Song of Songs

by Marc Graham

  Yetzer invited the king and high priest to accompany him, then stepped into the trench. The day before, he’d dug a small cist beneath the place of the foundation stone, lined it with cedar boards and sealed it with pitch. As the boys clambered down beside him, he opened the lid of his tool chest.

  “It is fitting,” he told the crowd, “that we place beneath this stone the words and the tools that brought it into being, that the temple’s foundation should rest upon those principles that guide us.”

  Yetzer held up a fired clay tablet, inscribed front and back with the rules of conduct drawn up for his workers.

  “The words of the law,” he said, “inscribed upon the heart, but written here to remind us how we ought to act toward others, toward ourselves, and toward the gods.”

  He offered the tablet to Yahtadua, who gently laid it in the earth. Yetzer then took from the box a pair of small clay jars.

  “Grain and wine,” he continued, “to remind us that from the earth we take the flesh and the blood of the gods to nourish and refresh us.”

  He gave these to Natan, and the young priest set them beside the tablet. Yetzer finally produced a set of builder’s tools, cast in gold.

  “The setting square, by which we true our actions before the gods.” He gave this to Yahtadua. “The compasses, with which we circumscribe our passions, that we transgress not against our fellow man.” Yetzer offered it to Natan. “And the plumb, by which we live uprightly, that our prayers may ascend to the heavens.”

  Yetzer knelt beside the boys and arranged the tools within the cist. He then signaled his men. The pair in the treadwheel raised the foundation stone from its sledge while the other overseers positioned it over the cist. At another signal, the men in the wheel reversed their climb, and Yetzer guided the stone in its descent. When it neared the floor of the trench, he instructed king and priest to lay their hands atop the stone while he used a prybar to ease it into place.

  “Let this stone represent the fulfillment of King Tadua’s vow unto the gods,” Bilkis proclaimed from the dais.

  Yetzer lifted the boys out of the trench, then climbed out and turned his attention to the queen as she continued.

  “Let it demonstrate our commitment to Tadua’s vision and to the well-being of our people.” Bilkis raised her hands and turned her face toward the heavens. “Rejoice, O Children of Yisrael, for your gods will soon have their dwelling among you.”

  The cheers of the people came like the roar of divine Kothar’s furnace. Yetzer turned to look at the cornerstone, alone in the long, broad foundation trench.

  One stone set, he told himself. Only ten thousand more to follow.

  46

  Bilkis

  “It must have more gold,” Bilkis insisted. “More gold and more jewels, more—everything.”

  “Gold is not suited for tools,” Yetzer repeated his tired argument. “It is too soft, too easily damaged.”

  The pair sat, along with Eliam, around a low table in the small audience chamber. “I do not speak of forks and shovels,” Bilkis said, “but of adornment and splendor. If my temple is to draw offerings from foreign lands, it must be the most magnificent edifice among all the nations.”

  “The plans call for carved cedar finishing,” her builder stubbornly insisted, “not gold plate. If I am to change the design at this point—”

  “I’m not asking you to change anything,” Bilkis said in her best soothing voice, and laid a hand upon Yetzer’s. He hesitated before pulling away, which Bilkis took as a small victory. “I simply suggest you add a bit of the gods’ glory to your work. Gold leaf upon the engravings, jewels to accent the designs.”

  “Ivory inlays upon the doors,” Eliam suggested.

  “Lovely, yes. The gods have heaped kindness upon us,” Bilkis added with a gracious nod to the merchant. “It is only fitting we should return to them a share of that abundance.”

  Yetzer pushed back from the table and heaved a deep sigh. “The foundation is nearly complete,” he said, his tone one of surrender. “It will be some years yet before the finishes must be decided upon. If you wish to contribute treasure to the work, I will find a way to incorporate it.”

  Bilkis offered him a conciliatory smile. “Thank you, Master Yetzer. I’ll not keep you from your labors any longer.”

  Yetzer rose with a fluid grace, nodded to Bilkis and the merchant, then left the chamber.

  “You can acquire all these things?” Bilkis asked Eliam when they were alone.

  The merchant held a piece of ink-stained linen at arm’s length and studied the rows of characters.

