And he laughed, and so those watching in the great court began to laugh at the king’s jest also. I sat down in the queen’s throne, swiftly, for my knees trembled and I did not wish to fall in an inglorious heap at King Solomon’s feet. Seated, I pulled the queen’s spindle from my leather girdle and laid it across my lap, my hand resting upon the warm ivory; the movement drew a crystal flash from the old bracelet upon my wrist. The light caught my father’s eye, and he gazed for a long moment upon the shabby bracelet, and upon the ivory spindle.
“So,” he said, and a shadow seemed to darken his eyes. “Then there is little more for me to teach you, Daughter. You have already learned all you truly need to know.”
Ahijah
At the far end of the king’s great court, the prophet Ahijah stood as he had throughout the long morning, silent and still as the soaring pillars of cedar. He watched as King Solomon’s daughter paced the long corridor of men until she stood before the Lion Throne. Watched as she bent in petition, and as she rose in pride.
Watched as the Queen of the South turned her voluptuous eyes upon King Solomon, and as he smiled upon his willful, lustful daughter and raised her up to sit at his right hand, beside the Throne of David.
For long heartbeats, Ahijah gazed through the incense haze, the golden smoke for which the kingdom whored. Incense for the gods. Yahweh’s people cry out after idols as babes after poisoned baubles. Incense, wealth of the south—Yahweh’s children will choke upon it.
Before the Lion Throne, Princess Baalit stood proud, the veil she wore glittering like a tainted pool. Beneath that brazen veil, gemstones gleamed bright and cruel as serpents’ eyes. King Solomon bent his head to the Sheban queen, who rose from her throne like a wanton flame; the king whispered into the queen’s ear, and she smiled and slid aside. The king touched his daughter’s hand, and she shifted her body like a temple dancer, coiling into the second throne that stood beside the king’s.
A second throne where none should be, set there to sate a woman’s vanity. Now the king’s daughter sat there, boldly meeting men’s eyes. So proud. So shameless, A reproach in the eyes of Yahweh. A girl raised up to think herself a queen—a goddess! See her preen herself, a peacock for pride, as vainglorious as her father.
Unexpected pain lanced through him, throbbed behind his sore eyes. Of course. Of course. Why was I so blind? I struck at the hatchling. But I must slay the king serpent to expunge his evil.
For who had raised up the girl to such wild ways? Who had permitted her to lust after false gods? Who had bestowed upon her a name that damned her from her birth?
King Solomon, you are the cause of this evil; you have cherished it to your bosom. But what Yahweh gives, Yahweh takes. The pain stabbed harder now, but Ahijah refused to indulge his weak body. He remained still, his hands clenched about the gnarled oak staff, waiting to learn what he now must do. Pain commanded him, pain keen as a lion’s fangs, the words of Yahweh slicing his flesh.
Leave. Leave this court of filth and corruption. Leave this king to wallow among his harlots, to grovel before his false gods. Go. Go. Go now, now—
The court’s cedar pillars swayed before his eyes; the smoke-laden air shuddered like rough water. “Yes.” Ahijah managed to choke out the word. Yes, I will go. Go, and take Your blessing with me.
Ahijah could never after summon up a memory of his journey through King David’s City to the open land beyond the great gate. He knew only that he stumbled up the road to the Hill of Olive Trees, and there his strength deserted him. Cold-boned and shaking, he groped his way to an outcrop of red rock, half-fell to the ground.
Later, when the pain that speared his head had released him, Ahijah lifted his head and found his eyes drawn back across the valley to Jerusalem. The golden city that had been delivered into King David’s hands by Yahweh’s grace.
Surely we will not lose all that King David gained, only for King Solomon’s fault?Traitorous thought; Yahweh would do as He would. Ahijah looked down, and saw that his hands moved of their own accord, his fingers pulling and tearing at his cloak. The dull cloth lay in pieces in the dust. He stared, then took up the torn pieces, counting slowly.
Twelve; there were twelve pieces torn from his clothing. Ahijah gazed upon the sundered garment and understood. The kingdom will be divided. And in Yahweh’s name, it is I who shall rend King Solomon’s rotted cloak of kingship as I have rent this garment.
