Sunrise on the Mediterranean

by Suzanne Frank

  “Where is she?”

  He stepped back, motioned outside the tent. RaEm watched herself walk in—tall, slim, flat-chested, short black hair, dark eyes. Slowly she smiled. The way Hiram thought was very appealing. “Leave us,” she said to the Tsori courier.

  A while later, the two lackeys of Tsor made their way down the hill, across the stream, around the city, and up the opposite hill. It was nearly dusk when they arrived in Hiram’s camp.

  RaEm was sticky with sweat; it had been a long time since she had climbed and walked such great distances. The decoy walked her to the servants’ tents, for those who watched, which opened into the back of Hiram’s tent.

  Immediately RaEm was in the presence of Hiram’s one-breasted soldiers. They gestured to each other, then one disappeared into another part of the tent. Hiram appeared in the doorway. RaEm did not want to seduce him, but still she wished she looked better. “I have taken the liberty of ordering a bath for you,” he said. “After our excursion.”

  RaEm went from pleasure to impatience. “To blend with the night I advise blackening your face; thus you would need another bath before returning to your camp.”

  His plan made sense, but she hated to feel so unkempt. “I will abide by your suggestion,” she forced herself to say. “This plan was quite clever.”

  Hiram smiled, a beautiful, perfectly cold expression. “Shall we dine briefly first? The tribesmen are congregating for dinner.”

  It was a quick meal of grains and poultry. Then he presented her with dark clothes, makeup for her face. He excused himself. Within the decan he showed up—made as invisible as a shadow at night. His gaze, visible only because of the whites of his eyes, raked her. “You are sufficient. Shall we go?”

  “Where are we going?” she asked. It had dawned on her while she dressed that he could be planning to kill her in the darkness of the tunnels.

  “You wondered if he had gold, did you not?”

  RaEm nodded.

  “Therefore I will give you a tour of his coffers. Then, should you have cause to demand, you know what his capacity is.” He glanced at her mouth. “It is good to know the other side’s ability to meet your needs, is it not?” He smiled again. “Besides, you were bored witless sitting on your mountainside as they scurried around after their god.”

  “What do you get out of this?” she asked abruptly, somewhat offended that he understood her so well.

  He shrugged. “It amuses me.”

  “Everything amuses you,” she snapped. “Did your little Egyptian scribe amuse you, too?”

  His eyes burned as he looked at her, and RaEm revised her earlier opinion. He wasn’t without soul; he was a demon. “Never breathe a word about that again, or it will be your last.”

  “My soldiers would simply kill you,” she said haughtily. “I cannot die.”

  THAT NIGHT IN THE SUKKAH, which Dadua’s energetic children had built, Dadua stood up. “I sinned,” he said. “In this land, I dared to mingle our neighbors and ourselves.” He looked away. “We did not know how to treat the totem, the Be’ma Seat. Along the way we have forgotten the Sages’ words. Never again. A scribe will always be there to remind us, to keep us close to the words of Shaday. Just walking on this land is not enough.” His voice cracked, but he continued.

  “I have made Tziyon into an object. If we worship her, the very soil of the mountain, we will be no better than idolators. But”—he looked at us intently—“if we remember what she means—that our history is our future, that Shaday is giver and creator above all we have or imagine—then we will have created an everlasting ideal. Then Tziyon will be eternal.”

  You have no idea, I thought.

  “For this reason, while we seek the face, the favor, of Shaday, we will become a people who know the truths of our God. It is not enough to recite the stories on feast days. We must know every word he has ever said to our people.”

  I tightened my grip on my cup. It hadn’t occurred to me before—which was stupid, it should have—but there was no Bible at this point.

  “HaMoshe brought us laws, laws we follow, though we do not know why. For the next week, every evening we will gather and learn why we follow these laws. We will learn how to please Shaday.

  “In doing this, may we avoid his wrath.”

