Love’s Sacred Song (37 page)

“Will the Israelites allow God to prove faithful once again, Abba?” Arielah asked.

“Only Jehovah knows, my lamb.”

Though three full moons had passed since Passover, Solomon still reveled in the glow of its joy. He had required all his wives to attend the sacrifice at twilight and to celebrate the seven-day Feast of Unleavened Bread. Even the foreign wives had been forced to enjoy themselves, and it seemed all but one did. A wry smile creased his lips at the memory of Naamah’s face when he threw Rehoboam’s Molech doll into the sacrificial fire. It had been a grand celebration.

“Why do you smile?” Sekhet’s long, brown finger poked at his cheek.

Her brusque manner had become rather endearing since she’d witnessed the love of Jehoshaphat’s family. Her sharp mind provided worthy exercise for his thoughts. “I’m remembering all the times I’ve beaten you at this game,” he said, throwing the knucklebones across the game board. “Ha! And I’ve won again!” He advanced his jackal to its final position, but before he removed his hand, Sekhet wiped the board clean—sending hounds and jackals bouncing across the tiled floor. He laughed and pointed at her with the piece remaining in his hand. “You, Queen Sekhet, are a terrible loser.”

Her only reply was a half smile, which for Solomon was a victory greater than the game. In the days since Arielah’s departure, he’d had little female companionship—a decision of his own choosing, and one that had thrown his harem into anarchy. The Daughters of Jerusalem had bravely tried to appease his angry wives with added beauty treatments and overnight journeys to the springs of En Gedi. Shiphrah and Sherah had been worth their weight in temple gold. And after refusing any further visits with Marah, Solomon heard she had left the City of David—destination unknown—which was for the best.

“You seem distracted,” Sekhet said, reaching over to touch his hand, a rare display of tender concern. Solomon wondered if the child in her womb was already softening her heart.

He noticed shadows under her eyes. “Are you getting enough sleep, Sekhet? Does the babe keep you awake at night?”

She tilted her head, and the lion-mane wig caught the lamplight glow.

“Perhaps you should return to your chamber to rest.”

Her expression grew rigid, all tenderness gone. The hand she’d extended drew back, placed precisely in her lap. “If you wish me to go, I will leave. But I will not return to my chamber where those sisters of Set rule the underworld of your harem.”

Solomon’s shock at her flood of words must have been evident.

“Close your mouth,” she said. “You gape like a hippo.”

Leaving his goatskin rug, he pulled her into an embrace. His warrior wife was trembling. “Should I assume these ‘sisters of Set’ you mentioned are the other wives? Have they been mistreating you?”

She remained silent, stoic. Though he never interfered in the harem’s world of women, he would not sit idly by and allow Sekhet to be terrorized.

“Sekhet, I cannot protect you if I do not know the trouble.” Even as he said the words, the image of Arielah’s broken body flashed in his mind. He squeezed his eyes closed against the memory.

“I master your other wives,” she said, a hint of “the powerful one” returning.

Solomon waited for her to explain further, but she remained silent. Who but his wives would represent Set, the Egyptian god of chaos, destruction, and evil? “Sekhet . . .”

“I will go.” She struggled to her feet.

“No, wait,” he said, catching her hand before she could walk away. “I’m thinking of taking a stroll in my garden. Would you join me?” Obviously his Egyptian queen had said all she was going to say on the matter. Probably for the best. Sekhet was Pharaoh’s daughter. She probably realized that he couldn’t go meddling in harem politics for one wife without being drawn into all the women’s quarrels.

He stood and kissed Sekhet’s hand. They ambled toward his garden, the blossoming almond tree ushering them into his private sanctuary. Solomon breathed deeply, letting the soul healing begin. It had become his nightly retreat, where he contemplated the moon and stars. Perhaps his garden would refresh Sekhet more deeply than sleep.

“What is your favorite flower, Sekhet?” he asked after a little while.

“Blue lotus,” she said, her gaze growing distant. “It’s not grown in Israel.”

He would have his gardener send merchants to Egypt to retrieve some starter plants. “That will change,” he said softly. He pretended to study the rosebuds lining the path beside them, but Solomon pondered his Egyptian queen instead. He’d come to care for her, respect her, even enjoy her. They’d become close friends, sharing the marriage bed in order to produce the child she now carried. But their hearts were forever separate because she refused to fully embrace El Shaddai.

