Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba (7 page)

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Authors: India Edghill

BOOK: Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba
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Until she stood upon the ship’s wooden deck and looked out upon the sea’s glass-smooth surface, Bilqis had remained the queen, had refused to listen to her own longing heart. Always, always since she was ten years old, always she had obeyed the dictates of duty. Duty to blood, duty to land, duty to temple. Never had she wavered from that narrow pathway; never had she hesitated over a choice.
Duty, always duty.
Such devotion had not come easily to her; she had been the youngest of three royal daughters, late-born, a true love-child, born to the man her mother had taken only for pleasure. Born when her two sisters were already women grown.
She had been the favored child, the indulged and pampered child.
The daughter my mother could claim as all her own.
The daughter who could choose her own way in life. The eldest for the throne and the second for the temple, and the youngest—the youngest for freedom.
Such indulgence had seemed safe enough; her mother’s duty to land and to heaven had been done. Both her sisters had already chosen consorts, already begotten children for Sheba. Indeed, her eldest sister had already bestowed two girls upon the royal family. The ancient line of queen’s blood assured, her mother had taken pure joy in her last-born daughter, rearing her with all the liberty any Sheban child might know. Chains bound her sisters, invisible bonds of tradition and honor—
“But you, my Bilqis
—
you will fly where the winds blow wild, swim where the sea swirls high. The Sun of our Days has promised you a bright life, a life that shines forever, shines like the Morning Star—”
But her mother had been wrong. Plague had swept over Sheba, death on silent wings. And when those dark wings lifted, her sisters and their children lay dead, and all that remained of the bloodline of the ancient queens was a ten-year-old girl. Between sunset and sunrise, death bequeathed Bilqis an unsought crown.
“You are my heir now.”
Her mother’s words fell flat against her ears, like blows.
“You must learn new skills and put away old. And I
—
I must
—” Her mother
had not finished; her words faltered and she fell silent. But Bilqis knew life had forever altered. Wild winds could not carry one bound to earth by a crown’s weight.
From that moment, she no longer ran free; duty lay before her, and she had accepted the burden. As had her mother; a queen with only one heir to offer the land placed the future at risk. So, despite her age, Bilqis’s mother had devoted herself to conceiving another daughter—a hard task and one that, in the end, cost her life.
But she succeeded in providing a sister to Bilqis. Sahjahira. In duty and love, Bilqis had raised Sahjahira to womanhood, only to see her younger sister, in her turn, die in the attempt to grant Sheba a daughter.
My poor ’hira. She did her best
—
as did I.
For as soon as permitted, Bilqis had chosen a consort and striven to create security for Sheba, daughters for the crown. Daughters she had conceived and borne—only to watch them die before they cut their first teeth. Only Ilat Herself knew what it had cost Bilqis to persevere, what deep unhealed scars marred her heart. But she endured and persisted, and at last she had borne a daughter who cut her teeth, and walked, and learned to say “Mother.”
Allit. Oh, my dear child
—
Allit, born of a full moon spent at the Temple, of a father never known. Goddess-child, golden and perfect; reared to follow proudly in the footsteps of all the queens before her. She, too, had enslaved herself willingly to her duty—
More willingly than I wished to let her.
Fearful, Bilqis had been reluctant to permit her only daughter to take a consort, to risk herself in childbirth. But she had consented at last, forced to bow to necessity.
“For how will you ever have a granddaughter, Mother, if I never bear a daughter? You worry too much over me; trust Ilat, as I do.”
Allit had lived and died in that trust; Bilqis had sat beside her, holding her hand, as Allit’s life bled away, and lied to ensure her daughter’s faith never wavered.
“Don’t cry, Mother. I’ve given Sheba a girl. I told you to trust our Lady Ilat,” Allit’s fingers squeezed hers, a pressure soft as a butterfly landing upon a flower. “Is she all right?”
Bilqis smiled at her daughter. “Yes.” She bent and kissed Allit’s cold forehead. “Your daughter is perfect, Allit. Perfect.”
