.

  “Make her vomit,” RaEm said, rising abruptly. “Whoever did this, his head will decorate my doorpost! She cannot die.”

  Tiye looked up. “She already feels it. The poison has done its work, all that remains is—”

  “Nay!” RaEm shouted. “She will not die! She cannot die! Either help me or leave!”

  Tiye’s eyes narrowed. “You really do love her, don’t you, in your own, odd way?”

  RaEm halted, realizing that her behavior fed the fiction that Meryaten was her beloved bride. “What did you think?” she snarled. “Now get me something to make her vomit.”

  “It is too late.”

  RaEm strode to Meryaten’s couch, pulling the girl upright despite her whimpering. “Shush, my beloved. You are going to feel worse, but then you will be all better. You have to trust me.”

  “Aii, Smenkhare …” She sighed, leaning against RaEm’s linen-covered chest.

  RaEm called for slaves, who held up the body of the child. With the girl’s head in her left hand, holding her mouth so she wouldn’t be bitten, RaEm stuck her finger down Meryaten’s throat, gagging her.

  At first Meryaten regurgitated only acid, but then came the food, masses of it. RaEm was disgusted but relieved. The girl had suffered only from indigestion? What had possessed her to eat so much food? When Meryaten’s stomach was empty, the slaves cleaned the couch and the floor, then RaEm laid the girl back down. She was weak now, but her body seemed to be cooler.

  “What shall we do with, uh, this, My Majesty?” the chamberlain asked, gesturing to the pots with Meryaten’s stomach’s contents.

  “Feed it to the dogs. See if they sicken.”

  Tiye stepped to RaEm’s side. “Go and bathe, My Majesty,” RaEm’s deceived mother said. “Know that I have never seen a greater display of filial love.” Her voice broke. “My mother’s heart swells with pride at your actions.”

  RaEm escaped.

  CHEFTU LOOKED OVER the port side, out at the wild expanse of Midian. They had been docked for days now, negotiating with the local shepherds and merchants for the supplies to outfit the seventy for their journey to the mountain.

  Har Horeb. Cheftu shook his head in chagrin. How his generation thought it knew everything, that no other minds had ever been so advanced. What arrogance!

  Having seen the Sinai, grasping the knowledge of how many people left Egypt with Moses, only a fool could imagine the Sinai would offer enough food and camping ground. It was simply too small, too overrun with Egyptians, for a people who were fleeing.

  The Sinai had at least twenty thousand slaves and probably another ten thousand soldiers, and that was now. Cheftu felt the weight of dozens of gazes on his back. Those Egyptians were watching them closely. Would word get back to Pharaoh? How was N’tan intending to get this gold back to Mamre?

  Or would Dadua be in Jebus by then? Did he know the way to get into the city was through the tzinor? At least it was according to Scriptures—though no one knew how to exactly translate the term. Water spout? Sewer? Drain? There was so much he didn’t know, couldn’t comprehend. What had the tzadik’s cryptic phrases meant? Why was it so vital to know Cheftu’s real name?

  He rubbed his eyes and sighed. Ach, Chloe, ma chère, are you still bored safely grinding grain?

  “Egyptian!”

  He turned at the word. N’tan refused to speak to him as anything other than slave or Egyptian, not even acknowledging the name Chavsha. How Cheftu longed to be free again, to walk where he would. Perhaps the holes in his ears would heal, given the chance. He loathed that sign of ownership on his body.

  More, he loathed the ownership of his time.

  N’tan beckoned, and Cheftu went to him. “We have the guides, the asses, the provisions now,” N’tan said. “We will go in three different divisions.” He lowered his voice, looking over Cheftu’s shoulder. “I grow concerned that the sight of so much wealth might cause one of the seventy to transgress.”

  “A man’s heart is an uncertain thing,” Cheftu commented.

  “Gold is enough to inspire covetousness and murder. And any manner of actions: Avayra goreret avayra. So: We must lessen the temptation for them.”

  “Hence, we split them up?”

