Sunrise on the Mediterranean (43 page)

Where had God eaten
b’rith
with the seventy?

At night, after the first group had arrived, dined, and rested, N’tan stood before them. The mountain glowed blue, millions—or
“bullions and bullions,” as Chloe would say— of stars filled the sky. The moon was small, casting little light on N’tan. He
led the men in psalm after psalm, punctuating the night air with shouts of
“Sela!”

Cheftu felt the cadence taking over, sweeping through his mind so that any action seemed normal. As a body the men followed
N’tan, standing between each of the boundary stones. Cheftu felt as though he were outside his physical form, watching as
forty men scrabbled in the dirt.

He’d been digging for a while, clawing at the ground in his spot between the cairns, when he felt something. Fabric? All around
him men were finding wrapped parcels buried in the sand. Grasping it with both hands, he pulled. The bulky object came out
of the ground so suddenly that he fell backward, the thing on his chest.

With shaking fingers Cheftu fumbled with the cloth, tearing at it with a lust he’d thought alien to him. It crumbled in his
hand around a solid shape. In wonder he held the find up to the blue light of the mountain.

An idol, a statue of pure gold, its face cut off.

“ ‘Do not make cast idols,’ Shaday proclaimed,” N’tan said from behind him. “Does it look like one you have worshiped, slave?”

Cheftu turned back to the sand. Essentially they were clearing a trench the original
zekenim
leaders had filled with the gold of the Egyptians.

N’tan knelt beside him, spectral in the blue light of Horeb.

Cheftu’s perfect, albeit slow, memory finally recognized him beneath the long hair, the beard, the youthfulness. “You are
an Imhotep!”

The hauteur vanished from the
tzadik
’s face. “And you are the Traveler, the nomad throughout my family’s lives.” His eyes were wide. “The Pelesti goddess, she
is the other one?”

Was it that Cheftu was influenced by the light, the mystery, and the miracle of this place, or was he hearing and understanding
what N’tan, biblical N’tan, was saying? “You are an Imhotep?” he repeated.

The answer was in the man’s bones, his eyes, the shape of his body. How many thousand years had it been? How many allegiances
had the Imhoteps sworn? The court of Aztlan? The many courts of Egypt? “How is it you are a Jew?” Cheftu asked. N’tan’s confused
expression told Cheftu that he’d spoken French. In fact, “Jew” probably wasn’t even a term yet. “You are of the tribes?”

“You are a worshiper of the One God,” N’tan rejoined.

A shout drew their attention, and Cheftu turned. Beneath the waning moon the pile of treasure was growing. Heaps of bracelets,
statues, votives, candlesticks, incense burners, the glittering mass was being added to as the men moved through the sand.

The wealth was dazzling, gleaming, spellbinding. The splendor of a pharaoh’s tomb could not be so rich. All this
le bon Dieu
had seen fit to gift the Israelites with. Talents and tons, gold and bronze, studded with turquoises, carnelian, jasper,
jade. Ornaments of silver, figurines of ebony. The mountain of gold grew in the shadow of the mountain of God. The men were
progressing further, hauling huge items, samovars and wheels—gold-plated wheels from Pharaoh’s fallen army—statues, breastplates,
collars, armbands … Cheftu’s mind was going numb in the presence of such magnificence.

“We will talk, you and I,” N’tan said, rising from his crouch. “I must get as much from these men tonight as I can. The ditch
surrounds the mountain.” He held out his hand to Cheftu. “My name is Imhotep, from a long line of Imhoteps, though we are
called Yofaset, a less Kemti name, as befits a member of the tribes.”

Cheftu rose to his feet. “My names are many, but only one is the man I have become.” He bowed. “Cheftu
sa’a
Khamese of Egypt.”

“Together we shall find a pharaoh’s treasure for a freeman’s king,” N’tan said.

They knelt in the blue light and continued to dig.

JEBUS

I’?
D BECOME A COMMON SIGHT
around Jebus; in fact, I’d even learned to carry my jar on my shoulder—at least half-full. Once again I descended the steps,
glancing at the guards but staying somewhat quiet, withdrawn. After all, wouldn’t that be how a woman in my position would
really behave?

They were there, the village women. A few nodded at me, though no one spoke. As a foreigner I was last in line, always. As
I was lifting the bucket to drop it through that impossibly small hole that still spelled my death, I heard a sound behind
me. Turning, I saw it was the same girl I’d seen the first day, the pregnant one.

Her face was streaked, as though she’d been crying. Then again, the lighting in here fell under the category of “indirect,”
so I could be wrong. After my four buckets’ worth of water, I was ready to leave. Shouldering my jar carefully, I turned around.

She was crying. Her face was in her hands, and she was shaking silently. I glanced beyond to the guard. He was whittling,
studiously ignoring us. Although it seemed inane, I leaned forward and whispered,
“Hakol b’seder?”
Is everything all right?

Immediately her tears ceased. She looked up, seemingly startled that I had spoken to her. Or surprised to be caught weeping?
“Ken, ken,”
she said, nodding her head fervently, not meeting my gaze. Her hands moved protectively over her stomach. I stood there for
a moment, then shrugged and wished her a good day.

Halfway up the steps—which I loathed with a passion— I heard footsteps behind me.
“Isha?”
she called.
“Isha?”

Balancing myself and jar carefully, I turned around to face her. “My name is Waqi,” she said. “My husband is a merchant, away.
Would you … care to share bread with me at zenith?”

“How much water do you want?” I asked. By now I knew that Jebusi women had a cagey way of asking for my services, usually
as a friendly overture.

