Wisdom's Daughter: A Novel of Solomon and Sheba Read online

  The goddess’s gift had been wealth and peace; Sheba’s queens had guarded both, loving mothers to Ilat’s land and people.

  From sister to sister, from aunt to niece, from mother to daughter. Bilqis lifted the crown from the casket; a circle of flames burned in hammered gold. From queen to queen.

  Until now.

  Now she was the only woman living who could claim pure descent from Sheba’s royal lineage. I am the last queen. She stared at the crown weighing down her reverent hands. Why? I have been dutiful, devout, dedicated. Sheba’s good has been dearer to me than my own life. Always, always, she had cherished her kingdom like a child. She had given it her life. She had given it a daughter, only to see her child die before her.

  Now she alone remained. And Sheba’s crown waited … .

  Sighing, Bilqis gently set the crown back within its ancient casket, smoothing her fingers over the cool metal flames. I will not betray you, she vowed. The line of Sheban queens would not end with her; it could not.

  She closed the crown’s casket and lifted the silver mirror from her dressing table. Without vanity or illusion, she studied her face in the creamy light that streamed through the tall windows.

  Sunlight through alabaster; softly flattering.

  Gently lying. Just as her mirror lied, its burnished silver surface reflecting only her kohl-darkened eyes, her carmined lips. In mirrors, her painted face still claimed youth and beauty.

  But someday, someday soon, alabaster windows would no longer soften light enough to deceive, nor would silver lie. She set down the mirror, gently, and turned away.

  I must face this truth; I begin to grow old.

  That in itself was no tragedy; all that lived aged. But for this Queen of Sheba, it signaled disaster.

  If Allit had only lived—! But her only daughter, raised and trained to rule Sheba, to step easily into her mother’s place as queen in her turn, now lay entombed with the infant girl Allit had died bringing into the world. Daughter and granddaughter both gone between moonset and sunrise, taking with them to the grave the last precious blood of Sheba’s rulers … .

  And I too old to bear another daughter. Though her smooth face and shapely body still denied her true age, she was too old to conceive another child. She had tried, dutifully, after her daughter died, spending many nights in temple pleasure-gardens—all save those of Ilat’s Temple—lying with men who never saw her face, seeking a hero strong enough to father another heir so the royal line might continue.

  But her efforts failed; her reluctant body bore no new fruit. Now each moon-circle of days made her more certain in her bones that she could no longer create new life.

  Yet an heir she must have. An heir Sheba must have. Somehow she must provide Sheba’s new queen, the queen who would lift the heavy crown from her own proud head, the queen who would rule after her, caring for Ilat’s land and people. And how am I to give them this blessing?The problem could no longer be ignored; it haunted her like a questioning ghost. For I am too old, and there is no other woman of my blood to share this burden. How?

  That fatal question haunted her constantly, allowed her no true rest. To what good would all her years of queenship lead if she could not provide a ruler to follow after her?

  Even her nights were unquiet now. Sleeping, she wandered through a land barren of hope, of dreams, of life. She woke each dawn drained and weary, unready for her days. By day, she concealed her constant worry as she would any weakness. It was her trouble, and she must not spread her own unrest to others.

  But she knew she must provide for Sheba’s tomorrows, and soon. Life, even a queen’s, was uncertain; the future could not wait.

  And after a long night in which she lay and watched the stars rise and set again, she knew she, too, could wait no longer. Rising with the sun, she climbed the stairs to the palace rooftop. There she gazed across the still-drowsing city. Ma’rib, Jewel of the Desert; Ma’rib, Queen of Spices; Ma’rib, beloved of Ilat, Sun of their Days.

  The burning sun climbed the arc of heaven; she stared into the brightening day and prayed, dutifully. Grant me an answer, Sun of our Days. Grant me an answer, and I will pay whatsoever price You ask of me. She waited, her arms outstretched to the fiery goddess soaring into the clear sky. But there was no answer, only a land stretching golden and quiet beneath the rising sun. At last she lowered her arms, and sighed, and already weary, turned away to face the day’s duties.

