Sunrise on the Mediterranean

by Suzanne Frank

  “Should he persist and take you to wife, because you are taken under duress, he may never divorce you. You are protected by the laws of the land, by the honor of these tribes. You will worship our God; walk in our ways and be our people. Your children will be reared in the ways of Y’srael, they will worship Shaday, they will marry within us.”

  Dadua looked at the masses, then raised his glance to his men. In unison they said, “Thy will be done.”

  He bowed his head, acknowledging their acquiescence, then spoke to Yoav: “As you will.”

  Zorak went directly to Waqi, pulling her into his embrace, kissing her. He was tender and sweet, the expression I’d seen in his face when he delivered her child only intensified now.

  The women were picked like fruit, gently, carefully. There were no bawdy comments, no groping. The women whose husbands were still alive stayed close to their spouses, ignored by the tribesmen. It was silent, efficient, and strangely impersonal. I made sure to stay in the shadows.—I didn’t want to be mistaken even if someone was willing to overlook my painted complexion. Then I touched my face, realizing that my paint, the protection of looking as though I had extreme acne, was gone.

  As dusk fell, the gates were closed. Dadua had taken possession of his gift city, and he would sleep in his new palace tonight. Qiryat Dadua—my head was spinning.

  In Egypt, walking through the temples during the day, I’d sworn I could hear the voices of the dead. They were telling me their stories, of how beautiful it had been. They pushed my pen to draw it, but I’d been unable to.

  Then in Kallistae, with the wonders of the Aztlan empire, the sense of magic in the air had been nearly tangible. It was no wonder that our stories of gods and legends were born here. The hills were raised by mysticism.

  Here, however, I sensed what I’d never felt in either of those two places. With the night wind blowing my sweat-damp hair, the stars scattered above, tonight for the first time I felt holiness.

  Was it that the air was that much clearer? Was it because I was so highly elevated?

  Or was it because Jerusalem, under any name, really was the footstool of God?

  PART IV

  CHAPTER 11

  IN LESS THAN THREE DAYS Dadua, his multiple wives, and his perpetually-in-motion children were moved into the city. The traveling men returned two weeks later, on the hottest day we’d had yet.

  We didn’t see them first; we smelled them.

  For a moment I thought I’d returned to the time when this was a city of Molekh, because the burning of human flesh and the carrying around of dead and rotting goat have a similarly pervasive, nauseating odor, which wafts across miles, up hills, and through stone.

  We women were sitting innocently in the courtyard, fanning ourselves, drinking lukewarm cucumber-and-yogurt drinks, and gossiping. Apparently some young thing had caught the eye of haNasi. But who was it?

  A slave? Someone’s daughter? Shaday knew that from nowhere princes and their eligible daughters were showing up. The compacted city had become a glorified bed-and-breakfast of royal rejects. Had they been lurking in the hills, just waiting for the outcome of the battle? Not two days after Dadua moved into the city, some desert king and his beveiled daughter had shown up with ingratiating smiles and laden donkeys.

  However, between Mik’el, Avgay’el, Hag’it, and Ahino’am, did Dadua need other wives? Mik’el and Avgay’el wouldn’t stay in the same room together; Ahino’am forbade anyone else to wear the deep red she favored; I was convinced Hag’it was bisexual; and the children fought with each other when they weren’t running.

  So who was the young maid? The speculation was all-consuming.

  To this end, Mik’el was paying the guardsmen at Dadua’s door for information on who came and went; Avgay’el was paying the mushroom to see which slaves entered his private quarters and how long they stayed; Hag’it was paying the kitchen help to count the cups and plates used, to learn if he were eating enough for two; and Ahino’am was eating enough for two, because she was still nursing.

  Since Gerber’s wasn’t yet invented, three or more years of breast-feeding was common.

  It was Yom Rishon dinner, and each of Dadua’s wives had prepared her specialty dish. The afternoon before, since we couldn’t work on the Sabbath, clothes had been selected and discarded, jewelry had been traded, hands were hennaed. I had longed for the simplicity of the millstone, of grinding flour to make bread. Though I wasn’t a slave, I was in the harem, so refusing was awkward.

