Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba (2 page)

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Authors: India Edghill

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(Names in italics are of people who died before the tale of
Wisdom’s Daughter
begins.)
IN SHEBA
Allit,
Queen Bilqis’s daughter
Baalit, Allit’s
daughter
Bilqis, Queen of Sheba
Boaz, an emissary from King Solomon’s court
Hawlyat, head of the Sheban Cloth Traders’ Guild
Hodaiah, captain of King Solomon’s merchant fleet
Irsiya, Queen Bilqis’s handmaiden
Jotham, King Solomon’s brother and his emissary to Sheba
Khurrami, Queen Bilqis’s handmaiden
Mubalilat, Queen Bilqis’s vizier
Nikaulis, Amazon captain of the queen’s guard
Rahbarin,
Sahjahira’s
son
Sahjahira,
Queen Bilqis’s younger half-sister
Shakarib, master of the court, Queen Bilqis’s chief steward
Tamrin, the chief eunuch, Irsiya’s brother
Uhhayat, the royal chamberlain
IN JERUSALEM
Abiathar,
high priest during
King David’s
reign
Abishag,
King Solomon’s first wife and first love, Princess Baalit’s mother
Absalom,
Solomon’s older half-brother
Adonijah,
Solomon’s older half-brother
Ahijah, the new great prophet
Ahishar, the palace steward
Amnon,
Solomon’s older half-brother
Amyntor, a visitor from Caphtor
Athaniel, Ishvaalit’s brother
Baalit, daughter of King Solomon and
Queen Abishag
Bathsheba,
King Solomon’s mother
Benaiah, the king’s general, commander of the army
Chadara, overseer of the women’s palace
Citrajoyti, King Solomon’s wife from India
Dacxuri, King Solomon’s wife from Colchis
Dathan, servant of Elihoreph, the scribe
David, King of Israel and Judah,
King Solomon’s father
David, King Solomon and Queen Makeda’s son
Dvorah, one of King Solomon’s Hebrew wives
Elihoreph, the chief scribe
Gamaliel, head groom of King Solomon’s horse farm
Gilade, one of King Solomon’s concubines
Helike, King Solomon’s wife from Troy
Ishvaalit, Princess Baalit’s friend
Jeroboam, superintendent of the Forced Levy
Joab, King David’s
war-chief
Keshet, Princess Baalit’s handmaiden
Lahad, Prince Rehoboam’s friend
Leeorenda, one of King Solomon’s concubines
Makeda, King Solomon’s wife from Cush
Melasadne, King Solomon’s wife from Melite
Michal, King David’s
queen, King Solomon’s foster-mother
Miri, a palace slave
Naamah, King Solomon’s wife from Ammon, Prince Rehoboam’s mother
Nefret-meryt-hotep, King Solomon’s wife from Egypt
Nimrah, Princess Baalit’s handmaiden
Oreb, Prince Rehoboam’s friend
Pelaliah, Prince Rehoboam’s friend
Rehoboam, King Solomon and Queen Naamah’s son, the crown prince
Reuben, a stable boy
Rivkah, Princess Baalit’s maid, once
Queen Abishag’s
servant
Ruth, one of King Solomon’s minor wives, once known as Surraphel
Tamar,
King Solomon’s older half-sister
Tobiah, King Solomon’s servant
Yahalom,
gem carver and seal ring merchant
Zadok, the high priest of the Temple
Zhurleen,
Queen Michal’s
friend,
Queen Abishag’s
mother, Princess Baalit’s grandmother
 
SOME OF PRINCESS BAALIT’S OTHER
HALF-BROTHERS (KING SOLOMON’S SONS
BY VARIOUS WIVES AND CONCUBINES)
Abner
Caleb
Eliakim
Eliazar
Ishbaal
Jerioth
Joab
Jonathan
Mesach
Samuel
Saul
 
SOME OF KING SOLOMON’S OTHER
WIVES AND CONCUBINES
Aiysha
Arinike
Arishat
Halit
Jecoliah
Marah
Naomi
Nilufer
Paziah
Rahab
Ulbanu
Xenodice
Yeshara
Once there was and once there was not
a
great and wise king …
 
