by H. B. Moore
ALSO BY H.B. MOORE
Beneath: An Omar Zagouri Short Story
Esther the Queen
Daughters of Jared
Abinadi
Alma
Alma the Younger
Ammon
The Out of Jerusalem series
PUBLICATIONS UNDER HEATHER B. MOORE
Heart of the Ocean
The Fortune Café
The Aliso Creek series
The Newport Ladies Book Club series
A Timeless Romance Anthology series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Heather B. Moore
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477821428
ISBN-10: 1477821422
Cover design by Cyanotype Book Architects
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014948712
For my father, S. Kent Brown, renowned biblical scholar, who brainstormed the plot with me. The rest is history.
contents
MAP
When the queen. . .
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
EPILOGUE
author’s notes
acknowledgments
about the author
When the queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon . . . she came to Jerusalem with a very great train . . . And king Solomon gave unto the queen of Sheba all her desire . . .
—1 Kings 10:1–2, 10:13, KJV
CHAPTER
1
Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island
Dr. Richard Lyon’s hands trembled as they hovered above the keyboard, hesitant to write the e-mail. He closed his eyes, flexed his reluctant fingers, and exhaled. He knew what had to be done, even if his life were put in jeopardy as a result. An assassination attempt had been made the day before on one of his oldest and dearest friends—the Coptic pope—His Holiness, Patriarch Stephanus II.
And Lyon had just discovered who made that attempt.
The revelation of that person’s identity would rock the foundation of an already unstable government in a country that could not afford such a blow.
Only a select group of scholars knew the real reason why an assassination would be tried in the first place. A tomb had been discovered and on its walls, a map that would change the course of history.
Lyon opened his eyes and forced himself to type as the last glow of day peeked through the dusty blinds. Staying on at the university long past retirement age to continue his research had finally proved beneficial—although not entirely in the manner he expected. Recently, he’d found the final clue that would complete his lifelong study on the queen of Sheba. But first he had to warn the others about the leak of information on the new tomb. His mouth pulled into a grim line as he typed the closing paragraph, then reread his words.
My fellow constituents,
There has been a breach of trust in our exclusive network at DiscoveryArch . . .
As Dr. Lyon read, he leaned back in his worn leather chair, the stubborn wheels beneath groaning at the shifted weight. The computer screen cast its artificial glow upon the books stacked from floor to ceiling—books that contained the written works of ancient explorers and renowned world scholars.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, and the professor turned in anticipation, expecting a student with questions about the midterm humanities paper. Instead, an envelope slid under the door. Lyon rose and picked it up. Curious, he opened his door and looked for the deliverer, but the short hallway was empty.
Leaving the door ajar, the professor settled into his seat and slid his index finger beneath the sealed flap. But there wasn’t a note. In fact, within lay another white envelope identical to the first. Lyon removed it, squinting to read in the near darkness. Printed across the plain front were the words VENITE, DILECTI FILII, EGREDEMINI IN HORTUM.
He stared in dismay at the Latin script—a quote penned by St. Thomas Aquinas on his deathbed. Blood rushed to the professor’s ears as his face heated with disbelief.
Someone already knew.
How had they found him so quickly? Lyon inhaled sharply, realizing that this single envelope had brought his life’s research to a grinding halt.
Slowly he opened the second envelope, catching a waft of almond. Tiny particles of white exploded into the air, invading his nostrils and rushing to his lungs. The impact of the saltlike chemical was almost immediate, and Dr. Lyon felt his thoughts muddle together and blend into a fierce throb. He braced himself against his chair, trying to understand what was happening.
His gaze slid to the envelope he’d dropped on the floor, the contents spilled. The almond scent still hovered in his senses.
Cyanide.
Horrified panic constricted the professor’s chest as he realized that just as St. Thomas Aquinas took his Latin invitation to his death, translated as “Come, beloved sons, go forth into the garden,” Lyon would take his theory of where the queen of Sheba’s “garden” was to his own grave. Within sixty seconds, his breathing became labored, and he gasped for air, air that was all around but that seemed to pulse away from him. I made a . . . mistake. If they had found him so easily, sending the e-mail would make every person on that list a target. The room faded to black, then, for an instant, it lightened again. One last thought of clarity made its way into the professor’s m
ind.
Delete the e-mail.