  “Gold, silver, gems, ivory. Copper and bronze, of course. And incense.”

  “No olibanum,” Bilkis told him. “I’ll not pollute my temple with that stench. Spices and herbs will suffice.”

  Eliam gave her a quizzical look but said nothing. He dipped a quill into a jar of ink and struck through a row of characters.

  “As you wish, my lady. Yes, I can get all of these.”

  The merchant scratched his face thoughtfully and left a smear of ink upon his cheek.

  “There is something more?” Bilkis prompted him.

  “All these things can be had through the regular trade routes, through Kemet and Tsur, Hatti and Subartu. But I wonder … ”

  Bilkis waited silently, drumming her fingers upon the table while the merchant chased his thoughts.

  “By the normal routes, these goods must all pass through many hands. Their cost increases with each merchant who touches them, every border crossed. But if they could all be had from one place, on one journey—” Eliam’s eyes flitted about, as though to catch sight of whatever idea eluded him.

  “Go on,” Bilkis said, her patience wearing thin.

  “Yes, of course. There is a land called Opiru, far out upon the Southern Sea. If we were to charter a ship, everything you desire for your temple could be had in a single voyage.”

  “The Southern Sea is a year’s journey from here,” Bilkis objected. “And you must cross wretched Saba to get there. Would you carry your ship upon the backs of donkeys?”

  “No, my child, no. Now that your son is allied with Edom, we can reach the sea from their lands. The journey to Elath, on the coast, is a matter of weeks. Another few weeks to reach the Southern Sea, then a year or two to Opiru.”

  “Two years?” Bilkis asked in disbelief.

  “Perhaps,” Eliam said. “No more than three. As I understand it, the winds of the Southern Sea blow one way for half the year and the opposite direction for the other half. Travel is only possible when the winds are favorable.”

  “Why not simply row when the winds are contrary?”

  Eliam thought about that for a moment. “It might be possible, but it would require a larger ship with more men and provisions. If such a ship is even available in Edom.”

  Bilkis considered that for a time. She’d never heard of Opiru, but she trusted the merchant’s judgment. If she could directly obtain the treasures she desired—better, if she were to have sole control over such a trade route—she might rival the wealth of Tsur and Sidon, perhaps even Kemet itself.

  “Go,” she said finally. “Collect whatever trade goods you may need. I will send word to King Gabri of Edom to provide the ships and men you require. Return within five years for the dedication of the temple. And if you chance to meet anyone from Saba, you say naught of me. Understand?”

  “It shall be even as you say, my lady.” Eliam leaned forward. “There is, however, just one thing more.”

  “Since the days before our wanderings,” Natan said, “from the time Yah first breathed life into Kadmon’s nostrils and Havah stirred his heart, man has yearned for woman to be his helpmate, to soothe the passions in his breast, and to ease the burden upon his back.”

  The young priest stood upon the newly completed foundation of the temple, before a blue-and-white canopy. He wore the formal vestments of the high priest, the white turban and jeweled breastplate. He was slender but had
begun to grow tall. Though Bilkis had closed her heart to him in favor of Yahtadua, she couldn’t deny a sliver of pride for the young servant of the gods.

  “Gad abi-Sheg,” the lad continued, “you have declared your intention to take to wife Rahab ab-Eliam. Is it still your desire to do so?”

  The prophet, dressed in a new black robe, looked down at his bride, her face hidden behind layers of veils.

  “It is,” he said in an almost-whisper.

  “Eliam abi-Terah, you present your daughter for marriage. Are you satisfied with the bride-price and with this man’s character?”

  “I am,” the merchant said, then snuffled loudly.

  Bilkis’s mood soured at that. The merchant had been satisfied with Auriyah’s character upon a time. But, as she had learned, flaws of character could easily be gilded over—the more the gold, the greater the flaws they covered. She resented that the shrewd merchant had bargained her temple’s treasure for Rahab’s marriage, removing the queen’s greatest power over Gad.

  “The two parties having agreed,” Natan pronounced, then leaned toward Rahab and whispered, “is it all right with you?”

  “Yes,” Rahab said with a laugh.

