Chapter Text
The journey out of the palace was spent mostly in silence.
Solomon and Bathsheba rode on horseback, and it didn’t take long for him to realise that they were heading out of town; his mother was quiet, and there was something in the air that made him think it would be better not to talk, so they said nothing.
Close to an hour later – it could have been shorter, but he wasn’t keeping track – they came to a stop, and Solomon stared at the vast array of tombstones rising from the hallowed ground beyond, a solemn reminder of how fragile mortality could be.
The cemetery. He hadn’t come here since King David’s death. Once the funeral rites were over, he threw himself into his work and more or less forgot about his father’s final resting place. Should he feel guilty about the neglect? Tradition dictated that he should, but as he continued gazing upon the cemetery, he felt nothing.
“Are we here to visit aba?” he asked, dismounting his horse. It was rather sudden, but not too surprising – his mother must still be grieving, after all.
“We could, but that’s not the main reason we’re here.” Bathsheba clutched her shawl, her fingers twisting the embroidered linen. “Come with me.”
Solomon followed her into the cemetery, treading cautiously – the place had a solemn, almost otherworldly air to it, and while it wasn’t uncomfortable, he would prefer not to linger for too long. Bathsheba walked swiftly, and that made him wonder how many times she had come here before, to be so familiar with this place.
Bathsheba paid little attention to the tombstones around them, but Solomon couldn’t help studying these unmoving markers of death, reading the names that went past him. One day he would be buried here too. He glanced at his mother’s back and hesitated – King David hadn’t been much older than Bathsheba when he passed on.
“Here,” she suddenly called, and Solomon hurried towards her, eyeing the tombstone before them. There was no name, only a date and a short inscription calling for peace and God’s blessing. He counted and realised this person had died five years before he was born. Bathsheba looked at the grave, something like sorrow in her dark eyes.
He frowned. “Your first-born?” That seemed to be the most likely possibility, though Solomon had been brought up all this while to believe he was Bathsheba’s first child.
“You’ve always been too clever for your own good.” She exhaled, slowly shaking her head. “Yes. My son. Born without a chance to draw his first breath.” Her voice wavered. “You wouldn’t know, but I was married before your father and I met.”
Solomon blinked. “You were married?” She nodded, and a sudden shiver ran down his spine – he didn’t want her to continue, yet he found himself unable to interrupt.
“My husband was a soldier in your father’s army. He was stationed abroad.” She tilted her head back, looking at the sky. The sun was partially hidden by clouds today, and soft light touched his mother’s face – for a moment, he could understand why David had been so enamoured with her. Despite her age, she was still stately, still beautiful.
“Did you not love him?” he asked. It was disconcerting to listen to his mother’s sordid past; he would prefer not to, but this seemed important to know.
“It doesn’t matter how I felt. What matters is that your father and I sinned.” She stated this so simply, so straightforwardly – they could have been discussing the weather. “No sin goes unpunished. And so I lost my first child.”
He didn’t know what to say, and for a while, they stood side-by-side, quiet. The wind whistled through the cemetery, ruffling his hair – he eyed the tombstone, wondering how to respond. If he should respond. His mother bowed her head, closing her eyes, and he felt almost like he was intruding; the thought made him uncomfortable.
“If I didn’t ask, would you have told me?” he finally said, turning away from the grave – it was beginning to make his skin crawl. Bathsheba lifted her head.
“Likely not,” she admitted. “Not that I am ashamed to face my past, but I didn’t see a need to bring up my mistakes if no one asked.”
“Then we shall not speak of this again,” he said, and she nodded, her eyes dark with something other than memory. They left the cemetery, returning to the horses they had tethered outside, and the entire trip home Solomon couldn’t stop thinking about that tombstone – how would his life have changed if his brother never perished?
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought. There was no point in lingering over such possibilities – his brother was dead and gone, and that was that.
When they arrived back at the palace, Solomon and Bathsheba parted ways, with Solomon deciding to take a walk and clear his head. He doubted that he'd be able to speak to his mother the way he usually did, at least not for a few days. He didn’t feel anything about her sin – that was her life, and she had already suffered the consequences.
