Song of Songs

by Marc Graham

  “Forgive me,” he said in a husky voice, then cleared his throat. “The queen commanded me to escort her sister back to the palace.”

  “Of course,” Makeda said as she joined Yetzer at the doorway. “It was thoughtless of me not to go to her when we returned.”

  She looked up at Yetzer and placed a hand on his cheek.

  “May I revisit the temple in the daylight?” she asked, her eyes suggesting more than architectural curiosity.

  “Tomorrow,” Yetzer said, and kissed the inside of her wrist. And all the days after, he didn’t add.

  He gave Makeda the lamp, then leaned against the doorpost as she and Benyahu faded into the darkness of the Holy Place. Only when the light disappeared through the outer doors did he draw a deep breath and start after them.

  Before his foot reached the first step, rough hands grasped him by his tunic and threw him to the floor below. His head struck hard upon timber, dazing him. Yetzer was barely aware of the rough hands that pinned his arms and legs, but he came fully alert at the press of cold, sharp metal against his breast.

  “Give me the word of the Masters.”

  The command was no less threatening for having been whispered. The speaker wore a scarf about his head and Yetzer recognized neither voice nor face.

  “I can reveal it only to the worthy,” Yetzer replied in as calm a tone as he could manage.

  The blade cut across his chest. A hand clamped over his mouth to stifle his cry. Warm blood pooled above his breastbone and spilled along his ribs. Yetzer struggled vainly against his captors, succeeding only in dashing his own head upon the wooden floor a few times more.

  “Give me the word,” the one with the knife repeated.

  Yetzer’s heavy breathing came in snorts as he sucked air through his nose and noisily expelled it. When he’d managed to calm himself, his questioner removed his hand from Yetzer’s mouth.

  “I made my vow before the gods,” Yetzer croaked, his voice thick with pain. “I’ll not break it.”

  Fire lanced across his belly as the blade again tore through his flesh. Yetzer’s back arched with the pain as the assailant’s hand once more clamped over his mouth. The knife pierced the tender flesh beneath his jaw.

  “The word!”

  In his wrath, the man failed to disguise his voice. Yetzer now recognized Elhoreb’s narrow eyes behind the scarf, his ink-stained fingers about the dagger’s hilt. His own scribe had become Bilkis’s creature, a venomous spider within his camp. If the queen had made him promises even half so enticing as those with which she’d tried to ensnare Yetzer, there was no boundary Elhoreb wouldn’t cross to win her favor. Resistance or reason were folly in the face of such ambition.

  Yetzer met the man’s gaze and nodded. Lines creased about Elhoreb’s eyes, and Yetzer could envision the victorious smile behind the cloth. The man released his hold and brought his ear close to Yetzer’s mouth. The builder clamped his teeth about the man’s ear.

  A howl of rage filled the Holy Place. The traitorous scribe tore himself away, blood streaming dark along his neck. He stood, blade raised high above his head, hatred burning in his expression. Yetzer spat out a bit of flesh and stared up at him, calmly awaiting the stroke that would deliver him to Death’s embrace. When it fell, pain filled him for but the briefest moment before oblivion closed mercifully about him.

  69

  Bilkis

  “What do you mean they will not work?” Bilkis demanded.

  The scribe Elhoreb stood before her in the great hall, a bandage wrapped around his head, his rat face twitching as though to scent out a kitchen midden.

  “My lady,” he answered, “the builders demand a time of mourning before resuming their labors.”

  “Have they not observed it during this past week?” the queen asked. “Since abi-Huram left them, not a scrap of work has been done.”

  “Tradition requires a month of mourning, my lady.”

  “A month?” Bilkis shouted. “Why not a year? Why not three years?”

  None dared to reply. Elhoreb for once seemed speechless. Yahtadua, fresh from a week in his bridal chamber, sat upon his throne but his gaze seemed still fixed on the marital couch. Makeda was in her place of honor beside the dais, her weeping at last silenced, though her eyes were shot through with red and her sniffling was as a sickly child’s. Benyahu and Yahshepat stoically manned their posts, while the balance of the court studied their fingers or toes or the tassels on their robes.

