It had taken the Queen of the South to show him he had been wrong.
And right, too, for it is true no other woman can supplant Abishag in my heart.
But another woman could hold her own place there.
“Hearts are not so small, Solomon, that they hold room for only one.”
Are all women wiser than men? I never promised Abishag what she asked—but it is not too late. While still we live, it is never too late.
He had laid Abishag to rest in a funeral cave smoothed by expert hands, its walls painted with swallows and roses; the stone that rolled before it carved with the image of a branching pomegranate tree by the finest stonemason in the kingdom. A fine tribute to a beloved wife—so Abishag’s tomb was called. Now Solomon knew it was time to do true honor to Abishag’s memory.
It was time, at last, to keep his unsworn vow to his beloved wife.
Prince David lay naked upon a new-washed sheepskin, kicking his legs and waving his arms fiercely, grabbing for the bright rattle his mother shook over him. The gilded walnut shells strung upon a leather thong clattered as Makeda dangled the toy before her child’s sun-bright eyes; she held the rattle just far enough from his grasp that his seeking fingers could not quite touch it.
“That is right, little king, reach for what you want.” She smiled, and David kicked harder, his face crumpling up as he began to wail. Makeda laid her hand over his mouth. “Hush, heart of my heart. Silence and strength, little lion, silence and strength.”
Already he knew crying would gain him nothing; he bit at her hand, and she lifted it and laughed. “Yes, my son, yes. A fierce heart and a clever mind, my king of all the world. Yes.”
She dipped the rattle low enough for him to seize in his small plump hands, and his chortle of delight warmed her blood like venom. “Little lion-heart.” Makeda stroked her son’s cheek. His skin was soft as a dove’s breast, darker than ruddy amber; his hair curls of coals at midnight, shadow and fire.
“You are altogether beautiful, you are clear-skinned and ruddy; you are wiser than the serpent,” she sang. “You are king of ten thousand thousand kings—”
She broke off, sensing another presence. One of her slaves stood in the doorway; she knelt as Makeda turned her gaze upon the girl.
“Speak.” Makeda neither smiled nor frowned, waiting calmly to hear
what would be said. Her servants knew better than to intrude upon her without reason.
“My lady, the king comes.”
Of all the words she might have heard, these were the least expected. Makeda stared unblinking at the slave girl.
“The king? Here?” Makeda’s thoughts darted, snake-swift, striking at possibilities.
It is not my night, so why does he come to me? Does he think to take David from me—No, he is still but a babe sucking at my breast—
Nothing tasted right; so great a change in the king’s routine was unprecedented.
Wait,
the serpent coiled behind her mind commanded.
Wait, and listen, and trust in me to lead you safely home … .
Wait and trust. About to rise, she hesitated, then settled back upon the leopard skin. Solomon knew well how she looked as an exotic mate. Let the king see her now as a mother.
As a queen, yes,
hissed Jangu-set, and Makeda smiled.
“Tell King Solomon he may enter,” she said, and bent her head once more over her son.
Coming upon his fierce dark Makeda curled on a leopard skin, cooing endearments over her infant son, Solomon stopped to gaze upon her. For on this visit he saw her unadorned, undefiant; soft with mother love.
Just like any woman. Is the exotic princess no more than a ruse, a ploy to arouse my interest?
Then Makeda glanced slantwise at him and smiled, her full lips framing teeth like ivory blades, and for an instant his midnight serpent flashed her fangs, untamed.
“My lord king. We are honored.” Honored or not, Makeda made no effort to rise, merely inclining her head. “But unready to receive you. Has the Lady Chadara changed the order of our nights and our days? If so, she has forgotten to tell us. The fault is hers and mine.”
“There is no fault.” Although he heard the mockery beneath her humble words, Solomon refused to acknowledge its sting. Makeda had reason enough to upbraid him.
I have neglected my wives; slighted them—no, abandoned them for love of the Queens of the South.
That Makeda should rebuke him was no surprise. Solomon was glad that rebuke was no harsher.
Forcing himself to smile, he walked forward and looked down upon his son. Small David gazed up, eyes round, his body still for an instant. Then he flailed wildly, grasping at the golden fringes edging Solomon’s sash. The nutshell rattle went flying, banging into Solomon’s leg; he smiled again.
“So small and yet so fierce.” Solomon knelt beside his son, allowing David to grasp his outstretched hand. “What shall you be, my son, I wonder, when you are a man grown?”
Smiling, he glanced sideways at Makeda and, as if he looked upon her for the first time, saw truly into her heart.
