Sunrise on the Mediterranean (55 page)

I was floored. He was talking nothing less than a Bronze Age renaissance! No wonder David had gone down in the history books.
Especially
the
history book.

He continued speaking. “The quarter once known for its prostitutes and idol shops will become an avenue of actors.”

Actors? But the lexicon in my brain said,
Actors = philosophers = thinkers.
In this language there was no term for something as sedentary as thinking, no concept of an action with no visible end result.
There were no verbs that didn’t actually move.

“Already we are gathering scrolls from every country and culture to be stored here, available to any who seek knowledge.”

“A library?” I said to Cheftu, speaking over the starting cheers.

He nodded, grinning.

Dadua pointed out where the new market would be; how the Street of Merchants would be expanded; where the new sectors of the
city would be with new housing going up—literally—from here.

This was going to be one hopping place, I thought. An open call for artistic types in a city that was already bursting at
its seams. “Above us,” Dadua said, “I have purchased the Jebusi threshing ground, and there we will place the Tent of Meeting
and totem. Tomorrow.”

The shouts were deafening.

Tomorrow the court and the country would travel to Qiryat Yerim by cart, along with most of the other tribesmen who could
make it, and escort the Seat here, where it would stay forever. By moving the Mercy Seat here, Dadua was creating a theocracy.
Both government and religion would be served by the same bodies and ruled by the same laws.

Cheftu and N’tan would be leaving right after dinner, along with the other priests, seers, prophets, et cetera.

Since Dion and RaEm were both still here, I was still on the clock. Smenkhare—who plagued us all with constant demands for
more, whether it be food, wine, or Dadua’s gold—and Dion—alternating his costumes between Hiram the king and Hiram the contractor—were
camped out. Dion was observing the building of the city’s addition from his mountain outpost; Smenkhare, RaEm, was lounging
opposite, thinking of new ways to indebt Dadua to her. Tomorrow night an even bigger feast—this one with stuffed quail, since
they were easy to find as they migrated south—was my responsibility.

“So to Shaday, who gives more than we ask, who shows unceasing
chesed
, be these blessings on you and your families. May he make his face shine upon you and give you peace.”

As though choreographed, the first three stars shone in the sky.

“Tomorrow” had begun.

I joined the parade route with Zorak, Waqi, and the baby. We were part of a larger group that included Yoav’s wives, Abishi,
and his new Jebusi bride. The pathway down from Jebus was packed. People already had their positions on the road, where they
were indulging in tailgate parties even without tailgates. Wine flowed, music filled the entire eight-mile journey, and the
general mood was feverish and anticipatory—just like Mardi Gras, despite the polarity in motive.

Yoav and the
giborim
stood as an honor guard before the walls of the city, while the ramparts themselves were already filling up with people.
The closer we got to Qiryat Yerim, the more densely packed the way became. People, all drinking, singing, and dancing, filled
the roads, the hillsides, the valleys. If we hadn’t been VIPs, we might never have gotten close. Still, it was hours before
we arrived.

I saw Cheftu across the way, standing at N’tan’s side. He smiled at me and toasted me silently with his wineskin. The mass
stood before a barnlike structure where the Mercy Seat had been kept since it was sent back from the Pelesti two decades ago.

We waited. Priests milled about in their best. Any moment now the doors would fly open, and with a shout the Mercy Seat would
be pulled forth. Or so I’d been told.

The crowd inhaled sharply as the
shofar
sounded. Slowly, beardless Levim boys pushed open the doors. The people held their breath. According to Shana, who thought
I was still an ignorant Pelesti despite my free status, no one had seen this totem of the tribes for the past twenty years.
N’tan, even as a
tzadik
, had glimpsed it only once.

Rumors and legends had grown up around the Mercy Seat in the years it hadn’t been used. It caused plague, it fought other
deities, the
elohim
on it portrayed how Shaday felt about his people.

How that was possible, I couldn’t guess.

The mass craned forward, curious and demanding. This was
their
totem. They wanted to see it, to see if its magic worked, to learn if the tales were true. It would be a formidable weapon.
The conversations flew around me as the wagon rolled out.

The Seat was a rectangular gold box. Standing on its top were two winged creatures,
elohim
, embracing each other beneath the swoop of their combined wingspan. God was purported to sit enthroned between the
elohim.
The sun was blinding on the cover, the actual place where Shaday dwelt when he stayed with the tribesmen.

I blinked, dizzy. Was I having a Paramount movie flashback?

The gold-plated cart was being pulled forward at a majestic pace by two white oxen, garlanded with flowers for the occasion.
The shock wore off the throng, and the noise level grew exponentially.

The Be’ma Seat, the Mercy Seat. Only I knew it by another name, famous for being lost, famous for fictionally being found:
the Ark of the Covenant.

How could anyone sit between the
elohim?
I wondered. They were in such a cli— I frowned, looking at the golden statues. Hadn’t they been hugging? Now they were facing
each other, male and female figures, holding hands.

I could have sworn—

The oxen walked forward, the Ark wobbling on the flatbed of the wagon. I frowned; wasn’t the Ark supposed to be carried on
poles? “What is in it?” I asked out loud.

“Within it, according to
tzadikim,”
the man next to me said, “are the original stones of the Commandments. The ones written in Shaday’s own hand.
Ha
Moshe threw them down—”

“You know he was in a fury,” someone else added. “But how could they know? Our forefathers had been slaves for centuries!”

