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Zeriah sat on a newly installed crystal throne set next to Solomon’s. Her seven sisters sat at a long, ivory table before the two thrones. Solomon gazed at the women in pleasure.
“My sisters are quite good at dancing.”
“Are they now?” Solomon clapped his hands. “Well, then, by all means let us see their talent!”
Zeriah nodded with a laugh, “You heard the king. One by one, now.”
Obediently the seven Hittite women, some younger than Zeriah, some older, lined up to one side. One by one, from the oldest to the youngest, they walked up to the bottom most step of his throne and performed an exotic dance. Zeriah watched her husband closely, making sure he fell under the spell of her sisters’ beauty.
And they were beautiful. These seven sisters matched Zeriah’s own beauty and some, in Solomon’s opinion, exceeded even hers. He smiled broadly as the last of them paraded before him. He lifted a large, jeweled goblet of ale and drank greedily. Zeriah laughed.
“You have a wonderful, very beautiful family,” Solomon said. The women seated themselves, blushing.
Zeriah continued to laugh and leaned close to her husband. “If you find them so pleasurable, why not enjoy us all? You are the king, are you not?”
Solomon suddenly frowned and looked down at the floor. A cloud passed over his face. Zeriah drew back slightly, her eyes fierce. “Or is that something even the great king Solomon cannot do?”
“I have not married them,” Solomon said softly.
“So the king is forbidden to take his pleasure in his own court?” Zeriah asked innocently.
Solomon downed the rest of his wine, the cloud lifting. He took another large swig from his goblet. His eyes began to look feverish from the alcohol. “Yes, of course! Of course. Ladies . . . would you care to join my wife and me in our bedchambers this evening?”
The sisters rose eagerly to their feet. As they followed Solomon and Zeriah, Xyla had to hide her utter disdain for the king and his queen.
“What is he doing in there?” Caleb demanded. He heard several squealing female voices beyond the bedchamber door. The young solider looked very nervous.
“He invited his second wife’s sisters in for the evening.”
“Her sisters?” Caleb repeated in shock. “How many?”
“Seven others by my count,” the soldier said.
“Our king is making love to eight women in there?”
The soldier swallowed, his face red. “I have no idea what he is doing in there. All I know is that he said they would all be staying the night and not to allow any interruptions.”
Caleb looked utterly aghast. His face turned white in anger as he stared at the door. “This is unseemly! Absolutely unseemly! I cannot believe this. I simply cannot believe this!”
The solider winced as several women began to moan in pleasure at once. They heard Solomon laughing and it sounded as if several people bounced on the bed.
“Are they drunk?” The soldier wondered.
“Drunk with madness,” Caleb said. His face turned into disgust. “I want the bedroom thoroughly cleaned tomorrow morning. Leave nothing untouched. And inform the king I would like to speak with him at his earliest convenience.”
“Yes, my lord,” the soldier saluted. Caleb spun away, his stomach reeling.
Caleb stood with seven other leading magistrates in the council chamber. It was a large, round room, carved from black granite. Flickering torches cast an orange glow in the room. A basalt table with large chairs filled the room’s center. None of them sat. They all stood around the table, faces red, fingers pointed, shouting at each other, their angry voices echoing off the walls.
“We cannot allow our king to continue with this foolishness! We will become the laughingstock of the entire world!” One leading Levite shouted above the din.
“And what do you propose, that we remove him from power? Just how do we do that? Are you suggesting treason?”
This caused everyone to shout at once. Caleb, in vain, banged his stone gavel on the surface of the table, but this only caused the gathered leaders to shout even louder. For three hours this meeting had continued just below a brawl. Caleb had tried fruitlessly to speak with the king, but the solider informed him that he had spent all morning and now much of the afternoon with Zeriah and her sisters. Should he inform the queen? He did not know what else to do.
Suddenly the two oaken doors swung open and Solomon swept into the room. The shouting fell silent. Everyone looked at their king, most with open disgust. Solomon still wore his purple bed robe. His hair was a mess, his beard disheveled. His eyes were bloodshot and baggy.
