Sunrise on the Mediterranean

by Suzanne Frank

  The Egyptians didn’t actually come up into the city, but rather camped on the far side of the Kidron valley in a sprawl of white tents, pennants, and soldiers. They lounged like cats in the shade but made no move toward the city. It would be up to us to initiate contact.

  I was with Avgay’el, brushing her hair, which was what ladies-in-waiting did, when Yoav entered. He greeted her, then me. “There are two hundred Egyptians on the hillside,” he said, pacing, fretting with his side curls. “Another thousand camp in the Hinon valley, still another thousand at the foot of Har Nebo.”

  “Have they done anything?” I asked, still brushing.

  “Lo.”

  “What sources do they have for water?”

  “They’re digging wells.”

  So they intended to stay for a while, and they realized that Dadua would not be opening up the city to them. “What do the pennants say?”

  “Smenkhare, living in the Aten,” he said, “forever.” Someday I was going to ask him about his education. A tribesman who was literate was impressive; one who spoke and read other languages was almost unheard-of. “The tribespeople are ostensibly gathering the olives, but in reality watching the Egyptians,” Yoav said, chuckling. “It’s better than having spies. Instead I have grandmothers who make up in observation what they lack in eyesight.”

  It would be interesting: the Israelites with their brightly colored clothing, sashes, and fringe and long curling locks, next to the Egyptians, who were sleek, clothed only in white and gold, with painted eyes and straight hair.

  “Should we send a message asking Pharaoh if the view is good, and by the by, why is he so very far away from his flat land and his many gods?” Yoav threw up his hands.

  “How is the audience chamber coming?” I asked. “Will it be ready in the next few days?”

  Yoav shrugged. “It could be. I will speak to Hiram.”

  “Then we will send an invitation to Smenkhare inviting him to present himself in court to haMelekh Dadua and his court.” I looked at Avgay’el. “Can we do this in the middle of the harvest season?”

  Dadua’s wife smiled. “Whatever he needs, give him.”

  “Then excuse me, adoni, g’vret,” I said, and hustled out of there.

  Fortunately Shabat was between the time that Smenkhare arrived and the time that … Hiram of Tsor arrived. Shabat afternoon’s peace was torn by a shout from the wall. Someone was approaching the valley gate. It was close enough to walk, so Cheftu and I joined the throng that watched, bemused.

  “He approaches! He approaches!” we heard shouted from below. Criers stood on the road, calling out, pointing.

  Who was arriving?

  “Hiram comes! Hiram Zakar Ba’al comes!”

  I eyed the criers and put them down to a marketing ploy; they weren’t Jebusi or tribesmen. Obviously they were part of the team to make Hiram—did the Tsori have any other names?—seem a big man.

  “By the power of Shaday, what is that?” someone, a genuine citizen, shouted. We peered over the rocky wall to the mountain road opposite us.

  Hiram of Tsor, Zakar Ba’al, traveled in great comfort—not to mention style.

  “Zut alors,” Cheftu breathed. “What is that thing?”

  “An … elephant,” I said. Granted, it was a dwarf elephant, or it wouldn’t have been able to get up the hills, but still, an elephant? Riding guard was a band of … women? They were hard to discern, but they didn’t look like men. One shifted her shield, and the crowd gasped.

  Holy shit!

  “Are those Amazons?” Cheftu asked me.

  “In Israel?” I said in English. “I didn’t know elephants had ever even been in the Middle East,” I said. “Much less warrior women.” Yet in the back of my head, in my mother’s softly proper British accent, I heard mention of pygmy elephants from Africa. Was Israel Africa? My head was spinning, watching this group grow closer. On the back of the elephant was a little Quonset-style hut, swaying to and fro with the motion.

  Just seeing that made me feel a little seasick.

  This colorful team was approaching the walls. “Smenkhare’s audience is tomorrow,” I said. “But Zakar Ba’al isn’t going to give us much choice if he just shows up at the city gates.”

  Cheftu looked at the sky. “It is a full watch before Yom Rishon begins,” he said. “It will take him some while to get across the hills on that creature, though,” he commented. The elevation was nowhere as steep as the Kidron valley or Hinon valley side, but they were already encamped with Egyptians and not much of a pathway. North of us, in the new, unenclosed section of town, the Tsori rested through this day, as did all the tribesmen.

