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Solomon strode across the obsidian and granite bridge. His latest project spanned from the highest tower of his palace and arched over the city, passing over Rebecca’s palace and linking his own home with the Mountain of Zion. The bright, spring morning air clipped at his skin, fresh and crisp, as the sun rose bright and glorious.
He walked with three of his wives that morning, admiring this bridge, trying to distract his thoughts from the unrest among his people and the war tearing the borders of Israel into ragged edges.
Solomon stopped and rested his hands on the thick, black stone, looking out over the city. His three wives drew near. Xyla, the oldest of all his wives, took one of his hands and whispered into his ear.
“You have built a marvelous bridge, my dear. Now we may go directly from our rooms to the high altars on the mountain without mingling among the commoners below.”
Solomon nodded. He still hated Xyla. She always carried herself with an arrogance and reminded him of Zeriah. Solomon only brought her along with him because she had insisted.
Solomon nodded, his beard catching in the early morning breeze. “Very grand indeed. I only wish Rebecca and the others would have as much appreciation for it.”
Xyla scoffed. “They are fools, my dear. They care nothing for what you desire or want to accomplish. They don’t have the same ambition you possess.”
Although he despised Xyla, she was a clever woman and knew how to stroke his ego. He enjoyed her most when she built him up.
“And look at what you have done, even in the space of the short years I have known you. Who has ever achieved the success you have?”
Solomon frowned, stroking his beard with one hand. “Still, all this will be for nothing if the Syrians and Edomites continue to harass us. They must be stopped.”
“And they will, my lord and king. They are cowards, marauders. They only strike in secret and then flee. They would never risk open war with you.”
“Not yet, at least,” Solomon muttered.
“Not ever, my lord!” Xyla protested. “They are nothing next to your power and strength. Everyone in this land knows of your wisdom and might. They will never openly attack you.”
Solomon felt his shoulders relax. He watched the sun soak the Judean plains in gold. Such a beautiful morning. I used to live for mornings like this. But the beauty of the land only muted Xyla’s hopeful words and reminded him of the fragility of his empire. In his mind, though he tried not to hear it, the words of his Creator still thundered, reminding him of his kingdom splitting in two, and of his shortened life. He shut his eyes, shaking his head, trying to banish the thoughts.
“Still,” Solomon whispered, “perhaps Benaiah is right. Perhaps things must change here, before they can change abroad.”
Xyla searched his face in confusion. Solomon looked at her, his face more somber than she had ever remembered. “I have committed much sin. It is not your fault, it is mine. But perhaps it is time to do things differently.”
“My lord?” Xyla said, her voice high with worry.
Solomon gently pushed Xyla away from him. “I should have done this long ago. I have put pleasure above my Lord for far too long. And look what it has done to me. To my kingdom. Yes, perhaps this is best . . .”
Xyla’s eyes widened as she began to see the transformation in her husband’s face that Rebecca and Benaiah had so longed to see and that she had always dreaded. And perhaps, if Benaiah or Rebecca or even Joshua had stood with him that morning, glimpsing the first signs of a repentant heart, this tale might have taken a far different turn. But, as it was, only Xyla saw the transformation, and Xyla, like a snake, struck hard and quick to poison the heart of the king.
Xyla never exceeded Zeriah in beauty, but, although Zeriah possessed much wit and cunning, Xyla excelled far beyond her. She knew the hearts of men and knew how to manipulate them.
She smiled sweetly and bowed her head, “My lord and king must do what he thinks is best. But, have you considered the power at your disposal?”
Solomon cocked an eyebrow. “Power at my disposal?”
Xyla pressed into him. “Yes. The power of the mighty ones. Molech, Chemosh and Baal all possess power far beyond any you have ever seen. If you wield it, they can help you win your wars. Why put away your pleasure and the wives you love, when you can keep those precious gifts while gaining the victories you seek?”
Solomon sighed. “I do not know. What you say sounds appealing but . . . but . . .”
Xyla shook her head with a smile. “All that hinders you is your own superstition. The power of the mighty ones I serve can be yours. They have told me. If your god has forsaken you, why not turn to others? Why not show Benaiah and the queen and your enemies what Solomon is capable of, even without his god?”
