Sunrise on the Mediterranean

by Suzanne Frank

  “Chloe?” he said. I met his gaze reluctantly. “I will never leave you again. This I promise.”

  “Nothing—”

  He cut me off. “I know that. I know you.” I’d looked away again, and he tilted my face to his. “I was remiss to you, not fulfilling my duties.”

  Inexplicably my eyes filled with tears. “You don’t—” Cheftu kissed me, hard, rough. Despite the sun and the heat I felt goose bumps all over my body, I wanted this man again. I wondered briefly if the soldier was walking the entire length of the wall or just this space. “I do,” he said against my mouth. “I need you. I need to touch you and to hold and listen to you. My duty is to love you, to provide for you, to make love to you.”

  Was it any wonder that I loved this man? He laid claim to my mouth while he seduced some part of my heart, that absurdly female sliver of me that wanted to be hit over the head and dragged back to a cave somewhere—by of course an intelligent, sensitive, gentle man—and profoundly “claimed.”

  My body was pressed against his, I felt his arousal, but he was working some other magic as he talked to me, kissed me. We stumbled back into a pocket of shade and he held me, his hand on my head. “No, Chloe,” he said in his distinct, accented English. “Never again will I leave you.”

  Vine-tending season was upon us: all of us. I’d never experienced team-work in the same way. The “land” everyone always referred to became an entity to me. Not a god, but more like a relative, someone you take care of, nurture, and support. Consequently I found myself out in the vineyards till all hours, with Cheftu and most every other tribesman and slave, pinching back buds, training vines, and pruning.

  I would never, ever, take wine for granted again.

  The good part was that in the evening many of us would gather on rooftops, usually Dadua’s, eat dinner, and listen to stories. The cool wind would refresh us, the laughter would rejuvenate us, and after our escapades tangling with near death, psychotic people, and natural disasters, Cheftu and I appreciated our new lives.

  Housing in the city was still iffy. People moved in and out on a daily basis: Jebusi giving up and leaving for a Molekh-friendly place, tribesmen moving in with their children, wives, and armor. The city streets were still stained from blood in places, but I chose to look away.

  One night, not long after Cheftu had returned and we’d been freed, we were sitting on Dadua’s roof with Zorak and Waqi, who were now wedded, and assorted others whose names were still foreign to me, when Dadua announced he’d written a new song. “This commemorates the brother of my nefesh, Yohanan, fallen in battle.” The tune was plaintive, even more of a minor key than tribesmen’s music normally was. Across the still roof his notes rang, his voice rich with emotion. My stomach growled—the women hadn’t eaten yet—but I could not leave. It was no wonder this all became history. Dadua played the last chord, and we sat in silence— savoring the final note.

  “What beauty flows from the mouth of the king!” someone shouted from the stairway that led up from the courtyard.

  We all turned, wondering who had spoken.

  “What passion for his fallen brother! What compassion for the lost of Y’srael!” An older man stepped forward, with curled and braided hair and beard flowing down his body. Though he was aged, he was still very handsome.

  “Who are you?” a gibori asked, crouched and ready to defend Dadua if need be.

  The man pried a scroll from his waistband and handed it to the gibori. “I bring a message from the master of Tsor, Hiram. It is a message of peace for your most esteemed poet-king, Dadua.”

  He was speaking our dialect. True to type, the giborim settled back to watch. After all, this might be entertaining as a story.

  One of the younger gibori took the scroll, then unrolled it. The other soldiers joked with him, for almost none of them could read. The young soldier stared hard at the page, ignoring the gibes of his fellows. In the end he rolled it up and delivered it to Dadua.

  He looked at it, no expression on his Rossetti-perfect face. “My scribe will read it,” he said calmly. He looked up. “Chavsha, are you here?”

  Our eyes met and Cheftu rose, walking to the king. He was dressed like a tribesman, he even was growing a beard, but he still moved with the feline elegance that Egyptians seemed to have.

