by Marc Graham
A betrothal between Watar’s son and Bilkis had been intended to ease tensions between our two great cities. The young man had been one of those in the wadi when the flood struck. His impatience to claim his bride had not only taken his and Bilkis’s lives, but the fires he’d started had ruined the few remaining fields that could still bear fruit.
“If Maryaba can no longer meet her obligations,” Watar said when the furor again subsided, “perhaps it is time for a new arrangement.”
“What sort of arrangement?” my mother asked warily.
“The line of our fathers is diminished. Maryaba is ruled by a woman, a foreigner. The weapons the city once possessed now lie scattered before the walls of Timnah.”
“Weapons are easily made,” Yanuf said.
“But suitable leaders are not,” Watar countered. “A mukarrib should have a cock between the legs.” He leered at my mother. “And perhaps that could be remedied—”
Yanuf lurched toward Watar, but Mother grasped his arm and bade him sit. “Our guest’s words are bitter as early grapes, but they cannot be ignored.”
“I don’t intend to ignore them,” the gatekeeper growled. “I intend to stuff them back down his gullet.”
Mother did not respond. Instead, she turned back to the Lord of Timnah and repeated, “What sort of arrangement?”
Watar scraped his fingers through his beard. “It may be time for Timnah to take its rightful place as head of Saba.”
Once more, the room filled with shouts. I clapped my hands to my ears and shook my head, but could not hold back the clamor.
“Why won’t you just share?” I cried, my voice cutting through the din.
All eyes bored into me. I shied back from the ladderway, but Mother gestured for me to come down. I obeyed and sat beside her.
“What do you suggest?” Mother asked me in the tongue of her native Uwene, the language in which we shared our secrets.
Too abashed to look at any of the others, I locked my eyes onto hers and explained. When I finished, Mother smiled, pulled me into an embrace, then faced the men around us. She broke off a piece of flatbread from the central platter and dipped it in a bowl of olive oil.
“Brother Watar’s words are not without merit,” she said, and took a bite. “Maryaba has, indeed, fallen short of her duties as caretaker of Saba. But tell me, Lord, how does Timnah intend to feed her subjects?”
“We will take what we need,” Watar replied.
“From whom?” she asked. “No other town produces as much as Maryaba. With our men tasked to defend against your raids, we have scarcely enough workers to feed ourselves, let alone Timnah and the rest of Saba.”
Watar leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. The men on either side of him whispered their counsel, gesturing toward Mother and me as they did so.
At length, the Lord of Timnah sat forward, spread his hands and smiled. “What do you suggest?”
Mother, too, leaned forward and pushed the platter of bread toward Watar.
“Like a good mother, Maryaba will continue to guide and nourish her children of Saba.”
Watar’s men started to protest, but he silenced them with an upraised hand. “Go on.”
“Like a good father, Timnah shall protect and provide for his family, sacrificing his wants for their needs.”
Watar’s eyes narrowed as he looked from Mother to me.
“And what else do father and mother do?”
Mother’s cheeks darkened, but she kept her gaze steady. “Brother Watar, I am a new widow. When my days of mourning are past, I will dedicate myself to the gods that I may serve the people of Saba without distraction.”
Disappointment clouded Watar’s eyes.
“However,” Mother continued, “I have a daughter.”
I shot a look toward her. I hadn’t meant to be part of the plan.
“She is Karibil’s acknowledged daughter,” she went on, “descended from your own ancestors. I believe you have another son?”
Watar nodded. “Dhamar. He has just passed his trials of manhood.”
“Makeda will be a woman in seven years,” Ayana said, “perhaps sooner. In that time, let our cities rebuild what envy and sloth have torn down. Let us restore all of Saba to prosperity and greatness. And then—” She placed her hand atop my head. I realized I hadn’t breathed for some time. I took a ragged breath and my heart resumed its beat. “And then,” Mother continued with a smile at me, “when their time has come, mother and father shall be made one.”
A fly’s buzzing was the only sound in the room. For a span of thirty heartbeats or more, the councillors held their tongues. At length, Watar smiled, leaned forward and broke off a piece of bread.
