Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba (35 page)

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Authors: India Edghill

BOOK: Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba
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“Something is wrong.” Nimrah paced the garden; at the path’s end she turned and stalked along the bed of lilies, her long braid swinging back and forth across her back.
Keshet watched Nimrah’s restless strides and sighed. “What could be wrong? Come and sit here beside me.” She patted the broad edge of the fountain, but Nimrah would not be coaxed.
“I don’t know. But the princess is troubled.”
“What does she have to trouble her?”
“I don’t know,” Nimrah said again. “But whatever it is, she will not share it with us. Surely you have noticed that she vanishes for hours?”
“She has slipped out of the palace before.” Keshet smiled. “We all have.”
“Yes—together. But now—wherever it is she goes, she does not take us with her. That troubles me.”
Thinking over the days since the last new moon, Keshet realized Nimrah was right. Too often Baalit simply could not be found; she no longer confided
all her secrets to them. “You are right,” Keshet said. “She leaves us behind; that troubles me also. Do you think she meets a lover?”
Nimrah shook her head. “Who? And she would tell us
that
, I think. This must be something else, something even more dangerous.” Nimrah frowned. “It began when the Sheban queen came here.”
Keshet considered Nimrah’s words. “Yes, I think you are right. And she is not with the queen, or at least, not always. Now, where?”
“And why will she not trust us?”
“I don’t know,” Keshet said. “Why don’t we ask her?”
“Yes,” said Nimrah, after a moment’s thought, “we will ask.”
But asking brought them no peace of mind, for when they claimed the princess’s attention that evening, as they brushed out her hair and folded away her garments, Baalit listened to their troubled questions and then said, “I walk to clear my thoughts. That is all.”
Her eyes do not meet ours; she lies
. That their princess should lie to them shocked Keshet. That their princess thought they would swallow so foolish an excuse angered her. “That is
not
all,” Keshet snapped. “Baalit, we know you as well as we know ourselves, so if you are going to lie to us, at least come up with a better tale than that!”
She had hoped such tart words would call forth an unwary response; Baalit’s temper burned as hot as her loves. But the princess only looked at Keshet, and then at Nimrah, and at last said, “I cannot. And so rather than tell you lies, I will tell you nothing at all.”
And nothing that either Keshet or Nimrah could say pried another word from Baalit’s lips. At last they abandoned the effort—at least for that night.
“But we will find out her secret,” Keshet whispered to Nimrah as they lay in bed, awake and listening for any sound from Baalit’s bed. “We must. How can we protect her if we do not know?”
“We can’t. Go to sleep, Keshet.” But although she lay silent, Nimrah’s breathing did not alter. Later Keshet wondered if any of the three of them had slept that night. If she herself had, she had dreamed only of lying awake, waiting to hear Baalit’s soft footsteps as she left them in the dark.
When men asked his opinion of the Sheban affair, Benaiah always merely shrugged. If a man pressed him—and few men dared challenge the king’s
commander—and if Benaiah felt loquacious that day, he might add a few words to the silent gesture.
“A great queen, fit match for a great king. Not much of an army, though.”
And once, when King Solomon himself asked Benaiah’s thoughts on the Sheban visit, Benaiah had said, “The Sheban queen desires something of you; perhaps you’ll find out what it is, in time. Women are fools at war and cunning at politics.”
King Solomon had laughed, and called Benaiah an oversuspicious skeptic.
“No bad thing in the commander of the king’s army,” Benaiah had said. “I pray you, my lord, to take care how you deal with the woman.”
If only he had remembered his own words, taken his own good advice, he would not now suffer the pains of uncertainty and indecision. But once he had seen her, his heart flew to her in an instant—
And your brain followed after
, Benaiah told himself He possessed no strength, no guile, against this opponent. Benaiah fought a war he feared he could not win, a war that could end only one way: badly.
If only I had never set my eyes upon her. If I had never seen her, I would be spared this torment. I wish
—But Benaiah stopped short of wishing he had never seen her. That would have spared him-and denied him as well.
It is sheer folly, to love at my age, and to love such a woman.
A foreigner, and an idol-worshipper, and young enough to be his daughter besides all else-
No, tell the truth, if only to yourself, old man. She is young enough to be my granddaughter
.
