Song of Songs

by Marc Graham

  “The priest’s wishes have been fulfilled,” Bilkis pressed on. “One of his blood sits upon the throne of Urusalim, the seat of Melchi-tzedek. Another wears the vestments of the Priest of Yah. He may take comfort that the scepter and the staff are under his sway. All of Yisrael will be the better for it.”

  The last of Gad’s resistance crumbled and he lowered himself into his seat.

  “But Abdi-Havah is old. It may not be long before he joins Tadua in Sheol.” Bilkis raised her hands in innocence when the seer shot her an angry glance. “Upon the crown of my son, I mean no harm. I speak only the truth. It may be years or it may be days, but Abdi-Havah will go the way of all the earth. When that happens, someone else must whisper in the gods’ ears.”

  Bilkis sipped her wine and set her cup aside. She leaned back in her chair, set her feet upon a stool, and spread her knees beneath her gown.

  “So I ask,” she continued in languid tones. “What does it take? What can a queen offer one of her most valued councillors to earn his trust and cooperation?”

  She ran one hand from her knee along the inside of her thigh, while she drew the other across her bosom. Gad shifted in his chair, cleared his throat and turned his eyes away.

  “No?” Bilkis smoothed her gown back into place and leaned her elbows upon her knees. “Perhaps you prefer a figure more masculine. One of Benyahu’s guards, perhaps?”

  Gad remained silent as a lamb before slaughter, his jaw muscles tight. Bilkis stood and moved behind his chair. She placed her hands on his shoulders and stooped to whisper in his ears.

  “Or perhaps you’d prefer … ” She moved to his other side and spoke even more softly, less a whisper than a sigh. “Rahab.”

  The young man’s head jerked. A tremor rippled through his shoulders, his breathing became ragged. Still, he said nothing.

  “You see?” Bilkis said as she moved back to her chair. “One need not be a prophet to have the gift of sight. But Rahab is most dear to me, as a sister. While Tadua was too weak to make a concubine of her, still she shared the royal bed. There lives power between her legs. Perhaps she would make a bride for my son, hmm? From the old king’s bed to that of the new?”

  “No,” Gad said in a whisper.

  “What was that?”

  “No,” Gad repeated, desperation edging his voice. “Rahab’s heart belongs to me, and mine to her. Give her to no other, I beg you. Whatever your will, I shall do. You need only tell me what you wish.”

  Bilkis sat back in the great chair. She pressed her fingertips together and propped them beneath her lips. Then she smiled.

  38

  Bilkis

  “Say it back to me,” Bilkis ordered.

  Yahshepat, the court scribe, sat to one side of the dais. The man was past his middle years, with thinning hair and drooping shoulders. He sat amid heaps of clay tablets. Stacks of square-cut, stiff fabric lay beside him, along with small jars filled with thick soups of black and red.

  “Writing,” Abdi-Havah had told Bilkis, by way of explaining the rows of strange symbols Yahshepat made upon the fabric, “is a means of capturing words so they may be carried to distant places.”

  Yahshepat cleared his throat, combed ink-stained fingers through his beard, then held the fabric to catch his lamp’s light.

  “Say to the King of Kemet, my father Djeserkheperure Setepenre, the words of Bilkis bat-Saba, Queen of Yisrael. Says your handmaiden—”

  “Handmaiden?” Bilkis said, interrupting. “I am no handmaiden. I am the mother, the wife, the daughter of kings. You would cast the words of a serving girl upon my tongue?”

  The scribe flapped his lips helplessly, but Abdi-Havah came to his aid. “My child, it is simply a token of good will. The words are not meant to diminish you, but to exalt Pharaoh. Why, in my day I referred to myself as the shovel-bearer in Pharaoh’s stables.”

  Bilkis eyed the man dubiously but nodded for Yahshepat to continue.

  “Says your handmaiden, the dust beneath your feet—”

  “Dust?” Bilkis demanded.

  “A courtesy, child,” Abdi-Havah said.

  The queen grunted, and the scribe recited the next lines almost too fast to be understood.

  “At the feet of the king, my lord, my sun, seven times and seven times I throw myself to the ground.”

