Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba

by Edghill, India

  All that remained was to don the silver veil, pin its glittering mist securely to my smooth-braided hair. And then I was ready, and Keshet held up my mirror.

  I gazed upon a stranger in silver, glittering and unreal. No longer a heedless girl, but a woman. A queen in waiting. But pride did not kindle my blood; an odd chill slid through my veins like slow poison.

  “So this is what a queen looks like.” I tried to make my words light, mocking my silver ghost in the mirror. But Keshet did not giggle; Nimrah did not murmur agreement. Instead, my words fell harsh and heavy into silence.

  “Yes, this is what a queen looks like. Does it please you, child?”

  Behind me in the mirror, a shadow danced; I flung down the silver mirror and spun around in a swirl of veil and a chiming of golden anklets, to face the woman who questioned me. For a heartbeat it seemed I looked still into the silver mirror, for her eyes were mine. And although I had not looked upon her face since I was seven years old, I knew who she was.

  “Grandmother,” I said, and she smiled, and opened her arms to me.

  At first I marveled over her arrival, wondering how she knew herself needed, only to hear her laugh.

  “Dearest child, do you think every prince and pigherd from Baghdad to Damascus does not know how the Wise King and the Spice Queen dally in the Lady’s Dance? Asherah’s doves carry the new songs almost as swiftly as rumor. Every temple from here to world’s end has received the news by now—even those whose birds are too plump to fly farther than across a courtyard!” A dark cloak embroidered with little stars covered her from throat to ankles; now she flung the cloak aside, revealing clothing such as I had never before seen.

  A skirt tiered like lizard’s scales; a belt of stiff crimson leather two handspans wide; a bodice tight beneath her breasts, pushing them up as if cupped by loving hands. Golden bees hung heavy from her ears; golden doves spread gleaming wings across her bare breasts. Golden serpents coiled about her arms from wrist to elbow—and beneath her skin, serpents inked darkly into her flesh shadowed those of metal. She watched me stare, and smiled.

  “This is how a priestess dresses in our Lady’s House, for She is very old, and the old grow stubborn in their ways. So to suit Her pleasure, we garb ourselves as if we dwelt in ancient halls. Ah, well—no one ever claimed the gods owned any taste in clothes!” And she laughed, which startled me even more than her seemingly impious words. “Oh, do not look so shocked, Baalit. Do you think my Lady has no better way to pass Her time than eavesdropping on our lightest words? Or that She cannot laugh?”

  “I—I do not know.” Your grandmother Zhurleen? I remember her laugh. Yes, that is how I recall her—the Laughing One. Always, always she would laugh.

  “Doubt, they say, is the beginning of wisdom. Now, daughter of my daughter, humor an old woman and tell her just how you plan to unknot the thread you have so thoroughly tangled. And do not tell me you don’t know what I mean, little goddess, for I am old, not feebleminded. Sit, and tell me all that has happened to bring you to this threshold.”

  And so I sat beside my laughing grandmother and told her all that had happened since the Queen of the South rode through Jerusalem’s gate, and all the wrong I had done through folly, and how I planned to mend what I had broken. My grandmother listened, and sometimes asked a quiet question, but she did not laugh—or even smile. I did not know enough then to thank her for that great kindness; only years later did I realize how much self-control it takes for the old to listen solemnly to the young. But my grandmother Zhurleen granted me that boon. When I told her all that was in my heart and mind, all I dreamed of becoming, she listened—and did not laugh.

  Instead, when I at last fell silent, she took my hands in hers. “A good plan, Baalit; better than many conjured up by older and wiser heads. You do well to approach your father bravely and openly. He is not a man intrigued by shadows.”

  She paused; her breath seemed to catch, as if on memory. And in that small silence, I sensed she waited for some response from me, some words she hoped I would speak unprompted—

  “I do well,” I said slowly, “but?”

