The Desert Princess (Ebook Shorts) (The Loves of King Solomon Book #1)

© 2014 by Jill Eileen Smith

Published by Revell

a division of Baker Publishing Group

P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

www.revellbooks.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-4412-4507-2

Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearance of certain historical figures is therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, Wendy Lawton, Central Valley Office, P.O. Box 1227, Hilmar, CA 95324, wendy@booksandsuch.biz

To Kathy Fuller, dear friend and critique partner. Thank you for going over this with your fine-tooth comb—er, colorful tracked changes—and making such insightful suggestions. You caused me to dig deeper, and I know the story is better for it.

Most of all, thank you for your friendship. You are a treasure.

Rehoboam son of Solomon was king in Judah. He was forty-one years old when he became king, and he reigned seventeen years in Jerusalem, the city the LORD had chosen out of all the tribes of Israel in which to put his Name. His mother’s name was Naamah; she was an Ammonite.

1 Kings 14:21

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Prelude

1

2

3

Interlude

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

Postlude

Note to the Reader

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Books by Jill Eileen Smith

Back Ads

Back Cover

Prelude

If history is true, it will tell a kinder story of my husband than I have heard during these final years, when the gossips and jealous women of his harem did all in their power to ruin him with their gods. How could a man deemed once so wise stoop to such lows?

Solomon was a fool.

And yet . . . I cannot deny the power his wisdom had over me. His words were jewels, shining like the gold of Ophir he favored. Nations flocked to hear him speak, and none could stand above him.

Solomon’s God loved him.

And so did I in my starry-eyed youth. Ah, the dreams of a spoiled young princess . . .

1

RABBAH, 980 BC

A claw-like hand rose from the dark and curled around my throat. Sharp nails dug into my neck, squeezing the air from my lungs, while the beat of heavy drums and the popping sounds of short trumpet blasts filled my ears. I fought the intruder, slapping and flailing, until my heart nearly burst from my chest.

Naamah! Wake up, child! The gentle touch on my shoulder startled me, and I drew in great gulps of air, blinking awake. The thick blankets and soft sheets meant to soothe me lay in a tangled heap from my waist to my ankles.

It’s all right, child, Inaya said. My nurse’s fingers now cooled the heat of my face. It is not the drums you hear. It is only the sound of one pounding on the door below.

Not the drums of Molech. I willed my pulse to slow. I tilted my head, straining to listen. The incessant knocking grew louder. I kicked aside the tangled bedcovers.

Who would come calling at such a time? I met Inaya’s worried look. Something bad must have happened.

Inaya held me back with a sturdy hand. Let me send a guard to check. If there is danger, you must stay away from it.

Inaya waited a moment until she had secured my silent nod of acceptance. My heart still raced within me, and my stomach fluttered like the flapping of birds’ wings. Had there been an invasion? I crept closer to the door and peered around Inaya’s legs as she spoke to the guard. Shouts came from the direction of the front door, and I heard the sounds of rushing feet on the stairs and through the great house’s halls.

A messenger has come from King David, the guard said to Inaya. There is trouble.

What kind of trouble? Inaya glanced at me, bidding me to stay with a stern look, then walked with the guard out of my hearing. She would weed out every detail the servants could tell her and give me only part of the tale when she knew I wanted to know all. It is not seemly for a ten-year-old girl to have so much knowledge, she would tell me when I pleaded with her. So I had reverted to sneaking into my father’s chambers and listening from behind the heavy draperies.

Abba pretended he did not see me, often indulging me. But most of the time he was too preoccupied to notice my hiding place. Inaya suspected my antics, and she worried over my father’s indulgences, fearing I would grow up too quickly or become just another spoiled princess like my cousins. Even then I knew she was wrong. I had already seen too much loss in my short years on earth to make me as pompous and frivolous as Junah and Fayha.

The pounding had ceased now, and the angry voices dropped to muffled tones behind my father’s closed chamber doors. I glanced at Inaya, whose back was partly to me, then slipped into my bedchamber, quickly donned my night robe, and moved silently down the hall, my bare feet gliding over the smooth stone stairs.

I avoided the guard at Abba’s door and took the hall that led to the spacious cooking rooms. I passed a servant who looked at me curiously, but when I yawned and stumbled, she hurried on. I let out a shallow breath. My father’s bedchamber would be guarded as well, but I knew of a secret entrance to his audience chamber. I found it easily enough but had to duck against the wall when voices drew close.

There’ll be war again. I’d bet a month’s pay on that one. I recognized the drawl of our head cook, who would bet her life’s wages on a rumor nearly every day, according to Inaya.

War in Israel doesn’t mean war in Ammon, came the voice of one of the serving maids. We’re vassals, not allies.

Same thing, if you ask me, the cook said with a huff. I could imagine her hands on her hips and her puffy lower lip sticking out. Relief filled me when they finally entered the cooking rooms to fix tea or something stronger for my father and his visitor.

I hurried a short distance beyond the rooms, lifted the latch on a small closet, and slipped into the antechamber of Abba’s audience rooms. The muffled voices forced me to press my ear against the wall, but I could still only make out a few words.

I moved cautiously toward the door separating me from the main room, and when the voices grew louder, I slipped inside, well hidden behind the curtain.

King David’s Gittite general, Ittai . . . There was a pause in my uncle’s servant’s voice. Nasir cleared his throat. He seemed quite worried about King David’s state of mind, my lord. He has led his people away from the safety of Jerusalem, running like those who have already lost a war.

There was a rustling of parchment, and I peeked through a tiny slit in the curtain. My father scanned a missive, slid it back into its pouch, then sat in silence a moment, tapping the leather case with one finger.

King David should have stayed in the safety of the city.

Nasir nodded. To hear Ittai tell it, even the king’s general Joab could not persuade him to do so. King David did not want to see his beloved Jerusalem destroyed.

Absalom will not stop until his father is dead.

By the act of taking ten of his father’s wives, he has already declared it so, Nasir agreed.

My heart skipped a beat. Uncle Hanun had lost his wives, the show of