“Who next comes before the king for judgment?” Solomon asked, and waited dully for the herald to announce the next petitioner.
Even with Bilqis beside me, this day is endless; has no one in all the kingdom anything better to do than argue in the king’s court?
He received no answer to the ritual question; instead of responding, the royal herald hurried up to the steps leading to the throne and was whispering into the recorder’s ear, a serpent’s swift hissing. The recorder looked stricken, as if whatever he heard were a blow to his belly. Despite his troubled mind, Solomon’s interest quickened.
“Well? Who comes?” he asked, and as he spoke, he heard the queen breathe in sharply. He looked down the great court to the high bronze doors and saw a woman waiting there. She was clad in scarlet and veiled in silver, stood
straight and proud before the stares of the men gathered in the king’s court.
Then she began to pace forward, moving with steady grace. Like a queen. She walked out of the shadows at the far end of the court, and as she passed into the sunlight, she lifted her hands and swept back the silver veil. And Solomon looked into his daughter’s eyes.
Swift anger fired his blood; how dare she flaunt herself like this? No. Any man or woman in all the kingdom owned the right to come before the king for judgment—for wise and true counsel. Was that not King Solomon’s proud boast?
Will you offer your own daughter less justice than you would a harlot?
Beside him, Sheba reached out and laid her hand upon the broad gold lion’s head on which his own hand rested, carefully; her skin did not touch his. Before him, the recorder stood silent, appalled.
“Who comes before the king for judgment?” Solomon asked for the third time. His voice held firm and smooth; nothing of his chaotic emotions slipped past the king’s mask of control.
The recorder found his voice at last. “The Princess Baalit comes before the court, O King.” He lacked Solomon’s control; outrage rang clear.
Baalit walked through shadow and sunlight, until she reached the steps of the throne. There she stopped and bowed. Then she stood and waited, head held high, face smooth, her command over herself stronger than anger or grief.
Pride in this fiery creature he had created warmed him; Solomon knew not one of his sons burned half so hot and bright. He inclined his head, acknowledging her presence. “Princess Baalit, what brings you before the king?”
“I come to ask the king’s judgment.” Baalit’s voice held firm and steady, as if speaking before a court full of men were no new thing to her.
“Any man or woman may come to the king and receive his judgment.” Solomon knew already what his daughter would ask of him. And he must answer, answer with truth and wisdom. “You have come to the king. Now ask.”
She crossed her hands over her breast and once again bowed before him. “I thank my father the king for his kindness. And I ask that he release me to accompany the Queen of the South, that I may rule Sheba as queen to come after.”
Silence lay between them, silence so deep Solomon heard Baalit’s veil
whisper against her skin. Beside him, Bilqis’s breath rasped the heavy air as she, too, waited to hear what Solomon the Wise would now say.
“That is what you ask of the king?”
“Yes, my lord king. That is what I ask.”
Time stretched long; the sunlight slanting through the windows high under the eaves set the scene in amber, as if the world waited forever for his answer.
“And if the king does not grant what you have asked of him?”
His daughter regarded him with steady eyes. “Then I must go without my king’s consent and without my father’s blessing. But I would rather go with both.”
Well, Solomon? Are you as wise and as just as all men claim? Or are you only another man whose vows do not hold when the cost is too dear?
He turned his head and looked into the Queen of Sheba’s quiet eyes; she would not interfere, despite her own desires.
This I must decide for myself.
But already he knew he had lost; even if he prisoned Baalit here, she would no longer be his.
What good to keep her if her heart calls her elsewhere?
But before I let her go, there is one more question I must ask. And if she does not know the answer—
If Princess Baalit could not answer King Solomon’s last question rightly, she would never be Queen of Sheba.
I am told, by those who watched that day, that I stood before King Solomon’s throne smooth-faced and proud, that my voice rang steady and clear. Doubtless that is what they saw. But I dwelt within my body, and I know that my hands trembled so I kept them clasped tight before my waist, that my blood pulsed so hard my skin quivered with each heartbeat, that my voice sounded high and faint and very far away.
