Bilqis enjoyed watching the goathair tent swell and lower like a living thing in the morning breeze. The dividing curtains moved with the hypnotic swaying motion of the tent poles. Beyond them in the next section she knew her maidens were all bedded down on straw mats.
She thought of the long way they had already come. Her pleasant valley with the great dam, Ilumquh’s temple, and her alabaster palace all seemed far away and almost unreal. There must be something of the roving nomad in her veins, she thought. How unfortunate it would have been to have listened to Il Hamd and turned back. Now they had safely passed over into the far country and no Jinn had struck, no harm had come to them.
She watched the tent’s slow undulation that moved almost in time to the leben-maker’s song, and before she knew it she had drifted off again into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Several weeks later the caravan pitched camp outside the town of Mecca and immediately the dignitaries who had been anxiously awaiting the queen’s arrival proferred their invitations. Mecca had many rich merchants, and they all vied for the privilege of entertaining the queen of Sheba. Some had huge feasts in her honor, others staged feats of daring and dexterity by local entertainers. Two times she went in full royal array to the Great Temple.
There in an oval courtyard had been assembled hundreds of sacred stones and images. Most had strange stories associated with them of battles that had been won and the stone or image captured and brought back as one of the richest trophies of the battle. To have the sacred stone representing the god of one of the neighboring countries or tribes was to have captured its source of power. Even if the god didn’t switch his allegiance and back his captors, still it was believed he was powerless to come against them.
Most prized among the stones was a black one that was elevated to the place of prominence in the middle of the courtyard. It was supposed to have power to grant all wishes and make all ventures succeed if only touched.
That night, sitting in the receiving tent in the midst of her people, Bilqis entertained visiting noblemen and rulers from the city. “In my country we have a famous city called Sana which, tradition says is the oldest city in the world. Our wise men tell us it was founded by one of the sons of Noah after the great flood. Tell me,” she asked them, “who founded your city? How old is it?”
Some of the gray-bearded counselors looked around the tent until their eyes focused on one man sitting in deep thought at the outer edge of their group. “Come, Ahmed,” they urged, “you are our storyteller. Tell the queen how our city was founded.”
The frail old man seemed startled at first, then recovering his composure along with some prodding and pushing, he came forward. “Tell me,” Bilqis said again, “how was your city founded? Who first came here to this place?”
Small fragments of light from the wicks in hanging alabaster lamps gave his face and form an ethereal, unreal aspect. He was urged to sit on a huge cushion at the queen’s feet. For a moment there was silence. No one moved or spoke as they fell under the spell of the sandalwood fragrance that filled the tent. Somewhere outside a wolf’s lonesome howl made most of them shudder and instinctively draw closer together.
The old man nervously fingered the folds in his smooth, well-worn robe until he began to speak, and then he seemed to be transformed. His voice was mellow-toned, his eyes at times closed as though he were seeing everything just as it had happened.
“Our tradition,” he began, “says that it was a great sheik from Chaldea named Abraham who sent his concubine away with her son because of his jealous wife. The concubine wandered alone across the barren wastes of rock and sand. Her waterskin was soon empty and the dates she had brought with her were all gone. The sun beat down upon her without mercy and the sand blew in sharp, cutting thrusts against her tender skin.
“The child she held by the hand and shielded with her own mantle grew weak and listless. He begged constantly for water and finally dropped from exhaustion. The distraught mother held him in her lap and cried tears of frustration, railing first at her mistress who had treated her so cruelly and then at the husband who had so easily abandoned her with the child.
“The child grew so weak he could no longer move even his lips. His hands became limp and lifeless and the mother knew he was dying. It was then, so the story goes, that she cried out to the God of her master and asked for help.
“To her surprise a well of clear, cool water sprang up at her side and both she and the boy drank their fill and were miraculously revived. The descendants of the woman’s son became a great nation, and this city that grew on the spot of the concubine’s prayer is their greatest city,” the storyteller concluded.
For a long moment, they thought about the strange events of the past that had made this city different from all others. Then Bilqis stirred and the spell of the storyteller was broken. “Is the story true?” Bilqis asked. “Was there really a concubine and her son?”
“The story is true,” the old man said. “The well is still here and people are drawing water from it just as they have since it was discovered.”
“I’d like some water from that well,” Bilqis said. “It must be some of the most wonderful water in the world.”
The old man clapped his hands and a young servant moved out from the shadows of the tent. The soft thud of running feet on hard sand could be heard for a moment and then there was silence.
Later, when the visitors were ready to leave, the servant returned with the water in a golden ewer.
“Here, O queen, drink of the very water of life that saved the concubine and her son,” the old storyteller said, bowing low and handing her the ewer.
After the visitors had left, the queen called together the three men in charge of the expedition. “We have now seen that neither Jinn nor strange gods can keep us from reaching our goal. Where do we go from here? What kings are yet to be visited?”
“My queen,” one of the men said, unrolling a large parchment, “from here we cross back and forth following the path of the wells and oases.”
“Undoubtedly your majesty doesn’t want to be bothered with the details of the trip,” the sharp-nosed younger man said, as he started to reroll the scroll.