  “But you are young, and the young are impetuous and disinclined to listen to their elders. Still, as you ask my advice, I will give it.” Laughter danced like sunlight in her eyes. “I know King Solomon’s mind, for I knew the women who raised him to be a man and a king. What you ask for yourself, your father will grant you if he can. But what you ask for others—that he will grant without hesitation. Now do you know what you must do?”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” I said after considering her words carefully, “I think I do.” I lifted her hands and kissed them, as if she were herself a queen and I her handmaiden.

  “Wait a dozen years and then thank me, if you still wish to do so.” She withdrew her hands and reached down to the star-sewn cloak that lay soft beside her feet. She lifted up a bundle that had been hidden in the folds of dark cloth, red silk wrapped about some small object. She laid the bundle in her lap, stared down at it as if scrying the future—or the past.

  Then she raised her head and smiled at me. “I bring you a gift I have held in trust for you these seven years. Carry it when you go before King Solomon, little goddess, and I swear by the Lady’s hair he will grant whatsoever you ask of him—even if you ask a boon that carries you to the ends of the earth.”

  She handed me the silk-bound bundle; I untied it, carefully, and uncoiled the soft red cloth until it fell away from what it had concealed and I looked upon the treasure my grandmother had given into my hands.

  A spindle. A spindle of ivory, its whirl a circle of amber.

  I stared at the fragile-looking toy, and then looked up at my grandmother, waiting.

  “Queen Baalit will find it useful,” she said, “just as Queen Michal and Queen Abishag did before you. If you do not spin, you must learn.”

  I could spin; of course I could spin. All girls learned to spin. I lifted the spindle; the ivory warmed to my hand, waiting … . “And if I carry this, I will be granted whatsoever boon I may ask? Is it magic?”

  My grandmother laughed, a sound like a swirl of gay music. “Woman’s magic, little goddess. And if you do as I say—which is more than Queen Michal ever did—you will achieve your heart’s wish before you are too old to take pleasure in it! Trust me, Granddaughter, King Solomon will send you from his court with goodwill and good wishes, and think himself lucky to do so. He has a good memory, that one—for a man!”

  I set my fingers upon the amber whirl and set it spinning, watched as it swirled and slowed. My mother had once touched this spindle as I did now, drawn thread smooth from its ivory distaff. I spun the amber whirl once again, and tried to remember Queen Michal turning this same spindle, its ivory warming to the caress of her long clever hands—

  “No.” My grandmother laid her hand on mine, stopping the spindle’s whirl. “Do not use it to summon yesterdays. It is tomorrow you seek. Spin, O Queen, and summon the future.”

  I looked at her thin hand and saw how delicate the bones were beneath her skin. Then I looked again at her face and saw that, although she was old, she was beautiful still. Always, when people spoke to me of my grandmother Zhurleen, they told me she was beautiful—but like all those who are young, I had thought beauty a thing created by a certain sheen of hair, a curve of breast and hip, a smoothness of skin. A thing of youth. Even the Sheban queen still clung to youth’s perfection.

  But my grandmother Zhurleen was truly old—yet still truly beautiful. When I looked into her eyes, I saw that beauty was not only an illusion of the body, but a truth of the heart and mind. So long as the heart and mind find joy, that joy will grant beauty, no matter how gray and dull the hair, how lined and slack the skin.

  “Someday, Grandmother, I wish to look like you,” I said, and at that she laughed again.

  “Live long enough, Granddaughter, and someday your wish will be granted. Now let us go to the King’s High Court and liven up this dull day for these duller peop
le!”

  “Yes,” I said and rose, the queen’s spindle cradled in my hands. “Let us go to the King’s court.”

  When we reached the gateway to the great court, my grandmother kissed my forehead and sent me on through the gate alone. I longed to cling to her, but I knew she was right. This I must do myself, or not at all. I stepped forward and did not look back.

  When I stood between the tall cedar columns of my father’s hall of judgment, and demanded to be brought before the king, the royal herald stared as if he had never set eyes upon me before. He stood like Lot’s wife, frozen in place.

  “Announce me,” I said again, “or I will go in and do it myself.”

  That sparked life back into him; the herald hurried up to the throne. But instead of announcing me as I had asked, he spoke swiftly to the recorder at the throne’s foot. My father sat straight upon his throne; his face surrendered nothing. In the throne beside him, the Queen of Sheba waited, silent.

