Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  His eyes seemed to look past us, into some long-ago time we did not share. Neither Rehoboam nor I spoke, I from reluctance to banish that wistful pleasure from my father’s eyes, and Rehoboam doubtless from boredom, for he had little patience with the dreams of others. I glanced at my brother; he hastily smiled, and I wondered what unpleasant scheme Rehoboam now cherished. Whatever it is, I will not let him torment me—or Ishbaal or Abner, or Melasadne’s dogs or Nefret’s cats—

  “And a time to wed.” My father’s voice called my attention back to him; he smiled at me and took my hand. “My children, I am told you both now think of marriage.” And as I stared at him, he reached out and clasped Rehoboam’s hand as well. “So you must tell me, is this true? Do the two of you desire to be more to each other than sister and brother?”

  Rehoboam gazed at our father earnestly. “Yes, just as my mother has told you.”

  “And you, Baalit?” my father said, and I found my voice again.

  “Rehoboam? But he’s my brother!”

  “Half-brother!” Rehoboam corrected swiftly.

  “Such unions are not unheard of,” my father said. “So speak freely—is it true that you wish to marry—”

  “Marry Rehoboam? I would rather die!”

  Rehoboam’s eyes told me that he, too, would rather I died—long after, I made that hour into a song that always drew laughter. But as I stood before my father and saw the happiness die from his face at my words, I could have wept. Almost I wished I had claimed Rehoboam as my dearest love—or at least had agreed I wished to become his wife.

  My father released our hands. “I see I was mistaken. Never mind, my children.”

  “It was my mother’s idea,” Rehoboam said. “I told her it was stupid.”

  “That is no way to speak of your mother, Rehoboam. She wished only to see you well married. Now run along, both of you—and do not tease each other over this. It is forgotten.”

  Perhaps my father forgot it, but I could not—and neither could Rehoboam. We never had liked one another, but now he truly hated me and I—I had wit enough to fear him. Rehoboam was the sort to hide a scorpion in one’s bedclothes; venomous.

  When I left my father, I fled to the Little Palace; never once did it occur to me that I should not tell Queen Bilqis all that had passed. Nor did it seem odd to me that she saw me at once—she was as a mother to me now, and a mother’s arms are always open to her daughter. She smiled and kissed my forehead, and said I looked troubled, and I poured out all that had happened that day. By the time I had finished, my whole body trembled as if I had just escaped great injury—which I suppose was true enough. I do not think I would have lived long, as King Rehoboam’s wife.

  “And then my father told us to run along—as if we were small children! To run along and forget. Does he truly think Rehoboam will forget?” And then, to my horror, I began to weep.

  The queen closed her arms around me and rocked me against her breast. “No, but you may forget it, Baalit. Weep, and forget, and then listen to me, for there is something I must say to you. A question I must ask.”

  I dried my eyes, and then she sat me beside her and held both my hands in hers. I managed to smile and waited, curious, for her to begin. And for the first time since I had met her, I saw the Queen of Sheba hesitate, as if she were afraid to speak—or as if she were afraid of what might come after.

  At last I said, “What is it? You know I will do anything you ask.”

  “Do not be so swift to make that vow, Baalit. Listen, and think—and only then answer.” And then, speaking slowly, as if she found it hard to choose her words, she told me why she had truly come across the world to the court of King Solomon the Wise.

  I heard how she had watched her sisters die, and her mother, and then her daughter and her daughter’s daughter. “I alone remained—I alone, and too old to bear another daughter. I tried, I truly did.”

  And then, when she thought all lost, she had gone to Sheba’s greatest Temple, and there received a promise. “A promise of an heir, of a daughter for Sheba. Of a queen from the north. A queen to sit upon the Sun Throne and tend the Morning Land when I am gone.”

  I stared at her, and all I could think to say was “So you did not come to bargain with my father over the spice routes?”

  “Any of the officers of my court could have done that. I came north to claim a greater prize than trade agreements. I came for a queen. I came for you, Baalit.”

