by Mesu Andrews
Solomon’s furrowed brow begged an explanation.
“Give them the opportunity to live in solitude—away from Jerusalem—in the northern districts. If they refuse your mercy, then like Kemmuel, their blood will be on their own heads.”
He studied her and stroked her cheek. She was tenacious, this lion of God. Turning to announce his verdict, he said, “Oliab, stand before me.”
The man’s face lost all color.
“Have you ever dressed a grapevine?” He heard Arielah’s soft gasp. Solomon looked at her with a grin, raised an eyebrow. She nodded her silent approval, and the king turned to Benaiah. “Captain, if Oliab agrees to testify against the remaining Sons of Judah, I will offer him mercy and a position in one of my vineyards.”
Arielah placed a hand on Solomon’s shoulder, pulling him close. “Look at his face, my love. I saw the same expression of repentance and redemption on Igal’s face the day of his judgment.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The prisoner choked out the words. “I accept your mercy gladly.”
Solomon cast an adoring glance at his wife. “You should thank Queen Arielah. Were it not for her mercy, we would all be lost.” Nodding at the guards to move Oliab aside, Solomon fixed his gaze on the traitors. “Daughters of Jerusalem, stand before me.”
Benaiah brought them forward, Shiphrah like stone, Sherah a ragdoll.
“The law of Moses says by the testimony of two witnesses, these women shall die.”
Sherah let out an otherworldly wail.
“Is there no mercy for the Daughters of Jerusalem?” Shiphrah’s voice held as little hope as her verdict.
Solomon smiled, and a panic deeper than Sherah’s wail flashed in Shiphrah’s eyes. “Yes. In fact, the woman you plotted to kill has shown you mercy.”
The audience chattered with excitement.
“You will live under guard in Dothan—in the quiet grazing meadows where our patriarch Joseph was betrayed by his jealous brothers.” Solomon paused and spoke to the crowd. “A fitting location for jealous deceivers, don’t you think?”
Nervous laughter almost equaled Sherah’s moans.
“Perhaps while herding young goats, you two will discover Jehovah’s creation and learn the value of peace.” Solomon hesitated, and the courtroom grew quiet. “However, should your hearts remain hard, Daughters of Jerusalem, should you refuse this gift of mercy I extend to you now, you—will—die.”
Shiphrah and Sherah were dragged from the throne hall in utter defeat. A slow but mounting applause rippled through the crowd and grew to a thunderous celebration.
Arielah turned to celebrate with her husband. “Oh, Solomon . . .”
But as he leaned down to embrace her, the haunting expression of a woman came into view. Abishag.
40
• SONG OF SOLOMON 8:11–12 •
[Beloved] Solomon had a vineyard in Baal Hamon. . . . But my own vineyard is mine to give.
Solomon hadn’t seen Abishag since she’d been placed with Abba’s concubines. She looked weary of life, but worse—she seemed utterly alone. His heart broke. Suddenly Abishag looked up, and he was staring into the liquid brown eyes that had mesmerized him at Abba’s bedside.
“Oh, my love.” Arielah hugged him tightly. “You did it! Jehovah’s wisdom made us victorious!”
His wife’s warm embrace drew him back to the moment. He kissed the top of her head, and Abishag averted her eyes. “Yes, beloved,” he said, still gazing at Abba David’s Shulammite. “Jehovah is victorious.” Holding his wife, he continued to appraise Abishag. However, to his surprise—and profound relief—no passion stirred. Only concern for this lonely young woman.
Arielah must have noticed his distraction. Lifting her head from his chest, she searched the object of his interest. “Abishag!” she whispered. “Solomon, she looks so alone.” His wife’s tender heart had broken as immediately as his own.
Kissing her forehead and settling her at his right side, Solomon quieted the crowd with upraised hands. “Abishag, caretaker of King David in his final days!” he shouted, and Abishag flinched. “Please approach the throne.”
Her eyes, so soft and tender moments before, were now as round and frightened as a deer in a hunter’s sight. She didn’t move. Perhaps she couldn’t.
