Song of Songs

by Marc Graham

  With a howl of rage, Benyahu kicked Yetzer in the ribs. The mason rolled away from the assault. He took a blow to a kidney before the wine’s expulsion and the warrior’s attack combined to restore his wits. A bronze-clad foot flew toward his head, but Yetzer caught it in his quarry-hardened hands. He twisted it toe-to-heel and Benyahu staggered, hopped, then fell to the ground.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Yetzer demanded, the general’s foot still in his grasp.

  In reply, Benyahu swung his sword at him. The stroke flew awkwardly from his supine position, but it bore enough menace that Yetzer released his hold and scuttled away. He rolled into a crouch even as the battle-bled warrior regained his feet.

  “I deny the queen and this is the cost?” Yetzer said. He looked for some path of escape, but Benyahu stalked him like a lion.

  “You violated her honor, and you’ll pay with your life.”

  The general lunged the sword toward Yetzer’s middle, catching the fine woven tunic when Yetzer failed to dodge quickly enough. Benyahu checked his attack and swung the sword in a great backhanded arc. Yetzer had more time to avoid this stroke. He ducked under the scything blade and rolled out of reach.

  “Perhaps I allowed things to get too friendly,” Yetzer admitted, “but I showed her no more dishonor than she deserved.”

  With a terrible roar Benyahu bore down on Yetzer, his blade whistling as it sundered the air between them. Yetzer backed away but slipped in the puddle of his vomit. Again, he fell. Again, he rolled away from a sword stroke that would surely have cleaved him from crown to navel. With speed born of desperation he circled to the general’s left, keeping the warrior’s body between himself and the mighty sword arm.

  Yetzer noted a hitch in Benyahu’s step and dropped to the earth even as the general reversed his turn and swung at Yetzer’s right side. The younger man sprang up behind the spinning general, snaked his arms beneath Benyahu’s then clasped his hands behind the warrior’s neck. Benyahu wriggled and flailed and twisted his sword, but his attempts to break free were useless.

  “I’m sorry,” Yetzer said through teeth gritted against the warrior’s struggles. “I know you’ve claimed Bilkis, yet I nearly allowed myself to take her.”

  Benyahu raged and struggled still. He raked a metal-clad sandal along Yetzer’s shin. The builder cursed, then kicked out the warrior’s legs. He managed to keep the pair of them upright as they fell to their knees, and used his height advantage to maintain his hold.

  “You took her,” Benyahu declared, his voice somewhere between a growl and a moan. “You attacked her and you took her.”

  Yetzer’s grip faltered at that. He fell upon his backside, but when Benyahu whipped his blade around yet again, Yetzer grasped the general by the wrist. He squeezed, his gaze fixed on Benyahu’s rage-clouded eyes.

  “You know her better than I,” Yetzer said, grunting as he struggled with the warrior. “You know no one forces her to do anything.”

  Benyahu hammered his free hand against Yetzer’s neck. The temple-builder grasped this wrist too, then rose to his feet. When he stood before the general, Yetzer rammed his forehead against the bridge of Benyahu’s nose. The warrior’s gaze went distant as blood streamed into his beard.

  “You know her,” Yetzer repeated. “I’m curious. Did she take you to her couch before her husband died, or did she wait until his body was cold?”

  The general’s eyes focused at that, his look more shamed than angry. Yetzer pushed him away and took a step back. Benyahu made no advance.

  “I’m done with her,” Yetzer said. “I’ll complete the temple, then leave this accursed land.”

  “She means to stop your food,” Benyahu said, so softly Yetzer almost missed it. “If she can’t get what she wants from you, she’ll starve out your workers.”

  Yetzer simply looked at the general without reply. Benyahu grunted and shook his head. He cursed as he wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, then spat a bloody gob upon the ground.

  “Ashtart’s cunny,” the warrior said. “If Bilkis wants the king to play the mason, just give the boy your secrets. He’s so busy with his queens and the new toy he’s found between his legs, he’ll not have time to get in your way.”

