by Marc Graham
At least one of the bitches showed the proper respect. The courtesy, however, did not prevent a cry of rage. Bilkis spun toward the open doors and strode toward the guards.
“Where is Makeda?” she demanded of them.
The men stared blankly at her, then peeked through the doorway and back to their queen.
“She has not left, Lady,” one had the dull wits to reply.
“But she is not here, so what does that mean?”
The dolts looked to one another then back to Bilkis, and shrugged.
A cry of rage echoed along the corridor as fire surged in Bilkis’s stomach. She tore along the cedar-lined hallway until she reached the throne room.
“Read this,” she ordered Yahshepat as she burst through the doors. She stopped midway to the dais as the weight of dozens of eyes fell upon her.
Yahshepat sat in his place beside the thrones, but that was the only thing in order. One of Benyahu’s captains stood in his place at the foot of the dais. Yahtadua sat upon his throne, while he would normally have taken one or more of his brides to bed following so great a celebration. Most out of place, Ameniye sat beside him on Bilkis’s throne.
“You’re in my seat,” Bilkis said in a low, menacing tone.
The Kemeti crone smiled back with false sweetness.
“The queen’s place is beside her king,” she said, and placed a hand atop Yahtadua’s. With the other she gestured to a small chair beside the dais. “The king’s mother, however, will always have a place of honor in this court.”
“A place of—” Bilkis began before fury choked off her words. She moved toward the dais, her legs seeming to propel her of their own accord. She might have leapt upon the dais to strangle the impertinent whore, but a guard stepped in to block her approach.
“You are, of course, welcome, Mother,” Yahtadua said from his high seat, the boy for the first time speaking as a man. “And you have a message you wished to have read? Yahshepat, would you?”
The little scribe rose and Bilkis had no strength to resist as he drew the linen from her fingers. He returned to his seat, unfolded the cloth and angled it to catch the lamplight.
“My sister,” he read, “I return to you this comb, the last of your possessions from Saba. I also leave you the word you have so long sought. It is mayat, but though you possess it, what it signifies you will never attain.”
Bilkis’s vision grew hazy around the edges. Her hand trembled as her fingers tightened about the teeth of the comb.
“I, too, have a gift for you,” Ameniye said, “to honor the completion of your great work. I’ve had it sent to your chambers. Senby,” she addressed one of her Kemeti archers, “would you escort the king’s mother to her rooms? She appears unwell.”
The foreigner stepped forward, bowed toward the dais and wrapped a hand about Bilkis’s arm. She did not protest, did not attempt to pull away. She simply stared at her throne, occupied by this stranger she herself had brought under her roof.
“You do look tired, Mother,” Yahtadua declared. “Go to your rest. I have much to attend to and will call upon you when I am able.”
Bilkis peered through a gathering fog as her escort led her from the hall. Of habit, she turned toward the corridor to her chambers, but the Kemeti shook his head and pointed in the opposite direction.
Without complaint, Bilkis followed along as he led her past Yahtadua’s chambers, beyond the harem, to a small set of rooms at the rear of the palace. The Kemeti opened the door, drew her inside, and left her alone.
The haze dissipated enough for her to make out a few features. Braziers burned in two corners pouring their foul smoke of olibanum into the space. The chamber wasn’t half the size of her rooms and had sparse furnishings that were plain but functional. On the narrow bed rested a basket decked with bright ribbons, no doubt Ameniye’s gift to her.
Bilkis drew near to the bed, listening for a hiss of vipers or scorpions. No noise came from within the basket, so she drew back the cover.
Elhoreb’s and Benyahu’s heads looked up at her, their flesh a ghastly pallor. Dried blood streaked from the corners of their mouths and the jagged edges of their necks. A familiar ringing rose in Bilkis’s ears, almost loud enough to block out her scream that echoed from the close, plain, dingy walls.
74
Makeda
The warm desert breeze caressed my cheek. The highlands of Yisrael had given way to the red sands of Edom, and the drier clime was a balm to my spirit. Not that all was made right.