“I knew she would be. Baalit … my goddess-child. Sheba’s queen, Mother … .”
Allit died never knowing her newborn daughter had gone before her into the night beyond the sunset. Bilqis prayed that Allit’s shade would forgive her for the lie.
With Allit dead, only two remained who carried the royal blood of Sheba in their veins: Sahjahira’s son, Rahbarin—and Bilqis herself
We hold the future in trust, Rahbarin and I. We will not fail those who will come after.
So Bilqis had vowed.
But now, as she stared out over the slow rise and swell of the pale green water, a weight seemed to lift from her heart.
As if the waves wash away my years, the sea-wind blows away my burdens.
For the first time in many years, she permitted herself to remember her dream as a girl:
To wander the wide world, seeking wisdom
—
But duty had bound her; she had set such girlish hopes aside, locked them deep within her heart as she had laid her toys within a wooden chest and closed the lid upon them. And now, at last, she had been bidden to unlock her heart and follow her long-buried desire.
So much water. So much sky.
Stare at either—sea or sky—for long and the eyes dazzled, the mind shattered into a myriad jeweled infinities.
So much sky. So much water. So much temptation.
But always she dragged herself back from the edge of the abyss; sea or sky enticed, promised sweet unending rest, in vain.
I cannot.
Whatever temptation lay before her, she must cleave to her covenant with her land and her people.
I am their mother, their queen. I cannot abandon them. I must give them their next queen; their future. Without a queen to come after me, what is Sheba? Nothing! Another kingdom of the weak, prey to those who watch with greedy eyes.
For the Land Beyond the Morning, the Kingdom of Spices, was a prize beyond the riches of kings. Only strength kept that prize safe. Let but a single crack show in the wall that kept out the world, and Sheba’s treasures would be ravaged by the fierce, the savage.
A hundred generations of queens have not held Sheba safe only to lose all through my weakness. No matter what I must do
—
No matter what she must do to bring the next queen to Sheba’s throne, she would do it.
I do not care what I must do; if I must walk barefoot to the world’s end; if I must humble myself before King Solomon and all his court; if I must lie to my people and my gods. Whatever the test, that I will do.
She would pay the price for Sheba’s future without flinching. She would live without love, without joy, without hope. She would pay with her life, if that were the sacrifice she must make. Only one thing was unthinkable, only one fate unendurable.
Failure.
The World’s Wisdom
In Shunem, I grew from child to girl to woman. True to her laughing vow, my mother refused all men’s offers, remained a modest widow. All her efforts centered upon raising me
—
raising me, although I did not know it then, to tread safely along a jeweled path.
She taught me what every girl learns, to spin and to weave, to sew and to bake. “How well your Abishag sets her stitches! You teach her well, Zilpah. She will make a good wife.”My mother smiled modestly at such praises, murmured that I was a clever, biddable girl, and pretended not to understand hints that a son, a nephew, a cousin sought such a clever, biddable bride
—
and one so well-dowered, with no sisters to diminish my inheritance.
“You will not marry here in Shunem,” my mother told me.
“How do you know that?” I never doubted her words, for everything my mother wished seemed to come to pass.
“Because I know my past, and so I see your future. And it does not lie here.”
“Where, then?” I asked, and my mother only smiled, and said that I would learn that in the world’s own time.
“Never seek to hasten the stars in their courses, Daughter. What is the chiefest virtue for a woman?”
“Patience,” I said, mindful of her teaching.
“Be patient then. Now let us see what the cloth merchant has to show today.”
When I was a child, nothing in my father’s court seemed strange to me. For my father was Solomon the Wise, king of Israel and Judah, and kings are not bound by the laws that rule lesser men—or so my grandmothers taught me, each of the three in her own way.
I did not think it strange I had three grandmothers when other children owned only two, just as I did not think it strange I had so many stepmothers—for kings must marry widely and wisely. I saw the world through the shining veil of a much-indulged childhood until the day my father wed the Colchian princess. That marriage did more than seal another treaty; it set one too many weights in the scales my father fought to balance.
