Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  For Rehoboam’s scheme had kindled an answering plan in my own mind. A daring plan; a dangerous plan. But one that might, in the end, hold the key that would unlock the prison enclosing me.

  Abishag

  My mother walked the corridors of the women’s palace as smoothly as if her feet already knew the path. “Daughters spin secrets,” say old wives—but nothing compared with those secrets cherished by mothers. The ivory-set ebony gate that led to Queen Michal’s courtyard stood open in silent welcome; my mother looked upon the gate and smiled.

  Queen Michal sat beside the courtyard fountain, trailing her fingers in the cool water. I led my mother before Queen Michal and bowed. “O Queen, I bring before you my mother.”

  Whereupon my mother bowed; despite her age, she was graceful as a willow in the wind. Smiling, she rose and said, “O Queen, live forever.”

  Queen Michal stared at her, and for the space of an in-drawn breath, I thought she would not speak. “So it is you,” Queen Michal said at last. “And what are you called now?”

  My mother laughed, and then the queen laughed too, and embraced her. “Oh, but I am glad to see you once again!” the queen said. “And this time I will not let you go.”

  “This time I will not ask it.” My mother stepped back and regarded the queen critically, as if Queen Michal too were her daughter, and my mother must pass judgment upon her hair and gown and jewels. “You look well, Michal. Queenship suits you,”

  “No,” said the queen, “but queenship is a gown I must wear, for my—for King Solomon’s sake.”

  My mother stood silent for a moment, then said, “O Queen, shall I weigh my words or speak freely?”

  “Had I heeded you when first we met, I would have saved myself a well of tears. Speak.”

  “Then spare yourself more tears and bow to truth, Michal. Queenship suits you because you are at heart a queen. If you could set aside your crown now, you would not, King Solomon or no.”

  Queen Michal seemed to turn to glass, hard and brittle; she stood tall and proud, and I thought she would order my mother from her. But she said only “Do you think so little of me?”

  “I think so much of you, O Queen. You are the bones that support the kingdom, the heart that holds the crown. You are the goddess who breathes life into the land—Oh, I know you were born a daughter of Yahweh, and I know in what esteem you hold all gods. But truth is truth, Michal, and you now are what I say. Without you there would be no kingdom here, and owls and jackals would feast among the city’s broken stones.”

  Silence stretched long and cold; my heartbeat echoed in my ears. All our futures had been cast before the queen’s jeweled feet. My mother and the queen remained motionless, as if time-locked in amber. Then the air seemed to melt and time to flow again.

  “Would that be so bad a thing?” asked the queen, and my mother answered, “It would be a different thing,” and took the queen’s outstretched hands. As relief swept hot through my blood, Queen Michal embraced my mother once more, this time hugging her hard, as if she were a long-lost sister.

  After that, the queen laughed and said, “I did not expect quite so much truth!”

  “Queens hear it only rarely. Having heard, what now is your will, O Queen?” My mother’s words were said lightly, but a sober question lay behind them.

  “Why, that you tell me what I should call you now!” said the queen, and my mother laughed once more and pulled off the modest blue veil that had always covered her hair.

  “Call me what name you will, so long as you call me friend, and my daughter yours as well.” She glanced at the veil and tossed it to the floor as if it were a dirty rag. “Ah, but it is good to dwell once more among riches!”

  “If only—”

  “No.” My mother held up her hand, as if to hold back Queen Michal’s words. “Do not lash yourself with that. If is not a word a queen should use when speaking of the past. Only of the future.”

  “Perhaps. Still, I was happier as a farmer’s wife.”

  “Perhaps you were—but the kingdom is happier with you as a queen. Do not give yourself airs, Michal; all women—and all men too, although the creatures will deny it with their dying breath—follow the path they must. The gods never meant you to live and die a farmer’s wife, or you would not be here in a queen’s scarlet and gold.”

  “This from you? Did you not once say we all made our own fates?”

