Sunrise on the Mediterranean Page 16

  “Cheftu,” I called, running to him. His skin was warm, but he was out cold. Drugged? I was furious with Takala; she must have done this! I knelt beside my husband, looking at his face. The lines around his eyes were sharper, deeper creases. His skin was so dark, he could pass as East Indian. And those holes—they had healed, but still they were enormous, as though they’d been made with nails or an awl. Instinctively I reached for my ears. God, that must have hurt.

  He would be out for hours to come.

  I sat on the edge of the bed. The sounds of battle were gone. Soon the sounds of invasion would begin. I looked down and saw that blood covered me. It was layered on my skin like latex. I put my head in my hands.

  The city was my responsibility. How did this happen? Though I didn’t want to, I forced myself up, out the door, into the main chamber.

  Tamera’s face was stained with tears; she was panting, sobbing at the feet of Dagon. When she saw me she screamed, then threw herself at my tail. “You, my Sea-Mistress! You are all we have! Takala-dagon is dead. Wadia is lost to us—”

  “He’s safely in Ashdod,” I said. “Already Yamir-dagon has been sent to the heavens by ash.”

  It took a moment to process her words. “He has been cremated?”

  “It is our way, haDerkato,” she said with great dignity.

  I nodded numbly. My mouth opened of its own accord. “What can I do?” Shit! I didn’t want to get involved! We were on the losing side of a battle with God’s team! But Takala had died speaking to me, Yamir had always smiled at me, and Wadia was too young to bear all this alone.

  “The highlanders will soon send us their terms,” she said tearfully. “They are camped outside the city, but I understand it is their holy day. So they will not move or do work or battle until dusk tomorrow. Our men are gone, most of them. Only women and children remain in the city.”

  “We have another day,” I said.

  She tried to smile.

  “What did you do to my slave?” I asked. I needed Cheftu—I needed his mind. He could help me figure out what, if anything, could be done.

  “He will awaken soon,” she said.

  “Do the highlanders treat their captives well?” I asked, trying to get a sense of what my options were. A whole city was my responsibility. Tamera’s face crumpled.

  “They do not, Sea-Mistress.” She said it softly, resignedly, then I remembered the lexicon.

  Hal and herim. I closed my eyes as the world turned white for a moment. “They take no prisoners,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t confirm it.

  “None, Sea-Mistress.”

  I turned abruptly, staring at the useless, poorly mended statue. There was no more time to guess why I was here, if it was by accident or design, if it was blessing—very well disguised—or punishment. Now was the time to deal with it.

  For hours I stood in silence, staring into space. Outside, it had become black, Sabbath night. Into it the highlanders sang a ghostly, minor-key tune. My breath sounded loud to me.

  After a while noises came from within the temple: Cheftu-waking-up noises. I ran back to the room, threw open the door. “Mon Dieu! You are here! You are safe!” he said, staring at me bleary-eyed.

  “Yes,” I answered. “How do I get you off the wall?”

  He turned his head slightly, his eyes going opaque when he saw the chain. “Cut it.”

  A search of the temple produced two priests getting drunk in one room and an iron dagger in another. I struck at the chain, channeling my fury into cutting the metal. Once he was free I gave him some bread and a little wine and spent twenty minutes and a bath assuring him I wasn’t wounded, that none of the blood was mine.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I woke up chained,” he said. “I guess from the way my head aches, they drugged me.”

  I sighed, sick of the images that lived behind my eyelids whether they were opened or closed. “The Pelesti are the Philistines.”

  “Oui?”

  “The highlanders, who they are in battle with, who they were just slaughtered by, are the Jews. The Israelites.”

  Cheftu’s eyes bugged. “From the Holy Word?” he asked. “Samson? Saul? David?”

  The man was a biblical encyclopedia. “David is Dadua.”

  “We are in Dadua’s time? We are knowing these holy people?” His English sounded awed.

  I saw nothing holy in these people. They slaughtered like professionals. I continued in English. “The bad news is that we are, and we are on opposite sides of the fence. The royal family is gone, and I”—I licked my lips—“I am in charge.”

