“You’re very clever.”
He shrugged. “Not clever enough to get a raise or promotion.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ameen.” His sharp cheekbones angled into a grin. “Sorry to disappoint but I’m already married, beautiful lady.”
His name meant faithful.
“Are you faithful to wife and king?” I asked from the shadows.
“To the wife out of love, to the king out of love for my daughter and the other five hungry mouths to feed back home.”
“Money buys your loyalty?”
Ameen’s eyes flicked into the shadows and his hand went to his knife. “You ask strange questions for a professional fornicator.”
“Are you insinuating that prostitutes are brainless?”
“Heavens no. They’re quite the opposite. I wish I got paid for fucking.” Ameen chuckled. “I like you.” He re-sheathed his blade. “Ah, here comes the water.”
The servant set down a bucket without losing a drop and scurried away.
“You seem like a good man, Ameen, and an excellent guard.” I dragged the bucket toward me and into the chambers, where I drank long and deep. Next, I washed off the filth of the king’s touch and seed, scrubbing my skin until both body and mind were cleansed.
I searched the room for suitable clothing. In a few hours I must make my first appearance.
As queen.
I rejected Duvsha’s shawls. They were not fine enough. Hasan’s animal skins, too savage. I rummaged through his things, stopping short after lifting away a white swath of linen draped over a basket.
I knew the design. It was one of Momma’s, her intricate designs could not be duplicated.
I unfolded the fine-woven linen. “I will make you proud, Momma.” I draped it becomingly around my curves and tied the ends at the back of my neck. I re-plaited my hair into a single braid coiled atop like a crown. One thing remained. Daylight. I sat on a fur-draped chair and waited for sunrise.
By the time the first orange rays spilled over Ma’rib, every muscle was poised for action and my mind danced with eagerness.
I clutched King Hasan’s head with one hand, gripped the jeweled sword with the other, and strode out of the chambers through the vestibule.
“You . . . you killed him.” Ameen reeled back, his focus shifting from Hasan’s head to me. “You’re an assassin?” His eyes widened and his hand clutched his sword.
“No. I am Saba’s gift. I am your queen.” I lifted my chin, my sword poised to strike, my heart banging in my chest. My possession of the king’s head changed his world in an instant. He no longer owed loyalty to a dead tyrant.
Ameen stared at the bloody head, and then his gaze traveled up my steady arm to my solemn expression. His eyes flicked across the courtyard to the harem, to where his eldest daughter was kept to pleasure that evil man. “Is there a king?”
I did not fault his assumption that I worked in concert with a male usurper. “I have no need of a king.”
His grip on the sword loosened and he dropped to his knees, pressed his head to the ground. “You had the courage and strength to sever the king’s head. I am at your service.”
“Prove your loyalty.”
“I will lead you to the throne room.” Ameen kept his head down. “It’s where Hasan went after taking the previous king’s head, and where he proclaimed himself the new king.”
Trusting anyone was risky, yet I had to trust someone. “Arise.”
“My queen.” Ameen swallowed. “This way.” He pivoted on his heels. “The king is dead,” he shouted as he led me up the path. “Make way for the new ruler.”
Fudu, the sleepy, foul-breathed guard, scrambled to his feet. “The Gift?” he mumbled, his eyes bulging at the sight of Hasan’s bloody head clutched in my hand. “The Gift!” he shouted. “The Gift from Almaqah to his people!” Fudu stepped in line behind Ameen and joined in the proclamation.
The decapitated head was visible proof of my claim to the throne. But it did not make me a queen. Not yet. His head was only a key that unlocked the door to my Great Destiny.
More guards joined our little procession. Was it Hasan’s head in my hand that inspired their shift in loyalty? Was it their curiosity? Their respect for Ameen? Their hatred for Hasan? My confidence? Almaqah’s blessed help? I did not know. But something—maybe all of those things—made them join the trip to the throne room.
