The men raised their spears and began chanting. A young man, no more than twelve, took up a drum and began beating it as his companion blew the shofar. The noise and clamor was so great he felt the earth shake under his feet.
Ahab lifted his sword higher, and they went wild, screaming louder, stamping their feet until thunder boomed back at them from the surrounding walls. Ahab motioned for silence and waited.
“The Lord has given Ben-hadad and this day into our hands,” he began. “My father bought this land with his own money. He established Samaria as the capital for Israel. But do you know why Omri built streets, even before he built the wall? Because there was a stronger king, with stronger men, who demanded it. Ben-hadad wanted streets so he could march on us, and observe our lives, and make easy claim on whatever he saw. Today, I tell you, the Lord will proclaim in a loud voice that Samaria does not belong to Ben-hadad! Samaria belongs to Israel! Our streets are our own! Our lives are our own! Let us march down these streets and defeat Ben-hadad in the plains!”
At this, the men dissolved into chaos, and Ahab mounted his horse, riding out. They fell in and rode too, those who had horses. Most ran on foot, some barely able to stand under the weight of their armor. The men who had once fought with Omri were too old. Even Omri stayed at the back, on an old white horse that seemed deaf to the cries of battle.
Samaria quickly disappeared into a cloud of dust stirred up by hooves and feet. He followed his guards, hands shaking from excitement and terror. Looking up, Ahab expected the Lord’s fierce eyes to strike through the fog and dust, holy lightning burning his enemies.
But the sky was calm as men swirled and raged below.
The Lord was here, though. Ahab could sense Him, and he slowed his pace a little from the dread of coming any closer to this God. The Lord wanted him to come closer, he could tell, to see the battle, to see the death that follows when people trust in what is false. Ahab’s heart seized, a painful skip, as his men rushed on, and he prepared to see the Lord’s deadly mercy.
On the advice of the prophets, Ahab had sent the junior officers in the army ahead of the more skilled troops. He suspected the prophets’ strategy would give the enemy a false confidence, and they would be lured like lambs into the real slaughter.
But the junior officers defeated Ben-hadad. A young commander, maybe no more than sixteen, returned to Ahab with Ben-hadad’s flag.
“Ben-hadad’s troops have retreated, and Ben-hadad fled on horseback! We have won!”
Ahab swallowed his shock and gave the signal to blow the shofar. The battle was over. Ahab felt lost, primed for a battle he wouldn’t get to fight.
“The name of the Lord be praised!” a soldier called to Ahab that evening in the camp.
“Yes,” Ahab replied. Though he stayed in the camp all night, no one praised his name. Ahab had hoped for a victory but had not counted on it costing him any pride.
Obadiah
It was midnight. Samaria slept below Obadiah, quiet without the men. He waited inside the city gates. Two guards stood outside; he could hear their hushed voices, but there were few men left inside the city. He held a woven cage with two doves inside. He had never been to Jerusalem or its temple, but he heard that it was good to bring an offering. Especially for a young woman seeking a new life.
The air had an edge of chill as the night grew black, and an owl perched on the wall overhead, his head turning in all directions. Obadiah watched it hunt. A small mouse crept out from a rock, drawn by the smell of bread that a soldier had dropped. The owl slid silently from its perch, never slowing, its talons falling down from its snowy white feathers as it pierced the mouse. Obadiah was alone again as the owl flew home to share the reluctant trophy.
Mirra appeared, treading so softly across the road that no dust stirred. She managed a small, uncertain smile, and he drew a deep breath.
“Did it go well?” he asked.
“My mother says you are a good man,” she replied. “She blesses your name.” The moon revealed shadows under her eyes that hurt his heart. He didn’t want to say good-bye like this. He wanted to see her strength return, and her smile, too. To let her go now was an act of faith, and yet Obadiah knew faith was all he had ever had. It had been enough once. It would have to be enough now and forever.