  N’tan nodded, then shrugged. “It is the best plan I can fathom,” he said.

  “Which division will I travel in?” Cheftu asked.

  N’tan looked him over appraisingly. “You will lead the first group.”

  Cheftu inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment though he never forgot this man was his owner. “Todah rabah, for your confidence in me.”

  “Even if you are an idolater.”

  Cheftu kept his gaze focused on the ground, unwilling to react despite the insult he felt. Why should N’tan say anything different, from what he had seen? Cheftu knew le bon Dieu knew the truth; wasn’t that all that mattered? “Will we have a guide? Or should I know the way?”

  “You worship many gods, Egyptian?” N’tan asked. Cheftu stood in stony silence, ignoring the tzadik’s gibes. N’tan sighed. “The guide will take you.”

  “What if something should happen to him? If he should fall ill? Or run away?”

  N’tan chuckled. “I assure you, nothing will happen.” Cheftu’s sense of foreboding grew. One should never make those types of absolute statements. It was unlucky. “I would feel better knowing,” he said. “It—”

  N’tan turned cold. “The guide will lead you, slave. You will leave at the new watch. We will join you, the first thirty-five men, then the second thirty-five men, within the next two days. Maspeak!”

  It was enough; the conversation was finished. Cheftu allowed himself to be dismissed, then stared into the desert from the ship. He had the stones—from them he could learn whatever he needed to know. But he needed a blade. In order to get one he would have to break one of the laws and steal one. However, if he didn’t, did he dare just go out there unprotected? Unwitting?

  Were the stones enough?

  AKHETATENN

  RAEM TUGGED ON HER MOURNING KILT, staring for a moment at the way she was dressed. She was Smenkhare, the bereaved husband returned to Akhetaten to bury his beloved. Damn Meryaten’s ka for her frailty. How many more days of grieving would RaEm have to endure for that weak, manipulative little child? At least under the Aten it wasn’t as many days as under Amun-Ra. Soon the business of the court would start again.

  She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. The business of the court was an antic’s quip in the city of Akhetaten, good only for a laugh.

  The reality, RaEm had realized, was that Akhenaten never concentrated on business. He cared nothing for the country, only his impersonal deity, the Aten. RaEm had read the letters from the outposts of the empire. For fourteen years they had pleaded for intervention. Now it was too late; some new authority prowled the hills of Canaan. Egypt had lost her empire. The power had shifted away from the red and black lands.

  Though RaEm loved Pharaoh in a way she’d never felt about anyone, it pained her immeasurably to see Egypt dying. The agony of watching all that Hatshepsut, her sole friend, and Hat’s father, Amenhotep, had gained slip through Akhenaten’s fing
ers like Nile water was almost too much to bear. The position RaEm had fought and killed for would cease to exist.

  Akhenaten cared about nothing outside this city; to him Akhetaten was the length and breadth of Egypt. He had declared that there was no need to go beyond the cenotaphs he had set all around the city. Tiye did what she could in Waset to keep the nobles on Pharaoh’s side, but it was better that he stayed in Akhetaten. Truthfully, he was not welcome anywhere else.

  Outside of this enclave, Egypt had rejected her king. The populace was stricken with a pox, a plague that was killing in the hundreds; Inundations had been poor; every border was struggling against marauding sand crossers. Egypt was dying. In the Egyptians’ eyes Pharaoh was at fault; he was to blame. He’d turned his back on the gods.

  It was bitter to realize that for all her scheming, now that RaEm had gotten here, sat on the throne, held the crook and flail, it meant nothing, for now Egypt was nothing. May the gods curse Meryaten; she had died, making that avenue to the throne undependable. Though Smenkhare was still coregent, even he was suspect with all of the bad fortune the country was experiencing.

  RaEm threw off her crown. It was beautiful, but it was heavy. It left marks on her brow. What would Hatshepsut do in her position? A country runs on goodwill and gold, her Pharaoh had ofttimes said. RaEm barked a laugh into the emptiness of her chamber—the two things that Egypt didn’t have.