But something about her secret made his chest itch. A brother. Why couldn’t he get over that? He hardly ever fixated on something the way he did now; he wasn’t sure how to deal with his current state of mind, so he paced around the garden, glaring at the blooming flowers. They were too bright, too colourful, too distracting.
Then he realised what he was thinking and he sighed. Since when was he the kind to pay attention to such inconsequential details? The flowers in the garden were not his concern, even if they did happen to be the most lurid shade of pink he’d ever seen.
Shaking his head, he decided to visit the kitchen, hoping that a snack would help him take his mind off things. He hadn't eaten lunch, and he was beginning to feel hungry. Heading towards the kitchen, he tried to focus on other responsibilities – that report from his minister he had yet to look at, the counsel he’d have to provide later in the afternoon – but nothing seemed to stick, and he exhaled, annoyed at himself.
Information that had outlived its usefulness should simply be forgotten. Recalling the unnamed grave, the year of death, the regret lurking in his mother’s eyes – none of that would help him make any decisions, so why couldn’t he stop thinking about it?
“Solomon?” A familiar voice. Instinctively, he scowled, turning to look at the speaker – there was the girl, and he noticed Shobab holding her hand, staring wide-eyed up at him. Funny, he never knew they were close. “Where are you going?”
“That’s none of your business,” he answered, glancing at his youngest brother. “And you, Shobab. Aren’t you supposed to be studying with your tutors right now?”
Shobab pouted. He was seven this year, though he still behaved like he was younger, too used to being spoilt by the servants. “I’m already done! I was looking for you, but you weren’t in your room. Did you go somewhere?”
“Looking for me, eh? No doubt because you wanted me to entertain you.” Shobab beamed at him, not even bothering to deny his allegation, and Solomon sighed. “Why, what do you want to do? I have a lot of work to go through today.”
“I want to leave the palace,” Shobab said, and he blinked, startled by the unexpected demand – his gaze flitted up to meet the girl’s, and she was trying not to laugh, her mouth hidden behind her hand. “Staying here is so boring. And ima always says no!”
“You’re not old enough,” Solomon answered. Granted that he had been slipping out of the palace since he was seven, but Shobab wasn’t him.
“But you always get to go out,” Shobab whined. “It’s not fair. You’re always busy and Nathan and Shammua always have to study and there’s no one to play with me!”
He could feel his head beginning to pound. A headache. He hadn’t had one of those in a while. “But you’re supposed to be studying too, Shobab. Like your brothers.”
Shobab placed his free hand on his hip, his other hand still grasping the girl’s. “The tutors just keep repeating themselves,” he moaned. “I’m not learning anything new.”
That made Solomon wonder how intelligent his brother was. Either he was the next genius in their family, or he was too dim-witted to understand his lessons. Right now, it was impossible to say, but if Shobab turned out to be as smart as he was…
Well, that would be troublesome. Solomon knew full well what mischief he got up to as a child. They did not need another version of him running around, causing havoc. Though admittedly that might liven things up around here – no, he shouldn’t think that. “How about we review your knowledge tomorrow? If it’s up to par, then I’ll talk to ima about letting you leave the palace. With some supervision, of course.”
“Hm.” Shobab considered, and he felt his eyelid twitch. “Okay!” His brother shot him a winning smile, and Solomon softened. “You said you’re busy, right? I’m going to play, so you can do your work!”
Shobab tugged on the girl’s hand, but before he could pull her away Solomon cleared his throat and they turned back to face him. “Shobab, why don’t you hide first and she can search for you later? I need to speak to her for a moment.”
“Aw, okay. Fine.” Shobab let go. “Be quick, okay? We’re going to get snacks from the kitchen afterwards.” He giggled and sprinted away, and the girl shook her head fondly before she glanced back at him, immediately averting her gaze.
Solomon felt mildly annoyed, but he couldn’t place a finger on why. “Since when did you two become this close?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“When you first asked me to make warm milk for him. Shobab requested that I bring him some every night. I usually make a cup for him before visiting your room,” she answered. Solomon frowned, but decided not to comment – it was inappropriate for a prince to cling onto a servant, but Shobab wouldn’t understand. He was only a child, after all. Perhaps he could close an eye to this, at least until Shobab was older.
