Prince Solomon left me sitting by a pretty fountain in the queen’s own garden to await Queen Michal. Outwardly serene, I fretted over every detail of my appearance, though I knew worry was both needless and useless. Needless, as I had garbed myself witch care, ensuring that my gown displayed both my person and my skill at sewing to good advantage.
Useless, as I would face the queen within a few breaths, and so had no time to alter any fault there might be.
I knew I looked well, and I knew I was Prince Solomon’s own choice—and I knew, too, those things would count for nothing if Queen Michal did not find me pleasing.
My own troubled thoughts trapped my senses so that I did not hear her approach, and thus did not see her until she stood close. And then I was so flustered I barely managed to bend my head modestly and bow low. All I saw of the queen was her feet, which were slender and pale, and clad in sandals of gilded leather.
“Rise, Abishag,” she said, “and sit here beside me.”
Hoping the queen did not sense my fears, I forced myself to move with slow grace, as my mother had taught me. Queen Michal watched me with what I knew must be critical eyes as I spread my skirt carefully, so that the cloth would neither pull too tight across my thighs nor trip me up when I must stand again.
“A pretty design. Is it the work of your own hands?”
“Yes, Queen Michal.” I brushed my fingers over one of the moons I had so painstakingly sewn upon the fine blue linen. “And the pattern is mine as well.” Golden suns and silver moons, set row upon row—my own fancy. This was the first time I had ever worn the gown.
The queen’s praise made me bold; I raised my eyes to hers. She smiled, and for a breath looked so like Prince Solomon I found it hard to remember that she was not truly his mother. I am not sure Queen Michal herself always remembered that.
I am sure she knew at once that Prince Solomon had claimed my heart; I think it pleased her. She smiled upon me and kissed my cheek, and unclasped an ornament of fine coral and pearls from her own neck and set it about mine.
I thanked her with a pretty speech complimenting her beauty—and learned that Queen Michal need not be fulsomely flattered. She preferred truth, when it could be safely told.
A considerate man, my father sent messengers ahead each day, keeping his ministers apprised of his progress towards the city. He sent orders, too; orders concerning the housing and entertainment of the Queen of the South and her entourage. The Sheban queen was to be given the Little Palace, the wing of the King’s House that once had been the king’s dwelling place. Now it was the quiet portion of the palace, seldom used and too old-fashioned for Solomon’s wives to grace with their presence.
All that had changed, for my father’s commands summoned workmen to the Little Palace: men to smooth fresh clay upon the walls, to paint the
faded images back to bright life. Once again the Little Palace came alive, reborn to house a foreign queen and her exotic court.
Gossip flew to Jerusalem more swiftly than the king’s fleetest messenger, and so long before the watchtower wardens lit the fires that would signal the king’s return with his royal guest, everyone in the city, from Pharaoh’s Daughter to the lowest beggar in the street, knew that nothing to match the Sheban queen’s court had ever been seen in all the land.
Women warriors guard the Sheban queen, the fabled Sword Maids, haters of men sworn to chastity and the Moon. Eunuchs tend her; princes sacrificed their manhood to serve her.
She speaks with birds and with beasts. She can change into a serpent at will.
Half beast herself, the queen dares not display her deformed body; heavy veils shroud her always from men’s eyes.
With each retelling, the rumors grew wilder, until the Sheban queen’s beauty became more than mortal, her consequence greater than an emperor’s. As for the treasures she had brought—
Gold beyond weighing and gems beyond counting, Frankincense and myrrh enough to fill the Temple itself from floor to rooftree. Pearls large as peacock’s eggs, rubies large as a woman’s heart
—those were the stuff of wild dreams.
As was the queen herself.
Half djinn and half fire. Clever as the Sphinx.
Even the queen’s titles sang like golden bells: the Queen of the South, the Queen of the Morning Land. The Spice Queen.
Although King Solomon’s wives came from every kingdom from Melite and Egypt to distant Colchis, the Queen of Sheba’s entourage promised to eclipse all others that had entered through Jerusalem’s great eastern gate. Upon the day that King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba rode through the streets of Jerusalem to the palace, the streets and housetops were so crowded with people come to gaze upon her that no one could move so much as a step for the press of bodies until the royal procession had passed by. And although the Sheban queen indeed had veiled herself, those who had come to watch were not disappointed—
“For a cloak golden as the sun covered her, and a mask of pearls hid her face,” Nimrah told me; I had sent her to try to spy out the Queen of Sheba before she reached the sanctuary of the Little Palace. “Her hands were painted with henna and her fingernails painted with gold.”
“And her feet?” I asked, for one of the wilder tales claimed that the Queen of Sheba walked not upon a woman’s feet but upon little hooves, like a goat.
“The golden cloak hid her feet,” Nimrah said, “so we must wait and see. If she indeed possesses hooves, perhaps she gilds them as well as her nails.”
