“The prophet Ahijah wishes to speak with you, High Priest.” The acolyte’s face remained bland as he imparted this information, his voice remained steady and deferential. Never would one guess that young Jeremiah, like most of the Temple priests, thought the prophet Ahijah mad.
Oh, no,
Zadok thought with miserable guilt.
Not again.
Ahijah never appeared at the Temple except to rant over the sins of the people.
But to Zadok’s mind, there was no harm in a woman baking a few cakes for the Queen of Heaven, or in a man granting a lamb to Baal, so long as he offered up a bull to the Lord. After all, their Lord only demanded to be first among the gods—and surely if the Lord’s people angered Him, the Lord would make His displeasure plainly known, as He so often had in times past.
“Will you receive the prophet, High Priest?” Jeremiah asked, and for a moment Zadok longed to deny himself to Ahijah. The king’s wedding witnessed, the Temple sacrifices made, Zadok had thought his duties done and looked forward to an evening’s peace.
But refusing to see Ahijah now would only anger the prophet further, making their eventual meeting even more unpleasant. Zadok sighed, and capitulated. “Bid him enter.”
Ahijah strode in and stopped, erect and proud—
As if he were about to address the king’s army, rather than one tired old man.
Bracing himself, Zadok nodded
in greeting. “Be welcome, Ahijah. Come, sit, have wine. This is last year’s best, sweet and—”
“I did not come to guzzle wine, High Priest, but to speak of Yahweh’s will.”
I am not “guzzling,”
Zadok thought querulously, wincing inwardly at the prophet’s insistence upon saying the Lord’s true name—as if to point out that Zadok no longer spoke that Holy Name aloud.
Well, it is no longer fit that every man should hold the Lord’s name in his mouth! And surely as high priest, I, too, am privy to our Lord’s will as much as Ahijah!
Trying not to sigh again, he said, “Speak, then.”
For a moment Ahijah remained silent, glaring at Zadok like an angry eagle. “Yahweh is not to be mocked,” Ahijah at last declared.
“Of course not.” Zadok hoped to placate Ahijah with pious agreement, a hope that vanished with the prophet’s next words.
“Yahweh is not to be mocked, nor is His prophet to be mocked. Though a crown circle a man’s head, he can be raised up or struck down at Yahweh’s pleasure.” Ahijah’s voice began as a low, intense near-whisper; Zadok found himself thinking of vipers. Ahijah’s words carried venom, potent and deadly.
“Yes, struck down. Down into dust. He and his foreign women! He forgets he is set upon his throne to do Yahweh’s will—not to raise pillars to wanton Asherah, to plant groves for every false god whose worshippers he wishes to placate. Such a man does evil in the sight of Yahweh—whose name he dares not even speak!”
Ahijah’s tirade continued, but Zadok ceased to listen to the prophet’s words.
Woe unto my hope that for once Ahijah’s diatribe will be brief. Have mercy, Lord, I beg of You; remember I am an old man and the day has been long already.
Zadok tried to listen in serene patience; even Ahijah must eventually cease to talk.
“Woe betide such a land! Woe betide such a people! Woe betide such a king!” Ahijah paused dramatically—or for breath—and Zadok hastily filled the momentary silence.
“Of course, of course. But surely if the Lord is angered, the Lord will make His anger plain?”
Ahijah stared at him iron-eyed. “He has made it plain to me.”
“But not to me,” Zadok said firmly. “The Urim and Thummim give only pleasing answers; the sacrifices burn bright.” He held Ahijah’s gaze a
moment—not an easy task—and added, “In any case, I do not understand what you wish of
me.
I abide faithfully by all our Lord’s Laws.”
“King Solomon does not.” From the vicious triumph in Ahijah’s voice, this was the heart his verbal blade sought.
“King Solomon also abides faithfully by our Lord’s Laws, Ahijah.”
“He consorts with strange women and indulges their vicious whims.” Ahijah drew a deep breath, and Zadok knew the prophet had barely begun. Zadok also knew precisely what Ahijah would say at such great length; while custom granted a prophet unlimited freedom to speak, no law required Zadok do more than appear to listen respectfully. So while Ahijah ranted on, Zadok contemplated the savory new dish his good wife had promised for their evening meal, and nodded from time to time.
