One mercenary—the oldest, she thought, though attractive, his hair gray at the temples, his forearm still thick as a cedar—stepped forward. “What would you have us do?”
She stroked the muscle that ran down his arm, stopping when she got to the wrist resting on the hilt of his sword. She didn’t mind touching a man when he was prevented from touching her back.
“Find the company of prophets. Kill them all. The curse will be broken when Elijah and all who think like him are dead. Then we will gather the people to Samaria and let them choose the god they will worship.”
“What of Elijah?” a man called. “He does not camp with the prophets. He stays hidden.”
“As I would want him to do,” she replied. “I have sent a mercenary to kill him. Elijah will never be seen again in these lands.”
She nodded to two priests who stood near the altar, and they brought forth a chest. Lifting the lid, the soldiers saw that it was layered elbow-deep in silver and gold coins. She watched as greed leered on their faces and they passed the coins around, filling pockets and satchels. The priests wrote the names of each man on a strip of cypress, along with the name of Elijah and his men, and set the strips on fire.
As they did this, Sargon entered with a bundle in his hands. Jezebel watched, transfixed, as he peeled away the linens to reveal a pink newborn, squirming and blinking in the sudden light. He lifted it high in the air before offering it to Asherah and Baal, and then disappeared into a chamber in the back of the temple.
A few of the men ran outside, and Jezebel heard them retching. She remembered feeling that way, long ago. The feeling had passed. What had seemed so unnatural and evil the first time she had witnessed it had become good and right to her over time. All it took was education, a constant flow of reassurances from wise men who understood the gods. In time, Jezebel had accepted it. By the time she had learned her letters, she was also learning to embrace it. These men had not seen enough, had not been taught enough to embrace it. That would change.
The remaining men touched swords and bowed before Jezebel as they left. One door resisted them when they pushed on it, and Jezebel watched as they forced it open, nearly smashing it to the other side. She followed them out and ran her hands along its frame until she found it. A small scrap of fabric, a plain linen weave, had torn away against the iron pin of the door. She smelled it and looked into the courtyard before tucking it inside her sash.
“May the strongest god win,” she whispered into the night air. Silently, she worried that none of the gods really cared.
Obadiah
Obadiah was slow to move away from Jezebel’s temple. He had listened from outside the door, but his ears were not sharp and he had strained closer and closer to hear what Jezebel said. He realized almost too late when the last of her words had been spoken. The door began to open, and he shoved it back; a stupid instinct, he knew, but it confused the men just long enough for him to flee. He ran for the palace stables without stopping. The mercenaries would not be as fast, for they would stop and linger to taste the water from the spring in the center, or search for a forgotten grape on the vines that ran from the timbers. The mercenaries, their pockets filled with coins, would linger to experience this place and imagine that they owned it. After all, if the most natural law, the love of life, could be broken here, any law could fall. And these were men who knew what to do when laws fell.
Once these men, mercenaries like Ahab, had been his heroes. He had dreamed of being like them and living their lives. Now he would battle them though they would never know it. The Lord had granted Obadiah not strength but a quick mind, and he prayed it would be enough.
Obadiah found the horse he needed and rode hard for the lands beyond the valley. He had to move the prophets to safer ground by morning, then return to find the evidence he needed. Ahab would believe him, if he, too, held a bone.
The next morning, Obadiah walked through the remains at the temple with a clenched jaw. Ahab, hungover, had wanted to practice his sword fighting this morning, so Obadiah had to oblige him. Thankfully, Ahab’s reflexes were terrible after a night of hard drinking. Obadiah beat him. After that loss, Ahab wanted to be left alone to sulk, and also to practice, as Obadiah knew he would. When the wound was to his pride, Ahab nursed the wound for ages.
Walking through the temple, he was relieved that no one else was there. His eyes went to the chamber inside the gated doors in the back of the temple, inscribed with the image of the great bull El, the form Baal was said to take when he prowled the earth among men. The handles of the doors were bronze horns, and Obadiah tested one to see how easily they swung on the hinges. The Phoenician workers had excelled at this, too, and it moved as loosely as a bead on a wire. The floor was a mosaic of ivory cut into shapes and laid into black stones. Every step showed a new wonder: sparkling images of coins falling into an open lap, pregnant women, pregnant animals, men rising from sickbeds, children laughing. There were the Egyptian gods, too, even Osiris’s eye, and the Greek gods, and the gods of all the Levant as well. Jezebel had taken pains to honor all gods except Yahweh.
He smelled blood, his skin crawling as if alive with prickly bugs. Obadiah moved carefully, looking for the evidence, praying suddenly he would find nothing. He prayed he was wrong, that the presence of so many strangers had made the sacrifice of a child unthinkable.
He moved back into the open air center, where the four-horned altar sat surrounded by bowls to offer burning incense. It was here, in the center, that he saw the remains of their sacrifice. A single bone had fallen, missed by whoever had cleared the rest of the body. He bent to pick it up, barely aware he was holding his breath. But it was too big, not at all like the bone of a child. Not a man’s bone, either; perhaps, Obadiah thought, the bone of a jackal or big cat. He exhaled in relief and straightened his back.