But against this enemy, the great general Benaiah fell, powerless before a strange woman’s fierce eyes. That was why he now stood before her gate, impatient and inarticulate as any youth fresh from the hills, waiting upon the pleasure of his beloved.
“That man is here again,” Khurrami said. “He asks for you. Shall I tell him to go away?”
“The king’s general? Do not be such a fool, girl. I will speak with him.” Against her will, Nikaulis’s blood beat hard, sending a quiver through her body. She rose and strode towards the door, only to have Khurrami dash past her and bar her way.
“Go like that?” Khurrami demanded. “And go so quickly, as if you leapt
to his bidding? Let him wait while you change your garb and dress your hair. And perhaps some paint—”
Shaking her head, Nikaulis attempted to sidestep Khurrami. “Benaiah knows very well what I look like and how I dress. And I will not play foolish games; he asks, and either I come to him or I do not. Now step aside, for I do not wish to keep a good man waiting.”
Khurrami sighed and stepped aside. “Oh, very well—but I do wish you would permit me to make you as beautiful as you truly are. No man wishes to wed a warrior!”
“Perhaps not—but then, I have no wish to marry a man, either.”
Nikaulis strode off swiftly, hoping to outpace her own unease at uttering such words, words that trembled on the precipice between truth and falsehood. For warrior or not, she knew Benaiah wished to wed her. He had said nothing, he had never so much as touched her hand—but she knew he desired her past reason, past sense. And vows or not, such strong desire tempted her.
But I will not yield
. Her virgin body might play traitor, but her will was still hers to command. A Moon Warrior did not marry, did not surrender herself to a man’s dominion. But no law, no vow, forbade her to speak with Benaiah, or to walk with him, or to match her strength and skill against his in the training ring.
But no more than that. There must be no more than friendship between us. I must not let him ask for more
. If the words were never spoken, there need be no refusal. And refuse she must. She had vowed her chastity to the goddess, and her fidelity to the Queen of Sheba. She could not add a third vow without breaking those two chains of honor that bound her.
So Benaiah must never be permitted to ask for what she must never grant. Must never say words Nikaulis knew a traitor’s yearning to hear.
I should stay away from her
. But when Benaiah saw Nikaulis walking towards him, moving with the easy grace of a hunting cat, he knew he could not. For once, his desire ruled his common sense and his iron will. And had her will not been as hard as his—
We would have already committed folly a dozen times over
.
Nikaulis stopped before him; her eyes were level with his. “You wished to see me. I am here.”
“I am glad.” Benaiah thought of saying more, but he was no David, to sing a woman’s heart to honey. Or a Solomon, to win her mind with wise words and gentle wit.
I am only a plain warrior, and speak only plainly
.
But the lady of his heart did not seem to care, for that was how she herself spoke.
Neither of us spills easy words; what we say, we mean
.
“You smile,” she said, and Benaiah answered, “I thought of what another man might say, facing a woman clad in leather and carrying a sword.”
“I have heard what other men say of me. They undervalue their opponent, always a fool’s error.”
“That is truth. But no woman can stand against a man in battle,” Benaiah said, and Nikaulis smiled, a warrior’s smile.
“You think not?” Her chin lifted; the wide band of silver collaring her throat glinted bright as her proud eyes.
“I do not think, I know. Oh, I’ll grant that a woman may fight well-I I am not blind, I have seen you practice with your bow, and your sword. But against a man as skilled as you, your skill must yield to his greater strength.”
“So you say strength must always defeat skill?” Nikaulis’s eyes met his, clear and unflinching. “What will you wager on that, King’s Commander?”
An odd sensation slashed through Benaiah, a traitorous desire to match swords with this warrior girl, to set his body against hers until one proved victor.
“Or are you afraid to challenge me, knowing I may best you?”
“I fear no challenge,” Benaiah said. “As for the stakes”—words sprang from his lips before he could consider them, or call them back—“a kiss.”
She stared at him; Benaiah stared back, refusing to surrender to his own warring emotions, or to alter his challenge.
“You do not speak. Do you fear you may have to pay the wager, Queen’s Guard?”
