Song of Songs

by Marc Graham

  Startled cries and shouts of protest rose from the people gathered before the steps of the tower house. Yanuf stepped to my side and flexed his fingers about the shaft of his spear. A low growl rumbled in his throat when Dhamar of Timnah pushed through the crowd to stand before the council. I glanced at Watar, whose cheeks blanched as his son made a low, sweeping bow.

  “Peace be unto the Mukarrib of all Saba.” Dhamar’s tone did not match his blessing. “I bring tribute to the Wife of the God and to the Council of Elders.”

  “I welcome the son of Watar,” I said in an even voice, “but Timnah’s tribute is in the protection of Saba’s borders, in the safekeeping of her roads.”

  “It is from our border that I bring this tribute,” Dhamar replied. He snapped his fingers and a pair of men climbed the steps behind him, a bound and hooded figure between them. “Behold your gift, your slave if you will have him, taken from the Gate of Tears near Adaneh upon the Southern Sea.”

  The heir of Watar snatched off the hood to reveal an older man with gaunt face and sunken eyes. His beard had been crudely shorn, his face an uneven field of stubble and scrapes. The man blinked as he shifted bleary eyes from one councillor to another. His gaze settled upon me and he began to speak, but Dhamar kicked at his legs and dropped the man to his knees.

  “You will kneel before the Mukarrib and the Council of Saba,” he said.

  “Enough,” I snapped. “I accept the tribute of Dhamar abi-Watar, but you well know I will have no slaves. You will untie him and explain why he has been so ill-used.” Dhamar’s jaw clenched, but he motioned to one of his men to cut the ropes from the prisoner’s arms. The older man crawled to me and kissed my feet.

  “Yah and Havah’s blessings be upon you, Lady,” he began, but Dhamar shoved him away with a boot to the backside.

  “Silence, dog. Do not foul this air with the names of your foreign gods.”

  I rose and stared down at the young lord of Timnah.

  “You will not foul this place with your bile,” I said. “You have brought this man to me as tribute, and I have accepted him.”

  “He is a foreigner and a spy—”

  I cut off Dhamar’s protest. “Whatever he was, he is now a guest under my roof. You would do well to remember the law of hospitality if you wish to remain so yourself.”

  Dhamar glowered at me but held his tongue. From the corner of my eye, I caught Watar’s sharp gesture of dismissal. His son curtly bowed his head, then led his men from the council chamber.

  I stooped down to the foreigner and took his hand. “Rise,” I said, “and be welcome. Bring water,” I commanded a servant. “Bring bread and oil that our guest may be comforted.”

  The man nodded his thanks and greedily accepted the tokens of hospitality. When he had devoured a loaf of bread drenched in olive oil and washed it down with a pitcher of water, he again knelt before me and beamed up at me.

  “The gods’ blessings upon you, my lady,” he said, his words thick with a northern accent. “I am pleased to bring you greetings from King Yahtadua of Yisrael, and to be his humble servant, Eliam abi-Terah.”

  “A temple of stone?” I doubted the words even as I spoke them.

  “Yes, Lady,” Eliam assured me. “Stone, cedar, bronze. And gold, had the gods not frowned upon my journey.”

  After I dismissed the council, I’d invited Eliam to accompany me on a tour of Maryaba. Followed closely by the vigilant Yanuf, we crossed the dam that spanned the Wadi Dhanah. The flood’s first harvest had been taken in, and the waters yet rose halfway up the earthen wall. Eliam paused at the midpoint of the dam, slowly turning as he took in the verdant fields that surrounded the city.

  “Frown they may upon me,” he said, awe in his voice, “but surely they smile for you. In all my years, I never dreamed I’d see a green Saba.”

  “It was my mother’s doing,” I said. “But, yes, the gods have indeed been kind to us. I regret their hard treatment of you.”

  Eliam had told of how he’d long before traded with Saba, how he’d lost his first wife on one such trading journey, how he’d hoped to return to Yisrael with a treasure from Opiru, far out upon the Southern Sea. Indeed, the merchant had claimed just such a treasure. He had crossed and returned upon the waters. He was only a fortnight away from his home country, his ship’s belly filled with gold and gems and spices for his gods, when Saba’s storm god swallowed ship and treasure in the wild waters where Southern and Western Seas met.