He stepped into the room and took a seat at the head of the table. “I do not recall convening a council meeting.”
Caleb cleared his throat. “My lord and king, I tried to meet with you earlier but you were . . . otherwise engaged.” Several faces blanched. “I had no choice but to call this council in light of . . . your actions.”
“My actions?” Solomon whispered like ice. “And what does the council need to know about my actions?”
“My lord and king,” the Levite began. “You are in clear violation of Torah! You cannot take eight women to bed at once. Your palace will be called a harem! You are polluting your throne.”
Others murmured in agreement. Solomon fixed his gaze on the Levite, silent. The Levite shifted uncomfortably. Caleb felt sweat on his palms. Everyone began to shift nervously the longer Solomon remained quiet.
Finally, the king turned his gaze back to Caleb. “And what is the council’s decision regarding my . . . actions?”
Caleb cleared his throat. “Well . . . we have not reached a conclusion as yet. We do not know how to proceed, my lord.”
Solomon nodded, drumming his fingers along the table top. “Gentlemen, it appears you have reached an impasse. You claim I am in violation of Torah, and yet none of you can agree on what should be done. Am I correct?”
The men looked at the king in silence.
“I see,” Solomon said, sighing. He rose to his feet. “I agree with the Levite, however. I am in clear violation of Torah. I have sinned.”
The men stared at him in shock and disbelief.
“I won’t try to hide it. I felt rather shamed this afternoon, realizing what I had done. And I feel an even greater shame standing before you now, since you stand here debating about my sin.”
He does not show his shame, Caleb thought bitterly.
“That is why, today we will hold a marriage celebration. I will marry all seven of these sisters. Nine wives is not too much for a great and wise King such as I, is it?”
No one dared to answer.
The Levite lifted his face to the king. “I might remind you, your Majesty, how this all started, however. These sisters are Hittities. Unless they agree to become Israelites--”
“Yes, yes, I’ve been through this all before!” Solomon snapped. “I know the customs of our people. These women are foolish, certainly; beautiful . . . most definitely . . . but wicked? No more than I who stand before you. So they are not Israelite born? Neither was Rebecca.”
“But she became an Israelite before you marri--” The Levite started.
“They will become Israelites in time,” Solomon said, clearly irritated at the interruption. “You must remember that these women are aliens to our ways. They have been brought up by cruel fathers and brothers. Can we expect them to change overnight? Of course, not. I think you would all do well to learn some compassion.”
The Levite decided not to say anything further.
Caleb cleared his throat, hiding his repulsion. “We shall make the arrangements to hold the wedding this evening in the king’s banquet hall, then. Shall we invite the queen?”
“Of course!” Solomon said, smiling. “Invite all that you can. It shall be a time of celebration and feasting!”
“This is very unusual, King Solomon,” Caleb protested as the two men stood in the library room. “I highly recommend against this.”
Solomon rolled his eyes. “You are beginning to sound more and more like Benaiah. Should I make you a prelate of some distant province as well?”
Caleb visibly paled. Solomon smiled and winked. “I’m only jesting, Caleb! Lighten up.”
Caleb laughed nervously. “My lord, your wives are still Hittites. Allowing them to return to the ruins of their village is dangerous.”
“Oh, come now Caleb!” Solomon laughed. “Dangerous? To whom? Me? You? Our kingdom? What are eight women going to do? Bring back their dead husbands and brothers from the grave? Invade Israel with an army of ghosts perhaps?”
Caleb shook his head. He felt dizzy from nausea. “My lord, who knows what they will find among the ruins. Who knows what they will bring back. They may bring things that will defile the land. You should simply keep them here.”
Solomon shook his head. “No, I’ve already asked Zeriah to stay, but she wants to return. Who am I to stop her? They simply want to collect anything they have lost. What is the harm in that?”
“Yes, my lord,” Caleb said weakly.
Solomon nodded and clapped Caleb on the back. “Good. Now, when will that next shipment of gold from Ophir arrive?”
Solomon hurried down the grand hall that led to the front gate of the king’s court and out into the royal courtyard. A week had passed and his eight wives had returned from their trip to the ruins. He hoped to celebrate with them this evening.
