by D. J. Niko
Nicaule hurried to her father’s bedside and kneeled beside him, kissing his hand. She glanced at his face, expecting to see the vacant look of imminent death. Psusennes’ eyes were as intense as ever, perhaps even sparkled a little. “You called for me, Father.”
“Yesterday, all the physicians declared I would be dying within a fortnight. There is nothing to do.”
Nicaule lowered her head.
“I have called in all the viziers, priests, and generals. They all ride to Tanis now to gather before the dying king.” He let out a shaky sigh. “But I will have a surprise for them.”
She looked up.
“I, Psusennes II, son of Pinedjem II and High Priest of Amun, do not plan to give up my throne without a fight.”
“Father, what are you saying?”
“I have no plans of dying, dear girl.”
“But fate isn’t yours to change. It is up to the gods.”
“Bah!” The exclamation brought on a hoarse cough. He caught his breath and with fragile voice added, “It is up to medicine.”
“But. . . I thought the physicians had tried everything.”
“These physicians have. So I have decided to bring in others from outside the walls of this kingdom.”
She wrinkled her brow. “But who? Who knows more than the Egyptians?”
He patted her hand. “You will know soon enough.”
The door opened wide and a servant announced, “Her Highness the Queen and the royal daughters.” Nicaule stood and waited by the foot of the bed, within eyeshot of the king.
A striking woman with glossy, waist-length raven hair entered accompanied by young children. Psusennes’ first wife had died years ago, as had Nicaule’s mother, and the king had replaced them with younger consorts.
One of the children, scarcely older than her own Basemath, had a haughty demeanor and eyes too intense for her years. The girl ran to Psusennes’ bedside.
“Ah, Maatkare,” he said. “My favorite daughter.”
Maatkare kissed her father’s hand, glanced at Nicaule, and backed away.
The procession continued with Nicaule’s half-sisters and their husbands, some of whom were ranking court officials, and two half-brothers who were princes in name only. Then came the priests, most of whom she did not recognize, and the viziers, the two men appointed by the king to govern Upper and Lower Egypt.
It seemed an eternity before Shoshenq entered. For a moment, her breath was trapped inside her lungs, rendering her unable to exhale. Her bottom lip trembled ever so slightly.
Shoshenq I, son of the great chief of the Ma and commander of the Egyptian army, entered with head held high, a man certain of his fate. He was as beautiful as ever: broad shoulders framing a tapered torso, hard and sculpted as the chiseled rocks at Memphis, as smooth and dark as polished amber. His almond-shaped, kohl-ringed eyes were almost too big for his head, which was bare and marked by a new scar. He had seen some action.
Nicaule caught his glance and held it. His face betrayed surprise and, she thought, delight. He didn’t take his ebony eyes off her, ripping social convention to shreds. In her peripheral vision she saw some heads turn toward her. It made her uncomfortable enough to shift her gaze.
Shoshenq bowed on one knee before the king.
“Rise, Commander,” Psusennes said. “What news from the borderlands?”
Shoshenq stood. “My men have successfully stopped a raid by the Kushites in Karnak. They had come to claim the treasures in the temples of Amun-Re.” He rubbed the scar above his ear. “Some blood was shed, but the precinct is safe. All the invaders, down to the last, have been slain.”
“Fine work.” Psusennes turned to the gathered. “You may think I brought you here to announce my successor. I have not.” He folded down his bedcovers and swung his legs around until his feet touched the floor. A servant girl rushed to his side and helped him step into leather sandals.
The pharaoh stood on shaky legs and put a hand on Shoshenq’s shoulder, a telling gesture. “When the time comes, I will name a successor. But that time is not now. I have been given new life, brought back from the gates of Anubis by Osiris himself.
“The gods have sent an unexpected messenger to deliver this precious gift for which I will forever be grateful.” He turned to the door. “Enter the physician and his master.”
A slight man hunched at the shoulders entered with head down. He was dressed in a long striped tunic, waist cinched with a leather sash and shoulders covered with an indigo kethoneth. Abundant black curls spilled beneath a white turban.
