Love’s Sacred Song

by Mesu Andrews

  “That’s enough!” Abba Jehoshaphat grabbed Solomon’s arm and shoved him away from her bed. “Get out!”

  The Daughters of Jerusalem continued Solomon’s verbal lashing. “Yes, and you are as lovely as the dawn, Queen Arielah, fair as the moon, bright as the sun, majestic as the—”

  Queen Sekhet rushed at the Daughters, sending them scurrying past Solomon and toward the door. Arielah curled into a tight ball, stretching her wounds and muscles excruciatingly. She couldn’t breathe. The pain of the position paled in comparison to the agony of her soul.

  “Go!” she heard Abba shout as he followed the king out of her chamber. Ima stroked her hair, soothed her, as darkness mercifully consumed her.

  34

  • SONG OF SOLOMON 6:11 •

  [Lover] I went down to the grove of nut trees to look at the new growth in the valley.

  Bring him to my chamber!” Solomon commanded the Cherethite guards waiting outside Arielah’s door. “Prince Jehoshaphat needs a lesson in respect for his king.” He could feel Jehoshaphat’s rage burning a hole in his back, but he marched on, feeling as though he might retch any moment. Jehovah, please . . . please . . . But he didn’t even know what to pray anymore. How had his life become such a mess?

  Entering his chamber through the throne hall’s hidden door, he began shouting orders. “Everyone out! Servants. Guards. Everyone!” Jehoshaphat halted, as did the Cherethites, and Solomon dismissed his elite protectors as well. The guards’ hesitation was uncharacteristic. They’d been trained to act immediately on command. “Yes,” Solomon said through clenched teeth. “I wish to be alone with Prince Jehoshaphat.”

  Both guards saluted—fist to heart, a warrior’s honor. Jehoshaphat’s crimson fury seemed to fade to confusion by the time the double doors closed. All those who could protect their king or testify on his behalf had been ordered from the room. Jehoshaphat’s curiosity appeared to temper his rage.

  They stood in silence for a long moment, the two wise men of Israel, neither willing to yield the advantage by speaking first. Finally Solomon walked toward the ivory table where they had first struck the treaty bride agreement. Extending his hand, he directed Shunem’s prince to be seated on his customary goatskin. Accepting at least the first effort to be civil, Jehoshaphat sat.

  “I am divorcing your daughter,” Solomon said plainly, watching the prince’s eyes flame. “Because I love her,” he added tearfully, sniffing back emotions that threatened further explanation.

  Jehoshaphat seemed unconvinced, his protective instincts undiminished. “After the words I heard you speak to her in there, I cannot believe you love her,” he said, arms crossed, brow furrowed. He offered no sign of the mercy he’d once given so freely.

  Why would he? Solomon sighed and began, “I hope she was as convinced as you are.” He paused, watching confusion reign again on Jehoshaphat’s face. “If she knew of my love, she would stay in Jerusalem, and it’s obvious that I can’t protect her here. I have no idea how deeply these Sons of Judah have infiltrated my palace officials and the Judean military. She’ll be much safer if she returns to Shunem with you and Jehosheba.”

  Jehoshaphat’s probing gaze was unsettling, searching every corner of Solomon’s soul. “Why divorce her?” he asked, suspicion still lacing his tone. “Why not simply send her to Shunem until Benaiah roots out the Sons of Judah and the conspiracy is ended?”

  Solomon had dreaded the question, knowing that wise Jehoshaphat would cut to the bone eventually. “I love Arielah as I’ve never loved anyone in my life,” he said, unable to contain his tears any longer. “But her love was not created for a harem wife.” His voice broke into a sob, and he buried his face in his hands. “Her love will shrivel and die in my harem, Jehoshaphat, and I cannot bear Jehovah’s judgment for destroying Arielah’s pure heart.” Rocking back and forth, Solomon released days—even years—of sorrow, grieving with a mourner’s wail.

  He felt two strong arms embrace him, an abba’s comfort like he’d never felt before. Time passed. His tears ebbed. Jehoshaphat remained at his side.

  Finally his stomach growled and broke the silence. Shunem’s prince patted his shoulder. “You must eat something, my king, before you begin the day’s court proceedings.”

