Confessions of a Sheba Queen

by Autumn Bardot

  “Don’t worry, I won’t. You’re my lucky camel.”

  The old cow farted.

  “Have you seen Nasreen?” The leopard kitten was not in the pack.

  The camel rumbled a reply.

  “You’re probably right. This is no place for kittens. I miss her all the same though. She saved my life.”

  The camel stretched her neck to the sky and hooted in protest.

  “Yes, yes, so did you. Both of you are sent by Almaqah.”

  The camel lowered her head and nuzzled me.

  I went to the herbalist next.

  “Good afternoon. Duvsha, daughter of Kepha the bead maker, recommended you.”

  A skinny, sharp-faced woman looked up from her berry mashing with mortar and pestle. “Duvsha is a nice young woman. Kepha’s a horny goat. Always wants to get under my dress.” She tucked a wide white streak of hair behind her ear, stared until I grew uneasy, then resumed pulverizing. “I don’t do business with strangers.”

  “My name is Bilqīs. I’m an orphan. My mother was murdered in a town far from here.”

  “I’m Gula.” Her face pinched tighter. “We exchanged names but you’re still a stranger.”

  “I’ll pay double.”

  Gula’s hand twisted as she mashed. “So you’re a desperate orphan.”

  “I want to buy the plant leaves that prostitutes use. I could get the plant myself, but I’m not from here, so I don’t know where it grows beyond Ma’rib’s walls.”

  Gula snorted. “So you’re a sassy desperate orphan with a knowledge of herbs. You don’t look like a prostitute.”

  “You don’t look like an herbalist.”

  Gula cackled, her pinched expression unfurrowing into a slightly less angry one. “What does an herbalist look like, eh?”

  “Old.”

  “I’m adding honest to my list of your traits.” She cocked a white eyebrow. “Forced to marry an old man? No? Then maybe you’re a temple priestess who likes fucking the priests? No? Then maybe you’re a—”

  “Why do you need to know?” I put my hands on my hips.

  She pointed to her white streaks. “Do you know how I got these streaks of white in my hair?”

  “No, we only just met.”

  “Should I add stupid to the list? No, I think you’re just feisty.” Gula set down the pestle and wiped her hands on a rag. “I was about your age, and helping my father in this very shop. Father had gone to gather herbs when a young woman came in and told me she needed to poison her husband. She told me he was an evil man that made her do terrible things and did terrible things to her. I believed her stories of his raping her and making her suck the cocks of all his old friends, and beating her if the food was not to his liking. I felt sorry for her, so I made her a poison, a fast-acting powerful potion that I told her to mix in his beer.

  “The very next day, I learned that the farming minister died. Poisoned as he drank his beer. He was a good man, loved by all, knew farming, understood the soil—a man the king did not like. The king was trying to replace him with one of his own sniveling sycophants. I came to find out the king and the girl were lovers, and that he promised her riches if she poisoned her husband. What do you think happened next?”

  “She became one of his wives?”

  “King Hasan slit her throat.” She dragged a pointed fingernail across her neck. “I was responsible for killing two people. The honest farming minister and his cheating wife. This streak of white appeared the very next morning. I refused to help my father anymore. Until the day he died. Then I went to the hillside outside of town and picked herbs. I learned a lesson. I have a dangerous power. Never again will I make a concoction—any kind of concoction—without knowing my customer.” She crossed her arms. “So tell me, Bilqīs—feisty honest orphan—are you a faithless wife, an unhappy bride, or a horny priestess?”

  “I am none of those.”

  “Then why don’t you want the blessing of children?”

  I owed her an explanation. “One day perhaps. But first I must find and take my revenge on the five assassins who murdered my mother and took her head as a trophy.”

  Gula leaned forward, her finger under her chin. “Why is your mother’s head a trophy? Who was she? A high priestess? A queen?” One corner of her mouth lifted. “A sorceress?”

  “I don’t know.” The lie tasted bitter in my mouth.

  “Mmmm.” Gula’s head tilted and one eye narrowed. “Seems strange that five assassins were needed to murder one woman of no consequence.”

