Sunrise on the Mediterranean (9 page)

Again Cheftu and RaEm exchanged glances. “What are you doing here, my lord?” Cheftu asked.

“Coming home from Tsor. That useless son of a goat trader, Zakar Ba’al, made me wait for two seasons before he fulfilled Pharaoh’s
wishes to export some wood.”

“Wood?” Cheftu felt like a parrot, repeating every other word, but it was so much to take in, to absorb. He was light-headed,
thirsty; that must be part of it.

“Aye. Pharaoh, His High Foppishness, is building yet another addition to that cookpot he calls a palace in Akhetaten.”

“Why not mud brick?”

“Well, this Aten”—Wenaten glanced toward the sun and made the motion against the Evil Eye—“he is pretty cursed hot in Akhetaten.
The mud brick is far too hot to walk on, so we need wood for the floors in the palace and temple.”

“Why would the floor of the temple get hot?”

“Because the sun beats down, fool!” Wenaten shouted. “Are you a peasant? Do you not understand how the sun’s heat falls to
the earth?”

“The temple has a roof to protect its patrons from the heat,” Cheftu said slowly, keeping a rein on his temper.

“Nay.”

“Nay?” Now RaEm was repeating, her eyes so wide that Cheftu could see the whites on all sides.

“Nay,” Wenaten said. “It has no roof.”

“What idiot built that?” RaEm asked. For once Cheftu agreed with her.

Wenaten shook his head. “I know not, but Pharaoh designed it. Amun-Ra, who doesn’t want his priests to bake what little of
the brains they have, his temple had a roof. It’s even cool inside, if you have ever been inside.” He looked at Cheftu, at
his long, curling hair.

“You obviously haven’t,” Wenaten said to him. “Anyhow, the Aten wants to rain his light down on us. All day. Every day. From
dawn to dusk. Hot, blistering heat.” Wenaten touched his forehead. “Being at sea has healed my sunburns, but you should have
seen them! Peeling skin like an Ashqeloni onion! A great tribute to the Aten.”

“That’s disgusting,” RaEm said haughtily.

“It is a part of the new court attire. A sunburn. Burns testify that one is a good Egyptian and devout in his worship of the
Aten.” Wenaten hesitated a moment, seeming less ridiculous and more meditative. “The envoys from other lands are convinced
Pharaoh is mad,” he said ruefully. “Most of Egypt’s nobility has already disavowed him.”

RaEm was watching the little man, openmouthed. She’d probably never heard of discontent with the ruling class, certainly not
in Egypt. Cheftu smothered a smile. What would she think if he told her that his countrymen had not only overridden their
monarch, Louis, but chopped off his head also?

Rebellion was not an ancient Egyptian concept, for Pharaoh was god incarnate. At least, rebellion
hadn’t
been an Egyptian concept. “Who is Pharaoh?” Cheftu asked carefully.

The small man drew to his full height and extended his hand upward, palm flat. “Pharaoh, living in Aten forever! is Akhenaten.”

Ak-nah-ten, Cheftu repeated mentally. He lives in Akhet-ah-ten, obviously named after himself.

“Who is consort?” RaEm asked.

Cheftu could see the wheels of her greed spinning. “
Aii
, used to be Nerfertiti. What a woman… .” Wenaten drifted off, a dazed expression on his face. “She even looked like a woman.
Alas, she was banished. Even shipped across the Great Green, I think. Her face was lovely enough to inspire a thousand ships
to set sail.” He sighed again.

Cheftu’s skin prickled. When would these men share water? His tongue was swollen.

“If she is gone, then who rules beside Akhenaten?” RaEm purred at the spindly ambassador.

“No one for long. Pharaoh has married each of his daughters, attempting to whelp a son, an heir to the throne.” The little
Egyptian wiped his nose on his palm. “It’s been two Inundations since I set foot in Egypt. I will know nothing more until
we arrive in the Delta.”

A shout made them turn, and Wenaten crowed with delight that the ship was now in the waters beside the islet.
“Aii
, I appreciate your allowing me to rest in your home,” Wenaten said, bowing. “The Aten blesses you.”

“Wait!” RaEm shouted. “You cannot leave us here! We have nothing!”

