Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  My father managed to smile. “Do not let him trouble you, child. I am the king; Ahijah will rant and rage, but he will do nothing. Do not let him drive you from your home.”

  “But I wish to go.” I spoke softly, but iron lay beneath the words.

  My father shook his head. “I will give you whatever else you wish. I can silence Ahijah, I can silence—”

  “But you cannot silence me, Father. I am too much your daughter, and I cannot live here in peace. Let me go. Please.”

  And then my father uttered words I had not thought he ever would say to me. “I forbid it. You are my daughter, and you will obey.”

  And as I stared at him, unable to believe that my father had spoken so, he said, “Your place is in the women’s palace, Daughter. Now go home—and stay there.”

  At first shock kept pain and anger chained. I walked slow and quiet away from the schooling field, from my father and my brothers and the chestnut colt over which they quarreled; walked slow and quiet past the restive stallions in their spacious stalls; walked slow and quiet to the courtyard where Uri stood waiting for me. Without a word, I took his reins from the stable-boy who had held them. I vaulted onto Uri’s back and then walked him, slow and quiet, until we passed through the wide gate and the broad valley lay open before us.

  And then I let Uri run.

  That was my second error, for Uri was a horse I could ride only when I controlled myself as well as I did my mount. Truly royal, Uri would not suffer a fool upon his back or permit unruly passion to command him. Before he had carried me a dozen strides, Uri knew that anger, not I, ruled him. Anger demanded he run before the wind; Uri tossed his head and snatched at the bit, caught the metal bar between his teeth. Before I understood what he had done, Uri leapt forward and ran at his own will and not mine.

  At first the wild motion bespelled me; wind lashed my hair, blinded my eyes. The stallion’s muscles flexed and tensed between my thighs as he fled down the valley, urged on by my wild passion. As if he flew, we swept up the rise to the hills, flashed through the narrow defile onto the Jerusalem road. Even then I did not have sense enough to try to stop him; speed intoxicated me like new wine. But then Uri stumbled upon a rock and I swayed and nearly lost my seat upon his back—and I came to my senses just as Uri lost his.

  For we galloped full out down a road cut into rock; beneath Uri’s hooves lay stone polished slick by long use. A hoof landing wrong and both Uri and I would crash down upon the rocks that waited below.

  Even as that thought slashed through my angry misery, Uri slipped, scrabbled desperately to regain his footing, and flung himself forward again. Fear sobered me; I caught up the doeskin reins, seeking to check our wild flight. But it was too late. My anger had tainted Uri as well; he ran as I had longed to run, fleeing a future I did not wish to see. The stallion had become what I asked of him—an escape. An escape I could no longer control. Now it took all my newfound skill simply to remain upon the horse’s back.

  That we reached the bottom of the road alive and unharmed was due to Uri’s clever hooves and to sheer good fortune. Certainly no credit for our safe descent could be laid in my hands.

  Where the road down the hillside flattened into the valley, it split into two paths, one leading north towards Gibeon and the other curving sharply towards the south, and Jerusalem. For an instant Uri slowed, as if to decide which path to choose. In that moment, no longer than a quick indrawn breath, I had one chance to regain control of my mount, and I took it without daring to think of the cost if I failed.

  Dropping the reins, I grabbed Uri’s mane with my left hand and reached for his bridle with my right. I nearly overbalanced and clung hard with thighs and fist—and then my right hand found what it sought and I clutched the bridle’s cheekpiece. I flung my weight back and hauled upon the bridle, hard and steady.

  My desperate move succeeded. His head curved back, his flaring nostrils almost touching my knee. Uri slowed, shaking his head in a vain attempt to free himself from the weight hauling him off balance.

  “Gently, Uri. Gently now.” My voice came soft but firm, coaxing the stallion to listen to my commands once more. Uri flicked his ears back and forth; his frantic strides shortened, slowed, until at last he responded once more to my touch upon his reins, to shifts of my legs against his sides.

  When his strength and speed were once more mine to command, I pulled him to a halt and slid from his back. My legs seemed to fold bonelessly beneath me, unable to hold me upright; only my arms about Uri’s sweat-foamed neck kept me upon my feet.

