Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  Khurrami

  “King Solomon is here? Here?” Tamrin’s voice rose sharp; his hands grasped each other tight as a lovers’ knot. “Has the man no sense? How are we to greet him? Nothing is prepared, nothing!”

  “What is good enough for the Queen of Sheba is certainly good enough for King Solomon,” Khurrami said. “And once he sets eyes upon our queen unveiled, doubtless he will not care what foods are spread before him! And never have you failed to supply what our queen needs.” Khurrami smiled and laid her hand over the chief eunuch’s tight-laced fingers. “You will not fail her now.”

  So she had coaxed and cajoled, and as always, the queen’s chief eunuch had managed to create bounteous perfection despite his dark misgivings. The queen’s great pavilion spread over a feast fit for the gods themselves—certainly fit for an unexpected guest, however royal. Roast lamb and baked fish; breads stuffed with spiced cheese; sweet wine; pomegranates, grapes, and apricots so perfect they glowed like warm jewels.

  And then there was Bilqis herself. Graceful as a panther, she sat upon a chair of ivory; by her right knee sat her white hound, Moonwind, by her left, her favorite hunting cheetahs sprawled in angular grace. Wide collars set with emeralds circled the beasts’ necks, collars matched by the necklace that adorned the queen’s own throat. She wore few other jewels—a daring choice. But then, Bilqis herself shone like a rare gem—

  And if this uncouth king does not have the wit to see her worth, he is a fool—or blind!

  “Why do you smile?” Irsiya regarded Khurrami reprovingly; Irsiya, like her brother Tamrin, was ruled by custom and ritual, worried over trifles.

  “Because everything under this roof looks just as it should,” Khurrami said, “and because I doubt King Solomon has ever set eyes upon anything half so magnificent.”

  “I hope not. But I think the queen should have worn the leopard crown and the emeralds, and the gown sewn with peacock eyes, and—”

  “And I think King Solomon would rather see her without any gems or gowns at all.” Khurrami laughed at Irsiya’s indignant frown. “Oh, do not worry so—our queen knows how to handle men—even men from this crude hard land. You will see; she will have only to smile upon him, and this king will give her whatever she desires!”

  Solomon

  Banquets are no place for plain speaking. I am glad we first met as we did—alone save for trusted friends. Solomon regarded the vast pavilion that lay before him, a fantasy of scarlet and indigo, and acknowledged the wealth and will that could create a palace meant to stand for so brief a time. But that the kingdom of Sheba owned great riches was no secret, and luxury had been flaunted at him before. The rich cloth, the gold, the attendants were nothing.

  What I wish to see is the Queen of Sheba’s face.

  Which was doubtless what the royal guest had intended when she contrived to encounter him upon the road. To intrigue him, to waken curiosity. She had succeeded—even knowing he had been well-played, Solomon could not deny his desire to see the woman who owned those sun-bright eyes.

  Of course, her people might veil always—Sheba was a strange land with stranger customs. But surely a king may look upon the face of a queen?

  And then he entered the great pavilion and his question was answered. He paid no heed to the courtiers, the Amazons, the banquet spread down the center of the tent, a river of opulence. He saw only the woman who waited for him upon a throne of ivory. A woman who looked at him with sun-hot eyes.

  A woman who smiled upon him, and extended her hand in beckoning welcome. “The king comes to greet me; I am honored.”

  Solomon strode forward; when he stood before the queen he hesitated, uncertain whether he was meant to clasp her outstretched hand in his. They did not know each other’s customs, and it would be easy to offend. Before the moment could become awkward, she swept her hand sideways, indicating a second ivory chair set beside hers.

  “Please, sit. That you could not wait to greet me gratifies my vanity; now permit me to gratify yours and treat you as my equal.” Laughter danced in her eyes, rippled beneath the solemn words.

  Solomon smiled. “Am I not?” he asked, as solemn as she. The queen seemed to ponder the question with great care before answering.

  “Oh, here—yes, here, I think we are equals. In our own courts—who can say?” She shrugged, the gesture eloquently skeptical, and Solomon laughed, watching to see how she accepted his tribute to her wit. And to his delight, she smiled.