  “We do—but only as the gods will it. The gods created you to shape a kingdom’s future, Michal—and you have. Do you think Solomon would sit upon the throne today had you not meddled in the fates of David and of Bathsheba? So do not speak foolishly; you are not a foolish woman.”

  And when I asked, later, how it was that she and Queen Michal knew each other so well, my mother only smiled, and said that it was long ago—“So long ago it is another land, and all its people dead.”

  Nor would she ever again speak of it, save to say, “The past is the past, Daughter. Now I am friend to one queen and mother to another, and if the gods are kind, I shall be grandmother to a third. I am content with that—and you should be content as well. Do not disturb the dead, Abishag. They will not thank you for rousing them.”

  Baalit

  Only you can free yourself. So the Queen of Sheba had told me, and now I knew that for truth. Sheba needed a queen to rule after Bilqis, not a girl bestowed upon the throne like a child bride upon an ancient husband. But until now, I had not seen a path to Sheba that I might tread with honor.

  I could run away, follow the Shebans, and hope they would not hand me back when my father sent armed men after me. Yes, start a war over you; that would be fine work indeed. That was no way to repay my father for his love, or the queen for her teaching. Set two nations at each other’s throats, cut off the spice trade with the Morning Land—yes, fine work, if one wished to sing a great song of battles and deaths. Not such a fine thing if one wished to rule a land, tend it and nurture it, comfort it with peace.

  It would be better to stay than to try, and fail, breaking many lives in the attempt. Mine among them, for my father would be deeply hurt, and it would be a hard thing for him ever to trust me again.

  But if I stayed, I must marry, and my father would not marry me beyond his kingdom. He would give me to one of the great men of Jerusalem, to keep me near. That was all very well while he lived—but when King Solomon lay with his fathers, and King Rehoboam ruled in his turn?

  Rehoboam hates me. As king, he will at last be able to act upon that hatred. When my father died, my own life would be forfeit to my brother’s enmity. There would be no safety for me then in all the kingdom—nor for any man who married me or for any sons and daughters I might bear.

  So I must act now—and thanks to Rehoboam, a path lay before me that might lead me to my future. How he would rage if he knew he himself provided me the key!

  But I must walk this path with great care; one misstep and I would fall before the stones of the Law. I was setting my father’s love against Ahijah’s hate, and if I were wrong about which was stronger, I would die.

  It was the first time in my life that I sat and thought long and hard, the first time I tried to think as a queen must.

  As a woman must.

  For it was as a woman that I was Ahijah’s foe, although he was not mine. I bore him no ill-will—or at least, I strove not to think hardly of him. Unjust, when I plotted to use him for my own purposes as coldheartedly as he himself conspired against me.

  So I set myself against him, princess against prophet. A man must know his enemy better than he knows his friend. So said the king’s general; Benaiah won always, so I knew his advice sound. What did I know about Ahijah? Who does he love? Who does he hate? Who does he trust?

  I knew nothing of Ahijah’s love or trust. But of his hate—ah, that I knew full well. The prophet Ahijah hated all gods save the Lord Yahweh. And he loathed goddesses above all.

  The prophet despised goddesses even more than he did women—and feared them t
oo. No man could hate a thing so greatly without fearing it just as greatly. Ahijah raged as if men dragged him in chains to kiss the idols’ gilded feet, when all the priests and priestesses of the foreign gods housed in Jerusalem asked was to worship in peace.

  So Ahijah hates and fears me, for I represent the goddess in the king’s court. This at last was clear to me. I was the child of the king’s great love, whom he had set above all others. I was the daughter the king cherished above all his sons. To Ahijah, this stank of evil; to Ahijah, daughters were not a blessing but a curse.

  If he only knew how truly I am a daughter of goddesses! My mother’s mother had danced before Astarte’s altar—more, she had been a king’s pleasure, a bound slave, a merchant’s wife, a daughter’s mother. And had not my father’s mother been Bathsheba, “daughter of the seven gods,” who had risen above shame to become mother of the king who succeeded Great David?