  I stood so until my breathing steadied and my blood no longer pounded against my skin. I looked at Uri; his coat gleamed with sweat as if it had been oiled; his nostrils flared wide as he, too, sought air. His muscles shuddered beneath my hands.

  But when I led him forward he walked steadily enough, and I nearly wept with relief. My heedless anger had not lamed Uri, a mercy I knew I did not deserve. I stroked his wet neck and begged his pardon for treating him so, as if he could understand, and forgive. Perhaps he could, for as I spoke gently to him, Uri rubbed his head against my arm as if to console me.

  I cupped my hand over the hot soft skin of his muzzle, and Uri lipped at my palm. I knew he wanted water, but I had none to offer. “I know,” I said, “I am sorry.” Then I took up the reins and began the long slow walk back to the high road that led to Jerusalem.

  Abishag

  But even as Queen Michal’s handmaidens wove my wedding veil and King Solomon’s servants laid pearls before me as my wedding gift, envoys from foreign courts had begun to offer up other brides for my beloved’s approval. I could not be his only wife; I must rest content with being his first. But to hear other wives spoken of before we had even wed—that burned my heart like strong lye.

  I strove to conceal the hurt, but Solomon loved me too dearly not to see my soul was troubled—and was too wise to promise what he could not perform. King Solomon could not swear that he would have no woman save me alone, but he offered all else that lay within his power to bestow. “You are all the world to me, Abishag. Is there anything I can do to please you, my heart?”

  I longed to say, “Nothing, save to love me only.” But I did not; I remembered one of my mother’s lessons. “Never say there is nothing you desire. Men like to bestow gifts, if they are not too costly. And never ask for what you know a man cannot or will not grant … .”

  I smiled, and took Solomon’s hands. “If my lord the king pleases, I would like my mother to see me wed. Can she not be brought here, to Jerusalem?”

  I thought I saw a shadow in his eyes; relief, or guilt, or both. “Of course; you should have asked before—and I should have thought of it for you. Of course you wish your mother here. She shall be brought with all the honor due to a queen’s mother, and she shall have rooms as fine as—”

  He stopped, for I had bent my head to kiss his hands. “Thank you, my love; I could ask for no richer wedding gift. And I did not ask before because”—I looked up into his eyes—“because I know you will deny me nothing, and so I wish to be careful what I ask.”

  Solomon

  Long years of practice enabled Solomon to set aside his anger and hurt, to continue judging the horses paraded before him as if his daughter’s visit had not occurred. Not until he returned to Jerusalem did he permit himself to think upon what had happened—and when he did, memory of his own words flooded him with shame. “I forbid it.” He, who so prided himself on treating all men and women justly, and with dignity, had spoken to his own daughter as if—As if I owned her, as if she were—

  As if she were in truth the jewel he called her, his jewel, to dispose of at his will. Was that truly how he thought of her?

  No. No, of course I do not think that. Still, she is my daughter—No, I will not consider this further. Baalit is a child still, she does not know what she asks. Yes, that was it: a child dazzled by the foreign queen who flattered her. But no matter how he strove to master his thoughts, Solomon could not. The r
elentless sunlight could not burn away the vision of his daughter’s defiant face, her desperate eyes.

  Nor could the rising sounds from the city streets drown out the echo of his own voice, harsh as a stranger’s. You are my daughter and you will obey.

  How could I speak so to her? As if—as if I owned her soul, as if she were—

  As if his daughter were no more than another of the king’s treasures; a possession to be locked away at his whim.

  That was what the Law said she was. In anger and sorrow, he had spoken just as any father might chastise a willful girl. Children were a man’s chattel, treasure stored up against an uncertain tomorrow. A father might do as he chose with his daughter’s future. That was the Law.

  So you will cling to cold law now? Solomon demanded of himself. Had he not trained Baalit up to follow her own will? To think herself the equal of any of her brothers? Yes, Solomon, you did; in your proud folly you dowered her with a seeking mind and a bold heart—And now that she wished to follow her stars into a future he could not shape, he revoked his gifts.

