The Judgment

by D. J. Niko

  “And who will know of their hiding place?”

  “There is a riddle that can be deciphered only by one of pure heart. I have sent it away with Makeda, Queen of Sheba. She will safeguard it in her kingdom until my rightful heir comes along to claim it.”

  “Rehoboam?”

  He shook his head. “When the earth shall reclaim my body, my son will be king—but he will never be the leader I intended him to be. An heir yet unborn to the house of Solomon will give Israel the peace that I could not.”

  She could no longer contain the sadness that welled behind her eyes.

  “Do not weep, my daughter,” the king said. “I have spent many years in darkness, but now I see the sun. Truly the light is sweet and pleasant for the eyes to behold. My redeemer’s face is there, beyond the clouds, calling me to him. I can hear the lyre of the archangel. The time draws nigh for the final journey.

  “But death is not bitter compared to the woman whose heart is snares and nets; her hands are ropes that bind with insolence, trapping moral men and feasting upon them in her lair of iniquity. Her sweet unguents are poison, her tears flesh-eating acid.”

  Solomon dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders quaked.

  Basemath placed a gentle hand upon her father’s back. She could feel the hard edges of his bones beneath the linen tunic. The forty days in the desert had taken their toll. “You speak of my mother.”

  He was silent for a long moment before turning his gaze to her. “The Lord said, ‘Honor your father and mother.’ When I am gone, stand by your mother in spite of her flaws.”

  She lowered her head. “Yes, my lord.”

  He took up both of her hands. “When the silver thread is broken and the golden bowl shattered, when the bitter almond tree flourishes, when the birds cease to sing and there is no more music, when the doors are shuttered and only fear and madness dwell in the streets, when the strong men’s knees buckle and the maidens’ beauty withers, then remember the words of the wise: remove sorrow from your heart, and cast away evil from your flesh, for the dust shall return to the earth and the spirit to its maker. Fear God and keep his commandments, for that is the whole duty of man.” A trace of a smile crossed his lips. “Now go, and let me be.”

  She did as he asked. It was the last time she saw her father alive.

  Basemath was startled by voices outside her tent. She quickly slipped the ring back into her tunic, letting it rest next to her racing heart.

  21

  Jerusalem, 925 BCE

  “My lady!” The banging on her chamber door woke Nicaule with a violent start. “Rise now! You are summoned by order of the king.”

  She sat up and gazed out the window. It was still dark outside. What did Rehoboam want with her in the middle of the night?

  The knocks came again, and the door shook.

  “Fetch my handmaiden,” she called to the unidentified man on the other side.

  “There is no time for it. You must dress quickly. It is an urgent matter.”

  “I refuse to—”

  “I have orders to use force if need be.” The door rattled.

  “Barbarians,” she muttered under her tongue. She swung her legs around to the side of the bed and stood with some effort. Age had settled in her bones, preventing her from doing anything quickly. She called to the guard: “Stay out, cursed soul. I am coming.”

  She slipped out of her nightgown and felt for her clothes in the dark. She stepped into the tunic she wore the day prior—an ample pleated white linen garment that was more comfortable than striking. She’d long since stopped dressing to please the eye. She cinched her waist with a long fringed sash and put on her wig, smoothing the hair with her fingers. She took up her box of kohl and streaked some of the black paste across her eyelids in a blind attempt at beauty.

  The door rattled again, then was flung open. Startled, she let the box crash to the floor. The king’s messenger, a gangly youth scarcely older than her grandchildren, stood in the doorway.

  “Have you no decency, boy?”

  “I am carrying out orders. Now make haste.”

  She huffed and walked out, brushing him aside as she strode through the door.

  In the throne room, King Rehoboam sat on the edge of the seat of judgment, twisting his short black beard in the way he always did when he was nervous. Three of his advisors stood around him; one of them was Ahimaaz, Nicaule’s son-in-law. Rehoboam saw her standing by the curtain at the entranceway and waved her in.

  She approached and stood before him, not bothering to bow. “The rooster has not yet crowed, yet you call for me. What is the meaning of this?”

