Sunrise on the Mediterranean (25 page)

The door shut as RaEm curled up, wrapped in the cooling fire of her god.

M
Y FIRST WEEK OF SLAVERY
passed in a drug-induced blur. Somehow we made it from Ashqelon to Mamre. The only points of clarity for me were each night
when Cheftu made me shift the chains through the holes in my ears. I would cry and complain, but he was right. If I left them
still, then as the piercing healed, the chains would be sealed into position. This way, at least, though the scars might be
permanent, the chains would not be.

“Keep thinking of the future,
chérie
,” he said. “This will not last forever.”

As I was enduring the rawness and ache that resulted in a never-ending headache, I had a hard time thinking of the future.

One night, as the hundreds of us from Ashqelon were gathered by firelight, a small, bent man stood before us. “
Shalom
, welcome to the tribes of Y’srael.”

Cheftu and I exchanged glances, startled. It was one thing to know you are part of history and the Bible. It was entirely
another to have someone greet you and confirm it!

“You are slaves because of war,” the bent man said. “However, among the tribes we do not treat slaves as you pagans do.” He
coughed and spat into the fire. “Here, any person may become a slave. Maybe because he cannot pay his landlord? Or perhaps
when the husband died, there were no brothers for the widow to marry, no home for her? So she sells herself and her children
into slavery. It is common enough.”

Was this Slavery 101?

“For seven years you will belong to the tribes. You will be slaves to the land, to the people, and to our God, Shaday. You
are pagans, so it is assumed you will worship the gods you brought with you. But you will obey our feasts and fasts.”

He started counting on his fingers. “
Echad:
Every seventh day is a day of rest. No working, no cooking, no walking or lifting. No work. To defy this law is to draw a
death of stoning upon yourself. No work.”

Cheftu’s hand tightened around mine.

“
Shtyme:
For a week in the spring there is no yeast. Nowhere. For any reason.
Shalosh:
No sacrificing babies. It is an abomination. Anyone found doing so will be stoned to death.”

He continued. “At the end of seven years, it is the year of rest. The
Shabat
year. You will be set free, though any children you have will still be slaves until they are ransomed back.” His black gaze
flickered over us. “Tomorrow we arrive in Mamre. Some of you have been chosen for palace duty; others for the fields surrounding
the city. It is the end of the barley harvest. Because
adoni
Yoav led this attack on Ashqelon, and because you surrendered to him, he is ultimately responsible for you.” He paused, looking
us over. “Have you anything to say?”

Were we supposed to ask questions? Cheftu glanced at me warningly. I swallowed my queries. That night the men and women were
separated, then chained for the walk into the city; it was a matter of the tribesmen gaining face.

I didn’t sleep well: images of black girls being raped by white owners, of strong men being beaten, of a section of the populace
sweating on fields not their own, haunted me.

Was this what my life was supposed to be? Yesterday a goddess, today a slave? Had I done something majorly wrong? No, it wasn’t
personal, just a freak circumstance. The bigger question I had was, how could people of the Bible permit slavery?

The lexicon scribbled on the chalkboard of my mind:
Slaves here aren’t personal property. As in Roman times, or Byzantine times, slaves are an entire class within the society.

Great, so I’m at the bottom of the food chain?

It’s your responsibility to bring in the food chain, but yes. You’re a drone. Not a slave in southern plantation style, for
you have far more rights than any of those poor souls.

I touched my ears as I pondered that: I’m a drone.

My first impression of Mamre was noise, confusion, and children.

They were everywhere, running in the streets, tugging at cloaks, laughing as they played, working with their parents, climbing
up trees, and scampering down alleys. Children galore.

To someone with a splitting headache who hadn’t bathed in a week, Mamre was hell. Most of the slaves had been left to the
families in the fields to help with the barley harvest.

I’d never even eaten barley, much less harvested it.

Cheftu and I were going into the city, because we would be palace slaves. Apparently all the
giborim
, as Dadua’s top men were called, lived communally. Though we were slaves, at least we were going to be together. That in
itself would be worth a lot. We’d rarely had that experience.

Because Mamre was uphill, it made sense that the tribesmen—as they called themselves—would be called highlanders by everyone
else. It was an old city. The buildings were heaped together, misshapen and crumbling. Even the city gates were unimpressive.
But this site had been sacred to the tribesmen since
lifnay
, which meant “before” in the same way that “Once upon a time …” meant “before.”

When you got up the hill, however, the view of terraced slopes and green fields was stupendous.

We arrived at the palace, walking around the front of the dilapidated building to the muddy track in back. After all, we were
slaves now. Children raced through our party pellmell, shrieking and laughing. My dress, which had been beautiful at the gates
of Ashqelon, was now stained with blood, mud, garbage, wine—it was hideous, I hated even wearing it. But I had nothing else.

Three men stood inside the small, crowded courtyard. One introduced himself as the overseer. There were three levels of slaves,
he said. The youngest children were body slaves, mostly from among the tribes. The next group were also tribesmen, adults
who were in slavery for some reason like poverty or homelessness. Then there was us, the lowest of the low because we were
among the uncircumcised. We would fill in wherever necessary.

“You,” said a man standing by a barred door, pointing to Cheftu. “Report to the fields.”

“We were told we would be living in the same place,” I said. “Where is that?”

“You are the wedded pair?” the man asked, eyeing us both.

“
Ken
,” we said in unison.

He shrugged. “There are plenty of watch houses you can occupy.”

“But—” I protested, but he’d already turned away. “I will find you,
chérie
,” Cheftu said as he was hustled away.