“That’s good. Keeps him out of my hair.” Solomon exhaled. “Just don’t forget about your duties. You’re supposed to be helping the kitchen, not frolicking about with my brother. I hope I won’t have to say that a second time.”
“I understand.” She bowed her head, and he lazily waved it off, distracted by the way her hair fell around her face, hiding her eyes. Had it always been this long?
“You should get your hair cut. I’m sure it’s interfering with your work.” She blinked, reaching up to touch her bangs, and he yawned, losing interest in the conversation. “I have plenty of things to do, so I won’t chat any longer. Go and entertain my brother.”
“Wait!” He paused at the sound of her voice – was that an order? He didn’t know if he found her audacity offensive or downright amusing. “Um. You said that you would talk to your mother, right? About what I told you last night?”
“Oh, that.” He considered whether or not to tell her what he’d learnt. Sure, she had a reason for wanting to know, but this was a family secret. And it wasn’t like his dead brother could be the man she was searching for. “Yes, we spoke. But my mother didn’t share anything of interest. I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere.”
She visibly deflated but nodded anyway. “Thank you for your help, Solomon. I didn’t expect you to be willing to ask, so I am already more than grateful.”
He shot her a withering look. “To make things clear, I didn’t help you for your sake. A man claiming it’s his duty to observe the king? I cannot simply leave him alone.”
“I understand,” she said once more, sounding perfectly calm. He had half-expected her to wilt at his response, so the fact that she maintained her composure intrigued him – maybe there was more to her than he’d once assumed. “I will let you know if I ever come across any new information.”
“That would be greatly appreciated.” He cocked his head, watching her stare back at him, quiet but steadfast. “Well. You may leave now. I have nothing else for you.”
“Thank you, Solomon.” She set off in the same direction as Shobab, and he sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. His headache was still present, a dull pain that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. How troublesome.
Solomon’s days were as unpredictable as the wind. There was nothing routine about what he did – some days he spent discussing with his ministers, some days he received the queries and pleas of his citizens and some days he entertained foreign dignitaries, striking deals and negotiating benefits for his flourishing economy.
He didn’t mind most of his work. It was diverse enough to keep him amused, and he was an arguably cunning ruler, often swooping in on opportunities that others failed to notice. None of his decisions ever led the kingdom astray, and it didn't take long for Israel to become a thriving trade hub, dealing with all kinds of exotic goods.
But if Solomon had one weakness, it was his alcohol tolerance. He wasn’t too fond of wine, having avoided it like the plague when he was little. But now he found himself drinking wine like water, and he hated it – he hated the way wine made his head spin, how it dulled his senses and made him slow and sluggish, how nights spent with his guests usually ended up in a nasty headache the next morning.
It was one of those unfortunate nights when she asked him, her voice quivering, if she could touch his hair. Solomon was still fairly lucid, enough that his first instinct was to say no, but she eyed him hopefully, probably thinking that he was drunk enough to forget everything the next day, and he found himself reconsidering.
Perhaps he could get something out of letting her do what she wanted. Her request was simple, and it wouldn’t hurt him anyway. “Do as you wish,” he said, his voice a little slurred but understandable enough.
Her eyes lit up, and cautiously she reached forward, winding her fingers through his silver hair. He closed his eyes as she tugged gently, brushing his hair away from his face. “You’re so pretty,” she breathed, sounding almost awed. “You’re a terrible, demanding master, but you’re still so pretty, somehow. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I can hear you, you know.” But his words carried no heat. He was too dazed to really intimidate her, and she laughed, scratching his scalp. It was a comforting sensation, and he could feel his body sinking into the bed, waves of sleep threatening to pull him below the surface. “You’re strange. I don’t care for you. Why do you still come to me?”
She didn’t answer for a while, and Solomon yawned, turning his head so that his other cheek pressed against the cool pillow. Her fingers continued to run through his hair, almost like she was petting a cat. He wondered if he ought to find that comparison offensive. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I can’t disobey my king, I suppose.”
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I won’t stop you,” he mumbled into his pillow. “It was never part of your job description. And I’m no longer restless at night.”
