Sunrise on the Mediterranean (37 page)

We pitched our goatskin tent, which was nothing more than a few poles with a fleece thrown over them to give some shelter,
then Dov and I took turns observing. How often and for how long were the gates unlocked? Did anyone ever leave through the
wall? Over it? Under it? Were any of the windows, built high into the ramparts, ever unmanned? Dov and I watched silently,
alternating which of us walked the perimeter.

As dusk began falling we saw the gates fill up again, this time with people going outside. Unlike most cities, Jebus did not
allow those who were strangers to pass the night within the enclosure. To stay overnight within the walls, one must be vouched
for by a citizen in good standing. Thus an invasion from within had been impossible.

Or at least improbable.

Craftsmen, merchants, and families began pitching their tents on the slopes beside the road into the city. Tonight Dov and
I would mingle with them, selling hot food—which another part of the team was preparing—while listening to their tales from
inside the city’s walls.

While it was yet day, for the tribes didn’t consider night to have fallen until one could see the first three stars, the Jebusi
closed the gates. The clang and clatter as the gate’s bar fell into place was audible from our perch. As rehearsed, we joined
a few others, all in different clothing, to hike into the visitors’ tent city.

The humor was that those visiting the city knew they would be approached by spies. It had been happening for too many years,
by too many different branches of Avraham’s far-reaching seed, for them not to know. Consequently those waiting outside the
city bartered their knowledge for food.

A merchant would begin discussing an underground path one of his customers used for storage, then abruptly ask for free seconds
on dinner. Fortunately, it was such a joke that everyone knew all the tales of Jebus. They had become the original urban myths.

It reminded me of the story about men in prison who had memorized each other’s jokes so that a guy would just shout out, “Number
fifty-two,” then they would all laugh, since they knew the punch line.

My job was to pour out the gruel we were giving away under the marketing tool of calling it “soup.” The comments—teasing,
seductive, ribald, humorous—were endless since it was obvious I was female. Dov stayed close to my side, ignoring the gibes
about a third wife, the joys of making love in early summer in the forest, et cetera. Fortunately it was dark, so my blushing
was hidden. Having learned nothing new, we headed back to our outpost. We would divide the night, me sleeping the first watch
and him sleeping the second.

It might not have been a tent by my standards, but I slept. My only thought was for Cheftu’s safety. The next thing I knew,
Dov was waking me up.

He snored. Loudly. I found myself on the edge of an outcropping, far enough from him so that I could actually hear the sounds
of the night, watching the city. I heard only a few rustlings and growls, but no movement. I squinted at the window in the
city wall, watching it until I thought I saw movement: the square became dark, then light again. Someone had walked before
a lamp, I reasoned. Walking generally meant awake, so that was not the way in.

An impregnable city. If I could come up with another plan, could we skip the “waterway or die” program Yoav had suggested?
I wanted my freedom; what a delight to tell Cheftu that as soon as he was freed we could leave, since I’d won my freedom,
too. I couldn’t even consider how it would feel for Cheftu to come home and hear I was dead.

I refused to be dead. There must be a way, a less dangerous way. Why didn’t
I
have the Urim and Thummim right now?

I looked out at the city again, pondering another way in. Would the Trojan horse routine work here? No—the gate was too low,
too narrow. Not even a horse and chariot could make its way through—even if the tribesmen had them. They would be a hindrance
in the streets of Jebus, which Yoav said were twisty, with many flights of stairs. Would oxen and cart work? Certainly not.

Maybe Yoav was right. Maybe water was the only pathway in.

When Dov awoke, I told him I was going to go look at the stream. He nodded, then told me where to find it. I picked up my
bulky water jar, then started downhill at a slope of at least forty-five degrees. I alternated between jogging and sliding.
I was sweating before I’d gone an eighteenth of a mile.

It was hot for this June day!

By the time I reached the valley floor I was aching and exhausted—hiking muscles were different from date-stuffing muscles.
Now all I had to do was climb up the other side, at a similar incline. Where was a taxi when you needed one?

Above me the pilgrims to Jebus were stirring, while another band of spies was trying to buy information with breakfast.

The empty jar rested on my shoulder, as awkward as balancing an elephant, while I picked my way along. The hills were almost
solid rock. Olive trees, turning silver and then green in the wind, clustered on the hillsides.

I found the tiny stream, noting it flowed straight for a distance, then vanished into the ground like a drain. Feeling eyes
watching me, I spent some time lifting the jar from my shoulder, submerging it in the water. As I held the clay container
so it could fill, I looked around, wondering what to do next.

The jar was now too heavy to move. It was a millstone. I tried kneeling beside it and lifting it. No way. Looking around,
both embarrassed and concerned that I was blowing my already flimsy alibi, I dumped out some water and tried to lift it again.

It was still as heavy as granite. I poured more water out, then tried hefting it up from a different angle. No luck, though
I came very close to dropping and breaking it— which would have been a blessing.

How did these little women do this? I’d carried backpacks for years. I skied, I climbed, I could even do the butterfly stroke.
But this, this was beyond me. Apparently I didn’t have the right muscles for doing an over-the-head lift with the weight of
a small dinosaur. Or maybe I just needed to rest.