  “A month may be appropriate to mark the death of a beloved master,” Bilkis allowed, “but abi-Huram has been missing for a week and no body has been found. Might he not simply have abandoned his men, his family?”

  Makeda made a whimpering noise, as though she might protest, but she covered her mouth with a handkerchief and kept silent.

  “There is the matter of the pool of blood, Lady,” Elhoreb needlessly reminded her.

  “Yes,” Bilkis replied, lancing the fool with her eyes. “There is that. But it might as easily have been lamb’s blood as a man’s, no?”

  “No,” Elhoreb said, but the shake of his head promptly turned to a nod. “Yes,” he amended. “Yes, my lady, it easily could be.”

  Bilkis drew a deep, steadying breath. How she had allowed herself to put trust in this venal fool was beyond her.

  “Who presides over the builders now?”

  “Magon abi-Abda, my lady,” Elhoreb answered.

  “Very well. Relay to the Master that I will grant his men another two days to collect themselves, then the work must start again. If abi-Huram’s body is found, if it happens that he has not simply abandoned his work, then they may have their customary time of mourning.”

  “It shall be done, my lady,” the simpering scribe replied, and gave a low bow. “And may I say—”

  “That will be all,” Bilkis interrupted with a wave of her hand. “Benyahu, clear the court. We will resume tomorrow. For now, I have matters to discuss with the king and with my sister.”

  Benyahu bowed his head, then rapped the butt of his spear three times upon the cedar-planked floor.

  “All kneel before Yahtadua, King of Yisrael, and Bilkis the Queen,” he commanded. “May Yah and Havah uplift and keep them.”

  The rustle of wool and silk and the creaking of old bones resounded throughout the hall. Bilkis stood and motioned for Yahtadua and Makeda to accompany her. They complied, though it was clear Yahtadua’s heart was still in the bedchamber, while Makeda’s was in the tomb with her dear builder. She must have been a bigger fool than Bilkis had imagined, to have opened her heart to abi-Huram. So long as she hadn’t yet opened her legs to him …

  Bilkis led the pair to Yahtadua’s chambers. She’d ordered the place aired out after the week of connubial excess, the linens changed, braziers charged with fresh spices, and every other little matter prepared. Neither Makeda nor Yahtadua seemed to have noticed where she’d brought them until Bilkis closed the doors behind them with a resounding thud.

  “Why are we here, Umma?” Yahtadua asked.

  His curiosity seemed not over-great as he picked a bunch of grapes from the table and carried them to his bed. A good start.

  “How was your week, my lamb?” Bilkis asked. “How did you find your new bride? Not too old, I trust.”

  Yahtadua’s cheeks reddened as he absently twiddled a grape between thumb and forefinger.

  “Ameniye is not so old, Umma. She’s but a few years younger than you. And she knows things … ” His voice trailed off and his eyes grew distant.

  “I’m glad you find her pleasing.”

  Bilkis struggled to keep her voice even. If Yahtadua was already so enamored of his Kemeti widow, she’d best set this plan into motion.

  “Since her age is not objectionable, I would propose another match for you. One between your father’s house and mine, between Yisrael and my own home of Saba.”

  The mention of that desert flea’s nest finally brought Makeda out of her stupor.

  “Of who
m do you speak, Sister?” she asked. “Our father had no other rightful children.”

  Bilkis took Makeda’s hand and tugged her toward the bed. She bade Yahtadua to put aside his grapes, then took his hand in her other.

  “This is the union I propose.” She placed their hands together. “A union between the King of Yisrael and the Queen of Saba.”

  70

  Makeda

  I snatched my hand back, as from a flame. I’d been in a stupor of worry and grief since I learned of Yetzer’s disappearance and the discovery of a pool of blood in the temple. The miasma of self-pity now vanished as quickly as morning mist upon sunrise.

  My eyes narrowed, and I looked hard at Bilkis. “What are you saying? I cannot marry.”

  “Umma, no,” Yahtadua complained. “She’s your sister.”

  “Half-sister,” Bilkis snapped before her expression again turned placid. “That is to say, we share only our father’s blood. It is good, strong blood that will give you a fine son and heir.”

  “I can marry no man,” I said. “I am already wed to the god Athtar.”

