Reuben went for water, and I leaned against the stable wall and closed my eyes, and thanked that soft sweet voice that had granted me the right words to stop Rehoboam. I tried to care where my brother had gone and who would pay for his anger now, but I found I could not.
For the moment, I was too weary to care—even about Rehoboam.
Naamah
When her son burst unannounced into her rooms, Naamah took one look at his face, fury-darkened, and set aside the perfume vial and ivory stick. “Leave us,” she said to the three zealous handmaidens who had been aiding her as she painted her face and perfumed her body.
Paying as little attention to the handmaidens as if they had been graven images upon the wall, Rehoboam burst out, “I hate Baalit. I hate her. She gets all, and I nothing. It’s not fair.” Rehoboam flung himself down upon the carpet, and for a moment Naamah thought he would wave his fists and kick his feet in the air as he had done when, as an infant, he had been denied a sweetmeat. The image made her smile; she bent and stroked his hair.
“What is not fair, my son? Tell your mother—” She wished to add And she will mend whatever mars your life. But long years of prudence kept the words from passing her lips. She must find out what troubled her boy before making rash promises to him. She had always taken care never to lie to Rehoboam; as a result, she retained his trust. Naamah would not risk that for a light word.
Rehoboam merely pressed his lips together and shook his head. Silent, he began picking at the threads of her Damascus carpet. So, he must be coaxed, but that was not difficult. Rehoboam’s moods were volatile as air.
“Am I to guess your trouble, then? Very well, I shall indulge you. One of your brothers has taunted you? Or—let me see, you have lost a wager? No? Well, then—”
Rehoboam looked up, his eyes sullen with dark anger. “Oh, Mother, you know nothing! What should I care for the words of my brothers, or for a wager either? I am Crown Prince! They are just jealous, for they will be nothing when I am king!”
“So they will,” she agreed, smiling. “You will be a great king, my darling boy.”
“Greater than my father,” Rehoboam said. “Greater than his father. Men will never forget my name!”
Naamah made a hasty vow to offer a perfect bull up to Milcom if her son’s wild boasting would be pardoned. “Hush, my son; it is ill luck to tempt the gods.”
“Oh, you will make it right with them.” Rehoboam spoke carelessly but with absolute confidence; his faith in her warmed Naamah’s heart.
“Whatever I can do for you, you know I will do it.” Smiling, she stroked his hair again, and Rehoboam leaned his cheek against her knee. “Now, tell me why you came. Tell me how I may help you, my dearest boy.”
Now that he had been cajoled into a better humor, Rehoboam was willing to spread his grievance before her. “Unless you can bewitch my sister, I do not know what you can do. Always my father takes her part. It is not fair; I am the next king, and she is only a girl!”
Ah, it was only Rehoboam’s constant complaint—a pity she dared not poison Baalit. But that course was too great a risk, and there was no real need to take it. “My son, Baalit is only a girl, as you say. Soon she will marry and travel to a far country, and you need never again be troubled with her.”
“No, she won’t. My father plans to wed her here. Here, in Jerusalem. She will be always in the palace, taking the place in my father’s heart that should be mine.”
“That is foolish, Rehoboam—it is your sore pride speaking.” Princesses were valuable only as playing-pieces in the games of kings. Princesses married for reasons of policy; even Solomon would not waste his only daughter on a nobody in his own court! Where was the advantage in that?
Rehoboam lifted his head from her knee and glared up at her. “Don’t call me foolish—you are only a woman!”
For a heartbeat Naamah’s blood chilled; she must not lose Rehoboam! Nor must I let him see my fear. She stiffened her back and regarded him coolly. “I am your mother, Rehoboam. Do not speak to me like that. Perhaps you should come back later, when you can control your temper.”
His face softened, and a hint of fear shadowed his eyes. “No. No, Mother, I am sorry. It is just—”
“That you are unhappy.” Naamah opened her arms, and Rehoboam flung himself into her embrace. She rocked him against her as if he were still a small boy instead of nearly grown. Can what he says be true? Is Solomon planning to keep his daughter by him always? Then—
Suddenly the answer to her son’s troubles shone before her, clear and bright. She smiled, and whispered in Rehoboam’s ear, “Do not worry, my son. Remember, your mother works always for your good. Now, will you promise to be an obedient son, and do exactly as your mother bids you?”
