The Judgment

by D. J. Niko

  “Rise, Elihoreph. We have much to do.”

  The young man with sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes met Zadok’s gaze. “I await your command.”

  “We must send word to the pharaoh of Egypt. A child has been born to his daughter.”

  “A joyous occasion.”

  Zadok raised both eyebrows. “Indeed. Let us make haste now.” It was important to waste no time in delivering the news to Solomon’s father-in-law and greatest ally.

  Elihoreph returned to his table and pulled a stretch of papyrus from a shelf. Though papyrus was not endemic to Israel, it was one of the privileges of the now-robust trade with Egypt. The scribe smoothed it with his hands, picked up a reed stylus, and waited.

  Zadok dictated. “Esteemed Psusennes, great pharaoh of Lower Egypt, greetings come your way from the house of Solomon.” He paused to let Elihoreph work. Writing was painstaking business, and it could take hours.

  After a period that seemed interminable, the scribe looked up and signaled to Zadok to continue.

  “Today the kingdom rejoices in the birth of the first royal child, the offspring of your daughter.” He paused again, later adding, “A girl whose name shall be Basemath.”

  It was tradition for highborn children to be named by the kingdom’s high priest. Zadok had chosen the name for its meaning—sweet-smelling. It was a benign choice, devoid of symbolism or lofty references to faith and piety, since the mother was a nonbeliever. Besides, Solomon had made a covenant with Psusennes about the child’s dual education, which included the religions of both her parents.

  “See that this is delivered to the pharaoh right away,” he told the scribe, who was still laboring over the letters. “The king’s swiftest horses have been readied for this moment.”

  He turned to leave. As he walked, there was a bang at the wooden door. “Enter.”

  The door opened slowly, and a shaft of saffron light shone onto the floor. A messenger stood at the threshold. “The king requires your appearance at the birth chamber, Kohain. He asks that you not delay.”

  As Zadok exited the room, he felt the warm kiss of late afternoon on his face. He raised the hood of his garment to protect his head from the blazing sun and walked toward the west wing.

  Solomon waited in the antechamber as the nurses prepared mother and baby for his visit. He smiled when he saw his priest. “Ah, Zadok. You have arrived in time. We will meet her together.”

  “May she have a long and blessed life, my lord.” Zadok studied the king’s face: his forehead was tight, betraying his worry. He decided to say nothing about it; there were others in the room.

  A nurse stood at the doorway, bowing deeply before the king. “They are ready, my lord.”

  Two guards entered first. “All hail King Solomon,” they announced in unison.

  Solomon, dressed in a short garment the color of the sea with a red linen scarf draped across his body, walked into the room. Zadok followed.

  Nicaule was sitting upright on the bed, her lap covered by a sheepskin. Her face was fully made up, and her straight black hair appeared neat and glossy. Her chin was high, her countenance devoid of emotion.

  “Bring me the child,” Solomon said.

  A nurse reached into the cradle next to the mother’s bed and lifted the crying infant. The tiny girl’s face was bright red, a stark contrast to her white swaddling clothes. The nurse handed the baby to Solomon.

  He held her in the crook of his left arm and gazed upon her face, which was twisted with displeasure. He held his right pinkie to the corner of her mouth, and she suckled it. She ceased to cry and looked at him with wide eyes. King and infant gazed at each other for a long moment. Then Solomon reached inside the baby’s linen blanket and freed her right hand. He gently lifted her tiny, curled fingers and exposed her palm. He ran his thumb across a birthmark that looked like a brown stain inside the child’s hand.

  The hair on Zadok’s arms stood on end.

  Solomon and David both had the same mark on their right palms.

  As Solomon regarded the newborn, the tension on his face vanished; in its place was a soft smile that spoke of a deep serenity. There was no question in Zadok’s mind: Solomon saw himself in the baby girl’s face.

  The king turned to his priest. “Zadok. What name do you give this child?”

  Zadok bowed slightly. “Basemath, my lord.”

