Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  And the king does nothing. No, worse; the king greeted these abominations with smiles, with open arms.

  Now the Colchian’s escort passed through the great gate, set unclean feet upon the stones of Jerusalem. Men clad in flowing fringed gowns, their soft faces painted like a harlot’s; women garbed in crimson leather trousers laced tight about their thighs—those creatures alone were enough to set fiery teeth gnawing below Ahijah’s heart, clear sign of Yahweh’s anger. But there was more, and worse. There was the Colchian herself, sitting brazen in an ebony cart inlaid with silver moons and serpents. A cart drawn by dogs.

  Abomination upon abomination. Ahijah pressed his fist against the fire searing his chest. Dogs—no wonder fangs seemed to gnaw him from within. Black beasts as large as donkeys, harnessed in scarlet leather and led by small boys clad in collars hung with silver bells—unclean, unfit to set foot within Yahweh’s city.

  Goaded by the fire within, Ahijah stepped from the shadow of the Horse Gate into the path of the black dogs. He held up his staff before them; the children leading the animals halted and looked back to their mistress. Ahijah raised his gaze to the royal bride. Above a silver veil, eyes dark as sloes and flat as a serpent’s stared back.

  “Come no farther, for you offend Yahweh, affront the living god with your harlotries and unclean beasts.” Ahijah gained strength as he spoke and knew he had read the signs rightly. “Go, our king does not need your vile wealth.”

  The Colchian princess said nothing, and Ahijah knew she did not understand. Of course she does not; a foreign witch speaking no known tongue! Folly upon folly, King Solomon! Ahijah turned to the onlookers, those men and women who had gathered beside the road to watch King Solomon’s newest bride arrive.

  “Are you lost to shame? Will you let such a creature enter King David’s City?” Ahijah demanded. No one moved, or spoke; many slid their eyes away, as if hoping the prophet would not notice them. And before Ahijah could berate them further, a man clad in the purple and gold of King Solomon’s high officials strode past the dogs to stand before Ahijah.

  “Greetings, Prophet. The Great Lady Dacxuri thanks you for your welcome.” The interpreter smiled broadly and bowed, continuing, “Now I beg you, in the king’s name, to stand aside.”

  “And I order you, in Yahweh’s name, to turn back. Turn back before it is too late.”

  “We are already late,” said the interpreter. “King Solomon is waiting.”

  As Ahijah gazed into the Colchian’s night-cold eyes, a new pain speared hot behind his eyes. The princess seemed to shimmer before him, her face ringed with pulsing light, light that burned and pierced—

  Hands pressed to his face, Ahijah stumbled back, shielding his blinded eyes. By the time he could see again, the foreign witch and her corrupt attendants had entered into Jerusalem, continued on their way to King Solomon’s palace. Behind them, small clay figures littered the street, luck-idols tossed by the Colchian’s servants. As Ahijah watched, men and women scooped up the idols, laughing.

  Suddenly weary, as if he had grown old between one breath and the next, Ahijah leaned upon his staff. If no one else has eyes to see, I have. He bent and caught up one of the little idols, stared at a clay dog’s head, its pointed snout painted black and red. Slowly, Ahijah closed his fingers over the blasphemous thing.

  I see, and I will make others see as well. Somehow, I will stop these abominations. I swear it upon the Law. So vowing, Ahijah stood upright and began to walk slowly, as if he were an old man, along the broad high road that led up the hill to the king’s palace.

  King or no, he is only a man in the eyes of Yahweh. So Ahijah reminded himself for the fortieth time as he waited in the great courtyard for King Solomon to pass by. What, after all, was a king but a man whom others chose to obey? And when men weary of obedience to one who is no better than they, then they see the error of their ways and return to obedience to Yahweh’s Laws.

  And to Yahweh’s prophet, a small voice hissed. No. No, I will not listen. I, too, am only a man.

  But a man who heard Yahweh’s voice, who carried Yahweh’s word. That, too, was truth—which was why the silent lure possessed such power. But Ahijah refused to yield to that seductive trap. I am no better than any other. I am Yahweh’s messenger, that is all.

