Song of Songs

by Marc Graham

  The late summer sun fell toward the horizon, but the two men reached the southern tip of Urusalim by the time the last sliver of fire sank from sight. A full moon lit the rugged terrain, and it was only a short time before the scattered glows of campfires dotted the distant landscape.

  “Smells like a caravan,” Gad observed as a southern breeze carried the earthy odors to them.

  Yetzer grunted agreement, then cocked his head as though a different angle might give the advantage to his nose. Beneath the dung and fodder, sweat and smoke, a subtler, richer scent lay nearly hidden. A memory niggled at the fringes of Yetzer’s heart, and it took several more paces before the recollection sprang up before him. The images upon the walls of the Hall of Postulants. The cold, hard flagstones beneath him. And the gentle, other-worldly smell.

  “Olibanum,” Yetzer said, more to himself than to Gad.

  The seer sniffed and, after a few paces more, nodded.

  A shouted challenge rang out from the edge of the camp. Yetzer and Gad held out their hands to show them empty as a short, dark-skinned man appeared with a slender spear in his hands.

  “We seek the master of your caravan,” Yetzer told him.

  The small man studied the pair for a few moments, then called back over his shoulder to some unseen companion, his eyes never leaving the two men. After several more moments, a voice called back and the spearman shook his head.

  “Come back in the morning,” he told Yetzer and Gad, his words thickly accented. “Collect tolls then.”

  “We’re not here for tolls,” Gad said. “We seek the merchant Eliam abi-Terah. We’re his sons.”

  The man eyed them warily but called again over his shoulder. A shout of surprise echoed from the camp, followed by the sight of a tall, slender figure hurrying toward them. Yetzer doubted the thin profile could belong to his kinsman, but there was no questioning the booming voice.

  “My boys,” Eliam cried.

  He sped across the dusty ground and threw his arms around the younger men’s necks, drawing them into a choking embrace.

  “All thanks to Havah,” he said, his voice muffled amid the crush. “I feared my eyes might never again behold these faces.”

  Eliam held the embrace for a moment longer. He loosened his grip but never lost hold of the other men, his hands clamped about their necks as he studied them.

  “But where is Dvora?” he asked. “Where are Rahab and Abram?”

  “Rahab and my mother even now prepare to celebrate your return,” Yetzer said.

  The older man’s eyes glistened in the torchlight with that news but flitted from one man to the other as the remainder of his question went unanswered. A pained silence masked the noise of locusts and other night sounds until Gad softly cleared his throat.

  “Abram has not yet returned,” the seer muttered.

  “Not returned?” Eliam lowered his trembling hands. “He should have returned a year before me.”

  “And you are a year late.” Yetzer made an effort to keep his voice light. “Perhaps he tarries to make a more exciting return than his father.”

  “Of course,” Eliam agreed, a pained smile stretching his lips. “He is his father’s son, after all.”

  “Come.” Gad clasped the older man’s hand and took him by the elbow. “If your servants can be trusted, let them watch your goods this night. Your wife and your daughter will give us no rest until they may fuss over you.”

  Eliam’s smile softened.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, then his brow furrowed. “But I don’t suppose we might find a tavern along the way?”

  53

  Bilkis

  Sunlight spilled across the threshold of the audience chamber, a golden carpet spread by the gods to welcome their servant home. Bilkis stood as Eliam entered. She stepped down from the dais, took the merchant’s hands, and kissed his cheek.

  “All thanks to the gods for returning you to us,” she said as she stepped back. “When no word came from Edom for so long, we began to fear the worst. But come, sit. Tell me of your journey.”

  The queen led Eliam to the palace garden where cushions surrounded a low table laden with fruit, bread, and wine. She gestured the merchant to a seat then filled a cup for him. With a wave of her hand, Bilkis dismissed the guard who stood nearby, then sat opposite Eliam.

  “It is good to be back, child,” the merchant said, then tasted the wine. “Yah help me, I wish never to be away so long again.”

  “But your journey was a success?”

