The Judgment

by D. J. Niko

  Zadok had witnessed pride over and over: it was the great conjurer, luring men like moths to light. Solomon wasn’t the only one who had fallen prey to it. Jeroboam was guilty in equal measure. A chill rippled down Zadok’s spine as he imagined his beloved Israel in the hands of such a man. He felt short of breath and took it as an omen: he would not be there to see it.

  “Very well,” the visitor said.

  Zadok’s ear stirred. Could it be?

  “It shall be done.” The voice was unmistakably female. “The pharaoh will be pleased. He has waited for this news.”

  Zadok started when he realized the voice was Nicaule’s. Though he had never trusted her, he could not have imagined betrayal of this scale.

  “You must distract the king,” Jeroboam said. “He must not see this coming.”

  “Leave Solomon to me,” she whispered.

  The voices stopped. A moment later, she exited the house and was swallowed by the night. With great effort, Zadok stood on weak legs and walked in the opposite direction. He had to get to Solomon before Nicaule did.

  Though he was shivering, he felt his skin burn with fever. His lungs felt heavy, causing him to labor for every breath. He clutched his chest and pressed on. He would warn his king if it was his last task on Earth.

  By the time he reached the palace, he was exhausted and gasping for breath. He dragged his feet to reach one of the guards. “Wake the king.” His voice was weak. “It is an urgent matter.”

  The guard nodded and disappeared into the corridor. His hurried footfall grew fainter and fainter as he traveled toward Solomon’s chamber. For several moments, Zadok heard nothing but the clipped sound of his own shallow breath. Then the footsteps came again, this time unrushed and evenly paced.

  The guard walked back to his post and bowed to Zadok. “The queen gave instructions to King Solomon’s private guard: the king is not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”

  “This cannot wait until morning. In the name of the almighty God, I order you to wake him.”

  “It is not possible, Kohain. The orders were very specific: no one breaches the king’s chamber . . . not even you.”

  She had foreseen the possibility of Jeroboam’s plan being exposed and had made provisions for it. But she hadn’t counted on Zadok’s ingenuity.

  “Send Benaiah to my house,” he told the guard. “Make haste.”

  He walked out of the palace gates and started toward his own house at the foot of the temple compound. When Zadok pushed the door open, his youngest son was asleep on a hay mattress in the corner of the one-room house. He bent down and shook his shoulder. “Wake, Ahimaaz.”

  Ahimaaz sprang from his bed. “What is it, Father?”

  Zadok lit an oil lamp and held it between them. His son’s honey-colored eyes were alert. “The time has come for valor, my son.”

  A crease formed between Ahimaaz’s brows. He took the oil lamp from his father’s shaking hands and waited for instructions.

  “The king has been betrayed,” Zadok whispered. “One of his officers has raised a hand against him. You and I are the only ones who know.”

  “Should we not tell the king?”

  “He is sequestered and cannot be warned. If we wait, all will be lost. We must act now . . . without orders from the palace.”

  “What will you have me do, Father?”

  A hard, rapid knock sounded. “Enter, Benaiah,” Zadok said.

  The captain of the army approached the priest and his son. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “The king has been betrayed, Benaiah. Jeroboam plans to ambush the Egyptian caravan and steal the horses intended for Jerusalem. He will take them to his stronghold in Zeredah, where he is gathering his forces.”

  Benaiah’s jaw slackened. “How do you know this?”

  “I followed Jeroboam and heard him speak about his plans.” He glanced at Benaiah, then at Ahimaaz. “Now listen carefully. I want you to ride to Zeredah with a small but able unit. Your approach must be stealthy.” Zadok felt a crushing weight on his chest. His jaw was so tight that his words were distorted. “When Jeroboam comes, arrest him for treason by order of the king.”

  Benaiah eyed him. “Do we have such an order?”

  “The order comes from a higher place than the palace.” Zadok dragged a chest from under the bed and lifted its lid. He pulled out an object and held it up. “Show this to Jeroboam.”

  Ahimaaz studied it for a moment. “A piece of cloth. Of what consequence is this?”