He sighed, and she gave him a sideways glance. Smiling, he squeezed her hand and continued their stroll, rounding the corner where the henna bushes met the budding mandrakes. Solomon considered his new garden project in the Kidron Valley. Arielah would be pleased. He had checked it yesterday to see if the vines had budded or if the pomegranates were yet in bloom. Pomegranates were Arielah’s favorite.

“Do you like pomegranates, Sekhet?”

“I like pistachios,” she said, rewarding him with another coy smile. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” he said, not willing to share his heart. “The first pistachios will be ready for harvest soon.” She nodded and seemed content to continue in silence. It pleased him.

The excitement of the throne hall had once been like daily bread to him, and he’d thought Arielah’s need for Shunem’s meadows an unusual shepherd’s trait. But like the spinning of wool and spindle, his heart had learned the rhythm of solitude and peace. Now he craved it like sweet wine. “I’m going to have Benaiah escort me to my best vineyard.”

“Where is it?” Her eyes brightened. “Close to Egypt?”

Squeezing her hand, he was reminded again of the loneliness a foreign wife suffered. “No, Sekhet,” he said, rubbing his thumb over her soft, dark skin. “My abba’s best vineyards are in Baal Hamon, in the very northernmost part of my kingdom . . .” His heart began to race. He lifted her hand to his lips. “Just past the Jezreel Valley and Mount Moreh, near the cedars of Lebanon. Very near our old friend Prince Jehoshaphat.”

She smiled—this time a smile that reached her eyes and bore her soul. “Tell Queen Arielah I said ‘shalom.’”

•
 Song of Solomon 6:12–13 
•

[Lover] Before I realized it, my desire set me among the royal chariots of my people.

[Friends] Come back, come back, O Shulammite; come back, come back, that we may gaze on you!

H
ave I lost her, Benaiah?” Solomon finally asked. They’d left Jerusalem three days ago, and the question had nearly burned a hole in his heart. Swaying silently on a plodding camel, he was content to let his friend form a profound response. Moments passed, and then more moments. “Benaiah!” he shouted when the man remained silent.

“What?” the commander shouted back.

Both camels spit and squawked, conveying exactly how Solomon felt about his friend’s indifference. “Did you hear me?”

“Hear what?”

“Ahhh!” Solomon roared, the sound vaguely similar to his wives’ complaints when he didn’t feel like conversing. “Did you hear my question about Arielah?”

“No, I suppose I was a little distracted by the scorching heat, the lurking bandits, and our dwindling water supply.” The big man’s scar began to throb, and Solomon considered that the final straw.

“Commander, you may take your camel and join Hezro at the head of the procession. I’m weary of your company.” Holding the big man’s gaze, he saw the slightest glimmer of amusement.

“Before I ‘take my camel’ . . .” Benaiah said, wobbling his head like an old woman. Both men chuckled at their bickering. “Can you clarify again why you insisted on these plodding Bactrian camels instead of couriers’ dromedaries? We could have been to your vineyard and back by now.”

“I’ve already told you—”

Benaiah held up a hand to interrupt. “And if you could also explain why we took the eastern route around the mountains and why you chose the vineyard in the farthest reaches of hostile northern Israel—I would appreciate those clarifications as well.”

In that moment, inexplicably, Solomon missed his abba more than ever. Only Benaiah would dare goad him this way, and he had earned the right because he was as close to an earthly abba as Solomon would ever have again. Emotion nearly strangled him, and he turned away.

“My lord, I’m . . .” Benaiah’s voice grew tender. “Solomon, I’m sorry.”

Wiping away the unexpected tears, he roared, “Well, you should be, you old goat!” He laughed away the moment, and the two rode awhile longer before Solomon explained. “I miss Abba, my friend,” he said, his throat still tight with emotion. “I have so many questions . . .”

Benaiah nodded but remained silent. What could he say? No one could bring Abba David back. Death was a part of life. Knowing these things, however, didn’t make Solomon’s void less painful. “So, you see, my friend,” he said, trying to lighten the mood, “that’s why I chose Bactrian camels and the northeastern route.” When Benaiah lifted a questioning brow, Solomon chuckled. “To torture you while I contemplate life’s deeper questions.”

“But why must you
contemplate
this far north?” Benaiah almost growled. “I know Baal Hamon is legendary, and the best palace wine comes from those vines. But, Solomon . . . you must realize the former tribe of Asher is almost as dangerous as Shunem itself.”

