Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  “My words sent him there. My words slew Amnon and Tamar. Amnon should be king today, not I—and Tamar—”

  “Might have lain these twenty years dead of bearing her first babe.” She stroked Solomon’s hair, gently, as one comforting a hurt child. “My dear love, do you think their deaths lie at anyone’s feet but Absalom’s? Surely half Jerusalem knew Tamar went to her brother’s house; do you think they all held their tongues? It takes but one unwary word from a servant to send news flying from one ear to the next. You take too much upon your shoulders, Solomon. Remember you are but a man.”

  “No, I am a king. And a king must not make such errors.”

  She laid her hand upon his cheek. “A king—or a queen—is greater than a man or a woman, and so makes greater errors. We do the best we can, my love. That is all anyone can do. That, and beg our gods for aid.”

  “Oh, I have done that too—and you see how well I am repaid for my efforts.” He turned his head; her hand slid away from his cheek. “Ever since I was a small boy, I knew—I knew, Bilqis—that I would be king after David. I knew Queen Michal desired it, and she owned the strongest will I have ever known. She was stronger than King David, in the end, or I would not stand here now, bewailing my faults.”

  “What you call faults many would vaunt as virtues. You are just, and tolerant, and I do not think I have ever met anyone, woman or man, who cared more that he should do what is right.” She sensed something still troubled him, something that had long gnawed at his heart—sensed, too, that tonight she could breach the last barrier between them.

  She looked up at the night’s brilliant sky, and for a moment longed to ask for Ilat’s aid. Then, abashed, she thought, Can you do nothing for yourself, Bilqis? You know your own heart, and what weighs heavy upon you as guardian of your own people. In this, you are Solomon’s sister; you have suffered as he does. Tonight be clever—no, be loving—and truly know his heart at last.

  “You are silent, queen of my heart,” he said, and she brought her gaze down from the crystal stars and looked into his eyes. He smiled, and brushed back her hair, unveiling her breasts to the night air. “What do you think of, Bilqis, when you gaze up at the stars over King David’s City?”

  Now, or never. “I think of you, Solomon. What is it that truly torments you? You are too wise to tear yourself over long-ago griefs for which you know you are not to blame. Tell me, my love. Tell me, and be free.”

  She lay in his arms and counted her heart’s slow beat. When she had counted forty, Solomon spoke at last. “I will tell you, since you ask it, and then you will know what a fool I truly am. Would you know what grieves me? A dream, Bilqis. One I dreamed long years ago, when I was newly king.”

  And your Abishag still lived and life stretched before you like a carpet if gold. “A dream that still troubles you? Perhaps I can interpret it for you, my love. It is one of my duties as Mother of Sheba.”

  He smiled and touched a stray curl that spiraled down over her breast. “You seem to have many duties, Bilqis. Have you no pleasures?” Laughter rippled beneath his words; she answered in kind.

  “With you, my love, duty is pleasure.”

  “So long as pleasure is not duty.”

  Her turn to laugh, to touch; she laid her fingertips on the soft skin beside his mouth. “Tell me your dream, Solomon. A queen commands it.”

  “And a king must obey?” Then he sobered and shifted away from her, stared off into the distant heavens. “It was a night like this one, Bilqis. Beautiful and black, but the moon new and the stars so bright they seemed ripe to fall from the sky and burn the world with their fire. Abishag and I came up here to sleep-to rest, to escape, for my father had died and I alone was king, and—”

  He fell silent; she finished for him. “—and the crown weighed heavy and all men about you clamored for you to decide this and command that.”

  “And then wished to argue my decisions. Yes. So we climbed the tower steps, my wife and I, and I lay with my head in her lap, and for once we were alone and at peace.”

  As he spoke, she saw that night as clearly as if time fell away, releasing the past. Solomon, fretted by care and weary almost past sleep, unable to find ease; Abishag, looking not up at the stars in burning glory but down into her beloved’s troubled eyes, her cool hands stroking his aching head … .

