“You can’t leave, your Excellency.” Shani slid her knife beneath the belt on her skirt. “Your reign is too new. Only six months.”
Duvsha arched her eyebrow at Shani’s boldness but continued folding clean linen dresses into a satchel.
Kepha, lounging on a chair, raised his brows.
“Your caution is noted but unnecessary.” My tone was overly stiff. “No one will know I’m gone because you will stand by my doors and tell people I’m catching up on affairs of state. I already made a public appearance. No one will be suspicious.”
“That’s right.” Kepha’s hand hovered over a plate of dates. “I will be here, and all will appear to be business as usual.”
“I don’t like it.” Shani paced the room. “What if a minister finds out you’re gone? They’ll think the worst. The ex-ministers might try to take over.”
“Two days.” I wiggled two fingers. “I was near death for a week.”
Shani’s head wagged back and forth. “But—”
“You overstep.” The problem with fucking one’s bodyguard. “Shani, I’m counting on you to maintain the ruse.”
Duvsha looked up from the satchel. “Are you certain you are fully healed for such a trip?”
“I am completely recovered. Renewed.” I stole a quick glace at Shani, who blushed and dragged her teeth over her lips. “But I’m not leaving until I see the architect.”
I met the architect, a stringy-limbed man with steady gray eyes in a leathery face, in the garden.
“Ah, your Excellency, you bloom with good health. Praise the gods.” He unfurled the papyrus and spread the drawing on the table. “I hope I captured your vision.” His finger traced a thin long line. “This is the one-mile processional road leading to the temple, which will be oriented to the rising sun. It will offer a beautiful vantage.” He smiled proudly. “And the design is such that be it mid-morning or late afternoon, the temple’s glory will always be proclaimed.”
My heart pounded with excitement. I loved his design. Eight gigantic pillars surrounded a peristyle entry gallery that opened into a large oval chamber. Adjacent, he had drawn smaller rooms and sacred spaces.
“This,” the architect tapped an expanse, “is the great hall. Thirty-two towering pillars will surround it. Here, water from the spring you discovered will be pumped to the ceiling, where it will fall like eternal rain into a wide copper basin below.”
“For ritual cleansing.”
“Indeed.” His sun-rumpled face glowed with pride.
“Excellent.” I could have kissed him. Instead I crossed my arms and said, “Tell me more.”
The hour sped by, and with each detail I was more enthralled. It was almost as thrilling as the moment a man’s huge cock first thrusts inside. My cunt grew moist just imagining the temple’s completion.
“This exceeds my expectations,” I said.
The architect sighed with relief. “This copy is for you, your Excellency.”
“Good, I intend to study it.” I folded my hands in my lap. “You have my permission to begin; however, I have one request.”
“Of course.” The architect’s leathery face creased further, his gray eyes hardening as though preparing for some ridiculous queenly demand.
“Hire laborers and craftsmen from Ma’rib first. Pay them a fair wage and make sure they have adequate food, water, and shade.”
The architect looked dumbfounded. “Bondservants are cheaper.”
“They have no vested interest in doing their best work. My temple will not be raised under the rebuke of the whip and cane. If you must have bondservants, pay them the same wage as laborers, and make sure to hire an honest accountant who will record their earnings toward freedom. In addition, each week, I want an accounting of materials, expenses, and problems.”
“Your Excellency, surely the minister of building or the construction manager will handle these trivial annoyances.”
“I expect they could, but a building project of this scope requires vigilant supervision. And who better than the project’s owner?” I smiled at him and he nodded quickly, head bobbing. I stood and rolled up the papyrus.
The architect scrambled to his feet. “I look forward to seeing you on site.”
After dismissing the architect, I strolled back to my chambers, pleased with my decision to surround myself with Saba’s most beautiful plants and trees. A garden courtyard should have more than just statues—I had those of Hasan destroyed.
I passed the stone pool, my one indulgence in the courtyard renovation. I loved to swim. It relaxed me—all those daily little aggravations rinsed away.