But gradually his attention was drawn back to Ahijah’s diatribe, for this attack upon the king seemed more intense, more personal than usual. And the repeated mentions of strange women, coupled with the accusations of idolatry in the king’s own household, made Zadok oddly uneasy. Did Ahijah think to play Samuel, to make and break kings?
But King Solomon was no Saul, tormented and unsure. And times had changed; king now held more power than prophet.
When at last Ahijah ceased, Zadok spoke swiftly, lest the prophet begin again. “There is much in what you say, Ahijah. Much. I will think on it.”
“Solomon is only king, he is not Yahweh Himself. Solomon treads a dangerous path.”
“Yes, yes.” Zadok nodded. “I will speak with him.” That, Zadok could safely promise.
When the prophet had gone, Zadok tried to recapture the contentment he had enjoyed before Ahijah’s visit. He failed; the day’s peace had been shattered beyond repair. Ahijah’s diatribe had ruined his pleasure in the drowsy evening and the good Samarian wine.
Was I ever that young, that sure of myself—and of Yahweh—of the Lord?
Yes, Zadok supposed he had been. Once he had been a lion, bold and proud. As a youth he had marched to Hebron and joined David’s cause when that great hero was only king of Judah. He had served King David faithfully through good times and through bad.
When that young fool Prince Absalom revolted against
his father and his god, who was it led the priests from Jerusalem? Who was it carried away the Ark so that Absalom could not claim its blessing? I.
That had been no easy task; no one at the time had understood why Great David should flee his own city because a spoiled boy marched against it. The priests had argued hard against risking the Ark of the Covenant beyond Jerusalem’s walls. It had taken all Zadok’s skill to persuade the other priests to follow him into exile with King David.
“David is Yahweh’s king, the Ark is Yahweh’s dwelling place upon earth,” he had said. “I follow David, and the Ark, and Yahweh. If you will not come, then I shall take the Ark if I must yoke myself to it and draw it like an ox.”
I led, and they followed. And I was right, for our Lord put victory into King David’s hands.
And Joab, commander of King David’s armies, had slain Prince Absalom.
A deed well-done; that boy had no respect for the Temple.
Zadok frowned, correcting himself mentally. Of course there had been no Temple then. Still, Prince Epsilon had been a shallow, feckless youth, contemptuous of priests and princes both. And too proud, far too proud—
as was his brother Adonijah.
Another prince who would be king, Adonijah had at least had the sense to offer sweet words and promises to those who would espouse his cause. Many had, among them the high priest Abiathar.
But I saw Adonijah clearly for what he was.
Like Absalom his brother, Prince Adonijah lacked true respect for the Lord and His priesthood. Neither prince would have supported the priests as King David did all his days.
King David gave us honor and glory. King David knew what was due the Lord’s priests.
So Zadok had turned away from Adonijah’s outstretched hand, cleaving to King David. And once again, Zadok’s instincts had proven right; Adonijah and those who had sworn fealty to him went down to dust. The office of high priest had been stripped from Abiathar. From that day forward, Zadok had reigned as sole high priest of the Lord Yahweh in the lands of Israel and Judah.
I was wise then. Poor Abiathar; be was too quick to scorn and to judge,
Abiathar had always despised King David’s many women, believing they turned the king’s mind from Yahweh, absorbing wealth that should have gone to build the Lord’s Temple. In vain had Zadok explained that the prophet Nathan had foreseen that King David would but prepare the ground for the Temple,
that a king to come after would build their god’s House on Earth. But Abiathar would not be soothed.
“The prophet Nathan is tied to Queen Michal’s girdle, and she seeks all glory for Prince Solomon.” Abiathar had spat upon the ground to show how cheap he held Nathan’s prophecies. “We shall see that slut Bathsheba’s son upon the throne next—and
that
is a better prophecy than any of Nathan’s!”
“Prince Solomon is a good, wise boy.” Zadok had tried to placate Abiathar—uselessly, of course. Abiathar would not be appeased.
“Prince Solomon is the child of sin, the son of an oath-breaker and a mindless harlot. He is not fit to be king.”
“Yahweh decides who is fit to be king,” Zadok had corrected. “And Yahweh does not judge as men do.”
Abiathar had looked long at Zadok then; Zadok had shifted uneasily beneath that steady gaze. “No,” Abiathar had said at last, “but perhaps He judges as women do.”
