Sunrise on the Mediterranean

by Suzanne Frank

  A souq was a souq was a souq.

  Something was missing. It was an eerie absence that went beyond the daily ache of wondering about and praying for Cheftu. Something was bizarre.

  I looked around; maybe it was because this was my first day at being an acne-covered and freckle-spotted over-weight brunette?

  We were still walking up; I could feel it in my legs. Once we passed the market, most of the people had filtered out, so that there really wasn’t much of a crowd. Soon I was walking down a street, almost alone. How did I go about selling myself as a water woman when I couldn’t find the bloody well?

  “Isha bay’b’er!” someone called.

  The call came again before I realized someone was trying to get my attention; she was calling for a well woman, even though it sounded like “beer.” I stumbled around, thinking they could add “graceful” to my list of shortcomings. Balancing the jar, which felt like a small skyscraper on my shoulder even after a week of practice, I looked up at a grouping of stone buildings. Their doors and windows were black compared to the brightness of the day. I searched for the source of the call.

  “Isha!” the voice said again. I finally saw a tiny woman. She was bent almost double, supporting herself on a cane. I stepped closer, so she beckoned again. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Not in her stature, but in her shiny crow black eyes.

  A frisson ran up my spine as I inclined my head respectfully.

  “I need water,” the tiny thing said, her voice strong. “If you also grind my grain, you may share in my bread. Speak up, girl.”

  “B’seder,” I said, swallowing my bad accent.

  “Do we have an arrangement?” the old woman said.

  I nodded, and the old woman, whose face was hardly visible, frowned. “B’seder. Now go, get some water,” she muttered. “It is foolishness for men to design where wells will be, since we women have to live with their silly plans, because we carry the water. Many of us in Jebus can no longer dip our jars, much less haul them up the walkway. We are too old here,” she said mournfully. “No youth.” Then she sniffed, fixed her bright gaze on me. “Do you know where the well is?”

  I shook my head—as if this were not the reason I was here!—and the woman began with the directions:

  “Turn toward the city gates. Pass Rehov haLechem, K’vish Basar, and Rehov Shiryon.” My lexicon flashed pictures in my mind: these were the streets of the foodstuffs, the butchers and the bakers. My stomach growled at the thought, while a Dallas version of similar establishments passed through my mind. La Madeleine, Ozona’s, and … the Swiss Army Knife store?

  “On your left side you will see a small house with a metal grate. Pass through the grate and you will find yourself in a corridor.” These sounded like directions out of The Thousand and One Arabian Nights! “It is tall and long, very cool, which feels good in the afternoon. It slopes downward until you get to the steps. Walk down those carefully, they are very slippery.” Her beady eyes gave me a once-over. “You should be wary, even though you are young.” She sighed again, sad. “We have no life in Jebus. No young, no calling in the streets, playing in the parks.” She sighed again, then turned to me. Apparently the directions weren’t complete yet.

  “The steps turn in on themselves until you reach the level of the water. There is not much room to stand, and very often there is a line. Be patient, then return to me. As soon as I have my water, you can get back to the well if you need to, make some more wages.”

  That whole trip more than twice a day? I’d need provisions! Wow, talk about inaccessible. I just hoped I didn’t get lost. Maybe Yoav’s plan wouldn’t work? Of course, it had to, or I would die—and I didn’t doubt his threat. With a sigh I picked up my water jar and left, walking back toward the gate.

  Sunlight was beginning to fall on the city, bleaching the upper stories, casting warmth onto the cold stone. I glanced at the sky; it was important I be the only one at the well. Could I beat the women? Or should I wait until late? No, that would cause too much speculation.

  Picking up my pace, I followed the directions carefully: through the rehovim, the streets. Armorers; past the butchers and bakers; a sharp left, through a heavy gate.

  On the way, I saw not one child.

  Wait a second. That was what was missing, or rather who was missing. After drowning in yeladim of all ages, now I saw only adults. No kids? How was that possible? Why would a city not have children? So intent was I on my thoughts that I walked right past the guards.