  “As Ameniye is wed to Osaure,” Bilkis calmly observed. The promptness of her answer suggested she’d considered this well. “The Kemeti god has not opposed my son’s marriage, nor, I think, will Saba’s.”

  “Your son is a fine husband to his many wives,” I said, trying another tactic. “Surely I have nothing to offer that his brides cannot. Yisrael has an able queen and a noble king, while Saba must be content with only me as Mukarrib. I cannot be a queen both here and there.”

  “Oh, make no mistake,” Bilkis said as she settled into a chair. “You will not be queen here. Once you give Yahtadua a son, you may go back to that sand pit you love so much. The boy will remain here, and when he comes of age he shall rule over Yisrael and Saba and all the lands between. Ours shall be an empire to rival Kemet, Hatti, and Subartu.” Bilkis offered a beatific smile that turned to a pout when I—unable even to form another rebuttal—said nothing.

  “Do not frown so,” Bilkis chided me. “I do this for you, Sister. A woman cannot long rule in her own name. Soon the chieftains will tire of Athtar’s rule. They will clamor for a man of flesh and blood to govern them.” She rose and circled me as a crow about carrion. “When they do, you will have three choices: give the throne to another, marry some lord and let him rule, or present your heir and rule in his stead. Only until he comes of age, of course,” she added, and patted Yahtadua’s cheek.

  “But mark me,” she continued. “A king may have several sisters, he will take many wives, but he will only ever have one mother.” She kissed Yahtadua’s crimson cheek. “Far better to be a mother, no?”

  I wanted to flee. I wanted to scream, to wake up in Tzeretan, or even back in Saba, and find this madness only a dream. I managed a step toward the door, a second and a third, but stopped with a jolt at the smack of wood upon wood. Slowly, I turned back to face a triumphant Bilkis, who stood by the table that now held a staff.

  Yetzer’s staff.

  “I offer you a future, dear Sister, a legacy,” Bilkis said. “But if you’ll not do it for me, for Yahtadua, or even for yourself, you will do it for your builder.”

  “What cruelty is this?” I demanded as rage and grief fueled my blood.

  “No cruelty, sweet one,” Bilkis said, and drew her fingers along the lightning-tempered wood. “’Tis a mercy.”

  “Yetzer is dead! How dare you mock my sorrow?” I could scarcely breathe, scarcely believe my ears.

  “Not dead,” Bilkis said. “Injured, yes. Grievously even, but most assuredly alive. And if you would keep him that way, if you would spare him, his family, your own people—”

  A red veil descended over my vision. My head spun. I might have collapsed if Yahtadua hadn’t caught me and borne me up. The young king helped me to a seat on the edge of the bed and—once I proved able to stay upright—fetched me a cup of water.

  “Take abi-Huram with you when you go,” Bilkis offered as she leaned against the table. “Let him build for you a temple of stone or straw or dirt. I care not. But if you would have him survive to accompany you, you will do this.”

  “He will despise me,” I muttered, my voice so soft I could barely hear it through the drumbeat in my ears.

  “For having lain with a king?” Bilkis retorted. “He should be honored to take Yahtadua’s castoffs. But then abi-Huram has never shown a proper understanding of such things.” She came to me, took my hands and knelt before me. “Even so, better he should despise you upon the earth than cherish you from the Pit, yes?”

  “Umma, I can’t do this,” Yahtadua said in a child’s voice. “Yetzer has been a friend to me.”

  Bilkis rose and put her hands on my shoulders. “If you would help save your friend, my lamb, then you must do this.”

  I sat, numb, as Bilkis prepared my dishonor. She took the silver comb from my hair, inspected it briefly, then tossed it aside. With deft fingers she undid the lacing along the back of my gown, then gave a sharp tug of the fabric. The green silk fell about my waist, and Bilkis fanned my hair about my naked shoulders.

  “Is she not lovely, my lamb?” she said as she stood back to inspect her work. “Her mother was from the darkest heart of Uwene. It is said the women there know such secrets of lovemaking as to make a man lose his reasoning.”

  Yahtadua stood motionless. His breathing changed to a shallow, ragged pattern. His eyes took on a bestial sharpness as they ranged up and down my body.