7
Bilkis
Sand was everywhere. Not only upon the ground and in the air, but in sandals and robes and undergarments. In food, wine, and water. And hair. Bilkis’s chief vanity—she had many, she was learning—was her hair. With it she had drawn the attention of many suitors. As the caravan crossed the desert, she had been forced to adopt Leah and Rahab’s traditional dress, covering herself from head to foot, concealing her wondrous hair to keep it free of the blowing sand.
The moon turned ten times while the caravan followed some unseen path. The wind aided in keeping the trail a secret as it erased all signs of their passage with each step. Day followed tedious day as the caravan’s guide, a Bedou slave boy, led them from one stone-walled well to the next.
Each evening, the travelers set their tents and made their fires. Each morning, they again loaded their animals in a cycle Bilkis began to fear had no end.
“How much longer?” she asked Rahab.
The pair secured their rolled sleeping mats upon their donkeys under the assault of sun and sand and wind.
“Soon,” the Habiru girl replied, as she did each time Bilkis asked the question.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. It wasn’t uncommon for clouds to gather in the evenings, massive and ominous and rippling with lightning. Bilkis couldn’t recall such a display in the morning hours, and the skies appeared empty.
The thunder grew louder. Bilkis realized it came from behind her. Ululating cries joined the rumble and Bilkis’s breath seized. She and her friends in Maryaba used to make up stories of Bedou raiders, wild horsemen that prowled the desert wastes. Their tales had been romantic and wondrous and exciting, but it was fear that now grasped Bilkis in its thrall.
Before her lips could form a warning, dozens of black-robed horsemen burst from the blinding disk of the rising sun. Sword blades flashed in the morning light as they slashed at tent ropes and fleeing servants.
“Get to the stores!” Eliam shouted.
He pushed Rahab and Bilkis toward the center of the camp. Bilkis took the girl’s hand and pulled her toward the baskets and bales of supplies. After ten months of travel, the pile of goods was much smaller than when Bilkis had joined the caravan. Still, she hoped they might find some shelter there. She pulled Rahab over a palisade of stacked fleece and sank into a shadowed corner.
The camp rang with men’s shouts and the clatter of weapons. The merchants carried staves and clubs, but how would they stand against bronze swords? A rattle of jars sounded from outside the hiding place. Bilkis feared they had been discovered but, when the intruder’s head appeared, she breathed once more.
“Umma,” Rahab cried.
The girl scrambled into Leah’s arms and the two sank to the ground in the first show of affection Bilkis had witnessed between them.
“Peace, daughter,” Leah said, her voice muffled by the girl’s tangled hair. “Be still.”
She stretched a hand toward Bilkis, who crawled into the big woman’s embrace. Leah and Rahab whispered prayers of deliverance to the goddess Havah and Yah, her consort, while Bilkis sheltered beneath the peace of their words.
“Leah!” Eliam’s shout pierced the mystical veil, and heavy steps raced toward the shelter.
“Husband,” Leah said. She freed he
rself from the girls’ arms and struggled to her feet. “I knew all would be well.”
Her words ended abruptly and Bilkis looked up. Leah’s eyes met hers before drifting downward to where a javelin sprouted from her bosom. A stain of crimson spread across her blue silk robe. The woman staggered back a step then fell heavily onto her backside.
“Umma!” Rahab screamed, and rushed to her mother’s side.
Bilkis turned away as the girl eased Leah onto her back. She peered over the makeshift rampart and came face-to-face with dark-eyed terror. The man’s face was covered with a black cloth, only his eyes and scarred nose visible. The eyes blazed with bloodlust that turned to something else when they fell on Bilkis.
She had seen looks of desire from the men of Saba, but the raw hunger in the eyes of the man before her stole her breath. The Bedou pulled down his scarf to reveal the full length of the scar. It ran from the bridge of his nose, down his right cheek to the corner of his mouth, which twisted into an evil sneer. The sneer widened into a smile of rotted teeth, and the man gave a throaty laugh. Laughter turned to a choking gasp as a shadow swooped over him. A flash of sunlight blinded Bilkis for a moment. When her vision returned, she thought she must have the desert madness for the Bedou lay on the ground, blood spilling from his throat. Over him stood a bronze-clad warrior who shone like gold with the light of the gods. Brown eyes sparked with passion while his dark hair flashed with streaks of fire.
