by Marc Graham
His dreams seldom remained more than a few moments after waking, but the visitation of his father and the others continued to haunt him. He took up his lamp and set out to the foundry. The new-moon sky blazed with stars that illumined his way to the great furnace and his casting.
A shadow moved against the wooden framework as Yetzer approached. Without a thought, Yetzer dashed forward and caught hold of the cloaked figure’s arm. A feminine voice cried out in alarm, and Yetzer spun the woman around to peer into a set of amber eyes. Recognition dawned there and Makeda threw her free arm about Yetzer’s neck.
“Bless Athtar,” she whispered in his ear. “You’re safe.”
Yetzer released his grip and wrapped his arms about Makeda, savoring the pressure of her body against his.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice soft.
“I had a terrible dream,” Makeda replied. “The casting failed and everyone was killed.” She pulled back and placed her hands on Yetzer’s cheeks. “And you—”
“Leapt into the flames,” Yetzer finished for her.
Makeda cocked her head, a puzzled look in her eyes.
“Yes,” she said, “but how could you know that?”
A smile quirked Yetzer’s lips. “Because I had the same dream. My father and the founders of my craft gave me the means to right this.”
“I don’t understand,” Makeda said. “How is it possible?”
“Let us see if our dream is true,” Yetzer suggested, “then we can explore how we both shared the same vision and what it means.”
Her hand fit perfectly in his as their fingers intertwined seemingly of their own volition. Yetzer guided her to the ladder that reached up to the furnace’s platform, then out onto the mold itself. The rammed sand was solid underfoot as he led the way across the sluice, then knelt beside the funnel. The sprue vents formed a pattern of dots upon the surface. Black pocks marked the voids left behind when the casting had been heated and the wax melted to leave behind the empty mold.
Yetzer scraped the sand away from one of the vents, a hole no larger than his little finger. He hadn’t dug far before his nails scratched against something solid. He brushed away more sand to reveal a plug of metal that filled the vent.
“Lead,” he muttered. “It’s just as they showed me.”
“What does it mean?” Makeda asked, kneeling beside him.
“It means someone has betrayed me,” Yetzer growled, anger grating against his throat. Someone had plotted against him, conspired with Bilkis to destroy his work and sully his name. Worse, they had put lives in danger to do so. Fury rose in Yetzer’s breast, but Makeda leaned closer to him and laid her hand atop his, her long slender fingers hot upon his skin.
“But what does it mean?”
His rage was quenched by Makeda’s gaze, smothered by her touch. He looked at the stoppered vent and knew it could be easily fixed, that however many vents had been plugged could be unplugged, and that he could prevent the saboteur from destroying his work and murdering the people he loved. He looked back at Makeda and held her gaze as the world fell away like sand from a finished casting.
What does it mean? Gone were the trappings of power, the folly of pride, the perfidy of ambition, and all that remained was the woman beside him and the pounding of his heart beating in time with the pulse in her fingers. They had shared this night’s vision. What other dreams might they share?
What does it mean? He didn’t know, and his heart left no space for curiosity or reason as he leaned into Makeda and kissed her.
66
Bilkis
“A widow?” Bilkis demanded from her throne. “I send to Kemet for a bride of royal blood, and they offer up a widow?”
She punctuated the question with a goblet of wine she hurled at Yahshepat. The scribe blocked his head with the fired-clay tablet that bore the scurrilous message. The heavy silver chalice took a bite from the tablet and spilled its golden wine over his tunic and scrolls.
“My lady,” the scribe sputtered, “she is not just any widow, but the bride of the old pharaoh himself.”
“And will this old woman be able to bear a son?” Bilkis demanded. “Alliances are made not beneath the wedding canopy, but upon the bridal sheets. Without an heir of shared blood, it makes little difference whether the bride be princess or commoner or slave. This Pharaoh Menmayatre makes of us a mockery, and I’ll not forget it.”
