Song of Songs

by Marc Graham

  Light broke upon the darkness as the echoes drew nearer. Flames danced upon the walls of his grave, which his pride had fashioned in the image of the quarry beneath Havah’s mountain. The footfalls seemed more urgent and more numerous than in previous visitations, and demons’ voices swam about him in the tongues of both Kenahn and Kemet. Yetzer called upon his resolve, uncertain what this change portended.

  “Sweet Auset,” said a feminine voice in the Kemeti language. “What have you done to him? Release him.”

  Another voice, brittle as ancient papyrus, repeated the command in Kenahni. Yetzer loosed a cry and kicked at the hands that reached for his legs.

  “Be still,” the aged voice said as a cold, dry hand touched Yetzer’s fevered brow. With a rattle and the scrape of metal against metal, the bite upon Yetzer’s ankle loosened then fell away. He felt himself uplifted, and shadows danced on the walls as the guardians of the Pit ferried his soul to some new way station. A light came into view, brighter than a thousand torches. Yetzer’s eye watered at the brilliance. He stretched forth his hand, as though he might catch hold of the saving light and drag himself from the mouth of the grave.

  “Put him here,” the old one said.

  Yetzer settled to the ground just inside the opening, his outstretched hand barely able to reach the warm light. Slender fingers fell gently upon his cheeks and turned his head away from the opening.

  “Do you know me?” a woman’s voice asked. The eternity in darkness left Yetzer’s sight unfocused. A glowing nimbus floated before him, the ethereal outline of a lotus that shifted into the visage of whatever goddess had come to rescue his soul. Cool water rained upon his forehead, washed his eye and fell sweetly across his lips. A second and a third time the blessed shower came, and when his eye was wiped clean, the haze fell away like a veil.

  “Ameniye,” Yetzer croaked.

  The woman smiled. Her expression was not of the carefree openness he remembered, but that of one who has tasted fully of life and appreciates its occasional sweetness.

  “And surely you remember your old friend Sinuhe?”

  Yetzer turned his head slowly, painfully to the other side. A cadaverous skull peered at him through sunken eyes. Wispy strands of hair sprouted from desiccated flesh, and sere lips cracked into a skeletal grin.

  “I truly am dead,” Yetzer groaned, for the man had been ancient when he’d first tended Yetzer all those years before.

  “Then I shall have to call upon all my powers of resurrection,” the old physician laughed.

  “Begging my lady’s pardon,” another voice said, and by its sibilant tone Yetzer recognized Elhoreb. “I have led you to him as agreed. There was a promise of reward … ”

  Sinuhe translated the man’s request and Ameniye’s reply.

  “Of course. Your actions have proven your worth.” Ameniye rose as she spoke and walked toward him. To her guards, the men who had carried Yetzer, she said, “Hold him.”

  “My lady,” Elhoreb stammered as the men gripped him by his arms, “I have done as you commanded.”

  “And I do as justice commands,” Ameniye assured him. She accepted a spear from one of the guards and, without hesitation, thrust it into the scribe’s stomach. The squelch of metal upon flesh and bone was accompanied by a shrill scream. The cry was cut short as one of the guards drew a dagger and slid it skillfully across the traitor’s throat. Elhoreb’s eyes danced frantically about as he jerked against the guards’ firm grips and as his life spilled down his chest and belly.

  “Put him with the others,” Ameniye ordered, and the men dragged the still-twitching corpse away.

  Pharaoh’s daughter watched them go, then turned back to Yetzer and again knelt beside him.

  “Can you tend him here?” she asked Sinuhe.

  “That is a twofold question, my lady,” the old man said. “Can I tend him? Yes. There is corruption in his wounds and he’s been poorly fed these last weeks. His is a great stubbornness, however. These—how did they call themselves, Yubaalim?—these sons of Yubaal would have done better to have killed him outright. So, yes, I can tend him. Can I do so here?” He shrugged his bony shoulders.

  “I cannot ensure his safety in the palace,” Ameniye said. “There are too many secret ways, too many prying eyes and loose tongues. Here, there is but one entrance, which my men can easily protect.”

