Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  But I will not yield. Her virgin body might play traitor, but her will was still hers to command. A Moon Warrior did not marry, did not surrender herself to a man’s dominion. But no law, no vow, forbade her to speak with Benaiah, or to walk with him, or to match her strength and skill against his in the training ring.

  But no more than that. There must be no more than friendship between us. I must not let him ask for more. If the words were never spoken, there need be no refusal. And refuse she must. She had vowed her chastity to the goddess, and her fidelity to the Queen of Sheba. She could not add a third vow without breaking those two chains of honor that bound her.

  So Benaiah must never be permitted to ask for what she must never grant. Must never say words Nikaulis knew a traitor’s yearning to hear.

  Benaiah

  I should stay away from her. But when Benaiah saw Nikaulis walking towards him, moving with the easy grace of a hunting cat, he knew he could not. For once, his desire ruled his common sense and his iron will. And had her will not been as hard as his—We would have already committed folly a dozen times over.

  Nikaulis stopped before him; her eyes were level with his. “You wished to see me. I am here.”

  “I am glad.” Benaiah thought of saying more, but he was no David, to sing a woman’s heart to honey. Or a Solomon, to win her mind with wise words and gentle wit. I am only a plain warrior, and speak only plainly.

  But the lady of his heart did not seem to care, for that was how she herself spoke. Neither of us spills easy words; what we say, we mean.

  “You smile,” she said, and Benaiah answered, “I thought of what another man might say, facing a woman clad in leather and carrying a sword.”

  “I have heard what other men say of me. They undervalue their opponent, always a fool’s error.”

  “That is truth. But no woman can stand against a man in battle,” Benaiah said, and Nikaulis smiled, a warrior’s smile.

  “You think not?” Her chin lifted; the wide band of silver collaring her throat glinted bright as her proud eyes.

  “I do not think, I know. Oh, I’ll grant that a woman may fight well-I I am not blind, I have seen you practice with your bow, and your sword. But against a man as skilled as you, your skill must yield to his greater strength.”

  “So you say strength must always defeat skill?” Nikaulis’s eyes met his, clear and unflinching. “What will you wager on that, King’s Commander?”

  An odd sensation slashed through Benaiah, a traitorous desire to match swords with this warrior girl, to set his body against hers until one proved victor.

  “Or are you afraid to challenge me, knowing I may best you?”

  “I fear no challenge,” Benaiah said. “As for the stakes”—words sprang from his lips before he could consider them, or call them back—“a kiss.”

  She stared at him; Benaiah stared back, refusing to surrender to his own warring emotions, or to alter his challenge.

  “You do not speak. Do you fear you may have to pay the wager, Queen’s Guard?”

  Pride stiffened her back, as it had forced his words. “I fear no man. The wager stands.”

  They walked side by side to the practice yard Benaiah had long ago ordered built behind the weapons storehouse. The training ground was deserted at this hour, Benaiah’s chief reason for choosing this time and place. Nikaulis looked, and nodded approval. Neither desired an audience.

  In the center of the hard-packed earth, Benaiah stopped. “Do you wish to yield?”

  “Before we have even drawn our swords? No. I fight fairly.”

  “Good. So do I. And I will make no allowances because you are a woman.”

  “Just as I will make no allowances because you are an old man.” Nikaulis’s eyes gleamed in the sunlight, and Benaiah smiled and drew his sword.

  “Until you yield,” he said, and Nikaulis laughed.

  “Until you do,” she said, and drew her own weapon.

  And so they began.

  Metal against metal; clash and retreat. Within the first half-dozen sword thrusts, Benaiah knew victory would not be won easily. That quick knowledge burned like hot wine; it had been long since he had faced an opponent whose skill so truly matched his own. Each thrust parried instantly, each clash of blade on blade caught and held. Nikaulis moved swiftly, leopard-lithe, serpent-supple. He himself moved more slowly, bull rather than leopard.

  Swing, block; turn, thrust, and swing again. The sword-dance, always different, always the same. At first he thought his strength might outlast her swiftness. But as they fought on, blade to blade, Benaiah slowly began to understand that she would not falter.