The tyrant was murdered. By a woman. A petite young woman. No doubt the guards intended to escort me to the throne room where they would watch the spectacle play out. This was theater, the guards bit players without a script who were eager to find out the scene’s ending. My every word and gesture must convince them to accept me as their new queen.
Guards cocooned me from all sides. I had only to emerge a butterfly.
As I approached two slouching guards who stood agog at the end of the hallway, I knew what I must do.
“Summon the ministers.” I spoke with the authority of one who had summoned ministers all her life.
They straightened up, their gaze bouncing from me to Hasan’s head, mumbled their agreement, and set off at a brisk pace.
Servants stopped their morning tasks to gawk. Early risers—a crowd of stunned faces—trailed behind my growing entourage, their murmurs as loud as a swarm of bees.
Two guards swung wide the huge set of carved doors. My heart sank.
The throne room was dim and drab, no features to recommend itself but a tall ceiling. The gold and silver ornaments did not shine. The drapes were dingy, and the floor did not gleam.
“Bring more light,” I said to a servant cowering in the shadows. I must be associated with the light of sovereignty, not the shadow of a usurper.
I sat on a throne in need of gilding and new upholstery, set Hasan’s head on the floor, and held the sword tip skyward.
A hushed anticipation hung in the throne room while the guards formed a row on either side of me. The servants huddled at the back of the room.
When the first minister waddled into the room, everyone, even me, sucked the air from the room in a single simultaneous inhalation.
The minister, a short pudgy man with a too-small head, took one look at King Hasan’s severed head and prostrated before me.
A second minister strode in. “What is the meaning of this!” He blanched, reeled back when he saw Hasan’s head. He walked backward, tripping over his sandals.
I did not care for his insolence. “Approach your queen.”
His eyes darted about the room in search of help.
“Are you deaf?” I lowered my voice.
“No.” He puffed out his barrel-round chest and lifted his haughty, plump chin. “I am the minister of rain.”
Outrageous! I gritted my teeth to keep from laughing. Rain was not governed or managed any more than a sandstorm. If this minister was any indication, Hasan had glutted his court with useless positions.
“Pay homage to your queen or join Hasan.” I flicked my finger at the head.
The minister of rain scurried forward and dropped to his knees.
Five more ministers entered. Seven in all. I wasn’t surprised. Seven was a holy number. Each bowed low before retreating to huddle with their confederates in the middle of the room.
A skinny middle-aged minister with narrow-set eyes broke away from the shocked cluster to approach. “Who are you?”
His face reminded me of a gerbil’s, his ears high on his head, his profile revealing a sloping muzzle ending with a twitchy flat nose. I wondered if this minister had the same sharp teeth as the furry little pest that made its home in holes.
“I am Bilqīs, Queen of the Sabaeans,” I said as though it was quite obvious. “Who are you?”
His nose twitched. “I am Zazan, minister of the treasury.”
“I require a full accounting.”
His neck twisted around as though seeking advice from the other ministers. Finding nothing but their blank stares, he returned his attention to m
e. “This is preposterous.” He flung out his skinny arm. “A woman can’t just show up here with King Hasan’s head and proclaim herself queen.”
“I can and I did. What are your qualifications?”
Zazan stood a little taller, stretched his neck. “I have been the minister of the treasury for ten years.”
“Bring writing tools,” I told a servant before leveling my full attention on Zazan. “Duration of service is not a qualification. Knowledge and skill are.”
The minister of the treasury was a coveted and important position. He alone had the most opportunity to defraud, steal, and misuse Sabaean taxes and royal wealth.
Zazan’s face reddened, yet he kept his tongue in check.
The servant returned quickly with a clay tablet and stylus. I wrote out a complex math problem, the same one my math teacher gave me for my final test. “Solve.” I handed him the clay tablet.
Zazan glanced at it. “Now?”
“If I can solve it, so must you. There is no place in my court for an inept accountant. Saba has no room for incompetence.”
The throne room buzzed with excitement.