  Clever and at ease, free of arrogance. And proud of her wit—rightly so. A woman worth knowing. Solomon seated himself in the ivory chair beside her, and only then remembered that he had longed to see beyond her veil to discover whether her face was fair to look upon. Now he realized that did not matter; her perfection of face and form was less important than her beautiful mind.

  “You have welcomed me to your tent; now it is I who welcome you to my kingdom. You gratify my vanity, for you have traveled far and long to reach me.” Too far, and too long, for this royal visit to have been undertaken to satisfy mere whim. Only some compelling, urgent matter could have brought this queen here; now Solomon must discover that reason.

  “Seeing King Solomon, the journey is forgotten.” Bilqis smiled. “Your fame has spread even to the world’s end, great King. I knew I must look upon your face and hear your wisdom for myself.”

  She was richly beautiful, sun-rich, as a ripe peach or a full-blown rose was beautiful. And she was lying to him—Or say, rather, that she tells me less than truth.

  Solomon smiled in his turn. “And the Queen of Sheba journeyed long days and hard miles only to see King Solomon in all his glory?”

  She lowered her eyes, then glanced up at him through heavy lashes. “I have heard King Solomon is all that is wise and just. It is well for a queen to seek wisdom; I have come seeking Solomon’s. It is said he can solve the hardest riddles; perhaps he can unravel mine.”

  Flattering, but a difficult sweetmeat to swallow. This woman treated him as if he were fool enough to fall before honeyed words and perfumed flesh. He had seen too many beautiful women, heard too many flattering words, to be deceived.

  “If you truly believe me wise, why do you treat me as a fool?” he asked, suddenly unwilling to play this too-familiar game. “No one travels half the world to ask riddles. Try again.”

  Without moving, she seemed to straighten, no longer subtly yearning. Now she regarded him candidly, eyes intent. “You seek to trade in Sheba’s realm. I would talk of treaties, and of spices, and of profit for us both.”

  “No ruler leaves a throne unguarded; rulers send emissaries to speak for them—as I did. Try again.”

  This time she smiled. “It is impossible to hide anything from King Solomon’s wisdom. You are right, O King; I have journeyed a thousand miles seeking the answer to a riddle.”

  “You need not jest with me, O Queen. Ask freely, and I shall freely grant whatever favor you ask—if I can in honor and wisdom do so.”

  “You are as kind and generous as you are wise, King Solomon, and I thank you. But the riddle is mine to solve, and the answer the gods’ to give. Our goddess Ilat has sent me north, to your land; has promised me that what I most desire dwells within your kingdom.” She regarded him gravely, as if weighing his worth, then smiled again. “As you say, a long journey. And since I am here, perhaps we can also speak of trade, and treaties?”

  “And try our wits with riddles?”

  “If that amuses you.”

  “You think your riddles unsolvable?”

  “I think them … difficult. At least, men find them so.”

  “And women?”

  “May have better fortune.” Supple and graceful as a young cat, the queen rose from her ivory throne. “Now if the great king of Israel and Judah will deign to follow where I lead, he will receive the gifts of Sheba from its queen’s hands.”

  The Spice Queen had brought gifts so extravagant Solomon could only stare, silent in the face of such generosity. Caskets of fran
kincense, baskets of pearls, chests of Ophir’s pure gold … any one of which would ransom a king. Or a queen. Solomon raised the lid of the nearest gilded basket. Rare black pearls filled the basket; pearls dark as storm clouds, deep as shadows. Pearls as dusky as my Abishag’s hair … .

  Silent, he bent and slid his hand into the black pearls, lifted them to gaze more closely upon their midnight luster. I have never seen such gems. Slowly, he let the darkly glowing spheres slip between his fingers to fall back into the gilded basket. Such riches. Such beauty. I wonder what she wants?

  For if Solomon had learned anything during his years as king over the empire his father had carved out of the kingdoms surrounding Israel and Judah, it was that every gift carried a price. The richer the gift, the higher the price.

  But to ask in plain words what the Spice Queen wanted so badly she would pay so dearly for it was unthinkable. Protocol must be observed. And so Solomon smiled and said, “The queen honors me beyond my worth. These are gifts fit for the king of all the world.”