  “Take me back to my camp,” Yetzer said, surprised by the effort needed to arrange his thoughts. “I’ll be safe among my men, my family.”

  Ameniye shook her head. “We do not know how far the corruption spreads. This queen of yours weaves a broad web. You would be no safer in your camp than in Bilkis’s own throne room.”

  “Then take me to the camp of the Sabaeans. Bilkis has no spies among her sister’s people.”

  This suggestion was met by a quick exchange of glances between Ameniye and Sinuhe.

  “The people of Saba are dead,” Ameniye said, “butchered by the queen’s command.”

  The words were delivered gently, but they fell upon Yetzer as a thousand blades, piercing his very heart. A low moan rose in his throat and he longed for his cold grave, for the demons’ torments that were but gentle play compared to this new torture.

  “Be still, my brother, my cherished one,” Ameniye said, and kissed his cheek.

  Yetzer wanted to pull away from the touch of her lips, but his will failed him. He might have welcomed the Pit in that moment, but his traitorous heart continued to beat, his lungs to draw breath.

  “I will tend him here, my lady,” Sinuhe said in an assuring voice.

  “And when you are well enough to travel,” Ameniye told Yetzer, “I will find a place of safekeeping for you.” She laid a hand upon the crusted wounds above his heart. “I took your life from you once. Let me now give it back.”

  72

  Makeda

  Even the sky wept.

  Cold, bitter tears—snow, one of Yahtadua’s wives called it—drifted from the heavens, collected in the corners of the terrace, or danced on eddies of wind. It might have been beautiful, I thought, had any beauty been left in the world.

  For three months I’d been held in Yahtadua’s harem, a prisoner to the king’s lust and Bilkis’s madness. My one display of resistance had prompted Bilkis to bring my handmaid Fazia before me, where General Benyahu cut the girl’s throat.

  “How many more would you sacrifice to your pride?” Bilkis had scolded.

  And so, three or four times each week, the young king visited and cast his seed within me. My only respites had been during the times of my monthly flow, when I was confined to a special quarter of the harem and Yahtadua’s attentions were shared among his wives. They were times of mixed feelings. For seven days I was free from violation, free of the indignity and base enslavement. But each renewal of my womb meant my captivity must continue, as must Yetzer’s.

  Yetzer.

  My builder.

  My heart ached at the very thought of his name. Yetzer, who had filled my imaginings with fresh wonder. Yetzer, who would hate me for what I’d become.

  Most days I could set aside the thoughts of my builder with a prayer for his safety and a focus on the indignities I must suffer. But in these long, solitary days of my confinement my thoughts flew to him as bees to nectar.

  There was no distraction, for Bilkis forbade me any writing or diversion or even the menial task of spinning wool. There was no companionship, for Yahtadua’s wives shunned me. No, in those long days when my womb ached along with my heart, I had only my loneliness and my fears and my thoughts of Yetzer.

  This day was even lonelier than most, as the palace, the city, the very world, it seemed, was deserted. For the eighteenth celebration of Yahtadua’s birth Bilkis had called a great festival, coinciding with the dedication of her temple. The entire country, every tribe and kindred, had been invited to join in. Even those of Yahtadua’s wives whose flows had begun were permitted to attend. Only I remained, with the two guards outside the harem for com
pany.

  Those guards now rapped on the heavy timbers and swung the door open.

  “The queen,” one of them announced.

  I turned away from the terrace, rubbing my arms against a sudden chill as a woman, heavily cloaked against the cold, crossed the threshold. The guards pulled the door closed and the woman stood motionless for a time. Her deep hood concealed her features as she stared at me.

  “You do not celebrate?” I said coldly, for how could Bilkis forgo this day of glory?

  Elegant fingers emerged from the woolen sleeves and pulled back the hood to reveal Yahtadua’s latest bride.

  “I celebrate in my own manner,” Ameniye replied with her heavy accent. “And I may give you cause to celebrate.”

  The princess from Kemet—Queen, I supposed—stepped closer and clasped my hands.

