Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  “Well, who would refuse such a chance? Our Abishag was sent off to Jerusalem with as great a dowry as if she went as a bride. I went too, as her handmaiden; in palaces, even slaves have slaves! We traveled in such great state one would have thought Abishag and I were queens ourselves! And then we came to Jerusalem.

  “We were taken to the women’s quarters of the palace—King David’s palace, then. There were fewer women; King David did not marry as often as your father! Where King David warred, King Solomon marries, as they say. So the women’s quarters were smaller then—there has been so much built since!”

  “That is not part of the story.” I had no wish to hear about all the buildings that my father had raised; he was always building something new. “You were taken to a garden—”

  “Oh, yes. We were taken to a garden. And there a young man waited for us. He was so good to look upon, so richly garbed, that I knew he must be one of King David’s sons—”

  “And it was Prince Solomon! And when he and my mother looked upon one another, their eyes turned to stars. Was my father as handsome as the Lord Amyntor, do you think?”

  “If you wish to tell the tale to yourself, say so.” Rivkah tugged the comb against my hair, a silent reproof, before continuing. “Well, then he took Abishag to speak with Queen Michal, and so there was our Abishag tending old King David, sleeping in his bedchamber too. To say plain, I was troubled in my heart for her. ‘You’re not even his concubine; what will you do when the king’s dead and you branded a harlot?’ And do you know what she did?”

  “She laughed,” I said.

  “That’s right, she laughed at me, and said, ‘When one king dies, another rises!’ and went off to sit with Queen Michal, who had taken a great fancy to her. Sometimes I thought Abishag spent more time with Queen Michal than she did with King David!”

  When Rivkah told her tales, I felt myself there, as close as if I were my mother’s shadow. Now I waited, but Rivkah’s fingers were busy knotting the ends of my braids, and she seemed to have forgotten to continue her story.

  “And then King David lay dying,” I prompted, but Rivkah had finished persuading my hair into tidiness and now said only “There, that looks well. Mind you do not catch your braids and pull out the bells; you are too careless, Baalit.” Rivkah held up a mirror so that I might admire her handiwork. I sighed, knowing I would not hear the end of the tale today.

  But I remembered to thank Rivkah for her careful work, praising her skill. It was not as if I did not know all my mother’s life by heart, after all.

  Sometimes it seemed to me that Rivkah no longer cared to dwell upon that part of the tale, of the days between the time Great David lay dying and the time King Solomon stood beneath the wedding canopy and claimed fair Abishag as his queen. And when she did speak of those days now, Rivkah’s words held an undertone of censure, as if she no longer thought so well of Abishag’s part in that fall and rise of princes.

  I was sorry for that, for those hot swift days were what I most loved to hear Rivkah tell. But I would never lose their memory—for so I thought of those images, although I was not born until long after that reckless year. Sometimes, indeed, it seemed I had been there, had watched and listened as my mother had …

  … listened as Prince Adonijah knelt at his father’s bedside and begged the dying king to attend a great banquet “in your honor, Father. In King David’s honor—all men may walk through my gate and feast in your name. All the princes and all the great men of the kingdom will be there to praise you.”

  “To praise me?” The king’s eyes, death-pale, seemed to shift: for a breath they glinted keen as blades. “All the great men?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Abiathar? The high priest Abiathar?”

  Prince Adonijah nodded. “Yes, and—”

  “And the high priest Zadok? And Benaiah? Nathan, the prophet Nathan—does he await me at your great feast?”

  A pause; Adonijah’s gaze slid away from his father’s face. “They have not come—not yet. But they will.”

  “And Joab? My war-chief? Does Joab sit at your table, Adonijah, my son?”

  “Yes.” Adonijah straightened, smiling now. “Yes, Joab sits at my table, Father.”

  Then King David smiled too. “Come closer, Adonijah.” And when the prince did as his father commanded, the king laid his hands upon Adonijah’s sleek hair, in silent blessing. Then King David slanted his eyes towards Abishag. “Adonijah will make a fine king, will he not, girl?”