  “Very strange.” I offered an innocent smile and did not flinch despite her studied gaze. “A riddle I intend to solve when I find them.”

  “Some riddles are best left unsolved.” Gula’s lips pressed into a thin smile, then she turned her attention to rifling through a basket. “Ah, here it is.” She pulled out a bundle of weeds and wrapped them in old cloth.

  I paid the fee, thanked her, and headed for the door.

  “Stop!” Gula barked.

  Her voice sent a chill down my spine. I turned around slowly.

  Gula pointed, one thin accusing finger in the air. “I know the answer.”

  My heart pounded in my throat. “To what?”

  “Your riddle.” She walked around the counter. “I see your smokeless fire.”

  This was a first. A chill burned through my skin.

  “Wh—” Gula stopped short, her jaw slack. “I saw it. It’s gone now, but I swear I saw the bright light of energy like a cocoon around you. You are a jinni.”

  “The shadows play tricks on your eyes.” I clutched the package to my chest. “I am not a jinni.” Not a full jinni, anyway.

  Gula tapped her chin. “There is jinn in your blood. In your mother’s perhaps?”

  “I don’t know. My family is dead.” I wanted to run out of there, before whatever bright light of energy she saw returned.

  “Bilqīs, let me offer some advice: Be careful. Treachery is everywhere. And the revenge you seek often has no end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Vengeance is sweetest at the precise moment it is tasted. But it turns bitter in one’s belly without a worthy ambition.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Your heart does. Your mind”—Gula tapped her head—“fights the inescapable.”

  “Um . . . thank you for the advice.” My stomach was queasy, Gula’s insight curdling like sour milk.

  I walked distractedly into the street, my mind struggling to come to terms with what my heart already pounded for, each beat taking me closer to my destiny.

  My Great Destiny: it was more than revenge.

  Did I dare let my head believe what I felt in my heart? Did I dare attempt the impossible?

  Or was my Great Destiny nothing more than the ramblings of a crazy nomad who had fooled Momma into believing the ultimate fantasy?

  I wandered into Kepha’s shop in a dreamlike trance.

  “Bilqīs!” Tears ran down Kepha’s face as he rushed toward me. “They took her! They took Duvsha!”

  CHAPTER 18

  Kepha hurled a stool across the room. “Soldiers came!” He spun around and pointed to a palm-sized carnelian cabochon on his worktable. “They brought me that! They demanded I make King Hasan a ten-strand carnelian necklace immediately.” His square face contorted with fear and rage. “They said I wouldn’t get Duvsha back until the necklace is delivered!” He clawed his hands through his hair. “I don’t have enough carnelian. I don’t have near enough!”

  I recalled Duvsha telling me that the dark-orange stone promised strength and the ability to defeat one’s enemies.

  A strange calmness draped over me like a favorite shawl, the dreamy reverie of a moment ago crystalizing into acute awareness. “Have you made a necklace for King Hasan before?”

  “Never. Something must have happened to the palace jeweler.”

  “What can I do?”

  Kepha paced back and forth. “I need stones! We must go to every bead ma
ker and jeweler in town and buy all their carnelian.” He stopped pacing. “Where did they take her, Bilqīs? Is she in a dungeon? In the harem? Where?”

  “You can’t think about that. You’ll drive yourself mad with worry. Get your coins and let’s get those stones.”

  Kepha spun around. “Coins?” His eyes squeezed closed. “I don’t have enough. I’ll have to trade . . .”

  “I have money.” I lifted the small leather purse around my neck. “I can sell my camel if I have to.” The old cow would understand.

  Kepha hugged me tight. “You were sent by Almaqah.” He kissed my forehead. “There is no time to waste.” He scooped up a handful of precious stones.

  We split up the list of bead makers and jewelers, but not before Kepha wrote a letter proving I worked for him. As I walked from shop to shop bartering and buying carnelian, I knew Almaqah had given me a clear sign. I must embrace my destiny. I must save Saba from tyranny.

  We returned to the house later that evening and poured the carnelian on the table. It wasn’t enough for a ten-strand necklace. Maybe five. We did not speak. Why discuss the obvious?

