She took the oil lamp from the bedside and poured the oil over the linens. She didn’t want to be known or touched or loved. Her family had judged her unworthy, unloved, less than. She had spent her life trying to prove them wrong, but last night, Ahab had proved them right. Wanting to be loved, to win approval, had led to her worst sorrows. She had been a fool to let him touch her like that, and to open herself back up to that pain, as she nearly had with Ahab. She vowed to never close her eyes, never surrender to his kindness. It was nauseating that he thought she could want such tenderness from him. She knew what it led to: only pain.
She touched the flame to the bedding and opened the door. Ignoring the shouts of the servants who rushed to extinguish the blaze, she went in search of water.
She needed a bath.
Obadiah
“I’d like to request we give Mirra another assignment, one that is not so public,” Obadiah said to Ahab. It had taken several days to decide how best to approach the prince. Finally, Obadiah decided that he had to be direct and plain. Ahab was so often distracted. Though Obadiah had searched for the prince in the palace, he found him in the stables. The stables were not attached to the palace, but further down on the land below it, with other royal buildings that marked the beginning of the royal complex. There was also a storage building for grains and foodstuffs and a treasury for receiving taxes and tributes. Each was a plain rectangle-shaped building of white stone, with one main entry door. There were no windows in the food storage building, but two windows had been allowed on either side of the door to the treasury. Counting coins required light, but windows were invitations for rodents in the storage building. Obadiah had been the one to suggest the windows for the treasury. He was tired of reading scrolls by lamplight and wanted the accountants to have an easier time.
Ahab was brushing his horse, a small, wicked beast with a temperament as black as its coat. Obadiah kept his distance.
“No,” Ahab replied, clearly lost in thought.
“Mirra’s father wants her to find a husband from one of the visiting elders or royalty. That’s why he asked Omri to allow her to serve the princess. But she has no real talent for service.”
“Mirra should be pleased with the arrangement. She will find a good husband.”
Obadiah lifted his hands in a weak protest. He hated to love a woman he could never have, but worse would be to fail her.
“I don’t understand women, Obadiah,” Ahab said, leaving the horse and walking down the center of the stable. One either side were stalls with stone walls and wooden gates at the entrance. Each had a window, and the early afternoon sunlight illuminated the dust that was in constant circulation here. The bedding was being replaced in an empty stall, and Ahab paused as the stable boy spread it out. When Obadiah caught up to him, Ahab turned his attention to him, intense and yet not focused.
“When your father died,” he asked Obadiah, “why did your mother never remarry? Did no man want her as a wife? Is that why she had to sell herself?”
Obadiah straightened his back at the mention of her. “She didn’t want to be a wife. It does work both ways, you know.”
“Why would a woman feel that way? It’s against nature.”
Jezebel is anything but natural, Obadiah thought, thinking of the fire she’d set last week. Ahab told the staff she had spilled the oil lamp by accident. Obadiah suspected not, but he wasn’t sure Ahab even knew the truth. She had strange responses. She did not like the servants to touch her, she did not like to eat with others watching her, she seemed afraid to take the good portions of meat, she scowled when the elders of the city complimented her. More than once he had seen her spit at them when their backs were turned.
Ahab sighed. “Women are complicated, aren’t they?”
“Most of life is, I think,” Obadiah said. Ahab was not listening to him anymore, not about Phoenicia and not about Mirra. Ahab had made his choice and seemed to wander in his mind now.
Obadiah wished he had a choice to make too, but all he had was responsibility. That was not the same as authority. He had to keep them all fed and clothed, the palace and court running effortlessly, and the royals free from the daily worries that could distract them. He wished God had given him choices, not just responsibilities.
He watched as a stable hand made his daily count of the bits and bridles hung on the wall.
Obadiah tasted the metal of the bit in his own mouth.
