Sunrise on the Mediterranean (41 page)

“You are worthy of the double crown,” he whispered. “For you love Egypt more than your own heart.”

RaEm wanted to laugh, then weep.
Aii
, Hatshepsut, my friend, the illness of character I teased you about now apparently infects me! RaEm was exhausted, trying
to guess what would be said or done about their meeting. “I must have you flogged,” she said softly.

His eyes widened for a moment, then he nodded. “Since the last priest was stripped naked and made to swim back to Waset, I
guess I should consider whipping a … lesser sentence.”

She stood in silence. If he were not beaten, then questions would abound. If this priest left without a mark, it would be
too obvious that they were in collusion. Already Akhenaten would be asking for details that she had yet to invent. “Have you
felt the bite of leather before?”

He smiled wryly. “Only by my old schoolmaster, who claimed the ear of a boy was located on his back. The more often he disciplined
us, the better we would hear.”

A common Egyptian belief, RaEm remembered. “When you feel it, breathe out, from your belly. Listen to the way that I breathe
and join it.”

“Will you be the one wielding the whip?”

She bit her lip, turning from him. It seemed so long ago, those many men and women. Lords and ladies who would eat of the
poppy or the lotus, drink too much, and then beg for her whippings. How it used to excite her, thrill her. Even the sailor
on the ship, whose body she had striped with blood before using him, excited her. Pain, blood, they had seemed such rare,
precious samples of the edge of life. “Do you want me to be?” she asked.

“I trust you,” he said. “You will do what is necessary for Egypt.”

“Slaves!” she screamed, spinning. As the doors flew open, Horet was seized by both arms. His expression of bafflement was
quickly hidden. “He is to be flogged!” she yelled, pointing at him. “He dared to bring his talk of Amun” —she spat—“Ra, that
outdated, puny god of Waset, into the chambers sacred to the mighty Aten!” One of the overseers quickly pulled out his whip,
testing it on the floor as RaEm paced, ranting.

“You fool!” she shouted, snatching it from the man’s hands. “Why test a whip against the tiles when you can test it on his
back? Turn him!” she shouted.

The priest was spun around as though he were on a spit. The leopardskin was torn off his shoulder, his kilt untied, revealing
his pale, trembling backside. RaEm lifted the lash and brought it cracking down on him, careful to exhale as the reverberations
traveled up her arm. He’d gasped, increasing his torment.

She struck him again, then walked over and pulled his face back by the skin on his neck, like a cat. “Polytheistic cur!” she
said, spitting on his cheek. Beneath her breath she admonished him to breathe with her. Tossing him away, RaEm returned to
her scourging position and, alternating arms, beat him soundly. Welts of red were interwoven like a basket pattern on his
back.

But he’d breathed with her. Though he was in great pain, he had decreased it considerably.

“Give him his kilt and throw him back to Waset,” RaEm said, perching herself on the throne. Her clothing was damp with sweat,
the crown sliding on her forehead. “Nay! Wait, bring him to me!”

What do they see? RaEm wondered. They watched Smenkhare with wide eyes as the priest was thrown before her, his hands shackled
behind him so he fell on his face. She picked him up enough to see into his eyes. Did they see his skin go white when she
whispered to him? Pressing her foot against Horetaten’s forehead, she kicked him off her dais, then called for wine.

The high priest was dragged from the room, then she dismissed the many slaves, soldiers, and scribes.

Where was gold?

She’d sent informants to every sector of Egypt, hoping that some untapped vein of gold would be found. A hundred men combed
the Sinai alone. She drank another cup of wine to ease her fears. Would she be found out about today?

Would Egypt be given the chance to live?

Help me find gold, she prayed to the Aten. If you are real, give me the gold. Show me where it is. Save Egypt.

JEBUS

O
NCE
I’
D DEPOSITED
the water with my employer, thus earned my wages—some bread, some salt, some wine—I hoisted my jar to set about exploring
the town. Ostensibly I was drumming up more water-drawing business. In reality I was both doing recon and trying to find alternative
routes in … and out. On that hill, right outside the gate, I knew that some soldiers awaited me.

However, Jebus had lots of gates, though you were admitted in only through one. I could sneak out though, then head …
Where, Chloe?
I forced myself to focus on the reconnaissance.
Don’t give up yet, there may be another way.

The thought of facing half the territory of Israel alone with no money, as a fair-skinned woman, on foot, was terrifying.

Recon was many things, or so I’d been taught. Learning how many men are quartered, what their weapons capacity is, their level
of readiness and awareness, seeking out those who are disgruntled, all these things are part of it. A huge amount could be
learned through observation.

Not that I’d done this before—just taken a class or two, with a required text. I’d also listened to Mimi’s passed-down tales
of the War Between the States.

The biggest difference I noticed between Jebus and Mamre, aside from the weird lack of kids, was the presence of blood and
idols. In Mamre, for all its mud, life was pretty hygienic. Here, blood ran in the streets. The butchers worked in the open,
even letting flies sit on the meat. The men paid no attention to the coagulating blood they stood in or left the meat in.
Granted, I’d grown up in countries where buying meat meant standing in an open-air market and pointing to a swinging carcass,
but the way these vendors handled the meat made even my skin crawl.

More than that, the scent of blood tinged everything. It coated the inside of my throat and nose, and it seemed to almost
tint the air.

