Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba (30 page)

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Authors: India Edghill

BOOK: Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba
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Vaunted for his wisdom, King Solomon had so far displayed no more than common sense and a generous heart; enough, surely, for any man to possess—or for any king, come to that. On the days she sat beside him in the court of judgment, Bilqis observed and admired, but she had not yet seen evidence of more than mortal wisdom. She expected no more of today’s court; she sat beside King Solomon today only because she stalked him as a cat might a tame bird, with endless patience and a steadfast intent.
It was that one day in each seven when any man or woman in the kingdom might freely come before the king and demand his judgment upon any matter, small or great. A dozen cases had been heard by the king; Solomon had listened to each with attention and with the appearance of true interest. But Bilqis sensed that he tired, that the endless proofs of stubborn folly his subjects spread before him wearied him.
As they weary any man or woman of sense. But he is more patient with them than I would be.
A sudden deep fondness for him warmed her; she lifted her hand to her cheek to catch his eye. When he slid his glance towards her, she smiled; a warm promise.
“Soon,” he murmured, so softly even she, seated beside him, caught only a hint of the word. Then he turned to the royal herald. “Let the next case be brought before this court.”
Two women walked forward amidst a jangle of brass ornaments; their gaudy striped veils proclaimed them harlots, as did the garish paint about their eyes and upon their mouths. Two men-at-arms followed, each carrying a swaddled infant. The infants were laid at the foot of Solomon’s throne; when the swaddling clothes were thrown back, one child kicked vigorously. The other lay stiff and cold in death. Both were boys.
Solomon stared at the infants lying before him, then lifted his eyes to the two women. “What is your quarrel?”
The herald glanced at the women, plainly disapproving. “O great King, these women are harlots, and both bore children the same day.”
Solomon lifted his finger; Bilqis leaned towards him. “Rather careless harlots,” he murmured, his lips barely moving. She pressed her own lips firmly together and nodded gravely.
Waiting until the king sat attentive again, the herald continued. “Three days later, they awoke, and one child was dead.”
“That is a grief, no doubt,” Solomon said, “but how is it the business of the king’s court?”
“Each claims the living child, great King.”
“And no one save the king can undo this knot? Is there no one who can say which child belongs to which woman?”
“No one, great King; they dwelt alone and aided each other in their need. No one else had yet seen the infants.”
“And so you have come to the king’s court for justice.” Solomon pointed to one of the women. “You, tell me what happened.”
The woman bowed low. “O King, this woman—whom I had thought my friend!—she lay upon her own child in the night and smothered him. And when she woke and saw what she had done, she switched our children while I slept, so that I found her dead child lying beside me, while she suckled
my
son!”
“She lies!
She
is the one who smothered her own baby, and stole
mine!”
“You
are the liar! You who—”
“Silence.” Solomon’s voice cut through the women’s shrill cries; they fell silent, glaring at each other.
So much hate; so little love. They have not even glanced at the children.
It seemed impossible that either of these women should be mother to either infant. And how King Solomon was to decide between them, Bilqis did not know.
I would give the child to neither woman, for neither seems to care one heartbeat for it.
“Have each woman in turn hold the child,” Solomon commanded.
That test revealed nothing; lifted from the floor, the infant began to wail, and neither woman could soothe its cries. At last, when they began trying to snatch the child from each other, Solomon rose to his feet and descended the broad steps of the throne.
“Give him to me.”
To Sheba’s surprise, Solomon rocked the indignant baby to silence within a few moments.
Of course; he is calm, and the women are stiff and harsh with anger. I wonder how he will end this?
The child must be fed soon, if nothing else.
Solomon looked down at the baby in his arms, then studied the two women. “Come closer,” he said after a moment, and when they obeyed, he stared hard at their painted faces.
At last he said, “Will either of you relinquish claim to this child?”
“Never! He’s mine!”
“I will not give up my son!”
“And you can come to no agreement? No, I see that you cannot. Very well. Benaiah, come forward.”
Looking slightly puzzled, the commander of the army walked forward to stand beside the king. Solomon thrust the child towards Benaiah; surprised, the general grabbed the baby awkwardly; it began to cry again.
Solomon turned and pitched his voice to carry throughout the court: “Each woman claims the living child; each disavows the dead one. Neither will relinquish her right. They have come before the king, asking justice be done.” He glanced at the two women, who stared at him, greedy as sparrows.
“Hear, then, the king’s decision: you shall each have half of the child.” He turned to the women. “Do you find the king’s words fair, his decision just?”
The two harlots stared at him. Then one stiffened and nodded. The other drew in her breath sharply.
What does he play at?
