by Marc Graham
Yetzer pushed himself upright, shoving the table against the man’s chest. He took the reins of his donkey and led it into the city.
“You must pay the gate toll,” the man squeaked.
Yetzer ignored him. He passed through the gate tower, the air thick with rotting fruit and incense, offerings to Yisrael’s gods, and followed the narrow, winding street past mudbrick hovels and stone-built houses, past alleys that rang with children’s laughter and reeked of night soil. Finally, the street opened into a courtyard centered about a stone-capped cistern. Goats roamed the yard, picking at the sparse grass. Children raced one another to collect the droppings which they delivered to a group of ragged old women who mixed the dung with straw to make bricks.
Beyond the cistern, next to a smaller gate, sat a low platform beneath an awning on which a fat man of middle years sat on a cushion surrounded by a group of men. By his over-loud voice and imperious air, Yetzer reckoned he’d found Governor Rakem.
“And I told him,” the fat man said, choking on his laughter, “that’s no she-goat.”
He looked expectantly at the other men who shared pained looks before bursting into forced laughter. The loudest laughter came from the governor himself, who reared his head back and slapped his knees, tears rolling down vein-splotched cheeks.
“Hear this,” he said when he regained his composure. “Hear this. A priest, an oracle, and a scribe enter a tavern.”
Yetzer stood before the platform and cleared his throat. The gathered men looked up in curiosity. Rakem seemed not to notice.
“Said the priest to the tavern-keeper—”
“‘That is for naught’,” Yetzer said, interrupting the joke. “‘You should have seen the burnt offering.’”
Five pairs of eyes turned toward Yetzer. Four sets shifted from surprise to barely disguised humor. The other pair flashed with indignation.
“Who is this who dares interrupt—”
“I seek Dvora abi-Shimon,” Yetzer said, and the chieftain’s face grew red. “I seek the widow of Huram of Tsur.”
“What business could you have with her?” The governor’s words were clipped.
“My business is my own,” Yetzer said. “Only tell me where to find her, and I’ll trouble you no more.”
Some of the men glanced beyond Yetzer’s shoulder, but the governor’s gaze never wavered.
“You come before this council, in our city, at the gateway to our holy place, and presume to make demands?”
The odor of dung wafted beneath Yetzer’s nose. He struggled to keep his expression fixed.
“Give me the information I seek, and I’ll be on my way. I wish only—”
A light grip tugged at Yetzer’s elbow. He looked down to see a wrinkled, age-spotted hand, fingers stained with filth. The stench choked the breath from his throat.
“Woman, I beg you—”
His voice trailed off when he saw the looks on the men’s faces. Rakem’s matched those of the others, blanched and wide-eyed. Yetzer looked back down. His eye searched an old woman’s features. Wispy grey hair. Dull, listless eyes. Sallow skin. None of these matched his memory. Only when the eyes narrowed and the wrinkled lips pursed into a disapproving frown did recognition awaken.
“Mother?”
He turned toward her, and she pressed dung-encrusted hands to his face, her eyes bright with tears. Yetzer fought against revulsion and his own rising emotion.
“My son,” Dvora said, her voice rough as cedar bark.
Yetzer stooped to embrace her, careful lest he shatter her frail bones. Skinny arms squeezed his neck and tears dampened his cheek. A soft, ghostly moan escaped her lips. After a time, Yetzer released her and stepped back. He wiped her tears away then took a deep breath. The air fueled his rage as bellows stoke a furnace. He turned slowly toward the elders then smote the ground with the butt of his staff.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Is this how you care for a widow in Yisrael? She is a daughter of Naftali, of the house of Yetzer, and you treat her as one unclean? As a slave?”
The four elders, faces ashen, sank against the wall, creating distance between them and the governor.
“There was,” the fat man stammered. “There was the matter of a debt.”
“Debt?” Yetzer spat the word, and the governor recoiled as though he’d been struck. “She married more than twenty years past. She lived among the household of the Pharaoh of Kemet until only a short time ago. What debt could she have amassed that would reduce her to this?”
