Sunrise on the Mediterranean (49 page)

We sat that way until we heard a very loud, very obvious clatter of metal on stone. “
Merde
, soldiers,” Cheftu said as we disentangled. The sun was blazing onto us, baking us in this cleft of white reflective stone.
I tugged down my hopelessly wrinkled skirt while Cheftu adjusted his kilt.

Then he looked at me, probably for the first time in broad daylight. “Your chains!” he exclaimed. “Where are they?”

I grinned. “This Cinderella didn’t wait for the prince,” I said jokingly.

Another clatter of sword on stone, a loud cough. “We should leave so that poor man stops abusing his weapon,” I said.

“I will not move until you tell me what this is about.” Smiling, I shrugged. “I won my freedom. Official today.”

“What is this? How?” he asked. “You are amazing to me,
chérie.
Today you won it?”

“Lo,”
I said. A young
gibori
walked by, looking out to the valley, whistling. I glanced back at Cheftu. “However, when Yoav heard that you were here,
that Dadua was meeting with you, he sent for me.”

Cheftu crossed his arms, raising a brow. “And?”

We’d met in lamplit darkness. I had smelled wine before I’d stepped inside the enclosure. “You are a slave no more,” Yoav
had said. He didn’t sound or look intoxicated, but he’d been stripped down to his undertunic. Muscles bulged and flexed in
the flickering light, softening the craggy features of his face. “So come, let me unchain you.”

There was nothing untoward in his words, but the tone of his voice was suggestive. I stood there, wanting to be chainless
when I did see Cheftu, but afraid of stepping that close to Yoav. I knew he wouldn’t touch me, I knew I wouldn’t touch him,
but it was an awkward and scary feeling being so aware of him. I was married. Not only that, I was happily married! What was
my problem? I’d swallowed, which had sounded loud in the darkness.

“We owe you a debt,” he said, stretching in his chair. “I do. Never could this city have been breached without your cooperation.”

“I’d hardly call my part ‘cooperation.’ Your methods are more like blackmail,
adoni.”

He chuckled and shrugged. “I do what is necessary to serve my liege.”

“You got what you wanted,
Rosh Tsor haHagana.”

His green eyes met mine. “I cannot have what I want.”

I swallowed again, feeling the heat of my chest and my face.

“I will not take it.
Avayra goreret avayra.”

“What does that mean, transgression begets transgression?”

“
Ach, isha.
You are such a pagan.” He picked up a tool from the low table beside him. “Sit here and I will tell you about my people.”

The tension was dissipated, but I was still nervous. I sat on a stool before him and gingerly pulled out the chain. Through
everything I had had it, but I’d grown used to it, the weight, the feel. It was like having long hair or an elaborate manicure.
You just adjusted. However, this was no slavery like I’d ever heard of before. He pulled up the metal links, a slight tug
on my ear, and then I heard the small hammer as it hit.

“
Lifnay
Dadua there was Labayu.
Lifnay
Labayu was made king, we were ruled by judges. From the time of
ha
Moshe in the desert until Labayu, the tribes were divided and each had its own group of judges, then judges above them, and
so on.”

The sound of metal on metal was a rhythm to his story.

“So when the tribes were reentering the land, Achan was one of the soldiers sent to conquer the city of Ai. The battle was
a defeat, though it should not have been. Achan was a brave soldier who led the attack. The judge at that time inquired of
Shaday the reason why we had lost. Shaday said he couldn’t help us when we had broken our agreement with him. We were instructed
that taking the land was a holy task,
herim.
Not for us to rape and pillage like the uncircumcised do.
Ach
, well, after some divination it became clear that Achan had taken some booty from a former battle.”

“So what happened?”

“An example had to be set;
avayra goreret avayra.”

There was that phrase again: transgression begets transgression.

“Achan, with all his belongings and family, were taken outside the camp. Because the transgression was against the community,
causing us to lose the next battle and many lives, the community exacted judgment on him.”

“Uh … judged how?” I asked, though I had a sinking feeling inside. After all, I’d grown up in the Middle East. Justice was
a bloody draw.

The metal fell free. There was hushed silence. “Achan, his family, and possessions were stoned to death.”

“Stoned?” I repeated.

“And the remains burned. Whenever you see a mass of piled stones outside the city walls, it is a marker for one who transgressed
against the community and was punished by the community.” He sat back. “You can remove your own chains.”

I pulled them through my ears, which felt curiously airy with those huge holes, and lightweight without the press of metal.
“I still don’t understand. Why does transgression beget transgression?” My back was to him. He was leaning away from me so
that I felt the heat of the lamp on my skin. My hands were trembling.

Yoav sighed deeply. “You tempt me,” he said bluntly. “If I were to take you, that is adultery. However, as you say, my position
is
Rosh Tsor haHagana.
I have the ear of the king. You tell no one. I tell no one. The next time I want something that is not right, I think to
myself, I committed adultery and no one knew. If I steal this treasure, or I tell a falsehood about this man, or I cheat,
who will know? I got away with it before.”

I was motionless, listening, almost afraid to remind myself that I was here.

“Perhaps it is a small thing, but from it my pride grows. I come to think I know more, I know better than Shaday. It infects
my
nefesh
so that the laws, they become suggestions. When I transgress and there is no punishment, I transgress further the next time.
And the next. In time, I have a tree of dishonesty growing up, poisoning the air and the earth of the land.” He shifted in
his seat. “Transgressions pollute the land. This pollution will cause the land to vomit us out.”

The tenor of his voice changed, became resolute. “I sacrifice my blood for this land, for my tribe. No less will I sacrifice
my desire for it.”

I had risen and walked out of the lean-to into the night air, down the outside steps, not stopping until I stood on the wall’s
walkway, blown by the wind, looking out where my heart was.
From tiny acorns big trees grow
, I heard Mimi say.
Don’t even plant the seed.