  He searched my face, my eyes. “They made a wise selection.”

  My eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.”

  “How can I assist you?” he asked after a moment of staring at me. How my soul thrilled at him, even now.

  “Do you have any idea who I will be talking to?”

  “Joab was David’s general,” Cheftu answered promptly. “Nathan was his prophet.”

  “Do we know anything about them?”

  He frowned. “Joab seems to have been a brute. Blood-thirsty. He was David’s, how do you say? Assassin?”

  “Henchman?”

  “Oui. Henchman. He did for David what David did not want to soil his hands with.”

  “What about Nathan?”

  “He was a prophet.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Ach, well, Nathan’s prophecies changed from time to time. He reversed on himself because of dreams or something. He wasn’t a very confident prophet.”

  “What kind of intercession do you think Tamera expected me to manage?”

  Cheftu’s tone was flat. “Painless, fast deaths.”

  “Are you just exercising a positive attitude, or do you know for sure?” I snapped. Dawn was approaching; I was getting really scared. These people were depending on me.

  “It is in the Bible, though there were times when the Israelites were allowed to take spoils,” he explained.

  “So death or slavery?”

  He nodded once. “Holy shit,” I whispered. After a moment I asked, “Uh, what kind of death options are there? I mean, do they have firing squads? Do they shoot a volley of arrows at us?”

  He got up, pacing the room angrily. “How should I know, Chloe? When I read the Bible I wasn’t seeing what adventurous and vile ways the people of God had of killing their enemies! Why must you be so ghoulish, wanting to know details?”

  I felt myself bristle at his outburst. “I was just trying to get the whole story,” I said defensively. “You aren’t the one who is supposed to barter for people’s lives or deaths. You aren’t the one who is supposed to know what is the more or less painful way to go. I don’t even bargain well for sandals!” The weight of it all came pouring down on me. “This is for people’s lives! It’s on my shoulders!”

  “Ach, chérie,” he said, instantly contrite, hugging me, touching my wind-ravaged hair. He pulled me close so that I felt his words as I heard them. “Are you fearful?”

  “Petrified. Are you?”

  He took a moment to respond, and I closed my eyes as his fingers ran through my hair, massaging my scalp. “I worry for you, but that is not the source of my fear.”

  “Is it because this is the Bible?” I asked after a moment. He sighed deeply. “For me these are holy times. Seeing David and Joab as they are, it is almost impossible to believe.”

  “Because they don’t act holy?”

  Tamera appeared in the doorway, her hair arranged, her dress elaborate. “The priests wish to cleanse and adorn you for the morrow,” she said. “Please come with me.”

  Cheftu squeezed my hand. “I will pray for you.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” I whispered.

  As the local goddess, I was bathed, made up, prayed over, fasted, feasted, and eventually allowed to sleep. When I woke up it was the day to meet with the highlanders: the Israelites. I had not a clue what
to say.

  Tamera came in with the fish cloak. As a representative of all of Ashqelon, it was my job to wear it. So much for feeling confident in one’s clothing. “Are they entering the city?” I asked.

  “Lo, haDerkato. We meet at the city gate.”

  “Lo, not at the city gate,” I said, trying to recall all the things my father had said about diplomacy, about winning an argument, about negotiating. Oh God. “We will meet them on the beach, by the sacred fishpond.” That seemed neutral ground.

  She bowed and backed out. I called after her to make sure there was wine and food—something other than corn. And no shellfish or pork, because just like Muslims, they would be offended by that. Not for nothin’ have I been an ambassador’s daughter.

  That thought struck me cold. Was it possible I was here for a reason beyond finding Cheftu?

  My fish cloak was on and my body was painted, though without the elaborate kohl markings on my face. I knew that part of successful negotiating comes from looking as much like the other side as possible. Help them see what you have in common. I hoped it would work.