The governor pressed his hands together as sweat trickled down his jowls. “It was not her debt, so much as that of her kinsmen. Not everyone fared so well while she sojourned in Kemet.” Rakem sneered. “Her family’s lands were given in surety. It required most of Pharaoh’s silver to redeem them.”
“Then why,” Yetzer said, his voice a low growl, “is she not on her lands?”
“Taxes,” the governor pleaded. “The contribution for Yah’s new temple. The land had to be sold to pay what was owed.”
Yetzer’s ears rang as fury wrapped him in its fiery grip. “She redeemed her family’s lands only to have them stolen away?” he shouted. “Where are her kinsmen? Where are those who would take her kindness then sell her to shape dung in the streets?”
Yetzer glared at the governor, at the elders. The men avoided his look, except for one. The youngest, a man dressed in a simple robe, met Yetzer’s gaze then slowly inclined his head and rolled his eyes toward Rakem.
The ringing turned to a drone. Fire edged Yetzer’s vision as he towered over the governor.
“You,” he rasped, and dropped his staff as he reached for the man. Rakem shrank away from him and it took much of Yetzer’s strength to catch the man by his robes and haul him to his feet.
“Who are you to her?” Yetzer demanded. “What have you done?”
“I am Rakem abi-Zebed,” the governor wheezed. “I am the son of your mother’s brother. We—we are cousins, you and I.”
Yetzer threw Rakem to the ground, then stooped to retrieve his staff. The shaved walnut made a low whirring sound as he spun it through a few circles. Yetzer turned toward the governor, who crawled away from him on ungainly limbs.
“Where is goodness?” Yetzer said as he stalked after Rakem. “Where is justice?”
He rammed his staff upon the ground in front of the slithering wretch. Rakem stopped and Yetzer kicked him in the side. The man’s fat absorbed most of the blow but he rolled onto his back. Yetzer raised the staff over his head, ready to administer his own justice, when another of the old women threw herself atop the governor.
“Mercy,” she cried. “In Yah’s name, for the sake of Havah, have mercy.”
Yetzer’s arms shook, his breathing became ragged. He raised a foot to push the woman—Rakem’s own mother, he assumed—out of the way, so he could begin the beating without interference.
“Yetzer.” The voice behind him was soft but strong, accompanied by a light touch upon his back. “Yetzer,” his mother said again, even more softly. “Do not shame yourself. Do not soil your hands on one who is unworthy to lick the dust from your sandals.”
The red faded from Yetzer’s vision and his breathing steadied. He lowered the staff until its butt rested beneath Rakem’s quavering chins.
“You will return her silver,” Yetzer said in a low, menacing voice. “You will restore her to her lands.”
“I can’t,” Rakem said in a mewling voice.
Yetzer applied pressure to the staff, and the man choked as tears streamed from his eyes.
“They’ve gone for taxes,” the governor wheezed. “The land to the priests, the silver to the king.”
“Get them back,” Yetzer said, and added more pressure.
Rakem’s cheeks turned crimson, his eyes wide as he shook his head. “Can’t,” he rasped.
“Why not?” Yetzer shouted, and leaned hard on the staff.
The governor’s eyes bulged. His cheeks flashed purple as
he struggled and slapped at the staff. Rakem’s mother tugged on Yetzer’s right arm while Dvora pulled on the other. Yetzer relented and pulled back his staff.
“Why not?” he repeated, the anger seeping from his voice.
Rakem’s hands surrounded his throat and he gulped at the air. His fear-filled eyes flitted from his mother to Dvora to the elders, who remained beneath their canopy. At last his gaze settled on Yetzer.
“I am only the governor,” Rakem said, his tone like that of a child seeking to escape blame for a broken pot. “All unredeemed lands and all taxes have been claimed by King Yahtadua. Only he can restore them.”
“And where is this king of yours?” Yetzer demanded.
“In the royal city, of course. In Urusalim.”
Yetzer swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat. He leaned upon his staff and laid a gentle hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Make yourself clean and prepare for a journey. We will go to find justice. We will go to Urusalim.”
“Do you think it’s true?” Dvora asked Yetzer.
