Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  Veiled, I visited the forbidden temples, standing silent, seeing yet unseen. At first the mere breaking of the iron taboo thrilled me, and I could barely set foot beyond a temple gate. What unclean horrors would I find within, what bizarre, arcane rites would I see practiced?

  Rather to my disappointment, when I at last dared enter the houses of alien gods, I found little that was strange to me, save the images.

  Incense burning, priests praying, petitioners seeking favor, acolytes collecting offerings—these seemed the same, no matter what god or goddess was entreated. And always there was a holy of holies, a sanctuary so sacred only the highest ranking priest or priestess might enter.

  All that differed from one temple to the next was the face of the god. For all temples save Lord Yahweh’s were adorned with idols, images of carven wood or stone. These images varied—some gods were beautiful, winged and smiling. Some wore the heads of animals.

  And some were women. Goddesses. Goddesses slim as the crescent moon shining in their curled hair. Goddesses lush and fertile as ripe pomegranates. Goddesses fierce and strong as the great cats fawning at their feet. I liked looking at the goddesses; they reminded me of my laughing grandmother.

  It was against those many goddesses that Ahijah poured out his greatest venom. Whoredom was the least of the sins their worshippers were accused of.

  But I saw no sign of the bloody, vile crimes the prophet Ahijah preached against. Certainly none of the temples practiced any sacrifice greater than those the Lord himself found acceptable: a bull, a ram, a dove. Some sacrificed nothing at all; Ishtar’s favorite offering was the release of songbirds into the air, to fly freely.

  There was a trick to that, for the birds, left to themselves, flew back to their home behind their temple, there to be fed and pampered until they were sold to other worshippers. I knew this because I bought my own wicker cage of songbirds from the temple bird merchant, and marked one of the birds before tossing it skyward. The next time I visited Ishtar’s temple and handed over a sliver of silver in exchange for a songbird for the goddess, I received the same bird I had marked, the henna streak upon its feathers faded but still rosy enough to see. I laughed as I flung the small bird upward, knowing it would only return safely home once it had stretched its small bright wings.

  As for whoredom—in some temples, priestesses offered themselves as mortal mirrors for the goddesses they served. But they were not harlots, and any man who strove to treat them so found little welcome in any god’s temple thereafter. And there were festivals held in groves beyond the city upon the great holy days, where all men were deemed gods and all women goddesses, and all love a holy offering.

  Or so I heard; I had never set foot beyond the city walls myself, save in dreams. A great chasm separates daring from folly. There were adventures I knew better than to attempt.

  Just as for all my curiosity, my restlessness, my daring, I knew better than to cross beyond the brazen gate of the Lord’s Temple upon the hill. Once I thought of dressing in boy’s clothing to make the attempt, but it was a moment’s wild impulse, instantly quelled by good sense. If I were found there, even being King Solomon’s daughter might not be enough to save me from the priests’ anger.

  How strange; the house of my own god was forbidden to me. To all women. Only the outer court was permitted to women. Farther than that, they might not go, lest they defile our god’s sanctuary.

  No wonder women turned instead to the goddesses who welcomed them open-armed, and offered love instead of wrath. No wonder women baked sweet cakes and poured honey wine for the queens of heaven. And then Ahijah raged, and ranted, and demanded to know what sin women carried, that they turned away from a god who had already denied them!

  My half-brothers too helped fill my world; my father’s sons, sired upon his foreign wives. I was fond of many of my brothers, indifferent to others. And then there was my brother Rehoboam, the Crown Prince. Him, I loathed, and with good reason.

  I do not know what trick of fate granted my brother Rehoboam the honor of being a king’s firstborn son. I do know that of all my brothers, Rehoboam was perhaps the least deserving of kingship. Rehoboam could not even rule himself; how was he to rule others?

  Prince Rehoboam was neither clever nor kind, and no one knew this better than I. That was why I walked cautious and watchful when Rehoboam was nearby. He liked me no better than I liked him; not only was I our father’s pet, but I spoiled Rehoboam’s vicious games when I could.

  As I did the day I rescued the Lady Nefret’s Egyptian cat.

