Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  The oldest portion of the great palace that now covered half a hilltop, the Little Palace could function as its own small world, a private sanctuary against the tumult of the busy court. And before she had dwelt half-a-day within Jerusalem’s imposing walls, Bilqis knew that refuge would be vital.

  Jerusalem might serve as the world’s marketplace, but the city’s sophistication sank only as deep as the bright paint upon the palace walls. So new a kingdom that the oldest men and women who dwelt within it had seen its first king crowned, Israel still sought its true balance. Quarrels between the old ways and the new arose constantly, and King Solomon’s far-famed court squabbled like a pen of fighting quail.

  “—and this is the old palace, the one their great King David built when he conquered the city.” Khurrami’s tart voice snared Bilqis’s attention; she listened as Khurrami went on, “Lodging the Queen of Sheba in these hallowed rooms is intended as a great honor, so I suppose they will have to serve.” Khurrami set the queen’s mirror upon the glossy surface of an ebony chest; she regarded the silver disk critically and reached out to move it again.

  “Oh, leave the mirror there, Khurrami—it will do well enough.” Irsiya set the alabaster box that held the queen’s eye paints beside the mirror. “And of course King Solomon means to honor Sheba; how could any man doubt it?”

  “The men of Jerusalem would greatly enjoy doubting it,” Khurrami said. “They don’t like women here.”

  “King Solomon has forty wives,” Irsiya countered, and Khurrami laughed.

  “Oh, the king likes women well enough! No honor is great enough for the Queen of Sheba, not in his eyes.” Khurrami’s eyes met the queen’s; Bilqis smiled and beckoned.

  “You have been working since midday setting my rooms in order. Come and sit by me, and rest——and tell me all you have learned.” For Khurrami numbered among her virtues the knack of acquiring information, of gathering gossip as easily as she gathered flowers in a garden.

  Now Khurrami sat and retold all the tales she had already gleaned from the palace slaves and servants—and the insults and complaints as well. Unpleasant, but no surprise, not after what we encountered upon our journey here. Sheba clung to ancient ways, followed a path fewer and fewer now walked. Khurrami’s report distressed Irsiya; the queen listened unmoved to relayed comments disparaging her wisdom, her demeanor, and her character.

  At last she said, “Thank you, Khurrami—and do stop widening your eyes and shaking your head, Irsiya. Of course Israel is nothing like Sheba; we are the crown of all the world and can hardly expect other kingdoms to equal us.” They are both tired, my girls; I must send them off to rest.

  She smiled and reached out to tuck a straying curl back into the coils of Khurrami’s shining hair. But before she could speak, Khurrami said, “There is one thing more, my queen. King Solomon has ordered a second throne set beside his in the great court, the one circled by so many columns of cedar they call it the Forest of Lebanon. The throne waits to receive his royal guest—even though she be a woman.”

  “Has he?” Bilqis said. “Has he indeed?”

  A good sign—at least, she would accept it as a fair omen. At the very least, King Solomon proved himself more open-minded than many. Kings rarely counted tolerance among the royal virtues. A paragon among men—or he wishes to seem so.

  “So King Solomon will set the Queen of Sheba beside him as an equal. Now, how is the queen to garb herself to repay that compliment?”

  In answer, Khurrami and Irsiya happily debated the virtues of each gown and veil the queen possessed, each gem and girdle, each diadem and cloak. “Gold,” Khurrami said, “gold only for your clothing and jewelry. Gild your eyelids and fingertips—and sprinkle your hair with gold dust. You will outshine the noonday sun.” This shining image failed to appeal to Irsiya, who favored more colorful raiment. “Tyrian purple—that always shows one’s wealth. Gold fringe, yes—but for your ornaments, your finest gems. And the Phoenix girdle.”

  “Not that thing!” Khurrami recoiled as dramatically as if Irsiya had dropped a viper into her hands.

  My poor Khurrami; her taste is so delicate! But truly, Khurrami’s objection was not without merit. Ancient, yes; a treasure beyond price, yes. But as an item of apparel—the vastly admired Phoenix girdle proved difficult to love. Row upon row of pearls, each perfect as a full moon, each as large as a cherry, formed the fabled girdle; those pearls alone created a matchless prize.

