Sunrise on the Mediterranean

by Suzanne Frank

  With a smile she summoned the slave girls. They were dressed in beads and wigs only, shaved and perfumed, selected because of their beauty and elegant movements. Designed to fire the passions of this king.

  His gaze followed them as he conversed with RaEm over the mundane matters of agriculture and court. They were purposefully questions he could answer in his sleep. The girls served him, brushing against his body, refreshing his cup, pouring more mandrake into his already aroused body.

  RaEm blessed the gods. It was going well.

  The temperature in the tent rose as the evening cooled outside. Dadua was flushed, his eyes bright, his words slurring together. RaEm felt desire filling her body for the first time in many months. The lamps flickered; behind a curtained wall a solitary flute played. She laughed, he jested, their occasional touches grew more meaningful, until she was leaning against his thigh in the middle of a story and he interrupted her.

  “Are you man or woman?”

  RaEm threw back her head and laughed. This was exactly what she wanted. Her unsteady fingers released the clasp of her gown. Her breasts were shameful to see, but still sensitive. She turned so that she was seated on her haunches before him. He watched her gilded nails move over her body, pinching her swollen nipples. His mouth opened, his eyes focused on her. “What do you think, adoni?” she asked. RaEm reached for his hand, placing it on her chest. Instinctively he cupped her, his dark gaze flying up to her face.

  His hands slipped over her shoulder to her neck, drawing her to him. His mouth was hot and mobile. He kissed the way he fought, the way he negotiated, the way he did everything: he seduced her mouth slowly. His other hand moved over her bare back, cupping her backside, pressing her against him.

  “So how are you the co-regent of Egypt?” he asked RaEm, then kissed her deeply. His fingers were slipping beneath her kilt, finding her warm and wet.

  “Pharaoh … is … my father-in-law,” RaEm whispered, praying that he would not stop touching her. It had been so long; it felt so good.

  “He has another son?” he asked, suckling her breast. “His daughter Meryaten,” she slurred, feeling the heat of her body, its want.

  He froze.

  RaEm writhed beneath his hands. “Don’t fear, we do not break your laws. She died.” Please HatHor, let nothing stop him, she thought.

  His fingers were curved inside her. “You were married to a woman?” His voice was sounding clearer.

  “It was politics,” RaEm said, the haze fading as he talked and didn’t touch.

  In one movement he pushed her away, dipping his fingers in wine, rubbing his mouth. “You freak! You were wed to a woman?”

  Her shirt was off, her kilt around her waist; she was completely exposed. “It was politics!”

  “What kind of creature are you?” he asked, stumbling to his feet. “What was I about to join with?” He spat, then wiped his fingers on the table’s cloth.

  RaEm was furious. “Perhaps you should ask that question, adoni,” she said. “How would your priests view you being with the pharaoh, masculine, of Egypt? Any slave of mine would swear I had you on your knees, mounting you like a pig!”

  He flinched as though he’d been struck.

  “No one would dare suggest I was less than a man, no one has that much imagination.”

  “What are you asking, Smenkhare, if that is your name?”

  “You have gold. I want it.”

  “Ach! Covetousness! I should have known!”

  “Your fifty Pelesti shields and I will go away quietly.” His gaze raked her up and down. Then he shook his head. “No wonder Shaday wanted us out of Egypt. You are a corrupt, vile creature. Tell what you will to whom you will. I don’t fear you.”

  “You should!” RaEm hissed. “I have more power in this world and the next than you can imagine. I can summon lighting at my will. I can command a thousand to die on a whim. I know the future!” She was shaking, livid, fighting the mandrake, and battling his revulsion.

  He laughed. “If you are so powerful, then why do you hold an eight-year-old boy hostage, why do you seduce a man who thinks you are disgusting, and why do you need my gold?”

  Screaming with fury, RaEm seized her dagger and rushed Dadua. She felt the blade sink into flesh, then she was thrown. Another man spoke, his Egyptian heavily accented. “This is attempted murder, Pharaoh. Unless you want a war, leave this land.”