  That day I was where I had no particular right to be, as was the cat. I had spent the morning with my brothers’ Akkadian tutor, a eunuch who had, by virtue of his maiming as a man, gained unquestioned access to the women’s palace. Emneht schooled me in the sacred songs of Ugarit and of Ur; I did not know whether I believed the ancient stories Emneht taught us were truth or tale only, but I found the language beautiful. And my father believed always that knowledge was its own reward.

  I was walking back to my own courtyard when I heard noise from a side corridor, sounds like jackals yipping. Since there were no jackals dwelling within the palace, I knew it had to be boys—boys engaged in mischief. I ran around the corner and saw at once that it was worse than that. My brother Rehoboam and his pack of friends had cornered a cat.

  The cat’s coat was a soft brown tipped with black, like a rabbit’s; gold hoops pierced its wide ears, and a collar of red and blue beads circled its sleek neck. An Egyptian cat, a darling of my father’s Egyptian wife.

  The soft little animal was trapped upon the top of a column; Rehoboam thrust a burning brand at its nose, trying to force the cat down as the others jeered. Unnoticed, I padded up behind my brother; I grabbed his thick curly hair in both my hands and hauled back with all my strength.

  Rehoboam yowled and swung around, waving his arms frantically; the burning stick scorched the fringe edging my scarf. Refusing to yield, I yanked again, and Rehoboam stumbled as he tried to dislodge my fierce grip on his hair.

  My brother flailed about; he landed a kick on my calf that unbalanced me, but I did not fall. My grasp on his hair kept me upright. None of Rehoboam’s comrades interfered, either to help him or to hinder me—they might run and tell tales, but none would willingly entangle himself in the royal family’s quarrels.

  This knowledge strengthened me; I released Rehoboam’s hair and shoved past him, set myself as a wall before the trapped cat. There I waited, permitting my brother to withdraw, if he would. A wise boy would have retreated at this point, but Rehoboam had never been noted for good sense or judgment.

  “How dare you attack me, you viper?” Rehoboam glared at me and waved the makeshift torch. Warily, he remained at arm’s length. I still had strands of his hair clutched in my fists.

  “How dare you torment the Lady Nefret’s cat?” I demanded; I thought of spitting at him, but he was too far away for it to do any good.

  “The beast’s an abomination; the prophet Ahijah says so.” Rehoboam waved the torch. “It should be burnt.”

  Ahijah did rage against the Egyptian queen’s cats, but that was not why Rehoboam wished to kill this one. The prophet’s decree was only an excuse; Rehoboam delighted in cruelty. “You are vile, and if you harm the Lady Nefret’s cat, our father will punish you.”

  “He won’t know.”

  “Oh, yes he will, for I will tell him.” Rehoboam could not prevent that, even if he beat me—and while I knew it would please Rehoboam greatly to beat me, I doubted he would dare. Our father loathed cruelty; Rehoboam had gone too far, and should have had the wit to know it.

  He hesitated; the burning brand’s fire turned smoky. One day, wit and caution would not suffice to restrain his darker desires—but today those chains still held. Rehoboam scowled and flung the torch aside.

  “Oh, go away, you—you girl!” But it was Rehoboam who stormed off, followed by his uneasy sycophants.

  I waited until I could no longer hear them rampa
ging down the corridor, then walked quietly to the corner. The boys were out of sight, and the noise of their passage had faded away.

  I went back and lifted down the quivering Egyptian cat; the little animal hissed but permitted me to hold her and stroke her soft golden brown fur. Gradually her trembling ceased, and I carried her back to Queen Nefret’s courtyard. There I handed the cat over to one of the Egyptian maidservants who served the queen, and who was horrified to learn her favorite cat had roamed so far from the safety of Nefret’s quarters.

  “The Lady Nefret will be most grateful.” The Egyptian maid shuddered, cradling the cat to her breast. “Think what would have happened had someone else found her! This is a cruel land—why, upon the streets I have seen men throw stones and sticks at cats and dogs! Barbarians!”

  While I did not wish to agree that my own people were barbarians, I also did not think they should torment animals that had done them no harm. So I said nothing, save that I was glad to restore Queen Nefret’s pet to her.

