by H. B. Moore
“Exactly.” Lucas’s voice was flat. “And that’s why we need to contact the patriarch as soon as possible and let him know about this development.” He glanced around, as if he expected someone to discover them at any moment. “Don’t you see? This changes everything. It seems as if Tambariah was every place King Solomon should have been . . . In fact, this additional evidence of Tambariah’s existence on the Azhara statute might be proof that Solomon never existed.”
Her mind reeled. A new discovery, and she was one of the first witnesses.
“There’s more. Thugs like those in AWP look for diversions like this. They send a few ‘scholars’ to any new discovery and make a lot of noise. Meanwhile, they’re free to break international laws without the usual scrutiny.”
“Do you think the statue is a fake?”
“Not unless it’s a very good copy. But it may have been brought here from another location. Once this leaks to the press, this place will end up a field day for experts of all kinds.”
It was hard for Jade to imagine this quiet, serene site being a hotbed of controversy. “Can I take pictures before we leave?”
“Just a few. We need to conceal our suspicions. We’ll join the others for tea. Then after ten minutes, you need to claim some calamity.”
“Like I have the flu?”
“Something like that.” He looked around again. “Let’s return and hurry this thing up.”
Twenty minutes later, Jade sat in the front seat of the Land Rover, cradling her head against her alleged migraine. Dr. Maskel had offered to take them to the nearest taxi depot, and it seemed rude to refuse. The ride to the depot was silent, if not tense. After Lucas and Jade thanked Maskel, they climbed into the backseat of a taxi. Rosary beads hung from the driver’s rearview mirror, and the radio played, a slow melodic tune teasing the air. Lucas patted her hand, flashing his white smile. “Well done.”
Jade’s temperature went up a notch, even though he’d done nothing more than praise her as a teacher might a student. As the taxi sped back to Addis Ababa, Lucas took out his phone and wrote an e-mail to the patriarch.
“Are we still going to Yemen?” Jade asked.
Lucas brought a finger to his lips, motioning for Jade to speak quietly. He leaned close to her. “Everything will move quicker now. How many pictures did you get?”
“Six or seven.” She pulled out her phone. Lucas inched closer and looked at the pictures with her.
“Wait, go back to the previous one.”
Jade reversed direction and handed the phone to him. The picture showed a full-frame shot of the statue’s profile.
“Why didn’t I notice this before?” Lucas murmured. He tipped the angle to dispel the glare of the sun. “This statue is pregnant.”
Though she knew what he meant, Jade smiled at the absurdity of an inanimate object being pregnant. “If it’s true, it’s not very obvious.”
“Look.” Lucas rotated the phone toward her, and with his pinky, he pointed at a muted marking on the woman’s bared belly. “First sign—her stomach is uncovered. The second—this circular marking represents the continuum of life.”
Jade leaned close and peered at the image. “And her child?”
“Perhaps the answer is buried beneath one of the obelisks. But that excavation is out of our hands. Once word gets out about the Azhara statue, archaeologists will be pulling their government strings to lay claim on every square foot of that field.”
“Do you think Azhara is the queen of Sheba?”
Lucas handed the phone back and glanced out the window. “It’s always possible, although the Israelis and the Yemenis won’t like it. Part of their national identities are linked to the queen’s heritage.”
A chime from his own phone interrupted him. He read the incoming e-mail, then looked at Jade. “Illegal excavation is under way in Oman in the same area that the patriarch secured for Dr. Lyon.”
“By AWP members?” Jade whispered, her mind whirling.
“Yes, and it looks like we’re heading straight there. We’ll have to take our own guards with us, of course.” Lucas lowered the phone and turned his full attention to her. “Five years ago, Dr. Lyon discovered some inscriptions on the ruins of Shisur—an ancient oasis in western Oman. Through carbon dating, they were linked to a mere century after the queen’s era, but Lyon always believed the testing was done inaccurately.”
“Do you think AWP is trying to cover up the evidence at this site too?”
“Possibly. AWP doesn’t want the queen’s tomb found in Oman, just as the Ethiopians don’t want the tomb found any place other than Ethiopia.”
“So what can we do?”
“Raise a lot of noise and hope it scares off AWP. They won’t take kindly to outsiders coming into their ‘territory.’ Regardless, we have permission to use the site and to inspect the inscriptions for ourselves.” He paused, holding her gaze. “If any evidence can be linked to the queen’s era, you’re going to have one hell of a thesis.”
CHAPTER
18
Saba
960 BC
The morning air was frigid as Nicaula stepped onto the terrace that adjoined the bedchamber of her newly remodeled palace. Everything was peaceful, and the evidence of battle had long since faded. Weeks had melted into months, and with the passing of time, the kingdom of Saba prospered. Her servant, Azhara, thrived in her safe surroundings, and Batal commanded the ever-training soldiers.
The sound of donkey carts clamoring over the flagstone below sent a smile to Nicaula’s face. She remembered watching the activity from a similar balcony in another place, where as a young child she ached to play with the village children, but her father told her she was meant for something better. He had taught her to read, though he knew he could be punished for it. He had taught her military strategy, and he had whispered in her ear that someday she would be queen.