As he passed out into the warm, early summer sunshine, he saw the Hittite women, all dressed in lavish attire, enter the far side of the court. Two soldiers blasted trumpets to announce their arrival.
“My wives! Home at last!” Solomon shouted with a broad smile.
He noticed they were all carrying bags over their shoulders, or strange stone things under their arms, or pulling small wagons behind them. Solomon rushed to meet the women. Zeriah leaned close to give him a long and passionate kiss. She pulled a wagon of her own.
“What do you have here? Why not have the servants carry these, my queens?” Solomon said. He saw Xyla carrying a carved stone head of an eagle.
“These are personal items,” Zeriah explained. “We wanted to bring them ourselves. Put them up where we want.”
“What have you brought?” Solomon frowned.
He noticed a wooden bull’s head sticking out of Zeriah’s wagon. Solomon pulled back the canvas on the wagon to reveal dozens of tiny trinkets and idols, buried among larger statues of Baal, Chemosh and Molech.
“You’ve brought your idols?” Solomon asked in shock.
“Is there something wrong?” Xyla asked as she and her sisters looked at him in confusion.
Solomon turned to Zeriah. “You know the customs of my people. We cannot have these idols here. They will profane this place.”
“Are you serious?” Zeriah said, her eyes wide.
“Yes! I thought I told you about this,” Solomon said, clearly distressed. “I’m sorry, but you all must take these out of the city. Bury them or burn them. I cannot allow them here.”
His wives looked at him in continued confusion. Solomon gently led Zeriah to one side and leaned close to her. “I need to ask you to remove all these things at once. If the council found out about this, they would be in an uproar.”
“But these are our family gods!” Zeriah protested. “They are all we have left of who we once were. You cannot ask us to throw these things away!”
Solomon sighed. “Listen, I understand what they mean to you, but this is Jerusalem. These idols simply cannot be allowed. I’m sorry.”
Zeriah pouted. “Why should those under you dictate what you can and cannot bring into your own court? It’s not like you are going to start worshipping these things. We just want them as a reminder of our homes and loved ones. Please.”
Solomon sighed again and looked at his wives. He nodded slowly, running one hand through his thick, black hair. “Alright, then. You may bring these in. But try to keep them out of sight. I don’t want to have to explain this to anyone.”
Caleb walked through Solomon’s bedchamber, feeling a renewed wave of sickness fill his stomach. Small statutes and idols covered the mantelpiece above the fireplace, filled the shelves, stood like guards around the foot of the bed, set on windowsills. Idols were everywhere.
“What is he thinking?” Caleb whispered in horror. He spun around and strode from the room, his bitterness against the king eating away at any respect he once possessed for the man.
Solomon climbed the broad, stone steps leading toward the “room of the heavens”. He had not come here in a long time, ever since his marriage to Zeriah which had been over a year ago. Business and the pleasure of his wives had kept him from pursuing his poetry. But today, having completed a project, he bounded up the steps with renewed energy, determined to compose some poetry for Yah.
He had felt an undefined darkness creeping over him, stealing his joy. Perhaps writing some poetry will help me through.
As he neared the room, he could smell burning incense. Incense? He slowed his pace and noticed the door slightly ajar. As he entered the open, airy room, he saw Zeriah, with three of her sisters, kneeling before an ashtereth pole. Incense burned in a pan at the base of the pole as they all bowed down, chanting and worshipping the symbol.
Solomon quickly pulled Zeriah by the elbow and dragged her to one corner. He whispered so as not to disturb the others. “What are you doing?”
Zeriah looked up at him with glazed eyes. She smelled strongly of incense and she looked drunk. “What do you mean?”
Solomon had seen his wives set up idols and trinkets throughout his bedchamber and personal apartments. He had seen some of them bow down and kiss or worship them. He kept telling himself it would pass. They would soon learn to worship the true Creator. But burning incense? Setting up an Ashtereth pole? How had it come to this?
“You can’t be doing this!” Solomon hissed. “You could be stoned.”
Zeriah looked at her husband in confusion. “We have to honor the Queen of Heaven. She has blessed us. You never had a problem with our other gods. How is this any different?”