The story of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba is found in I Kings 10: 1—13:
 
[I] And when the queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon concerning the name of the LORD, she came to prove him with hard questions.
[2] And she came to Jerusalem with a very great train, with camels that bare spices, and very much gold, and precious stones: and when she was come to Solomon, she communed with him of all that was in her heart.
[3] And Solomon told her all her questions: there was not any thing hid from the king, which he told her not.
[4] And when the queen of Sheba had seen all Solomon’s wisdom, and the house that he had built,
[5] And the meat of his table, and the sitting of his servants, and the attendance of his ministers, and their apparel, and his cupbearers, and his ascent by which he went up unto the house of the LORD; there was no more spirit in her.
[6] And she said to the king, It was a true report that I heard in mine own land of thy acts and of thy wisdom.
[7] Howbeit I believed not the words, until I came, and mine eyes had seen
it: and, behold, the half was not told me: thy wisdom and prosperity exceedeth the fame which I heard.
[8] Happy are thy men, happy are these thy servants, which stand continually before thee, and that hear thy wisdom.
[9] Blessed be the LORD thy God, which delighted in thee, to set thee on the throne of Israel: because the LORD loved Israel for ever, therefore made he thee king, to do judgment and justice.
[10] And she gave the king an hundred and twenty talents of gold, and of spices very great store, and precious stones: there came no more such abundance of spices as these which the queen of Sheba gave to king Solomon. [II] And the navy also of Hiram, that brought gold from Ophir, brought in from Ophir great plenty of almug trees, and precious stones.
[12] And the king made of the almug trees pillars for the house of the LORD, and for the king’s house, harps also and psalteries for singers: there came no such almug trees, nor were seen unto this day.
[13] And king Solomon gave unto the queen of Sheba all her desire, whatsoever she asked, beside that which Solomon gave her of his royal bounty. So she turned and went to her own country, she and her servants.
 
This is repeated almost word for word in II Chronicles 9: 1—12. That’s it; that is the entire tale as it’s told in the Bible. The great love story of Solomon and Sheba comes not from the Bible, but from three thousand years of romantic folklore—for who can resist the story that should be there and isn’t? The wisest king in all the world and the richest queen under the sky meet and then …
 
… and then we invent our own stories for them. Here is yet another. So I will start this one as Mark Twain started another story long ago …
 