  I heard my father ask, “Who next comes before the king for judgment?” and then the recorder’s response.

  “The Princess Baalit comes before the court, O King,” “the recorder said, and I began to walk towards the Lion Throne, keeping my pace steady and my eyes fixed upon my father.

  When I stood before the throne, I bowed, and waited. All rested, now, upon my father’s wisdom—and upon my own.

  Solomon

  “Who next comes before the king for judgment?” Solomon asked, and waited dully for the herald to announce the next petitioner. Even with Bilqis beside me, this day is endless; has no one in all the kingdom anything better to do than argue in the king’s court?

  He received no answer to the ritual question; instead of responding, the royal herald hurried up to the steps leading to the throne and was whispering into the recorder’s ear, a serpent’s swift hissing. The recorder looked stricken, as if whatever he heard were a blow to his belly. Despite his troubled mind, Solomon’s interest quickened.

  “Well? Who comes?” he asked, and as he spoke, he heard the queen breathe in sharply. He looked down the great court to the high bronze doors and saw a woman waiting there. She was clad in scarlet and veiled in silver, stood straight and proud before the stares of the men gathered in the king’s court.

  Then she began to pace forward, moving with steady grace. Like a queen. She walked out of the shadows at the far end of the court, and as she passed into the sunlight, she lifted her hands and swept back the silver veil. And Solomon looked into his daughter’s eyes.

  Swift anger fired his blood; how dare she flaunt herself like this? No. Any man or woman in all the kingdom owned the right to come before the king for judgment—for wise and true counsel. Was that not King Solomon’s proud boast?Will you offer your own daughter less justice than you would a harlot?

  Beside him, Sheba reached out and laid her hand upon the broad gold lion’s head on which his own hand rested, carefully; her skin did not touch his. Before him, the recorder stood silent, appalled.

  “Who comes before the king for judgment?” Solomon asked for the third time. His voice held firm and smooth; nothing of his chaotic emotions slipped past the king’s mask of control.

  The recorder found his voice at last. “The Princess Baalit comes before the court, O King.” He lacked Solomon’s control; outrage rang clear.

  Baalit walked through shadow and sunlight, until she reached the steps of the throne. There she stopped and bowed. Then she stood and waited, head held high, face smooth, her command over herself stronger than anger or grief.

  Pride in this fiery creature he had created warmed him; Solomon knew not one of his sons burned half so hot and bright. He inclined his head, acknowledging her presence. “Princess Baalit, what brings you before the king?”

  “I come to ask the king’s judgment.” Baalit’s voice held firm and steady, as if speaking before a court full of men were no new thing to her.

  “Any man or woman may come to the king and receive his judgment.” Solomon knew already what his daughter would ask of him. And he must answer, answer with truth and wisdom. “You have come to the king. Now ask.”

  She crossed her hands over her breast and once again bowed before him. “I thank my father the king for his kindness. And I ask that he release me to accompany the Queen of the South, that I may rule Sheba as queen to come after.”

  Silence lay between them, silence so deep Solomon heard Baalit’s veil whisper against her skin. Beside him, Bilqis’s breath rasped the heavy air as she, too, waited to hear what Solomon the Wise would now say.

  “That is what you ask of the king?”

  “Yes, my lord king. That is what I ask.”

  Time stretched long; the sunlight slanting through the windows high under the eaves set the scene in amber, as if the world waited forever for his answer.

  “And if the king does not grant what you have asked of him?”

  His daughter regarded him with steady eyes. “Then I must go without my king’s consent and without my father’s blessing. But I would rather go with both.”

  Well, Solomon? Are you as wise and as just as all men claim? Or are you only another man whose vows do not hold when the cost is too dear? He turned his head and looked into the Queen of Sheba’s quiet eyes; she would not interfere, despite her own desires. This I must decide for myself.

  But already he knew he had lost; even if he prisoned Baalit here, she would no longer be his. What good to keep her if her heart calls her elsewhere?