Dr. Lyon leaned forward, feeling the ground rock beneath his feet as his body started convulsing. Just as darkness collapsed around him, his finger reached the mouse and clicked on the small rectangle box: “Delete.”
CHAPTER
2
North of Jerusalem
Five days earlier
I am a liar . . . at least in their eyes, Omar Zagouri thought.
No other explanation could be given for a three-year-old Palestinian child flinging rocks at a car with an Israeli license plate—except that hatred was taught from infancy. Hatred blinds men and justifies murder. But most of all, hatred lies.
And I represent everything that oppresses them, everything they despise. All the more reason to finish this job and get the hell out of here.
Omar swung his pickax with renewed determination, putting his weight into the motion. He was wiry, but stronger than most men twice his size, and the stone wall crumbled like clay beneath his efforts. Sputtering as dust filled the stale, underground air, he wiped the perspiration from his face with a grimy sleeve.
“We’re close!” said the laborer next to Omar. “Feel the cool air?”
Omar placed his hand against the jagged rock. Cold seeped through the cracks, causing the hairs on his arm to rise. He and several Palestinian laborers had been in the tunnel since daybreak. They had been forced to skip supper as their boss, Khalil, kept urging them on. And now, Omar felt excitement sear through his body. They were close.
Another foot or two, and the tunnel beneath the Israeli border would be complete. Government walls would no longer stop Palestinians from crossing the northern border at their convenience. Just a few days earlier, the wife of Omar’s landlord died from internal bleeding because she had delivered a baby after curfew and couldn’t be taken to the hospital for emergency treatment.
Omar gritted his teeth at the memory and swung the pick again and again with energized force. Although born Israeli and Jewish, he disagreed with some of the decisions made by the government to suppress his fellow Arabs. But the Israeli government was his paycheck. Officially, he was a special agent for the Preservation of Cultural Heritage and Ancient Artifacts. Sounded harmless, but when money and greed were involved, danger followed closely behind. And because Agent Domianos had gotten himself killed, Omar was assigned to the job. The Israeli government was lucky he had a penchant for electronic surveillance, and now, digging.
It had been an exhausting two weeks living in the small village, trying to talk and act like a native Palestinian. Omar felt an itch crawl along his upper lip, and he rubbed at his newly grown mustache. That’s one thing I won’t miss about this undercover job.
Or the digging.
The Israeli government wanted to monitor the tunnel for jihad leaders and weapons smugglers. The tunnel would not be destroyed, nor would Palestinians be prevented from using it. Omar’s job was to gain the trust of the Palestinian villagers, volunteer for the workforce, and then install security cameras along the tunnel ceiling.
His pick pummeled against the rock, which collapsed into . . . black. Excited shouting erupted around him, followed by fierce shushing. He stared at the gap in the stone before him. The draft of cool air poured through as if it had finally found freedom, accompanied by a smell, dank and sour—almost putrid.
“Yallah, yallah!” Khalil shouted, urging the men to hurry.
The men swung their axes again, choking dust billowing around them. It was as if a dam had been broken—the rocky soil caved beneath their picks like goat cheese. Bits of earth pelted Omar, and dust stung his eyes. But he didn’t mind. Caught up in the elation of his coworkers, he was the last one to relax his hold on the handle of his pickax. When the dirt and debris settled, he noticed the slumped shoulders of his friends and their openmouthed amazement. The muddled blackness of the gaping hole before them had dissipated into a soft glow.
But it wasn’t moonlight.
They had broken into an underground cavern.
The flashlight beams bounced off a stone wall several meters away. Slowly the interior walls came into focus. They were covered in painted inscriptions, symbols, diagrams . . . Omar could hardly breathe. In the center of the circular room sat a sarcophagus balanced on a pedestal.
“It’s a tomb,” he whispered.
CHAPTER
3
Southern Arabia
964 BC
Tomorrow my father will arrive with exotic gifts from the coast. Princess Nicaula opened her eyes, adjusting to the early morning glow filtering through the sheer linen enclosing her platform bed. Thoughts of seeing her father, the king of Sheba, after many weeks of absence brought a smile. She listened to the muffled sounds about the palace. No doubt the servants were preparing for the arrival of their king.
