The Judgment

by D. J. Niko

  At the courtyard of Solomon’s palace, a group of women wailed and rent their clothes. Mourners. She spotted Azariah, son of the prophet Nathan and chief of Solomon’s governors, walking briskly toward the king’s chamber.

  “What has happened?” she asked one of the guards.

  “Zadok the priest is dead. He fell sometime in the night.”

  She exhaled, thankful her fears that the plan had somehow gone awry were unfounded. That Zadok had passed was an unexpected gift. For years he had despised her for no better reason than her heritage. She was glad to be rid of him.

  She continued on the path to her palace, stopping first at Irisi’s quarters. She knocked once, then twice, the longtime signal between her and her old friend and scribe.

  Irisi was still wearing her nightgown when she came to the door.

  “Any word?” There was impatience in Nicaule’s voice.

  Irisi nodded and let her lady in. She closed the door and bolted it with an iron bar. “At dawn, the messenger came to the appointed place. The exchange has been made.”

  “Good. Jeroboam has his horses and chariots, and Shoshenq has his Israelite rebel army. It won’t be long before we are free.”

  “Are you sure this is the right path, my lady?”

  “Twenty-five years I have waited to return to my homeland and to the arms of the only man I have loved.” She smiled. “Yes, dear one. This is our appointed path. Now I must go. Speak to no one of this.”

  “What will become of the girls?”

  “Taphath will stay here and marry. Basemath will accompany us to Tanis.”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but Basemath is old enough to make her own choices.”

  “When she knows the truth about her heritage, she will choose Egypt. I am certain of it.”

  Irisi shook her head. “My lady, Basemath believes she belongs here. She would sooner fight for Israel than seek solace in Egypt.”

  Nicaule cupped Irisi’s face with both hands. “Dear Irisi. Basemath is naïve. Her allegiance is to Solomon because she thinks he is her father. When the time is right, she will know she is the daughter of a pharaoh. And that will change everything. You will see.”

  Irisi sighed and pulled away.

  Nicaule contemplated her friend’s posture. Though Irisi had proven her loyalty time after time, her eyes were often veiled with skepticism. Each time Nicaule questioned her, Irisi did not acknowledge it. But she could not hide it.

  Nicaule decided to let it go this time, for one woman’s emotions were trivial in light of the grand plan. She unbolted the door and left the room.

  On her way to her chamber, she stopped at a window opening and gazed at the ascending sun. She whispered a tribute to the sun god Amun-Ra. She had so much to be thankful for.

  At sundown the next day, Nicaule was summoned to the throne room. That happened only on rare occasions, when there was a matter of diplomacy or a major event of which she needed to be informed. Otherwise, she was left out of the affairs of state, which suited her just fine.

  Solomon was seated on the throne of meeting, a gilded chair whose carvings mirrored those on the seat of judgment. The king’s throne was on an elevated platform, flanked by four chairs two cubits beneath it. When Nicaule entered, he was finishing a conversation with Benaiah.

  Solomon sent Benaiah away and motioned to Nicaule to sit on his left. She sat at the edge of the seat and looked up at him. How he had aged. Beneath his golden crown, deep creases marked his forehead. His beard and hair, thick despite the advancing years, had grown gray as the mourning doves of Kidron Valley.

  “My wife, I have splendid news,” he said, though his expression betrayed more concern than joy. “Our daughter is to marry.”

  Nicaule assumed he meant their younger daughter, Taphath, who was being courted by an army officer. “Nepthador has asked for her hand, then.”

  Solomon shook his head. “I speak of Basemath.”

  For a moment, she was unable to breathe. She felt as if someone had driven a spear into her abdomen.

  “You don’t seem happy, Wife.”

  “Forgive me, my lord, for this is a surprise.” She struggled to compose herself so as to not rouse his suspicion. “Basemath has seemed uninterested in marriage. I have considered she might be a spinster for all her years.”

  “How little you know of her.” He stood and walked down two steps. He paced the floor in front of the throne. “Basemath is destined for greatness. Of all my children, she has the most intelligence, passion, humility, and closeness to the Lord. She is of fine enough character to lead this nation. But alas, the people need a king.”