  A hesitant knuckling grew loud. “Additionally,” Dadua said, “I have taken steps to structure our city as a royal city. This way, more attention can be given to the following of Shaday. Chavsha the scribe will take down the words of the priests, the tzadik, so that nothing is lost. This chronicler will—”

  I sank to my haunches, behind the ranks of slaves and concubines. It couldn’t be! It couldn’t be! But I had memorized the books; it was one of the things I recalled from those lessons long ago and far away. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges, Ruth, Samuel I and II, Kings I and II, Chronicles I and II! I was dizzy; I wasn’t believing this!

  “We start a new beginning as tribesmen,” he said. “We will build Y’srael and Yuda into a united monarchy. We will be a nation!”

  We knuckled in response. N’tan stood up. He was in priestly attire, his golden cap reflecting the multitudes of lamps. He intoned a prayer to Shaday, then gestured to Dadua.

  Dadua spoke. “Shaday will do this for us,” he said. “It is not the work of our hands, but our obedience to him.” He took a deep breath. “Because of this, Shaday’s words need to be inscribed in our nefesh, be a part of our blood.” There was a sense of expectancy. “N’tan will teach us these words, we will breathe them and remember them!”

  We knuckled approval as the tzadik walked forward. “Tonight we learn the first law!” N’tan shouted. “Shaday is the only God for the tribes!”

  THE MOON WAS BEHIND a cloud, proof that the tribes’ god was forgiving them because he was going to send rain. Rain, RaEm shuddered. Nasty, unnatural stuff. The only good part of rain was lightning—which was thrilling. She and Hiram crept up the wooded side of the hill, toward a section of wall with no gates, just homes. Hiram walked to a large tree, felt around on the bark.

  It opened outward! A section of the tree was a doorway! RaEm was speechless. “How?” she asked in wonder.

  “We hew them out in Tsor, leaving the roots remaining. Then they can be transplanted, easily covering up this,” he said, removing a wooden plate. “This particular example is a dirty one, quickly executed. My other work is neater, but …” He shrugged.

  RaEm looked down the hole. It was darkest black, narrow, and reeked of manure. Hiram crawled into it backward, his long skirts tangling between his legs. He held himself on the edge for a moment, then dropped from sight.

  She heard a thud, then silence. The interior of the tree was slightly bigger than her shower stall in modern Egypt. “Are you coming?” she heard from below. For a moment she hesitated. Could she trust this man? He waited a moment longer. “Smenkhare, you remind me of a boy who cannot choose if he wishes to bed a female or be bedded by a male. Decide!”

  He didn’t shout, but his point was made: Stop wasting time.

  RaEm edged herself down the hole, feeling nothing but air until his impersonal touch gripped her ankles. He placed her feet on his shoulders, then she was through the hole. They crawled from a limestone room into another tunnel. There were no lights, no lamps, no candles. She moved through at the sound of his voice.

  They walked crouched for a while, then he broke the silence.

  “We are within the city.”

  Almost immediately the environment changed. They dropped down into a limestone tunnel that was tall enough for them to walk upright. Hiram produced an oil lamp and they walked on.

  “We’re beneath the Rehov Shiryon,” he said. “Can they hear you?” she asked. “They sit down to hear the prophet about now,” Hiram said. “They leave us to invade at our leisure.”

  THE GIBORIM LEANED FORWARD, intent on N’tan. They seemed interested in learning, though I would have said that was like a wrestling team showing
interest in needlepoint. Maybe I had judged them wrong?

  “Our God,” N’tan said, “is a zealous God.”

  I frowned. I heard he was jealous … were those words interchangeable or something? I prodded my almost nonexistent lexicon and got nothing.

  “Why can we not serve other gods, lesser gods?” one of the gibori asked.

  N’tan shrugged, his hands upraised. “Why would we?” They stared at him blankly. I stared blankly, too; it was such an obvious question, but I’d never have thought of it. Cheftu was scribbling down his words. Even he stared, puzzled, at N’tan.

  “Let’s say you are haMelekh of a town, ken?” the tzadik suggested.

  “Ziqlag,” the soldier supplied readily. “I rule as haMelekh of Ziqlag.”

  That had been where Dadua first ruled. Everyone laughed as the man drew himself up, adjusting his dress as though it were Dadua’s blue robes. Dadua just smiled, watching with a fervent glitter in his eyes.