  “Thy will be done,” Cheftu said as he bowed, his arm across his chest as though he were serving Pharaoh. Dadua didn’t flinch. He handed Cheftu the scroll as though they had done it a thousand times. I was torn between laughing hysterically and dropping my clay cup. Who was Dadua fooling? I looked back at the messenger.

  He was tall, his neck and shoulders still straight, unbowed by age. His clothing was a tunic, moderately bright and patterned. He was standing in partial shadow, so it was hard to see details. But he had presence, undeniably so.

  “To Dadua, ruler on high: Greetings, my brother, from Hiram, Zakar Ba’al of Tsor, your exalted kinsman,” Cheftu read.

  “Who does this Hiram think he is, grasping after being a son of Avraham, calling himself ‘exalted brother’?” a gibori commented.

  “He’s not circumcised!” another said.

  “It’s just poetic language,” Abishi explained. “He knows they aren’t brothers. He simply says that to make his requests more pleasant.”

  I watched the messenger as the giborim spoke. He seemed amused, though it was hard to see his face. Bangs covered his forehead, and the rectangular shape of his beard disguised the rest of his face. However, I had a weird feeling. Something about his nose, maybe?

  The men quieted, and Cheftu continued to read. “As you are now living in Abdiheba’s abode, you have learned he was no creature of comfort.”

  “We don’t need a pagan to tell us that!” one of them shouted. Cheftu glanced up, his face in profile. He was so beautiful with short hair, though his sidelocks were growing out again.

  I heard a small cry and turned. The messenger had staggered and was being seated by one of the gibori. The man had turned ghastly pale, visible even in this light. They wet his lips with wine. He stared at Cheftu with wide eyes. “Have I misspoken, adoni?” Cheftu asked when the rest of us turned to him to see what the messenger was seeing.

  The man closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Please,” he said after a moment. “Continue.”

  Dadua had said nothing. Probably in a real court, he would be above speaking to this man. I thought his silence now was more because he was suspicious. Tsor, from what I remembered of my mental map, was pretty big on both the economic and social scale. Why would they be here? Or why would the Zakar Ba’al not show up himself?

  It could be a plot to get inside the city and betray us the way I’d betrayed the Jebusi. I glanced over at Zorak, who was ignoring the byplay and staring longingly into the darkness. Maybe betrayal was more a definition of perspective and less an absolute?

  Cheftu looked down and continued reading. “He, Abdiheba,” Cheftu reminded us as he continued to read, “believed that physical pain ensured battle victory. An interesting but unnecessary ritual, I think. Reports claim that you are a man of strength, graciousness, and art. To this end, for the cumulative result of peace and trade between our peoples, I propose this:

  “The man who has delivered this message is my master builder and architect.” Cheftu glanced up at the messenger, and we all turned to him. Tears streaked his face. Was the man in pain? His eyes were still closed, and he was breathing rapidly. His hands were fisted in his tunic skirt. Something was niggling at me. Cheftu kept reading.

  “He and the crew with him will build you a palace of Tsori cedar—”

  The tribesmen gasped.

  “—with outbuildings and governmental offices, as a symbol of my faith in you. Yours is a strong, young nation, biting the ankles of the Pelesti. I wish to see its growth.”

  I looked at Dadua. His gaze was focused on the messenger; had he even heard that incredible offer? Cheftu resumed:

  “If perhaps ha-adon cares for his new pala
ce, he will see fit to allow my caravans and those under my protection to travel through his fair valley from Egypt. Allow my architect to build your palace while you consider this exchange. I look forward to seeing my brother face-to-face one day. Your god’s blessings on you. Signed, Hiram, Zakar Ba’al of Tsor.”

  Our heads swiveled as though we were on a single wire. This older man was the chief builder?

  “Impossible,” Dadua said. We turned toward him en masse. He rose from his chair. “Tell Zakar Ba’al we appreciate his offer, but we are not accepting of it.”

  Cheftu glanced from one man to the next. He frowned faintly as he looked at the messenger. Did he have the same strange feeling? “Adoni,” he said. Dadua turned to glare at him. “As adoni’s scribe,” he said, accenting the “scribe,”“I would suggest we offer this man residence for the night and discuss this matter when he is rested.”

