Kiss of the Virgin Queen

by Sharon Buchbinder

  He leaned in to hear her better, and Hong Feng grabbed his shoulder.

  “Time to go, man.”

  Arta tapped his comm. “What about Janie?”

  “You mean the Adalwolf girl?”

  “Yes, she’s the whole reason we came down here.”

  “She escaped by speed shifting into her werewolf form when Old Thiess was distracted by causing the cave-in. She’s with her family. She’s safe.”

  Something wasn’t right. The girl got away on her own? That was easy. Too easy.

  Chapter Twenty

  Aksum and Jerusalem, 932-930 B.C.E.

  Makeda stood at the side of the circle and watched her handsome son practice with his sparring partner. Long-limbed and light on his feet, Prince Menelik had the reflexes of a cat—and the ability to communicate with them, too. Like her, the gift appeared early in life. Unlike her father, she did not respond harshly to the five-year-old boy’s tale of meeting a black-maned lion named Shirzad in the jungle and sharing a drink in a stream. Tamrin confirmed the event. Ever since that day, Shirzad served as his sentinel on the outskirts of the palace grounds. She was certain Solomon sent the lion-shifter to protect the boy. Much as she tried to induce Shirzad to join the court, he stood firm in the distance, away from the Queen, eyes on the Prince.

  Tamrin also kept watch over him, protecting him since birth. No one had ever been able to determine the name of the enemy in Jerusalem who paid the mid-wife to kill Menelik as he was born. Each day, whenever he went out, wherever he rode, Uncle Tamrin escorted him.

  He turned to grin at his mother and wave, and her heart skipped a beat. For a moment, her love match, Solomon, stood before her in all his manly glory. Her boy had grown into a golden-skinned, dark-haired man with a noble profile and hazel eyes. He, too, strode among the common people and asked probing questions, not to abuse the workers, but to learn from them. Like his father, Menelik’s thirst for all manner of knowledge was that of a camel at the end of a long desert trek.

  Makeda loved the boy and showered him with kisses, as well as lessons learned at her father’s knee. Over twenty Rosh Hashanahs, Yom Kippurs, and Feasts of the Tabernacles had passed since she left Jerusalem and returned to Aksum.

  Twenty years ago, the Queen of Sheba rode into the capitol with her son in her arms and triumph in her heart. Her country-men and -women had celebrated her return and rejoiced at the birth of a Prince, a new beginning for Shebans. The future was bright for all. Everyone was happy. Only one individual had pestered her to know the name of the father of the child.

  Her son.

  She closed her eyes and thought back to years of battling with her offspring about his father’s identity. Every day, every week, every month, every year, the boy drove her mad with the same questions. It had become a ritual between them.

  “Who is my father? Everyone says he’s a wise king.”

  “Why do you believe gossip?”

  “What is his name?”

  “You will find out in good time.”

  “Why haven’t I met him?”

  “He lives a long way away.”

  “Will he come to visit?”

  “His work keeps him busy. He can’t leave his country.”

  “Do I look like him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why aren’t you with him?”

  “Because I’m a queen.

  “Why don’t we go visit him?”

  “I can’t leave my country, again. No one is left to rule in my stead.”

  “Can he talk to cats, like you and me?”

  “Yes. He commands all animals, men, and jinnis.”

  “Is he dark-skinned?”

  “He is like you, golden and burnished by the sun.”

  “Is he strong?”

  “You ask the wrong question.”

  “Is he a good man?”

  “He is the wisest of all men.”

  On and on, the boy would beleaguer her until she would shout, “Am I not enough for you? Am I not your mother and your father? Leave me, or I will make you practice your writing.”

  That threat always made him fly away, Tamrin right behind him.

  Until he turned twelve years old.

  On his birthday, Menelik folded his arms over his chest and said, “Mother. I will sit here day and night and practice my writing and learn your father’s lessons. I will not run. Next year I will be a man. It is time you told me who my father is.”

  She sighed. He was right. So she sat down and told him the whole story, leaving out the conspiracy to kill him at childbirth. He didn’t need to know that—yet.