Rehoboam sat back and regarded her suspiciously. “What are you planning, Mother?”
“Something that will make you happy, my son. That is all you need to know.” She laid her hand on his cheek. “Now, promise you will do as I say, when I say it, and you will become your father’s favorite.”
“Truly? He will love me best?”
“Yes.” Naamah forced herself to speak with confidence; nothing less would serve her son’s needs.
“Better than he loves my sister?”
Warmed by the future she saw unfolding at her command, Naamah smiled. “He will love you at least as well, my son.” She bent and kissed his forehead. “Now go and amuse yourself into a better mood. You must be all smiles when next King Solomon lays eyes upon you.”
Unsatisfied but obedient, Rehoboam went away, slinking off like a sullen panther. But for once she was content to let him go in uncertainty. He had trusted her to solve all the problems of his youth. Now Rehoboam must learn to rely upon her in greater matters. Her own future hung in the balance.
For when Rehoboam was king, she would be queen mother. At last she would be the most important woman in a king’s life.
For a man might have as many wives as there were stars in the sky—but even a king could have only one mother.
Solomon
When told his wife Naamah craved audience with him, Solomon sighed inwardly, for he had planned to spend the afternoon with Bilqis. But he smiled, and bid his servant let Queen Naamah enter. Naamah was his wife and entitled to his respect—and his time.
And it was easy to smile as she walked through the doorway and approached him, for Naamah was very beautiful, and plainly had prepared herself with great care for this encounter. Always exquisitely garbed, today she seemed even more flawless than usual.
Solomon held out his hand to welcome her. “You are truly lovely, Naamah; a work of art.” That compliment brought a faint flush of satisfaction to her cheeks; Solomon strove to praise each of his wives for what she most valued in herself.
“If I please my lord the king, then I am pleased.” Naamah bowed, graceful as grass swaying in the wind. “And if I please my lord, may I speak?”
I knew she wished some favor; I wonder if I can guess it? Smiling, Solomon gestured to the stool beside his chair. “Do I not always listen? Speak as pleases you, Naamah.”
He watched, admiring, as she settled upon the stool and arranged her skirts in elegant folds. Then she looked up at him through her thick dark lashes; for an instant Solomon remembered his first sight of her upon their wedding day, when she had looked at him with just such an intent, seeking gaze. Even as a young bride, Naamah had been perfection, flawless, adroit in all a woman’s arts … .
Yes, and she meant to raise that memory. So, whatever Naamah’s request, she thought it of great import, worth the use of all her skills. Well, I will not keep her waiting; let us see what she desires so greatly,
“We have been too long wed to need tricks between us.” Solomon made his voice light, lest Naamah think him angered, or herself too blatant. “So do not hesitate to speak plain words; if I can grant your request, I will do so.”
Her lashes swept down, veiling her eyes for a moment. Then she looked up again and smiled
. “Thank you, my lord; you are always so kind! But I come seeking favors not for myself but for another—or say, rather, for two others.”
“That is kind of you. But am I so terrible that you, a queen, must act as envoy? Who so fears to approach me?”
Naamah laughed softly. “I come not as envoy, my lord, but as a mother on behalf of her son.”
What has Rehoboam done now? Solomon sighed. “Speak as a mother then; I listen.”
She glanced at him again, as if uncertain how to begin, then said, “I will not weigh my words, but say only what is in my heart. My lord, it does not seem so long ago that we two shared our first night together—but it is many years, and now our son nears manhood. He would marry, and I have come to you, his father, to speak on his behalf.”
This was unexpected; Solomon regarded her with more interest. “Rehoboam wishes to wed? Well, that is good hearing; perhaps the boy begins to steady.”
“There is nothing like marriage to settle a young man,” Naamah agreed, smiling.