A lyre was discarded in one corner, and the incense still smoked, though it was but a small black, oily mound in the bowl. One bowl caught his eye: a shallow bowl rimmed all the way around with bull’s heads that tipped and moved. A tiny bit remained of the offering left in the bowl. Trembling, Obadiah dipped a finger in and swiped the sides, first smelling his fingertips then tasting them.
“Olive oil,” Mirra said, entering the temple.
Obadiah spun and reached one hand to his heart in shock. Mirra laughed and walked to him, taking the bowl from his hands.
“You don’t need to clean,” she said. “The priests do that.”
Obadiah’s face flushed. He was not here to clean, but what could he tell her?
She scooped two handfuls of olives from a barrel nearby, placed them into a press, and moved the bull’s head bowl to catch the extracted oil. A basket of flatbread was near, and she dipped some into the oil, tasting it and smiling. She offered the bread to him next.
“Jezebel paid a fortune to have these olives brought in,” Obadiah said. He shook his head and began to step back, when she lifted a finger to bid him wait. She pressed more olives, and pressed more again until the oil reached the rim of the bowl. The bull’s heads began to bob as the olive oil ran through the hollow rim, making the bulls appear to drink.
Obadiah laughed at the trick, and Mirra smiled.
“Jezebel held a service here last night,” she said. A shadow flitted across her face. She looked uncomfortable. He hoped it was not too late to turn her back to the truth, to what was right.
“You worship her gods?” he asked.
She nodded. “My father would sell me as a servant if he knew,” she said. “I only watched from that room.”
He moved to the altar and ran his hands along the horns, testing their strength and build. He wished he could tear this temple down with his bare hands, but somehow, he sensed it would make no difference. These temples would always stand, somewhere, whenever people preferred pleasure to truth.
She moved until she was next to him, looking up into his face.
He did not move, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“It’s all right, Obadiah. I was silly to imagine there was any hope. What was decided for my future was decided for me long ago.” She smiled, a sad twist on her lips. “It was decided the day I was born and they realized I was but a girl. So I will serve Jezebel until a match is made for me, then I will be sent away. I want to be strong and accept it. Pray for me.”
He hesitated. He didn’t know how to pray for her. What she feared was not the greatest threat. She had no idea that her mind was being filled with lies, and he had no idea how to convince her of it.
“Besides,” she continued, her voice wistful and soft, “Jezebel says that no matter where you run, your worst pain still comes with you. Do you think that is true?”
A bird flew in to steal a bit of discarded bread. The sudden flapping of wings distracted Obadiah, and Mirra turned to walk away.
He had not answered her. He wasn’t sure he could.
Jezebel
Jezebel felt her heart continue to wither and dry as another month passed and the cracks still appeared in the dry earth below her window, and trees in her garden began to brown. She wept when the last leaf fell from the fig tree nearest the palace, then caught a tear in her palm and held it to the light, amazed by it. It was warm and spread on her skin, settling in the lines of her palm.
Was this a good sign, she wondered, or a bad one? Did it mean she was learning to feel more like the real people did, the ones with a thousand different emotions? Was she becoming like them?
She licked another tear from her lip, startled that two had fallen on the same day and then, on impulse, bit her upper lip, a sharp fast pain that split the skin. That would stop them. Pain was needed in life, not tears. Pain was progress. Which was why few could ever be great. So few could bear the pain that she could. She had been well trained.
There was work to be done, so the distraction of tears did not matter anyway. All the ivory had arrived from Tyre, and artisans had been focusing on the queen’s residence. She loved the smell of cedar being cut for furniture; the smoky, metallic smell from the strike of a hammer; the tang of pungent oils as they were mixed and applied to the walls. She understood Ahab’s love of creating. He built cities, but she didn’t need a city—just one residence filled with comfort and color and distractions. A palace built for forgetting.
Ahab had a meeting this afternoon about sending more men to continue work on Jericho. Word of the drought in Israel was spreading, and enemies were circling. A drought meant famine, and famine meant easy pickings for predators. She hoped he would add to today’s agenda the need to continue working with the elders to finish the city wall and gates, as well as design better homes for them near the palace. She urged him to consider the commoners, too, that when all was finished, he could promise them modest but clean and comfortable homes. Keeping the people happy, including the elders, did not guarantee loyalty, but it was a modest effort to gain it.
Of course, before any of it even began to take shape, the court would be forced to return to Jezreel. She longed for cooler weather, for Naboth’s gardens and all the green shaded retreats, the peace she thought she remembered there. There could be no drought there, not in that rich green world. She would not even have to wait for a servant to feed her! She could pluck a fruit straight from a tree and let the juices run down her chin. She would loosen a sandal and run her foot through the cool, soft grasses. Jezreel was a promise, a promise that she would be free of petty torments.
The land here was a curse. No barley came in. From her perch on the roof, waiting for Lilith to bring water for a bath (and she was slower every week returning), Jezebel acknowledged that the goddess was still ignoring her. What more did Asherah want from her?