  But it was the pearls’ color that rendered the Phoenix girdle priceless. Fire gold, ember red—Sheban legend swore each pearl had formed from the broken shell of an egg of the fabled phoenix, the bird of fire. Pearls the color of dying flames—

  —crafted into a girdle two handspans wide, the rows of pearls caught up at intervals by claws of gold. The girdle’s original simple moon-knot clasp had been reworked a century ago; now two phoenixes with ruby eyes and bodies of gold faced each other, their grasping claws serving as hooks to close the girdle. Two tassels as long as a woman’s arm hung down from the phoenix clasp, as if serving as the birds’ tails. One tassel was formed of white pearls, the other of black.

  “It’s traditional,” Irsiya said.

  “It’s atrocious,” retorted Khurrami. “And far too heavy as well. These court functions go on for hours—do you want to wear ten pounds of pearls about your waist for hours?”

  “What could better display our queen’s wealth?” Irsiya countered. “The Phoenix girdle, and the Slave King’s emeralds, and—”

  “And what could better display dreadful taste?” Khurrami cut in. “She is Queen of Sheba, Queen of the Morning—not a plaster idol in a second-rate roadside temple! Tyrian purple and emeralds and the Phoenix girdle as well—do you want King Solomon to think she’s blind?”

  Irsiya glared back. “Well, if you had your way, he’d think she owned less than a beggar by the road! She is Queen of Sheba, Queen of the South, ruler over all the Spice Lands. Do you want these unshaved barbarians to think she’s poor and weak?”

  The queen laughed, and both handmaidens turned to face her with identical expressions of aggrieved indignation. “Peace,” the queen said. “As always, both of you are right—and wrong.”

  “What then will it please the queen to wear to King Solomon’s court?” Irsiya asked. “Plain gold and the Phoenix pearls?”

  “The queen is not wearing that ghastly girdle,” Khurrami said flatly.

  I must not let them quarrel like cats simply because they amuse me. Curbing her urge to laugh again, Bilqis merely smiled. “Again, you are both wrong—and right.”

  That caught their attention; they stared at her, plainly trying to solve the riddle she had set them. After a long pause, Irsiya said, rather plaintively, “The queen must wear something.”

  “For this occasion, yes.” She smiled at Irsiya, the easily shocked, as Khurrami regarded her queen with growing suspicion. “Now do not glare at me like that, Khurrami, I do not order my affairs—or garb—only to suit your pleasure. And Irsiya, do try to remember you are a queen’s lady and not a virgin priestess dwelling alone in a cave. Now do not sulk, for truly you both have aided my decision. I now know exactly what I shall wear to be welcomed by our royal host.”

  She looked upon her doubting handmaidens and smiled. “And I swear to you by Ilat’s eyes that not a man there will ever forget the day that the Queen of Sheba first entered King Solomon’s court.”

  Baalit Sings

  The Queen of Sheba might as well have dwelt upon the moon, for no one saw her or the exotic court that accompanied her. Protocol must be observed; the royal guest must petition for guest-right and the royal host offer welcome in approved and formal fashion. Until that ritual had been accomplished, the visiting queen remained secluded in the Little Palace. And for once, no amount of cajoling upon my part gained me my own way.

  My first confident request to my father that I be allowed to visit the queen had gleaned only a smiling refusal. Unaccustomed to being denied, I asked again, th
is time arguing that, as the king’s daughter, I had a duty to make the foreign guest welcome.

  “Yes—once she has rested. The journey from Sheba is long, and hard on a woman. Do not trouble her now.”

  “I would not trouble her, I swear I would not. Surely she will think me ill-mannered if I do not greet her and offer a welcome gift!”

  “No, Baalit,” my father said in a tone I had never before heard from him, a tone which warned that I must not argue.

  So I bowed my head and went quietly away, chiding myself for having asked his permission at all. Had I simply gone to the Little Palace by my own will, my father might have scolded me afterward, but I would have met the Sheban queen before anyone else. But I could not now pretend I had not heard or understood my father’s order.

