Love in a Broken Vessel

by Mesu Andrews

  At least she was warm and well fed.

  A knock on the door interrupted his drunken attempt at passion. He staggered as she pulled away from his grasp. Serious pounding began before Gomer reached the entrance.

  “Open up in the name of King Pekahiah!”

  She gasped, turning to Ezri for direction. He shrugged, too bleary-eyed from wine to be of any real help.

  She opened the door but slipped through a narrow crack, closing it behind her while Ezri remained mute inside. “How may I serve you gentlemen?”

  Two soldiers in full leather armor stood, spears at the ready. “We’ve been ordered to collect the merchant Ezri’s tribute or secure whatever valuables he owns.”

  “My master is resting.” She brazenly examined each soldier from the top of his helmet to the tips of his sandals. “He’s elderly and quite exhausted after strenuous midday activity.” She licked her lips and leaned against the door, hoping they’d take the bait.

  The soldiers exchanged wicked grins. “Perhaps we should seize you to fulfill Ezri’s obligation.”

  She curled her finger, beckoning them closer, keeping her voice low. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow at this time, and I’ll be waiting. It will give me a chance to gather some valuables and make sure my master is sleeping soundly.”

  A moment of decision passed between them, and the taller soldier brushed her cheek. “Tomorrow, then.”

  She waited until they rounded the corner of the next house before slipping back through the door.

  Ezri stood like a statue, his expression stricken. “You would steal from me and leave while I slept?”

  “No!” She stomped her foot, frustration mounting. “Think about it, Ezri. I knew you could hear me, and besides—what is left for me to steal?”

  His hurt turned to shame. “What are we going to do, Gomer? I’ve failed you—just like I fail everyone. I couldn’t find a physician to heal my wife. I didn’t protect my sisters years ago. Maybe this is all a curse from the gods.” He gathered her into his arms, weeping the slobbering tears of wine-saturated grief. “Perhaps if I sell you to one of my friends, I can keep you out of the slave market. At least then I could choose who . . . who . . .” Sobs shook his aging frame. “I’m sorry . . . so sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing!” She shoved him back, grasping his shoulders and shaking him. “Think, Ezri! Think. Is there somewhere else we can go? Do you have merchant friends in another city or country who might help us?”

  His head lolled in spite of her efforts. “No, Gomer. I built my life here in Samaria with my wife. I paid a trusted steward to travel for me while I stayed home and ran the business.”

  She released her grip, letting him crumple to his favorite pillow. The loyalty that had made him a wonderful husband now made him a frustrating fugitive.

  Another knock on the door caused them both to gasp and stare. “What do we do now?” he whispered.

  Gomer gazed into the wide, frightened eyes of the man who had redeemed her from death four years ago. She brushed his cheek and leaned down to kiss him as she walked toward the door. “We do nothing, my sweet Ezri. You have done enough. The soldiers were willing to settle for me a few moments ago. We’ll hope they’ll leave you in peace if I go willingly.”

  A second knock. At least they’re not shouting again for the neighbors to hear their threats.

  She opened the door, beginning her answer before she glimpsed her visitors. “I’ll go if you promise not to—”

  Shocked but familiar faces stared back.

  She gasped. “Hosea? Yuval?”

  Hosea was utterly dumbstruck by Gomer’s beauty. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, spun silk against a sea-green robe. If Yuval hadn’t nudged him, he might have stood there gawking.

  She reached for Gomer’s hand. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re willing to come with us. We’re here to take you home, Daughter.”

  “No, wait.” Confusion warred with panic on Gomer’s features. “I thought you were the soldiers. They came . . . I mean . . . how did you find me?”

  “The same way I found you in Arpad,” Hosea said, his heart pounding. “Yahweh. We knew you were in Samaria, and then we asked at the market about a beautiful copper-haired woman. You weren’t hard to find.”

  “I can’t leave. I’m a slave. I—”

  Hosea placed a hand on the door to be sure she wouldn’t slam it shut. “I know. Yahweh told me that too. Please, if you’ll let us come in, I’d like to explain.”