  I am so weary I shall die of it. Ah, well, perhaps tonight I shall sleep after all. She had walked through the day’s hours like a jeweled doll, long habit bringing the proper words to her lips. Now, although she wished only to fling herself down upon her bed, she stood patiently as her maidservants stripped her gown from her body, washed the day’s heat and sweat from her skin, spread a cloth over a stool for her to sit upon. And when she sat, Khurrami moved behind her to take down her tight-braided hair, while Irsiya gathered up her discarded finery and began to place the rings and bracelets, the necklaces and earrings and anklets, the gem-studded pins that had fastened her gown, within the sectioned silver box that awaited them.

  Ritual, each night the same. Irsiya and Khurrami had tended her since they were maidens new-initiated into womanhood; had been raised to serve her as she had been raised to serve Sheba. And however much she might wish to be alone, it was their duty and their right to tend her. Dismissing them would only hurt their feelings—And not ease mine. If only—

  “My queen is troubled?” Khurrami began unpinning the elaborate braids coiled about her mistress’s head.

  About to deny it, Bilqis suddenly changed her mind. “Why do you say that to me?”

  “You seem—changed” was all Khurrami said, her fingers moving deftly over the queen’s hair.

  “How changed?”

  Khurrami set aside the twelve crystal-headed pins that had confined the queen’s braided hair. “My queen, I have tended you for many years; your secrets are mine. How should I not know when you dream unquiet dreams?” Khurrami began unweaving the close-woven plaits, shaking the queen’s hair to lie heavy over her shoulders. “Your mind seeks ease it does not find.”

  I should not be surprised; no woman holds secrets from her maidservants.

  “And those who love you grow troubled,” Irsiya added. “We would see you happy.”

  “That is kind.” She weighed the virtues of silence against those of confession, and compromised. “You are right, Khurrami; I am troubled. And, Irsiya, I, too, would rather see me happy!”

  Irsiya smiled obediently at the queen’s small jest and continued to lay the day’s jewelry into its resting place within the silver casket.

  Khurrami took up a carved ivory comb and began the long task of grooming the queen’s heavy hair. “What would make you happy, my queen?” she asked quietly.

  A daughter, Bilqis thought. But that she could not say. Need not say, for Khurrami was no fool. Nor is Irsiya, nor all the rest of my women. Nor are my nobles and my merchants. The succession concerned her people deeply; her spies reported that the question of who would follow Queen Bilqis upon Sheba’s throne was growing more common among her subjects. What would make me happy? A queen for Sheba.

  Behind her Khurrami stood calm, coaxing the queen’s unbound hair to sleekness; the ivory comb swept through the night-dark waves in steady strokes. Bilqis sighed. “It is good of you to ask, my dear, but what I need cannot be granted by any woman.”

  “By a man, then? Someone who spurns the most beautiful queen in all the world? Shall I chastise him for you, Lady?” Laughter rippled through Khurrami’s voice. “Shall I have him dragged before you in golden chains?”

  The queen laughed, as she knew Khurrami had intended she should; Khurrami saw life through laughter. “How kind—but no, no man either. Only the gods can bring me peace.”

  A pause, then Khurrami asked, “And they will not?”

  “They have not yet.” Although she had prayed and offered at the temples endlessly over the past year—The mem
ories kindled a thought, but it flared too briefly; she could not form its image as it died, emberlike … .

  “God-time is not man-time.” A sober, steady girl, Irsiya repeated the platitude with appropriate gravity; the queen knew that, behind her, Khurrami smiled at Irsiya’s solemn piety.

  “Gods have endless years; queens have not.” Queens grew old, and died, eternal only in their daughters’ memories.

  “Then perhaps,” Khurrami said, drawing the comb hard through a tangle of hair, “the queen should remind the gods of that fact.”

  “Perhaps I should—” Suddenly the smoldering ember burst into flame. She sat silent, barely noticing the comb’s pull through her knotted hair, fearing to quench the brilliance flooding her.