“Has he chosen a bride?” Hard though it was to think of Rehoboam as anything but a heedless boy, Solomon knew years slid by too easily. Certainly Rehoboam was old enough to think of love—But doubtless it is Naamah who thinks of his marriage! Well, she was a woman; it was only natural she should wish to see her son well wed. Solomon smiled. “Or shall I say, has Naamah chosen a daughter-in-law?”
“Yes,” she said, and turned a broad gold bangle about her wrist; green fire glinted from emeralds upon her fingers. “And I think my lord will find our choice good, when he has heard my words. But surely my lord’s wisdom has already named the bride?”
“Surely my wisdom has not,” Solomon replied. “Come, we need not play games. Who is the girl?”
The bangle stilled. Naamah regarded him guilelessly. “It is Princess Baalit. No, my lord, do not speak until I have done; you swore to hear me out.”
Baalit? His own sister—Even as he shrank from the image, a memory from long years past rose to taunt him. His sister Tamar, his brother Amnon. Lovers in a garden. Lovers slain by yet another brother using the name of Law to cloak ambition.
And a voice whispering from that dead past that the king would smile upon their marriage, for they shared only a father … .
“Can this be true? Does Rehoboam so look upon his sister?”
“His half-sister,” Naamah reminded him. “They never shared a womb, never suckled from the same breast. There is no bar between them. Only think, my lord king—is it not the perfect match? Your heir and your only daughter wed?”
Her words tempted, seduced; Solomon tried to weigh them without passion. To have Baalit always here, to see her wed under my own roof, to see her children playing about me—That was lure indeed. But was the lure a snare as well?
Knowing he must think carefully, Solomon said, “There is much in what you say, Naamah. But does the boy truly wish it? And my daughter? I had not thought they liked each other’s company overmuch.”
“Children’s quarrels,” Naamah said, smiling. “But they are children no longer. Their hearts have changed.”
“Truly?” Had Rehoboam and Baalit learned to love one another, as had Amnon and Tamar? If they have—If they had, he would find it hard to deny them. And it would so ease my heart to have Abishag’s daughter with me always—“Can this be true?”
Naamah smiled and patted his hand, a maternal gesture that seemed for once unpracticed. “My dear husband, a mother knows these things—and while I do not know the Princess Baalit’s heart, I have seen how she looks at my son. They are both hot-eyed for each other, my lord king.”
Solomon sat quietly, but his thoughts were jumbled, unclear. “I will think upon your words,” he said at last.
“That is all I ask,” Naamah said. “That, and my son’s happiness.”
“That is all any of us ask,” Solomon said. “Our children’s happiness.”
Naamah rose, and bowed again, and went away on quiet feet. Solomon sat and watched her go. She was right; such a marriage would be ideal. In many kingdoms, such a marriage would be the custom.
Once before in this palace, a royal brother and sister had wished to wed—only to have their love sacrificeci to another’s ambition.
Amnon and Tamar were long dead; sometimes Solomon thought he alone remembered them at all. Amnon, the golden hero who had tossed him high up into the air, never failing to catch him securely as he fell. Tamar, the fire-haired girl who fed him sweet cakes, who smelled of roses and sunlight, and who once had given him a painted toy horse … .
I will not have that past repeat itself. Rehoboam and Baalit—If they truly wish to wed, I will grant it. I will not drive true lovers to despair and death.
And perhaps their wedding would do honor to Solomon’s brother and sister, redeem at last Amnon and Tamar’s doomed love.
Rehoboam
“Marry Baalit?” Rehoboam could not believe his mother serious. “She is my sister!”
“Half-sister,” his mother corrected. “You share only a father; that is no impediment.”
“And she’s a prideful, willful bitch. I hate her!”
“That also is no impediment to a royal marriage.” Now his mother smiled. “Remember, my son, that a man may do as he pleases with his own wife.”
These words silenced Rehoboam as the truth of this flowed through his veins, heady as hot wine. A man’s wife belonged to him; she was his possession just as was a horse or a lamb, his chattel. A wife owed her husband obedience. If Baalit were his wife, she would become his property, would have to do as he commanded.