Moving slowly, as if through deep water, Ahijah gathered up the tattered remnants of his cloak. He smoothed each piece over his trembling fingers before folding it into his goatskin bag.
Yes, Lord. Now I know what it is that I must do.
Peace flowed through him like honey; at last he knew Yahweh’s true will. Holding the goatskin bag against his heart as if it were an infant, Ahijah walked back down the hill to the road that led from Jerusalem. There he waited for the man he knew Yahweh would send to him.
“You bar the road, Prophet. You must move to the side.”
Ahijah raised his eyes and looked into those of Jeroboam, the stern austere man who had charge of the king’s Forced Levy. The sun beat down hard and hot; as Ahijah gazed upon Jeroboam, fire danced about the man’s form, burned within his eyes.
Ahijah smiled. “Greetings, Jeroboam. Hear the words of Yahweh, and obey.”
“What has the Lord to say to me? Speak quickly, for I am upon the king’s business.”
What clearer sign could there be? Smiling, Ahijah walked to the side of Jeroboam’s chariot and laid his hand upon the chariot wheel, savored the heat and dust against his skin.
“You speak truly; you are upon the king’s business. For Yahweh says, Behold, I shall rend the kingdom out of the hand of Solomon—rend it as easily as this garment has been torn asunder.” As Jeroboam stared down at him, Ahijah pulled the torn pieces of his cloak from the skin bag and lifted them up. “Twelve pieces, one for each tribe. They are for—”
As he glanced up, midday sunlight slashed his eyes; pain flared at his temples. Wrong, somehow I am wrong … . As he clutched for the answer, to know Yahweh’s will, two of the bits of cloth fell from his hand; Ahijah stared down at them as they lay in the dust at his feet.
In the dust, as Solomon has brought his kingdom to dust—The pain behind his eyes eased, and Ahijah lifted his head, cautious, to gaze once more at Jeroboam.
“Yahweh gives ten of the tribes into your hand,” Ahijah said, and held out the handful of torn cloth to Jeroboam. “And with them, the kingdom.”
Jeroboam slowly took the torn pieces of cloth. “I, king?” he said, and then, “And the other two tribes?”
“Those Yahweh leaves to Solomon, and to his son, out of Yahweh’s mercy and for the love Yahweh bore King Solomon’s father, David, who was our god’s true servant.” Yahweh is more merciful than I; I would grind Solomon and all his works into the dust beneath my feet. Ahijah set his foot upon the two pieces of cloth lying in the road and turned his steady gaze upon Jeroboam.
“But heed this, Jeroboam, king of ten tribes—you must keep Yahweh’s Laws if you would keep His kingdom. Walk in Yahweh’s ways as His servant King David did and Yahweh will be with you and all your house.”
Still staring at the ten pieces of torn cloth, Jeroboam said, “I hear the Lord’s words, Prophet” He closed his hand over the cloth, clutching the pieces tight. “Does King Solomon know of this?”
“What matter? Yahweh works as He wills.”
“Yes.” Jeroboam shoved the bunched pieces of cloth into his belt; they lay dull against his crimson tunic. “Has the Lord any other word for me, Prophet? Shall I be king soon? Must I wait long years?”
Ahijah waited, but no words came; he shook his head. “Only what I have said to you: Keep Yahweh’s Laws and keep His kingdom. That is all.”
They stared at each other for a moment; then Jeroboam nodded. “I will go before King Solomon learns of this and seeks my life. I will wait, and hold myself ready.”
“And keep Yahweh’s Laws,” Ahija
h said, but Jeroboam had already let his horses canter on, and Ahijah spoke only to himself. He was alone, but it did not matter. He closed his eyes against the sun’s glare, savored the peace that flowed through his veins, warm as wine.
I have set Yahweh’s will into motion. I have done what my god desired of me. Ahijah walked slowly away from the Jerusalem road until he found a gnarled olive tree, fruitless, but its silver-green leaves cast enough shade to shelter a man who wished only to rest for a time. Ahijah accepted it gratefully; sat beneath the waiting olive tree.