  “You will leave this city,” Ameniye proclaimed.

  “Leave?” I said.

  “Go back to your lands. Return to your country.” Ameniye stared quizzically at me. “Unless you wish to stay?”

  “No,” I exclaimed, and pulled my hands back. I again wrapped my arms about myself and in a softer voice added, “But I cannot.”

  Ameniye frowned. “Why can you not? You are not happy to be here. I am not happy for you to be here. If you go, we can both be happy.”

  I gave a bitter laugh at that simple solution. But was it so simple?

  “As unhappy as I am,” I said, “if I leave I should bring even more unhappiness.”

  “It would grieve you to leave your sister?” Ameniye asked. “Or her son?”

  I tightened my jaw and squared my shoulders at that. “I would gladly be rid of them both,” I said. “But there are others who would suffer should I go without Bilkis’s leave.”

  Ameniye’s dark, painted eyes grew distant and she looked away. “You speak of Yetzer.” It was not a question.

  “Yes,” I said breathlessly, my heart seeming to beat anew. “What do you know of him?”

  “He was raised in my father’s household,” Ameniye said slowly, as though measuring each word. “He was as a brother to me.”

  I pursed my lips. I had seen Yetzer’s sculpting of the young Kemeti princess. The care he’d taken with each feature, his attention to every detail bespoke more than sibling affection. Whatever thoughts my face betrayed I wasn’t sure, but Ameniye’s sympathetic expression deepened. Yahtadua’s bride again took my hand and led me to a couch.

  “I tell you this,” she said as she sat and pulled me down beside her, “so you will know my sorrow, too. Yetzer is gone.”

  My heart squeezed to a painful halt. I swallowed against a throat gone suddenly dry.

  “Where has he gone?” I asked, my voice like that of a stranger.

  “He was betrayed to your sister by his own men,” Ameniye explained. “Attacked.” She dragged her hands in a cutting motion along her breast and stomach. “Beaten. Starved. By the time I found him, his wounds were sour. Very bad.”

  I wanted to scream, but I had no voice. I wanted to drag the bitter words from this queen, but I had no strength. I could only sit, unblinking, as Ameniye relayed her tale.

  “Yetzer told you of Kemet? Of the Temple of Amun? Of … of his enslavement?”

  “Yes,” I managed to say.

  “And did he tell you it was I who betrayed him?”

  I was taken aback at that and could only shake my head.

  “I trusted someone,” Ameniye went on, “a priest of our highest god. He told me I was Yetzer’s reward, but I was his trap. What has your sister told you?”

  The question surprised me. I thought to evade it, but Ameniye had opened her past to me. This seemed the time for sharing secrets.

  “She said that I may leave after I have given Yahtadua a son.” I looked into the other woman’s eyes. “And that I may take Yetzer with me.”

  Ameniye offered a sad smile and said, “He was to be your reward?”

  “But he is my trap,” I finished the thought.

  “He was.”

  A knife twisted deep into my core. I searched Ameniye’s eyes, desperate for some sign of hope, but there was none.

  “My personal physician, a man wise in all the healing arts, tended Yetzer but … ” Ameniye looked away. She blinked her eyes several times, dabbed at one with her thumb and left a grey-green smudge upon her cheek. “I once stole Yetzer’s liberty,” she said after a time. “It was not my intent, but the fault was mine. I have dealt justice to those who harmed him, and he was among friends when he went to his final freedom.” The woman hooked a finger beneath my chin. “Now I give you yours.”

  War waged within my breast. I wanted to cry, to lash out at this woman who had once harmed Yetzer, to embrace her as a sister. When the battle ended, reason bore up my heart’s banner. I raised my chin, harvested my calm and became once more Mukarrib of all Saba.

  “Yetzer’s family?” I said.

  “They will accompany you,” Ameniye said. “Eliam knows the trade route and will guide you safely home.”

  “But my people,” I said. “It will take days to prepare for the journey. How can we make ready without drawing Bilkis’s attention?”

  Emotion stormed in Ameniye’s eyes. “Your people have gone to the West.”