  But before I let her go, there is one more question I must ask. And if she does not know the answer—

  If Princess Baalit could not answer King Solomon’s last question rightly, she would never be Queen of Sheba.

  Baalit Sings

  I am told, by those who watched that day, that I stood before King Solomon’s throne smooth-faced and proud, that my voice rang steady and clear. Doubtless that is what they saw. But I dwelt within my body, and I know that my hands trembled so I kept them clasped tight before my waist, that my blood pulsed so hard my skin quivered with each heartbeat, that my voice sounded high and faint and very far away.

  But I remembered what I had come for, and what I must do, and I did everything as I had promised myself I would. No tricks, no riddles. No clever extracting of vows that would bind my father against his will. “Oh, no, Father; I ask nothing for myself. Only grant me one boon: swear you will grant the Queen of Sheba whatsoever she desires of you—”

  Oh, I had thought of that, of course. My father would have sworn to do so, knowing even as he did what the queen would ask of him. No. For this, only truth will serve.

  So I am told I stood calm during the endless span of time I waited for my father to speak again. Time seemed to stop as he sat still and silent upon the Lion Throne. At last he said, “Why do you wish to be queen of Sheba?”

  And as the simple words fell soft and quiet into the silence, I knew I must find the true answer, or I never would be anything more than King Solomon’s daughter.

  Why do you wish to be queen of Sheba? This was not the first time my father had asked that—but I knew this would be the last.

  His words hung between us, creating a chasm my words must bridge. And as the silent echoes trembled in the heated air, I sought for my heart’s truth. No goddess, no woman, could speak for me. I must speak for myself.

  But how to begin? At last I said, “I wish to—” Even small words came hard; I faltered and looked into my father’s steady eyes. Pain glinted there, and pride. My father would not aid me in this. What I said and did now would be my choice, and mine alone.

  Keeping my eyes upon my father’s face, I began again.

  “I do not wish to be queen of Sheba. I wish to serve, to do the work I am born and bred to set my hand to.” Pausing, I took a slow breath to calm myself. “That work I cannot do here. Nor can that work be done by a king’s wife, shackled by rank and tradition. It can be done only by a woman who rules in her own right, and for the rights of others.”


  Now my voice rang steady, my words firm and clear. I knew now that I spoke for my life, and for the lives of many others as yet unknown to me. “I do not wish to be queen of Sheba, but I cannot do my work unless I am, and so that I must someday become. You are called the wisest of kings, Father. You have never judged wrongly, never squandered the riches bestowed upon you by gods and men—and by women. Do not waste my talents.”

  For long heartbeats my father said nothing. Then he smiled; only I, who stood at the foot of the throne, saw what that smile cost him. And when he spoke, his voice filled the great court, strong and sure. “I am proud of the daughter I have seen today. The Princess Baalit goes with the Queen of Sheba; King Solomon decrees it.”

  Then my father rose and came down the steps from his high throne; he took my hand and led me up to the second throne, the one he had ordered placed there when he wished to honor the Queen of the South. From her seat there, Bilqis looked upon us, her face serene as the moon.

  “O Queen,” said my father, “here is your daughter.”

  She rose to her feet, and my father set my hand in hers. Her fingers closed softly over mine; her blood beat hard and fast beneath her cool skin. “O King,” she said, “you know what is in my heart. Whatsoever you ask of Sheba, it shall be granted, in thanksgiving for this greatest of gifts.”

  For a breath, I thought my father would not reply; at last he said, in a voice so soft even I could barely hear his words, “What I ask, my love, is that you be happy.”

  Tears glittered in the queen’s eyes like stars, blinding and brilliant. But they did not fall; she smiled, and stepped aside, leaving the way to her throne clear. My father caught her meaning and turned back to speak so that those who waited in the great court might hear.

  “Sit beside me today, my daughter,” my father said, “and watch and learn.” Then he kissed me upon the cheek, and when he spoke again, his voice rang out for all to hear. “And when you are queen in Sheba, King Solomon expects better treaty terms than he has yet been able to exact!”