Men consorting with idolaters, bargaining away their honor and flouting Yahweh’s Laws. Women whose painted faces proclaimed their wickedness.
And as if that were not bad enough, there were the temples.
Houses of abomination,
Jerusalem was infested with temples to dozens of foreign gods; alien idols worshipped by the strangers who came in their hordes now that the city Yahweh had given into King David’s hand cared more for trade than for the god they now called Lord, claiming his name too sacred to utter.
Hypocrites. They will not utter His name because they fear to call upon Him and draw down His wrath. Yahweh’s people must see the pit yawning before them, must draw back before they fall to utter ruin.
That was Ahijah’s deepest fear, an endless ache in his bones.
They look on desolation of spirit and call it good fortune. They embrace evil and call it virtue. And Yahweh will smite them for it.
And if he could not lead Yahweh’s people back to their harsh covenant with their god, their destruction would be on his head, as well as on theirs.
If he failed, the kingdom would shatter; Yahweh would not endure a rebellious people.
If I fail, my people destroy themselves. If I fail—
He halted before the porch of a building whose crimson pillars proclaimed it the House of Atargatis. A woman stood between the pillars; her mouth was stained red and her eyelids green. A three-pronged trident was painted in blue upon her forehead. She smiled and beckoned to Ahijah. “You seem troubled, friend. Come within and let Laughing Atargatis ease your distress.”
Cold revulsion slashed him; although every instinct urged him to shrink away from the priestess, vessel of sin, Ahijah forced himself to stand his ground.
I am Yahweh’s prophet,
he reminded himself.
I fear no one.
Letting outrage speak for him, Ahijah glared at the painted woman.
I am strong. You will not beguile me away from the path of righteousness, though your lips drip honey and wine!
After a moment, his temptress shrugged and abandoned her attempt to entice him. But what Ahijah had refused another man eagerly accepted as the prophet strode on. Ahijah sighed inwardly. Only when Jerusalem was burned clean of such abominations would Yahweh’s people be safe.
Only then
—He strove not to wince as the pain he carried on behalf of
Israel bit deep. He permitted himself to press his hand below his heart, where the burning fangs of his own guilt gnawed hottest.
Yes, Lord. I understand. I must try harder. I must not fail.
He dared not. Unseeing, Ahijah walked through the crowded streets of Jerusalem.
If the king will not act, then the Temple must. Yes. I will speak with Zadok.
And if the high priest refused to listen, as was all too likely—
Then I must find another weapon to serve Yahweh’s will.
Once a prophet had played kingmaker—and kingbreaker. If necessary—if Yahweh willed—perhaps a prophet could once again bring an ungodly king down, his wickedness dust blown on the wind.
A wicked king and his strange idolatrous women—yes, I will bring them down. Down into dust. Solomon and his women both.
“Poor Ahijah.” Solomon watched the prophet stride off; noted the stiff fury of Ahijah’s movements. “He does not see that times change, customs change. That our kingdom and its people must allow the wind to blow new customs through our land. I feel sorry for him.”
“O King, you feel sorry for everyone,” Amyntor said. “A piece of advice, my lord: don’t. Most of them aren’t worth it, and the rest revel in misery.”
“Surely you are too harsh.”
“Surely I am not. Do you not know women who are never happier than when complaining?”
Solomon stared at Amyntor, kindness quarreling with truth; as always, Solomon tried to blend the two. “I try to ensure that my wives have nothing to complain of. That they are happy.” But they weren’t, and in his heart Solomon acknowledged this without understanding how he might mend matters.
Ah, Abishag, if only you were here to guide them—
Surely his women had been happy once?
Or did I close my eyes to all but my own joys?
“You brood again, O King.”
“Upon my faults.”
Amyntor laid his hand on Solomon’s shoulder. “My friend, you have the fewest faults of any man I know. You paint shadows where there is only sunlight.”
“You are too kind.”
“I am too selfish,” Amyntor said. “I prefer my companions smiling and
my pleasures unmixed—and my women pleased. And so do you—and that’s part of your trouble, my lord king.”
“What is?”
“You have too many wives and not enough women.”
