by D. J. Niko
The crowd, a sea stretching from the courtyard of the temple down the mountainside and into the cobbled alleys of the city, cheered with one voice. Trumpets sounded, then drums and cymbals, overtaking the joyous cries of the people. Then they approached, one by one, delivering their young sheep and oxen to the priests, their tribute for the blessing of their souls.
Zadok watched as the priests slashed the living things’ throats, delivering a quick death. The sheep were stripped of their skins and the oxen of their horns, then washed dutifully in the lavers and delivered up to the altar of fire. This went on until night fell, such was the number of sacrifices.
As smoke from the dancing pyre billowed upward, the storm cloud parted and revealed a ribbon of clear sky. Zadok recognized the omen. He thought of his father, and of his father’s father, and every one of his ancestors since the day of Aaron, and he recalled the old stories. When the animals were sacrificed by the old tabernacle, it was said, fire came down from the sky and consumed the offering, and the people gasped at the spectacle and fell prostrate to the ground. The Lord revealed his power in such a manner—in the fire rushing forth from heaven, in the parting of the clouds—when he sensed harmony among the people and goodness in their hearts.
But when the opposite was true, the consequences were dire. Just as Aaron and his brother Moses were not permitted to enter the promised land after all the years of wandering in the desert, for a reason no better than taking with the hand of man what should have been granted by divine power, even the slightest missteps were punished. The Law was a knife-edge and keeping it a precarious balance. There was not a man in history who had maintained it without feeling the sharp sting of the blade of justice.
For now, at least, the Lord was pleased and had said so to Solomon the night before. Zadok recalled the private meeting with the king on the eve of the dedication.
“The Lord has spoken to me, Zadok,” Solomon had said. “He came to me in a dream and said, ‘I have hallowed this house, which you have built, and have placed my name upon it, and there I shall walk among you forever.’”
“He is pleased, then,” Zadok replied. “My heart rejoices at this news.”
“Yes.” Solomon looked away. “But there was a warning. The Lord said, ‘If you walk upright before me, as David your father did, your kingdom over Israel shall be established forever. Just as I promised your father, no man from your house shall fail you upon the throne of Israel. But should you or your children falter, should you break my commandments or serve other gods, I will strike down Israel and cast out of my sight the house which I have hallowed. This land I have given to these people will be barren and bleak and vulnerable to enemies. And this house in which I once dwelled will crumble to ruin and cause those who pass by it to shudder and hiss. And Israel, once great, will be a proverb and a byword among all people.’”
“It is a warning not to be taken lightly, my lord.”
“Eleven years I have sat upon this throne, Zadok. Twice the Lord has come to me. I know the gravity of his warnings. I shall not falter.”
“It is a lot to ask of one man: to walk upright that an entire nation will not suffer.”
Solomon pressed his lips together. “Trust in your king.”
Now, Zadok watched as David’s favored son held court over tens of thousands. The ignorant youth the priest had anointed into kingship had grown into a man so strong, competent, and confident that the people of Israel loved to linger in his shadow. His every word was water for the thirsty, his every deed a ray of light in the darkness.
Israel, it seemed, had finally been granted the leader who would guide it into the future it deserved.
13
For seven days and seven nights the Israelites came to the top of Mount Moriah, dragging their bleating animals to the courtyard of the temple, where they would meet the most honorable death. The smoke of the altar of sacrifice was profuse, and the entire city smelled of roasting animal flesh.
For those seven days, the people did not work. It was a time of rest and reflection, a time to honor their Lord Yahweh. Every day they offered prayers at the temple, and the priests delivered their blessings to the troubled, old, and infirm. Zadok marveled at the solemnity and sincerity of the worshippers. It seemed as if, by its very existence, the temple had stricken fear in their hearts. Now that there was a magnificent house to contain the divine presence, Yahweh seemed more real to the people, who believed he dwelled within the perfectly hewn ashlars and gold-covered walls. In all Zadok’s years it had been the same: the people professed their faith, but secretly they needed proof—a sign from heaven—to truly believe.