“My lady,” Elhoreb joined in, “it is no insult to be given a royal bride of Kemet. While he yet lives, the Kemeti king is seen as the very god Haru. His children are not simply of royal blood, but divine. Upon Pharaoh’s death, he rises to the throne of Osaure, their chief god. His widow becomes Auset, the mother goddess. Crone or not, whether her womb be fertile or fallow, your son will have the Wife of the God as his bride.”
Wife of the God. Bilkis mouthed the words, sweet as summer wine and with a familiar tang. Should her son marry this Wife of the God, what would that make him? What would it make Bilkis herself?
“Very well,” she told the scribes. “We will accept Pharaoh’s offer. Reply that he may send two-score archers as escort, and that we would consider taking into our governance one of his coastal vassal cities. Ghazzat, perhaps? Or possibly Asqanu.”
The court scribe scratched a ragged line across his linen sheet as his stylus slipped, while the builders’ scribe stood slack-jawed.
“A city, Lady?” Elhoreb was first to recover his wits.
Bilkis raised a painted brow. “Surely my son’s wife will desire comforts from her native land from time to time. With a port city in our realm, we may more readily see to her wishes than if we were forced to rely upon caravans.”
Elhoreb grinned, crooked teeth showing behind his unkempt beard. “My lady is ever wise,” he said, and bowed.
“Yahshepat, draft our reply,” Bilkis said, rising. “Come, Elhoreb. I would hear of progress upon the mount.”
“Yes, Lady,” the builders’ scribe said in a tremulous voice, his eagerness evident beneath the skirt of his tunic.
Benyahu, ever the faithful guardian, had stood silently by the dais throughout, and now offered his hand to help Bilkis down the steps. His fingers were cold but stolid, a marked contrast from the passion they’d conveyed in years past—a passion repulsively bespoken by Elhoreb’s hot, moist grip on her other hand. Bilkis resisted the compulsion to wipe her hand on her gown. She’d be soiled with worse before long.
“What news from Tzeretan?” Bilkis asked the scribe when they were behind the closed door of her private audience chamber. She’d learned Elhoreb was rendered incoherent after he took his pleasure with her, so it was best to resolve all business dealings before giving him his reward.
“None, my lady,” the scribe replied, his words clipped.
“But you are certain the casting was fouled?” Bilkis sat and crossed one leg over the other.
“Yes, Lady.” Elhoreb licked his lips as he sat across from her, his gaze fixed on the queen’s bosom. Only when several long moments passed in silence did he raise his eyes to meet Bilkis’s glare.
“My man assured me he plugged every vent and wetted the mold. When Yetzer attempts to cast, it will be utterly ruined.”
“Then why does he tarry?” Bilkis demanded, her stomach becoming sour. “Why no word yet? Might he have discovered something amiss?”
“No, my lady,” Elhoreb answered quickly, with a glib laugh. His expression melted to one more sober under the queen’s hot gaze. “That is, the plugs were set deeply so they could not be discovered unless someone was looking for them.”
“And would abi-Huram be so diligent as that?” Bilkis asked, having found it easier to refer to the builder by his surname.
“No, no, my lady.” The scribe again answered too quickly, then roughly cleared his throat. “Not very likely.”
Bilkis crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow.
“It’s possible, yes,” the fool at last admitted with a palsied nod.
“Out,” Bilkis said in a low, menacing tone.
“But, my lady—”
“Out,” she demanded. “When—if I receive word of abi-Huram’s failure, then you may claim your reward, but not before.”
“B-but what of the Queen of Kemet?” Elhoreb’s desperation sickened Bilkis. “Did I not help to secure your son’s bride?”
“When she arrives with her archers,” Bilkis said as she rose and moved past the scribe, “and when Yahtadua has his port city and his son of Kemeti blood, then you may receive my thanks.” She pushed the door open and leaned against the jamb. “Deliver my temple. Deliver the word of the Masters to my son, and perhaps our gratitude will be sooner in coming. Benyahu?”
The old warrior stood by her side in mere moments.
“The scribe Elhoreb has completed his service to us. See him to the gate. We will call for him if he might again be of use.”
“Yes, my lady,” Benyahu replied.
