Sunrise on the Mediterranean (51 page)

I was right! Omigod, omigod. I could barely make myself stay still. Only knowing that every single eye in the place was on
me kept me from running, screaming, from the room. It couldn’t be … it couldn’t be! Surely the world was bigger than this?

Not this court! Not this time, please, no? I glanced at Cheftu again. He hadn’t realized who this Hiram was. Perhaps he would
be led astray longer, by the beard, or the bangs, the apparent aging.

The messenger recovered himself to sell his images to Dadua. Terraces and private courtyards, tiled floors and tinkling fountains.
Gold-inlaid furniture—at a discount, because his brother was a furniture maker and this wasn’t part of Hiram’s offer—then
he smacked himself on the head. “
Ha-adon
, I must plead your forgiveness!”

Suddenly the room was tense. What had he done? “My master sent a gift, a present.
Ach!
What a worthless old man am I!” He turned around and whistled. Nothing. He whistled again. Still nothing. The
giborim
had switched from leisure mode to alert. A few hands were resting on the hilts of decorated knives.

The doors flew open and a bulky thing was carried in on the back of a giant. The roomful gasped, both at the thing and at
the giant. He took it off his back, with people all around ducking so he didn’t take their heads off in the process, and set
it down. With a strangely graceful gesture, he pulled off a cover.

We all gasped again.

It was a throne, a graceful chair, flanked with two huge winged lions. The whole thing was white, it glowed. Grapes and pomegranates
were picked out in gold on the arms and legs, etched into the … my God, it was ivory? The giant had left and now returned
with a matching footstool, upholstered in zebraskin.

Now I knew how endangered species got that way.

“
Ha-adon
asked about the beauty of the palace, the quality of the work,” the messenger said. “I offer you an example.”

I scooted out of Dadua’s way as he left his wooden chair with hand-embroidered cushion. He circled the thing first. It was
elaborate, far more majestic than anything he’d probably ever seen. Even the Egyptians would be impressed, I had to admit.

The giant kept coming in and going out, bringing other, bulky pieces. While we watched he unwrapped and assembled them. “What
is that?” some
gibori
finally shouted out.

“I show,” he said in a low voice. Then he picked up the throne—with Dadua in it. The
giborim
almost rushed him, but he sat Dadua down again and moved away from him. He’d slipped something beneath, a dais of sorts,
and now was assembling more dazzling pieces of craftsmanship.

Only these pieces weren’t white, they were black, shiny and emblazoned with more gold. He kept working, moving into the crowd,
which dispersed rapidly. Finally he stood up. It was complete?

A series of seven long steps, lined with smaller winged lions, climbed to the throne.

It was … wow!

“Do you care for my master’s work?” the messenger said. “Do you wish to accept his gift?” I looked at him again. It was so
obvious, I wondered that I hadn’t recognized this man right away.

Of course, without the bull’s blood and exploding mountains he was a little out of context. Cheftu glanced over at me, caught
by my expression. He frowned but didn’t understand my mouthings and looked away.

Dadua rose regally, swept down the stairs—which were facing the opposite direction of the messenger—and went to the man. Head
high, he invited the messenger to stay outside Jebus and complete the project his master had bade him. Dadua offered his soldiers
and his populace to aid the architect as he saw fit.

The hospitality here was extended only as far as military coverage could back it up. Very wise, Dadua, I thought. The messenger
is a wily old—it staggered me to think of how old—snake.

“As a token of my gratitude for your visit,” Dadua said, “I will send your Zakar Ba’al a collection of shields gathered from
our battles.”

Shields? The ornamental shields or ordinary shields? I wasn’t impressed.

Neither was the messenger. “That will be an honorable token to carry my master … up the King’s Highway.”

“I shall give you escort,” Dadua said.

Check and mate.

“My gratitude,” he said.

It was him. It was! How in the hell … ?

Dadua turned to his
giborim.
“May
el ha
Shaday bless you and keep you, make his face shine upon you, and be gracious unto you.”

We all said,
“Sela.”

I didn’t see Cheftu again until that night. Our times of privacy were few and far between since we were still living in the
improvised palace and working in the fields. “Do you know who he is?” I asked hurriedly. We had only moments before we were
due on the roof.

He kissed me, but for once it wasn’t distracting. “Do you?” I asked.

“But of course, Hiram. It is in the Bible.”

I opened my mouth, then rethought. If Cheftu didn’t recognize him, maybe I should say nothing? After all, we didn’t need to
revisit that time in our lives or our relationship. “
Nachon!”
I said enthusiastically.

“Who did you think he was?”

I smiled and kissed him, concentrating on being distracting. However, one thought raced through my mind: It’s been a thousand
years, and he’s still alive.

The elixir works.

The day after they received permission from Dadua, the Tsori started building. Wisely Dadua had placed them outside the city,
where they would build their “quarter.” By day they came in and beefed up the hill on which Dadua wanted to build his palace,
making terraces of stone and filling them in with dirt, then building higher. By night they worked on their own quarter.