  Fire flowed through my blood; exultation soared through me until I felt as if I could spread wings and fly. “You were born to be queen—”

  “So you truly meant it, when you said I was fit to be queen? To rule?”

  “Yes, my daughter. I truly meant it. You are the queen our goddess Hat promised us.”

  “And you did not think I would come with you? Of course I will!” To Sheba, to freedom. To a shining future—

  The queen held up her hand. “Wait, Baalit; there is more. Do you think I have remained half a year in Jerusalem judging you? I knew you were ours the day I set eyes upon you, fire-child.”

  “Then why did you not ask me before?”

  “Because I am not all-wise, Baalit, nor all-patient. I am not Ilat Herself, only Her Mirror on Earth. And so I erred.” And then, very gently, she told me how she had asked my father to grant me to her—and he had refused.

  “I will conceal nothing from you, Daughter; when he denied what I asked, I set myself to claim his heart so that I might then gain you as his gift. But—”

  I smiled. “It is all right; I know. All Jerusalem knows. How could you not love him, or he you?”

  She seemed to stare into a world I could not see. “How indeed? But once set that spindle whirling, and only the gods themselves can spin its thread smooth and true. And now—”

  And now you dare not ask for me again, lest you lose his heart. I caught her hands in mine. “And now I know. And I will come with you to Sheba and learn all you can teach me. And someday—” Someday Bilqis would die, and Baalit would take her place as queen. But I did not have to think of that today. Today is a day to rejoice in sun, not to mourn tomorrow’s night.

  I lifted her hands and kissed them. “I will come to Sheba; I swear it. My father will not stop me.”

  The queen’s gaze returned to me; the shadows vanished from her eyes. “You will find Sheba strange, Baalit. But you were destined for the south—I think you will be happy there. And your father is truly almost as wise as any man can be; sooner or later he will see the truth, and let you go.”

  PART SEVEN

  Seeking Fire

  Abishag

  After Adonijah’s broken feast, and Solomon’s anointing as king and heir, it seemed time itself spun faster. Within a hand’s count of days, King David died and King Solomon ruled alone; Adonijah dared ask for me as prize, and Joab struck him down before King Solomon’s throne. “He’d be asking for the crown from your head next” was all Joab had to say as he wiped his sword’s blade clean on Adonijah’s gaudy tunic.

  Joab was right, for I was one of the last king’s women, and to ask for me was tantamount to claiming the kingship. But his brother’s death troubled Solomon, and so I did my best to soothe him, as did Queen Michal. Solomon listened to us both, and smiled, and said only “We must have a fine wedding, Abishag. One fit for a queen.”

  King David had died when the moon lay dark: when the moon rose full again, King Solomon married me. The pearls braided in my hair could have ransomed all Israel, and my veil was woven through with threads of pure gold. Ever after, my wedding was the touchstone my husband’s other wives sought to equal.

  And upon the day I married King Solomon and became his first queen, Queen Michal unclasped the bracelet that the Lady Bathsheba had given her so long ago, and fastened the thin brass chains about my own wrist.

  Baalit Sings

  The fault for what followed lay at my own feet. The Sheban queen’s words kindled a blaze within me, a flame of pride and desire that burned to ash al
l lesser passions. Sun-bright, I glowed with pride—and despite what the queen had told me, I believed my father would be just as proud to have such a prize offered to his daughter. All I can say in my own defense is that I was young, and the young are heedless of all save that which concerns them, as if they alone walked upon the earth.

  Nor did I then understand how love such as my father endured for the Queen of Sheba turned hearts into adversaries, and love into a battlefield in which neither side could win, or even surrender. They could only lose.

  So after I left the queen, I ran to find my father, seeking to lay my wishes before him at once. That haste was my first error; I should have waited, and approached him at an auspicious moment, when he would be already inclined to heed me. But never before had my father long denied me anything—had I not gained even his permission to ride a horse? It never occurred to me that he might deny me this, my heart’s true desire.