  Bilkis felt rage contort her features, but Abdi-Havah held up a placating hand and gestured for Yahshepat to carry on.

  “I pray to Yah and to Havah, to Hadad and Ashtart, to all of my gods and to all of yours, that all goes well with you, with your houses, your wives, your sons, your horses, your chariots, and all your lands. For me, and for my son, for our houses, our lands—”

  “Yes, yes,” Bilkis interrupted yet again. “Everyone is well. Go on.”

  Yahshepat mumbled to himself then continued. “My lord the king surely remembers Tadua, of whom Abdi-Havah of Urusalim, Mutbaal of Sekhem, abi-Milku of Tsur, and many others wrote to my lord. I say to the king, my lord, that Tadua abi-Yishai has followed the sun in its setting. I, Bilkis, widow of Tadua, now hold the throne in trust for your servant Yahtadua, King of Yisrael.

  “While many complaints reached my lord of Tadua’s use of the sword, I say now that the land of Yisrael is at peace. From Barsaba in the south to Danu in the north, the merchant travels without fear. From the plains of Hashpelah to the vale of Yarden, no bandit preys upon the farmer. The lands of Kenahn stand safe behind the spear of Yahtadua, Retenu beneath his shield.”

  “Must we say the same thing over and over,” Bilkis asked. “Yisrael, Kenahn, Retenu. Cannot we simply choose one name and have done with it?”

  “It is diplomacy, my lady.” Abdi-Havah smiled wearily. “The art of wooing an adversary with sweet words, of lulling him with many.” He turned back to the scribe and nodded. “Please proceed, Yahshepat.”

  “During forty years,” the scribe continued reading, “Tadua spoke not to my lord or to my lord’s brothers or to his fathers. No scribe set stylus to clay. No tablet carried words of greeting. Hatti has been our mother. Alassiya and Ugaratu, Tsur and Sidon have been our brothers. Now, as a father welcomes a widowed daughter back into his household, let my lord the king receive the messengers of Yisrael, let the Elect of Ra hear the words of Bilkis.

  “In celebration of the renewed amity between us, we send with our messenger five and three-score head of cattle, twenty-score goats, twenty-score sheep … Shall I recite the full list?” Yahshepat asked, looking up from the document.

  Bilkis gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Go to the end.”

  The scribe scanned down the lines of neat figures.

  “And a pair of brass lamp stands. In return, we ask that you send whatever gifts our words and tokens of friendship may invoke of you. Tadua desired to erect a temple unto the gods in thanksgiving for their gift of peace. With the continued blessings of our gods and the generosity of our friends, we intend to undertake the building of this monument. Therefore, send much gold for the adornment of the house of the gods, that wherever the name of Yah is whispered, wherever the blessing of Havah is sought, there too may the name and the goodness of my lord the king be remembered.”

  The audience hall fell into silence as Bilkis considered the message. Other than the scribe’s innovation about handmaidens and dust, the strange markings seemed, indeed, to have captured her words and wishes.

  “I still think we should ask for a royal bride for Yahtadua,” she said.

  “Umma, no,” the young king complained. “What do I want with a bride? Maybe a horse. Oh, and a chariot. We should ask for a chariot.”

  “My lady,” Abdi-Havah said with a shake of his head, “in ten-score generations, Kemet has never given a royal bride to wed a foreigner. It is rumored that the last foreign prince who went to take a Kemeti princess was struck down at the very border of the land. And, my lord,” he added for Yahtadua’s benefit, “in all my years I could not even obtain the loan of Kemeti archers to defend my walls. No, children, let
us first see how this humble request is received, then determine what more we may gain.”

  Yahtadua began to complain, but Bilkis laid a hand upon his arm.

  “Very well,” she told the scribe. “The letter is acceptable. Now, take these words.”

  Yahshepat took a clean strip of linen, dipped his sharpened reed into the pot of black ink, and looked expectantly at his queen.

  “To Lady Remeg of Tsur, friend of Tadua of Urusalim, say the words of Bilkis, Queen of Yisrael … ”

  When all the words had been read back and agreed upon, Bilkis directed Yahshepat to set them to clay. Cloth was, the scribe told her, too meager an instrument for so grand a communication, and too susceptible to forgery. An inscribed clay tablet could be baked to secure its message, then be safely delivered to a Kemeti scribe who would relay the words to his king.