“The Oracle wishes to speak to you,” said Ameen as I approached the vestibule. He jutted his angular chin toward the gallery.
The Oracle sat on a carved bench, her head bowed, her hands clasped in her lap. It was an overly contrite pose meant to arouse pity. I was not fooled. I did not trust a hair on that woman’s head.
“Let her pass,” I said.
The Oracle approached, her cane clicking in rhythm with her steps. Her brows shot up to her white hairline. “Your Excellency is the picture of health and beauty.” Her voice splintered with amazement.
“Thank you.” I gave her a warm false smile. “To what do I owe your unexpected visit?”
The Oracle leaned on her cane, wrinkled hands stacked atop each other. She swayed back and forth. “I had a vision while you lay under the spell of the poison.”
I stared dumfounded into her green eyes. Spell? Was she implying the poison was some kind of witchery by the Magus? If not him, then a foreign magician?
I looked down at my hands, which were balled tight, then quickly pressed my fingertips together into a more docile gesture. “I’m listening.”
“The vision came from Hawbas,” said the Oracle.
This was surprising.
“Is Hawbas your preferred god?” Despite the female goddess having only a few tiny temples in Ma’rib and a mere scattering throughout the kingdom, some claimed her powers equaled Almaqah’s.
“All the gods speak to me. Hawbas is their tongue. She is the one that whispers in my ear or, as you witnessed, frenzies my body into a vision.” The Oracle tapped her cane on the stone. “She showed me a beautiful palace. Not this one. Nor any palace in Saba. It was the most grand palace in the world.”
My fingertips tapped against themselves with annoyed impatience. I did not care for her vision.
“This palace is far away. A journey of many months.”
“In which direction?”
The Oracle shrugged. “The gods do not provide details . . . as you well know. They only showed me a wondrous palace inhabited by a king so formidable even jinn do his bidding.”
I doubted that. No jinni would submit to a human’s commands. This was clearly the Oracle’s excuse to see me and confirm my recovery. “Go on.” I might as well let her continue the farce.
“You and this king will meet.” The Oracle lifted her cane into the air. “Ten thousand years later they will still write about this meeting.” She lowered the stick and waited for my reply.
“Hawbas speaks in riddles.”
The Oracle’s green eyes flamed bright. “Yes, yes. That too.” She thumped the cane. “Riddles. She spoke of riddles.”
Now I knew she was making it all up. “Thank you,” I said, like a mother whose small child insisted that the rock in her hand was a precious gem.
The Oracle bowed her head. I should have respected the Oracle, after all she had prophesized my reign, but something about her felt like smoldering embers in my belly.
I returned to my chambers and waited for darkness to drape over the land.
“It was easier to get into the palace as a commoner than it is to leave as a queen,” I said, lying down at the edge of a large woven rug.
Duvsha handed me a long hollow reed. “Ready?”
I stuck it in my mouth.
With my nod, she rolled me up inside the rug.
Wrapped like a dead person, my wor
ld grew dark, muffled, and cramped. In an odd way, it brought perspective to the task that lay ahead.
I heard voices but not words. It didn’t matter. I knew what Duvsha was saying. Get a servant to help carry this old rug to the kitchen. The queen no longer wants it.
A few minutes later I was lifted up and carried from the room. I tried to let my body go limp. Dust tickled my nose. I tensed, stifled a sneeze, my body shuddering. The reed fell from of my mouth. I panicked. Inhaled dirt—not air. I couldn’t breathe!
The trip across the palace to the kitchen took forever. Were they crawling? I would suffocate before they got there. I cursed them. Cursed myself for my stupid idea. My head tingled, felt weightless . . .
A sphere of light appeared. I blinked as it flickered. Duvsha’s narrow face lowered over me.
“Your Excellency?”
I gasped, inhaling a sky full of air. The chef’s face appeared next to Duvsha’s. One of them pushed a cup into my hands.
“We had to wait until the guards left,” explained Duvsha as I drank.
“I understand.” I grabbed Duvsha’s hand and she hoisted me up.