  “He will not stay in my city,” Dadua said. There was no belligerence in his tone, he was matter-of-fact. Cheftu glanced at the messenger again. The man was looking down, almost as though he were cringing from view.

  My strange feeling graduated to hinkiness, which was the sense of someone not only walking across your grave, but doing jumping jacks on it.

  Cheftu was doing some fast talking, persuading Dadua to let the man stay in one of the watch houses. Women began oozing from the rooftop, going to prepare a place for this man, ousting some family to sleep in the groves tonight.

  “There is no need,” the messenger said suddenly. “We have our own accommodations.” He bowed. “I will seek haadon’s face tomorrow, perhaps?” Unlike before, when his voice rang out, now he was almost slurring his words. Had the man had a stroke? Should Cheftu examine him?

  Apparently I wasn’t the only one with this thought. N’tan stepped forward and offered to check him over. The messenger reacted almost violently, backing away, excusing himself. The giborim had tensed up, drawing imperceptibly closer to Dadua.

  The messenger turned to go, brushing past the women. For a second our gazes connected. His eyes were haunted, naked, as though his emotions had just been sandblasted. Pain and joy were mingled before he looked away.

  The group sat in silence as we listened to him beat a not so old retreat down the stairs and the street. Several giborim followed. How had he gotten into the city, anyway? Had anyone asked that?

  Dadua turned to Cheftu. “What did that mean?” Like many people who had lived without, he was suspicious of anyone who gave with what seemed to be unflinching generosity.

  In this case, I would say suspicion was warranted. There was something about those eyes… .

  “If I understand,” Cheftu said, “his crew will build you a palace, outbuildings, and governmental offices.”

  Dadua was wary. “For the price of traversing my kingdom?”

  Cheftu shrugged. “Also, probably space for his crew to live.”

  “Impossible,” Dadua said again.

  Abishi leaned forward. “Adoni, we need new homes for our people. Now, it is fine. Tribesmen and Jebusi are in their summer homes in the fields and vineyards. Soon it will be winter, though. Colder than we are accustomed to. Then where will everyone live?”

  Dadua frowned. “I will not have a pagan and his crew in my city! It is foolishness!”

  Yoav spoke slowly. “Agreed, adoni. But there must be a way.”

  “Could we extend the city?” N’tan said. “Let him build somewhere outside the walls?”

  “We couldn’t protect it,” Yoav said.

  “North we could,” Abishi interjected. We all looked at him.

  “He speaks the truth,” said another general I didn’t know. “Between here and the Jebusi threshing floor, there are plateaus that could be extended.”

  Abishi spoke again. “Ach, because they are between the lower gates and the threshing floor, no one could access them.”

  “But no one would be within the city walls,” Yoav clarified.

  Dadua speared Cheftu with a look. “What say you?”

  “They are trading in kind,” Cheftu answered. “They have nothing else to give you, nothing of tremendous worth. Building outside the city walls would solve a variety of problems for you. Moreover, they would bear the cost of the materials and labor.”

  “All you need do is let them travel through the tribes’ lands,” Abishi said.

  “We could even escort them,” Yoav added. “It would keep the giborim in condition between their assignments with the Pelesti.” His gaze scanned the crowd for a moment. I watched Cheftu’s face harden. The man didn’t miss a trick.

  Dadua yawned. “I will think on it.”

  We all said, “Thy will be done.”

  “If you will stay with us, you must follow our laws,” Dadua said.

  We were roasting, all jammed into the makeshift audience chamber. Abdiheba, with the exception of his harem’s quarter’s waterfall, had had no sense of the aesthetic. Everything had been built for a siege.

  I shifted uncomfortably at that thought.

  The messenger inclined his head. “Ha-adon’s will be done,” he said. His voice was timid again. Perhaps that initial booming tone had been only for show?

  “When will you begin?” Cheftu asked.

  The messenger looked down, mumbling his words. “Tomorrow, adon. We will clear an area tomorrow.”