“Our forefathers were worshiping an idol.”

“We’d been Mizra—”

“
Ach!
Silence yourselves,” some woman said. Strangely enough, everyone fell quiet as we watched.

After a moment the first man, who was a bit older and more educated, edged closer to me, answering my question. “Also inside
are Aharon’s budded rod, which proved
el ha
Shaday had chosen the Levim as high priests forever. Last, it contains a jar of manna, the honeyed food of the desert sojourn.”

My helpful neighbor also explained that God had designed the Levim robes: they were to be white, with bells and pomegranates
on the hems, embroidered in white and gold. They wore turban-type head coverings of blue or white, depending on their position.

“There is the high priest,” Zorak said to us, “Abiathar.” The man walked by solemnly, his breastplate sparkling in the sunlight.
“Those stones each represent a tribe,” Zorak said. I looked at the high priest’s ornament. Twelve etched gems were set onto
a metal chest covering, in three rows of four.

The tribespeople were drinking and laughing as they watched the Ark trundle by.

“The ruby on the breastplate is for Reuben, topaz for Tsimeon, beryl for Gad, turquoise for Yuda, lapis lazuli for Y’sakhar,
emerald for Zebulon, jacinth for Efra’im, agate for Mana’sa, amethyst for Binyamim, chrysolite for Dan, onyx for Asher, and
jasper for Naftali,” Zorak said in a rush. I looked at Waqi, but she was focused on the baby.

“Memorized that?” I teased.

“Everything must be memorized,” he said, watching the street. “We are to be a nation who remember.”

“Sela!”
said my neighbor.

The people were throwing wreaths of flowers before the Seat, showering the priests in petals and praise. A woman danced seductively
in front of the Ark, welcoming Shaday in a tone and manner that sent shouts into the air. Undulating before it, her smile
wide and her gestures unmistakable, she looked more like a pagan priestess than a worshiper, but what did I know? Dadua’s
smile was fixed, the finery of his crown and clothing as impressive as the priests’.

C
HEFTU WATCHED THE WOMAN
: though she was lovely, she did not stir him. Her style of rejoicing seemed rather inappropriate to welcome the presence
of the living God. Beyond her he saw Chloe, smiling with her friend Waqi, drinking wine underneath the still-hot sun. The
mood of celebration was contagious. Even the priests were laughing, jovial.

Dadua rode behind the Mercy Seat in another gold-covered cart, waving at the people, accepting gifts of wine and kisses. This
was the first day of officially recognizing Jebus as Tziyon, capital of the tribes, his own city. It was a day of celebration.

A day of idolistic celebration.

There seemed very little difference between this and the many Egyptian rituals of which Cheftu had been a part. The Be’ma
Seat was being worshiped much as a statue of a god. The people were wild with their senses as they escorted
their
Ark into
their
city. They walked and danced beside the oxen.

N’tan stood beside him, watching the Seat pass. He glanced at Cheftu. “Why do you frown? Is this not the day that the stones
admonished us to bring in the Seat?”

“You’ve never seen other lands, have you?” Cheftu asked.

“Nor other times,” N’tan said, tipping back his wineskin. “Why do you ask?”

Cheftu watched the milling, dancing, drinking horde, aware that he could be in any of the times and places he had lived. Human
nature did not seem to alter with the passage of years. “Shaday admonished you to keep separate, did he not?” he mused. “Ways
to remember this were to not wear or use interwoven fabrics, grow no intermingled orchards, tolerate no mixing of milk and
meat?”

“B’seder,”
N’tan said impatiently as they moved forward, pushed by the bulk of the viewers, all sweating. It was a long walk back to
Jebus, Tziyon, but it was eased by the glee and abandon of the moment.

“
Ach
, well, these things are all examples. Daily reminders that you are to lead lives separate from the uncircumcised,
nachon?”

N’tan was smiling, staring at the Seat. “It is covered in gold. It is beautiful,
nachon?
Won’t it be perfect in Dadua’s temple, the most precious stone in the richest of settings?”

Cheftu looked at the Seat, frowning more. Had it looked that way before? The male and female gold statues on the cover were
positioned on the far edges of the piece, leaving at least a cubit and a half between them. He looked away. There was something
familiar about this, though he couldn’t remember what. His gaze met Chloe’s again. Across the stream of people she blew a
kiss at him. Cheftu caught it and returned it, smiling. He was faultfinding, he admonished himself, why wasn’t he enjoying
the day?

Because …

The procession was moving slowly, making its way through the press of raucous tribesmen as they neared the huge threshing
floor of Kidon, the last stop before Tziyon. It was uphill from there to the city, but the tribesmen seemed not to notice.
All around, the hills were terraced with vines, sprinkled with the red of pomegranates, rich with the bounty of the land.
It was beautiful. But they are admonished to be a different people, Cheftu thought again. Perhaps, though—

The crowd crashed to a halt.

A slip.

A slide.

A Levi reached forward.

“Lo!”
the people screamed.

Fire exploded from the sliding Seat with a mighty
zzzzp.

The Levi fell to the ground, screaming, clutching his arm. “I burn! Help me! Help!”

The oxen tried in terror to get away, and the Seat slid farther.

Gasping, clawing his chest, the priest writhed on the ground.

The Seat fell with a jarring thud, flames shooting out from it.