You have your own plans for your son’s future; your own land and blood summon you. I know at last what you desire of me.
Solomon looked down at his small son, at the tiny fingers so tightly gripping his own. “He is well named David. He will make a fine king, Makeda.”
Silence; she stared slantwise at him. At last she said, “King of what, Lord of Wisdom? Prince Rehoboam will reign over Israel and Judah; so it is already written.”
“Yes, the clay is long years dried upon that decree. But you have your own plans, Lady of Snakes, and your future does not lie within Jerusalem’s walls. Nor does our son’s.”
She sat coiled, waiting, like the serpent he called her. Solomon smiled and lifted his small son into his arms. “I have been a great fool, Makeda, but not such a fool I cannot learn, and make amends for my folly. Stay as long as pleases you, as long as you require sanctuary.” He stared into his son’s bright eyes. “Stay until you may carry a king home with you.”
“Truly Solomon is the wisest man in the world.” Words that could mean anything, agreement or empty compliment.
“You need say nothing now; your king is too young still to embark upon great ventures.” Solomon kissed David’s cheek; the child’s skin was warm as amber beneath his lips. “But when it is time, Makeda, you will go with all honor and with wealth that befits a queen—and enough armed men to ensure you retain both.”
At last she smiled, and for once Solomon believed the light in her eyes that at least of fondness. “Truly, King Solomon is worthy of his crown,” she said and held out her arms. Solomon handed their son back to her. “And he need not fear; I know how to wait.”
“Yes.” Solomon watched David clutch at his mother’s breast. “Women are patient creatures.”
“We have need to be,” Makeda said and, smiling, kissed her son’s soft cheek.
So she is gone at last. Too late.
The Lady Nefret stood beside the smooth pool at her garden’s heart, staring at the sun-gilded water. Many of the king’s wives had gone to the rooftop to watch the Queen of the South ride away forever. They had dressed in their finest gowns and jewels, as if this day were a festival; radiant with joy they made no attempt to veil.
They rejoice as if her departure washes away all sorrow.
Nefret gazed unseeing into the untroubled pool. Did not the other women understand that, without the Spice Queen’s presence, their alliances, their resentments, no longer owned a heart?
She is gone, and all will be as it was.
A lie, and she knew it. Pharaoh’s Daughter did not flinch from iron truth; she made herself face her cold future.
The Queen of the South had united King Solomon’s wives, if only against her.
And with the king’s daughter gone, there is no one to bind our small world together.
Suddenly weary, she sat down beside the garden pool, coiling her legs beneath her as she had done when she was a young girl and her body a supple, willing thing.
Nothing. That is what remains. The Sheban has taken the king’s daughter and his heart, and left us nothing.
One of her palace cats strolled into the sunny garden, wove itself against Nefret’s legs. She bent to pick up the little animal and set it upon her lap. The cat tucked its silver-brown paws under itself and began to purr, softly, barely vibrating beneath Nefret’s caressing hand.
How many years of this? How many years of tending lilies and cherishing kittens?
Although she enjoyed gardening, and loved her sacred cats dearly, the thought that they would be all her life dimmed the day. She sighed and closed her eyes.
“My lady.” Her slave’s whisper barely disturbed the heavy air. “My lady, the king approaches.”
Nefret opened her eyes and began to rise, but King Solomon already stood looking down at her. “No, stay. You look like a girl again, sitting there.”
To her surprise, he sat on the pool’s edge and laid his hand upon her little cat’s head. “You are graceful as this cat, Nefret.”
“The king is kind,” she murmured.
No. Do not hope. Always he is kind.
“No.” Solomon stroked the cat’s arching back; their fingers touched. “You are kind, Nefret. Kinder than I deserve.”
She looked into his eyes; unlike his voice, they betrayed him.
Of course; he grieves. His heart’s queen rides south, his best beloved child beside her. He is lonely now.
Enlightened, Nefret summoned the grace to do what she must. She smiled, and allowed her fingers to slide against his in a caress as soft as the cat’s fur.
“My cook has a new dish he wishes to set before me; if the king has no objection to apricots, and to honey, perhaps he will honor me with his presence at tomorrow’s evening meal.”
“If Pharaoh’s Daughter will so honor the King of Israel and Judah,” he began, and then stopped and smiled. “Tomorrow, Nefret. Yes, tomorrow I would like very much to join you.”
After he had gone, Nefret sat quiet for a time, the cat purring beneath her hand. Then she set the animal gently aside and rose to her feet.
The Queen of the South is gone—but I am still here. I am Pharaoh’s Daughter, and King Solomon’s wife—and I am not yet old or dead.