  Zadok thought back to the day he first laid eyes on Jeroboam. The temple was in the early stages of construction when the young Ephraimite approached Solomon and handed him that cloth, claiming it was the corner of King Saul’s tunic that David, then a renegade, sliced off in lieu of killing the reigning king. David had spared Saul’s life, for it was against the law to touch the Lord’s anointed, however many his trespasses.

  So it had come to pass again. Jeroboam surely deserved to die for his duplicity. But if what he said was true and Ahijah truly rent his garment as a prophecy from the Lord, no man—not even the high priest of the kingdom—could pass judgment.

  “He will know.” Zadok struggled for breath. He knew he would not see his son again. He gazed at his face, still youthful after twoscore and three years. He had groomed Ahimaaz to succeed him as high priest, but now he was uncertain the Zadokite priesthood, like the house of David, would persist. He could see the future written in the stars as surely as the east wind broke up the ships of Tarshish.

  Ahimaaz squeezed his hands. “You are unwell, Father. I cannot leave you . . .”

  “My dutiful son.” A feeble smile crossed Zadok’s lips. He felt the Lord’s presence as his lungs filled with breath. “Life is as fragile as the song of the hoopoe. My voice will soon be silenced, but yours is as clear and bright as a summer morrow. Take a wife and multiply. Live according to God’s law. No matter what darkness falls over this land, the land of your fathers, do not forsake it. Even if you are given no sign from the Lord, even if all the prophets have departed, do not deliver your dove to the hands of wild beasts.”

  Zadok felt Benaiah’s hand on his shoulder. He addressed both men. “Go now. Ride to Zeredah. May the Lord keep you.”

  Ahimaaz kissed his father’s cheeks and clutched the fabric to his breast. He dressed hurriedly, and the two men went on their way.

  Though it was a cool autumn evening, perspiration soaked Zadok’s gown. His bones ached as if he had been stoned by a raging mob. He stood, ignoring the pressure on his chest, and started toward the temple gates.

  The effort of walking exhausted him. He had made it halfway to the temple when he collapsed to his knees. He could go no farther. He let his walking stick drop to the ground, and he clawed at the cool soil of his beloved homeland, clutching it between his fingers. That very dirt had been granted to the sons of Israel by the Lord himself. It had been soaked with their blood and sweat, and that of their children, as they toiled for a great nation worthy of the gift it had been given.

  Centuries later, it had come to pass. Zadok spread his fingers and let the soil slip through.

  He thought of Solomon lying on the bed of iniquity, oblivious to the damage he had done. For mortal men, drunk with their own power and so easily seduced by earthly pleasures, greatness was not an enduring state but a fleeting fancy. It blossomed like the pomegranate trees, but when the khamsin blew, its petals scattered in the wind, floating without direction.

  Zadok dropped his forehead to the ground and let his tears water the earth. “O Lord, God of our fathers, forgive the sins of your people Israel,” he whispered. “Open their eyes, that they may see your light; unbind their hands, that they may do your bidding. Let righteousness rise again from the ashes of depravity, that your inheritance on Earth may not fall to the hands of the wicked.”

  A gentle breeze blew across the mount, making him aware of how sodden his robes were. He shivered like a naked man in midwinter, expending energy he could
no longer spare. Gasping, he continued, “Take now this soul, O Lord, into the kingdom of heaven and deliver your judgment upon it. May it appease your anger like water quenches the thirst of the desert.”

  The face of the archangel, pale as wheat and framed by flaxen locks, flashed in his mind’s eye. It was time. He lay on his side and looked toward the northern horizon, sending a silent blessing to his son and the men who accompanied him on the clandestine mission. He closed his eyes and exhaled his last breath.

  17

  When the rooster crowed, Nicaule woke in Solomon’s arms. He was sleeping deeply, probably exhausted from their night of love and still intoxicated by the spiked wine with which she had plied him.

  To bring about a state of hallucination followed by stupor, she had soaked petals of blue lotus into the wine, releasing their narcotic substance. It was a practice familiar to Egyptian priests seeking a transcendent state but could be deadly if misused. She held close the formula, a gift long ago from the seer Anippe, close to her breast, using it only when necessary.