  And Abishag bowed her head and murmured, “As my lord the king says.” Then she rose and took the king’s water jug away to fill it again with sweet water, pausing only to speak with Prince Adonijah’s servant, who awaited his master in the king’s courtyard. From the prince’s servant, she gleaned bright grains of news, news she carried swiftly to Queen Michal. And when Queen Michal heard Abishag’s tale, the queen kissed her and sent her back to King David.

  Abisbag had learned King David’s palace well, could walk its labyrinth of halls and gardens blindfolded if need be. She returned to the king’s side and sat there until Queen Michal came, and when Queen Michal left again, carrying the king’s ring with her, Abishag slipped back into her place beside the king. All that long afternoon Abishag sat patient, as if she had never stirred from her post. And while Abishag waited, Prince Solomon set the king’s ring upon his finger and the crown upon his head, and rode forth … .

  That was how my father had been crowned king. Without my mother’s warning and Queen Michal’s swift act, Prince Adonijah undoubtedly would have seized the crown for himself.

  I was almost as old as my mother had been when she helped make a king of my father. I longed to do some daring, important deed, as she had done. But I knew I yearned to catch the moon, for under my father’s wise rule, the twin kingdoms lay peaceful under a serene sky. Nor was there any doubt of who would be king after him. There was little chance I would be called upon to perform great deeds.

  No, there was nothing for me to do but wait—wait until my father arranged my marriage.

  What else could a girl—even a princess—do?

  Abishag

  Later I wondered just how much my mother knew, and when she knew it. Midday was no fit time to fetch water, to carry heavy jars home under a high hot sun—or a fit time to wear a costly new veil, either. But as it turned out, my mother was right to send us and right to have me wear my spangled veil, for as Rivkah and I tarried at the well, a man walked up to us.

  Although he was tired and dusty from travel, he wore garments of fine cloth and ornaments of silver; the servant who followed him was almost as grand. I looked upon the man and knew I saw the road to my future. As if in a dream, I heard my voice offering to draw him water from the well.

  That is how I came to be chosen for King David, by doing as Rebekah did; by drawing water from a well and offering it to a great man’s steward. Rebekah gained a husband by her action. I gained a king.

  Makeda

  Politics made strange marriages; trade made odder couplings. The faraway kingdoms of Israel and Judah craved silver, animal hides, and ivory; the land of Cush required iron and cedarwood. More important even than precious metals and trade goods, a seal upon vows of friendship was required.

  “And what better bond than blood?” her uncle demanded, stalking through the women’s compound, staring into the face of each wife, daughter, and slave he passed. Until he reached her, and stopped. “You, Makeda. You will go.”

  A clever choice; with one stroke, her uncle would gain an ally and be rid of the last reminder that he’d severed the royal bloodline of Cush. His only claim to the kingship lay in his marriage to Makeda’s mother’s sister. Among those Sheso the death goddess had summoned in the plague season had been Makeda’s father, the king. Of all those in whose veins flowed the blood of serpents, Makeda alone remained alive.

  And that only because my uncle fears to kill me, lest Saa-set and Jangu-set curse him forever. But nothing prevented him f
rom making her life a torment. She had endured, vowing that someday each slight to her honor, each wound to her pride, would be repaid. She prayed each night to the Lady of Snakes and the Serpent King to bring her swift vengeance.

  But her uncle prayed too, and it seemed his gods were stronger than hers. For now a solution to this thorny problem had flung itself at his feet.

  Nodding his head in agreement with himself, her uncle smiled, showing teeth filed into points. “Yes, Princess Makeda, see what a great marriage I have made for you! You will wed King Solomon. I decree it.”

  Shock numbed her mind; she remembered thinking only that, not being of the Serpent’s blood, he had no right to serpent’s teeth. About to utter a damning refusal, she found herself hesitating, as if afraid to speak.

  “Good.” Her uncle turned away quickly, as if he feared to meet her eyes. “King Solomon’s men will take you away with them tomorrow. Be ready.”