By night, every citizen was invited to the courtyard of Solomon’s palace, the chambers of which were, for years now, a work in progress. The people came and went, partaking of the plentiful food and drink and music.
On the seventh night, when the temple dedications subsided, Zadok and the Levites joined the celebrations. The courtyard, which measured forty cubits on one side and twenty on the other and housed a garden in miniature, was buzzing with murmurs and bursts of laughter that drowned the incessant song of the psalteries and harps. A fire in a stone pit at the center cast a glow like molten bronze on the happy faces.
As Zadok made his way to the far side of the courtyard, the crowd parted and the revelers bowed. Some rushed forth to kiss his hand. He waved a hand over their bent heads, conferring his favor upon them.
A raised platform within the pillared arcade at the edge of the courtyard was the domain of the king. Torches burned in a wide circle around the royal seat, creating a barrier of fire. Within the ring of flames, on the highest point of the platform, sat Solomon. To his left were his Egyptian wife, Nicaule, and their eldest daughter, Basemath, now four. The king’s right was open for his advisors, who came and went during the course of the evening. At the moment, it was occupied by the captain of the host.
Zadok paused for a moment and watched from a distance. Despite the excitement of the festivities, Nicaule looked disengaged and perhaps a bit sad. It had been three years since her loss, but she was still mourning. Even her aloof Egyptian nature did not bolster her when she found out her son, born less than a year after Basemath, had been strangled by the umbilical cord inside her womb. The boy was a terrible shade of blue when he was delivered. All the doctors in the kingdom had tried to save him, but it was too late.
Nicaule had displayed more emotion on that day than Zadok had ever thought her capable of. Her howls had sounded across the City of David, desperate pleas to the gods who had sealed her fortune. Though Zadok had not trusted her in all the years he’d known her, it was hard not to sympathize with her anguish. For any parent it was difficult to lose a child, but losing a son was a grave blow—especially to the wife of a king.
On the night of feasting, Solomon seemed oblivious to her temperament as he was deep in conversation with Benaiah. When he noticed Zadok, he waved the high priest over.
Zadok approached, noting the king’s pinched brow beneath his crown. In a day of celebration, he looked worried. Solomon and Benaiah bowed at him, and he returned the gesture.
“Benaiah has just informed me of old enemies stirring against us,” Solomon said. “Hadad the Edomite lives.”
Zadok tilted his head. Had he heard correctly? “That cannot be. His entire family was slaughtered years ago by order of your father.”
“I was there,” Benaiah said. “I saw the treacherous lot of them fall to Joab’s sword. We left them all lying in their blood. There was no escape from their wounds.”
“And yet, by some miracle, Hadad survived.” Solomon glanced over his shoulder at his wife and daughter. He lowered his voice. “He had been hiding in Egypt under protection of the pharaoh Siamun. He was but a child then. The pharaoh brought him up in the Egyptian way and made him a lieutenant in his army. He even gave him the queen’s sister to wife. When Siamun died, he remained in the court of Psusennes, rising in the military ranks. All these years, this was unbekno
wnst to me.”
“What became of him?” Zadok asked.
“He has resettled in Edom. It is said he is organizing his return to the throne.” Benaiah placed a hand on thekhopesh tied to his waist and turned to Solomon. “The army awaits your word, my lord. We will fall on him if that is what you command.”
Solomon stroked his beard. “No. He is an ally of Egypt. We cannot risk angering the pharaoh.” He shifted his gaze to his left, then back to his advisors. “I have another plan.”
Benaiah bowed. Zadok stared at the king, certain of his intention. In the priest’s mind, it was folly. “My lord, when all is revealed, people of the same fabric band together. Do not forget this.”
The king waved a hand. “You may take your leave.”
The two men backed away from the throne. Zadok knew Solomon’s heart well enough to understand he had to be silent on the matter.