“I marry as I must. Now come and marvel at the gold and the horses Colchis has sent—in them you will see reason enough for this marriage.”
“It’s to be hoped they haven’t sent dogs instead. What an entrance!”
“Yes,” Solomon said. “I admit I had not expected that. I suppose I must smooth over the matter with the prophet—”
“Why? You are king, not he. Forget him,” said Amyntor. “And if he troubles you—why, there are remedies for that.”
“No.” The word fell flat and heavy between them. “No,” Solomon repeated, his tone lighter, “that is not how I rule.”
“It’s how all kings rule, in the end,” Amyntor said, laughing. “What’s an army for, after all?”
Smiling, Solomon shook his head. Amyntor’s lighthearted comments amused him—but in the end, Amyntor could not understand the burden under which a ruler labored.
And that is as it should be. But it would be pleasant once again to talk with someone who truly understands.
As Amyntor laughed, Solomon gazed at the little idol that lay broken at his feet where Ahijah had thrown it. At last he bent down and grasped the pieces; the edges rasped his skin, rough as a cat’s tongue. Yet another foreign bride, yet another alien god.
Both necessary, vital to the smooth running of the kingdom, to the wealth of the lands and peoples ruled from King David’s City. Solomon weighed the shattered idol in his hand. A small thing; little enough to grant to keep his wives happy, to keep alliances strong.
My people are prosperous. My priests are honored. My wives are content. What more can they ask of me than that?
“Behold, O King—your devoted steward Ahishar approaches, doubtless with news of your eager bride.” Amyntor’s lighthearted speech forced Solomon to banish shadowed thought—and the palace steward’s announcement that the Great Lady Dacxuri at this very moment was being borne by her slaves through the palace gate forced him to return to the throne room, to begin a ritual he knew so well that he need pay no attention to it at all.
Yet another wife—ah, well, kings are not as other men.
With this comforting thought, the high priest Zadok smiled as the king greeted the Colchian princess. As always, King Solomon welcomed a new bride with ease and grace; never, by word or gesture, did the king betray any emotion save pleasure at her arrival. The Colchian was no exception. King Solomon even managed to smile upon her escort, never blinking at the outlandish appearance of the men, the blatant display of the women. Zadok admired the king’s composure; Zadok found pleasing one wife onerous enough. To please forty—
and with new wives arriving with each new treaty—
yes
,
King Solomon must be wiser than all other men, to keep that peace!
Zadok had witnessed King Solomon’s weddings to a dozen brides; like the king, the high priest knew the ritual that followed the formal greetings so well he could chant the words by rote. The king had already wed the foreign princess by proxy before she had left the protection of her father’s walls, and it now was necessary only that King Solomon’s court witness the confirmation of those vows.
Once the last words of the wedding ceremony had been spoken, the king gave his new bride into the charge of the chief steward of the harem. When the Colchian princess had been taken away to the women’s palace, Solomon came over to Zadok.
“That was well done,” Zadok said, and Solomon smiled and shook his head.
“That was hard done; the lady speaks not one word of any language I know. And I must warn you now, High Priest—she arrived in a cart drawn by black dogs.” Solomon always knew everything that transpired in Jerusalem long before it was common knowledge; Zadok supposed he himself would hear about the Colchian dogs when he went home for dinner.
“Where are the dogs now?” the high priest asked.
“I ordered them locked in the stables until I discover whether they are the Lady Dacxuri’s dearest pets or merely beasts of burden.”
Zadok frowned. Dogs were unclean beasts, and—“Black dogs are unlucky.”
“Twice unlucky; they are sacred to the Dark Goddess.”
“Give them to the Dark Goddess, then.” That seemed an easy enough way to dispose of the creatures.
“An excellent idea, Zadok.” Solomon smiled again. “I am sure that will please everyone.”
“As the king says.” Zadok had never yet had reason to doubt any of Solomon’s statements; truly the king was both wise and just, a very restful combination. And now that he was old and full of years, Zadok valued peace and comfort. “My blessings upon you both.”
“Upon us all,” King Solomon said, and glanced up at the queens’ gallery. All the king’s richly clad and brightly jeweled women had vanished when the Colchian was led away, hastened off to the women’s palace to welcome the latest arrival.