  And then there had been Michal. A woman who wove life into her own pattern, who had raised my father to be a good man and a wise king.

  I now knew what to name these women who had formed me: each a true phoenix, re-creating herself no matter how harsh the choice, how hot the fire. Now it was my turn to choose, and I chose to keep faith with my mothers.

  Now I too must remold myself, rise from fire to fly again.

  The path I chose for myself was not easy; never think I set my feet upon its stones without pain. For my success would hurt my father deeply. And it would cause a scandal, although the shame would be eased by my banishment from the kingdom. I must leave my home, never again set eyes upon Jerusalem, upon its rooftops burning golden under the summer sun … .

  Every girl leaves her home, I reminded myself. Change was woman’s life. And this change would be of my own choice. I must remember that, when the way grew hard.

  So I began to shape Ahijah’s plan to my own purpose; that was my third error. The prophet sought to catch me in the Grove, expose me in the act of worshipping the Lady of Light. He wished to drag me before my father’s court and accuse me openly, giving my father no chance to shield me.

  Well, and so I would let Ahijah find me—but not in the Grove. Outside its sacred ground would suit me better. Let the prophet meet me on my way to the Lady’s shrine. Yes, that would do; Ahijah would encounter me at a time and place of my choosing, not his.

  Nor would I face him alone. He would have no chance to have men grasp me and force me into a more compromising position. I must have attendants—and they must be girls who could not be harmed by the success of my scheme. I could ask no one who would remain to face Ahijah’s wrath. So I could not use my own maids, or any of my friends, or even foreigners who dwelt in Jerusalem.

  No, it must be girls immune to what may happen afterward—And as I thought this, I knew already that I must ask help from the Shebans.

  But not from the queen! This I must do myself. If I cannot persuade Khurrami and Irsiya to accompany me, then I do not deserve to succeed.

  Once my will had set the spindle of fortune whirling, cold doubts beset me. This will be disaster, my fears whispered. My scheme would fail and, failing, carry me down in sorrow and disgrace. And my father—what would this do to him?

  He loves me so; how can I hurt him so deeply? How could I condemn my father to certain pain?

  But if I did not, I condemned myself to misery. And to danger; I must not forget that Rehoboam’s hatred would one day be a real power he would use against me.

  And if I do not carry out my plan, I hurt the queen and all her people. For without a true queen to follow her, Sheba’s land was condemned to strife. It was to prevent slaughter that the Sun of Sheba called me; who was I to deny a holy summons?

  Yes, blame the gods for your own desires. For I longed for the future Sheba promised as some girls yearn for a lover.

  In the end, it did not matter if Bilqis’s sun goddess summoned me, or if another power commanded me. Whatever force drove me, god or goddess or both—or neither—I knew only that I must obey that call.

  Seeking fire, I fly south, to the morning. To the desert, and beyond. Who knows? Perhaps someday a new truth will rise out of these ashes to sweep its wings across the wide world—

  We dream hot dreams, when we are young.

  Helike

  She had fled this doom in her dreams, but now fate’s claws had seized her, and there was no escape. No. No, I am wrong, it cannot be true.

  But as she stared through her narrow window at the rising moon, Helike knew she was not wrong. Three moons; three since it was the king’s night. Since that night, she had not bled with the moon. I am with child.

  The knowledge flowed through her veins, cold as slow poison. The thing she feared above all else had happened: she would bear a child to the King of Israel. She had done all within her power to avoid this fate, had shamed herself and asked guidance of some of the older women, had followed their counsel. But for all her care, she had failed.

  Now she faced her fear clear-eyed. If it is a boy, I can endure this. By the laws of the Sword Maids, sons belonged to the father.

  And daughters to the mother.

  But here in Jerusalem, the laws of men controlled the fate of women. Even girls belonged to the father.

  If you bear a girl, she will belong to King Solomon, to do with as he wills. King Solomon’s daughter would be raised within walls, a pawn and a plaything sacrificed on the altar of royal pride. A slave all her days.

