Song of Songs

by Marc Graham

  Tadua rolled his grey head toward the boy. Yahtadua’s eyes were wide and gleamed in the firelight.

  “My son,” the king said, “I have drawn the sword for more years than most men draw breath. In my heart, however, I have always yearned for peace. Now I go to it. Your boundary stones are secure, your fields and pasturelands made safe. Yisrael is a friend to those on its north and its south, its east and its west. Your marriage bed will one day fortify those friendships and add to the peace and prosperity of the land.”

  The king’s voice flagged, and Rahab stepped forward with a bowl of watered wine. Tadua drank, spluttered a little, then looked upon the young woman with gratitude.

  “Be gracious with your neighbors,” he went on, “but also be wary. Hatti and Kemet are as two great millstones that might feed or destroy. The Pelesti are wanderers but their loyalty cannot be surpassed, so long as there is gold in their purses and wine in their cups. Tsur is an especial friend, for I helped abi-Milku to the throne, and his daughter Remeg remembers that debt.”

  Tadua gestured to Rahab, and she offered him another sip of wine.

  “As to your court,” he continued, “surround yourself with wise men, and trustworthy. Your mother will be your truest guide, for in your wellbeing is her own. Benyahu has never failed me, and you may rely upon him also. For the rest, trust in the gods with all your heart and they will make your way clear.”

  The king leaned back on his pillows. Rahab again held up the bowl, but Tadua shook his head. His gaze drifted toward the smoke that clung to the ceiling. A shudder seized his body, his hands tightened about the bedclothes, and a tear dampened the corner of one eye.

  “I once dreamed of raising a temple unto Yah and Havah,” he said at length. His words came ragged and strained. “When we were like the Nabati, wandering from well to well, pasture to pasture, it was meet that our gods should dwell in a tent as we did. But a settled people, a true kingdom should have a proper home for its gods. I would like to have seen such a temple.”

  A startled expression creased Tadua’s face. His gaze darted to Rahab then Yahtadua. When he settled his eyes on Bilkis, he smiled and gave a deep sigh. Bilkis returned the smile. The tear rolled down Tadua’s cheek, and Bilkis held his stare for several long moments before she realized his chest no longer rose and fell beneath his hands.

  Benyahu arrived a short time later. He fell to his knees before Tadua’s bed, clutched the feet of his king, and wept as only a warrior can. When he’d made his peace, he wiped his eyes, crawled to Yahtadua and placed his head beneath the boy’s foot.

  “Arise, General,” Bilkis told him.

  The warrior obeyed and bowed his head to the queen.

  “My husband’s final words were that we may trust you.” Bilkis held the man’s eyes with a soft gaze. “Is this so?”

  “As I live, my lady, it is,” Benyahu said. “My sword belongs to you and to the king.”

  Bilkis considered this for a moment, then said, “No.”

  The general’s mouth opened in protest, but Bilkis gestured him to silence. “Your faithfulness is not in question,” she assured him, “but it is our sword that belongs to you.”

  She reached above the king’s bed where hung Tadua’s great sword with its gilded hilt and blade of rare iron. Bilkis pulled the sword down, surprised by its lightness compared to bronze. Bearing the sword upon her hands, she stepped close to Benyahu. The warrior placed his hands beside hers to receive the sword, and Bilkis allowed their fingers to touch a moment longer than needed. She smiled, withdrew her hands, but did not step back.

  “The Pelesti are loyal to you?” she asked him.

  “They will heed my commands,” Benyahu affirmed with a nod.

  “And the army?” she pressed. “What of the Host of Yisrael?”

  The warrior grimaced. “As chief elder of Yehuda, Ayub commands his tribe’s loyalty. The other tribes follow Yehuda.”

  “And if Ayub were removed from command?” she asked.

  “The host would follow his successor,” Benyahu said.

  “And his successor would have the queen’s gratitude,” Bilkis said, and leaned toward Benyahu. “Find Ayub. Bring him to the king’s presence to be reconciled at last.”

  “What if he will not come?” Benyahu asked.

  A shrug. “His head will suffice.”

  Benyahu’s shoulders twitched, but he smiled. “It shall be even as my lady commands.” He rested the sword against his shoulder, bowed to Yahtadua, then left the chamber.