I looked at my husband. “He shared the story of Achan’s curse, the concept of transgressions growing from one thing into another,
until everything was corrupted. Then I came here, waited for you.”

His eyes sparked; I knew he knew what I hadn’t said. The wind blew at my hair, and again I felt the emptiness of my ears,
the sense of freedom. He reached out, his hand on my neck, cradling my head. His thumb touched the hole. His pinky finger
would probably fit right through it. I didn’t want to look at him, the expression in his eyes was too raw. I gazed off into
the valley.

“Chloe?” he said. I met his gaze reluctantly. “I will never leave you again. This I promise.”

“Nothing—”

He cut me off. “I know that. I know you.” I’d looked away again, and he tilted my face to his. “I was remiss to you, not fulfilling
my duties.”

Inexplicably my eyes filled with tears. “You don’t—” Cheftu kissed me, hard, rough. Despite the sun and the heat I felt goose
bumps all over my body, I wanted this man again. I wondered briefly if the soldier was walking the entire length of the wall
or just this space. “I do,” he said against my mouth. “I need you. I need to touch you and to hold and listen to you. My duty
is to love you, to provide for you, to make love to you.”

Was it any wonder that I loved this man? He laid claim to my mouth while he seduced some part of my heart, that absurdly female
sliver of me that wanted to be hit over the head and dragged back to a cave somewhere—by of course an intelligent, sensitive,
gentle man—and profoundly “claimed.”

My body was pressed against his, I felt his arousal, but he was working some other magic as he talked to me, kissed me. We
stumbled back into a pocket of shade and he held me, his hand on my head. “No, Chloe,” he said in his distinct, accented English.
“Never again will I leave you.”

Vine-tending season was upon us: all of us. I’d never experienced team-work in the same way. The “land” everyone always referred
to became an entity to me. Not a god, but more like a relative, someone you take care of, nurture, and support. Consequently
I found myself out in the vineyards till all hours, with Cheftu and most every other tribesman and slave, pinching back buds,
training vines, and pruning.

I would never, ever, take wine for granted again.

The good part was that in the evening many of us would gather on rooftops, usually Dadua’s, eat dinner, and listen to stories.
The cool wind would refresh us, the laughter would rejuvenate us, and after our escapades tangling with near death, psychotic
people, and natural disasters, Cheftu and I appreciated our new lives.

Housing in the city was still iffy. People moved in and out on a daily basis: Jebusi giving up and leaving for a Molekh-friendly
place, tribesmen moving in with their children, wives, and armor. The city streets were still stained from blood in places,
but I chose to look away.

One night, not long after Cheftu had returned and we’d been freed, we were sitting on Dadua’s roof with Zorak and Waqi, who
were now wedded, and assorted others whose names were still foreign to me, when Dadua announced he’d written a new song. “This
commemorates the brother of my
nefesh
, Yohanan, fallen in battle.” The tune was plaintive, even more of a minor key than tribesmen’s music normally was. Across
the still roof his notes rang, his voice rich with emotion. My stomach growled—the women hadn’t eaten yet—but I could not
leave. It was no wonder this all became history. Dadua played the last chord, and we sat in silence— savoring the final note.

“What beauty flows from the mouth of the king!” someone shouted from the stairway that led up from the courtyard.

We all turned, wondering who had spoken.

“What passion for his fallen brother! What compassion for the lost of Y’srael!” An older man stepped forward, with curled
and braided hair and beard flowing down his body. Though he was aged, he was still very handsome.

“Who are you?” a
gibori
asked, crouched and ready to defend Dadua if need be.

The man pried a scroll from his waistband and handed it to the
gibori.
“I bring a message from the master of Tsor, Hiram. It is a message of peace for your most esteemed poet-king, Dadua.”

He was speaking our dialect. True to type, the
giborim
settled back to watch. After all, this might be entertaining as a story.

One of the younger
gibori
took the scroll, then unrolled it. The other soldiers joked with him, for almost none of them could read. The young soldier
stared hard at the page, ignoring the gibes of his fellows. In the end he rolled it up and delivered it to Dadua.

He looked at it, no expression on his Rossetti-perfect face. “My scribe will read it,” he said calmly. He looked up. “Chavsha,
are you here?”

Our eyes met and Cheftu rose, walking to the king. He was dressed like a tribesman, he even was growing a beard, but he still
moved with the feline elegance that Egyptians seemed to have.

“Thy will be done,” Cheftu said as he bowed, his arm across his chest as though he were serving Pharaoh. Dadua didn’t flinch.
He handed Cheftu the scroll as though they had done it a thousand times. I was torn between laughing hysterically and dropping
my clay cup. Who was Dadua fooling? I looked back at the messenger.

He was tall, his neck and shoulders still straight, unbowed by age. His clothing was a tunic, moderately bright and patterned.
He was standing in partial shadow, so it was hard to see details. But he had presence, undeniably so.

“To Dadua, ruler on high: Greetings, my brother, from Hiram, Zakar Ba’al of Tsor, your exalted kinsman,” Cheftu read.

“Who does this Hiram think he is, grasping after being a son of Avraham, calling himself ‘exalted brother’?” a
gibori
commented.

“He’s not circumcised!” another said.

“It’s just poetic language,” Abishi explained. “He knows they aren’t brothers. He simply says that to make his requests more
pleasant.”

I watched the messenger as the
giborim
spoke. He seemed amused, though it was hard to see his face. Bangs covered his forehead, and the rectangular shape of his
beard disguised the rest of his face. However, I had a weird feeling. Something about his nose, maybe?

The men quieted, and Cheftu continued to read. “As you are now living in Abdiheba’s abode, you have learned he was no creature
of comfort.”