Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba (15 page)

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Authors: India Edghill

BOOK: Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba
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But although my grandmothers were gone, and I missed them sorely, do not think I paced solitary as a cat; a princess is rarely alone. Nor was I lonely,
which is a different thing. I was fortunate in my handmaidens, for they had been given me when they and I were still in our cradles. Although we were mistress and maidservants, we grew up almost as sisters. And although three girls could hardly be more different, we loved one another dearly.
Nimrah was my elder by nearly a year; sleek and elegant as the leopardess for which she was named. Although her family came from the faraway northern lands—“Or so my father’s mother says!”—Nimrah herself had been born in Jerusalem. Nimrah was tall as a boy and pale as bone, and it would be hard to find a good husband for her. I knew I must bestow a dowry upon her generous enough to transform Nimrah from an ugly foreigner to an exotic bride.
Keshet was nine months younger than I, as rounded and dark as Nimrah was slender and fair. Her mother had wed one of my father’s brothers, and when he had been killed leading his men into battle, his wife had begged King Solomon’s aid and been granted asylum in the king’s house. Keshet had been born soon enough after his death to be counted Prince Shobab’s daughter—and late enough for it to be whispered she was King Solomon’s.
I thought it possible that she was my half-sister; that my father, grieving the loss of my mother, had taken comfort where he had gone to offer it. But I was not sure; my father had never acknowledged Keshet, after all.
Keshet herself seemed untroubled by the whispered tales. “Either I am the daughter of a prince or of a king, and in either case, King David is still my grandfather! That is what counts.”
I could not imagine a life without Nimrah and Keshet; I believe they felt the same. I could never have stolen so many hours without their aid, nor wandered so freely.
 
 
For it is hard to live one’s own life when so much is forbidden; truly, it is simpler to live in memories and dreams. When I was a girl, little had been denied me—or so I thought. For what does a child demand, after all, but childish things—a bright toy, a pretty sash, a handful of glass beads? The year I became a woman, I learned that even a princess is chained. Oh, because I was King Solomon’s pampered daughter, my chains were bright with gems and weighed lightly upon my childish will—but they bound me just the same.
That year I learned to loathe the word
forbidden.
For so much was now forbidden to me that my brothers enjoyed at their will. They might run about as they pleased; I must walk modest and quiet. They might learn whatsoever they wished; I must confine myself to those studies thought fit for one who was only a girl. Some traditions bound even a king’s beloved daughter. My father indulged me, eased the tightness of the invisible chains that bound me—but even he could not remake the world.
And that was what I longed to do, to shape the world to my desire.
“Why may my brothers choose, and I may not?” I demanded of Rivkah. “It is not fair! I am as clever as they—cleverer! And—”
“And the world is as it is, and no use struggling against it.” That was Rivkah’s placid argument. Nor were my handmaidens Nimrah and Keshet any less bound by tradition.
“Why do you wish to ride out with your brothers? You will come back covered in dust and your gown will be ruined.” Tidy as a cat, Keshet could imagine few worse fates.
Nimrah understood my restless urges better, but she, too, urged prudence. “Do not give your father’s wives cause to complain of you, Princess. You go your own way easily enough; why force the king to see it?”
I knew she was right, for my father hated to deny my whims—nor would he forbid activities he did not discover.
That was the year I learned to keep my wild hair smoothly bound and my restless eyes downcast—and my unruly thoughts silent. Outwardly I paced tranquil, the image of a tame and dutiful daughter—for I did not wish to pain my father, who loved me so much and understood me so little.
My true self remained veiled. Veiled from my father, from my stepmothers, from my handmaidens. Veiled, although I did not yet know it, even from myself.
I took care with my secrets, entrusting them to no one. Even Nimrah and Keshet did not know all I dared. More than one person cannot keep a secret, even when life rides upon silence.
And there were things I might dare, and be forgiven, and those I might not. Even my father, who loved learning and who permitted his foreign wives to worship as they wished, would not have been pleased to know his own daughter visited the temples of alien gods.
Oddly enough, it was the woman’s veil I so despised that permitted me
such freedom, the veil I sulked over when obliged to cover myself with it as befit a king’s daughter, complaining that its enslaving folds stifled me.
I learned that while it is true a veil confines, transmutes a woman into a shadow sliding unnoticed through life, a veil also grants freedom.
A veil transforms one woman into any woman. Hidden behind a veil, a woman might pass by unrecognized even by her own brother.
Veiled, I slipped easily from the king’s palace. Veiled, I was but one more woman, unknown and unknowable. Veiled, King Solomon’s daughter wandered freely, unhindered.
Veiled, I learned the city’s limits. Veiled, I studied the life of my father’s people, their loves and angers, their hates and joys.
Veiled, I learned myself, and my desires.
 