  “I’ll get started.” Kepha moved the oil lamps onto the table.

  “Can I help?”

  Kepha shook his head. “It’s best I have no distractions.”

  I slunk into the back room and sat heavily on the stool next to the sorting table. Atop it lay the long ruby necklace. I ran my fingers over the beads.

  It spoke. I listened.

  The ruby necklace told me how to gain an audience with King Hasan. Tonight.

  I lifted the strand over my head, and let its inner flame ignite my own.

  Tonight I would kill an evil tyrant and begin my Great Destiny.

  CHAPTER 19

  I sat a long time on that stool, my fingers gliding up and down the ruby necklace. My mind played out every conceivable plan for getting into the palace.

  The call of a night bird roused me from my trance. It was Almaqah telling me the time had come, that destiny waited.

  I peeked into the front room. Kepha was hunched over his beads, lost in concentration on the stones in his hands. I crept to the third floor, to Duvsha’s room, lit a lamp, and searched through her cosmetics.

  Holding up her small copper mirror, I lined my eyes with charcoal, smudging it into a smoky point. I applied the only color Duvsha had, a subtle orange ochre, to my lids. I shook out my braid, sprinkled it with scented oil, and combed it through until my tresses were soft and shiny. Then I restyled it. I wound one thick braid around my head like a crown, the other two made long loops that brushed across my shoulders.

  I darkened my brows and dabbed honey on my lips and nipples. I chewed on mint and rock salt to freshen my breath. I took off my dress and applied Duvsha’s creams to my entire body. Next, I wrapped two of her best shawls around me. The first I tied around my torso, the other I draped over my head and shoulders. I roped the ruby necklace so it called attention to my cleavage.

  Dressed for seduction, I went back downstairs and tiptoed out the back door into the alley. At the corner, I saw a familiar shape. My heart leapt.

  Nasreen mewed.

  “Shhhh.” I ran toward her, scooped her up, and nuzzled her neck. “I’ve been so worried. Where have you been?”

  Nasreen’s purr was evasive.

  “I can’t take you with me. I might . . . I might die tonight.” Even the best plans failed.

  Nasreen meowed, jumped from my arms, and raced after a mouse.

  “Get him,” I whispered. Tonight we were both predators.

  Except I was not a beast of prey hungry for the kill. I only wanted justice. For Momma, for Sabaeans, and for Duvsha.

  “Give me strength, Almaqah. Let your will be done.”

  The streets were empty, suffused with the glow of a half moon. I walked, quickly, lightly, checking over my shoulder to see if someone followed me. I turned the street, hurried on, and when I looked back again, I saw Nasreen with the mouse dangling between her teeth.

  I did not have speed or sharp teeth. I had only my wits and body. I hoped it was enough.

  At the pub, I hid in the shadows and studied the line of guards across the pavilion. The first obstacle: Getting past the guards.

  I took a deep breath and pressed the ruby beads into my skin. I needed their passion and protection.

  A guardsman shouted and pointed to the sky. I lifted my eyes. A long trail of blue-tinged white light blazed across the sky.

  A sign from Almaqah. I was certain of it!

  I shadowed my face with the shawl, then strode across the pavilion to the guard posted at the gate.

  “I am the Gift.” My voice was clipped with arrogant impatience.

  “Eh? What gift?” The guard’s beady little eyes stared down his humped nose at me.

  “The Gift. He’s expecting me.”

  “Who’s expecting you?” he drawled with a bored tone.

  I lowered my voice. “King Hasan.”

  “Hey,” said the gate guard to the one standing opposite. “Did you hear anything about this gift?”

  “No.” He glared at me from under his leather helmet.

  “Where is your captain?” I asked. “I demand to speak with him.”

  The two guards exchanged an anxious glance.

  “I’m not the captain’s keeper,” said the first guard.

  I stood tall, lifted my chin. “Permit me entrance or suffer the king’s wrath.”

  The guards conferred in whispers.

  “Who sent you?” asked the gate guard.

  “The high priest of—” I slapped my hand over my mouth.