Nicaule shifted to steady herself. The sight of the physician who had tended to her during her stillbirth scrambled her thoughts and robbed her of breath. How had this happened? How had Berechiah, the Hebrew priest-healer, come here?
No sooner had the questions crossed her mind than they were answered. Solomon stepped into the doorway, scanning the faces in the room before entering. With arms outstretched, Psusennes shuffled over to his Israelite counterpart and ally. Solomon mirrored his movements until they met halfway, locking arms.
Psusennes turned to the members of his court. “It is to this man I owe my restoration to health. King Solomon, my Hebrew brother and husband of my daughter, has brought his healer to my doorstep.” He turned to Solomon. “My days had all but ended, and you gave me new life. For so long as I draw breath, you have my favor.”
Solomon tilted his head. “I was only repaying the favors Egypt has bestowed upon Israel. I am the one grateful, my lord Psusennes, for you have granted my kingdom many resources and have held back my enemies. And lo, you have given me”—he gestured toward Nicaule—“the immeasureable gift of your daughter’s hand.”
Nicaule narrowed her eyes. Of course. It was in Solomon’s best interest to keep Psusennes, one of the mildest and most permissive pharaohs of the New Kingdom, in life. Psusennes was no threat to Israel, as his successor might have been. He wasn’t doing his moral duty but rather securing the interests of his state.
And he was buying Psusennes’ loyalty. Held back my enemies. That was no doubt a reference to Hadad. Surely Solomon’s miracle came with a price.
But that was inconsequential. What mattered now was her plan: with Solomon present, it would be near impossible to execute. Once again, he had clipped her wings before she could take flight. She cursed him silently.
She searched for Shoshenq’s eyes, but they were riveted on the pharaoh. Each man was playing his own game. It was time for her to mobilize her plan, whatever the consequences.
In the thick of night, Nicaule rose from her bed and went to the window. She could not sleep. Her mind was racing like a chariot, consumed with thoughts of him.
Seeing Shoshenq’s face after all those years rekindled a fire that had been reduced to embers. She wanted him more than ever. She gazed at the garden outside her window and the softly breathing black mass of the Nile beyond. She recalled clandestine walks with Shoshenq in that very garden. With the stars and moon bearing witness, they would profess their love to each other and pledge devotion for all eternity.
They were mere children then, and so much had happened since. She had become a queen, albeit of a foreign land, and—she was certain—he was soon to be named king.
She saw something move between the grasses lining the riverbanks. She blinked to focus in the dark. Again, movement. Who else was restless this night?
His figure emerged in the shadow of the date palms. Her heart hammered within her chest, and her mouth went dry. He gazed toward the palace, searching, she hoped, for her window.
She clutched her chest and glanced around the room, looking for her mantle. She saw it draped on a bench, reached for it, and threw it haphazardly over her shoulders. She did not give herself time to ponder what she was about to do or whether anyone was watching. She quietly exited her chamber and walked barefoot down the long corridor leading to the garden.
Looking over her shoulder at the darkened palace, with nary an oil lamp burning, she assur
ed herself everyone was asleep. She launched into the orchard, skulking between the trees. With quick gait she followed the path down to the river, her mantle billowing behind her and rustling the brush.
She was nearly out of breath when she reached the riverbank. She stood still for a moment, watching and listening. The night was as quiet and dark as a tomb. She pushed through the shoulder-high grasses, walking toward the thick stand of date palms where she last saw him.
Her woolen mantle got caught on the teeth of the grass blades, hindering her progress. Despite the hard chill in the air, she removed the outer layer and let it lie on the brush. She felt cold, exposed. Her bedclothes consisted of a thin cotton nightgown that sat just below her bare breasts and was held up by V-straps.
The grass hissed as she continued forcing her way through the thicket. She could see the tops of the date palms outlined in a halo of moonlight. Her pulse quickened. Just a few more steps.