  Solomon held the girl high and looked up at her. “Behold my firstborn: Princess Basemath. Blessed be she”—he glanced at Nicaule—“and her mother.”

  He handed the baby to the nurse, who delivered her to Nicaule. The new mother parted her gown to reveal a breast and let the baby feed.

  Solomon kneeled next to her bed. She turned to him. There was a vacant look in her dark eyes, as if she were incapable of feeling. He took her free hand and touched his forehead to it but said nothing. He stood and left the room.

  Zadok stayed a moment longer and intoned a prayer. When he looked up, he noticed Nicaule’s eyes were misting. She turned away.

  He let her be and retreated to the antechamber. He looked for Solomon, but he was long gone.

  11

  In the thick of night, Nicaule rapped on the door of Irisi’s chamber. It had been days since she could sleep. She wandered the halls of the west wing like the undead, bound to torment.

  Her friend came to the door. Her eyes were heavy with sleep. “My lady?”

  Nicaule spoke softly. “I have something important to ask of you.”

  Irisi held the door open, checking up and down the corridor for activity. When Nicaule was inside, she closed and boarded the door. “What keeps you awake at such an hour, my lady?”

  “I have no rest. There is something I must do, and it haunts me.”

  Irisi lit a small clay oil lamp. Its meager flame cast a copper glow onto the shadows, making the peaks and valleys of her facial bones look like desert dunes in twilight. “What is it that cannot wait until morning?”

  Nicaule grasped both of Irisi’s arms. “I need your help. I must send a message to Shoshenq. I cannot risk doing it by day. It is far too . . . sensitive.”

  Irisi frowned. “I do not think this is a good idea.”

  “I care not what you think.” Nicaule’s voice was harsher than she intended. She sighed. “Just do as I ask.”

  The scribe walked to the back of the room, where she kept her papyri, inks, and writing implements. She laid everything onto a table next to the lamplight.

  “Do I have your word that you will breathe nothing of this to anyone?”

  “My lady, when have I disappointed you that you ask this?”

  Nicaule smiled. “Not once.”

  “You seem distraught. What has you in such a state?”

  “It is about the child.” She felt emotion rise to her throat, and she swallowed hard to contain it. “I must inform him he is the father.”

  Irisi’s eyes widened. “You mean—?”

  She nodded. “Yes. On the eve of our departure from Egypt.”

  Irisi clutched her chest, twisting the linen of her nightgown. “Oh, my lady . . .” She lifted a hand to her mouth as if she were trying to hold back the stream of words.

  “Do not judge me. Love rules over prudence.”

  “How can you be certain of this? He was not the only one, after all.”

  Nicaule looked away. “A woman knows.”

  “My lady, as your trusted friend, it is my duty to speak my mind, is it not?”

  “It is.”

  “Sending word to Shoshenq is a mistake. What if the missive falls into the wrong hands? That would be catastrophic to you—and to Egypt. Men have gone to war over less than this.”

  “I would rather die than keep this from him.” She squeezed Irisi’s hands. “He loves me. He will come for me—and our child.”

  Irisi shook her head. “You must not long for this, my lady. Think of what you’re saying: you are putting your desire before the good of the state. You are a princess married to a foreign ki
ng. The marriage was an alliance between two countries, not a union between two people. For the sake of your ancestors, you must honor this. You must forget Shoshenq.”

  Nicaule jerked her hands away. Tears welled in her eyes. “I will not.”

  Irisi’s expression grew somber. “Yesterday, word came from Tanis that Shoshenq has married another. A woman of his own race. She is already with child. I did not know how to tell you.”

  Nicaule went numb. She took a step backward. “Lies!”

  “It is the truth. I swear it.” Irisi opened an alabaster box and lifted out a scroll. “See for yourself.”

  Nicaule scanned the missive. It began with a message about her father. He had been ill, it said, and the doctors had not identified the cause. She read on, looking for the part that interested her. She read aloud. “Shoshenq, captain of the army, has wed a Meshwesh princess, Karamat. A child is expected in the season of the emergence.”