  A wolf yipped. She blinked and the past disappeared. Her sweaty, dust covered grown son stood before her, a wide grin on his face.

  “Hello, my beautiful mother. How are you today?”

  “Happy to celebrate your birthday with you, my handsome son.”

  “Are you ready for the party?”

  “Yes, and for the feast. Everyone will be complaining tomorrow they feel like bloated pigs, but tonight they will drink and eat.”

  They strolled toward the palace, and a red wolf trotted alongside them. He had been in the shadows while the Prince sparred. Attached to the boy from birth, the red wolves had tasked one of the pack to be at his side at all times. Pups followed Menelik wherever he went, begging to be his next protector.

  She stopped and put her hand on his arm, despite the dust. “I made an important decision, my son.”

  He scratched the wolf behind the ears and waited.

  Makeda removed the Seal of Solomon from her finger, took her son’s hand, and placed the ring in his palm. “It is time for you to meet your father. Take this and your best men and go to Jerusalem. When you meet him, show him the seal. That way, he will know you are his son.”

  His eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “Mother, I have waited years to hear these words. I am so happy. I will make you proud, I promise.”

  “You always make me proud. But you must temper your joy with caution. Trust your men and your father only. Before we feast, I must tell you another story. It involves the Hoopoe bird—” her mouth went dry “—the red wolves, and your birth.”

  ****

  Solomon reviewed the accounts of his governors of the twelve regions of Israel. Each official was required to make provisions for the king and his household for one month in the year. While he always welcomed the tributes of flour, meal, oxen, cattle, sheep, deer, gazelles, roebuck, and fatted fowl, the ones that gave him most pleasure were the offerings from his daughter’s husbands. When it was their time to provide food for the king and his court, his girls came along with the tribute and stayed for the month. Of course, they weren’t children anymore, but in his mind, they would always be the little ones who raised him from his torpor of grief and brought him back to life. To these daughters, he and Israel owed much. Even if Taphath had said he smelled like a goat. He guffawed at the memory, startling his court scribe.

  “Is there something amiss, my King?”

  Solomon shook his head. “No, merely thinking back to my younger days. Where have twenty years gone?”

  The scribe, a stooped man with a long gray beard shrugged. “The river of time sweeps us away, leaving no one untouched, not even the wisest man of all time. Hang on to the memories of your loved ones, my King. More than blankets and a fire, they will warm your heart as your bones grow stiff and cold.”

  “That is poetry. You should write those words down.”

  “I am no poet. Merely an observer of life,” he sighed, “and lost loves.”

  With those words, Solomon’s heart ached and hearkened back to the one year, twelve scant moons, he spent with Makeda. He closed his eyes, and she sprang up before him, young, full of life, laughing. Twenty years had passed since she left. Was she gray-haired now, like him, or did her hair retain its rich blackness and curls? Was her body still lithe and supple? His loins stirred at the memory of their one night of passion. Had she stayed, he would have spent every nigh
t with her for the last twenty years, ignoring all the other wives and concubines.

  “King Solomon, I bring news.”

  He blinked and Makeda dissolved into a messenger coated in dust.

  “What is it?”

  “A man who looks just like you, only younger, approaches Jerusalem. He arrived in Gaza, and the governor thought he was you.”

  Solomon leaped to his feet. “When was this report?”

  “From yesterday. I rode hard, nearly killed my steed. The ruler of Gaza sent me ahead to warn you an imposter might be on route to attempt to take over your throne. He said to warn you so you could prepare for an attack.”

  Solomon laughed. “Would you call your child a fraud?”

  The messenger shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “This is not time to raise the troops.” He leaped to his feet. “Scribe, take good notes from this day forward. You and I spoke of lost loves, and the warmth of good memories. Come, let us go forth and meet the seed of my greatest love which has taken shape and grown into a man. Let us prepare to welcome my son.”