  Waqi had invited me to stay with her, but Zorak and his mother were there for the month of her “mourning” before Waqi and Zorak made their relationship official. Just seeing them together, their longing glances, accidental touches, made me yearn for Cheftu. Then again, most everything did.

  The roof was decked out, and the temperature had dropped finally so that a wonderful, perfumed coolness permeated the dining area, lit with a perfect sphere moon. I stood with most of the other women while the men ate. Rarely, if ever, did the family eat together. For the men it was a huge social outlet, for the women it was a massive drain on time and energy. Consequently we would eat later, after they did.

  It was while we stood there that the hideous smell blew over us. Then away.

  In some ways the Middle Eastern culture is similar to that of the American South; I think this was why my father was so at ease in both societies. Mimi taught me that the ultimate role of southern hospitality was to keep your guest feeling comfortable and wanted. Nothing was to interfere with that, hence the lack of confrontations in my family.

  Saudi customs were the same. Nothing was to make the guest feel ill at ease. Nothing negative was mentioned; no sore spots were prodded. “Ignore the unpleasant,” was the motto.

  As the horrific odor blanketed us, that mentality held. No one said a word, though we all reacted by choking, gasping for breath, wheezing. It was awful. Then the wind shifted and the air cleared.

  The hodgepodge of foreign kings, princes, and nobles all pretended they hadn’t smelled a thing. Dadua’s eyes were watering, but he said nothing. Silence settled uneasily on the tables, so the gibori Abishi passed him the kinor. “Sing us a song, adoni.”

  Dadua didn’t look up; he plucked a few strings, testing them. Around him the air filled with unspoken hope as we watched.

  The breeze changed again, flattening us with the smell. There was nothing, polite or not, that could be said. It was unignorable. “By Shaday, what is that?” a woman asked, tears streaming from her face.

  “They return!” we heard shouted from the gate. “N’tan returns!” The shofar sounded. In chaos we left the palace and raced to the heavily guarded gate. The stench was awful. It was the men; it had to be. Darkness was fully on the land, so we each held a torch, stretching down the road so they would have a path to walk up into the city.

  I tried to squint through the night, to see my husband. But I couldn’t; I felt as though I were going to hurl. “Is that the men?” someone else asked.

  “What have they done?” Avgay’el asked, her nose buried in her hands, tears streaking her perfect oval face.

  Abiathar, the high priest, stepped forward. Though he wasn’t in his uniform, he was impressive. “N’tan?” he called out.

  “Ken?” We heard the voice from the night. “You must be purified before you step into the city,” he shouted. “You stink!”

  I couldn’t believe all the rigmarole the men had to go through before they were allowed in the city. Washings and shavings, prayers and debriefings … I was going nuts, pacing throughout the night, waiting. Finally I climbed up on the gate, looking out over the valley, waiting for my husband to be released to me.

  At midnight Dadua went out to the men. The acoustics weren’t very good, so I had no idea what was going on. I finally sat down on the walkway between the towers, huddled against the wall from the wind, and slept. On the edges of my consciousness I heard sandals against stone, time and again. “Chloe?” I finally heard.

&
nbsp; I woke up from a dream, opening my eyes to see the face I loved best. “You’re back,” I whispered, holding my arms open for Cheftu. As sleep faded and the reality of the day penetrated, I reacquainted myself with his scent, with the feel of his body against mine. “You’re back,” I said again, almost crying with wonder that he was here with me. “How are you?” I asked, but didn’t move because I didn’t want to lose contact with his flesh.

  “Perfect, now,” he said. “Did you get it?” I asked. “The gold?”

  “Ken, chérie. Enough gold to sate a pharaoh.”

  I opened my eyes to see that the sky was brightening. “How come we didn’t see this gold when we were with the Apiru?” I asked. “We were part of the Exodus!”

  “It was carried alone, gathered from everyone before we left. The grieving Egyptians were more than willing to pay the Apiru to leave by then.”

  I pulled back to see his face. For a moment I just wallowed in his beauty. Thick brows met over a knife-blade nose, his jaw was squared, his lips full and sensual. “What do you look at?” he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners with laughter.