But I remembered what I had come for, and what I must do, and I did everything as I had promised myself I would. No tricks, no riddles. No clever extracting of vows that would bind my father against his will.
“Oh, no, Father; I ask nothing for myself. Only grant me one boon: swear you will grant the Queen of Sheba whatsoever she desires of you
—”
Oh, I had thought of that, of course. My father would have sworn to do so, knowing even as he did what the queen would ask of him.
No. For this, only truth will serve.
So I am told I stood calm during the endless span of time I waited for my father to speak again. Time seemed to stop as he sat still and silent upon the Lion Throne. At last he said, “Why do you wish to be queen of Sheba?”
And as the simple words fell soft and quiet into the silence, I knew I must find the true answer, or I never would be anything more than King Solomon’s daughter.
Why do you wish to be queen of Sheba?
This was not the first time my father had asked that—but I knew this would be the last.
His words hung between us, creating a chasm my words must bridge. And as the silent echoes trembled in the heated air, I sought for my heart’s truth. No goddess, no woman, could speak for me. I must speak for myself.
But how to begin? At last I said, “I wish to—” Even small words came hard; I faltered and looked into my father’s steady eyes. Pain glinted there, and pride. My father would not aid me in this. What I said and did now would be my choice, and mine alone.
Keeping my eyes upon my father’s face, I began again.
“I do not wish to be queen of Sheba. I wish to serve, to do the work I am born and bred to set my hand to.” Pausing, I took a slow breath to calm myself. “That work I cannot do here. Nor can that work be done by a king’s wife, shackled by rank and tradition. It can be done only by a woman who rules in her own right, and for the rights of others.”
Now my voice rang steady, my words firm and clear. I knew now that I spoke for my life, and for the lives of many others as yet unknown to me. “I do not wish to be queen of Sheba, but I cannot do my work unless I am, and so that I must someday become. You are called the wisest of kings, Father. You have never judged wrongly, never squandered the riches bestowed upon you by gods and men—and by women. Do not waste my talents.”
For long heartbeats my father said nothing. Then he smiled; only I, who stood at the foot of the throne, saw what that smile cost him. And when he spoke, his voice filled the great court, strong and sure. “I am proud of the daughter I have seen today. The Princess Baalit goes with the Queen of Sheba; King Solomon decrees it.”
Then my father rose and came down the steps from his high throne; he took my hand and led me up to the second throne, the one he had ordered placed there when he wished to honor the Queen of the South. From her seat there, Bilqis looked upon us, her face serene as the moon.
“O Queen,” said my father, “here is your daughter.”
She rose to her feet, and my father set my hand in hers. Her fingers closed softly over mine; her blood beat hard and fast beneath her cool skin. “O King,” she said, “you know what is in my heart. Whatsoever you ask of Sheba, it shall be granted, in thanksgiving for this greatest of gifts.”
For a breath, I thought my father would not reply; at last he said, in a voice so soft even I could barely hear his words, “What I ask, my love, is that you be happy.”
Tears glittered in the queen’s eyes like stars, blinding and brilliant. But they did not fall; she smiled, and stepped aside, leaving the way to her throne clear. My father caught her meaning and turned back to speak so that those who waited in the great court might hear.
“Sit beside me today, my daughter,” my father said, “and watch and learn.” Then he kissed me upon the cheek, and when he spoke again, his voice rang out for all to hear. “And when you are queen in Sheba, King Solomon expects better treaty terms than he has yet been able to exact!”
And he laughed, and so those watching in the great court began to laugh at the king’s jest also. I sat down in the queen’s throne, swiftly, for my knees trembled and I did not wish to fall in an inglorious heap at King Solomon’s feet. Seated, I pulled the queen’s spindle from my leather girdle and laid it across my lap, my hand resting upon the warm ivory; the movement drew a crystal flash from the old bracelet upon my wrist. The light caught my father’s eye, and he gazed for a long moment upon the shabby bracelet, and upon the ivory spindle.