  ****

  Once again, Solomon stood in his courtyard surrounded by musicians, soldiers, and priests and awaited the arrival of a Sheban. This time, however, instead of dancing with anticipation for his love match, he twitched with impatience for his love child. Did his son truly favor him, or was it just another rumor created by a kingdom that loved royal watching? Even as well fed as they were, Israel’s people hungered and thirsted after gossip. Today would give them many tales to tell over food and wine for years to come. On this day, they would say, the king’s son arrived after a long journey from Sheba. Accompanied only by his best men, the young man had traversed the desert and taken a ship across the Red Sea, then traveled across yet another desert to make his way to Jerusalem.

  What had Makeda told her son about Solomon? Had she been kind and loving in her words? Did he come to Solomon in love—or in anger for abandoning his mother? How could he explain to his son, Menelik, that his father and mother had been in correspondence for twenty years and that each letter was signed with love and longing?

  “Oo-poo!” The bird fluttered and landed at his feet. “He comes up the hill with his men. His steed is white as the sands of the beach of the Salt Sea. Your son sits high on the saddle, his shoulders back, eyes forward. He craves a glimpse of you.”

  “And I of him.” The first Hoopoe had passed away when it was his time. His offspring, the mirror image of his father was just as talkative as the original. Solomon turned to the crowd. “Let us go forth and greet my son with joy.” He hoped Menelik would be happy to see him. Twenty years of a father’s absence could fill a boy—no, a young man’s head with doubts and fears. The moment to wipe away those concerns had come, at last.

  Musicians played the lute and lyre, songs of joy filled the air. Crowds filled the streets outside the palace. Children perched on parents’ shoulders craning for a better look. People jostled one another for a good spot on the king’s route. Soldiers stood at attention, legs splayed, blocking the throng from surging into the street in their frenzy to touch and be touched by him. Solomon hated to keep the people away, but Benaiah insisted on protecting him from would-be attackers.

  On one occasion, a rag covered subject, scrawny and filthy from over long fasts and wanderings in the desert, had attempted to kill Solomon. The mad man babbled about how Solomon enslaved nations and lunged at him with a knife. The guard dispatched him in short order. How could the man say such things? Yes, he demanded tribute and workers, but not for his own glory, but for the glory of God. He shuddered at the recollection of the demonic look in his eyes, and mentally thanked Benaiah for taking precautions.

  A prancing steed crested the hill. Solomon raised his eyes and the sun blinded him. Before he could blink and shake away tendrils of apprehension, a strapping man, built with legs like small tree trunks leaped off his horse and knelt at his feet, head bowed.

  “Abba. Baba. Father. I am Prince Menelik. I bring you greetings from my beloved mother, Makeda, Queen of Sheba. She sends you her respect and wishes for your long life. The entire nation of Sheba now worships the one true God as she was taught here in Jerusalem. She bade me give you this seal so you would recognize me.”

  “Rise my son. I need no ring to prove you are mine. I see my father, King David, in you and your mother’s teachings are in your voice.”

  Solomon’s son embraced him, and grief and joy rushed through him in a torrent. Would Menelik ever forgive him for all the missed years? Tamrin guided him, but did he love him like his own child? He must prove his love for his child, now a man, and a prince in his own right.

  That was it.

  Releasing his son from his embrace with reluctance, King Solomon called for his mule. The groom arrived with the sluggish animal, and Solomon urged the puzzled looking Menelik to mount the beast. The music stopped and a hush fell upon the crowd. Some of the elders had seen this before, when he was but a boy and the old king lay dying. He motioned for Benaiah and Zadok to come to him.

  “It is time to announce my heir to the throne. You shall lead the mule with Menelik through the streets of Jerusalem shouting to all, ‘This is the son of King Solomon. On this day, he shall be anointed king.’”

  Benaiah protested. “My friend, please. You are besotted with joy at seeing your offspring from the Queen of Sheba. How can you say he is fit to rule your kingdom? What of Rehoboam’s claim as next in line?”

  Solomon spoke through gritted teeth. “In the words of my beloved mother, may she rest in peace, ‘Cease your braying, my stubborn one.’ Your king has spoken. My word is law and the one and only God has given me wisdom beyond that of any man. Now, go with Zadok and proclaim Menelik to be my son and heir. You must bring him to me at the Temple at sunset. There he shall be anointed in the presence of the Lord before all of Israel.”