  “Trifles barely fit for the King of Wisdom’s eyes to glance upon.” Laughter warmed her voice; she smiled, and fine lines creased her silk skin, fanned out from the corners of her eyes and mouth.

  She is not afraid to smile, to betray her age. Solomon smiled back. “Then they are not for me?”

  “They must be, for I was told Solomon is the wisest king under the sky.”

  “You have been deceived. Now, had you been told I was the wisest king in Israel—”

  To his delight, she laughed. “Well, as I have carried these gems and spices all the way from the land of Sheba to lay them at King Solomon’s feet, I suppose I must do so even if he is the most foolish king under the sky.”

  “As he would be to spurn such gifts, and such a giver.” Solomon studied the caskets of gems, the gilded boxes of spices, the chests of gold. Yes, it would take a fool indeed to scorn such riches. Or perhaps a very wise man … .

  The queen rose to her feet, graceful as a cat in sunlight. “If Sheba’s tribute to King Solomon’s wisdom finds favor in his eyes, Sheba is pleased.” She held out her hand; henna patterns scrolled over her skin, roses at sunset. Her face revealed only serene pleasure.

  “Be pleased, then, and accept King Solomon’s thanks for Sheba’s gifts.” Solomon smiled and took her outstretched hand. The Spice Queen’s generosity was overwhelming; suspect. And now he must somehow offer up gifts that were a match for hers, for it could not be said that King Solomon’s welcome was grudging, his gifts miserly. Although what I can grant to a queen who comes bearing such a weight in frankincense and gems I do not know. But doubtless she will think of something.

  Nikaulis

  What am I doing here, in this land of hard men and harder laws? An idle question; Nikaulis knew why she was here: her queen commanded it. And though Nikaulis herself thought this journey odd, and her queen’s behavior odder still, it was not her place to question, only to obey.

  But she would be less than human if she did not wonder. Of course she did not doubt the queen obeyed divine decree—but sometimes, during the long journey north, Nikaulis had wondered if the queen had misunderstood her goddess’s message. Oracles were tricky things. Had the queen’s own desire led her astray? Surely not; Bilqis had reigned many years and must know how to interpret her goddess’s will. Fortunately, Nikaulis’s own goddess was less difficult to understand: Artemis, the Moon’s Sword Blade, demanded only chastity and courage of her worshippers.

  Nikaulis gazed across the hard-packed earth to the pavilion sheltering the queen and the king she had traveled so far to meet. Bilqis reclined, indolent, against silken cushions; her favorite maid, Khurrami, slowly waved a fan of peacock feathers, creating a soft breath of air that pressed the fabric of the queen’s garment closer to her skin. The queen spoke, gesturing with practiced ease, and King Solomon smiled and answered. Nikaulis could only guess at their words; from their smiles, and Bilqis’s gentle laughter, the king’s wit was to the queen’s taste.

  Vigilant, even here in the midst of apparent amity, Nikaulis kept her eyes moving, studying those around her for any hint of threat. All seemed peaceful. Then her seeking eyes met another’s equally intent gaze; Nikaulis found herself exchanging stares with the commander of King Solomon’s guard.

  Benaiah. That was his name, a soft name for so hard a man. Nikaulis had learned to weigh and to judge a warrior’s worth; this man had fought battles in his day, and fought them well. His sun-darkened skin bore enough scars to prove him a fighter, few enough to prove him a good one. But now he grew old, his hair gray and his body thickened, although he still moved with a fighter’s easy grace. His eyes were dark, unwavering—

  Heat flooded her face, a strange tingling that shocked her. I have stood too long in the sun, she told herself. That is all. Unwilling to reveal weakness, she kept her gaze level, her face smooth, meeting Benaiah’s keen eyes without wavering. She counted heartbeats; after half-a-dozen, she slid her gaze past the guard, resumed scanning the royal gathering.

  For no matter how safe, how civil, this meeting seemed, men carried danger with them like a plague. Hard men, hard laws. I wish the queen had not come here. This land is not safe for her. For any woman.

  Nikaulis found herself gazing once again upon King Solomon’s general; the man’s eyes probed the pavilion, judged the men and women gathered there, as hers did. For a breath their gazes met, swept on, seeking danger to the rulers they guarded.

