by D. J. Niko
She ran a hand slowly across the warm water, watching the ripples it created. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of myrrh and frankincense released by the gentle agitation. It was the perfume of her identity, the fragrance she had come to associate with blithe days at the palace and sultry nights at the banks of the Nile.
So it had come: the day of her betrothal. It wasn’t how she imagined it as a girl or how she plotted it as a woman. Her own designs, secure in her mind until that day, were crumbling like mud bricks in the khamsin.
The wife of a king. She repeated the phrase in her mind, hoping it would take on weight. Though it was what she’d always wanted and worked fiercely to earn despite her marginal rank in the royal lineage, she was nauseated at the thought of marrying a king of slave stock. It was utter irony. All those years of making herself desirable to the man she was certain would succeed her father were now for naught. The prospect of being crowned an Egyptian queen had been yanked from her.
“My lady.” The soft voice of her bath attendant was a bell in the tortured silence. “It is time.”
Nicaule closed her eyes and sighed. It is time. She stood and watched the water stream down her dark body. She let the attendant wrap her in a shroud of linen and lead her to the marble slab for the perfume ritual.
The girl removed the linen from Nicaule’s shoulders and draped it on the marble. Still damp from the bath, Nicaule lay upon it, offering the attendant her naked backside. She felt the girl’s velvet hands upon her back, rubbing into her skin with long, rhythmic strokes a potion of crushed rose petals, cinnamon, and myrrh blended with rare balanos oil. The spiced floral fragrance, made to her specifications by the court perfumer, had become her signature: exquisite with an ever-so-subtle bite.
When the ritual was complete, Nicaule slipped into a fresh linen wrap and walked into an adjacent dressing room, where her lady-in-waiting, Irisi, had readied the evening’s attire: a floor-length, fitted coral linen sheath embroidered with a honeycomb pattern, a sheer, pleated cape dyed the same color, and a long blue sash to tie around her slim waist.
Irisi bowed. “My lady.”
Nicaule placed a gentle hand under Irisi’s chin and lifted her head. When their gazes met, Nicaule smiled. Though bowing was a court formality, it was not necessary between friends. Nicaule stood in a well-lit spot between two oil lamps and let her wrap fall to the floor. She drew a deep breath as her lady-in-waiting fastened a loincloth between her legs.
“Did you deliver what I asked?” Her voice betrayed her anxiety.
Irisi looked up with sparkling brown eyes. Though she was ten years Nicaule’s senior, she had a youthful gaze and the spirit of a swallow, with a diminutive stature to match. “It has been done, my lady. Written on a square of papyrus as you commanded and delivered unto his hand.”
She exhaled. “How good that my lady-in-waiting is also the finest scribe in Lower Egypt.”
Irisi helped Nicaule step into her sheath and adjusted the seams to follow the curves of her body. The linen felt snug against her, like a second skin. She lifted her arms and let Irisi wrap the blue horsehair sash twice around her waist and knot it so the loose ends draped to her ankles.
“His reply came but a moment ago,” Irisi said.
“So quickly?”
“A man in love does not waste time.”
She sat in a chair next to the cosmetics box. Her heart raced. “Do not torture me with this anticipation. I must know what he said.”
Irisi smiled sideways as she opened the cosmetics box and placed some galena and malachite powder onto her palette. She reached into her bosom and pulled out a roll of papyrus. “Read for yourself.”
Nicaule snatched the paper from her hands and unfurled it. She read aloud. “‘My beloved, my heart cries at the thought of your absence. Life without you will be like a rose without perfume. I must see you one last time before you go. Look for my signal.’” She clutched the note to her chest and sighed. “Oh, Irisi. How can my father be so cruel?”
Irisi applied galena around Nicaule’s eyes using an ivory stick. “Men have their own plans, my lady. What is love when empires are at stake? What meaning has a woman’s passion when there are roads to be built and rivers to be harnessed?” She smirked. “We are bargaining chips to help them win their game.”