  “Show some respect, woman. You are addressing your king.”

  She raised an eyebrow. She did not consider Solomon’s son, a man so weak he could scarcely use the privy without consulting his council, her king. Word had it his rule was being challenged by Jeroboam, who’d recently come back to Israel after years hiding in Egypt.

  Jeroboam, her old accomplice. Years ago, as Solomon’s power was fading, she had helped the dissenter plot his rise to the throne. After their scheme was foiled and Jeroboam was driven to Egypt, she’d heard nothing more of him. Even now that he was returned to his homeland and ready to execute his plan anew, he had not sought her counsel or kept her informed. He no longer needed her, so he’d discarded her—like all the others.

  “I do not take my orders from lame rulers,” she said, a mite too haughtily.

  Rehoboam stood. “Curse your defiance!”

  Ahimaaz raised a hand in front of the king. “My lord, remember why we are here.”

  Rehoboam sat back down, eyeing her sternly. He gestured to Ahimaaz.

  “My lady Nicaule, wife of the mighty Solomon and mother of my bride, I have come as a fugitive to warn Jerusalem of its impending ruin,” the general said.

  “Fugitive? From whom do you run?”

  “Have you not heard? Are you oblivious to what has been unfolding around you?”

  “No one talks to an old woman, Ahimaaz.” She narrowed her eyes. “Not even her family.”

  He ignored the dig. “Before I enlighten you as to what is coming, it is important you understand the full scope of our predicament.” He turned to Rehoboam. “Permission to continue, my lord?”

  Rehoboam looked away and waved to Ahimaaz to carry on. The king wasn’t much of an orator and often let others talk for him. Nicaule had watched him grow from a shy youth into an awkward adult and knew his lack of confidence, and the arrogance with which he compensated, would one day be his undoing.

  “Old enemies, once departed, have returned to haunt Israel,” Ahimaaz said. “Jeroboam the Ephraimite has been brought out of Egypt by the tribal leaders of the North. He lays claim to this throne.”

  She looked at Rehoboam. The king shifted in his chair, avoiding her eyes.

  Ahimaaz continued. “Jeroboam demands of the king to lighten the yoke of the people. Long have they suffered, he says. Long have they been taxed unjustly. He does not share your husband’s vision of progress, of a dominant world power in the making.”

  “And what says the king?” Nicaule folded her arms across her chest.

  Rehoboam snapped his head toward her. “This was my reply to Jeroboam and his followers: ‘Whereas my father burdened you with a yoke, I shall add to it; where he punished you with whips, I shall punish you with scorpions.’” He stood, waving a fist. “No one challenges my rule or the right of the house of David to command this throne.”

  She found his display comical. He did not have the wisdom or the charisma of his father and, therefore, had no right to make such proclamations. Where he should have employed diplomacy, he used brute force: the sure sign of the powerless.

  “The North is in rebellion against the crown,” said Ahimaaz. “The king has tried to appease the people, but they have grown wild. Just this winter they stoned to death Adoram, the captain of the forced labor. They want to raise Jeroboam to the throne and divide the kingdom.”


  “It sounds like the makings of war,” she said.

  Ahimaaz nodded. “Jeroboam is staging a war we cannot fight. He has called to him the Egyptian army. Five thousand chariots and tens of thousands of men have marched into Megiddo and the Jezreel Valley, razing villages and towns along the way. We have no defense against that kind of militia.”

  The pit of her stomach tingled. She had not felt the stir of anticipation in a long time. “Who leads this army?”

  “The pharaoh Shoshenq. He rides with his garrison to Jerusalem as we speak.”

  Her heart thrashed like a demon. The rush of blood made her lightheaded. Was Israel’s darkest hour the moment of her redemption? After so many years, would Shoshenq come for her? Would she be delivered from the burden of her captivity now, at the twilight of life?

  “The pharaoh means to destroy the holy city,” Ahimaaz continued. “We must protect it at all costs.”

  “You are up against a formidable foe. What makes you think you can win?”