  “Summon the serving women,” Bilkis told Rahab when Benyahu was gone. “Then look in upon the royal widows.”

  Rahab looked up from where she still knelt by Tadua’s side and blinked tear-filled eyes.

  “What?” she asked in little more than a whisper.

  “Women, to wash and dress the king’s body,” Bilkis said. “His people will want to pay their respects, to see his heir seated upon the throne. And for the affection Tadua once showed them, the usurper’s widows should be invited to see their king upon his journey to Sheol.”

  Rahab snuffled and wiped her cheeks.

  “But shouldn’t we take a moment—”

  “For what?” Bilkis snapped. “Tadua is gone and his remains already begin to reek. I will not have this palace fouled. Do as I’ve said, then you can mourn to your heart’s fullness.”

  Rahab buried her face among the bedclothes again, her shoulders shaking. Bilkis stalked toward her, grabbed her by the hair and jerked her to her feet.

  “Do as I say, you sniveling brat,” Bilkis snarled, then swung Rahab toward the open door. “Go!”

  Rahab covered her face with her hands as she left. Bilkis took a deep breath, composed her expression, then knelt before Yahtadua. The boy seemed not to have noticed the rancor. He simply sat with one of Tadua’s hands in his, wide eyes fixed on the unmoving face.

  “My lamb.” Bilkis placed a hand on the boy’s cheek and turned his head to face her. “We must get dressed. You sit upon the throne in your own name today.”

  “Does that mean I finally get to do what I want?” Yahtadua asked.

  “It means you are the one true King of Yisrael. Your council and I will still help you make decisions. One day, when you have grown into a shrewd and wise man, your choices will be your own.”

  Yahtadua considered that for a time, then nodded his assent. Bilkis smiled, took him by the hand, and led him back to their chambers.

  “They’re dead,” Rahab cried as she burst into the room a short time later.

  Bilkis finished pulling a fresh linen tunic over Yahtadua. She pointed to her couch, and the boy lay down and closed his eyes.

  “Who’s dead?” she asked, using the same tone in which she might inquire about dinner.

  “Auriyah’s widows. They’re all dead.”

  “Slain?” Bilkis mused, wondering if Benyahu had anticipated her wishes.

  Rahab shook her head. “No, they don’t appear to have been harmed. I first thought them asleep, but they weren’t breathing. There were spilled wine cups beside each of them. And I found this.” She held out a small alabaster jar. “It was in Mikhel’s hand.”

  Bilkis took the vial, brought it to her nose, and carefully sniffed. She quickly pulled the jar away, but the scent lingered—earthy mushroom smells accompanied by bitter plantlike notes. The queen smiled in admiration. Rather than await whatever doom Bilkis might have planned, Mikhel chose to craft her own destiny, a final queenly act for the daughter and bride of Yisrael’s first kings.

  “It is fitting they should greet the king in Sheol,” Bilkis said.

  She sealed the jar and placed it in a small chest beside her bed. Rahab’s mouth hung open, her red-rimmed eyes unblinking.

  “Why do you look at me so?” Bilkis demanded. “If they chose to follow Tadua to the Pit, it’s none of my doing. Had they done this when the king fled his son, they might have saved themselves the humiliation.”

  “Is there no kindness in your heart?” Rahab
said in a pleading voice. “No sympathy?”

  “Life is too full of pain to feel all things for all people.” Bilkis stepped toward Rahab and took her by the shoulders. “What I allow myself to feel I reserve for my family. For you, my sister. For your father, for Abdi-Havah. For my son.”

  “Your sons,” Rahab corrected her. “Natan is also your son, or have you closed your heart to him as well?”

  A stinging sensation burned Bilkis’s hand. She glanced down to see her palm glowing an angry red. When she looked back to Rahab, the younger woman had one hand cupped against her left cheek, the other covering her mouth as tears spilled from her eyes.

  Bilkis squeezed her eyes shut and slowed her breathing. She glanced at Yahtadua and found the young king still curled upon the couch, his chest rising and falling gently in the sleep of innocence.

  “I have no other son, but Havah has a fine young priest to attend her shrine.” Bilkis’s voice was sharp as a warrior’s blade. “If you would have him remain well and in Havah’s service, you will never speak those words again.”