And it unbound the veil of childhood from my eyes. After that day I could no longer see and not understand. And after that day, I was no longer content to be only my father’s pampered daughter. But what else I wished to be, even I did not yet know.
 
 
The Colchian princess was late; the royal women had waited half the morning in the gallery that overlooked the great throne room, and still King Solomon’s newest bride had not arrived. Restless, I drew out a ball of linen thread and began to play at cat’s-cradle with my handmaiden Nimrah. King David’s City truly held the wide world within its walls, for Nimrah’s family came from some land so far to the north that snow covered the land half the year. Her northern blood shone in her straight pale hair and her wide pale eyes; winter sunlight, winter ice.
All about me, my stepmothers waited, the queens in the front of the gallery and the concubines behind them. Each passed the slow time in her own fashion: some gossiped, some fidgeted with their hair or gems or gown. One or two played games, as did Nimrah and I. The Egyptian queen, Nefret, listened as her maidservant read softly to her from a scroll. Queen Naamah sat smooth-faced, refusing to disturb the flawless drape of her veil or the elegant coils of her hair. Queen Melasadne caressed one of her tiny white dogs, ignoring the affronted glares from those of my father’s wives who followed the laws of our own god, for whom dogs were unclean beasts. Queen Makeda sat dark and still as deep night, her thoughts shielded behind her gilded lids. Lady Leeorenda sat serene, motionless save for her
fingers, which gently stroked the blossoms she held; from time to time she moved one flower, trying its color against another. Lady Dvorah spun, making me wish I had brought my own spindle to occupy my restless hands.
Nimrah lifted the tangle of red silk from my fingers again; I looked down from the queens’ gallery to where my father sat upon the Lion Throne. The court was full of men richly clad, but my father outshone them all. As befit a royal bridegroom, he wore scarlet and purple fringed with gold. The wide crown of Israel, gold set with flawless emeralds, circled his head. In his hands he held a lion-headed scepter, a gift from the Scythian king.
The high priest Zadok sat upon a stool beside my father’s throne. Zadok had been high priest long before I was born; he was an old man now, and standing long was a hardship to him. It was a measure of my father’s generous heart that he thought of Zadok’s comfort, and permitted him to sit when he held court. All the rest must stand—the king’s general and the king’s guard, the ambassadors, the other priests, the courtiers and the princes. Even my brother Rehoboam, who was my father’s heir, must stand before him. And even at this distance, I saw the scowl marring Rehoboam’s face; the crown prince was bored and didn’t care who knew it.
My eyes did not rest long on my brother; gazing down like a hunting falcon, I sought more enticing prey. Ah, there he was, leaning against one of the polished cedar pillars, half-shadowed by the sham forest my father had created to ring the great court. His hair twined down his back in long curls; a ringlet coiled over one shoulder, spiraled down his half-bare chest, ebony against honey. He wore a kilt of soft blue leather sewn with golden bees, and a gilded leather belt two handspans wide clasped his waist. Upon Amyntor of Caphtor, such old-fashioned garments seemed oddly dashing. In contrast, the nobles of my father’s court appeared overburdened in their layers of rich cloth. And where they held scrolls, or tablets, or goblets of gold and silver, Amyntor held in his hand only a Damascus rose, red as blood.
I admired Amyntor, who came and went as pleased him. Who gave, always, the impression that life itself amused him. As other men waited, frowning, for the king’s newest bride to arrive, Amyntor watched as if the king and all the court had been summoned only so that he might observe them. Yes, I admired his fearless laughter more than his handsome face—and I envied his freedom with an ache that sometimes made me wonder if I craved more from Amyntor than I wished to admit even to my mirror.
As I studied Amyntor, he looked up across the court at the queens’ gallery, seemed to stare through the shielding latticework straight into my eyes. From so far away, I could not be sure, but it seemed that he winked at me. I know he smiled, and lifted the small crimson rose to his lips.
