The Legend of Sheba: Rise of a Queen (18 page)

THIRTEEN

I
read and reread his letter, starting again before even finishing, near the window and then by light of the bronze ibex lamp.

By Almaqah, he was bold. Haughty. Brazen. And he called me reckless?

He was conceited. A self-proclaimed dangerous man—pah! But then, by the same token, a man who called himself a boy and wrote as though lost.

A man who considered himself a knower of women—I supposed he was that—even as he presumed to know me.

And why did that warm me? How could it—here was a king who presumed to wrest Saba’s monopoly away from her . . . and then audaciously begged for response!

I did not understand this king!

Twice on my first reading I had nearly torn the scroll to pieces. He told
me
not to be arrogant? He presumed to dictate to
me
? This king of a tribal state no more than a generation old, already festering with tension?

I reread it again, and then twice more. I leaned against the edge of the table, trying to imagine his voice, what his words might sound like delivered from his lips.

Which way does your gaze go when you are alone, I wonder?

What hold have you taken over me?

My council was gathering. What a stir they would be in! And yet I could not face them in private turmoil myself. I had given Yafush instruction to have them question the musician, Mazor, as I was delayed for an hour. And then again, for two more.

The Israelite king was right; he was forcing my hand indeed.

But there was more between the brash lines of his script. Some longing, some emptiness that I knew all too well.

And here I am, holding a conversation with myself, only imagining that it is with you.

Was it all fabrication intended to seduce? He would play on my sympathy if he could not command me. Or my need for—what? A teacher? A peer?

No, a treaty husband. And so he would tempt my own hand to move if he could not force it.

Yes, he was dangerous, if only for his manipulation.

I nearly sent for Tamrin but stayed myself. He did not know I had found this scroll. Or had the king given some instruction about it in case I never discovered the idol’s secret?

What if he had, saying to Tamrin as before that if I reacted in such-and-such a way it meant one thing, and if another, it meant something else? He had nullified my trader as a source of information then, or at least rendered him suspect so that I would not—dare not—make myself vulnerable with my questions.

How well he had done to wrap his scroll in layers! Layer upon layer, like an Egyptian onion. And what lay at the core?

I could refuse to acknowledge it. I could force his hand in this way, too, waiting to see if he sent word, more blatantly this time. But then how would he judge me if I was not as dangerous or cunning as he might think—even hope—that I was? And
how would he approach me then—with more confidence, or with more caution?

I paced to the window and back twenty times. I forgot my hunger. In all this time, I had not eaten. How could I, who stood to lose everything?

And yet I had not felt so alive in years.

At last I poured some wine and sat down to read the scroll again—had he read mine as many times?—the question of my response looming before me.

“T
his will end in war,” Khalkharib said, pushing to his feet upon my entry.

I had steeled myself, knowing they would have stirred themselves into a frenzy in my absence. Even before I entered, I heard their raised voices through my private door as I hesitated, palm upon the carved wood, unsure how to navigate the conversation of this chamber in conjunction with the unseen one of the scroll tucked within my sleeve.

“You will speak no word of the scroll,” I said to Yafush when I had emerged from my chamber at last. His gaze had been placid—nothing at all like the alarm in Shara’s face.

“My queen, what has happened? And why have you shut yourself away?” she said, clasping my hands.

“The upstart king likes to make noise,” I had said, kissing her cheek. “All is well. But Almaqah will not have a bride this night.”

Now, as my council bowed before me, maps strewn across the table between them, I felt an inexplicable calm.

Will you be fearless or reckless in return?

“We will start at the beginning,” I said. “If this will end in war, it certainly does not begin with it.”

“My queen,” Wahabil said the moment I took my seat, “we
believe these are the routes the king means to take.” He pointed to the largest map and I could see now that two crimson strings had been laid out upon it, both originating at the port of Ezion-geber at the gulf, both running south the length of the narrow sea before parting ways: one to the east along the southern coast of Saba . . . and one to the west around the southern coast of Ophir. “On this route,” he said, pointing to the western line, “we assume they will make port in Egypt on the return if not the departure.”

“And the other route?”

“We assume they must provision somewhere along our southern coast before sailing for Hidush. But these are Phoenician navigators. Who knows how far or wide they may sail without sight of land?”

“They cannot circumnavigate us altogether,” I said, folding my hands, remarking to myself again how strange it was that I felt as composed as a statue after the wild pendulum of my emotions the last several hours.

Or perhaps it was the wine I had drunk on an empty stomach.

“The eastern-bound ships will need to take on a cargo of incense at some point in their journey,” I mused. “The world will not go without our frankincense. And neither will he.”

“But what is to keep Hadramawt from trading with him directly?” Councilor Abyada said.

“If the ships come to Hadramawt directly, Saba loses tithes and tariffs at every temple and oasis along the land route north,” Khalkharib said. “All of Saba will suffer for it.”

“But that is exactly what he means to do,” Niman said. “Without the overland expense, he stands to profit even more.”