“So,” he said, and a shadow seemed to darken his eyes. “Then there is little more for me to teach you, Daughter. You have already learned all you truly need to know.”
At the far end of the king’s great court, the prophet Ahijah stood as he had throughout the long morning, silent and still as the soaring pillars of cedar. He watched as King Solomon’s daughter paced the long corridor of men until she stood before the Lion Throne. Watched as she bent in petition, and as she rose in pride.
Watched as the Queen of the South turned her voluptuous eyes upon King Solomon, and as he smiled upon his willful, lustful daughter and
raised her up to sit at his right hand, beside the Throne of David.
For long heartbeats, Ahijah gazed through the incense haze, the golden smoke for which the kingdom whored.
Incense for the gods. Yahweh’s people cry out after idols as babes after poisoned baubles. Incense, wealth of the south—Yahweh’s children will choke upon it.
Before the Lion Throne, Princess Baalit stood proud, the veil she wore glittering like a tainted pool. Beneath that brazen veil, gemstones gleamed bright and cruel as serpents’ eyes. King Solomon bent his head to the Sheban queen, who rose from her throne like a wanton flame; the king whispered into the queen’s ear, and she smiled and slid aside. The king touched his daughter’s hand, and she shifted her body like a temple dancer, coiling into the second throne that stood beside the king’s.
A second throne where none should be, set there to sate a woman’s vanity.
Now the king’s daughter sat there, boldly meeting men’s eyes.
So proud. So shameless, A reproach in the eyes of Yahweh. A girl raised up to think herself a queen—a goddess! See her preen herself, a peacock for pride, as vainglorious as her father.
Unexpected pain lanced through him, throbbed behind his sore eyes.
Of course. Of course. Why was I so blind? I struck at the hatchling. But I must slay the king serpent to expunge his evil.
For who had raised up the girl to such wild ways? Who had permitted her to lust after false gods? Who had bestowed upon her a name that damned her from her birth?
King Solomon, you are the cause of this evil; you have cherished it to your bosom. But what Yahweh gives, Yahweh takes.
The pain stabbed harder now, but Ahijah refused to indulge his weak body. He remained still, his hands clenched about the gnarled oak staff, waiting to learn what he now must do. Pain commanded him, pain keen as a lion’s fangs, the words of Yahweh slicing his flesh.
Leave. Leave this court of filth and corruption. Leave this king to wallow among his harlots, to grovel before his false gods. Go. Go. Go now, now—
The court’s cedar pillars swayed before his eyes; the smoke-laden air shuddered like rough water. “Yes.” Ahijah managed to choke out the word.
Yes, I will go. Go, and take Your blessing with me.
Ahijah could never after summon up a memory of his journey through King David’s City to the open land beyond the great gate. He knew only
that he stumbled up the road to the Hill of Olive Trees, and there his strength deserted him. Cold-boned and shaking, he groped his way to an outcrop of red rock, half-fell to the ground.
Later, when the pain that speared his head had released him, Ahijah lifted his head and found his eyes drawn back across the valley to Jerusalem. The golden city that had been delivered into King David’s hands by Yahweh’s grace.
Surely we will not lose all that King David gained, only for King Solomon’s fault?
Traitorous thought; Yahweh would do as He would. Ahijah looked down, and saw that his hands moved of their own accord, his fingers pulling and tearing at his cloak. The dull cloth lay in pieces in the dust. He stared, then took up the torn pieces, counting slowly.
Twelve; there were twelve pieces torn from his clothing. Ahijah gazed upon the sundered garment and understood.
The kingdom will be divided. And in Yahweh’s name, it is I who shall rend King Solomon’s rotted cloak of kingship as I have rent this garment.
Moving slowly, as if through deep water, Ahijah gathered up the tattered remnants of his cloak. He smoothed each piece over his trembling fingers before folding it into his goatskin bag.
Yes, Lord. Now I know what it is that I must do.
Peace flowed through him like honey; at last he knew Yahweh’s true will. Holding the goatskin bag against his heart as if it were an infant, Ahijah walked back down the hill to the road that led from Jerusalem. There he waited for the man he knew Yahweh would send to him.