  “He’s out of luck,” I whispered in English. “He’ll just have to wait.”

  After a while watching the Amazons and the elephant navigate the hills grew old, so we returned to our house. The minute the shofar sounded that night, however, we raced toward the audience chamber. Soldiers flew down the stairs with us, as we all hightailed it to the palace. We burst into the new throne room.

  Chaos.

  Avgay’el was in high dress, her hair trailing into the hands of a Jebusi serving girl, who was trying valiantly to braid it, while keeping up with Dadua’s wife. Dadua had been wet on by his son, so he was dabbing frantically at his one-shouldered tunic while Shana screamed for another.

  N’tan rushed into the room, his white clothing bloodstained.

  Shana screamed at him, “You! What are you doing? What kind of tzadik is covered in blood?”

  “I was casting omens,” he shouted back, pulling off the tunic and scrambling for another. It was like backstage at a fashion show!

  The zekenim leaders adjusted their cloaks while slaves scurried around, trying to create the illusion of wealth and plenty, and the giborim helped each other with armor.

  Honestly, if the man was riding an elephant, he would know full well that Dadua was neither wealthy nor did we have plenty. He was the one building the palace.

  However, this was marketing, which I understood.

  Therefore we scrambled for the illusion.

  Zakar Ba’al arrived less than an hour later. What did he see? I wondered. We stood in form: wives, children, soldiers, private guard, and attendants all dressed in red—assuming that since he was from Tsor, his people would be in royal blue— with gold.

  We were in the new audience room in the upper city. It was a spacious chamber open to the sky, though linen curtains tied with elaborate tassels, which had been finished only the day before, canopied the space. The cedar ashlar walls gleamed, having been polished with beeswax while they were being placed. Dadua’s throne and dais commanded center stage, with the rest of us lined on both sides. A blind musician—why were they always blind in ancient times?—strummed softly in the corner. I did a double take when I saw that Cheftu was seated cross-legged on the floor, a quill and scroll in hand. The scribe Chavsha winked at me before tucking his sidelocks behind his ears.

  Though he hadn’t recognized Hiram the builder, I knew Hiram recognized him. I was completely out of the recognition loop, because my red hair and pale skin served better than any disguise. What was that man’s angle? I wondered.

  As we waited for the royalty to show, I checked on the slaves. They stood at the ready with wine jugs and cups, baskets of fresh figs and grapes, pickled cucumbers, and grilled Ashqeloni onions to offer for refreshment.

  Everything was clean, primped, primed, and polished. Let the games begin.

  First the Zakar Ba’al’s Amazons entered. They looked like stars from a B-movie about bimbos and aliens. Their clothing was skimpy, they were gorgeous—but they had only one breast, which along with their scars was bared to the eye.

  There were twelve altogether. Each woman stood with her hand on her weapon, her legs apart. They looked aggressive, even mean. More than that, they were silent, gesturing to each other with the briefest of hand signals. Deaf Amazons?

  Next were the servants. They were pierced and tattooed like p
unk rock teenagers, though nearly naked. They fell onto their faces, evenly spaced between the twelve Amazons. It was a good thing the new room was large, because all these people never would have fit in the old one.

  Then the three body servants entered, young men, wearing peacock feather skirts. That particular shade of azure brought back a wealth of memories from Greece.

  The whole group hit the floor in sync as Hiram Zakar Ba’al appeared in the doorway. I stared, thunderstruck. That deceptive, manipulative rat, I thought.

  I looked over at Cheftu. The color had drained from his face. In fact, he looked as though he’d eaten too much squash; he was sort of yellowish green. One of those peacock feathers could have tipped him over in shock.

  After the glamour of his entourage, Hiram himself was rather understated. His dark curling hair was very short, his beard was closely clipped, his clothing was nearly somber, his makeup and jewelry were restrained. Two things made him shattering. One, he wore a coiled serpent around his neck—not a gold representation, but the real thing.

  And two, I knew his eyes. I’d seen them more recently in his masquerade of being the Tsori master builder. What was his reason for all of this? What had happened to the white hair and beard? I watched him walk forward, the gilded fringe of his skirt rustling faintly above the noise of the musician. Dadua’s court said nothing, just observed him silently.

