Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  Those I still possess. All I lack is honor. That lack clung bitter upon her tongue, poisoned her bones.

  But that same lack freed her utterly. What more can I lose? There is no farther for me to fall; I can act freely, caring for nothing save my daughter’s future. That she be free—that is all I ask.

  That was all she dared ask. The Lady of Swords might take pity upon her daughter—but Helike did not hope for mercy for herself.

  Baalit Sings

  As I walked through the passageway that led from the Queen’s Gate to the Little Palace, a woman stepped forward from the deeper shadow of one of the cedar columns. Startled, I paused, tense as a deer. But it was only one of my father’s quiet wives; no threat.

  “Princess, I must speak with you. I must.” Lady Helike’s words cut the air like blades, glittering and sharp.

  I could not imagine what troubled her, or why she wished to speak with me. Still, I smiled, and said, “Speak, then.”

  I half-expected her to beg me to intercede with my father on her behalf; others had done so before. So I was unready to hear her say, “You cannot achieve your desire alone, and you must not fail. I can help you. I can. I—”

  Cold rain seemed to slide over my skin, into my blood. Does all Jerusalem know Ahijah’s plot—and mine?

  “How do you know this?” I did not waste breath denying or dissembling, for I needed to learn where the weak link lay. I could not afford to have my plans common gossip at the well.

  “Three can hold a secret close if two of them are dead. What does it matter who told me? I know. Let me aid you. Please.”

  “Why?” I asked. I barely knew the Lady Helike; she was reserved and proud, turned in upon herself like a mirrored bowl. Nothing seemed to give her pleasure, not fine gowns, not jewels, not even rare foods. Yet she had come to me now, her eyes hot and desperate, her hands tense as a beggar’s.

  She did not answer but sank to her knees before me. “Princess, I beg of you—”

  Seeing her humble herself so chilled me. “Don’t,” I said, stepping back. “Please, Lady Helike, do not—” Then somehow the right words came to my lips. “Rise, someone will see.”

  To my relief, Helike stood again at my words; plainly she feared to be seen petitioning me. “If you will not let me help you, Princess, there is nothing left for me.”

  “Did I say I would not? But first you must tell me why you think I need anyone’s aid—and why you are so hot to offer me your friendship now, when we have barely spoken a dozen words to each other since you entered my father’s palace.” I slid my arm through hers; her flesh was stiff and cool with despair. “Come, walk with me, show me the flowers in your garden.”

  She turned a tragic face to me. “I care nothing for flowers.”

  “You should,” I said, “for they hear many secrets.”

  She understood then; hope brightened her eyes. “Come then—but nothing planted in my garden grows as it should.”

  “Perhaps you have neglected the flowers; that is never wise.” Chatting softly, I walked with her, trying to guess how the Lady Helike had learned my plans to escape from my father’s world.

  “Now,” I said when we had reached her own small garden and walked safely alone among lemon trees in painted pots, “tell me what it is you wish—and do not waste my time, or yours, with lies or pretty words. You said you wished to help me—why, and how? And what price do you set upon your aid?”

  Lady Helike stopped and looked at me straitly, her eyes cool as winter stone. “You seek to challenge the prophet Ahijah; that is a dangerous game. If you succeed—”

  A chill slid into my bones. “How do you know this?”

  She smiled, a wry curve of her mouth. “Women here talk; eunuchs talk even more. And men talk most of all. I listen.”

  “Say you are right.” I plucked a lemon flower from the nearest tree. “If I succeed?”

  “If you succeed, you will be gone. You will be free of this palace, of these stone walls.”

  Startled by the bitterness beneath her words, I said, “You are not happy here?”

  A moment’s pause; she laughed, softly, mocking her own pain. “Happy? Is a prisoner ever happy? Is an oath-breaker less dishonored because forced to it?” She spoke as if to herself alone; long-endured grief soured her words. She spoke of a pain so old and so familiar she had grown accustomed to the dull constant ache in her heart.

  It is not pride with her, not pride at all. Shame flooded me, shame that I had not seen this truth long ago. This wife of my father’s, this queen, walked the palace halls in sorrow and regret. Now I knew what lay behind Queen Helike’s eyes: self-loathing. She hated, not my father but herself

  The lemon flower lay in my hand, petals crushed by my careless fingers; I brushed them from my skin. “How can I help you?” I asked.

