Reign

by Ginger Garrett

  Ahab had never had a choice. Elijah had warned him not to honor his father’s wishes, not to bring this princess to Israel, but Ahab was not in the habit of obeying men who did not fall in his chain of command. He took orders from his father and no one else.

  And for good reason. Soldiers obeyed Omri, or they died.

  Even if this land, as Elijah said, belonged to Yahweh, a man had to rule it, didn’t he? Kings had ruled Yahweh’s people for generations. Obadiah concurred and said it was all written in his scrolls. But those men were nothing like Omri. Or perhaps, Ahab thought, Omri was nothing like them.

  Ahab crept quietly to a corner of the room, lifting a small oil lamp into the palm of his hand for light. In the corner was a table where he kept his bag. Inside were all the amulets and necklaces and stone figures of gods, twenty-three of them. He lit a piece of charcoal in the flame of the oil lamp and set it in a dish, sprinkling incense over it. The charcoal burned red and then released the white smoke that stung his eyes. Cupping his hands, he dipped his face into the smoke, waving it over each of his shoulders and then over his head.

  “Which one are you praying to?” she asked. Jezebel stood behind him. He closed his eyes, annoyed with himself for getting caught.

  “Go back to bed,” he replied.

  “I do not recognize all of the gods,” she said. “They are crudely done.”

  “Soldiers carved them in their tents when they were waiting for a battle and could not sleep. They carved the image of their god and prayed, sometimes all night. Then they died in the morning.” He sighed.

  “Their gods failed them,” she said. She sounded distant, angry, as if speaking to someone else.

  Ahab stood and faced her. Her pupils were wide and black as she stood in the shadows. “I am not honoring the gods. I am honoring the men. They were my friends.”

  She shook her head, as if trying to understand, trying to push away a bad memory to see him more clearly.

  He took her hand, and she did not pull away. A smile played on his lips, but he did not look at her. Wooing her was like trying to coax a frightened kitten from its hiding place. “I had an older brother. Did you know that?”

  Her eyes opened wider, a flash of something like recognition. “No,” she whispered.

  “I did. He was older by two years, and very much like my father. That’s why my father loved him more than me. When my brother died,” he said, “I spent all night with his body so the animals wouldn’t get it. I held his hands and rubbed them between my own, for hours, trying to keep them warm. He just kept getting colder. He didn’t worship any gods, and neither did our father. That was not their way, and so there was nothing I could do for him. I think that’s why gods are important. Whether they are real or not, whether they fail or not, it doesn’t matter. The gods are for us.”

  Jezebel stepped closer, listening intently, something stirring in her eyes. “How did he die?”

  “We had gone into battle, confident that we had more troops, better weapons. And we did. But he and I got separated, and when I looked up, a stronger man had him under his blade. My brother looked right at me as he died. He hated me in that moment. I was the one who would live. There was no reason for it; he was stronger and more loved. But I was the one who lived.”

  Jezebel reached out her arms and drew him into an embrace, and he did not resist. He felt her head rest upon his chest, bent down his own to smell her hair, perfumed and combed and glistening black in the lamplight. Her arms were strong, even as they trembled, unsure how to touch him. She was such a strange, wondrous woman. He had no idea why he had told her those things.

  “Let me show you something,” she murmured, pulling away. She walked back to the table where her robes had been laid out for the morning, and from a bag retrieved a stone statue no bigger than her palm. It was the figure of a woman with pronounced breasts and belly but no face. Its feet had been broken off.

  “This is Asherah. I have kept her next to me since I was a child.” She looked at Ahab, biting her lip, then set her Asherah among his other gods. She knelt, pursing her lips, and blew the perfumed smoke over the statue, whispering a quiet prayer.