  “Then before Yah and Havah, upon their temple—”

  The pounding of horses’ hooves rumbled across the hilltop. Bilkis turned to see Prince Baaliyah and a troop of a dozen riders racing toward them. The prince’s black mount was flanked with sweat and whinnied its protest as Baaliyah reined it in and, sword drawn, leapt from its back to the platform.

  Benyahu shouted as he lowered his spear and rushed toward the son of Tadua. Baaliyah batted away the strike with his blade. He stepped inside the arc of Benyahu’s weapon, grabbed the shaft and used the momentum of the general’s charge to toss him off the stone wall. The prince’s men disarmed the stunned warrior and held him captive below.

  “I claim the daughter of Eliam,” the prince shouted. “I claim Rahab, concubine of my father Tadua.”

  “She was never a concubine,” Gad spat back, pushing Rahab behind him.

  Baaliyah stalked toward the prophet and, with his bronze-stripped glove, delivered a backhanded blow that dropped Gad to his knees. The prince grasped Rahab by the wrist and pulled her to him. She struggled futilely as he tore away the veils to reveal her face, then kissed her long and hard on the mouth.

  “Stop this,” Yahtadua shouted. “Release her, I command you.”

  The warrior-prince broke his embrace and swung Rahab to the side but did not release her. He faced the king, swept a low, mocking bow and sneered at the boy.

  “Ah, little brother. Or is it nephew? It gets terribly confusing, what with fathers and sons trading wives. Now be a good boy and still your tongue, or I’ll help myself to some of your bed-warmers as well.”

  All the brides Bilkis had chosen for Yahtadua were lovely. The eldest two—Marah of the tribe Yehuda, and Wisal, a princess of Edom—had reached womanhood. To take any of Yahtadua’s wives would be an insult and a humiliation of the king. To take one or both of these two would strengthen Baaliyah’s position within Yisrael and without.

  “Take her,” Bilkis said. “Take Rahab with my blessing and leave us in peace.”

  “Umma, no,” Yahtadua cried, his objection supported by a half-dozen other voices.

  “Listen to your mother, boy,” Baaliyah said, a sneer twisting his lips, “and you might just make it to manhood.”

  Then his expression faltered. Bilkis caught the movement of a shadow from the corner of her eye. Baaliyah held his sword before him as Yetzer stepped forward.

  “Stay back, mason. This is not your concern.”

  “This is my temple,” Yetzer said in a low tone, “my domain. All that happens here is my concern. Rahab, do you wish to go with this man?”

  “No,” she cried, and renewed her futile struggles.

  “She does not wish to go with you.” Yetzer strode forward. “Release her.”

  The prince screamed a curse and swung his blade toward Yetzer’s neck. With startling speed, the builder stepped inside the sword’s path, trapped Baaliyah’s arm beneath his own, then stabbed his thumb into the hollow at the base of the man’s neck. Baaliyah released Rahab and clutched at his throat.

  Yetzer pulled the prince’s arm back until, with a loud pop and a strangled scream from Baaliyah, Yetzer separated arm and shoulder. The sword fell to the foundation stones, followed a moment later by the prince.

  A pair of Baaliyah’s men leapt onto the platform. Natan yelled a warning to Yetzer. The craftsman spun away in time to turn what might have been a fatal stab into a glancing strike along his arm. With a cry of rage, he clouted the man on the back of the head and sent him to the ground, then ducked below the second man’s blade. From his crouch he rammed his fist into the warrior’s side and the sound of snapping ribs joined the din.

  “Call them off,” Yetzer demanded as he hauled a gagging Baaliyah to his feet.

  The prince smiled drunkenly and spat in Yetzer’s face.

  47

  Yetzer

  Pain lanced through Yetzer’s left arm where the sword had taken him. Blood ran warm and was already soaking his sleeve. He glowered at the prince. The pair of dazed warriors were recovering themselves, and more of their comrades scrambled atop the platform. Two or three remained below to keep watch over Benyahu. With the better part of a dozen armed warriors to face, and amid the collection of women and children, too much could go wrong.

  “Don’t make me do this,” Yetzer told Baaliyah in a soft voice.