Solomon’s heart skipped at the mention of Shunem. “I know it’s dangerous, Benaiah, but the vinedresser at Baal Hamon is like an abba to me. Perhaps when I see old Shimei, he can answer some of my questions. He’s always known how to speak to my heart, and he helps me listen to my heart as well.”

Benaiah was silent, distracted. “We’re entering the forest. Stay alert!” he shouted to his guards. He turned back to Solomon, his voice mingling frustration, regret, and concern. “You could have at least let me bring more than ten Mighty Men. Now stay close.”

“I’m done being afraid, Benaiah,” Solomon said, his words sounding far braver than his wildly pounding heart. “If the northern districts see that I roam among them as a brother, perhaps they’ll trust me again.”

But Benaiah had already ridden ahead of him, the other guards forming a single line before and behind. The dense Gilboa forest required concentration from both rider and beast to trudge through the underbrush and juniper trees.

When finally they emerged from the shadowy woodland, the Jezreel Valley stretched before them. The little village of Shunem shone in the afternoon heat, drawing Solomon with a radiance brighter than the sun.

Benaiah issued a sideways glance, his previous intensity eased. “I miss your abba too,” he said, “but I think you’ve forgotten the most important instruction King David ever gave you.”

Solomon felt the blood drain from his face. Had he failed his abba so completely? “What, Benaiah? What have I neglected?”

“On the day David prophesied God’s blessing over you, he said Jehovah told him that you would build the temple—”

“And I’m doing that—”

“Let me finish, Solomon.”

The king felt like a boy being scolded. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

Benaiah smiled, his eyes kind. “The Lord said to David,” he began, reciting the words as if they were written on his heart, “‘Solomon is the one who will build My house and My courts, for I have chosen him to be My son, and I, the Lord, will be his Abba.’”

Solomon’s heart pounded as the words ignited his soul. “How could I have forgotten?”

“Jehovah is the Abba you desire,” Benaiah said. “He will answer the questions of your heart. What you need, my friend, is a wife who will teach you to truly love.” Benaiah pointed to the little village across the valley. “I believe your Abba Jehovah has placed her within your grasp.”

“A small caravan approaches, and it bears the king’s banner!” a watchman in Jehoshaphat’s vineyard tower cried.

Every worker in the vineyard halted their labor and stared at Jehoshaphat. A wide smile graced his lips. “We shall go welcome our king!”

The Shulammites exchanged cautious glances, leaving their hoes in the dirt and their clay jars in the trenches. Gathering outside the vineyard, they’d let the vinedressing wait.

Reu and Igal met Jehoshaphat, uncertainty etched on their faces. “I think it’s Benaiah on the camel beside the king,” Jehoshaphat said, shading his eyes from the afternoon sun.

Reu’s face was pinched and red. “Perhaps the king comes to ensure we haven’t bartered the chariots he sent for our second goodwill campaign.” Casting a sour glance at Jehoshaphat, he added, “We could trade those chariots to supply many weapons for a northern stand against Judah.”

“Enough, Reu,” Jehoshaphat said, fire in his voice. “There will be no northern stand. You should be ashamed speaking against your brother Judeans, my friend.”

“I may be Judean by blood,” Reu mumbled, “but I want nothing to do with the Sons of Judah.”

Ignoring his young friend’s petulance, Jehoshaphat continued toward the city gate. The king’s small entourage moved slowly on their camels, giving Shunem time to gather. “Phaltiel, my friend!” Jehoshaphat greeted the leading judge at the southern city gate. “It seems the king comes to pay a visit.”

The man ducked his head and spoke so only Jehoshaphat could hear. “And it seems the Shulammites are less than pleased.” Phaltiel nodded at the crowd gathering inside the city walls. They were carrying rough-hewn weapons—winnowing forks and plowshares strapped to sticks.

Jehoshaphat’s head fell forward.
Lord Jehovah, I need You now.
When he looked up, Solomon had drawn near with Benaiah and only ten Mighty Men. For the first time since he’d been named prince of Shunem, Jehoshaphat wished Solomon had brought his army.

He quickly walked toward the small retinue of royal guests. “Greetings, King Solomon. What brings you to the fertile lands of your nation?”