  His eyes were fixed on Cheftu with such intensity, I was surprised that the air hadn’t incinerated.

  When I’d seen him as Hiram’s messenger, when I’d avoided him as such, I’d been amazed that he was still alive. I’d also felt a petty amount of glee that he had aged. Apparently the aging had been merely a costume.

  Dion still had the looks and bearing of … well, the Prince of Darkness. Satan was allegedly the most beautiful of all God’s creatures. There was a strong possibility that Dion might have been, might still be, Satan.

  Unwillingly I looked at Cheftu. His dumbfounded gaze was on me; even the blind musician could see this triangle. “G’vret,” someone whispered, “the Egyptians are here.”

  Of course they are, I thought. “Check our stores, refill the wine jugs,” I instructed, while Dion’s despised voice recited the greetings of one king to another.

  HaNasi welcomed the master of Tsor, his speech fluid even though his eyes were cold. Dion inquired about the health of the king, which N’tan answered. Cheftu seemed intent on taking minutes of the meeting. What was he thinking? I at least had known Dion was alive, but how did Cheftu feel?

  There was another rustle at the doorway—the Egyptians— and a child entered, throwing white flower petals on the floor. Her youthlock, ringed eyes, and copper skin made it obvious she was from the Nile valley.

  A squadron of Egyptian soldiers with long painted eyes, white kilts, and gold armor followed her, trailed by three priests with shaved heads, wearing leopardskins, filling the air with incense.

  As the hostess, I was counting people and guessing how much they would drink. The slaves were milling about, serving wine to the giborim who were present—fortunately not that many—and the assorted minor kings who had attached themselves to Dadua.

  “The Crown Prince of Upper and Lower Egypt! The Glory of the Aten at Dawn! He Who Rises in the East, He Who Reigns with the Aten!” and on and on the bilingual chamberlain went, announcing this person. Others from Hiram/Dion’s entourage had slipped in, advisers, seers, nobles, the hangers-on with whom every king traveled.

  They all needed wine.

  “He Who Loves the Aten,” the chamberlain continued, “Tutankhaten!”

  I almost fell over. If I’d been carrying anything, I would have dropped it. No way! I must be hallucinating or dreaming or both. I watched as a little boy was carried in on a little-boy-size golden throne. I recognized his beautiful face instantly because I’d grown up seeing it! This was the boy-king of Egypt!

  Tutankhaten? Tutankhamun? David and Tutankhaten?

  Not even Cheftu would recognize this significance. This was my piece of history alone. I picked up counting again while the formalities were exchanged. Tutankhaten was a child, not even in puberty yet, his voice high but strong. Then he stepped aside, and the chamberlain started reading a new list of titles: Pharaoh’s honorifics.

  Smenkhare was announced.

  I looked back to the doorway. Gold glittered on him everywhere, from the diadem on his shaven head to the eye paint on his eyes to the …he had breasts? I waved away a slave’s question while I stared at the androgynous person before me.

  Of course I knew from my sister that controversy raged among twentieth-century Egyptologists as to whether or not Akhenaten had been male or female, straight or gay, a transvestite, a cross-dresser, or the victim of some obscure illness that gave men breasts. Since Smenkhare was a cousin …

  But that face. The features were all wrong for Egypt. His nose or hers, or whatever, was more Greek.

  Something shattered, and I looked away. Dion, as Hiram, stared at Smenkhare the same way he’d stared at Cheftu two months ago. I looked at Cheftu, who was intently focused on his work, not that there was anything to write, since no one was saying anything.

  The court was agog, because while this creature had small but still apparent breasts, he/she also displayed an impressive bulge in his/her kilt.

  Of course, that’s because I saw only in silhouette.

  “Greetings from Pharaoh, he who reigns in the Aten forever!” the chamberlain, now acting as translator, said.

  “Egypt welcomes Dadua ben Yesse to the realm of rulers.” Even the voice was hard to tell. Male or female? The giborim were mystified, defensive. The Amazons ignored him/her, and Dion’s expression didn’t belong on the face of a man who’d lived a thousand years. It was too surprised. What did he see?

  Cheftu looked up, and his mouth dropped open.