  “We can pray together,” Ahab said, and she groaned in an agony he did not understand, burying her face in his legs. He stood, stroking her hair, wondering what he had said or done that had burst this heartache open. Perhaps when he had finished building the temple for her gods, she would feel better. The marriage treaty required him to do that, as all marriage treaties between nations did. The temple for Baal would be built first, and later, when the people had come to accept that even the mighty Baal needed a wife, the goddess would have her own temple. Until the Israelites understood the power of the feminine, they would not worship it, not completely.

  “If your god ever asked you to kill me,” she said, looking up with a face twisted by pain, “would you?”

  “No.” He would not. He would not even entertain the thought, or give her that strange comfort by promising he would. He could never hurt her. Something had done that enough, long in her past.

  Finally, she grew still, and her breathing grew calm. He knelt beside her, stealing a glance at her face, now resigned back into its mask of indifference, before the smoke stung his eyes and he closed them for relief.

  Jezebel

  Jezebel hung her head over the bowl, waiting for the wave to pass. Lilith had sent for the ashipu. She needed medicine or a spell or a prayer. She did not care which. Relentless waves of morning nausea plagued her every day. Mirra encouraged her to lean back onto the pillows of the bed and offered to wipe her forehead with a damp linen.

  Jezebel refused. Soon her priests would be ready to make sacrifices to the goddess. Even before Elijah appeared, Ahab had set his workers to building a temple to Baal, Asherah’s husband, with a carved sacred tree and altar just outside the temple for her honor. Once the gods saw the smoke rising from Samaria, they would come. They would talk to Yahweh, or chase him away.

  Jezebel drew a deep breath between waves, which helped. Her forehead was beading with sweat, and she swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. She turned her head to look out the window; a sirocco had swept through late yesterday afternoon. The scorching wind had ripped the late summer leaves away, exposing branches that bled dark rivers. Leaves rained past her window in frantic spirals.

  Jezebel wondered if she would survive the drought. A world without water, to a Phoenician, was an impossibility. Would death be slow? She was trapped here, trapped in her own body by this illness, trapped by dry land in every direction, no home to return to. Ahab still brought her to his bed at night, but he seemed reluctant to touch her. She should have been relieved, but in the weeks that had passed since the curse, the unspoken name that hovered between them was Elijah.

  A joyous season was beginning for her people in Phoenicia, but the mood in the tents below here in Samaria, and in the new houses, was quiet. Word had spread about the curse. Jezebel suspected that Ben-hadad was out there too, somewhere, watching and waiting.

  Obadiah entered the chamber, a red ball of flame drawing a gasp from Jezebel. He was holding the first ripe pomegranate of the season, carrying it in his hand like a gem. It was a radiant ruby that illuminated the chamber.

  She refused to hold out her hand, though her body twitched from greed. He hesitated and then placed it on the bed next to her.

  She sat up to grab it, feeling the weight of the juice inside, thinking of the rich seeds that would burst on the edge of her teeth. The red skin was rough beneath her fingers. It was a prize. She had not known hunger like this before. It was more powerful than any hunger in her past. She did not understand why she could feel so hungry, so fast. The drought had not yet taken hold. There was plenty of food on her table.

  “We will be moving within the month to the winter palace in Jezreel,” Obadiah said. “It is tradition, as the winters here are unpleasant.
Ahab will go ahead of you with the army, so you have time to prepare. Will you require my assistance?”

  “No.” She wanted him to leave so she could eat the fruit.

  Obadiah reached for the pomegranate, and she jerked it away. He held his hand out, patiently, until she saw his arm shake from holding it in midair for so long. He wasn’t going to hurt her, or steal it, so she put it on the bed and rolled it to him.

  He began peeling it for her, frowning softly as if a deep trouble were stirring him. He did not like her, she had known that immediately. He should have come here gloating, delight twinkling in his eyes that she had caused a conflict between Ahab and Elijah and the nation’s god. Yet he had no rebuke. He was a mystery to her. Like Ahab, his kindness was unpredictable.

  The dark juice stained his fingers.