Solomon scanned the sea of faces in the crowd, seemingly oblivious to the danger. “We were on our way to my vineyard in Baal Hamon, but before I realized it, my heart drew me to your gates.” Giving up his search, he met Jehoshaphat’s gaze. “I must speak with you—and with Arielah.”

“We’ve heard too many words,” one Shulammite shouted from amid the crowd, stealing Solomon’s attention again. “What about Arielah’s broken heart? What about her broken body?” Protests began to rumble like the slow boil of lamb stew.

Solomon clucked his tongue, and his camel knelt to dismount its rider. Benaiah did the same, but leapt from the beast when he saw Solomon step to the ground ahead of him.

Jehoshaphat blocked the king’s path. “No, my son. You must not walk into that crowd.”

“Jehoshaphat, I will not live in fear of my northern brothers.” Raising his voice, Solomon proclaimed his intentions. “Listen, fellow Israelites. I intend to walk through those gates and beg for my wife’s forgiveness. I failed to love and protect her. I have wronged her.”

“What about us? What about the wrongs you’ve committed against Israel?” The crowd swelled toward the king, and a man ran at him. Benaiah jumped in front of Solomon with his sword drawn, but when he saw the man’s face, he froze.

It was Igal. Jehoshaphat’s lone son planted himself between the angry Shulammites and King Solomon. “Listen to me! Stop! Listen!” Slowly the mob quieted. “You all witnessed my sister’s mercy when I deserved stoning. Because of her mercy, I learned to love and now live at peace with my family.” Stepping aside and placing his hand on Solomon’s shoulder, he said, “Israel enjoys peace on every border, and the foundations of God’s temple will soon be laid! Should we show any less mercy to our king who seeks Israel’s good?”

The crowd remained silent. Jehoshaphat’s chest swelled with pride at the fruit of Jehovah’s mercy in his son’s life.

Solomon turned to Igal. “Thank you, brother.” Then, raising his voice to the crowd, the king said, “I am a man like all of you, susceptible to deceit, desire, and distraction. But I am the son of David, chosen and anointed by God to rule this nation. The decisions I make for Israel are born of love for my God and His people. Jehovah has given me wisdom to rule. Now let me do it.” Receiving their silence as a truce, he resolutely marched toward the gate, parting the crowd.

While Igal and Reu directed his caravan to the stables, Solomon nearly ran toward Jehoshaphat’s home, but Shunem’s prince reached his courtyard gate first. “My son, why did you send them?” His hand rested atop the gate, stalling Solomon in the dusty street.

Wishing to be sensitive but anxious to see his wife, Solomon prayed for patience. “Please, Jehoshaphat. I realize you wish to speak about the chariots for the second goodwill tour, but can’t we talk after I see Arielah?” Solomon pushed through the gate, and Jehoshaphat followed closely behind.

“That’s not exactly what I meant—”

Solomon reached the front door in a few long strides and flung it open—and wished he’d listened to his abba-in-law.

“Come back to Jerusalem, little Shulammite,” Shiphrah said, hovering over Arielah. “We’re planning a lovely feast to celebrate, and you can dance the Mahanaim.”

Sherah’s kohl-rimmed eyes met Solomon’s. Her lips parted in a painted smile. “Oh, King Solomon! We’re surprised our escort arrived before yours!”

Jehoshaphat placed his hand on the king’s shoulder to steady him. “I meant, why did you send the Daughters of Jerusalem?”

“What are you doing here?” Solomon asked the twins. “How did you even know I would come to Shunem?”

“When we heard you’d decided to visit your vineyard in Baal Hamon, we thought you might collect your wayward queen.” Shiphrah smiled down at Arielah, placed a possessive hand on her shoulder. “We’ve come to escort her back to Jerusalem. We certainly wouldn’t want any more harm to come her way.”

Solomon glimpsed terror in Arielah’s eyes, and Jehoshaphat fairly ran to her side. Pushing away Shiphrah’s hand, the protective abba stood over his daughter. “I should have known the king would never send you to my home. Now get out.”

“They said I sent them?” Solomon felt the blood drain from his face and realized he’d seriously misjudged the Daughters of Jerusalem.

“We simply said . . .” Shiphrah began an embellished tale that he might have believed—yesterday.

Suddenly it all made sense. “Sisters of Set,” Sekhet had called them. These women had ruled his household and very nearly ruined his nation. He’d dismissed Benaiah’s warning of the twins’ involvement because no witnesses were ever found.
Lord Jehovah, what have I done?