A Garden Locked

by Naomi Ruppin

  I made a brief visit to Moth’s room to tell him of my appointment, and he made me promise to report back to him immediately afterwards. Back in my tent, I set out the king’s abacus and the scrolls of my report, which I tied with a string of scarlet wool that I picked out of the unraveling hem of my blanket. Every few moments I lifted my tent flap and peered out at the shadows of the palm trees in the women’s courtyard as they crept closer to the trunks. Just when I judged that the shadows couldn’t shrink any smaller, Khepri came to fetch me.

  “So, what is this report I hear about? Anything I should be aware of?” he asked as we made our way out of the encampment.

  I smiled. No doubt it irked Khepri to imagine there might be some luscious detail about the women’s court that he wasn’t privy to.

  “Mostly numbers,” I said. “How many wives, concubines and children make up the court. That sort of thing.”

  “Do you have lists for them all, or just the totals?”

  “Both. Today I’ll present only the final tallies. Whether the king reads the entire report later is up to him.”

  “So little Abigail can read, write and reckon. You’re the talk of the women’s court, you know.”

  “Am I?” Trust Khepri to know more about it than I did. Come to think of it, I had been getting some strange looks lately, that is, stranger than usual. We reached the stairs to the second floor. As we climbed, I remembered something and realized that Khepri would be the perfect person to ask.

  “Khepri, at my first meeting with the king, he said something about one other woman he’d known who was as curious as I am. Do you know who he meant?”

  Khepri’s kohl-rimmed eyes widened.

  “If it’s who I think it is, you’ve been paid a great compliment. I believe he was speaking of Bilkis.”

  “Bilkis? I’ve never heard of her.”

  “I’ll wager you have, but by her title. Bilkis, Queen of Sheba.”

  “Truly!” I had only a vague recollection of this story, involving a foreign queen bringing fabulous gifts. “Did you see her? Tell me about it.”

  We had stepped away from the stairway, but Khepri turned back, sat on the top step and patted it for me to sit beside him.

  “I did. I was just a boy, new to your father’s court. This would have been—yes, I suppose a year or two before you were born. An envoy was sent to announce Bilkis’s visit, two weeks before her arrival. Your father grilled the poor man mercilessly, trying to determine what military treaty, trade agreement or other favor the queen sought. He didn’t believe the envoy’s claim that she only wanted to meet him.”

  “And when she arrived?”

  Khepri smiled and shook his head, remembering. “She truly was remarkable among women. Dark as one of your father’s Arab steeds. Nearly as tall as he. Carried herself—well, like a queen. When she arrived, she didn’t ask to bathe, eat or drink, but immediately demanded an audience with the king. He received her and her interpreter in his own chambers. But they weren’t there for long, because she quickly asked for a tour of the palace.

  “I can tell you about it because I was there. The king ordered me to accompany them with a tray of food and drink, so that the queen might refresh herself as they walked and talked. We walked four abreast—the king, the interpreter, the queen and myself, trying to hear every word and stare at Bilkis every possible second without dropping the tray. She wanted to see everything—the women’s court, the stables, the menagerie, the king’s gold vessels. She questioned him about everything, down to the last beetle in his insect collection. I’d never seen the king so gratified. At one point they stopped to oversee the unpacking of the queen’s caravan. I was nearly blinded by the glitter—gold goblets, silver mirrors, copper plates, all inlaid with precious stones. A cloud of exotic smells rose up from the load; some of the packages contained costly spices. The one that struck me as most delicious I later found out to be cinnamon.

  “The last stop was the Hall of the Throne. Bilkis had heard of King Solomon’s magic throne, and when she saw it in all its splendor, she asked to sit upon it herself. I believe the king was both astounded and impressed at her daring. He did finally hand her up the steps, and she was delighted with the lions who rose to salute her as she ascended. There she sat, looking down on the king, still holding his hand and querying him about the throne’s inner workings.

  “They dined together that evening. The usual custom was for some of the king’s advisors and wives to be present to greet a foreign dignitary. But again it was just the four of us, including the interpreter and with me serving. What did they not discuss! To start with, the king questioned Bilkis about military strategy. I think he had not quite believed that a woman could be a ruler in her own right—he kept trying to discover who the man behind her throne was. But by the time she gave him detailed advice on how to lay siege to a mountain fortress, I believe he was convinced. They talked of the moon and stars, and how far away they might be from the earth. The king recited poetry, and the queen plied him with impossible riddles, which he dispatched between one bite and the next. They drove the interpreter mad trying to translate subtle wordplay and fine phrases.”

  Khepri stood up and said, “Come, now. I’ve delayed you long enough. But mind, if the king is angry, I shall blame you!”

  I got up to follow him. I’d been so fascinated by the figure of Bilkis that I’d forgotten my appointment for a moment. A queen, but a ruler in her own right, not a decoration to be placed on a king’s arm. One who went out into the world and traveled to foreign lands, one who had looked my father in the eye and demanded to sit upon his throne. We reached the king’s chambers and I stopped.

