Sunrise on the Mediterranean (53 page)

After a while watching the Amazons and the elephant navigate the hills grew old, so we returned to our house. The minute the
shofar
sounded that night, however, we raced toward the audience chamber. Soldiers flew down the stairs with us, as we all hightailed
it to the palace. We burst into the new throne room.

Chaos.

Avgay’el was in high dress, her hair trailing into the hands of a Jebusi serving girl, who was trying valiantly to braid it,
while keeping up with Dadua’s wife. Dadua had been wet on by his son, so he was dabbing frantically at his one-shouldered
tunic while Shana screamed for another.

N’tan rushed into the room, his white clothing bloodstained.

Shana screamed at him, “You! What are you doing? What kind of
tzadik
is covered in blood?”

“I was casting omens,” he shouted back, pulling off the tunic and scrambling for another. It was like backstage at a fashion
show!

The
zekenim
leaders adjusted their cloaks while slaves scurried around, trying to create the illusion of wealth and plenty, and the
giborim
helped each other with armor.

Honestly, if the man was riding an elephant, he would know full well that Dadua was neither wealthy nor did we have plenty.
He was the one building the palace.

However, this was marketing, which I understood.

Therefore we scrambled for the illusion.

Zakar Ba’al arrived less than an hour later. What did he see? I wondered. We stood in form: wives, children, soldiers, private
guard, and attendants all dressed in red—assuming that since he was from Tsor, his people would be in royal blue— with gold.

We were in the new audience room in the upper city. It was a spacious chamber open to the sky, though linen curtains tied
with elaborate tassels, which had been finished only the day before, canopied the space. The cedar ashlar walls gleamed, having
been polished with beeswax while they were being placed. Dadua’s throne and dais commanded center stage, with the rest of
us lined on both sides. A blind musician—why were they always blind in ancient times?—strummed softly in the corner. I did
a double take when I saw that Cheftu was seated cross-legged on the floor, a quill and scroll in hand. The scribe Chavsha
winked at me before tucking his sidelocks behind his ears.

Though he hadn’t recognized Hiram the builder, I knew Hiram recognized him. I was completely out of the recognition loop,
because my red hair and pale skin served better than any disguise. What was that man’s angle? I wondered.

As we waited for the royalty to show, I checked on the slaves. They stood at the ready with wine jugs and cups, baskets of
fresh figs and grapes, pickled cucumbers, and grilled Ashqeloni onions to offer for refreshment.

Everything was clean, primped, primed, and polished. Let the games begin.

First the Zakar Ba’al’s Amazons entered. They looked like stars from a B-movie about bimbos and aliens. Their clothing was
skimpy, they were gorgeous—but they had only one breast, which along with their scars was bared to the eye.

There were twelve altogether. Each woman stood with her hand on her weapon, her legs apart. They looked aggressive, even mean.
More than that, they were silent, gesturing to each other with the briefest of hand signals. Deaf Amazons?

Next were the servants. They were pierced and tattooed like punk rock teenagers, though nearly naked. They fell onto their
faces, evenly spaced between the twelve Amazons. It was a good thing the new room was large, because all these people never
would have fit in the old one.

Then the three body servants entered, young men, wearing peacock feather skirts. That particular shade of azure brought back
a wealth of memories from Greece.

The whole group hit the floor in sync as Hiram Zakar Ba’al appeared in the doorway. I stared, thunderstruck. That deceptive,
manipulative rat, I thought.

I looked over at Cheftu. The color had drained from his face. In fact, he looked as though he’d eaten too much squash; he
was sort of yellowish green. One of those peacock feathers could have tipped him over in shock.

After the glamour of his entourage, Hiram himself was rather understated. His dark curling hair was very short, his beard
was closely clipped, his clothing was nearly somber, his makeup and jewelry were restrained. Two things made him shattering.
One, he wore a coiled serpent around his neck—not a gold representation, but the real thing.

And two, I knew his eyes. I’d seen them more recently in his masquerade of being the Tsori master builder. What was his reason
for all of this? What had happened to the white hair and beard? I watched him walk forward, the gilded fringe of his skirt
rustling faintly above the noise of the musician. Dadua’s court said nothing, just observed him silently.

His eyes were fixed on Cheftu with such intensity, I was surprised that the air hadn’t incinerated.