 
King David’s City, once the abode of Lord Yahweh only, now held dozens of temples raised to honor alien gods—and goddesses as well. Baal, Anath, and Astarte, Dagon and Bast—all now were housed within Jerusalem’s sheltering walls.
The prophet Ahijah raged against these alien idols, but few took notice of his protests. In a time of peace, a time when the rains came in their season and the harvests were bountiful, who could believe the Lord angered? And did not the Lord’s Temple, the Great Temple that housed the sacred Ark, crown the highest hill in all the city? Did not that prove the Lord’s dominion over all other gods?
So the foreign temples stayed, and their gods flourished. The temples were good for business as well, for travelers to Jerusalem liked finding their own gods dwelling there. Cheerful traders spend more freely than do those who dourly count the days until they see home again. Jerusalem prospered.
Veiled, I visited the forbidden temples, standing silent, seeing yet unseen. At first the mere breaking of the iron taboo thrilled me, and I could barely set foot beyond a temple gate. What unclean horrors would I find within, what bizarre, arcane rites would I see practiced?
Rather to my disappointment, when I at last dared enter the houses of alien gods, I found little that was strange to me, save the images.
Incense burning, priests praying, petitioners seeking favor, acolytes collecting
offerings—these seemed the same, no matter what god or goddess was entreated. And always there was a holy of holies, a sanctuary so sacred only the highest ranking priest or priestess might enter.
All that differed from one temple to the next was the face of the god. For all temples save Lord Yahweh’s were adorned with idols, images of carven wood or stone. These images varied—some gods were beautiful, winged and smiling. Some wore the heads of animals.
And some were women. Goddesses. Goddesses slim as the crescent moon shining in their curled hair. Goddesses lush and fertile as ripe pomegranates. Goddesses fierce and strong as the great cats fawning at their feet. I liked looking at the goddesses; they reminded me of my laughing grandmother.
It was against those many goddesses that Ahijah poured out his greatest venom. Whoredom was the least of the sins their worshippers were accused of.
But I saw no sign of the bloody, vile crimes the prophet Ahijah preached against. Certainly none of the temples practiced any sacrifice greater than those the Lord himself found acceptable: a bull, a ram, a dove. Some sacrificed nothing at all; Ishtar’s favorite offering was the release of songbirds into the air, to fly freely.
There was a trick to that, for the birds, left to themselves, flew back to their home behind their temple, there to be fed and pampered until they were sold to other worshippers. I knew this because I bought my own wicker cage of songbirds from the temple bird merchant, and marked one of the birds before tossing it skyward. The next time I visited Ishtar’s temple and handed over a sliver of silver in exchange for a songbird for the goddess, I received the same bird I had marked, the henna streak upon its feathers faded but still rosy enough to see. I laughed as I flung the small bird upward, knowing it would only return safely home once it had stretched its small bright wings.
As for whoredom—in some temples, priestesses offered themselves as mortal mirrors for the goddesses they served. But they were not harlots, and any man who strove to treat them so found little welcome in any god’s temple thereafter. And there were festivals held in groves beyond the city upon the great holy days, where all men were deemed gods and all women goddesses, and all love a holy offering.
Or so I heard; I had never set foot beyond the city walls myself, save in dreams. A great chasm separates daring from folly. There were adventures I knew better than to attempt.
Just as for all my curiosity, my restlessness, my daring, I knew better than to cross beyond the brazen gate of the Lord’s Temple upon the hill. Once I thought of dressing in boy’s clothing to make the attempt, but it was a moment’s wild impulse, instantly quelled by good sense. If I were found there, even being King Solomon’s daughter might not be enough to save me from the priests’ anger.
How strange; the house of my own god was forbidden to me. To all women. Only the outer court was permitted to women. Farther than that, they might not go, lest they defile our god’s sanctuary.
No wonder women turned instead to the goddesses who welcomed them open-armed, and offered love instead of wrath. No wonder women baked sweet cakes and poured honey wine for the queens of heaven. And then Ahijah raged, and ranted, and demanded to know what sin women carried, that they turned away from a god who had already denied them!
 
 
My half-brothers too helped fill my world; my father’s sons, sired upon his foreign wives. I was fond of many of my brothers, indifferent to others. And then there was my brother Rehoboam, the Crown Prince. Him, I loathed, and with good reason.
I do not know what trick of fate granted my brother Rehoboam the honor of being a king’s firstborn son. I do know that of all my brothers, Rehoboam was perhaps the least deserving of kingship. Rehoboam could not even rule himself; how was he to rule others?
Prince Rehoboam was neither clever nor kind, and no one knew this better than I. That was why I walked cautious and watchful when Rehoboam was nearby. He liked me no better than I liked him; not only was I our father’s pet, but I spoiled Rehoboam’s vicious games when I could.
As I did the day I rescued the Lady Nefret’s Egyptian cat.
That day I was where I had no particular right to be, as was the cat. I had spent the morning with my brothers’ Akkadian tutor, a eunuch who had, by virtue of his maiming as a man, gained unquestioned access to the women’s palace. Emneht schooled me in the sacred songs of Ugarit and of Ur; I did
not know whether I believed the ancient stories Emneht taught us were truth or tale only, but I found the language beautiful. And my father believed always that knowledge was its own reward.
I was walking back to my own courtyard when I heard noise from a side corridor, sounds like jackals yipping. Since there were no jackals dwelling within the palace, I knew it had to be boys—boys engaged in mischief. I ran around the corner and saw at once that it was worse than that. My brother Rehoboam and his pack of friends had cornered a cat.
The cat’s coat was a soft brown tipped with black, like a rabbit’s; gold hoops pierced its wide ears, and a collar of red and blue beads circled its sleek neck. An Egyptian cat, a darling of my father’s Egyptian wife.
The soft little animal was trapped upon the top of a column; Rehoboam thrust a burning brand at its nose, trying to force the cat down as the others jeered. Unnoticed, I padded up behind my brother; I grabbed his thick curly hair in both my hands and hauled back with all my strength.
Rehoboam yowled and swung around, waving his arms frantically; the burning stick scorched the fringe edging my scarf. Refusing to yield, I yanked again, and Rehoboam stumbled as he tried to dislodge my fierce grip on his hair.
My brother flailed about; he landed a kick on my calf that unbalanced me, but I did not fall. My grasp on his hair kept me upright. None of Rehoboam’s comrades interfered, either to help him or to hinder me—they might run and tell tales, but none would willingly entangle himself in the royal family’s quarrels.
This knowledge strengthened me; I released Rehoboam’s hair and shoved past him, set myself as a wall before the trapped cat. There I waited, permitting my brother to withdraw, if he would. A wise boy would have retreated at this point, but Rehoboam had never been noted for good sense or judgment.

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