  Ask the gods—yes, I shall ask again. For a heartbeat her blood slowed, chilled. They have never answered you before; why should they now? This was the great secret she held, the shame that poisoned her blood. She had done all a queen must to please the gods; bowed, devout, before Ilat’s image. But never had she received the signs by which the gods made themselves manifest in the hearts of those who served them. Sometimes, when she stood in empty silence before Sheba’s great goddess, she wondered if the gods even existed.

  No. This is no time for doubt. I shall go to the great Temple, I shall seek Ilat’s guidance. And She shall tell me where I shall find the next Queen of Sheba. And if She remains silent—

  Sudden confidence flowed warm beneath her skin, burned like hot wine. If Ilat remained silent, Bilqis would know that the gods trusted her to act as she must. Yes. A sense of rightness, of affirmation, warmed her.

  “Yes, perhaps I should.” She smiled, and patted Khurrami’s slim hand. “That is excellent advice, my dear. And this time when I ask, I know that my prayer will be answered.”

  And I must give thanks for what I have already been granted, Perhaps there were gods after all. For who but Ilat Herself could have put this audacious plan into her head?

  Ma’rib was a city of temples; the Shebans were a godly people, their temples jewels in their crown of good fortune. Ilat’s Temple was chief among those gems. A precious setting for a most precious goddess, the house of the Queen of Heaven lay at the city’s heart.

  All were welcome into the Temple’s outer courts, whose doors stood open both by day and by night. Anyone might enter the outer courts—woman or man, Sheban or outlander, crone or child. All were welcome there to worship, or to offer gifts, or to bask for a time in Ilat’s peace. The outer courts offered the goddess’s gifts freely.

  But beyond the welcoming outer courts with their smiling priestesses, their cool fountains, their bounty of food and drink and rest, lay another realm. Past the rose trees and the gentle fountains, past the walls painted bright with leopards and lilies, past the shrines and statues given by grateful petitioners, past the glitter and laughter—past all the sweet soft joys bestowed by a loving goddess—lay the Temple’s Inner Court.

  No one entered the Inner Court lightly. Most never entered that court at all, content all their lives to go no farther than the clear, simple pleasures the goddess offered to all. The Inner Court demanded more than innocent devotion, more than unquestioning worship. It demanded wisdom and courage, and an iron refusal to surrender to illusion.

  But for those who were dedicated, or desperate, the Temple’s secret heart offered a path to their true desire.

  Bilqis had walked that hard true path only twice in her life. The first time had been the day the Morning Crown had been placed upon her head and the clawed scepter in her hand, the day the girl Bilqis became the Queen of the South. That day she had feared her own weakness, and dared the Inner Court to learn her own strength.

  The second had been the day her daughter died. That day she had sought peace, and submission to fate’s knotted thread. That day she had failed, her own grief and fear overwhelming her until she fell into darkness. She had lain weak in bed for seven days after, slowly mending her shattered self She had not dared return even to the Temple’s outer courts since that disastrous day.

  But now I must. She held out her hands before her. They were steady. See, I am calm. She rose from her dressing table and turned slowly before Khurrami and Irsiya. “Is it well?” she asked. No idle question, today; her gems and garb must be faultless.

  “You are the goddess Herself,” Irsiya said.

  “Not yet,” Bilqis said, and looked to Khurrami, who studied her carefully.

  “Yes.” Khurrami knelt and brushed her hand over the gown’s skirt. “Yes, it is well, my queen.”

  “Good. Now the veil.”

  Khurrami and Irsiya lifted the shimmering mass of cloth from its gilded basket and shook it out before tossing the sacred veil over her head. The world turned to golden shadow; the goddess’s veil was woven of silk as sheer and pale as sunlight. Threads of gold glinted as the veil rippled into place, flowing over her from the crown of her head to her ankles.

  Her handmaidens settled the veil with delicate touches of their hands. When they were satisfied, Khurrami nodded. “You are ready, my queen.” Khurrami hesitated, then added softly, “Good fortune, Bilqis.”