  She looked up. The big green-eyed soldier was removing the body of a girl, an Egyptian slave girl, who had a dagger plunged into her breast. Dadua had been felled but not marked. RaEm had killed her own. Her gaze met Dadua’s. “If you wish to continue your pretense, you should cover your woman’s body,” he said.

  RaEm looked down. She was naked. Female. Powerless.

  ONCE AGAIN WE WERE GROUPED—this time by royal decree. Where there had been shouting, there was silence. Where there had been drinking and feasting, there was fasting. Where the attitude had been revelry and celebration, there was now reverence and fear.

  Where there had been sunshine, now we stood in pouring rain.

  Again the doors were opened. Instead of a wagon, the Seat hung from golden poles, carried between the Levim like a traveling chair. The elohim were holding hands, the curve of their wings protecting the actual top of the box from the downpour.

  I shivered. I wasn’t going to pay attention to them. I didn’t really want to know if they moved or not. I’d prefer to think I was drunk. Save that no one had had wine.

  The blue-and-white-clad Levim stepped forward with the Seat suspended. Moving at a funereal march, they progressed solemnly. The poles holding the Seat were at least ten feet long, three men holding each end, standing well away.

  The Ark must weigh a lot more than Indy thought. Dadua walked before the Seat, wearing the stone-studded breastplate of the high priest and a simple slave’s kilt. No crown, no jewels, for today he was a petitioner, not a king.

  At the seventh step, Dadua halted. N’tan led out an ox, pure, white, and healthy. With prayers he slit the creature’s throat, splashing blood. It soaked into the dirt, mixing with the rain, running between the bare toes of the Levim.

  I darted a glance at the two golden figures that graced the top of the box. Were they closer? Don’t ask don’t tell, I admonished myself.

  When the ox was dead, three Levim dragged it away. We all waited in tense silence. Dadua took a step forward, blood spatters washing down his legs in the rain.

  Nothing happened.

  N’tan blew the shofar as the Levim stepped forward. Step together. We all waited. Nothing happened. As a body, the tribesmen exhaled. In a solemn measure the Seat progressed toward Tziyon of God. Another seven steps, then the second ox was sacrificed.

  As a group, we moved in time with the Seat. My anxious gaze returned to the statues of elohim. Had they moved? Possibly closer to each other? Weren’t they only holding hands before? With each advance the tension melted from the scene, though the momentousness of the occasion was tangible.

  The weather broke, still cool since it was December, but no longer raining.

  As we walked, the Levim boys began singing Dadua’s newest composition. We were listening to the debut of the Psalms. I squeezed Cheftu’s hand. His gaze did not move from the Ark, but he did squeeze my hand back.

  “Shaday is the ruler of this earth and everything on it, this world and those who live on it. He established it from the seas, drew it from the waters.

  “Who may climb to the hill of Shaday? Who may stand before the holy place? He whose hands are clean, whose heart is pure. He who does not follow the ways of idols, or swear by those who are false.

  “He alone receives blessings from Shaday, is vindicated by the god who saves him. May this be the generation of people who seek your face, God of our Fathers.

  “Lift up your heads, you gates. Be called to a higher purpose, you aged doors! Be blessed that Shaday, the king of all glory, will come in. Who is this king of glory?

  “He is e
l Elyon, strong and mighty, the god of the battle, the god of victory.”

  Dadua sang the verse again, then invited the people to join him.

  I was speechless at the beauty of the music. While it contained the antiphonal signature of most Middle Eastern music, the choirboy voices surrounding us gave it an innocence and majesty I’d not heard before.

  Tziyon waited on high, the sun breaking through the clouds, frosting the stone with a rosy light.

  My God. Jerusalem. Would I ever cease to be amazed at this city, this time?

  “Lift up your heads, O gates,” the choirboys sang. Dadua still walked before the Seat, reverent, his hands upraised in praise. He walked there because he refused to let anyone else risk himself, Cheftu had reported. The giborim had protested this gesture, but he had ignored them. He was responsible for the kingdom, for these choices, he said. He would walk before Shaday. Any striking down would be done to him.

  He was a true leader.

  The sun passed behind another cloud, and it was suddenly cooler. The gates of the city, packed with silent, watching tribesmen, stood open.