She clapped her hands to summon her handmaidens, and when they bowed before her, she began to issue commands. “Air my new gown, then perfume it with lotus—yes, and with cinnamon. Prepare my bath. Tell my cook to come to me at once.”
If Solomon were attending upon her tomorrow, she had a great deal of work to do today.
He had spoken to Makeda, and to Nefret. One more task awaited him; he must speak also to Naamah.
I must reassure her that no other son will supplant Rehoboam. I must convince her that her son is not merely my eldest son, but my true choice as king to come after.
Now—at last—that was the truth. Perhaps Naamah would be able to see that truth, although she would never know the reasons behind it. But Solomon hoped his words would carry enough conviction to ease Naamah’s heart.
Yes, I must speak with Naamah. But not just yet.
For he grew weary beyond endurance;
already Bilqis’s visit seemed to belong to the distant past, the palace to echo with Baalit’s absence. Now he wished only to rest, to summon the courage to face all the tomorrows that awaited him.
Even a king sought sanctuary.
As if he were still a small boy, habit guided his feet unerringly to the Queen’s Garden that had belonged in turn to three beloved women.
My mother Michal. My wife Abishag. My daughter Baalit.
Solomon stared at the ebony gate. Then he set his hand upon the ivory laid within the dark wood like fangs and opened the gate into the Queen’s Garden.
For a heartbeat he thought he had stepped back in time, for a woman sat beside the singing fountain.
Abishag. Beloved ghost.
Then the woman turned her head and slipped back her glittering veil, and Solomon looked into Zhurleen’s night-dark eyes.
He stood silent as she rose and bowed low. “Greetings, Solomon the Wise. Live forever, O King.”
“I am not wise, and I will not live forever, and you come too late, lady. Your granddaughter is already gone.”
“I did not come for her.”
“Why, then?”
Zhurleen looked steadily at him, then smiled and held out her hands; ink-dark serpents coiled from her elbows to her wrists, shadows beneath her skin. “I came for old love, and for new. I came because once I loved your mothers, and because I carried your wife beneath my heart for nine full moons.”
“They are dead—and she whom my soul loves is gone also.” Solomon walked forward into the garden until he stood beside Zhurleen. He stared into the fountain, saw only sun-dazzle and shadow. “Do not call me wise, Zhurleen, for I am the most foolish of men.”
Beside him, Zhurleen laughed, a low, honeyed ripple of sound. “Only the truly wise know how foolish all men are—and all women, too. Yes, even the Queen of the Morning.” A pause; falling water sang against alabaster. “Even Queen Michal.”
Waning sunlight transmuted stone and water; the fountain glowed jewel-bright. “Why speak of her? She has lain long years in her grave—and she was the wisest woman I ever knew. Far wiser than I. Just as my father was a greater king than I.”
My father would have known how to chain his beloved to his heart. If she had come to visit my father, the Spice Queen would never again have left this palace.
Solomon turned to meet Zhurleen’s quiet gaze. “In all things they won, and I have lost.”
“If that is what you think, O King, then yes, you are foolish.” Zhurleen reached out and took his hand; old she might be, but her hands remained strong and supple. “Solomon, I am both a priestess and an old woman; I knew Michal before you were born, before she knew your mother Bathsheba. Before power tarnished her.”
Angered, Solomon tried to pull away; Zhurleen’s fingers clasped his like chains. “No, Solomon,” she said. “I have kept silent through three lifetimes—mine, my daughter’s, my granddaughter’s. Now it is time for me to speak, and for you to listen. It is time for you to learn truth, and to summon your own future.”
She drew him to sit beside her on the fountain’s rim. “You are no fool,” she began, “and so you know as well as I how Michal hated David. Hated him so greatly her malice poisoned her. Hate that would have destroyed her had it not been for your mother—and for you.” Slowly, Zhurleen began to relate the tale of Harper David and young Princess Michal—a princess won by a hero, love lost when Mad Saul sought the hero’s death—
“This I already know. That song was sung before I could walk.”
“Not all of it.” Unperturbed, Zhurleen began reciting a different version of the song of King David and Queen Michal. “She dwelt in peace and love with Phaltiel for twice seven years; she cooked and spun and wove and warmed his bed and heart; her love grew as a thread grows upon a spindle.