“I will set down a tale … It may be history, it may be only a legend, a tradition. It may have happened, it may not have happened: but it could have happened … .”
For this is wisdom; to love, to live
To take what fate, or the gods, may give.
To ask no question, to make no prayer,
To kiss the lips and caress the hair.
Speed passion’s ebb as you greet its flow
To have
—
to hold
—
and
—
in time
—
let go!
—Laurence Hope
SOLOMON WAS A GREAT KING, A MAN OF WISDOM AND POWER; Bilqis was a djinn’s daughter, a creature of sand and fire.
So a harper would begin this tale; it is tradition, after all. And so shall I begin my own song to tell the tale of my father and the woman who became more to me than my own mother—for when one has broken every rule and violated every commandment, only tradition can redeem that tale, make it sweet to swallow.
Sing it so, if you choose: a golden king and a queen from the land beyond morning, well met in a contest of wits and wills. She tried him with hard questions; he answered each with ease. Whereupon the lady bowed before his wisdom, praised his greatness, and then retreated to her faraway kingdom, laden down with priceless gifts freely given by the all-knowing king.
Whatsoever she desired,
sing the harpers now.
King Solomon granted all the great queen’s heart desired
—
But not freely. No, what Solomon the Wise granted unto the foreign queen from the south, her heart’s desire, was given unwilling, forfeit to a king’s honor. The harpers do not sing of that; hard Truth is no man’s daughter.
So I shall sing their song in my own words, and in theirs, trusting their tale to the winds of time. I, who in my turn shall be Queen of the Spice Lands, Queen of the South—I will sing for you the tale of Solomon the Wise, and Bilqis, Queen of the Morning.
The Queen of the south
I am no more than memory’s echo, but my name is still spoken and so my voice whispers to the living, carried upon the winds of time. For many tales still are told of Abishag the Shunammite, and not all of them to my credit. But this much I can call my heart’s truth: I never schemed to become queen. The plots I aided, the intrigues I carried out, all were done to one end only: that Prince Solomon should wear the crown when King David died. That goal I worked towards always, after I was brought to King David’s court.
For that
—
and to win Solomon for myself, to turn his heart to me and to me alone. What was a king, or a crown, compared to that prize?
And I was granted my heart’s twin desires, for all the good either did me. For I was denied the one thing that would have paid for all the rest, have redeemed all the deeds that put Solomon on the throne and a queen’s crown upon my head: Solomon’s son, a prince to be king hereafter. That prize, I was not to win.
But in the end, it did not matter.
Her land of dreams and spices lay beyond the morning; its very name meant “sunrise.” Spices and dreams, twin jewels in Sheba’s crown—a crown that had smoothly passed from mother to daughter, from aunt to niece, from sister to sister, in a chain of life unbroken for a thousand years.
Until now
.
The ancient treasure rested in a casket created for the circle of gold and gems so long ago that the images carved into the ebon wood had all but vanished, worn smooth by generations of reverent hands. The court’s high clerk could recite the details of the design as clearly as if it were new-carved. Upon the ancient wood, Ilat, goddess-mother of Sheba, bestowed the gift of spices upon Almaiyat-Quqnus, Sheba’s first queen, herself born of sun and fire.
The goddess’s gift had been wealth and peace; Sheba’s queens had guarded both, loving mothers to Ilat’s land and people.
From sister to sister, from aunt to niece, from mother to daughter.
Bilqis lifted the crown from the casket; a circle of flames burned in hammered gold.
From queen to queen.
Until now.
Now she was the only woman living who could claim pure descent from Sheba’s royal lineage.
I am the last queen.
She stared at the crown weighing down her reverent hands.
Why? I have been dutiful, devout, dedicated. Sheba’s good has been dearer to me than my own life.
Always, always, she had cherished her kingdom like a child. She had given it her life. She had given it a daughter, only to see her child die before her.
Now she alone remained. And Sheba’s crown waited … .
Sighing, Bilqis gently set the crown back within its ancient casket, smoothing her fingers over the cool metal flames.
I will not betray you,
she vowed. The line of Sheban queens would not end with her; it
could
not.
She closed the crown’s casket and lifted the silver mirror from her dressing table. Without vanity or illusion, she studied her face in the creamy light that streamed through the tall windows.
Sunlight through alabaster; softly flattering.
Gently lying.
Just as her mirror lied, its burnished silver surface reflecting only her kohl-darkened eyes, her carmined lips. In mirrors, her painted face still claimed youth and beauty.
But someday, someday soon, alabaster windows would no longer soften light enough to deceive, nor would silver lie. She set down the mirror, gently, and turned away.
I must face this truth; I begin to grow old.
That in itself was no tragedy; all that lived aged. But for this Queen of Sheba, it signaled disaster.
If Allit had only lived
—! But her only daughter, raised and trained to rule
Sheba, to step easily into her mother’s place as queen in her turn, now lay entombed with the infant girl Allit had died bringing into the world. Daughter and granddaughter both gone between moonset and sunrise, taking with them to the grave the last precious blood of Sheba’s rulers … .
And I too old to bear another daughter.
Though her smooth face and shapely body still denied her true age, she was too old to conceive another child. She had tried, dutifully, after her daughter died, spending many nights in temple pleasure-gardens—all save those of Ilat’s Temple—lying with men who never saw her face, seeking a hero strong enough to father another heir so the royal line might continue.
But her efforts failed; her reluctant body bore no new fruit. Now each moon-circle of days made her more certain in her bones that she could no longer create new life.
Yet an heir she must have. An heir
Sheba
must have. Somehow she must provide Sheba’s new queen, the queen who would lift the heavy crown from her own proud head, the queen who would rule after her, caring for Ilat’s land and people.
And how am I to give them this blessing?
The problem could no longer be ignored; it haunted her like a questioning ghost.
For I am too old, and there is no other woman of my blood to share this burden. How?
 