More children, these older and wearing nicer clothes, chased each other through the hallways and gardens. As I followed another
person into another courtyard, I noticed the former were dark and narrow and reminded me of rabbit burrows; the latter needed
someone to care for them.

From morning till afternoon I sat on a step in the courtyard, waiting. Every time I moved, someone would show up and say that
another someone would be right out. I almost smiled, because this was so typically Middle Eastern. Or military, for that matter:
Hurry up and wait.

I was starving by the time the fourth, fifth, and sixth stars were coming visible in the night sky, but I’d been told not
to move.

Suddenly a tiny, faded red-haired woman barreled at me. “You!” she said, pointing at me. “What are you doing sitting here?”
I opened my mouth to explain, but she yanked me up and pushed me out of the courtyard. “Help there,” she said.

It was a kitchen, built apart from the main house so the heat and smells wouldn’t bother any residents. Once I stepped over
the threshold I was handed a jug of wine and told to go upstairs, on the main roof, and fill cups.

This was not a petite jug. It was about thirty-two inches tall, with a mouth four inches wide and two handles. My handy lexicon
showed me a picture of a jug, a container that would hold a liter or so. Then it wrote the “=” sign to the word
jar.
Apparently, in this day and age, a jug was a jar. Either way, it held a whole river of wine. I followed other slaves, lugging
my jar upstairs.

Again, modern Middle Eastern architecture held true here. The flat roof was the venue for entertaining. Lean-tos were pitched
on all four sides of the roof, providing shelter from the chilly night wind. It was springtime on the coast, but not here.

I filled all of the clay cups—about fifty—then traipsed downstairs for another jug of wine. People had begun arriving, men
and women with swords sheathed, worn more as insignia than weaponry.

The red-haired woman, who identified herself as the king’s sister, Shana, glared at my clothes and bade me follow her. “Here,”
she said, throwing a bundle of fabric at me. “Dress well.”

After she left, I unrolled the bundle. It was a straight sheath in harvest gold, with a sash of red, gold, and brown. I stripped
off my current tattered ensemble and put it on. The dress was sleeveless with an asymmetrical shoulder, but it was long enough.
With quick fingers I braided my hair, which RaEm had let grow very long, then replaced the gold headband. It helped keep my
hair out of my face.

I hustled back to the kitchen, got my jar of wine, and ran back to the roof.

The
giborim
, what the Israelites called their soldiers, literally “mighty men,” consisted of both men and women. They reclined around
the low, long table. Embroidered cloths in red, black, blue, and saffron lay beneath clay dishes of Pelesti design, glazed
in black and red. Bowls of grain, garnished with spices and herbs, served as decoration. Meat steamed on bronze dishes, while
loaves of bread made a yeasty wall down the center of the table.

For this first time in my ancient travels, I wasn’t invited to sit down. I was nobody—or less. I was invisible.

The music began, with Canani girls blowing on Egyptian-style double-reed flutes, playing the tambourine, and palming the drums.
A blind
kinor
—my lexicon held up a picture of a harp and another “=” sign—player sat above them as they jammed. It was a pleasing, festive
backdrop.

Women floated up from the stairs, their hair in braids, their bodies revealingly draped in brilliantly patterned clothes.
Who were they? Lounging on cushions and leaning against each other, the
giborim
exchanged jests and challenged each other to drinking contests.

I was still amazed that I understood every word.

My task tonight was simple: Keep the watered wine cups full. The large, double-handled jug rested on my shoulder as I looked
from man to woman, gauging their cup levels. Shana told us that
G’vret
, which meant “Lady,” Ahino’am, the king’s second wife, would be serving Dadua and his private army, with the help of his
concubines.

They were the aforementioned floating women. One man to at least twelve women.

Spying an empty cup, I strode through the crowd, dodging Dadua’s concubines, trying to keep from spilling. A female
gibor
held up her cup, not even glancing at me.

This would be my first time of pouring with an audience. Fearful of spilling, I tipped the jar gently, feeling the weight
of the wine inside shift. It was all in the timing. A stream poured over my shoulder, filling her cup. As it reached the top,
I twisted the jug, causing the final drop to run along the rim and back inside.

No thanks, certainly no tip. I raised my head, looking for another empty cup. As I recrossed the room, I noticed it had grown
silent, expectant. Even the musicians had quieted. I turned around slowly, trying to keep the jar from overbalancing.

Only because I was gritting my teeth did my mouth not fall open. Three people had entered the dining area. One was Yoav, looking
impressive in a long, fringed robe that glittered as he moved. Another was a dark, petite woman dressed entirely in blue with
an opaque stone the size of a baseball on her wrist.

The third man was dressed in a long, one-sleeved wrap dress, but his clothes faded to insignificance beside his beauty. Mahogany
red hair hung in ringlets to his shoulders. Black eyes gleamed from beneath russet brows. His surprisingly white smile was
framed by russet beard, mustache, and side curls that hung to nearly his waist. He looked like a mythological hero rendered
by Dante Rossetti, the nineteenth-century artist.

He raised his hand and offered a blessing to Shaday as I was having a mini–heart attack. This was Dadua? David? I looked around
for Cheftu, catching his gaze across the room. Was it my imagination, or was he as shell-shocked?

When the prayer was over, the feasting began. After being on a diet of either corn or scallions or figs, I found it tantalizing
to see the massive variety these people were consuming. First a soup of yogurt with raisins and grain for garnish, then the
meats: lamb, poultry, and fish. Barley was piled in hills on copper dishes, flavored with oil and herbs. And bread, tons of
bread.

They needed lots of wine, so I was busy trying to not spill, moving through the crowd gracefully and fast so I wouldn’t hear,
“Slave!” shouted out.