  She let the scroll drop from her hands. How could he? She had been gone for three seasons, and already her lover had moved on. While she despised her own husband and devised ways to escape the bondage to which he had subjected her, Shoshenq was willfully loving another. It maddened her to be so far removed, to be oblivious to the circumstances. Did his kin force him to marry one of his own kind? Was it some rite of passage particular to the Ma? Surely it was a forced marriage; it comforted her to think so.

  The child complicated things. Her beloved was favored to succeed her father to the throne. If Shoshenq’s legitimate firstborn was male, that child surely would be next in line to be king. Nicaule’s love child, born of Shoshenq’s seed, was a mere female and, as such, had no rights to the throne. If he had a son on the other side of the Sea of Reeds, Shoshenq would not hesitate to come claim him and raise him in the court. A daughter was another matter.

  Once again, Nicaule’s schemes had crumbled. If she could not be queen of Egypt, as was always her dream, she wanted her child to rule in the land of her ancestors. Even that seemed like an impossibility now. Nicaule felt condemned to look in on Egypt’s royal court, the only world that mattered to her, from the periphery, never more than an outsider.

  If only Basemath were male. If only . . .

  Nicaule grabbed a sheet of papyrus from the table and held it up to the scribe’s face. “Write the message.” She raised her voice a notch. “Do it.”

  Irisi took the sheet and sat at the table.

  “God of my river,” Nicaule began. She used a term known only to him and her that no one might suspect the source or the recipient of the message. “A child has been born unto me who shares your eyes, your strength, your spirit. Come for me and claim your heir.”

  Irisi looked up, startled. “I cannot do what you ask. It is deceitful.”

  “Please, Irisi.” She kneeled by her friend and grasped her forearm. “It is my only hope.”

  “You know as well as I do that Basemath could never be heir to anything. Your words will lead Shoshenq to believe his child is a male. Whip me, torture me, send me away if you must, but that is a lie I cannot enable.”

  Nicaule twisted her face in disgust. “Suddenly you are full of morals? Must I remind you of the death of your husband? That you spoke nothing of it, that you covered up justice, for no better reason than to preserve your own life? Do not lecture me about lies.”

  “What has possessed you that you spew such venom?”

  She stood. “My patience wears thin, Irisi. Once more, I command you to write the missive.”

  Irisi hesitated, then picked up the writing instrument. Her hand shook as she set to work.

  “Good.” Nicaule exhaled. “We must be sure no one knows the source of the letter. Do not use your seal. And let no one see it. My personal guard will deliver it into Shoshenq’s hand.”

  Irisi looked up, her gaze hard as iron. “You cannot escape your fate, my lady. Whatever it is, it will hunt you and draw level to you. It is the way of the gods; no man, or woman, can will it otherwise.”

  Nicaule smirked. She had tired of waiting for fate to smile at her. She would make her own destiny.

  She left Irisi to her task and hurried out of the room. Her mind was a maelstrom fueled by sleeplessness and emotion, but she was clear on the next phase of her plan. She launched down the corridor, her mantle billowing around her. A part of her wanted to run until her legs buckled and her lungs were depleted of air, to release a primal scream that would echo all the way to her motherland. She resisted the urge, for there was work to be done.

  At the end of the stone arcade was a terrace with steps leading to the garden. She stopped and caught her breath. In the distant horizon, a strip of light cracked open the darkness. She regarded the darkened treetops and the rows of vines cloaked in shadow.

  He was somewhere down there. The king had a habit of rising early and taking a predawn walk to “bear witness to the awakening of a new day,” as he liked to say. She smoothed her hair with her hands and started down the steps.

  She came first to the orchard. She stopped beneath the dark canopy of an old fig tree and rested against its trunk. She unfastened her mantle and let it fall to the ground, leaving only a light cotton night tunic. A gentle breeze whispered through the leaves, carrying the scent of the ripe fruit. She inhaled the fragrant air as night gave way to day.