  She turned to me; desire shadowed her eyes. “If I aid you, will you take—”

  “You with me?” Despair swept me, for that I knew I could not do. My father’s wives were the knots that bound treaties, the tribute that bought peace. He could not bestow them as handmaidens, even upon his daughter; in a sense his wives were not my father’s to give, only to take.

  “No. No. It is too late for me. I cannot go back. But my daughter—you must take her with you.”

  “But my Lady Helike”—I made my voice very soft, gentle, as if coaxing a frightened kitten from a high branch—“you do not have a daughter.”

  “No. Not yet. But I will.” She pressed her hands over her stomach, revealing new fullness still hidden beneath her tasseled skirt. “The Lady has promised me. I shall have a daughter, and she will redeem my broken oath.”

  I looked at her rounding body; the child would not be born for half-a-year yet. “Even if that is so, I shall be gone before she is born.”

  Gone or dead.

  “You will take her. You will swear it. If you do not, I shall go before King Solomon and tell him what you plan.”

  “But Lady Helike—”

  “You must. She must be given to Artemis-Hippona. If you do not take her, I shall slay her myself. No daughter of the Huntress will grow within these walls, a plaything for men’s whims. A bauble for their lusts.”

  Ice seemed to creep over my skin; I knew I faced madness. “I will help you,” I said, “but will you trust me? I must be gone before your child is born—but if it is a girl, I will send for her, foster her in my own courtyard. I swear it.”

  “She is a girl; she is promised.” No doubt shadowed her mind. “You must vow her to the Lady of Swords, the Lady of Horses. You must swear that too.”

  “I will not vow away a girl’s life without her consent. If she wishes it, she will go to your goddess. That I also swear.”

  I kept my voice calm, my words low and steady. It seemed to be enough; Helike drew in a deep breath and seemed to free herself from the madness caressing her.

  “That is enough,” she said at last. She smoothed her hands over her gently arching body once more, smiling; her eyes shone bright as full moons. “Yes, my queen; that is enough.”

  She sounded still half mad; I dared not leave her. And so I spun my mind, trying to think of some diversion that would interest her—and drive that moon-mad sheen from her eyes. What did I know of the Lady Helike?

  Nothing, I realized, and shame burned my face. She has lived here all these months so wretched she wishes to die of it, and I know nothing of her. Nothing at all, save—

  “You are the Horse Lord’s daughter,” I said, and Helike stared at me as if it were I who trembled upon madness. “Helike, do you know how to ride a horse?”

  A moment later I was sorry, for she began to laugh—and then could not stop. She laughed until she sank to her knees and buried her face in her strong square hands, until the wild sound turned to cruel sobs. And I could do nothing to stop her. I could not even pry her hands from her face; she was stronger than I.

  At last, desperate, I set my lips close to her ear and said, “My lady Helike, if yo
u do not stop this, I will go to my father the king and ask his aid.” I cast my voice to cut sharp.

  And it worked; Helike gasped and coughed—and ceased to weep. She let her hands fall away from her face and gazed up at me.

  “I am the Horse Lord’s daughter and I rode ten years with the Sword Lady’s Maidens. Oh, yes—I can ride a horse.”

  “Then would you ride with me?” I could not offer the Lady Helike much, but at least I could offer that.

  “It is forbidden.” No emotion colored Helike’s voice. “King’s wives do nothing.”

  “Nothing is forbidden if the king permits it,” I said. “I will ask my father if you may ride with me—if you wish it.”

  She looked at me for a long time, then; at first her eyes seemed to look far beyond me, into some shadow I could not envision. Then, slowly, her gaze warmed, softened, and I knew she now saw me, and not whatever demon had drawn her away.

  “He will grant me this,” I said. “It is not seemly for a princess to ride alone.”

  “Or at all. Not in this land of a jealous god and greedy men. But you—your father will deny you nothing.”

  She weighted the words too clearly to mistake her meaning. Her father had denied her everything.

