Sunrise on the Mediterranean (68 page)

Dadua sang the verse again, then invited the people to join him.

I was speechless at the beauty of the music. While it contained the antiphonal signature of most Middle Eastern music, the
choirboy voices surrounding us gave it an innocence and majesty I’d not heard before.

Tziyon waited on high, the sun breaking through the clouds, frosting the stone with a rosy light.

My God. Jerusalem. Would I ever cease to be amazed at this city, this time?

“Lift up your heads, O gates,”
the choirboys sang. Dadua still walked before the Seat, reverent, his hands upraised in praise. He walked there because he
refused to let anyone else risk himself, Cheftu had reported. The
giborim
had protested this gesture, but he had ignored them. He was responsible for the kingdom, for these choices, he said. He would
walk before Shaday. Any striking down would be done to him.

He was a true leader.

The sun passed behind another cloud, and it was suddenly cooler. The gates of the city, packed with silent, watching tribesmen,
stood open.

The Levim halted, Dadua stopped. What were we waiting for? A mighty wind blew through us, a force of air moving over the assemblage
into the city. I’d felt that wind before, when I’d time-traveled. Cheftu’s hand tightened around mine.

Then, like a Renaissance painting, a stream of light poured through the cloud, piercing a hole directly over Dadua. He stood
motionless, his head bowed, his palms turned skyward in submission. The sunlight stream grew brighter, firing the red, green,
blue, and orange jewels on his chest, highlighting his mahogany hair into a halo.

We watched as the sun engulfed him. Before our eyes he became gilded—as divine and mysterious a channel as the
elohim
covering the Seat.

In a rush of movement we could only just discern, he was dancing. Not like from high school: in step, back, step. No, like
Baryshnikov and Astaire, with a good deal of acrobatics thrown in.

The choirboys began singing again as the Levim stepped forward, the Seat swinging between them gently. Then the crowd gasped
as the king of the tribes—Israel—threw off his kilt.

What was he doing? What was he thinking? The king was
naked?

Dadua danced.

He danced before Shaday with glee. He danced with the same joy you feel at the end of a great day—dancing because you cannot
be still. He danced with the freedom of youth, of childhood, rollicking with a friend in the sunlight. Dancing because life
is good. Dancing because you have life and blood.

Dadua danced naked—unburdened of the weight of his ego, pride, shame. Unfettered by sexual implication, unclothed to the glory
of being human, being made in the image of God, being a creator like God.

Dadua danced naked with God.

We squeezed into Tziyon’s narrow, layered streets as we followed the crowd that had joined in the choirboys’ chorus, glorifying
God, not themselves as owners of the Ark. They were joyful, they were excited, but this time they were focused on the eternal
instead of themselves.

Was that the only contrast between this journey and the last? Yet it made every difference.

“Lift up your heads, you gates. Be called to a higher purpose, you aged doors! Be blessed that Shaday, the king of all glory,
will come in. Who is this king of glory?

“He is
el
Elyon, strong and mighty, the god of the battle, the god victorious.”

I darted a glance at Cheftu. Did he believe where we were? When we were? All of us—Jebusi, and tribesmen, man and woman, slave
and free—followed the Seat up to the Temple Mount. The colors of the Holy of Holies tent were brilliant against the watercolor
sky and limestone platform. Here the Seat would be housed until Dadua, rather Dadua’s son, constructed the Temple.

The procession stopped at the woven walls of the Tent of Meeting. The priests moved through the gates, beyond the people.
We fell silent, a crowd of hundreds so quiet that we could hear the priests’ bare feet slapping against the beaten dirt. The
faint scrape of gold poles against gold hoops as the Ark swayed, carried on the shoulders of the Levim, was audible. It passed
by me, so close that I could see the detailing of pomegranates and grapes on the rim. I glanced up at the golden figures.
Icy sweat ran down my back.

The
elohim
were embracing.

Those statues had moved. They had!

Without a pause the priests mounted the steps, the embroidered curtains sweeping closed behind them. Dadua’s voice was audible
beyond us, still praising Shaday.

“Sing to Shaday, earth! Proclaim his salvation daily. Declare his glory among the peoples of the earth, his deeds of valor
and majesty among the nations. For great is
el
Elyon, he has earned his praise! Above all other gods, he is the most high, the one deserving of the most respect. Before
Shaday, the other nations’ gods are merely idols; Shaday alone created the heavens. Splendor and majesty are before him, strength
and joy flow from his holy Seat. Ascribe to
el
Elyon, all the goyim, ascribe to
el
Elyon strength and glory, ascribe to
el
Elyon the glory he is due. Kneel before him with offerings, worship his holiness. May all the earth tremble before him!”

Breathless moments passed as the past years flew by me: Exodus of Israel, the fall of Atlantis, and now this? Within the Tent
I knew animals were being sacrificed, that God was being welcomed to his new home. I looked up at Cheftu. “Do you—”

Suddenly something indefinable moved through me, through the crowd. I felt as through the red point of a laser had touched
me, then passed on.