  Solomon nodded but laid a hand on Jehoshaphat’s arm when he tried to rise. “So what is your answer?” he asked. “About the divorce papers? I’ve had Elihoreph draw them up. Will you serve as witness when Arielah signs them?”

  His eyes were kind but determined. “Let’s wait, my son. Give Jehovah time to work in both of your hearts separately. If after sufficient time you still believe divorce to be the answer, I will witness my daughter’s acceptance and grant it.”

  The bumpy wilderness roads between Jerusalem and Gibeon jarred Arielah’s bones like a hand mill grinding wheat. Hannah had added more pillows inside the faded wedding carriage, but the jolts to her slow-healing wounds were still excruciating. “We’re almost there, my lady,” Hannah whispered, peering out the ivory-latticed window. “I see the Tent of Meeting on the high place ahead.”

  Ima reached for Arielah’s hand, lips moving, eyes closed in silent prayer. The Shulammite queen gritted her teeth against the pain, trying to decide which hurt worse: her broken body or a potentially broken marriage. A year, she thought. Abba said Solomon would send divorce papers in a year.

  Benaiah led Jehoshaphat’s procession with Mighty Men forming the front and rear guard. Abba’s camel plodded beside her carriage, but he shouted directions nonetheless. “We’ll make camp near the main pool, as close to the tabernacle as we can get.”

  She heard Benaiah shout back, “Why beside the pool?”

  “We’ll need the water to carry our voices across the crowd,” Abba answered. “Many northerners will arrive at Gibeon’s Passover ready for war.”

  Arielah squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Would the violence never end?

  Jehoshaphat’s caravan arrived well before twilight on the fourteenth day, plenty of time to set up their tents and get everyone settled. Ima Jehosheba coaxed Arielah to enjoy a short nap before Benaiah carried her to the sacrifice. He’d become her personal chariot, his strong arms her safest and gentlest means of transport. Hannah had placed a slice of cucumber over each eye and a warm cloth to hold them in place, and then settled down beside her to hum a tune.

  “Prince Jehoshaphat!” Arielah heard the familiar voice outside their tent and swept the cucumbers to the floor. Shunem’s chief elder, Phaltiel, greeted Abba across Gibeon’s crowded hillside. “Thanks be to Jehovah, I finally found you!” Though the man had rendered the guilty verdict in Arielah’s brother’s execution, he remained a beloved family friend.

  Abba rose from his stool at the open tent flap. “Phaltiel! Welcome!” He peeked his head inside the tent. “Jehosheba, Benaiah, come greet our friend.”

  Though Arielah couldn’t see Phaltiel’s countenance, she felt his warmth grow cold in silence. She saw Ima bow her head and reenter the tent, her eyes subtly saying, Pray, Arielah. This is not good.

  When Phaltiel broke the silence, his words were clipped and harsh. “What brings the commander of Israel’s army to our northern Passover celebration? Has the war begun and I’m the last to know?”

  “No war, my lord,” Benaiah said, and Arielah saw through the tent opening that the commander offered Phaltiel his hand in friendship. “I have come to guard Prince Jehoshaphat and his family on their return to Shunem. It is an honor to see you again.”

  No reply. Arielah held her breath, watching Benaiah’s hand hang in lonely silence.

  When Shunem’s new chief elder finally grasped the big man’s hand, Arielah sighed her relief. “Welcome, Benaiah,” Phaltiel said, some kindness returning. “I’m sorry to have been abrupt, but word of Arielah’s abuse has reached northern ears. And we will not abide it.”

  “Nor will I,” Benaiah said, fire in his voice.

  Abba Jehoshaphat embraced both men’s shoulders. “My friends, it’s almost twil
ight. Let’s celebrate the Lord’s Passover together and speak of Israel’s unity after we remember our great deliverance.” As he spoke, a sound like rushing water reached Arielah. The ground beneath her stacked tapestries began to quake.

  “What’s happening?” She turned to Ima Jehosheba, who ran to the tent opening.

  Covering her mouth, Ima gasped, and tears immediately shone in her eyes. “Oh, Arielah,” she whispered.

  “What, Ima? What is it?”

  Ima pulled back the tent flap to reveal a mob of several hundred men approaching their camp, carrying torches. Some even carried winnowing forks and scythes.

