Sunrise on the Mediterranean

by Suzanne Frank

  Cheftu watched the priest and Dadua speak in words Cheftu knew as the psalms, though now they seemed genuine pleas to God, not written and poetic. “Even as my nefesh is downcast, I will remember you,” the priest said. “Through the Yarden to the heights of Hermon. Deep calls to deep in the roar of the waterfalls, the sea has swept over me.

  “By day el Shaday directs his love. At night I hear his song in me, a prayer to the God of my life.”

  Dadua beat his breast, shouting at the roof, prostrate before the Seat. “I say to you, Shaday, the rock of my life, why have you forgotten me? Why do I mourn, why am I oppressed like an enemy?”

  His voice cracked as he raised up, his hands in the air. His next words were from a throat raw with weeping, a soul torn. “Why is my nefesh downcast? Why this disturbance? I will trust in God, I will believe in his chesed. I will praise him, for he is God, my God.”

  Dadua cried quietly into his hands, a shattered man. Avgay’el’s expression was pained, watching her husband. The Seat glowered from behind him. The other priest knelt a few cubits behind the king.

  Before Cheftu closed the door, leaving Dadua, Avgay’el, and the Seat, he looked over his shoulder.

  The elohim were embracing.

  He fled.

  PART V

  CHAPTER 13

  RAEM MOTIONED THE fan away. Lazily she reached for a grape, then ate it as she squinted against the sun. The tribes-people were hiding in their homes from their own god. She chuckled at that. Tuti played in another tent, surrounded by soldiers faithful to her, the little brat. Her spies had confirmed that the beautiful, arrogant ruler of the tribes was sitting in the dark, covered in filth, pleading with his god and shunned by his priests.

  And Cheftu, damn him, somehow had the ear of the king. If the king had just been in the dark alone, she might have gone to him. As it was, she would wait. There was no need for her to roll about in manure. The game board lay before her, half the pieces moved. She sighed, her hand floating above them.

  “I will play the hounds, if you will indulge me as jackals.”

  His accent was thick, foreign. RaEm rolled over to see Hiram looking down on her.

  He was perfect, dressed in a simple blue kilt, his hair free, no makeup save eyes ringed with kohl. Simple, fine jewelry adorned him. “Zakar Ba’al, I believe?” she said slowly.

  His gaze was calculating. “Pharaoh Smenkhare, the male who is so delightfully female.”

  RaEm smiled. “Also delightfully co-regent as Pharaoh’s beloved.”

  “Among others?” he asked, peering intently into her eyes, her face. He seemed inquisitive.

  “Pharaoh alone is a fortunate man,” she said.

  He continued to stare, a look completely free of lust, but curious. “And for you?” she asked. “Does a queen grace your throne?”

  Hiram laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I have many wives, Vena’s offspring,” he said, watching her carefully. “What man in my position doesn’t? But alas, no queen. Perhaps that is because Pharaoh saw her first?”

  Though he was flirting, he wasn’t interested. RaEm, with wonder, realized that Hiram wanted nothing of her as a woman. Instead of being offended, she was relieved and slightly challenged. He gestured to the game board. “If no one else entertains you, may I challenge your skills?”

  She clapped, then instructed the slave to bring another set of cushions, more wine, more fruit, and another fan. Soon Hiram was seated across from her, evenly matched.

  “What think you of the news of our host?” he asked after a few opening gambits on the board.

  “They are a strange little people,” RaEm said.

  Hiram rolled the sticks. “Their god Shaday is uncompromising. I know tales of twenty years ago.”

  RaEm noted his move, then rolled her own sticks. “What happened?”

  “Curiously, the Pelesti caught the Seat in battle. They placed it in Dagon’s temple in Ashqelon. You have seen the temple there, have you not?” Hiram asked her.

  “I have not.”

  “It is rather amazing,” he said. “Beneath the sea they have more worship chambers.”

  “Beneath the sea?”

  “Aye, there is a series of rooms.”

  RaEm glanced at him. Did he think she was that stupid? “What about the Seat?” She moved her piece, then sat back. “I understand it is solid gold, this totem?”