  “Yes, my son,” Bilkis said. She stepped behind him and ran her hands along his shoulders. “Do you not wish to take her? To sheathe yourself in her? Her arms reach for your embrace,” she continued as she untied the scarlet sash about his waist. “Her womanhood burns to receive you. The garden of delight lies between her thighs.”

  As a mother prepares a child to bathe, so Bilkis gently undressed her son, cajoling him all the while with whispered promises of the ecstasy that awaited him. By the time she stripped away his breechcloth, Yahtadua’s desire was fully mounted, his manhood tumescent and throbbing with hunger.

  He took a lurching step forward and something within me split. I seemed to stand outside myself, a spectator rather than an actor in the sordid scene. Yet my bodily self came awake as Yahtadua approached. Slowly, as though mired in a dream, I crawled back from my nephew, emerging from my loosened gown as from a cocoon. The headboard arrested my retreat as he reached the foot of the bed and climbed upon it.

  My sensing, thinking self circled about the bed. Yahtadua stalked toward my body, his head twitching as he scented my fear. The young king forced his hips between my knees, his eyes black and hungry as they fixed on mine.

  He lanced into me, and the pain knit my two halves back together. Sense and reason betrayed me. I was no longer outside myself, but fully aware of the violation, fully aware of Yahtadua’s musk in my nostrils, fully aware of his weight pressed against me, fully aware of his slick sweat smeared on my skin as his lust filled the void between my legs, the Holy of Holies devoted to my god.

  I turned my head away from the passion-distorted face of my sister’s son. My sight fell upon the comb, the jeweled silver dragonfly I’d liberated from Bilkis’s neglect so long ago. Its wings seemed to beat in time with Yahtadua’s rough thrusts. I longed to shrink away, small enough to escape upon the insect’s back, or to become the very dragonfly itself and flit to freedom.

  Yahtadua drew a deep breath and pressed himself so deeply inside me it seemed he would surely cleave through my belly. He loosed a throaty moan, and I felt the pulse of his seed as it filled me. The full weight of his body settled onto me, his ragged breath hot upon the crook of my neck.

  My jaw ached from clenching my teeth to hold back my cries. I loosened cramped fingers from their grip upon the bed linens, all the while praying for the dragonfly to carry me away.

  Bilkis settled into view at the edge of the bed, just beyond the comb.

  “Well done, my lamb,” she said in a soft voi
ce. “That was not so bad, was it? Truly, Sister, I think you should come to enjoy it by the time he puts a son in you.”

  71

  Yetzer

  Yetzer lay in darkness, suspended between awareness and oblivion. He knew not how much time had passed since his murder, since he’d been cast into Sheol. It might have been a day, it could have been an age. He knew only that his ka remained trapped, unable to ascend to the abode of the gods.

  The manacle he imagined about his ankle, and the chain that seemed to secure it to the rocky earth were not of bronze, he knew. They were forged by his pride, link by stubborn link. Oh, he’d thought himself exalted, flattered himself that he’d seen into the heart of Creation and unlocked its secrets. But it had been folly, so much hubris. Had he attained half so much Light as he’d fancied, his ka should have sprung from his body like a dove from its cote.

  As it was, his eternal self remained trapped in Darkness, a slave to ignorance as surely as his physical being had been enslaved in Kemet so long ago.

  Voices echoed in the darkness. Yetzer curled in on himself, cursing his weakness even as he did so. The demons came frequently to taunt and test him.

  Sometimes they brought the semblance of food, the thinnest of gruels to test how tightly he clung to the physical. Occasionally he managed to resist, but more often than not he gave in to the temptation, his heart succumbing to the imagined pangs of hunger. The sense of starvation would abate for a time, but the fetid water and rancid fat ran through him as swiftly as the River Yarden. His bowels ached while his ka sat mired in filth.

  Other times the tormentors brought scourges. They rained blows of fire and agony upon him, cursed him and taunted him into denying his vows, his sacred obligations. In these tests he fared better.

  The torture of his soul was beyond any pain or privation he’d known in life. The demons promised him release if he simply acquiesced, but he knew if he broke his solemn oath, if he revealed to them the secret word of his craft, his agony would be everlasting.