Solomon felt himself slipping into a trance. The words of Xyla sounded sweet to his ears and yet, still, a warning drummed in his heart. He felt as if he stood upon the edge of a cliff and one wrong move would send him plummeting over into oblivion. Still, what she said intrigued him. What harm can there be in investigating what she speaks of? If her words prove folly, I can always stop. There is no harm in seeking out her path, is there? Have I not already transgressed my laws, and yet am I not still strong? Surely this cannot be any different.
Solomon felt a smile creasing his dark beard. “I do love you, Xyla.”
She batted her eyes and kissed him on the nose. “I know you do.”
Solomon took both her hands. “Let us discuss this further.”
Xyla stood in the darkened, cavernous room. Built high in the mountain called Zion, near the base of the high altars of Chemosh and Molech, Solomon had ordered secret caves delved for purposes unknown even to him. Zeriah had requested the caves at Xyla’s urging and told their husband it allowed them a secret place to meet with their gods and practice their arts. They feared doing such things in broad daylight, even with the grace of the king, because they feared what the other Israelites might do.
Solomon guessed vaguely that they dabbled in witchcraft and sorcery but had dismissed the thoughts from his mind. Even if it were true, what harm could it cause if they kept their magic tricks buried in the mountain? Besides, they would outgrow their petty spells and sorceries. Solomon would show compassion and let them reach the end of their vain religions.
Still, the stories of King Saul and his doom, how he had consulted a witch at Endor and raised Samuel from the dead, still haunted Solomon’s mind. The king knew, when Saul had reached the end of his despair, he had turned to sorcery in his last gamble to outmaneuver his enemies. Solomon had sworn he would never follow such a path.
And as he followed Xyla into the dark caverns by cover of night, he kept wondering if he too was now heading into the same abyss that Saul had never returned from. For witchcraft is as the sin of rebellion, Solomon thought to himself. So said his laws. But what really is witchcraft? And have I not already committed rebellion for many years? If the Lord intends to forsake me, what options do I have?
Two servants carried flickering torches as Xyla and the king descended deep through a narrow, dank passage into the heart of the mountain. The corridor opened up into a wide arena, the ceiling and walls receding into the darkness. Drips of water fell from stalactites, forming pools in deep crevices.
The servants hurried to light the two dozen torches that hung from iron brackets along the circular perimeter of the cavern arena. In moments shifting light and shadow filled the place. Still, Solomon could not see the top of the cavern ceiling.
At the center of the room, Solomon saw a circled six pointed star. Foreign etchings and runes surrounded the symbol. Solomon felt a chill and excitement fill his soul. Xyla stepped into the center of the star. Solomon remained on the outside of the circle.
She urged him forward. “When you step into the star of power, you have bound yourself to Chemosh and Molech. This binding is broken only by death. It is an oath made with the mighty ones. You must take this oath.”
“Why?” Solomon said.
“Only by this oath will they grant you their power, my dear. Even as they have granted me their power.”
Solomon shook his head. “I want to make no commitments. Not until I’ve seen what it is you speak of.”
“Yes, my dear. As you wish.”
She shut her eyes and began to chant, lifting her arms high above her. Solomon could not distinguish the guttural syllables she chanted, but could only make out the words Molech, Chemosh and Baal.
Solomon staggered back as the circle and star lit with flames. Xyla remained in the center, untouched by the fire. A green haze began to cover Xyla, surrounding her in a pillar of what looked to Solomon as smoke. Cracks of blue lightning began to sizzle in the green gas at it formed into a pillar around her. She continued to lift her hands. Blue balls of light began filling her palms. The blue light in the green gas began dancing toward her hands. Solomon fell back in dread.
Suddenly bolts zapped from the green wall of smoke and connected her hands, encasing her entire body in a hellish blue. Her eyes turned red and her hair became like blood. Her face transformed into an appearance not her own. Solomon watched as a ghastly dark form began to descend upon her. She opened her arms wide, the shadow sinking deep within her body. Flame flooded her.
Dark voices, whispers, began to echo in the chamber. Solomon watched his two servants scramble from the room in terror. The voices, peeping and muttering, filled his mind. They spoke of power, of magic, of the mighty ones and of special protectors who could defeat Solomon’s enemies. They sounded sweet and seductive. One of the voices, Xyla’s own, began to whisper in his ears.
Then, in a flash, it all disappeared. The green smoke, the blue light, the voices. Gone. Xyla stood in the center of the circle, her shoulders low, her breathing hard. Her face looked filled with pain. Her eyes looked crazed.