5
Jezebel
Ahab had left her hours ago to attend to the court’s business. Mirra apparently had noticed Jezebel’s boredom while he was away and offered to teach her a dice game that her people played. Lilith offered to pour a bath. But Jezebel preferred to walk. She headed out of her chambers, alone.
A month had passed since Jezebel’s arrival in Israel, and she had slowly begun to feel stronger against Ahab’s affections. She needed fewer little tricks to resist him emotionally. She had resolved weeks ago to survive his touch until she conceived. When she was with child, he would mercifully not touch her for months.
Until that happened, she had found a way to bear his tenderness. She closed her eyes and thought of the other men, those who had hurt her and used her but did not know her. She had been so much safer with them. When Ahab touched her, it felt as if he wanted to peel away her skin, to the part of her that could not bear even the touch of fresh air.
As she walked, Jezebel ached with longing for the solitary comfort of sitting among the clay children. She had no way to pray to Asherah, the queen of heaven, without the regular sacrifices of infants. Her daily routine was still unfamiliar, as was the religious calendar of the Hebrews. The Phoenician court had centered its days around visiting merchants and previewing merchandise and making deals. Israel was a military-based country run by an army commander who didn’t give much thought to luxuries or fine foods. Or to the goddess. The Hebrews Omri ruled had fasting days and feasting days, but Obadiah had replied curtly to her that no one offered sacrifices in Israel. Only in Jerusalem, at Solomon’s temple, and, he’d said, they were holy ones. She was not sure what he meant.
Which was why she had wandered to this particular wing of the palace on a late afternoon. She’d heard about Yahweh, Israel’s one god—for he refused a consort—but his history was written on scrolls, and Obadiah kept them with the palace records. She had walked through the palace enough to know where he kept them, in a quiet room with only three long tables and benches for seating. There were baskets lining the walls, and crocks, all of which contained scrolls, and some of those looked very old indeed. The walls were bare stone. There were no windows in this room, and the three oil lamps that burned left dark shadows of grime on the walls.
Jezebel paused outside the doorway, a familiar wash of anticipation flooding over her. This was a room like her own, back in Phoenicia. Obadiah grew close to Yahweh through the scrolls, and these scrolls were not unlike those clay children. If only Obadiah knew how similar she was to him.
Jezebel heard men’s voices coming from inside. She opened the door and leaned her head toward the opening, holding her breath.
Omri and Ahab were standing over an open scroll on the table. Obadiah was seated, watching Omri with an expectant look, a stylus poised in midair.
Omri was the one most comfortable in this room; she could see it in the way he jabbed at the scroll before him and watched impatiently as Obadiah nodded and wrote.
Omri was planning something, and Ahab paced and argued. When Ahab’s eyes met hers, her stomach tightened.
“Jezebel, go back to your chambers,” he commanded.
Omri glanced up. “Wait. What do you know of Ben-hadad, Jezebel?”
“She knows nothing of this,” Ahab protested.
Obadiah watched her, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Jezebel had faced many men like this, men who for whatever reason were entertained by her trying t
o prove she was not stupid just because she was born a girl. “I know that he will soon be king of Aram,” she said. “That he is not as patient as his father. That he has a taste for foreign women.”
Ahab’s right eyebrow arched. She had never told him of Ben-hadad. He had never asked, and she now dreaded the questions that would come later.
“When he visited our palace,” she continued, “he always rose before dawn to be the first at the port as the slave ships came in. He bought at least four or five girls on every visit.”
Omri’s eyes were cold as he studied her. She had grown up under cold stares. She was unmoved.
“Did your father ever consider giving you to Ben-hadad? Instead of Ahab? Were promises made?”
The air in the room was like a wall of blades closing in, stretched tight across her skin, resting against it, ready to cut her. But then Jezebel exhaled quietly. Omri’s intuition surprised her, but it gave her an opportunity.
The stones beneath her feet seemed more solid now. She knew this terrain, the way important men lashed out at her when afraid, and she had many good defenses.