  I reached out, touching his clean-shaven cheek, and saw the humor fade from his expression. “It’s been—”

  “Too long,” he said as he pulled me into his arms, then pressed me against the stone wall, his mouth against mine, devouring me with kisses. He gripped my jaw, opening me wider to him. Raising my thigh around his leg, his hand running from my ankle, he hiked up my skirt. With some fumbling, a few stifled giggles, he dropped his kilt.

  There, in the morning sunlight, he held me in his palms, my legs wrapped around his, as he slowly lowered my body onto his. My eyes closed as all I felt, all I knew, was Cheftu. The sun poured light onto us already, as though an oven door were opened while preheating.

  I felt his shoulders flex and move beneath my palms, his palms beneath my bottom holding me carefully, powerfully, our legs linked together and the fullness of him within me. He was my universe, the only reality for this space in time. Slowly, steadily, he stoked the flame higher and higher. I asked for more, I begged for speed, but he tortured me, making my skin burn from the inside out. Sunspots filled my vision, burning me, enflaming me, until I combusted, sagging in his arms, the two of us collapsing, trembling, against the wall.

  “What was that all about?” I asked a moment later, still breathless.

  “Ach, well, you want to have children,” he said. “I refused to do it as a slave, but now”—he shrugged—“my freedom is real.” He turned his head, smiled at me though his eyes were closed against the sunlight.

  It took a moment for his words to sink in, then I sat bolt upright. “You’re free!”

  The holes were still in his ears, but they were bare. He smiled, his eyes still closed, but his whole demeanor eased. “Oui, chérie. We have a home, I have employment, we are in the beginning of the rise of the people Israel … I thought we should start our family.”

  I swallowed the tears in my throat. “Didn’t want to waste time, didya?” I teased.

  He pressed my face against his chest, hugging me tightly in total protection. I sighed, listening to him. His voice was serious as he answered me in English. “Never do I want to waste a moment with you, ma Chloe.”

  We sat that way until we heard a very loud, very obvious clatter of metal on stone. “Merde, soldiers,” Cheftu said as we disentangled. The sun was blazing onto us, baking us in this cleft of white reflective stone. I tugged down my hopelessly wrinkled skirt while Cheftu adjusted his kilt.

  Then he looked at me, probably for the first time in broad daylight. “Your chains!” he exclaimed. “Where are they?”

  I grinned. “This Cinderella didn’t wait for the prince,” I said jokingly.

  Another clatter of sword on stone, a loud cough. “We should leave so that poor man stops abusing his weapon,” I said.

  “I will not move until you tell me what this is about.” Smiling, I shrugged. “I won my freedom. Official today.”

  “What is this? How?” he asked. “You are amazing to me, chérie. Today you won it?”

  “Lo,” I said. A young gibori walked by, looking out to the valley, whistling. I glanced back at Cheftu. “However, when Yoav heard that you were here, that Dadua was meeting with you, he sent for me.”

  Cheftu crossed his arms, raising a brow. “And?”

  We’d met in lamplit darkness. I had smelled wine before I’d stepped inside the enclosure. “You are a slave no more,” Yoav had said. He didn’t sound or look intoxicated, but he’d been stripped down to his undertunic. Muscles bulged and flexed in the flickering light, softening the craggy features of his face. “So come, let me unchain you.”

  There was nothing untoward in his words, but the tone of his voice was suggestive. I stood there, wanting to be chainless when I did see Cheftu, but afraid of stepping that close to Yoav. I knew he wouldn’t touch me, I knew I wouldn’t touch him, but it was an awkward and scary feeling being so aware of him. I was married. Not only that, I was happily married! What was my problem? I’d swallowed, which had sounded loud in the darkness.

  “We owe you a debt,” he said, stretching in his chair. “I do. Never could this city have been breached without your cooperation.”

  “I’d hardly call my part ‘cooperation.’ Your methods are more like blackmail, adoni.”

  He chuckled and shrugged. “I do what is necessary to serve my liege.”

  “You got what you wanted, Rosh Tsor haHagana.”

  His green eyes met mine. “I cannot have what I want.”