Guards started their foreboding journey toward her, but Solomon motioned them away and said tenderly, “Abishag, come to me.”
She moved with the grace of a breeze toward the throne. “Yes, my king?” Her head bowed.
“You served my abba well, yet you were never taken as his wife. I release you, Abishag, from David’s harem.”
The crowd gasped and then reveled in the grandest gossip of their generation. Solomon’s advisors shouted their objections in a dissonant chorus.
“But, King Solomon, the Shulammite lay with your abba,” the royal secretary said. “Though King David never took her as a true wife, she has been considered his concubine.”
Zadok the priest offered his two shekels. “She has been tainted, my king. No man will have her. It would be cruel to expel her from the palace without a husband to support her.”
Solomon raised his hand for silence. Abishag stood tall, a regal presence amid the unsettled souls around her.
“I offer you freedom,” Solomon said, quieting the last murmurs. “But it is my intention that freedom brings you joy, not pain. Therefore, I offer you the ability to choose your future.”
A slight smile graced her face, and her voice was quiet but clear. “May I ask the king a question before I decide?”
Solomon chuckled. He’d seldom heard this timid girl speak above a whisper. “Yes, you may ask.”
“Is it true my sister is no longer Queen Arielah’s serving maid, that she is now betrothed to the new caretaker of your vineyard in Baal Hamon?”
“Yes, it is true. I myself am serving as friend of the bridegroom.”
A collective gasp added more fodder for merchants’ tales.
A slight smile curved Abishag’s lips. “Then, if I am truly free to choose a future, I offer my service to Queen Arielah.”
The tittering crowd was like a nest of eagles stirred.
“Silence!” Solomon’s wisdom obviously fell short when women were involved. He was thoroughly baffled by the Shulammite’s request. “Abishag, though you are a concubine, you are not a servant. Why would you place yourself below your current station?”
“Oh, my king, I care nothing of my station. Your counselors have said I am tainted. Perhaps in their eyes I have been, but I know I would be welcomed in my abba’s loving household at Shunem.” She turned to Arielah, her lips quivering as she spoke. “But Queen Arielah once spoke of me as her friend, and since my sister will soon become a bride, the queen will need a friend to care for her. It would be my honor, my pleasure, to serve her for a lifetime.”
Solomon was speechless. What could he say to such a request?
“Solomon.” He turned to see tears streaming down Arielah’s face. “May I speak and offer Abishag a gift—as a gesture of appreciation for her offer?”
He laughed aloud, cupped his wife’s cheeks, and wiped her tears with his thumbs. “I wish you would,” he said so only she could hear. “I have no idea how to respond to the extravagant grace of you women from Shunem.” He chuckled and placed his lips by her ear. “This woman has pledged her life to you in service. Make her gift extravagant, beloved. She’ll be tending my most precious treasure.”
Arielah nodded, eyes sparkling. “Will you help me walk to the edge of the platform?”
Encircling her waist, Solomon stood beside her while she addressed King David’s Shulammite.
“Hello, my friend,” Arielah said, and then she turned to the gathering. “As many of you know, King Solomon’s vineyard in Baal Hamon is quite lucrative, and tenants pay a thousand shekels of silver for its fruit. The only vineyard I own stands before you—broken,” she said, motioning to her still-mending body. “But it’s mine to give. I give myself freely
to my husband, and he gives his love in return.” As she turned to Abishag, Solomon heard wonder in his wife’s voice. “My friend, if you are willing to serve me—to tend my vineyard—the king offers you two hundred shekels of silver.”
Abishag gasped and cupped both hands over her mouth, fresh tears coursing down her cheeks. The crowd exploded in celebration, and Solomon laughed. Gathering his wife into his arms, he kissed her cheek and said, “Well, Queen Arielah, giving your serving maid twenty times a warrior’s reward is indeed extravagant, but I approve!” Her giggling filled his heart with joy.
Suddenly, she pulled away. “Solomon, look at her.” Abishag stood alone, smiling awkwardly at the foot of the platform while everyone celebrated around her. Arielah looked pleadingly into his eyes. He nodded, granting permission before she asked.