“No promises were made. But yes, Ben-hadad pursued the union,” she said, avoiding looking at Ahab. “I refused him,” she added.
Omri smiled with a cold, cruel distance in his eyes. “Ahab, we may have a scorned lover to deal with.”
“He was never my lover.” No man has ever been my lover, she wanted to add, looking away when Ahab caught her eye.
Omri folded his arms.
She let the boldness come over her. She crossed the room and found Ben-hadad’s territory on the map. She circled it with her finger. It lay to the east, slightly above the midpoint between Israel and Phoenicia.
“Ben-hadad has a strong army, stronger than Phoenicia’s, perhaps stronger than even yours,” she said. “But if allied with Phoenicia, he would have attacked Israel and tried to take it for himself. My country would have lost control of the trade routes. I advised my father to refuse Ben-hadad because of money.”
Omri smirked and glanced at his son. But it was true. Jezebel had refused him, and her father and the elders had applauded her foresight. That was why she thought she could trust them. They saw something valuable in her at last. But she realized now that what they had seen was her value in marriage if sold to Israel instead.
“He wants your trade routes, not me,” she added. She glared at Omri, hating him for making her confess her worthlessness.
Ahab stepped between his father and his bride. “We caught a scout last night,” Ahab told her, speaking softly. “One of Ben-hadad’s. The scout said Ben-hadad is interested in our progress in building Samaria.”
Jezebel nodded, thankful he treated her as an equal. “Ben-hadad needs Phoenicia for its seaports,” she reminded them. “But Phoenicia and Israel are aligned now. If he attacks Israel for her trade routes, he will anger my people and lose access to their ports.”
“Maybe Israel is not what he is after,” Omri suggested. “And we are your people now. Aren’t we?”
“My king!” a page burst into the room, out of breath. “Elijah is here!”
Omri cursed, and his body withdrew into the hard shell of a fighter. His hands became fists, his shoulders pulled back and down, his brows came together in a fierce line. He followed the page without another word or glance. Obadiah and Ahab followed close behind, exchanging worried, quiet words.
Jezebel had heard only dark rumors of this man Elijah, but she had not met him. He had been nothing more than a ghost in the stories of the Hebrew servants, tales of miracles and children he raised from the dead. He had powerful magic, if half the stories could be believed.
Perhaps he knew of Asherah. Perhaps he could pray to the goddess for her. Her pace quickened at the thought. If he was a powerful man of the gods, he might not even need to sacrifice a child.
She started to follow, but Omri stopped and whipped back to her. “Get her out of here,” he said to Ahab.
Ahab shook his head at Jezebel, stopping her from following them. Obadiah saw her take another step forward, and he moved to grab her arm, as if he was panicked.
They didn’t want her to meet Elijah. They wanted to keep him and his magic far from her. But why?
When Obadiah’s hand reached Jezebel’s forearm, she lifted her arm and sank her teeth into his hand. He screamed, and in the space between their shock and reaction, she was already running ahead of them.
The throne room was empty. Omri’s plain wooden throne sat on top of a raised platform. It was the only furnishing in the room. Ahab had sent for artisans from Phoenicia to paint the walls and put ivory inlays on the throne.
Doors stood at the far end of the room, which led out to a common hall. There, elders could do business in relative quiet. Important discussions and important men, but she paid none of it any mind as the doors swung open and Elijah entered.
She was shocked to see small children circling about him, and watched as he bent down to them and whispered something that made them all go still and wide-eyed. He reached into the bag on his tunic and produced something that looked like seeds or little fruits, and they squealed with delight before taking them and running out.
She watched him, fascinated. He had a bushy white beard and a spreading, bulbous nose. His eyes were wide and clear, like a child’s. Energy pulsed from him; his presence stirred the air. But he had a kind face, like a grandfather who wanted to hear a story, and she was tempted to reach out her hand to him as if he might give her something good too. He was so calming and steady. No wonder the commoners had begged for healing. He was the sort of man who made others believe such things were still possible in this age. His cheeks popped up like small red apples above that beard, and under his whiskers she could see his lips twitching. He smiled often; she could tell by the deep laugh lines all around his mouth. He was not thin, either. He had a good-sized stomach, that of a man who enjoyed his dinners. He wasn’t wealthy, judging by his crudely woven robes, but he was obviously loved. Someone, maybe many people, were feeding him well.
