Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  “The queen commands?”

  “Bilqis asks it.”

  “Then Solomon cannot refuse.” He lifted up the gilded harp and balanced it across his thigh. Then he set his fingers upon the tight-drawn strings, and began.

  “Where is she whom my soul loveth? Whither has my beloved gone, the fairest among women? I have threescore queens and fourscore concubines and maidens without number, but I seek my fair one, my bride. Where is she who shines fair as the moon, clear as the sun—” The words poured from his lips; sorrow flowed through them like bitter honey. “My beloved is gone, gone into the garden, to the beds of spices, to feed among the lilies. Thou art a seal upon my heart, for love is strong as death. Thou art fair, my love, thou art fair—” He fell silent, his eyes gazing into yesterday; Bilqis knew he dreamed of the past, of Abishag.

  “Sing more,” she said, but Solomon shook his head.

  “No, it is too unformed, too wild. I sing it only for myself.”

  “And for her,” Bilqis said, gently touching the gilded harp.

  “And for her.”

  Solomon laid the harp across his knees; knowing she would gain no more, Bilqis merely said, “It sounds well enough to me; it is plain you inherit your father’s gifts.”

  To her surprise, he laughed. “Not all of them. But to sing as well as Great David—yes, that I would wish. And I have some small gift with words. But if you would hear David’s inheritance, you must hear my daughter sing.”

  “The princess sings well?”

  “Yes. She has the song-gift.” For a moment he was silent, as if weighing his next words with great care. But then all he said was “If only she were a boy.”

  Bilqis knew he did not wish this because a man longs for sons; King Solomon had sons aplenty. Nor did he wish it because he favored the child of his truly loved wife above all his sons. He wishes this because he is wise enough to know that his daughter is born to rule—and his sons are not.

  “Yes,” she said. “My nephew Rahbarin, my sister’s son—he is good, he is kind, he is brave. If only he were a girl!”

  “We understand one another, I see.” Solomon shook his head; sunlight danced over his hair.

  “Of course. We were born to know one another. Our stars sang to each other when we were born.”

  “I hope the stars sing better than I,” said Solomon, and set his harp aside.

  Someday I must make you sing again, Solomon. Bilqis knew he would sing no more today. But she was patient. She could wait.

  Solomon

  Have I gone mad? For madness seemed the only explanation for unveiling his heart to the Sheban queen as he had done. No one but Abishag had ever heard that still unfinished song—no one until the Queen of the Morning had smiled at him, warming his cool blood as if she were the sun, life-giving radiance.

  She is nothing but a foreign ruler come to bargain with me for her land’s sake. So Solomon reminded himself, knowing already he did not believe that comforting lie. The Spice Queen had traveled long and hard to reach King Solomon’s court; no light matter had driven her to his side.

  There is something she desires, something only I can grant her. He had read that in her sun-warm eyes, heard it in the rich low murmur of her voice. With look and word and gesture, she had implied she desired him; Solomon was too wise in the ways of women to believe that either. Perhaps he found favor in the queen’s eyes—but that was not why she had traveled half the world. I am not so vain as to swallow that sweet lie.

  Nor was he so cold as to discount it utterly. For a spark kindled when their eyes met, heat flared when their fingers touched. There is some bond between us, some invisible chain that links us. Only time would unveil the nature of that bond: lifeline—or shackle.

  In the meantime—

  —I must take more care, Solomon told himself. For kings, head must always rule heart. But even as he chided himself for folly, he felt again the queen’s touch upon his hand, heard her warm husky laugh. And to his surprise, he found himself caressing words in his mind as, for the first time in many years, a long-neglected song began to shape itself once more to his desire.

  Abishag

  The queen’s service proved more challenging. To be ready to aid her at need, I set myself to learn the palace as if it were the palm of my hand; my goal was to walk its labyrinth of halls and gardens blindfolded if need be. Many times I blessed my mother’s teaching, which might have been designed with this very life in mind. I knew enough to say little and listen much, to lower my eyes and pass for a foolish girl who saw nothing and understood even less. A girl whose only passions were sweet cakes and bright sashes; a girl who giggled and sighed, bored, whenever King David’s officials talked with him.