“Ready for the next part of your escape?” asked Duvsha.
The chef handed me a blanket. “Why am I party to this, your Excellency?”
I gave the chef a withering look before wrapping my body and covering my head with an old shawl.
“Lead the way,” I told the chef.
He took us out the back door, past the large washing basins, through the herb garden, and into the back of the stables.
Twenty guards waited by camels loaded with supplies.
“You could just kill me here,” said the chef. “Why take me all the way out to the desert?”
“Nobody is killing you,” said Duvsha. “The queen does not think you poisoned her.”
In moments we were plodding though the dark Ma’rib streets. Only six months ago I had crept toward the palace with murder on my mind. It felt like a lifetime ago.
Now Ma’rib was thriving. Townsfolk added another story to their homes. Shops stayed open late. People had money to spend.
No one looked twice at our little caravan. My heart swelled with pride. Business did not sleep. Ma’rib was on its way to becoming a bustling trade town.
We passed through the town gates into a crowded staging area created to accommodate merchant caravans. Faiza, the minister of trade, stood on a tall pedestal issuing orders and stamping her foot. She was the perfect blend of vision and caution, her inventive methods propelling us into economic growth with the speed and accuracy of an expert archer’s arrow.
Once we cleared the staging area and the camps of nomads and shepherds, the captain came alongside me. “Where are we going, your Excellency?”
CHAPTER 33
Momma needed a proper burial. It was long overdue. I told the captain the name of the village. He had never heard of it. Of course not. It was one of hundreds of tiny villages nestled in a nameless mountainside. A village of no significance. A tranquil village of humble, mostly honest folk. A place for a momma jinni to hide and rear her only daughter.
After passing Ma’rib’s cemetery, I slid the scarf off my head and summoned the chef.
He reminded me of a scarab beetle, his torso thick, his limbs thin, and his walk scuttling.
“Your Excellency. I swear on my life, I did not poison you.”
“I believe you. Tell me what happened that day. Leave out no detail.”
“I prepared the food as always. The same farmers delivered the rarer ingredients.”
“How long have you known them?”
The chef scratched his bald black head. “Years? I do not recall. Some are old friends, others friends of friends. They are honest men.”
Honest people murder. I counted myself in their number.
“I choose your ingredients first. You get the best, the choicest cut, the ripest, the most perfect looking. And . . .” The chef smacked his hand on his leg. “The flour!” He turned to me, eyes wide and white.
“What about it?”
“I could have sworn the flour jar was almost empty the night before. But when I arrived the next morning it was full. I assumed my assistant had ground more wheat. That’s part of her job, after all.” The chef slapped his leg again. “Don’t you see, your Excellency? The empty flour jar was yours. I keep yours separate, because you get only the best.”
Making it a lot easier for someone to poison just me.
“Who has access to the kitchen?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.
“Everyone. Well, not everyone, but anybody who lives or works in the palace. I leave water and bread on a table for the guards and servants.” The chef’s head sunk into his shoulders as though ready to receive a blow. “Forgive me, I never asked your permission.”
I cringed. Water and bread. Such a tiny handout for the people who served me. “Permission granted.”
Exhaling with relief, the chef’s head emerged from his squat body.
“What do you do with extra food?” I asked.
“Only a bad cook has extra.”
“There must be some leftovers. What do you do with the uneaten food?”
The chef’s head began its descent back into his shoulders. “I give it to the priests of Athtar’s temple. They give it to the needy.”
“Palace food is given to the poor?”
“I beg forgiveness, your Excellency. I could not let good food go to waste.”
“When we return to Ma’rib I want you to deliver two meals a day to Athtar’s temple.” The chef, scarab beetle though he was, could not have poisoned me or had any knowledge of the plot, he was too kindhearted.
The chef’s eyes lit up. “You are merciful, your Excellency.”
“Ma’rib is too wealthy to let anyone go hungry.”
I might not have gotten any new clues about who poisoned me, but the chef now had my full trust.