  Heat beat against the walls. It was the Season of Growing, but already it was too hot. There was not enough water, and the Aten had been too powerful. The emmer would die in the field, just like everything else. She put her head in her hands, the fuzz of her shaved head ticklish against her palms.

  Amun-Ra, have we offended thee? she prayed. Mother-Goddess HatHor, are you angry with us? These were words she dared not even breathe aloud, for Akhenaten would turn from her. Without the delights of his voice, his body, she would die. Though the heat of him was enough to scorch her to her roots, still she had never loved life more, never so wanted what she couldn’t have. She craved the part of him that only the Aten possessed.

  The Aten, an obscure god who cared nothing for agriculture or the state of the country; who was this god? Were the old gods protesting the forgetfulness of the house of Thutmosis?

  Gold and goodwill.

  There was no repairing the rift between the house of Pharaoh and his people. Only his death would be an acceptable gift. There was no goodwill on either side. Akhenaten considered them nothing, and they considered him a madman unworthy of the double crown, as was anyone he selected.

  However, if she didn’t rule, who would? Plenty stood in line for the throne of Egypt: Horemheb, the salivating Commander of Ten Thousand; Ay, the overtly loyal servant to the throne; not counting assorted cousins whose palms itched to feel the flail. But none of these cared for Akhenaten. Not a one would allow the Aten to continue. Even little Tuti, the rightful heir as Akhenaten’s littlest half-brother, was less than faithful to the Aten and his brother’s vision.

  Therefore we get gold. RaEm was not going to lose this crown, this control. It meant little, but she would hold on to it, build it up. She would defeat those who would bury Akhenaten with their power lust.

  With gold we could purchase grain for the populace from another country, she thought. With gold we could buy goodwill. Then, perhaps, we could reopen just a few temples, as a gesture of peace. The gold would allow Egypt to purchase what had once been hers for the taking: relationships with the powers of the north and west.

  RaEm would not lose. Not this throne.

  “Why do you sit in the dark alone?” Akhenaten asked from behind her. She closed her eyes, willing her body to rise to meet him. She turned to him, smiling. He was naked, erect, his eyes gleaming. “Open for me,” he said.

  Sighing inside, she accepted him obediently, driving his passion. It was such a position of power to feed his lust, for like this she controlled him. Like this she ruled the highest ruler in the land. Emphasizing her authority, she dropped him to his knees. “Give,” she said, licking him, “me—”

  “Aye,” he groaned. “Anything you want.”

  She took him deep. “Swear it.”

  “Any—anything. I”—he was gasping—“anything you, you wan—”

  “Swear it on the grave of Nefertiti,” she whispered low. For a moment he stopped, his eyes cold; RaEm feared she had gone too far. She pleased him with another finger, this one with a ring, sending his passion higher. Instantly he was returned to the plane of lust. Quickly she finished him, letting him pour into her.

  As he was rising from the floor, he looked at her. A hard, calculating look. “What do you want so badly?” His smile was not kind. “What made you take me with such purpose?”

  “My first purpose is always to bring you pleasure … My Majesty,” she said.

  He lounged back on her couch. “Your second purpose?”

  “I want the army.”

  “A pharaoh won’t satisfy the fire between your legs?” RaEm bit the inside of her lip at his intentional crudeness. He was Pharaoh. Anything she had could vanish tomorrow if he so much as thought it. “My Majesty is all I need in my couch,” she said. “However, I think to exercise them.”

  He sat up. “Exercise for what? What is the purpose in that?”

  Because no matter what happens, I want Horemheb and his men on my side, she thought. “It was just a whim,” she said, curling into him. “Still, can I have the army?”

  He lifted her chin, kissed her lips. “You can have anything. You already own the heart of Pharaoh. In truth, you shall bear the titulary of Nefertiti; you shall be known as Smenkhare Neferhetenaten.”

