Song of Songs

by Marc Graham

  A large man and a larger woman stood several paces away, engaged in a quiet debate punctuated by flailing gestures. A train of donkeys stood in line while a dozen men, women, and children scurried like rats in a storeroom, setting up tents and mangers and picket lines, and building fires despite the late afternoon heat.

  Rahab had continued speaking in her outland accent, but Bilkis paid no heed to her words. She pushed the girl aside, scrambled to her feet, and ran.

  Rahab’s cry was followed by a sharp whistle and the woman’s shout.

  “Abram!”

  Bilkis angled away from the cluster of people, toward the tail of the caravan and the trackless desert beyond. She ran with all her might, though a tender ankle hampered her efforts. A whirring sound chased after her. The sound caught up with her and Bilkis sprawled headlong to the ground. She spat out sand and curses as she clawed at the stones and leather thongs that entangled her ankles.

  Heavy footfalls raced toward her. She tried to scuttle away, but the large man and a slender, beardless youth were too fast. Bilkis flung a handful of sand at them and kicked her bound feet.

  “That was not very courteous,” the man said as the pair took her arms and raised her between them.

  “Neither is taking me captive,” Bilkis growled.

  They carried her back to the canopy and dropped her upon a thick, beautifully embroidered rug.

  “Free her legs,” the man said as he knelt behind Bilkis and gripped her shoulders.

  The lad knelt by Bilkis. His sunburned face grew redder as he raised her gown to her calves and unwound the snare. The woman stalked under the canopy.

  “You little fool,” she said, and smacked Rahab on the back of the head. “Hold her hands and feet.”

  The men obeyed, pinning Bilkis to the ground. The woman settled to her knees and lifted Bilkis’s skirts. Bilkis screamed and struggled, but her efforts were useless. The woman’s head disappeared beneath the silk and surprisingly gentle fingers probed the gates of her womanhood.

  “Have you bled yet?” the woman asked as she emerged from beneath the gown and settled it back over Bilkis’s legs. “Have you bled?” she repeated when Bilkis was slow to answer. “Your moons, have they come yet?”

  Bilkis blinked back tears of humiliation and nodded.

  “She is yet virgin.” The woman struggled to her feet. “She will do.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Bilkis demanded as fury replaced shame. She jerked her arms and legs free and scrambled toward the rug’s edge. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Of course,” the older man answered. “You are Bilkis of Maryaba, daughter of Karibil, King of all Saba.”

  His thick accent slurred the name of Bilkis’s homeland, but the frankness of his admission took the fight from her limbs. “Yes,” she said, her defiance gone.

  “I am Eliam abi-Terah of Urusalim.” The man stood before her and bowed his head. “Your servant.”

  “Servant?” Bilkis said.

  “Of course. What else is a humble merchant to the Daughter of all Saba?”

  “Free me then,” Bilkis said coolly.

  “As you command.” Eliam bowed his head. “My lady is free to go.”

  “She’s what?” the woman demanded.

  “Quiet, Leah,” Eliam said sharply, then smiled at Bilkis and made a sweeping gesture toward the empty sand. “Maryaba lies that way. A mere four days distant.”

  Bilkis’s stomach tightened. “Four days?”

  “Perhaps five,” Eliam allowed. “No more than six.”

  “Then give me food, water. Give me a donkey and a servant to guide me.”

  “It would be my pleasure to provide my lady with all she needs for her journey home.” The merchant gave a helpless shrug and sucked air through his teeth. “Alas, my duty prohibits me.”

  “What duty?”

  Eliam nodded toward the west, where the sun sat just above the horizon. “I am, of course, my lady’s servant, but I and my household are first servants of Havah, Queen of Heaven. Her holy day approaches, a day of rest when we are forbidden to labor or travel. You are free to do as your gods permit, but I cannot allow those under my care to accompany you.”

  Frustration rose in Bilkis’s throat at the trader’s polite stubbornness and his silly rules. “Then give me a donkey and some food and water,” she said, her voice tight. “I’ll make my own way.”

  Instead of an answer, Eliam lifted the cowl of his robe over his head and held out his hands toward Rahab.

  “Water, my daughter,” he said.