Then the king’s scheme became dear; Sheba smiled, waiting.
“Very well. Benaiah, take your sword and cut the child in two, and give half to each woman.”
As those watching gasped and Benaiah stared suspiciously at Solomon, a wild scream slashed through the rising clamor and the baby’s wails. “No!” The second woman flung herself forward, clutching at the child Benaiah held. “Please, you can’t! Don’t kill him!”
The baby screamed and struggled; Benaiah tried dutifully to hold on to the wriggling child for a moment, then allowed the woman to grab the baby. The harlot clutched the baby to her breast; Benaiah slowly put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Solomon lifted his hand, and Benaiah stepped back, looking relieved. Solomon raised his voice to be heard over the baby’s outraged screams. “So you would surrender the child to the other?”
“Yes, my lord. Only don’t kill him.”
Solomon turned to the other woman, who stood stiff and angry. “And you? Would you say the same?”
She tossed her head; her harlot’s veil shuddered. “He’s mine, not hers. I’d rather see him dead than at
her
breast!”
As the whole court watched and waited, the king spoke softly to the sobbing harlot who rocked the crying baby in her arms; she nodded and pressed the child’s face against her breast. The noise abated, muffled by the woman’s gaudy clothing.
“Then hear the king’s judgment in this case.” Solomon pointed at the dead infant that lay still before the throne. “There is the child you will carry away from here. The living boy I give to his mother—she who holds him now.”
Scowling, the denied harlot turned away; Benaiah drew his sword and barred her way with the blade. She glared, and he pointed at the small body that lay before the king’s throne. Reluctant, the harlot picked up the dead infant and then was hustled out by guardsmen. Almost unheeded, the harlot who had been granted custody of the living child hurried away with her precious burden.
As men’s voices rose in awed questioning and retelling of the judgment just witnessed, Solomon ascended the marble steps and sat upon the Lion Throne once more. “Well, O Queen? What is your judgment of my justice?”
“I thought you mad, at first,” she murmured. “But then I saw the beauty of your plan. Having Benaiah hold the child was indeed clever; the poor man did not know whether to obey you—or how, with his arms full of a screaming baby!”
She slanted her eyes at him in shared amusement, and touched his hand gently. “For the rest—May I praise the great king’s wisdom?” Then, in a voice that could not be heard beyond the throne’s step, she added, “For you know no more than I which woman bore that child.”
“What I know,” Solomon replied in an equally practiced undertone, “is that the true mother is the one who cared more for the child than for her pride.”
Bilqis smiled. “And what did the great King Solomon say to the harlot, when he whispered in her ear?”
“I told her,” Solomon said, “for the love of peace to shut that baby up!”
That day I had not troubled myself to spy upon the king’s court, and so I did not see King Solomon’s most famous judgment handed down for myself. But I heard of it within an hour of the decision—and then it seemed everyone I met repeated the tale. The king’s act had snared people’s minds, and no one could speak of anything else.
So clever. So wise. Surely no other man could judge so justly. Surely no other king could so clearly see past lies to truth
. All that day I heard nothing but praise for my father’s judgment. No one spoke of the two women, or of the desperation that must have driven them to demand the king’s justice.
Bone-deep fear for their futures, for what future did a harlot possess? Once she grew too old to sell her body, she would starve, unless she had stored up wealth against the harsh years.
Or unless she had a son who would care for her when she was old.
Later I asked my father about his choice between the two women. “How did you think of such a plan?” I asked, and he smiled.
“Necessity,” my father said. “If I did not think of something, anything, those two women would have screamed curses at each other until sunset.”
That, of course, was what made my father great; necessity always made him think of the right thing to do. “But, Father—wouldn’t any woman cry out if a babe were about to be slain? I understand that the child’s mother would give him up rather than see him dead, but how did you know the false mother would not object as well?”
My father shook his head ruefully. “Now there I was fortunate; one woman’s heart was stone and one was soft. But if both had cried out against the sword, I would have been forced to think of another test—now do not ask me what, Daughter, for I know no better than you what it would have been. Thank our Lord in His mercy that I did not have to try!”
Of course I said he was too modest, and of course my father said he was only truthful. Then I asked what he would have done if neither woman had objected to the division of one living child into two dead ones.
“To tell truth, Daughter, I do not know.” He smiled. “I suppose I would have had to claim the child myself!”
 
 
I was proud of my father’s goodness and wisdom, and never doubted his choice was the right one. The Sheban queen saw another side to the judgment of King Solomon.
“Yes, I grant you it was clever, Baalit,” she said. “And it gained the child a great-hearted mother.” Something in her voice made me look at her closely; she seemed almost to mock the decision.