  His voice speaking those words was more than she had ever dreamed. The seduction of his mouth, his mind, was effortless and lethal to her. She looked into his wonderful misshapen face and knew that she would die for him. And when he died—as he must, for Egypt could not survive under him—she too would perish.

  CHAPTER 9

  IADJUSTED THE VEIL OVER MY FACE as I looked up at the walls of Jebus. Dawn had broken, now the Jebusi were open gated and ready for business. Adjusting my hobo pack, I shuffled forward with the rest. The serenim sat at the gate, which formed a small room. As in Ashqelon and Mamre, one had to first get past the city fathers, then the actual opening into the city was at the side. Consequently you were in a blind before you entered the city’s streets. Each person was halted, questioned, then either accepted into the city for the day, given traveler’s accommodations on the testimony of a citizen in good standing, or rejected.

  “You. Isha. What is your business in Jebus?” The Jebusi conveniently spoke the same language, even a similar dialect.

  I held up my business card—the detested water jar. The soldier was broad, muscled but not fat, his uniform was neat, his beard combed, his armor gleamed. His professionalism was not encouraging.

  “Speak!” he said gruffly. “You draw water?”

  I nodded.

  “What are you, mute?”

  This was the tricky part, I wasn’t mute, but I did have the wrong accent. Though it felt Dickensian, I spoke in “low” Akkadian. “A widow, sir, traveling to her family. Alas, they are poor and I have no dowry.” I kept my eyes downcast.

  “Sorry, isha,” the man said. “You are from the coastal plains?”

  I nodded once.

  “How did your husband die?”

  “The highlanders,” I said, spitting on the ground, “destroyed my family, they took my father, my brother, and my husband.” It was no effort to sound vitriolic. All I had to do was recall Takala-dagon, Yamir … and Wadia, whom I’d probably never see again.

  The man conferred with the other soldier—another well-groomed, disciplined-looking soldier. Blast. But maybe these were just the soldiers used in the front lines? For appearance’ sake? “Who was your husband? How did he die?” the second soldier asked gruffly.

  I told them my story, received my pass to enter the city, and joined the group that ha
d passed inspection.

  The guardsmen packed us sojourners into the first room, then led us through the smaller gate, one at a time, until we stood blinking in the light. I felt a tremor of elation at getting in. Inside Jebus.

  The city was made of stone, which was still cool from the night. A drainage ditch of sorts ran down the middle of the street, paved on either side. The houses were clumped together, atop each other, and stairs were everywhere. The city started at this level, then climbed upward, attached by small flights of stairs, ridge after ridge after ridge, to the top. I could see trees poking up all over the city, smell the first opening honeysuckle and rose. It was white, it was clean, and it was beautiful!

  This was Jerusalem?

  I didn’t say that because I thought it would be less, but because so rarely do things really live up to their PR releases. Stonehenge is small, the Tower of Pisa doesn’t lean that far, and the Parthenon is scattered across the Acropolis like a jigsaw puzzle.

  Jerusalem truly was beautiful.

  The merchants weren’t trading yet; it was early even for them. I stumbled on the dew-slick stone but kept moving forward. It was an effort to jerk my mind from the curling leaves of ivy that adorned the walls, the turquoise blue sky above me, the empty ache within me, to the city. The reason I was here. Duh, Chloe. Waters. Wells. Dead or mute. Wake up.

  Where was the well? Women would group there. My gaze moved beyond even more well-trimmed, well-polished soldiers, toward the women. For some reason the place felt odd. Something was missing, maybe? I walked on, figuring I was still in shock to be in Jerusalem.

  Streets were tangled in each other, so that soon each step became a community effort as people began to join in the bustle. Men, women, both those wizened and those in their prime, filled the thoroughfares—but something was missing. Keeping my eyes sharp for congregating females, I pressed forward.

  Stalls began opening up, offering wares from the sea, the mountains, the desert, the lands beyond the desert. Merchants started their business day, drawing people away from the clump moving through the streets. Hawkers commenced shouting, the same sales calls you would probably hear on these very streets from now till 1996.