  Cheftu was by my side through all of it, and no one said a word about his presence, how haDerkato suddenly had this slave in attendance. We proceeded silently down the beach. Everywhere I looked I saw the faces of the Pelesti. Eyes that were honey brown, blue, green, and black beseeched me to save them. The fate of the city of Gezer had been dreadful. The highlanders had killed everything that had breath, then burned everything that would kindle.

  The good news was that the troops waiting outside our city walls were sated with their destruction. Piles of gold, jars of oil, and stores of food had been wheeled into camp from the wreckage of Gezer. But no captives.

  Under my direction Tamera had arranged for the meeting space to have two covered chairs, with a small table in between. Servants stood on both sides with fans, wine, and sweets in hand. The breeze was mild this morning, a sign that we were that much farther into spring. The season of war.

  “When the negotiator arrives, I want everyone to leave except my slave,” I instructed the attending priests, priestesses, and slaves. “My slave alone will serve us.” When Tamera started to protest I told her that the envoy’s entourage needed to be entertained as a distraction. I would do better speaking to the negotiator alone.

  The highlanders waited until the heat of the day to arrive. I spotted them coming down the beach. Five men, gleaming with armor.

  Okay, Chloe. Showtime.

  “Chérie, try to barter with the prophet,” Cheftu suddenly said. “I have an idea.”

  I turned to him, eyes bulging. “They are fifteen steps away and now you have an idea?” He slipped his waist sash down a little. I saw an oblong of white. “You still have the stones? How is that?”

  “I hid them,” he said. “They still work. Get the holy man.”

  The group was almost within hearing distance. I met and held the gaze of the leader, while speaking from the side of my mouth. “Weren’t you robbed? Beaten? How do you still have them?”

  “You don’t,” he said firmly, “want the details.”

  I didn’t have time to consider it; the highlanders were here.

  Our two groups stared at each other. There were five of them versus the three of us. The odds alone should make them feel better. Of the five, one looked like a Klingon, straight out of Cammy’s newer Star Trek series. Two of them were twins. Another wore a white robe beneath his breastplate. The fifth was the leader. He had green eyes and curling black hair. Although he wasn’t tall, he was beautifully proportionate. All the men had beards and curls that fell over their ears and down their chests.

  The scaled bronze armor must have been extremely hot, even over the kilts and shirts they wore. They were definitely dressed for the mountains, not the beach. I rose to my feet, extending a hand to the leader. Touch was important, my father always said. Touch and perspective.

  Pray God I would use both well.

  “Welcome to Ashqelon,” I heard myself say in our common language. “B’vakasha, seat yourself. There is entertainment and refreshments for your men in that tent.” I gestured to a pitched tent just out of earshot. I motioned for Cheftu to bring an extra chair for one of them. The leader would have to choose which man would stay with him. That choice should reveal a lot about him and how flexible he was willing to be on this matter.

  “Yoav ben Zerui’a is my name,” the black-haired one said. “Ashqelon is a doomed city, isha. Your god Dagon is weak.”

  I opened my mouth to say, “I am haDerkato.” However, what came out was, “The Derkato is my name.” I couldn’t say “I am”? How weird. “Would you like wine? Beer?”

  “I do not enter b’rith with the uncircumcised.”

  I looked up at him. “Would you really want me to be circumcised?”

  His lips twitched, but I thought he was trying to keep from laughing. I felt slightly encouraged.

  “B’vakasha,” I said, “sit.”

  Cheftu returned with a chair for the other man. The one in white took it. He had the look of an ascetic, dark and lean, nervous. He twisted his beard, watching as Yoav—Joab in the Western rendering—and I spoke. This was David’s henchman? He seemed quite civilized.

  Reluctantly the two men sat, perched on the edges of their chairs. I would guess Yoav to be in his late thirties, early forties. The other man was probably not yet thirty. The twins and Klingon strode away, escorted by Tamera. They kept an eye on us.

  I hoped that Yoav would be reasonable now. Perhaps without an audience, no preening male egos, the bartering would go better.

  “The battle in the Refa’im was cleverly fought,” I said. “The use of natural phenomena, the wind through the trees, to make it sound as though a war machine were moving through the forest, was quite brilliant.”