  Armored in that brazen assurance, I sought my father through the palace, only to learn that he had driven out with my brothers Rehoboam, Jerioth, and Samuel down to the king’s great horse farm that lay in the fertile rolling plain to the north.

  And when I learned that, instead of going within to my own rooms and preparing myself to greet my father upon his return, I ordered Uri to be brought to me and rode out to join him. Before laughing at my folly, remember that I was barely fourteen, and had been much indulged. I was clever, yes—but there is no credit to being clever, for one is either born so or not. But wisdom is acquired only through hard schooling and long patience. And the young have no time for either.

  King Solomon’s stables could house twelve thousand horses—that is the tale as travelers tell it now. The numbers grow with the telling; when I was a child, the king’s stables were vast and grand, of course. But I do not think my father stabled more than a thousand in his much-prized horse farm. Still, a thousand horses is a great enough number to require a dwelling place that stretched over half the broad valley. King Solomon’s stables were greater than many kings’ palaces.

  Stone walls washed with lime gleamed in the late summer sun; upon stable rooftops, the tents that housed grooms and horse-boys flared blue and yellow, bright as desert wildflowers. Beyond the stables, the horse pastures stretched broad. In the spring, mares and their new foals wandered the lush fields. Those foals were weanlings now, and mares roamed the tawny summer pastures alone.

  Uri called to the mares; a few answered, but most never looked up from their grazing. I smiled and stroked his golden neck. “Never mind,” I told him, “they will be glad enough to see you in the proper season!”

  When I rode into the vast stable courtyard, I saw my father’s chariot there; its team of horses had been unhitched and taken elsewhere to be watered and groomed. That meant my father’s visit was not a short one.

  Grooms hurried up to me as I signaled Uri to halt. I slid from his back and handed the reins to the nearest stableman. “I seek my father, the king,” I said. “Where is he?”

  My words must have sounded both haughty and urgent, and the stable workers must have been eager to make me someone else’s problem. Half-a-dozen voices assured me that my father King Solomon and the three princes had walked out to the schooling field, there to watch the newly weaned foals, that the king might judge which to keep and which to sell.

  Leaving Uri in the groom’s care, I ran into the stables, cutting through the stallion barn and causing the head groom there to speak hard words to me. “Slow down,” he ordered, catching me by the arm and forcing me to halt. “No running. Stallions are touchy beasts, fussing like babes if they’re upset. Princess or no, you walk quiet and speak soft when you pass by them.”

  I knew it would do no good to complain of Gamaliel to my father—for he was right and I wrong. So I begged his pardon, hastily, saying I looked only for my father—

  “And sought to save yourself a few breaths’ time with a shortcut through the stallion court?” Gamaliel shook his head, plainly disgusted with human folly. “How much time have you won with all your haste? None, because you’ve had to listen to a lecture from me.”

  “I know; I am sorry.”

  “Sorry I delayed you, you mean.” Gamaliel released me and stepped aside, and under his strict gaze I walked quiet and soft to the end of the stallion barn. Once past the head groom’s private kingdom, I walked more swiftly—but I did not run. For Gamaliel was right; it is not wise to race through stables. I could only hope he would not complain of me to my father.

  At last I reached the schooling field, where my father and brothers studiously regarded a chestnut colt as a stable-boy led it back and forth before them. None of them noticed me until the youngling stopped flat-footed, staring at me as if I were a djinn whirled from the air itself. My father turned to see what troubled the colt, and then came swiftly to me.

  “Baalit, what are you doing here?” Fear clouded his eyes. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing, Father, I swear it. I wish to speak with you.”

  The anxiety vanished, replaced by rueful amusement. “And I suppose whatever you wish cannot wait until evening, or even until I return to the palace? Well, what would you ask, Daughter?”

  I glanced at my brothers; Jerioth and Samuel had taken advantage of the interruption to stroke the chestnut colt and argue over which of them was the better judge of a horse’s worth. Rehoboam stood aside from them, wary of my presence; he gazed at me slantwise, jealous as a fox.