  The Levim halted, Dadua stopped. What were we waiting for? A mighty wind blew through us, a force of air moving over the assemblage into the city. I’d felt that wind before, when I’d time-traveled. Cheftu’s hand tightened around mine.

  Then, like a Renaissance painting, a stream of light poured through the cloud, piercing a hole directly over Dadua. He stood motionless, his head bowed, his palms turned skyward in submission. The sunlight stream grew brighter, firing the red, green, blue, and orange jewels on his chest, highlighting his mahogany hair into a halo.

  We watched as the sun engulfed him. Before our eyes he became gilded—as divine and mysterious a channel as the elohim covering the Seat.

  In a rush of movement we could only just discern, he was dancing. Not like from high school: in step, back, step. No, like Baryshnikov and Astaire, with a good deal of acrobatics thrown in.

  The choirboys began singing again as the Levim stepped forward, the Seat swinging between them gently. Then the crowd gasped as the king of the tribes—Israel—threw off his kilt.

  What was he doing? What was he thinking? The king was naked?

  Dadua danced.

  He danced before Shaday with glee. He danced with the same joy you feel at the end of a great day—dancing because you cannot be still. He danced with the freedom of youth, of childhood, rollicking with a friend in the sunlight. Dancing because life is good. Dancing because you have life and blood.

  Dadua danced naked—unburdened of the weight of his ego, pride, shame. Unfettered by sexual implication, unclothed to the glory of being human, being made in the image of God, being a creator like God.

  Dadua danced naked with God.

  We squeezed into Tziyon’s narrow, layered streets as we followed the crowd that had joined in the choirboys’ chorus, glorifying God, not themselves as owners of the Ark. They were joyful, they were excited, but this time they were focused on the eternal instead of themselves.

  Was that the only contrast between this journey and the last? Yet it made every difference.

  “Lift up your heads, you gates. Be called to a higher purpose, you aged doors! Be blessed that Shaday, the king of all glory, will come in. Who is this king of glory?

  “He is el Elyon, strong and mighty, the god of the battle, the god victorious.”

  I darted a glance at Cheftu. Did he believe where we were? When we were? All of us—Jebusi, and tribesmen, man and woman, slave and free—followed the Seat up to the Temple Mount. The colors of the Holy of Holies tent were brilliant against the watercolor sky and limestone platform. Here the Seat would be housed until Dadua, rather Dadua’s son, constructed the Temple.

  The procession stopped at the woven walls of the Tent of Meeting. The priests moved through the gates, beyond the people. We fell silent, a crowd of hundreds so quiet that we could hear the priests’ bare feet slapping against the beaten dirt. The faint scrape of gold poles against gold hoops as the Ark swayed, carried on the shoulders of the Levim, was audible. It passed by me, so close that I could see the detailing of pomegranates and grapes on the rim. I glanced up at the golden figures. Icy sweat ran down my back.

  The elohim were embracing.

  Those statues had moved. They had!

  Without a pause the priests mounted the steps, the embroidered curtains sweeping closed behind them. Dadua’s voice was audible beyond us, still praising Shaday.

  “Sing to Shaday, earth! Proclaim his salvation daily. Declare his glory among the peoples of the earth, his deeds of valor and majesty among the nations. For great is el Elyon, he has earned his praise! Above all other gods, he is the most high, the one deserving of the most respect. Before Shaday, the other nations’ gods are merely idols; Shaday alone created the heavens. Splendor and majesty are before him, strength and joy flow from his holy Seat. Ascribe to el Elyon, all the goyim, ascribe to el Elyon strength and glory, ascribe to el Elyon the glory he is due. Kneel before him with offerings, worship his holiness. May all the earth tremble before him!”

  Breathless moments passed as the past years flew by me: Exodus of Israel, the fall of Atlantis, and now this? Within the Tent I knew animals were being sacrificed, that God was being welcomed to his new home. I looked up at Cheftu. “Do you—”

  Suddenly something indefinable moved through me, through the crowd. I felt as through the red point of a laser had touched me, then passed on.

  A shout: “He is with us!”

