Chapter Two: In the Gardens of the King
In the days that followed her arrival, Makeda walked the courts of Jerusalem as one might tread the edge of a dream. Trumpets sounded when Solomon entered the Hall of Cedars, and the scent of incense filled the air like prayer made visible. Gold reflected upon the marble floors, and voices murmured of her—the dark woman from the south who had captured the king's attention. She paid little mind to their whispering. What weighed on her more was the strangeness of belonging nowhere: not among Solomon's wives and concubines with their jeweled veils, nor entirely within her own heart, which fluttered like a bird between two skies.
Each evening, Solomon called for her to walk with him through his gardens. There were rows of young vines heavy with blossoms and pools still as mirrors. He taught her the names of each plant in the tongue of Israel—hadas for myrtle, rimon for pomegranate, shoshannah for lily. She listened, repeating each gently, her voice like water sliding over smooth stone. In those moments, the king often forgot his crown. One night, beneath an arch woven with jasmine, Solomon unrolled a parchment of verse.
"These words are for you," he said quietly. "I am writing of a woman whose beauty makes foolish the proud and teaches kings humility."
Makeda lowered her gaze, uncertain.
"The stars envy no lamp," she said softly. "Why would a king speak thus of a woman from the desert?"
"Because God Himself speaks through what He fashions," Solomon replied. "And when I look upon you, I remember that wisdom without wonder is barren."
His words entered her heart like rain finding root. Yet within her still lived a drought she could not name—a fear that her presence was nothing more than a passing song in Solomon's endless collection of melodies.
Days passed, and she learned more of his kingdom. She saw merchants bowing before his judgment seat, watched as he discerned truth from falsehood with the calm certainty of heaven. But when the court was dismissed and silence returned, he sought her—always. Once, she asked,
"Why me, my lord? Why speak love when you could choose from the daughters of your own people?"
Solomon turned from the cedar pillars to meet her gaze.
"Because you remind me of the mystery that wisdom cannot solve—that love is not born of likeness, but of awe."
He reached for her hand, rough with the memory of travel. She did not pull away.
"The others see your skin," he continued, "but I see the sun's blessing upon you. You are not shadow, Makeda; you are light that has endured."
The words settled between them, bright as firelight. In that instant, she knew that love—true love—was not the sweet ease of flattery, but the recognition of another soul's radiance amid the world's noise. That night, the moon rose over Jerusalem, throwing silver over every gate and tower. Makeda wandered alone to the roof of the palace, wrapped in a white shawl. She thought of her homeland—the hum of cicadas, the cry of the ibis, the wide skies of Sheba—and of the strange, dangerous serenity that had taken root in her chest.
Below, Solomon's harp began to play. The melody drifted upward like incense. She felt the sound before she fully heard it—each note a thread pulling her closer to the man whose heart spoke in riddles, but whose eyes told the truth plainly. When at last he appeared beside her, neither spoke for a long while. The silence between them was full, like a Psalm without words. At length, Solomon said,
"In all my seeking, I never found wisdom in the stars, for the heavens only mirror what God places within man. But tonight, I think I understand—wisdom is not knowing all things but recognizing when one has found the rarest of them."
Makeda turned to him then, and though her heart trembled, she smiled.
"In Sheba, we say that the heart is a lamp. A wise man trims its flame carefully, lest it guide him astray."
"Then we are kindred," Solomon said, drawing her hand gently into his.
"For my lamp burns brighter because of you."
They stood together as the dawn spread slowly across the hills, gilding the temple's roof and softening the stone beneath their feet. The city began to stir below them, unaware that beneath its rising songs, the king of Israel and the woman from the south had begun to write their own—a song that would linger long after lips forgot their names.