  “Aye,” he said, continuing to speak in Egyptian. “A box of gold with two enchanted angels, that you would call ushebti and they call elohim, affixed to the cover. Twice at the temple in Ashqelon it threw down the statue of Dagon.”

  RaEm watched him move, then looked up. “How did that happen?”

  “It is ascribed to the power of Shaday. The Pelesti determined to return it to the tribesmen since it had killed many of their people.”

  “How?”

  “A plague, with tumors.”

  “The Ark carries a plague?”

  He shrugged. “It bears it. Though how it moves from the box to the people without anyone touching it, I do not know. That is why it is forbidden; in fact, that is what happened yesterday. They say lightning flew out from the box.”

  RaEm beat him on his final move. She tried to keep the smile from her face. Lightning was in the box? Was this a blessing from HatHor? Or was the Aten proving his existence?

  Hiram seemed a bit surprised. “You play to win, My Majesty.”

  “You speak my tongue fluidly, Zakar,” she said. “How is that?”

  “I once kept company with an Egyptian scribe,” Hiram said slowly, studying his game piece intently.

  “As did I,” RaEm admitted, chuckling.

  “So tell me,” he said, lifting his dark gaze to her again. “Have you ever traveled to the islands in the Great Green?”

  “You of all people know Egyptians, Zakar. In truth, you recently sent Wenaten, our ambassador, home on the edge of a nervous breakdown from your highhandedness.”

  He laughed, but his gaze was still intent. “Are you a native Egyptian?”

  “Aye, Zakar.”

  “Please, call me Hiram.”

  “As you wish,” she said. She did not offer her name, purposefully.

  They played several more games, in near silence. Slaves entered and lit lamps, then brought food and kept their cups full. Finally he sat back. “Why are you in Jebus?”

  “To meet the newest king,” she lied glibly.

  “We both know that to be a falsehood,” he said. “Show me the respect to tell me it is not my concern, but do not think to put me aside with poorly woven tales.”

  “Then you tell me,” she fired back. “Why are you here?”

  He finished his wine, set down his cup, and looked at her. His eyes were long lashed and dark. The features of his face were perfectly modeled, from a straight nose, high forehead, and squared jaw to the lushness of his lips, the fullness of his cheeks, the curve of his head. He was exquisite, too beautiful to be real.

  She missed Akhenaten, with his woefully misshapen body and head, his piercing eyes and deep, rich voice. Even though he’d thrown her away, she wanted him still. For that RaEm despised him, because now her life was incomplete, with no hope of restoration.

  Had Horetamun done his work? Gods forgive her for sacrificing perfect passion.

  Hiram was beautiful, but he seemed to have no soul. Nothing gleamed from his eyes. He looked away from her. “My purpose has changed,” he said slowly. “Originally I came to build Dadua his palace.”

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “I have no army to work my way on these people, so I must be subtle.”

  “You stage an invasion of carpenters?”

  He chuckled. “I build a city that I will know, he will not. Whenever the time is right, I can work with another ruler to take the city. I want Tziyon; I want the location, the streets, the view of the surrounding valleys. Most important, I want the guardianship of the King’s Highway.”

  RaEm couldn’t b
elieve he’d just told her his plan. Either he was a fool or considered that she was. “Do you jest with me?” she asked coldly. “I will not be mocked.”

  He focused on her again, those soulless eyes peering into hers. “Nay, I do a brazen thing by showing you my full intent. Will you do me the same honor, Sibylla?”

  “Gold,” she said flatly.

  He stared at her for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “I lose my wit in these late days,” he said. “You are unaware—yet how is this possible?” he muttered. “What did I think to accomplish?”

  RaEm frowned at him. “You asked a question, I respected you and answered it. Why do you laugh?”

  He sobered immediately. “Forgive me. Dadua has gold?”

  “He has a pharaoh’s ransom in gold.” She smiled briefly. “I have a pharaoh much in need of ransoming.”

  “So you want the gold, and I want the city.”

  RaEm laughed. “Aye. Perhaps we should open the Seat, allow it to kill the tribesmen, then I will sweep in and take the gold, you will have a city, free of people.”

  Hiram laughed. “Use their own magic against them, aii?”

  “It would be easy enough,” she said. “Take over while they are weak.”