When I’d seen him as Hiram’s messenger, when I’d avoided him as such, I’d been amazed that he was still alive. I’d also felt
a petty amount of glee that he had aged. Apparently the aging had been merely a costume.

Dion still had the looks and bearing of … well, the Prince of Darkness. Satan was allegedly the most beautiful of all God’s
creatures. There was a strong possibility that Dion might have been, might
still
be, Satan.

Unwillingly I looked at Cheftu. His dumbfounded gaze was on me; even the blind musician could see this triangle.
“G’vret,”
someone whispered, “the Egyptians are here.”

Of course they are, I thought. “Check our stores, refill the wine jugs,” I instructed, while Dion’s despised voice recited
the greetings of one king to another.

HaNasi
welcomed the master of Tsor, his speech fluid even though his eyes were cold. Dion inquired about the health of the king,
which N’tan answered. Cheftu seemed intent on taking minutes of the meeting. What was he thinking? I at least had known Dion
was alive, but how did Cheftu feel?

There was another rustle at the doorway—the Egyptians— and a child entered, throwing white flower petals on the floor. Her
youthlock, ringed eyes, and copper skin made it obvious she was from the Nile valley.

A squadron of Egyptian soldiers with long painted eyes, white kilts, and gold armor followed her, trailed by three priests
with shaved heads, wearing leopardskins, filling the air with incense.

As the hostess, I was counting people and guessing how much they would drink. The slaves were milling about, serving wine
to the
giborim
who were present—fortunately not that many—and the assorted minor kings who had attached themselves to Dadua.

“The Crown Prince of Upper and Lower Egypt! The Glory of the Aten at Dawn! He Who Rises in the East, He Who Reigns with the
Aten!” and on and on the bilingual chamberlain went, announcing this person. Others from Hiram/Dion’s entourage had slipped
in, advisers, seers, nobles, the hangers-on with whom every king traveled.

They all needed wine.

“He Who Loves the Aten,” the chamberlain continued, “Tutankhaten!”

I almost fell over. If I’d been carrying anything, I would have dropped it. No way! I must be hallucinating or dreaming or
both. I watched as a little boy was carried in on a little-boy-size golden throne. I recognized his beautiful face instantly
because I’d grown up seeing it! This was the boy-king of Egypt!

Tutankhaten? Tutankhamun? David and Tutankhaten?

Not even Cheftu would recognize this significance. This was my piece of history alone. I picked up counting again while the
formalities were exchanged. Tutankhaten was a child, not even in puberty yet, his voice high but strong. Then he stepped aside,
and the chamberlain started reading a new list of titles: Pharaoh’s honorifics.

Smenkhare was announced.

I looked back to the doorway. Gold glittered on him everywhere, from the diadem on his shaven head to the eye paint on his
eyes to the …
he
had
breasts?
I waved away a slave’s question while I stared at the androgynous person before me.

Of course I knew from my sister that controversy raged among twentieth-century Egyptologists as to whether or not Akhenaten
had been male or female, straight or gay, a transvestite, a cross-dresser, or the victim of some obscure illness that gave
men breasts. Since Smenkhare was a cousin …

But that face. The features were all wrong for Egypt. His nose or hers, or whatever, was more Greek.

Something shattered, and I looked away. Dion, as Hiram, stared at Smenkhare the same way he’d stared at Cheftu two months
ago. I looked at Cheftu, who was intently focused on his work, not that there was anything to write, since no one was saying
anything.

The court was agog, because while this creature had small but still apparent breasts, he/she also displayed an impressive
bulge in his/her kilt.

Of course, that’s because I saw only in silhouette.

“Greetings from Pharaoh, he who reigns in the Aten forever!” the chamberlain, now acting as translator, said.

“Egypt welcomes Dadua ben Yesse to the realm of rulers.” Even the voice was hard to tell. Male or female? The
giborim
were mystified, defensive. The Amazons ignored him/her, and Dion’s expression didn’t belong on the face of a man who’d lived
a thousand years. It was too surprised. What did he see?

Cheftu looked up, and his mouth dropped open.

Curiosity was killing me. I edged around the crowd, keeping pace as Smenkhare advanced into the chamber. Tall, tanned, and
wiry strong, the legs were covered by a long kilt, but the arms were a woman’s?