Although I knew Amyntor could not see me, heat pricked my cheeks; I turned my eyes away from him, back to my father’s throne. I saw my father’s fingers absently stroking the lion’s head upon the scepter; my father, like my brother, grew impatient. For a moment, I wondered what he thought, as he awaited yet another wife. Then Nimrah slipped the web of red silk back upon my fingers, and in trying to keep the net smooth and taut, I forgot lesser matters.
What was one more queen to King Solomon—or to me—after all?
All women begin to look alike to me.
Solomon knew this was unjust, but by now he had greeted so many royal brides, accepted so many bejeweled concubines, that one pretty painted face blurred into the next. Trade and politics bred alliances both of words and of flesh. What surer sign of submission to King Solomon’s power than the surrender to him of a woman of royal blood?
And so here I sit, waiting for yet another woman, when forty more important matters await the king’s attention.
But Solomon had sat waiting upon the Lion Throne to welcome each of the women given into his care; he could not cease the custom now without giving great offense.
Although this princess will look just like all the others, say the same words
—
No. I must not think this way. I have many women, after all, and they have only one husband. This new wife, too, must be greeted with respect.
Though not with love. Love had belonged only to his first wife, the bride of his heart. He could not grant that love to another.
But respect—yes, each woman was entitled to respect.
And so King Solomon must wait in all his glory upon the Lion Throne, although the sun neared its zenith and there was no sign yet of the king’s latest bride. The caravan from Colchis should have reached the city gates by now, that the procession might wind through Jerusalem’s streets while the late autumn sun still shone bright. Now the new queen’s arrival at King Solomon’s court would be less than perfect—
“But it is not our fault, my lord king! Forty times did we warn them that they must break their camp early, to arrive at the appointed hour. But nothing would do for the Colchians but they take their own omens, and delay until the princess sacrificed to her outlandish gods. Now the flowers will be wilted and the onlookers impatient, and—”
Solomon held up his hand. “Enough, Ahishar; no one blames you. I least of all.” The king smiled. “Now calm yourself. Patience is a virtue.”
The palace steward bowed his head. “Yes, my lord king. Shall I go and tell the king’s wives that there is no sign of the new queen as yet?”
Surely they have guessed that by now.
Solomon glanced up at the queens’ gallery that overlooked the great court. Shadowed gems flashed, gold shimmered; his wives, too, must have grown restless from the long delay. Solomon sighed, and nodded. “Go and tell them, but I charge you not to turn a delay into a disaster.”
“As the king says.” Ahishar bowed again and hastened off, stiff with indignation.
The steward Ahishar loathes disorder as the prophet Ahijah loathes sin.
With the palace steward safely out of sight, Solomon permitted himself a rueful smile. Each time he took another royal bride, the same rituals were observed—yet poor Ahishar fretted over the ceremony of each of the king’s marriages as if it were the first, as if no precedent existed to aid him in his task.
And as if one misstep would bring the sky down around us.
Still smiling, Solomon rose to his feet and laid the lion scepter upon the throne. “As the bridal procession has not yet reached the city, I will return when I hear that it has passed through the Horse Gate.”
Having escaped the throne room, Solomon chose to retreat to the rooftop above, hoping to find a moment’s peace. He laid his hands upon the stones of the wall, stones smooth-fitted and sun-warmed beneath his skin. From the city below rose an ebb and flow of noise, a sound steady as ocean waves.
The sound of peace, of prosperity.
Jerusalem boasted two marketplaces, a modest one in the Old City and a bazaar larger than many villages by the Sheep Gate. Anything in the world could be procured in the King’s Marketplace, from iron arrowheads to silvered rose petals.
Solomon gazed down at the bazaar, watched colors shift as men moved bales of cloth and baskets of fruit through the market, noted bright flashes as women walked through the crowds, seeking bargains. Then he lifted his eyes
beyond the bazaar to the Street of Gods. Foreigners who lived and worked in Jerusalem desired to worship their own gods in their own fashion. Solomon had granted their petitions to build shrines and temples of their own—and had pulled the fangs from any opposition by requiring those shrines and temples to pay a tithe to Lord Yahweh’s Temple and priests.