  A knock sounded upon the chamber’s door. Bilkis forced a neutral expression.

  “Yes?” she said.

  The door swung upon its bronze hinges to reveal Benyahu, crimson-streaked sword in one hand, a red-stained sack in the other. A feral look shone in the warrior’s eyes, but the expression faded when he saw Rahab and the sleeping king.

  “Ah, General,” Bilkis said in her warmest voice. “Your task is complete?”

  “Yes, Lady,” he replied, the words scarcely more than grunts.

  “Sister, I have matters to discuss with General Benyahu,” Bilkis told Rahab. “Look after Yahtadua. See that he is properly dressed by dawn. He must receive his court while the day is yet young.”

  She glided toward the door without waiting for a response. Benyahu stalked along in her wake. Bilkis led him to the private audience chamber behind the great hall. Securely behind the doors, she settled onto the little couch and pulled the skirts of her gown above her hips. The soft lamplight of the wall sconce cast Benyahu in silhouette. Bilkis could not see his expression, but the warrior’s every motion shouted his desire.

  The general dropped his sword and blood-stained sack. He fumbled beneath his kilt until he loosened his breechcloth, then fell upon the queen.

  Bilkis winced when the general entered her. He grasped her hair with one hand and squeezed a breast with the other. Benyahu grunted as he moved his hips against hers. It took only a few rough thrusts before the warrior shuddered with ecstasy. Bilkis gritted her teeth to keep from crying out as Benyahu pulled hard against her hair. After he’d spent his seed, the warrior rested his full weight upon Bilkis, threatening to crush her with each rapid breath.

  When the man’s breathing slowed, Bilkis pushed against one of his shoulders and levered him off her. She reached for his fallen breechcloth and wiped between her legs.

  “Your service is rewarded, General,” she said. “Now, there are a few more things we would ask of you.”

  36

  Yetzer

  Yetzer walked toward Pharaoh’s palace along an avenue of polished limestone. Had the street been made of gold, it could not have stirred more wonder in his heart.

  From the port, the main thoroughfare of the northern capital, Men-Nefer, ran straight as a plumb line toward the walls of the royal compound. Temples lined the way, along with monuments honoring the pharaohs back to Narmer, who first unified the Upper and Lower Kingdoms of Kemet.

  Yetzer ignored the beggars, the vendors, the prostitutes who promised visions of paradise. He paused only when he reached Pharaoh’s palace. His youth had been spent in the southern court at Uaset. As Horemheb had restored order to the land after years of neglect, he established his court at Men-Nefer, the ancient capital in the very heart of Kemet.

  Sandstone pylons stretched high above the palace’s wall. A pair of soldiers stood before the open bronze gates. Each man bore a copper lance and wore the blue-and-white headdress of Pharaoh’s personal guard. Their weapons and scowls barred the entrance as Yetzer approached. He straightened his shoulder cloth, the gold fabric that now proclaimed him a member of Amun’s priesthood. The lances separated and the men bowed low, arms stretched out at knee level.

  Yetzer had received the priestly courtesy several times during his journey downriver, but hadn’t expected such a reception at Pharaoh’s very doorstep. He stood tall, lengthened his stride, and stepped through the outer gate. Inside the courtyard, a rotund, bald man sat behind a table. He flipped a horsehair switch over one shoulder then the other, and fanned himself with an ostrich plume.

  “State your business in Pharaoh’s court,” he said in the honeyed sibilance of a eunuch.

  “Amun’s blessing upon Great Pharaoh and all in his house,” Yetzer said. The gate steward stared at him blankly. “I am Yetzer abi-Huram, from the temple of—”

  “Yetzer?” The eunuch sat up straight.

  “From the temple of Amun at Uaset,” Yetzer continued, his voice faltering. “I beg audience—”

  “Wait here.” The man heaved himself onto his feet. He sidled out from behind the table, eyes fixed on Yetzer all the while. “Wait,” he repeated, his voice several tones higher. He hitched his robe above his knees and fast-waddled to the end of the courtyard and through the inner gate.