  In all the times she had used it on Solomon, he had been oblivious, attributing the ecstasy he’d felt to her exotic lovemaking techniques. As they both had grown older, that illusion had been vital, for it was how she maintained her power over him.

  More than that, the blue lotus flower became a tool for incapacitating him so she could go about her business undetected. As he slept off the effects, she slipped out of his bed and met Jeroboam, spilling the secrets of Solomon’s palace and helping the captain of the burnden plot his rebellion.

  The most useful bit of information, she’d learned earlier that night. As the blue lotus took effect on him, Solomon had revealed the secret that would be his empire’s undoing.

  When Nicaule first entered his chamber, he seemed blue, preoccupied. He was draped over a chair, head resting on his fist. His brow was furrowed, and his gaze seemed to travel in distant lands. She went to him, placing on a table the jug of wine she’d brought for him.

  She kneeled beside him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “What vexes you, my husband?” She whispered into his ear, kissing his lobe.

  He gently pushed her away. “It is a man’s matter. Women should not be concerned with such things.”

  She did not question him further, knowing his tongue would eventually be loosened. “Whatever it is, let it not interfere with our night of love.” She pulled the stopper from the wine jug and poured into a cup. She lifted the cup to his lips. “Drink. This will ease your burden.”

  With three loud gulps, he emptied the cup. He wiped a few drops from his beard with the back of a hand. “Dance for me.”

  He didn’t ask her often, reserving the privilege for times when he needed a complete escape. Judging by the dark circles beneath his eyes, he longed for a reprieve from the demons dwelling in his mind that night. What troubled him, she suspected, had to do with the confrontation with Jeroboam—and could be vital intelligence for Tanis.

  If she were to extract it from him, and subsequently offer it as a prize to Shoshenq, her performance would have to be infallible. She smiled wickedly and stood. She poured another cup of the wine and left it on the table next to an oil lamp. She peeled off her mantle and let it drop to the floor, exposing her costume—a sheer petticoat skirt with a cape crossed at the chest and draped across the shoulders, held in place by a hammered-gold breastplate decorated with a winged amber scarab.

  Solomon walked to his collection of instruments and picked up a flute. He eyed Nicaule hungrily and changed his mind, choosing a goatskin drum instead. He returned to his chair and took another sip of the wine. He began drumming softly and slowly.

  She took his cue and turned her back to him, following the beat with subtle movements of her hips. She raised her arms above her head and swayed them like papyrus stalks in the wind. Her fingers performed their own dance, gliding and intertwining in delicate, hypnotic patterns.

  He picked up the pace ever so slightly. Tilting her head so her hair could fall to one side, she dropped her hands to the back of her neck and stroked her nape with her fingertips before unfastening the silk string that held together her breastplate. She let it fall onto a sheepskin rug and gazed at him over her shoulder, watching his reaction as she untied the cape that covered her upper body. She let the gauzy garment slip over one shoulder, then the other until it draped loosely around her waist, exposing a slim, tawny back glistening with almond oil.

  Without taking his gaze off her, he took another sip of the wine and slowly licked his lips. He kept drumming, louder now.

  Shoulders rolling to the drumbeat, she bent at the waist, letting her head drop backward until her hair grazed the floor. Her upper body pulsed in harmony with the sound. Noting his admiration of her undulating, naked torso, she teased him by using the cape to alternately veil and reveal her skin.

  The lamplight shuddered. Sensing his desire, she slowly returned to the upright position and assumed a more rapid pace. Holding the white gossamer fabric, she moved her arms up and down, creating the illusion of a swan in flight.

  As the drumbeat grew louder, she spun round to face him. Her gaze riveted on his, she untied the petticoat skirt and let the fabric drop to the floor, exposing a loincloth that was damp against her perspiring body. She pirouetted several times, twirling the gauzy cape as if it were a cloud encircling her. She moved faster and faster in a blur of fabric and skin, keeping perfect pace with the escalating beat.