  Nicaule did not see her daughter as a leader of Israel but rather as a future queen of Egypt. Basemath was a splendid creature, raven-haired and honey-skinned, with a slim physique and breasts like lotus blossoms. She was a purebred Egyptian, destined for the love of a pharaoh, whether she knew it or not. But more than that, Basemath was the expression of Nicaule’s own passion for her beloved. She was what bound Nicaule to Shoshenq, now and always.

  Solomon stopped in front of her. “Are you not curious as to her betrothed?”

  Nicaule looked at him without expression. Inside, she was crying. “Do reveal, my lord.”

  “Ahimaaz, son of Zadok.”

  She bit her bottom lip and tasted the bitter red ochre stain. “A priest . . . Why?”

  “Ahimaaz is Zadok’s heir. That alone makes him worthy. But there is something else for which I owe him allegiance.”

  “What is that?”

  He hesitated. “Since it is a matter of interest to Egypt, you should be aware. The horses sent to Jerusalem by the pharaoh have been seized and diverted to the north. The Egyptians were attacked last night before dawn.”

  She feigned shock. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “I cannot reveal it, for it is a matter of national security. But I will say this: the perpetrator was confronted by a band of warriors led by Ahimaaz.”

  “Ahimaaz is a priest, my lord. He is not capable—”

  Solomon laughed. “Ahimaaz has been trained equally in the ways of Yahweh and the ways of the sword. He is a silent but sure force in Jerusalem’s arsenal. One of the best stealth warriors we have.”

  “And how is it he was privy to such intelligence as to uncover a secret plot?”

  “Zadok had uncovered the scheme. He gave the capture order to his son and Benaiah before he died.”

  Her veins felt as if mountain water trickled through them. Had Zadok followed her? Had he overheard? Who else knew? She placed a hand on her throat. “How could he have known?”

  Solomon shifted his gaze upward. “That vexes me. Perhaps the Lord appeared to him.” He turned to Nicaule. “Alas, it will remain a mystery. However it happened, it was a blessing, for he thwarted an imminent attack by sending an army to confront the traitor.”

  A trembling breath left Nicaule’s lips. “Where is this . . . traitor now?”

  “He escaped captivity and has fled from Israel. The men pursued him to the edge of the wilderness before losing his tracks.” His gaze traveled down her body. “But let us speak of happier things. The wedding will be in a fortnight.”

  She stood abruptly. “Why so soon? I have not prepared . . .”

  “You need prepare nothing. I have seen to the matter of the mohar.”

  “Does Basemath—?”

  “Yes. She knows everything.”

  Nicaule clenched her jaw. How could he leave her out of something as important as the negotiation for her daughter’s marriage? The blatant disregard for her, and for all womankind, was yet another reminder of why he deserved to be deceived—or worse. He had brought it on himself with his abhorrent actions.

  And yet, once again, he had won. But not for long. Her plan would come to pass sooner or later; she would make sure of it.

  “Let us rejoice, Wife, for it is a happy day.” Solomon offered her a hand.

  She did not take it. It was the first time she had defied him.
“You decided alone; therefore, you must rejoice alone.” She brushed past him on her way to the door.

  “I have not dismissed you, woman.”

  She stopped but did not turn around. She was shaking.

  “I expect you in my chamber. Go now and wait for me.”

  She tried to fight back the tears, but they came anyway. She wiped her cheek, and the kohl around her eyes left a black trail on her palm. Without facing him, she bolted out the door.

  18

  Jerusalem, 932 BCE

  Solomon had grown old when Makeda, the queen of the vast and remote empire of Sheba, came to Jerusalem. It was the first state visit in many years, for the leaders of neighboring nations had pulled back their support as conflict marked Solomon’s kingdom.

