Sunrise on the Mediterranean (20 page)

The man by the fire spoke again. “Some trust foolishly in chariots and horses. They believe that speed and armament can win
the day. But we …” He paused. “But
we
, what do we believe in?”

“We trust in the name of our God!”

“The others, they are humbled!” he cried.

The crowd groaned.

“They drop to their knees—” Enacting his part, the man fell to his knees as though too weak to stand.

The highlanders laughed. “They perish, they fall.” His words fell into quiet, an expectant silence. “We, chosen by
el ha
Shaday, we who march the length of Canaan, we rise and we stand!”

Chaos! The men leapt to their feet, frenzied, dancing, singing, crying. An antiphonal chant overlaid the activity. “Shaday,
save Dadua. Answer his calls! Shaday, save Dadua! Answer his calls! Shaday, save Dadua! Answer his calls!”

I watched the man glowing with fire. Eyes closed, he too danced. Dervishes would envy his movements. Glancing around me, I
saw the Pelesti soldiers, kilted, but unhelmeted, staring up at the plateau.

Defeat was written in their faces already.

Psychological warfare apparently was in use long before I realized.

“His god gives him all he asks,” one of them commented. “Even should we win on the morrow, we cannot defend the Jebusi forever.
He is making the valley his own.”

“He could never capture Jebus,” someone else said. “We tried for decades and failed.”

“I wish he would die,” Takala spat. “Then Pelesti mothers wouldn’t lose more sons. Yamir will fight That One until our hopes
of children lie in their father’s blood.”

Though I was listening, I was watching the men on the hill. All of a sudden they rushed toward the speaker and lifted him
onto their shoulders. It looked like the winning side of a football game, until I heard their words, their cries, echoing
across the valley, into the hearts of those who were now already beaten, already conquered, half-dead. “A blessing he has
given! The blessing of the land and
chesed!”

The minute Cheftu showed up, we were hitting the road! I’d gotten what I came for; now it was time to go home. Whatever or
whenever that was, at least it wasn’t here.

“Thus they complete another
tan’in,”
the soldier closest to me said. He was older, his hair faded to gray, though his brows were still dark and bushy. “Before
every battle they work themselves into a frenzy of blood.” The rest of his statement hung unsaid in the fire-scented air:
they make themselves invincible through it.

We returned, silent, to our beds. Before I closed my eyes I realized the highlanders had been successful on two counts. One,
they had psyched out the enemy through this elaborate show; two, they had caused the entire camp to lose at least three hours
of sleep, knowing that the remaining two hours until dawn would be filled with anxious thoughts.

Tomorrow morning I was gone. My thoughts of going to stand on the hillside had melted in Dadua’s bonfire. Nothing good would
come of this. We had to leave.

Where was Cheftu?

R
A
E
M
TURNED TO THE SIDE
, allowing the artist to view her profile, though she knew he would add some of Akhenaten’s features to her face. Smenkhare,
in truth, did not exist. Then again, neither did Ma’at. Both were reinterpreted through Akhenaten’s desires.

The term and goddess that formerly referred to the balance of the universe now meant “candor” and “individualism.” Smenkhare,
a bow-legged, dirt-skinned adolescent, had been buried, while the new Smenkhare arose: RaEm.

“It is enough, my, uh, Smenkhare,” the artisan said, backing from the room. RaEm dismissed him with a wave.

“Pharaoh’s daughter Meryaten requests an audience,” RaEm’s chamberlain said.

“Which one is she?”

“Ankhenespa’aten’s sister. The selfsame one who has visited you before, my, my Smenkhare.”

RaEm wished someone would just guess at her gender and be done with it. Sometimes she doubted it herself. Was she woman or
man? Did it matter? Either way she had Pharaoh’s heart and body, at least for today. “Anyone else? I have no wish to see Meryaten
right now.”

The chamberlain, a stuffy old man whose wig was always askew, coughed. “The queen mother, Tiye, your mother, requests you
attend her.”

It was silent for a moment. “I will see Meryaten.”

The girl was admitted later, a fragile thing, with such bad eyesight that she couldn’t tell RaEm was really a female. Then
again, in Akhenaten’s court, where even Pharaoh had both breasts and a phallus, no one could tell.

“The great god Aten’s blessings on you this morning, cousin Smenkhare,” the wispy thing said, her melodious voice only a breath
above a whisper. It was a wonder that such a vibrant man as Akhenaten had birthed such colorless worms as his daughters.

“Likewise on you, Meryaten,” RaEm said, rising from her chair. “Would you care to perfume your mouth, cousin?”

Meryaten glanced up, her big brown eyes blank. “Aye. That is very considerate of you, my lord.”

RaEm smothered a smile, eyeing the chamberlain. “You are too delicate a lotus for less,” she said soothingly. With a glance,
food was delivered to them. Watered wine, flaky pastries, and sickly fruit. RaEm would have thrown it out, save she knew it
was the best the kitchen had to offer. The thought gave her pause.

She sat beside a leopard-headed table, beckoning for a stool to be brought for Meryaten. The girl sat down, barely brushing
against RaEm. Up close she was lovely in a dainty way. Her eyes were round, her chin pointed like her father’s. The short
wig she wore emphasized how frail her neck was.

How easy to snap, RaEm thought. She poured the girl some wine.

“Have you seen your mother yet?” Meryaten asked softly.

“Not yet,” RaEm said. She had been diligently avoiding Tiye while she worked on binding Akhenaten to her, body and soul. It
was a wonder she could walk after the nights they spent together. Soon, however, the woman must be faced. Would she know?