  “What Havah gave,” he said with a rueful smile, “Elmakah has taken away. Yisrael’s gods grow weak this far from their home. Perhaps when their temple is completed their power will reach farther.”

  “Their temple of stone,” I prompted him again, “not brick?”

  “Oh, no, Lady,” the merchant assured me. “Only of stone and wood, fit together so perfectly not even a feather can slip between the joints. My son—my wife’s son, that is—even now builds the finest home any god ever had. Grand enough to house Yah and Havah and all the hosts of heaven. Commands the very demons of the Pit, does Yetzer, along with the beasts of the field and birds of the air.”

  I wasn’t certain whether Eliam spoke in earnestness or jest, but the pride on his face suggested the truth of his words, however marvelous. I looked down at the dam, at the mud bricks cracked from more than a dozen years under Shams’s harsh rays. I looked at the waters held back by the dam, and my heart ached with the secret hidden beneath the muddy surface.

  Known only to me, Yanuf, and a handful of trusted others, the dam would likely stand only a few more floods. Each year, when the Wadi Dhanah had given the last drink of water to the fields, dredgers removed the silt and debris that collected at the foot of the dam. With each passing year the very surface of the dam receded, so that scarcely half its original thickness remained. It only stood to reason that, having been fashioned of mud, to mud it must return. That reason brought little comfort, for when the dam at last failed, so would the peace and prosperity of Saba.

  I swatted away the gloomy thoughts as at a fly. I looped my arm through Eliam’s and guided the merchant back toward Maryaba’s walls.

  “Tell me more of this temple of yours.”

  49

  Bilkis

  Bilkis waited in the courtyard of Abdi-Havah’s old estate. Set upon the brow of Morhavah, the retreat was visited by the cooling summertime breezes that somehow avoided Tsion and the palace. She sipped sweetened goat’s milk, chilled with snow brought by fast riders from the northern mountains.

  Not for the first time this afternoon, the queen shifted the skirts of her gown, adjusted her breasts beneath the gauzy silk and felt her hair to be sure all was in place. She missed Rahab’s trusted hand with her cosmetics, but her erstwhile sister and handmaid was confined to the birthing chamber.

  Bilkis had offered a place in the palace and the ministrations of the royal midwife. Rahab declined her queen’s generosity, preferring Eliam’s little house and none but Dvora to help with her labor.

  “The builder Yetzer abi-Huram,” Benyahu announced from the gate, dispelling her thoughts.

  “Show him in.”

  Bilkis filled her lungs in an effort to still her fluttering stomach. These monthly appointments with Yetzer, to discuss the temple’s progress, had become her only opportunities to spend time with the builder.

  “Welcome, Master Yetzer,” she said as the builder ducked under the gate arbor.

  With the summer’s heat, Yetzer had cropped his beard, and the solid line of his jaw showed clearly beneath the stubble. He’d replaced his robe with a sleeveless tunic and kilt that bared his muscled arms and calves. Bilkis took in the builder’s form, then realized no one had spoken for several long moments.

  “Come, sit,” she told Yetzer. “Refresh yourself.”

  Yetzer bowed his head and silently obeyed.

  “Benyahu,” Bilkis said in the silky tone that most easily won his assent, “do go down to the city and attend Rahab. Bring me word as soon as she is
delivered of her child, that I may rejoice with her.”

  “Of course, Lady,” Benyahu replied. “I’ll send one of my men straight away.”

  “No, no,” Bilkis insisted, “it must be you. I’ll not have some unwashed Pelesti befoul Eliam’s house. Go now and return with glad tidings.”

  The grey warrior glared at Yetzer, who seemed oblivious as he plucked grapes from a small cluster on the table. Benyahu’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the hilt of his sword, but he bowed to his queen and left.

  50

  Yetzer

  “How comes the work?” Bilkis asked when they were alone. “Well, Lady,” Yetzer answered tersely. The queen kept her eyes on him as he chewed a grape. He swallowed before adding, “The wall is nearly to the floor of the Most Holy Place, almost five cubits.”

  “And it will be how high?”

  “Thirty cubits.”