  Bilqis reached out and gathered Solomon into her arms. I will care for him, Abishag. I will do what I can. I swear it. As she made her silent promise, Solomon settled into her embrace, rested his head upon her shoulder. “And you slept,” she said, stroking his hair, “and you dreamed.”

  He hesitated, then seemed to shrug, as if what he would say mattered little. “Yes. The Lord came to me as I slept, and asked what gift He should bestow upon me. Riches, honor, long life, victory over my enemies; whatsoever I should ask. And of all things under heaven and upon the earth—of all things, I chose wisdom.”

  Again he paused, as if words for once came hard to his tongue. “The Lord proclaimed Himself pleased with me.” Solomon stared up at the river of stars splashed across the midnight sky. “But sometimes I wonder, Bilqis—was it my god who so admired me? Or was it only my own pride?” He groped for her hand and laced his fingers through hers; his skin hot against her cool hand. “That is Solomon’s dream. How do you interpret it? Am I indeed so wise? I thought so once. But there is one thing upon this earth a king cannot obtain, and that is a truthful judgment of his virtues—and his faults.”

  “Speak carefully, sister.” Bilqis knew the silent voice was Abishag’s; tonight her ghost sat beside them, longing to touch her beloved once more. “You asked your god for wisdom? Do you remember the very words you spoke to Him?”

  “As if I dreamed them an hour since. Give me an understanding heart, Lord; let me judge aright between good and evil.”

  “And your god promised—?”

  “He said He granted me a wise and understanding heart.”

  “Your god did not lie to you, Solomon; such a heart you have. I have met no man so truly good as you.” But there was more; she did not need the whisper of Abishag’s ghost to tell her that. “How did your dream end, my love?”

  For a long span of time he did not answer; she waited, patient, and counted stars. At last he said, “The Lord granted what I had asked of Him. And then He said that He would grant me also that which I had not asked, all a great king could desire in riches and glory and length of days. But as He spoke, He shone bright as polished silver, as a mirror before me. And it seemed to me that I looked upon—”

  “Your god?”

  “Myself.” Solomon closed his eyes and leaned his head wearily against her breast. “Only myself, Bilqis.”

  And you think that means you dreamed a lie, that your god has deserted you. Ah, my love, how many times I have thought the same thing of my goddess, and never has it been true. She pressed her lips against his forehead, smoothed his night-cooled hair. “Then you have been greatly blessed, Solomon. Few are granted so clear a vision of their god’s favor.”

  “How so?”

  “At last, a riddle Solomon the Wise cannot answer.” She allowed laughter to ripple beneath her words. “Then it is my turn to reveal truth to you, O great and wise King.”

  “And what is truth?”

  “Why, that you need only yourself to fulfill all your desires. What could be plainer, what sign clearer to read?”

  “Nearly anything,” Solomon said with bitter humor.

  “Now, did I not know I held King Solomon the Wise in my arms, I would think I embraced a fool.” Smiling, she pushed him back and took his face between her scented hands; the perfume of cinnamon and roses coiled between them. “Tell me again what you asked of your god, my love.”

  “Wisdom, and the ability to judge rightly.”

  “A proper petition, from a new-made king; of course such words pleased your god greatly.”

  “What else should I ask? Did I not already possess gold and gems beyond counting?”

&
nbsp; “You might have begged for great glory, or the death of your enemies. You might have entreated Him for a great name.”

  “To what end? Without the wisdom to govern well, to judge fairly, a king is no more than a fool—a fool who soon will forfeit whatever riches and glory he may possess.”

  His cheeks burned beneath her touch, as if her fingers drew fire upon his skin. “You might have asked for happiness, Solomon.” She slid her fingers over the corners of his mouth, traced the curve of his lips. “You might have asked for love.”

  He sighed, and caught her hands in his. “A man must win his own glory, Bilqis, and create his own happiness. And as for love—I fear even the Lord cannot grant that.”

  She drew him back into her arms, and for a span of time they lay together in silence. Above them the stars blazed white fire; below the palace walls the sounds of night rose as whispers, ghost-song. At last she said, “And knowing all that you have told me, you still doubt your god’s favor?”

  “What favor? For all the Lord’s promise, I have had to struggle to know good and to judge rightly, just as any man must.”

