The Legend of Sheba: Rise of a Queen (11 page)

“My queen is wise. I defer to her agreements with Councilor Ilyafa as to how Gabaan’s loyalty might best be expressed. As for me, I am only a trader, a nomad among nomads.”

He neither flushed nor stuttered in his response. He was either practiced at conducting himself at court or a fool.

I did not think him a fool.

“What do you think of our banquet, Tamrin of Gabaan?”

Throughout the hall, my guests spoke tersely between bites of sweet bread rolled and dipped in sauces of cardamom and fennel. They did not loiter; to eat too slowly was to tempt malevolent spirits to the table.

He gestured toward the constellation of lanterns. “It is a marvel. I will tell the tale of it for a lifetime and be accused of exaggeration. But now, if you will permit, I have brought you a gift.”

A younger man handed him a long, rectangular box, which Tamrin presented to me with two hands.

“It is a humble gesture, but it comes from a very great distance. Your love of learning was known to my father.”

Shara accepted the box and opened it, holding it for me to see. Inside, a double scroll of fine vellum.

“Whose writings are these?” I said.

“The northern king of Israel’s, translated by my father. They say the king has been taught secret knowledge from his god.”

I had read some sparse accounts of this kingdom only half a century old, this tribal federation still in its urban infancy.

“And do you believe the gods teach secret knowledge, Tamrin of Gabaan?”

“They say it of all sovereigns, do they not?” he said with a smile. “I admit I do not understand his god. But I do know he is hungry for the riches and rare goods of the world.”

“Is there a king who isn’t?”

“Ah, but this one has wealth to buy it. Wealth to rival even Saba’s own.”

I laughed, the sound ringing out over the dais. Beside Tamrin, Wahabil smiled politely, fatigue around his eyes. Overseeing this banquet had taxed him sorely. I would find a way to reward him—with some rest, if nothing else.

“Every trader is also a storyteller. I see now why you are accused of exaggeration.”

He acquiesced with a slight bow.

“And yet we both know only Babylonia and Egypt rival Saba in wealth,” I said. “But even the Egyptians must trade everything down to the new wigs they are so fond of to buy our myrrh.”

Wahabil chuckled, and Tamrin, too, though he seemed to be studying me from behind that courtly veneer.

“The Israelite has brokered powerful alliances with Egypt.”

“Has he.”

“He’s married Pharaoh’s daughter and received the city of Gezer at the crossroads of the Sea Road and King’s Highway as dowry. And so he controls trade into Egypt to his south and Phoenicia to the north.”

I tilted my head. It was not the practice of Pharaohs to marry off their daughters—only to accept foreign princesses for their royal sons. What did their Pharaoh see in an upstart king that caused him to disregard Egypt’s political pride?

A soft cough from Wahabil. Beyond him, the guests had nearly finished eating.

“Come with me,” I said, rising. My guests hurriedly got to their feet. “We will soon see about Egypt for ourselves.”

I gestured for the two men to join me as I led my retinue out to the palace gardens. Gasps flew up from the first guests to emerge behind us. The grounds, lit by a thousand lanterns, had been transformed. Great swaths of indigo gauze billowed the length of the garden, dissecting it east and west, flowing like waves in the evening breeze.

West of the indigo straits, civets and lions gazed languidly from cages beneath fruit trees. Ostriches roamed within a large enclosure and songbirds chirruped in competition with parrots from an arboretum the size of my private audience chamber. Tethered to a locust tree: the white and black zebra. Gold shimmered in thin discs strung from one acacia tree to the next. Dark-skinned servants lowered platters of flatbread onto tables filled with bowls of fish in turmeric sauce, lamb and lentil stew, crumbled cheese and spiced greens. The delicacies of Punt.

North of “Punt,” pyramids as high as five men rose up against a scrim disc lit from the back side by a candelabra of torches so that it shone like the rising of Ra. Naked slaves in black woolen wigs and faience collars waited on the bank of the River Nile before the temple of Isis to serve pitchers of Egyptian beer. It surpassed even my meticulous instruction; I noted with delight the papyrus swaying in the evening breeze at the edge of the artificial river, the barge as large as a litter that drifted lazily upon it.

The entire eastern half of the garden was a series of oases—those caravan stops of Yathrib, Dedan, and Tema along the incense road. Camels of the best bloodlines grazed, hobbled beneath date palms, chewing their cud out of spitting range. Three white she-camels had been couched between black tents, the flaps of which had been tied open to reveal broad and brightly woven rugs boasting
platters of fish and spring onions, pickled vegetables, and exotic eggs of varying colors and sizes. Several fiercely dressed servants, in more finery than any true Wolf of the Desert would deign to wear, waited to welcome my “traveler” guests.

Everywhere, there were dancers—stomping the ground in Punt or balancing pots on their heads in the oases—and musicians playing hand drums, ouds and the sistrums of Egypt.

A great gold cauldron stood near the entrance, full of frankincense pearls. And in the middle of the “Red Sea,” an island with an alabaster throne so identical to that in the palace hall—even down to its ibex-hooved feet and the leopard pelt draped over its arm—that pointing guests wondered aloud by what means it had been spirited here so swiftly.

I clapped, and the musicians fell silent.

“We have come down from the heavens as the very gods,” I said, “to sail across the Red Sea to Ophir. There, to inspect the gold and exotic wildlife of Punt, to sample her delicacies to the music of her birds. Or perhaps you will travel north to Egypt to drink Pharaoh’s beer, burn your offering of incense before Isis, and pray Ra rises again. Or, if you prefer, set forth this side of the sea with the caravans, through Dedan and Yathrib, all the way to Palmyra!”

