Love’s Sacred Song

by Mesu Andrews

  “Enough!” Ahishar screeched, taking three quick steps to close the gap. With their noses almost touching, Ahishar whispered, “Say one more word and I will cut out your tongue.”

  Mahlon hesitated only a moment. “Yes, my lord.”

  A slow, satisfied chuckle began at the base of Ahishar’s throat. “I did warn you, my friend.” He watched with delight as the realization dawned on his prisoner’s face.

  “No! Please, master, I didn’t mean to say another word!” Mahlon fought the guards valiantly but, of course, to no avail.

  “Hold his jaws apart!” Ahishar shouted over the scuffle. “A mute scribe can still write beautiful letters on a clay tablet.”

  Exhausted, Solomon concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, walking deliberately from the astronomers’ tower near the Valley Gate toward the palace. Benaiah walked with him, and the pounding of the big man’s sandals shook the ground, a familiar cadence that had accompanied him since Abba’s death this morning.

  After leaving David’s bedside, Solomon had thrown himself into pressing matters of state. Time was precious since all work would cease when he announced the thirty-day grieving period tomorrow. Solomon’s final task of the day took him to the celestial experts in the watchtower to discuss his proposed calendar changes. Hoping to reach a decision tonight, since the changes would affect the beginning of Passover, he lifted his eyes to the cloudy sky. “How can I track the path of the moon and stars, Benaiah, when the night is as dark as the tents of Kedar?”

  The captain followed the king’s gaze upward. “It seems even the moon and stars are shrouded to mourn King David’s death.”

  Trudging uphill through the fortress gate, they entered the unwalled portion of the new city. Clouds cleared, and the moon shone on Mount Moriah, the plot of land north of the palace that would become God’s temple site.

  “How will Israel remember my abba, Benaiah?” Solomon asked, studying the vacant hill. “Will they remember this as Araunah’s threshing floor, where Abba went after his disobedient census caused seventy thousand Israelite deaths before he offered sacrifices to God? Or will they remember that this was Mount Moriah, where Abraham was willing to sacrifice Isaac but God provided a miracle instead?” Benaiah remained silent, eyes forward. Solomon wasn’t looking for an answer, and the big man seemed to realize it. “Will Israel remember David the warrior, his provision of wealth and foreign laborers to build God’s temple? Will they recall my abba’s friendship with Hiram, king of Tyre, that provided the necessary cedar logs and shipping lanes to transport them?”

  More silence passed. Finally, Benaiah ventured a gentle answer. “Perhaps you will ask Israel these things tomorrow at the royal tombs. They are your people now, my lord. They will remember the things of which you remind them.”

  My people now. Solomon’s mind continued to spin. As they ascended the palace steps, sounds of professional mourners wafted on the night breeze. The soft moans would last through the night, reminding the city of a legend lost.

  With a slight chuckle, Solomon asked, “And what will Israel remember of me, my friend? Calendar changes?”

  The big man smiled in return. “With your inquisitive mind, young Solomon, I believe Israel will never forget you. Only Jehovah knows the extent of your reign.”

  Glancing above them, Solomon noted extra guards near the palace parapets and the eastern wall bordering the Kidron Valley. For the first time, he realized Benaiah had seemed especially on edge today, more than grief silencing him. He’d been on alert. “Judging by the extra guards,” Solomon said, shifting their topic once more, “I sense you’re expecting some sort of increased threat.”

  His captain raked his large hand over his weary face and then turned with a respectful grin. “You are indeed inquisitive, my lord.”

  Solomon nodded, bidding his friend to continue.

  “We have received word that some of the foreign ambassadors have inquired about the storehouses of wealth your abba gathered to build the temple. King David wisely distributed the riches into three separate citadels at Megiddo, Hazor, and of course here, in the fortress of Zion. When we dispatched word of your abba’s death to the surrounding tribes and nations, we added guards in and around the palace. Additional men have been assigned to King David’s—I’m sorry. I mean, they’ve been assigned to your private chambers since your chamber wall shares the northern wall of the fortress.”

  It all sounded so matter-of-fact, so routine when Benaiah said it. But when Abba’s heart stopped beating, Solomon’s whole world had shifted. Nothing felt routine. Now he alone ruled Israel. He must keep his nation and his family safe.