“Will she tell your father when he returns from battle?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I hope she does not tell him everything. He would be so disappointed in me.”
Obadiah reached for her, knowing it would be the last time he ever touched her or looked upon her. He willed himself to remember everything: her scent, the softness of her skin and how her hair felt like water flowing across his arm.
“He will always love you,” Obadiah said, the words stinging like vinegar in his throat. He spoke of her father, but he spoke also of himself, and she would never know. “You must believe that. You will always be loved.”
She pulled away slightly and looked up at him. “You’ve been so good to me. Are you sure this is the only way?”
“Give me your outer robe,” he said.
She obeyed, her brow knotting as she did. He took the robe and walked a distance away so she would not see. He killed one of the doves with his hands, those fingers stained with ink now stained with blood. He dipped her robe in the blood before throwing the dead bird out into the darkness, where scavengers would dispose of it within hours. He tore the robe and left it at the gates.
“A merchant will discover it tomorrow morning,” he said. “The people will think you died, attacked by a wild beast. Only your mother will know the truth.” Obadiah did not tell Mirra what a burden the truth was, and would be, for her mother. It was a weight heavier than any stone. He did not add that Mirra’s mother would not have the strength to bear the burden alone; she would tell her husband. One day the entire city would know what she and Obadiah had done.
“But what of you?” she asked.
He led her to a horse from the royal stables, a fine gray one that would not be missed. Obadiah had purged it from the records. It had unfortunately died of a twisted stomach, the records said. She climbed up and held his hand tightly.
“I will keep you in my heart,” she said.
He let go of her hand. “No,” he replied softly. “Leave everything behind. You belong to Jerusalem now.”
17
Jezebel
Jezebel’s pains came fast in the late summer, and the hard labor was no surprise. The child had been restless from the moment of conception, refusing to be confined, impulsive and impatient.
“You have delivered a son,” the Hebrew midwife said. Jezebel wept but did not speak. She did not want to invite friendship with this Yahwehist, lest she—or worse, her son—be infected with that god of condemnation.
When she heard his first raw scream in this world, she rejoiced. She needed an angry son. Jezebel stopped her tears when the midwife gave the infant his salt bath. It was a good smell, the smell of birth and sea. She would never return to the ocean. She knew that. She would birth her children in a very different world, and she would die in it, having given Israel and its god the best of her years, the best of her body. She would give her life to this nation of traitors, who had sacrificed their babies and then murdered her priests. Her son would repay them.
Ahab returned the next day from a scouting expedition with all the political officials and elders in his entourage.
Jezebel had commanded Lilith to comb her hair and set it loose around her shoulders, and to dress her in a lavender tunic with a red sash covered in gold beads. Jezebel met him on the palace steps.
She held the newborn in her arms, intending to present him to Ahab in view of all, her victory clear. But then she saw him laughing with Obadiah, at ease, content with one god and all her dead priests. She looked down at the babe sleeping in her arms and hel
d him away from her body over the stone steps.
“I have given you a son,” she called out.
Ahab was stunned to see the babe in her arms, blinking several times as if to comprehend she had given birth while he was gone.
She held the baby over the steps below. If she dropped him, threw him down, she would inflict pain on Ahab. On them all. She could give an heir and take it away just as easily. They would learn what it was like to lose.
Ahab bounded up the steps, delighted. Grabbing the baby away before she could do it, he laughed and lifted their son high in the air, turning to show his entourage and the gathering crowd. “His name,” he declared, “will be Ahaziah.”
The name meant Yahweh’s victory.
But she didn’t care. She was the one who had won the victory by giving Ahab a son, a prince, an heir. Her position was unassailable. The drought was over, and tall fringed headdresses of barley waved all around. The people were merry, shouting their congratulations and praise of their god, so merciful to forgive and grant a son, grant them the security of a continued reign. They did not understand that she rejoiced too, for no one and nothing but herself.