  You dare invoke the Law, when what you chose to do with Baalit’s future was offer it to her with open hands?

  No wise words flowed into his mind to answer that cold accusation. Sighing, he walked to the parapet and laid his hands upon the sun-baked stones, welcoming the quick heat beneath his skin. Below him, King David’s City sprawled golden in the summer light. On housetops, women worked; he saw cloth spread out to dry, watched serving maids dip into cisterns for stored rainwater. From such a vantage point, my father looked down upon my mother as she bathed upon her rooftop, and thought her fair—

  And when he lifted his eyes, the Temple filled his vision, its gold burning bright under the noonday sun.

  The City of David. The Temple of Solomon. He turned his eyes away from the Temple’s savage radiance, looked down again upon the hot busy city. King David’s City. How long will they call Jerusalem by that fond name? And will men ever speak of my Temple with the same love and pride as they do my father’s city?

  Or will I be forgotten, and all my faults and virtues fade, less than dust upon the wind?

  Had his father David ever known such darkness of spirit? Or his mother? Thinking of Bathsheba’s sweet nature, her refusal ever to hear a sour comment or to see a mean deed, Solomon found himself smiling. No, Bathsheba never knew fear or despair. She walked in sunlight all her days.

  And his other mother, Queen Michal? Ah, that is a different song. Queen Michal had always shown a warm face to him, her heart’s son, but he had always sensed that behind her eyes lay a deep cold well. Never had he seen her look upon his father with soft eyes; always, when Queen Michal looked upon King David, her eyes held the cool patience of a serpent.

  She had not been stone-hearted; no one knew that better than he. But her cool eyes had warmed for him, and for his mother. For David, the hero for whom she had defied her own father, King Saul, for whom she had waited ten years married to another man, for whom she had sacrificed her own future—for David, her eyes held nothing.

  Sometimes Solomon thought that was only his own wild fancy—Boys are selfish creatures, boy princes twice so. I wished her to love me best and only, after all! Yes, perhaps that was it. All the songs swore Queen Michal loved King David more than honor and herself, after all.

  “Yes, and songs are very pretty to listen to. But never mistake a harpers’tale for truth.”

  Queen Michal’s cautioning words echoed in his memory. Unlike his mother Bathsheba, Queen Michal heard every word clear as stone upon stone, saw every deed as plain as sunlight at noon. And she had taught him to do the same. “Know the truth, Solomon, even if you never speak it. Know the good, even if you never do it.”

  “But it is better to speak truth and do good?” he had asked, and Queen Michal had smiled. “Yes, my heart, it is better to speak truth and do good. But for a king, that is not always possible. Sometimes a king must do what is right.”

  He had not understood that riddle for many years. Solomon smiled again, this time at his own folly. Well, I know the truth and I know the good, and what am I to do with this great and powerful knowledge? And how am I to know what is right?

  Solomon the Wise—he laughed, mocking himself. Solomon the Wise, who knew everything except how to pluck happiness from life’s thornbush. And what makes a man happy? Love?

  Unbidden, the thought summoned the images of his women: Nefret and Naamah; Melasadne and Dvorah. So many wives; do any of them love me?

  Have you ever asked that of them, Solomon? The silent mockery rippled upon whispered laughter; the silent voice that chided him was Bilqis’s.

  Ah, now there was love. Well-spiced love. Bilqis, Queen of Sheba. So ripe, so warm, so wise. My last love.

  So different from his first love. My jewel, my rose, my song made flesh. My Abishag.

  His passion for Abishag had been a young man’s love, demanding and hot. Chaining his desire, surrendering his beloved to his aged father’s need, had cost him dearly in sleepless nights and restless days.

  But King David had lain dying, cold to his ancient bones, and Solomon had yielded to his father’s need and to his foster-mother’s will. No, speak truth, if only to yourself. Queen Michal lauded the plan and twined it about her ambition for me. But the mind that devised the scheme was yours.

  Unwillingly, Solomon remembered the words he had spoken to his foster-mother, seeking her approval. “At first I thought, Why should not my father have comfort? And then I thought, Why should this girl not tell us what he says, and to whom?” Yes, and more, but those words Queen Michal had said so that he need not.