“Perhaps she does,” I said, and we both laughed. I could not quite believe in the hooves—but who truly knew what might be possible in a land in which trees dripped incense for the gods—and a woman ruled over men?
Against her expectations, her first sight of Jerusalem impressed Bilqis. The city sprawled rich and careless across the hills it commanded; circled by walls high and broad, crowned upon its highest point by a building so clad in gold that it seemed to burn under the noonday sun like a bonfire.
“That is the Temple.” King Solomon noticed even the smallest change in her attention; now he named the great building that had caught her eyes.
“King Solomon’s Temple—so I have heard it called.” She smiled, slanting her eyes towards him.
His lips smile, but his eyes do not. Now, why?
A queen could not afford to ignore subtleties.
“So called because I put my father’s plans in motion. The Temple was his dream.”
And not yours?
She gazed across the valley at the blaze of gold. “It is magnificent. And the city is beautiful.” That, too, was a surprise. But even at a distance, the city pulsed with life, shone new and hopeful.
“Yes, Jerusalem is beautiful. So much of it is new, since even my father’s time. He conquered an aging town and built a great city upon its foundations.”
“The City of David.” Jerusalem the Golden. Again she watched as King Solomon smiled—and again that smile did not warm his eyes.
“Yes, the City of David. My father won not only cities but men’s hearts.”
“And women’s too, I hear.”
“Of course. How could he not? David was a hero, skilled at war and at love.” Solomon’s tone revealed nothing.
Which told her everything.
A hero for a father—that is a heavy burden for a man to bear.
It was her turn to smile, to speak lightly. “Yes, even in Sheba we heard of King David. And now of King Solomon. Your land breeds great men.”
“And yours clever women,” he said, and she inclined her head, acknowledging the compliment.
“So that is the Great Temple. And the king’s palace—surely that is as magnificent—or nearly so?”
“Nearly so,” he agreed, and they rode on along the valley road, the broad way that led up the hill to the open gates of the City of David.
Just as she had spared no cost, no effort, to bring the glory of Sheba north to the court of King Solomon, so the king had spared nothing in providing for his royal guest. She had been presented with the Little Palace; she was to consider that residence her own during her stay—
“Which the King of Israel hopes will be long,” Solomon had said, to which she had replied, “A king’s hopes are customarily fulfilled, are they not?”
She only hoped that her sojourn in Jerusalem would not merely seem long.
Three days in an unquiet house is longer than three years in a loving one.
And she had to admit the Little Palace charming, its old-fashioned columns sturdy rather than elegant, its rooms cozy rather than spacious. Even the new-painted walls copied the style of a previous generation, the lilies straight as guardsmen, the swallows flying in neat rows above the rigid yellow flowers.
The oldest portion of the great palace that now covered half a hilltop, the Little Palace could function as its own small world, a private sanctuary against the tumult of the busy court. And before she had dwelt half-a-day within Jerusalem’s imposing walls, Bilqis knew that refuge would be vital.
Jerusalem might serve as the world’s marketplace, but the city’s sophistication sank only as deep as the bright paint upon the palace walls. So new a kingdom that the oldest men and women who dwelt within it had seen its first king crowned, Israel still sought its true balance. Quarrels between the old ways and the new arose constantly, and King Solomon’s far-famed court squabbled like a pen of fighting quail.
“—and this is the old palace, the one their great King David built when he conquered the city.” Khurrami’s tart voice snared Bilqis’s attention; she listened as Khurrami went on, “Lodging the Queen of Sheba in these hallowed rooms is intended as a great honor, so I suppose they will have to serve.” Khurrami set the queen’s mirror upon the glossy surface of an ebony chest; she regarded the silver disk critically and reached out to move it again.
“Oh, leave the mirror there, Khurrami—it will do well enough.” Irsiya set
the alabaster box that held the queen’s eye paints beside the mirror. “And of course King Solomon means to honor Sheba; how could any man doubt it?”
“The men of Jerusalem would greatly enjoy doubting it,” Khurrami said. “They don’t like women here.”
“King Solomon has forty wives,” Irsiya countered, and Khurrami laughed.
“Oh, the king likes women well enough! No honor is great enough for the Queen of Sheba, not in his eyes.” Khurrami’s eyes met the queen’s; Bilqis smiled and beckoned.
“You have been working since midday setting my rooms in order. Come and sit by me, and rest——and tell me all you have learned.” For Khurrami numbered among her virtues the knack of acquiring information, of gathering gossip as easily as she gathered flowers in a garden.
Now Khurrami sat and retold all the tales she had already gleaned from the palace slaves and servants—and the insults and complaints as well.
Unpleasant, but no surprise, not after what we encountered upon our journey here.
Sheba clung to ancient ways, followed a path fewer and fewer now walked. Khurrami’s report distressed Irsiya; the queen listened unmoved to relayed comments disparaging her wisdom, her demeanor, and her character.