  Bilkis had sent Benyahu to escort the caravan at first light, as soon as the guards at the city’s southern watchtowers reported the trader’s camp. The general would ensure the proper share made its way into the palace’s storerooms. Already the queen could see the glittering gems, feel the supple silk, and taste the heady spices. The taste turned bitter at the merchant’s expression, rancid with his words.

  “Every journey is successful that brings the traveler home,” he said, “but, sadly, the gods were not so generous as we might have hoped.”

  The queen’s heart thrummed as Eliam told her of the voyage to Opiru and the cargo he’d taken on there—gold and gems, ivory and precious woods, pelts and spices. Bilkis took a deep quaff of wine to settle her stomach and steady her hands when the merchant described the shipwreck at the entrance to the Sea of Reeds, the Western Sea of her youth.

  “So great a loss,” she said, her voice wavering.

  “Thirty men,” Eliam intoned somberly. “Plus the ship’s master.”

  “Yes,” Bilkis said. “Of course, the men. But could nothing be saved?”

  The merchant’s eyes flitted to one side before he hid his face behind his cup.

  “You return with a great train of donkeys,” Bilkis pressed. “Surely the gods must have granted you some favor to return with hands not empty.”

  Eliam set down his wine and folded his hands upon the table. “I passed through Saba,” he said after a moment’s pause.

  A nearly forgotten, instantly familiar coldness formed in Bilkis’s stomach at the mention of her native country. “Why would you return there?” Her voice seemed that of a stranger. “You vowed you need not pass it on your travels.”

  “When the gods direct a thing, there is little man can do to change it. I did not betray your trust,” Eliam hastened to add. “I mentioned only King Yahtadua. So far as Saba is concerned, the Shara Bilkis died these eighteen years past.”

  The coldness loosened its grip. Bilkis was mistress of her adopted country, ruler of the inland stretches of Kenahn. But before she was the King’s Mother, before Auriyah had made her his bride, before Eliam had carried her from Saba, she’d been betrothed to a prince of Timnah, bound before the gods to become his wife. Should Bilkis’s survival become known, Lord Watar might enforce his son’s claim over her and take Yisrael’s crown. Worse, she might be forced to return to those dust-clotted barrens at the edge of the world.

  “You’re certain you mentioned me to no one?”

  “Upon Hadad’s phallus,” Eliam swore, “your name never passed my lips.”

  Bilkis gazed into his eyes for a long moment until she was satisfied with the truth in them.

  “Very well,” she said. “What are these donkeys of yours, then? Does my father send baskets of sand for the bronze works?”

  “No, Lady,” Eliam replied, a woeful expression in his eyes. “Your father rests with his blessed ancestors.”

  Nearly twenty years had passed since Bilkis had seen her father, and almost as many since she’d paid him more than a fleeting thought. Still, sorrow squeezed her heart.

  “Who, then?” she wondered aloud. “Watar?” With Bilkis gone and none of Karibil’s line to succeed him, the Council of Elders would have chosen a new ruler from among their number.

  “No, Lady,” Eliam said. “Your sister serves as Mukarrib of all Saba.”

  “Half-sister.” The reply was born of some latent habit, and it took a moment for the meaning of Eliam’s words to settle
in. “Makeda is Mukarrib?”

  “Even so,” the merchant replied. “She rules her people wisely and well and is much beloved.”

  “The gods must have dealt harshly with them if they are happy to have a slave as their queen.”

  One of the palace guards approached and bowed before Bilkis.

  “Pardon, Lady, but the scribe Elhoreb begs audience.”

  “Send him away,” Bilkis commanded. “I’m busy.”

  “Apologies, Lady, but he claims his news is urgent.”

  “How urgent can a construction report be?” the queen asked no one in particular. “Very well, show him to my audience chamber. I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Yes, Lady.”

  The guard bowed again and departed.

  “I won’t keep you, my dear,” Eliam said as he rose from his cushions. “I’ll send along your share of the trade when the caravan reaches the city.”

  “The crown’s share of dirt?” Bilkis mused aloud.