The days had been quiet in the desert palace, broken only by the occasional passing caravan, contributing to the gifts of pearls, frankincense, tortoise shells, and gold that lined the walls of the treasury. In return, Nicaula had given the dust-covered Arabians fresh water and fodder for their camels and protection under her royal name. The travelers were content to gaze upon the splendor of statues surrounding the courtyard—statues that had been carved and carried from the limestone cliffs along the Gulf of Aden. Nicaula’s favorite stone was a replica of the sun goddess, `Ashtartu, whom she hoped would bless her with many fertile years.
Rising up on an elbow, Nicaula rang the bell next to her bed. Seconds later, the female servant Azhara appeared, carrying a tray of fragrant oils. Her soft linen tunic swished about her legs as she approached, eyes lowered, dark hair plaited and pulled away from her face. A single gold bracelet adorned her russet-skinned arm—a gift from Nicaula. Azhara bent on one knee and selected a vial of almond oil from the tray for approval.
Nicaula nodded. With swift strokes, the servant applied the balm to Nicaula’s shoulders and arms.
Nicaula closed her eyes, allowing herself to relax with the massage. She hoped her father would bring the latest news of conquests and commerce. He had always counseled his people to be generous to all nations and people, saying one never knew what enemy a new day would bring.
When Azhara finished, Nicaula thanked her and rose from her bed. Azhara helped Nicaula dress in a sheer undershift and then started combing her hair, perfuming it with frankincense.
When satisfied with her appearance, Nicaula crossed to a wide basket she kept in her room. Unlashing the thin rope that held the lid in place, she lifted the lid. Inside the basket, a young cobra slept, and with the introduction of light, its eyes flashed open.
Nicaula began chanting in a low, lyrical voice the words taught to her by her father. In her fifteen years she had not forgotten any of her father’s songs.
We are from the Goddess
To Her we will gather
The snake swayed to the words, keeping rhythm with the chanting.
Like the grains of sand
Collecting on the dune
Outside her sleeping quarters, the sound of running footsteps and shouting reached her. She paused, and the snake recoiled. She looked at Azhara, whose expression remained demure. Nicaula secured the lid before saying, “Go and see what is happening.” She grabbed her outer robe as Azhara hurried to the far side of the chamber. Just as she opened the door, a group of servants burst through, each of them wearing traditional indigo turbans and white robes.
“Forgive us for intruding, O Highness,” said a man with a scant mustache, bending low to the ground. “But the king has been ambushed.”
Nicaula stared at the servant’s bent figure, her mind reeling. Was her father all right? “How far away?”
“Not far—near the rocky hills past the first dune.”
“We shall go to him immediately and take our vengeance on those who dare to waylay the king of Sheba,” she said, trying to keep her voice s
teady. Azhara brought her headdress and fastened a woven silk rope about Nicaula’s waist.
Nicaula looked at the assembled servants. “Prepare the horses, and alert the soldiers. We must leave this moment.”
By the time Nicaula and her entourage reached the outer courtyard, several dozen soldiers were assembled, long daggers secured at their waists. They bowed their heads as she passed by them and walked to her favorite mare, a massive black horse, its muscles gleaming in the sunlight. The black horse pranced at the sight of its mistress. She stroked its face, then, holding out a hand, she allowed the sentinel to help her onto the mare.
A small, stooped man approached. “I hope it is to your satisfaction, Your Majesty.”
She nodded but remained silent, aware of the trembling in her breast that might betray her fear. She gazed across the desert toward the first rise of dunes. Then she turned to the rows of soldiers. “There is no more time to waste. Follow me.” Without waiting for Azhara or the others to mount, she leaned forward against the glossy mare. “Aiyah!”
The horse jerked forward, breaking from the others, and Nicaula tightened her grip as she blended with the motion of the horse. The hard-packed road leading out of the city seemed to melt beneath the mare’s hooves, and soon Nicaula’s hair pulled free of her headdress and streamed behind her as the hot wind tugged at her clothing.
“Aiyah! Aiyah!” she called out. Her heart pounded in rhythm with the powerful strides of her animal. Shouts echoed around her as the others tried to keep pace. Any other day, she would have enjoyed a race.
She expertly maneuvered the horse around the first dune, just above a dry wadi. The hot months had evaporated all signs of water from the seasonal runoff, leaving a few scrub brushes in the water’s place. She urged the horse faster, her own chest heaving just as the animal’s sides struggled for breath. Then Nicaula saw the hills—low and rocky. She lay against the horse, gripping its neck, her own mouth dry with fear as foam sprayed from the mare’s mouth.