Song of Songs

by Marc Graham

  “We welcome you home,” Tadua told the merchants after they’d presented the king’s share. “Your gifts are well received, though your greatest two gifts are those you entrusted to us before your departure.” The king gestured toward Bilkis and Rahab. The queen had commanded the younger woman to Tadua’s bed to warm the king after a violent chill had seized him. Surprise flashed across Eliam’s face, but he replaced it with the merchant’s neutral joviality. Before he could speak, the seer, Gad, pushed through the doors of the audience chamber.

  “Tadua abi-Yishai,” the young prophet said, his voice deep and resonant, “as Yah reigns over the gods, as Havah sits upon her heavenly throne, you will answer for what you have done.”

  All eyes turned upon the righteous intruder, and Bilkis noticed a hint of color in Rahab’s cheeks. The king’s face, on the other hand, turned ashen. His lips trembled, his eyes flitted about as though searching his memory for whatever transgression he’d been caught at.

  “How dare you speak unbidden to your lord?” Captain Benyahu demanded from his post at the foot of the dais.

  Tadua gestured for him to be silent. “Upon my beard, Prophet,” the king said, “I know not of what you speak. Tell me my sin that I may atone before the gods.”

  Gad looked uncertain and shot a questioning glance toward Bilkis.

  “Did the king not proclaim his son Baaliyah as his heir?” he said. “Did he not raise a king over Yisrael without seeking the gods’ will?”

  Rage and no little fear squeezed the breath from Bilkis’s throat. She clasped a hand over Tadua’s.

  “Is this true?” Her words came in a whisper. “Did you place Baaliyah over Yahtadua? Did you break your promise to me?”

  “Promise?” the king slurred, his eyes still vacant.

  “By Yah and by Havah, you swore to me that our son would follow you on the throne, to rule in peace over what you have won by the sword.”

  That Tadua had never actually made that promise was of little matter. Bilkis had made the bargain with her body and her affection, as the price of her son’s crown.

  Tadua’s head shook, his hands trembled. “I may have promised you,” he admitted, his speech halting, “but I made no proclamation regarding Baaliyah. If you have aught to say, Prophet, speak plain.”

  Gad’s lips parted, but he closed them again. Confusion clouded his eyes as he looked to Rahab and Bilkis, then back to the king. “The king’s son,” he said finally, “Prince Baaliyah, hosts a feast at the Fuller’s Spring. General Ayub led the prince’s donkey. The priest Abiattar anointed Baaliyah’s head with oil and spoke the blessing of Yah over him.”

  “They make him a king,” Benyahu said.

  The tremors spread from Tadua’s hands to the whole of his upper body. He clutched the blanket that lay atop him, whether to restrain himself or to pull himself upright Bilkis wasn’t sure. Blood filled his cheeks and ugly veins stood out at neck and temple.

  “Cursed, cursed is my seed,” he cried, spittle flecking his lips. “Is this the reward for my folly? Have I not built a kingdom to Yah and Havah’s glory? And do they repay me only with sons who claim it for themselves?”

  The chamber fell silent, Tadua’s question was answered only by his sobs. Even Bilkis found no words, no means to turn this to her favor.

  “Abba?” a small voice said.

  Bilkis looked down to find Yahtadua standing before the king. The boy rarely spoke, certainly never before the king. Yet he stood now with hands folded, back straight, eyes fixed on Tadua’s.

  “Abba,” the boy said again, “don’t cry. I’ll be good.”

  Tadua’s sobbing stopped with the prince’s words. Tears yet streamed down his cheeks, but a sad smile curved his lips.

  “Will you?” the king said, his voice pleading. “Will you make my name live? Will you honor me before the gods, and preserve what I have made?”

  Yahtadua nodded solemnly.

  “Swear it, boy,” Tadua insisted. “Swear it by the gods.”

  The prince glanced at Bilkis, who smiled and nodded. “By Yah and by Havah,” Yahtadua said, his thin voice full of conviction. “I swear to keep your kingdom.” He paused and pursed his lips. After a moment, he looked back to the king and completed his oath. “Upon my beard.”

  Phlegm choked Tadua’s laughter, but his delight was unfettered. The king laid his trembling hands atop Yahtadua’s head.