  “How long will this take?”

  “You will be dwelling in your palace three months hence.”

  “Forgive me, father, but that is impossible,” Abishi said. The messenger turned to him, his eyes snapping. “Two days ago your liege claimed building at all was impossible. Now you say that constructing a building in three months is impossible! I do not think this word means what you think it means.” He turned back to the throne, Cheftu, N’tan, Dadua, and Yoav.

  He moved … familiarly. I frowned, trying to recall where I’d seen him or someone like him before.

  “Your palace will not be completed, but you will be able to live in it by three months,” the messenger said. Did anyone know his name? Did anyone else think it strange that we didn’t? Cheftu’s warnings about revealing names rang in my head.

  “How can such an older man … ? But how can you build? I cannot even see how you would carry wood!” one of the soldiers commented.

  “He’s an overseer,” someone else said.

  The messenger looked at the first soldier, giving me a chance to see his face for the first time. I shivered internally. There was something familiar about him. Not the age or the coloring, but the boldness of his black gaze, perhaps. “A wise query, my large friend,” the messenger said. “Perhaps all is not seen with the eye, however.” He smiled, flashing big white teeth. My sense of familiarity grew.

  He straightened a little, glancing my direction. His dark eyes were almost bottomless, lashed thickly. Mostly unlined. This old man wasn’t quite as old as he appeared; either that or he’d been using Estée Lauder way before I was born. He turned back to Dadua. “Have you decided where you want to dwell, adon?”

  Dadua was watching with narrowed eyes. “My reluctance is great to receive a gift from a ruler I do not know, nor do I know his gods,” Dadua said. He wasn’t buying any of this.

  “Would you like to live above the city?”

  N’tan spoke. “We will consult with our god, see where the palace should be built.”

  “Your god is an architect?” the messenger said, his tone almost sarcastic.

  “Shaday built the heavens and the earth,” N’tan said coolly. “How are we to call you?” he asked the man.

  “Hiram, the same as my liege,” the man responded, drawing himself up.

  Cheftu’s eyes bugged for a moment, then he looked away, fiddling with some papers. That name meant something, but what? We hadn’t met a Hiram before. Was it historical?

  “Your king worships Ba’al?” N’tan asked.

  The messenger was looking a little bit put out. “My king worships no god, adon. He believes the earth is fruitf
ul unto itself. He believes the sea and sky will stay in their places. He trusts there is an unknown deity who will one day be revealed, but until that point, he will not worship falsely.”

  He shoots; he scores! That response removed this king from the category of “idolater” neatly, enabling Dadua to pursue a relationship with him. Shaday forbade covenants with unbelievers. “Tell me of your master’s palace,” Dadua said.

  “May I sit, adon? Nothing more, it’s just these old bones grow weary.”

  Dadua not only had him seated, but offered wine and bread.

  Interesting. No salt. Growing up in the Middle East, I knew that an offer of salt and bread was a banner of protection for as long as the food remained in the visitor’s system—which was estimated at three days. My father always made a point to refrain from emptying his bowels until he’d left a place.

  My mother had complained about this, said it wasn’t healthy. He’d said it was his job. She’d made dark comments about doctors. He’d kissed her. Argument over.

  The messenger was finishing his second glass of wine, seeming to savor every drop, uncaring about his audience. What a poseur, I thought. He wiped his mouth with the bread, then ate it. The giborim stood in the close near darkness, watching this like a play.

  “My master’s home is exquisite. Ashlar …” Hiram rattled on about the wonders of the palace. He waxed eloquent over dressed stones, polished cedar, handcrafted ivory windowsills, furniture carved and emblazoned with “images of royalty.”

  Dadua was leaning back, completely unmoved. I looked at Cheftu, who was distractedly spinning his scribe’s brush with one hand while staring at the floor. Was he even listening?

  “What do you see for adoni’s palace?” Yoav asked.

  The messenger smiled, a grin that was devastating, a smile that would make angels weep, he was so gorgeous. He might be a hundred, but he could still model. That face, those teeth. He was perfect.