A pair of Bedou rushed the warrior. He turned toward them on sleek, muscled legs, bare from the top of his bronze greaves to the hem of the tunic that scarcely covered his loincloth. Twin swords spun in his long-fingered hands and whistled with blood thirst.
The warrior sidestepped one of his attackers, who tripped over the dead Bedou in his headlong rush. The golden one then ducked beneath the sword stroke of the other man and plunged one of his blades into the man’s groin. The raider shrieked and fell to the ground. The warrior turned toward the remaining man who scrambled back toward Bilkis in her refuge.
Without a thought, Bilkis yanked the javelin from the wound in Leah’s breast. Ignoring Rahab’s cries, she leapt atop the bales of fleece against which the Bedou cowered. He looked up at Bilkis to reveal a boy’s tear-streaked face. He muttered what Bilkis assumed were prayers to the gods of the desert.
“There’s no need to pray,” Bilkis said in a soft, soothing voice.
The boy wiped his eyes and cracked a wary smile.
“You may speak to the gods directly,” Bilkis added, and plunged the javelin downward.
The boy raised a hand in feeble defense, but the blade pierced him under the arm, slid through his chest, and emerged low on his other side to sink into the sand. The depth of the blow took Bilkis by surprise and threw her off balance. She teetered off her perch, but the shining one caught her in his arms.
“The honeybee stings,” he said, his voice like a song and his breath sweet in Bilkis’s nostrils.
Before she could respond, the warrior set her on her feet and rushed to where a dozen more bronze-clad warriors exchanged blows with the Bedou. There seemed to be three times as many of the desert raiders, each with a horse, but the sure-footed warriors stood strong against them.
Bilkis cried out as a Bedou on a large, black horse bore down on her golden savior. The warrior turned, dove under the galloping hooves, then raised his twin swords into the beast’s belly. Rider and mount tumbled in a dusty cloud. The warrior sprang to his feet, raced toward the stunned raider and, with a single stroke, separated head from shoulders.
At that, the surviving Bedou lost heart. Fewer than a dozen remained, and these pulled hard on their horses’ reins and fled to the desert from which they had come. The warriors cheered them on their way, but there was no rejoicing among the members of the caravan.
Rahab’s wails echoed through the camp, closely matched by cries of the few men and fewer women who remained. Eliam, his head bleeding and eyes unfocused, staggered toward the makeshift barricade. Abram came close behind him. He and Bilkis helped the merchant over the stacked goods. The abbreviated family fell into one another’s arms.
Bilkis turned away to let them grieve in peace. She managed three steps before the world spun, her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground. It was only a few moments before strong hands took her by the shoulders and sat her upright.
“Here, now, my honey. Be at peace.” The warrior held a flask to Bilkis’s lips and she eagerly drank. Fire coursed over her tongue and down her throat. She coughed and spat up the foul brew.
“What is that?” she demanded as her eyes flooded with tears.
“Nectar for the bee,” the man said, his eyes full of humor.
He took a pull from the flask, shook his head like a shying horse, and gave a lion’s roar. Despite the horror strewn around them, Bilkis couldn’t help but laugh. The warrior raised an eyebrow and tipped the flask toward Bilkis. She nodded and took a cautious sip. The drink warmed her to her belly and calmed what fright her warrior’s touch had not yet eased.
“Does the bee have a name?” he asked.
“Bilkis, daughter of Karibil, Mukarrib of all Saba.”
The warrior frowned as he repeated her words, his northern tongue stumbling over them.
“Daughter of Saba,” he at last dubbed her. “I am Auriyah, son of King Tadua of Yisrael, and commander of the Hatti guard. And I think you, Bilkis bat-Saba, shall be my bride.”
8
Yetzer
“This one shows the savior-god Haru in his struggle against Sutah, the destroyer.”