The road home was the same. I was not.
Revenge had been my purpose. Rage my weapon. That girl was gone. A queen rose in her place. A queen who vowed to find Momma’s murderers and bring them to justice. I doubted it would be fair. Those five men did not deserve fair justice. They deserved the most horribly painful death I could imagine. And I would find them.
Our caravan traveled through the night, not stopping until the afternoon desert sun forced us to rest in a grove of sidr trees. We were preparing to leave, the last satchel slung over a camel, when several guards pointed and readied their bows.
Nasreen emerged from a thicket dragging an ibex leg between her jaws.
“Stop! It’s Nasreen.” I held up my hand. “You naughty girl, why didn’t you stay at the palace?”
“She’s like her mother,” said Duvsha. “She escapes the palace under everyone’s noses.”
“Come here,” I said, but Nasreen would not let go of her ibex leg. “Well finish it fast and catch up. The Queen of Saba does not wait on her leopard cub.”
Many miles later, I glanced behind me and saw Nasreen hanging well behind our caravan. She had a wild cat’s taste for fresh meat but a domesticated preference for soft pillows and cool marble floors.
Surrounded by my soldiers, I indulged in a luxury I could not before. I had been too exhausted, hungry, and worried for my life to appreciate the awesome majesty of the countryside when I had traveled to Ma’rib.
It was my land now. I vowed to be a good steward. To not just appreciate, but revere the mountains of barking hyenas, plateaus of silent vultures, wadis of slithering vipers, and footpaths of scuttling scorpions. I was a temporary caretaker to a vast multitude of people, my edicts effecting their lives, loves, and professions. Heady stuff. A weight on my shoulders. One I was determined would strengthen me.
“One day we will travel all over Saba in a grand caravan to meet all my people,” I said to Duvsha. “I will not hide in the palace for fear they say something I don’t want to hear.”
“I cannot imagine you’re afraid of
anything,” said Duvsha.
“Good,” I laughed. “That’s what I want everyone to believe.”
I did have fears. I feared I would never find the murderers or Momma’s head. I feared my ideas would fail, that my vision for trade dominance was too lofty, that the ex-ministers would murder me, that I would become so arrogant I would lose my way.
Eventually the stars winked out and the sun spread its rosy fingertips across the sky. We continued on, passing the home where I had bought the camel and sucked the cock of a grateful young camel seller. He watched our entourage pass. He had grown into his features and become a handsome and prosperous man. Beside him stood his pretty wife.
We passed the road leading to the village where I had asked the prostitutes about the five murderers.
“Almost there,” I said. “I will lead.” I rode ahead.
My heart beating in my throat, I took the wide path that wended around rock outcroppings, boulders, acacia, patches of wild leeks, and clusters of coffee-berry bushes.
What would I find? Did I dare hope Momma’s jinn spirit had somehow brought her back to life? That her smokeless fire resurrected her and regenerated a new head?
The house came into view, its mud-brick walls and palm-tree leaf roof in need of repair, a mound of leaves and dirt blown against the peeling front door. The garden had gone to weed. Mounds of both petrified and fresh wolf scat littered the area.
Silent tears ran down my cheeks. Had the wolves got in? Was Momma’s dismembered body gnawed on by a wolf pack?
Without waiting for the soldiers to check the area, I rushed into the house. A thick layer of dust covered every surface. Even the blanket I had rolled up Momma in.
“Praise be, Almaqah,” I whispered and kneeled on the floor by Momma’s wrapped body.
“Why are we here?” asked Duvsha.
“Momma needs a proper burial.” I wiped my wet cheeks. “Or as proper as it can be without her head.”
The priests surrounded the makeshift shroud.
“May I?” The high priest touched the blanket.
The priests removed the blanket and gasped.
Momma’s body was preserved. No foul odor, no bugs, no rodent gnaw marks. Only the faint whiff of charred wood lingered from the desiccated torso and limbs, the severed ends varnished with an earth-red dry glaze.
Confessions of a Sheba Queen Page 16