  “Halt!” one of them called. I kept walking, focused on the lack of offspring.

  “Halt, I said!” he shouted, chasing me.

  He stepped in front of me, and I had to fumble not to drop my jar. I kept my gaze fixed on the ground; Jebusi women didn’t have the freedoms tribeswomen did.

  “Are you working here today?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  He tapped my jar.

  “Are you filling water for the village women?”

  I nodded again as he thumped the jar. “Are you hired by the village women?” He thumped my jar. I began to fear for my jar.

  “Ken!” I shouted, moving my jar out of thumping range.

  “Be sure you are gone by dusk,” he said, turning away. I heard him mention “Pelesti riffraff” under his breath. He turned back around. “Work as quick as you can,” he said. “I’ll be awaiting you.”

  Dismissed, I continued walking down to the well. This site was guarded quite heavily. This was not good news. Were all the soldiers fit and able? I hadn’t seen a doughnut-and-coffee-swilling one yet. They were undefeatable this way; inside the walls, with primo armor, weaponry that was wielded by people who knew what they were doing.

  Could I swing this deal?

  The stairs to the well spiraled downward, murky and clammy cold. With every step I felt the muscles in my legs screaming protest. Carrying forty pounds of water on my shoulder, while walking uphill on the way back, was going to be murder. I groaned at the thought that I’d set myself up for days of this.

  Even with practice I was never going to feel the same. Women passed me heading up, some alone, but mostly traveling in threes. Jebusi women wore what I’d always considered biblical dress: no style, little color or pattern. They were sackcloths with sleeves simply tied around the middle.

  One of the things I’d noticed about the tribespeople was that they were fashion plates, both male and female. Women didn’t wear veils and the fabrics they used were bright and well woven. Most significant, especially after Egypt, clothing was individualized.

  I reached the bottom step, blinking in the darkness. I knew by the sound of water that the well was here. Women before me in line filled their jars. I could barely see them since the room was lit by only two torches. We danced around each other as each group or person filled their jars, then climbed back up the stairs.

  A Jebusi soldier, seated comfortably beside the well, whittled away, sparing us the occasional glance. The lazy weasel!

  As my eyes adjusted, I saw the layout. A platform of wood, approximately two feet by four feet, capped the well. This wooden cover was fixed into the stone with copper bolts as thick as my wrists. Within the framework of the large wooden covering, a smaller aperture was cut—the hole for drawing water. You could close this opening and never know there was a well.

  The really bad news was that the inside space was maybe eight inches square—even a healthy rat couldn’t make it through that! I noticed that there was a separate bucket for drawing water, then you poured it into your receptacle of choice before hauling it upstairs.

  There was no way someone could get up from the water source into the city.

  I was a dead woman.

  My eyes filled with tears as I thought of how I’d have no choices—I had to go to Midian, meet up with Cheftu there. I had to sneak out tonight, before they knew what I was up to. Oh God; I set my jar down before I dropped it.

  The girl standing in line ahead of me was about six months
pregnant. I watched her struggle with the jar, but her belly was too big to hoist it. The other women ignored her, which angered me. I stepped forward and picked it up, groaning as I helped her adjust it on her shoulder.

  “Todah,” she whispered, not meeting my gaze.

  I murmured that it was nothing and edged out of her way. The townswomen had fallen silent, watching us. My heart was in shock; my arms already hurt. I just kept staring at the small opening; this was the entryway? Even if I dieted for a year, I wouldn’t fit through. The desire to wail was almost uncontrollable. Wacky as it was, I’d almost talked myself into thinking I could do this, invade the city.

  Laboriously I filled my jar, bucket by bucket. As I had seen women do and as I had practiced, I knelt on one knee, my back straight. Then I edged the jar up my arm and onto my shoulder. Forcing my knees not to buckle, I got to my feet.

  This was only half-full? I staggered away from the well. This was agony.

  I hoped my copious sweating didn’t melt my disguise off, literally. Not that it mattered.

  I was a dead woman.