She heard a crunching sound coming from the ground and stopped in her tracks. A snake? She could not see well enough to gauge the danger. She held perfectly still, her eyes wide and ears alert.
She heard it again, then felt a hand grasp her arm. Before she could scream, another hand covered her mouth.
He stepped out of the shadows. The strong angles of his face were illuminated by pale light. He relaxed his grip. “I knew you would come.”
“The years I have waited for this moment have felt like an eternity.” She fought back the onslaught of emotion.
Shoshenq wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, exploring her mouth with his tongue like a desert animal searching for water.
Breathless, she devoured him. Her hands traveled down the hard contours of his torso, searching for the tie of the girdle that held up his pleated shendyt.
He stepped back, and for a moment she thought he resisted her advance. Then he bent down and kissed her bare breasts, suckling her nipples. She whimpered as thunderbolts shook her body.
Suddenly he stopped and stood up straight. He looked as if he was listening for something.
“What—?”
He put up a hand.
A vague rustling sound came from the distance. It could have been the breeze mussing the grasses.
“Someone’s there,” he whispered.
“No . . .”
He grasped her arms. “Hear me, Nicaule. We haven’t any time. There is something I need you to do.”
“Tell me what it is.”
“Your father has appointed me to succeed him. Sooner or later, I will be king. But my plans for Egypt are different than Psusennes’. Your father does not see the threats all around us . . . beginning with Solomon’s Israel.”
She studied his face. There was nothing tentative in his gaze.
He continued. “I want you to ascertain Solomon’s movements . . . who he’s allied with, what he’s building, where he is stashing the treasure he stole from Egypt.”
“Stole?”
“He has no right to the gold from Ophir. That belongs to our people. Your father gave it away without regard for the pacts of our ancestors. If we are to expand the empire, as is my plan and duty, we need every last shematy of it.”
She took a step toward him. “For you, I will travel to Tuat and back.”
“Not for me; for Egypt.”
The rustling sound was heard again, this time closer.
“Record his movements and report to me.” His whisper was barely audible. “When the time comes, my armies will strike. And I will come for you.”
There was a crunching sound, like footfall. Something—or someone—was indeed there. Nicaule instinctively turned her head but saw nothing. By the time she turned back to Shoshenq, he was gone.
As she realized she was alone with a potential intruder, a chill rippled down her spine. She felt abandoned by Shoshenq but in an instant realized he probably was crouching nearby like a hidden tiger, scanning for danger. She trusted him enough to believe he would protect her.
She heard the swishing of grass again, then a low, throaty growl. An animal. Her heart galloped, and she stepped back gingerly, gaze darting to and fro.
The pharaoh’s leopard revealed itself, snarling and baring its canines. It was the first time Nicaule had seen the cat away from a human companion. Aware a leopard was first and foremost a wild animal, disloyal and capable of anything, she lowered her head in submission and stood still, buying time until Shoshenq came to her rescue.
The leopard growled, a cry to wake the dead.
Her blood turned cold as mountain water, and her teeth chattered. Where was he? What was he waiting for?
She stepped back slowly. The cat walked toward her, mirroring her movements. “The pharaoh’s blood runs in me. Be away!” As she addressed her stalker, her mouth was dry, her voice strangled.
The leopard gazed at her coldly and crouched as if ready to pounce.
“No . . .” Nicaule shook her head. Perspiration trickled down her temples as she realized Shoshenq was not coming. She wanted to scream, to run, but knew it would trigger the beast’s attack. Unsure of what else to do, she kept inching away. Jade eyes glinting in the dark, the leopard followed.
In the instant she felt despair grip her, a hand touched her shoulder. “Great beast, your place is in the green grasses by the river. We are intruders in your home. Be still and let us pass, and we shall go in peace.”
The male voice was distorted in her adrenaline-riddled consciousness. She glanced at her shoulder where his hand still lay. She saw the ring first. Four stones, alive in the moonlight.