  “Like that, is it?” He smirked at the second guard. “I told you the king was not doing right by Almaqah.” He turned to me. “Which god do you serve?”

  “You’re wasting the king’s time. I am the Gift.”

  The second guard snapped his fingers. “You serve Ta’lab.” He elbowed the first guard. “The king has no son, get it? No heir, no empire.” He smirked at me. “Going to be sacrificing your cunt to the king’s cock tonight? Beget him an heir?”

  Both guards snickered and pantomimed a rutting man.

  “Like I said, I am the Gift.” I parted my shawl at the neck and gave them a peek at the rubies glowing red and pink against my skin.

  The gate guard shrugged. “It’s the pink jewel between your legs that matters.”

  I flashed the shawl open, my nakedness revealed. Their eyes bugged out. “King Hasan is waiting. I cannot delay. You saw the sign in the sky, didn’t you?” Head held high, I strutted past them.

  I held my breath. Waited to hear their “halt.” Waited to feel a blade at my back. They did not stop me.

  Attitude, I learned that day, was everything.

  “Let her pass,” called the gate guard to the two sentries posted at the towering red front door.

  The sentries heaved back the doors and I sashayed inside like I belonged there. When the doors clanged shut behind me, I breathed with relief.

  But only for a moment. My breath hitched in my throat when I stared into the dim, cavernous space. I felt like a mouse trapped in a cave. Pressing the rubies to my skin, I blinked until my eyes adjusted to the dappled flickering light of the oil lamps, each one casting gloomy shadows that trembled in the corners. Or perhaps those specters reflected my own quivering courage.

  The halls were vacant, not a single servant about. I whispered thanks to Almaqah who, in turn, stirred memories of lessons from my architecture teacher.

  Most palaces were the same, he had said, U-shaped structures with a courtyard in the center. The harem ought to be located at the rear and near the king’s quarters.

  My head swiveled from right to left. Where were King Hasan’s chambers?

  The floor spoke to me. Not out loud, of course, but the stone slabs on the right appeared slightly more worn than the left. I went right.

  Although the braziers cast only a feeble light, I saw the beauty of the artwork on the wall
s. A bull’s head, a wide-winged eagle struggling with a giant serpent, a young boy holding a teeth-baring, lion-faced fish by its tail; masterpiece after masterpiece graced the walls and niches. Such artistry!

  I did not pause or slow my pace, and continued down the lighted path. I did not consider turning into unlit hallways. No king walked in darkness. At least not the physical kind.

  Each step brought me closer to revenge. To my Great Destiny. Each step forward swelled my confidence. And then I reached an expansive carved entryway flanked by tall lion-footed braziers. All my nerve plummeted into my stomach as I stared into the royal courtyard, the entrance to King Hasan’s private chambers.

  The garden courtyard was a lush space with trees, shrubs, statuary, and a pool that glistened in the moonlight. On either side, below canopied terraces, couches, chairs, and tables were arranged for intimate gatherings. Each terrace appeared identical. At first.

  Defining details emerged as I studied each side of the courtyard. The right wing had twice the windows—real windows—supported by stone mullions. The red door was twice as large, and twinkled as though set with gemstones.

  It was the door to King Hasan’s room. It had to be.

  I stepped through the entryway.

  A long sword crossed my belly.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” asked the gruff voice at the other end of the sword. The man smelled like the floor of an alehouse, and dark shadows ringed his dilated eyes.

  I swallowed the fear in my throat and pushed away his blade as though it were as dangerous as a feather. “I am the Gift. The king waits for me.”

  Unimpressed by my arrogance, the guard grabbed my arm. “What kind of gift are you?” His foul breath was more lethal than his sword.

  “The best kind.” I pushed aside my shawl to reveal the ruby necklace draped over my naked breasts.

  “Who sent you?” His hand sprung toward the necklace.

  I drew the shawl closed. “Tsk-tsk. The king wouldn’t like that at all.” I leaned close (quite a feat considering his fetid breath) and whispered as though we were conspirators. “This necklace was commissioned by a minster’s wife—I don’t know which one—but I heard she’s a greedy—”