As often as not, in the twilight between sleep and waking, the weight of my blankets seemed that of Yahtadua atop me. I would awaken in the night kicking and thrashing. I could not bear to be touched when Rahab came to comfort me, but her songs would lull me back to sleep.
During the day, as Dhahbas’s rocking motion and Eliam’s constant banter freed my thoughts, memories of Yetzer came to flog my heart. Tears would not flow. Even had I any left to shed, I would not loose them before Dvora, whose son had been killed for my sake. My grief found expression through my sunken eyes, my hollow cheeks, the unending nightmares, and occasional bouts of nausea.
Still, during the two-week journey from Urusalim, the sun and fresh air combined to revive me. Each long stride away from that accursed city freed my heart by degrees. My appetite returned. Flesh again grew upon my bones until, by the time we reached the borders of Edom, I once more considered myself among the living.
As we descended now into the sandstone canyons that marked the approach to Sela, I couldn’t shirk the feeling of entering the depths of the Pit. The road narrowed, in some places scarcely wide enough for the camels to pass single file. At last the trail opened into a clearing sufficient to make camp.
The place was still tightly enclosed by sandstone cliffs, but there was room to raise our tents and picket the camels off the road. A stone-rimmed well promised refreshment for man and animal alike. A half-dozen elders of Sela waited beside the well to meet us.
“In the name of Qos we welcome you,” proclaimed the eldest.
He spread his hands in greeting, and his withered fingers trembled as I climbed down from Dhahbas and approached the men. Six pairs of dark, sun-creased eyes turned from warm courtesy to cold appraisal, but I was too weary from the journey to think much on it.
“I thank you,” I said with a nod.
“I am Korah. King Yahtadua, my son-in-law, requested we extend to you every grace,” the old chieftain continued as he boldly studied my appearance. “Such water and food as we have are at your disposal.”
The man’s intense gaze belied the courteous words, but I forced a smile.
“I welcome your kindness,” I said. “We will tarry but a night or two to refresh our animals and replenish our supplies.”
A few of the men whispered to one another, and I fought the urge to shrink away from their leers. Eliam must have sensed my unease. He came alongside me, hands outstretched in peaceful greeting as he enquired after the elders’ health and introduced his family.
The merchant’s diversion had only temporary success, for as soon as the courtesies were made, the Edomites fell back to their whispers and gestures. Heat rose along my neck as my belly grew tight. I could not hear their words, but on their faces I saw their meaning clearly enough.
Foreigner. Slave. Whore.
“I thank you for your hospitality,” I said to Korah, “but is it your custom to make a spectacle of your guests? If so, then we will trouble you only for a bit of water and be on our way.”
Korah’s cheeks reddened beneath his thick, grey beard.
“A thousand pardons, Lady. No offense was intended. It is only … That is to say … Would you come with me?”
The old man gestured toward the crease in the rock that, presumably, led into Sela. My back stiffened. What payment might these men require for their provisions?
“Your companions may, of course, accompany you,” Korah added, as though he sensed my trepidation. “You are a guest in my house.”
The implied promise of protection carried little comfort. Had I not been a guest in Bilkis’s house? I saw no guile in the man’s eyes, though, only a burning curiosity. I motioned for Eliam and Dvora to join me, then nodded to our host.
Korah smiled and took me by the elbow. He led me toward the city, alongside a sluice cut into the rock and leading from the well. The other elders followed behind Eliam and Dvora. We’d gone only a few paces before Korah stopped and pointed toward the sandstone wall.
“Here, my lady, is the cause of our wonder.”
I looked to where he indicated.
A narrow border had been cut into the rock, in the shape of a pair of water jars supporting a vine-entangled trellis. The frame surrounded a low-relief carving.
I knelt to view the image more clearly, and found my own reflection staring back at me, just as my statue had upon Mount Morhavah. I fell to my knees and raised trembling fingers to my mouth.
“What is this?” I said.
“The work of a craftsman,” Korah said. “He came to us with a warrant from my son-in-law to serve how best seemed fit. He built this waterway and warded it at intervals with this image. He told us it was Anath the protectress. That is her sign,” he added, indicating the water jars of the frame, “but I see now who inspired the very image of the goddess.”
