by Mesu Andrews
Jehoiada leaned close, trying to keep the panic he felt from seeping into his whisper. “I knew we faced steady decline since tensions with the Edomites, but this is serious. What do we do?”
Amariah stepped forward, ignoring Jehoiada’s question. “Thank you, brothers, for your willing and eager service of Yahweh. May I ask if any of you know the reason your fellow priests and Levites have not joined us?”
Accusations launched from every direction, angry priests and brother Levites stabbing the air to stress their complaints.
Amariah lifted both hands. “One at a time, brothers. Please, one at a time.”
A tall, slender Levite from Tekoa stepped forward as spokesman. Normally he was quite a reserved man, but now his leather-like skin was the color of his red-desert home. “My brother and nephews stayed to protect their families from invasion. The Judean troops in Tekoa spend all their time drinking wine and making so-called offerings to Baal’s shrine prostitutes.” Others began jeering, coaxing him to continue. “Judah’s military wouldn’t know we’d been invaded unless the marauders threatened their wine supplies.”
“Is this true of others?” Amariah asked, shouting over the general agreement spreading through the crowd. Quieting them again with lifted hands, he said, “Then, my brothers, the burden—and privilege—of service falls to us. We will work harder because we are fewer, but we will serve joyfully because we come willingly.”
Amariah’s gentle spirit seemed to sweep away their outrage. Serve joyfully because we come willingly. Indignation fell from their faces like leaves from an autumn tree. How could a man’s heart be so untarnished after serving all these years?
Awed, Jehoiada reached for the baskets of lots to begin assigning tasks. The first basket contained larger stones with all the Levite clan symbols, and the other baskets were designated by family, holding stones marked with specific men’s names.
“In keeping with the Law of Moses,” Jehoiada began, “Yahweh will now assign by lot your weekly service in His holy Temple.” He released a deep sigh, preparing himself for the long process. With so many men absent, the selection process could take hours.
The scribe poised his stylus over the parchment, ready to record results as Amariah drew out the stones. “For the task of baking the holy showbread, I call forward the clan of Nadab, the families of Harim and Seorim.”
A low hum began as men discussed their various assignments for the coming week. Trimming wicks, baking showbread, tuning harps, choosing Psalms, planning morning and evening sacrifices—a name was drawn for every task. Not once did Amariah’s hand draw a lot with the name of a priest or Levite not present in the room. After over half the duties had been filled, realization spread among them and wonder hushed every sound. Yahweh knew them by name and was actually choosing them.
With the final duty assigned, Amariah raised his voice, tears streaming down his weather-wrinkled cheeks. “How can we express our praise, O Lord? You used the common lots to convey Your holy presence and prove You have chosen us by name. May Your overwhelming majesty crush Your enemies and empower Your priests. May we serve You well and be faithful guardians of Your covenant forever.”
Jehoiada stood in hushed wonder beside his friend and high priest. Moments ago, he’d silently questioned the reliability of the sacred Urim and Thummim, but now God had spoken through common stones. Perhaps Yahweh is more reachable than I thought.
3
JUDGES 7:1–3
Early in the morning . . . Gideon and all his men camped at the spring of Harod. . . . The LORD said to Gideon, “You have too many men. I cannot deliver Midian into their hands. . . . Now announce to the army, ‘Anyone who trembles with fear may turn back and leave Mount Gilead.’”
Sheba had ridden from dawn until dark, jostled and pitched atop this galloping camel. Now she must endure a second day of torture. Prince Baal, rescue me. Surely Mot’s underworld was the origin and destination of all camels. They were stinking, spitting, insulting creatures, and if she never rode one again, her life would be much improved.
Had it really been only two days since Abba Jehoram’s public ruse to reaffirm Judah’s treaty with Israel? Everyone knew the treaty was built on his marriage with Queen Athaliah—just as the enduring treaty between Israel and Phoenicia had been established by Queen Jizebaal’s marriage to King Ahab years before.
Their journey to Jezreel was prompted entirely by Ima’s whisper that night at the banquet, and Abba had wasted no time with long good-byes. Before dawn the next morning, he’d bribed Hazi’s cooperation with an Egyptian black stallion and shouted orders to his youngest son at Jerusalem’s north gate.