  Suddenly overwhelmed with the need to see his only son, he choked out the command. “Benaiah, send one of the guards to summon my wife Naamah. Have her bring Prince Rehoboam.” Struggling to keep his composure, he said, “I need to hold my future so I can let go of my past.”

  With a nod and a directive glance, Benaiah obeyed, issuing the command to a guard as they entered the palace. Winding through the grand halls, Solomon continued his silent contemplations amid the eerie echoes of mourners’ wails. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” he whispered. Benaiah’s meaty hand rested around his shoulder, the gentle giant his constant support.

  Solomon’s sackcloth slippers made no sound on the mosaic tiles leading to his chambers. Two Mighty Men stood guard at the double cedar doors between twin lion statues. The lion had long been the symbol of Judah’s tribe, and the Mighty Men had long been David’s mercenary bodyguards, many of whom were Cherethite and Pelethite warriors. The doors of Abba David’s chamber—now Solomon’s—opened at the clang of the guards’ crossed spears. The king walked beneath the canopied weapons of his fiercest defenders.

  Naamah stood before him, breathless, hurried. Though Solomon had walked leisurely between the palace entrance and his chamber, his summons had obviously been issued with urgency.

  His wife’s exquisite dark eyes flashed like a flame against polished obsidian. “Why have I been called, and why would you command your son to be awakened to see you at this hour?”

  Rehoboam lay on his nursemaid’s shoulder, sound asleep, and Solomon felt torn between anger and regret. Naamah never offered him a kind word anymore, but she was right this time. He should have considered the late hour. Taking a step toward his Ammonite wife, he noted a shadow of fear in her eyes and then her quick recovery. She was every measure a king’s daughter, but he occasionally caught glimpses of the atrocities she must have witnessed of her abba’s defeat at General Joab’s hand. The Ammonites had been a vassal nation since Solomon was born; in fact, it was while Joab was winning that battle that Abba David seduced Ima Bathsheba. Naamah had been saved with other Ammonite noblemen’s daughters, and though she was several years Solomon’s senior, her sad eyes had captured his heart. But tonight those eyes cast daggers.

  Reaching out his hand, he said, “Please, Naamah. It’s been a long day. I didn’t want to be alone tonight.” He waited for her response. Nothing.

  Rehoboam nuzzled into his nursemaid’s shoulder, releasing the contented sigh of one too young to know true sorrow. Solomon reached for the boy, but Naamah grabbed him out of the maid’s arms. “Stop, he’s sleeping,” she whispered, her anger smoldering. “Why must you wake a peaceful boy from his dreams?”

  Rehoboam stirred and began to whimper. “Mi-ma?”

  “See what you’ve done?” she spat while smoothing the toddler’s curly dark hair. Naamah took a wool-stuffed doll from the maid’s hand, the likeness of a man with the head of an ox. Rehoboam cuddled the toy god Molech and contentedly sucked his thumb, nestling to sleep in his ima’s arms.

  All blood drained from Solomon’s face. “Give the child to his nurse. Now!”

  Naamah jumped, startling Rehoboam awake, and the boy began to wail.

  “Benaiah, escort Naamah’s maid back to the nursery, and return to us when you have news that our son is sleeping peacefully.”

  Tears welled in his w
ife’s eyes as she transferred her son to the maid’s arms and watched Benaiah lead them from the room. With the precision learned from a lifetime among nobility, Naamah turned gracefully to meet Solomon’s gaze. “I did not expect to be called to the king’s chamber this evening.” She removed her head covering and began untying her belt with shaking hands. “I have not been properly oiled and lotioned.”

  Solomon covered the distance between them in two steps, stilling her hands in his grasp. “Naamah, we must talk about that pagan god you have given Rehoboam. You cannot teach my son to embrace any god but El Shaddai.” He spoke quietly, tenderly, trying to control his already frayed emotions.