  “We cannot win; we are outnumbered. We require your assistance.”

  She scoffed. “What do I know about such things? I am merely a woman.”

  “A woman, yes. But the pharaoh owes a debt to you—or rather, to your father. It was Psusennes who appointed him king.”

  “You think I can stop a king from taking what he wants? Are you mad?”

  “If you are clever with your tongue, he will listen to you. You must convince him to leave Jerusalem standing. It is the spiritual heart of our people.” Ahimaaz took a step toward her. “Solomon was good to you. Not one moment did he not adore you. Your actions on this day can repay his kindness”—he dropped his voice to a near whisper—“and deliver you from what haunts you.”

  “Kindness?” She let out a short burst of laughter. “You want me to act charitably toward the man who imprisoned me, who tore me from my homeland against my will? I owe nothing to Solomon”—with a vile look she turned to Rehoboam—“or his spawn.”

  “Then do it for Basemath. She and Ana have been taken captive by Jeroboam and the Egyptian army. If your daughter learns you let the heathen king destroy her beloved city and the temple of the God she cherishes, she will not forgive you for all your days . . . if she even survives to meet your gaze again.”

  A foot soldier flung open the door of the throne room. All heads turned toward him. Flushed and panting, he said, “Forgive my intrusion, my lord. The Egyptians are here. The farmlands at Kidron have been set ablaze.”

  Rehoboam stood. “Sound the horn. Our men have been armed. They are ready to fight.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The soldier bowed and took his leave.

  The king addressed his men. “Let us prepare for battle. We will defend Jerusalem with the courage and resolve of our fathers.” He turned to Nicaule. “If there is any good left in you, you will do this thing.”

  Rehoboam stepped down from his throne platform and, followed by his advisors, hurried out of the room.

  A thick puff of gray smoke billowed skyward as the houses on the foot of the eastern hill blazed. The Egyptians’ rapacious flames, like streams of molten copper against the dark sky, consumed with a vengeance. To the west, the Kidron Valley was burning, part of it already reduced to cinders. In the infernal glow, the damage was apparent. Where once were fecund orchards now stood smoldering rows of charred tree stumps, their leafless branches like gnarled hands begging the heavens for mercy. The air smelled of scorched earth.

  From Nicaule’s vantage point in the palace arcade, everything seemed to unfold in slow motion, like images from a dream. The torches hanging from the palace walls cast a trembling golden light on the scene. She watched Rehoboam’s troops come and go, ants marching to their doom. With their primitive weapons—slingshots and sickle swords—and soft constitutions resulting from decades of not being called to fight, they did not stand a chance against Shoshenq’s finely tuned killing machine.

  A column of white-robed men, heads bowed toward the earth and palms together in prayer, made its way up the hill toward the high place. Though she could not hear over the din of horses’ hooves and men’s cries, she imagined the Levites were chanting psalms of salvation. What fools, she thought: it was too late to beg. The fate of Jerusalem had been decided years ago, when Ahijah the Shilonite rent his garment before Jeroboam, delivering the Hebrew god’s will.

  Too restless to wait, Nicaule stepped out onto the courtyard and passed through the palace gate, making her way toward the city. She was the only civilian on the streets that night; all the inhabitants of the holy city had crouched in their homes. She kept to the edge of the cobbled path lest she be trampled by the horsemen and foot soldiers heading to battle.

  She had no clear destination. She knew only that Shoshenq was somewhere in the midst of the chaos, perhaps looking for her. The thought of facing her lover both bolstered and terrified her. She wasn’t the woman she once was—her beauty and her charms had long departed, leaving behind an empty shell of misery and pain. Would he still love her?

  She sought his visage in the torchlight, but the smoke stung her eyes. She stopped to gather herself, and her lungs filled with the insidious vapors. The cries of men were carried downwind, harbingers of the slaughter.

  A horseman cantered toward her. Through her hazy vision she could not make out his identity but recognized the pointed helmet that marked him as an Israelite. She ran in the opposite direction, into the curtain of smoke that grew ever thicker.

