Sunrise on the Mediterranean (18 page)

Zakar Ba’al didn’t do it for the gold, the spices, or the minerals, but rather because it broke the monotony. He’d realized
hundreds of years ago that when there was no sense of urgency, much of the sweetness of living was missing. He’d probably
spent a lifetime or two chewing poppy pods, until even that state grew tedious.

Power was the only constant. Those who knew their time was limited fought him, and in that battle of wits, or brawn, or weaponry,
Zakar Ba’al drained the life from them, slurped from their bowl of enthusiasm, then threw away the husk.

A new challenge had arisen. A bold young man who was both poet and warrior thought to rule over the Way of the Kings. Abdiheba,
the doddering idiot, was shaking in his Tsori-dyed shoes, pleading with anyone to come vanquish this threat.

Zakar Ba’al smiled. He would present himself, but he would do it solely for the pleasure of watching youth and guile outwit
the old paranoid sheep stumper. As always, Zakar Ba’al wondered where Cheftu was. They should have crossed paths at least
a hundred times in the past thousand years; Cheftu could not be dead, for no wisewoman had ever found his soul among the shades.

It was a mystery, the only mystery that Zakar Ba’al hadn’t unraveled. He turned to the ship’s captain, who stood at his elbow.
The light of dawn rose from behind the honeycombed hills of Tsor. Dion longed for change, for vitality, for something and
someone to stimulate his brain and will, to challenge him.

What was the gift of immortality without the desire to live?

He gestured, the captain shouted, the ship set sail. Let me live fully or kill me, Dion asked the gods.

I
WAS NERVOUS
. Cheftu was standing just the other side of the curtain—Cheftu, who was my dearest friend, my companion, and the lover who
lived in my very soul.

My gaze flickered back to my image in the water mirror. He’d never seen me this way. I was tall and pale, and my green sheath
made my eyes greener. Kohl rimmed them, and I’d stained my lips with pomegranate juice. The round neck of the dress was reemphasized
with a gold necklace. I wore matching drop earrings. A headband of green, gold, and brown held back my straight, copper-colored
hair.

My hands began to tremble when I heard Tamera’s voice. “Sea-Mistress, your slave awaits.”

I could barely croak out a response. Instinctively I moved between two of the lamps. I would have the advantage, make absolutely
positive it was Cheftu. My blood recognized him even as it careened through my body; I just wanted to verify it with my brain.

Suddenly he was standing before me, so proud and beautiful that I wanted to weep. He said nothing, looked at nothing in particular,
merely stood there. My gaze caressed the muscles of his shoulders where they knit together over bone, the cords of veins that
ran up his arms from his beautiful hands.

Tomorrow I was going to paint his hands—I’d been planning on doing it for two years!

His stomach was hollowed out, the lines of his ribs showing through. My poor beloved had been starved. His gaze remained fixed
on my knee, or the lamp, or something low. I was panting; it seemed an eternity had passed in these short moments. Was I scared?

Well, yeah. He’d never seen me in this body before. He’d never been a slave before. Would he believe it was me? Stupid thoughts,
but niggling. What could I say? What could I do? I felt my eyes welling with tears. “Ch-Cheftu?” I whispered, stepping forward.

His face went slack when he heard my voice, his eyes snapped to mine.
“Mon Dieu,”
he whispered, wide-eyed as he looked me over from head to toes. “Chloe?”

I nodded, unable to step forward, shaking.

He dropped to his knees.
“Grâce á Dieu,”
he whispered, hands upraised. Then I was in his arms, learning again what my body seemed to know but my mind and heart so
quickly forgot: the heat, the passion, the homecoming of being within his scent, his touch, his taste.

My heart unlocked, freeing all the thoughts and fears and emotions I’d held in such check. It was a wonder to hold him, to
feel his heart beating against mine, the heat of his blood beneath my hands. We stood, locked together, reacquainting ourselves
with the feeling of the other person.

His hands were trembling also; he too was panting. “I feared,” he said, “I didn’t know—”

I pulled back, turning his face toward me. His amber eyes were liquid. “It’s okay,” I said in English. “We’re together.”

He closed his eyes as tears ran down his cheeks.
“Grâce á Dieu,”
he whispered again and again in my hair. When our bodies steadied, we pulled back to look at each other again. His gaze traveled
over my hair, my face; he touched my cheek and ear with his finger. “You are beautiful,” he said. “How I have missed seeing
your pretty face.”

My smile was melted by his kiss. I didn’t know to whom the tears I tasted belonged as we clung together. His hands moved gently
in my hair as my hands touched his back, feeling the scabbed whip marks, the line of his ribs. He pulled me closer, so that
I felt the jut of his hipbones, the need of his body. I held him close, the ribbed edges of his abdomen inside my elbows,
my hands gripping his narrow waist as he pressed into me, groaning against my mouth.

I don’t know what language I spoke, but I know the gist of it. Yes. Yes. Yes.

The slide of flesh on flesh, the wonder of it, brought me both extreme pleasure and tore me into tears. Cheftu held me, caressing
my hair, kissing my eyelids, my cheeks, my mouth, telling me the many ways he loved me. Telling me how he had ached for me,
wept for me, prayed for me.

He called out for me, his hands in my hair, his forehead against mine, as we climaxed together. Unwilling to move, he cradled
me against his chest as our breathing returned to normal.

The lamps had burned out, and the sky was still dark. We had fallen asleep. I kissed his chest, just as a confirmation that
I could. He caught me tightly against him, shaking suddenly as though he were being chased by demons.