  “I’ll take that in surety,” he said. “You have spoken well, my son. All praise to the gods who have heard my prayers.” Tadua looked to Gad and added, “But we must make certain. Have you the seer stones?”

  The prophet bowed his head. He drew a pouch from within his robe, hung about his neck by a leather thong. He shook the pouch, and it made a small rattling sound.

  “Then inquire of the gods for me,” Tadua ordered him.

  Gad pulled a pair of gloves from the belt at his waist and tugged them over his hands. The seer closed his eyes, mumbled a few words, then drew a deep breath. Bilkis jerked back in her throne when Gad opened his eyes, only the whites showing.

  “Ask of the gods what you will,” he said in a raspy voice.

  Tadua supported himself upon his elbows and rose to a half-sitting position. Rahab stuffed pillows behind him to support his back. The king took Yahtadua’s hand and turned the boy to face Gad.

  “Shall I name a son to succeed me?” Tadua asked.

  Gad reached into the pouch, drew out his fist, and opened it to reveal a small white stone.

  “Yes,” Benyahu said, a tone of awe in his voice.

  Gad placed the stone back in the pouch and shook it again.

  “Shall it be Baaliyah?” Tadua asked.

  Again Gad drew from the pouch, this time revealing a black stone of the same size and shape.

  “No,” Rahab whispered, her hands over her mouth.

  Bilkis looked around the chamber and found every eye turned toward the young prophet, the voice of the gods.

  “Shall it be Shepatiyah?” the king asked, referring to one of Baaliyah’s younger brothers.

  Black.

  “Shall it be Itream?”

  Black.

  Tadua whispered in Yahtadua’s ear, and the boy nodded.

  “Shall it be me?” the boy asked quietly. Then he cleared his throat. “Shall it be Yahtadua?”

  The very world seemed to still as Gad again reached into the pouch and withdrew his hand. Bilkis found herself leaning forward, elbows upon her knees, breath stopped in her lungs.

  White.

  A sigh filled the chamber as breaths released.

  “So shall it be,” Tadua declared. “Summon Abdi-Havah. Have him bring the stone of Yaakob from the Sanctuary. Benyahu, you shall set Yahtadua upon my own donkey and with my personal guard lead him down to the Gihon Spring. There have Abdi-Havah anoint him with oil and with water. Sound the rams’ horns and thrice proclaim him King of Yisrael, before the gods, before the people, and before the very land.”

  “You will not proclaim him yourself?” Bilkis asked.

  “I have done so,” Tadua said. “The people should see their king hale and young, not as a dotard confined to his couch. Go now.”

  “Of course,” Bilkis said, and kissed the king’s hand. “Rahab will stay to wait upon you.”

  The girl began to protest, but Bilkis silenced her with a stern look.

  “I am at my lord’s service,” Rahab said.

  The king smiled, and the assembly bowed then set about obeying his commands. “Send a runner to the Fuller’s Spring,” Tadua said as they were leaving the chamber. “I’m sure Baaliyah and his party will want to pay their respects.”

  34

  Yetzer

  Yetzer set down his stylus and flexed cramped fingers. Pressing his hands against his lower back, he stretched muscles made stiff from hours at his post. The reed mat and wooden writing surface were positioned to capture light from the clerestory windows, the pots of red and black ink in easy reach, but the arrangement did little
to aid Yetzer’s comfort.

  Or his conscience.

  Since his return to the temple, Yetzer had been assigned to the docks, the gardens, the scullery—every menial task his masters could find. Merisutah must eventually have decided there was more benefit to be had in making use of Yetzer’s skills than in tormenting him. The hierophant set him among the temple’s archives, to record sales of land and livestock, the intake of crops, and the distribution of food among the temple’s holdings.

  It hadn’t taken Yetzer long to recognize the discrepancies. Shipping statements did not match the Temple’s receipts. The goods delivered to the Temple did not square with those sent to the kitchens and storehouses, or to the labor camps.

  Three times Yetzer pointed out the disparity to the hierophant. Three times Merisutah cursed whatever thief might dare to steal from the gods. Yetzer had never cared for the new high priest, selected to fill the post following old Huy’s death. Still, he’d wanted to believe the man sincere in his service to Amun, even if that service did not entail kindness to mere humanity.