Nicaule stood between the beds of her two daughters, who slumbered peacefully in nests of white linen. What bliss to be so oblivious to the pain harbored in hearts, to the slow bleed of long-open wounds.
Taphath, her youngest, was still suckling; Basemath had turned four just two weeks before, but her birthday was lost in the tumult of preparations for the dedication of Solomon’s temple. Such oversights had ceased to matter to Nicaule. After she lost her son, the boy she had planned to one day present to Shoshenq as his seed and heir, she felt as if someone had taken an iron bar to her knees, paralyzing her. It wasn’t so much the loss of the child—such things happened—but rather the erasure of the possibility to claim any part of the Egyptian throne. If fate did not allow her to be queen of her homeland, she was determined to wrestle down destiny by giving birth to a future pharaoh.
Even that did not work in her favor.
Her thoughts traveled back to that wretched day. Her labor pains had come in the middle of the night—a sure omen of trouble—more violently than she had experienced with her firstborn. Unable to leave her bed, she called for her nurse. For reasons still unknown to her, the nurse was not nearby.
Because Nicaule lived in her own palace, outside the walled city, no one answered her cries of agony until daybreak, when the servants began work. By then she was shivering and spent and scarcely had the energy to push.
She would never forget the pain during the hours that followed. Drenched in sweat and feeling as if she’d been stabbed in the loins, she labored to deliver the child, whose shoulder was presented instead of his head. She recalled wailing through clenched teeth and gathering the bed linens in her fists as the nurse shouted, “Push hard, my lady. This child is the size of a wild boar.”
When at last the head came out, she heard the nurse gasp. Too weak to realize she had not heard the baby cry, Nicaule only asked, “Is it a boy?”
The nurse ignored the question and called to one of the servants: “Get the physician. Hurry!”
Nicaule felt cold and pale. She knew she had lost a lot of blood. Her voice barely audible, she repeated, “Is it a boy?”
Again, no answer. The physician, the Levite Berechiah, threw the door open and did not bother to close it. She realized something was wrong and struggled to prop herself onto her elbows. The effort exhausted her. Berechiah bending over a sickeningly blue boy was the last thing she saw before passing out.
Had the nurse come sooner, the child might have been saved. Having her banished from the kingdom was the least Nicaule could do in the aftermath, but it wasn’t going to bring her son back.
Three years later, the thought still haunted her. Though she had valiantly tried after the death to bear another son, she was rewarded with another daughter. She cursed her misfortune, whose cruelty was compounded by the fact that Shoshenq had long since ceased to communicate with her.
She’d read in a palace missive that a son had been born to him and his Meshwesh wife—another blow, and one from which she could not recover. Her dream had all but faded.
She left the children’s room and walked the familiar paces to Solomon’s chamber. She had counted the steps—six hundred sixty-six—to amuse herself during the twice-weekly march to pleasure her husband. He never went to her, as a matter of protocol. She felt a new pang of longing to be among her own people, where women were revered and walked hundreds of paces by choice, not by obligation. She shook it off. These days, she did not allow such thoughts to linger. She had willed an internal sea change, for it was the only way she could stomach her fate.
Two hundred twenty-one.
Like the leopards of the riverine forest, she watched from a high branch, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Women like her did not forget. It might take years before she could exact her revenge, but the day would no doubt come that the thief of her freedom would pay. And he would never see it coming.
Three hundred twelve.
The memory of her lover grew ever distant. It had been nearly six years since she’d left Egypt. Did Shoshenq think of her? Did he still long for the throne? Did he remember his promise to her on that autumn midnight when the harvest moon cast its shimmer over the Nile?
She had made a promise of her own. “The king of Israel will never know my heart,” she’d told him. Though the notion of reuniting with her beloved seemed hopelessly remote, she held true to her promise and always would. She’d given her flesh and the illusion of amity but nothing more: it was all a facade for an empty treasury.