  No. My Lady cannot be so cruel.

  The moon hung low in the sky, no longer a slim crescent but rounding; in a few more days the moon would rise full. Helike stared at the waxing moon until its silver light filled her eyes and she saw nothing. Nothing but a future as heartless as man’s law. And as she looked into that clear cold light, she knew what she must do.

  She slipped from the king’s house unseen, gliding out the great gate as silent as a shadow of the moon. It was the first time she had set her feet beyond the jeweled harem gate since the day she had been paraded before the court as King Solomon’s newest bride, but she knew the way. She had stared from the rooftop often enough, stared into the silver path of the full moon’s light, following its trail over rooftop and city wall, high road and field, to the brilliance moonlight sparked from the Grove.

  The Grove of the Morning Star did not house her own goddess. Never would the Lady of Swords consent to be chained to a Grove. But a goddess dwelt there, and all goddesses were sisters. The Lady of the Grove might carry a message to Her sister of Swords. A faint hope, but that small chance was all Helike had to cling to now.

  Desperation carried her to the Lady’s Gate; fear halted her there. This was the last step from which she could draw back. Beyond the silver and willow of the Lady’s Gate lay the Grove of the Morning Star, and once she set her feet within the Grove, she would know at last how far she had fallen from her goddess’s grace.

  I had no choice. But Helike knew she lied; there was always a choice, and she had chosen wrongly. Chosen surrender and bondage over honor and freedom.

  “Will you enter the Grove, lady?” The priestess’s voice was soft and warm. “All are welcome who come with open hearts.”

  She had hesitated too long, and once more the choice was made for her—No.

  Helike summoned courage and faced the priestess squarely. “I would enter, but I do not know if your Lady will welcome one who does not serve Her and who comes with an unquiet heart. I would not trouble Her, save that my need is great.”

  Undismayed, the priestess smiled and held out her hands in welcome. “And to whom should one turn in great need, save to one’s Mother? Enter and be welcome.”

  She was—had been—a Sword Maiden, dedicated to the pure spare Lady of Swords. Never before had she set foot in the Laughing One’s Grove, and she feared what she might find there. But it was quiet beneath the trees, the soft ground unsullied. With each breath, Helike drew in the fresh green scent of leaves and the darker tang of earth; as she followed the priestess deeper into
the Grove, the heady perfume of incense wove itself through the cool air. And with the scent of incense came soft murmurs from the shadows, the sound of pleasure. Helike kept her gaze fixed upon the priestess’s gilded belt, and did not seek the source of those sounds of joy.

  At last the priestess stopped. “Here is our Lady,” she said. “Look upon Her, sister, and be comforted.”

  Before them Asherah stood broad-hipped and smiling, her hands cupped beneath her breasts, offering to feed both body and spirit. The pale stone of her breasts gleamed, smooth-polished by the touch of many devout hands. Helike could not bring herself to lay her hands upon the statue; she crossed her hands over her breast and bowed.

  “I would ask a boon, and I bring a gift,” she said, and offered the necklace she had chosen from those her father had sent in her dowry when he had sold her to King Solomon. Nuggets of amber hung enmeshed in fine gold chains, the amber prisoned in gold just as small strange creatures lay trapped forever within the amber. “Will your Lady find it pleasing?”

  The priestess’s eyes widened. “Such a gift could ransom a queen. What would you ask, sister, that you offer so much?”

  “I would ask the Laughing One to carry a message to Her sister, the Lady of Swords.” Helike knelt to lay the chained amber at the goddess’s feet; she forced herself to look up into the Lady of Love’s jeweled eyes. “I do not ask for myself—”

  But for your daughter. Carried on the night wind, the words whispered silver music through the olive leaves.

  “Yes.” Helike bent her head under the goddess’s gaze, cupped her hands over her rounding belly like a shield. “For my daughter.”

  No man saw her return in the cold clear light that preceded dawn. Even after these years trapped within palace walls, within women’s bonds, she still could summon up her hard-won skills.