“I don’t mind coming,” she said, so quiet that he almost didn’t hear her. “It’s the only time you don’t sound like you want to have me flogged.”
“That’s rather pathetic, isn’t it?” He wasn’t thinking as he spoke. Her fingers paused. “Scrabbling for scraps of kindness from a man who cares nothing for you. Don’t you think you deserve better?”
“I do think so.” She didn’t sound offended – instead, her voice was calm, serene. “And I know that you’re capable of showing kindness. That you try not to use the whip and pillory wherever possible. That you love your family, in your own bitter, caustic way.”
“I can’t tell if you’re insulting or complimenting me,” he muttered, shifting so that he lay on his side – it was a struggle to keep his eyes open. She removed her hand from his head. “But I am not particularly kind. Don’t trick yourself into thinking otherwise.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.” She sighed. “I did believe it was better to avoid you, once. I knew you never saw me as an equal, and even now you still don’t.” She hesitated. “But after two years of visiting you every night, I’ve learnt a few things.”
“It was always more of you talking than me responding,” he pointed out.
“Yes, it started that way, but now…” She smiled. “I don’t think you even notice it, Solomon. But you’re so much more relaxed now. You laugh sometimes and tell me stories about your childhood. And I’m no longer afraid to make requests of you.” She reached out to him again, brushing his bangs away from his forehead.
His breath caught. “That’s just you being reckless, and me not bothering enough to take action. If you want me to punish you for your insolence, then I will gladly do so.”
She seemed to sense that he was serious. “I don’t want that. It was just an example.” Her fingers twirled through his hair. He suddenly remembered his mother doing the same thing when he was little, that one time he caught a fever. Bathsheba sitting beside him, singing him to sleep as she pressed a damp cloth against his forehead.
“Stop talking. It’s grating on my ears.” His head felt so heavy. She exhaled, but didn’t try to say anything else; her fingers continued to stroke, and he shut his eyes, allowing the peaceful sensation to slowly lull him to sleep.
When morning came, he was told he had to give counsel to two women. Something about determining which one of them was the real mother of a baby.
He was nursing a terrible hangover at this point, and as he listened to the women bickering, he couldn’t help but long for the entire ordeal to be over already. “I have a simple solution to your problem if you'd like to hear me out.”
They stopped and stared at him, waiting for him to continue, and he raised a hand, kneading his pounding temple. “Well, there is only one baby but both of you claim to be the mother. In that case, why don’t we just split it in two?”
“But – but Your Majesty!” One of them protested immediately, her voice frantic with worry. “If we do that, then the baby will surely perish!”
“You just want your child back, don’t you?” He tried his best to suppress a yawn. “If you each take half, then you’ll both have a child and everyone will be happy. No?”
“I agree with His Majesty. It sounds like a good solution,” the other woman said. “If I cannot have the baby, then I think neither of us should.”
He was about to get one of his guards to unsheathe his sword when the first woman fell to her knees, pale with terror. “Please, Your Majesty! I need not keep the baby. She can have the child, but please, do not raise your blade!”
Solomon blinked. “Oh. Very well, then.” He nodded, and the guard stepped back down, removing his hand from his sword hilt. “Since you’re so desperate for the baby to remain unharmed, you must be the baby’s mother. End of discussion.”
The people celebrated, talking about his wisdom, about his fairness and impartiality. Solomon had just wanted the women to stop bothering him, so when he realised that this case was being used as an example of his incredible judgement, he wasn’t too sure how to feel. Did he want to be famous for making such a flippant comment?
Even years later, when he looked back at his illustrious list of achievements, this offhand suggestion was still heralded as one of his crowning moments, much to his chagrin. So many things he could be known for, but people remembered him for this.
One week after he turned eighteen, Ezra entered his chamber, armed with a bottle of wine and a plate of Solomon’s favourite fruits. Uriah had been wisely left outside.
“Your Majesty,” he began, placing the bribes in front of his master; Solomon barely glanced up from his scroll. “There have been some…rumours floating about lately. Your mother is concerned, and wants you to ensure they won’t spread any further.”