“Abishag, please come to me.” Arielah opened her arms wide to receive her friend.
The girl’s face lit up as she ascended the dais steps. Abishag tried to bow, but Arielah reached for her, nearly falling into the Shulammite’s warm embrace.
Solomon watched and marveled at Jehovah’s mystery. The woman who selflessly served his abba in death would now tend the woman he loved more than life. Abishag had begun his quest for love, but Arielah had defined its sacred passion. If old Shimei was right, and love, like a vineyard, grew better with time, then surely their love would outshine even the vines of Baal Hamon.
EPILOGUE
• SONG OF SOLOMON 8:13–14 •
You who dwell in the gardens with friends in attendance, let me hear your voice! Come away, my lover, and be like a gazelle or like a young stag on the spice-laden mountains.
Thirty-Seven Years Later
King Solomon’s breathing grew labored, and he realized his aging body was beginning its slow, deliberate march toward eternity’s gates. “Abishag, my friend, it seems you will comfort two dying kings.”
Abba David’s Shulammite sat quietly at his bedside, her silver-streaked hair falling in soft waves under her fine linen head covering. She was as lovely as the first day he’d seen her peer from beneath Abba’s blankets. She glanced at him, smiled, and then returned her attention to the wool and spindle in her hands.
“I want to talk about her,” he said.
Abishag’s hands stilled at his declaration. When she finally met his gaze, he searched the cloudy brown eyes that had once mesmerized him. “I need to speak of her with someone who knew her as you did.”
Abishag laid the spindle aside and placed her hand on his forearm. “Say her name, my king.”
“I want to talk about what she taught me.” He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t lift himself.
“Wait, let us help you.” Abishag signaled to the palace physician. Several other servants were immediately at the king’s bedside, fluffing the doeskin pillows, arranging his lion-fur blankets. Solomon’s chamber was every bit a man’s room though women filled his world until just a few weeks ago.
“Abishag.” Solomon captured her hand as she gathered his robe around his neck. Their eyes met again, his stinging with tears. “Remember when I used to finish my day in court and return to her in our private garden? I would say, ‘You who dwell in the garden with your friend, let me hear your sweet voice!’ And you would sit with her on that bench under the almond tree.” Solomon labored to lift his hand and point to the little limestone bench he had moved from Abba David’s old palace. The suite in Solomon’s opulent palace now boasted an extravagant garden, making the little bench appear stark. But it had been their bench, the place they shared their joys and secrets. “And then she would giggle. Abishag, do you remember her giggle?”
Tears made their way into every crease around Abishag’s beautiful eyes. “Yes. It sounded like summer rain on palm fronds.”
“Ah, a true Shulammite shepherd’s verse!” He covered her hand with his own. “Thank you. It’s been years since anyone has spoken a shepherd’s verse to me.”
Abishag eased her hand away and sat down again beside his bed. Solomon’s memories continued.
“Do you remember the way she answered me with a shepherd’s verse each day? ‘Come away from your troubles,’ she would say. ‘Be strong like a young stag on the spice-laden mountains.’”
“Solomon,” Abishag said, “speak her name.”
Tears spilled over his lashes. “I cannot.”
“Say her name. You’ve held her captive in your heart long enough. Say her name.” Moments passed in silence. “What are you afraid of, my king?”
“I’m afraid if I speak her name, the memories will escape, and I’ll feel more alone than I’ve felt all these years.” He looked at the only person who knew and loved his wife as much as he did. “Why did I give you to my brother Nathan? Why didn’t I marry you myself?”
Her laughter washed over him and allowed Solomon to smile through his tears. “Because you don’t love me,” she said. “You loved Arielah. Your other women are simply entertainment.”
Her words pierced him. No condemnation laced her tone, but in those few words, she’d summarized the essence of Solomon’s life. His seven hundred royal brides and three hundred concubines had been pleasurable distractions from the deep ache left behind when Arielah died giving birth to their only child. Arielah died giving birth . . . If she hadn’t been weakened by the beating, would she have lived? Why hadn’t he loved her from the beginning? She was so easy to love. He’d wasted so much time—so much of his life. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears streamed down his face.