“My blessings upon you all.” Zadok smiled and raised his hands in benediction. “Upon Solomon the Wise and upon all his household, peace.”
Of course there would be peace under the king’s roof. Solomon was wise and just, fair and fond equally. To Zadok’s uncritical eyes, this king’s household ran smoothly as rain down a wall.
Not as things went in King David’s day!
King Solomon’s reign might be duller than his father’s had been—but it was infinitely more comfortable.
I will not pretend I was better than any other woman in my father’s palace; I, too, stared wide-eyed at the Colchian’s outlandish attendants. Men garbed as women and women garbed as men—
“And dogs; huge black dogs!” That news had been carried to the queens’ gallery by at least a dozen maidservants before the Colchian princess set foot within the upper city. Queens without spies are queens without power. “They say she feeds them upon newborn babes!”
Nor will I claim I scoffed at this—although I can swear I wondered how enough babes could be born daily to make this possible. To my shame, I admit I suggested to Nimrah, who also doubted Colchis could supply enough newborn infants to sate the black dogs’ appetites, that perhaps the Colchian fed them upon other meats as well.
“And feeds them babies when they can get them.” I thought this a possibility. Nimrah looked doubtful and pointed out that the Lady Melasadne’s dogs ate nothing but minced quail and crumbled honey-cakes.
“The Lady Melasadne’s dogs are smaller than the Lady Nefret’s Egyptian cats! These Colchian dogs are the size of horses.”
“Then perhaps they eat grass and grain,” Nimrah said, and we both giggled and ran after the queens and concubines and maidservants, back to the women’s palace. Like all the others, we wished to see the Colchian bride—and her enormous dogs.
With a new royal wife to welcome, the queens’ palace had seemed to hum like a beehive; each queen, each concubine, labored over her appearance as if she were herself the bride. Now they gathered in the Court of Queens to greet the princess from Colchis. And for once, each woman there was glad of my presence.
For my father had no favorite among his women; not since my mother died had a woman owned his heart. Quarrels over precedence were common. The two most important among my father’s women were Naamah and Nefret. Queen Naamah was mother of the king’s eldest son—but Queen Nefret was Pharaoh’s Daughter.
So my status as my father’s only daughter smoothed sweet oil over wounded feelings and awkward protocol. And at last I was old enough to
act as chief lady of the palace, a position none of my father’s wives wished to question. Now I stood before all the rest to greet the Colchian bride and welcome her to her new home.
My stepmothers had labored mightily over my appearance for this ceremony, vying to adorn me in the hopes I would speak well of them to my father. Naamah garbed me in a gown soft and pale as sunlight; Nefret smoothed malachite over my lids and painted long lines about my eyes; Melasadne braided my hair, and Arinike adorned Melasadne’s work with golden pins shaped as butterflies. A dozen women had toiled half the morning that I might do honor to my father’s palace—and look kindly upon them.
Now I stood at the forefront of the assembled women, the work of their hands as much as if I were a veil they had woven to their own taste. And as I stood there, clad in gold and in scarlet, with a band of pearls set about my brow, I felt like a true princess. I will not lie; I took great pleasure in being the petted darling of the palace. Now I see how much of me was child still. The woman I thought myself that day had not yet been born.
My two handmaidens, who were also my chief playfellows, stood behind me, clad as moons to my sun. As the great cedar gate opened to admit the Colchian princess, I heard Nimrah whisper, “Have the black dogs eaten the prophet, do you think?” and Keshet’s soft giggle and, behind them, murmurs from the waiting women.
“Be silent,” I said, thinking myself very regal, and sensed rather than heard both girls’ muffled laughter. Then the Colchian walked through the Queens’ Gate and all laughter ceased.
No black dogs followed her, which was a disappointment to me. Only a dozen black-robed handmaidens attended her—or so I thought at first. When I looked closer, I saw that half her escort were men garbed and painted as women. Eunuchs; others of my father’s wives owned such half-men among their servants. But the eunuchs I knew did not pretend to be what they were not. It would shame them to dress as women.