  As Yetzer finished this day’s tally, however, his faith in the hierophant vanished. Despite Merisutah’s vows to investigate the matter, the theft continued. Yetzer’s only conclusion was that the high priest himself was taking from the Temple, defying Mayat’s divine order by stealing from Amun, from his brother priests, from the very land and people of Kemet.

  Yetzer closed and massaged his weary eye. He had accepted enslavement and humiliation, endured scourges and hunger and want, because he deserved no better. He’d failed his initiation, the same initiation that Merisutah had passed. To suborn himself to better men was no failing, it was just. But to bow before one who breached his sacred trust, who mocked the god he purported to serve—that was intolerable.

  Yetzer rose and left the archives. Though his ankle chain had been removed upon returning to the temple, he often slipped into the shuffling gait to which he’d become accustomed over the years. He willed strength into his steps as he stalked toward the Adepts’ Gate. The guards noticed his approach and moved to block his way.

  “Be about your work, slave,” the older of the two men said. “None pass this way but the Masters.”

  Yetzer pressed on, and the guard put a hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Come no farther,” the guard ordered.

  Yetzer ignored him, his stride sure and bold. The guard’s blade gave a musical hiss as it slid from its scabbard. Still Yetzer moved forward. The blade whistled through the air, and Yetzer stopped only when the sword’s tip pressed against his chest.

  “Stand aside for an adept of the mysteries of Amun,” Yetzer commanded, his voice sending deep echoes through the courtyard.

  The younger guard fumbled with his sword, pointing it alternately at Yetzer’s chest and at the ground.

  “Maybe we should let him pass,” he said in a raspy voice.

  “Bah,” the older man spat. “He’s no adept. He’s but a slave with grand ideas. Go back to your ink pots, boy,” he said to Yetzer. “I’d rather not bloody my sword.”

  “Summon a Master, then,” Yetzer said. “Summon the hierophant. Yetzer abi-Huram would pass these gates.”

  Sandals slapped against the paving stones behind him. Yetzer released his gaze from the guard and looked about. Priests and servants gathered around the yard. A few shared whispers, but most stared at the upstart slave. The older guard gave a gravelly chuckle and nodded.

  “As you wish. Summon Hierophant Merisutah,” he told the younger man. “This thing wants to pass the gate? Not my worry. We’ll let the high priest decide whether it’s on foot or in a pickling jar.”

  The younger guard nodded and started away but stopped short as the hierophant himself approached.

  “What goes on here?” Merisutah inquired, his voice placid.

  “This slave—” the older guard began, but Yetzer cut him off.

  “Yetzer abi-Huram demands to pass.”

  Merisutah barked out a laugh.

  “Of course you may pass. Give me the Masters’ word and the gates will open before you. Give me a false word, however, and your throat will be ripped out before you draw another breath.” The hierophant’s eyes glinted and a grin twisted his lips. “Or simply spare us the bother and return to your scripts.”

  Yetzer wavered.

  Had he been too proud? All the gods knew his pride was as thick and high as a cedar. Pride lay at the feet of every ill that had befallen him and might now be his undoing. But pride’s twin, dignity, also urged him on. Better to die trying to be free than to live as corruption’s slave.

  Merisutah stood within a small alcove set in the wall beside the gate. Yetzer stepped toward him while his heart chased after the Masters’ word. Since entering Pharaoh’s care he’d known starvation and gluttony, exhaustion and ease, privation and plenty. The gods had placed the world at his feet, then taken all away.

  Through the trials, through the years, one thread remained constant. Its name might not be the Masters’ word, but if it was the last to fall from his lips, perhaps the gods would again hear him, remember his name, and save him from death’s oblivion.

  Yetzer leaned close to Merisutah and whispered in his ear.

  The hierophant shuddered and took a step back against the wall. He fixed Yetzer’s eye with his gaze, then glanced about at the gaping priests and guards. Merisutah drew a deep breath and released it with a sigh.

  “Strike off his … ”

  Yetzer sucked air into his lungs and stood tall as he savored the aromas of incense, water lilies, and the earthy fullness of Iteru’s waters.