  So I must find another path to my own way. A little thought provided an answer, for while I might be forbidden to go uninvited to the Little Palace, surely the Queen of Sheba could see whom she wished. After all, my father visited her, as did the palace steward, Ahishar; and the Lady Chadara, overseer of the women’s palace—and my father’s friend, Amyntor of Caphtor.

  I smiled, and sent Nimrah to summon Amyntor to meet me upon the wall above the palace gate. As I waited there, gazing over the busy city, I told over to myself what I would say to Amyntor. I knew he would come to me; everyone wished to please the king’s favored child.

  I was so intent upon my own plans that I did not hear him approach; only when his shadow fell over me did I turn to see him standing tall and glittering before me. Under the midday sun, the long ringlets of his black hair shone with blue glints. Today a sprig of jasmine gleamed behind his ear, white stars against midnight. Amyntor always wore flowers.

  “Princess,” he said, and bowed low; when he straightened, I saw laughter lit his eyes, spangles of gold dancing in dark amber. “You summoned me and behold, I am here.”

  And as I smiled, he added, “Now, why am I here, Princess?”

  “I wished to speak with you,” I said, lifting my chin to regard him with what I hoped was royal composure.

  “I’m honored—and at least you had sense enough to choose a very public place for our tryst.” Amyntor waved a hand, indicating the open sky above us and the city below. “Far less suspicious than meetings in shadowed corners and dark gardens.”

  His tone mocked, but I decided it wisest to accept his words as praise. I smiled again and said, “I thank you for answering my summons, Lord Amyntor. I have a favor I would ask of you.”

  I paused, but he said nothing, merely raising his eyebrows, and after a moment I spoke again to fill the silence. “You visit the Sheban queen,” I said. “Will you take her a message from me?”

  “That depends on the message,” Amyntor said, and as I stared at him, he added, “Now, don’t bristle up like a cross cat—never vow you’ll do something until you know what’s truly being asked.” He smiled, a flash of teeth. “What message, Princess?”

  Reminding myself that I wished to ask a favor of him, I bound my temper before I spoke. “My greetings to the queen, and my welcome to King David’s City,” I said, my voice calm. “And my wish that she ask I visit her, to present her with a gift.” This last I added lightly, as if it mattered little.

  Amyntor laughed—and then shook his head. “My apologies, Princess, but you’ll have to find another to carry that message—or wait until your father permits your visit to the Sheban queen.”

  Chagrined, I made myself ask, “How did you know?”

  “If he’d permit you to visit her,” Amyntor said, “you wouldn’t need me to carry messages for you.”

  And from that refusal Amyntor would not be moved, although I argued and cajoled as persuasively as I could. What harm could there be in indulging me in this? Sooner or later I would meet the queen; courtesy demanded I welcome her, greet her with gifts. My father was rightly solicitous of his royal guest, but I swore I would not tire her—

  Amyntor listened, and laughed. “You’d tire anyone, Princess—even the Queen of Sheba, and I doubt she’s easily wearied! Sorry, but the answer’s still no. Your father doesn’t give you many orders, so you’d best obey the ones he does.”

  “Oh, he will not be angry with me,” I told Amyntor, confident of my father’s indulgence. Never before had my father denied me anything. “He will forgive me.”

  “Perhaps he will, but he might not forgive me. No, thank you, I shan’t risk it. I’m not yet weary of Jerusalem’s pleasures. And besides, I like your father; I won’t slink about behind his back.”

  “He would not know you had helped me,” I argued. “No one would know.”

  “Wrong, Princess,” Amyntor said. “The Sheban queen would know, and you would know—and I would know. Now run along and play like a good girl.”

  “I am not a good girl!” I said without pausing to think how my words would sound, and was paid for this carelessness with Amyntor’s easy laughter.

  “Run along and play like a bad girl, then,” he said, and as I gaped at him, he flicked the tip of my nose with his finger and strode off, leaving me standing there furious with both him and myself—and not one step closer to the Queen of Sheba.

  For once I held no advantage over the other women in my father’s palace. Like all the others, I must wait until my father chose to reveal his queenly guest.