“You should have considered that when you married this long-haired fop. What do you do?” Wenaten asked Cheftu.

“We’re not married,” Cheftu said through gritted teeth. “And I’m a … royal adviser,” he said, ignoring RaEm’s snort.

Wenaten stopped and glared at him. “Then why are you naked? Sitting out here, with your bride, and not even married! What
kind of adviser are you when there is no king around!” He looked over Cheftu’s shoulder. “Is there a king around?”

“I didn’t—there isn’t—” Cheftu began, then gave up, chasing after Wenaten as the small man boarded the skiff. “My lord, we
are not married. We do not live here. We are stranded.”

“Take us home to Egypt,” RaEm wailed. “Please, for the love of the gods. We are Egyptians!”

Wenaten stopped, looking from one to the other. “Why did you not say so at the start? Fool thing to move here, middle of nowhere,
nothing to plant,” he muttered. He shouted to a sailor, told him to prepare two more sleeping pallets, threw Cheftu a cloak,
then sat down in the skiff.

“I hope he remembers to send it back for us,” Cheftu murmured, watching the smaller vessel, feeling the warmth of heavy linen
around his body again. The little Egyptian was hauled up the side of the ship like a parcel, then the boat was rowed back
to Cheftu and RaEm.

They exchanged a relieved smile when they were both aboard—probably the first noncombative action of the past week. Cheftu
looked around at the full daylight. It was a miracle that they had been rescued.

They arrived beside the ship and waited for the rope to be dropped down. Then they waited longer. The cry to weigh anchor
floated above them and RaEm launched herself at the ship, banging on it, screaming.

The two sailors shook their heads at each other. Neither had spoken, and Cheftu noted they were not Egyptians, nor were they
dressed as Egyptians. If Akhenaten was the dis-avowed pharaoh of Egypt, who was his father? How had he come to worship the
Aten? The three men watched RaEm wage battle with the side of the ship.

“What’s all that caterwauling?” Wenaten bellowed, looking over the side.

“My lord! Please, take us to Egypt!” Cheftu shouted up, over RaEm’s head and vocals.

A rope tumbled down, and Cheftu tugged against it, starting to pull himself up. RaEm draped herself across his back, and he
almost lost his balance. “Don’t think you are getting rid of me this easily,” she said quickly. “I’m right here.”

“Aye,” Cheftu said through gritted teeth. Being with RaEm made his jaw ache. Perpetually. “You are on my back. I can’t climb
with the extra weight, RaEm.”

“You think I’m too fat?” she said, the pouting audible in her tone.

In fact, she was skeletally thin, her body stripped of all femininity. “Not too—”

“Come along, you fop!” Wenaten called from above. “Quit cuddling that doxy and climb up here like a man!”

The sailors were laughing, smothering their guffaws beneath their hands. Wishing both RaEm and Wenaten at the bottom of the
sea, Cheftu hauled himself and RaEm up the side of the ship. He fell onto the deck, gasping for water.

The next morning, after a small meal with fruit and a limited supply of water, so as not to make them ill, Cheftu watched
the waves lap against the hull. This was a Tsori ship, built by Zakar Ba’al himself, Wenaten claimed.

The ambassador had been on a mission for Pharaoh and was returning to court two years later than anticipated. Cheftu watched
as RaEm licked her healing lips at the thought of gold, court, and nobles. Wenaten’s ship’s navigator had died a month after
setting sail, and they had been trying to find their way back to Egypt ever since.

None of the men agreed on which direction to go, hence the type of sailing Cheftu and RaEm had seen: moving first in one direction
for half a mile, then rethinking and going back to where they’d started, but not ever being sure. Cheftu had a decent idea
where they were, so he suggested they sail southeast.

After much pursing of his lips and frowning, Wenaten gave the order. The Tsori exchanged glances with each other, then reluctantly
raised the sails and repeated the order in their own language: “The old fool has figured how to get home. Set sail while we
come up with another plan.”

Suddenly furious, Cheftu called out in their tongue, “Setting sail, southeast to Egypt, is your sole plan.” The sailors froze,
staring at him in shock. “We should arrive in Egypt by dusk of the third day.”

