Sunrise on the Mediterranean (39 page)

Therefore we get gold. RaEm was not going to lose this crown, this control. It meant little, but she would hold on to it,
build it up. She would defeat those who would bury Akhenaten with their power lust.

With gold we could purchase grain for the populace from another country, she thought. With gold we could buy goodwill. Then,
perhaps, we could reopen just a few temples, as a gesture of peace. The gold would allow Egypt to purchase what had once been
hers for the taking: relationships with the powers of the north and west.

RaEm would not lose. Not this throne.

“Why do you sit in the dark alone?” Akhenaten asked from behind her. She closed her eyes, willing her body to rise to meet
him. She turned to him, smiling. He was naked, erect, his eyes gleaming. “Open for me,” he said.

Sighing inside, she accepted him obediently, driving his passion. It was such a position of power to feed his lust, for like
this she controlled him. Like this she ruled the highest ruler in the land. Emphasizing her authority, she dropped him to
his knees. “Give,” she said, licking him, “me—”

“Aye,” he groaned. “Anything you want.”

She took him deep. “Swear it.”

“Any—anything. I”—he was gasping—“anything you, you wan—”

“Swear it on the grave of Nefertiti,” she whispered low. For a moment he stopped, his eyes cold; RaEm feared she had gone
too far. She pleased him with another finger, this one with a ring, sending his passion higher. Instantly he was returned
to the plane of lust. Quickly she finished him, letting him pour into her.

As he was rising from the floor, he looked at her. A hard, calculating look. “What do you want so badly?” His smile was not
kind. “What made you take me with such purpose?”

“My first purpose is always to bring you pleasure … My Majesty,” she said.

He lounged back on her couch. “Your second purpose?”

“I want the army.”

“A pharaoh won’t satisfy the fire between your legs?” RaEm bit the inside of her lip at his intentional crudeness. He was
Pharaoh. Anything she had could vanish tomorrow if he so much as thought it. “My Majesty is all I need in my couch,” she said.
“However, I think to exercise them.”

He sat up. “Exercise for what? What is the purpose in that?”

Because no matter what happens, I want Horemheb and his men on my side, she thought. “It was just a whim,” she said, curling
into him. “Still, can I have the army?”

He lifted her chin, kissed her lips. “You can have anything. You already own the heart of Pharaoh. In truth, you shall bear
the titulary of Nefertiti; you shall be known as Smenkhare Neferhetenaten.”

His voice speaking those words was more than she had ever dreamed. The seduction of his mouth, his mind, was effortless and
lethal to her. She looked into his wonderful misshapen face and knew that she would die for him. And when he died—as he must,
for Egypt could not survive under him—she too would perish.

I
ADJUSTED THE VEIL OVER MY FACE
as I looked up at the walls of Jebus. Dawn had broken, now the Jebusi were open gated and ready for business. Adjusting my
hobo pack, I shuffled forward with the rest. The
serenim
sat at the gate, which formed a small room. As in Ashqelon and Mamre, one had to first get past the city fathers, then the
actual opening into the city was at the side. Consequently you were in a blind before you entered the city’s streets. Each
person was halted, questioned, then either accepted into the city for the day, given traveler’s accommodations on the testimony
of a citizen in good standing, or rejected.

“You.
Isha.
What is your business in Jebus?” The Jebusi conveniently spoke the same language, even a similar dialect.

I held up my business card—the detested water jar. The soldier was broad, muscled but not fat, his uniform was neat, his beard
combed, his armor gleamed. His professionalism was not encouraging.

“Speak!” he said gruffly. “You draw water?”

I nodded.

“What are you, mute?”

This was the tricky part, I wasn’t mute, but I did have the wrong accent. Though it felt Dickensian, I spoke in “low” Akkadian.
“A widow, sir, traveling to her family. Alas, they are poor and I have no dowry.” I kept my eyes downcast.

“Sorry,
isha,”
the man said. “You are from the coastal plains?”

I nodded once.

“How did your husband die?”

