by Angela Hunt
Table of Contents
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Preface
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Author's Note
Discussion Questions
References
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
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Jerusalem’s
Queen
© 2018 by Angela Hunt Communications, Inc.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2018
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.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-1607-3
Scripture quotations are from the Tree of Life Version. © 2015 by the Messianic Jewish Family Bible Society. Used by permission of the Messianic Jewish Family Bible Society. “TLV” and “Tree of Life Version” and “Tree of Life Holy Scriptures” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by the Messianic Jewish Family Bible Society.
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by LOOK Design Studio
Cover photography by Aimee Christenson
Author is represented by Browne & Miller Literary Associates.
Contents
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Preface
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
Epilogue
Author's Note
Discussion Questions
References
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
In the Christian Bible, one turns the page after Malachi and finds Matthew as if only a few days fell between the activities of the prophet and the arrival of Jesus Christ. In reality, however, four hundred “silent years” lie between the Old Testament and New, a time when God did not speak to Israel through His prophets. Yet despite the prophets’ silence, God continued to work in His people, other nations, and the supernatural realm.
He led Israel through a time of testing that developed a sense of hope and a yearning for the promised Messiah.
He brought the four nations prophesied in Daniel’s vision to international prominence: the Babylonians, the Persians, the Greeks, and the Romans. These powerful kingdoms spread their cultures throughout civilization and united the world by means of paved highways and international sailing routes.
God also prepared to fulfill His promise to the serpent in Eden: “I will put animosity between you and the woman, and between your descendant and her descendant; he will bruise your head, and you will bruise his heel” (Gen. 3:15).
For God never sleeps, and though He may not communicate as we expect Him to, He can always speak to a receptive heart.
Our sages commanded that one should not teach one’s daughter Torah because the minds of most women are incapable of concentrating on learning, and thus, because of their intellectual poverty, they turn the words of Torah into words of nonsense.
Moses Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, “Laws of Torah Study,” 1:13
Chapter One
They are all here, gathered like vultures around my bed, watching with long faces and occasionally bending near to listen for my breathing. Hyrcanus studies me with wet eyes; Aristobulus is not present, undoubtedly intent on working mischief outside Jerusalem. His wife, whom I have never liked, smiles at my bedside, ready to fly to her husband once I am gone.
HaShem, can I not stay a little longer? My sons are not at peace with each other, and I worry their animosity will destroy the peace of Judea.
I close my eyes and the room goes silent. When I open them again, the daughter-in-law at my side frowns.
I shift my attention to the others. Such beloved faces! Here is Simeon ben Shetah, who takes my hand and pronounces a blessing on my head. There is Honi the Circle-Drawer, who pushes his way past Simeon to see me. I try to smile at him, but my lips do not respond as I would like.
The distant sound of mournful music seeps into the room. The figures around me soften in a hazy glow, and my friends and family are replaced by loved ones from long ago. My father! My sister, now a woman as beautiful as I expected. My mother, who smiles at me with pleased surprise. And Uncle, standing erect, his hands folded, wearing a look of satisfaction. I see Alena and Avigail and Ezra Diagos—
“Mistress?”
I blink at the sound of Kissa’s voice. My eyelids flutter, and with an effort I focus on the oval face hovering near mine.
“Honi Ha-Meaggel would like to pray with you.”
I nod, or try to, and as the circle-drawer reads, the beloved words lift me from my surroundings and distract me from my visitors.
“I will lift up my eyes to the mountains—
from where does my help come?
My help comes from Adonai,
Maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot slip.
Your Keeper will not slumber.
Behold, the Keeper of Israel
neither slumbers nor sleeps . . .”
I look down on the palace courtyard that has filled with my people, many of whom are weeping. The air vibrates with the ululation of mourners. Men and women are beating their breasts, asking HaShem to bless my journey . . . as I have blessed Israel.
Their words are a balm to my soul. Thanks be to HaShem, He listened to the prayer of a fatherless girl and granted her most earnest desire: to matter in a world where women were often chattel, overlooked and forgotten.
And then He made her queen.
Chapter Two
Shelamzion
I covered my eyes, unable to look at the dead man on the table. Thus occupied, my hands could not protect my ears, which had filled with the sound of Mother’s frantic wailing and the mourners’ rising ululation.
“M
y husband,” Mother cried, her voice trembling. “And my beautiful girl! How can I lose them both in one day?”
“Hush now.” Avigail pulled my mother into her arms. “Ketura Desmona may yet live. We will know nothing until they find her.”
Mother shook her head. “She is gone. HaShem has taken her from me.”
The mourners wailed on cue, and Mother burst into fresh sobs.
Overcome by the sights and sounds of grief, I crouched lower in the corner, willing myself to disappear. No one looked in my direction because I was the second daughter, the plain one. I was only Shelamzion.
“So sudden,” Avigail said, releasing my mother. The old woman, our closest neighbor, picked up a piece of wet linen, wiped it over my dead father’s chest, and shook her head. “Ittamar was a fine man. HaShem blessed you with a fine husband, a prosperous man, and now He has taken him away.”
“Blessed be the name of the Lord,” another neighbor murmured, determination in the straight line of her mouth as she scrubbed between the dead man’s toes. “He gives and He takes away.”
“But to take him—like this!” Mother sputtered, looking from one neighbor to another. “He was fine this morning. He broke his fast and went riding with Ketura, and before I could even visit the well, my husband returned to me, dead! And my daughter—my pride and joy—what has become of her?”
A newcomer caught Mother’s arm. “A swift death is a mercy, and my son said your husband died instantly. Apparently the horse reared, and Ittamar fell backward. Your daughter must have been thrown from the saddle.”
“So where is she?” Mother shrieked. She stepped to the window, threw open the wooden shutters, and looked into the courtyard as if expecting my nine-year-old sister to materialize outside the door. “Where could she be?”
“Poor, proud Ittamar.” Avigail’s hands drifted to the corpse’s forehead. “Why did you have to insist on a horse? Would not a mule have served you as well?” The other women did not reply but kept washing the body.
Though I was but a child of six years, I knew the old woman had raised a valid point. Most of the villagers in Modein rode mules, if they rode at all, yet Father had insisted on riding a horse. And not just any horse—his mount had to be a stallion, the finest money could buy, and it had to be a proud beast, and lively, with a wild streak to intimidate less-skilled riders.
That insistence, born of pride, had probably cost Father his life. The skittish stallion often fidgeted when a rider climbed onto his back and frequently kicked at any passerby who happened to startle him. Mother often spoke of how untrustworthy the animal was, yet Father only laughed at her fears.
He was not laughing now. And Ketura? Where was my sister?
Before sunset, Father would take his place in the family tomb, and Mother and I would face life without him. I would miss his twinkling dark eyes, his booming laugh, and the work-worn hands that had always patted my head with gentle affection.
A sob rose in my throat, and I barely forced it down. Mother was already mad with grief; I did not want to distract her and cause her further pain.
Now she walked around the room, her hands in constant motion—pressing against her forehead, clinging to the table for support, tugging at the neckline of her tunic. “What will we do?” she asked, glancing around the room. “Ittamar’s parents are dead, and he has no brothers. His sisters have married into other families . . .”