  With a swift movement, she draped the diaphanous fabric over her head and let it veil her body as if she were a bride on her wedding night. She removed the loincloth. The drumming expanded to a frenzied crescendo, mirroring, she imagined, his heartbeat. She stepped closer to him. Drumming with one hand, he reached for her with the other, but she moved back, letting his desire swell.

  Nicaule glided to a stone column and wrapped her arms around it. Ensuring he had a full view, she dropped her head back and ground her hips against the stone. The veil was plastered against her moist body, revealing all the curves. He moaned softly but kept drumming.

  When she sensed his longing was complete, she dropped to the floor and inched toward him. As she moved closer, she let the veil fall away and swayed before him, just beyond arm’s reach. The rhythmic throb of vibrating animal skin filled the space between them.

  Solomon’s chest heaved as the drumming reached a fevered pitch. His mouth dropped open, and his eyelids fluttered rapidly. The drumming stopped. His chest tightened, and a breathless groan left his throat. A few moments later he exhaled loudly and let the drum fall from his hands. Panting, he lay back.

  She smiled in triumph. She wanted to believe it was all due to her talent, but she knew the lotus-spiked wine contributed to his impulsive ecstasy. She had moments to extract the information she needed before he fell sound asleep.

  She sat on his lap and leaned against him, her head nestled into his drenched neck. His pulse thumped against her brow.

  He stroked her back with a feather touch. “O fairest among women, how do you please me so? Wives I have in great number and concubines aplenty, but none moves me as you do. Water from all the springs of Jerusalem cannot quench my love for you.”

  She spoke in Hebrew. “It is a wife’s duty to her husband, my lord, King Solomon. It also is her duty to listen to his woes and guide him as only a woman can.” She placed a hand on his jaw and turned his face until their eyes met. “Won’t you tell me what troubles you?”

  He sighed. “All these years I have not known enemies. Now, one by one they gather against me. I fear for the future of Jerusalem . . . of the kingdom.”

  “Who dares to conspire against you, my husband?”

  “One from within my ranks.” He looked away. “It is of no consequence. I cannot reverse what has been done. I can only fortify our defenses and ensure the safety of our people.”

  “But Jerusalem is already fortified. The Millo—”

  “Nothing would please my enemies more than to destroy the
capital. It is the obvious place to strike. This is why I have instructed my most trusted men—governors, warriors, priests—to leave the city at the first sign of conflict.”

  She jerked back. “Leave the city? But where will they go?”

  “I have made provisions for everyone to hide at Megiddo.”

  “My lord, is that wise? Megiddo is the chariot city. It is not the fortress Jerusalem is. There is nowhere to hide.”

  He smiled like he was keeping a secret.

  She bit the inside of her lip. She was so close. “Is there, my lord?”

  He cast a long glance at her, as if trying to gauge her sincerity. Pressing her breast against his chest, she kissed his lips softly and explored his body with her hand. “Do you not trust your queen?”

  He closed his eyes. His chest rose softly and evenly. He was drifting.

  She pressed on. “Should conflict arise, I can help the women and children take cover. Tell me, my lord. Tell me where to lead them.”

  “There is a tunnel,” he said, eyes still closed, voice trailing off. “A hidden passage between the palace gardens and the spring beyond the tell. No one knows . . .”

  Sleep took him. Thanks to the drug, he would remember none of this when he woke.

  Nicaule extracted herself from his embrace and gathered her clothes. As she dressed, she watched Solomon sleep. How vulnerable a mighty king could be in the web of a cunning woman.

  Some part of her, a compassion long stifled, felt remorse for doing that to him. She immediately dismissed the sentiment. Her mission was bigger than that; beyond a man and a woman, it could decide the future of nations.

  She gathered the wine jug and tucked it into her mantle. She bent down and cupped her hand behind the trembling flame of the oil lamp. She cast a last glance at Solomon and blew, plunging the room into darkness.

  She tiptoed out and closed the door quietly before launching down the corridor. She was eager to exit the king’s palace and retreat to her own, where she could wait for word from Shoshenq’s emissaries. The plan was flawless: the Egyptians, en route to Jerusalem with a consignment of horses, would look like victims attacked by bandits, when all the while they were arming Jeroboam and forging a new alliance with the soon-to-be-anointed king.