Now, in the dappled gold of the morning sun, Nicaula let her gaze stray beyond the browned buildings. In the past months, Saba had become a major trading stop on the frankincense trail. Outside of the city, a trail had formed, bringing commerce in spices, incense, and exotic treasures. Caravans chose the city as a resting place to resupply their food and water, all for small fees to the government and offerings to the temples.
Nicaula looked at the merchants’ campsites dotting the open desert. They would spend a week or two haggling with other vendors over the price of their wares, only to pack up and move on when disputes could not be settled. Often, Batal or another member of the high ranks interfered and offered a compromise—one that benefited both the merchants and the queen.
The sharp sound of horse’s hooves grew closer, and Nicaula turned her attention to the street below. Around the bend, a rider came into view. Batal. The queen watched the commander expertly maneuver his horse around carts and people. His shoulders were broad and his confidence matured. In just a few months, Batal had become a man, and the queen felt a slight twist in her stomach as the light reflected off his ebony curls. From her perch, she saw the muscles defined in both horse and rider.
Bittersweet.
Footfalls sounded behind the queen, and she turned to see Azhara. Over time, the servant’s body had become soft and womanly. The gentle folds of her simple tunic emphasized her mature curves. Her hair had grown back to its former luster, the plaited locks intertwined with strips of linen. The queen had noticed men watching Azhara—their eyes alive with interest. But the maidservant’s gaze held only emptiness toward them.
Azhara bowed her head. “The court awaits, O Queen.”
A rare flicker of warmth had passed through her eyes, and Nicaula smiled at her faithful servant. “The court may continue their wait. This day is too beautiful to spend beneath a palm roof.” She turned and placed her hands on the cool wall. “Call for my horse to be prepared, and Azhara, I would like you to accompany us.”
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The shuffle of steps left the balcony, and Nicaula smiled to herself. Judgment and regulations could wait a while; today, she wanted to immerse herself in the people.
A short time later, she settled onto the back of her newest horse, its fine coat gleaming Arabian black, while half a dozen guards accompanied her as they rode through the streets. Merchants and villagers alike drew out of their way, bowing their heads in respect. Nicaula smiled at the eager children who ran alongside the impromptu procession, their teeth flashing against their browned faces.
By the time the party reached the outer gate of the city, they had quite a following. Batal, on his usual patrol, had the gates swung wide. He glanced curiously at the queen, but she kept her gaze forward, ignoring the radiating heat that seemed to pulse between them. She knew that at any moment she could command him to come to her . . .
The people thought she needed to produce an heir before she grew too old, yet the tribal chiefs and sheiks who lived in the surrounding lands had not interested her enough. Too old, too young. None compared to Batal . . . The queen shook her head free of the permeating thoughts.
The desert air rushed against her face, its morning coolness belying the imminent heat. The outside market was already alive with aggressive bartering where makeshift tents sat in a wide circle, rugs displaying goods—frankincense, turtle shells, textiles, transparent gems. The queen stopped in front of a line of sewn goatskins filled with spices when a grizzled merchant stepped forward, displaying a nearly toothless grin. “From the East. Very fine, very pure.”
Nicaula dismounted, noticing the hush from the surrounding vendors as she bent over a skin containing a coarse, red spice.
“Cinnamon,” the merchant offered. “It adds sweetness.”
The queen thrust her hand into the warm crystals and turned her arm until she could touch the base. No rocks.
She withdrew her hand and brought a pinch to her lips, the aromatic flavor bursting against her tongue. “I will take the entire lot.”
The merchant bobbed his head and thanked her over and over in a rapid dialect, but the queen waved him off and walked on. She stopped at the next display and inspected the soft nuggets of yellowed frankincense. The merchant sat huddled beneath his crooked shelter, rocking back and forth. Nicaula waited a moment, expecting the man to rush forward with a fervent greeting.
She bent and picked up a nugget, but still the merchant swayed in his tent. Silence fell around her as the guards waited her command. Disrespect would carry a heavy fine or even punishment. With the sudden quiet, Nicaula listened to the soft chants that came from the man in an unfamiliar dialect, short and rhythmic. The queen walked to the entrance of his tent as two guards flanked her, their daggers drawn.
The words were lyrical, as if the man spoke a tale or sang a poem. When her eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior, the queen saw that the figure was not a man, but a woman. “What are you singing?”
A young boy emerged from the shadows, standing protectively tall. “My mother cannot hear nor see you.”
Nicaula appraised the boy, from his matted hair and huge dark eyes, to his cracked feet. “You brought this frankincense across the desert with an ill mother?”
“No.” The boy’s black eyes darted to the ground. “Yahweh helped us.”
“Yahweh is your father?”
“Our god.”
“Tell me of this god, Yahweh. Does he rule the night or the day?”
“Yahweh rules both the day and the night.”
Nicaula arched a brow. Something about the young child intrigued her—his assurance, his protection of his mother, and his somber eyes that were like the deep wells of the desert. “No god can rule both, or the elements will fall out of balance and bring destruction.”