“What is it.” Solomon reached for a grape, popping it in his mouth. “If my mother is complaining, then I already have an idea what the rumours might be about.”
Ezra inhaled. “Well, Your Majesty, you’re not wrong. The people are talking about how you’re already eighteen, but as yet still unmarried. It is unusual for someone from the royal family to be single for so long. They wonder if you have some kind of…ah, problem.”
There was a pronounced pause, and Ezra was beginning to fear for his life when the young king sighed and pointed at the wine. Ezra immediately opened the bottle, and Solomon took a swig, seemingly having decided to drown his sorrows in alcohol. “If Bathsheba mentions the rumours again, you are to ignore her. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He hesitated. “But are you going to let the people gossip about your marital status? It does not reflect well on your position.”
Solomon set his scroll down, plucking another grape. “Announce this to the masses tomorrow. Anyone caught discussing these rumours shall have his tongue cut off.”
Ezra winced. “Very well, Your Majesty. We will have the decree issued in the morning.”
“Good.” Solomon licked the juice off his fingers, then cocked his head, considering. “But it’s true, I should get married soon. I’m tired of people speculating over my love life. Tell my mother to pick someone, I don’t care who. It doesn’t have to be an Israelite.”
“Understood, Your Majesty.” Solomon nodded, waving him away, and Ezra exhaled in relief as he scurried out of the room.
“How was it?” Uriah mumbled, still stationed outside Solomon’s chamber. After some discussion, they had agreed it would be better for him not to be present when Ezra broke the bad news to their master. Solomon’s temper was notoriously fickle.
“He took it surprisingly well,” Ezra whispered. “He said to let his mother choose a girl for him. It doesn’t have to be an Israelite, so hopefully, he’ll find someone this time.”
Uriah snorted. “Do you remember the last time Her Majesty tried to find a wife for the king? It didn’t end on a good note.”
“That’s why I’m saying this time there might be a chance! If he wants to look beyond Israel, then there will be significantly more options open to him.” Ezra walked down the hallway, not wanting Solomon to hear them whispering outside lest they became the first to get their tongues cut out. “A queen might even lift his spirits…”
“Solomon?” Uriah spluttered. “You know how he is. He’s always preferred to work on his own; having a queen is more likely to frustrate him than anything else.”
“Fair enough. But it might mellow him a little.” Ezra shivered. “When I asked him what to do about the people, he said that anyone who continues to spread rumours would get his tongue cut out. And did you see how he ruled in that thieving case yesterday?”
“That fool is lucky he managed to escape the gallows,” Uriah muttered. “Though death might also be a preferable fate. Now everyone will forever know him as a thief.”
“We’re lucky we have yet to get on Solomon’s bad side.” Ezra shook his head. “Come on. We have to let Her Majesty know about her son’s decision.”
Bathsheba was pleased to hear that Solomon was finally taking his responsibilities seriously – Ezra decided not to say that he agreed more out of exasperation than any real sense of duty – and immediately began shortlisting princesses for her son.
A few weeks later, she invited Naamah, a princess of Ammon, to stay at the palace.
To say that Solomon was horrified was quite the understatement. “An Ammonite?” he hissed, pulling Bathsheba aside so that Naamah wouldn’t hear them. “You know full well how fragile our truce is. And you want me to court their princess?”
“Think about it! If this goes well and you two get married, then there’s no more need for the Israelites and the Ammonites to wage war, is there?” his mother reasoned.
He scowled at her. “You’re too optimistic. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s on a secret mission to assassinate me. I don’t trust the Ammonites, and neither should you.”
“Give her a chance, Solomon. Princess Naamah is renowned for her grace and charm. She’s beautiful, well-read and an eloquent speaker. Isn’t that what you want?”
The scowl on his face deepened. “I didn’t want to get married, ima. You were the one who pushed me into this farce. I don’t intend to be civil around a potential enemy.”
“If you pretend to be nice and talk to her politely for the entire duration of her stay, then I swear upon God to stop nagging you about marriage for a year after that.”
Solomon opened his mouth, then paused, considering her offer. “How long?”