  “And that is what your dream meant, Solomon. When you looked upon your own image, it was your god’s sign unto you—that you yourself already possessed that for which you had asked. You do not need to seek wisdom, for you possess that quality in abundance.”

  “And that is how you interpret my dream?” Solomon stared up into the eternal night sky. “That is kind of you, queen of my heart.”

  “It is not kindness, beloved, it is truth.” She touched her fingertip to his forehead, to the spot between his brows that hid the third eye, the orb that saw beyond this world into past and future. “You see clearly; too clearly, perhaps. Solomon, my dearest love, do you truly think fools and knaves beg to be granted wisdom? For if you do, you are a greater fool than they!”

  At last he smiled, turned for a time from his ghosts to her. “The greatest of kings is always the greatest of fools, Bilqis. And the greatest folly is to speak when it is better to be silent.”

  And knowing what he desired, she opened herself to him, set herself against the dream-fear which haunted his nights and shadowed his days. Silent, she strove against that demon; silent, she offered him the only shield against those doubts. Here is love, Solomon. Take what love can give. And trust in yourself as your god so manifestly trusts you.

  And when I am gone, remember me in this garden. Let my ghost walk here with Abishag’s. Let us both wait under the endless stars until you come to us at last.

  Baalit Sings

  Part of what followed began because I underestimated Rehoboam. Regarding him as dull-witted and stone-hearted, I did not realize how keenly jealousy bit him, how bitterly he craved what I possessed—our father’s love.

  That he begrudged me my intimacy with the Sheban queen as well I did not know. I never once thought of the queen and my brother in the same moment. The queen filled my mind and my heart; I thought of Rehoboam only when I must.

  I always knew Rehoboam lacked wisdom, but even I did not think him fool enough to steal my horse—fool enough to think he, who thought force ruled all, could ride Uri, whose pride was as great as Rehoboam’s, and whose heart was far greater.

  Always I had obeyed my father’s admonition to treat slaves and servants with as much courtesy as if they were my equals; at first I had done so because my father wished it, and I wished to please him. As I grew in understanding, I saw other reasons for treating menials with kindness. First I saw that servants wished to please more, that I was better served. Only later, as I reached womanhood, did my eyes open wide enough to see that, in treating others with respect, I ensured that I respected myself as well.

  I wish now that I had been wise enough to apply this advice to my relationship with my brother Rehoboam. It might have helped. But I was still only a girl, no matter how well I thought of myself and of my wisdom. And Rehoboam—well, even as a man, Rehoboam remained a fool. Ask any of those who ever served him.

  Nimrah and I were playing toss-bones with my brothers Mesach, Eliakim, and Jonathan; I had just thrown sevens—luckiest of all tosses—when Keshet came running into my garden. This alone made us all look and stare, for Keshet was always prim as a pigeon and neat as a cat; when we wished to tease her, we would pull her hair out of place or tug her shawl awry and watch her tidy herself back to perfection within moments.

  “Princess, you must come at once,” Keshet said, and I looked regretfully at my matched sevens. But I leapt to my feet, telling Jonathan he might play my throws for me, and went at once to Keshet.

  “What is wrong?” I asked, and then all the blood seemed to drain from my body; I swayed. “My father? He is hurt?”

  “No—oh, no.” Keshet caught my arm. “It’s Prince Rehoboam—Come with me.” She led me to my courtyard gate, where a slave girl I did not know waited. “This is Miri,” Keshet said. “Tell the princess what you told me.”

  Miri ducked her head, and although she mumbled, plainly shy at being in the queens’ palace rather than the kitchens, she told her tale simply enough. “The boy Reuben who works in the stables told me to come tell you—tell the princess—that Prince Rehoboam’s in the stables and has ordered the princess’s horse made ready for him. Reuben says to tell you he’s stalling, making him wait, but he can’t do that forever, so you must come at once.”