The leopard let out a faint whimper and sat on its hind legs as if charmed by his presence. Nicaule exhaled and turned to Solomon, too stunned to speak.
He cast a long glance at her bare breasts before meeting her eyes. “Surely you are cold, Wife.” He held up her mantle.
She took it from him and covered herself. “Why are you here?”
“I might ask you the same.”
“My affairs are my own,” she hissed.
The leopard stood on all fours and snarled at her.
Solomon raised his ring hand to the cat; she sat back down.
“Pray tell, Husband: what is it you really want from my father?”
“I am merely doing my moral duty: one man helping another.”
“And this has nothing to do with enemies at the gates of Jerusalem? With Hadad?”
His eyes scrutinized her. “How is it you know so much about my enemies?”
She hesitated as she framed her lie. “His men ambushed my caravan in the wilderness. They wanted information . . . I told them nothing.”
The leopard walked to Solomon and curled itself at his feet. “Hadad has been planning an attack on Jerusalem,” he said. “I have informed the pharaoh of the scheme, and he has withdrawn all support to the Edomites. Psusennes’ loyalty is to me.” His gaze traveled slowly down her body. “As is yours.”
She wrapped the mantle more tightly about her.
“You are trembling.” He smiled. “You should go and rest. We leave for Jerusalem in the morning.”
She recoiled. “But I must—”
He placed a hand on her lips. When she quieted, he began walking toward the palace. The leopard followed him.
Nicaule stood alone amid the grasses, watching Solomon’s darkened figure diminish as the distance between them grew. Surely he thought he’d outsmarted her, extracting her from her own temptations and ensuring her loyalty, if by force. None of it mattered: she felt triumphant.
Though it was only a fleeting moment, it was enough. Her beloved had professed his passion and had entrusted her with a grave task—the gravest, perhaps, of their lifetimes. He still loved her. Even if she could not have him, that knowledge would sustain her every day as she waited to be freed from her gilded prison.
With the taste of Shoshenq still on her lips, she drew a long breath and followed the path to the palace.
15
Jerusalem, 940 BCE
“Kohain! Come quickly.”
The voice at the other side of his door roused Zadok from deep sleep. He opened his eyes to darkness. A pale shaft of light entered through the narrow opening near the ceiling of his bedchamber, indicating the full moon was still high in the sky. An urgent knock followed.
“Kohain, you must see this.”
It was the voice of Zuriel, one of the Levites who lived permanently near the temple compound and ministered within it. Zadok rose slowly, steadied himself on his cane, and shuffled to the door.
He cracked the door open and peered at his acolyte from the shadows. “What is it that cannot wait until morning?”
Zuriel appeared disturbed. “I have come from Mount Zion. I went up to the high place to make an offering and saw the most wicked, horrible thing.”
“Say what you mean.”
“On the high place of the mountain lies a bronze statue . . . of a cat.” Zuriel’s face collapsed into a look of disgust. “Flowers are strewn around its base. They are still fragrant. Someone has put them there this very day.”
Zadok’s jaw tightened. Only one person could be responsible for such an abomination. “Take me to it.”
The high priest and his acolyte walked east toward the holy mount that was once home to a Jebusite stronghold conquered by David. Adjacent to Mount Moriah, it had long been viewed as sacred, a haven for Yahweh’s faithful sons and daughters. The thought of it being defiled by foreign idols was so detestable Zadok could not speak of it. If all Zuriel said were true, this would be a grievous violation of the laws of Yahweh. Anger seeped into the corners of his being, and he fought hard against it, for it was not his nature to be hot-tempered. He meditated upon the rise and fall of his breath and the evenness of his gait to regain his composure.
The full moon cast its long silver beams as Zadok and Zuriel made their way to the top of the mount. They stopped beneath a tree just before the summit and stood over the foul object, a statue the size of a newborn child, depicting the Egyptian cat goddess Bast. The bronze creature sat on its hind legs with chest protruding and haughty head held high. At its feet were freshly cut narcissus blossoms.