  He held it out to her, the top peeled back, revealing the white pith and crimson berries within. She accepted the pomegranate, careful to avoid touching him, and held it to her lips. The juice was cool and piercingly sweet. He spoke as she drank, although the relief she felt was so great it was hard to concentrate. A few seeds fell into her mouth, and she chewed them.

  “Jezreel is our military headquarters,” he said. “It is nothing like Samaria. The surrounding land is beautiful, but the palace is built as a military base. It is surrounded by military compounds. It will not be to your liking when you first see it.”

  She nodded, handing the pomegranate to a servant, who set it on the table for the princess to enjoy later. Lilith entered with the ashipu, who quietly set his bag on a table in the corner of the room, his back to the women as he prepared the medicine.

  “Are you trying to keep me from going?” she asked.

  “No.” Obadiah shook his head with emphasis. “I am preparing you because you will go. Ahab will want you to be happy. Take whatever you think you will need, and remember we will be there for several months.”

  Obadiah stepped forward and lowered his voice. He spoke with urgency, but not disrespect, as if he were trying to save her. “I want to speak boldly to you.”

  She nodded.

  “Leave your gods behind, Jezebel. You are a princess of Israel now. You belong to Yahweh.”

  He was afraid. She saw it in his eyes. They were her own eyes, when she was a child. No one was going to save him, though; he must have known that just as surely as she once had.

  “But I don’t. I gave myself to my gods long ago. I gave so much,” she said, willing him to somehow understand everything she could not say.

  “Israel is not Phoenicia. You can leave the past behind.”

  She heard the desperation in his voice, as if he were fighting for her. Why did he care? How could he find her repulsive and still want to help her? Yet it was the most intriguing conversation she had had since laying eyes on Ahab. Obadiah was speaking to her as an equal, but she was not offended. Something drove him.

  “The past will not leave me,” she said.

  “Renounce Baal and Asherah,” Obadiah insisted in a whisper, his gaze piercing. He did not blink as he stared into her eyes, searching for the soul that rested behind them.

  “Surely there is room here for more than one god!” She could not stop her voice from rising, as the ashipu turned and moved toward her with a statue of Asherah in one hand, and a cup of medicine in another. Obadiah backed away, holding his palms up as if protecting himself from them both.

  “I have come too far,” she said, though Obadiah was no longer listening. She may as well have been speaking to herself. “I have given everything. If I was wrong, I deserve death, not a second chance with some new god. I will not make the same mistake twice.”

  And truly, she was not an ignorant woman. She had heard as many tales as Obadiah had read. Never had one god given his own nation such trouble. Did Yahweh not honor those who were devoted to him? If he would betray his best subjects, then Jezebel knew well what kind of god he was. He was no different than her father and Elijah—just another man anxious to see her fall. If her gods were disgraced, and his own were elevated, Elijah might ask for any sum and get it. He might even ask the elders for the crown. She had lost a crown once. It would never happen again. She had trusted a god’s word once and done the unthinkable, and it had only led her here.

  “Why is death the only way?” she asked the ashipu.

  He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

  “In any religion there is death. Death is the only way to prove yourself to the gods.” She sighed. “It’s the only way to make progress.”

  He shook his head, not understanding. He was a healer, though, not a priest. She was the highest-ranking official of her religion in this land, being the daughter of Eth-baal. If her god was to be defended, she would have to do it.

  “If you needed to kill someone, who would you hire?” she asked.

  He thought for a moment, scratching his beard. “A soldier named Amun has been staying in the city. He has waited at the gates every morning for a week now, looking for work. Ahab will not hire him, though, because it is rumored he kills even young children. The Hebrews find him repugnant.”

  He sounded perfect. “I have a job for a man who is not afraid of angering a god. Hire him for me.”

  She whispered the details to the ashipu, relieved to know there was at least one man in Israel as bold as she.