Ameniye led Yetzer through the gallery of Pharaoh’s palace. As she had for months, she pointed out the murals depicting scenes from the lore of Kemet. The daughter of Pharaoh—“Sister,” she often chided Yetzer, “you must call me Sister”—had nursed him back to health, keeping him company as he lay on his sickbed, and filling the long days with tales of the gods and the foundations of the world.
“And what does it mean?” Yetzer asked, as he did after every tale she wove.
Ameniye smiled prettily, as she ever did. “It means, sweet Brother, that through Sutah’s darkest storms, the brilliant eye of Haru will pierce the clouds even as—”
“Even as …?” Yetzer prompted her, noting how her eyes flitted away.
Her voice was soft as she added, “Even as the lance of Sutah pierced Haru’s other eye.”
Yetzer raised his fingers to the bandage that covered his empty left eye socket. The pain of the injury had long since passed, and Ameniye’s salves had healed most of his burned and torn flesh. The wound to his heart was not so easily mended.
In his dreams, Yetzer was still haunted by the shades of his father and the others killed in the quarry. They demanded to know why he hadn’t saved them. They offered mocking hopes that he slept warm in Pharaoh’s house while they slept in the cold earth. Yetzer would awaken from these visitations in a sweat, the pain of his wounds as fresh as the scourge in his heart.
On those nights, Ameniye would come to him and wipe his brow. She would sing to him of Osaure and Auset, of their love that kept harmony in the land. She would hold him until he fell asleep and, in the dreams of early morning, he was Osaure and she Auset.
He loved her in those moments, when she was the goddess made flesh, beautiful and regal. In day’s light she was no less beautiful, and she moved with fluid steps that made him envy the ground beneath her feet. But the girl lacked the depth of the dream. Auset was wisdom embodied, attuned to the mysteries of creation, while Ameniye cared more for court gossip than the hidden truth behind Kemet’s myths.
“What is it, Brother?” Ameniye took his hand and stirred him from his thoughts. “Oh, do not be angry with me. I could not bear it. I only meant to point out how like the god you are.”
Yetzer forced a smile and squeezed her hand.
“It’s not that. It’s good I have only one eye to look upon you. Had I both to take in your beauty, I fear I should go mad.”
Ameniye’s expr
ession brightened with the flattery. She threw her arms about Yetzer’s neck and kissed him on the mouth. Her lips were soft and warm, her body firm as she pressed against him.
Yetzer allowed that wisdom might not be the only quality worth embracing.
“Yetzer abi-Huram begs Pharaoh’s attention,” the fat eunuch announced at the doorway to Horemheb’s audience hall.
Men’s grunts and the clash of weapons found their way through the door. The sword song intensified and the men’s voices grew louder until the hiss of sliding blades was followed by a victorious shout and the clatter of metal on wood.
“Show him in, Mika,” Pharaoh’s voice called. “Show him in.”
“At your command, Great Kemet.” The steward bowed, and the thin fabric of his robe revealed more of his backside than Yetzer cared to see.
Yetzer stepped around the eunuch and entered the chamber. Granite columns rose the height of six men. Alabaster sconces and bronze chandeliers shone upon plastered walls whose murals portrayed Pharaoh’s victories. The floor was lined with planks of polished cedar from Yetzer’s homeland, but Horemheb had pulled up most of these to make a fighting pit.
In the middle of the pit stood Pharaoh, an unarmed man kneeling before him.
“You fought well, Meren,” Horemheb said, and patted the man on the shoulder. “Take up your sword and see to your wounds.”
The young soldier touched his forehead to the ground, crawled back from Pharaoh, collected his sword and left.
“Friend of Pharaoh.” Horemheb turned toward Yetzer and spread his arms. “Come, Yetzer. Greet me as a father.”
Despite the warm welcome, Yetzer was suddenly aware of his place as a foreigner and an orphan in Kemet. He fell to his knees and groveled forward.
“Great is Pharaoh, Mighty One of Kemet, Brother to the Gods. May all the gods preserve him and—”