 
That fatal question haunted her constantly, allowed her no true rest. To what good would all her years of queenship lead if she could not provide a ruler to follow after her?
Even her nights were unquiet now. Sleeping, she wandered through a land barren of hope, of dreams, of life. She woke each dawn drained and weary, unready for her days. By day, she concealed her constant worry as she would any weakness. It was her trouble, and she must not spread her own unrest to others.
But she knew she must provide for Sheba’s tomorrows, and soon. Life, even a queen’s, was uncertain; the future could not wait.
And after a long night in which she lay and watched the stars rise and set again, she knew she, too, could wait no longer. Rising with the sun, she climbed the stairs to the palace rooftop. There she gazed across the still-drowsing city. Ma’rib, Jewel of the Desert; Ma’rib, Queen of Spices; Ma’rib, beloved of Ilat, Sun of their Days.
The burning sun climbed the arc of heaven; she stared into the brightening day and prayed, dutifully.
Grant me an answer, Sun of our Days. Grant me an answer, and I will pay whatsoever price You ask of me.
She waited, her arms outstretched to the fiery goddess soaring into the clear sky. But there was no answer, only a land stretching golden and quiet beneath the rising sun. At last she lowered her arms, and sighed, and already weary, turned away to face the day’s duties.
 
 
I am so weary I shall die of it. Ah, well, perhaps tonight I shall sleep after all.
She had walked through the day’s hours like a jeweled doll, long habit bringing the proper words to her lips. Now, although she wished only to fling herself down upon her bed, she stood patiently as her maidservants stripped her gown from her body, washed the day’s heat and sweat from her skin, spread a cloth over a stool for her to sit upon. And when she sat, Khurrami moved behind her to take down her tight-braided hair, while Irsiya gathered up her discarded finery and began to place the rings and bracelets, the necklaces and earrings and anklets, the gem-studded pins that had fastened her gown, within the sectioned silver box that awaited them.
Ritual, each night the same. Irsiya and Khurrami had tended her since they were maidens new-initiated into womanhood; had been raised to serve her as she had been raised to serve Sheba. And however much she might wish to be alone, it was their duty and their right to tend her. Dismissing them would only hurt their feelings—
And not ease mine. If only
—
“My queen is troubled?” Khurrami began unpinning the elaborate braids coiled about her mistress’s head.
About to deny it, Bilqis suddenly changed her mind. “Why do you say that to me?”
“You seem—changed” was all Khurrami said, her fingers moving deftly over the queen’s hair.
“How changed?”
Khurrami set aside the twelve crystal-headed pins that had confined the queen’s braided hair. “My queen, I have tended you for many years; your secrets are mine. How should I not know when you dream unquiet dreams?” Khurrami began unweaving the close-woven plaits, shaking the queen’s hair to lie heavy over her shoulders. “Your mind seeks ease it does not find.”
I should not be surprised; no woman holds secrets from her maidservants.
“And those who love you grow troubled,” Irsiya added. “We would see you happy.”
“That is kind.” She weighed the virtues of silence against those of confession, and compromised. “You are right, Khurrami; I am troubled. And, Irsiya, I, too, would rather see me happy!”
Irsiya smiled obediently at the queen’s small jest and continued to lay the day’s jewelry into its resting place within the silver casket.
Khurrami took up a carved ivory comb and began the long task of grooming the queen’s heavy hair. “What would make you happy, my queen?” she asked quietly.
A
daughter,
Bilqis thought. But that she could not say. Need not say, for Khurrami was no fool.
Nor is Irsiya, nor all the rest of my women. Nor are my nobles and my merchants.
The succession concerned her people deeply; her spies reported that the question of who would follow Queen Bilqis upon Sheba’s throne was growing more common among her subjects.
What would make me happy?
A
queen for Sheba.
Behind her Khurrami stood calm, coaxing the queen’s unbound hair to sleekness; the ivory comb swept through the night-dark waves in steady strokes. Bilqis sighed. “It is good of you to ask, my dear, but what I need cannot be granted by any woman.”
“By a man, then? Someone who spurns the most beautiful queen in all the world? Shall I chastise him for you, Lady?” Laughter rippled through Khurrami’s voice. “Shall I have him dragged before you in golden chains?”
The queen laughed, as she knew Khurrami had intended she should; Khurrami saw life through laughter. “How kind—but no, no man either. Only the gods can bring me peace.”
A pause, then Khurrami asked, “And they will not?”
“They have not yet.” Although she had prayed and offered at the temples endlessly over the past year—The memories kindled a thought, but it flared too briefly; she could not form its image as it died, emberlike … .
“God-time is not man-time.” A sober, steady girl, Irsiya repeated the platitude with appropriate gravity; the queen knew that, behind her, Khurrami smiled at Irsiya’s solemn piety.
“Gods have endless years; queens have not.” Queens grew old, and died, eternal only in their daughters’ memories.
“Then perhaps,” Khurrami said, drawing the comb hard through a tangle of hair, “the queen should remind the gods of that fact.”
“Perhaps I should—” Suddenly the smoldering ember burst into flame. She sat silent, barely noticing the comb’s pull through her knotted hair, fearing to quench the brilliance flooding her.
Ask the gods
—
yes, I shall ask again.
For a heartbeat her blood slowed, chilled.
They have never answered you before; why should they now?
This was the great secret she held, the shame that poisoned her blood. She had done all a queen must to please the gods; bowed, devout, before Ilat’s image. But never had she received the signs by which the gods made themselves manifest in the hearts of those who served them. Sometimes, when she stood in empty silence before Sheba’s great goddess, she wondered if the gods even existed.
No. This is no time for doubt. I shall go to the great Temple, I shall seek Ilat’s guidance. And She shall tell me where I shall find the next Queen of Sheba. And if She remains silent
—
Sudden confidence flowed warm beneath her skin, burned like hot wine. If Ilat remained silent, Bilqis would know that the gods trusted her to act as she must.
Yes.
A sense of rightness, of affirmation, warmed her.
“Yes, perhaps I should.” She smiled, and patted Khurrami’s slim hand. “That is excellent advice, my dear. And this time when I ask, I know that my prayer will be answered.”
And I must give thanks for what I have already been granted,
Perhaps there were gods after all. For who but Ilat Herself could have put this audacious plan into her head?
 