“The faster you travel to Jezreel, the less chance of trouble along the way.” Abba’s full royal regalia hinted that he’d been awake for some time, perhaps choosing the fine black stallion himself. “Ride hard and change horses at each fortified city. Overnight at Tirzah, and you’ll arrive in Jezreel by midday tomorrow. You can pick up the black in Tirzah on your way home.”
King Jehoram often gave extravagant gifts to soothe his children’s tempers, but Hazi was still piqued at playing Abba’s delegate to Israel. “What about Ima and Sheba? I’d planned four or five days for travel with the women.”
“Your ima can ride her camel to Aram and back before the sun sets, and you let her worry about Sheba.” Abba had given his wife a conspiratorial wink and then grew suddenly serious, motioning Hazi closer. Sheba wished she hadn’t heard Abba’s caution. “Keep watch, my son. Moab’s rebellion is still a freshly salved wound, and Yahweh’s prophets are becoming bolder. Aram’s siege on Samaria is over, but there’s always danger, and you guard my most precious treasures.” He slapped the stallion on its hindquarters, hurrying Hazi and half the royal guard out the northern gate.
On this, their second day of travel, Hazi remained their fearless leader, proudly perched atop his fourth stallion, having traded mounts at each fortified city as Abba instructed. A third of Hazi’s Carites escorted Ima Thaliah, the curtains of her sedan tied back for a full view, and a third of the guards attended Sheba’s camel. She’d unfurled her rear curtain so that Mattan, who rode his camel behind her, couldn’t stare for the duration of the journey. The remainder of Hazi’s troops provided rear guard, keeping bandits, wild beasts, and those dreadful Yahweh prophets at bay. The caravan had stopped yesterday at Bethel, Shiloh, and Shechem, refreshing their animals and eating quick meals of bread and hard cheese. Sheba asked for a little time at the city markets, earning a foul look from both her brother and Ima.
When they had arrived at Tirzah last night, the watchmen had already closed the city gates. Ima Thaliah demanded, “In the name of Gevirah Jizebaal and King Joram, open these gates!”
Hazi reminded her that she should have given Uncle Ram’s name first. Regardless, the guards promptly complied. Ima ranted that they’d better reopen the gates before dawn and then added, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Anyone in my party found lagging in the morning will stay with these fine soldiers until we return for you on our way back to Jerusalem—if I’ve forgiven you by then.” At the first shades of pink in the eastern sky, everyone in Judah’s procession—and Tirzah’s watchmen—were waiting at the city gate.
Sheba grinned at the memory. Her ima was a strong and powerful woman. Men feared and respected her because she acted on her word. I will command that kind of power when I am high priestess in my own temple.
She watched Ima Thaliah whip her camel, repositioning herself with grace and determination. She’d maintained the pace effortlessly, swatting the beast and gliding in rhythm with its long strides. Sheba, on the other hand, had been slammed from corner to post, feeling more like a kernel of wheat in a hand mill than a princess on her way to meet Gevirah Jizebaal.
But she knew better than to complain. Ima was too skilled with a whip to make her cross. The bruises on Sheba’s arms were finally fading. Just in time for my whole body to ache from this cursed camel ride. On the only other occasion she’d ridden a
camel, it had been a short ride to the healing springs in southern Judah. I’d give a thousand shekels for a dip in En Gedi’s springs.
Her inner grousing suddenly vexed her. Why was she whining about a silly camel? She straightened her shoulders and watched Ima Thaliah with renewed appreciation—the woman who had taught her to dress, to speak, and to eat like a queen. Today Sheba would meet the woman who had trained Ima Thaliah in such things. My muscles will heal, just like my bruises. With rekindled excitement, she swatted her mount, imitating Ima Thaliah’s riding techniques.
Sheba leaned into a turn, rounded a bend in the road, and caught her first glimpse of the Jezreel Valley. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. No one heard her, of course, over the thudding of horses’ and camels’ hooves. A wide, green plain yawned between mountains on the left and gently sloping hills on the right. Orchards and groves sprouted from rich, black soil and offered late winter figs, and almond blossoms spread their lovely scent through the valley. To ride through it at this speed seemed almost irreverent.
“Sheba, come!” Ima Thaliah motioned her forward, and she tried desperately to obey, guiding her one-humped beast in the general direction of Judah’s queen.