  Tomorrow! She watched him stride away, too fast, a pace that hinted at fear. Coward, she thought coldly. Tell me only now, so that I have no time to work against you.

  As her uncle left, his women began to surround her, all talking at once; she drew herself up straight and tall, to vow that she would not obey, king’s command or no.

  But something bound her tongue, forbidding speech. This time she knew it must be Jangu-set preventing her from uttering words that could not be unspoken. Makeda ran her tongue over the biting points of her own serpent’s teeth, mark of her royal blood. If Jangu-set wished something of her, she had better find out what He had to say before she made plans of her own.

  The shallow crystal bowl had been held by her mother’s hands, and her mother’s, and her mother’s before that, back through time to their first mother Saa-set, the Lady of Snakes. Makeda unwrapped the bowl from the snakeskin which shielded it and set it upon the leopard’s hide spread before her on the floor.

  Her serpent’s basket she set gently beside her before she lifted the lid. The cobra had been hers since she had hatched the egg which nurtured it. The egg had warmed between her breasts as the cobra grew inside the leathery shell; the snakelet had struggled into life with the aid of Makeda’s gentle hands. She herself had woven the basket in which the cobra slept.

  Now the deadly serpent flowed out of its home and coiled placidly about her arm. Makeda stroked the cobra’s dark brown scales, soothing her mind as she soothed the serpent. Calm, the snake obediently gave up its venom as she pressed its fangs to the lip of the crystal bowl. When the milking was done, she permitted the cobra to glide away and bent forward over the scrying bowl.

  The serpent’s venom coiled over the crystal, oily and iridescent. Makeda touched the liquid with her forefinger; touched her fingertip to her brow, to her lips, to her heart. Then she waited, watching as images began to swirl over the poison’s gleaming skin.

  A man, a golden man. A woman black as midnight. A crown fading from her brow … . Anger and fear stirred; Makeda forced herself to ignore them, to summon the calm needed to see with the Lady’s eyes. Ships blown before the wind; a journey. A child, a boy. A boy with her proud face and clear serpent’s eyes. Twin serpents flowed towards him; he held out his hands and the serpents glided up his arms, wound themselves above his brow. Crowned in serpents, the boy stood tall. He spread his arms and a wind rose and carried him south, and as he flew a false serpent shed its skin and fled before him … .

  Makeda’s eyes burned; she blinked and the vision faded, leaving an afterimage of a serpent’s skin, empty now, its gold dull, dimming … . Then that image too faded, and she saw only the shallow pool of venom in the crystal bowl.

  Shaking, she pressed her hands to her eyes. She had her answer, clear and unambiguous. She must consent to this exile—but she would go with Jangu-set’s promise that the future belonged to those who carried the blood of serpents in their veins. To Makeda, and to her son.

  Serpent’s wisdom; the patience of a cobra on a rock, waiting for its prey.

  So. I must go, and wait—and one day my son will return and take back what is ours. Makeda knew her task now. She must go into exile, endure whatever awaited her in the unknown north. And she must raise her son in pride and hope; raise him to one day place the Serpent Crown upon his brow.

  Yes, King of Serpents. I will wait. I will have faith, and I will wait upon Your will. Your will, and mine.

  But already she knew her patience must be counted out in years. Jangu-set had not promised a smooth path, or a short one. Nor would Makeda ask such a promise. But one thing more she must ask.

  However long this task may take, I will not lose faith. But please, Lord of Serpents, let this King Solomon be a worthy father for my son!

  Cush lay far to the south of Israel and Judah, beyond even the Land of the Two Crowns; when she had been carried into Jerusalem and unveiled in the palace court, there had been silence, for no one had seen a woman like her before. She had not understood their language then, but she instinctively knew the silence was one not of admiration but of shock.

  But then her new husband had come forward and taken her hand, and smiled upon her, and spoken words that sang through the tense silence. Later, when she had learned to speak his language, she found out what King Solomon had said that day.

  “How beautiful you are,” he had said, “black and beautiful as night.”