  “The Lady Nefret will wish to thank you, Princess. If you will wait here, I shall tell her of your kindness.”

  I shrugged this off; then it did not occur to me that one should never refuse a potential ally. It did not occur to me that the Princess Baalit, King Solomon’s favored child, needed allies.

  “It does not matter.” I found the Egyptian queen cool and distant, exquisite as Minoan glass. Her quiet elegance made me feel uncouth and unkempt at the best of times; cat or no cat, I preferred to meet the Lady Nefret only when I looked more like a king’s daughter and less like a street tumbler.

  So before Nefret’s servant could delay me, I ran off to repair the damage my struggle with Rehoboam had done to my garments and my person.

  And to decide whether I should tell my father what had passed between my brother and me today. No matter what Rehoboam did, he remained my father’s eldest son, his proclaimed heir. It would only trouble my father’s mind and wound his heart if he knew what Rehoboam were truly like.

  So by the time I reached my own rooms, I had settled in my mind that I would say nothing of the affair of the Lady Nefret’s cat. Nothing had happened to the cat, after all—

  —and perhaps Rehoboam will improve and become a good king after all. Someday perhaps we shall even be friends. I was young enough still to be foolishly optimistic.

  Rehoboam

  That little bitch! Rehoboam swore inwardly as he led his followers away from his sister and her fiery temper, for it would not do for his companions to hear the king’s heir vilify the king’s overly-indulged daughter. One of the boys would be sure to run and tell the nearest officious servant, who would tell his father, who would call Rehoboam to him for a somber lecture on the behavior expected of his son. As if princes had no privileges, only duties! But Rehoboam was too conscious of the precarious nature of his position to utter those rebellious words; his mother had lectured him too often on the need for caution.

  “Yes, you are the eldest; yes, the king has sworn you are his heir. But always remember, Rehoboam, my dear son, that this kingdom is not like others, that it has no history, no tradition. King Solomon may change his mind and choose another to be king after him. Always remember that, my son, and tread cautiously. When you are king, then you may do as pleases you. But until then …”

  Until then, Prince Rehoboam must behave himself. Rehoboam’s mouth twisted in an angry smile. His mother was right; he knew she was right. He must cage his nature. But he didn’t have to like it.

  He stopped, turned to his followers. Half-a-dozen boys, sons of servants and concubines, boys hoping loyalty to the crown prince would bring favors when he was king. Boys who would obey his orders, tolerate his whims—and report on him to their fathers or their mothers. I can’t trust anyone, Rehoboam thought fretfully. Except his mother, of course.

  He studied his companions; they regarded him with bright eager interest, seeking to learn what would placate, what would please. But not because they loved him; Rehoboam had not needed his mother’s warnings to know that. A king’s heir had no friends, only flatterers. They do not like me; they wish to ensure their places in my favor when I am king.

  “Shall we find you another cat, Prince?” Lahad offered, but Rehoboam shook his head. Another cat would not be Queen Nefret’s cat; Rehoboam had hoped to make his mother’s rival suffer.

  “No,” he said. “No more cats today.”

  “No more sisters,” Oreb said, and snickered.

  Vowing Oreb would regret mocking him, Rehoboam forced himself to laugh. “Who cares what she does? She’s only a girl. Come, let’s visit the stables. My father the king has promised me a new team for my chariot. I am to have my choice of the new horses.”

  The appreciative envy on their faces warmed Rehoboam.

  “Your father the king is generous,” Pelaliah said.

  “I am the heir,” Rehoboam reminded them. He did not reveal that his father had also promised a new team of horses to all the royal princes who were old enough to handle the reins. At least the king had decreed that Rehoboam should choose first. But I am Crown Prince. He should treat me better than all the others.

  As if sensing Rehoboam’s resentment, Pelaliah said, “You will choose the best, my prince. Have patience, for someday you will be greater than all men.” Pelaliah always had the right words ready to his tongue. Rehoboam suspected his mother coached him. But Pelaliah was right.

  Someday … Rehoboam’s eyes gleamed as he contemplated the shining future. Someday he would be king. Someday he would rule over all men.

  And someday—ah, someday his sister Baalit would be sorry.