Without a single glance about her, the princess walked forward until she stood just so far from me that if we both had stretched out our arms, our fingertips might have touched. Her eyes glinted, opaque as black glass. I summoned my royal manners and bowed, uttering the formal words of greeting I had learned.
“To the palace of King Solomon, be welcome. Enter and dwell among us
as a sister.” I smiled and held out my hands, but she did not move. I repeated my greeting in the Traders’ Tongue spoken along all the great trade roads, but she did not respond to that, either. Unsure, I sought aid. “Is there any here who speaks a tongue the Lady Dacxuri can understand?”
After a moment’s uneasy silence, there was a rustle as women moved aside, letting the Lady Helike come forward. “I, perhaps. I will try.”
I was surprised, for the Lady Helike spoke but seldom and rarely came among the other women, who liked her as little as she liked them. Overproud, and coldhearted; that was what was said of the princess from horse-proud Troy. Hastily, I thanked her and watched as Helike bowed before the Colchian and then spoke, slow careful words that the other listened to without a shadow of response.
When Helike fell silent, the Colchian regarded her with flat unyielding eyes; Helike flushed and lowered her gaze. I saw Helike’s fingers curl into the palms of her hands, hard, so that her knuckles stood out white as bone.
At last the Colchian slid her dark gaze to me; she nodded, once, and then held out her hand. Hiding my reluctance to touch her, I grasped her fingers only so long as custom demanded. Her skin was pale and cool as marble.
“She will go with you, Princess,” Helike said, and I smiled and thanked her. “We are fortunate that you know some of her own speech.”
“A little only,” Helike said. “I learned it—long ago, and have forgotten much.” Her hands still remained clenched, half-hidden in the folds of her heavy skirts.
I thanked her again and looked beseechingly at Naamah and Nefret. “We must have someone who can speak with her; send to my father for her interpreter.” I thought it strange that Lady Dacxuri knew not one word in our language; in her place, I would have studied the language of my new homeland swiftly, lest I be left at the mercy of strangers. Nor had she troubled herself to learn the Traders’ Tongue, as I had; double folly, for one who traveled far.
But at least Helike’s aid let me perform my duty to my father’s new wife. I guided Lady Dacxuri and her attendants through the labyrinth the women’s palace had become as it had grown to satisfy the demands of each new queen. I remained with her only long enough to ensure she had no immediate fault to find with her rooms before I hastened back to the queens’ garden courtyard. There I found my father’s women clustered like flowers, heads together as they tore at the newest wife with words keen as iron blades.
The chatter ceased a moment as I returned, then resumed when the women saw that it was only I.
“Night crows,” Adath said, “and she the queen of the crows. The king likes bright colors, bright words—she has no chance.”
From the group of the Hebrew wives came Yeshara’s voice, words sour as vinegar. “None of us has a chance, let alone an idolater from the world’s end.”
“At least our god isn’t ashamed to show his face,” Adath snapped back. Incited by the sharp voices, Melasadne’s little dogs began to bark, shrill, demanding sounds that cut through the next spiteful remarks and reminded the women of the true victim of their malice.
“I hope she has another gown; black is ill luck for a wedding.” “This bride is ill luck for anyone. Did you see how she looked upon our princess? I wouldn’t be surprised if she had cursed her with that look.” “I don’t envy her maidservants—or are they man-maids?” “Men in women’s clothes—even if they aren’t true men—only the priests of Dagon dress so, and we all know about
them.”
“I don’t envy our lord king when that new prophet hears about
this.
Black dogs and—”
“I don’t envy our lord king his wedding night,” Queen Naamah said, and those close enough to hear her laughed.
“But then,” Melasadne said softly, “you have never cared for dogs, Naamah.”
Silently, I summoned Nimrah and Keshet. My father’s wives and concubines had become so engrossed in their gossip that no one noticed when we left the queens’ garden court, walking calm and soft-footed until we were past the painted pillars. Safely beyond recall, the three of us looked at each other; we grasped each other’s hands and ran as fast as we could down the long corridor towards the kitchen wing. At the kitchen gate we stopped and laughed until we ran out of breath.