  “Who is it, Gomer?” A distinguished older man stepped into the doorway, the smell of wine wafting with him. His face lost all color when he saw Yuval. “Merav, is that you?”

  “What did you call her, Ezri?” Gomer touched his cheek as if he were a fragile amphora.

  The old gentleman couldn’t tear his eyes from Yuval. “Merav, is it really you after all these years?”

  Yuval’s face was the color of whitewashed stone. Hosea laid his arm around her shoulders, glancing right and left down the row of houses. “Gomer, please. May we come in?”

  She nodded, opening the door wide. The man, Ezri, seemed to awaken from his stupor—or sober from his wine. “I’m sorry I have no couch to offer you,” he said, “but please make yourselves comfortable on the cushions around the table. Gomer, get our guests some wine.”

  “No, I don’t want wine,” Yuval said, uncharacteristically curt. “I want to know who this Merav is and how both of you knew her.” Hosea watched her soften as the two confused residents fumbled for their own explanations.

  “How could you know Merav?” Gomer asked Ezri. “You said you never visited the harlots at Tamir’s brothel.”

  “Merav was not a harlot!” he shouted, but just as suddenly his features grew stricken. “Was she? Is that what happened to her?”

  Hosea felt Yuval trembling beneath his protective wing as she watched the story unfold. Yahweh, give me wisdom to know when to speak, to listen, to retreat, and to assert Your will. He waited, listening as Gomer and her master sorted out the details of a mystery too incredible to be coincidental.

  “Merav was the midwife at Tamir’s brothel. She helped raise me when I was taken there as a child of twelve. She was like an ima to me, but she was killed at Jeroboam’s first child sacrifice. She was trying to save the infant from death.” Tears spilled down Gomer’s cheeks, and Hosea marveled at the tenderness in her voice. “How did you know her, Ezri? What did you mean when you asked what had happened to her?”

  The old man brushed Gomer’s cheek and then smoothed a stray copper curl behind her ear. He treated her so tenderly, not like a slave at all, but as a friend. Hosea watched with wonder—and envy. He couldn’t dare think of all they’d shared, their bond evident and sincere.

  The gentleman turned to Yuval, including her in his explanation. “My abba was a wealthy man and married into my ima’s wealthy family. When he fell in love with one of our house slaves, my ima tolerated the indiscretion until he began showing favor to the slave’s children. The serving maid bore him twin girls—Merav and Yuval—and they became very dear to me.”

  Gomer gasped, and Hosea gripped Yuval’s shoulders as her knees gave way. He glimpsed a pillow on the floor and guided her toward it. Gomer supported her waist and sat beside her.

  Yuval kept her tearful gaze on Ezri. “Go on.”

  He swallowed hard. “When I was twelve years old—the age of manhood—my ima ordered that the twins be sold. I pleaded with Abba not to do it, but he wouldn’t relent. Ima’s family was influential, and such a scandal could have ruined my abba’s business.”

  Hosea knelt beside Yuval, expecting her to need comfort but finding instead a tear-streaked face full of wonder. “My Yahweh knew all along,” she said. “So, Master Ezri, how old were your sisters—I mean, how old were we when we were sold?”

  The old man winced. “You and Merav were about five years old.” Ezri’s eyes were kind, seeming to search for some recognition. “Do you remember anything about your past?”
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  “Very little. In fact, it’s as if my life is a blank parchment before my journey to Tekoa. I don’t remember any family at all. Isn’t that strange?” She leaned into Gomer’s embrace, her tears flowing unchecked, quiet sobs shaking her shoulders. “I would’ve liked having a brother and sister.”

  Ezri knelt before her. “Perhaps I could fill in a few details, and you might remember. Abba often brought me to the servants’ quarters to play with you girls while he visited your ima. I always brought candied figs for you and Merav—hidden in the pocket of my robe, they were always covered in lint, but you loved them anyway.”