  Having overruled the wishes of her chamberlain, her honor-maids, and her guards, Bilqis walked alone through Ma’rib’s streets. The occasion was too important to turn into a queen’s processional. “In this I am suppliant, not queen. I will not succumb to false pride and vain show.”

  And she was wise enough to know that the sight of the queen herself walking veiled and alone to the great Temple to plead for Ilat’s favor would be remembered longer than any procession, however rich or royal.

  There were other reasons for such blatant piety, such humble pride. It was expected, although not demanded, that a petitioner seeking the Inner Court walk, meek and submissive, to the Temple gate. Today such humility was not only pious, but politic as well. All Ma’rib would see the queen sought truth from Ilat Herself, and since none sought such truth lightly or wantonly—

  —whatsoever I say our goddess revealed to me, I shall be believed. The thought of such deceit turned her mouth sour. But she must have an answer; she must. And if the Sun of their Days would not unveil Sheba’s future—once again Bilqis silently repeated the words she clung to in hope, intangible talismans against a cold future.

  If Ilat will not reveal what is to come, then I will know She trusts me to summon what future I will.

  The thought was reasoned, logical. It might even be true. If only it were consoling as well … .

  She tried to set all thought aside; it would not do to approach the Queen of Heaven uneasy in her mind. Once past the palace gate, she found it less difficult to control her willful thoughts; long practice granted her forgetfulness as she concentrated on walking smoothly and with grace.

  The journey from palace to Temple seemed timeless, endless. But at last she walked across the wide hot square to the outer doors of the great Temple. A priestess greeted her there, as all who came to the goddess’s Temple were greeted.

  “Welcome to our Mother’s House, child. What do you come for?”

  This was her last chance to change her mind, to refuse to walk the path she had chosen for herself But already she was speaking the words that would begin the ritual.

  “I come for wisdom.”

  “Many come for wisdom,” the priestess said. “Nothing more?”

  “I come for the future.”

  “The future will come for you. Nothing more?”

  “I come for myself,” she said, and the priestess bowed and backed away. Bilqis walked forward, stepping over the doorsill into the Temple’s first lure.

  Ilat’s great Temple was formed in seven rings circling about its heart. The outer ring housed the courts of love and comfort. Roses scented the air; fruit trees lined paths which wound in aimless coils through the pleasure garden. Those who followed those pretty paths would, in time, return to their beginning, never having ventured farther into the Temple mysteries than that soft, sheltered garden.
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  For many, that was enough.

  I wish it were enough for me. But she had set her feet upon a different path, and she would follow where it led her.

  She walked smoothly through the garden, into the second outer court; passed its comforts, too, without a pause. Then the third, and then she was past all comfort, all common human joys. Praying her spirit would not fail her, she looked upon the first of the barriers between the outer Temple and the mystery that lay at the Temple’s heart.

  All are equal before Her. She looked through the golden shadow of her veil at the gatekeeper, and the gate behind him—the first of seven she must pass through to reach the goddess. The gate was gilded and jeweled, the bar that held it closed carved from a single elephant tusk.

  “What do you seek?” the priest guarding the gate asked.

  “To go within.” She knew all the responses by heart, had learned them long ago. She had never thought to speak them more than once, upon the day she had set the crown of Sheba upon her head.

  “Those who go within must walk meek and humble. Will you leave pride and folly at this gate?”

  “I will,” she said.

  “Then leave them here, and enter.”

  She bent and untied her gilded sandals, slipped them from her feet. Rising, she offered them to the priest, who accepted them with a slight bow before he lifted the ivory bar and swung the gate open. “Enter meekly and humbly, then, and may you find what you seek within.”

  Heart pounding, she walked through the gate. This marked the true beginning of her journey; from this gate, there was no turning back. The jeweled gate swung closed behind her, leaving her alone to face what lay within.

  I have passed the first gate. Surely that is the hardest. The first gate, the first of the seven through which she must pass. Each gate led deeper into the goddess’s heart; each stripped one layer of the mortal world away.