  “Prince of Shunem,” one man called out, “our northern tribes stand ready to fight. All of Israel will gather to avenge your daughter’s betrayal and set Judah in its place. You need only issue the command.”

  Benaiah pressed Jehoshaphat into the tent behind him. “Stay in the tent, my friend. My men will protect you.”

  Jehoshaphat stepped around his mountainous friend, reaching up to pat his shoulder. “No, Benaiah. This time I believe it is you who needs my protection. Go back inside the tent and wait for me there.”

  “Oh no, my friend. I have never run from a battle, and I will not start today.”

  Jehoshaphat squeezed Benaiah’s shoulder. “There will be no battle here. There will be a Passover Feast. Now, go into the tent and bring Arielah out to the crowd.”

  Arielah’s heart leapt to her throat, and Ima cried, “Jehoshaphat!”

  Benaiah’s confusion seemed to root his feet to Gibeon’s soil.

  Jehoshaphat turned to address his wife. “Jehosheba, my love, what was written in the sky of my dream?”

  “What?” Arielah asked instinctively, but understanding dawned before the word died on the breeze.

  Ima’s face showed the same radiant awareness. “Yes, husband, in lightning across the sky—‘her life for Israel.’” Jehosheba stepped aside and said to Benaiah, “Take her outside. Israel must see their lamb.”

  Though Arielah’s fresh wounds amplified her fear of violence, she trusted the resolve in Abba’s voice and nodded her willingness. The commander, though seemingly still confused, must have also trusted Abba’s confidence. He ducked inside the tent to retrieve her.

  The crowd began to jeer. “That’s right, big man, run!”

  Another man called out, “Judah has ruined its last northern maiden!”

  Gently cradling Arielah, Benaiah lifted her from the stacked tapestries and emerged from the tent. All noise ceased. They must have made quite the spectacle. Arielah, frail and broken in the arms of Israel’s top soldier. Benaiah, his leather breastplate and wristbands glistening in the twilight, his sword, dagger, and bow attesting to his warrior skills. Israel’s revered elder trusted this gentle giant with his daughter, and Abba trusted her resolve to be as strong as the man who carried her. But how did he want her to show it?

  “Abba?” Her single word prompted his explanation.

  “These men want to fight for your honor,” Jehoshaphat explained in a loud, clear voice, “because your blood was spilled.” More people were gathering now, hearing his voice amplified across the great pool. With a tender smile and meaningful wink, Abba said, “Tell the Israelites why the Passover lamb spilled its blood so others could be saved.”

  Arielah’s heart swelled, her throat tight with the realization of Abba’s intention. Dare she suggest such a thing, that she be similar to the Passover lamb, sacrificed so the death angel would pass over their nation and bring unity instead of civil war?

  In her hesitation, she felt herself trembling—but quickly realized it wasn’t her shaking. Hearing soft weeping, she looked up at the fierce soldier who held her. Benaiah’s beard dripped with tears. “Tell them, Arielah. Tell them,” he said.

  “Men of Israel, I am your treaty bride.” Her weak voice rose, and even the crickets seemed to still. “As you can see by my wounds, we are already engaged in a great battle.”

  A great roar swelled, and men shook their coarse weapons. Jehoshaphat motioned for silence so she could continue.

  “But you must understand. Our battle is not against flesh and blood. It is a battle against the enemy within the hearts of men—and women.”

  Confusion and dissension rippled across the sea of men.

  “Please listen. You know only a vague tribe called Judah and a lofty king named Solomon, but I see Judean friends I’ve come to love.” She touched Benaiah’s cheek. “And my husband is a wise and godly king who seeks to unite Israel and make her strong.”

  “What of your wounds, Queen Arielah? Does your blood mean nothing?” one man in the crowd cried out.

  “Oh, I pray that my blood means everything,” she shouted, then coughed. The crowd quieted again, seemingly aware of the price her body paid for raising her voice. “I pray that because my blood was spilled, no other Israelite need be wounded. Let me be the Passover lamb, brethren. Let the death angel pass over Israel. I know my husband’s heart.” At this, her voice faltered. A sob escaped. Did she know his heart? What about the divorce papers?

  He is Jedidiah. A voice seemed to echo in her spirit, and she gained strength to go on.