  And since King Solomon had proclaimed her beautiful, no man dared say otherwise.

  She had tried to thank him, when they could understand one another with words as well as flesh; he had laughed at her gratitude.

  “Why, Makeda, do you not know it is said that King Solomon is the wisest and most truthful of men? What else could I say, then, save the truth—that you are beautiful?”

  “At home I was thought so. It is different here.”

  “Yes, it is different. Here your beauty is foreign, surprising the eye. That is why the other women are jealous of you. Do not let them make you unhappy.”

  “They do not trouble me,” Makeda said, and was rewarded with another of her husband’s sweet smiles. No, they do not trouble me. If ever they do, I myself will make sure they cease to do so. Makeda was a king’s daughter, one of half-a-hundred royal children reared in a court of serpents and shadows. Poison, the silent remedy, was bred in her blood.

  “I am glad you are happy here.” King Solomon caressed the tight curls of her hair. Once she had seen how he cherished her differences, Makeda had begun to enhance them. And when Solomon came to her, she dressed as a princess of Cush rather than as a queen of Israel, knowing her exotic appearance pleased him. In the silent, bitter struggle his wives waged for the king’s attentions, Makeda battled expertly, wielding her dark exoticism as a weapon.

  That is why I am hated by his women—because I please him more than they. The thought warmed her blood, just as Solomon’s greatest gift to her warmed her heart.

  Her son.

  As she had known he would be, her boy had been born under the sign of the Serpent, giver of wisdom. And although he had already fathered over a dozen sons, King Solomon rejoiced as if hers was his firstborn.

  To reward her for the gift of a son, King Solomon had given her a necklace of brilliant stones the pale pure yellow of a cat’s eye, and given their son a cradle carved of cedar and lined in sandalwood. “And he will have all his brothers have, when he is old enough. Horses and servants and land. But for now—”

  The king bent over his newest son, offering him a rattle with a coral handle; the baby grasped it and kicked vigorously. “For now, I think he will prefer this.” Solomon smiled at the baby and then looked at Makeda. “What shall we name him? Is there some name of your own land that you would have him called?”

  “You are kind, my king, but no—I would have him called David, after your own father.” For a moment Makeda thought Solomon would refuse her this honor, for his face seemed oddly blank, and his eyes troubled. Then the cloud passed; he nodded.

  “Very well, my Makeda—since you wish it, we will
call him David. Perhaps he will inherit my father’s gift for music.”

  She bowed, and thanked him, and kept her own wish for their son locked within her heart. It was not Great David’s gift for song that she wished his grandson to inherit but his gift for victory. This David, too, will be a king. I have seen it.

  Smiling, Makeda bent over Prince David’s cradle and lifted him into her strong arms. Unlike many of the king’s other wives, who relied upon wet-nurses and slaves to care for their children, she alone nursed and cared for her infant son. He would suck in strength and courage from her, grow strong and brave and wise. He would grow safely to manhood here, in his father’s kingdom.

  And then, when the time was ripe, he would return to hers, and claim the throne that awaited him.

  Humming a cradle-tune old when the Mountains of the Moon were young, Makeda rocked her son against her breast. You will never be king in Israel, but the world is wide, my David. It holds many kingdoms. Her son would wear a crown; she had seen it in the serpent’s venom. She could wait.

  And if I must wait for my son’s future, it might as well be here. Here, far from her homeland, she could raise her prince to manhood, keep him safe for his destiny. She looked down at David’s soft face and smiled. Yes, my son. We will wait.

  It was not a hard thing, to await the future as a queen in King Solomon’s palace. If only it weren’t so cold in Jerusalem, Makeda sometimes thought she could be perfectly happy here.

  Baalit Sings

  Within a garden walled in cedar and silver, a woman paced, restless as a caged leopard. Bright silks clothed her body; bright gems adorned her hair, her wrists, her throat. Her hands held a spindle, a pretty thing, amber and ivory, a queen’s toy; as she walked, she spun. The wool upon the spindle was black, yet the thread spun from it was white.