  “No, Lady. Olibanum. Not so great as the trade we’d hoped for, but it should cover … ”

  The merchant’s words trailed off. Whether because he’d stopped speaking or because fury plugged Bilkis’s ears, she wasn’t sure. She knew only that this merchant, one of the last few she could rely on, one she’d so long trusted, had failed her. Rage rose from her bowels and warped her words.

  “I send you for gold, and you return with sap?”

  “My lady—”

  “I’ll have none of it,” Bilkis railed. “My entire childhood was tainted by its stink. The very thought now pollutes my nostrils.”

  “My child, please.”

  “I am not your child,” Bilkis snarled as she stood to face the old fool. “I’ve shown favor to you and your family because you rescued me from that miserable country. Now you would befoul my palace and my temple with its stench? Get out.”

  Eliam began to protest again, but a guard’s grip on the back of his neck silenced him.

  “Take him from my sight,” the queen ordered. “He is never to enter the palace again.”

  The guard led the simpering merchant away. Bilkis stormed toward her rooms, then remembered the waiting Elhoreb. She deemed the priest a better target for her fury than her vases and bowls, so stalked instead toward her audience chamber.

  “This had best be important,” she said as she burst into the small room.

  Elhoreb jerked his head toward the queen then froze, as a rabbit caught by sudden torchlight. The scribe sat in Bilkis’s chair, feet stretched out before him. He lurched from the chair, fell to the floor, then crawled to Bilkis and kissed her sandals.

  “Enough,” the queen said, and kicked him away. “Deliver your report, then be gone.”

  The man rubbed his reddening cheek—a delighted smile on his lips as he waited for Bilkis to sit—then sat across from her.

  “I have little news about the temple, my lady,” he said. “Stones are stacked a bit higher than when last we met.”

  “Then why do you bother me?”

  “For this.”

  The scribe held up a scroll, his countenance beaming with pride.

  “You bring me a message from your master?” Bilkis asked. Her tone was cold, but a part of her hoped it was so, longed for even a scribbled word from Yetzer.

  “Not from him, Lady,” Elhoreb said. “To him. Or, more exactly, about him.”

  “I haven’t the patience for riddles,” Bilkis warned him.

  “Your pardon, my lady,” the scribe begged without a scrap of sincerity. “But did not the queen command that I seek out some means of turning the builder’s secrets to her advantage?”

  Bilkis drew a stuttering breath. She had, indeed, given him that command. The master masons she’d summoned had all been as stubborn as Yetzer. Every one of them refused to impart to Yahtadua the secret word by which master builders throughout the nations recognized one another. Might this scroll bear the secret that eluded her?

  “Not the word, Lady,” Elhoreb said, and Bilkis snapped her head toward him, not realizing she’d asked the question aloud. “But perhaps something even more valuable.” The scribe made a show of unrolling the scroll and angled it for the queen to see. Neat rows of figures in black and red ink filled the sheet with birds and feathers and other shapes.

  “You bring me a child’s picture-scroll?” she said.

  “No, my lady,” Elhoreb replied in a hushed, reverent tone. “This is the sacred writing of Kemet.”

  Unimpressed, Bilkis peered at the stick figures and scribbled forms.

  “And you can give them voice?”

  “Alas, Lady, I cannot. Knowledge of the glyphs is limited to the holy priests of Kemet.” The scribe’s face resembled that of a cat’s after it dropped a mauled rat at its master’s feet.

  “Shall I have my guards throw you from the wall or will you provide worthy information?”

  A bit of bluster drained away with the color from Elhoreb’s cheeks.

  “Your pardon, my lady.”

  He unrolled the scroll further to reveal another set of neatly spaced figures, different from the upper picture-writing.

  “This is the common script of Kemet, used by merchants and generals.”

  Bilkis’s cold stare somehow wilted the scribe’s smug expression. He cleared his throat, held the scroll to the light, and began to read.

  “He who bears this is the friend of Pharaoh Horemheb Djeserkheperure, Chosen of Ra. Into his hands shall be given whatsoever he desires, even should he ask for half my kingdom. The blessings of Amun be upon all who come to his aid, for such a one shall have aided Pharaoh himself.”

  The queen’s first hint that she was staring at the wretched scribe was the dryness in her eyes. She blinked a few times, then covered her mouth with a trembling hand as she licked her lips.