I left the jar standing on the ground, half hoping someone would steal it, while I followed what seemed like the logical path
for this underground stream. Perhaps it would pop up again? I had canvassed around half the city when I suddenly stopped.
I glanced up, noting that I was standing directly below a guardhouse built into the wall, though the guard couldn’t see me
from this angle. I cocked my head, listening intently.

Running water.

Strolling leisurely in the shadow of the walls, I walked and listened. The sound grew stronger, then fainter, then strong
again. It was getting positively loud as I turned around another side of Jebus. I couldn’t see much, just enough to note some
huge stones across a faint rise. Guarded by very large, very scary-looking, yellow faux dogs.

I dropped to the ground. This must be it!

After sucking on my finger, I held it up in the air, checking the direction of the wind. I was downwind, which was why the
dogs, which weren’t exactly dogs, tied to the wall, weren’t barking. A definite sense of victory surged through me. Maybe
the Jebusi weren’t as protected as they thought?

The yellow dogs looked vicious. In fact, they looked a lot more like wolves than dogs. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying
to recall any Egyptian artwork featuring dogs. With the exception of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the dead—wait, those
were jackals!

As though he heard my thoughts, one of them turned my way, slowly moving his head as though he felt me. My faith in his rope
wasn’t strong, so I began backing up, flat against the earth, while memories of officer’s training camp ran through my brain.
Once out of the jackal’s visual range, I stood up, pressing myself against the stone outcropping.

There was a point of entry! Despite myself I was excited. I’d discovered the secret!

I was halfway back to my tent, going around the other side of the city, when I saw the same setup: jackals, stone, the sound
of water. Were they both ways into the city? Or was one a decoy?

Which was live and which was Memorex?

My enthusiasm evaporated like sweat in the desert as I trudged back to camp.

Only when I got there, soaking wet and breathing raggedly, did I recall the jar of icy water on the valley floor. Dov snorted
in disgust when I told him, then left me alone. I fell asleep, leaning against a tree.

Day three of my week’s recon, I watched Dov practice with his slingshot. He posted a branch forty paces away, then in five
quick tosses he hit it. The wood was struck with five perpendicular shots as evenly spaced as a Singer sewing machine’s stitches.
The guy wasn’t much for conversation, but wow, was his aim good. Antsy to do something and knowing my area of the wall was
already under surveillance, I decided to try the slingshot.

Easier said then done.

Dov refused at first, claiming it was the skill of the Binyami tribe alone. They were the ones who wielded slingshot and bow.
He repeated this reasoning until I picked up a bow and proved my marksmanship. Then I asked again. Reluctantly he agreed.

I had no intention of using the slingshot as a weapon; it was just a way to take up some time and enjoy the gorgeous windy
weather while learning something from these people. The thought of how hard the rock must have been thrown to become embedded
in Goliath’s head made me feel a little nauseated.

The slingshot was a pocket of leather at the end of two long thongs. The plan was to hold the stone in the pocket while swinging
it over your head until it gained velocity. Then you released one of the thongs, letting the stone fly to the target. Split-second
coordination was required; this was not a bow and arrow.

I dropped the stone the first time and it bounced off my head, which, needless to say, smarted. Dov hid a smirk, though I
sensed he was not surprised. It took some getting used to, holding the strings tight while swinging it. I knew that centrifugal
force held the stone in when it swung fast enough, but I knew that only because it was the same concept that kept me from
falling out of a loop-the-loop roller coaster.

The sun was getting hotter, and the breeze had died. Once again I swung the sling around and around, listening for its whistle.
“Now!” Dov shouted. The stone went flying twenty cubits to land somewhere downhill in the rocks. Dov sent me to find it since
smooth and even river stones were a precious commodity. I tried again. Then again. My determination grew each time I messed
up. I could get this skill down, I just needed more practice.

My arm was aching by dusk—again, different muscles from stuffing dates. Fortunately it wasn’t our night to creep around the
city, so I fixed bread, he fixed some kind of stew, and we ate in silence, watching the lights. Are you well, Cheftu? I wondered.

WASET

R
A
E
M HELD HER WIFE’S SMALL HAND
in her own capable brown one. Meryaten’s face was screwed up with pain as she panted and wept. It was a false labor; it would
have to be a false labor, for there was no way under the Aten that the girl could truly be pregnant.

Cursing herself for drawing this upon her shoulders, RaEm murmured encouragingly to Meryaten while her mind processed the
newest information from the Delta.

Plague had entered Egypt, was traveling down the Nile, taking with it the souls from bodies too long standing. Poor food had
weakened them, a sickness of the heart when their gods were taken away had drained the marrow from their bones, now the plague
was there to lay them out.

Meryaten screamed, arching her neck. Pharaoh’s elderly physician stared at the space between the girl’s legs, as though he
had never seen a female before.

“Give her something,” RaEm said. “She is in pain.”
From what, I have no idea.

“She has refused the poppy, My Majesty,” the old man said, peering into the darkness. “I do not see a babe’s head.”

“Well, of course you don’t!” RaEm burst out, then caught herself. “She is not due for some time yet,” she amended. “Give her
the poppy whether she wants it or not.”