  Yetzer stooped to retrieve the fallen sword. A splash of blood marked the edge, and he put his fingers to his side where the blade had pierced his tunic. He winced when he discovered the wound and came away with red-stained fingers. Benyahu gave a half-apologetic shrug.

  “And when she has it in her heart to make Yahtadua play the warrior?” Yetzer said as he wiped the blade with his kilt. “What then?”

  He offered the sword to Benyahu, hilt first. The general nodded and accepted the truce token.

  “I’d hope he’s as good a fighter as his Master of Masons.” Benyahu rested the sword in its scabbard and cuffed at his nose again. “Is the honor of your order truly worth this? The queen will not soon forgive the insult.”

  The warning gave Yetzer pause. He thought of his men, of the scores of masons and quarriers, carpenters and carters and a dozen other trades. Add to these their wives and children, the oxen and asses, and Yetzer had more than a thousand mouths to feed. His honor would not fill their bellies, nor his pride their cups. But he also thought of what he’d created, what his father had so often spoken of.

  The souls under his care were a new nation, formed not by blood-ties or accidents of landscape, but by free will and a commitment to a common goal. His overseers were not the wealthiest men, but those best able to turn that common vision into reality. Advancement came not from force of arms, but from the best ability to work and best to serve.

  Were Yetzer to accede to the queen’s demand, were he to undermine the very principles he’d established, his brotherhood of builders would perish by betrayal as surely as by starvation.

  “The quarry is open to the king as it is to all men,” Yetzer said.

  Benyahu grunted and gave a humorless smile. “So be it. And may the gods be merciful, for the queen will not.”

  51

  Makeda

  “Athtar speed your way,” I told Eliam as he climbed upon his donkey. “You and your gods have been most generous to me already, my lady,” the merchant replied. “I pray I might prove worthy of the kindness.”

  “Only remember me to your king,” I said, “that our countries may become friends.”

  A shadow flitted across Eliam’s expression but was just as quickly replaced by his usual good humor. “Of course, my lady, I shall lay your greetings before the throne.”

  The promise fell short of what I’d hoped for but it would have to do. As wise and able a merchant as Eliam had proved to be during his short stay in Maryaba, even his influence would be limited before so great a ruler as Yisrael must have.

  I patted the donkey, smiled up at the man, then turned back toward the city gates. Eliam gave a command, and the patter of hooves upon sand filled the morning air.

  Four-score donkeys and their handlers followed Eliam’s lead and set out along the northbound caravan route. The trail had been little used these last dozen years or more, but I hoped the gift of donkeys and olibanum might reopen trade. More so, I prayed the road might carry to our country the means for my people’s lasting prosperity. If a temple could be built all of stone, would not a dam be even simpler?

  “Lord Watar awaits you, my lady,” Yanuf said when I reached the gates.

  “Watar?” I said. “Why has he come?” The council would not meet for another six weeks.

  Yanuf shrugged, but the mischievous glint in his eye suggested I needn’t worry. The old warrior fell in beside me and accompanied me to the tower house, where I found the Lord of Timnah, a pair of camels kneeling nearby. Watar fell to his knees when he saw me, and sprinkled dust upon his head.

  “May the mukarrib forgive my house,” he implored as I approached. “May the Wife of the God have mercy on Timnah.”

  Despite Yanuf’s silent assurance, a cold hand squeezed my b
elly.

  “Rise, Lord Watar,” I said, and shot a questioning glance at Yanuf. “Your house has proven a worthy brother to Maryaba, and a faithful servant to Athtar.”

  The Lord of Timnah stood and brushed the dirt from his robe. The man must be nearing fifty years, yet his features remained strong and proud, with only a hint of grey beginning to show in his neat beard.

  “Thank you, Lady,” Watar said, his eyes still downcast.

  “What word do you bring me?” I asked, my words clipped. “What news so troubles you?”

  “The mukarrib knows the nature of my son,” Watar began, and the nervous grip squeezed tighter. “He may yet become a good man, if he can learn to see beyond his own nose.”

  I folded my arms, as much to hide my shaking hands as to express my impatience.

  “When I learned what he had done,” Watar continued, “I put an end to his scheme and immediately came to lay the matter before you.”