A shout: “He is with us!”

Like everyone else, I looked toward the Tent. Within its walls was a holy room: God’s boudoir. Against the tinted blue sky,
lightning flashed from within that room, upward. Stripes of brilliant gold against robin-egg’s blue, pillowed by puffs of
silvery, iridescent smoke.

Humanity had reached toward heaven.
el ha
Shaday had reached down in response.

Every knee bowed.

God dwelt among Israel again.

When the smoke cleared—literally—every person was given a loaf of bread, a cake of dates, and a cake of raisins. It was a
feast day, and the singing never stopped. Those from the outlying areas started their walk home in the early evening. Those
from the city made their way to their homes, with a new sense of pride in being a son of Abraham, in dwelling in Tziyon.

It started raining again, lightning flashing in the distance.

R
A
E
M LOOKED THROUGH
the pouring rain at her soldiers. “Egypt is falling,” she said. “They are coming to take Tutankhaten, to take him to Noph
and crown him with Horus, Ptah, Amun-Ra, and HatHor. Pharaoh’s vision of one god will be lost.”

They stood silently, water dripping off their heads, noses. They didn’t look away. “They will take us, too. We will die, as
so many have died, at their hands.”

A few blanched, but mostly they were still. Resigned. “All we need is gold.”

RaEm paced away, the mud splashing up on her fragile kilt. “Gold will solve our problems. With it we can buy position, freedom,
and security in the new Egypt. Without it we will be stripped of everything and left to rot as part of the deposed kingdom.”

She looked at them, her leaders. Twenty-five men in all, obedient, strong men. Faithful to Egypt. “I know where the gold is.
I need your help to get it. You must believe me entirely. There must be no doubt in my magic.”

“How could we doubt you?” one of them asked. “You control the lightning!”

There were murmurs of agreement. Good! Her work learning how to manipulate the skies had not gone unnoticed. “I do. Will you
trust me?”

“Not against trusting you, My Majesty, but why do we just not storm Noph? We control the regular army. There are thousands
of us encamped between here and Egypt. Every soldier would be glad to return home, reclaim the land for Pharaoh.”

She smiled. They were so simple, so delightfully sweet. They would storm Noph, Waset, too. However, for the negotiations within
Karnak, for those nobles whose names had been a part of the court for dynasties, gold was what spoke. Violence and fear would
not work on those who knew she needed them to have any legitimacy.

After all, she would be Pharaoh, just as Hatshepsut before her. Tuti would have a small accident, and she would reign for
him. Then he would die after a long, agonizing fight with illness. Smenkhare would be the greatest pharaoh Egypt had ever
known.

The wealthiest, too. Never again would she be called powerless by some mudhill king. She looked forward to eviscerating him,
then stuffing his mouth with his own sex and setting him afire. Maybe lightning would work for that, too?

“Do you trust me?” she asked them. “Aye!”

“Will you follow me?”

“Aye!”

“Never question, just obey and act?”

“Aye!”

“Then cover your faces with mud, leave your swords. Tonight we begin our pathway home.”

T
HE
CHORIM, ZEHENIM
, AND
GIBORIM
had followed Dadua (wearing his clothes once more), who wanted to bless his new home while still in the power of Shaday.
We were standing in the courtyard’s foundations of Dadua’s someday palace. The Ark was safely ensconced on the Temple Mount;
all was well within the Israelite world.

Dadua’s wives stood in a group, watching us as we entered. He waved to each of them. Avgay’el inclined her head, Hag’it blushed
and waved back, Ahino’am blew him a kiss as we cheered.

Mik’el, standing on the far side, waited for Dadua’s gesture. She did nothing, gave no acknowledgment. Dadua waved again;
Mik’el turned on her heel, walked away.

Stunned silence. She had snubbed
ha nasi?
That was never a good idea, but especially not today. When Dadua turned to face us, he was still smiling, but his black eyes
were smoldering. He threw back his head, calling blessings from Shaday on his house, his line, his dynasty, and the united
tribes of Y’srael and Yuda.

Was I really here? Cheftu and I joined the rest of the group, wandering back to the palace amid singing. We seated ourselves
around the table, dining until the night was black, the stars hidden beneath a blanket of clouds.

When the remains of lamb, grain, fruit, and vegetables lay before us, Dadua excused himself. The musicians played, wine flowed;
it was a perfect evening. Cheftu had just kissed me, mentioned it was almost time for us to retire to our own house, when
we all heard a crash.

“What—” I heard, shouted over the men’s stories. We shut up and noticed the rest of our table had quieted.

“It was disgraceful!” Mik’el’s voice was easily recognizable. The room fell silent now, listening.

“How is that? The Seat returned to Jerusalem? We are now the capital of all the tribes!” Dadua said.

“
Ach!
A bunch of unkempt, uncouth peasants who still worship stone and marry into the Apiru.” We were not even pretending to not
eavesdrop.