  The king’s man, too, will be glad when this folly is over and done with. The queen will find what she seeks, and we will return home to Sheba.

  Soon.

  Benaiah

  Benaiah had not been captain of the foreign troops under King David and survived to become commander of the host under King Solomon by being indecisive and trusting. Perhaps this woman, this Queen of Sheba, had journeyed half a world only to behold King Solomon in all his glory.

  Perhaps she had not. Perhaps she was not even Sheban, let alone its queen. Benaiah stood ready at King Solomon’s side, and reserved judgment. In truth, he cared little about the queen, save as her visit affected King Solomon and Benaiah’s own task. Another woman filled his eyes; had captured his dreams since the moment he first saw her riding beside the foreign queen in the desert wadi.

  Now she stood watchful beside the Sheban queen, a woman such as he had never before encountered: slender as a hunting knife, supple as a bowstring. Her plaited hair shone bronze in the sunlight. She wore a short tunic and trousers, in the Scythian style, and a sword was belted at her side. Her eyes, when she turned them upon Benaiah, were gray, gray as a polished iron blade.

  Something odd happened as her iron eyes met his. Warmth flowed beneath his skin; slow fire caressed his bones. Time slowed.

  Then her seeking eyes slid past him, freeing him. Who is she? What is she? Benaiah caught the arm of the nearest Sheban, asked the questions, oddly surprised to find that his words did not burn themselves into the incense-laden air.

  “That? Why, that is the captain of the queen’s guard, the Sword Maid Nikaulis.” Then, as Benaiah stood grim and silent, the Sheban added, “Some call them Moon Maids. Amazons. Do all your people treat guests so coarsely?”

  Benaiah released the affronted Sheban and stared at the queen’s captain. He had heard of the Amazons, warrior women who had once ruled the open lands, who served kings only at their own pleasure. But that was long ago; the world had turned and changed, and few now living had set eyes upon one of the fabled Sword Maids.

  Sometimes Benaiah had dreamed of such a woman. But dreams faded at dawn. Benaiah knew better than to build a house upon dreams.

  An old soldier, Benaiah prided himself upon sleeping quick and hard, no matter how rough his bed—but that night sleep was long in coming. Benaiah lay in the darkness and stared at the moonlit plain beyond the campfires. The warrior maid’s image trembled before him, a silver ghost in the pale moon’s light, a golden flame dancing in the banked fire’s depths. Nikaulis. Swor
d Maid.

  And when he at last closed his eyes, she burned before him still, an ardent brand upon the darkness before sleep.

  Amazon.

  Baalit Sings

  Mounted on a horse swift as air, I rode a path laid down in moonlight. The horse moved strong between my thighs, muscle slid beneath skin as we fled whatever followed behind. For we were hunted, pursued relentlessly through the sunlit hours of the day into the cool silver night.

  I fled an enemy that never paused, never tired. My horse reached a riverbank and checked its headlong pace; before us water flashed bright as glass. We splashed through the bright water, leapt up the far bank. For a breath the pressure of the hunter eased—

  —and then my foe slipped across the water; rejoined me. I looked back to face my fear.

  And saw nothing.

  Before me the grass stretched endless, flowing beneath the wind like gilded water. Behind me the river burned, moonlight transmuted into fire. Terror hunted me.

  And I ran … .

  I woke cold to my bones. But when I tried to reveal my dream to Keshet and Nimrah, I found that I could not. Even in memory, my dream hunter remained unseen.

  A troubling dream—but night demons flee sunlight, and I soon had no time for dreams, for my father sent messengers to warn his wives that he returned with his guest, the Queen of Sheba—

  “Coming here, to stay under his roof. And where are we to put her and her court?” That was the Lady Chadara’s question, and I thought it not unreasonable. But then, the Lady Chadara held the duty of managing the supplies and servants. No one else cared—

  “So long as she does not think to take my rooms!” said Yeshara, only to find herself scorned by Naamah.

  “As if she would desire them! Mine, now—I am the chief wife, mother of the king’s eldest son. But if this woman thinks to take my place, she will find herself mistaken.” Naamah tossed her head, displaying the clean lines of her chin and throat. Naamah battled time as a mortal enemy; with great effort, she had held her foe at arm’s length—so far.