“Naamah will stay here for six months. No more and no less. That is the agreement I struck with her father.” She frowned. “But you must promise to be kind. I know all your tricks, and I want none of them – so no backhanded compliments, no jibes, no sudden disappearances, no blatant shows of distaste, no –”
“Enough, enough,” he interrupted. “I get what you mean, ima. I promise I’ll be good.” He sighed. “I’ll be wonderful and charming, the perfect host. Are you happy now?”
Bathsheba nodded, looking pleased. “Yes. Good. Now, go and entertain the princess. You make small talk with visiting dignitaries all the time. This will be no different.”
Solomon wanted to argue that it was very different – that most of his visitors weren’t enemies of his kingdom, and they were here to talk shop, not romance – but when he saw the glint in his mother’s eyes, he swallowed his words and settled at the table, giving Naamah a cursory glance. She smiled at him, and he forced a smile back.
Princess Naamah was beautiful, that much he was willing to admit, but he’d seen his fair share of beautiful women and they were never anything special. “Thank you for having me, Your Majesties,” she said, addressing them both; his mother beamed and Solomon thought about how he’d rather be anywhere else but here.
“How was your journey, Naamah? I hope you’re not too tired,” Bathsheba said. “We had the kitchen prepare several delicacies; hopefully they will be to your liking.”
Naamah smiled, bowing her head gracefully – a lock of her black hair curved across her forehead, stark against her fair skin. “It was fine, thank you for asking. And I am rather excited to try Israelite cuisine. I’ve never visited before, given the…situation.”
Solomon almost snorted, and only managed to restrain himself when Bathsheba shot him a warning look. “Yes, it is unfortunate. But you are here now! And perhaps given enough time, our relations might improve.” He could feel both women staring at him, and he pretended not to notice, turning his head in the direction of the door instead.
The kitchen girl was entering the room now, carrying two plates, and he’d never been more relieved to see a familiar face. She set the plates down, avoiding his gaze, and left as quickly as she came, presumably to get more food. “Oh, it smells wonderful!” Naamah exclaimed, and he wondered if it’d be too much to ask her to keep quiet.
They ate, lapsing into conversation, and although a number of the dishes served were his favourites, everything tasted like sand on his tongue. Bathsheba seemed rather taken with Naamah, chatting merrily away with her, but he kept his head down and tried to focus on his meal, paying no attention to the ongoing conversation until his mother called his name. “Yes, ima?” he said, an automatic response.
Bathsheba narrowed her eyes at him. “As I was saying, Solomon, tell Naamah about your day-to-day work. She might be able to share some insights with you.”
He resisted the urge to glare at his mother. To discuss his work in front of someone who was potentially untrustworthy? That was political suicide. But Bathsheba didn’t look like she was about to back down, and he knew better than to embarrass her at the dining table, so he sighed and tried to think of something inconsequential.
“We’re thinking of negotiating trade with the Ammonites,” he finally said, deciding that it should be safe to discuss matters concerning her own kingdom. “I don’t know if you’re involved in that, but our trade ministers are in talks and I’m expecting it to be escalated to me within the next couple of months.”
“Oh, my father mentioned that.” Naamah nodded, a small smile on her face. “If I may give you a word of advice? Our kingdom is rich in precious stones, but we are rather lacking in livestock. If you would be able to provide us with that…”
“Livestock?” That he had not known. No king nor his ministers would willingly admit to another nation their weaknesses, after all. He wondered if the princess knew how foolish her actions were, or if she simply had that much faith in their potential union. “We have plenty. What kind of livestock is Ammon in need of?”
Her eyes crinkled. “Perhaps we can talk shop after our meal if you’re interested. Your ministers are still considering their next move, yes? If you allow me to sit in during their meetings, perhaps I can give them pertinent advice.”
Solomon hesitated to agree. There was no way to prove that Naamah didn’t have any ulterior motives; her presence would almost certainly stifle any productive discussion. Before he could politely decline her offer though, Bathsheba interjected. “That sounds like a wonderful idea!” she exclaimed. “Why don’t we talk about it after lunch?”
He tried not to glower at Bathsheba, bitterly stabbing a slice of onion. If his mother was so keen to speak on his behalf, then perhaps he ought to abdicate the throne. It made no sense to be king if someone else was making the decisions, anyway.