“Solomon, what is it?”
“Have I ever thanked you for taking such good care of our daughter?”
Abishag’s cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink, the color of one of the rare sapphires in his crown. “It was our honor and delight to care for Arielah’s child, my king. Your wife and I were more like sisters than queen and servant in those last days of her pregnancy.” Abishag stroked his brow, and her eyes became distant. “When Arielah realized she was dying, she asked me to care for her daughter—and for you. Just before you rushed into the room, she said, ‘Love my daughter as you have loved me, and name her after Solomon. Name her Peace.’”
“Shalom-it . . . Shlomit.” Solomon whispered his daughter’s name reverently as Abishag played absently with a tassel on his pillow. “Abishag, where is my daughter now?”
The woman’s hand stilled and then pulled away. When Solomon looked up, caution had replaced her tender expression. He reached for her hand. She tensed but did not resist. His heart convulsed at the suspicion in her eyes. “Abishag, I’m dying. I don’t want to disrupt Shlomit’s life. I simply want to know if she is well.”
The woman stood and fidgeted nervously with the jeweled belt at her waist, her slender figure still beautifully formed after six children. “I must call for Nathan. He should answer your questions about our—I mean your daughter.” Before he could form a reply, Abishag fairly ran out of his chamber.
“Wait! I—” He tried to shout, but he collapsed into a fit of coughing. His chest felt as though it was on fire. The palace physician offered him some sort of potion. “No! I will not sleep. I must speak to Nathan!”
More servants shuffled about until finally his brother entered with a worried Abishag trailing behind him. Nathan had become Solomon’s best friend and most trusted advisor after Benaiah’s death.
The physician drew Nathan aside. “The king is very weak. Try not to let him talk too much.”
“I heard that!” Solomon tried to raise his voice, but coughing gripped him again.
“Brother, must you always have the last word?” Nathan crouched behind Solomon like a chair on the bed and lifted his brother’s shoulders, enabling him to breathe easier. He’d done this dozens of times in the past weeks.
The coughing abated, and he tilted his head up. “Of course I must have the last word. I am the king.” Solomon offered a weak but mischievous smile. He noted a timid grin on Abishag’s face as she exchanged glances with her husband.
“All
right, Solomon,” Nathan said. Climbing from behind his brother’s shoulders, he motioned to the servants for help propping up the king with more pillows. “Shlomit is a beautiful woman with a family of her own.” Casting a furtive glance at his wife, Nathan added, “She is wholly dedicated to Jehovah. Why this sudden interest in her?”
The mirth in the room evaporated, and Solomon realized Shlomit had been hidden to protect her from his pagan influence. “Nathan, after weeks in this bed, I’ve realized that my heart was wooed from the Lord by foreign wives and their gods.” His eyes misted. “Surely the scrolls I dictated during the last new moon proved my conviction that only Jehovah provides meaning to anything under the sun.” When Nathan seemed unconvinced, he continued. “I need to know Shlomit is well, and I want to talk about—her ima.”
A guttural moan began in Abishag’s throat and finally emerged in ranting. “No! We will not speak of Arielah until I hear her name from your lips!” This customarily meek Shulammite was trembling, her chest heaving. “Her name! Say it!” Sobs shook her as the words spilled out.
Nathan gathered his wife into his arms as Solomon watched, regret seizing him anew. He had caused them much pain. After Arielah’s death, Solomon had devoted himself to wine, folly, and pleasure. He’d buried himself in projects: God’s temple, palaces, fortress cities, gardens, and vineyards. He’d become greater than any man before him, using God’s wisdom to build and guide, while trampling the hearts of those closest to him.
“Oh, Arielah.” Shame drew her name from his heart. It was only a whisper, but Abishag heard him.
She quieted in Nathan’s arms. “What did you say, Solomon?”
“Arielah. Arielah. Arielah.” The name quenched the thirst of his soul and flowed from his lips. “Arielah!” he cried, and the coughing began. “Arielah . . .”