“The highlanders,” I said, spitting on the ground, “destroyed my family, they took my father, my brother, and my husband.”
It was no effort to sound vitriolic. All I had to do was recall Takala-dagon, Yamir … and Wadia, whom I’d probably never see
again.

The man conferred with the other soldier—another well-groomed, disciplined-looking soldier. Blast. But maybe these were just
the soldiers used in the front lines? For appearance’ sake? “Who was your husband? How did he die?” the second soldier asked
gruffly.

I told them my story, received my pass to enter the city, and joined the group that had passed inspection.

The guardsmen packed us sojourners into the first room, then led us through the smaller gate, one at a time, until we stood
blinking in the light. I felt a tremor of elation at getting in. Inside Jebus.

The city was made of stone, which was still cool from the night. A drainage ditch of sorts ran down the middle of the street,
paved on either side. The houses were clumped together, atop each other, and stairs were everywhere. The city started at this
level, then climbed upward, attached by small flights of stairs, ridge after ridge after ridge, to the top. I could see trees
poking up all over the city, smell the first opening honeysuckle and rose. It was white, it was clean, and it was beautiful!

This was Jerusalem?

I didn’t say that because I thought it would be less, but because so rarely do things really live up to their PR releases.
Stonehenge is small, the Tower of Pisa doesn’t lean that far, and the Parthenon is scattered across the Acropolis like a jigsaw
puzzle.

Jerusalem truly
was
beautiful.

The merchants weren’t trading yet; it was early even for them. I stumbled on the dew-slick stone but kept moving forward.
It was an effort to jerk my mind from the curling leaves of ivy that adorned the walls, the turquoise blue sky above me, the
empty ache within me, to the city. The reason I was here.
Duh, Chloe. Waters. Wells. Dead or mute. Wake up.

Where was the well? Women would group there. My gaze moved beyond even more well-trimmed, well-polished soldiers, toward the
women. For some reason the place felt odd. Something was missing, maybe? I walked on, figuring I was still in shock to be
in Jerusalem.

Streets were tangled in each other, so that soon each step became a community effort as people began to join in the bustle.
Men, women, both those wizened and those in their prime, filled the thoroughfares—but something was missing. Keeping my eyes
sharp for congregating females, I pressed forward.

Stalls began opening up, offering wares from the sea, the mountains, the desert, the lands beyond the desert. Merchants started
their business day, drawing people away from the clump moving through the streets. Hawkers commenced shouting, the same sales
calls you would probably hear on these very streets from now till 1996.

A
souq
was a
souq
was a
souq.

Something was missing. It was an eerie absence that went beyond the daily ache of wondering about and praying for Cheftu.
Something was bizarre.

I looked around; maybe it was because this was my first day at being an acne-covered and freckle-spotted over-weight brunette?

We were still walking up; I could feel it in my legs. Once we passed the market, most of the people had filtered out, so that
there really wasn’t much of a crowd. Soon I was walking down a street, almost alone. How did I go about selling myself as
a water woman when I couldn’t find the bloody well?

“Isha bay’b’er!”
someone called.

The call came again before I realized someone was trying to get my attention; she was calling for a well woman, even though
it sounded like “beer.” I stumbled around, thinking they could add “graceful” to my list of shortcomings. Balancing the jar,
which felt like a small skyscraper on my shoulder even after a week of practice, I looked up at a grouping of stone buildings.
Their doors and windows were black compared to the brightness of the day. I searched for the source of the call.

“Isha!”
the voice said again. I finally saw a tiny woman. She was bent almost double, supporting herself on a cane. I stepped closer,
so she beckoned again. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Not in her stature, but in her shiny crow black eyes.

A frisson ran up my spine as I inclined my head respectfully.

“I need water,” the tiny thing said, her voice strong. “If you also grind my grain, you may share in my bread. Speak up, girl.”

“B’seder,”
I said, swallowing my bad accent.

“Do we have an arrangement?” the old woman said.

I nodded, and the old woman, whose face was hardly visible, frowned.
“B’seder.
Now go, get some water,” she muttered. “It is foolishness for men to design where wells will be, since we women have to live
with their silly plans, because we carry the water. Many of us in Jebus can no longer dip our jars, much less haul them up
the walkway. We are too old here,” she said mournfully. “No youth.” Then she sniffed, fixed her bright gaze on me. “Do you
know where the well is?”