“Black dogs and black hearts,” Nimrah said, just as we had ceased, and set us off again. We were young enough still to find the small battles our elders waged no more than fuel for our laughter.
Later, after the wedding ceremony was long over, I sat quiet while my maidservant Rivkah carefully unpinned and unbraided all my stepmothers’
painstaking work—grumbling all the while that
she
could have dressed my hair better—“Am I, who was good enough for Queen Abishag, now not fit to tend Princess Baalit? Queens’ folly!” she added, and I tried not to laugh, for Rivkah had belonged to my mother long years before I had been born, and Rivkah had tended me since the day I came into the world and my mother left it. It was from Rivkah that I learned what I knew of my mother. So I soothed Rivkah’s hurt feelings, and let her ready me for bed. But that night, I could not sleep.
Although Nimrah and Keshet lay asleep in their bed and the night was quiet, my mind was not. I thought of all my father’s women had said in the sunlit garden—and when I tried to summon up my heedless laughter at their folly once more, I could not. Coiling my unbound hair about my fingers, I considered that day’s events, searching each for the shadow I sensed, the flaw that forbade laughter.
All I saw, when I told over what had happened, was my father’s women. Fair women and dark women; women from lands near world’s end and from villages in Judah’s golden hills. All of them beautiful, all of them polished as fine gems … .
Something flickered in my mind, but I could not yet seize upon the thought. Frowning, I began to tell over all my father’s women, wives and concubines, gifts and alliances. But I had only ten fingers and quickly lost count. So, by the light of the small oil lamp Rivkah kept burning against night’s darkness, I used my store of unset gemstones as counting markers.
Nefret, of course. And Naamah, mother to the next king and too proud of it. Gilade, and Helike; Melasadne and Makeda. Women from faraway lands; women whose ways were foreign to our people. I laid six gems upon the shining cloth that covered my bed. Against the brilliant crimson, jewels seemed almost dull; an odd trick of color upon color, light upon light. Too splendid a background, and even gold shone less bright.
I continued to count my father’s wives, setting the gems in straight rows across my bed. Arishat, the Sidonian princess who had brought King Solomon two port cities as dowry. Aiysha, whose dowry had been truce with the Bedouin who harried our kingdom’s eastern borders. Nilufer, the Persian girl, with eyes cool and aloof as those of the long-haired cats she cherished … .
I paused, then swept my hand across the shimmering cloth, gathering up
the diverse stones. For a moment I stared at the gems; I let them drop through my fingers and poured the rest from the ivory casket. I divided the jewels, placing all of a kind together in smaller heaps. When I had finished, I saw that I had more turquoise and pearls than I did any other stones; those would serve as my new markers. I began again—and this time I used turquoise for those women who belonged by blood to Israel and Judah. Pearls tokened foreign queens.
When I had done, I stared at the design formed by numbering King Solomon’s wives in turquoises and in pearls. So few turquoise markers; so many pearls. Against the crimson cloth, the pearls glowed like scattered moons. The turquoise stones lay dull beside the pearls, sky-blue beauty obscured by the rich silk beneath.
So many pearls.
I studied the pattern I had unwittingly laid out. Now, in the neat rows of turquoise and of pearl, I gazed clear-eyed on what my father’s marriages had created: a court of strangers. Behind the gateway to the queens’ palace dwelt, not daughters of Israel and Judah, but foreign women who had carried as their dowries not only gold and cities and peace, but strange gods and distant customs.
No wonder Ahijah rages like a madman against the king’s court.
The prophet was new-come to Jerusalem, seeking to fill a place long vacant. Not since Nathan died had a prophet held the king’s favor—and Nathan had died before I was born. Ahijah loathed my father’s court and all foreigners dwelling in it. He ranted in the marketplace against the temples to strange gods that had sprung up as more and more merchants came to Jerusalem from other lands. No one in the city seemed to pay much heed to him, which did not stop Ahijah’s furious diatribes.
I looked at my turquoise markers, and at my pearls. And then I took another pearl and set it within the circle of its sisters. Another foreign wife; another alien pearl, this one from a land beyond the north wind. The Lady Dacxuri, Princess of Colchis.