The pair had rejoined the southbound caravan after leaving Danu, and the merchant Eliam had greeted them warmly. After two weeks of travel beside the River Yarden, they had reached the village of Tzeretan, its furnaces and bronze works casting a smoky pall over the town. While Eliam and his son Abram forged a trade for their supply of tin ingots, Yetzer and his mother helped set up the camp.
“Do you think Eliam can help us?” Dvora pressed. She looked up from stirring a porridge of lentils. The quivering air above the campfire lent an ethereal air to her hopeful expression.
The merchant had been effusive in his optimism when he learned of Yetzer’s intent to petition King Yahtadua for return of his mother’s lands. Yetzer put on what he hoped was an encouraging look.
“He seems to believe it,” he offered. “He may well have access to the king, but what we see as just and what a ruler deems expedient are rarely the same thing.”
“But you are Pharaoh’s friend,” Dvora insisted, “the kinsman of Queen Remeg. Surely you can win the favor of Yahtadua and his mother.”
“Perhaps,” Yetzer said with a shrug.
“Praise be to Yah for all his blessings,” Eliam’s voice boomed behind them.
Yetzer turned to see the merchant and his son entering the camp. Abram struggled with a wooden box about a third the size of Yetzer’s tool chest. The younger man grinned despite his burden, while his father’s face beamed with joy.
“It’s just like days past,” Eliam exulted, “when the gods smiled on all we did. Ah, Leah, you should have seen it.”
The merchant strode straight toward Dvora, caught her up in a sweeping embrace, and kissed her lips.
“Father!” Abram shouted. He set his burden down, then rushed to Eliam and tugged on the elder man’s shoulder.
Yetzer had barely risen to his feet, laughter caught up in his throat, when Eliam broke his embrace and staggered back.
“Forgive us,” Abram pleaded as he fell to his knees before Yetzer. “No disrespect was meant, no harm intended.”
“And none given, I think,” Yetzer replied.
Dvora stood rigid, arms straight by her sides. Her eyes stared far into the distance. Her breath came deeply and, though she neared her fortieth year, the color in her cheeks was that of a maiden’s.
“No,” Yetzer decided, placing a steadying arm about his mother’s shoulders. “No harm done. Leah?”
“My mother,” Abram said. “Gone these nine years.”
“Ah. My father was taken not long before then.”
Dvora stirred, blinked several times then breathed a deep sigh. Yetzer looked from her to Eliam, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Come,” he said to Abram. “Let me help you with your crate.”
“It’s fine,” Abram replied, “it doesn’t—”
“Let me help you,” Yetzer repeated with more insistence.
Abram glanced at the two elders then gave a nod of understanding. He grasped one handle of the chest while Yetzer took the other. The pair left their parents alone and carried the crate to the great canopy Eliam’s porters had set up.
“How did your father die?” Abram asked.
“Quarry explosion. Your mother?”
“Nabati raiders.”
Yetzer grunted sympathetically. They reached the canopy and stored the chest among Eliam’s other belongings, then settled onto cushions while a servant poured goat’s milk for them.
“Is that it?” Yetzer asked, gesturing toward the small chest behind Abram. “Seems a small prize for a score of donkeys laden with tin. Unless it’s filled with gold.”
“Better,” Abram declared, then leaned back to flip open the chest’s lid.
The merchant’s son drew out a clay tablet and handed it to Yetzer. He took the small tablet and rotated it until he could make sense of the Kenahni script.
To the bearer, one part in five thousand, Elat’s Bower, embarked from Tsur, Year Five of Baalat Remeg.
Yetzer flipped the tablet over, but there was no more script, only the scribe’s mark set in the hardened clay. He handed it back to Abram.
“A shipping manifest?”
Abram laughed as he tucked the piece of clay back into the chest. “Trade shares,” he said with a triumphant laugh.
When Yetzer failed to match his enthusiasm, Abram laced his fingers together, rested his hands on his knees, and spoke in the manner of a patient tutor.
“Most of Tsur’s fortune comes from sea trade,” he said. “To put a ship to sea requires a fortune all its own. Beyond the ship itself, sufficient stores must be put in to feed a score of men on a voyage of two years, three, maybe more. Add to that the goods they must trade for the tin or ivory or amber at the other end of the journey.”