“Lo, lo.
For company,” she said. “I will send a slave for water.”

I blinked back tears. How long had it been since I had talked to someone who wanted to be with me, not just for what I could
do for them? “
Todah
, I would like that.”

“My house is off the square on Rehov Abda,” she said. “I will see you there.”

As I walked up to the residence on Rehov Abda I saw that there was much I hadn’t understood. For one, Rehov Abda was the equivalent
of Dallas’s Highland Park; wealthy, ritzy, and appearance oriented. Even the slaves had attitude. Second, Waqi’s merchant
husband was none other than the bronze monger for most of the artisans. They were living high on the hog.

What on earth did she want with me? My feeling of insecurity grew as I was shunted from the front door to the back door by
a long-eyed Assyrian houseman. Once at the back door, I was made to sit in the courtyard and wait.

Suddenly this reminded me of the part of advertising sales that I hated: the waiting. It had been about an hour with me lounging
in the sun, wondering where Cheftu was, when I heard a shout from above me.
“Isha!”
It was the woman. She waved, then disappeared inside.

Moments later the door was thrown open. “I did not know you were here!” she said, glancing at the sheepish Assyrian beside
her. “Come, come, wash your feet, have a refreshment.”

She seated me on a stool. As I was leaning over to unlace my sandal, she
tch
’ed. A slave dropped to her knees. She unlaced my sandals and gently bathed my feet while another slave offered me a cool
drink, some form of yogurt, and a cloth for my face.

I couldn’t wash my face or my disguise makeup would wipe off. I blotted a little, then watched the slave dry my feet. Waqi
awaited me, the other slave said. Would I be so good as to follow her?

Up the stairs we went, dark, narrow stairs in a dark, narrow house for all of its wealth. Rugs covered the floors and walls.
Samovars, now empty, were on every landing. Lamps, both in stands and handheld, littered the place. We emerged on the roof,
where a low table lay, surrounded by bright cushions.

It reminded me of Dadua’s home.

“Please,” Waqi said, “sit, eat.”

In the sunlight I could see that she was young. Really, really young. Maybe fifteen? She was also unhappy; her eyes were swollen
from so much crying. Rarely did she move her hands from their protective place over her belly. We ate lunch in near silence,
steamed grain, vegetable patties, salads of cucumbers and onions in vinegar and spices, and wine.

“You might want to water your wine,” I suggested, “since you are—” I gestured toward her stomach. To my horror, her eyes filled
with tears.
“Hakol b’seder,”
I rattled on quickly, “a little wine won’t be that bad for you, but too much, well, it’s not good for the baby, although
I’m sure yours will be fine and all … I mean …”
Shut up, Chloe.

She was sobbing, silently. I threw down my bread, crossed to her, and took her in my arms, hugging her. The woman clamped
on to me, crying as though her heart were breaking. “My people are from another place,” she said through her tears. “My father
did not know what it would mean for me to be here. He didn’t know. He would never have agreed to the marriage… .” That started
a whole new cycle of crying. Poor kid, I thought, stroking her hair.

“I can’t believe the women endure this,” she said. “I try to think of how to avoid it, but I can’t. Where would I go? What
would I do?”

Questions started chasing themselves in my brain.

She pulled back, wiping her face and trying to smile. “Would you like halva?” she said, offering dessert in a falsely bright
hostess tone.

You’re a slave, Chloe, I reminded myself. I moved to my side of the table again. Another slave showed up, presented us with
the sesame-seed paste flavored with honey, and left again.

“You live outside the city?” she asked.

“I do.”

“It must be wearying to travel back and forth through the gate all the time.”

It certainly is, especially when I’m interrogated every night on my progress by Yoav’s soldiers.
“Ken.”

“My husband will be gone for a few more weeks. I …” She fought for composure, “My time is soon. I have no family.”

I nodded.

“Would you care to move in with me? There is another room on the second floor. It is not luxurious, but it has a pallet, a
nice breeze. You, of course, would be my guest, though if you still wanted to sell your services, I will understand.”

I couldn’t believe she was offering me a room! “What of the guards?” I said.

She shrugged. “My name is Waqi bat Urek, wife of Abda, the first cousin to the king. There is no problem.”

Rehov Abda.—The street was named after him.

I set down my piece of halva. This was ideal! I could stay with her while I tried to find a way to escape the city alone or
a way to invade it with an army.
Talk about betraying hospitality, Chloe.
I sighed. “It would be too much trouble. I couldn’t take advantage of you.”

She laughed, a rich, real sound. “I ask for your companionship,
isha.
—What is your name?”

Don’t give your real name, Chloe, names have magic
, I heard Cheftu say. “Takala.”

“Takala, how pretty.”

I smiled, feeling sick to my stomach. “Takala, I ask you to live with me not because of generosity. My time is close, I would
like having a woman nearby, more than a slave.”

“What of the women at the well?”

She smiled sadly. “My people are Assyrian, despised here. However, in the tradition of both peoples, the woman of the household
gets the water. It shows the honor of a home, a family.” She looked away. “Even unwelcome at the well, I would not so disgrace
my family by sending an underling for water. It is not done. Also,” she said, looking up at me, “I worship Ishtar, goddess
of childbirth, love, filial emotions. They worship Molekh.” Her tone was sharp. “I would not have such a woman at my childbirthing
bed.”

Ideological differences, I thought.
Ach
, the more the Middle East changed, the more it stayed the same.
“B’seder.
I will stay with you,” I said.