Chapter One: The Scent of Myrrh and Dust
The sun hung low over the valley of the Nile, painting the river with molten gold. Far south, in the ancient kingdom of Sheba, a young woman named Makeda walked among fields of frankincense and sandalwood. Her skin gleamed like polished ebony beneath the desert light, her eyes deep as wells where kings might lose their wisdom. Makeda's mother used to say that beauty was both a gift and a burden—a flame that could warm a soul or consume it entirely. She had inherited this beauty without seeking it, and it drew whispers whenever she passed:
"The King of Israel has heard of her," they said. "Solomon, the son of David, the wise ruler of Jerusalem—he sends merchants to her land with gold and cedar, seeking the scent of Sheba." She would laugh at those words, for what had she, a woman of the south, to do with kings? Her people traded in spices, silk, and gemstones, not in dreams. Yet one evening, as twilight pooled under her palms, a caravan arrived from the north.
Among the camels and linen-clad men came an envoy unlike any she had seen—robed in white, bearing scrolls and strange gifts. They brought Solomon's words, written in the flowing script of Hebrew:
"Come to Jerusalem, fairest among women, for wisdom seeks beauty as the bee seeks honey."
The message struck her like a Psalm. Her elders urged caution, whispering that no woman traveled to foreign courts without losing some part of herself. But Makeda's heart burned with a restless curiosity that night as she stood beneath the stars. The heavens spread before her like an open scroll, and she thought of Solomon—the man said to speak with kings and understand the secrets of beasts and winds. When dawn came, she chose to go.
Days turned to weeks as the caravan moved northward. The scent of myrrh clung to her garments, and dust shadowed her feet. Yet with each passing mile, she remembered the words of her ancestors:
"Even in strange lands, the soul carries its own tent."
She held fast to that truth.
As she crossed the border of Egypt, she marveled at the towering statues that lined the roads, relics of ancient pharaohs now silent and still. Soldiers and traders turned their gaze toward her—the woman from the south whose poise stirred rumor before her footsteps reached Jerusalem.
When she finally arrived at Solomon's city, her breath caught at the sight. The walls shone with white stone that glimmered in the sun like tame lightning. The gardens were alive with pomegranates, lilies, and the laughter of fountains. Servants bathed her feet, poured oils of frankincense upon her hair, and wrapped her in linen garments touched with gold thread.
But none of this compared to the moment she first saw Solomon. He did not wear the crown when he came to her. Instead, he dressed in plain silk, his hands open, unburdened by rings. His eyes were kind but sharp, as though they could read the unspoken thoughts behind her silence.
"Makeda of Sheba," he said, his voice like music drawn from cedar strings. "You are as the tents of Kedar—dark and noble."
Her heart stumbled. For those were the words she had once spoken to herself beneath her mother's palm trees.
"Do not mistake my darkness for shadow," she whispered, her voice trembling between defiance and wonder. "For the sun has kissed me, and I am what it has made."
Solomon smiled, and for an instant, the weight of kingdoms disappeared.
"Then blessed be the sun," he said, "for it has revealed what wisdom alone could never teach—that beauty and truth are one flame."
That night, Solomon invited her to walk through the royal gardens. Together they passed pillars carved with lilies, pools filled with silver fish, and vines that curled like script. He spoke of the stars, of creation, of the fifty names of God whispered only in the Holy of Holies. Makeda listened, her spirit both humbled and stirred. And when he asked what she knew of love, she answered in the way of her people:
"Love is the scent carried on the wind before the rain falls; it forewarns yet never announces where it will dwell." Solomon looked at her with such depth that she felt as though he had found her long before she arrived in his city. That night, she lay awake in her chamber, hearing distant harp music and the songs of Solomon's court. Yet all she could think of was his gaze—how it broke through years of solitude with a single word: comely.
And she wondered if God Himself had written this meeting into the scroll of time.