Yetzer considered that. He well knew the allotment of bread and beer to feed a gang of quarrymen for a month. Multiply that by a duration thirty times as long, then fit all those goods in a ship, and the cost was staggering. Abram smiled.
“You see my meaning. Now consider the risk that the ship might never return, and the cost to one man, even to a small group, would be disastrous.” He gestured toward the crate. “But spread the cost among hundreds, thousands of people, and allow them to spread their risk among several ships trading to different lands—”
“And most everyone will have a successful venture,” Yetzer finished the thought.
“Each one of those tablets may be worth its weight in gold,” Abram said, his voice now hushed. “Perhaps ten or twenty times its weight.”
“Or they might be worthless,” Yetzer suggested.
“Or they might be worthless,” Abram allowed. “But if even one of ten ships come in, that chest could buy a kingdom.”
“A temple, at the very least,” Eliam’s jovial voice rang out.
Yetzer looked to where the merchant approached, hands behind his back, a respectful distance between himself and a beaming Dvora.
“You’ll have your audience with the queen, boy,” Eliam said, conviction in his voice. “Your mother will have her lands back, and the queen will have her great work.”
The older man helped Dvora onto her cushion, then moved to his place across from her. When he’d settled, he leaned to Yetzer and clapped him firmly on the shoulder. “Now, tell me,” he said, his eyes aglow. “What do you know about temple-building?”
41
Bilkis
Bilkis considered her reflection upon the polished silver and adjusted the gold circlet about her head. Much as she loathed what was to come, she knew it was necessary to her position as queen, so she must look perfect. And she did.
Rahab had painted Bilkis’s face exquisitely. The queen’s hair was strewn with pearls and bound up to display her slender neck. Her gown had been expertly crafted to invite men’s looks while maintaining an air of inaccessibility. Satisfied, Bilkis smoothed the silk fabric along her hips and across her flat belly, then opened the door to the audience hall.
As soon as her foot crossed the threshold, Benyahu rapped the butt of his spear upon the floor. The assembly dropped to their knees, eyes downcast, heads bowed. Only Yahtadua and Benyahu remained standing. The king, by his throne, awaited his mother, while the general stood his post at the foot of the dais.
Benyahu offered the queen his hand as she approached, and Bilkis allowed him to help her up the steps. The man’s fingers were warm, his gaze intense. It had been some time since Bilkis had shared her couch with Benyahu, and she reasoned she should do so again soon. Not for any desire of her own, of course. It would simply be wise to reaffirm the general’s loyalty.
She squeezed Benyahu’s hand before releasing it, and the warrior’s smoldering eyes came ablaze. Bilkis smiled inwardly as she climbed the last step and moved toward her throne. She allowed the smile to surface as Yahtadua took her hand, kissed it, and ushered her to her seat.
“You look pretty, Umma,” the boy-king whispered, and Bilkis patted his cheek.
“In the name of Yah and Havah,” Benyahu pronounced in his commanding voice, “all who come in peace may stand before Yahtadua, King of Yisrael, and Queen Bilkis.”
The general smote the floor once more with his spear, and the people rose to their feet. Bilkis drew a deep breath to gather her patience for what was certain to be a trying morning. She nodded to Gad who stood by with his pouch of magic rocks, then looked out upon the crowd.
“Since the Days of Wandering,” she began, her voice clear and strong, “the people have left their flocks and fields upon the turning of the seasons, upon the birth of the new year. At the high places of Danu, Beit-El, Sekhem, and here by the most holy mountain Morhavah, they gathered in celebration of the gods, to seek justice from elder and priest. Now do I invite all who would to lay your grievances before the throne and before the gods.”
42
Yetzer
“You’re late,” a young woman said as Eliam led Yetzer and Dvora through the palace gate. The caravan had arrived in Urusalim the night before, and Eliam insisted the mother and son be his guests. “It’s good to see you, too, Daughter,” Eliam said warmly. He wrapped the girl in a sweeping embrace before making introductions.