I moved to the cauldron and scooped out a handful of frankincense with one of many waiting silver cups. “But do not forget to take with you the best of Saba if you expect to carry away the gold of Punt, the favor of Ra, or the hospitality of the oases! Swear by the gods of each place you visit and make offerings so sweet that even they must turn a wistful eye to Saba and sing her praises. Saba and Almaqah, over all!”

The echoed cry filled the night, and I glanced heavenward at the white disc of the moon.

Elated ululations and revelry overtook the garden. Even my council members joined in with the enthusiasm of younger men as the music began again.

I glanced back at the trader in triumph and was not disappointed. He laughed with pleasure as my guests collected their incense before wandering off in search of distant delights.

He leaned in, not so far as to arouse the ire of my eunuch, but close enough that I could hear him when he murmured, “Truly, my queen, you command wonders.”

“Thank you for your gift,” I said.

“Perhaps another evening you will indulge a simple trader his tales before my caravan turns north, and instruct me what tales I should carry with me. Though for my telling of this night, I will surely be called a liar. Until then, I beg you to call upon me if there is any way I may prove the loyalty of Gabaan and of Tamrin the trader to you. Gabaan loyalty, once given, is staunch. Perhaps one day you will give me the honor of proving it.”

I considered him sidelong, the straight line of his nose, the way the skin crinkled around his eyes. Eyes accustomed to squinting into the sun.

“I will.”

That night, as I ascended my garden throne, my mind was not in Punt, Egypt, or the oases, or on the guests pinching the slave girls before drunkenly wading into the Nile.

I found myself considering a corner of the grounds untouched by the light of the farthest lantern. A stretch of land north of the Tema oasis, beyond even Edom, a world away.

Israel. The name rolled through my mind like a word tasted on the tongue. I searched for the trader in the melee of guests but could not find him. Tamrin’s stories were obviously as polished as his court manners. But no kingdom half a century old could wield such
influence or boast such wealth as he claimed. No sovereign could be so favored by the ever-fickle gods.

Hours later, when I finally proclaimed the journey ended and Saba wealthier than ever, and the last of the gold discs and Egyptian scarabs and bolts of brightly colored cloth from the Indus Valley had been given to the guests, and a thousand parcels of grain each containing a silver cup had been distributed to those in the courtyard, I retired to my chamber. Waving an exhausted Shara to bed, I sat down on my sofa with my new scroll, noting the Phoenician lettering, the finely penned Aramaic.

I read past dawn, long into morning.

SEVEN

“T
ell me,” I said, from the seat in my private chamber. “What conceit is this?” Here, I had begged my father not to give me to Sadiq. And here, I had asked him to send me away. How much had changed.

Tamrin rose from his bow, clearly surprised. “My queen?” Once again he was plainly adorned, the cuff on his wrist and neatly trimmed beard his only ornaments, his hair held back in a simple leather thong. Across the room, Yafush stood near the door, gold gleaming from nose and neck, imposing and still and beautiful as an obsidian statue. How different two men could be!

Shara poured wine and I sat back in the carved chair as he took the customary sip, clearly perplexed over the rim of the cup.

“Have you read the scroll you gave me?” I said.

Tamrin’s brows lifted. “I—have not. Well, only a portion. The king’s writings are sometimes cited in the Israelite court.”

“I see.”

I had wanted to burn the scroll last night, this collection of sayings so clearly influenced by other, mostly Egyptian, proverbs. That was how it was done with wisdom writings such as these and I grudgingly admitted it was a clever compendium, if not especially revelatory. But his proverbs were not what had offended me.

“How long has this king been on his throne?”

“Ten years, my queen, if not eleven. But I beg you, what has offended you so?”

“There are two songs included here by this king.”

I reached for the scroll on the ivory table beside me, lifted it, and read: “ ‘In his days may the righteous flourish, and peace abound, till the moon be no more.’ ” I glanced up at him.

“Ah, my queen,” he said with what seemed like relief. “I assure you he means no slight against your god. Many gods are worshipped on the fringe of his city by his wives and their households.”

“Are you certain?” I continued before he could answer: “ ‘May he have dominion from sea to sea and from the river to the ends of the earth! May desert tribes bow down before him and his enemies lick the dust! May the kings of Tarshish and of the coastlands render him tribute . . .’ ” I lifted my gaze from the scroll, fastened it on him.
“‘May the kings of Sheba and Seba bring gifts.’”

Did he pale where he stood?

“I’m well aware that my kingdom is called ‘Sheba’ by unschooled tongues. Is this not so?”

“It is as you say.”

“And where is ‘Seba’?”

He hesitated. “Punt, my queen.”

My stare turned stony. He immediately fell into a deep bow as I skipped ahead once more.

“ ‘For he delivers the needy . . . pity on the weak . . . Long may he live . . . May gold of Sheba be given to him!’ ”

I threw the scroll at his feet.

“My queen, I profusely apologize. I was not aware—”

“This is recorded as the prayer of David son of Jesse,” I said flatly. “Who is that?”

“That is the king father of Solomon.”

“That is what they call him? ‘Son of Jesse’?”

He straightened. “Yes. The king’s father was not born to a royal family.”

“How then,” I said, droll, “does one become king?”

He pursed his lips for a moment. “He was chosen by one of their prophets from the sons of Jesse. He was a shepherd . . . and the youngest son.”