  He clung to that thought as to a lifeline, a chain strong enough to bind him to his endless task. For Ahijah had that day stared into Abomination’s black eyes, stood firm against alien seductions. Now I will stand firm against King Solomon. I must show him how gravely he has offended, tell him that Yahweh orders me to chastise him.

  Just as the prophet Samuel had chastised King Saul, and the prophet Nathan rebuked King David. So will the prophet Ahijah reproach King Solomon, turn him back to the path set before our feet by our own god. If he will listen, and heed. If he will not—

  If King Solomon would not heed, then what? Surely if Yahweh’s favor were withdrawn, King Solomon’s proud dreams would fade like mist upon sunrise. For I am right and the king and the priests wrong. Why will they not see? O Yahweh, how have I failed that I cannot make them see the pit they dig before their own feet? Pain lanced behind his left eye, a hot spear of burning light. A warning, a sign that Yahweh’s patience was not limitless. I will make this king see your will, Lord. I must—

  His silent struggle so absorbed him that, when the king strolled through the rows of cedar columns that edged the public courtyard, Ahijah did not notice until the easy laughter of the king’s companion beat upon his ears. Amyntor of Caphtor, one of the many foreigners infesting the palace like locusts devouring standing grain. Forcing himself to ignore the fire behind his eye, the keen fangs gnawing within his stomach, Ahijah drew a deep breath and slammed the tip of his staff against the smooth stone beneath his feet.

  “Solomon! Listen and heed!”

  The king stopped, and turned; his face revealed nothing save smooth courtesy. “Welcome, Ahijah. You look weary, come and rest easy as we talk.”

  Ah, the king himself had granted an opening; Ahijah seized upon it. “How can Yahweh’s prophet rest easy when abominations defile Yahweh’s land? When vice profanes His people?”

  Solomon’s expression did not alter, but even a dozen strides away, Ahijah could sense the king’s withdrawal, his unwillingness to heed the truth. And beside the king, the Caphtoran regarded Ahijah with amused contempt, as a man looks upon the antics of a foolish child.

  The king came forward, hand outstretched. “This is neither the time nor the place for such words. Come and we will speak quietly together.”

  “What better time? What better place? I speak as Yahweh commands, and Yahweh’s words are not to be whispered in corners but shouted from the housetops.”

  Solomon smiled; neither smile nor welcome reached the king’s eyes. “Very well, Ahijah; speak as you will. What have you to tell me?”

  Perhaps today the king would listen—truly listen. I must try. The prophet stood straight as his wooden staff. One hand clutched the smooth wood, the other clenched into a fist. “I have come to warn you that you go too far, O King. Do not mock, but heed Yahweh’s words before it is too late.”

  “I do not mock,” Solomon said. “I try to heed the Lord’s words, Ahijah.”

  “Yet you wed strange women, consort with them and with their gods. You court Yahweh’s wrath—and your crown will not shield you.” Ahijah opened his fist and flung what he had held at Solomon’s feet. A dog’s head gazed up at the king with sightless clay eyes.

  “That is what your latest bride brings as dowry, O King! Idols and abominations. Remember Yahweh’s first and greatest commandment!”

  “I do,” the king said. “That commandment is that we shall have no other gods before Him. That commandment I keep, Ahijah; these others all take lesser precedence than the Lord. I myself worship only our own god.”

  “Can you still say that truly, King Solomon, who dare not even speak Yahweh’s name? Does not your heart turn to your foreign women? And do they
not turn your eyes to their foreign gods, their idols of wood and stone?”

  “Answer me a question, Ahijah.” King Solomon spoke in the soft voice the king used to soothe, to disarm. To deceive. “Do the idols in my wives’ temples possess any power? Are they truly gods?”

  “Of course they are not! Can wood and stone possess power?”

  “And if such idols are mere images, with no more power than my daughter’s doll, then what harm can it do merely to look upon them?”

  “It is a sin against Yahweh! They must be smashed, smashed and burned to ash, their temples destroyed. All must be banned from this land, or Yahweh’s anger will destroy you. The king’s house—this so-called palace—must be cleansed of idolatry and abominations! Unclean beasts walk its halls, its walls reek of wickedness and unholy practice! Beware, O King, lest your feet be set upon the road to disaster!”

