The Last Romanov (17 page)

I am Athalia the Omride, daughter of Omri, queen of Judah. Swathed in silks and brocade, a headdress of silver tossed over my hair, opal headgear adorning my forehead, I wend my way in a procession across the halls of my palace. Slaves flutter peacock feathers above my head, men and women bow at every turn.

“A sip of rosewater, my lady.”

“A spray of ambergris, perhaps.”

I am the most beloved of King Jehoram's forty wives, also known as the Opal Queen. Merchants scour all four continents to bring me translucent opal, the rarest of all opals. So pure, it portends my future in its heart. The ignorant denounce opal as a vessel of bad luck. Such nonsense. Like life, opal symbolizes both the bad and the good, birth and death.

My red-haired jester prances in and out of sight, around my sandaled feet, behind the stone columns. His froglike eyes unhinged in their bony sockets, he flaps his short arms like wings, and as if propelled by some magical force, his hooflike feet scramble up Sari's plump thighs, hairless chest, and shoulders to land on top of the poor eunuch's head.

I laugh out loud. Others join in. My servants attempt to erase my sadness. My husband, Jehoram of Judah, the son-in-law of the house of Omri, is away at the battlefront. Seasons have come and gone; spring is here. Cisterns and jugs on rooftops flow with bathing rains. Roads and ditches are dried of lethal diseases, valleys and ravines are pregnant with wild flowers, palms are heavy with dates, yet no word of my beloved king, Melekh Israel.

“My lady, please rest, it is hot today. Tell us about the ambergris. It is time you revealed its secrets.” Sari, my eunuch and confidant, breathes heavily, unable to keep up with my pace.

I gaze down at his freckled, balding head and pity this man who must have harbored his own dreams of wives and children. “We will rest, Sari. Here, chew on some ambergris to strengthen your heart.”

Years have passed and I have honored my vow to the ancient spice merchant to keep the secret of ambergris to myself. But unable to shake my loneliness, I open my mouth and say what I should not.

“An ancient spice merchant with four fingers on one hand and a knapsack on his back crossed lands, seas, and deserts on foot, on horseback, by boat, and on camel to find me, Athalia the Omride, mistress of alchemy. He was tall. His handsome, sunbaked face was lined with wisdom, his silver hair braided and held back with many ribbons. Did I know how to extract youth from ambergris, he asked me, after which he opened his knapsack to reveal a waxy, flammable slice of heaven.

“It smelled of love and life. It smelled of death and renewal. I had to have it.

“We bartered.

“‘Look at my opal necklace,' I said to the spice merchant. ‘It is the rarest of its kind. Its color is deep like gold, but it is as clear and pure as air and water. I will give it to you in exchange for half your ambergris. And I will teach you how to stay young. Not with the help of ambergris. That I do not know yet. But I will teach you to reach deep into the heart of this pure opal to unravel the mysteries of the universe.'

“He laid his four-fingered hand on my shoulder. ‘I will accept. And in return you must promise to hold the ambergris dear. Do not share its secrets. It possesses power beyond your imagination. Handle it intelligently. And never, ever use it as a means of…'”

Howls of a developing storm, followed by heart-wrenching wails, force their way into the palace.

A flash of lightning brings to life two silhouettes framed by the backdrop of the domed portal. Lit by dim torches, messengers of the king gradually emerge from the shadows, bows and arrows spent, eyes bloodshot for lack of sleep, feet blistered from the long journey.

“Our king is dead, my queen! By the hand of Jehu, his trusted general.”

“An uprising!”

“A bloody revolt against the House of David.”

“King Jehoram of Judah is dead!”

I gesture with an open palm and order my procession to keep their distance. My other hand presses to my chest to lock my grief inside. “Where is my son?” I ask the messengers. “Is he back from war?”

I listen, clutching my chest, holding on to the pieces of my shattering heart. My son, Ahaziah, is dead too. General Jehu incited an uprising. Murdered my husband. Murdered my son. Forty-two other Omride princes were also killed. Only five spared. I am in danger, they say; Jehu is bent on destroying all Omrides.

“Where are my grandson and daughter-in-law?” I ask. “Are
they
safe?”

“Yes, they were spared. But you must take matters into your own hand, our queen. The surviving princes are not worthy of the throne. Your grandson is a mere child. The survival of the monarchy depends on you.”