  “Was the king…did they…” I tried to think of a delicate way to ask what I wanted to know. Khepri smiled.

  “I will say this. The king has never forgotten Bilkis. But let’s not keep him waiting any longer.”

  The same guard I had seen the last time was standing outside the king’s door.

  “Abigail, daughter of Ophrah and King Solomon,” Khepri said to him.

  I was pleased to see the guard give a start and stand up straighter when he heard my title. He knocked on the door, opened it and announced, “Abigail, daughter of Ophrah.” The king was sitting in the same raised chair as before.

  “Abigail. Sit.” He inclined his head to his left.

  I sat down on one of the low, slippery divans, setting the abacus on the table but holding my scrolls in my lap, keeping my eyes on them.

  “Khepri, the birds are hungry,” the king said.

  “Then what’s stopped you from feeding them?” Khepri shot back.

  “I’ve been busy with other affairs. Tend to them. They’ve been chattering without cease.”

  “Birds after my own heart.” Khepri went to feed the tiny birds in the golden cages.

  “Indeed. Hard to tell which of you makes the most noise.”

  I was amazed at the way Khepri spoke to the king, with a liberty that would amount to brazenness coming from anyone else. And I was no less astonished by the king’s answering humor. I was glad of Khepri’s reassuring presence. Despite my resolve to be calm and confident, my heart was beating uncomfortably quickly.

  “Proceed, Abigail,” the king said.

  I unrolled my scrolls on the table, putting the abacus on one end and holding the other with my hand to prevent them from curling up again.

  “My report has several parts,” I said. “This first page shows the totals of women and children, in different groupings.”

  The king studied the first page at length, then moved on to the second page, which was the beginning of the list of women in descending order of their years in the king’s court. Next he scanned the list of his children, and then he came to the final page.

  “What is this?”

  He looked at me.

  “Those are some calculations I made. To help with the taxes.”

  “Talents of flour per year. It seems low. How did you arrive at this number?”
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  “I made some approximations for easier figuring. There are seven hundred and seventy-eight women and children in your court. Call them eight hundred. Then assume a third of a loaf of bread per day.”

  “I would say half.”

  “Remember, many are children and even babies.” I met his gaze confidently, sure of my ground now.

  “True. Continue.”

  I proceeded to explain my logic, gesturing with my hands, pointing to the scroll, quickly manipulating the abacus beads to demonstrate my interim calculations. The king made the occasional comment, or jumped ahead, anticipating my next assertion. I felt exhilaration and a strange kind of intimacy. Moth was clever and I enjoyed talking to him. But he had no interest in numbers.

  As we discussed my reckoning, Khepri moved about the room silently, polishing the already gleaming gold vessels with a soft cloth and, I was sure, absorbing every word.

  “Can this be right?” the king said. “Only one thousand and six hundred talents of flour needed per year.”

  “You’ve seen the calculations yourself,” I replied.

  “True. However, last year we collected three thousand talents of flour.”

  “A shameful waste!” I said triumphantly, glad that my report had brought real value. “If you ask me, either half of it is rotting away in the storerooms, or else someone along the way is making himself a hefty profit. Either way, the people are being robbed unnecessarily. Who decided on this number?”

  Rather than answer me, the king said, “Khepri. Go and tell the Queen Mother I have need of her.”

  Khepri, who if I was not mistaken was on his second pass over the same dishes he’d just polished, set down his cloth, dipped his head and left the room.

  I cleared my throat and stared at my hands, clasped in my lap. I didn’t know whether or not to be worried about the king’s spontaneous summons. My acquaintance with my grandmother Queen Bathsheba was nearly as scanty as the one I had with my father. Only once had I spoken to her.

  §

  When I was nine years of age, the king issued a new command. On all mornings except for the Sabbath and court days, all the boys between the ages of seven and twelve were to come to the Hall of the Throne, where they’d be tutored by one of the priests. They would study reading, writing, history and the king’s own proverbs. Girl children would gather twice a week to be taught to sing and play musical instruments. The women’s court was aflutter at the radical decree; such a thing had never been done. But the king’s fondness for knowledge was legendary, so perhaps it was reasonable for him to want to foster it in his sons. As for the girls’ studying music, this aroused active controversy. The priests considered singing their own special province, and deemed it immodest for a woman to sing in public. But the king remained unmoved, and the lessons went forward as commanded.

  At this time I was still living with Keren and her mother Na’ama. One day shortly after the announcement, after a fruitless argument with Na’ama about the uselessness of singing, I joined my sisters in one of the palace meeting rooms, feeling sullen and contrary. Though I would never admit it to Na’ama, I knew I was bad at singing, and I hated to do things I was bad at. On the other hand, the skill of reading was one I coveted beyond any other, those squarish symbols on papyrus or parchment seeming to me magical in their ability to impart knowledge.

