Sunrise on the Mediterranean (59 page)

He looked at the cup in his hands, surprised. He laughed after a moment. “
Ach
, because the level of the wine does not change, but our perception of it does?
Isha!
That is a fine lesson!”

I silently thanked whatever self-help book I’d read that in.

Dadua stretched. “We are all slaves,
g’vret.
You may be a slave to Shaday, to live a certain way or in a certain place you would not have chosen. But you are free, if
you choose to be.”

The next day brought the good news that Avgay’el, while weak, was alive. Also good news was that if Dadua or I were going
to get sick, we would have by now. The bad news was that I had the worst hangover of my life—from getting drunk with the king
of Israel.

Lastly, Sukkot, which had been postponed owing to the fire-shooting Ark, was rescheduled. Zorak, who came to free me from
my cell, told me that for that feast we would all live outside in tents, decorated with the four species.

“Which are … ?” I asked as we walked the labyrinth up to the light. I was amazed when we got to the top, because we were above
the city, looking down on the Milo and the gates.

“Ach,”
Zorak cursed. “I must have taken the wrong turn.”

I looked over my shoulder and gasped unconsciously. The Tent of Meeting?

“G’vret,”
Zorak said, “I must get you down from here, I don’t know what court we are in.”

We were inside the tented enclosure, steps away from the actual Tent where the Ark would someday go. I greedily took in every
detail. The walls were woven panels, fixed on poles that formed an enclosure around the main tent. Candelabra the height of
a man were arranged on either side of the bronze seas that Dadua had shown in his plan. The Tent stood in the center, brilliantly
colored, the front patterned with stripes in purple, blue, and red. Two columns stood before it, the only permanent structures
in sight. They were as thick as redwoods, fluted at the top with a frieze of pomegranates and grapes.

A wind swept across the plateau; automatically I bent to remove my shoes. In twentieth-century Jerusalem, the Dome of the
Rock covered the Temple Mount. Father said those Jews who were devoutly religious wouldn’t step onto the Mount, since they
didn’t know where the altar had been and they didn’t want to walk on it accidentally. I understood this feeling. Terror, joy,
a sense of awe.

God’s Mountain.

How did we get here? I wondered as Zorak led me back down stairs that ran straight up from the city’s limestone pits into
the inner court of the Tent of Meeting—where the Temple would be.

We got turned around again but eventually ended up on the streets of the city, at night. “When will the feast begin?”

“Look out,
g’vret
, it already has.”

Sure enough, lean-tos of palms were sprinkled throughout the city, striping the night with lamp fire. I suddenly felt very
lonely. “Is this another of the feasts when the men will go to Qiryat Yerim?” I asked, thinking of how I missed Cheftu.

“
Lo
, Klo-ee, from now on the Tent is here, so the celebrations will be, too. Tomorrow is the progression and official start of
the eight days.”

We bade each other good night, and I stumbled home, filthy, hungry, and heartsore. My husband was waiting with hot food, hot
bath, and open arms. I took them all, but not in that order.

The
shofar
signaled the beginning of the feast. Song drifted through my window, not that that in itself was so unusual, but the volume
was. The streets were dense with people, those gathered in from the local tribes, all walking to the hillock above the city.
From here I could see the Tent of Meeting, which shielded us from the power of God.

After the last week’s display I think we all felt safer with that protection. Within that area was the smaller tent, the home
of God. The warm tones of sunset fell on the mesa, coating it with liquid gold. Donkeys and oxen laden with produce, and decked
in flowers, were being led up to the Tent. Burdened with cakes and oil and wine, the tribesmen hurried along, their joy stilted
as they pondered in fear if their gifts would be accepted.

In some ways it must be nice to know immediately if you were on God’s good or bad side. If the rains came, you were. If they
didn’t, you weren’t. No dodging, no wondering, no seeking. On the other hand, repentance wouldn’t necessarily have an immediate
cumulative effect. The facts were in the soil, the precipitation. Where the boody-trapped Ark came in to play, I had no idea.

The throng bypassed us, since we were pagans and not allowed into the presence of God, singing, “Hosanna!” They were really
loud; or maybe for the first time in my ancient journeys I found myself part of the masses. It was unreal that I was hearing
it
for
real. Before we knew what was happening, Cheftu and I were caught up in the group, absorbed into the milling, marching tribesmen.
We walked uphill rapidly, the crowd’s song our rhythm, until we were all on top of the mountain.

The wind had grown stronger, colder; it whipped around us. In a wavelike pattern, the people fell silent as this otherworldly
feeling engulfed us. From this promontory you could see all the hills surrounding Tziyon, all of the city. We were raised
above the earth, suspended on the platform that was Jerusalem. Above us were only stars.

“We see as God sees,” Cheftu whispered as we were separated into groups of men, women, and foreigners.

All around us women were covering their hair. Through the crowds of people I saw the Tent of Meeting, illuminated by a thousand
torches. The men left the women and children behind, outside the curtained walls, as they entered into the territory of God.