She spied Obadiah standing on the steps just to her right. Mirra had been killed, but she did not miss her. Yet his was a strange grief. He ate his meals, he attended his work, like a man who wanted the distraction. Grieving men didn’t want distraction; they wanted oblivion. She did not trust him.
Jezebel returned to her chamber, Lilith trotting behind, making little hints that she would love to go and feast in celebration with the court, until Jezebel dismissed her. Now that she was delivered, she could drink something strong and bitter, crawl out of this skin and sleep at last. If she wanted, she could spend eighty days doing that, the time she would be ritually unclean according to Yahwehist law. Ahab would not lie with her, especially now that he believed in the power of this god. She would be alone.
Before the eighty days were finished they would be back in Jezreel, away from this city. She could feel blood trickling down her legs. Birth was hard on any woman. A great darkness rose at the edges of the city, like a wave far out on the horizon. She watched in horror as it crested the city wall, that ineffectual wall Ahab had built, and thundered down the streets of Samaria, sweeping toward her with a roaring scream. A rainstorm was coming, again.
Jezebel picked up the edge of her robe and ran, leaving a trail of blood all the way to her bed.
Finally in the cool retreat that was Jezreel, three months after the birth of her son, Jezebel could not sleep, not even with an oil lamp beside the bed. Her only comfort was the sound of Lilith’s heavy breathing. She wondered, on some nights when there was no moon, when Ahab would call her back to his chamber. Her time of cleansing was complete. She did not feel clean though. She was born dirty, a woman, and the passage of time changed nothing.
Her bleeding had stopped, however, and her strength was returning a little more every week. Her stomach had begun to regain some of its shape, but she had no routine, no schedule or order to her days. How did the Hebrew women survive this expulsion from favor?
The continuing neglect stirred her plague of anxiety. Silence stirred up her ghosts. What had really happened to her priests? Had they died by fire or sword? Had their bodies been honorably treated? At night, she heard them crawling under her bed. The Egyptians had told her that fingernails never stopped growing, even in death. She heard them scratching at her bed. When she drifted off, they climbed from under the bed, their heads twisted, eyes hollow, mouths slack, arms reaching for her. Calling her name. Carrying the children in their arms. So many children, their dark hollow mouths screaming out for the years she had stolen. They grabbed her, gnawing her flesh, craving life.
She woke, sweating, night after night. They were only dreams. The dead did not live. Guilt was a trick of the mind.
The sun became strong. She sat up toward the open window, inhaling the delicate perfume rising from Naboth’s garden below. The olive trees were blooming; their blossoms had such a light fragrance, easy to miss. She ate the first fresh spinach she had had in three years, plus fennel and even apricots.
The food did not cling to her frame. She ate but was never filled. She slept without peace.
Spring promised nothing. In her dreams, she knew why.
The Lord had not finished with her yet.
Obadiah
Just three weeks after the return to Samaria, after nearly six months in Jezreel, while the royal court was holding a festival to celebrate the Feast of First Fruits, a messenger interrupted the afternoon meal. Ahab allowed the boy to whisper the news to him, and then Ahab stood. All fell silent, waiting, trying to read Ahab’s face. Obadiah watched Jezebel’s face and understood. The prophet’s word had come to pass yet again. Her eyes had darkened. She was silent but radiated her displeasure. The prophet had proven himself and his God yet again.
“Ben-hadad has returned. He is at Aphek and plans to march against us.”
The prophet entered then without looking around or noticing the guests. He looked well, not remarkably different from last year. His face was haggard from the sun and wind, but his eyes were serene and his gaze steady. It must have been a remarkable thing, Obadiah thought, to walk through the storms of the land, of this life, to be worn away and weathered, yet at peace in everything.
Ahab rose, pulling out a cushion. “Join us, my friend.”
Jezebel flinched and shifted her cushions as if to make room. Obadiah knew she did not want to be touched by this man of God.
The prophet surely smelled the roasted meats, the finest grains and herbs and sweets that anyone could buy, but he shook his head to dismiss the offer and delivered the message. He spoke with the tone of confidence born of indifference to earthly power.