Nicaule closed her eyes so Irisi could apply the crushed malachite paste onto her eyelids. “How is it you are so wise?”
“I have lived longer than you. I have seen firsthand the betrayal of men. They can’t be loyal to each other, let alone their women.”
Nicaule understood the reference. Ten years ago, on the eve of Irisi’s nineteenth year, Irisi had witnessed the slaughter of her husband, the royal scribe Ptah. She had told the story with such vivid detail that Nicaule felt as if she, too, had been there as Pharaoh Siamun’s mercenary drove a knife into Ptah’s throat for falsifying a document detailing the pharaoh’s conquests. As Irisi told it, Ptah had done so at Siamun’s behest and was eliminated lest anyone discover the truth.
She opened her eyes and parted her lips for the application of red ochre paste.
Irisi daubed the paste lightly and took a step back. “My lady, you look like a dream. I hope this king knows what treasure he has been granted.”
“He’s a savage. He knows nothing.” She tossed back the glossy black ribbons of her wig. “I suppose we ought to get this charade done. My jewelry.”
Irisi slipped a gold cuff around each of Nicaule’s wrists and fastened a delicate necklace of colored glass around her neck. As a final touch, she tied a ribbon into her hair, securing it at the crown with a lapis scarab pin.
“Finished,” she said.
Nicaule slipped the cape over her shoulders. She squeezed her friend’s hands and gave her a look of solidarity. “Do not wait for me tonight.”
All the faces, even the most familiar ones, looked strange to Nicaule. It was as if she had drunk too much wine and seen them through the distorted filter of inebriation. They had gathered to wish her well, to celebrate the new union. Yet she could feel their eyes throwing darts of pity in her direction even as their lips wished her good fortune. Hypocrites, every one.
She glanced at her father, seated to her right, from the corner of her eye. He had stuffed himself with food and drink and looked rather content upon his bejeweled eagle throne. Why wouldn’t he? He had all he wished for: a strong ally in the Near East, an unobstructed road to Mesopotamia, silver and gold to line his coffers, and disposable foreign men to build his city.
No matter that he had bargained her happiness.
The pharaoh stood and raised his hands, and the crowd fell silent. “Today we celebrate the betrothal of two young people and the union of two nations. Egypt and Israel will soon be bound by royal blood.” He turned to Nicaule and offered her his left hand. “My beautiful daughter Nicaule Tashere has been chosen by Solomon, King of Israel, to be his queen.” He offered Solomon his right hand. “May Amun-Ra bestow his favor on this union.” As the crowd cheered, he brought the two palms together.
Nicaule’s knees felt shaky as she touched Solomon for the first time and looked in his eyes. His hand was soft and supple, as if he had never known conflict or held a weapon. There was not a shade of doubt in the almond-shaped eyes that held her gaze with an unexpected intensity. This was a man who knew what he wanted—and was accustomed to obtaining it. But not everything could be bargained for like a mound of spices.
She broke away from his stare, shifting her gaze downward. To him, it might have looked demure. To her, it was an act of defiance.
“Let there be music,” Psusennes bellowed.
The musicians plucked at their stringed instruments, filling the room with the ethereal notes of harps and citharas as everyone reclaimed their seats.
The pharaoh leaned down and spoke to Nicaule, his voice just above a whisper. “You will soon be a queen, my daughter. Do not take your role lightly, for much rides upon it. A prosperous and peaceful alliance b
etween two nations depends on you being a good and dutiful wife . . . and mother.”
She exhaled a trembling breath. The thought of having a child with him . . .
“You must not let Egypt down,” he continued. “Do you understand?”
She felt the color drain from her face. “Yes, Father.”
He gave her a superficial smile and sat back on his chair.
Nicaule cast a few furtive glances around the room, hoping to capture the eye of her beloved. She knew he was there, among the crowd; being absent from a celebration such as this would be an egregious breach of protocol. Yet she had not seen him since the festivities had begun. She imagined how he must have felt seeing her with the man she was to marry. His warrior nature bristled over far lesser offenses. Faced with the inevitability of this marriage, which was beyond the control of either of them, he would’ve been boiling with rage.