Zazan stared down at the tablet, his face ashen. “This is a difficult problem. One created by a master.” His nose twitched. “Either you are a puppet queen—a daughter or wife of an enemy—or . . .”
“Or what?” I drummed my fingers on the armrest.
“Or you received some sort of instruction.” Zazan shuddered as though the very thought of an educated woman was absurd.
“I did not receive instruction. I have a vast education. No more delays. Solve the problem or lose your position.”
While Zazan hunched over the tablet, the other ministers huddled closer together, frightened glances flicking from one to the other.
A tense silence saturated the room while Zazan worked out the problem.
After many long moments, Zazan lifted his head, his thin lips straining to smile. He flipped around the tablet to show his answer.
“Incorrect,” I sighed, disappointed but not surprised.
Everyone gasped. A few cried out with surprise. The ministers backed away from Zazan.
Zazan’s black eyes sparkled. “I know. I was testing you. This is the correct answer.” He wrote again and held out the tablet.
“Indeed it is.” For the first time that morning, I smiled. He was perceptive and clever. And proved to everyone present that I was no pretender, no puppet queen. Despite his foolish risk, I took an instant liking to him.
I pointed to a round-faced minister. “What is your position in court?”
The stout man shuffled forward and cleared his phlegm-filled throat. “I am Fihr, minister of building.” His voice bellowed throughout the throne room.
I lifted one finger. “The dam is in disrepair.” I lifted the second. “There are no new building projects.” My third finger wiggled. “The road to Ma’rib needs widening.” My fourth finger stretched forth. “The fortification wall must be higher.” My littlest finger pointed at him. “Explain your negligence.”
Fihr’s face flamed red, even his ears blazed crimson. “Your excellency, the king . . .” He glanced at Hasan’s head at my feet and cleared his throat again. “Your predecessor refused to finance any of those projects. I cannot fund repairs and improvements without royal approval.” His eyes searched the room for sympathy.
“So you collected a substantial income and held a prestigious title for doing nothing?” I leaned forward, my brows arched with disbelief.
“Ah . . . no . . . I . . . I . . . ah . . . I tried to convince him.” Sweat beaded on Fihr’s forehead.
“How did you try to convince him? What were your arguments?”
Fihr coughed up more phlegm. “I told him the dam had a few leaks.”
I sighed and settled back in the chair. “The kingdom of Saba is the center of the world. Ma’rib is the hub. It ought to be—it will be—a mecca for trade, a place every merchant caravan stops. This brings us all wealth, from the sandal-maker to the amulet-maker to the stonemason to the queen. Ma’rib slept during Hasan’s reign. I awaken it to its full potential. Today. Right now.”
Everyone but the ministers nodded their heads and murmured agreement. I was about to speak again when all voices ceased and every head swiveled to the doorway.
With a measured clack, a white-haired old woman stomped into the throne room.
CHAPTER 23
All eyes fixed on the old woman. Even mine. Her presence commanded that kind of attention. She must have been stunning when younger, her wizened face retaining its elegant refined symmetry. Her green eyes dazzled, and her thick long braid barely restrained her unruly hair. She walked with a cane yet her aggressive stride exposed no limp or discomfort.
The ministers took a collective step away from her.
She thumped her cane on the floor three times. “Bilqīs.”
“Queen Bilqīs.” I refused to be intimidated.
“Queen Bilqīs, how is Ismenie?” Her green eyes glittered with a strange, almost youthful fervor.
My shocked expression must have betrayed me because her lips pursed with smug satisfaction.
“My mother is dead,” I said. “She was murdered by King Hasan’s men. Murdered because an Oracle told Hasan where to find her.”
The old woman banged her cane. “I am that Oracle. I came to your mother after the sandstorm. I delivered the prophecy. I am why you are sitting on the throne.”
And why Momma was dead.
I pressed myself into the throne, willed myself not to leap at her and wring her neck. Instead, my knuckles whitened as my fingers dug into the armrest.
To my right, the guard Ameen tapped tense fingers on the hilt of his sword.