  Rahab brought the man a copper bowl and waterskin, a small cloth over her shoulder. She poured water over his hands, catching the flow in the bowl. Eliam washed his hands then dried them on the cloth. Rahab repeated the ritual for Abram and her mother. Leah then did the same for her daughter, and the family formed a circle about a pair of candles set in a brass stand.

  Leah waved her hands over the candles then covered her eyes. She intoned a prayer of thanksgiving and a plea for protection upon their journey. Bilkis missed most of the words, partly due to the northern accent, partly because of her rumbling stomach.

  The prayer finished, Eliam’s family sat on small rugs around the candles, and passed around a dish of flatbread and olives.

  Bilkis’s resolve faded. The terror of the flood, the outrage of her capture, the indignity of Leah’s examination—all these washed away as her mouth watered with the scents of the simple meal. Of their own volition, her legs carried her toward an empty rug by the candles.

  “Your hands,” Rahab whispered to her, indicating the copper bowl.

  Bilkis dipped her hands in the bowl then dried them on the small cloth.

  “And your hair,” Rahab said, and patted the veil covering her head.

  Bilkis looked around but found no suitable covering. Desperate to fill her hollow stomach, she placed the damp handcloth over her hair.

  Rahab giggled as Bilkis sat beside her, then passed the serving dish to her.

  “We rest through the day tomorrow,” Eliam said, his voice nearly lost amid the sounds of Bilkis’s chewing. “The day after that, you may return home.”

  Bilkis nodded absently as she took a greedy swallow of watered wine from the cup Rahab offered her.

  “However…”

  Bilkis drained the cup and devoured another piece of bread laden with chickpeas before she realized Eliam was looking at her expectantly.

  “However?” she said, speaking around her full mouth.

  “You are, of course, free to go,” Eliam said, “but perhaps you would honor us with your company on our journey. Your gods have dealt harshly with your lands of late, no?”

  “So harshly,” Leah interjected, “what little we took in trade will not begin to cover the expense of this trip.”

  “It is true,” Eliam said with a heavy sigh. “The journey has been a hardship, though it would be made easier by the richness of your company. The road before us is long, but at its end is Urusalim in Yisrael, a land of gardens and streams of endless water. Come. Abide with us for a time. See how our gods bless us. When we have gathered enough trade goods for another trip, we will return you to your people. It will take some time.” The trader rolled a bit of bread between his fingers. “Two years? No more than four.”

  Bilkis stared into the candlelight. She brushed her fingers across the smooth silk threads of her sitting rug. Her own silk robe was new, but the cloth had been taken in trade years before. It hadn’t the sheen of Rahab’s or Leah’s robes, or the softness of the rug.

  She thought of the sands of Saba, the grimy walls of Maryaba. She refilled the wine cup and brought it to her lips. She drank and swallowed.

  “Tell me more of Urusalim.”

  5

  Yetzer

  “Yetzer.” The voice echoed through the abyss. He had been contemplating something. A column? Perhaps a tree. But at the calling of his name his focus shifted and the object of his study disintegrated like charred papyrus
on the wind.

  Yetzer directed his attention toward the voice. Light wavered in the distance, flickering like lightning upon the plains of Kenahn. He willed himself toward it, crossing immeasurable distance in moments. As he drew near, the light took shape. What had first seemed a streak of lightning took the form of a cobra dancing before him.

  “Yetzer,” the serpent repeated with a hiss.

  “I am here,” he replied.

  The cobra flared its hood, the inner surface patterned with twin Udjatu, eyes of the god Haru, one white, the other red.

  “Yetzer,” the snake said yet again, and teased the air with its forked tongue.

  “It is I,” Yetzer said.

  The serpent arced its sinewy form and loomed over him. Its natural eyes glinted black and sinister, while the painted ones studied him with cool indifference. As the cobra swayed from side to side, Yetzer’s focus faltered, as from too much wine.

  A flick of the snake’s tongue rallied his attention. The reptilian mouth opened to reveal a pair of fangs. Yetzer tried to back away, but the cobra’s tail encircled him in a crushing embrace.

  “He who passes through the darkness shall see great light.” As the cobra spoke, twin beads of milky venom formed at the tips of the fangs. “He shall face the sun and not be blinded. He shall walk through fire and not be burned.”