  “How would you get the gold? Not everyone will die with the plague.”

  RaEm stared into the dregs of her cup. The evening cool was alien, as were the trees, the hills, the dew. She sighed. “Maybe what we really need is the Seat. It is gold, you say. We could just take it instead.”

  “It is also deadly,” he reminded her. “And quite weighty, I would guess.”

  “I need a lot of gold, whether it be the Seat or some of the wealth in haNasi’s coffers.” She stared into the distance for a moment. “The Seat is important, however. They would pay attention to that.”

  “Hold it for ransom to ransom your pharaoh?”

  She met his gaze across the table. “Aye. If this were a real conversation.”

  He picked up his glass, tapped it gently on the table. “You and I would be in covenant … if this were a real conversation.”

  “And how is that, Zakar Ba’al?”

  “I would let you into the city, to get the Seat. You would hold it for ransom, assure me that most everyone will die, then give me the city.”

  “I would get the gold.”

  “I would get the city.”

  She tapped her cup on the table. “You are correct. If this were a real conversation, we would be in covenant.”

  FOR A WEEK AFTER the Ark shot fire—electrical shocks, I guessed from the stories I heard—the tribes cowered. Because of the terror they skipped the Feast of Tents, Sukkot. The next day I was sleeping, cuddled close to Cheftu, when there was a knock on the door.

  He slept through it, but the knocking was insistent. Stumbling to my feet, I put on a tunic and went to the door. “Who is it?” I asked, the door’s bolt still in place.

  “Zorak,” he said. “HaMelekh requests you for G’vret Avgay’el.”

  I had no idea why she would need a lady-in-waiting this late, but I braided my hair, tied on a sash, and slipped into some sandals. In chilled silence we walked up through the city, past the guards, and into the Tsori sector, where the palace was being built on the Milo.

  “She’s sick, Klo-ee,” he said before letting me into the women’s quarters.

  Dadua knelt beside her, and Avgay’el lay on her bed, tossing and turning. Her hair was matted, her eyes tightly shut. I was standing a foot away and could feel the heat of her body. Blood stained the front of her sleep dress, blood that she had coughed up with mucus.

  This looked far more serious than just a flu. “How long has she been like this?” I asked, kneeling beside him.

  “I woke up because of the heat of her body,” the prince of Tziyon said. “She is quite cool usually. Then I couldn’t awaken her.”

  “My husband, he is a physician,” I said hurriedly. “I can try to make her comfortable, but he’ll know what is going on, what to do for her.”

  “Chavsha is a physician? Is there anything the man doesn’t do?”

  I grinned, hoping that Cheftu would forgive me for busting his cover story. Dadua dispatched someone to get Cheftu.

  For the next hour I patted down Avgay’el with cold compresses. She hadn’t vomited, though she had dry heaved in her sleep. She was so hot, I almost couldn’t touch her. Maybe she was just one of those people who ran high fevers? I had once had a roommate who was like that.

  The cloth was dry by the third pass.

  Dawn came. I was bleary-eyed, then terrified. Avgay’el shivered, coughed, spat up more blood, shrank from light. I tried to keep her hydrated but freaked out when I saw her tongue.

  It was coated white.

  By midmorning she had faint gray circles all over her body.

  What was this? Where was Cheftu?

  By midafternoon she was covered in patches of black, with horrible protrusions from her neck, armpit, and bulging out from her groin. Cheftu finally showed up, bloodstained with bloodshot eyes. “What happened?” I asked.

  “N’tan’s son was a brutal delivery,” he said. “His wife didn’t survive.”

  “She’s dead?”

  Cheftu wiped his face; at least his hands were clean. “Ken. The child is very weak.” I stepped forward, and he saw Avgay’el. My husband froze, then knelt by her, not touching her. “Get out,” he said in distinct English.

  “Why? What? Chef—”

  “Dammit, Chloe, get the hell out of here! Take everyone who isn’t a priest and get out! Close off these rooms and don’t let anyone in.”

  He’d never spoken to me this way before; I could hear the terror in his voice. I hesitated one more minute. “She has the bubonic plague,” he said, turning to me. His eyes were wide, amber, and brown—and scared. “Go!”