Five hundred.
She felt short of breath. She stopped and clutched her chest. She had to see Shoshenq. Surely the sight of her would stir him, as it had so many times in the past. His Meshwesh wife was an insignificant obstacle. No desert dweller could hold a candle to Nicaule Tashere’s beauty or match her seductive powers. She was certain of that. All she had to do was present herself to him, and she could win him back.
She had to escape to Egypt. And she believed she knew how.
She quickened her step. Five hundred ninety-five . . . Six hundred six.
The heavy double doors of Solomon’s chamber were within eyeshot. She ran the last few paces, arriving breathless at the king’s threshold. She barely had knocked when he opened the door. He had been waiting for her.
He swept her into his arms and kissed her greedily. He had abstained from relations during the seven days of the feast, and his hunger had mounted. His beard needled her face as he devoured her mouth.
He pressed her against the wall. His perspiration seeped into her night tunic. Judging by his rapid, desperate breaths and his unyielding eagerness, tonight’s strike would be quick. But she had something else in mind.
She pushed him back gently. A bewildered look crossed his face, but with a sideways smile she made it clear the change of plans would be worth his while. She led him to the bed and untied his tunic until it was loose enough to easily slip off his shoulders.
She kissed his neck and whispered, “Lie down.”
He lay naked upon the sheepskins, his chest rising and falling like the waves of a raging sea. His eyes were fixed upon her as she walked to the table on which he kept a pot of thick thyme honey. He took a spoonful every night before retiring; said it helped him sleep. She tipped the pot and let a drop fall on her fingertip. With her gaze locked on his, she slowly licked her finger until all the precious nectar was gone.
Honeypot in hand, she walked to him. She put the vessel down on the sheepskin and stepped out of her tunic, exposing a slim brown body, still taut despite three births and shimmering with a fine veil of perspiration.
“You may be king, but tonight I am in command. Do you trust me?”
He nodded, though there was apprehension in his eyes. He clearly had no idea what was coming. No Israelite nor Ammonite nor Shunammite knew the love secrets of the Egyptians.
She held the honeypot above his torso and tipped it, letting two drops fall onto his navel. She leaned down and swept them onto her tongue. He shuddered.
Satisfied with the reaction, she dripped the honey lower, then lower still. His eyes grew wide as she sprea
d the golden liquid where she wanted it. She blinked slowly and smiled, then lowered her head, moving her hair away so he could watch.
As she took the first taste, his body jolted. She continued steadily until his soft moans melted into rapturous cries.
It was a power she had over a man—any man. She didn’t use it frequently; only when she wanted to be sure things went her way.
Nicaule lay beside Solomon and waited until he regained his composure.
He stroked her hair. “My lily, my dove, you have taken my breath away with your exotic ways. You have made me soar to a place whose door was shuttered until you opened it.”
“A man as powerful as you deserves to know every hue of love.” She sounded like she meant it.
“Tomorrow I shall have the king’s goldsmith fashion for you a pendant with new rubies from the traders from the East. They have brought me a very rare stone, as big as a lion’s paw. It is the only one in the Levant—nay, in all of Mesopotamia. I want you to have it.”
“But, my lord, I do not wish for more jewels.” She looked away and sighed.
He propped himself on an elbow. “What is it that would please you, then? Name it; you shall have it.”
She stroked his forearm. “It is my father . . . He has been ill. I fear he may—” She willed a sullen look upon her face. “I want to go to him, my lord.”
He started to speak but was interrupted by a rapid knock. He turned to the door.
She sat up and pressed her body against his. “Don’t answer it.”
He gave her a perplexed glance.
“You said I could have anything that pleased me.” She kissed his shoulder. “I want only two things: permission to go see my ailing father”—her lips moved up his neck to his ear, and she whispered—“and your love at this moment.”
The knock came again. A man’s voice—she could not tell whose—called, “My lord. My lord!”