  “Which is … ?” Yanuf prompted the man.

  Watar at last looked up. A sheepish expression replaced the shame that had colored his features. “My son returned to the Gate of Tears,” he explained, “where the merchant Eliam had been cast ashore. With the help of the fishermen of Adaneh, he found where the ship from Yisrael sank. He hired men to dive into the sea to recover that which was lost.”

  The Lord of Timnah removed the woven lids from the panniers hung on each side of the camels. My heart raced as I peered in to see gems, spice boxes, pelt-shaped gold ingots larger than Yanuf’s hand.

  “The treasure from Opiru,” I breathed, scarcely believing the gods’ mercy.

  “A portion of it,” Watar said, and I tore my gaze away from the riches to look at him.

  “There’s more?”

  “Yes, Lady. This is but a hundredth part of the ship’s cargo. I’ve sent trusted men to secure the remainder until you determine how to proceed.”

  I barely heard these last words as the world went silent and dim, lit only by Shams’s light reflecting off the precious metal. A familiar whisper spoke to my heart and a smile stretched my lips as the living world came back into focus.

  “Athtar’s spoken to you again, has he?” Yanuf said.

  I nodded and told the men what the god had suggested to me. Watar’s expression twisted into disbelief, but Yanuf, more accustomed to my divine revelations, simply nodded. He looked from me to the treasure baskets, then back again.

  “We’re going to need more camels.”

  All was in order. Preparations had taken a year, and their planning might have overwhelmed me were it not for Yanuf and Watar’s help.

  Following the harvest, while the fields lay fallow and resting, the might of Saba turned from farming to ferrying. Trains of donkeys crossed the mountains between Maryaba and the sea to bring the treasure of Opiru to the city. The smaller beasts could carry only a quarter of the load of a camel but were more sure-footed on the rough mountain trails. And I had other plans for the larger beasts.

  By the time all the treasure was recovered, an army of workers had fashioned panniers and saddles for some three hundred camels. Before the next appearance of the floodwaters, the goods and people to fill them were also ready.

  “You should let me go with you,” Yanuf said. He stood at my side, atop the dam, as I made my parting survey of the source of Saba’s wealth.

  “You are the Guardian of the Gates of Maryaba, not of the mukarrib.” I looked up at the man—guardian, teacher, friend—who had shaped my life more than any other. His empty sleeve waved on the light breeze, and the low morning sun danced off the grey that now dominated his hair and beard. Not handsome of face nor eloquent of speech nor graceful of movement, yet he embodied the best of manhood—wit, humor, loyalty, compassion.

  “None knows my heart so well as you,” I told him, my voice low. “Watar will lead the council well in my absence, but I trust only you to speak and act in my stead. Even when it goes against your better judgment,” I added with a smile.

  The old warrior grunted and sniffed. I stretched up to kiss his bristly cheek, then turned toward the crowd gathered below the dam.

  “People of Saba.” The rocky walls of the upper wadi amplified my voice, and the crowd hushed and focused on me. I tried to capture each face in my memory. “Favored among the nations. Give thanks, for the gods have once more blessed us with a full harvest, and with a great treasure cast upon our shores. But what are gems, compared with bread in our children’s mouths? What is gold, compared with clothes upon their backs? What value have spices without the sweet flavor of peace?”

  I paused and met the eyes of each elder, several of whom had fiercely opposed my plan.

  “I go to restore this treasure to its rightful place, into the house of foreign gods. In return, those gods and ours will secure the peace and prosperity of Saba for countless generations to come.

  “With our own hands did we build this dam, to turn ruin into blessing, destruction into life. But as from mud it has risen, so to mud it must surely return. The gods of the northern nations, however, have taught their people to build mountains, immovable by man or flood. We shall win this knowledge, and we shall raise a mountain in the Wadi Dhanah to stand through the ages.”

  The voices of the people rose in shouts of joy and thanksgiving. A handful of elders seemed unmoved by my words, mired in their desire for foreign riches, unable to see beyond the lump of gold in their hands to the mound of gold on the horizon. Most, however, led by Watar, smiled and nodded their approval. I waited for the cheering to crest before continuing.