  Nicaule watched her husband prepare for the queen’s arrival. He had new clothing woven for all the palace staff: tunics of pristine white linen, striped linen robes for the men and brocade ones for the women, head coverings of blue and purple held in place by golden bands. He appointed potters to make special vessels stamped with the king’s insignia—the winged lion that symbolized the immortality of Judah—and servants to fill them with honey, oil, seeds, and olives, all gifts to the queen. He ordered fragrant flowers to be planted along the path leading to the walled city and perfumes to be made using the same scents so that Makeda would remember her visit long after she’d departed. His cooks spent weeks butchering milk-fed animals, gathering fruits, and procuring fish for the royal feasts.

  It was disgusting, and perhaps a little desperate, this wanton display of wealth. Though Solomon insisted it was standard protocol, Nicaule knew it was merely an attempt to put on a show of opulence and abundance for a monarch famed for her untold treasure. It was as much for his own pleasure as for hers. In his latter years, when he became full of himself, Solomon had grown fearful of losing his once-undisputed status as the greatest king ever to reign in the holy land. In the sunset of his life, his mission was no longer to rule justly but rather to secure his legacy for the generations that followed.

  Makeda’s caravan appeared in Jerusalem on an afternoon in late spring, but it was evening before all the camels—five hundred of them, the rumor had it—had made their way to the city and been tethered outside the Millo.

  Nicaule watched from the window of her palace as the queen was carried to the city on a grand palanquin, said to have been fashioned in the Orient exclusively for her use. Four black men, possibly from savage lands of her realm, wearing white loincloths and turbans, held each of the poles of the royal conveyance. The passenger was hidden behind lavishly draped curtains of gold-fringed red silk.

  Solomon’s lute players assembled as the men placed the palanquin onto a platform, welcoming Makeda with traditional Hebrew melodies. From behind the curtains emerged a radiant creature. Her skin was black as midnight and glistened in the afternoon sun. Beneath her bejeweled diadem, a waterfall of tight curls tumbled down her back.

  The queen’s clothes were unlike anything Nicaule had seen. She wore a long dress dyed in exotic shades of blue and embroidered with golden thread. A swath of the same fabric trailed her, and a mantle decorated with peacock feathers was draped over her shoulders. Her waist was cinched with a sash studded with turquoises and tiger’s eyes.

  Makeda entered the city followed by her retinue of servants and handmaidens holding trays piled high with gifts for her host. Nicaule saw mounds of spices, bales of frankincense, wooden chests big and small, and cages crowded with white doves. Sheba’s queen was known both for her wealth—it was said the streets of her kingdom were paved in silver and gold dust—and for her generosity. It appeared she had spared nothing to ensure her visit to Solomon’s fabled kingdom was well received.

  Nicaule walked to her dressing room, where Irisi was laying out clothes and jewels for her lady. Solomon had ordered new dresses for his favorite wife, beautiful confections made of brightly dyed linen with an overlayer of luminous spider’s silk. Nicaule picked one up, studied it for a moment, and put it back down. All the finery in the world could not stand as a substitute for her freedom: a splendid cage remained a cage.

  She picked up a round bronze mirror, a gift from her own mother, and regarded her reflection. Without the benefit of makeup, her eyes were marked by deep lines and dark sockets. Her jowls had sagged and the corners of her lips pointed toward the floor, both telling of nights spent crying, dreams smothered, and anger repressed.

  It had been seven years since Jeroboam’s failed attempt to stage a rebellion. According to dispatches from Tanis at the time, Jeroboam had fled to Egypt and was under the protection of Shoshenq. But the letters had stopped coming. Her own missives asking about plans to take Jerusalem were met with frustrating silence from the pharaoh’s palace.

  She considered the possibility that a plan had been put into motion but had not been revealed to her for security reasons. If that were true, Shoshenq would not have risked a letter falling into the wrong hands. Though she knew she should have faith in her lover, it killed her to not know. She felt like a ship adrift in a sea cloaked in winter’s fog.

  At least she had Irisi, her only connection to her roots. And she had Basemath, though their bond had always been tenuous. She was a respectful and dutiful daughter, but Basemath had never revealed the fire in her heart, at least not to her mother. Nicaule would have dismissed her as a haughty swan had she not witnessed her ardent devotion to Solomon.