“No, no, on the contrary,” the queen objected, “I want to know everything.”
“My queen,” the older man said, “everything is determined by the wells. Our camels can go nine days without water, but the sheep we must have for our food can only travel five. So we follow the wells, and it means we sometimes must go out of our way.”
“Then where is our next important stop?” she said almost impatiently.
“There will be several other towns, all small centers of trade, but the next major stop will be at the rock city of Sela, where the Edomites have their kingdom.”
“And Hadad is their king?”
“Yes, my queen.”
“Tell me all you know about this king. How powerful is he? How has he gained his power?”
Now the sharp-nosed little man reached for the parchment and stepped up to her throne. “See, my queen,” he said, “all the trade routes of Arabia come here to Sela.” With one hand he held the top of the scroll and with the other finger he traced the thin line from the Hadramaut through Marib, Nagran, Mecca, Medina, Dedan, and Hegra, where the caravans were met coming from Riyadh and the gulf coast. “More than that,” he said, “there is another caravan route from the base of the two rivers near the ancient Ur that comes across to Jauf and ends at Sela.”
“So this Hadad is very rich and very powerful.”
“Of course. From Sela there are only two routes, one going across the desert to Gaza and the other up the King’s Highway to Damascus. If Hadad could free himself from Solomon’s yoke, he would be very wealthy and strong.”
“So, he is planning to join with Shishak of Egypt and Rezon of Zobah, who is now in Damascus.”
“So we’ve heard.”
With this Bilqis dismissed the three men, but she sat meditating for a long tim
e. She could see that if Shishak, Rezon, Hadad, and she herself all joined together to come against Solomon, they could easily defeat him. It seemed the wise thing to do. Much would depend on her impression of Hadad. She’d sent messengers announcing her coming and she should be hearing news from them soon.
Hadad was well aware that the queen of Sheba was traveling up the old caravan route on her way to Jerusalem. He had first received a warning from Shishak, who’d advised him to stop her going further than Sela at all costs. Then there had been the gossip of traders that passed through his kingdom and finally her messengers arrived with the formal announcement.
He knew he had to be most careful in making his plans. He must not arouse the suspicion of Solomon. In fact, he must make every effort to keep Solomon from finding out that he had returned from Egypt ready after all these years to take back his kingdom. Years before, Solomon’s father, King David, had realized how strategic this capital was and had sent his general Joab down to wipe out the rebellious tribesmen.
Joab had killed most of the men of Edom, and Hadad, a mere babe at the time, had been spirited off to Egypt by some of the palace guards. “Shishak,” Hadad speculated, “has been clever enough to play the game both ways. Solomon has the Egyptian princess, and I’m married to the sister of the queen. A queen is greater than a princess, and so I would wager Shishak is betting on my winning this struggle.”
He had received messengers from both Shishak and Rezon warning him that he must discourage the queen of Sheba from her proposed visit to Solomon. “Solomon has a reputation for being irresistible to women. The queen could be charmed against her better judgment to join with him against us.” Shishak had spelled the matter out quite graphically, leaving no doubt of Hadad’s responsibility in the matter.
“I must be about the same age as Solomon,” he thought. “It would be a brilliant means of getting even for all the treachery of his father, David, if I myself should waylay the queen. Poison her mind against Solomon. Win her confidence. Even marriage may be necessary to carry out my plans,” he gloated.
Quickly he called together his stewards and counselors. He wanted to make the most of this opportunity and it would take fast work and careful planning to stage a reception equal to the magnitude of his ambition.
In Jerusalem Solomon tried to piece together the information he had received. It was becoming quite clear that Pharaoh Shishak wasn’t the friend he had once seemed to be. Everything had changed once the news reached the pharaoh that Israel had started building ships at Ezion-Geber on the Red Sea. Now he was fast becoming a dangerous enemy, and with Tipti being the pharaoh’s eyes and ears right in Solomon’s bedchamber there was nothing he didn’t know.
“How can I get to the bottom of this?” Solomon asked his brother Nathan late one night as they visited the caged animals in the quarters behind the palace.
“It won’t be easy. Tipti knows you are suspicious.”
“It’s even worse than you suspect. Our mother has warned me that Jeroboam, my trusted confidant, friend, and main supporter among the northern tribesmen is being influenced by Tipti.”
“I wouldn’t have thought she’d go that far. How has she managed it? He’s always been so loyal.”
“It seems she’s been encouraging him. Telling him he has all the qualities of a king.”
“That’s preposterous. Hard to believe he’d listen to such a thing.”
“You remember I sent him to Egypt with her dead cat. Shishak himself sat with him and flattered him outrageously.”
For a moment the two stood watching the old lion that had been a mere cub twenty-two years before when Solomon came to power. The lion had been dozing but on hearing footsteps opened one eye rather cautiously. He heard his name called and with a great effort roused himself and walked leisurely to the door of the cage where he rather lethargically began scraping at the lintel with his paw. “See, he wants me to let him out.” Solomon was all attention as he talked softly to the lion and quietly lifted the latch. “Come, old friend,” he urged.