  She was good; as good as he.

  Thrust and retreat; advance and swing, bracing against the crash of iron upon iron. And again, hard, neither fighter granting a breath’s respite. Benaiah knew he would pay for this in aches and in raw pain—but payment would fall due later.

  One last good fight, I and my true equal. How many men could claim that? What matter that his opponent, his peer in skill, was a woman? Ah, if this could only last forever—

  But he was too experienced a soldier to think this contest could endure much longer.

  Sweat glistened on his Sword Maid’s face and arms; her breath came hard and fast. Benaiah knew she must be weak with weariness—as was he. But she would not yield. Nikaulis would fight on until her very bones trembled and her traitor body no longer obeyed her will.

  As will I. Benaiah knew he could not surrender, not so long as he still breathed. But their battle must end, and soon, lest in their utter weariness, one should wound the other … .

  Before him, Nikaulis half-turned, and swung her sword high. Benaiah began to lift his own sword to parry, then swept down just as Nikaulis shifted her sword’s rising arc to a falling one. Their blades met in a clash of iron; held. Benaiah stared into Nikaulis’s eyes. They glowed, battle-hot; she smiled, a feral flash of white teeth.

  “Nikaulis:” Benaiah struggled to keep his voice low, to speak softly though he longed to gasp for air.”Nikaulis, we must end this. Lay your sword aside.”

  “Never. I do not yield.”

  “I do not ask it. Nikaulis, neither of us can win this battle. Lay your sword aside, as I will mine.”

  For long heartbeats Benaiah feared she had not heard, or understood. Then the fierce gleam faded from her eyes.

  “I will lay my sword aside,” she said, “when you lower yours.”

  Strained with long tension, her muscles quivered; her blade shuddered against his, sending tremors up the battered iron. Benaiah could no longer tell whether the trembling he felt in the sword’s hilt was from his exhausted muscles, or from hers.

  “Together,” he said. “We will lay them aside together.”

  She hesitated, and he added, “At your word, Warrior.”

  She nodded. “Now,” she said, and Benaiah opened his fist and let his sword fall to the hot sand. Her sword fell across his, iron ringing against iron. They looked at each other across the blades.

  “You did not win, King’s Commander.”

  “Neither did you,” Benaiah said.

  To that, she said nothing. In silence, they went back to the arena gate; in silence, they wiped down their swords’ blades with linen cloths. At last Nikaulis said, “Fair day, Benaiah,” and walked away.

  Benaiah watched her until she had turned onto the street that led back to the Little Palace gate. He looked back into the arena where they had fought. Their struggle had forced the pale sand into hollows and ridges; the surface was marred by imprints of their feet. The sand must be raked smooth again.

  Benaiah sheathed his sword and went off to find a soldier with not enough to do; that careless unknown was about to learn that loitering earned extra duty. Good soldiers always looked busy.

  Bilqis

  “O Queen—” Khurrami slipped into the chamber in which Bilqis sat dictating messages to send home to Sheba; Khurrami let the gilded leather fall closed behind her. “O Queen, som
e of the king’s women have come to speak with you. Will you see them, Sun of our Days?”

  Bilqis stopped, and she and the scribe both stared at Khurrami. “The king’s women have come here?” That could mean only trouble. “Who has come?”

  “Queen Melasadne—she has brought only one dog, which she carries in her shawl as if it were a babe—and Lady Gilade. And Queen Ulbanu and Lady Dvorah have come also. And the Lady Leeorenda.”

  An embassy from the queens’ palace, in fact. Bilqis lifted two fingers, indicating to the scribe that she might go. “I will see them. Escort them to the garden—and have strong wine brought.”

  “As the queen orders, so it shall be.” Khurrami eyed her swiftly. “Before she sees these women, will the queen garb herself more—”

  “Royally? You begin to sound like Irsiya. No, plainly the matter is urgent or they would not have come at all. I will see them as I am.” As she walked through the Little Palace to the old garden, she tried to deduce what could have brought half-a-dozen of King Solomon’s wives to beg audience of their greatest rival. Something dire, of course, to bring out so placid a lady as Leeorenda. But the Egyptian and the Cushite have not come. Doubtless Pharaoh’s Daughter ignored whatever unpleasantness occurred, while Makeda—No one with even half a wit would cross the serpent’s bride.