The next thing I noticed was the
teraphim.
I’d seen them in Ashqelon, but none in Mamre. Statuettes ranging from the size of a bottle of fingernail polish to the size
of a German shepherd dog filled shop after shop. Some of them were stone, but most were clay.

There seemed to be two basic models: Ba’al, brandishing a lightning bolt while wearing a crown that looked exactly like an
upside-down bowling pin; and Ashterty, the mother-goddess, sporting a sixties flip hairstyle and a strategically placed flower
or two on hips wide enough for twins.

Another shop had crude copies of Egyptian gods, though the fineness of the original design managed to glimmer through. Could
I make these, sell them? I wondered frantically.

Focus, Chloe, focus.

I passed two rug shops that were side by side, with their works hung on the doors. Thickly woven wool dyed in shades of blue
and green, woven into an indiscernible mass, hung next to rugs in yellow, orange, and a putrid red. The next salesman had
the upscale stuff: rugs in yellow but interlaced with a bluish purple.

“You like,
isha?”
the rep said to the woman standing in front of me. “It’s very fine, the purple is from the Keleti, taken painstakingly by
beautiful women like yourself from the sea creature, then mashed.” He stepped closer. “This mollusk is what makes it so rare,
so desirable. Come, see, I have another,” he said, flipping through his merchandise.

The next example was orange with an even more faded shade of purple. Watching her expressions from the corner of his eye,
he stopped when he sensed her interest.

It was a game.

She pursued her lips. “You want to buy?” he asked her, elated.

She shook her head no, then left.

Like any decent salesman, he chased her into the street, screaming the discounts he would give. Except that it wasn’t in terms
of coinage, but rather of trades. For a horse, he would give her the purple rug. For the yellow-and-purple one, though it
was robbery to him, he would let her have it for only two asses and a chicken. His final offer was for the purple-and-orange
rug. Such beautiful colors together! What a bargain for only three doves and a donkey!

She was gone by the time he’d finished his tirade.

It seemed so commonplace, so everyday normal. Did they know the highlanders prowled outside the city? That David, God’s favorite
David, wanted this place and sooner or later would get it? Were we all pawns? Was it all some plan? What was I doing here?
As my feet turned me onto the Rehov Shiryon, the Street of the Armorers—bronze weapons, since only we Pelesti had iron—I felt
as though I were drowning in my fears.

Concentrate on eavesdropping, Chloe. Think!
Grateful that everyone seemed to speak loudly and clearly, I meandered down the wide street.

The combined heat of the forgers with the heat of this summer afternoon made the stone walkway shimmer. My nostrils felt singed
after only a few moments. This was an important street; weapons were built here. The clang of working metal pounded through
me as I counted the weapons, then the armor, then how many men in uniform I could see.

One guy, probably not much older than eighteen, was hammering horseshoes. Sparks flew with every strike of his tool, leading
me to wonder just how many horses they shoed. However, the horses weren’t quartered here—so I couldn’t steal one—the city
gates weren’t big enough.

Did they sell them to someone else? Mentally making a list, I walked on. Spearheads, sword blades, arrowheads— all were laid
out, displayed for sale. It was hard to tell if they were copper or bronze from this distance. Because it would be suspicious,
I didn’t step closer.

However, the count in my head grew. Jebus was one well-stocked city.

A quick stroll around the perimeter of the walls showed me that the foundations were in great repair, each guard tower was
manned by three men, and despite the many gates, each was guarded by three soldiers. If these people ever managed to build
a portcullis, Jerusalem would never ever be conquered!

Still not a sight of a child.

At dusk, with the rest of the travelers, I went outside. My employer had been willing to let me stay in her courtyard, but
her younger, savvier son suggested otherwise. Under the distant but watchful eye of Yoav’s soldiers, I slept.

MIDIAN

C
HEFTU LOOKED AROUND
them. He was convinced they were lost. It had been almost four days of travel, and they should have found the mountain in
two. Yet they were nowhere near anything. All that stretched around for miles was sand, soft, supple, endlessly undulating
sand.

The majority of the slaves had traveled in the first crew, to prepare the camp for their masters. Cheftu had been bidden to
look around, see if he saw any signs of gold at the foot of the mountain.

Not only was there no gold, there was no mountain.

The guides refused to speak to the slaves or to him. They led by gestures, they stopped and went as they felt the urge. Cheftu
touched the stones against his waist; he’d prepared them for use, if needed. Then it had dawned on him that he already knew
the pathway the Exodus from Egypt had taken, because he knew the Bible.

In the still of the afternoon, when they were all supposed to be resting in the heat of the day, he had scribbled down those
things he could remember. According to Holy Writ, the Hebrews had traveled for three days without water after the crossing
of the Red Sea. Then they found water, bitter water. Moses and God intervened, and the water was healed, made sweet, and God
told them that he was a God Who Heals, Yahwe Yi’ra.

Then they arrived at an oasis named El’im, where they camped.

They left El’im and started into the desert. The Bible said it had been one month since they had fled Egypt. It had been one
month since Pharaoh had cornered them against the sea;

he knew because he’d been there. It still gave him chills to realize these words were true, transmitted correctly through
the ages. Why did Chloe have such a problem understanding the validity and reality of the Bible, the existence of God?