“There is the demonstration of what can be yours!” Xyla gasped as she stumbled to her knees.
Solomon felt his body tremble. So, this is the cliff? The power he had seen frightened him beyond anything, but it also drew him like a moth to the flame. How could he ignore what was offered to him? What was an oath to these mighty ones? Surely they could not control his own destiny. Besides, if even my own Creator cannot touch me, how can these creations of Him do any worse?
Setting his jaw, his knuckles white with fear, he deliberately took a step forward over the line and into the circle. As soon as his foot rested on the stone, the symbol lit with flames once more. But this time, though the fires did not touch him, they began to burn his wife. Xyla screamed in torment.
Benaiah looked at the maps pinned to the table before him. He sighed in frustration. Another village burned to the ground and the perpetrators had long since fled back into their hills and mountains. Why won’t they fight? Benaiah smacked his fist into his open palm. Because they want to wear us down. They want to weary us until we no longer have the strength to fight.
The red bearded captain, tired and worn, slumped into his wooden chair. He sat in a large tent, near the center of the primary Israelite eastern front. The sun had long since set and most now tried to sleep, but the captain could not find sleep, not when so much burdened his mind.
Tomorrow they would attempt to strike out, hitting a series of towns on the western Edomite border. He hoped, by fighting fire with fire, they could draw the Edomites out into the open. Or, better yet, cause them to think twice before attacking again. Up until now, they had not the strength to go beyond basic defense and carry an attack into the borders of their enemies. Not since two years ago, after the Syrian mountain disaster, had any Israelite army ventured into Edom or Syria. But now, with their strength finally built enough to accomplish at least a partial invasion, Benaiah hoped for some measured success.
Of course, he thought as he stroked his red beard, they could even do more. They could very well launch an invasion on the capitol of Edom itself. But he dared not tell Solomon such news. He knew the king wanted to launch a full scale invasion as soon as possible, and constantly consulted Benaiah to find out when such an attack could commence. Benaiah deliberately withheld information. He feared Solomon would rashly order another march and the results would be even worse than in Syria. Edom was covered in hills and woods and Hadad was no fool. The Edomite warriors could easily trap them in the forests and cause another humiliation for Israel.
No, better to bide our time, make short, hard strikes, contain our strength and better position ourselves. At least this way they had a shot at ending this war even if it meant only pushing the enemy back. Benaiah sighed. Still, even with all his planning and strategy, even with brave men under his command like Joshua, even with the might of Solomon’s treasury and continued taxes, he knew all would fail if the king refused to repent.
Every day, battles they should have won turned out as victories for the enemies. Communication lines would break down, generals would misunderstand, supplies were sent to the wrong places, and things that should not have gone wrong went terribly awry. Benaiah, at first frustrated by the errors that caused so many deaths, began to accept them. He knew the Lord was frustrating Solomon’s army, even now trying to break Solomon’s heart of stone by continuing to defeat his power.
And yet, no matter how many times Benaiah returned to speak with his closest friend, the king would only shake his head, perhaps chuckle, agree that Benaiah spoke truth, and then would turn to other pursuits. The king is living in a fantasy, Benaiah thought. And even now he refuses to acknowledge the rod our Creator is trying to use to punish him. What good is discipline if the one who is disciplined refuses to acknowledge the correction dealt him? Benaiah sighed again, scanning the map, wishing he knew the answer. Two years of these border wars and no end in sight.
I’m so tired, Lord. So tired. Please . . . when will this all end? When?
No answer. No response. Benaiah shook his head, placing both his scarred, thick hands on the map before him, as if trying to find an answer on the table.
“My lord, Chief Scribe Ahazael is here to see you,” a soldier reported, peeking his head into the fold of the tent.
Benaiah looked up. “The Chief Scribe? What is he doing here?”
“He requests an audience immediately,” the guard said. “Should I tell him to wait until morning?”
“No, no,” Benaiah rose to his feet. “Send him in.”
Moments later the thin, short form of Ahazael stepped in. His long, white hair covered his shoulders. He now wore spectacles perched on his thin, long nose. He bowed low.
“What brings the king’s Chief Scribe to the battle front at midnight?” Benaiah asked.
Ahazael looked over his shoulder to make sure no one listened and then looked back at Benaiah. “Is this as private a place as we can talk?”