My word would be her law. And if she disobeyed, I could beat her. Or have her beaten; that would be safer … .
“Yes, smile.” His mother laid her hand on his cheek. “And remember to keep smiling, for we have not won the princess for you yet. You must convince your father that you yearn for her, that without her your life will be worth nothing to you.”
The lovely vision of Baalit weeping at his feet faded. Rehoboam glared at his mother. “My father won’t believe me. Baalit hates me as I hate her.”
His mother laughed. “Oh, my dear boy, all girls treat their brothers so. Children’s quarrels, soon forgotten.” She put her arms around Rehoboam and stroked his hair. “But you must put such childish things behind you now, my son. You must win Baalit’s heart—”
“She hasn’t got one,” Rehoboam muttered, and his mother tugged sharply on his hair, forcing him to look at her.
“You must listen to me, Rehoboam. Listen, and obey, unless you wish to chance losing all. You wish to be king, do you not?”
“I will be king. My father has said so.”
“Your father is not yet dead, and you are not yet king. Suppose he changes his mind? Suppose another gains his favor? He is king and may do as pleases him.”
Not be king? A chill slid over Rehoboam’s skin. My father might change his mind, might name another son in my place, and I would have nothing—
“You had not thought of that, had you?” His mother folded him into her embrace; Rehoboam clung to her. “Never mind, my son; I thought of it long ago, and have never ceased to seek a way to ensure King Solomon keeps his word to you. And now I have found it.”
Rehoboam rested his cheek on his mother’s shoulder; the sweet scent of chypre rose from her skin. My mother loves me above all things; I can trust her.
She stroked his hair again. “Now listen, my son. You must marry your half-sister Baalit. Once she is your wife, your place as King Solomon’s heir will be carved in stone. We all know he favors her beyond reason; when you wed her, you will become Solomon’s favorite son.”
Rehoboam saw no flaw in her logic—but he also saw no clear path to the shining prize his mother dangled before him. “Baalit won’t marry me,” he said. “I told you, she hates me.”
“Then you must make her love you. For Solomon dreads losing the girl; he will grasp at the chance to keep her close, and what could be closer than wedding her to the next king?
Oh, yes, Solomon’s consent will be easy to obtain—” Here his mother put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back so that she might gaze into his eyes. “But Rehoboam, he will not consent if Baalit speaks against you, if she refuses. So you must woo Baalit, persuade her to look upon you with favor.”
“And how am I to do that?” Rehoboam demanded.
“By keeping your promise to do what I say, when I say it. And you may start by speaking fair words to your sister, and showing her a kind, smiling face. Remember, she is only a girl. You are the next king, Rehoboam. What girl does not dream of a crown?”
Which all sounded very fine, but Rehoboam was less certain than his mother that Baalit could be so easily led. “But suppose she won’t listen to me? How will you make her obey you?”
“I do not need to make Baalit obey me; she will obey her father. He does not wish to lose her, and so will be pleased to see her wed to you. But you must keep your temper, Rehoboam—and you must smile when you speak of this to your father. Your father likes to see his children smile.”
Baalit Sings
To be summoned before my father was no new thing, but to see my brother Rehoboam there as well surprised me. I bowed before my father, and he bade me rise. I did so, slanting a glance at Rehoboam. My brother’s face was sullen; he plainly knew no more than I why we had been summoned together. Hastily I searched my heart—no, I had committed no sin against Rehoboam of which he might truthfully complain.
“My children, I have called you before me to learn what is in your hearts.” Our father smiled, all kindness. “Do not fear to answer truly.”
I began to worry at that. I never yet had feared to speak truth to my father. What could he ask that I would not answer?
“Hard though it is for me to think it, you both are almost grown.” He looked us over, as if seeing us for the first time, and sighed. “I do not know where the years have fled. You, my son, are almost a man. And you, my daughter, are almost a woman. There is a time for all things; a time to grow and a time to learn—and a time to love.”
Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba Page 36