  Like everyone else, I looked toward the Tent. Within its walls was a holy room: God’s boudoir. Against the tinted blue sky, lightning flashed from within that room, upward. Stripes of brilliant gold against robin-egg’s blue, pillowed by puffs of silvery, iridescent smoke.

  Humanity had reached toward heaven. el haShaday had reached down in response.

  Every knee bowed.

  God dwelt among Israel again.

  When the smoke cleared—literally—every person was given a loaf of bread, a cake of dates, and a cake of raisins. It was a feast day, and the singing never stopped. Those from the outlying areas started their walk home in the early evening. Those from the city made their way to their homes, with a new sense of pride in being a son of Abraham, in dwelling in Tziyon.

  It started raining again, lightning flashing in the distance.

  RAEM LOOKED THROUGH the pouring rain at her soldiers. “Egypt is falling,” she said. “They are coming to take Tutankhaten, to take him to Noph and crown him with Horus, Ptah, Amun-Ra, and HatHor. Pharaoh’s vision of one god will be lost.”

  They stood silently, water dripping off their heads, noses. They didn’t look away. “They will take us, too. We will die, as so many have died, at their hands.”

  A few blanched, but mostly they were still. Resigned. “All we need is gold.”

  RaEm paced away, the mud splashing up on her fragile kilt. “Gold will solve our problems. With it we can buy position, freedom, and security in the new Egypt. Without it we will be stripped of everything and left to rot as part of the deposed kingdom.”

  She looked at them, her leaders. Twenty-five men in all, obedient, strong men. Faithful to Egypt. “I know where the gold is. I need your help to get it. You must believe me entirely. There must be no doubt in my magic.”

  “How could we doubt you?” one of them asked. “You control the lightning!”

  There were murmurs of agreement. Good! Her work learning how to manipulate the skies had not gone unnoticed. “I do. Will you trust me?”

  “Not against trusting you, My Majesty, but why do we just not storm Noph? We control the regular army. There are thousands of us encamped between here and Egypt. Every soldier would be glad to return home, reclaim the land for Pharaoh.”

  She smiled. They were so simple, so delightfully sweet. They would storm Noph, Waset, too. However, for the negotiations within Karnak, for those nobles whose names had been a part of the court for dynasties, gold was what spoke
. Violence and fear would not work on those who knew she needed them to have any legitimacy.

  After all, she would be Pharaoh, just as Hatshepsut before her. Tuti would have a small accident, and she would reign for him. Then he would die after a long, agonizing fight with illness. Smenkhare would be the greatest pharaoh Egypt had ever known.

  The wealthiest, too. Never again would she be called powerless by some mudhill king. She looked forward to eviscerating him, then stuffing his mouth with his own sex and setting him afire. Maybe lightning would work for that, too?

  “Do you trust me?” she asked them. “Aye!”

  “Will you follow me?”

  “Aye!”

  “Never question, just obey and act?”

  “Aye!”

  “Then cover your faces with mud, leave your swords. Tonight we begin our pathway home.”

  THE CHORIM, ZEHENIM, AND GIBORIM had followed Dadua (wearing his clothes once more), who wanted to bless his new home while still in the power of Shaday. We were standing in the courtyard’s foundations of Dadua’s someday palace. The Ark was safely ensconced on the Temple Mount; all was well within the Israelite world.

  Dadua’s wives stood in a group, watching us as we entered. He waved to each of them. Avgay’el inclined her head, Hag’it blushed and waved back, Ahino’am blew him a kiss as we cheered.

  Mik’el, standing on the far side, waited for Dadua’s gesture. She did nothing, gave no acknowledgment. Dadua waved again; Mik’el turned on her heel, walked away.

  Stunned silence. She had snubbed ha nasi? That was never a good idea, but especially not today. When Dadua turned to face us, he was still smiling, but his black eyes were smoldering. He threw back his head, calling blessings from Shaday on his house, his line, his dynasty, and the united tribes of Y’srael and Yuda.

  Was I really here? Cheftu and I joined the rest of the group, wandering back to the palace amid singing. We seated ourselves around the table, dining until the night was black, the stars hidden beneath a blanket of clouds.