to my chamber. Waving an exhausted Shara to bed, I sat down on my sofa with my new scroll, noting the Phoenician lettering, the finely penned Aramaic.
I read past dawn, long into morning.
SEVEN
“T ell me,” I said, from the seat in my private chamber. “What conceit is this?” Here, I had begged my father not to give me to Sadiq. And here, I had asked him to send me away. How much had changed.
Tamrin rose from his bow, clearly surprised. “My queen?” Once again he was plainly adorned, the cuff on his wrist and neatly trimmed beard his only ornaments, his hair held back in a simple leather thong. Across the room, Yafush stood near the door, gold gleaming from nose and neck, imposing and still and beautiful as an obsidian statue. How different two men could be!
Shara poured wine and I sat back in the carved chair as he took the customary sip, clearly perplexed over the rim of the cup.
“Have you read the scroll you gave me?” I said.
Tamrin’s brows lifted. “I—have not. Well, only a portion. The king’s writings are sometimes cited in the Israelite court.”
“I see.”
I had wanted to burn the scroll last night, this collection of sayings so clearly influenced by other, mostly Egyptian, proverbs. That was how it was done with wisdom writings such as these and I grudgingly admitted it was a clever compendium, if not especially revelatory. But his proverbs were not what had offended me.
“How long has this king been on his throne?”
“Ten years, my queen, if not eleven. But I beg you, what has offended you so?”
“There are two songs included here by this king.”
I reached for the scroll on the ivory table beside me, lifted it, and read: “ ‘In his days may the righteous flourish, and peace abound, till the moon be no more.’ ” I glanced up at him.
“Ah, my queen,” he said with what seemed like relief. “I assure you he means no slight against your god. Many gods are worshipped on the fringe of his city by his wives and their households.”
“Are you certain?” I continued before he could answer: “ ‘May he have dominion from sea to sea and from the river to the ends of the earth! May desert tribes bow down before him and his enemies lick the dust! May the kings of Tarshish and of the coastlands render him tribute . . .’ ” I lifted my gaze from the scroll, fastened it on him. “‘May the kings of Sheba and Seba bring gifts.’”
Did he pale where he stood?
“I’m well aware that my kingdom is called ‘Sheba’ by unschooled tongues. Is this not so?”
“It is as you say.”
“And where is ‘Seba’?”
He hesitated. “Punt, my queen.”
My stare turned stony. He immediately fell into a deep bow as I skipped ahead once more.
“ ‘For he delivers the needy . . . pity on the weak . . . Long may he live . . . May gold of Sheba be given to him!’ ”
I threw the scroll at his feet.
“My queen, I profusely apologize. I was not aware—”
“This is recorded as the prayer of David son of Jesse,” I said flatly. “Who is that?”
“That is the king father of Solomon.”
“That is what they call him? ‘Son of Jesse’?”
He straightened. “Yes. The king’s father was not born to a royal family.”
“How then,” I said, droll, “does one become king?”
He pursed his lips for a moment. “He was chosen by one of their prophets from the sons of Jesse. He was a shepherd . . . and the youngest son.”
My laughter rang out through the chamber.
“And now the shepherd’s son is this great and wealthy king.” I glanced at Shara, who covered what I imagined to be a rare smile as though she were not veiled.
“Yes.” The trader spread his hands. “His father was an unlikely king. But this is the lore: that he was a war champion. A bandit many of his days, and a killer of men. It was he who united these tribes of Israel.”
Our own rulers were unifiers of tribes. Even today, my people called me mukarrib —“unifier”—after
I read past dawn, long into morning.
SEVEN
“T ell me,” I said, from the seat in my private chamber. “What conceit is this?” Here, I had begged my father not to give me to Sadiq. And here, I had asked him to send me away. How much had changed.
Tamrin rose from his bow, clearly surprised. “My queen?” Once again he was plainly adorned, the cuff on his wrist and neatly trimmed beard his only ornaments, his hair held back in a simple leather thong. Across the room, Yafush stood near the door, gold gleaming from nose and neck, imposing and still and beautiful as an obsidian statue. How different two men could be!
Shara poured wine and I sat back in the carved chair as he took the customary sip, clearly perplexed over the rim of the cup.
“Have you read the scroll you gave me?” I said.
Tamrin’s brows lifted. “I—have not. Well, only a portion. The king’s writings are sometimes cited in the Israelite court.”
“I see.”
I had wanted to burn the scroll last night, this collection of sayings so clearly influenced by other, mostly Egyptian, proverbs. That was how it was done with wisdom writings such as these and I grudgingly admitted it was a clever compendium, if not especially revelatory. But his proverbs were not what had offended me.
“How long has this king been on his throne?”
“Ten years, my queen, if not eleven. But I beg you, what has offended you so?”
“There are two songs included here by this king.”
I reached for the scroll on the ivory table beside me, lifted it, and read: “ ‘In his days may the righteous flourish, and peace abound, till the moon be no more.’ ” I glanced up at him.
“Ah, my queen,” he said with what seemed like relief. “I assure you he means no slight against your god. Many gods are worshipped on the fringe of his city by his wives and their households.”
“Are you certain?” I continued before he could answer: “ ‘May he have dominion from sea to sea and from the river to the ends of the earth! May desert tribes bow down before him and his enemies lick the dust! May the kings of Tarshish and of the coastlands render him tribute . . .’ ” I lifted my gaze from the scroll, fastened it on him. “‘May the kings of Sheba and Seba bring gifts.’”
Did he pale where he stood?
“I’m well aware that my kingdom is called ‘Sheba’ by unschooled tongues. Is this not so?”
“It is as you say.”
“And where is ‘Seba’?”
He hesitated. “Punt, my queen.”
My stare turned stony. He immediately fell into a deep bow as I skipped ahead once more.
“ ‘For he delivers the needy . . . pity on the weak . . . Long may he live . . . May gold of Sheba be given to him!’ ”
I threw the scroll at his feet.
“My queen, I profusely apologize. I was not aware—”
“This is recorded as the prayer of David son of Jesse,” I said flatly. “Who is that?”
“That is the king father of Solomon.”
“That is what they call him? ‘Son of Jesse’?”
He straightened. “Yes. The king’s father was not born to a royal family.”
“How then,” I said, droll, “does one become king?”
He pursed his lips for a moment. “He was chosen by one of their prophets from the sons of Jesse. He was a shepherd . . . and the youngest son.”
My laughter rang out through the chamber.
“And now the shepherd’s son is this great and wealthy king.” I glanced at Shara, who covered what I imagined to be a rare smile as though she were not veiled.
“Yes.” The trader spread his hands. “His father was an unlikely king. But this is the lore: that he was a war champion. A bandit many of his days, and a killer of men. It was he who united these tribes of Israel.”
Our own rulers were unifiers of tribes. Even today, my people called me mukarrib —“unifier”—after
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