“My mother told me that our god is the supreme ruler over all.” His gaze strayed toward his mother, his mouth pulling into a frown.
“What else did she tell you?”
The woman’s chanting began again, her hunched form swaying back and forth. The guards gripped their daggers tighter.
“What is she saying now?” the queen asked.
“She tells the story of the great king of Jerusalem.”
Nicaula’s pulse rushed until it sounded in her ears. “How great is this king?”
“Greater than any king alive or dead. Yahweh speaks to him. My mother was his concubine.”
“This king is your father?”
“Yes.”
“How can a great king let his son live as a nomad and the mother of his son travel the desert alone?” Nicaula’s gaze didn’t miss the worn tent panels, the small stash of dates, and the threadbare rugs on which they stood.
“My mother left the kingdom when her face and ears were burned. The king demands perfection, and she was too ashamed to let him see her.”
Nicaula looked at the chanting woman with renewed interest. It was difficult to see her face in the shadows of the mantel covering her head, but the queen noticed the woman’s hands. They were not old as Nicaula had assumed, but smooth and slender. This woman was young and must have been beautiful once to attract the attention of a king. “What is your name, boy?”
“David. I am named after my father’s father.”
“Come, little David. Come outside and tell us this story of the great king and his god.”
The queen’s entourage gathered around the young boy as he told of the great king and his palace and many wives and concubines. Nicaula was captivated by the tales of Solomon’s wealth and wisdom that came from the god Yahweh. Over the next weeks and months, the queen requested the boy’s presence daily and asked for story after story until she had everything about the king of Jerusalem committed to memory. The queen learned of Solomon’s vast amounts of gold and silver, and his throne of ivory with twelve lions on one side. David told her about the exotic animals such as apes and peacocks. She marveled that Solomon ate on plates of gold, and that he had over one thousand chariots.
Nicaula gave the young David and his mother quarters close to the palace and saw that the royal healer cared for his mother.
Batal seemed especially interested in the powers of Yahweh. When David spoke of his god, Batal’s demeanor changed and his skin seemed to glow like fresh honey. Day after day, David’s stories drew in his audience, and soon, Nicaula started to dream of the king herself.
And each night when she lay in her bed alone, she thought of the little boy with curly hair and dark eyes—and wondered how much he looked like his father.
CHAPTER
19
The Frankincense Trail
960 BC
Nicaula’s skin tingled in anticipation. The king’s gold-and-ivory throne floated above the ground, supported by powerful djinns, and the six golden steps leading to the massive edifice were flanked by beasts and birds. Slowly, he turned his head, his face handsome and powerful, framed by tight copper curls. His eyes, the color of dark honey, focused on her. Beneath his gaze, Nicaula felt awed. This man ruled over the greatest kingdom in the world.
Behind the throne was the grand gallery, lined with at least one hundred women. All were dressed in colorful robes of silk, their skin and hair oiled, just as the boy had told her. The great king had many wives and hundreds of concubines. Here were only a few.
Suddenly, the king descended the stairs. As he reached the third step from the bottom, a pair of golden bulls bawled; on the second step, brass lions stretched their mouths open into a roar. Nicaula admired the king as he reached the final step, sending the bronze eagles’ wings flapping.
The king stood before her, and Nicaula was immediately struck by his short stature. Upon the throne, he appeared the height of two men, but now . . . The queen bowed her head. He took her hand, and when she lifted her head, he leaned close, his lips nearly touching hers.
“O Queen.” The distant voice cut through Nica
ula’s vivid dream. She opened her eyes, blinking against the fading light that seeped through the tent panel. She had dreamt the same dream in Saba and many times along the trail to Jerusalem. It was a message from her soul that she was to meet this great king and his all-powerful god. “I am awake,” she called out.
Azhara entered the tent, her skin browned to nearly black, as they had been traveling for several moons. The queen pushed away the disconcerting thoughts of the foreign king’s lips closing in on hers, wondering if her recurring dream was a vision—a premonition that she was destined to marry a king. Her father had taught her that the djinns spoke through dreams.
“Is the meal prepared?” Nicaula asked, and it was then the queen noticed the wild look in the servant’s eyes. “What is it?”
“The horizon is black—a sandstorm is coming.” The tent panels slapped against the crusted sand floor as if to confirm.
The queen pushed past Azhara and stared at the dark mass creeping toward the oasis.
“We must take cover inside.” Azhara’s voice was unnaturally high as she joined the queen.
“Listen.” Nicaula gripped her servant’s arm, looking at the sky, then back to the darkened form. “The wind blows the wrong direction, and the sky is unchanged.” As the women stood in tense silence, the queen gradually distinguished a low hum.
“What is it? Rain?”
“Rain would be a gift. What is approaching is a curse.” She turned to the servant. “Find Batal.”
Azhara rushed off, and moments later, she appeared with Batal. He hurried to Nicaula’s side and bowed low.
“The beasts are hobbled, goods secured . . .” He looked from one woman to the other. “You have not followed my instructions.”
The queen held up her hand. “Were it a sandstorm, I would agree. But this is much, much worse.” She extended her arm toward the growing cloud. “Those are locusts.”