  “You want to defend Ziqlag from the marauding … highlanders,” N’tan said. There was laughter. “Now, you can choose to send a whole division, or you can send a giant, an anaki. One man who will fight every single soldier and slay them all. Or you can send seven hundred men who might draw even with the highlanders. Which do you send?”

  “The giant. Why bother with all the others when you get the same results with the one?”

  “Nachon,” N’tan said. “Other gods are nothing but the soldiers. They can be effective, but not as effective as the giant, our Shaday. So: There is no need for another.”

  “Why did Shaday pick us?” someone asked.

  N’tan leaned back, playing with his beard. “Avram lived in a society with many gods. Now look: He yearned for more than just statues and sacrifices. He could imagine a god who could not be portrayed in clay or gold or glass.” N’tan raised his gaze to meet the questioner’s. “Avram could believe. He could see nothing, yet know it was everything.”

  I glanced at the audience. Were they getting this? A few looked confused, but the majority nodded. Was I getting this? This was more of Dadua’s concept of being “chosen.”

  “However, we needed to have something else,” N’tan said. “Discipline, we needed discipline. This could only be taught through hardship, hence Avram’s journey. He had to learn, as now we have to learn, to discern between what is holy and what is daily. This is why we have the law—to show the differences.”

  The tzadik leaned forward. “Shaday selected us, because we are the fruit of Avram’s journeys. Because we understand that the universe is Shaday’s, but he is not in the trees, or the earth. He is above the other gods, just as the giant is beyond the division.”

  N’tan was a good teacher. I found myself enthralled. “So that is the first law: No one but Shaday for the tribesmen.” He looked at Cheftu. “Do you have that, Egyptian Chavsha?”

  “Nachon!” Cheftu said, wiping his quill.

  We were living the Bible.

  “SHALL WE TRY AGAIN? H.,” the note said.

  RaEm shuddered, remembering how confused they had gotten in the tunnels last night, wandering like lost souls through the pits of the afterlife. Then they had found themselves atop the whole city, looking down on the pitiful little sheds the tribesmen built, from the position of their pathetic tent to their god.

  RaEm didn’t blame their god for not coming to this city. It smelled like trees, there was no river, no richness to the air, no refreshment for the eye. It was crowded and tall. Did she want to go back into the tunnels and see the gold? Aye, she needed to. Any day now she would hear from Egypt. They would want to know how long the crown prince would be away on his “diplomatic tour.”

  Any day she would hear her beloved was dead.

  She looked at the slave. “Tell your Zakar Ba’al that I will join him later.”

  He bowed and left. Shivering in her linen shirt and kilt, RaEm stared out at the green trees, the brown hills, and the gray sky. She had to get gold from Dadua, but how? Her finger traced the shape of her leg up her thigh to her seat of pleasure. Sex had always worked before. In fact, she had entranced the pharaoh of Egypt. The king of a mudhill should be an easy task.

  Except I don’t want him, RaEm thought, hiding her face in her linens. Why did Akhenaten send me away? Why did he make me choose? As the first gentle shower fell on the foreign terrain of Tziyon, RaEm cried herself to sleep.

  THE NEXT NIGHT we were all grouped in the sukkah again. We had eaten a little faster tonight, with less wine and conversation. N’tan rose, tugging at his beard. “What was our downfall in the desert?” he asked us.

  “We forsook Shaday!”

  “We forgot who rescued us from the Egyptians!”

  N’tan watched us. Apparently no one had gotten it right yet. “What did our forefathers do?”

  “We made a graven image,” Dadua said.

  N’tan glanced at the king. “Ken, we crafted an image of gold, called it our god. To it we attributed our salvation, our freedom. We made it with our hands.”

  The artist in me perked up. This was always an interesting point in art history. Neither the Jews nor the Muslims went in for reproductions of people or animals. Why was that?

  N’tan paced a moment, tugging at his beard. “The Pelesti, they worship who?”

  “Dagon, Ashterty.”

  “Ken. The Amori, who do they worship?”

  The men spat on the floor. “They serve Molekh.”

  “Ken. What is Dagon ruler of?” the tzadik asked.