“I do not understand,” Zadok said.
“No,” said Abiathar, “I don’t suppose you do.”
That had been the last true conversation Zadok had ever had with Abiathar. After Prince Adonijah’s ill-advised coronation feast—a festivity ended when King David learned of it and promptly crowned Prince Solomon as king—Abiathar had been sent into exile.
He should have known better than to go against Queen Michal’s son—no, King Solomon was the Lady Bathsheba’s son; odd how hard it is to remember that! Igrow old; my mind jests with me.
Still, all the world had known Prince Solomon was as dear to Queen Michal as if he were the child of her own body.
And Truly, the boy resembles her far more than he does the Lady Bathsheba.
So it had been twice folly for Abiathar to defy not only his king’s wishes, but the queen’s.
And that is why I sit here today in comfort and honor, and Abiathar died far from the king’s court. Poor Abiathar.
Yes, and if I cannot summon wisdom, soon it shall be “Poor Zadok.”
The warmth of self-satisfaction faded as Zadok considered the dilemma before him. Prophet or no, Ahijah was becoming troublesome.
Who knows what such a man may do?
He would, Zadok decided, have to warn the king. Carefully, and tactfully; the high priest had no wish to upset the even tenor of King Solomon’s life.
Or of his own.
The king’s day had started poorly—he had been begged to adjudicate between one of his wives and another; both claimed the same slave girl as handmaiden, and Solomon had been hard put to devise a solution that would satisfy any of the parties to the dispute—and continued to worsen. The steward had begged audience to complain about the suppliers of foodstuffs for the palace, and the superintendent of the regional governors had gotten wind of that audience and come along to beg the king’s indulgence for those same suppliers.
Solomon had assumed the capstone in this procession of complainants was Jeroboam, the superintendent of the highly unpopular Forced Levy. Once the king had managed to sympathize with the steward and soothe the superintendent of governors’ sore feelings, he had hoped for a respite, only to hear that Jeroboam had most humbly begged a few moments with the king’s grace. Solomon had no choice but to acquiesce, although talking with Jeroboam never left a sweet taste in the mouth.
“O King, the Danites refused to surrender the thousand men I ordered them to supply for the roadworks. I beg leave to pass the king’s harsh judgment upon them.”
Solomon raised his eyebrows in questioning surprise. “Truly? I have heard no rumor of such a revolt.”
“The Danites gave up the men at last, but not before defying the king’s decree.”
“Either they defied the decree or they did not. If the thousand men are now working upon the roads, the Danites have obeyed, have they not?”
“Yes—but they protested, refused to comply with the order until I myself confronted them. They must be punished for such willful folly.” Jeroboam stood spear-straight, affronted by the mere thought that men dared question his orders. If the man were not so good at his job, a job that brought opprobrium down upon his head almost daily, Solomon would long ago have replaced him.
For he is not only effective but ambitious.
Ambition was not a bad thing, in a man—
But like fire, it makes a fine servant and a poor master.
Solomon repressed a sigh and began the laborious task of forbidding Jeroboam to summarily execute judgments upon the unruly Danites without wounding Jeroboam’s touchy pride. To Jeroboam’s complaint that leniency would be perceived as
weakness, Solomon said only “I am not weak, nor are you, and if the Danites press on to outright mutiny, they will discover that to their cost. But punish men only for speaking their minds? No.”
And now, just as he had a few moments to study the new maps of the Silk Road his spies had painfully acquired for him, the chamberlain interrupted him once more.
“O King, the high priest craves audience.”
O Lord, what is it now?
To Solomon, it sometimes seemed that the old man always wanted
something
—to be fair, much of what Zadok asked was for others, and not for himself. But the high priest seemed to regard the treasury as inexhaustible, the king’s resources as infinite. Solomon sighed faintly, and nodded to his chamberlain.
“Very well; the high priest may approach.” Setting aside the maps he wished to peruse, Solomon summoned up a smile as Zadok entered. “Come in, Zadok, and be welcome. And tell me how the king may be of service to the high priest today.”
Zadok bowed his head, acknowledging the king’s greeting. “Peace unto you, King Solomon. This time it is I who may be of service to you.”
That will make a splendid change.