  The beads of venom grew to the size of pomegranates, shining with ethereal light.

  “He shall feel the bite of the serpent and not be poisoned.”

  The venom dripped from the fangs and fell toward Yetzer, who raised a hand to protect his face. One of the drops landed on his belly, seeped through his skin and penetrated his liver before surging throughout his body like liquid fire. Yetzer might have screamed with agony, but his breath turned to water in his lungs.

  The second drop fell on his upraised hand. The flesh turned white as a leper’s, then flaked away. Skin gave way to muscle and sinew until these too dissolved, leaving only bone. The venom dripped through the skeletal frame of Yetzer’s hand and plunged toward him. For an instant, he saw his horrified face reflected in the shimmering surface of the deadly orb.

  The venom struck his eye with the force of a sandstorm. Thousands of needles stabbed into him through the socket of his eye and the base of his skull.

  “Behold,” the cobra said, its voice nearly lost in the flood of pain, “he shall taste the bitterness of death, yet shall he live.”

  Through his remaining eye, Yetzer caught the motion of the giant snake. Its cavernous maw stretched wide as it swooped toward him. Yetzer’s heart seized as the fangs scraped down his back, and he was surrounded by darkness.

  Yetzer bolted upright.

  “Steady,” a deep voice cautioned.

  Yetzer looked toward the speaker. His vision slowly cleared and the image of the cobra faded to reveal the grim smile of Pharaoh Horemheb.

  “My father?” Yetzer said, his voice ragged.

  Pharaoh’s expression darkened. “Huram of Tsur has joined the Ageless Ones.”

  It took a moment for the meaning to seep through Yetzer’s understanding.

  “He’s dead?” he finally whispered.

  “His shell is no longer animated,” Pharaoh said, “but his essence is now free to walk the fields of eternity.”

  Tears blurred Yetzer’s vision and he moved to brush them away. He stopped as his linen-wrapped hand came into view, a red stain in the center of the white bandage. With cruel clarity, truth rushed into the void of his memory.

  The explosion of rock. His father’s torn throat. The stone shard that pierced his own hand and … Yetzer put his fingertips to his face. They disappeared from view as they neared his left eye. Instead of flesh he found more linen. His breath caught in his chest as he ran his fingers up and down. Bandages covered one side of his head from temple to jaw.

  “What happened?”

  “The outcropping apparently held a reservoir of water,” Pharaoh said as he filled a silver bowl and held it to Yetzer’s lips. “The fire made the rock brittle, as intended, but it also heated the water to boiling. As the heat increased, so did the pressure within the formation until …”

  Yetzer swallowed, the water at once soothing and grating. “How many?” he asked.

  Pharaoh nodded with solemn approval. “A true leader puts the welfare of his people before all else. Seven men accompanied your father to the West. I fear another two or three may join them before long.”

  “Lime?” Yetzer said after a moment’s consideration.

  “Even so,” Pharaoh affirmed. “The steam mixed with limestone dust. Those closest to the blast have severe burns. Most will recover, though some may wish they hadn’t.”

  “And me?”

  Pharaoh’s expression was flat as polished stone. “Your eye was ruptured and could not be restored. Lime burned your face and arm,” Pharaoh continued. “The rock, of course, pierced your hand. My physicians believe you will regain its use, and they continue to do all they can for the son of Pharaoh.”

  Yetzer raised his left hand. The fingertips that peeked out from the bandage were pink and healthy. He tried to move them and pain shot from his palm to his shoulder. His head fell back onto the wooden headrest, but he clenched his teeth and tried again. His breath went ragged as he fought for control over his body. Fire stretched from his shoulder into his chest until, through watery eyes—eye, he reminded himself—he saw the twitch of his forefinger.

  “Very good,” the king said as Yetzer dropped his hand to the bed.

  Sweat mixed with the tears that ran down Yetzer’s cheek. He filled his lungs with a shuddering breath, then emptied them with a harsh cough as Horemheb’s words sank in.

  “Son of Pharaoh?”

  The king gave a thin smile. “You saved my life and lost your own father in doing so. The highest duty—after service to the gods—is to care for widows and orphans. How much more so for those created in service to Pharaoh?”