  But that I could not mend. I could only offer what was mine to give. “Shall I ask him?” I said, and she stared down at her hands, hands still strong and hard, for all her long months in my father’s palace.

  “Yes,” Helike said, her voice almost too soft to hear. “Yes, Princess. Ask.”

  When I approached my father to ask this boon, I saw he was wary of me, fearful that I would again beg him to let me follow the Spice Queen south. So when I only smiled and asked whether his wife Helike might ride out with me, his relief was so great he granted my petition without hesitation or conditions.

  “Certainly the Lady Helike may ride with you, if she wishes it, Baalit. But do not tease her to accompany you if she does not wish to.”

  “She does,” I assured him. “She told me she once rode from Troy to Damascus and back again. She can teach me much.”

  “Oh, yes—her father is the Horse Lord; he sends a hundred mares yearly in his tribute.”

  And daughters whom he regards as less worthy than his mares. But that I did not say. I only thanked my father, and ran off to tell Helike what he had said.

  Benaiah

  A long morning studying supply lists and judging between the demands of one garrison and another did not improve any man’s temper. When Benaiah at last strode through the gateway that led from the guard wing to the open courtyard of the main palace, he thought only of savoring a jar of beer cool from the well.

  “Benaiah,” Nikaulis said, and all thought of cool beer fled his mind. The queen’s captain stood in the shadow cast by the open gate; Benaiah turned towards her and looked into her steady eyes.

  “I must speak with you.” Although she did not whisper, her words were soft, pitched for his ears alone.

  Privately, Benaiah thought, or she would not have asked at all. Now, where?

  “Have I shown you the virtues of our city walls?” he said.

  She smiled, plainly relieved he had so swiftly grasped her meaning. “Show me again.”

  Benaiah led the way to the nearest guard tower; Nikaulis followed, silent as his shadow. He refused to waste time trying to guess what she wished to say. Soon enough he would know. Until it was safe for them to talk, it was sufficient to know that Nikaulis thought the matter urgent and private.

  They climbed the winding stone stairs within the tower; when at last they reached the doorway to the city wall, Benaiah said, “The walls shield all; here all the city may look upon us and not hear one word of what we may say to one another. So speak.”

  “The king’s daughter courts danger,” she said, staring intently at a rack holding spears for the city guard. “She seeks to use your prophet as her tool. She must be stopped.”

  Damn the girl! But Benaiah’s face betrayed nothing; he lifted the topmost spear as if drawing Nikaulis’s attention to the weapon. “Tell me.”

  Nikaulis chose words well and carefully; a few sentences sufficed to enlighten Benaiah. “Princess Baalit desires to return south with Queen Bilqis, who wishes her to rule Sheba as its next queen. King Solomon will not permit this.”

  No, I don’t suppose he will. Too bad. It would be far better to pack Solomon’s favorite child off to the farthest end of the world than to keep her spinning trouble in Jerusalem.

  “Now the princess seeks to force the king to release her.” Nikaulis turned and walked on down the wall. Benaiah set the spear back into its rack and followed without haste.

  “Force him how?”

  “At the next full moon, she plans to be found in the Goddess’s Grove by the prophet Ahijah,” Nikaulis said.

  “Is she mad?” demanded Benaiah. “Her great-grandfather Saul died mad; it runs in her blood.”

  “Not mad, but desperate. The end will be the same.”

  “How do you know this?” asked Benaiah, and Nikaulis smiled wryly.

  “I know this because people cannot remain silent even when speech will cost them dear. I remain silent, and so am forgotten. I listen.” Nikaulis set her hands upon the parapet and gazed out over Jerusalem. The soaring sun poured light over the city’s rooftops and gardens; King David’s City seemed formed of gold and fire. “She must be stopped, Benaiah.”

  “Yes.” If Ahijah laid violent hands upon King Solomon’s daughter, blood would run in Jerusalem’s gutters. “Now I will tell you what I have overheard: it is said King Solomon thinks to wed Prince Rehoboam to Princess Baalit, and so bind the kingdom close.” And there’s a marriage made in madness—or in Queen Naamah’s mind. Certainly neither of the king’s children had dreamed up that pretty plot!