  AKHETATEN

  THE PRIEST STOOD before Smenkhare again: the high priest of an outlawed god, the god who ironically was going to outlive them all. Things had changed so quickly. Plague, ostensibly, had taken away the high priest of Aten and also Akhenaten’s granddaughter, who had been borne by his daughter.

  These double deaths, so close to Pharaoh, had convinced even the most loyal followers of the Aten that Akhenaten had offended the sun god. This city in the plain was emptying like water trickling from a cracked jar. Each time one looked up, there were fewer citizens than before. RaEm’s beloved’s dream was dying; Pharaoh was killing her dreams also.

  The priest was here. Time was running down.

  “What lies do you come to spew this time, Horetaten?” RaEm knew he hated when she changed the nomen in his name from Horetamun to a more fitting name for this court: Horetaten. However, it was a more realistic way for her to behave with an audience of courtiers.

  “I see my”—he cleared his throat—“Lord Smenkhare is as gracious and forgiving as ever.”

  “What part of my ruling and reigning as co-regent of Egypt, living in the light of the Aten forever! does your feeble brain fail to comprehend? Address me properly, Horetaten.”

  He bowed his head. “My Majesty. I see the Aten has blessed your nature so that you are even more compassionate than I recalled.”

  “Should you ever seek forgiveness, you might find me so. Why are you here?”

  “You know the seasons. Pharaoh, officially, should prepare to sail the barque down for the god’s holiday.”

  RaEm glanced at the courtiers and nobles, all bored, watching this scene that they had seen many a time with priest after priest. The former religions of Egypt had not ceased in trying to lobby for their deities as consorts, or courtiers, of the Aten. RaEm wished for wine. “He no longer acknowledges that god.”

  Horet dared to step closer to the throne, lowering his voice so that even the scribes couldn’t hear it. “Egypt will no longer acknowledge him.” There was no venom in his gaze; instead his eyes were imploring. RaEm felt the blood in her body chilling. Was this the day? Could nothing else be done?

  She took a cup of wine and sipped, hoping the high priest was here for other reasons, not the one she feared. There had to be more time; she didn’t know, she hadn’t found the answers they wanted!

  Horetaten was unflappable. RaEm had a good mind to imprison him, just to see his color change. Such an action would be foolish, petty even. She finished her wine, feeling it flood into her veins, ease her fury.

  With a wave of her hand she dismissed the roomful of soldiers, nobles, maids, scribes, courtiers, and slaves.

  “What do you seek, Horet?” She heard the edge of exhaustion in her tone. Indeed, between spending the night sating Akhenaten, then rising at dawn for prayers to the Aten, before devoting the day to audiences in hopes of straightening out the kingdom, interspersed with endless feasting, drinking, and carousing until Akhetaten returned her to bed for his pleasure, she spent most days at tears’ edge.

  The last thing she needed was more intrigue. The wives schemed, the children plotted, the soldiers had their motives and plans, the nobles had theirs. Akhenaten remained a giant child, playing in the sand castle he’d built, with no understanding of how his people loathed him. Nor did he care.

  As a priestess in Hatshepsut’s Egypt she had thrived on the gossip and scheming of the court. Then, however, Egypt had been healthy, at peace, rich beyond imagining, full of ideas, beautiful people, and power.

  Now Egypt was riddled on every side with skirmishes, poor beyond bearing, tolerant of only one idea, and lacking beautiful people. Power was an illusion. The sport of palace life was gone; all that remained were the realities of hunger, poverty, and illness. “Why are you here?” she repeated.

  “My Majesty,” he said, affording her the title she was due, the title for which she had paid blood, “Waset calls for a new ruler, a new king to lift the burden of these poisonous years from us while yet there is time.”

  No longer were his words couched; there was no delicacy in handling the situation now. RaEm felt her fear grow. She clenched the crook and flail in her hands, forcing her breathing to be even.