“Who is he?” I asked, my throat compressed against the words.
“He calls himself Lo-Shem, the Nameless One. Whether man or demon I cannot say …”
I scarcely heard the man. Of its own volition, my body rose to its feet and carried me farther along the waterway. Twenty paces from the first framed image sat a second identical one, and yet another at twenty paces more. The footfalls between became fewer as I raced along the track into the city.
The gorge opened into the wide crevasse of Sela. A part of me marveled at this city cut into the rock, but my heart forbade me to waste any time. I paused only long enough to listen.
I heard the questioning shouts of Dvora and Eliam behind me, the curious buzz of the people about the street. I cocked my head, attention fully upon my ears until I heard what I sought, the high note of hammer upon chisel.
I followed the sound and passed among the murmuring spectators. The ringing of the tools grew stronger until I stood outside a stone-carved doorway surmounted by a triangle around an eye.
I climbed the short wooden ladder to the entrance. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the ruddy glow within. A broad-shouldered workman dressed only in a rough-spun kilt sat before a wooden table, his lash-scarred back to the door.
“You’re making a shadow,” came the gruff voice.
My heart swelled and my breathing faltered as joy flooded through me. “The true craftsman needs only the light within him,” I managed to say.
The tapping of the hammer stopped. Tools clattered onto the tabletop. The man’s back straightened, and he slowly stood and turned toward me.
Fresh, pink scars puckered the skin of his chest and stomach. A plain strip of linen covered the left side of his face, but there was no mistaking my builder. My heart sang as I dashed across the room and fell into Yetzer’s embrace.
Two days later, we left the rocky warren of Sela for the open sands of the southern road. Shams blazed within a pale blue sky.
Though the desert track felt familiar, it would be some months before we reached my city, my people. Months of blowing sand, of scorching days and bitterly cold nights. Months of sore backsides and aching muscles as we made our way from well to well.
But I cared not. Twin flutters, like the beating of a dragonfly’s wings, rose in my heart and deep within my belly. I looked to Yetzer, riding alongside me. However much farther we must travel, my journey was already complete. For where Yetzer was, there was my home.
My builder looked over to me and reached out his hand. I extended mine and hooked my fingers in his. Dhahbas snapped as Yetzer’s camel came too close. The beasts parted and Yetzer gave a hearty laugh.
I smiled, hoping my secret pain did not show through. I drew a deep breath, tamped down my emotions, and set my eyes upon the southern horizon. Whatever might come, for the time I was content. I rode toward my country, my people. My love was safe and by my side.
While within my womb grew the seed of hate.
Selah
Historical Notes
The legend of the Queen of Sheba has captured the imaginations of storytellers and their audiences for nearly three thousand years. The most famous version of the tale (at least in the Western world) consists of a mere 13 verses in the Hebrew Bible and leaves the fabled queen nameless. While this definitive version likely took form around 550 BCE, it reports on events that—assuming they actually happened—would have been some four hundred years in the past.
Other versions and elaborations of the Sheba story can be found in Ethiopian and Arabic sources, as well as Christian legends. Outside the religious milieu, the lore of Freemasonry—whose foundation myth centers on the building of Solomon’s Temple—offers its own insights to the legend, and I have shamelessly borrowed from all these sources.
Given the mythic nature and scope of the various stories, I’ve taken generous liberties with the source material. In particular, my gloss of the familiar Biblical stories surrounding the reigns of Kings David and Solomon (here, Tadua and Yahtadua) merit a bit of discussion.
The obvious sacred cow on the altar is the polytheistic nature of my Kingdom of Yisrael. It must be remembered that the story—indeed, the entire Hebrew canon—was set to parchment only after the return of the Jewish exiles from captivity in Babylon in 538 BCE. Convinced their defeat and return were due, respectively, to the wrath and restored favor of their tutelary, now exclusive, deity, the political and religious elite recast the preceding 1500 years as a time of patriarchal monotheism, only briefly and scandalously interrupted by periods of polytheistic corruption from the surrounding heathen peoples. The archaeological record, however, tells a very different story.