  Curiosity was killing me. I edged around the crowd, keeping pace as Smenkhare advanced into the chamber. Tall, tanned, and wiry strong, the legs were covered by a long kilt, but the arms were a woman’s?

  Dadua looked revulsed as Smenkhare approached. Cross-dressing just wasn’t done in this court. In fact, there were religious laws against men and women dressing alike. I slipped to the side behind Avgay’el, from where I could see out.

  A woman stood there, dressed as a man. Despite the lack of curly black hair, I knew that face!

  I’d worn it, after all. My world was tilting; she stepped forward, elegant, graceful, and distinctly predatory.

  She was Sibylla, the seeress whose body I’d inhabited in ancient Aztlan; she was Dion’s aunt and the body Cheftu had known as mine. Gold glistened on her dark skin, while her almond-shaped eyes glittered maliciously at us all. “Pharaoh himself is far too busy to visit, to welcome.” She stepped farther into the room.

  So, my racing mind reasoned. You have your body; the spirit of Sibylla hasn’t had a body in a while. The Egyptian body was destroyed in Greece. Which leaves two spirits and two bodies. I was one of them—in my own body. Which left a missing body and spirit.

  “I AM his beloved, Smenkhare.”

  The court gasped.

  The ancient, time-traveling priestess RaEmhetepet, wearing the skin of the Aztlan seeress Sibylla, masquerading as Smenkhare, Pharaoh’s male co-regent, gazed at the court in whole. Please don’t look at me, I thought. Please don’t see me.

  “She blasphemes!” one of the zekeni shouted. “She must be stoned!”

  He was immediately muffled by his brothers; one did not even jest about stoning Pharaoh. RaEm and Dion eyeballed each other; I noticed the heat in the room had risen.

  All of my lives were gathered in one place. I craved a cigarette with every fiber of my body. Cheftu still stared, stunned. Dion glared. RaEm was … Pharaoh?

  Dadua sat on the throne, regal, motionless. “I bid you welcome, Smenkhare of Egypt. For the sake of my tribesmen and my god, I must ask that you refrain from using his name.”

  RaEm was wearing the blue helmet, the war
helmet. A faint line creased her painted brows. She really did look great— considering I knew what that particular body had been through, that was impressive. “I AM unaware of your god, adon.”

  I was impressed; she was speaking whatever language this was: Hebrew? Akkadian? Pelesti?

  N’tan smiled faintly. “Our god’s name is I AM.”

  Suddenly it made sense! No wonder I had never been able to say “I am.” It wasn’t just a statement of identity; it was a statement of eternity, the perfect name for an unfathomable deity. I AM was a clause of perpetuity: I was that I am that I will be, endless and immutable.

  “Neither are we to use Shaday’s name to swear by, to take oaths with, to cry in less than prayer and supplication,” N’tan added quickly.

  I thought of the many times “god” punctuated my thoughts. Since I hadn’t used his proper name, was I safe?

  “When your gods Amun-Ra, HatHor, Ma’at, when these gods faced our God in Egypt, your priests asked the name of our God,” N’tan said.

  “Amun-Ra is himself unknowable,” RaEm said stiffly. I marveled at how sexless but beautiful she looked. Did everyone know she was female? Or … I was confused. “But the Aten rules now. Only the Aten,” she said.

  N’tan shrugged. “It is no matter, Pharaoh. Here our God is known as Shaday. You will refrain from using his name.” There was a lot of steel in N’tan’s voice. I cringed; he was telling Pharaoh what to do? More than that, he was telling RaEm what to do?

  Surprisingly enough, she inclined her head. “I will strive to honor my hosts.”

  Then it dawned on me: I was the liaison. I would see her face-to-face. I bit my lips to keep from cursing out loud.

  “What brings you so far from the Nile?” N’tan asked.

  “It is the time for tribute, for sharing with a new brother in the family of nations,” she said. “To welcome Dadua into suzerainty with Egypt.”

  We all stood very still: Egypt was demanding a payoff in return for leaving the tribes alone.

  N’tan stood very tall, looking like a prophet. “We are honored by”—he sounded as though he were choking on the words—“mighty Egypt’s interest and will certainly gift My”—he coughed—“Majesty before he returns to his fertile river home.”