  Baalit Sings

  In my rooms, Rivkah pounced upon me, demanding to know how I had managed to tangle my hair and ruin my new fringed scarf so swiftly. “You are too old to run wild like a boy, Princess; look at you!” Rivkah thrust my silver mirror towards me. “Now all my hard work to do over again—and what’s that upon your gown?”

  “Cat hair and claw marks.”

  Rivkah swelled with indignation. “Cats and claws! And what would your father the king say, if he saw you looking like this?”

  “You are a puff adder of righteousness, Rivkah. My father would say nothing, once I explained. I saved the Lady Nefret’s cat from my brother Rehoboam.”

  “That boy.” Rivkah’s tone of rueful indulgence brought a frown to my brow, and Rivkah smiled, equally indulgent of my foibles. “Now, I know you don’t like him, Princess, but brothers and sisters always quarrel. It means nothing.”

  I thought of saying that I didn’t quarrel with my half-brothers Saul and Jonathan, or with Abner and Joab, or Ishbaal and Eliazar—or that Jerioth and Samuel disliked Rehoboam as hotly as I. But I knew such plain speaking would do no good and might do harm, so I closed my lips tightly over the words.

  “Now sit down here and let me comb out those tangles.” Rivkah did not ask, she commanded. But she rewarded as well, for Rivkah, who had once served my mother, gave me my mother’s life as a harpers’ tale to ease dull tasks.

  “Do not wriggle, child, or we will be here all day. Never have I seen such hair for tangles. Your mother’s hair was like silk. So was mine, come to that. We were the prettiest girls in Shunem, Abishag and I.”

  I tried hard to sit still; Rivkah had a gift with words. “Tell me,” I said. “I will be still, I swear it.”

  Rivkah ran her hands over my hair and sighed. “If only I could curl this, rather than braid it! It is strong and would curl well.”

  “Comb me curls, then.” I had never worn my hair styled in such a fashion—although Amyntor of Caphtor had told me, once, that I should wear it so. “No point in trying to be what you’re not. No, let it curl as it wills—I vow you’d look as charming as the ladies painted upon the old palace walls, back when Knossos ruled the waves.” What would I look like, with my hair coiled long down my back?

  “It would not be seemly for the king’s daughter. No, it must be tamed and braided. Now, where was I?”


  “You were the prettiest girls in Shunem,” I reminded her, and Rivkah laughed softly.

  “Yes, we were, but that was long ago. Shall I tell you how your mother first saw your father?”

  I began to nod, recalling in time that I had been bidden to remain still. “Yes,” I said, “tell that.” Rivkah had told me the story many times, but she liked to tell it, and I to hear it.

  “The day was long and hot,” Rivkah began, and I settled to listen to words I could have recited in my sleep. “Abishag and I had walked to the well and tarried there, for the sun was harsh and the road dusty, and we were loath to return home, where all that awaited us—”

  “Was the task of pulling weeds in the kitchen garden!”

  “Who tells this tale, you or I?” She tugged my hair gently and continued smoothly. “So instead of filling our water jars at once, we lingered at the well, and as we rested there, a man approached. He was a stranger, and he was hot and tired, and dust coated his garments—but we saw at once that his clothes were of fine cloth. And his manners were as fine as his clothing, for when he saw us standing by the well, he bowed and would have turned away, but Abishag lifted her voice and offered to draw him water from the well.”

  “Like Rebekah and Abraham’s servant,” I added. “Have you not finished combing out my hair yet?”

  “Your hair must be combed well or not at all, and if not at all, then you must be sheared like a sheep. Be patient, and I will braid gold flowers in your hair, or silver bells.” Rivkah continued pulling the sandalwood comb through my hair as she spoke. “Of course, if my tale bores you—”

  I hastily denied that and begged her to continue. Although I knew the story by heart, and could have recited word for word along with Rivkah, it was a comfort to hear her tell it. I sat quiet as stone as Rivkah subdued my unruly hair and told again how my mother had drawn water for a stranger at the well, and taken him home to her mother, where he revealed he had come from King David’s great city, Jerusalem—and that he sought a fair maid to serve King David’s queen, Michal.