“Ben-hadad has said to his men, ‘Ahab won the last battle because it was fought in the mountains of Samaria. Yahweh, his god, rules the mountains. Therefore we will fight again, but we will meet them on the plains of Aphek. Yahweh will not fight on the plains.’ Because of Ben-hadad’s arrogance, and his ignorance of the Lord your God, he will be struck down in Aphek.”
It was a prophecy of victory and was met with rejoicing and words of praise for the great and merciful Lord. Obadiah finished his bowl of wine and brushed at the tears in his eyes with the back of his hand. He would be glad to see Ben-hadad dead, his head on a pole outside the city.
“May the name of the Lord be praised,” Obadiah said softly. His throat burned with sorrow.
Ahab
For seven days, Ahab and his men camped on the plain of Aphek, facing the armies of Ben-hadad. Ahab emerged from his tent on the sixth evening of waiting. Though the Lord had promised victory, He must have been content to let Ahab fight the battle. Ahab was grateful, or tried to be. He had not fought a real battle since his marriage. He had been in many wars since then, but never the kind that required a sword. He flexed his arms and swung them loose, preparing for Ben-hadad to attack.
The shrill blast of the ram’s horn came at dawn the next day. Ben-hadad was coming.
“Keep the lines tight,” Ahab called, watching as his men stamped and pawed at the wet grass like animals. Ahab rode a horse, accompanied by two commanders, and he tried not to think of Obadiah, who was not here. Obadiah had always urged him to believe in the Lord. It was odd to fight a battle in the Lord’s name and not have Obadiah here to witness it.
The land outside the city was indeed flat, dotted sparsely with trees that shook as arrows flew through them. Leaves fluttered to the ground, and limbs fell. One flew close to Ahab, who heard the stinging hiss of many arrows at once. Still, his men broke into a run, one great glorious scream roaring across the plains, engulfing their enemy.
The men ran over the soft green grasses, pounding them under the earth, and kept running until they were running over the dead bodies of Ben-hadad’s men, chasing survivors. Ahab’s me
n who had held the back lines had no men to kill. Before the evening meal, a hundred thousand of Ben-hadad’s dead troops polluted Israel. The plain was an ocean of blood. Anywhere Ahab set his foot down it sank into blood all the way up to his ankle. Ben-hadad was not among the dead.
By dusk, none of Ben-hadad’s infantry stood. The rest of his men fled into the town of Aphek, hiding in homes and buildings. Citizens of Aphek had stood on the walls watching the battle. When Ben-hadad’s men ran for the city, the citizens struggled to close the gates to Ahab and his men, lest the battle be brought into their streets and their families killed. As the citizens pulled against the gates, heaving and shouting for the massive wooden doors to move, Ahab’s horse reared up with a scream.
Lightning struck the earth, splitting it, a crack running to the wall of Aphek. The wall fell in an explosion of stone, catching the largest group of Ben-hadad’s men as they entered the city. A cloud of dust rolled across the plain in all directions, evaporating on the horizon. None of Ben-hadad’s troops survived, not even their horses. He was sure of that. He heard not even a moan from the men beneath the collapsed wall. They were all dead.
Ahab urged his horse forward. The horse gave him no trouble, its sudden calm demeanor unsettling Ahab more. Ahab and his commanders did not speak, but approached the city, navigating their horses through the stones stained with blood. Families stood at the entrance of their homes, silent, mothers clutching children to their breasts, watching this strange prince who marched in the name of the god of Israel. Ahab nodded as he passed, and his men moved behind, quiet. The wall’s collapse had shaken them, too.
Ahab found his prize crouched beneath a pile of blankets in the inner chamber in a widow’s home. She opened the door to her home widely when she saw Ahab approach, pointing one finger to the room. She braced herself against the doorframe as he entered, expecting her own walls to fall.
Reign Page 19