I lay quiescent, reveling in his touch. Slowly he calmed down, his grip loosened, and I wriggled my way to his face. “Tell
me,” I said.

“Are you going to purchase me, Sea-Mistress?” he asked, his eyes smiling in the faint light from the windows.

“Well,” I said, tracing the lines of his nose and cheeks, “you do seem to have many talents.”

His face became somber, his voice tender. “I had not dared believe this day would come,” he said. “When the brigands took
me, I feared never to see you again. I thought I had erred and the capture was my discipline.”

It hurt me to think of all he had suffered. The lines on his back would remain imprinted on my palms forever. “What were your
thoughts coming here, to the temple?”

“I had none,” he said. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to please another woman. I just hoped that whoever this goddess was, she
needed me to garden for her instead.” He focused on me again. “Thank God you are here,
chérie.
Thank you, God,” he said, pulling my mouth to his.

We loved each other slowly, exploring, talking, remembering, discovering, sometimes just staring at each other. Finally we
collapsed in sleep, peacefully unconscious until Tamera shouted to another slave, “I will see what the sea-mistress advises.”

I woke up with a jolt, my heart pounding. Cheftu slept on, snoring softly. In moments I was dressed. The sheath was crumpled,
my hair bedraggled, but I rinsed my face, donned my jewelry, and covered up the gorgeous body of my husband.

My husband. Here. I giggled to myself. God had brought us together, again. Now all we had to do was blow this Popsicle stand!

Tamera awaited me in the hallway. Her face was pinched. “Yamir has chosen to lead a group of warriors into the Refa’im valley.
Takala wants your presence on the battlefield. You are the
teraphim.”

I opened my mouth, but she continued speaking. “Also, the trader outside the city walls is causing quite a fuss, claiming
that you have bought the male slave, plus his wife, his son, his four daughters, his mother, and her slave.”

“A slave with a slave?” I said.

She shrugged. “He is Amaleki.”

That explained everything? I closed the door behind me, speaking to Tamera in a normal voice. “Pay the trader for everyone,”
I said. “Then free them.”

She frowned at me. Was there a problem? Did I not have money?

“Ken?”
I prompted her.

“What is ‘free them’?” she asked as we walked into the main chamber to greet Dagon.

“What is the opposite of being a slave?” I asked, trying a different angle.

“To be a landowner,” she said, assisting me with my fish cloak. The other priestesses came in, greeted us, and left again.

Slave or landowner? I rubbed my face with my hand. I didn’t know how to communicate my concept, so I’d settle the immediate
problem. “Buy the slaves. Can you do that?”

She nodded as we entered to sing the god awake.

After the morning prayers Tamera asked if I needed anything else. After ordering a seafood breakfast for two, I dismissed
her and returned to Cheftu.

As I stepped back into the room, I saw that Cheftu was up and dressed, his hair slicked back with water, revealing his mutilated
ears. “Does it hurt?” I asked, pointing to the chain.

He shrugged. “No more than not having one’s freedom.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re here. We’ll be leaving soon.” Cheftu looked at me, then slowly crossed his arms. “Going where?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but he continued speaking. “Chloe, I have been marked a slave for life. I was purchased to be
your slave. This is not our world, one cannot change this.”

“It won’t matter once we’re out of here.”

He crossed to me, gently taking my hands in his. I was getting a very bad feeling; he was way too resigned. So I started babbling.
“It will be easy. I’ve been given all these gifts, all we have to do is get out of the city, then hop a ship—somewhere. We
can be free, we can be together—”

He laid a finger on my lips, silencing me. “What are you here?”

I glanced away, a little embarrassed. “The local goddess.”

“You think they will let you just walk away?”

“I don’t care what they want. I came back after you. I have you. Now—”

“Do you think you are here solely for—”

Tamera opened the door, directing slaves to set the food on the low table, then shooing them out. Her gaze moved from me to
Cheftu, then she squared her shoulders. “Takala wants you in her audience chamber right now.”

We had plans to make; I didn’t have time to wait on Takala. My short-lived job as goddess was drawing to a close. I needed
some more time with Cheftu. “She must come here,” I said, stalling.

Tamera ducked her head. “As you will it, Sea-Mistress. The king Yamir-dagon has gone into battle, I just learned.”

Spring had arrived. “When did they leave?”

“The division left for the Refa’im valley at the second watch, Sea-Mistress.”

“I need a bath before I can do anything,” I said, buying more time.

Tamera’s gaze was measured. I was certainly being more abrupt with her than ever before. Did she know what I was thinking?
“I will hurry with the water.”

Cheftu chuckled when the door closed. “Keeping noble company these days?”

I kissed his shoulder. “Forget that. What is our plan?”

“Look at my ears,
chérie.
I am a slave in this time.”

“Well—can’t I just travel with you as your, your owner?” His face changed subtly, hardening. “You aren’t a slave to me,” I
whispered. “This just seems so unbelievable, I—” As I spoke, my fingers found the rips in his skin. It
was
believable; he had been beaten. He had been wounded. He had been treated as a slave. “To me you are my beloved, my equal,
my partner, my lover, my best friend.”

“Merci,”
he said quietly.

The slaves brought in a tub, and we washed quickly, silently. “We need to leave,” I said again.

He looked at me. “You aren’t here for me alone.”

“Well, who else am I chasing through time?” I asked, suddenly tense. “You are being far too accepting of this unacceptable
situation!” I gripped his forearms. “Why are you giving in so easily?” He stared at me, his gaze unreadable. “Don’t you want
to be with me?” I asked in a scared whisper. I thought I knew the answer, but also I would have never guessed that he would
react this way. He was so … passive.