Raising the onion slice to his mouth, he eyed Naamah, who returned his stare with a look akin to sympathy. It made the back of his neck prickle, and he averted his gaze, poking the remaining vegetables on his plate with his knife. Suddenly, he had lost his appetite, though he continued to stay at the table – it would be rude to leave, even if each passing moment only served to make him more restless.
Finally, the meal was over and Bathsheba said she would like to show Naamah around the palace. Solomon asked to be excused, claiming he had a mountain of paperwork to clear, and his mother reluctantly let him go. Solomon hurried off before she could change her mind, keen to place as much distance between them as possible; he paid little attention to his surroundings, and when he next looked up he found that he was in a courtyard on the other side of the palace, and it was blissfully empty.
He heaved a sigh. At long last, he could unwind a little – interacting with Naamah had done nothing to alleviate his stress. How could Bathsheba talk so comfortably to someone who, not too long ago, was their enemy? The Ammonites had hated the Israelites for years and vice-versa; there was no telling how long their fragile truce would last.
Running a hand through his hair, he closed his eyes and tried to stifle the roaring in his ears. Heavens, he truly was the only one here with any political acumen. Drawing a deep breath, he rolled his shoulders and stretched, hoping to calm himself down. He only had to last six months with the princess. That wasn’t too long.
“Solomon?” He jumped at the sound of his name, a strange feeling of déjà vu flitting through him – when he glanced over his shoulder he saw the kitchen girl standing at the entrance to the courtyard, carrying a pot. “Are you finished with your meal?”
“Yes. Just.” His gaze lingered on the pot in her arms. “What are you doing out here? This is quite a distance away from the kitchen.” Not that he’d care normally, and even now he wasn’t very keen on knowing the answer, but chatting with her would help to distract him.
“Oh, Shammua needed a pot. I recalled we had a few spares in the cellar, so I said I’d help him retrieve one.” She held the pot up, peering at the glazed clay. “I wonder what he needs it for? He mentioned something about an experiment…”
Solomon had no idea what Shammua was up to, but it sounded more interesting than the work that awaited him or the two women walking around the palace. “I’m curious as well. Since I have some time today, perhaps I should check on him. Where is he?”
“Near the pond.” She stroked the surface of the pot, her hand lingering on the pattern of leaves etched into the clay. “He said something about frogs.”
He raised an eyebrow at the mention of frogs. “Whatever Shammua is up to, I doubt it’s anything good. Come with me before he decides to release an army of frogs upon us.” His brother was at that age where he liked to play pranks on the unsuspecting servants. Those pranks occasionally made Solomon smile, but more than once they had inconvenienced everyone else in the palace, and he supposed he couldn’t afford to let his honoured guest be privy to such…acts of mischief.
“Yes, Solomon.” She fell into step beside him. Neither of them spoke as they walked across the palace, but he couldn’t help feeling antsy – there was a strange tension in the air between them, and it was getting on his nerves.
Well, in truth he’d been feeling some of that tension ever since the night she played with his hair. To spare them the burden of reliving that experience, he pretended he didn’t remember anything that transpired. She didn’t bring it up either, nor did she do anything out of the ordinary, but occasionally he’d catch her staring at him, something unreadable in her eyes.
Those looks always made him uncomfortable. Like there was a persistent itch he couldn’t scratch, buried somewhere far beneath his skin.
Did she have feelings for him? If she did, then he failed to understand why. Solomon had not gone out of his way to be kind to her – just the opposite, in fact. Maybe she was a masochist or maybe she just wanted him for the same reasons every other girl seemed to want him. He gritted his teeth, irritated by the thought, and she looked at him then, concern in her eyes. “Are you all right? You seem…tense.”
“It's nothing. I’m fine,” he snapped, and she fell silent, though he could see the hint of disbelief in her gaze when she turned away. It irked him, but he let it go – he didn’t intend to police the thoughts of his servants, anyway. “What do you think of her?”
“Her?” She blinked. “You mean your guest from the meal?”
“Yes. That’s the princess of the Ammonites. Naamah.” He couldn’t help but scowl as he said the name. “My mother is hoping that I’d take a fancy to her.”