Now, why?
I thought for a few moments, playing over the judgment in my mind, seeking the weakness in the king’s ruling that the queen seemed to see. Two women; one child. One woman crying out against the king’s sword—
“Surely only his mother would save his life even if it meant giving him up,” I said, and the queen smiled.
“I forget how young you are,” she said. “Child, there are women who would slay their own infant rather than see it sleeping happy in the arms of another.”
“Then—do you say the woman to whom my father granted the child was not his true mother?”
“Oh, yes, she is his
true
mother—whether she bore him or not. For she cared enough for him to wish his good rather than her own.”
I stared. “Do you mean to say,” I said at last, “that you do not know which woman’s child still lived? That my father may have judged wrongly?”
For a moment, she said nothing. Then she answered my question with one of her own. “Do you think he judged wrongly, Baalit?”
Somehow I knew my answer was important to her, so I thought carefully before I spoke. “I think he may have given the child to the wrong mother,” I said at last, “but not to the wrong woman.”
The queen laid her hand upon my cheek; I smelled honey and roses. “You are truly Wise Solomon’s daughter,” she said. “Happy the land over which you will rule.”
I stared at her, and saw she did not jest but spoke in earnest. Well, in her land, what she said might be true. But this was Israel, not Sheba.
“The Queen of Sheba is kind,” I said, “but I will never rule. Kingship is for men—and queens do not rule here.”
“Never is a long time, and some women are true queens wherever they dwell. Rule yourself, Baalit, and you rule all.” She drew breath as if she wished to say more; I waited, but then she merely laughed and shook her head.
“I grow too solemn,” the queen said. “Come, let us walk in the garden, and you will tell me of the flowers you grow. Perhaps some of them can be carried back with me to Sheba. I think they might grow well there.”
I cared little for flowers, but I walked with the queen and showed her the roses and lilacs and lilies. “But if you wish to know about the flowers and the gardens, I am not the one you should ask. The Lady Nefret loves flowers; her garden is a wonder. And the Lady Leeorenda grows herbs and can speak to you of their uses.”
The queen laughed. “And you guess—rightly—that I wish to speak to you of other things than roses and lilies. Still, I find their scent pleasing.”
“Yes.” I waited, certain that she would speak when she judged the moment right.
In silence, we walked the garden path, until at last the queen said, “You think it strange—a land in which women rule, and men do not.”
It was not a question, so I did not answer.
You know I think it strange—yes, and wonderful, too. What is it you would ask?
“For a thousand years, a queen has ruled in Sheba. Mother has passed the crown to daughter, aunt to niece, sister to sister. Until at last the burden was laid in my hands. I think I have discharged my duty well—save in one thing. See the lovely blossoms here; what are they named?”
“Hyacinths,” I said. “They come from Achaea. They have bloomed overlong this year; perhaps they too wished to greet the Queen of Sheba.”
“And waited until I came to admire them?” She smiled and bent to the hyacinths, cupping her hands about the rich blossoms. “So sweet a perfume. Almost too sweet. Ah, well. As I say, I believe I have ruled well, but—” She stopped and turned to look at me, squarely, as if I were her equal.
“But I have no heir, Baalit. There is no queen to follow me, to set the crown upon her head when mine goes down to dust. My own daughter died bearing my granddaughter, who died before she had drawn a dozen breaths. My nearest kin is my sister’s child, who cannot rule.”
“Why can’t she—” I stopped, thought a moment. “Your sister’s child is not a daughter.”
“But a son, my nephew. Yes. And even were he a girl, I would be loath to see him on the throne of Sheba.”
“Is he so unfit to rule?”
The queen sighed. “Yes, alas. For Rahbarin is pure as rain and good as bread, and two more deadly faults a queen—or a king—cannot possess.” Then she smiled. “But as a queen’s sword, he is flawless. He guards my throne while I am gone, and so I know I will find it waiting for me when I return.”
“You trust him so greatly?”
“He has given his word. And so I know I will return to an unchallenged throne, or to find his body laid down in forfeit.”
“That is great trust indeed.” I waited, but although we walked among the flowers, the queen spoke no more of her country or her crown, or her sister’s son. Whatever she wished to ask of me, she would not ask yet.
 
 
Later, in my own chamber, I took the small silver mirror out of the ivory casket and stared into it as I pondered the Sheban queen’s words. That she had her own reasons for praising her nephew to me I did not doubt. And after thinking hard upon all she had told me, I believed I knew what they were.
She wished me to think well of Prince Rahbarin—because she wished me to marry him. And before she asked my father for me, she wished to ensure my willingness to do so. I stared into my eyes in the silver disk cupped in my hands, and saw only brightness.