  Such a girl was ignored, too foolish to notice. Such a girl was far safer than a quiet, dignified maiden would have been. Such a girl was too foolish for men to fear.

  Amyntor

  It is time to journey onward. Amyntor always heeded that inner command; he had remained in Jerusalem longer than he had sojourned in any other land. Now, at last, his heart told him it was time to go—Just when things grow interesting, too. Ah, well; this, too, is at the roll of the gods’ dice.

  Still, it seemed a pity—the pitting of the Sheban queen’s seductive despair against King Solomon’s sorrowful principles promised fine entertainment. Or rather, it would be amusing to observe if Amyntor hadn’t become fond of both combatants. It’s always a mistake to have friends on both sides of a stone wall.

  No point in putting off the inevitable. Amyntor sighed, and went to seek out Solomon, knowing already what the king would say, and what he must answer.

  As the king’s intimate friend, he had access to the king’s chambers; now, as he walked through those rooms, a wayward breeze carried the fragrance of frankincense and amber to his nose. The Spice Queen’s scent. Amyntor savored the dark perfume, and smiled as he strode on.

  He found the king standing on the balcony that overlooked the city, apparently intent on a flock of doves that swooped and whirled above the dust-gold rooftops. A harp lay upon the nearby bench, silently waiting for a hand to draw music from its taut strings. For a moment Amyntor studied his friend, reluctant to disturb the king’s peace, however illusory that peace might be. But as he hesitated, Solomon turned and lifted his hand in greeting. “Amyntor.”

  “I do not intrude, my lord king?” Amyntor asked, and Solomon laughed softly.

  “No,” said the king, “not now. Come, be welcome.” Then, as he gazed at Amyntor, the king’s smile faded; between one breath and the next, weariness seemed to drag at his shoulders. “What is it you have come to say?” he asked.

  Never a fool nor a coward. Poor king; you’d be happier if you were both. Amyntor did not try to honey his words; Solomon would not thank him for false kindness. He walked over to stand beside the king. “I’ve tarried long enough in your house. And I thank you for your kindness—but it is time for me to go.”

  For a few breaths, Solomon said nothing. “Why?” he asked at last, and Amyntor shrugged.

  “Because the road lies open beyond city gates. Because the setting sun beckons. Because I must.” Amyntor smiled. “And because Jerusalem grows a little crowded these days.”

  He saw the king’s eyes flicker; Solomon understood, but did not wish to concede the fact. “A king cannot afford to lose so good a friend as you, Amyntor.”

  “And you won’t. I’ll always be your friend, King Solomon. But we’re wanderers, we sons of the Sea Kings. Someday I may wander back to Jerusalem. Today I must travel on and see where the road takes me.”

  “Stay,” Solomon said. “I need you here, Amyntor.”

  “No, my lord king, you don’t—not anymore.”

  “I don’t understand.” There was a knife-edge of despair in the king’s voice, the hopelessness of a man who no longer dared look into tomorrow.

  Amyntor laid his hand on Solomon’s shoulder. “You don’t want to understand, my friend. Let me gift you with one last pi
ece of advice—forgive yourself.”

  “Forgive myself? For what crime?”

  “Being human,” Amyntor said. “Remember, O King, you too are but a man.

  But Amyntor had little hope that his friend would accept that gift. Ah, well, perhaps the Queen of the South will do for him what I cannot—free him from himself.

  Early the next morning he rode away from Jerusalem accompanied by a dozen slaves and laden with silver and gold; Amyntor had accepted the king’s gifts gracefully. He did not expect to retain either slaves or riches long. Those who traveled far, traveled best alone and lightly burdened. But only a fool despises wealth; it’s so useful!