  “I cannot ask you here,” I said, and my father smiled, resigned as always to my whims.

  “Very well.” He took my hand and led me to an ancient oak that shaded the well serving the weaning stables. “Your brothers cannot hear us now; you may speak freely.” Laughter rippled beneath his words. My father thought me a child still; I would prove to him that I was now a woman, a worthy equal.

  “To you, Father, I know I can always speak freely.” I drew in a deep breath, and began. As I had ridden to the stables, I had chosen carefully the words I would speak to my father: wise, sober arguments that would obtain his loving consent. Now, facing him, I forgot every clever word I had planned to utter.

  “Father, I have just come from speaking with the Sheban queen, and—and she wishes me to go with her to Sheba. To learn from her, to work with her. To be the next Queen of the South—and I think she wishes me to wed her nephew, but I will decide that later, the queen chooses her own consort, and—oh, Father, just think of it! King Solomon’s daughter will one day be Queen of Sheba.”

  Sure of his blessing, I was blinded by my shining future. I saw only what I wished to see, that golden vision of me as Queen of the South. I did not see my father’s eyes turn cold, his mouth draw tight. But I heard his voice as he answered me, and each of his words struck me like a stone.

  “Do not be foolish, child. You are not going to Sheba.”

  I stared at him, shocked out of my dreams of glory. “But Father—”

  “You are not to trouble Queen Bilqis any further; she cannot take you with her.”

  Thinking I understood now, I reached out and grasped my father’s hands. “You think she did not mean it, that she indulged a child with a pretty story. But you are wrong, Father. The queen did mean it; she will swear to it with any oath you desire. She wants me. She needs me. I’m going with her to Sheba. I’ll make you proud of me when I’m queen.”

  For long moments, my father said nothing; the very air about us seemed to chill, time to slow. At last he said, “So you wish to leave your home, your god, your family? To travel to world’s end, never to return?”

  Such harsh words—as harsh as truth. I did wish to leave; I could no longer bear to stay. I knew it would hurt to speak the words, hurt my father to hear them. But I knew also that only truth would serve, kinder in the end than loving lies. So I said only “Yes, Father.”

  I would have looked straight into his eyes, my will as strong as his—but my father turned away, stared back at my brothers and the chestnut colt.

  �
��You do not know what you ask, Baalit. You are too young to know.” His voice sounded distant; a faraway echo. “No. You are too young to decide such a thing.”

  “I’m old enough to marry,” I said. “I am old enough to bear a child of my own.”

  “That is different,” he said, and the chill in my bones melted, rekindled as anger.

  “How different?” I asked. “If I am old enough to risk death to give my husband an heir, surely I am old enough to decide I wish—”

  “To be a queen?”

  “To leave this kingdom.” Until the words left my mouth, I did not know I so longed to flee my home. My gilded cell. My jeweled chains. Where had those words come from? My father was no jailer, his palace no prison.

  Now he turned back, and this time I understood what glistened in his eyes. Pain. Loss and loneliness. He had lost my mother to death; he would soon lose Bilqis to duty. He did not wish to lose his daughter as well.

  “Father—” My throat tightened until I could barely speak. “Father, soon or late I must go, if only to a husband. Let me go to Sheba.”

  “Do not be foolish.” My father spoke as if to an importunate child. “Why do you want to be Queen of Sheba? You know nothing of what that means.

  “I know Queen Bilqis has asked me to come with her. Give me your blessing.”

  He said nothing; I summoned up another argument, one harder to confess, for I knew it, too, would hurt my father, however much it might be true. “I wish to go, and—it is not safe for me here. My brother Rehoboam—”

  “Yes, he has told me what the prophet Ahijah says of you. But he speaks so of all women, Baalit.”

  In my dread of Rehoboam’s vengeance, I had forgotten the prophet. But it was true that Ahijah, too, was a danger. “He speaks so of all women because he hates all women, mortal or goddess. He would see us all stoned at the city wall.”