Looking ahead to the right, she eyed a copse of trees and beyond it a walled city with a lofty watchtower. Ima Thaliah seemed to be pointing to the oasis and yelling something to Hazi. Sheba hoped the royal guards would catch her camel’s reins and lead her to the right spot.
Mercifully, the whole procession soon slowed, and she saw with relief that their destination was indeed the green trees—and hidden behind them lay a beautiful natural spring. It couldn’t compare with En Gedi, of course, but crystal-clear water cascaded over rock formations, creating natural fountains around a deep, translucent pool.
“It’s Gideon’s Pool!” Hazi shouted, leaping off his horse, the first to run toward the inviting waters. “Look, Mattan! Saba Jehoshaphat told me the story of Gideon, how Yahweh winnowed his army to three hundred men.” High-stepping through wheatgrass, Hazi stopped short of the pool and waited for Baal’s high priest. “They say Yahweh won that victory over the Midianites.”
Mattan slid from his camel and followed Hazi into the grassy marsh. “It’s a legend, as are most stories of Yahweh, made more fantastic through years of retelling. No army of three hundred could defeat an entire nation.”
Sheba waited impatiently for the lead herdsman to aid her dismount, but she noticed Ima’s gathering storm. The queen had abandoned her sedan, but the two men completely ignored her. And worse, they’d impeded her progress to the pool. She was in her battle stance. Feet planted. Arms folded. They were about to reap the wrath of their disregard.
May the gods help you both. Sheba smiled wickedly.
Hazi untied his belt, and Mattan lifted his turban-like cap off his shaved head.
“Don’t. You. Dare.” Ima Thaliah pronounced each word succinctly.
Both men turned to stone. Not a flinch. Not a sound.
“Sheba and I have first rights to this pool.”
The men exchanged a dejected glance and retraced their steps toward the animals. “Of course, Ima. I’m sorry.” Hazi kept his head bowed and paused beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Let us know if you’d like us to check for eels before you go in.”
Sheba’s heart leapt to her throat, but Ima shoved Hazi’s shoulder. He nearly fell to the ground laughing.
“I’ll show you the first eel I find,” she shouted, laughing at the two men scurrying toward the camels. Hazi had always been the only one capable of diverting Ima’s wrath.
A servant finally tapped Sheba’s camel down for dismount, and she began questioning the queen while running through the wheatgrass. “Is that Jezreel in the distance? I saw the watchtower. Did you live here as a girl? If that is Jezreel, why did we stop here when we’re so close to our destina—”
A sudden splash halted her questions and stole her attention. Two of Athaliah’s handmaids held a large sheet open between them at the water’s edge. “Ima, what are you doing?” She glanced back at Hazi and Mattan, but their backs were turned. Sheba seemed to be the only one amazed that Judah’s queen would take a bath in the middle of a crowd.
Ima Thaliah giggled like a little girl, splashing, coaxing from the other side of the sheet. “I’m taking a bath, Sheba, and you will too. Now, tell your handmaids to bring another sheet and scented oils. Today you will meet Jizebaal, daughter of King Eth-Baal, priestess of Baal, wife of King Ahab, Gevirah of King Joram. She is a formidable woman, Sheba, and the waters of Gideon’s Pool will give you the courage you need to face her.”
Two maids appeared with the requested items, but Sheba hesitated, glancing at the men lined up near the animals. Mattan peered over his shoulder, chewing on a piece of grass. The familiar shiver worked up her spine. She looked again at the pool, reassuring herself that she couldn’t see Ima behind the raised sheet. She left her sandals in the grass before her courage fled. The maids unfurled the sheet as they walked, and Sheba kept her eyes on the squishy ground, tiptoeing to the water’s edge. She dipped her right foot in the pool.
“Come, Sheba. Jump in! Seize what you desire. It’s cold at first, but plunge ahead. You won’t be sorry.”
Sheba closed her eyes and rushed in up to her waist, feeling the mossy pebbles slippery beneath her feet. She gasped and giggled, opened her eyes—and then saw Ima.
She wore only her seamless tunic, and her hair was wet, unplaited, and streaked with gray. Her face was free of paints and powders, her lingering beauty enhanced by delicate creases around her eyes and mouth. Sheba stared at the most powerful woman she knew—amazed at the first glimpse of her humanness.