  I strove to conceal my avid interest, feigning indifference when the gossip in the women’s palace turned endlessly to the visitor from the south. But in truth, I was no better than any other woman; like all the rest, I was wild with curiosity to see the foreign queen who had traveled half the world only to see King Solomon with her own eyes. A foreign queen for whom King Solomon had set up a throne beside his own.

  And I owned a coign of vantage my father’s wives did not.

  Concealed behind my father’s throne was a secret chamber; from its recess, one could view the king’s great court without being seen. I had found the secret room when I was very small. I had been more willful than usual that day, and sought to hide from my nurse, and had crossed from the women’s palace to the king’s world. My wayward act yielded unexpected treasure—behind a heavy leather curtain painted with scarlet poppies, I found a private sanctuary.

  The room behind the curtain was small and dark, for the only light came through a latticed window. Later I saw that lattice from the other side, from the king’s great court; only then did I learn how cunningly the spy hole had been wrought. For from the court, all that could be seen behind the king’s throne was a wall of painted tiles. Bright reeds and lotus flowers fooled the eye, masked the secret room beyond.

  Someone had set cushions by the latticed window—someone long ago, for the cushions were dull with dust. A faint scent of cinnamon clung to the cloth. The hidden chamber had delighted me; within it I felt safe, as if held in my mother’s arms. There I spent a pleasant hour hidden from all the world, until I grew hungry and decided I was no longer cross with my nurse.

  Of course my nurse was cross with me, but as no one dared treat me harshly for fear of angering my father, she only threatened to tell him I had vanished for hours—“And King Solomon will not like that, Princess. Why, anything might have happened to you! Where did you go?”

  “Nowhere,” I said, for I had no intention of sharing my secret. But then I smiled at her and begged her not to tell my father, for I did not wish to grieve him. My nurse made me promise that I would not wander off and become lost again; I was able to swear that with a clear heart, for I had not been lost. No one within its walls knew the king’s palace better than I.

  And so I claimed that secret chamber for my own. When I grew older, I cleared the dust and took away the old cushions with their dirt-rotten cloth, replacing them with new. I did not tell even my father that I knew the secret of spying upon the throne room—although I think perhaps he guessed. It was not, after all, a very great secret. He might himself have used the room when he was a boy, learning kingship from Great David’s acts.

 
Now, while my father’s wives watched the Sheban queen from behind the screens of the queens’ gallery, I sat in my hidden room; from that spy post, I could look past my father’s throne straight into the court. No one but my father himself commanded a better view of those who came before the king.

  I do not think anyone who watched in King Solomon’s court that day ever forgot the moment the Queen of Sheba stepped into the courtyard and set her feet upon the path to the king’s throne. She knew the tales that had flown from one ear to the next, knew how eagerly all men wished to set eyes upon her, to judge her for themselves. She knew, and she made them wait for what they desired.

  Before men saw the Queen of the South, they saw the treasure she had carried with her from Sheba. Bearers clad as finely as princes bore in litters upon which rested open caskets of pearls and incense; these men were followed by others drawing a cart piled high with nuggets of gold. It was no short task for the Shebans who displayed the queen’s gifts to my father’s waiting court, but at last the final gift had been set before the Lion Throne. Then, and then only, did the queen herself come into King Solomon’s court.

  Two handmaidens entered before her, women garbed and gemmed so richly the greatest queen might envy them. Gowns of Tyrian purple, shawls of scarlet fringed with pure rich gold, veils sheer and glittering as moonlight. One woman was adorned with emeralds about her throat and arms and wrists; the other wore about her hips a wide girdle of pearls crimson as sunset. That pearl girdle alone would purchase a kingdom.

  As they drew closer to the throne, I saw that their faces glittered jewel-bright. The paint that gleamed upon their eyelids and mouths, their cheeks and brows, had been mixed with crushed gems. Still more precious stones had been threaded upon silver chains and woven through their intricately braided hair.

  The two jeweled handmaidens walked to the foot of my father’s throne, bowed low, and backed away to sink gracefully to their knees on either side of the marble steps. While they waited there, still as the carved lions that guarded the throne, the Queen of Sheba showed herself at last.