  I swallowed again, feeling the heat of my chest and my face.

  “I will not take it. Avayra goreret avayra.”

  “What does that mean, transgression begets transgression?”

  “Ach, isha. You are such a pagan.” He picked up a tool from the low table beside him. “Sit here and I will tell you about my people.”

  The tension was dissipated, but I was still nervous. I sat on a stool before him and gingerly pulled out the chain. Through everything I had had it, but I’d grown used to it, the weight, the feel. It was like having long hair or an elaborate manicure. You just adjusted. However, this was no slavery like I’d ever heard of before. He pulled up the metal links, a slight tug on my ear, and then I heard the small hammer as it hit.

  “Lifnay Dadua there was Labayu. Lifnay Labayu was made king, we were ruled by judges. From the time of haMoshe in the desert until Labayu, the tribes were divided and each had its own group of judges, then judges above them, and so on.”

  The sound of metal on metal was a rhythm to his story.

  “So when the tribes were reentering the land, Achan was one of the soldiers sent to conquer the city of Ai. The battle was a defeat, though it should not have been. Achan was a brave soldier who led the attack. The judge at that time inquired of Shaday the reason why we had lost. Shaday said he couldn’t help us when we had broken our agreement with him. We were instructed that taking the land was a holy task, herim. Not for us to rape and pillage like the uncircumcised do. Ach, well, after some divination it became clear that Achan had taken some booty from a former battle.”

  “So what happened?”

  “An example had to be set; avayra goreret avayra.”

  There was that phrase again: transgression begets transgression.

  “Achan, with all his belongings and family, were taken outside the camp. Because the transgression was against the community, causing us to lose the next battle and many lives, the community exacted judgment on him.”

  “Uh … judged how?” I asked, though I had a sinking feeling inside. After all, I’d grown up in the Middle East. Justice was a bloody draw.

  The metal fell free. There was hushed silence. “Achan, his family, and possessions were stoned to death.”

  “Stoned?” I repeated.

  “And the remains burned. Whenever you see a mass of piled stones outside the city walls, it is a marker for one who transgressed against the community an
d was punished by the community.” He sat back. “You can remove your own chains.”

  I pulled them through my ears, which felt curiously airy with those huge holes, and lightweight without the press of metal. “I still don’t understand. Why does transgression beget transgression?” My back was to him. He was leaning away from me so that I felt the heat of the lamp on my skin. My hands were trembling.

  Yoav sighed deeply. “You tempt me,” he said bluntly. “If I were to take you, that is adultery. However, as you say, my position is Rosh Tsor haHagana. I have the ear of the king. You tell no one. I tell no one. The next time I want something that is not right, I think to myself, I committed adultery and no one knew. If I steal this treasure, or I tell a falsehood about this man, or I cheat, who will know? I got away with it before.”

  I was motionless, listening, almost afraid to remind myself that I was here.

  “Perhaps it is a small thing, but from it my pride grows. I come to think I know more, I know better than Shaday. It infects my nefesh so that the laws, they become suggestions. When I transgress and there is no punishment, I transgress further the next time. And the next. In time, I have a tree of dishonesty growing up, poisoning the air and the earth of the land.” He shifted in his seat. “Transgressions pollute the land. This pollution will cause the land to vomit us out.”

  The tenor of his voice changed, became resolute. “I sacrifice my blood for this land, for my tribe. No less will I sacrifice my desire for it.”

  I had risen and walked out of the lean-to into the night air, down the outside steps, not stopping until I stood on the wall’s walkway, blown by the wind, looking out where my heart was. From tiny acorns big trees grow, I heard Mimi say. Don’t even plant the seed.

  I looked at my husband. “He shared the story of Achan’s curse, the concept of transgressions growing from one thing into another, until everything was corrupted. Then I came here, waited for you.”

  His eyes sparked; I knew he knew what I hadn’t said. The wind blew at my hair, and again I felt the emptiness of my ears, the sense of freedom. He reached out, his hand on my neck, cradling my head. His thumb touched the hole. His pinky finger would probably fit right through it. I didn’t want to look at him, the expression in his eyes was too raw. I gazed off into the valley.