  At the crest of the long hill that led up out of the Valley of Kidron, a rider waited. Clad in a sky-blue tunic with suns stitched upon the cloth in golden thread and leather trousers the color of pale honey, Princess Baalit sat upon the desert horse the Sheban queen had given her with the ease of one born to ride the wind.

  Amyntor smiled and waved his servants onward. “Go, I’ll catch up to you,” he called and drew his horse to a halt beside Baalit’s. “Running away with me, Princess? I’m honored, but is this wise?”

  “Do you want me to ride away with you?” A challenge, swift and keen. “My father might not forgive you:”

  Amyntor laughed, and after a moment her eyes softened, and she, too, laughed. “I might risk it,” he said. “You’re wasted here, you know.”

  “Yes,” Baalit said, “I know.” Her lips curved in a smile as sweet and subtle as those painted upon ivory goddesses. Her eyes glinted, blade-bright.

  What a girl! In Minos’s time, she would have sailed her own ship beyond the horizon—or danced to death or glory in the bull-ring. No wonder the Sheban queen has chosen her. A fire-bride to wed the land if spices. She’s going to be glorious.

  But he would not tempt the gods by saying the words aloud. Instead, he laughed again. “Modest as well as maidenly. What are you doing here, Princess? Come to change my mind?”

  “Could I?”

  “You might.”

  “I doubt it; men’s minds may change, but not their hearts. No, I came to say farewell.” The princess regarded him gravely; Amyntor smiled.

  “No need to be so solemn about it, Princess. I’m riding the King’s Highway to the sea, not the Dark Road to Hades,” he said, and she laughed again, and held out her hand.

  “My father will miss you, my lord Amyntor. Come back to us, if you can.

  “If I can,” he said, and touched his fingertips to hers. “Fare well upon your journey, Princess.”

  “And you on yours.” She hesitated a moment, then said, “Perhaps someday you may even journey as far as Sheba.”

  “If the gods permit it—someday I’ll sail to Sheba to pay homage to its queen.”

  “Farewell, then, my lord Amyntor. And remember—Baalit will always smile to see your face.”

  “Oh, I’ll remember. I never forget a pretty girl!” he said, and winked at her and touched his heels to his horse’s sides.

  At the bottom of the hill, he looked back. Baalit still sat upon her horse at the crest of the hill, watching him ride down the road south. In the slanting rays of the rising sun, girl and horse blazed fire; a trick of morning light sent those illusory flames soaring upward, bright wings.

  Yes, our little fire-goddess is wasted here—but I hope Sheba knows what she’s claiming for her own!

  Someday he must journey to the kingdom of fabled Sheba. It would be amusing to see how the queen’s game played itself out.

  Bilqis

  Vaunted for his wisdom, King Solomon had so far displayed no more than common sense and a generous heart; enough, surely, for any man to possess—or for any king, come to that. On the days she sat beside him in the court of judgment, Bilqis observed and admired, but she had not yet seen evidence of more than mortal wisdom. She expected no more of today’s court; she sat beside King Solomon today only because she stalked him as a cat might a tame bird, with endless patience and a steadfast intent.

  It was that one day in each seven when any man or woman in the kingdom might freely come before the king and demand his judgment upon any matter, small or great. A dozen cases had been heard by the king; Solomon had listened to each with attention and with the appearance of true interest. But Bilqis sensed that he tired, that the endless proofs of stubborn folly his subjects spread before him wearied him.

  As they weary any man or woman of sense. But he is more patient with them than I would be. A sudden deep fondness for him warmed her; she lifted her hand to her cheek to catch his eye. When he slid his glance towards her, she smiled; a warm promise.

  “Soon,” he murmured, so softly even she, seated beside him, caught only a hint of the word. Then he turned to the royal herald. “Let the next case be brought before this court.”

  Two women walked forward amidst a jangle of brass ornaments; their gaudy striped veils proclaimed them harlots, as did the garish paint about their eyes and upon their mouths. Two men-at-arms followed, each carrying a swaddled infant. The infants were laid at the foot of Solomon’s throne; when the swaddling clothes were thrown back, one child kicked vigorously. The other lay stiff and cold in death. Both were boys.