  Nor had Naamah come, nor the Colchian, Solomon’s newest-wed queen. So, the battle lines are drawn. And I—I am to act as peacemaker between their warring factions and the king.

  By the time she walked into the garden, the rich wine she had ordered was being carried in; she smiled upon her unexpected guests. “I am honored. Please, take wine, and tell me how I may serve you.”

  And let us pretend we are all equals and dear sisters here. Bilqis allowed a slave to hand her a filled wine bowl; she lifted the bowl to her lips as if she drank. Encouraged, the others also took wine and drank, which would encourage them to speak freely. They had come to her in haste and distress; Lady Gilade’s hair hung down her back in unbound braids, while Ulbanu’s feet were bare. Tear-borne kohl smeared Melasadne’s cheeks, and the shawl in which she clutched one of her tiny dogs was torn. The puppy itself peered out of the folds like a soft pearl, eyes and nose shining like polished jet.

  “Drink,” Bilqis said again, and once more feigned sipping her own wine. Then she set the bowl aside and smiled; she moved forward and tickled the puppy’s chin and let it lick her fingers, took each woman’s hands and kissed her upon the cheek. “Now, sisters, tell me what troubles you, and how I may ease your hearts.”

  All the women looked at Melasadne, who caught back a sob and then spread the tale before Bilqis. “It all started when Pirip ran off after Prince Caleb—Lady Dvorah’s boy—he is a fine boy, too, good with the dogs—”

  Long years as queen and judge had trained Bilqis to extract a story smoothly; she understood what had happened even as she uttered soft queries and words of encouragement. Prince Caleb and the puppy had run off to play, and encountered Prince Rehoboam; Rehoboam had snatched up the pup and decided to present it to Queen Dacxuri. “She worships a god who demands dogs each dark moon!”

  Of course Prince Caleb had fled back to his mother, who had hastened to Melasadne, who had braved Dacxuri’s courtyard to snatch back Pirip from the Colchian’s hands. The ensuing quarrel set Melasadne and her friends against the crown prince’s mother and her allies, and swiftly grew so bitter that no one within the queens’ palace could stop a battle that promised only to worsen. “And no one can force peace. If only Queen Michal still lived!”

  From what I have heard, Queens Michal would have sewn you all into sacks and flung you from Jerusalem’s walls rather than permit you to trouble Solomon! The thought brought a grim smile. But Bilqis said only “This is very bad, sisters. What would you have me do?” The women all smiled, relieved to have someone take command. Queen Melasadne cuddled the bright-eyed puppy to her breast and said, “Speak to the king. His heart loves peace above all things; he will put a stop to this.”

  And how will he do that, sister? Bilqis did not speak the words; instead, she nodded and promised to do what she could, a vow that sent Queen Melasadne and Lady Gilade away smiling. Bilqis sighed. A stranger’s meddling often brewed more strife than it quenched. But she had given her word; she would speak with King Solomon, and hope what she had to say did not grieve him too deeply.

  She told the story as gently as she could, but there was no way to sweeten what she must say. And as she had feared, Solomon heaped the blame not upon Rehoboam, or upon the Colchian princess, or upon any of the women who had no better sense than to pour oil upon a hearth-fire until it blazed up as a holocaust, but upon his own head.

  “Somehow I have failed them, Bilqis. Truly, I do not know what is wrong—I treat each woman fairly, favoring no one more than another. I treat all my sons equally. Why then is my house no more peaceful than was my father’s?”

  “Oh, Solomon, my dear—” The word boy trembled on her lips; she ate it back, not wishing to remind him how young he was in her eyes.

  “Bilqis, you are a woman, and a queen; enlighten me. Wherein do I err? Do I not deal with my household justly?”

  “I would say that I am a queen, and a woman.” She stroked his arm, caressing away the tension beneath his skin. “As for where you err—perhaps you treat them too justly.”