Recent digs near Jerusalem and throughout the Biblical lands of Israel and Judah suggest that polytheism was extensively and consistently practiced right up to the time of the return from exile and the construction of the Second Temple under Nehemiah. The remains of shrines, both public and private, contain figurines presumed to represent Yah, Asherah, Ba’al Hadad, and others. An excellent, approachable treatment of these findings and interpretations is given in William G. Dever’s Did God Have a Wife?: Archaeology and Folk Religion in Ancient Israel (Eerdmans, 2008).
My identification of the mother goddess, Havah, also deserves some explanation. Havah is an early rendering of the name Eve. Through a feat of linguistic acrobatics, I have identified her with Hepat, or Heba, a mother-goddess worshipped in the northern reaches of the Arabian peninsula. One epithet of this deity was “the mother of all living,” a role that certainly fits Havah/Eve. Though northern Mesopotamia would seem to be too far removed from the lands of Israel, we have a record of one Abdi-Heba (literally, servant/slave of Heba) much closer to home. The El Amarna tablets, dated to the reign of the Egyptian Pharaoh Akhenaten, include letters sent by this Adbi-Heba, then ruler of Jerusalem, begging for military aid against the raids of Habiru brigands. This chieftain, of course, was the basis for my Abdi-Havah. The letters (EA 285-290), along with the entire collection of diplomatic correspondence from ancient Akhetaten, can be found in The Amarna Letters (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), edited and translated by William L. Moran.
As I mention in my Author’s Note, I have chosen to adopt the New Chronology of Egypt and the Near East for the timeline of this story. The problems with the academically orthodox chronology (and their resolution by the New Chronology) are too extensive to detail here. Suffice it to say, there are many sound reasons why I’ve removed some 350 years from accepted history to place Pharaoh Horemheb and his successors in the time of Kings David and Solomon. For a complete explanation, I refer the reader to David Rohl’s excellent Pharaohs and Kings: A Bi
blical Quest (Crown, 1996).
As to the events in Saba (generally accepted as the Biblical Sheba), I must admit to a high degree of literary license. While some scholars date the foundation of the Sabaean kingdom to at least 1200 BCE, the historical record is generally silent until around 700 BCE. The dam at Ma’rib (Maryaba) is a true wonder of the ancient world, and early archaeological investigations date its earliest remnants as far back as 2000 BCE. Modern archaeological methods might go a long way toward opening the book on this magnificent culture, but the political and religious challenges of the region force us to be patient. With the damage taken by the dam during recent Saudi air strikes, we can only hope there will be something left to investigate in coming years.
Despite the absence of a historical record, Makeda and Bilkis are not simply creations of my imagination. The accounts of the Queen of Sheba in both Arabian and Ethiopian legends provide beautiful embroideries upon the rather plain Biblical fabric. The Ethiopian dynastic legend Kebra Nagast (Glory of Kings) provides a charming (if anachronistically monotheist) version of Makeda, mother to the founder of Ethiopia’s royal dynasty. The Arabic accounts of Bilkis as the Queen of Sheba are decidedly less sympathetic, but I’ve tried to weave together the disparate pieces of these tales to give depth and character to both of my queens.
The character of Yetzer abi-Huram is somewhat more speculative. I have liberally drawn him from the legends of Freemasonry, where the builder of Solomon’s Temple is identified as Hiram Abiff (loosely derived from the Biblical Adoniram, or Lord Hiram). Yetzer’s trials in Egypt are loosely based on my own Masonic initiations, elaborated by the accounts of Egyptian initiation rites described in The Golden Ass: The Transformations of Lucius (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1998). I’ll leave it to the conspiracy theorists to argue over which was which. Suffice it to say, no oaths were broken in the writing of this novel.
The balance of the story is equal parts writerly musing and homage to the original lore, informed and enriched by the archaeological and epigraphic record. I’ve attempted to reverse-engineer the surviving tales, peering backward through the political lens of patriarchal societies and the religious lens of monotheism. The resulting view is an admittedly distorted glimpse of a world still firmly rooted in adoration of the divine feminine and acceptance of a multitude of deities. While I’ve drawn heavily on the sources mentioned above and countless others, my interpretations and conclusions are, of course, my own.