The girl didn’t say anything for a moment, thinking over her words. He could see the little crease of concentration on her brow. “She is not…your type of woman.”
That took him by surprise. “What do you mean?” Solomon didn’t even think he had a type. She smiled, her eyes bright, and he found himself looking away, his stomach churning uncomfortably at the sight of her. She looked too happy. He didn’t like it.
“You’ve never had any interest in people who did what was expected of them,” she explained. “Princess Naamah is beautiful and intelligent. I could hear that much when I served your meal. But you don’t like that. You think women like her are boring.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Pray tell then, what is my type?”
“You like someone who interests you, that’s all.” She glanced away from him as she spoke. “You don’t care much for beauty. But you want a sharp mind, and you want a person who isn’t afraid to challenge your perceptions. At least, that’s what I think.”
Solomon considered her words. “Perhaps. Not that there’s ever been a woman who managed to catch my eye.” He shrugged. “How bold of you, to be making such assumptions. I should have you thrown in a cell for a day or two. Learn your place.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” He could detect a trace of sarcasm in how she addressed him, and he opened his mouth, but then decided to let it go.
“What do you think of my situation?” he asked instead, and she stared at him, surprise written all over her face. “Don’t look so shocked. You must have some opinion on it.” He exhaled, looking up at the ceiling. “King Solomon, being forced into entertaining women because the people demand a queen. It’s pitiful, don’t you agree?”
“But marrying royalty from other countries would only benefit your reign. Surely that is something you considered when you agreed to meet Princess Naamah.”
“I didn’t agree to meet her,” he corrected. “But yes, I did consider that. Which is why I told my mother that I was open to women from other kingdoms.” He frowned, his already poor mood souring. “And the first person she brings to me is an Ammonite,” he muttered. “Ridiculous.”
“Well, the Ammonites are the closest to us, geographically. She probably wanted to find someone as soon as possible. You have a notoriously short attention span, Solomon.”
He glared at her. “I don’t recall requesting a devil’s advocate.”
“My apologies.” She didn’t sound very apologetic. “I wanted to be honest since you asked for my opinion. No matter how you look at it, this union would be beneficial.”
“I don’t care about the advantages our marriage would bring to Israel. I know full well what they are; if I didn’t think of them I would have had her sent away, appearances be damned,” he grumbled. “No, tell me what you think. Don’t bring in politics.”
She hesitated. When she next spoke, her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “As one of your servants, I have no right to any opinion about the decisions you make.”
He growled, low in his throat. “That’s not what I’m asking for. Is it that hard to say?”
“Yes, it is. I’d like to avoid the whip if I can.” She reached behind her, one of her hands lingering on the small of her back, and his eyes narrowed.
“Who ordered it?” His words were cold, and it surprised even himself – she blinked at him, taken aback by the sudden anger in his voice.
“It was my mistake, so I accept the consequences of my actions. You need not concern yourself with that.” She exhaled, her hand returning to the pot. “As for your question, I have no opinion. And even if I did, I would not dare to tell you.”
“Fine. Don’t tell me,” he snapped, tired of this back-and-forth; they were just going around in circles, and he didn’t have the time or the energy to ramble. “And don’t mention it in the future either, should you change your mind. You had your chance.”
“I understand,” she said, and for the briefest of moments, he looked at himself with the eyes of an outsider, wondering why he cared about the thoughts of a mere servant. None of that should matter. Did he even want to know? Was he truly curious, or was he simply trying to pass the time? He wasn’t sure, and Solomon despised uncertainty.
“What are we having for dinner?” His questions would no doubt linger in the back of his mind, but he wanted to distract himself for now. He’d pick this conundrum apart when he was in the safety of his room. Out here, he was too exposed, too vulnerable.
“Oh, we have some bread in the oven now, so most likely we will serve that with a lentil stew…” She babbled on and he let her words wash over him, not quite listening. Even in the daytime, her voice soothed him, and he inhaled, trying to clear his head.
Right now, he was heading to the pond in an attempt to prevent Shammua from doing anything stupid. That was the most pressing issue at the moment. He didn’t need to think about anything else.