  Nikaulis turned to face him. “Is King Solomon such a fool? The princess will slit Rehoboam’s throat in a month.”

  “Which would be no bad thing, save that deed would force King Solomon to condemn her to death in her turn. Perhaps she had better poison him; poison is harder to prove.”

  Nikaulis stared at him, plainly wondering whether he jested.

  “Perhaps I jest so we may laugh rather than weep,” Benaiah said. “How is it that a man as wise as Solomon can deal so foolishly with his own children?”

  Nikaulis shrugged. “Is the wedding tale true?”

  “That I do not know—but I overheard those jackals Prince Rehoboam calls friends gloating over his victory.”

  “And how did they know?” Nikaulis asked.

  “Some days ago Prince Rehoboam boasted of it to them—and of how he would tame Princess Baalit once she was his wife, to do with as pleased him.”

  “The prince is twice a fool.” Disdain soured Nikaulis’s words.

  “Yes. And I will say a thing to you, Nikaulis, that I would not say to any other. King Solomon is the greatest fool of all if he thinks he can summon that future.” Benaiah sighed. “Well, I suppose we must stop this nonsense. I tell you freely, Nikaulis, that it is not easy serving kings:”

  “Or queens. No, it is not. How stop them, Benaiah?” Nikaulis then waited, patient as stone, as Benaiah considered the touchy problem.

  Some tasks were best postponed indefinitely. Stopping King Solomon’s daughter before she challenged the prophet Ahijah was not one of them. While Nikaulis gazed at sunlight burning across the summer hills, Benaiah silently planned his campaign.

  “I will need you,” he said at last; Nikaulis inclined her head in assent.

  “Ask,” she said.

  “On the night of the full moon, guard the gate to the princess’s courtyard. I can trust no one else with the task. No one is to enter it, or to leave, save King Solomon himself.”

  “Not even Benaiah, Commander of the King’s Army?”

  He smiled. “I least of all. For were I permitted to see Princess Baalit alone, the temptation to beat her bloody for this trick might prove too strong to resist. Now come with me; we must
talk to the priestess of the Grove.”

  Nikaulis

  The Grove’s chief priestess merely stared at them when told what they knew. “Well, we cannot allow that,” she said. “King Solomon’s tolerance is great, but not so great he will overlook his own daughter worshipping here—or pretending to.”

  “No,” said Benaiah. “And Ahijah tolerates nothing.”

  “No, Ahijah tolerates nothing, not even himself,” agreed Asherah’s priestess. “Poor man; he suffers because he will not yield to the fact that he himself is only a man.”

  Benaiah shrugged. “Suffer he may, claw down the king’s daughter to harm the king he may not.”

  The priestess inclined her head; long henna-red curls fell across her breasts. “If the princess shows her face at our gate, we will send her away.”

  “She won’t,” said Benaiah. “I shall see to that. And you are to see that no woman save your priestesses can be found in the Grove this full moon.”

  “You would have me forbid women their worship?” the priestess asked, and Nikaulis saw the sly trap in the woman’s eyes.

  “The king’s general forbids nothing.” Nikaulis stepped forward, offering herself as a shield between the priestess and Benaiah. “Let women and men worship as they please—only not this full moon.”

  “Not unless you want the Grove’s trees burned and its ground sown with salt,” Benaiah finished.

  “King Solomon’s threat?” the priestess asked, and Benaiah shrugged again.

  “Men’s folly,” he said, and the priestess smiled.

  “Our Lady’s thanks to you, my lord Benaiah, and to you, Sword Maid. Trust me, on the night of the full moon, no man shall find what he seeks here.” She crossed her henna-red palms over her bare breasts and bowed her head; Benaiah nodded and turned away. Nikaulis followed; she glanced back, once, and saw the chief priestess still standing where they had spoken to her before the willow tree.

  “She seems a sensible woman,” Benaiah said as they walked back down the path through the Grove towards the gate. “If we have good fortune, we shall thwart both princess and prophet. And I don’t know which I’d like to beat more. King Solomon should have banned that canting prophet from the kingdom years ago. Prophets are never anything but trouble. Samuel, Nathan—although Nathan could be reasonable. But Ahijah is never reasonable.”