“And then came the day of Gilboa, King Saul’s final battle. Upon that day the hillsides and the valley ran red, and Mad Saul bravely died and his son Jonathan with him. And David-hero became David-king—in Judah only. But ambition ate David-king; its teeth gnawed his long bones. David would be king in Israel as well, but Mad Saul’s son Ishbaal ruled Israel. So King David remembered Princess Michal, and sent for her. Why not? Was she not the last king’s daughter? And she had loved David-hero hot and fierce.
“So he sent for Princess Michal, but Princess Michal no longer dwelt within Michal’s skin. It was a farmer’s good wife that David took, it was Phaltiel’s wife whom King David claimed as his own.”
Here Zhurleen slanted her long dark eyes at Solomon, as if gauging his temper before she spoke on. “It was Phaltiel’s wife who doomed not only her husband but her own happiness. For she did not understand that David cared nothing for her, but everything for what she was: the crown incarnate. And by the time she learned that lesson, she had summoned demons that stalked her down long years. For Michal was a loving girl but not wise.”
Solomon laughed, a bitter sound eaten by the falling water. “And I say again Queen Michal was the wisest of women. Did she not set me upon King David’s throne?”
Zhurleen accepted the interruption placidly. “Young Michal was clever, not wise. I learned that when I tried to warn her, to open her eyes to the world as it is. But she refused to see through a queen’s eyes until it was too late. She stood against King David in anger and in pride—and so condemned her husband Phaltiel, for King David must possess King Saul’s daughter.
“Yet still she would not see what she must, and so left herself unshielded when she wove your mother Bathsheba into her life, and gave a weapon into King David’s hand. For David’s gift was to summon love—that was what Michal denied him, and that denial burned David’s soul like acid. How could this woman refuse to surrender what all others granted him? She would not, and he must have—”
Zhurleen sighed, and shook her head; silvered curls shifted across her back, uneasy serpents. “And so King David summoned Bathsheba’s love instead, and got her with child.”
“Yes, I know. That tale is no secret, lady.”
“But this part of it is, O King. What you do not know is that King David offered Queen Michal a choice. Bathsheba’s life, or that of her husband, Uriah.”
So that is it.
The thought flashed through Solomon’s mind, bright and deadly as lightning. “Uriah died in battle. Warriors often die so.”
“Uriah died because King David ordered it—at Queen Michal’s bidding. So.” Zhurleen spread her hands, offering up truth. “The blood of three men stained her hands, their lives forfeit to her iron pride.”
“Three men? You have named only two. Phaltiel and Uriah.” Michal’s husband, and Bathsheba’s husband.
“And your half-brother Amnon.” Zhurleen’s voice was soft, her gaze upon him steady.
Amnon and Tamar, and their bright deadly love—
“No. Queen Michal wished Amnon king. She told me the tale and wept for Amnon and Tamar. She had promised them her aid.”
“And dallied too long to give that aid. Solomon, you were both her heart’s delight and her vengeance upon David. She could let no other usurp your place in the web she wove. She saw what she truly was too late. That is truth, O King.”
“Why?” Solomon said, and she did not pretend to misunderstand.
“Because I swore always to be Queen Michal’s friend, Solomon. And Michal wanted you to be—”
“King.”
“Happy,” Zhurleen said and rose to her feet. Even old, she moved supple as water. “You have done all asked of you and more, sacrificed desire upon duty’s altar. Now you must take the happiness a king may have, when he strives to be a good man as well as a great king.
“Queen Michal battled ghosts all her life. King Solomon need not. Let them go.” She reached out and took Solomon’s face between her slender painted hands; bent and pressed her lips against his forehead. “Fare well, Solomon the Wise.”
Solomon stood and watched her walk away. As she laid her hand upon the ebony gate, he called out her name, and she turned back to face him.
“And I suppose those ghosts haunted her until the day she died?”
“No,” said Zhurleen. “What haunted her was that they didn’t.”
He let her words sink into his mind, weighing each against his memories of Michal, his second mother, King David’s queen. “I understand,” he said at last.
“I thought you would,” Zhurleen said, and then she was gone, lost in the shadows of the women’s palace.
Gone, as his daughter Baalit was gone; as the Queen of the South was gone. The Queen’s Garden once again lay empty, tenantless.
My last love, gone—
Even as the mourning words echoed silently, he found himself hearing other silent words, tart and bracing.
“Last love? And you with a good two score years left to you? Do not give yourself airs, young man!”
Any of the women who had loved him might have so scolded him—And
now that they are gone, their memories act as their handmaidens.
So the Queen’s Garden lies empty? Well then—
Well, then, I must fill that emptiness—or replace the garden with something else. I will ask Nefret what I should plant here. Yes, that is what I will do.
Nefret was good with flowers.