  “ … bonds,” Merisutah finished.

  Silence cloaked the courtyard. Even the Iteru seemed to check its flow as the breeze held its breath. Only Yetzer’s heartbeat gave evidence that the world still moved.

  Shuffling feet broke the stillness as a priest came alongside him. With a pair of tongs he drew the pins from Yetzer’s bonds and dropped the bronze shackles to the ground.

  “Yetzer abi-Huram,” Merisutah intoned in a deep voice, “I call you by name before great Amun and before all the gods. Having completed the ordeals of an initiate, having discovered the sacred word of the hidden Masters, you now stand as a brother among the priests of Amun, an adept of the mysteries of Light.”

  35

  Bilkis

  Prince Baaliyah, as it turned out, was not anxious to pay his respects. General Ayub and the priest Abiattar, however, hastened to the palace and crawled to the throne to kiss Yahtadua’s feet, their robes torn, ashes in their hair.

  “Baaliyah deceived us,” Abiattar cried. “He claimed our lord the king had named him his heir.”

  The old priest’s tears wet Yahtadua’s sandals. Ayub neither affirmed nor refuted Abiattar’s claim. He simply drew his sword and, under Benyahu’s watchful eye, placed the blade beneath Yahtadua’s feet.

  “My sword and all the tribe of Yehuda are at the command of the king,” the old general said.

  Tadua nodded from his couch as Yahtadua accepted priest and warrior into his grace. After the rest of the princes and tribal elders made their professions of loyalty, the young king sent Benyahu to fetch Baaliyah from the altar of the Sanctuary, where the prince had taken refuge.

  “Be gentle with him,” Yahtadua told his new general. “If he won’t come, assure him of my good will. So long as he behaves, he needn’t fear.”

  Benyahu grumbled but gave his assent. Bilkis watched with awe as her son transformed from pampered child to regal king.

  Tadua, however, hadn’t long to enjoy his heir’s reign. Rahab warmed his bed through the remainder of the summer and autumn. The king’s chills returned with the winter’s rains. On the first new moon following the birth of spring, eight years after Bilkis had chosen between Auriyah’s sons, Rahab dashed into Bilkis’s chamber.

  “It is time,” she said, then hastily retreated.

  Yahtadua had been asleep, but Bilkis sat upon his bed and stroked his cheek. />
  “Awake, my darling king,” she said. “Your father calls us.”

  The boy blinked his eyes open, stretched, then took his mother’s hand and followed her from the room.

  “Summon General Benyahu,” Bilkis told the guard at her door. “The king will have need of him this night.”

  She led a yawning Yahtadua to the king’s chamber. The guard at Tadua’s door tugged on the bronze ring and drew it open. Heat poured from the room, and Bilkis first thought the palace had been set ablaze. All the braziers burned safely upon their hearthstones, the smoke swept through openings cut high in the chamber’s walls. Bilkis crossed the threshold then turned back to the guard before he closed the door.

  “Send word to the widow Mikhel. She may wish to know of the king’s condition.”

  The man nodded and closed the door.

  Rahab sat on a stool beside Tadua’s bed. The king lay on his back, hands folded across his chest, atop the thick covers. His tremors had stilled. By the fixed gaze of his eyes upon the smoke-obscured ceiling, Bilkis feared they had come too late, but a short, quick movement of the hands upon his chest bore witness that the king yet drew breath.

  Bilkis ushered Yahtadua forward, boosted the lad onto the bed, then crossed around and sat at Tadua’s other side. The king turned his head to her, and a smile broke the crusted saliva at the corner of his mouth.

  “So ends the glory of the House of Yisrael.” Tadua’s voice cracked like parched goatskin.

  “So it continues,” Bilkis corrected him. “For you have established a throne to span a hundred generations.”

  “Labaya established it,” Tadua said, referring to his predecessor, Mikhel’s father. “I simply gathered the scraps from his table.”

  “Then truly you are favored of the gods, for from a few crumbs of bread and bits of fish you have set a great feast.” Bilkis laid a hand atop the king’s. “You are the moshiach, the anointed one of Yah and Havah. Your seed shall continue what you have begun, even as you built upon Labaya’s foundation. Instruct your son now in the way you would have him go.”