  If Nicaule had ever doubted it, it was plain the day Solomon told Basemath she was to marry Ahimaaz, twenty years her senior, and move to Shechem in the northern provinces, where Ahimaaz was to serve as governor. Her role, however, would be more than that. She would have to be Solomon’s spy, moving in political circles and reporting to her father any stirrings of rebellion or treasonous behavior.

  It meant putting her life on the line.

  Nicaule had protested, but Basemath ignored her. She dropped to her knees and kissed Solomon’s ring, pledging her allegiance to him and to the state. She and Ahimaaz left Jerusalem after the seven days of their marriage ceremony and had been in Shechem since. Less than a year later, one of Solomon’s servants informed Nicaule she had a granddaughter.

  “My lady, would you prefer the scarlet or the white?”

  Irisi’s question jolted Nicaule back to the present. She was to meet Solomon in the throne room so they could receive the illustrious guest together. She smiled. “Give me the scarlet.”

  The queen entered the throne room with much fanfare. A harpist came first, heralding her arrival. Her ladies-in-waiting walked in next, singing softly in a language unfamiliar to Nicaule. Then came Makeda, floating within a golden gown whose ample skirt was embroidered in brilliant colors like birds’ plumage. Her gossamer mantle was sewn with glass beads that captured light, dazzling Nicaule’s eyes. Two men with fans of palm leaf flanked the queen, renewing the air around her as she glided toward Solomon’s throne.

  At the top of the throne structure, Solomon and Nicaule awaited Makeda’s arrival. As she approached the steps, Solomon stood. He stared at his guest as if he were in a trance. It was obvious he was taken by her exotic presence and poised demeanor.

  Even the gilded beasts on the edge of the throne’s steps seemed to gaze at her in wonder as she ascended. Her perfume, a pleasing scent of jasmine and Oriental spice, preceded her. As she reached the top step, Nicaule noted her flawless skin and eyes as bright as polished onyx and felt her own youth so far behind her. The claws of jealousy dug into her core.

  Solomon took her hands. “Your legend is known far and wide, but even the most praising tales do not do justice to your splendor.” He bowed slightly. “Welcome to Jerusalem, O fair queen.”

  “Solomon, son of David and exalted king of Israel, I have waited long years to walk amid the majesty of your fabled city. But more so, I have longed to meet the man whose wisdom is celebrated across the land.”

  “I pray I will not disappoint you.” He waved a hand toward Nicaule. “May
I present Nicaule Tashere, daughter of Psusennes II of Egypt, and my first wife.”

  Makeda placed her hands in Nicaule’s. They were soft as the petals of a new rose. The queen smiled kindly and bowed, then took a seat at Solomon’s right.

  “What news do you bring from the kingdom of Sheba?” he asked.

  “I have not come to discuss my humble home but rather to witness the opulence of yours and to learn from your intelligence and insight. But first, I must test you to determine if you are the sage about whom I have heard so much.”

  “What is it you wish to know?”

  “In my kingdom, we enjoy riddles—making them and answering them.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “We have that in common.”

  For nearly twoscore years, Solomon had never looked at another woman in the same way he had Nicaule. She remembered still the enchantment that had overtaken him like a sorceress’ spell when he first laid eyes on her in Tanis. On the day of Makeda’s visit, Nicaule saw the same look in his eyes—only it was no longer directed at her.

  She did not care. The king of Israel disgusted her more now than he ever had. But seeing that impossibly serene woman, who was powerful and rich and capable of bewitching any man without sacrificing her independence, filled her with fury. Makeda was everything Nicaule wanted to be.

  Makeda leaned back in her chair and crossed her wrists on her lap. “Good. Then you will not mind answering the riddles I have prepared for you.”

  “It will be a privilege to engage in games of the mind with so lovely a challenger.” He smiled. “Perhaps you will have something to teach me.”

  “What woman can say to her son, ‘Your father is my father; your grandfather, my husband. You are my son, and I am your sister.’”