Dadua looked revulsed as Smenkhare approached. Cross-dressing just wasn’t done in this court. In fact, there were religious
laws against men and women dressing alike. I slipped to the side behind Avgay’el, from where I could see out.

A woman stood there, dressed as a man. Despite the lack of curly black hair, I knew that face!

I’d worn it, after all. My world was tilting; she stepped forward, elegant, graceful, and distinctly predatory.

She was Sibylla, the seeress whose body I’d inhabited in ancient Aztlan; she was Dion’s aunt and the body Cheftu had known
as mine. Gold glistened on her dark skin, while her almond-shaped eyes glittered maliciously at us all. “Pharaoh himself is
far too busy to visit, to welcome.” She stepped farther into the room.

So, my racing mind reasoned. You have your body; the spirit of Sibylla hasn’t had a body in a while. The Egyptian body was
destroyed in Greece. Which leaves two spirits and two bodies. I was one of them—in my own body. Which left a missing body
and spirit.

“I AM his beloved, Smenkhare.”

The court gasped.

The ancient, time-traveling priestess RaEmhetepet, wearing the skin of the Aztlan seeress Sibylla, masquerading as Smenkhare,
Pharaoh’s male co-regent, gazed at the court in whole. Please don’t look at me, I thought. Please don’t see me.

“She blasphemes!” one of the
zekeni
shouted. “She must be stoned!”

He was immediately muffled by his brothers; one did not even jest about stoning Pharaoh. RaEm and Dion eyeballed each other;
I noticed the heat in the room had risen.

All of my lives were gathered in one place. I craved a cigarette with every fiber of my body. Cheftu still stared, stunned.
Dion glared. RaEm was … Pharaoh?

Dadua sat on the throne, regal, motionless. “I bid you welcome, Smenkhare of Egypt. For the sake of my tribesmen and my god,
I must ask that you refrain from using his name.”

RaEm was wearing the blue helmet, the war helmet. A faint line creased her painted brows. She really did look great— considering
I knew what that particular body had been through, that was impressive. “I AM unaware of your god,
adon.”

I was impressed; she was speaking whatever language this was: Hebrew? Akkadian? Pelesti?

N’tan smiled faintly. “Our god’s name
is
I AM.”

Suddenly it made sense! No wonder I had never been able to say “I am.” It wasn’t just a statement of identity; it was a statement
of eternity, the perfect name for an unfathomable deity. I AM was a clause of perpetuity: I was that I am that I will be,
endless and immutable.

“Neither are we to use Shaday’s name to swear by, to take oaths with, to cry in less than prayer and supplication,” N’tan
added quickly.

I thought of the many times “god” punctuated my thoughts. Since I hadn’t used his proper name, was I safe?

“When your gods Amun-Ra, HatHor, Ma’at, when these gods faced our God in Egypt, your priests asked the name of our God,” N’tan
said.

“Amun-Ra is himself unknowable,” RaEm said stiffly. I marveled at how sexless but beautiful she looked. Did everyone know
she was female? Or … I was confused. “But the Aten rules now. Only the Aten,” she said.

N’tan shrugged. “It is no matter, Pharaoh. Here our God is known as Shaday. You will refrain from using his name.” There was
a lot of steel in N’tan’s voice. I cringed; he was telling Pharaoh what to do? More than that, he was telling RaEm what to
do?

Surprisingly enough, she inclined her head. “I will strive to honor my hosts.”

Then it dawned on me: I was the liaison. I would see her face-to-face. I bit my lips to keep from cursing out loud.

“What brings you so far from the Nile?” N’tan asked.

“It is the time for tribute, for sharing with a new brother in the family of nations,” she said. “To welcome Dadua into suzerainty
with Egypt.”

We all stood very still: Egypt was demanding a payoff in return for leaving the tribes alone.

N’tan stood very tall, looking like a prophet. “We are honored by”—he sounded as though he were choking on the words—“mighty
Egypt’s interest and will certainly gift My”—he coughed—“Majesty before he returns to his fertile river home.”

RaEm moved her eyes over the people, cool and calm, every inch a pharaoh. Hatshepsut had taught her well. “I will enjoy your
cool hills this summer and will delight in returning to Kemt with this budding nation’s offerings to Egypt.”