Sari holds a vial of ambergris to my nose. I push his hand away. “I will be alone with my God. Do not follow me!”

He thrusts the vial in my pocket.

I cross halls of stone and marble, where rooms open into other rooms, into inner worlds of ambition and deception. I walk out of the palace and down stone steps. Gusts of wind blow sand into my eyes and the sour stench of carrion and urine into my lungs. Clusters of grieving stars congregate overhead. Tarantulas dig their way out of the earth, and vultures shriek into the wind. I weave my way between olive and palm trees, across the desert, and toward Mount Ephraim, seeking the temple between Ramah and Beth-El. I take shelter under the Etz Rimmon, the pomegranate tree of mercy by the main entrance to the temple. I hide my face in my hands and wail, “Why, Adonai? What have You done?”

An arid wind transports the odor of decaying dates and the sound of conversation in the sanctuary. The high priest, Jehoiada, must be here with his wife, preparing the temple for the day of mourning. I rise to my feet, straighten my spine, turn the knob, and open the back door. The air smells of incense and of the Ner Tamid, torch of eternal light. I step across the narrow corridor, separated from the main sanctuary by a stretch of embroidered fabric, and nudge the fabric back. Diffused light from the latticed dome falls on a circle of men. Desert-colored robes and delineated features come into focus—a square jaw, an imbecilic smile, a broken nose, twisted mouth spitting secrets.

What business do the remaining five Davidic princes, sons of King Jehoram from other wives, stepbrothers to my murdered son, have here?

They are congregated around the bimah altar scattered with sacred objects—havdalah spice boxes, Rosh Hashanah honey pots, sash of the high priest, glazed candleholders. Their heads come together, fists flashing gold and silver rings, their petulant murmurings a hum in the sanctuary.

They step up to the altar and unlock the holy ark. Remove a Torah, protected from harm for decades in the holy ark, where no outsider is allowed.

How dare they remove the Torah when such a sacred duty belongs to the high priest!

Why are they kissing the embroidered mantle that covers the holy book, kissing the jewel-encrusted breastplate that hangs over the mantle, unlocking the cover to reveal the holy scroll inside? Why are they removing the sash girthing the scroll, praying with eyes closed and foreheads touching the scroll? A word here, another there, a broken phrase and before long a string of remarks solidify around the hazy edges of my brain. “Accept us, Adonai… The glory of Israel…in our hands…King Jehoram of Judah is dead. His other son…We are Your servants…allow us to serve Your land.”

My mouth fills with bitter ash. Treason! The princes are planning to rob my grandson of his rightful place as king of Judah.

I move away from the curtain and take the narrow back corridor toward steps that lead to a ledge behind the eternal torch. I step on the ledge and reach out for the light.

I grab and aim it at the traitors. Hurl it with the force of my rage.

They stare around. An accident, they think, trampling the flame, attempting to suffocate the anemic fire.

I snatch the vial of ambergris from my pocket, gaze at it with a sense of trepidation. It is buttery, glazed with oils and throbbing with possibilities. I think of the spice merchant, of the promise he extracted from me. I shut my eyes and toss the vial across the sanctuary. It shatters. Pieces of glass embed themselves in the men's flesh. The ambergris blooms like a dazzling rose, bursting into hundreds of blazing petals that roar into life with capricious explosions that soar to lick the ceiling, walls, windows, and doors.

The startled men scramble to find their way out, but the flames are spreading and encircling them like molten lava, scorching hair and fabric, melting skin and flesh and bone.

I make my way across the corridor and out into the dusty road, heedless of poisonous insects underfoot, the pounding in my temples, the screech of vultures overhead. Fire blasts behind, illuminating my path. A grove of palms ahead. Farther down, the horses' entryway to the stables. I slow for an instant, gaze back: wood planks come shattering down. Blazing fabric and smoldering parchments float above.

The roof of the temple collapses with a great wail.

My heart churns with remorse. The moon has turned its back to me. I am cold. I fall to my knees, hold my head in my hands, and call out to God: Adonai! What have I done? I burned Your holy book, Your sacred words. Pardon my transgressions.

I gaze ahead, gaze with unbelieving eyes. Struggle to comprehend the shifting landscape I face.