  “Widow,” Yetzer repeated, his heart caught in a whirlwind. “What of my mother?”

  “I have taken her into the royal harem,” Pharaoh said, then raised a hand to silence Yetzer’s protest. “As my guest only. When the days of mourning are past, she will be free to return to her people in Kenahn. Or she may remain in Kemet, as my guest or my wife, whichever she wishes.”

  “She is but a common woman,” Yetzer said, “and I am only the son of a mason, not even apprenticed in my own right. I thank you for your kindness, Lord, but we have no more place at court than—”

  “Than a rough soldier?” Pharaoh interrupted, a sly grin creasing his lips. “I was but a commoner, a simple spearman, until the gods used me to serve Pharaoh Tutankhamun, peace be upon him.” He traced an ankh across his forehead. “Men may put stock in bloodlines, but it is service to the gods, to Kemet, and to our fellows that defines nobility.” He patted Yetzer’s hand. “Now is the time of preparation and mourning. Politics may come later. Ameniye.”

  A light tread sounded behind Yetzer’s cot, revealing for the first time that he and Pharaoh were not alone. Shame inflamed his face at the thought that he’d displayed tears of weakness not only to Pharaoh, but to … A beautiful young woman, with olive skin and flowing black hair, stepped to Horemheb’s side. Yetzer’s lungs seized at the sight of her.

  “Yes, Father?”

  The air filled with her lotus-sweet breath. Yetzer’s heart faltered at the music of her voice, and he wondered how he had missed her presence before.

  “Ameniye, this is Yetzer, your brother. I charge you to care for him as Auset tended Osaure. I place his well-being in your hands.”

  Ameniye’s large eyes sparkled and her lips turned upward. She placed a henna-stained hand upon her breast, against the diaphanous gown that did little to hide her feminine virtues.

  “As Pharaoh wills, so shall it be done.”

  Horemheb nodded and turned back to Yetzer. “I will look in on you as I am able.”

  Even as Pharaoh turned away, Ameniy
e’s hand stroked Yetzer’s cheek. The cool touch of her fingers revealed the fire that burned beneath his flesh.

  “You have fever,” she said. She turned to a small table and sorted through a collection of jars and bowls. With a wooden spoon she measured portions from three of the containers and mixed these with water in a silver cup.

  “The medicines are powerful.” She held the cup to Yetzer’s lips and he swallowed the bitter potion without complaint. “They are made stronger still by rest. Sleep now and let the healing energies do their work.”

  Yetzer wanted to argue, to say her company would bring more healing than sleep, but his tongue grew heavy. He fought to keep his eyes—eye—open, but the medicines were as swift as they were strong. Ameniye’s image shifted between princess and flower as Yetzer blinked and strained to keep her in focus. Yetzer’s mouth twisted into a grin as the lotus won.

  6

  Makeda

  “Seventy korim,” Lord Watar said from his seat in the council chamber. “Seventy?” Yanuf repeated in disgust. “That’s enough grain to feed two armies for a year.”

  “I have many men,” Watar said calmly, “and they have much strength to support.”

  For the fifth time—sixth? I’d lost count—the meeting room erupted in discord. I sat by the ladderway on the floor above and did my best to stay silent and out of sight, while still keeping eyes and ears on the happenings below. Watar and three other men from Timnah sat on one side of the room opposite my mother, Yanuf, and a pair of Maryaba’s elders. The remembrancer sat between the two sides, stroking his head as though trying to massage the heated words into his memory.

  “If we give you seventy korim of grain each year—”

  “Each harvest,” Watar interjected, and chaos burst forth yet again.

  The argument centered around Maryaba’s place as principal city of Saba. The Mukarrib of all Saba, going back to my father’s great-grandfather, was headman of the cities, towns, and villages from the great sea of the west, to the impassable desert of the east, and down to the limitless waters of the south.

  The most fertile of all the cities of Saba, Maryaba traded her harvests for the aromatic myrrh and olibanum resin harvested by the rest of the people and, more importantly, for their loyalty. In recent years, Maryaba’s surplus of food had diminished while the demand for olibanum increased.