  Always, Waset had ruled Egypt. There dwelt the nobility from generations before. There resided the hundreds and thousands of priests and soldiers. There were the temples laden with gold, filled with magic and secrets. There, the lifeblood of Egypt flowed between the land of the living and the City of the Dead. Akhenaten hadn’t been able to change that, at least not for long.

  “I grieved for you at the death of Meryaten,” he said. RaEm shot him a quick look—did he guess? She bowed her head.

  “It was a valiant, brave effort to extend the Aten’s reign,” he said. “But it failed. There were no children, and Egypt needs new blood. Stronger, healthy blood.”

  “There is only the boy,” RaEm said, weary beyond endurance. “With only his sister to wed.”

  “How many years is he?”

  “Seven.”

  “She?”

  “Eleven.”

  Horet sighed. “I love Egypt, My Majesty. I was not one of those who fought when taxes to the temples were cut. Nor did I protest when my brothers in the priesthood began spending more time at their homes instead of serving the god, because there were no worshipers and no gold.” He crossed his arms. “The temples had grown too powerful. Decision making had been taken from the court of Pharaoh and placed in the back gardens of the priests.” His brown eyes were open. “It was not right.” He glanced up. “Amun sought for Ma’at to be restored.”

  Horet gestured. “This pendulum swings to the north, then to the south, before centering on the navel of Geb, the earth.”

  RaEm sipped from her glass, only to realize it was empty. “Pharaoh, living forever! swung too far,” Horet said, a little more metal in his tone. “The time has come to center Egypt once more. She is ravaged.” He stepped forward, dropping to his knees, bowing on his face as he should have done but had chosen not to. “I love these red and black lands more than any woman, more than any god.” He looked up again, his cheeks wet with tears. “I would be nameless in the afterlife—”

  RaEm gasped.

  “—rather than have her bleed further.”

  “Do you know what curse you lay on yourself?” she whispered as she glanced into the shadowed corners of the room. “Nameless?” It was the greatest fear of an Egyptian to have no name, no identity, before the gods. Nameless meant that one would be destroyed, consumed by the Devourer. Then one’s deepest self would wander, weeping and lost, throughout eternity. It was a heinous end.

  “I will do anything to turn Egypt from this cliff of destruction,” he said.

  RaEm’s heart thudded in her breast. Egypt, the land of her roots, that she knew in her blood, whose soil she ate, or Akhenaten, the man she adored, body, soul, and mind? “How muc
h time?”

  Horet looked away. “Months at best. The nobles have returned from Akhetaten to Waset. The power base of Pharaoh’s support is gone.”

  She agreed silently.

  “There is one below me, an avaricious man whose hatred of Pharaoh knows no bounds. He would strike even at me, if he knew I were here.”

  She nodded once. “Would gold ease the pains?”

  “Ease them only, My Majesty. It would only postpone the inevitable.”

  “Aye, I understand, but we need the time for Tuti to grow, and perhaps—” However, RaEm realized, Akhenaten would never change. There was no possibility of his becoming more rational, more reasoned.

  Was there the chance that she could reign as Pharaoh alone?

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Were they better fed, the diseases would not claim so many. Gold could also be used to restore some of the smaller temples.”

  “Aye, opening them again would soothe …” RaEm fell silent. Her very words were a betrayal of Akhenaten. But it must be done. She closed her eyes, unable to stop the few tears. Horet waited in silence. She sniffed for a moment as she regained control.

  “Gold could bandage many of Egypt’s wounds,” Horet said. “Where is it?”

  RaEm sighed. As Sky TV would say, that was the million-dollar question. The mines were picked almost clean, and the gold in the temples was not accessible. The treasury was empty, and no tributes had arrived, save piddling trinkets. Egypt had lost her throne as a worthy power. For twenty years she had ignored the world.

  So the world had moved on.

  “I don’t have it yet.”

  He threw up his hands in disgust. “I cannot hold back a tide of fury on mere promises!” He glared at her, stepping back and pacing—daring to turn his back on her. “For a moment I thought you understood, that you agreed! That was our agreement, haii? Egypt is dying! Murdered by this, this …” He spun on his heel.