  “The sea? Is that not why his manhood is made into a fish?” someone said.

  “Perhaps he is fish to protect himself from Sodomi-style love!” The men laughed uproariously, then trailed off under N’tan’s gaze.

  I felt myself growing angry. They ridiculed what they didn’t know. Then again, Chloe, Dagon is an idol, he’s not real, and he is depicted as a fish. Where is the cause for seriousness there? Why would you grow offended? I looked over at Cheftu, intently focused on his papyrus, his quill moving over the page.

  “And Ashterty?” N’tan asked. “Ach! That lovely goddess fosters love,” the Klingon gibori said. “She makes the fields grow.” I recalled that someone had said he was from Hatti. They worshiped Ashterty there also. How did he get here?

  “So what if there is a drought?” N’tan asked. “No rain. What do the Pelesti and Amori do?”

  “Ask for more, sacrifice more? Try to get the gods’ attention?” someone said.

  “Ken. But do their gods control haYam? The rain? Can they decide to move or do something?” N’tan asked. There was a pause.

  “Uh, lo.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They are stone,” someone in the back said.

  N’tan was standing before us, his eyes closed. He looked like a third-grade teacher whose students insisted Santa Claus would come to the Christmas party. We weren’t getting it. Even with, or maybe especially with, a twentieth-century perspective, I wasn’t understanding.

  “Ken. Stone,” he said. “Then what is Shaday?”

  It was quiet for a long time. What was he asking? What substance was God composed of? What kind of question was that? I looked over to Cheftu. He was watching N’tan, a faint frown between his brows.

  “Invisible,” Dadua finally said.

  I was beginning to understand why he was king; he did know all the answers.

  “Why are we forbidden to make an image of him?” N’tan asked.

  “Because we don’t know what he looks like?” one of the female gibori said.

  “Lo. Because we could only represent certain parts of him. Not the whole of him, so the image would be a lie,” N’tan explained.

  “Why?” Cheftu asked. “Because it would be incomplete,” N’tan said. “What is Shaday?”

  Well, if he were invisible, then maybe N’tan wasn’t looking for a composition question.

  “Defender of Y’srael, our Yahwe war god,” Avgay’el said in her soft voice. She was weak, fragile, but sh
e was sharp, apparently in tune with God.

  “Nachon. How would we make an image of that?” N’tan asked.

  He was asking us to make an idol? Representing God as an image? Reverse psychology this early in history?

  “Uh, a hand?” the answer came from the back.

  N’tan shrugged. “So we worship a stone hand?”

  They laughed, but it was uneasy, uncertain laughter. His point was coming clear.

  “We could show him as master of Tziyon?” someone volunteered.

  “How?”

  A younger gibori stood up. He was trembling so that his side curls seemed to be dancing. “We could form him as a miniature of Har Mori’a? Coated in gold.”

  “A blob of gold would be our God?” someone else shouted in surprise. The boy blushed while his compatriots gibed at him.

  “How about a symbol, some letters?” someone said. “Saying what?”

  “His name,” came from the back, from the shadows. “We do not use his name,” N’tan said, peering into the darkness. “He is God. To use his name would be to have power over him.”

  “You claim he used a name when you confronted the Egyptians?” Cheftu said. How he could listen and write, I had no idea. But he was right; that was the claim. RaEm, however, should have made it. She wasn’t here. I wondered if she expected us to deliver her food to her tonight? She could just starve, I decided.

  N’tan responded. “It is how we are to call him, it is the closest to a name we come. It is not his name, however. We do not know it. We know only I AM.”

  It fell completely silent. “There are two reasons we have no images of Shaday,” he said. “Echad: Because we cannot accurately or completely portray him. Not in letters, or in symbols, or through the finest craftsmanship. Even the Seat of Mercy is merely the footstool of Shaday.” He held out his hand. “The second reason is more elemental. We are to be a people who listen, not who see.”

  “CAN’T YOU HEAR THEM?” Hiram asked. RaEm stifled a yawn. They had been crawling through the passageways beneath the city. It was rotted with tunnels and paths made by the many peoples who had lived here before.