  “I thank you for your warning, Ahijah. Truly I shall endeavor to do what is right.”

  “Then send the Colchian witch away, and her corruption with her. Put away all the idolaters you have taken to wife. Cleanse your palace of foreigners, cleanse King David’s City of abominations. Purge our land of temples and groves to false gods and falser goddesses. Only then will Yahweh’s will be done.”

  “I hear your words, Ahijah, and I thank you for your care of our people. But—”

  “But you will not yield to Yahweh’s will.” Scorn edged Ahijah’s words; anger burned beneath his heart. “You flout our god’s commandments. You consort with strange women and evil men. Today all Israel and Judah watched false gods and their wanton priests enter the gates of King David’s City. You have turned Yahweh’s people into idolaters and harlots.”

  The prophet paused to draw breath; the king seized the moment’s grace. “Is that all, Ahijah? For I have many calls upon my time today—including worshipping at our Lord’s great Temple. The Temple that I built for our god and His glory.”

  “His glory? Or your own?” Ahijah stared into the king’s cool eyes and found only rejection there. “I see the king will not listen.” Ahijah’s words fell into the silence like cold stones. “Remember, Solomon, son of David—what Yahweh has chosen, He can repudiate. You are but a man. Heed and obey before it is too late.”

  “I will consider your words, Prophet. And I will pray for guidance, as you have asked I do.”

  “And you will not put away even one of your sins.”

  “I will do as I have sworn, Ahijah.”

  “And so will I.” The prophet’s eyes gleamed bright with scorn. “Go, then—go to your foreign bride, submit to yet another strange woman. But remember that even a king is not above Yahweh’s Law.”

  Ahijah did not give Solomon a chance to answer; he turned his back on the king and walked away. Behind him, he heard Amyntor of Caphtor ask, “Why do you endure that unkempt fellow, my lord king? Only say the word and half-a-dozen of us would happily—”

  “No! He is a prophet, not to be touched in anger.”

  “—bathe him for you,” Amyntor finished smoothly.

  And as Ahijah strode away, he heard King Solomon laugh.

  Anger burned righteous through Ahijah’s bones, carried him through shadows and light until he reached the great gate of Solomon’s palace. There strength abandoned him; suddenly weak, Ahijah sat upon the ground beneath an olive tree and pressed a fist to the searing pain that flared below his heart. That King Solomon refused to heed him was bad enough—but that he should laugh—

  He laughed at me. Laughed at me, the voice of Yahweh. Once he would not have dared. Once prophets were great men in the land; once prophets were heeded. Feared. But now—

  Now my words go unheeded and sinful men mock Yahweh’s will. Not for the first time, Ahijah wished he had been born in the long-ago days when the great prophet Samuel had reigned as the undisputed voice of the Lord of Hosts. Samuel had made kings, and broken them, too.

  But somehow, in the years that stretched between Samuel’s day and Ahijah’s, such power had slipped from the grasp of prophets. Today it was kings and high priests who counted, rich, slothful men who followed their own wishes and called that path straight and godly.

  Ahijah knew better. The path of riches is the path of fools and of sinners. Abruptly he rose and strode out of the palace gate, down the hill to the great market street. His face was stern; his eyes darted from side to side, weighing each corruption, each iniquity he passed.

  Men consorting with idolaters, bargaining away their honor and flouting Yahweh’s Laws. Women whose painted faces proclaimed their wickedness.

  And as if that were not bad enough, there were the temples. Houses of abomination, Jerusalem was infested with temples to dozens of foreign gods; alien idols worshipped by the strangers who came in their hordes now that the city Yahweh had given into King David’s hand cared more for trade than for the god they now called Lord, claiming his name too sacred to utter.

  Hypocrites. They will not utter His name because they fear to call upon Him and draw down His wrath. Yahweh’s people must see the pit yawning before them, must draw back before they fall to utter ruin.

  That was Ahijah’s deepest fear, an endless ache in his bones. They look on desolation of spirit and call it good fortune. They embrace evil and call it virtue. And Yahweh will smite them for it. And if he could not lead Yahweh’s people back to their harsh covenant with their god, their destruction would be on his head, as well as on theirs.