At last she said, “Thank you, Khurrami—and do stop widening your eyes and shaking your head, Irsiya. Of course Israel is nothing like Sheba; we are the crown of all the world and can hardly expect other kingdoms to equal us.”
They are both tired, my girls; I must send them off to rest.
She smiled and reached out to tuck a straying curl back into the coils of Khurrami’s shining hair. But before she could speak, Khurrami said, “There is one thing more, my queen. King Solomon has ordered a second throne set beside his in the great court, the one circled by so many columns of cedar they call it the Forest of Lebanon. The throne waits to receive his royal guest—even though she be a woman.”
“Has he?” Bilqis said. “Has he indeed?”
A good sign—at least, she would accept it as a fair omen. At the very least, King Solomon proved himself more open-minded than many. Kings rarely counted tolerance among the royal virtues.
A paragon among men
—
or he wishes to seem so.
“So King Solomon will set the Queen of Sheba beside him as an equal. Now, how is the queen to garb herself to repay that compliment?”
In answer, Khurrami and Irsiya happily debated the virtues of each gown
and veil the queen possessed, each gem and girdle, each diadem and cloak. “Gold,” Khurrami said, “gold only for your clothing and jewelry. Gild your eyelids and fingertips—and sprinkle your hair with gold dust. You will outshine the noonday sun.” This shining image failed to appeal to Irsiya, who favored more colorful raiment. “Tyrian purple—that always shows one’s wealth. Gold fringe, yes—but for your ornaments, your finest gems. And the Phoenix girdle.”
“Not that thing!” Khurrami recoiled as dramatically as if Irsiya had dropped a viper into her hands.
My poor Khurrami; her taste is so delicate!
But truly, Khurrami’s objection was not without merit. Ancient, yes; a treasure beyond price, yes. But as an item of apparel—the vastly admired Phoenix girdle proved difficult to love. Row upon row of pearls, each perfect as a full moon, each as large as a cherry, formed the fabled girdle; those pearls alone created a matchless prize.
But it was the pearls’ color that rendered the Phoenix girdle priceless. Fire gold, ember red—Sheban legend swore each pearl had formed from the broken shell of an egg of the fabled phoenix, the bird of fire. Pearls the color of dying flames—
—crafted into a girdle two handspans wide, the rows of pearls caught up at intervals by claws of gold. The girdle’s original simple moon-knot clasp had been reworked a century ago; now two phoenixes with ruby eyes and bodies of gold faced each other, their grasping claws serving as hooks to close the girdle. Two tassels as long as a woman’s arm hung down from the phoenix clasp, as if serving as the birds’ tails. One tassel was formed of white pearls, the other of black.
“It’s traditional,” Irsiya said.
“It’s atrocious,” retorted Khurrami. “And far too heavy as well. These court functions go on for
hours
—do
you
want to wear ten pounds of pearls about your waist for hours?”
“What could better display our queen’s wealth?” Irsiya countered. “The Phoenix girdle, and the Slave King’s emeralds, and—”
“And what could better display dreadful taste?” Khurrami cut in. “She is Queen of Sheba, Queen of the Morning—not a plaster idol in a second-rate roadside temple! Tyrian purple and emeralds and the Phoenix girdle as well—do you want King Solomon to think she’s blind?”
Irsiya glared back. “Well, if you had your way, he’d think she owned less
than a beggar by the road! She is Queen of Sheba, Queen of the South, ruler over all the Spice Lands. Do you want these unshaved barbarians to think she’s poor and weak?”
The queen laughed, and both handmaidens turned to face her with identical expressions of aggrieved indignation. “Peace,” the queen said. “As always, both of you are right—and wrong.”
“What then will it please the queen to wear to King Solomon’s court?” Irsiya asked. “Plain gold and the Phoenix pearls?”
“The queen is not wearing that ghastly girdle,” Khurrami said flatly.
I must not let them quarrel like cats simply because they amuse me.
Curbing her urge to laugh again, Bilqis merely smiled. “Again, you are both wrong—and right.”
That caught their attention; they stared at her, plainly trying to solve the riddle she had set them. After a long pause, Irsiya said, rather plaintively, “The queen must wear
something.”
“For this occasion, yes.” She smiled at Irsiya, the easily shocked, as Khurrami regarded her queen with growing suspicion. “Now do not glare at me like that, Khurrami, I do not order my affairs—or garb—only to suit your pleasure. And Irsiya, do try to remember you are a queen’s lady and not a virgin priestess dwelling alone in a cave. Now do not sulk, for truly you both have aided my decision. I now know exactly what I shall wear to be welcomed by our royal host.”
She looked upon her doubting handmaidens and smiled. “And I swear to you by Ilat’s eyes that not a man there will ever forget the day that the Queen of Sheba first entered King Solomon’s court.”