“You bar the road, Prophet. You must move to the side.”
Ahijah raised his eyes and looked into those of Jeroboam, the stern austere man who had charge of the king’s Forced Levy. The sun beat down hard and hot; as Ahijah gazed upon Jeroboam, fire danced about the man’s form, burned within his eyes.
Ahijah smiled. “Greetings, Jeroboam. Hear the words of Yahweh, and obey.”
“What has the Lord to say to me? Speak quickly, for I am upon the king’s business.”
What clearer sign could there be? Smiling, Ahijah walked to the side of
Jeroboam’s chariot and laid his hand upon the chariot wheel, savored the heat and dust against his skin.
“You speak truly; you are upon the king’s business. For Yahweh says, Behold, I shall rend the kingdom out of the hand of Solomon—rend it as easily as this garment has been torn asunder.” As Jeroboam stared down at him, Ahijah pulled the torn pieces of his cloak from the skin bag and lifted them up. “Twelve pieces, one for each tribe. They are for—”
As he glanced up, midday sunlight slashed his eyes; pain flared at his temples.
Wrong, somehow I am wrong … .
As he clutched for the answer, to know Yahweh’s will, two of the bits of cloth fell from his hand; Ahijah stared down at them as they lay in the dust at his feet.
In the dust, as Solomon has brought his kingdom to dust—
The pain behind his eyes eased, and Ahijah lifted his head, cautious, to gaze once more at Jeroboam.
“Yahweh gives ten of the tribes into your hand,” Ahijah said, and held out the handful of torn cloth to Jeroboam. “And with them, the kingdom.”
Jeroboam slowly took the torn pieces of cloth. “I, king?” he said, and then, “And the other two tribes?”
“Those Yahweh leaves to Solomon, and to his son, out of Yahweh’s mercy and for the love Yahweh bore King Solomon’s father, David, who was our god’s true servant.”
Yahweh is more merciful than I; I would grind Solomon and all his works into the dust beneath my feet.
Ahijah set his foot upon the two pieces of cloth lying in the road and turned his steady gaze upon Jeroboam.
“But heed this, Jeroboam, king of ten tribes—you must keep Yahweh’s Laws if you would keep His kingdom. Walk in Yahweh’s ways as His servant King David did and Yahweh will be with you and all your house.”
Still staring at the ten pieces of torn cloth, Jeroboam said, “I hear the Lord’s words, Prophet” He closed his hand over the cloth, clutching the pieces tight. “Does King Solomon know of this?”
“What matter? Yahweh works as He wills.”
“Yes.” Jeroboam shoved the bunched pieces of cloth into his belt; they lay dull against his crimson tunic. “Has the Lord any other word for me, Prophet? Shall I be king soon? Must I wait long years?”
Ahijah waited, but no words came; he shook his head. “Only what I have said to you: Keep Yahweh’s Laws and keep His kingdom. That is all.”
They stared at each other for a moment; then Jeroboam nodded. “I will
go before King Solomon learns of this and seeks my life. I will wait, and hold myself ready.”
“And keep Yahweh’s Laws,” Ahijah said, but Jeroboam had already let his horses canter on, and Ahijah spoke only to himself. He was alone, but it did not matter. He closed his eyes against the sun’s glare, savored the peace that flowed through his veins, warm as wine.
I have set Yahweh’s will into motion. I have done what my god desired of me.
Ahijah walked slowly away from the Jerusalem road until he found a gnarled olive tree, fruitless, but its silver-green leaves cast enough shade to shelter a man who wished only to rest for a time. Ahijah accepted it gratefully; sat beneath the waiting olive tree.
Yahweh’s power vanished, leaving him weary, but that did not matter, for he had nothing now that he must do. Nothing but wait until Yahweh called upon him again.
And He will call, for who else so clearly bears His voice, understands His will?
For Ahijah, that certainty was enough. In the shade of the olive tree, Ahijah closed his eyes and slept dreamless, and at peace.