  “He will return for me someday. I believe he will honor the treaty bride agreement. Jehovah has a plan for Israel, but he also loves Solomon the man. Let Jehovah do His work in both the nation and the man.”

  Silence.

  Uneasy glances changed to furtive whispers, and one by one, the mob turned away. Benaiah stood with Arielah in his arms until the last man had gone.

  Twilight came, and the Passover lambs were slaughtered. The whimpering questions of the first-time shepherds could be heard. “Abba, why must the lamb die?”

  And the faithful abbas in Israel continued teaching their children. “It is the Passover sacrifice to the Lord, who passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt and spared our homes when he struck down the Egyptians’ firstborn sons. We will commemorate God’s faithfulness for all the generations to come.”

  “Will the Israelites allow God to prove faithful once again, Abba?” Arielah asked.

  “Only Jehovah knows, my lamb.”

  Though three full moons had passed since Passover, Solomon still reveled in the glow of its joy. He had required all his wives to attend the sacrifice at twilight and to celebrate the seven-day Feast of Unleavened Bread. Even the foreign wives had been forced to enjoy themselves, and it seemed all but one did. A wry smile creased his lips at the memory of Naamah’s face when he threw Rehoboam’s Molech doll into the sacrificial fire. It had been a grand celebration.

  “Why do you smile?” Sekhet’s long, brown finger poked at his cheek.

  Her brusque manner had become rather endearing since she’d witnessed the love of Jehoshaphat’s family. Her sharp mind provided worthy exercise for his thoughts. “I’m remembering all the times I’ve beaten you at this game,” he said, throwing the knucklebones across the game board. “Ha! And I’ve won again!” He advanced his jackal to its final position, but before he removed his hand, Sekhet wiped the board clean—sending hounds and jackals bouncing across the tiled floor. He laughed and pointed at her with the piece remaining in his hand. “You, Queen Sekhet, are a terrible loser.”

  Her only reply was a half smile, which for Solomon was a victory greater than the game. In the days since Arielah’s departure, he’d had little female companionship—a decision of his own choosing, and one that had thrown his harem into anarchy. The Daughters of Jerusalem had bravely tried to appease his angry wives with added beauty treatments and overnight journeys to the springs of En Gedi. Shiphrah and Sherah had been worth their weight in temple gold. And after refusing any further visits with Marah, Solomon heard she had left the City of David—destination unknown—which was for the best.

  “You seem distracted,” Sekhet said, reaching over to touch his hand, a rare display of tender concern. Solomon wondered if the child in her womb was already softening her heart.

  He noticed shadows
under her eyes. “Are you getting enough sleep, Sekhet? Does the babe keep you awake at night?”

  She tilted her head, and the lion-mane wig caught the lamplight glow.

  “Perhaps you should return to your chamber to rest.”

  Her expression grew rigid, all tenderness gone. The hand she’d extended drew back, placed precisely in her lap. “If you wish me to go, I will leave. But I will not return to my chamber where those sisters of Set rule the underworld of your harem.”

  Solomon’s shock at her flood of words must have been evident.

  “Close your mouth,” she said. “You gape like a hippo.”

  Leaving his goatskin rug, he pulled her into an embrace. His warrior wife was trembling. “Should I assume these ‘sisters of Set’ you mentioned are the other wives? Have they been mistreating you?”

  She remained silent, stoic. Though he never interfered in the harem’s world of women, he would not sit idly by and allow Sekhet to be terrorized.

  “Sekhet, I cannot protect you if I do not know the trouble.” Even as he said the words, the image of Arielah’s broken body flashed in his mind. He squeezed his eyes closed against the memory.

  “I master your other wives,” she said, a hint of “the powerful one” returning.

  Solomon waited for her to explain further, but she remained silent. Who but his wives would represent Set, the Egyptian god of chaos, destruction, and evil? “Sekhet . . .”

  “I will go.” She struggled to her feet.

  “No, wait,” he said, catching her hand before she could walk away. “I’m thinking of taking a stroll in my garden. Would you join me?” Obviously his Egyptian queen had said all she was going to say on the matter. Probably for the best. Sekhet was Pharaoh’s daughter. She probably realized that he couldn’t go meddling in harem politics for one wife without being drawn into all the women’s quarrels.