  Yahshepat began pressing his bird tracks into the soft clay. Yahtadua hopped down from his throne and squatted beside the scribe to inspect his work.

  “My lamb,” Bilkis said, “a king has no need to learn such humble things.”

  “Let him be,” Abdi-Havah said gently. “It may not profit him, but it will do no harm. Come. I would speak with you privately.”

  The old priest gestured toward the private audience chamber. “What is your intention regarding the temple?” he asked after he’d closed the door and taken his seat opposite Bilkis. When the queen was slow to answer, he continued. “Do you use the thought of it simply to extract gifts from our neighbors, or is it truly in your heart to build it?”

  Bilkis leaned back in her chair, crossed one leg over the other, then laced her fingers together around her knee.

  “I am only the Queen of Yisrael,” she demurred. “I couldn’t possibly decide such a thing for myself. Perhaps we should inquire of the gods to determine our course.”

  Abdi-Havah gave a small sigh. “It is true,” he admitted, “I have been wont to whisper the gods’ words into Gad’s ear. But I never insisted the seer stones be consulted. I never forced anyone to request the prophecy or to adhere to the answers given.” He clasped his gnarled fingers together and leaned upon his knees. “And I never lied to you.”

  Bilkis laughed loudly.

  “But you did,” she insisted. “You told me you were no longer Melchi-tzedek, that after Tadua took your city you were relegated to the role of priest. The truth is you have been king all this time, in fact if not in name.”

  The old man studied his hands for a long moment. When he looked up, his good eye bore a sheen of tears. “When I was a boy,” he said, “I watched my grandfather prophesy with the stones. For hundreds of years wanderers have come to this city to inquire of the gods. At first it was only Havah, the mother of us all, who spoke. ‘Which crops should I plant?’ ‘Should I purchase this land or that?’ ‘What bride price shall I pay?’

  “Then Yah began to make his voice known among men, and the questions fell more into his particular realm. ‘In what season shall I attack my enemy?’ ‘Shall I flee or fight?’ Whether the answer was favorable or not, the supplicant left his tribute and went his way.”

  Abdi-Havah sat back in his chair and scratched under his beard. “I was only a young man when I realized the gods’ answers were invariably in line with the best result for Urusalim. When the time came for me to take the throne, my father gave me the secret of the seer stones. When Tadua took the city, I in turn passed the stones to the Habiru holy man, Shemval. In exchange, he allowed me to live.”

  “And to decide the gods’ answers?” Bilkis asked, her tone bitter.

  “By Havah’s womb, no,” the priest said with a harsh laugh. “Shemval was a vicious old fool who cared only for Yah’s vengeance. His only mercy was to take my one eye rather than both, and to hobble me rather than breaking my back.”

  “He did this to you?”

  “Of course not.” Abdi-Havah laughed. “Far be it from a man of the gods to raise a hand in violence. ’Twas Ayub made me lame and blind, by order of Tadua and the hand of the gods.”

  Bilkis sat quietly for a time. With an effort, she raised her eyes to meet Abdi-Havah’s.

  “You won’t tell me, will you?”

  The old man sighed.

  “I cannot, child,” he said. “After Shemval, I swore before Havah I would reveal the secret of the stones to none but a worthy successor.”

  “Yet you told Gad.”

  “He is a good man. He truly seeks to discern the gods’ intent for the people.”

  “And I do not?”

  “You are strong,” Abdi-Havah allowed. “Perhaps as strong as any king of Urusalim. Certainly, the strongest among the Habiru. But, as with the legs of a footstool, it takes three pillars to hold a throne upright. Strength, yes, but it must be balanced by compassion and by wisdom to determine which is appropriate, and in what measure.”

  A cold needle pierced Bilkis’s heart at the priest’s words. “You say I lack compassion?”

  “Unless it suits you.” Abdi-Havah leaned forward to rest his hands upon hers. “You can care fiercely for those around you, but your sympathies extend only so far as is expedient to your will.”

  Bilkis pulled her hands from the priest’s cold grip. She took the pillow from her backrest and hugged it close.

