Sunrise on the Mediterranean Read Online Free PDF Page A

lumbered to her knees. Slaves came running in behind her, fluffing pillows for each kneecap, holding her by her
     wrists as she lowered herself. It was a production—but she was obeying me.
    What was that phrase about power? Power corrupts, but absolute power corrupts absolutely. I’d been a goddess for less than
     two minutes, and already I was abusing my authority.
    “Sea-Mistress,” she said, though her tone was only slightly more respectful. I gestured for her to continue. “Highlanders
     approach us from the east, yet Dagon is silent, Ba’al removed from our sorrows! We have begged mercy for the destruction of
     the
teraphim!
What does it take to get you to act?”
    “And who,” I said imperiously, “are you?”
    She bristled. “Takala-dagon, the queen of the Pelesti, the royal dowager.”
    Oh. I smiled weakly. “How many more of my sons do I have to lose before your mother’s heart hears my prayers?”
    An interpreter would be handy. What in the world was a ter-ah-feem? Why was the queen asking me questions? “Which son rules
     now?” I asked. “Being royal is hard on your family?”
    “My sons have died defending us because Ba’al and Dagon won’t!” she stormed.
    “And”—I need some help here, I protested to the universe—“the highlanders are attacking from the east?” East of the Med—modern-day
     Jordan?
    My brain suddenly became a classroom: the lights went down and an overhead projected clicked on. A picture of the city, whitewashed,
     mostly square and built around a dock, suddenly became 3-D as the point of view rose into the air, giving me an eagle’s, or
     maybe an astronaut’s, view of the coastline.
    Wedge-shaped letters melted into names. Egypt to the south; Gaza, Ashdod, Ashqelon, Yaffo, and Qiselee on the coastline. Farther
     north, a small island off the shore named Tsor and another city named Tsidon.
    “Yamir-dagon is a fine ruler,” she said, “but I would like to see him be a father before he dies! What is Dagon doing? What
     does he want? Why does he ignore us?”
    My brain was in overdrive, trying to assimilate the split-second map images. I was stumbling for recognition when two names
     appeared on the map, putting it all into perspective.
    They also made me break into a cold sweat.
    The Jordan River. The Dead Sea.
    Holy, holy, holy shit! I
was
in Israel! Or was it Palestine yet? Were these people the Philistines? The city’s names hadn’t changed ever, so I could be
     in any time. Any ancient time.
    Oh God, where is Cheftu? I don’t want to know more, I just want to get him and get out of here.
    “Have you never lost sons?” the portly woman before me asked. I stared at her, spinning mentally: did the when and where matter?
     I shook my head. Takala-dagon dropped her hands and bowed her head, her whole attitude suddenly hopeless.
    Immediately I felt guilty. She was a human being, for all her pomposity. She’d lost sons. She mistakenly thought I could do
     some good. How was she to know that I was a barely twenty-six-year-old English American time traveler, whose sole mission
     was to find my husband and get on with my life? I was not a sea-mistress who could intervene with the gods. “I cannot imagine
     your pain,” I said, trying to soften how I’d blown her off.
    She raised her head. Her deep-set olive eyes were heavily made up, tear filled. “The highlanders approach again,” she said.
     “How many missives have we written to Egypt, begging for Pharaoh to speak for us, I do not know. The king, my son, is adamant
     that we will fight them again. We must regain face for the destruction of our
teraphim.”
She sighed, expanding her already voluminous chest. The chains on her skin danced at the movement, catching in the trickles
     of winter sunlight cast down from the clerestory windows.
    My ears had perked up at the word
Egypt.
Was this the way to get to Cheftu? “Perhaps Pharaoh will send an envoy?” I asked.
    “For years we have petitioned. Egypt