  “West?” I said. “Why would they…?” Realization scored my heart, and I cursed Bilkis for robbing me of the tears to mourn my people.

  “They began asking after you,” Ameniye explained. “Yahtadua’s mother feared they might raise a rebellion.” The woman sat beside me and once more took my hands. “My husband is now of age to reign in his own name. I shall see he governs wisely and well. Those needing justice shall have it.”

  My shoulders relaxed, despite the aching void where my heart had once been. I nodded and rose.

  Ameniye stood and embraced me warmly, holding me for a long moment. When she released me, she unclasped her cloak and held it out.

  “Take this. My guards will escort you to Eliam, but it is best if you are not seen to leave the palace.”

  I accepted the cloak and swung it over my shoulders.

  “Sela in Edom is along your route,” Ameniye added. “I will send ahead and have provisions prepared for you. It is a long road you travel, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “You belong with your people,” Ameniye said with a shrug. “It is mayat that you should go to them.”

  “It’s what?” I asked as the foreign word rang in my ears.

  “Mayat,” Ameniye repeated, and tilted her hand from side to side. “It is balance. It is just so, yes?”

  “Just so,” I agreed as a thought burst forth fully formed. I hurried to my table and found the silver comb among my things. I had no writing materials, so I pulled the linen from a cushion, borrowed a bit of charcoal from a brazier, and carefully scratched out a message. I gave the comb and linen to Ameniye.

  “Please see that Bilkis gets these.”

  Ameniye gave me a curious look but bowed her head. “It shall be as you say. Go now. My men await you at the gate.”

  I pulled the hood over my head, tucked my hands into the sleeves and moved to the door. The harem guards nodded as I opened the door and moved past. I walked quickly but stately through the empty corridors until I reached the gate. As promised, a pair of Kemeti archers waited there with a donkey to carry me from the city.

  Great clouds of smoke rose from the temple’s mount, from the altars of sacrifice and dedication. Songs and cheers rode with the snows upon the light breeze. I closed my eyes and ears and heart to these, to all that Urusalim had given and taken from me. I set my attention solely upon the road before me.

  The road home.

  The road to freedom.

  73

  Bilkis

  Bilkis pushed open the door to her rooms. The dedication had been a great success. Despite the foul weather, the people of Yisrael and the foreign guests had been duly awed by the marvel of her temple and had lauded her and Yaht
adua. But she was sick of people, sick of smoke and the stench of burning meat, sick of the mud churned up beneath the frozen rain. She wanted nothing so much as a fire, a bath, and a cup of wine. She called for her handmaid, called again when the girl was slow to respond.

  “Yes, my lady?” the imbecile said as she emerged from her chamber.

  “Draw me a bath and see to the fire,” Bilkis commanded.

  “Yes, my lady,” the girl replied. “Wine is on your table.”

  Perhaps the fool wasn’t entirely worthless. Bilkis moved to the table and took a sip from her chalice. The heady wine, a rich red from Galil, warmed her stomach and eased her foul humor.

  An unfamiliar glint caught her eye, there beside the wine jar. A silver dragonfly, jeweled with gold and lapis, sat upon her table, a linen cloth wrapped about the tines of its comb. A comb much like the one Makeda—

  “What is this?” she asked the maid who was, as usual, slow about her tasks.

  “From my lady’s sister,” the girl answered in a quavering voice.

  Bilkis unfolded the linen and found a set of ragged characters in uneven rows. She recognized the scribbles as writing, but she could not read them. A tightness grew about her throat as a chill displaced the wine’s warmth.

  “Have my bath ready,” she ordered as she left the room.

  She stalked down corridors lined with simpering servants, passed the guards outside the harem, and burst through the doors.

  “What is this?” she demanded, comb and linen upraised as her eyes scanned the room.

  Yahtadua’s wives sat in a circle, hands suspended midair where Bilkis had interrupted their silly clapping game.

  “Where is she?” she demanded.

  “Who?” one of the impudent cows asked.

  “The Queen of Saba,” Bilkis replied in her most cloying tone. “Where is my sister?”

  “She’s not here, my lady.”