  Yuval chuckled. “Perhaps that’s why my life feels most fulfilled when I’m tending figs.” But the spark suddenly dimmed in her eyes. “I know I was sold and sent to Judah, but what happened to Merav? You seemed surprised at Gomer’s report.” She pinned Ezri with a stare. “What is the last memory you have of our sister?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut before answering, the effort seemingly painful. “When Abba returned from the slave market on my twelfth birthday, I demanded to know what had become of you both. He said a kind Judean farmer purchased you and would be taking you to Tekoa. However, Merav would remain in Samaria with a reputable midwife to learn the trade. I had hoped someday to find Merav and help her, perhaps rescue her if she found herself in dire straits. But . . .”

  “But what?” Gomer said. “Did you ever see Merav again?”

  Ezri lowered his head as if a heavy mantle of emotion weighed him down. “My wife was still childless after ten years of marriage, so I sought out Merav, who had become the most esteemed midwife in Samaria. She attended even the births of the king’s officials, so I trusted her when she prescribed a tonic to make my wife’s womb fertile.”

  He lifted his gaze, his jaw flexing. Hosea tried to read the man’s expression. It had changed from obvious pain and regret to . . . Was he angry?

  “My wife suffered unspeakable pain for three days. Severe cramping and hemorrhaging. We nearly lost her. Merav never practiced midwifery among the nobles again—and my wife never experienced another womanly red flow.”

  Hosea heard Yuval gasp. “Surely Merav didn’t harm your wife on purpose?”

  “No!” Gomer shouted before Ezri could answer. “Merav would never have done such a thing. How can you even—”

  He lifted his hand, silencing Gomer’s objections. “Merav came to me a year later, vowing that the primrose tonic she’d used must have been tainted by a competing midwife. I gave her a bag of silver and told her I never wanted to see her again. I heard later she purchased a brothel with my silver.” He looked at Gomer. “It was the brothel that later became Tamir’s.”

  The silence throbbed with emotion.

  “I see,” Yuval finally said, pain evident in her voice.

  Hosea turned to Gomer, seeing a granite expression replace the tenderness he’d glimpsed moments ago. “Well, I don’t see,” she said flatly, aiming an accusing stare at her master. “Why didn’t you believe Merav and help her clear her name so she could continue her business among the royals? And how did she end up as Tamir’s midwife—hardly better than a servant in a brothel she once owned?”

  “I don’t know,” he said simply, meeting her fury with resolute defeat. “I confess I was weak and would do many things differently if I could do them over.”

  Hosea almost pitied this man who seemed beaten by his circumstances and untroubled by the venom in a slave’s tone. Was he weak, as he said, or had he used the strength of others to hide his base character?

  “Come here, little one.” Ezri pulled a pillow toward him and directed Gomer to it. She seemed hesitant at first, but at his prompting, she nestled close. He wrapped one arm possessively around her waist—like it belonged there—and Hosea watched her soften like the clay on Amoz’s wheel.

  Everything inside him screamed, Get your hands off my wife! But before he opened his mouth, a gentle voice whispered to his spirit: Love your wife again, even though she is loved by others and has committed adultery. Love her as I, Yahweh, love the Israelites, even though they have turned to other gods and love to eat raisin cakes.

  Hosea measured this man to whom Gomer offered more than a slave’s obedience.

  “I was ruled by the chains of wealth and the whims of my family.” Ezri spoke to the women, drawing them with tender charm. Though he was older, his handsome features had undoubtedly won him favor in both business and personal dealings. “I couldn’t risk displeasing my abba with the social scandal of defending a tainted woman. My wife was so devastated when the potion stripped away all hope of childbearing that I couldn’t bring myself to confess Merav as my sister. Years passed, and my parents died. Soon the secret was easier to keep than to tell.” He focused pitiful eyes on Yuval. “I was loyal to my wife in every way until the day she died. But I had hoped that if Merav remained in Samaria, she would hear of my wife’s death and come searching for me. I suppose that’s why I thought you might be her.”

  Gomer reached up and brushed his cheek. “So the last you knew of Merav was her purchase of the brothel?”

  “Yes, my treasure. Many years ago, I heard from a merchant friend that the brothel Merav once owned was now managed by a woman named Tamir. I assumed—I hoped—Merav had earned enough silver to retire at leisure or move to another town.”