I shook my head—as if this were not the reason I was here!—and the woman began with the directions:

“Turn toward the city gates. Pass Rehov haLechem, K’vish Basar, and Rehov Shiryon.” My lexicon flashed pictures in my mind:
these were the streets of the foodstuffs, the butchers and the bakers. My stomach growled at the thought, while a Dallas version
of similar establishments passed through my mind. La Madeleine, Ozona’s, and … the Swiss Army Knife store?

“On your left side you will see a small house with a metal grate. Pass through the grate and you will find yourself in a corridor.”
These sounded like directions out of
The Thousand and One Arabian Nights
! “It is tall and long, very cool, which feels good in the afternoon. It slopes downward until you get to the steps. Walk
down those carefully, they are very slippery.” Her beady eyes gave me a once-over. “You should be wary, even though you are
young.” She sighed again, sad. “We have no life in Jebus. No young, no calling in the streets, playing in the parks.” She
sighed again, then turned to me. Apparently the directions weren’t complete yet.

“The steps turn in on themselves until you reach the level of the water. There is not much room to stand, and very often there
is a line. Be patient, then return to me. As soon as I have my water, you can get back to the well if you need to, make some
more wages.”

That whole trip more than twice a day? I’d need provisions! Wow, talk about inaccessible. I just hoped I didn’t get lost.
Maybe Yoav’s plan wouldn’t work? Of course, it had to, or I would die—and I didn’t doubt his threat. With a sigh I picked
up my water jar and left, walking back toward the gate.

Sunlight was beginning to fall on the city, bleaching the upper stories, casting warmth onto the cold stone. I glanced at
the sky; it was important I be the only one at the well. Could I beat the women? Or should I wait until late? No, that would
cause too much speculation.

Picking up my pace, I followed the directions carefully: through the
rehovim
, the streets. Armorers; past the butchers and bakers; a sharp left, through a heavy gate.

On the way, I saw not one child.

Wait a second. That was what was missing, or rather who was missing. After drowning in
yeladim
of all ages, now I saw only adults. No kids? How was that possible? Why would a city not have children? So intent was I on
my thoughts that I walked right past the guards.

“Halt!” one of them called. I kept walking, focused on the lack of offspring.

“Halt, I said!” he shouted, chasing me.

He stepped in front of me, and I had to fumble not to drop my jar. I kept my gaze fixed on the ground; Jebusi women didn’t
have the freedoms tribeswomen did.

“Are you working here today?” he asked.

I nodded.

He tapped my jar.

“Are you filling water for the village women?”

I nodded again as he thumped the jar. “Are you hired by the village women?” He thumped my jar. I began to fear for my jar.

“Ken!”
I shouted, moving my jar out of thumping range.

“Be sure you are gone by dusk,” he said, turning away. I heard him mention “Pelesti riffraff” under his breath. He turned
back around. “Work as quick as you can,” he said. “I’ll be awaiting you.”

Dismissed, I continued walking down to the well. This site was guarded quite heavily. This was not good news. Were all the
soldiers fit and able? I hadn’t seen a doughnut-and-coffee-swilling one yet. They were undefeatable this way; inside the walls,
with primo armor, weaponry that was wielded by people who knew what they were doing.

Could I swing this deal?

The stairs to the well spiraled downward, murky and clammy cold. With every step I felt the muscles in my legs screaming protest.
Carrying forty pounds of water on my shoulder, while walking uphill on the way back, was going to be murder. I groaned at
the thought that I’d set myself up for days of this.

Even with practice I was never going to feel the same. Women passed me heading up, some alone, but mostly traveling in threes.
Jebusi women wore what I’d always considered biblical dress: no style, little color or pattern. They were sackcloths with
sleeves simply tied around the middle.

One of the things I’d noticed about the tribespeople was that they were fashion plates, both male and female. Women didn’t
wear veils and the fabrics they used were bright and well woven. Most significant, especially after Egypt, clothing was individualized.