  Solomon stared at the infants lying before him, then lifted his eyes to the two women. “What is your quarrel?”

  The herald glanced at the women, plainly disapproving. “O great King, these women are harlots, and both bore children the same day.”

  Solomon lifted his finger; Bilqis leaned towards him. “Rather careless harlots,” he murmured, his lips barely moving. She pressed her own lips firmly together and nodded gravely.

  Waiting until the king sat attentive again, the herald continued. “Three days later, they awoke, and one child was dead.”

  “That is a grief, no doubt,” Solomon said, “but how is it the business of the king’s court?”

  “Each claims the living child, great King.”

  “And no one save the king can undo this knot? Is there no one who can say which child belongs to which woman?”

  “No one, great King; they dwelt alone and aided each other in their need. No one else had yet seen the infants.”

  “And so you have come to the king’s court for justice.” Solomon pointed to one of the women. “You, tell me what happened.”

  The woman bowed low. “O King, this woman—whom I had thought my friend!—she lay upon her own child in the night and smothered him. And when she woke and saw what she had done, she switched our children while I slept, so that I found her dead child lying beside me, while she suckled my son!”

  “She lies! She is the one who smothered her own baby, and stole mine!”

  “You are the liar! You who—”

  “Silence.” Solomon’s voice cut through the women’s shrill cries; they fell silent, glaring at each other.

  So much hate; so little love. They have not even glanced at the children. It seemed impossible that either of these women should be mother to either infant. And how King Solomon was to decide between them, Bilqis did not know. I would give the child to neither woman, for neither seems to care one heartbeat for it.

  “Have each woman in turn hold the child,” Solomon commanded.

  That test revealed nothing; lifted from the floor, the infant began to wail, and neither woman could soothe its cries. At last, when they began trying to snatch the child from each other, Solomon rose to his feet and descended the broad steps of the throne.

  “Give him to me.”

  To Sheba’s surprise, Solomon rocked the indignant baby to silence within a few moments.

  Of course; he is calm, and the women are stiff and harsh with anger. I wonder how he will end this? The child must be fed soon, if nothing else.

  Solomon looked down at the baby in his arms, then studied the two women. “Come closer,” he said after a moment, and when they obeyed, he stared hard at their painted faces.

  At last he said, “Will either of you relinquish claim to t
his child?”

  “Never! He’s mine!”

  “I will not give up my son!”

  “And you can come to no agreement? No, I see that you cannot. Very well. Benaiah, come forward.”

  Looking slightly puzzled, the commander of the army walked forward to stand beside the king. Solomon thrust the child towards Benaiah; surprised, the general grabbed the baby awkwardly; it began to cry again.

  Solomon turned and pitched his voice to carry throughout the court: “Each woman claims the living child; each disavows the dead one. Neither will relinquish her right. They have come before the king, asking justice be done.” He glanced at the two women, who stared at him, greedy as sparrows.

  “Hear, then, the king’s decision: you shall each have half of the child.” He turned to the women. “Do you find the king’s words fair, his decision just?”

  The two harlots stared at him. Then one stiffened and nodded. The other drew in her breath sharply.

  What does he play at? Then the king’s scheme became dear; Sheba smiled, waiting.

  “Very well. Benaiah, take your sword and cut the child in two, and give half to each woman.”

  As those watching gasped and Benaiah stared suspiciously at Solomon, a wild scream slashed through the rising clamor and the baby’s wails. “No!” The second woman flung herself forward, clutching at the child Benaiah held. “Please, you can’t! Don’t kill him!”

  The baby screamed and struggled; Benaiah tried dutifully to hold on to the wriggling child for a moment, then allowed the woman to grab the baby. The harlot clutched the baby to her breast; Benaiah slowly put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Solomon lifted his hand, and Benaiah stepped back, looking relieved. Solomon raised his voice to be heard over the baby’s outraged screams. “So you would surrender the child to the other?”