Benaiah felt his impatience grow. “I have much to do, Ahazael. And I still need my rest. What do you need?”
Ahazael's face pinched and he nodded. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It is the king. I bring ill news.”
“What?” Benaiah felt his stomach tighten. How could things get any worse with the mad king?
“There are rumors. Whispers. For months now. People closest to him say that he is delving into the black arts of false gods. Sorcery, magic, forbidden power. They say the demons of Molech and Chemosh speak with the king directly.”
Benaiah frowned deeply. Had it come to this? He was too young to have witnessed Saul’s consultation of demonic spirits.
“What proof do you have of this?”
Ahazael's face turned white. “I dismissed the whispers as mere rumors and for weeks I watched Solomon as closely as I could. I saw nothing and so dismissed the whole matter from my mind. But, last night, as I walked near the king’s bedchamber, he had left his door ajar. I don’t know where the guard was. I think he was inside, helping the king. But I heard strange chants and stranger sounds. When I peered in to look, I saw the king surrounded by terrible dark forms. They looked like shadows, but they looked alive. The guard looked stricken with terror. Solomon was dictating to the guard, as if repeating what the shadows spoke to him. The guard wrote what Solomon uttered. Although I never heard the shadow forms speak.”
Benaiah felt his heart drop. Did the Queen know of this? And if she did, how much? Did anyone else know?
“Who knows of this?” Benaiah hissed.
“I do not believe any do, my lord,” Ahazael said. “Some of his wives know, of course. I suspect they are the ones who led him into such practices. And, of course, that guard. I would not worry about him exposing the king. But, it matters not. Many suspect. And suspicion, even if untrue, is all that is needed to feed the dissent that is growing in Jerusalem.”
Benaiah shook his head, running one hand through his thick red hair. “What would you have me do?”
Ahazael shrugged. “I do not know. But I had to tell you. The queen requested it.”
So she does know. And she thinks I can turn Solomon from this new devilry? How? Why would I make a difference now? How can I even afford to leave the front on the eve of a major invasion? What can I do?
Benaiah, in a sudden burst of rage, grabbed the edge of the table and flipped it over. The chief scribe’s eyes widened. Benaiah looked into the frightened face of the scribe and immediately felt remorse.
“I’m sorry,” Benaiah whispered. “Forgive me.”
Ahazael stood silent. A tear slipped from one of his eyes. “I do not know what more to do, Captain Benaiah. He will not listen to anyone, least of all me. But if Solomon is found out, some may not tolerate this new sin. I fear for Solomon’s life.”
“Very well. Guard!”
A soldier entered the tent and saluted.
“Saddle my horse. I must ride to Jerusalem tonight.”
The guard saluted once more and hurried out.
Solomon stood within the cavernous chamber, a thick scroll in both his hands, chanting the words he read. He stood in the center of the star and circle. The whispers filled his mind as he chanted. The book suddenly burst into flame and he dropped it in shock. The volume incinerated as he spoke the last words. A blue flame began to fills his hands. Solomon gazed at them in wonder.
A large, winged form descended from the shadows above, its eyes red slits. Solomon recognized the form: it was Chemosh, the idol engraved on so many altars in Jerusalem. Solomon fell to one knee, lifting his hands, his fingers tingling with the blue lightning. The dark, winged spirit hovered just over the king, overshadowing him.
“You have done well,” the spirit whispered. “Your studies in the arts are almost complete.”
Solomon smiled. Such power! Such power!
“Soon, you will have the power needed to crush your enemies. You will be able to destroy them even from here. No one will be able to stand in your way.”
Solomon frowned just a little. For three months he had immersed himself in this sorcery and the promises were always the same. Yet, still, he had no power to overcome his enemies.
“My lord Chemosh, I do not doubt your words. But three months have I spent studying your ways and yet still the attacks continue. When will I be able to destroy my enemies?”
The spirit seemed to cackle. “Very soon now, Master Solomon. Very soon. But I must warn you. Your Captain of the Guard even this night approaches Jerusalem. He has learned of your power. He is jealous.”
Solomon felt fear and anger sweep him. “He should not leave his post!”
“No, he should not,” the winged spirit hissed. “Before I can give you the power to crush your enemies, you must kill him.”
Solomon faltered to his knees. “Kill him?”
“Yes, he serves the enemy. You must kill him. Only then can you stand unhindered in my power.”