  She continued through the beds of myrrh to the vineyards. This time of year, the vines were heavy with grapes. The clusters looked like black pearls in the gathering dawn. They were like the grapes of Egypt, yet their wine tasted so different. She ran her fingers over the plump beads, plucking one and bringing it to her mouth. It erupted between her teeth, and she found its tangy sweetness strangely comforting.

  “The vine flourishes with tender grapes.”

  At the sound of the voice, a sly smile crossed her lips. A hand rested on her bare arm, making her flesh come alive with tiny bumps. She turned to face her husband.

  “But none is as tender as you.” He stroked her arm with a downy touch.

  In the fragile light, he was like a wraith. He wore none of his king’s paraphernalia—only a short gown of gauzy cotton and no shoes. Without a crown to bind them, his mussed curls fell carelessly, softening the hard angles of his face. For the first time, she saw a man, not a monarch.

  “How fair you are, my lonesome dove,” he continued, speaking flawlessly in her mother tongue. “You are perfection, the work of the most skilled artisan in all the land. Your eyes shimmer with the fire of a thousand jewels. Your neck”—he drew a long, slow breath as he stroked her throat with the tips of his fingers—“is graceful as a swan’s.”

  “Your words are like the tender morn,” she whispered, surprised at how easy it was to utter the words. “Like the wind rising up from the north and rippling the waters of Gihon.”

  He placed gentle hands on her waist and pulled her to him. Her heart told her to break free of his hold and flee to the safety of her chamber, where she could be alone with her sorrow and the memories that haunted her even as they grew distant. But her mind held back those girlish sentiments, clearing the way for the cunning woman to rise like a mandrake bursting forth from the rocky ground.

  It was the moment of her transformation. She should have feared it, but instead she reveled in it.

  One of his hands traveled slowly up her torso and stopped on her breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Without willing it to, her mouth let a faint whimper escape. Her heart pounded violently.

  Solomon drew closer. His breath was warm and redolent of figs. “The dawn comes with a terrible fury, yet it is my beloved who is the light breaking in the night sky. Your perfume is sweeter than all the myrrh in the garden, your hair as soft as the young goats of Gilead.” He brushed her cheek with his lips. “I want to know what you taste of.” He lightly kissed her face, his mouth moving closer to her own.

  It was the first time he’d kissed her. His lips were soft and gentle, speaking more of love than of raw desire. Nicaule relaxed in
to his embrace in an act of submission she knew he’d appreciate. When she felt his arousal, she gave him a taste of her own passion. She suckled his upper lip, then thrust her tongue into his mouth and searched for a vulnerable spot.

  The king moaned with pleasure, and she knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

  “Give me a son,” she whispered.

  Solomon did not bother to look for a spot on which they could lie. He placed his hands on her hips and lifted her, her cue to wrap her legs around his waist. In an instant he was one with her, thrusting and panting like an animal in heat.

  Nicaule let her head fall back and gazed at the violet sky. The new day was perfectly clear and free of cloud. She felt powerful, unstoppable. Whatever the cost, she would finally claim her destiny.

  12

  Jerusalem, 957 BCE

  It was Ethanim, the seventh day. The Hebrews had waited seven years for it, and at last it was upon them.

  Zadok rose with the dawn and took himself to Mount Moriah for the ritual cleansing demanded by the Law on exalted days, of which this was foremost. He stood at the edge of the mikveh pool, fed by the living waters of Ein Eitam high above Jerusalem, and intoned a silent prayer, imploring the Lord to judge him worthy of the task appointed to him.

  On that day, Zadok and the priests of the kingdom, together with the leaders of each of the twelve tribes, would take up the ark of the covenant from its place in the tabernacle and bring it to the house of the Lord, at long last complete. It was imperative he be pure of body, mind, and spirit to lead Israel’s most blessed men on so grave a mission—the gravest, in fact, of their lifetimes.

  He stepped into the frigid water. His flesh tingled as he lowered himself into the pool one palm’s width at a time until the water came to his chest. He reveled for a moment in the chill of the autumn morning and the bracing freshness of the water. Then he immersed himself, holding his breath for as long as his lungs allowed. He floated in darkness, thinking of nothing.