 
Ma’rib was a city of temples; the Shebans were a godly people, their temples jewels in their crown of good fortune. Ilat’s Temple was chief among those gems. A precious setting for a most precious goddess, the house of the Queen of Heaven lay at the city’s heart.
All were welcome into the Temple’s outer courts, whose doors stood open both by day and by night. Anyone might enter the outer courts—woman or man, Sheban or outlander, crone or child. All were welcome there to worship, or to offer gifts, or to bask for a time in Ilat’s peace. The outer courts offered the goddess’s gifts freely.
But beyond the welcoming outer courts with their smiling priestesses,
their cool fountains, their bounty of food and drink and rest, lay another realm. Past the rose trees and the gentle fountains, past the walls painted bright with leopards and lilies, past the shrines and statues given by grateful petitioners, past the glitter and laughter—past all the sweet soft joys bestowed by a loving goddess—lay the Temple’s Inner Court.
No one entered the Inner Court lightly. Most never entered that court at all, content all their lives to go no farther than the clear, simple pleasures the goddess offered to all. The Inner Court demanded more than innocent devotion, more than unquestioning worship. It demanded wisdom and courage, and an iron refusal to surrender to illusion.
But for those who were dedicated, or desperate, the Temple’s secret heart offered a path to their true desire.
Bilqis had walked that hard true path only twice in her life. The first time had been the day the Morning Crown had been placed upon her head and the clawed scepter in her hand, the day the girl Bilqis became the Queen of the South. That day she had feared her own weakness, and dared the Inner Court to learn her own strength.

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