Not by the slightest shift of muscle or glint of eye did Solomon betray this unworthy thought.
Unworthy, unjust. But if I cannot complain even to myself
—Who else was there? Even those a king trusted could not bear the burden of his human weaknesses.
So Solomon smiled again, and gestured to the padded bench beneath the window. “Sit, Zadok. Shall I send for wine?” Not waiting for answer, he glanced to the servant standing vigilant beside the door; the man nodded and strode off to do the king’s unspoken bidding.
“That is kind, but I did not come here for wine—even for such wine as yours.” Slowly, Zadok sat and regarded Solomon gravely. “O King, yester eve I endured a visit from the prophet Ahijah—”
“Then it is well I sent for wine.” Solomon kept his tone light, careless. “I am sorry you were troubled. What is it this time? Women’s vanity again?”
Zadok held up a minatory hand. “You jest, but truly, I am troubled by Ahijah’s words to me. He spoke of the king’s household and the king’s women. There were accusations of idolatry in the king’s household.”
Solomon sighed. “We have spoken of this before, Zadok. I will not force my wives to abandon their own gods.”
“It would be better if the king’s wives did not worship idols,” Zadok said, with the indifference of a boy repeating a dull lesson.
“It would be better if the prophet Ahijah tended his own affairs.” Solomon did not blame Zadok; the fault lay elsewhere. “Does Ahijah have any idea how vulnerable the kingdom is? How fragile its alliances?”
A whisper of sound at the doorway; a slave entered bearing a wine jug; a second followed carrying two wine cups. Solomon waited until the boys had set down silver jug and golden cups, until he himself had poured a full measure of wine into one cup and a scant measure into the other, until he had handed the full wine cup to Zadok and the high priest drank.
Then Solomon said, “Now tell me, why trouble yourself to come and recite Ahijah’s ravings? He can have said nothing you have not heard him say forty times before. What is it that so disquiets you this time?”
Frowning, Zadok stared into his wine cup as if seeking his answer there. “Truly, O King, I do not know. Ahijah has spoken such words many times before, but this time—this time it was different. He spewed venom as does a viper.” Zadok sighed, and drank again.
Smiling, Solomon lifted the silver jug and poured more wine into Zadok’s empty cup. “I thank you for your warning, Zadok. A thousand pities that Ahijah loves discord better than peace.”
“Prophets are nothing but trouble. Oh, I know prophets speak for the Lord—but so do I. I am High Priest, after all.”
“And I am king, and Ahijah chastises us both as if we were erring boys.” Solomon cradled his own wine cup in his hands; the gold vessel warmed to his flesh. He gazed into the dark red liquid; crimson shadows swirled. “King, and high priest, and prophet—do you know, Zadok, sometimes I wish old Samuel had not bowed so easily to the people’s will and anointed a king over Israel all those years ago.”
“But that would mean you would not be king now.”
Solomon smiled. “In truth, it would mean I would never have been born, for if Samuel had not anointed Saul king, David would never have been king after him. And had my father not been king, he would not have stood upon a palace balcony and seen my mother bathing.”
“My king!”
“Don’t sound so shocked, Zadok—even you cannot think I grew up in David’s palace without hearing all David’s scandals.”
“King David was a great man, and beloved of the Lord our god.”
“You recite that as a schoolboy does a well-learned lesson. But perhaps you are right; for all his faults and flaws, my father died peacefully in his bed, full of years.”
Full of years, and of wickedness, yet hailed as a great king. What will the world say of King Solomon? Will the future call me a great king as well?
Queen Michal had reared him to be a wise and just king, but he was no longer so certain that her teaching was enough.
You raised me to be a good man—but can a good man be a good king as well?
Kingship was a complex game, its rules shifting as constantly as desert sands. A king required skills foreign to good men toiling in the fields or bargaining in the market. It was not enough to be kind and merciful and just—for those virtues ruined kingdoms unless balanced by a calculating ruthlessness that weighed the true cost of any action. A king’s vision must see beyond hate, and greed, and ambition—and even beyond wisdom and love.
To be king is not so easy a task as rebels think, when they grumble and boast around their fires.