  For the first two lessons, I sat in the back of the room and remained obstinately silent as the teacher taught my sisters some simple tunes. At the third lesson I admitted—only to myself—that the sound they produced was sweet, soaring and swooping like birds flying in tandem. I tried to hum along a little. I could hear my own tones clashing with the song, lurching along like a wounded bird bumping painfully up against the rest of the flock. How did they do it so effortlessly? I could hear what the right sound was, but I had no idea how to direct my throat to produce it. Maybe it was a matter of force. I sang louder. The teacher looked towards the back of the room and made a face as if she had tasted milk gone sour. She held up her hand.

  “Everyone stop,” she said. “Except you, Abigail. Stand up. Sing the last phrase again.”

  All the girls were looking at me. I stood up, took a breath and sang the last few words. There was a rustle of suppressed giggles among the others.

  “No. Like this.” The teacher sang the phrase. “Again.”

  I could feel my cheeks getting hot and tears starting to sting. I tried again and this time the laughter was louder. Even the teacher smiled.

  “Let’s show Abigail. Sing the words, girls.”

  My sisters sang, some of them singing false notes in mockery.

  “Try again, Abigail.”

  “No!” I shouted. I shoved my way through the seated girls and ran out of the room, the teacher calling after me.

  After the music lessons started, things were never right between me and Keren again, or between me and Na’ama. While I stubbornly defied Na’ama’s attempts to force me to go to the lessons, Keren grew closer to those of our sisters who did attend, and I felt that they were stealing my best friend.

  One day I was waiting for Keren outside the music room. She came out with a group of giggling girls, and when they saw me, they laughed harder. I was sure they’d been laughing at me and I was filled with fury. Later, back in our room, I picked a fight with Keren, calling her stupid for losing at some childish game.

  “At least I can do the things girls are supposed to do,” she retorted. “Your singing is worse than a raven croaking! All the girls laugh at you for snooping around the kitchen and the stables instead of coming to the lessons. They say you should have been a boy. Or a servant!”

  I’m not proud of what I said next.

  “At least my mother was a queen!” I said. “Yours is a concubine. That’s almost no better than a slave!”

  I heard a gasp and turned to look behind me. Na’ama had entered the room and was glaring at me.

  Things went from bad to worse after that. Keren and I stopped talking. Where once I had felt a motherly warmth from Na’ama, now I felt that she tended to me purely out of duty, while my new animosity towards Keren rankled her, and my haughty derision of her status smoldered in her memory. I hated sharing their room in the palace and I did my best to be out of it for as long as possible.

  We were in the women’s courtyard one morning. Keren was playing five-stones with a group of my sisters. I was pretending to be interested in a backgammon game between two wives. Queen Bathsheba was holding court that morning, sitting in a cushioned chair that had been set out for her and hearing the requests and complaints of the many women lined up to speak to her. As always, her body servant Hannah hovered vigilantly in the background, making sure the queen ate, drank and took pauses to rest. I eyed Bathsheba curiously. She always spoke softly and calmly, but there was a disengaged quality about her. After the first quick glance at whichever woman had come to state her plaint, Bathsheba studied her folded hands or stared into the distance before making her reply in a measured undertone. I listened to the woman who was sitting before Bathsheba, animatedly describing the slight she had suffered from her peer, with a great waving about of her hands.

  “And then she said: ‘You promised to lend me the dress’, and I said ‘Yes, but after the festival’, and she said ‘No, it was for the festival; I have no other to wear’, and then she was after me day and night until I gave in just to get some peace, but then, can you imagine, she returns the dress to me, wine-stained and with one sleeve missing, and I said…”

  “What is it you want?” Bathsheba interrupted.

  “Why…” the woman gaped at Bathsheba, brought up short when the gallop of her story had been halted abruptly. “I suppose…a new dress. But with Tyrian embroidery, like my old one.”

  “Granted,” Bathsheba said succinctly.

  “Next!” Hannah bawled from over Bathsheba’s shoulder, waving the startled complainant away.

  A sudden inspiration moved my feet, and I got up and ran to the front of the
line of women, stepping rudely in front of the first one and seating myself across from Bathsheba.

  “I want my own room,” I said loudly. “Lady. Your majesty. Please.”

  Bathsheba’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise and she said: “And who are you?”

  “I’m Abigail.”

  “Who is your mother, child?”

  Before I could answer, Hannah whispered something in Bathsheba’s ear, and the queen gave a short nod.

  “But who would take care of you?” she asked.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eleven,” I lied, exaggerating by a year. “Almost a woman.”

  “Who takes care of you now?”

  “Na’ama,” I admitted reluctantly.

  Na’ama herself came forward—she must have been nearby, listening to the conversation.

  “She’s been living with me, your majesty. Since Ophrah died.”

  “And what say you to this?”

  Na’ama lifted her hands in exasperation.

  “I don’t know. She’s become an obstinate, disagreeable child. She refuses to do my bidding. She won’t even let me comb her hair, as you can see.”

  “There are no rooms to spare in the women’s court,” Bathsheba said. “We’re hard-pressed to house everyone as it is.”

  “Please, lady,” I said urgently, ignoring Na’ama and looking only at Bathsheba. “Put me anywhere. Put me in the servants’ quarters.”

  “That would not do. Nor are the servants’ quarters any less crowded.”