  “Another riddle, O Queen of the Morning Land?”

  “No, or Solomon the Wise surely would know its answer.”

  “Perhaps King Solomon is not so wise as his reputation boasts.” Solomon set his hand over hers; her skin was cool as morning. “How is it possible to deal too justly?”

  She smiled. “My impartial love, my wise king, you have left them nothing to strive for. Or, rather, you have laid before them a prize none can win.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The king’s favor.”

  “I will not exalt one and diminish the rest.”

  “Once you honored a woman above all others.”

  “That was long years ago; I was younger then.”

  “And in love.”

  “Yes. I was in love.” Abishag, he thought, and tried to summon her face. Vainly; Solomon closed his eyes, and rested his cheek upon Bilqis’s hair. Cinnamon scented her sleek tresses. Cinnamon, and roses.

  The scent brought memories rushing like spring floodwater. Abishag waiting for him in the garden, sweet honey in sunlight. Abishag risking all to warn him when his faithless brother Adonijah usurped the crown. Abishag standing upon the king’s balcony on their wedding night, clad only in starlight and her unbound hair. Abishag glowing like a golden pomegranate as her body at last nourished their child, the child that would kill her … .

  Abishag.

  “You see?” Sheba’s voice was soft as night wind in his ear. “They struggle against a ghost, Solomon. And the dead always win.”

  Abishag

  So I sat quiet beside a dying king and listened and learned. Listened as Prince Adonijah begged his father name him heir—“I am the eldest prince now; my mother was a king’s daughter! Who better, Father?”—and as King David smiled and uttered vague soothing words that sounded like promises yet meant nothing.

  I looked on as the high priest Abiathar pressed Prince Adonijah’s cause, and the dying king swore all would be as Yahweh wished—which Abiathar was canny enough to know for no promise at all.

  And I learned as I watched the king’s general, Joab, sit by his uncle’s bedside and speak plainly. “You should have chosen before, David. Now it is too late; others will choose for you.” So Joab said, and to my surprise the dying king laughed, a low harsh sound cut off as he struggled to draw breath.

  “Will they, Joab? We shall see. I am not dead yet.”

  “You will be soon,” said Joab.

  “Soon,” King David said. “But not yet.”

  Joab shrugged and went away again, but not before I had raised my eyes and found myself looking into his. Joab’s eyes shone hard as iron blad
es; blades that guarded his thoughts, shielded long years of memory. I do not know what he saw in mine.

  “You tend the king well,” he said, and I lowered my lashes, veiling my eyes, and murmured that I did my best.

  King David laughed again, softly. “Is Abishag not a treasure, Joab? A gift from my beloved queen, a gift chosen by my son Solomon.”

  I sensed the edge of Joab’s gaze upon me; I kept my head bowed. But Joab said only “A wise choice. Wiser than your son Adonijah’s”before he went away again,

  And after Joab had gone, King David beckoned to me; when I leaned close to him, he caught my hand in his. Dying he might be, but his thin old hand still grasped hard. “Yes, a treasure, a wise choice. I have looked into eyes like yours before, just as you will look into eyes like mine again. We know each other well, you and I.”

  “As the king says,” I murmured; I knew better than to dispute with him. At my soft words, he smiled, his eyes fire-bright. “I have a gift for you, queen’s gift, so that you too may see what dwells in a queen’s eyes.”

  He pressed something flat and hard into my palm, closed my fingers over cool metal. “Look,” he said, and I opened my hand and stared down into a shining silver circle.

  Down into my own mirrored eyes.

  Bilqis

  But a few days later, Bilqis thought she had been wrong; perhaps, for once, the living heart had triumphed. The day dawned fair, and when the palace settled quiet at noonday, Solomon came to her, eager for once as if he were a boy still.

  “A fine day,” she said, gauging his mood and matching it. “Since I came to this land, I have not seen so blue a sky.”

  “Yes.” His eyes glowed, as if lit by fire. “A day for—”

  “A king and a queen?” she asked, playful; testing.

  “A day for lovers.” He smiled, apparently heedless of the fact that once again he had been tested. “A day for Solomon and Bilqis.”