Solomon opened his mouth and then stopped. She had a good point. How was this any different from what he had allowed them to do for the past year?
“You have your Temple, and your worship, and we have ours. Just as it gives your people their distinctiveness, this helps us retain our identity here in this foreign land. Surely you cannot be angry at this?”
Solomon felt his authority shriveling as this woman looked up at him with her plaintive eyes. “You must keep this a secret. Others would not understand. You must remember our customs--”
“Why is it that your customs rule you?” Zeriah said, her eyes flashing with rage. “Are you the king of Israel or not? Perhaps you should simply place your Torah scroll on the throne.”
“That’s enough,” Solomon said quietly.
“If you are the king, you should act like it!” Zeriah tore herself from Solomon’s grasp and returned to her sisters and the pole.
Solomon watched his wives helplessly. He stared at the table where his quill pen and parchments laid, his half finished poems and proverbs covered in several inches of dust. He shook his head in disgust. He had lost all desire to compose to Yah. Perhaps another time.
Solomon stared into the roaring fire of his bedchamber, holding a glass of wine, dressed in his purple rob. Darkness had fallen and he could hear the song of crickets rising in pitch. Xyla lay on the bed, writing something on a piece of paper with her quill pen.
The lot had fallen to Xyla and so she had the honor of spending the night with the king. Solomon, after an extremely uncomfortable confrontation with Caleb and Joshua, no longer had the stomach to lay with more than one wife at a time and so now had his wives draw lots. He scowled into the flames. Of all his wives, he liked Xyla least. She was pretty, but thick boned, tall, headstrong, possessed an annoying voice and was stubborn. He prayed this night would pass quickly. I suppose I could just remove her from the lot. I have no obligation to spend time with this woman. Solomon sighed. No, if he even hinted at doing such a thing, Xyla would complain to Zeriah and Zeriah would never let Solomon hear the end of it. She would complain about how terrible he treated her sisters. Better to just keep everything peaceful.
Xyla giggled and set the pen down, reading the paper. Solomon glanced at her and sipped his wine.
“What are you working on, my dear?”
Xyla finished reading and then bounded out of bed toward him. “I want you to read this. It is a poem I wrote.”
“A poem?” Solomon asked. “Certainly. I love poetry,” perhaps Xyla possessed some redeeming qualities after all?
Solomon reached for the parchment but Xyla pulled it back playfully. “No, wait. I want to read it to you. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.
Solomon sighed, slightly irritated. He also hated these little games Xyla played. He relented and sunk down into his favorite leather chair, warmed by the roaring fire. He leaned back, smiled and closed his eyes. He heard Xyla take a breath before beginning.
“Oh, my Lord, how I love thee. You who created the heavens and the earth. I worship you all the day long, and will burn incense at your altar every evening. You are above all other gods, for you formed them all. You are my master and I will never turn from you. Though you require my own seed, I would give it to you, for you are worthy of all. Oh, my dear Molech, lord of all--”
Solomon’s eyes snapped open. “What did you say?”
Xyla faltered, confused. “The last line was: Oh my dear, Molech, lord of all--”
“You wrote this poem to Molech? He is the lord of all?” Solomon said in angered disgust. “Give that to me!”
Solomon snatched the paper from Xyla’s trembling fingers and read the rest of the poem. He felt a sickness fill his stomach.
“I don’t understand, my dear Solomon, why would this cause you to be so angry? You have allowed us to burn incense to Baal and bring our gods into this very room,” Xyla pointed to a small statue set near Solomon’s own chair on a low ivory table.
Solomon ripped the paper in half and threw it into the flames. “Molech is not lord of all! You realize you could get stoned for writing these things? Is that what you want?”
Xyla shook her head, tears rimming her eyes. “I did not mean to displease my lord.”
Solomon rose to his feet. He felt anger rising in his chest, but it felt good. He grabbed Xyla arm and shoved her toward the door. “Get out of my presence.”
Xyla stumbled toward the door, crying. “But my lord--”
“I said get out!” Solomon snapped. She left without another word.