  “You’re supposed to be quarantined,” N’tan said. “Chavsha was insistent.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your wife,” I said.

  He looked away. “Todah.”

  “Shouldn’t you be mourning or something? I can take care of myself, I can even quarantine myself,” I said.

  “She was not my family,” he said in monotone. “I will not mourn her.”

  “Mah?”

  “It is the law.”

  I was about to rant, but then he looked at me. His narrow, overbred features were pinched, the circles beneath his eyes deep and gray. “How is your son?”

  A faint smile touched the edges of his mouth. “Beautiful, a gift from Shaday.”

  “What is his name?” The questions weren’t just polite; I found that I really wanted him to know that I was genuinely sorry for him and happy for him.

  “On the eighth day I’ll name him.”

  More customs, more laws. “G’vret, you have been exposed to Avgay’el, as was Dadua. You need to be set apart for a few days to make sure you don’t sicken. This is what your husband says.”

  Bubonic plague. That was one scary concept. I’d had European history—but weren’t rats involved? How had Avgay’el been bitten by a rat? I knew I hadn’t, but if it would make Cheftu feel better, I’d take a few days of vacation. After all the busyness of the past days and weeks, it would be nice.

  But surely Cheftu was wrong about the plague? There were no rats.

  “WHAT CAN BE DONE FOR HER?”

  “I do not know, I have no idea where she got this illness,” Cheftu said, watching as Avgay’el shivered, soothing her burning brow with wet cloths. “You? How do you fare?” Cheftu couldn’t imagine his pain, losing his wife. Childbirth was a very uncertain thing. Was he sure he wanted to risk Chloe, her very life, that way?

  N’tan shrugged. “You show no fear around this plague,” the prophet said. “Why is that?”

  “Nor do you,” Cheftu countered. “Ach, well, it has no power over me.”

  Cheftu turned to look over his shoulder at the tzadik. “How is that possible?”

  “Anyone who might come
into contact with the Seat, in the course of his serving with the Levim, is purposefully made ill so that he never gets sick again.” The priest rolled back his sleeve, motioning Cheftu closer. There, barely visible in N’tan’s hairy armpit, was a scar—a plague scar.

  “You know it is deadly?” Cheftu asked, stunned. “Ken, which is one of the reasons that only the priests of Levi handle it. Only they are made sick each generation.” He crouched beside Avgay’el. “She must have stood too close.”

  “What can be done for her?” Cheftu asked. “This will be fatal otherwise.”

  N’tan’s dark eyes met his. “We can pray, intercede.” How could he still have faith when his own wife just died? Cheftu wondered. “There are no medicines? No herbs?”

  “Keep her fever down.” N’tan’s hand touched one of the bulging, blood-filled buboes on her neck. “She was such a beautiful woman. What a tragedy.”

  What irony, Cheftu thought. This disease obliterated a quarter of the fourteenth-century world, and yet the Levim purposefully infected their youngsters with it. So they could survive. “What makes the Ark so deadly?” he asked.

  N’tan shrugged. “The power of el haShaday.”

  Cheftu bathed Dadua’s wife with icy water, trying to keep her cool. Her hair was falling out in hanks because her temperature had gotten so high. She coughed up blood, then fell back into her deep sleep, again and again. Though he felt like a grand inquisitor, he made her drink when she could barely swallow, forced her to keep drinking even when she protested that she couldn’t take another sip. But she drank, urinated, and drank more. Would it flood the disease out of her body? How had this happened?

  She hadn’t even touched the Ark. The only thing that could have transferred from the Seat to her body were …

  Fleas.

  I’VE BEEN IMPRISONED a few times. The only tangible differences were that now I hadn’t been thrown into this cell, and I was being fed. Other than that, this stone underground room lit by one measly lamp was the same as the others.

  The plague?

  I was on my second or third day of nonsensical navel gazing when Dadua joined me. A shot of espresso and a pack of Camels couldn’t have made me move faster. As it was, I was talking to myself, or rather God, about the absurdity of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. “Are our lives a game?” I asked loudly, blowing off some steam. “We get pulled from time to time, put in situations where we have no choice but to do what you say!” I stared straight up into the face of the unknown. “Do we no longer have free will?”