Wenaten and RaEm were watching him and the sailors as though it were a tennis match. Cheftu’s gaze homed in on the boatswain.
“My lord,” said the wily Tsori, “we are far at sea; it has taken us months to get here. I fear it will take months to return
us to the Nile, even knowing which direction to go.”

Cheftu crossed the deck to the man, until they were standing nose to nose. “What takes weeks and months of travel going north,
takes only three days moving southward,” he stated flatly. “I know. I’ve done it before.”

The Tsori blanched, dropping his gaze. “You have deceived the ambassador,” Cheftu said in the boatswain’s language. “Do not
think you will do so with me.” My wife awaits me, he thought. Your plotting will not prevent my seeing her. “Test me on this,
and you will know my wrath.” Cheftu stared into the man’s eyes, challenging him. “The appropriate response is, ‘Aye, my lord.’
”

The man said nothing, but insurrection gleamed in his eyes.

Cheftu stepped back, calling to two of the men, strapping fellows with dark, quick eyes and beaky noses. “Relieve this man
of his duty,” he instructed them. “Confine him to the ship’s hold until we arrive in Kemt.”

“My lord—,” the boatswain protested.

“Now,” Cheftu commanded.

Sheepishly the sailors took their superior below deck. Cheftu beckoned to RaEm. She crossed the deck, her body brazenly displayed.
Cheftu spoke to her in a whisper. “We cannot trust that the boatswain is safely locked away,” he said. “Follow them to be
certain.” She nodded once. “Remember, RaEm, if they mutiny, you will never see Egypt again, nor will you meet Pharaoh.”

“Can I beat him?” she asked, her lips parted.

Cheftu looked out at the water, while his blood ran cold. “Don’t leave him in need of medical care. I have no desire to nurse
him to health.” Her breath was heavy, her pupils dilating. “Don’t betray me, RaEm,” he said. “Or I will teach you the true
meaning of pain. Now go,” he said, not looking at her again.

The sailors were frozen, staring at him. One by one Cheftu met their gazes. “This ship is Lord Wenaten’s. You are also his,
a gift from your own king.” His voice carried up into the waiting silence. “You have played my lord for a fool, but no more.”
He licked his lips, hating that he had to threaten them. However, they would not yield. Perhaps they had been told to lose
the ambassador at sea? “We will arrive in Egypt within this week, which allows for foul weather, or you will begin to pay
for these poor directions with your very lives.”

They squirmed. Good, Cheftu thought. “Already your boatswain is enduring discipline. It would be a pity for more of you to
experience that.” Especially since RaEm would whip them until she was frenzied. Cheftu shuddered. “Sail southwest to Egypt.
Now!”

The Tsori ran, releasing sails, starting the beat for the oarsmen, scrambling up the ropes, and moving down the deck. Within
moments the ship was under way, the sails fat with air, the oarsmen keeping a pleasant, productive pace. Wenaten met Cheftu
in the middle of the deck.

“Masterfully done, my lord,” he said without preamble. “I am honored to have you aboard.”

Cheftu bowed his head, his anger dissipated. “It is vital to me to arrive in Egypt soon.”

“Does Pharaoh expect you? Are you a gift to the throne? How did you come to be in the sea like that? And what is your name?”
Wenaten was more respectful, but also showing more wit than Cheftu had credited him.

“It is a long tale,” he said.
And I have yet to form it.
“I am weary, actually.”
And I fear to give you my real name.
“Chavsha,” Cheftu said, “is how you can call me.” The names were close enough in meaning that there was not much deception.

Wenaten clapped his hands, summoning slaves. “Rest in my chambers, my lord Chavsha. I will wake you to eat.”

A scream rose from beneath the deck. The sailors paused for a moment, then moved even faster. Cheftu allowed himself to be
guided to Wenaten’s chamber. No sooner had the door closed than it opened again, admitting RaEm. Had Wenaten forgotten they
were not married? Another chance for Cheftu to ask the stones what to do was ruined.

Did they still work in this time period?

Would they give him the answers he wanted?

Aii,
Chloe, where are you, my love?
Could he travel forward to her time? Learn to ride an airplane? Watch the teevee? Eat at McDonald’s? Each nugget of information
he’d learned about Chloe’s world fed his hunger for her and staved off the maddening fear that maybe their last farewell had
been the final one.