  The prince looked as though he might spit again. Resolved, Yetzer tugged the dislocated arm and spun the man around. Baaliyah’s scream was cut short as Yetzer wrapped his arms around the royal neck.

  “Leave this place now, and he’ll live,” Yetzer told the men who moved into a half-circle around him. He backed up to an edge of the platform where none could attack him from behind. “Come closer, and you’ll need a new patron.”

  The men hesitated and looked to one another. Most heads turned toward the warrior with the broken ribs. Yetzer watched him, saw his eyes change from uncertainty to hatred. The warrior took a step forward.

  Yetzer silently begged Havah’s forgiveness for what he must do. Yah, he supposed, would understand. He tightened his grip—one hand on Baaliyah’s chin, the other about the back of his head—and pulled.

  The crack made the earlier injuries seem a mere snapping of twigs. Baaliyah slumped in Yetzer’s arms. The builder picked up the prince and threw him at the rib-cracked one. The man fell to the ground under the weight of the corpse, along with the fighters on either side of him.

  Yetzer clenched his fists, turned his face to the sky and loosed a roar. A roar of victory, a roar of pain, a roar of anguish for having desecrated the place of the goddess with death. Lest more death pollute the holy precinct, he turned his eye back to the approaching warriors.

  “Take your lord and bury him or join him in Sheol.”

  The men who remained upright looked to one another. In silent agreement they sheathed their swords, collected the fallen prince, and vacated the temple platform.

  “Keep riding,” Benyahu shouted after the men had bound their leader to his horse and reined their mounts away from the temple. “If tomorrow finds you still among the tribes of Yisrael, I’ll wash my blade with your blood.”

  Dvora rushed to Yetzer and embraced him while Rahab and Gad found one another.

  “I thought I raised you with more sense,” Dvora scolded her son, then kissed his cheek and fussed over his arm.

  Eliam came up and clapped a hand on Yetzer’s good shoulder. “I see my family will be in safe keeping while I’m away.”

  The other members of the wedding party all looked at Yetzer, their eyes full of wonder. The queen nodded her gratitude, though her eyes held something more. Yetzer dropped his gaze and looked to Natan.

  “Well, priest, will you finish what you began, or must these two wait even longer for their wedding couch?” />
  48

  Makeda

  Season followed season. Flood after flood, harvest after harvest, the years flowed by. The Wadi Dhanah filled and quenched the fields. Maryaba fed the people of Saba, who in turn harvested the myrrh and olibanum trees and brought the resin to Maryaba’s storehouses. And Saba prospered. From Uwene across the Western Sea, merchants brought ivory and gems, furs and feathers and countless other treasures in trade for the precious incense. Nobles bore pledges of peace and amity, even a few proposals of marriage. I was already wed to the god Athtar, however, but in exchange for the exotic gifts all were pleased to leave Saba with even a few bags of hardened sap.

  By the twelfth year of my reign, I ruled over a kingdom more peaceful, more prosperous than any of my ancestors had known. From the Southern and Western Seas, to the edge of the endless eastern desert, and as far north as Nahran, all the people of Saba thrived. Strife between cities ended. Conflict between Bedou and townsfolk was no more.

  Disputes still arose—over property claims or marriage contracts or grazing rights—but these were settled by the local chieftain. If the matter could not be resolved, or if the lord was involved in the dispute, the Council of Elders would hear the case. Failing this, I as Mukarrib—at once queen, high priestess, and judge—settled the issue. Four times each year, at the sun’s festivals, I took the Seat of Wisdom to dispense justice to my people.

  “The mukarrib has spoken,” Yanuf declared in a gruff voice after I announced my ruling in one such case involving a lord’s meddling in his city’s pottery trade.

  “So shall it be done.” The assembly of the court intoned the words together.

  “So shall it be remembered.”

  I glanced at the remembrancer, still unaccustomed to his voice. Son had succeeded father after the previous harvest, when the elder had been stricken with tremors and lost his power of speech. The old man still sat in assembly, though his eyes were unfocused as he moved his silent lips. His son seemed to share the father’s facility for memory, but I mused, not for the first time, that there should be a more certain means of preserving our laws and history.