  “I do not say these things in judgment or to cause harm. The days of a ruler are fraught with hard choices. You may yet become a great queen over these people, but only when you’ve learned to put the needs of others ahead of your own desire.”

  The queen rose, pillow still clutched to her chest, and paced about the little chamber. Abdi-Havah leaned back in his chair, thumb and forefinger of one hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “But you don’t need me to tell you the stones’ secrets, do you?” His gaze followed her around the room. “You’ve already extorted their use from Gad. It shouldn’t take much more—”

  Abdi-Havah’s words were lost as Bilkis pressed the cushion to his face and pulled him against the back of his chair. The old man struggled against her, raking his nails across her hands and clawing at her hair.

  What madness is this? a voice screamed in Bilkis’s heart. The queen looked at her hands, as at those of a stranger. She almost released the pillow, but she’d already attacked the old man. She could not bear to look him in the eye after this. She pulled the pillow tighter. “You have been a great help to me.” She spoke the words softly, her lips close to the dying priest’s ear. “I would not be where I am were it not for you. But it’s clear you’re no longer with me, and you’re right—my compassion and tolerance extend only so far.”

  The man’s hands fell away. He convulsed a few times then went still. Bilkis kept the pillow fully in place as she kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear.

  “Carry my blessing to Sheol. Greet my husbands and my sons and pray for me before the goddess.”

  The queen removed the cushion and carefully studied the old man. His features were oddly peaceful, as if at his midmorning nap. Bilkis pried a wrinkled eyelid open and snapped her fingers. The man did not react.

  “That really was unnecessary,” Bilkis told the warm corpse. “Why keep secret what I would eventually learn?”

  She set the cushion back on her chair, careful to turn away the side dampened by the old fool’s saliva.

  “And why say such cruel things to me?” She faced the body, hands on her hips, posture much as when she scolded Yahtadua. “I have great compassion for those who are worthy of it. And look at what you’ve done to my hands.”

  Thin red streaks laced the backs of her hands. She inspected Abdi-Havah’s fingers, scraped her flesh from beneath his nails, and retrieved a clump of her hair he’d pulled loose. Bilkis shook her head and made an angry noise. She spoke again as she traced her own nails along the scratches the old man had made.

  “And, yes. I do intend to build the temple. And your prophet and your little priest will help me.”

  After a final survey to see that all was in place, Bilkis loose
d a mourning wail. Within moments, Benyahu burst open the heavy cedar door, closely followed by Yahtadua and the others.

  “It’s Abdi-Havah,” Bilkis cried, clutching at her hair and pointing to the still priest. “The servant of the goddess is dead.”

  39

  Yetzer

  The trade port of Tsur perched upon its twin rocks off the Kenahni coast. Having claimed his father’s remains and possessions from Horemheb’s House of Eternity, and after securing passage on a ship of Tsur, Yetzer now climbed the road from the harbor to the city’s center. He flipped a small clay tablet in the air as he walked. Inscribed with a stylized sword on one side and a paired hand and camel on the other, the token represented his ownership of the items he’d left in a warehouse.

  He’d been reluctant to leave his possessions. His father’s sarcophagus and ornate toolbox were all he owned in the world. But Tsur made its living on trade. The city’s very existence depended upon the safe transport and storage of goods. Yetzer could be sure his treasure was as secure here as it would be in one of Pharaoh’s own storehouses.

  Whereas Kemet’s center of power resided in Pharaoh’s palace, the heart of Tsur lay in the great trading house in the center of the city. A humble thing by the standards of Kemet, the building’s cedar timbers sat atop a sandstone foundation and reached to perhaps ten cubits, about the height of three men.

  “The son of Yishai was our friend,” a woman’s voice declared as Yetzer entered the trading hall.

  The speaker occupied a simple cedar chair set upon a small dais in the center of the room. Her gown of deepest purple and a silver circlet about her brow suggested her position of power, but the authority in her voice needed no adornment.

  “Tadua was indeed a great friend to us,” she said. “Where much loyalty is given, much generosity is due.”

  A group of men stood about the foot of the dais, draped in the brightly patterned robes and caps of Tsurian merchants. They muttered reluctant agreement with the woman.