And so everyone prospers and is pleased enough to keep the peace.
Solomon smiled wryly. Almost everyone. Alas, nothing pleased the prophet Ahijah.
Not even the Lord’s great Temple pleases him. Certainly I do not, nor any of my laws.
He stared across the city to the Temple. The holy building crowned the new city; so much gold had gone into its making that the Lord’s House burned like a second sun in the noon light.
So great a Temple
—Yet sometimes Solomon wondered if the Temple truly had been worth its endless cost.
But it was too late now to draw back. In truth, it had been too late long before the first stone had been laid in the Temple’s deep walls. For the Temple was more than a building raised to the glory of Israel’s god.
The Temple was a trap; a trap so subtle and so burnished with gold and perfumed with spices that Solomon only now realized just how strong were its chains, how heavy its yoke.
A trap my father eluded. And yet they call me Solomon the Wise!
Still, he had earned that epithet honestly enough.
I asked the Lord for wisdom to rule well, to judge justly and fairly. I never thought to ask for freedom as well.
But despite his efforts to bring peace and justice to the kingdom, men grumbled. Too many taxes, too many building projects, too large an army …
Although how they think the roads may be kept safe and the marketplace profitable without taxes and soldiers, I do not know.
Solomon stared again over the palace rooftops to the great Temple. The building crowned Jerusalem, its glory a shining beacon to the Lord’s people. The Temple had taken seven years to complete, and the treasury still paid Hiram of Tyre for the cedar and purple and gold-work that had created a fit house for the Ark of the Covenant, symbol of their god’s presence among them.
But all most men see is that the Temple was finished long since, they do not understand that it must be paid for still. That it must be paid for forever. Just as the king’s court, and the king’s guard, and the king’s army must be paid for. And the Temple must be supplied with incense and spices and oil; the priesthood tending the Temple must be fed and clothed and housed. And
—
“Here now, it is not fit the great King Solomon look so troubled—and on such a day, too!”
Solomon smiled and turned. “And what is so special about this day that I should be mindful of it, Amyntor?”
The Caphtoran’s fanciful garb glittered in the sunlight; the crimson rose tucked behind his ear glowed like dark fire. Amyntor flourished the silver bowl he carried; golden fruit gleamed against the pale metal. “Why, it’s the king’s wedding day.”
“Again,” Solomon pointed out.
“Again. How many wives is it now? The last harpers’ tale I heard credited you with a hundred, each more beautiful than the last!”
“Too much credit. Why do men invent such wild tales?”
“Oh, they are bored, or envious, or simply born liars.” Amyntor laughed, an easy, unfettered sound that rang through the cool air. “Do you even recall how many women you possess, King Solomon?”
“King Solomon numbers forty wives. And can name not only his wives, but his sons.” Solomon paused, added, “I possess none of them.”
“King Solomon is notoriously wise.” Amyntor leaned easily against the parapet, balancing the silver bowl upon the smooth stones. “Which is doubtless why he secludes himself upon his rooftop—watching for his latest queen—and eluding the ubiquitous Ahishar. That man does fuss so!”
Solomon smiled. “Yes, I came up for that, and for peace in which to think.”
“Oho, the king is thinking again. What wisdom have you caught in your nets this time?”
Solomon looked at the farther hilltop, at the great Temple glowing under the sun’s hot light. “That peace and justice are not free. I wish I could make my people understand that.”
“Well, you can’t. I doubt even
your
god—fierce as he is—could make men understand anything so unpleasant as the truth. Don’t waste time wishing for what can never be.” Smiling, Amyntor offered Solomon a gilded fig. “Oh, take it, my lord. Kings should know what gold tastes like.”