Queen Michal had sought to mate fire with ice, a heartbreakingly impossible task. Sometimes Solomon wished that she had never tried; that one of his elder brothers had grasped the crown instead. But innate honesty, even with himself, forced him to admit that he had been the best choice, the only one of King David’s sons not dazzled by the prize …
“Zadok, do you ever wonder what the kingdom would be like had my brother Adonijah become king rather than I?”
“No,” said the high priest, “for I dislike thinking of unpleasant things.”
“You think King Adonijah would have been unpleasant?”
“If the Lord had meant Adonijah to be king, then he would be. But you are king, so you must be meant to be king.”
“You are hard to refute, Zadok; there is no profit in arguing with you.”
The high priest looked relieved, and Solomon felt a pang of guilt at mocking the old man, even though he knew Zadok had not understood the gibe. Zadok did not regard the world cynically, nor did he endlessly question his own beliefs and values.
“You are a fortunate man, High Priest,” Solomon said.
“Yes, I know, O King, and I give daily thanks for our Lord’s bounty—and for the king’s benevolence,” Zadok added hastily.
On the other hand, the old man knows which cup his wine is poured in!
Although the day had already stretched long, Solomon sent messengers seeking Ahijah throughout the city. By sundown, Solomon knew they had failed to find the prophet; a failure he accepted with mingled relief and dismay, for delaying a confrontation with Ahijah only increased the prophet’s wrath against the world and its sinful flesh. And if Ahijah had heard Amyntor and his mocking laughter on the day of the Colchian wedding …
If Ahijah heard, then I can expect a scolding to make the Lord Himself weep.
Solomon sighed inwardly.
I wonder if my father endured this hectoring from old Nathan?
King David would have known how to cozen the prophet to sweetness, sing him to silence; King Solomon’s only weapon was reason, and reason failed against Ahijah’s furious faith.
In a way, Solomon felt sorry for Ahijah, a man of stern morality and harsh pride railing against the changing world.
As well command the west wind to cease blowing.
But Ahijah could not be permitted to destroy what Solomon had spent so long creating.
And if I send away all my wives and tear down all foreign temples, who will thank me? Not the merchants who can no longer trade with all the world. Not the farmers who can no longer sell their harvest. Not the soldiers, or the priests—
For the empire Solomon now ruled had been built by trade and by marriage—and by tolerance.
But that truth Ahijah would never see.
Duty commanded a king’s days; a king’s time was not his own to squander. Upon days that stretched long, Solomon sometimes wondered why any man would wish to rule. The question seemed particularly insistent when he held open court, judged between one man’s truth and another’s. Upon such days, it was with relief that he retreated to the calm of the Lady Nefret’s chambers.
Although Nefret was Pharaoh’s Daughter, she held no higher title than queen—ruthlessly fair, Solomon granted all his wives that royal title, just as he allotted each an equal set of rooms, an equal wealth in fine array and in precious gems. And as he allotted each a night to be spent with her royal husband; he kept no favorite. Once he had thought this meticulous equity would keep peace in his vast household—a vain hope, he now knew. Oddly
enough, the harem had run more peaceably when Abishag lived, and reigned as undisputed queen of his heart.
But Nefret was the nearest Solomon now permitted himself to a favorite among his wives, perhaps because she cared least for his heart. Pharaoh’s Daughter had been reared in the rigidly sophisticated court of the oldest kingdom upon the earth; what the Lady Nefret did not know about civilized behavior was not worth knowing. Solomon found her cool manner restful. Now she smiled at him over the playing-pieces.
“My king is troubled tonight?”
“My lady Nefret has keen eyes, for it is a small trouble only.” Conversation with his Egyptian wife was a delicate sparring with words; tonight Solomon enjoyed the minor challenge.
She moved a hound. “No matter that troubles my lord is small to me.”
“My lady is kind as well.” Solomon moved his fox two holes, out of danger.
“Not so kind she will grant her lord the game, does he not deserve the victory.” Nefret reached over the board and lifted another hound, sent it after his fox. “Will my lord permit his wife to banish his small trouble?”
“It is nothing; only that—Nefret, do you never tire of being a queen?”
Nefret gazed at him steadily, her long-painted eyes calm and inscrutable as her cat’s. “No, my lord. But then, I was most carefully bred and raised.”
The insult was so beautifully phrased it forced admiration rather than anger. Solomon laughed, softly, and Nefret smiled.