Per current fashion, RaEm, as Smenkhare, wore a shirt and a kilt, an androgynous wig, gold jewelry. The three weeks she’d
spent in the desert, nearly dying to make her plan work, had made her even more boyishly thin. Her breasts were smaller, her
hips not so womanly.

She looked just like Akhenaten.

Which was why he couldn’t resist her. He believed she was the mirror image of him, the male and female of the same soul, created
to be in harmony with the Aten. No one else knew what to make of her, even how to address her.

And this poor girl child at RaEm’s side wished to be her bride.

More interestingly, RaEm was contemplating how to pull off such a fiction. She wanted to rule Egypt; alas, a woman would not
be allowed to, not again. How could she persuade Akhenaten to let her be co-regent?

“I … I am nearing my second year of womanhood,” Meryaten said shyly. “Father has mentioned marrying me. I …”

If she didn’t speak faster, RaEm might well choke her. “All your sisters married your father,” she said.

“They all died, too.”

“What of Akhenespa’aten?”

“She’s little, intended for Tuti.” Meryaten looked up, stricken. “Do you like her better?”

RaEm caressed the girl’s face. “Of course not, she is a child. You are a lovely young woman.”

Meryaten blushed, her brown eyes darting away. I was never this much a fool, RaEm thought. “I … I would very much like to
have babies,” Meryaten said.

That, my dumb lotus blossom, is exactly the problem.
“Sons for the Aten?” RaEm asked, still stroking Meryaten’s hair.

“Aye.” The girl looked up, staring straight into RaEm’s eyes. “You are so pretty, almost prettier than I am.” She smiled.
“I, I also want sons for me. To hold them. I hope they will be pretty.”

RaEm removed her hand. “Any children you have will be beautiful, Meryaten.”

“I want yours.”

RaEm stared, half impressed by the girl’s gumption, half repulsed. In that moment of silence, Meryaten leaned forward and
kissed her on the lips. Her mouth was soft, yielding, and RaEm responded despite herself.

When they separated, both were surprised at their ardor. “Will you speak to my father?” Meryaten asked, her small hand on
RaEm’s thigh.

RaEm’s eyes narrowed. She had misjudged this girl. These little morning visits had been planned as though they were on papyrus,
with RaEm as the dupe. The hand moved higher. RaEm stood abruptly. “I will.”

Meryaten jumped to her feet, once again staring at the ground. “May your day be blessed with the Aten,” she said, her cheeks
ruddy, her hands trembling. She stood as high as RaEm’s breast, a child of barely thirteen Inundations.

Who thought cousin Smenkhare was a boy of seventeen Inundations.

Meryaten looked up again as RaEm sighed heavily. As Chloe’s people would say, What the hell. She kissed the girl again, thoroughly
enjoying the control she had over the child. “Go to your gardens,” she said. “I will speak to your father tonight.”

The door closed behind Meryaten, and RaEm threw herself on the couch. With a clap of her hands she summoned the chamberlain.
“Inform Queen Mother Tiye that I will dine with her tonight. Then see if My Majesty Akhenaten is alone after dusk.”

Aye, indeed. She would rule Egypt.

PELESTI

W
IND WHIPPED AT US
, as we stood on the rise’s edge looking onto the battlefield. My God, I was at a battlefield. I’d stood on Omaha, Utah, beaches;
I’d walked through the Shenandoah Valley; hell, I’d even seen the plain of Troy—but never before with people.

In armor.

With weapons.

I tugged at my piped and pointed battle dress, adjusted the feather headdress they’d given me. I looked like a giant statue,
which I was supposed to, since I was the totem. Acid burned in my stomach. Cheftu had not arrived yet, or I would have gotten
out of here. Just do this and he’ll be here this afternoon, I thought. Then we could both leave.

Takala was seated on a chair, sipping wine in a semblance of calm. Wadia stood beside her, frowning. “She won’t let me go,
Sea-Mistress,” he said, his voice slightly whiny. “Tell her I am a man, that I can serve Dagon this way.”

He was fifteen? Fourteen? Even soldiers in the Civil War weren’t that young, at least not at first. “She needs your strength
beside her,” I said. He gave me a look that said I’d betrayed him, so I motioned him closer, whispered to him. “It is a hard
thing for you, I know, but if something should, Dagon forbid, happen to Yamir, then you are the crown prince of Ashqelon.
You are too valuable to risk.”

He looked at me reproachfully but must have realized the truth of the statement. “I will pray that Dagon watch over my brother,”
he said. “That way in the next battle
he
can sit up here and
I
can fight in the valley.”

Would there be a tomorrow? I wondered. Another battle? Didn’t it take the Jews a long time, like centuries, to vanquish the
Philistines? I just didn’t know where we were on that time line. David. King David. Holy shit.

Takala stayed focused on the valley, but I was certain she had heard every word. With reluctant steps I walked to the edge
of the cliff. Below us by a hundred feet, the Pelesti walked in orderly rows, each platoon surrounding one of the team-drawn
chariots. The sun glinted off their spear handles and shields. They looked invincible. It was hard to reconcile these Philistines
with the term that had come to mean barbarians. They had mosaic floors, for crying out loud!

The sun beat down on us, though a breeze kept us comfortable. It must have been much warmer in the valley. “A wind sweeps
across the Refa’im from
haYam
about zenith,” Takala said. “It is a good time for an attack.”

I saw the band of highlanders approaching from the north. They carried rounded helmets and wore metal caps. “They do not have
strong weapons,” Takala said. “We alone know the secrets of smelting. Their weapons bend and break with ease.” Compared with
the Pelesti, who wore only a breastplate, the highlanders had almost full armor.