Free Sunrise on the Mediterranean by Suzanne Frank Page A

were rowing and one was hanging his head over the side. What caliber of
     sailor was that?
    The vessel touched the edge of the islet. The two sailors ignored RaEm and helped the third man, a small, spindly Egyptian,
     onto land. With precise, extravagant gestures the man mopped his face and turned to Cheftu.
    “Aii
, you fool! What in the name of the great god Aten were you doing, standing in the middle of the sea? Speak!”
    Cheftu stared into the man’s face, utterly taken aback by his vehemence.
    “Speak! Or are you some unwashed foreigner who doesn’t even know a civilized language?”
    “He is often mute in the presence of such an esteemed traveler,” RaEm said in a tone of voice that managed to be both sultry
     and respectful. The man dismissed her with a glance, and Cheftu saw RaEm’s nostrils flare in anger.
    “Is that your slave?” the man asked Cheftu, jabbing a thumb toward RaEm. “If so, you need to make more gold, buy a healthier
     one. He looks about to die.”
    “He?” RaEm repeated, outraged.
“He?
”
    The man ignored her, speaking to Cheftu. “Are you a farmer? An artisan?” He looked over their shoulders. “Don’t even have
     a roof for your heads! What gods have cast you into a place as dismal as this?”
    “The one god,” RaEm said. “Your pardon,” Cheftu said in his most diplomatic tone, “but who are you?”
    “Wenamun—
aii
, nay, I’m Wenaten. Lord Wenaten. Ambassador Wenaten.”
    Cheftu and RaEm exchanged glances. He didn’t know his own name?
    “I’ve been Wenamun for about twenty-five Inundations, then that fop snatched the throne, outlawed Amun-Ra, and we’ve all had
     to change our names,” he groused.
    “Outlawed the king of the gods?” RaEm said, her voice rising in horror.
    “Silence, man!” he barked. “It’s a crime even to mention his name.”
    “I’m a woman,” RaEm hissed. “Can’t you tell?” Wenaten glanced at her breasts, her skirt.
“Aii
, I guess you are.” He turned back to Cheftu. “The Aten has confused us all—men, women, everyone looks alike these days.”
    “Who, or what, is the Aten?” Cheftu asked.
    Wenaten turned around and pointed at the sail, hanging lax from the mast. “See that disk with the hands?” Both Cheftu and
     RaEm nodded. “That’s the Aten. Those little hands are sun rays he puts out, touches us on our heads.” He lowered his voice
     again. “Has downright touched Pharaoh in the head, if you catch my meaning.”
    Again Cheftu and RaEm exchanged glances. “What are you doing here, my lord?” Cheftu asked.
    “Coming home from Tsor. That useless son of a goat trader, Zakar Ba’al, made me wait for two seasons before he fulfilled Pharaoh’s
     wishes to export some wood.”
    “Wood?” Cheftu felt like a parrot, repeating every other word, but it was so much to take in, to absorb. He was light-headed,
     thirsty; that must be part of it.
    “Aye. Pharaoh, His High Foppishness, is building yet another addition to that cookpot he calls a palace in Akhetaten.”
    “Why not mud brick?”
    “Well, this Aten”—Wenaten glanced toward the sun and made the motion against the Evil Eye—“he is pretty cursed hot in Akhetaten.
     The mud brick is far too hot to walk on, so we need wood for the floors in the palace and temple.”
    “Why would the floor of the temple get hot?”
    “Because the sun beats down, fool!” Wenaten shouted. “Are you a peasant? Do you not understand how the sun’s heat falls to
     the earth?”
    “The temple has a roof to protect its patrons from the heat,” Cheftu said slowly, keeping a rein on his temper.
    “Nay.”
    “Nay?” Now RaEm was repeating, her eyes so wide that Cheftu could see the whites on all sides.
    “Nay,” Wenaten said. “It has no roof.”
    “What idiot built that?” RaEm asked. For once Cheftu agreed with her.
    Wenaten shook his head. “I know not, but Pharaoh designed it. Amun-Ra, who doesn’t want his priests to bake what little of
     the brains they