  Yetzer plucked another grape as Bilkis leaned back on her couch. The queen’s gown drew tight across her breasts, capturing Yetzer’s gaze. He’d seen the darkness in her soul, but his base desire was ignorant of good or ill and knew only the shapely beauty before him.

  “So it is another five years before it is complete?” Bilkis asked, her disappointment like a hot brand upon Yetzer’s heart.

  “No, Lady,” he hastened to reply. “The walls above the level of the Most Holy Place will rise much faster.”

  “Good,” the queen said, her full crimson lips quirked into a smile. “And the finish work? The furnishings?”

  “My carpenters have begun carving the wall panels. By the time Eliam returns, we will be ready for the gilders.”

  Bilkis’s eyes fixed on Yetzer as she traced her fingers along her jawline and down her neck, then toyed with the braided gold necklace that disappeared beneath the neckline of her gown.

  “The—ah—the castings,” Yetzer stammered, “the molds, rather, will be started after harvest. We will need only Abram’s tin to make sufficient bronze for the statues and tools.”

  The queen tilted her head to one side. The smooth skin of her neck stretched taut so that Yetzer could see the throbbing of her heartbeat. Its rhythm matched his. Bilkis’s breasts rose and fell. She slowly blinked her eyes and when she opened them again, Yetzer had to fight the sensation of falling into them.

  “And is there aught else you need?” Bilkis asked him, her voice low. “Anything I can do to ease your burden?”

  “We have all we need to complete the work on time,” Yetzer managed to say without tripping upon his words.

  Bilkis rose and slowly moved toward Yetzer. She sat upon the low, stone table, her knees nearly touching his. “I do not speak of the work or of your men,” she said, and laid a hand atop his where it rested in his lap. “What need has Yetzer abi-Huram that I can fulfill?”

  She leaned toward Yetzer as she spoke, until the world about him was reduced to her penetrating eyes, her honeyed breath, her inviting mouth. What part of Yetzer’s reason that remained sent a warning shudder along his spine, but the rest of him leaned forward to taste the sweetness of her lips. Gentle, tentative at first, the hunger of their kisses rapidly mounted until they all but consumed one another.

  Yetzer tugged at the silk of her gown until it gave way to him and fell off her shoulders. Her bare flesh was hot and soft beneath his hands. His lips moved to her neck as he pulled her closer.

  “Yes,” Bilkis whispered in his ear.

  She pushed up his kilt, raised the skirts of her ruined gown and slid onto Yetzer’s knees. Her breasts pressed against his chest, but the gateway to her pleasures remained just beyond the reach of his aching need. Yetzer grasped her hips to pull her closer, but the queen pushed back, bit his earlobe and made a hungry sound.

  “Only,” she said in a deep, breathy voice, “you must first vow to share with Yahtadua the secrets of your craft.”

  Yetzer barely heard the words over the pounding rhythm of desire in his ears. “I sha—I—” he stammered before the meaning of the queen’s words reached the reasoning chamber of his heart.

  Bilkis’s lips and teeth and tongue had resumed their play upon Yetzer’s ear and neck. Yetzer pushed her back by the shoulders and there was the pause of a heart’s beating before her eyes met his and resumed their sultry, inviting gaze. In that instant, Yetzer saw the calculation, the stagecraft, before the mask of desire fell back into place.

  “Come, now,” Bilkis purred. “Such a small thing to ask for what I would give you.”

  She stretched her hips forward, arching her back deliciously, but reason now won the battle with lust. Yetzer grasped her again by the hips, but this time cast her away from him. The queen landed roughly upon the table, sprawling among the tangled remnants of her gown.

  “Foul temptress of the Pit,” Yetzer snarled. He stood and put the chair between himself and the queen. “My honor will not be so cheaply bought.”

  “How dare you—” Bilkis started to speak but Yetzer cut her off.

  “If your son would learn the mysteries of the builders, let him first come out from the harem to labor in the quarry.”

  The king had gotten a child on one of his brides and, if rumor met truth, spent most of his time trying to recreate the feat with the others.

  “You will speak of your king with respect,” Bilkis hissed as she fumbled with the torn silk to cover her nakedness.