Elijah had not been found, either. He was as elusive as his god. Although she had been promised that the mercenary she hired was a skilled and wicked hunter, completely unprincipled, making him perfect for this job, he had not returned anything but letters. Every time a scout entered the gates with only a slim bag, she knew Elijah yet eluded death. Her mercenary sent only letters to her, never a head.
The Israelites knew nothing, of course. They still thought she wanted all the gods worshipped. She didn’t, not anymore. At this point, she had realized, she just wanted Elijah dead. A dead Elijah would mean freedom for Israel. A silenced Yahweh would give her a lasting reputation, that most permanent of crowns, and that was all she wanted. She wanted relief, to know all her suffering had won that for her.
The Israelites probably agreed with her, she thought. Daily they brought meager offerings to the temple of Baal, the Asherah shrine, and even the golden calf of Yahweh, which Ahab had erected long ago to keep them from traveling to Jerusalem. The young people were the only ones who seemed to appreciate the freedom for their bodies and freedom from their wombs. Jezebel was beloved among them.
So, she knew, the drought was not the real problem. Yahweh was, the way his name incited men to madness of incredible depths. It was unthinkable, what Elijah had done. Jezebel and her gods had only promoted happiness and pleasure, and Yahweh’s prophets had started a war.
But she was comforted that today Ahab would focus on Jericho. He had never asked what she knew, but of course she knew that Baal was also Yarech, the moon god, but in another incarnation. Ahab had built a city for Yarech, the name of Jericho being a loose dialect’s name for this god. Yarech would answer Ahab’s prayers, laid out at his feet in stone and lumber, even if hers were ignored.
As for Yahweh, if he had any weaknesses, Obadiah’s scrolls would reveal them. She would search the scrolls that Obadiah loved so. Every god has its secrets; how well she knew that! She would find whatever answers were there. She would seek Yahweh and find a way to destroy him at last.
Obadiah
A table was set in the throne room, which was stuffy from the summer heat. Obadiah waited for Omri to be seated, then Ahab. Obadiah stood behind the table to instruct servants as they set out the meal. He hoped he would not be criticized for the lack of variety. He had bought the best the market had to offer, and that was not much. Jezebel was brought in last, and she took her place at the table next to Ahab without a word. She had seemed anxious, brooding more than usual on something hidden. Mirra was attending her, looking restless and thinner, too. She had spoken to him of accepting her fate, but her strength was faltering.
Obadiah watched as Omri bit into a roasted leg chop spiced with vinegar sauce and spring onions; he had to try twice to tear away the meat. He tossed the bone behind him on the floor, and at Obadiah’s nod, a servant stepped forward to collect it. Obadiah hoped he would throw it out to the dogs circling the palace, whose ribs were showing. Those dogs looked like they would eat anything.
“The meat is tough,” Omri said.
Ahab agreed.
“It was the best at the market,” Obadiah replied.
“I doubt that,” Omri replied. Obadiah’s movements slowed, and he watched both prince and king carefully.
“I trust him,” Ahab replied.
“I think,” Omri suggested, “that you should accompany Obadiah to the next market. See that he really does buy the best. See that he gets a good price, too. The merchants probably see a man like him and know they can take advantage of him.”
Obadiah’s hand shook as he refilled the wine. Omri had never attacked him before. He cleared his throat and lifted the skin of wine away, back to his side, replacing it in its stand.
His pride wasn’t the most worrisome injury. He had a modest talent for treason, but no talent at all for hiding it. Everyone in the market knew Obadiah was buying extras and sending the goods to the prophets, who were hidden somewhere in the caves outside the city.
Jezebel could have had his head for that, for using the crown’s resources to supply the prophets of terror. But if she did, he would reveal her secret. She was paying to have them hunted an
d exterminated one by one. The jackals in the hills were the only animals in Israel growing fat.
Ahab sat in silence, then stood, facing his father. “Obadiah is a good servant. You have no cause to insult him. If you’re angry about the drought, Father, deal with me.”
No one moved. Ahab had never confronted his father in the presence of others. Omri set down the bowl of wine he was drinking and stood as well, facing Ahab, his expression unreadable.
“You blame me, don’t you?” Ahab said. “It was your decision. But you’ve always punished me for your faults.”
Jezebel’s eye lit with that strange fire. Obadiah did not know if it was fueled by compassion or rage; they both looked the same on her face.
Obadiah saw that Omri’s legs trembled. He was growing old, too old for fighting, even with words and not swords. Omri left without response.
Ahab watched him leave, his shoulders sinking as if he’d been holding his breath. Jezebel stood and hissed at him. She swept part of the table clean. Ahab glanced down the hall where Omri had exited, and Jezebel grabbed him again, her hands like claws sinking into the flesh on his arms as her mouth found his.
Obadiah took hold of Mirra and escorted her away. Once outside the dining hall, she fell into giggles. He frowned at her reaction.
“You act like you’ve never seen such a thing,” she mocked him.
“And you shouldn’t,” he scolded her in return.
“Don’t speak to me as if we are equals,” Mirra said, removing her arm from his hold.
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