  She tilted her head up slowly, and Solomon saw her eyes drowning in pain. “Your father’s soldiers killed my father and brothers. Israel has made slaves of my people and taken possession of all Ammonite cities.” Blinking, she released the river of tears down her cheeks. “If I don’t teach my son of his mother’s people, how can he know that the blood of two great nations flows through his veins?” She laid her head on Solomon’s chest, and instinctively he enfolded her in a protective embrace. He could feel her trembling from head to toe with her final plea. “Please don’t take away the last remnant of my Ammonite heritage. I am only one of five foreign wives in your harem, and the Israelite wives and concubines spurn us. All we have are the traditions of our homelands to keep us sane, Solomon. Please . . . please.” The floodgate of tears burst, and her shoulders shook uncontrollably. Gone was the dignity of her nobility. Gone was her arrogance. He held a broken treasure, and his heart broke with her.

  How could he help her? The harem was like a kingdom—of women. While other nations allowed eunuchs to provide male levelheadedness, Israel refused them, calling their disfigurement an abomination. Solomon remembered Ima Bathsheba’s torturous days in Abba’s harem until Abba built her a home on the western ridge. Ima, at least, worshiped Jehovah. The foreign wives were spurned for blasphemy as well as for beauty. Solomon ruled Israel, but his wives ruled the harem—a complex world of bitterness and betrayal.

  “Shhh.” He held her as she cried. “I didn’t realize how difficult the last two years have been.” The lovely faces of his Moabite and Edomite wives flashed before him. At least Naamah had conceived right away, which had positioned her as first wife. Stroking Naamah’s hair, he let her tears subside before tilting up her chin. “I cannot allow you to teach my son to worship a pagan god, Naamah.” She started to protest, but Solomon pressed a silencing finger to her lips. “However, you may teach him of the Ammonite people.” He paused to read her expression and consider his next words. “And you may continue to worship Molech in the privacy of your chamber—as long as you don’t announce it to the Israelite women.” The smile that lit her face soothed his soul, and the kiss placed on his lips sent fire through his blood.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said with a hurried retreat. “May I go check on Rehoboam, to see if he’s at rest?”

  Solomon’s heart plummeted. “Of course. Go.” He watched her disappear behind the double cedar doors, a new concern now foremost on his mind. He and Abba had reached a trade agreement with Egypt, and Pharaoh’s daughter was scheduled to arrive within the moon’s cycle as Solomon’s new treaty bride. What if this Egyptian princess became as unsettled as Naamah? Women’s tears were troubling, but if Pharaoh’s daughter sent embittered reports back to her homeland, Solomon would deal with more than a disquieted harem. He could be faced with an Egyptian invasion.

  “Guard!” he shouted, walking toward the doors. The great cedar panel swung open on iron hinges.

  “Yes, my lord?” The man nodded.

  “Summon Ahishar to my chamber. I must speak with the high steward immediately.” As the soldier backed out of the room, Solomon added, “You might as well assemble the full council in the throne hall. Despite the late hour, Ahishar will need to meet with them after he hears what’s on my mind.”

  6

  • 1 KINGS 1:7–8 •

  [Before David died,] Adonijah conferred with Joab . . . and with Abiathar the priest, and they gave him their support. But Zadok the priest, Benaiah son of Jehoiada, [and] Nathan the prophet . . . did not join Adonijah.

  Ahishar scanned the faces of the most powerful men in Israel. Eight royal officials slumped and yawned on cushioned couches, lining both sides of the long aisle leading to Solomon’s throne.

  “Why were we yanked from our dreams in the middle of the night?” groused old Abiathar, the high priest.

  “We haven’t even gone home yet,” one of the younger priests said. “We just finished anointing King David’s body after the servants prepared and washed him.” A moment of sadness paused the group before more complaining began.

  Ahishar listened as protests filled the two-story throne hall. Of the king’s ten royal officials, four of those seated were devout Sons of Judah and four were loyal to a united Israel. Benaiah, the ninth advisor, was loyal to the king alone and attended council meetings only when Solomon was present. Ahishar, the tenth advisor and leader of the Sons of Judah, held the majority vote, thereby wielding the greatest power of all. He stood before the king’s council and allowed himself a cryptic smile. When I lead Judah to victory over Israel’s northern tribes, I will be your king, and you will not complain like nagging wives.

  “Thank you for gathering so quickly at such a late hour,” Ahishar said, bowing in feigned humility. Fixing his eyes on the royal secretary, he scratched his long, slender nose—an established signal that the next topic was significant to the Sons of Judah. “Elihoreph, King Solomon has considered this a matter of extreme urgency. We must vote on it tonight and fill the necessary positions before the burial procession in the morning.”