  He caught up with her in an instant and blocked her path. She looked up and met her son-in-law’s eyes.

  “We are out of time,” Ahimaaz cried over the uproar. “You must come with me.” He bent down and offered her a hand.

  She let him lift her to the back of the saddle and held on to his waist as he spurred his chestnut mare to a gallop.

  He shouted over his shoulder. “The pharaoh and his men are at the temple gates. He has called for a meeting with the king.”

  Anxiety gnawed at Nicaule’s gut. She did not think of the confrontation that could tear Jerusalem apart; she considered only her own fate. In mere moments, it would all come to pass as the gods willed it.

  Squat stone houses, ashen in the moonlight, streaked past as they rode to the top of Mount Moriah. The horse’s hooves pounding the ground matched the cadence of her own heartbeat. A deep breath admitted the stench of smoke mixed with dust, and she longed for the scent of blue lotus and wet earth. She closed her eyes and did not reopen them until Ahimaaz halted his horse.

  He dismounted and helped her down. At the temple gates, a row of Levites stood still as columns, guards to the spiritual fortress. She could hear the faint sound of their soft, monotone chant. In front of them stood a swarm of Egyptians with spears at the ready. They waited for their pharaoh’s command.

  “King Rehoboam is inside,” Ahimaaz said. “Follow me.”

  She followed him through the gates, looking over her shoulder at her gathered countrymen. She thought she saw Shoshenq’s golden chariot, but her eyes cheated her in the dark.

  Rebohoam stood at the temple forecourt, surrounded by his mighty men. Metal scale armor covered his chest, and a khopesh hung from his waist sash. His face was pinched, his brow heavy with worry.

  “The time has come to lift the veil,” he told her. “Where does your allegiance lie?”

  She raised her head. “I am loyal to my country. Whatever the pharaoh asks of me, I will do.”

  “So be it, then.” The king motioned, and two soldiers approached Nicaule. One pushed her to her knees, and the other bound her hands with jute rope.

  “What are you doing?” she shouted, trying to break free of their grip. “I am a free woman!” She turned to her son-in-law. “You drove me to the den of lions. Shame be on you.”

  “There is no shame, nor civility, in war,” Ahimaaz said. “You have made your choice; now we must do what is best for our people.”

  “I am not a sack of grain to be bargained with. I demand you release me.�
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  “You will not be harmed so long as you cooperate. Let us hope for a speedy end to this atrocity.”

  A trumpet sounded. Egyptian officers holding spears and shields marched through the gate two by two until they numbered twelve. The pharaoh walked in behind them, followed by another dozen soldiers. With Shoshenq in the middle, they arranged themselves in a semicircle in front of the Israelites.

  She looked up at him. Her lower lip trembled as he met her gaze. He had changed so little in the forty years since she left Tanis. His physique was still as solid as fired iron, his eyes fierce, and his skin taut but for a few creases on his forehead and around his mouth. Ashamed for the way she had aged, she averted her eyes and sobbed softly.

  Rehoboam stepped forward, and Shoshenq did the same until they stood no more than a cubit apart.

  The Egyptian king spoke first. “Rehoboam, king of the Hebrews, I come in peace to strike a deal with you.”

  “It seems to me you have claimed all you want,” Rehoboam said. “What remains that I can give you?”

  Shoshenq pointed up to the temple. “What is inside that house belongs to Egypt.”

  “All that is there belongs to the Lord, God of Israel. Every object has been consecrated and dedicated to him. I call upon your moral decency: take our livestock; take our homes. But stay away from our most sacred place.”

  The pharaoh bared his teeth. “I do not care about your sacred place or your greedy god who must be appeased with vast quantities of gold.” He banged on his breastplate. “Our gold. Every bit of it belongs to my people. And I mean to take it back.”

  Rehoboam twisted the ends his beard. “You said you have come to strike a deal. What exchange would satisfy you?”

  Nicaule watched Shoshenq’s reaction. The pharaoh was absolutely still, staring into his enemy’s eyes as if to weaken him. He did not cast a glance in her direction.