“You’re gawking, Sheba.” Ima’s grin was sharp as a flint knife. Her voice low, she held out her hand, inviting Sheba nearer. “You will see me differently after today, my little one. Come closer so we can speak of important things.”
Sheba slid her toes on the mossy bottom, entering Ima’s inviting embrace, bending her knees to meet the queen at eye level, remembering it was ill-mannered to ever stand above royalty.
Ima squeezed her shoulders, seeming pleased at their nearness. “Jizebaal trained me as I have been training you—to embrace the destiny of queens, an honor bestowed on our family by Prince Baal Melkart. The Gevirah began as a priestess, then became a queen, and when King Ahab died, she became the ima of King Ram—the Gevirah of Israel. She will judge you today to determine if you are the keeper of our trust. Don’t disappoint me.” She grabbed the long braid under Sheba’s headpiece and pulled her backward, submerging her completely, and then released her.
Water rushed up Sheba’s nose, and she came out of the water sputtering, coughing, and wiping her eyes. “Ima! What was that for? I won’t dis—”
Ima Thaliah reached out to steady her on the slippery rocks, cradling her shoulders and wiping the water from her eyes. She pulled Sheba close again, her warmth in the cool water comforting, her tender smile and bright eyes seeming almost playful. Sheba crouched low into Ima Thaliah’s embrace, gathering her wits, listening carefully.
“You see how quickly things can change, Sheba? One moment we’re talking, and the next you’re nearly drowning.” She laughed, a lilting, agreeable sound, and Sheba relaxed, nodded. “Hazi called this pond Gideon’s Pool, but it’s also called the Pool of Trembling. It’s where Ima Jizebaal brought me when I was a little girl to teach me not to be afraid of the water.” Ima gently removed Sheba’s headpiece, stroking her hair, and then pressed her head against her chest as she reminisced. “But you’re not afraid of water, are you, my little princess?” Sheba shook her head, and Ima continued. “No, because I taught all my little ones how to swim in the waters of En Gedi. But Gevirah Jizebaal taught me another reason not to fear. Do you want to know why I fear nothing?”
“Nothing?” Sheba raised her head, questioning.
“That’s right, Sheba. Gevirah Jizebaal said as long as I obeyed her, I should fear nothing.” Without warni
ng, she kicked Sheba’s legs away and dunked her head underwater, this time holding her beneath the surface until Sheba began to thrash and panic.
Moments passed—days, it seemed—and finally Ima lifted her out of the water, both hands around her neck. Sheba came up gasping, frantic, sobbing. “Ima, please. Stop. Why are you—”
“What is going on?” Hazi shoved the handmaids aside but stopped short when he saw the state of his ima and sister. “Ima, no. Leave her be.”
Sheba sobbed quietly, lowering her gaze, but Ima stared hard at Hazi. “I’m preparing your sister to meet the Gevirah, my son. Go, tend the animals. When we’re finished, you and Mattan may enter the pool. You, too, must be spotless before you meet Gevirah Jizebaal.”
Hazi cast a helpless glance at Sheba and returned to his men. The handmaids resumed their positions as a visual wall, and Ima Thaliah continued her lesson. “Remember this moment, Sheba. Your life has always been—and will always be—in my hands, to do with as I please. Royal women may speak publicly of jewelry, pottery, and the gods, but today you will learn the destiny of queens, the purpose of Jizebaal’s daughters. Kings sit on thrones, but queens rule their nations. If you ever disobey me, you will wish I had drowned you in Gideon’s Pool of Trembling.”
4
EXODUS 30:17–19, 21
Then the LORD said to Moses, “Make a bronze basin, with its bronze stand, for washing. . . . Aaron and his sons are to wash their hands and feet with water from it. . . . This is to be a lasting ordinance for Aaron and his descendants for the generations to come.”
The moon’s eerie glow shone through Jehoiada’s chamber window, waking him just before dawn. The Temple would soon come alive with priests and Levites making final preparations before the gates opened at day’s first light. He pulled a corner of lamb’s wool over his head and groaned. The thought of doing again today what he’d done yesterday and every day before that—it seemed more than he could muster. Does Amariah ever feel overwhelmed?