Within a week they opened the first floors in their quarter for business. In the Tsori section of town, one could buy a Philadelphia
cream cheese knockoff, a blue glass plate to serve it on, the linens with which to set the table, and the company of a man
or woman to enjoy it with you.

Tsori craftsmen quickly started a series of government offices in the lower city, sandwiching the Jebusi quarter between the
giborim
and the taxman. The Jebusi had built the city with beautiful stone, but they’d built it for war, for insularity. Though I
knew why there were very few windows and tiny dark rooms, I hoped the Tsori did it better.

We were enduring the blast furnace heat of summer. Working from dawn until just after zenith, we then retired to the shade
of the groves, or a courtyard, or, if really blessed, a house.

One of those days I was sitting motionless, perspiring, when Cheftu poked his head around the corner. “
HaMelekh
requests us,” he said.

“Do I get a bath first?”

He smiled. “Are you hot?”

I plucked at the long-sleeved, high-necked gown I wore, then lifted the headcloth off my neck. Because of my pasty complexion
I almost had to wear armor to work. “I’ll never be cool again,” I groused.

He held out his hand. “What are you harvesting now?”

What weren’t we harvesting? The summer produce and summer heat came together. The grapes continued to ripen; peaches, pears,
and plums were almost falling off the trees; cucumbers, onions, and leeks needed to be gathered. Lettuces were picked every
day. Lemons and limes, but no oranges. Had they not been discovered yet?

The olives were ripening, the pomegranate bushes were covered in red flowers, the figs were swelling with sweetness.

I followed him—it was too hot to hold hands—through the courtyards, out into the street, and down a series of thankfully shaded
steps. Qiryat Dadua was silent under the blazing sun. “Egypt must be miserable right now,” I thought out loud.

He flashed me a puzzled look, then walked on.

Zorak was standing guard. He greeted us both and let us in.

Déjá vu all over again, I thought. Dadua and Yoav were sprawled out on the cool floor, engaged in another round of a board
game. Avgay’el, her hair tied off her neck, her arms bared, was slowly weaving. She kept nodding off in her battle with the
afternoon heat. Ahino’am was sitting against the wall, a child asleep on her chest. N’tan was cross-legged on the floor, whittling.
No lamps were burning.

Yoav glanced up, looked at Cheftu, then me, then back to his game. N’tan saw us and sprang up. “Che-Chavsha,” he said. “And
Klo-ee. Welcome.”

We were bidden to sit, offered wine, and then Dadua turned away from his game. His hair was in a ponytail, and he lounged
in only a patterned kilt. His sidelocks were twisted around his ears, and he was barefoot. His olive skin gleamed with sweat,
but on him it looked good.

“Chavsha,” he said, “I understand from N’tan that you were invaluable in the desert. Indeed I have found you so in my court.
Therefore, I would like to offer you the position of scribe, officially.”

Was I the only person who saw, literally saw, the pulse in Cheftu’s throat race? Graciously my husband inclined his head.
“I consider it an honor,
adoni.
Thy will be done.”

Those black eyes turned to me. “Yoavi says that although you lived as a pagan,
isha
, you have the
nefesh
of a tribeswoman.” I felt a blush beginning. “However, it is for your diplomatic expertise I invite you to join
G’vret
Avgay’el as a lady-in-waiting, also available to give advice on matters of the court.”

Lady-in-waiting? But these are the years before NOW, Chloe. At least you are out of the kitchens! Would this get me out of
the seasonal fieldwork? Either way there would be no more millstone. “I consider it an honor,
adoni,”
I said trying to hide my smile. After all, this was the Bible. “Thy will be done.”

Two others joined us. One was a new seer, from the tribe of Gad, another was a prophet who had been living in the Negev, eating
locusts while he prophesied. I darted a glance at Cheftu, but he was too stunned to pay attention.

Dadua sat up so that Ahino’am could stuff some pillows behind him and refresh his wine cup. Slaves attended to the rest of
us. Again I was impressed by the wheel of fate; a month ago I wasn’t important enough to be in this room; now I was invited.

“Egyptians have been sighted traveling to us. The Pharaoh Smenkhare, I’ve heard,” Yoav said to me, not meeting my eyes.

“From the west there is activity among the Pelesti,
isha,”
Abishi said.

“She is
g’vret
now,” Dadua corrected his general.

“Tov, todah,”
Abishi said, chastened.

“What activity?” I asked. Surely Wadia wasn’t planning anything?

“We don’t know, but if it continues, we will have to squelch it.”

Shit, I didn’t legitimately know enough about being a Philistine to know what they were doing. Please, Wadia, don’t do anything
foolish.

“Why would the Egyptian pharaoh be traveling here?” Dadua asked Cheftu.

“He is the co-regent of Pharaoh, not the actual ruler,” Cheftu said carefully. “As for why, as Hiram has demonstrated,
adoni
is in a powerful position. Egypt uses the King’s Highway also. I would imagine that Pharaoh, or whoever is traveling, seeks
an audience with you to be certain those transportation rights will remain.”