The branches of the pomegranate tree of mercy are shorn of leaves. They are steeped in fire. No! Not a burning fire! A lovely glow that does not consume the tree. And then…what do I see? Holy letters disengage themselves from fragments of parchment. The letters flutter overhead like luminous moths, like small blessings. Float down. Land on boughs and limbs, shoots and tendrils, adjusting and readjusting their placement to dress the tree with holy letters.

High above, a rainbow appears on the canvas of a night sky that leaks fat tears to extinguish the flames. And in the midst of the emerging ruins of smoke and ash and regret, the pomegranate tree of mercy, the keeper of the Torah, glows like a jewel.

I clutch my necklace and gaze into the translucent heart of the opal, searching for the image of the just-transpired miracle. I see my face instead. The face of a traitor. I razed the house of God. I murdered the king's sons. I unleashed a series of events that will forever stain Judah. I raise my face to the heavens and vow to ensure the continuance of the House of David. My raw voice shatters the hearts of angels, letting loose a torrent of stars.

I find my way to the palace. It is time to bathe. Change into royal attire. Announce the death of our king. Announce my leadership. Present myself to my people.

Sari assists me into the rooftop bathing tub. A specter of a pale moon glides behind a funereal blanket of smoke. The stench of burned wood and parchment and treason hovers above the realm. He removes layers of my pomegranate-stained clothing, pockmarked by fire sparks, the pungent odor of sin woven into the fabric.

We sit shiva for seven days and nights in the house of Jehoram. My one-year-old grandson Joash and my daughter-in-law Tsibia are by my side. My people beat on their chests and sway on their heels, reciting the mourners' kaddish.

On the eighth day, Tsibia and Joash bid me a tearful farewell. I ruffle my grandson's curly hair. “You will become king one day, my Joash. And it will be your sacred duty to preserve the royal seed.”

The week after, I dispatch a messenger to invite my grandson and daughter-in-law to come live with me in my palace. We will raise Joash as befits a king of Israel. We will raise him with a firm hand and a compassionate heart.

Their house is silent, everything in its proper place, the messenger reports back. No sign of struggle.

The two are nowhere to be found.

And so it is that with the aid of the pomegranate tree of mercy, my loyal eunuch, and an army devoted to its murdered king, I have been ruling for six years a land bereft of an heir.

The first winter came with a deluge of rains, followed by a gray spring when the sun peered through smoke-tinged clouds, striving to purge the land of the stench of fires, grant a semblance of normalcy to our lives. Masons from all four corners of Israel toiled day and night to rebuild the temple on the ruins of the last.

Her boughs weighted with all 304,805 letters in the holy book, the pomegranate tree of mercy oversaw the completion of the magnificent edifice.

On the third spring, two saplings sprouted on each side of the tree, adorning the main entrance of the newly built temple with three rimonim of mercy in place of one.

On the eve of Rosh Hashanah, the land ablaze with scented torches and the air fragrant with amber and myrrh, a retinue follows me to the temple to celebrate the beginning of the seventh year of my reign.

The ram's horn is blown, resounding across the desert and in every home around my kingdom, heralding the arrival of another year of peace and prosperity.

The blare of horns of the cavalry announces my arrival. My soldiers, ministers, and advisers follow me into the sanctuary. It is dim and silent, devoid of all signs of festivity. Candles do not flicker on mantelpieces. Dust balls roll underfoot, and dried twigs beat against walls. The eternal light carves a solitary path through the sinister gloom. The shriek of a developing wind forces its way through an open window, blowing sand into my eyes.

Why? Why is the temple in a state of disarray on this day of celebration? Why is it besieged by menace? Why is Sari shaking like a palm frond and darting around like a sacrificial rooster?

Suddenly the sanctuary comes alive with hundreds of shifting shadows. A procession of disembodied faces—men, women, and children—appears from all doors.

From a shady corner emerges the high priest, Jehoiada, followed by lieutenants and cavalry of the army. Áhãh! Mutiny! My soldiers, at the command of my priest, are taking battle stations around
me
, their queen.

The bones of conspiracy I failed to see for six years glare at me now. I searched long and far in hope of capturing General Jehu, yet all the time, right under my watchful eyes, the high priest was plotting against me with my army.