Elhoreb started to protest, but the general quietly rested his hand on the hilt of his great iron sword. The scribe swallowed then rose, hiding his discomfiture as best he could. Bilkis backed away from him as he sidled through the doorway, where Benyahu took him by the scruff of his robe and helped him toward the gates of the great hall.
“I’ve delivered to your son the Wife of the God, my lady,” Elhoreb called in strangled tones as Benyahu hustled him to the door. “I will deliver to you the builders’ word.”
The smack of Benyahu’s hand against the scribe’s head echoed from limestone and cedar, but only one thing resounded in Bilkis’s ears.
Wife of the God.
67
Makeda
The western hills cast the land in shadow, but my heart bathed in warmth and light. Yetzer’s bronzes had been successfully cast. While the oxen pulling the great Molten Sea lagged behind, my builder and I brought the train of wagons laden with the Star Dwellers and columns up the mountain trails to Urusalim.
My builder?
Yes, I admitted to myself even as my cheeks grew warm and my heart raced. At the very least, he would be. I’d shared with Yetzer my concerns about the earthwork dam across the Wadi Dhanah. He readily offered to travel with me and lend his hands to a more permanent solution, once the temple was complete.
But there was more.
I was Athtar’s wife, I reminded myself, placed upon the high seat of Maryaba by his will rather than my parents’ blood. I could give myself to no man while my husband lived, and the gods possessed exceptional longevity.
Still, I’d never known a man like Yetzer. Something deep within me stirred as I watched him among his men. Stripped down to his breechcloth, he led them as they grunted and cursed and hauled on ropes to move the heavy bronze statues into place before the broad steps of the temple. Even from a distance, I could see the angry red scars of his slavery, see the muscles of his arms and legs and chest glistening with sweat.
It was more than his physical bearing that drew me to him. He had an easy way with his men, leading from among them, as he did now, rather than guiding them with the flail. He revered the gods but sought to understand their roles in man’s advancement instead of simply appeasing their priests. He treated women with courtesy and deference, not as mere objects of property or pleasure. He’d even begun to teach me his sound-pictures, those figures whereby speech could be communicated silently and across great distances. I couldn’t love Yetzer abi-Huram, for such affection belonged solely to my husband-god. What else I might call the regard I had for this man, though, I did not know.
The blare of a ram’s horn shattered my reverie. I looked up to the summit of the temple’s portico, high above the holy mountain.
Natan held the horn to his lips, drew out the long blast, and followed it with a series of short trills. The young priest repeated the signal twice more, and the grunts of men and the creak of ropes gradually ceased. Workers filed from the temple and gathered around the bronze statues in admiration.
“Why so early, priest?” Yetzer asked with mock sternness as Natan joined us.
“Orders of the Master Builder,” he replied without hesitation, and pointed toward the west. “When the sun drops behind the mountains, the men shall be called from labor to rest.”
“The true craftsman needs only the light within him,” Yetzer gruffly chided the younger man, then grinned and tousled the priest’s curly hair.
Natan ducked away and joined the men by the statues.
“She’s beautiful,” he breathlessly observed as he stood before the Kemeti goddess Mayat with her balanced scales.
My cheeks grew warm, for the bronze goddess had been cast in my image. Mine was not the only likeness Yetzer had borrowed for his work. The Twins were fashioned after Natan and King Yahtadua who, I had to admit, did share a striking resemblance. General Benyahu found expression in the Archer. The Water-Bearer, too, had been crafted in the image of Yetzer’s father Huram.
“Will not Bilkis feel slighted?” I’d asked Yetzer when he finished breaking open all the molds. “You’ve dedicated none of the Star Dwellers to her.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied as he scraped away a casting’s sand to reveal the Scorpion, its tail poised to strike. “I think this one captures her perfectly.”
I smiled now at the memory, but the expression soon faded.
Natan now stood before the Maiden. Her lower body was covered by a sheaf of wheat, while she balanced a jar of wine on her hip. So unique were the woman’s features, so perfect her lithe figure, I knew the sculpture was more the child of Yetzer’s memory than his imaginings.