  “It will be some time before my return—two years, perhaps more. My authority I invest in the Council of Elders, but my heart I leave with you, my people.” I raised my hands above my head. “May Shams rise to greet you and warm you from night’s chill. May Elmakah send his rains to refresh and nourish you, his clouds to cool your brow. And may Athtar, the most high, whisper good counsel and sustain you all your days.”

  “So may it be,” the people responded as one.

  I lowered my hands, my breath tight in my chest, and walked to the waiting caravan at the north end of the dam.

  “Ready, my lady,” Hazar, hand-picked by Yanuf as captain of my guard, said.

  I nodded, then turned to Yanuf who had followed me across the wadi. I pulled the old warrior’s forehead to mine, kissed him on each cheek, then released him.

  “Tend to my people.”

  Yanuf nodded, grunted, then helped me into the high saddle on my kneeling camel’s back.

  “Kehn, Dhahbas,” I commanded, and clicked my tongue.

  The camel gave a snort, and I rocked with the motion as the beast reeled onto her hind legs, then pitched back to stand on all fours.

  Along the length of the wadi, drovers shouted and coaxed the herd to their feet. The voices of men, the groans of camels, and the pounding of hooves sounded like the very flooding of the Wadi Dhanah itself.

  I drew a deep breath and cast a final smile and nod to Yanuf. I tugged the reins and tapped my feet to guide Dhahbas away from Maryaba and onto the ancient caravan trail toward Yisrael.

  Toward Urusalim.

  Toward hope.

  52

  Yetzer

  Bilkis made good on her threatened embargo. For three years the small nation of builders survived on the gifts of friends, the charity of Natan’s priesthood, and the occasional caravan that passed Yetzer’s settlement before reaching Urusalim’s gates. A meager harvest had reduced the contributions, however. Yetzer’s gold and silver were gone, leaving a store that, even with careful rationing, would last only a few weeks more.

  Still, the work continued. Yetzer daily led his men to Morhavah. With each new moon, refusing to see Bilkis himself, he sent his scribe, the priest Elhoreb, to report on progress.

  Nearly four years had passed since Eliam left on his three-year trade mission. With him still away, Yetzer had moved his mother from the merchant’s house to the builders’ town upon the western hill. Rahab and
Gad had also moved up the hill, in part for love of Dvora and in part because they feared for their child in a city where Queen Bilkis was no longer a friend.

  With each passing day Dvora slid deeper into the darkness of her second widowhood. Rahab kept Dvora company, while Gad instructed the workers’ children—both boys and girls—in letters and numbers.

  And then Rahab, breathless, ran toward Yetzer and Gad. “It’s him!”

  Yetzer looked up from the trestle board where he worked the final details for the two columns that would flank the temple’s entrance.

  Rahab fell into her husband’s arms, grasped the front of his tunic and looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.

  “Gad, it’s him. It’s Abba.”

  “Where?” the seer asked.

  “Upon the Ebiren Road, just passing up from Beit-Lahmi with a train of donkeys that must be hundreds long.”

  Yetzer and Gad shared a look. Beit-Lahmi lay some twenty cable-lengths from Urusalim, about what a man could walk in two summer hours.

  “At that distance,” Yetzer said, “you’d have trouble telling a donkey from a hyrax. How can you be sure it’s him?”

  Rahab said nothing but fixed him with a reproachful look disturbingly like his mother’s.

  “It’ll be dark by the time we reach him.” Yetzer’s objection fell limp as the woman chivvied them toward the town gate.

  “And darker still when you return,” she countered.

  “Best hasten on your way.” Both men’s mouths fell open, then just as quickly closed as, by unspoken consent, they agreed on the futility of arguing.

  “And no stopping by a tavern on your way,” Rahab ordered as they passed through the gate. “I’ll expect you back with my father by the night’s second watch.”

  “Yes, my flower,” Gad dutifully replied.

  Yetzer stifled a laugh and received a backhanded smack to the chest from the prophet.