Pride stiffened her back, as it had forced his words. “I fear no man. The wager stands.”
 
 
They walked side by side to the practice yard Benaiah had long ago ordered built behind the weapons storehouse. The training ground was deserted at this hour, Benaiah’s chief reason for choosing this time and place. Nikaulis looked, and nodded approval. Neither desired an audience.
In the center of the hard-packed earth, Benaiah stopped. “Do you wish to yield?”
“Before we have even drawn our swords? No. I fight fairly.”
“Good. So do I. And I will make no allowances because you are a woman.”
“Just as I will make no allowances because you are an old man.” Nikaulis’s eyes gleamed in the sunlight, and Benaiah smiled and drew his sword.
“Until you yield,” he said, and Nikaulis laughed.
“Until you do,” she said, and drew her own weapon.
And so they began.
Metal against metal; clash and retreat. Within the first half-dozen sword thrusts, Benaiah knew victory would not be won easily. That quick knowledge burned like hot wine; it had been long since he had faced an opponent whose skill so truly matched his own. Each thrust parried instantly, each clash of blade on blade caught and held. Nikaulis moved swiftly, leopard-lithe, serpent-supple. He himself moved more slowly, bull rather than leopard.
Swing, block; turn, thrust, and swing again. The sword-dance, always different, always the same. At first he thought his strength might outlast her swiftness. But as they fought on, blade to blade, Benaiah slowly began to understand that she would not falter.
She was good; as good as he.
Thrust and retreat; advance and swing, bracing against the crash of iron upon iron. And again, hard, neither fighter granting a breath’s respite. Benaiah knew he would pay for this in aches and in raw pain—but payment would fall due later.
One last good fight, I and my true equal
. How many men could claim that? What matter that his opponent, his peer in skill, was a woman?
Ah, if this could only last forever—
But he was too experienced a soldier to think this contest could endure much longer.
Sweat glistened on his Sword Maid’s face and arms; her breath came hard and fast. Benaiah knew she must be weak with weariness—as was he. But she would not yield. Nikaulis would fight on until her very bones trembled and her traitor body no longer obeyed her will.
As will I
. Benaiah knew he could not surrender, not so long as he still breathed. But their battle must end, and soon, lest in their utter weariness, one should wound the other … .
Before him, Nikaulis half-turned, and swung her sword high. Benaiah began to lift his own sword to parry, then swept down just as Nikaulis shifted her sword’s rising arc to a falling one. Their blades met in a clash of iron; held. Benaiah stared into Nikaulis’s eyes. They glowed, battle-hot; she smiled, a feral flash of white teeth.
“Nikaulis:” Benaiah struggled to keep his voice low, to speak softly though he longed to gasp for air.”Nikaulis, we must end this. Lay your sword aside.”
“Never. I do not yield.”
“I do not ask it. Nikaulis, neither of us can win this battle. Lay your sword aside, as I will mine.”
For long heartbeats Benaiah feared she had not heard, or understood. Then the fierce gleam faded from her eyes.
“I will lay my sword aside,” she said, “when you lower yours.”
Strained with long tension, her muscles quivered; her blade shuddered against his, sending tremors up the battered iron. Benaiah could no longer tell whether the trembling he felt in the sword’s hilt was from his exhausted muscles, or from hers.
“Together,” he said. “We will lay them aside together.”
She hesitated, and he added, “At your word, Warrior.”
She nodded. “Now,” she said, and Benaiah opened his fist and let his sword fall to the hot sand. Her sword fell across his, iron ringing against iron. They looked at each other across the blades.
“You did not win, King’s Commander.”
“Neither did you,” Benaiah said.
To that, she said nothing. In silence, they went back to the arena gate; in silence, they wiped down their swords’ blades with linen cloths. At last Nikaulis said, “Fair day, Benaiah,” and walked away.
Benaiah watched her until she had turned onto the street that led back to the Little Palace gate. He looked back into the arena where they had fought. Their struggle had forced the pale sand into hollows and ridges; the surface was marred by imprints of their feet.
The sand must be raked smooth again
.
Benaiah sheathed his sword and went off to find a soldier with not enough to do; that careless unknown was about to learn that loitering earned extra duty. Good soldiers always looked busy.

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