“One of these days you’ll let the wrong animal out,” Nathan said nervously.
The great beast nosed the door open and walked out into the courtyard. He rubbed his mane against Solomon’s leg and began a great purring rumble down deep in his throat. Solomon tousled his tawny mane, stooped down, and looked him in the eye. “There are some good things about old age,” he said turning to Nathan. “When he was a cub we were the best of friends. He followed me everyplace. Then he grew strong, fierce, and unfriendly, but now he’s back being my friend.”
“He’s lost his teeth,” Nathan said laughing. “He hasn’t changed his disposition.”
“He could still cuff me across the courtyard with one swipe of his paw,” Solomon said defensively.
“Well, what do you think has changed him then?”
Solomon stood up and let go of the lion. They watched him pad softly around in the moonlight and then nose open the door to his cage, go in, and lie down. “He’s lost interest in everything. Nothing excites him anymore. There’s no challenge worth the effort and no place he really wants to go. He’s bored and unhappy with the way things are. His old courage is gone.”
“Are you talking about yourself or the lion?” Nathan asked cautiously.
“Both, I’m probably talking about both.” With a resounding thud Solomon let the bolt fall into place. “I’ve seen courage revive even a severely injured person, but when courage dies, what hope is there?”
Nathan didn’t answer but stood looking at his brother in the moonlight as though seeing him for the first time. Something was wrong, very wrong. Gradually words began to form and came haltingly. “Our hope, Israel’s hope, is in our God as it has always been.” The words weren’t said as a criticism but rather as a comfort—a reminder.
Solomon turned his head so Nathan couldn’t see his eyes. “The God of Israel hasn’t been speaking lately. I don’t feel His presence. He’s suddenly left me alone to manage hostile enemies, vengeful wives, and a fool for a son. It’s His fault if things go wrong.”
“You know what our father would have said, don’t you?”
Solomon turned to him with the pained look in his eyes that was beginning to be his normal expression. “No. What would he say?”
“Why, I’m sure he’d say again as he said so often, ‘God is our helper in time of trouble.’ However, we both know, a man may ruin his chances by his own foolishness, then blame it on the Lord.”
Solomon suddenly relaxed and almost smiled. “He also used to remind us that when a person is gloomy, everything seems to go wrong; but when he’s cheerful, everything seems right.”
“Perhaps even now help is on its way.”
“What’s on its way here is more trouble. Badget tells me, and one of her messengers announced, that the queen of Sheba has already left and is on her way here for a visit. I can’t help but suspect there is some trick involved.”
“There may be a blessing.”
“I doubt it, but I did need your encouragement.”
“That’s what brothers are for,” Nathan reminded him, “to help in time of need.” With a renewed feeling of closeness the two walked out to the waiting counselors and scribes. There was no time to discuss further the queen’s visit. Nathan turned the possibilities over in his mind. It was strange. The trip was long and hard, no one went to that much trouble without some very good reason. Impulsively he had told his brother it could be a blessing on its way and he hoped with all his heart that it was true.
Word spread quickly in Jerusalem. Almost at once everyone was talking about the visit of the queen of Sheba. To each person it meant something different. To the merchants it meant more sales, to the weavers and dyers who supplied the court with their gowns and robes there would be long hours at the looms and the dye vats, to the goldsmiths a challenge to create the ultimate in gifts and ornamentation. All Jerusalem was stimulated into a regular hive of activity.
No group or coterie was mo
re energized than Solomon’s harem of wives, and among that group no one was more interested than his Egyptian princess, Tipti.
Tipti had given up all thought for the time being of moving to Gezer. Instead she had called Jeroboam, Solomon’s chief builder, and had ordered him to have her palace totally redecorated. There were two reasons for doing this: one was that she wanted to have the most elaborate quarters as befitted her rank, and the other was that she wanted to have an excuse to see more of Jeroboam.
Jeroboam was handsome, perceptive, and always flattering. He caught on quickly to the dress and manners of a courtier. He had learned to prefer nothing but the best. Though he was a building supervisor, he dressed like one of the princes. His hair and beard were shaped and perfumed, his short tunic impeccably white due to the care given it by his widowed mother. She first wove it of the finest linen and then had it regularly whitened by the fullers down in the valley. His outer garment was seamless and decorated with long fringes while his sandals were carefully tooled by Jerusalem’s most renowned leather craftsman.
With all this he wasn’t a man dawdling his time away in parties and celebrations. He had worked hard and had the strong, muscular build that went with his trade.
Tipti had watched him with interest and slowly began to develop a plan that would bring her the status she needed and the power. She had not been able to have a child, and so she had been constantly reminded that one day Rehoboam, the son of her loathed rival Naamah, would inherit the throne from his father. Lately she had developed almost a hatred for the thin, scholarly, self-righteous prince.
Rehoboam had none of the charm of his father. He was blunt and always critical of anyone who was not a part of his own entourage or that of Naamah. The two of them together were formidable, and Tipti had been well aware of the many barbs thrown her way by this archenemy and her son.
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