Solomon shook his head. “Benaiah is my closest friend. I cannot kill him.”
The tingle in his hands suddenly burned. Solomon gasped in pain.
“You will obey or you will be defeated by your enemies! You must kill him this night. Do so or face defeat. And my wrath!”
The spirit disappeared but its dark presence hung heavy in the room. He breathed hard, a slow anguish ripping on his insides.
Benaiah saluted his king beneath the towering Ashtereth Pole in the outer courtyard. Solomon looked very tired and darkness filled his face. He had not seen Solomon in nearly six months. Then he had looked bad, but now . . . now he looked like a wasted shell of his former self.
“You look good!” Solomon smiled as they walked underneath the starlight, in the shadow of the phallic symbol.
“I cannot say the same for you,” Benaiah said.
Solomon forced a smile. “Yes, well, this war and domestic business keeps me busy. I might need a vacation soon. In fact, I intend to take one!”
“You do?” Benaiah said in surprise. “Even with the war?”
“The war will soon be over,” Solomon said in an eery tone. “I have seen it.”
“Who has shown you?” Benaiah stopped and faced his friend.
Solomon avoided his gaze and looked up at the stars. “My god has shown me.”
“Has he?” Benaiah nodded. “And who is your god, my king?”
Solomon frowned and continued to walk. “Don’t be absurd, Benaiah. You know whom I serve. We are on the same side.”
“Are we?” Benaiah remained still. Solomon stopped. He did not turn around to look at his captain.
“You should not have come here,” Solomon said. “I ordered you to the front. The men need you.”
Benaiah set his jaw. His hand dropped to the pommel of his sword. “Your chief scribe summoned me. He believes you are delving into sorcery. Is that true?”
Solomon spun around, his face twisted in rage. “You have never changed, have you? Always looking for sins within me! Always trying to find my faults! Have you no love, no compassion?”
“I would not confront you if I did not love you, my lord,” Benaiah said, his hand tightening around his sword handle.
“Ah, it is always the same with you!” Solomon hissed. “You do not love me. You are jealous of me. Jealous!”
“My lord?” Benaiah asked in puzzlement.
“I’ve seen the way you look at my wife. I know how much you love her. Don’t think you can play the fool with me! How many times have you slept with her?”
“My lord!” Benaiah’s eyes widened. “I love your wife as a sister and dear friend, nothing more. Who has told you these lies?”
“No one has told me!” Solomon hissed. “I have seen it. And you covet my throne. You serve me only to gain what I have. I can see the lust for power in your eyes!”
Benaiah shook his head. He had never seen such madness in his friend’s eyes before. He looked possessed. And then he saw it. A large, dark shadow loomed over Solomon, a winged creature that hovered over him. It almost looked as if it were part of the king. Benaiah felt cold fear grip him.
“My king, you are not yourself. Perhaps we can discuss this in the morni--”
“No, we shall discuss this now!” Solomon drew free his sword. “You have cursed my reign long enough. You have poisoned my friends, my wife, my rule. I will not allow you to continue in your treason!”
Solomon yelled and charged. Benaiah easily parried the blade. Solomon stumbled to his knees from the force of Benaiah’s parry. He shrieked and lunged forward. Benaiah whipped his blade around. Solomon’s sword spun from his hands and clattered against the stone pavement, hitting the base of the Ashtereth pole. The red bearded captain stared down at his king in pity, sheathing his sword.
Solomon, rage twisting his face, suddenly began to weep. He wept bitterly, bowing his face to the ground. Benaiah watched as the shadow form began to fade, unseen but still felt. The king’s back convulsed with sobs. Benaiah kneeled next to him and gently gripped his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Benaiah,” Solomon whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Benaiah shook his head but failed to find any words to say.
Solomon gripped Benaiah and looked at him with utter terror. “You must leave! Tonight. Leave Jerusalem! Please . . . I am not in complete control of myself. I may do you harm yet. Leave and do not return until I say. Go fight the battle you must tomorrow. Lead my men.”
“I cannot leave you like this, my lord.”
“You must!” Solomon cried. “You don’t understand. I . . . I will be fine. Give me time to sort things out, to break free, and then I will call for you. I promise.”
Benaiah searched in vain for the words he needed.
“Go, tonight. I promise I will call for you soon, my captain. My friend.”