  Obadiah

  Obadiah searched the scrolls all night to be sure of what he already knew, with only hours left before their departure for Jezreel. He couldn’t bring his library with him. Never in the history of Israel had the winter rains not come. The winter rains had to come, because life could not continue without them. Rain was life. Without rain, there would be no spring wheat, or barley, or fruits or seeds or wine. Without rain, there would be no Israel.

  Obadiah was half-crazed with fear, though no one paid him any mind when he spoke of ancient writings and the story they told of God. All the servants of the court, even some from the families of elders who would travel with them, had come repeatedly to him throughout the evening, and throughout the night, interrupting his reading. Many needed help finding items, or unlocking the stored supplies, or verifying what must be brought both for the journey and the stay. Obadiah stayed in his scroll room, searching frantically through the words for a solution. None could be found.

  Elijah had proclaimed a curse unheard of, a blight without remedy.

  “Do not make me go to Jezreel.” A servant named Amitra stood in his doorway, her face tear-streaked.

  He rose and went to her, taking her hand in his. She was wan, and her eyes seemed to have lost their life.

  “What is it, Amitra?” The past year had been hard on her. Her parents sold her as a slave to Omri’s court but had neglected to tell anyone that she was pregnant. It was why they no longer wanted her as a daughter. She would not bring a good price as a wife, but she had value as a slave.

  “I don’t want to serve Jezebel. I believe she lies,” the girl said, almost without feeling.

  He frowned. “You must never speak of the princess that way. It is disrespectful, and even if I forgive you, the king might not.”

  Amitra’s face suddenly developed some color, and anger knit in her brow. “But she does! She told me there was a way I could be free, but I am not free! I thought I might be able to go home if …”

  Obadiah suddenly knew what the girl was about to say, and he closed his eyes, trying not to frighten her. He exhaled for strength and then opened his eyes.

  She burst into tears, and he had to catch her when her knees seemed to buckle below her. “She said she knew how hard it was for me to do,” the girl stammered, “that my choice would not be easy, but I could be blessed in the future, if only I sacrificed the … child … my child. She said it would make things better for everyone. Asherah might bring rain, even. I obeyed her.” She was weeping quietly, shaking. “I couldn’t
stand to look at the baby because it reminded me of everything I had lost.” The girl let out a quiet wail. “But now I can’t stand to look at myself.”

  Obadiah put his arms around her, though she resisted at first, knocking against him with her shoulders, refusing all comfort, but he was patient and held her until she quieted down. He tasted the tears that ran down his own cheeks, too. It was what he had feared: Phoenician lies had appeal in Israel, too.

  This girl didn’t care about honoring the goddess or worshipping the sacred feminine as a bold declaration of her womanly power. She had only thought there was an easier way.

  Obadiah comforted the girl as best he could, then sent her back to her quarters. He would make arrangements, he promised, to keep her in Samaria for the winter. He needed much wisdom for the plans he had to make. Ahab and Omri were worried about war. They were soldiers, and that threat seemed most real. But Obadiah was a Hebrew, and he trusted Elijah as much as he feared him. If Elijah’s words were true, a drought was coming, and famine would follow. Obadiah searched his scrolls to find the words of Moses, the tale of a palace steward named Joseph who had led the Egyptians through a mighty famine. If Yahweh had mercy, it would not come to that. But if He did not relent, these words could still save many, if only Obadiah applied them faithfully.

  Toward the final watch, he smelled smoke, a sweet thick smoke, like those of the cooking fires from the kitchens. But this came from somewhere else. He followed the scent until he came to a window. In the distance, a fire glowed from a makeshift altar of Asherah that Ahab’s men had set up.

  Obadiah retched, holding his hands against his mouth to quiet the sound. He had to keep this secret until he was sure, until he held a burnt bone here, on Hebrew soil.

  Everything that defined Israel was changing. A blessed nation was under a curse. The winter rains would not come. The first infant had died to honor a foreign goddess, a demon Obadiah did not know.