  Gomer glanced at Yuval and then held Ezri’s gaze. “Merav had a kind heart like her brother. I don’t know how Tamir acquired ownership of the brothel, but Merav was the heart and soul that kept the girls alive—gave us hope.” She gathered Ezri’s and Yuval’s hands in her own, linking the siblings through her. “I have known all three of you, and I can assure you—the same caring heart has dwelt inside you all.”

  Hosea wasn’t convinced Ezri’s heart would prove caring if he was pushed to sacrifice, and the awkward smile on Yuval’s face suggested she wasn’t sure of his character either. Hosea cleared his throat loudly, signaling the end of the hard-earned tender moment. Gomer tossed him a disapproving glance, but Yuval scooted closer to Hosea, seeming to need his tender care.

  He turned to his host and offered a friendly smile. “Ezri, I believe we’re the only ones in the room who haven’t been introduced. I’m Hosea.” He waited until the man nodded and smiled. “I’m Gomer’s husband.”

  44

  • 2 KINGS 15:23–25 •

  In [Uzziah’s] fiftieth year as king of Judah, Menahem’s son Pekahiah began to rule. Pekahiah was king of Israel for two years. He did what Yahweh considered evil. . . . His officer Pekah, son of Remaliah, plotted against him. With 50 men from Gilead, Pekah attacked Pekahiah . . . in the fortress of the royal palace in Samaria. Pekah killed him and succeeded him as king.

  Ezri’s charming smile disappeared—as expected. “When you forfeited your wife, you lost a treasure greater than twin sisters.”

  The sharp reply confirmed Hosea’s suspicions. The kind old merchant was a warrior.

  Hosea released Yuval and squared his shoulders. “I’ve come to buy back my wife. When Yahweh, the one true God of Israel, called me to become his prophet years ago, His first command was that I make Gomer my wife. He has commanded me to reclaim her and show her my love.”

  The room fell silent, battle lines drawn—Yuval at Hosea’s side, Gomer beside Ezri.

  “I don’t know you or your god,” Ezri said, his chin beginning to quake, “but I have loved Gomer well for four years. If not for the king’s tribute demands, I would never sell her to you or anyone else.”

  Gomer’s face lost all color, but she remained silent, stoic. She stared blankly at a spot on the wall behind Hosea, her breathing as ragged as the hem of her robe. Was she upset about leaving this man—or returning home with Hosea?

  “Perhaps your timing is divine,” Ezri continued. “She is my greatest treasure, Prophet. If you intend to buy her, you will pay dearly.”

  The thought of haggling for his wife riled Hosea. “I bring twenty-three ounces of silver and ten bushels of barley—a s
lave’s wage.”

  Ezri scoffed. “She would bring twice that at the slave market.”

  At the mention of the slave market, Gomer began to tremble. “Hosea, please.” She closed her eyes, releasing streams of tears down her cheeks. “King Pekahiah has demanded tribute from all the merchants. Ezri needs—”

  The old man shushed her, covering her hand with his on her thigh. “Quiet, now. I would never send you back to the market, but a merchant always bluffs.” He lifted her hand, kissed it, and returned his attention to Hosea. “I accept your offer, though she is worth more than any worldly wealth. You were a fool to let her go the first time. Don’t make the same mistake again. Now, where’s my silver and barley?”

  Before Hosea could explain that Micah was waiting outside the gates with payment, distant screams erupted outside, arresting their attention. Hosea tried to speak over the commotion, to conclude their business before the merchant could change his mind. “My messenger is waiting for a red sash to be display—”

  “Long live King Pekah!” Shouting interrupted Hosea’s negotiations, filtering up from the street through Ezri’s open balcony.

  “Death to Pekahiah and his men!” Bloodcurdling screams followed the death call.

  Ezri struggled to his feet and raced to the balcony. Hosea and the women followed closely behind. One glimpse over the railing revealed the bloody beginnings of a coup. Soldiers in full armor and on horseback were pouring in through the city gates, while startled palace guards in light leather breastplates rushed into the streets like lambs to the slaughter.