  As chief secretary and fellow Son of Judah, Elihoreph was Ahishar’s most trusted ally—if a snake could trust a fox. The secretary sat a little straighter, poised his hand over the wax tablet, and gripped the stylus with white knuckles.

  “King Solomon has asked that I choose two young virgins to facilitate his foreign wives’ transition into Judean life.”

  When Ahishar took a breath, old Abiathar inserted a sarcastic snort. “You called me out of my warm bed to talk about women in King Solomon’s harem?” The old priest’s bristly gray eyebrows knit together.

  Ahishar pinned him with a stare. “Is it only conspiracies that wrest you from slumber, my lord?” He could see the verbal jab hit its mark. Color drained from Abiathar’s cheeks. The old high priest had recently changed allegiance like the Great Sea changes tide. Though Abiathar was a Levite priest and had no proof the Sons of Judah existed, he had been helpful in Adonijah’s attempt to steal Solomon’s throne. When the coup failed, both the prince and the priest received mercy from King Solomon in return for their promised loyalty. Now Abiathar’s word held as much honor as a cracked clay cup.

  “A conspiracy would indeed stir my ire,” the old priest answered, stoic now. “I do not wish to see King Solomon hurt again.”

  Uneasy eyes searched the marble tiles. All the king’s advisors felt the sting of Prince Adonijah’s rebellion—for very different reasons. Those loyal to King David realized they should have publicly supported Solomon earlier. The Sons of Judah mourned the loss of their leader when Solomon banished Prince Adonijah to his home in En Rogel.

  The day after the uprising, Ahishar had sent word to the secret society: We meet tomorrow to choose a new leader. At the meeting, when others voiced fear that the investigation of Adonijah’s coup would uncover their centuries-old existence, Ahishar disagreed. “It provides the perfect distraction for the ultimate civil war. Judah will finally conquer the northern ten tribes,” he’d said. His rousing speech had secured his leadership, which had reached new heights with tonight’s commission from the king.

  “As I was saying . . .” Ahishar cleared his throat and continued. “Solomon’s foreign wives bring handmaids from their native lands, and the two virgins I choose—we’ll call them ‘friends’—will teach the foreign wives
about harem life. These ‘friends’ must be thoroughly familiar with palace propriety, the City of David, and the unique . . . shall we say, challenges of royal living.”

  “Why now, Ahishar?” Zadok asked.

  The throne hall fell silent, and Ahishar’s heart skipped a beat.

  Zadok was an old priest like Abiathar, but he was vastly different in wisdom and integrity. Zadok spoke little and said much. He heard the message behind words and read the intentions of a glance. He was one of the three men responsible for Adonijah’s defeat, and Ahishar knew Zadok was measuring him now.

  Swallowing hard, Ahishar said, “The Egyptian princess is scheduled to arrive after the thirty-day grieving period, and King Solomon asks that the maidens be ready to assist his new wife immediately upon her arrival. Since our king will announce the beginning of grieving tomorrow, and no work may be done during the time, I must choose the two maidens tonight.” Ahishar’s words tumbled out like a naughty child offering excuses.

  Zadok nodded. Silence. His cloudy eyes seemed to search the corners of Ahishar’s soul. Did he know the two women Ahishar had chosen were at the core of his plan to become king?

  The high steward’s mouth was too dry to swallow, too dry to speak. He must say something! “Good question, Zadok!” he blurted out, much louder than intended. “Anyone else?”

  Elihoreph lifted his eyes from his stylus and clay tablet, offering a calming stare. “And who do you have in mind for this distinguished position of ‘Wives’ Ambassadors’?”

  The palace steward dragged in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and nodded gratefully to Elihoreph. “Though the chief secretary’s title, ‘Wives’ Ambassadors,’ is quite suitable, I’ve chosen a more descriptive label—‘Daughters of Jerusalem.’” Elihoreph offered a disappointed sniff and recorded the title on his tablet while Ahishar continued. “‘Daughters of Jerusalem’ rings like a well-played timbrel and emphasizes their indisputable heritage. I’ve chosen the twin daughters of Bethuel, the royal tailor.” Ahishar paused for the length of a heartbeat and added, “I believe many of you know their ima, Miriam.” He watched with wicked delight as every face registered recognition, and silence wrapped the room like burial rags.