  Yetzer stared after the eunuch. He turned toward the guards, but their attention remained focused outside the gates. The eunuch had abandoned a bowl of fruit, so Yetzer leaned against the table and helped himself to a cluster of grapes.

  His wait was short. Before he plucked the last grape from its stem, the eunuch returned with a taller, broader man in tow. It took a moment for Yetzer to recognize Mika, keeper of Pharaoh’s throne room. The man gave a short scream when he saw Yetzer, and raised his hands to his cheeks.

  “What are you doing here?” the chief eunuch demanded.

  “I came for my mother,” Yetzer said, struggling to keep his voice level. “To speak with Pharaoh, if he will see me. And, perhaps, to see—”

  “Not here,” Mika said, waving his hands in Yetzer’s face. He looked about before adding in a low voice, “Come with me.”

  Yetzer checked his objections and followed the man through the peristyle court, a forest of giant stone columns as dense as the forests of Kenahn. When they reached the outer wall of the palace, decorated with murals, the eunuch pressed a hidden switch beneath the images of a pair of young princes hunting with throwing sticks. Mika pushed open a concealed door and led Yetzer inside.

  Yetzer blinked in the dimness of the space as the door slid shut behind him. After several moments he was able to make out a small room appointed in purple silks and furniture of ebony and cedar. Mika gestured him toward a cushioned stool while he settled his bulk upon a wide, throne-like couch.

  “My mother,” Yetzer said, still standing, arms across his chest.

  “She’s not here, boy,” Mika said, and flapped his hand at the stool. “Sit, sit.” The steward took a jar from a table beside his throne, broke the seal, and filled two silver chalices with gold-colored wine. He handed one to Yetzer, then leaned back on his throne.

  “Where is she?” Yetzer said, rolling the chalice between his palms. “Still in Uaset?” He’d sought his mother there after leaving the temple, but had been told none of the royal household was still in the old capital.

  “Mm-mm,” the eunuch grunted behind a mouthful of wine, shaking his head. “She returned to Retenu after your disgrace.”

  The news was delivered in an even tone, but sent fire up Yetzer’s neck.

  “Pharaoh said he would keep her in his household,” Yetzer said through gritted teeth.

  “And he would have. But he would not keep her against her will, and she would not stay under the … ” He paused and stroked his chin as he seemed to search the rafters for the right words. “Under the same roof as the pagan whore who sold her son into slavery. The Habiru have such a way with words. Pharaoh granted
her safe conduct and passage aboard a merchant ship bound for Tsur. Must have been five, six inundations ago. Oh, Pharaoh and Lady Mutnedjmet tried to convince her to stay, but her will was fixed. Can’t blame her, I must say. If it was a slave girl in that chamber as it was supposed to be, I daresay you’d have completed your initiation that very night. But Ameniye?” The eunuch clucked his tongue. “Not even the most enlightened of men could have resisted her.”

  Yetzer’s fingers tightened around his cup. “Slave girl?” The question scraped against his throat.

  “Of course,” Mika said after another quaff of wine. “Always a slave girl, and always the most beautiful. From Uwene or Napata, sometimes even from Retenu or Hatti. But never from Kemet, and certainly never from Pharaoh’s own household. It’s one thing to deflower a slave, but a daughter of Kemet?” He shook his head and grimaced.

  “A frightened girl would have been easier to turn away,” Yetzer said, his voice sounding distant in his ears.

  “Not so easy as you think,” Mika countered. “And not so frightened. If she succeeds in luring the initiate to her couch, she wins her freedom. You can see how she might be motivated to give up her lotus flower.”

  The eunuch took another drink as Yetzer took his first sip.

  “And the Temple benefits either way. They gain a truly worthy adept, or they sift out the chaff—no offense—and exchange a lovely little bird for a man strong and smart enough to endure the other ordeals.” He shrugged. “Come to think of it, she’ll likely end up in one of the Temple’s brothels, so they really do benefit all around.”

  “And a princess?” Yetzer spoke the words mainly to himself.

  “There is the mystery,” Mika said with a thoughtful nod. “Nothing there for her but love.”

  Yetzer scoffed. “Or hate.”

  “Two words for the same thing.” Mika waved his hand dismissively.

  “I chose the temple over her,” Yetzer went on, “so she made certain I’d have neither.”