Omri, Ahab, and Obadiah burst into the room behind her, all breathing heavily. She didn’t turn around to acknowledge them, but she knew they were there. She waited, staring, for Elijah to speak to her.
When her eyes met his, his whiskers no longer twitched. His wide gaze burned her skin. Jezebel shifted her weight from foot to foot, feeling as if she should run. He took a step toward her, and she felt a fear wholly new to her. Whereas at first she was comforted by him, something about him now made her cringe. She wanted to hide in shadows; the throne room pulsed with a strange energy. It felt like a horrible guilt, but she had done nothing except serve her gods.
She gasped for air, drowning in pain. Her heart seemed laid bare before him. She thought of a worm writhing on the ground after a hard night’s rain, dying in the strong morning light.
“I see you made your choice,” Elijah said to Ahab in a diffident tone, as if bored by her.
“I had no choice,” Ahab said. No one moved. Jezebel heard only their breath and the sound of her pounding heart.
Elijah stroked his beard and waited. Ahab said nothing else. Then Elijah spoke, in a voice drenched in sorrow. “I pronounce a curse on you. As the Lord God of Israel lives, before whom I stand, there shall be neither dew nor rain again, except by my word.”
Elijah picked up the extra fold in his tunic and turned for the exit. He paused only to rest his hand on a guard’s shoulder, giving the young man a look of grief. Then he was gone.
Omri glared at Jezebel, taking a step toward her, his face clouding with anger. Ahab took her by the arm, pulling her away from his father.
Her stomach churned, and she did not know if it was from her new illness, some small plague that came to her daily, especially in the morning, or from the shock of thinking Elijah could be that strong. What magic was this? From what god? She clenched her
jaw as she realized she had not even had one word with him. Whoever his god was, Jezebel wanted to make a sacrifice to it at once. If she had known of this god earlier, so many things could have been different.
For this reason she was allowed to live, so that she would know His name at last.
That was a strange thought, and not in her voice.
She stopped, digging her heels back, forcing Ahab to turn to face her. She spoke with firm words, the way one would speak to a frightened child.
“I want to talk to Elijah alone.”
Ahab set his mouth in a hard line and pulled at her again, to force her on. She refused, wresting free of his control.
“I have to talk with him. I want his god brought here to Samaria at once. I will make sacrifices to it. He will be pleased.”
“Elijah? No. And his god is Yahweh,” Ahab said. “The god of Israel. Yahweh is already here.”
“That cannot be true. Why would a god curse his own nation? Elijah must serve another god.”
Ahab shook his head. “He knows no one, and nothing, but Yahweh.”
She had thought of Yahweh as an older god, less potent than her own, a god for a dying generation, but Elijah proclaimed a bold living curse. Withholding rain was slow death for a nation. Why would any god threaten his own people? Why would a god be so uninterested in her and yet so angered by her presence? The court around her was alive with whispers and frantic movement.
“What could have angered your god so?” she asked.
“You,” Ahab replied.
The familiar taste of damnation rose like bile in her throat. Nothing had changed. She was a princess, yes, but she was still, as ever, unwanted.
6
Ahab
More than two weeks had passed since Elijah’s visit. No rain had fallen, but it was early in the season.
Ahab could not sleep, restless from thoughts he wished to avoid. They always seemed to find him at night. He would be glad to leave for Jezreel. Jezebel slept next to him, the steady rise and fall of her breath a relief. He had not been able to look at her since Elijah’s visit. He should have told her of his battle with the prophet long before the man presented himself at court with a curse for a wedding gift.
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