In her peripheral vision she saw someone standing between the arches at the edge of the room. She turned her head slowly and was rewarded by the sight of him. He stood in the shadows of the stone arcade, a hand over the mace tied to his waist. His gaze met hers for a moment, and arousal flooded her body like a rushing river. Her heart beat so loudly she was certain her father could hear it. She turned away and consciously assumed a look of nonchalance, an exercise of discipline she had gotten quite good at. By the time she glanced back at the arched passageway a few seconds later, he was gone.
Look for my signal.
She felt her cheeks flush. Thoughts of him embracing her were wild stallions that could not be tamed. She signaled to one of the attendants to fan her with a palm frond. The air calmed her and set her mind to plotting her exit.
The pharaoh was engrossed in a conversation with Solomon, his tongue loosened by the free-flowing wine. The Israelite monarch listened more than talked, probably unable to wedge a word into Psusennes’ bombastic monologue. She was certain her father was oblivious to her agitation. About Solomon she could not be sure. The young king’s eyes were never fixed upon one object or subject for too long. He observed everything in a quiet manner that made her uncomfortable. She preferred it when men of power ignored women and left them to tend their webs.
She absently regarded the crowd. How empty their gazes! The depth of their engagement centered on gossip and consumption. She pitied them not being in love. Her own cause was far loftier and thus justified her absence, she told herself.
Nicaule placed a hand on her stomach and doubled over in her chair. A murmur fell over the crowd as two ladies-in-waiting rushed to her side.
“She is stricken with nerves,” she heard her father say. “Such is the constitution of women.”
She sat up slowly. “Father, I am unwell. Will you grant me permission to retire?”
Psusennes nodded and waved her off. She bowed to him and her future husband, avoiding his gaze, and let the servants lead her out of the room.
Irisi was in Nicaule’s bedchamber, laying out the clothes and personal items for the next day’s journey. The bed was decorated with a woven linen and silk shawl, created by Nicaule’s mother and female kin for the wedding day. The room was crowded with white roses and lotus flowers, papyrus brooms, and cornflower. The latter, an import from the Near East, symbolized the union between the two cultures.
“My lady,” Irisi said in surprise. “But it is so early.”
Nicaule ran to her. The two women grasped each other’s elbows and touched foreheads. “He waits for me, Irisi. I must go to him.”
“It is risky . . .”
“You must help me.” She took off her wig and offered Irisi her back, speaking over her shoulder. “Remove my clothes and jewelry, and change it with yours. Then paint my face like yours and give me your wig.”
“My lady . . .”
“Make haste. His voice in my ear is a sweet torment. I am sick with love.”
She could feel Irisi’s trembling hands as she unfastened the necklace and peeled off her clothes one by one. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged animal struggling to escape. Her plan was fraught with hazard, but it was her last chance—and nothing could keep her from taking it.
Grateful for the indigo night that kept her hidden, Nicaule skulked down the steps of the palace mound and plunged into the shadows of the city that lay beyond the thicket of palms. Breathless, she looked over her shoulder periodically to make sure she wasn’t followed.
His house was the one closest to the palace, indicating his status as protector of the pharaoh and his great city. She pushed the door slightly open and slipped in.
He started when he saw her. She was pleased her disguise was so effective that even he didn’t recognize her.
“Shoshenq,” she whispered. “It is I.”
He picked up an oil lamp and walked slowly to her. He held its light next to her face and looked into her eyes. A golden halo surrounded him, illuminating his smoothly shaven head and the well-defined muscles of his bare chest and arms. He placed the lamp on a shelf and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. A faint whimper escaped from her lips.
“I should not be here,” she said. “If they find us, you will be banished from the kingdom and all your dreams will crumble to dust.”
“My dream stands before me.” His voice was hard but lustrous, like a rare pearl. He dropped to one knee and took her hands in his. “I would sacrifice a thousand chances at the throne to have this night.” He gently pulled her hands down.