  “If I take this young fair maid to wife after, it will strengthen my claim to David’s crown.”

  That was only good sense, as Queen Michal had said. A spy in King David’s bedchamber and a queen in King Solomon’s court—it had seemed so prudent, so simple, when he had revealed his plan to Queen Michal.

  But that was before he had sought and found the unknown girl for whom he had planned this twice-royal future.

  Before he had found love.

  And with love, pain. For Abishag had assented to his wishes, served as his shadow in his father’s chambers. A fair maid to tend him, to sleep beside him and warm his cold bones—a king’s maiden, to carry the royal succession in her soft young hands from the old king to the new—

  Abishag had done all that Solomon and Queen Michal asked of her and more. And not once had she faltered or betrayed by so much as a flicker of her lashes what truly had passed between her and King David. To this day, Solomon did not know whether his father had lain with Abishag as a man does with a woman he desires.

  He did not wish to know.

  Upon their wedding night, Abishag had tried to speak of her nights with King David; desired, Solomon knew, to swear to her chastity. But he had refused to allow her to utter the words.

  “What passed between you and my father does not matter,” he had told her, “so do not utter words because you think I wish to hear them. Whatever happened, happened.” Swiftly, Solomon had taken her face between his hands and kissed her soft mouth, tasted cinnamon and roses. “That is past, my heart. Over and gone. This night is ours alone; ours to do with as we wish. Even if King David possessed your yesterday, King Solomon owns today and all your tomorrows. Be content with that.”

  Abishag had looked long into his eyes; at last she’d said, “I can rest content with that, my king. But can you?”

  “Yes,” he had said, and again, “Yes. You are my heart and my queen, Abishag. Nothing else matters.”

  So he had vowed upon their wedding night; then he had thought himself magnanimous, great-hearted and generous. Many men would have demanded a bride come to them virgin although they had themselves sent her to another man’s bed.

  But I vowed it did not matter. I think she believed me. I hope she did.

  For now Solomon knew he had not been generous.

  He had been afraid of the truth he might he
ar.

  Rehoboam

  What did she want? What did my father promise her? The questions pricked at Rehoboam, spoiling his pleasure at being given his choice of the newly weaned colts. The moment his sister arrived at the schooling field, their father had forgotten everything in his haste to indulge her. His brothers had not noticed, of course—None of my brothers sees that she steals what is mine. I am the heir, not she! This is not Sheba, after all—

  Fear slashed him, sudden ice against his skin. Israel was not Sheba—but his father was besotted with the Sheban queen, and the queen with Baalit. Had the Sheban persuaded his father to exalt Baalit, to set her up as a queen in Israel?

  Yes. That would explain everything. His father’s indifference, his half-sister’s refusal to marry him, her arrogant disregard for his wishes. And today at the stables she spoke of being queen. I heard her. Rehoboam’s ears were keen, and some of Baalit’s words had cut the air like shining blades. Yes, that must be what she plans—wait until I tell my mother; she will—

  His mother would what? She would be furious, of course; his mother cared only for his welfare, his future. If my father thinks to set my sister up as a queen—this time Mother will poison her. The thought warmed Rehoboam; then he frowned. His sister Baalit never suffered from illness or weakness, and if she died suddenly—Mother might be suspected, and I cannot afford to lose her. If only his sister had enemies—But everyone thinks Baalit so clever, so faultless—

  No. Not everyone.

  As if his mother stood behind him and whispered in his ear, Rehoboam suddenly knew exactly what he must do to ensure that his half-sister Baalit never again shadowed his future.

  Ahijah was not hard to find on market days; the prophet stood in the porch of the Sheep Gate, lecturing those who passed through as if they were erring children. Rehoboam watched as men came and went, most paying no heed to Ahijah’s words—For they have heard the old fool too often. Rehoboam had no patience with Ahijah’s constant rebukes, but at last he saw how they could be useful. So he smiled, and stalked through the crowd of men and beasts until he stood before Ahijah.