“That’s right, Queen Bilqīs. It was foretold long ago. I am only the deliverer of the truth, not its originator.” The Oracle turned to face the crowd. “You all know me and know I had King Hasan’s trust.” She swung her cane from right to left. “Do not cower from me. And do not cower from your new queen. The Ancients themselves foretold of this woman’s rise to power.” The Oracle pivoted around, elegant as a dancer, her cane making a circle in the air. “She is no mere mortal. Queen Bilqīs is the daughter of a jinni.”
Everyone gasped. The ministers gawked. The servants dropped to their knees.
“I told Hasan a jinni would be his undoing. He sent assassins to kill them.” She turned to me, her green eyes staring into mine as though she read my thoughts. “My visions never included the locations of the jinn he slaughtered.” The Oracle turned back to the crowd and struck her cane against the floor. “This queen is your destiny—your savior from tyranny.”
The Oracle prostrated herself before me.
The others followed suit: every servant, minister, bystander, and guard.
I was queen.
My heart battered double time against my chest.
Yet I had only succeeded in ascending one more step of that steep staircase to legitimacy. Many more loomed before me.
I commanded the ministers to meet me in private to discuss their qualifications should they wish to remain in my service. Next I sent a messenger to summon the Serdar, the general controlling all Sabaean troops.
Finally, I turned to Ameen. “Take me to the harem.”
Eyes strained with confusion, he bobbed his head and in moments led me through the palace.
He stopped at an alabaster framed entrance guarded by two soft-faced men. “I am not permitted inside. Only the eunuchs.” He turned to the tallest. “This is—”
“Our new queen,” trilled a harem guard. “We heard! It’s the talk of Ma’rib.” He pulled open the heavy doors. “These men are not permitted inside.”
“Those were Hasan’s rules. Not mine.” I glanced at Ameen, whose face shone with happiness, then proceeded into the room, my heart warmed by his joy.
A crowd of women gathered around as I entered the harem.
“Is it true? You killed King Hasan?” A hundred shades of beaut
y—ebony, brown, tan, and pale—asked the same questions a hundred different ways.
“Hasan is dead. I am queen,” I reassured them as I made my way through the throng, my eyes seeking one particular face.
“Bilqīs!” Duvsha wiggled her way through the mob. “Praise Almaqah, it’s true!”
She flung her arms around me and we embraced like the oldest of friends.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” I asked.
“He did not molest me, but the women said it was only a matter of time. He fucks everyone.”
I climbed up onto a stool and the women grew hushed. “I have no use for a harem. You may return to your families and husbands.”
Their jubilant shouting swelled my heart with happiness. Some women burst into tears, and others danced. Duvsha’s neighbor dropped to her knees and praised the gods. A pretty young woman raced into Ameen’s arms.
“If you have no one to return to,” I continued, “come to the throne room tomorrow morning and tell me how you would like to serve Saba. Until then, you are free to roam the palace.” I touched my neck. “And I will find the key that unlocks your collars.”
More joyful shouts echoed, the harem alive with a hundred voices speaking at once.
Duvsha fell to her knees and stared up at me with liquid eyes. “My friend…my queen, I didn’t think you would succeed. I thought it impossible.”
I stepped down from the chair. “Your confession disappoints me. I wanted you to be my chief cupbearer, but it seems you have no faith in me.”
Duvsha’s eyes widened. It was an esteemed position, one acclaiming a person’s courage, diligence, and loyalty.
“I will never doubt again.” Duvsha touched her head to the floor. “I swear on my life and the life of my father.”
“Good, your first task is to bring Kepha to the palace.”
“You want Father to make necklaces befitting a queen?”
“I need his counsel.”
“Yes, Bil—your Excellency.” Duvsha looked at me, her warm brown eyes so soft with love that my belly grew warm.
I wondered if her lips tasted as sweet as her adoration. Lust gathered in my nexus, the all too familiar tug of my clit aching to be touched and licked.
Confessions of a Sheba Queen Page 11