  “He’s no king of mine,” Yetzer retorted. “And king or no, he gets the respect from me that his actions merit. Gods have mercy on this people, ruled by a king of rutters and a queen of whores.”

  Yetzer dodged the golden cup Bilkis threw at his head.

  “Get out,” she screamed. “Go back to your dirt heap and your pile of rocks.”

  “Gladly,” Yetzer said, but did not move quickly enough to avoid the hurled cluster of grapes.

  He turned toward the gate, and the queen’s shouted curses nipped his heels as he stalked away. A pair of guards approached from the outer wall of the estate, drawn by the queen’s shouts. Yetzer pushed past them, stormed through the outer gate and found the path that led up to the high place. He fumbled with his pouch as he walked, stabbed his hand into the leather mouth and brought out a few pieces of silver.

  Enough.

  Where the uphill path split, Yetzer took the right-hand branch toward the shrine of Ashtart, where his silver could buy the companionship of one of the goddess’s priestesses.

  Or, this night, perhaps two.

  “Yetzer, come forth.”

  The call came from somewhere beyond the thick curtain that shrouded Yetzer’s head.

  “Yetzer of Danu, show yourself.”

  A delicate hand shook Yetzer by the shoulder. He grumbled and shrugged it off, then rolled over and draped his arm across a slender, naked belly.

  “Yetzer abi-Huram, I summon you.”

  Light glowed from somewhere beyond Yetzer’s closed eyelid.

  “You’d best be bringing wine or a pisspot,” Yetzer slurred.

  “You, out,” a stern, matronly voice ordered.

  The woman beneath Yetzer’s arm extricated herself and the one behind him rose from the other side of the cot. Yetzer rolled onto his back, head and stomach protesting at the movement. He cracked open his sleep-clotted eyelid, and the protest turned to open revolt. He managed to swallow back the bile that rose in his throat, loosing only a belch and a groan in its stead.

  Ashtart’s high priestess stood at the foot of the bed. One hand held the glaring lamp while the other, curled into a tight fist, was planted against an ample hip.

  “Why do you torture me, my sweet?” Yetzer asked the older woman. “If I tell your goddess’s parents’ priest how you treat her devotees, you’ll have Sheol to pay.” He waggled a scolding finger at her and a grin staggered across his lips. The priestess was unimpressed.

  “The queen’s general is at the gate to the shrine,” she told him with the same tone in which she might discuss the weather.

  “Then take his offering or send him a
way,” Yetzer suggested, and draped his arm across his face.

  “He’s here for you.”

  Yetzer grimaced at that and peeked out from beneath his arm. “Haven’t you boys for that? I don’t serve the goddess that way.”

  “He carries a different sort of sword than most of our supplicants,” the high priestess observed. “I’d let him come in for you, but I’d rather spare the sheets your blood.”

  Before Yetzer could frame a reply, his wine-stained tunic and kilt landed upon his chest.

  “I’ll inform the general you’ll be along soon,” the priestess said. “Do not make a truth-slayer of me.”

  The woman left the room, leaving Yetzer in the grey gloom of twilight. The faintest glow shone beneath the curtain that provided but little privacy from the others who came to celebrate the goddess of love and conquest. Grunts and oaths and squeals sounded from the small chambers surrounding his.

  He thought to close his eye once more, but a shouted curse from outside the shrine made him rouse himself. He cared little if he provoked the general’s wrath, but he had no desire to unsettle Ashtart’s servants. With great effort, Yetzer sat up, then worked the tunic over his head and arms. His stomach coiled and slithered, but his head remained intact. He lurched to a standing position, belched again, then leaned his back against the wall while he wrapped the kilt about his waist. The stink of sweat and stale wine clogged his nostrils as he made his way toward the shrine’s entrance where sweet jasmine welcomed him into the cool evening air.

  “You dare show yourself?” Benyahu growled as Yetzer staggered along the flower-lined path to the outer gate.

  “Isn’t that what you want—”

  The question hadn’t left Yetzer’s lips before the pommel of a sword slammed into his belly. Yetzer doubled over and heaved, splashing his stomachful of wine onto the warrior’s sandals. He might have laughed, but an elbow to the back of his head dropped him to the vomit-stained earth.