King Solomon’s daughter, wed to the Queen of Sheba’s sister’s son. Fit mother and father for a girl who could be named heir to the Sheban throne. Yes, that could be the future the queen wished to summon.
Or did she spin some other plot? For the queen was no fool, and even a fool could see that my father’s line bred sons. My father’s father, King David, had sired many sons and few daughters. My father, King Solomon, claimed a dozen and more sons, yet only one daughter. Perhaps the Sheban queen relied on her own blood’s power to breed girls, counted its strength greater than that of David’s lineage?
And does she think I will meekly wed where I am bid, even if it is she who orders the match?
As my father’s daughter, I would have little enough choice. Did the
Queen of Sheba offer me more? How much of what Queen Bilqis sang of her nephew’s virtues was unpolished truth, and how much gilding over less desirable traits?
I was not fool enough to believe all a desperate queen, a doting aunt, said of the man. But deeds carry more truth than words. Whatever her sister’s son was or was not, he had been left to guard Sheba’s throne in its queen’s absence.
That fact alone vouched for him in a way no fulsome praise could. Tired of looking into my own eyes, I set down my mother’s silver mirror and went to lean upon my window ledge. There I gazed out over the rooftops of Jerusalem, past the houses and temples, past the wide walls, my eyes searching south. Of course I saw nothing, save the darkness beyond the city’s walls and watch fires. Even had it been bright day, Sheba lay far beyond the horizon.
In the southern sky, the stars of the sign called the Huntsman burned. “Rahbarin,” I said, tasting the foreign name, savoring its strangeness on my tongue. I could put no face to the sound, but somehow that did not matter … .
I stared at the Huntsman until my feet grew cold. I took that as a sign and went to my bed, to sleep.
And, I hoped, to dream. Truth whispered dreams into sleepers’ ears; I hoped to be granted certainty. But sleep refused all my coaxing, and I lay long awake, gazing out upon the rising moon through my open window. At last, when the moon soared high and cast black shadows over moon-pearled rooftops, I abandoned my quest. If sleep would not come to me, I would waste no more time courting its illusions. And the moon called to me.
So I rose hot and rumpled from my bed; pulled my sweat-damp linen shift off and dropped it to the floor. As if I had done this many times, I lifted my hands to my hair and unbound the plait that confined its unruly mass by night. Naked, I walked out of my room onto the queen’s balcony.
There I stood in the moon’s cool light and gazed out upon Jerusalem. Far above the moon sailed high, pale as pearl, pouring light over the city. By day, Jerusalem glowed golden in the sun. By night, the city shone pale, moon-silvered.
I looked over housetops, clustered flat shadows; between wove the city streets, dark as the bottom of a well. Although it was deep night, I could
see small flames, lamps still lit. Torch-fires danced endlessly at the faraway gates in the city walls.
Jerusalem. King Solomon’s treasure.
The Lord’s city, rich and powerful, a lion dreaming under the radiant moon.
The moon’s shadows grew long as I stood there; night’s wind flowed soft and cool over my skin. One by one, the little bright lamp flames went out.
One by one, fires died, one by one lights vanished, until all that remained was darkness, black and cold as the bottom if a well. Cold night, moonless night. I stood alone within that cruel darkness; even the stars had gone. I alone against the cold and the dark, without a path upon which to set my restless feet.
No light, no path. Yet I must venture into that deep night, or forever remain frozen in shadow. I stepped forward and darkness clung like black water to my skin. Darkness flowed over me; I strove to move against its icy current, move forward into deeper night. And as I paced through that black force, setting one foot before the other with stubborn care, light kindled, silver and slow, warmth sliding over my body as sweetly as a mother’s caress.
I sought the source of the silver light, but there was neither sun nor moon; at last I looked to myself and saw that the soft radiance glowed forth from my own skin, granting light against the endless night surrounding me, allowing me to walk forward, warm against the dark—
Until I woke, I had not even known I slept. Moonlight had summoned me into dreams, and I had fallen asleep leaning against the stones of my balcony wall. Now my bones were stiff and my skin chill, and my eyes itched, sleep-sanded. I straightened and stretched and looked out again over Jerusalem, and saw that night was over; the sun pushed golden against the eastern hilltops. Before me, Jerusalem’s rooftops glowed like pearls in the pale dawn light. All that was left of night was blue shadows in the city streets and darkness falling in the west.
I looked across the city to the great brass-bound gates in the city wall. There the torches guttered dim, their fires fading against the dawn like ancient eyes closing against the rising light.

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