The young priest stared open-mouthed at the brazen beauty. I followed his gaze not, as I expected, to the naked twin breasts, but to the lovely face with wide-set, almond shaped eyes.
“That’s her,” Natan said in hushed awe. “That’s Yahtadua’s new bride.”
68
Yetzer
Yetzer led Makeda toward the darkening temple, his ears still buzzing with Natan’s words.
Yahtadua’s new bride.
Makeda’s hand was warm upon his arm as they silently climbed the fifteen steps to the open-air portico of the temple. On either side sat the bases for the twin columns that would support the roof of the porch, the polished bronze gleaming faintly in the waning light.
Makeda followed Yetzer’s example in unlacing her sandals before the temple’s doorway. She caught his eye as they stood together, and Yetzer smiled.
His heart told him this was his match, the echo of his desire. But another set of eyes seemed to gaze back at him, eyes belonging to another royal woman, beneath the canopy of a temple to other gods in a distant land. He blinked to clear his vision, until his Queen of Saba again stood before him.
He knelt before the golden band in the floor that marked the threshold to the Sanctuary. Makeda came to her knees beside him and followed his motions.
“I honor you, Yah and Havah,” Yetzer intoned softly as he touched his forehead to the floor, “father and mother of the world.” He sat upright then bowed again. “I honor you, Hadad my protector, and Kothar my patron.” Again he sat up, then bowed a third time. “All you gods above and below, I humble myself before you.”
They rose and stepped through the doorway. Though the temple had yet to be consecrated, a familiar, welcome chill washed over Yetzer as he crossed the boundary between profane and divine. Makeda grasped his arm, her sharp intake of breath suggesting she too felt the change.
Yetzer struck a light and took Makeda’s hand, then led her toward the rear of the temple. The lamplight failed to reach the cedar rafters, but Makeda inhaled in awe as it revealed animals and plants and geometric shapes, all precisely detailed and overlaid with gold.
“That’s olibanum,” Makeda said as they neared the end of the Sanctuary.
“It is. Your country offers the gods their favorite incense, better favored even than my cedar.”
She laughed at that, and Yetzer guided her up the curved steps to the sacred
enclosure of the Debir, the Most Holy Place. He paused outside the cedar doors, beneath their stone arch, and silently spoke the word of his craft.
The word itself was common enough, spoken daily by multitudes without import. When given with reverence and intent, however, as Yetzer said it now, the word opened the heart to all the wonders and possibilities of Creation. Though the room beyond was empty, Yetzer knocked thrice upon the door then pulled it open and stepped inside.
Unlike the Sanctuary with its wood-paneled walls and floor, the Most Holy Place was all stone, save for the doors and ceiling. Tiles of black and white marble lined the floor, concealing all but the very peak of Havah’s holy rock, that natural altar where the Ram, upon a time, had taken the place of sacrifice for Father Abram’s son.
Yetzer now led Makeda to that holy rock, sat cross-legged upon it, and rested his hands upon his knees. Makeda mimicked his movements. Eye closed, Yetzer drew several slow, deep breaths then began to hum. Low at first, he raised the pitch until his tone matched the sacred note. Makeda added her voice to his, and Yetzer’s heart thrilled. The very walls and floor joined in the music, magnifying the simple hum into a great choir. Power filled the space and resonated within his breast. A tingling sensation rippled upon his skin, reached to his very core, and faded only after he paused to take another breath. Six times more they joined their song with the Holy Ones until, light-headed, Yetzer resumed his slow, steady breathing and silenced his heart that he might hear the gods speak.
The Ancients whispered not, but Makeda’s hand upon his was worth more than all the gods’ wisdom or all the gold that lined the holy walls. She leaned toward him, her eyes gleaming in the low light. He bent his head to meet her, their lips touching in a kiss as divine and perfect as the union of Yah and Havah.
A pounding upon the cedar doors dispelled the moment. Yetzer drew away from Makeda with a shuddering breath. He offered a smile. Heart racing, he stood and moved to the door. He raised the latch and drew open the panel to reveal Benyahu, his face distorted in the flickering light.