I pushed through the masses, getting closer to the screens, near enough that I could discern the interwoven pattern of pomegranates,
winged lions, then so near that I could hear the tinkle of tiny bells in concert. The music of the bells decorating the hem
of the priests’ robes.

Don’t ask me why I began crying. Not sobbing, but tears streaming down my face. I was
here
, for whatever reason. I was being allowed to observe this. Was this because I’d chosen it? Had it chosen me? Was I lucky?
Or unlucky? What else was asked of me, or was my life now ordinary, the drama of time traveling passed? It was already October
and still we hadn’t found another portal. Was it destiny to stay here now?

“Why is it always the men?” a woman hissed behind me.

“
Ach
, D’vorka, cease with your complaining.”

“Still, I wonder. The men always see Yahwe. Why not us? We are the ones cursed with childbearing!”

Obviously these were tribeswomen, not Jebusi, who were thrilled to have morning sickness.

“Shush. We are blessed with childbearing.”

Hushing her only served to make her louder. She snorted. “Tell that to my hips! With the birth of Yohan, I swear, my hips
have spread so far that one is in Y’srael, the other in Yuda!”

I had to bite my lips to keep from laughing out loud. “You call that a blessing? My Yuri, he says he can’t feel the walls
inside me! He says it’s like loving a cave! This, this you call a blessing?”

“Shush. Better not to speak of your husbandly relations in the presence of God.”

“God? What? He doesn’t know what it is like between a man and woman? He knows too well! He knows why Lilith didn’t stay with
Adama.”

The high priest, the stones on his chest reflecting colored light upon the men, climbed onto a platform. He was visible to
us all. His presence silenced the women behind me; the power of his office hushed everyone. He offered prayers, solemn and
earnest. I imagined that the priesthood was a little nervous right now. We all said,
“Sela.”

“So why aren’t women in the Tent?” the woman behind me hissed. “What? We can’t repeat like these men?”

“We aren’t there because who would take care of the children?”

“Their fathers can’t?”

The other woman said nothing; I had to force myself not to turn and see the look I felt her give her friend.
“B’seder.
That was a stupid question,” the complainer acknowledged.

The priest said something, and all of a sudden people were passing food toward the front. Before us a man mounted the ziggurat-style
stairs and we watched as a sheep’s throat was cut. I was a little squeamish—but at least it wasn’t a living baby.

We sent the offerings forward: loaves, vials of oil, skins of wine, pots of honey.

“So, the men couldn’t do this?” the woman behind me asked her friend.

“You trust your Yuri to handle your loaves, make sure they get to the Almighty without damage?”

“He gets the sheep to Shaday,” she said.

“All your sheep do when they get there is die,” she said. “They don’t have to be in the best condition for that.”

“And what, my loaves have to dance a jig for the Almighty?”

“Better them than Yuri!”

They smothered their laughter. I found myself stifling a grin.

Priests, in cone hats and white-and-gold kilts, blew
shofars.
The men chanted in a rumble that seemed to shake the very mountaintop. A sudden gasp silenced everyone. “It is a sign!” someone
shouted out. We were craning to see. Abiathar, the high priest, fell to his knees.

“What is it? What do they see?” the woman behind me asked. We were all trying to see what was going on. The high priest hadn’t
looked up, but the whisper moved over the crowd like wind over a grain field, stirring the stalks. My blood ran cold when
I heard it:

The scapegoat had come back, climbing up the hill and walking through the enclosure.

The sash around his neck was still red.

R
A
E
M WAS SEATED
, mentally penning a love letter that she would never send to Akhenaten, when the message arrived.

“They live in huts tonight. Would you like to see my passages? H.”

Hiram’s passages. It would sound nearly obscene from someone else, but not from Zakar Ba’al. RaEm told the messenger that
her answer was affirmative.

“Then if My Majesty will come with me?”

“Now?”

“Beneath the cover of guests, we can move you from one camp to the other without alerting those who watch.”

RaEm sighed. Tuti would have to be cared for tonight. What had prompted her to bring him along, a small boy with the attitude
of an emperor? “My slaves will know,” she said.

The Tsori stepped a little closer. “Zakar Ba’al sent a decoy for you. She will wear your clothing, if that is suitable to
you, while you will masquerade as her for a night.”

“Where is she?”

He stepped back, motioned outside the tent. RaEm watched herself walk in—tall, slim, flat-chested, short black hair, dark
eyes. Slowly she smiled. The way Hiram thought was very appealing. “Leave us,” she said to the Tsori courier.

A while later, the two lackeys of Tsor made their way down the hill, across the stream, around the city, and up the opposite
hill. It was nearly dusk when they arrived in Hiram’s camp.

RaEm was sticky with sweat; it had been a long time since she had climbed and walked such great distances. The decoy walked
her to the servants’ tents, for those who watched, which opened into the back of Hiram’s tent.