  “It was the plan of our God.”

  “Which your army enacted well,” I concluded. We sat in silence. My father always said that silence worked like a corkscrew. Over time it would open even the tightest lips. So we sat and stared at each other. Yoav was bold, his eyes moving over my body with lustful intent. It’s just another way to psych me out, I thought. I refused to blush, just let him make a fool of himself.

  Cheftu was cool, standing at the edge of the tent, pitcher in hand. The muscles of his upper body were tense. I had no doubt that even one second of distress from me would lead to the murder of Yoav. It was kind of a nice feeling, because I really was intimidated. The wind blew, and we stared at each other. Occasionally, just because this had grown so ridiculous, I would smile at them.

  Yoav looked away first. Ha! Score for the chick in the fish suit!

  The other man, who still hadn’t been introduced, smiled back. He looked like an overbred hunting dog. Lean and pointed. And somehow familiar in the angles of his face, the set of his shoulders. Had I seen him before? His fingers never left his beard alone, and side curls covered his ears, down to his chest.

  Sweat dripped down my back. It must be sometime in March, I guessed. Already it was hot. Finally Yoav sat forward. “The Pelesti are done,” he said. “Your god is weak, you have no more soldiers, you are no longer a threat to us.”

  “Then go on your way and leave us in peace,” I said. “You won.”

  He blinked. I guessed that capitulation was not the accustomed response. After a quick glance at the man in white, he spoke again. “I cannot do that. It is herim; therefore all who have breath are hal.”

  “Is this move against Ashqelon your decision or your king’s?”

  “Mine.”

  “Therefore, you are the king of this battlefield?”

  His eyes narrowed. He spoke more slowly. “Ken.”

  “Gezer is destroyed, is it not?”

  “Ken. Razed to the ground. It was hal.”

  “What cities of my people remain?”

  “Lakshish, Qisilee, Yaffo, Ashdod, and Ashqelon.”

  “How many men of fighting age do you think remain?” He tugged at
his sidelock, musing. “The men from Lakshish and Ashdod served with the seren Yamir, nachon?”

  The lexicon jumped in with a flashcard. Nachon meant everything from “exactly” to “this is correct?” to “bingo!” I gathered he was using the middle term. I nodded. “Yaffo and Qisilee are mostly fishing towns,” I said. “From there we import the very luxury items that your king and people desire.” Now I leaned forward. “Your people are highlanders. You are farmers, husbandmen with fields, cattle, and vineyards.”

  He leaned back, not a good sign. “B’seder.”

  “Without us, you will not have the finely dyed cloth you wear now,” I said, indicating the red tunic he wore beneath his armor. “Without us, your temples and high places will stink, for there will be no myrrh, no incenses, no spices. These are things we bring from far shores.”

  His eyes were opaque, like green beach glass. “Most important,” I said, leaning back, “we have iron.”

  “We will wipe you from the face of the land, then iron will not matter.”

  “Eventually Pharaoh will awaken from his slumbers,” I said. “Those who live north, in Tsor and Tsidon, will cast an eye your way. Our cousins from across haYam will lust after your fields. They all have iron.

  “Between their seagoing ships, which will land on your shores—because if you ‘wipe us from the face of the land,’ then they will be your shores—their chariots, which can invade right up to the hills of your kingdom, their never-ending supply of men, food, and horses, for they are nations, not some petty kingdom whose mountain god fights for them, they will splinter your bronze swords with one hand, while they take your land, your women, and your totems with the other.

  “We are your security zone, protecting you from marauders going east. We are your armory, and we are your merchants. We have your harbors in Ashqelon, Yaffo, and Qisilee; we have your weapons in Lakshish, Ashqelon, and Ashdod. You don’t have the skills or the manpower to replace us.”

  The man in white leapt to his feet. “She insults us!” he shouted. “She parades her god before us, shames el haShaday! We must not listen to this!”

  “Seat yourself, N’tan,” Yoav barked. “She speaks economic truths.” He glowered at me.