Nicaule kneeled in front of Shoshenq, their faces a palm’s width apart. Emotion strangled her throat. She could only stare at the cinnamon-colored face that was so perfectly proportioned it seemed hewn by a mason and the kohl-smudged ebony eyes, slanted like a cat’s and burning with the ferocity of a jungle beast, hinting at a violent nature that both terrified and excited her.
“Such a beautiful, rare flower.” He inhaled deeply. “Your perfume would draw a thousand bees, yet you belong to me.”
She guided his right hand to her bosom. “My heart beats for you only. Know this, even when we are apart.”
His gaze hardened, and he spoke behind clenched teeth. “I curse this king who takes you from me.”
She touched his cheek lightly and let the tips of her fingers move across his bottom lip and down his neck. She watched the mighty commander of the army, the man who had crushed his enemies with his hands and who had led thousands of warriors to battle, surrender to her touch. The power she held over him surged through her body.
“The king of Israel will never know my heart. He cannot take what I do not give him. Your soul and mine are forever tied, now unto the afterlife.”
He moved closer, his breath warm and sweet. “If it takes all my years and all my strength, one day I will come for you. This I promise.”
She knew he meant it. Shoshenq was a simple man whose words were few but potent as an iron spear. It was the way of his ancestors, the great chiefs of the Ma, who wandered the desert from Libya to Egypt. The blood of nomad warriors coursed through his veins, making him impervious to hardship and rabid to make those who challenged his honor kneel before him.
“Come for me a king,” she said. “This is the path that has been laid before you. Do not be swayed from it.” She leaned into his ear and whispered, “I will wait for you even unto my old age.”
His strong hand embraced her waist and traveled up her spine to her bare shoulder blades. His touch made her tremble. She kissed the side of his neck and his ear. When a soft moan left his throat, she grazed his skin with her teeth.
He turned his face to meet hers, and their lips touched. Nicaule crumbled in his arms, giving him the signal that she was his, body and soul. Her pulse pounded violently in her temples and ears, robbing her of all rational thought. Even if she had to pay for this moment with her life, she was prepared to do it.
She parted her lips and let him taste her tongue. His breath rose and fell like waves in a raging sea. She whispered into his mouth, “Plant your seed in me.”
He stood and lifted her up, sweeping her with one swift motion into his arms. He snuffed the lamplight with his fingers and carried her into the darkness.
9
The stones of Nicaule’s betrothal house closed in around her, suffocating her with the stench of wet earth and animal manure. It was the house of Solomon’s mother, Bathsheba, vacant since her death the year prior and now appointed to the woman who would soon be the king’s wife.
Nicaule had been there almost four weeks, waiting in isolation as Solomon readied the wedding canopy at his father’s house. Though they were betrothed, they had not seen or spoken to each other since the king’s retinue, with his prize in tow, returned to Israel. It suited her just fine. She did not care to parade herself around Jerusalem, the detestable city of Judahite kings, nor to have the Hebrews gawk at her and whisper over each other’s shoulders, “There walks the foreigner King Solomon bought.”
She looked down upon her bare arm and stroked it with her fingertips. Her skin was soft as a dove’s feathers, dark as the red clay of her beloved Nile. She was so different from these people, who gulped wine and tore their meat like animals. Coarse swine. Living among them for the rest of her days felt like a punishment, even if they would call her queen.
Any time now he would come for her. Word had arrived the night before through Solomon’s emissary, Azariah, a son of Zadok the priest, that the king was ready for the marriage ceremony. She was to bathe and perfume herself, dress in her finest white clothing, veil her head, and wait. She would know of his imminent approach when the horn sounded.
She drew a deep breath. How would she lie with this man for seven days knowing her beloved longed for her on the other side of the Sea of Reeds? The distance between her and Shoshenq seemed impossible to bridge. She had departed Egypt only weeks ago, but already her former life seemed like faded letters on a forgotten papyrus.