“As they should know what gold costs.” Solomon bit into the gleaming fruit; the thin coating of gold melted away like mist upon his tongue. It left no taste at all in his mouth.
“And what does gold cost? A marriage with Colchis?” Amyntor tossed one of the gilded figs into the air, caught it neatly. “Colchis for gold, Troy for horses, Egypt for barley and beer. All the world’s wealth weds Israel now.”
Solomon did not answer; instead he pointed towards a slow river of bright color flowing up the Kidron Valley road to the Horse Gate. “My new bride approaches. Amyntor, will you carry word to the palace steward? Great king that I am, I cannot endure his fretting.”
“With pleasure—and then I shall obtain the first look at your new queen.” With a graceful flourish, Amyntor presented Solomon with the silver bowl and strode off to the stairway, leaving Solomon staring down at half-a-dozen gilded figs, and a puzzled bee that had landed upon the sweet shining fruit.
Gently, Solomon set the bowl down, leaving the bee to discover for itself that the fruit was no more than a bright snare. “I thank you, Amyntor, for your good wishes,” he said softly. Another marriage, another wife.
I do not need another wife; I have too many already. But the kingdom needs another alliance, and so—
And so he would marry to seal yet another treaty, to provide another market, to gain another treasure. For as king, he must care for his people, and think for them, too—
So they need not!
Solomon smiled ruefully, knowing a fleeting desire to share the tart jest. But despite a palace full of people, a harem full of wives, there was no longer anyone with whom he could speak with total freedom. Even Amyntor could not truly understand what bound a king.
No one lives with whom I may share my mind and my heart.
That was true loneliness. Solomon sorely missed the bond that had linked him and his foster mother, Queen Michal, the woman who had nurtured his mind, just as his own mother, Bathsheba, had nurtured his heart. He had been able to speak of anything to Queen Michal and be understood.
And even more keenly, he longed for Abishag.
Abishag, my dove; my heart, my bright jewel among women … .
Although twice seven years had passed since her death, the pain of her loss still bit sharp. Sweet Abishag, clever Abishag, dearest comfort who knew always what to say or do, aiding him in his quest for the right path to tread … .
But Abishag had died bringing their only child into the world. Their daughter, Baalit. Baalit, who was all a father could desire: affectionate, dutiful, obedient.
And fast growing into a woman, a woman for whom he must find a husband.
But not yet! She is a child still. Her marriage can wait.
Even as the thought comforted him, Solomon knew he deceived himself. His daughter neared her fourteenth summer; it was time to settle her future. Past time, were he honest. Baalit should have been betrothed two years
ago.
But I cannot bear to lose her.
She was all that was left to him of Abishag, beloved wife of his youth.
Nevertheless, the sacrifice must be made, for the girl’s own good.
She is entitled to rule in her own house, to have a husband and children. Yes. I will find her a good man here in Jerusalem.
Solomon refused to think of marrying her to a king in a far country.
Baalit will not be used as a playing-piece in the game of politics.
His daughter would wed here, live here, under his eye.
Yes. I will seek a husband for her. Soon.
But not today.
Tomorrow waited, endlessly patient; Solomon knew it would win, in the end. But for today, Abishag’s daughter remained his most precious treasure.
Among so many contentious sons, so many scheming wives, his daughter’s pure affection shone like a jewel in the mud. Baalit was clever, intrepid, and perceptive.
If only she had been born a boy! What a king she would have made.
But no good would come of such thoughts; the world did not mold itself to suit men—even kings.
Rehoboam is my eldest son, and he will be king after me. And Baalit—
King’s daughter or no, Baalit was still only a girl. Few futures lay open to her. In the end, Baalit would live the life her father chose for her.
It was a father’s duty to choose wisely. And a daughter’s to obey.
And truly, there is peace in my household; have I not labored mightily to ensure that?
Having watched as his father played one son, one wife, one priest, against another; as he kept each uncertain of the king’s true intent, Solomon gave to each son with an even hand, treated each wife with equal favor. And he honored the priests without preference.

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