  I am glad to remember that I thanked Miri before I fled off to the stables; later I gave her a present large enough to buy her a good husband when her seven years’ servitude ended. I rewarded Reuben as well; his quick thinking saved us all from disaster. Had he been able to ride out upon my horse, I do not know whether Rehoboam would have ruined Uri’s mouth and spirit, or Uri would have thrown and killed Rehoboam. But in either case, I would have lost Uri forever.

  I reached the stables just as Rehoboam lost what little patience he possessed and began striking Reuben with his whip. To his endless credit, Reuben stood firm, accepting the blows as the price of time. Still, he was glad to see me; the moment he set eyes upon me, Reuben grabbed Rehoboam’s whip, stopping my brother’s effort to beat him into submission.

  “Here is the princess, Prince Rehoboam. Ask her yourself.”

  Rehoboam spun around as if he suspected some trick; I summoned up enough breath to speak without gasping. “Brother,” I said, “why are you beating Reuben? You know our father does not like—”

  “I do not like rebellious servants! I am Crown Prince, and when I order a horse brought, it should be brought!” Rehoboam sounded as breathless as if he, not I, had just run half the length of the palace.

  “Not,” I said, “when it is not your horse.” I see now that I should not have said that, should have pretended ignorance and granted Rehoboam a graceful escape. And that course would have kept him from knowing that the servants would do for me what they would not for him: a favor, with no thought of reward.

  “I am Crown Prince—my wishes are commands. And you—you are—”

  “Only a girl; I know. But girl or not, Uri is mine and mine alone, a gift from the Queen of Sheba, and I forbid you to lay your hands upon him.”

  “Forbid? You forbid me?”

  “Yes, I do. And I forbid you to beat the servants. And if you won’t obey me—because I am only a girl—then come with me to our father the king, and we will lay the matter before his judgment. And he will forbid you as I have just done and you know it, Rehoboam!”

  We glared at each other, hot as fighting quail; Reuben later said that he thought we would snarl and leap at each other’s throats like feuding dogs. Rehoboam was older and larger than I, but I would neither shift my gaze nor retreat so much as one step. I knew our father would back me up, and so did Rehoboam. That was the festering heart of his grievances, after all.

  Rehoboam lifted his hand as if to strike me, then glanced at his fist, seeming to realize that he no longer held his whip. He rounded upon Reuben. “Give me that!” Rehoboam snatched back his whip; having ceded ground, he f
ell back on bluster, and on threats. Reuben was to be flogged and thrown out of the king’s stables, Uri to be set to drawing a millstone—

  “Like Samson? Go away, Rehoboam. Go away, and never come near my horse again or—”

  “Or what? What can you possibly do? I am Crown Prince.”

  I looked into his handsome cruel face and knew he was right; he was the next king, and it would be hard to do anything to him. And then I knew what a girl could do; a soft young voice seemed to whisper to me, telling me what to say, giving a sure weapon into my hand. Words fell cold as stones from my lips, in a voice I hardly knew for my own.

  “I can lie, Brother. I can rend my gown and loosen my hair, and I can go before our father and tell him that you tore my clothing. That you tried to force me to your bed. He would not forgive you that, Rehoboam.”

  He stood there bending the whip in his hands, glanced past me towards Uri’s stall.

  “Never touch my horse again. Never whip a servant again for doing his job well. Never make me tell that lie, Brother. Never. Now go away.”

  And to my relief, he did. Rehoboam stalked off, whip clenched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles paled to bone. When he was gone, the strength that had let me set myself against him flowed out of me like water; I staggered, and Reuben grasped my shoulders and pressed me against the wall.

  “Don’t sit down, Princess, your gown will be ruined. Stay here and I’ll get water. Are you all right?”

  I nodded. “Uri?” I asked, and Reuben smiled.

  “Fine; the prince never got near him. Seth’s bathing him down by the stable well. I had to do something to stretch the time until you came. Now wait here.”

  As he turned away, I caught his arm. “Rehoboam will not be pleased to be defeated—by a girl. If he tries to harm you, or Miri, you must send word to me at once.”

  “No fear, Princess. Now let me get you that water. Can’t send you back to your handmaidens looking like half-cold death. That Lady Keshet’s got a tongue on her sharper than yours.”