  If he failed, the kingdom would shatter; Yahweh would not endure a rebellious people. If I fail, my people destroy themselves. If I fail—

  He halted before the porch of a building whose crimson pillars proclaimed it the House of Atargatis. A woman stood between the pillars; her mouth was stained red and her eyelids green. A three-pronged trident was painted in blue upon her forehead. She smiled and beckoned to Ahijah. “You seem troubled, friend. Come within and let Laughing Atargatis ease your distress.”

  Cold revulsion slashed him; although every instinct urged him to shrink away from the priestess, vessel of sin, Ahijah forced himself to stand his ground. I am Yahweh’s prophet, he reminded himself. I fear no one. Letting outrage speak for him, Ahijah glared at the painted woman. I am strong. You will not beguile me away from the path of righteousness, though your lips drip honey and wine!

  After a moment, his temptress shrugged and abandoned her attempt to entice him. But what Ahijah had refused another man eagerly accepted as the prophet strode on. Ahijah sighed inwardly. Only when Jerusalem was burned clean of such abominations would Yahweh’s people be safe.

  Only then—He strove not to wince as the pain he carried on behalf of Israel bit deep. He permitted himself to press his hand below his heart, where the burning fangs of his own guilt gnawed hottest. Yes, Lord. I understand. I must try harder. I must not fail.

  He dared not. Unseeing, Ahijah walked through the crowded streets of Jerusalem. If the king will not act, then the Temple must. Yes. I will speak with Zadok.

  And if the high priest refused to listen, as was all too likely—

  Then I must find another weapon to serve Yahweh’s will. Once a prophet had played kingmaker—and kingbreaker. If necessary—if Yahweh willed—perhaps a prophet could once again bring an ungodly king down, his wickedness dust blown on the wind.

  A wicked king and his strange idolatrous women—yes, I will bring them down. Down into dust. Solomon and his women both.

  Solomon

  “Poor Ahijah.” Solomon watched the prophet stride off; noted the stiff fury of Ahijah’s movements. “He does not see that times change, customs change. That our kingdom and its people must allow the wind to blow new customs through our land. I feel sorry for him.”

  “O King, you feel sorry for everyone,” Amyntor said. “A piece of advice, my lord: don’t. Most of them aren’t worth it, and the rest revel in misery.”

  “Surely you are too harsh.”

  “Surely I am not. Do you not know women who are never happier than when complaining?” />
  Solomon stared at Amyntor, kindness quarreling with truth; as always, Solomon tried to blend the two. “I try to ensure that my wives have nothing to complain of. That they are happy.” But they weren’t, and in his heart Solomon acknowledged this without understanding how he might mend matters. Ah, Abishag, if only you were here to guide them—Surely his women had been happy once? Or did I close my eyes to all but my own joys?

  “You brood again, O King.”

  “Upon my faults.”

  Amyntor laid his hand on Solomon’s shoulder. “My friend, you have the fewest faults of any man I know. You paint shadows where there is only sunlight.”

  “You are too kind.”

  “I am too selfish,” Amyntor said. “I prefer my companions smiling and my pleasures unmixed—and my women pleased. And so do you—and that’s part of your trouble, my lord king.”

  “What is?”

  “You have too many wives and not enough women.”

  “I marry as I must. Now come and marvel at the gold and the horses Colchis has sent—in them you will see reason enough for this marriage.”

  “It’s to be hoped they haven’t sent dogs instead. What an entrance!”

  “Yes,” Solomon said. “I admit I had not expected that. I suppose I must smooth over the matter with the prophet—”

  “Why? You are king, not he. Forget him,” said Amyntor. “And if he troubles you—why, there are remedies for that.”

  “No.” The word fell flat and heavy between them. “No,” Solomon repeated, his tone lighter, “that is not how I rule.”

  “It’s how all kings rule, in the end,” Amyntor said, laughing. “What’s an army for, after all?”

  Smiling, Solomon shook his head. Amyntor’s lighthearted comments amused him—but in the end, Amyntor could not understand the burden under which a ruler labored. And that is as it should be. But it would be pleasant once again to talk with someone who truly understands.