  Upon hearing his father’s words, Menelik, his eyes wide, tried to dismount from the mule. “Father, I did not come to usurp your throne. My father still lives and is in good health before me. I came to meet the wisest man in all the world, the man whom my mother loves still. Please do not do this from a sense of guilt. You owe me nothing. Your fatherly love is all I desire.”

  Makeda still loved him and spoke of him to their wonderful, humble son. How unlike Rehoboam this young man was. Menelik’s objections only served to strengthen his resolve. He had chosen wisely. This one was the true inheritor of his kingdom, not that covetous offspring from Naamah.

  Solomon grabbed his son’s strong young hands in his weaker, older ones, and kissed Menelik’s knuckles. “You have the best of both your parents. Your mother’s deep and abiding sense of honor and my wisdom. You are already the king in my heart. Tonight, all the world will know you will become the ruler of Israel upon my death.”

  Menelik bowed his head and wept. “My father, may our Lord grant you a long life, full of joy and blessings. I pray I shall never disappoint you.”

  “Already you make me proud. Let every ear hear and every eye see you. You, my son, are my blessing.” Solomon waved to Benaiah and Zadok. “Take him forth with cymbals and lutes, lyres and horns. Let his men follow you and rejoice in the Lord’s name for this day of wonders.”

  Embarrassed by his show of emotion, Solomon covered his face with his hands. Amid the jubilant sounds of his son’s progress, the still small voice of the Lord spoke to him. Your wisdom serves you well. He will illuminate nations with his faith.

  Face still covered, Solomon laughed until he became short of breath. Wondrous are the ways of the Lord, indeed. He turned to go into his palace to bathe and prepare for the evening’s ritual and froze at the sound of a woman screeching his name.

  “Solomon! Have you become possessed by demons like Saul? Is it a jinni who has taken over your body and forced you to do this to your child? Who should we call to exorcise it? King David is gone, his lyre silenced these many years. Shall we raise him from the dead like Saul raised Samuel t
o cast out this foreign influence?”

  “Naamah, stop. This is not your decision.” The woman tormented him as badly as any demon. She did not know her place. “The Lord blessed this choice.”

  Rehoboam fell on his knees before him. “Father, tell me this isn’t true. Make them stop saying he’s the next king of Israel.”

  “I smell the wine on you from here, my useless son.” Disgust clogged his throat. “It’s always a holiday for you, isn’t it, Rehoboam? You never listened to a word I’ve said. You never took any interest in the running of the kingdom. Your whole life you have been spoiled by your mother.”

  Naamah gasped and sputtered. “You dare call me a bad mother—”

  “Not once did this woman listen to Bathsheba, my blessed mother, may she rest in peace, about your upbringing. You were mean to other children and servants. Look at you now, a grown man, still a brat. Your robe is filthy, covered in wine stains, food, and the perfume of harlots.”

  Bleary-eyed, Rehoboam brushed at his clothing in a useless attempt to remove the blemishes. “Father,” he whimpered.

  “Silence! I am ashamed to call you my son. You and your mother are reaping what you sowed. Your brother—yes, he’s your brother—Menelik will be the next king. You will bow your head and bend your knee to him, just as you must to me. Go now. Bother me no more, lest I call upon the Lord to release His wrath upon you.”

  Fists on her hips, Naamah refused to budge. Her eyes wild, gray hair flying around her face like dancing snakes, the woman shrieked, “The Council of Elders won’t agree to this. Rehoboam is your oldest son. The Queen of Sheba seeks to conquer Israel. Mark my words. They will not allow this foreigner to reign over this kingdom. Only a true Israelite has that right. I will see to it that Rehoboam gets his birthright. The Lord is on my side in this, not yours.”

  “Go. Now. Before I order you to be stoned for blasphemy.” He motioned to two guards standing by the door to the palace. “The family squabble is over. Get them out of here.” He turned back to Naamah. “If you or your foolish son ever step foot in my palace again, you will be punished.”