“Saba will also lose the monopoly on the spice and textile market of Hidush and fall into competition with her own kingdoms,” Khalkharib said. “The very existence of these ships threatens Saba’s unified existence!”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I am aware.”

I leaned my chin onto my hand, staring at the map as the conversation continued across the table.

“There is Punt—”

“You are assuming his ships are willing to stop in Punt.”

“Forget the ships. We will ferry goods to Punt and carry them north by caravan to Egypt.”

Save your kingdom.

“Egypt will not deal with us, but only directly with Solomon,” I said, looking up to see who had voiced this last. Khalkharib.

“Who is to say he will cooperate with us at all? He has begun this venture without word or emissary or treaty with us!”

One way or another, we will have words. Not because I command it, but because we must.

Niman shook his head. “Khalkharib is right. It will come to war.”

“He will deal with us,” I said.

“That is easy enough to say!” Khalkharib shook his head as though I were out of my mind. For the first time since entering the room I wanted to slap him.

“And what if he doesn’t agree?” Niman said.

“We will make him agree.”

“With what leverage?” Khalkharib pressed. “He has everything to gain and nothing to lose. And what should we do—ply him with pretty words or whine like children? No. We respond with force.”

You may, as you say, need nothing of the outside world. But it will leave you behind in innovation, if not in your lifetime then in the generation to come.

“We must call for the priest and draw the lots,” Niman said.

“The lots!” Khalkharib agreed.

I shook my head. I myself had never seen the three arrows marked “Do,” “Do Not,” and “Wait.” Nor did I ever want to.

I got to my feet.

“Councilors! You are swift to war. Saba has not seen war—true war—since the days of my grandfather. Our rashness will only appear as desperation, and not gain us time in the end. You are talking about years spent rallying the enemies of a king from the corners of the continent. Of plying them with costly gifts while our caravans go without distribution. Such a war will bring no ruin to Solomon, who has the armies of Egypt and Phoenicia at his side, but only to us. The Pharaoh may be weak, but Egypt is filled with Libyan mercenaries. Phoenicia’s king is old. But they eat because of Solomon. They have iron and copper because of him. We are speaking out of pride, but there are other ways to conquer than to war with three nations. When the rains come down the wadi ravine, do we stand against them or harness their waters for our use?”

“Yes, but those are our waters. These are not our ships.”

I moved toward the middle of the table.

“He has the skill of the Phoenicians at his fingertips. He wants to cut out Saba and deal directly with her subkingdoms. In his position, I would do the same.”

Silence.

“I see for us opportunity. Far markets, and exotic imports—brought not only by camels, those ships of the desert—but by sea.”

Khalkharib gave a caustic laugh. “That is all very well! Except we do not have a fleet of Phoenician ships.”

“No. We don’t. But he does.”

Wahabil shook his head. “Even if he was amiable—which he obviously is not—we do not possess ports large enough to accommodate such ships.”

“Then we need to build them.”

“That could take years.”

“Fewer years than a war, with enough labor. And our caravans
will continue in peace in the meantime, undisrupted. Perhaps even more profitably than ever.”

“How would we amass such labor? Our tribesmen are working the fields and incense harvest, shoring up canals and tending flocks and city works . . .”

“Then we will have to make treaty for it. The Israelite king did the same with Hiram of Phoenicia. Why can we not as well? You say yourself that ships—ships capable of carrying what, hundreds of men?—are being built in the gulf even now. Men capable of helping us expand our ports. Ports by which we could trade in quantities much greater than by land caravan alone.”

“What makes you think the Israelite king will even consider treating with us?” Khalkharib said.

I laughed and folded my hands. “Gentlemen. We are the most persuasive of nations. I could say that we are backed by the most powerful of gods. I could tell you that our councilors are the most astute statesmen. This is true. But our argument is far more fundamental than that. The Israelite king seeks luxury. He is jealous for the best of the world. And he has a fleet to pay for. So we will persuade him with the very thing he is eager to get out from under us: our riches. He will agree because he cannot afford
not
to gain Hadramawt’s incense or to lose Punt’s gold. As long as temples offer prayer to gods, as long as the dead must be prepared for burial, and as long as gold is precious, there will be markets for the wealth of Saba. And we will provide it—as a nation—far better than piecemeal as individual kingdoms, and with far better terms, from Hadramawt to Punt.”

Wahabil sat down hard. “My queen, from all I hear, he is as proud as he is cunning. This is the king to whom you have refused to send emissaries, snubbing since you came to the crown.”

“And so how intrigued he will be to receive them at last.”

“Even so, every account of this king is of a sovereign able to impress his own will upon others until they see no other way but his. They say he is imbued with the magic of his god.”

I laughed again. “Truly, do you believe this, Wahabil?”

He shook his head. “I have spoken at length with Tamrin, whom I have known for many years as stalwart. Even he anguishes when the king denies him and flourishes when he showers him with the smallest attention as though this king were the very sun. What emissary will you send to match wits with him, if he is all that they say?”

“One he dare not turn away,” I said. “Me.”

Would I be fearless or reckless?

I would be both.