  “Half the kingdom.”

  “A courtesy, my lady,” Elhoreb hastened to explain. “It is the habit of—”

  Bilkis didn’t hear the rest of his prattle as she stormed to the door of the audience chamber and flung it open. “Summon Yahshepat,” she ordered the nearest guard. “We have a message to send.”

  54

  Yetzer

  Yetzer stood atop the southwest corner of the Most Holy Place. The limestone blocks enclosed a perfect cube, twenty cubits in each dimension. Five cubits more must be added around the sanctuary, and yet again five to the portico, but the Debir, the place of divine communion, lay ready for its roof of cedar timbers.

  A smudge on the horizon drew Yetzer’s attention from the stones, from the men, from the ropes and pulleys and wheels that raised his imagination into the realm of being. The low rays of morning’s sun slashed along the sky to cast a yellow-brown haze along the southern approaches to Urusalim.

  Not since Eliam had returned, since his donkeys laden with incense had ferried the wealth to feed Yetzer’s men and their families, not in six months had a caravan of more than a half-dozen spavined beasts come up the road from Edom. No mere handful of underfed asses raised this cloud of dust.

  Yetzer chided himself. The winds would soon disperse the sands that rose above the horizon. Time would draw the travelers near. But with only a year remaining to deliver Yah and Havah’s temple, Queen Bilkis would bide no dalliance. The first of a new course of blocks edged its way above the top of the wall.

  “Set to her, lads,” he called.

  The words were needless, as his well-practiced men looped ropes about the ashlar, suspended from its timber frame, to haul the shaped limestone into place.

  Yetzer cast a final, curious glance toward the south, then drew the stone maul from his belt to bless the start of the temple’s thirtieth course.

  55

  Bilkis

  “A caravan, my lady,” Benyahu announced to the court.

  Bilkis looked up from where Marah, Yahtadua’s bride from Yehuda, nursed her newborn son.

  “The roads of Yisrael see many caravans,” the queen told her general. “Unless it comes
from the west—”

  “The south, my lady,” Benyahu clarified.

  “Then what is it to me? Does Edom produce more than dust? Does Elath breed aught but salt?”

  “My lady,” the warrior pressed.

  “Disturb not my grandson,” Bilkis snapped, and the audience hall filled with the wails of Yahtadua’s heir. “Look what you have done. Send a rider if you must. Collect what tolls may be had, if they be of any value. Only leave us in peace.”

  “As you say, my lady,” Benyahu grumbled. The general bowed low, his burnished scalp shining brightly beneath thinning grey hair. Benyahu turned and stalked from the hall. His obedience had seemed more grudging during the last few months, but Bilkis cared little. Yahtadua, her heart’s delight, had produced an heir from his father’s tribe. The greatest of Yisrael’s clans was staunchly behind the throne, and the rest would soon follow.

  “I think I’ll take the sun, my lamb,” Bilkis told the king.

  Yahtadua—at sixteen, his manhood secured—scarcely glanced up from where the infant greedily suckled his mother’s teat. “As you wish,” he said, and just managed to tilt his head to receive the queen’s kiss on his cheek.

  Bilkis left the hall, with its slupping infant and simpering consorts. Silence held vigil in the palace’s cedar-lined corridors, a welcome respite from what had become a noisy, unruly throne room. When the doors of her chamber closed behind her, the queen leaned against them briefly and pressed a hand to her warm cheek.

  A cup of cool water soothed her throat and calmed her breast, washing away the irritations of court. Bilkis considered dropping her gown, but her roof was easily seen from the city and from Havah’s hill. Though she longed to feel the sun’s warmth upon her skin, that pleasure was not worth the cost. She had no more need to invite men’s desires, and she would not debase herself before mere peasants.

  The queen climbed the steps to the roof, moved to the parapet and leaned her elbows upon it. The city spread away to the south, a desert of ocher-colored buildings speckled with awnings of red and blue and yellow. Upon the fortress tower flew Yahtadua’s banner with its rearing lion that pawed at a six-pointed star.