Yahweh’s power vanished, leaving him weary, but that did not matter, for he had nothing now that he must do. Nothing but wait until Yahweh called upon him again. And He will call, for who else so clearly bears His voice, understands His will?
For Ahijah, that certainty was enough. In the shade of the olive tree, Ahijah closed his eyes and slept dreamless, and at peace.
Abishag
I had never thought to keep what passed between King David and me from Solomon; like all who love, I wished to give my mind and heart, as well as my body, into my beloved’s keeping. And so upon our wedding night, when we at last stood bared before each other in the king’s bedchamber, I held Solomon off with my hand and tried to tell him the truth. But he refused. to hear.
“Whatever happened, happened,” he said. “It does not matter.” I searched his eyes and saw only love there. So for that one night, we both lay together content.
But I woke uneasy next morning, and so I sought out my mother. “I have a question, Mother, that you alone can answer,” I began, and my mother laughed, a low, rich ripple of sound; all my life I loved my mother’s laughter.
“You should have asked before the wedding night, and not after, Daughter. Now is too late!” Then she sobered. “What happened, Abishag? Did King Solomon chide you for what you were to King David?”
I shook my head. “No—but he would not listen when I tried to tell him the truth. That King David and I—”
“No.” Swift as a serpent strike, my mother’s hand pressed against my mouth, trapped my words unspoken. “Do not tell me, Abishag. Do not tell Queen Michal, do not tell your maidservant. Tell no one.” She let her hand fall away from my lips. “Do you understand? No one.”
Never had I seen my mother so solemn; I stared, seeking hidden laughter in her eyes. I saw none, only a calm sure command.
“Not even King Solomon?” I asked at last.
“Twice never tell him! For he is a man—and for all Queen Michal has striven to create a god in human form, too good for use, he is still only a man. And no matter what you say, he will shape it into a weapon against you.”
“Solomon is not like that,” I protested, and my mother laughed again.
“All men are like that,” she said, and took my hands in her own. “Now listen to me, Abishag, and remember always what I say to you now. Swear it. Swear it on your love for Solomon.”
Seeing her so solemn troubled me; I swore as she asked.
“Never give a man everything. Keep something back, always. A woman without a secret is a woman without power. For a man, certainty is the death of love.”
“But I love Solomon; all I have done has been for him, and for him alone.”
“And so that you might one day be his queen,” my mother said with calm assurance, “Well, there is no shame in that; rejoice that for you, love and ambition embrace.”
Unwillingly, I understood. Love and ambition—how could I not love Solomon, who could set a crown upon my head? “Then I owe him truth twice over. Whatever I say—”
“Will kill what binds you together. For if you say, ‘No, King David never touched me,’ a part of King Solomon will not believe you. And if you say, ‘Yes, your father lay with me,’ that knowledge will gnaw your husband’s heart. Soon or late, jealousy will eat away his love for you, leaving only cold bones.”
I wanted to cry out against this harsh judgment. But all of my life, what my mother taught me had proven true in the end. When my heart’s desire lay in the balance, did I dare question her wisdom?
“Whatever the truth is, whatever passed—or did not—between you and King David, never tell it. Cherish that truth; chain it silent within your heart. Always remember that secret is your power. Do not risk everything on a man’s good opinion of himself, Abishag. Even when that man is King Solomon.”
Baalit Sings
In harpers’ songs, the tale ends when the great deed is done, the treasure gained, the favor granted. In life, there are no simple endings. I had won for the Queen of Sheba all that she desired, won for myself my father’s blessing. Now I must ask him for more, must finish spinning out the thread I had begun so long ago.
For this, I went to my father as I had always done, freely and privately, as his daughter. The guards at the doorway to his working rooms stretched their eyes at me; I was worth staring at, now. I was the girl worth the world’s weight in incense and in gold. I was the treasure King Solomon had given into the keeping of the Queen of Sheba.
Yesterday I was only King Solomon’s daughter. Yesterday, no one cared to look, to see me. Anger coiled within my heart at the thought; I forbade it freedom. “There is a price to pay for every desire, little goddess. If you will not pay the price, do not claim the prize.” I could no longer afford easy anger.
Instead I smiled at the guards as I had always done and passed through the open doorway. In the first room, my father’s scribes sat, awaiting his call; again I smiled as I always did, and greeted them by name, and asked if my father was alone in his inner office. When they said he was, I smiled again; I saw the scribes slant their eyes to stare as I walked past them to the next door. Under the pressure of their eyes, I stood calm and knocked before I opened the door and walked into my father’s presence.
He stood facing the map painted upon the long wall, the map of all the world that swayed to King Solomon’s will. The land stretched yellow from the Troad to Thebes, from Babylon to Damascus; across the yellow lands ran lines of red: the King’s Highway and the Incense Road, the Silk Road and the Way of the Sea. Swathes of blue: the Red Sea that led south to Sheba and the lands beyond; the Black Sea, path to the lands of amber, furs, and gold; the Great Sea that stretched from the shores of the Sea-Cities west to world’s end.
“All this bends to my wishes,” he said, his voice low and calm; he did not move or turn. “All this I rule, and yet I am not master in my own house. Is that not strange?”
That question, I knew I could not answer. I found my voice, but said only “Father.”
For a heartbeat I thought he would not turn to me; then his shoulders softened and he faced me squarely. But he did not smile. “Yes, my daughter?” His voice was smooth, even, as I had heard it many times in the great courtyard as he laid down judgments.
“I have yet another boon I would ask.”
“And you come silent and secret to ask it? Do you not wish to hold me to account before priest and people?” Bitterness sharpened my father’s voice; surprised, I suddenly found myself looking upon him, not as my father but as a man and a king who had been forced before all the world’s eyes to yield to a girl. No, not that. To yield to his own justice. I remembered how he had smiled and jested in the throne room, betraying no hint of pain or sorrow, and I could only pray that I, too, would someday own a heart as great as his.
“This boon requires the skills of a wise mind and a generous heart, if it is to be granted.” I wished I did not need to ask yet another gift of him, but I must.
“And I am to be both wise and generous, I suppose? Well, what else is it you desire, my daughter?”
I hesitated. “Before I ask, I would beg one thing more—that if you cannot grant this, you will never speak of it to—to anyone.”
“To whomever you have promised my favor to? Very well; you have my word. Ask.”
That was all he said: “Ask.” Not “Ask and it shall be granted.”
Knowing how my words would be weighed, I hesitated. No longer was
I a child to be indulged; I was a woman to be judged. I do not ask lightly, or for myself. And I had my father’s word he would never speak of this; if I failed, Helike would never know I had even asked.
If I fail, Helike will slay both her child and herself. So I must not fail. I gathered my words with care, and then began.
“My father, you are a great king; your house holds many wives. Your women have been brought from all lands to wed you, to seal treaties and strengthen alliances. And you treat them all as queens—” I stopped in mid-praise, for my father held up his hand. And to my surprise, he smiled.
“Once more you confound me, Daughter. I understand now; you have promised to ask a boon on behalf of another. Now cease coiling words until at last you reach your point. Ask, and if what the Princess Baalit of Sheba asks can be granted by King Solomon—the Wise—it shall be granted.”
To my astonished horror, tears burned my eyes; I blinked hard to keep back the tears. “May the Lady Helike come with me to Sheba?”
“The Lady Helike? The Horse Lord’s daughter?” My father stared at me, plainly astonished.
“Yes,” I said. And after all my planning, all my care composing an elegant supplication, I found that I need only speak plainly, my words unveiled. No more secrets. Now only truth would serve. “She was forced to come to Jerusalem, forced to wed. She loathes the palace, loathes—”
“Me?” My father’s voice was low; I suddenly realized even a woman he barely knew could wound him.
“Oh, no—no, it is herself she hates. Father—she was an Amazon, a Sword Maiden. She came as a prisoner, her sword-sisters held as hostage for her submission.”
My father stood still and silent; I could not read his eyes. At last he said, “I did not know.” That was all, but never before had I heard such pain in his voice.
Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba Page 45