In the Shadow of Jezebel

by Mesu Andrews

  “Sheba need not be Astarte to become the wife of Yahweh’s high priest. I believe she’ll accomplish more with whispers in the dark than we could manage with daggers in the daylight.”

  Sheba’s vision suddenly darkened—both queens sitting at the end of a long, black tunnel. A loud roar muted all other noise. Am I dying? By the gods, I hope so.

  While she blinked and gasped for breath, Jizebaal detailed the plan. “It’s my understanding that when Yahweh’s priest Amariah dies, the remaining priests will choose a new leader—probably a younger man—to serve for a full generation. That’s when Thali will convince Jehoram to arrange your marriage.” She paused, leaned closer to Sheba, and inspected her. “Thali, she looks ill. Maybe you should explain how an influential marriage works. Perhaps she doesn’t understand.”

  Something inside Sheba broke, snapped, and spewed anger without thought of consequence. “How am I going to influence a man I’ve never met, or worship a god I care nothing about? I have no intention of learning Yahweh’s rituals and traditions. I’ve prepared my whole life to become Baal’s high priestess! How can you ask me to—”

  “We’re not asking. Don’t you understand?” Ima Thaliah was suddenly shaking her, fingers digging into her arms. “You must calm down. Don’t make me hurt you. It will be your fault if I must hurt you.”

  The threat was familiar. She’d heard it since she was a little girl. Tears were prohibited. Fear was forbidden. Excitement was for the ill-mannered. And in that moment Sheba realized—Gideon’s Pool wasn’t any different from a thousand threats before it. She had simply grown old enough to realize what she could lose.

  The Gevirah chuckled as she watched Sheba’s control return. “Women have few choices in life, little Sheba. At least as a queen of destiny, you’ll have more privileges than most.”

  Ima released her iron grip on Sheba and turned a cold stare on Jizebaal. “Just tell her what you expect of her. Explain to us both how Sheba’s marriage to Yahweh’s high priest will benefit our unified nations better than her service as high priestess.” Sarcasm dripped from Ima’s words, and Sheba felt some vindication when she remained beside her on the rug.

  Gevirah Jezebel leaned forward, pinning Sheba with a stare, ignoring Ima Thaliah. “Years ago, good King Jehoshaphat thought he created a Judean court system that would protect the Yahweh faithful after he died. The narrow-minded Yahweh high priest makes all rulings regarding Solomon’s Temple, and a high-ranking civil leader decides matters concerning the king. Understand?”

  Sheba nodded.

  “When you marry Yahweh’s high priest, you’ll influence him to be, shall we say, tolerant of new styles of worship in Judah. He need not turn his back on Yahweh to be useful. He need only invite other gods into Solomon’s Temple. We’ll also install Mattan as the civil leader in central court, and by these gentle changes we’ll unite Israel and Judah in policy and in worship, preparing them to crown a single king when the time is right.”

  When the time is right? Sheba’s thoughts raced. How much time would they give her to influence her new husband? Abba Jehoram was a relatively young man, but it might take years . . . She would rather dance on broken pottery than ask this question, but better to address her fear now than fail in Jerusalem and be responsible for an assassin in Abba’s chamber. “What if . . . what if my attempts at Astarte’s seductions fail to influence Yahweh’s high priest? What if my skills are inadequate—since I wasn’t trained specifically as an Astarte priestess?”

  The Gevirah’s gaze softened as if coaxing a stray dog to a crust of bread. “The Yahwists are an unbearably stifling lot—their worship allows no dancing, no role playing, and no sacred coupling. By learning Baal’s daily rituals, you have the power to . . .” She exchanged a knowing grin with Ima Thaliah. “Let’s just say that even the simplest pleasures of Astarte will expand the high priest’s narrow mind-set, and he’ll soon be touting the benefits of worshiping all the gods.”

  Sheba still had many questions, but one nagging concern remained. “The oil in the goblet foretold disaster in the morning. Do you think it’s a general caution—as you said, bloodshed must occur—or could it be a specific warning for tomorrow morning?” Jizebaal’s raised brow reflected interest, so Sheba played to her pride. “I would be honored to hear the Gevirah’s interpretation.”

  “Disaster will come unexpectedly if King Ram continues his disrespect.”

  Sheba gasped, and Ima Thaliah settled a granite gaze on Jizebaal. “If you harm Ram, you are dead to me.” Then Ima turned the same stony stare on Sheba. “Disaster will visit your abba Jehoram unless you do as you’re told. Do you understand?”

  Finding words impossible, Sheba nodded, her mind spinning. Two days ago, Sheba thought Athaliah’s love for Abba knew no bounds, and her greatest worry was a ruby earring. She was almost afraid to wake up tomorrow.

  7

  2 CHRONICLES 24:7

  Now the sons of that wicked woman Athaliah had broken into the temple of God and had used even its sacred objects for the Baals.

  Jehoiada lay awake in his bed, listening to the rain patter on the limestone tiles and reviewing today’s burnt sacrifices. Six. Two of the animals were offered during the morning and evening services for the whole assembly, the other four by individual worshipers as a sin sacrifice. Were there only four sinners in Judah today? Not likely. Yahweh, how can Your priests restore vibrant worship and sacrifice to Your Temple?

  Commotion outside his door stole his attention. Strange sounds. Running, and then hushed groans. All of Yahweh’s servants were barefoot, but he heard sandals slapping the limestone tile. He and Amariah shared an adjoining chamber built into the Temple wall dividing the inner and outer courts. Their only entrance opened into the priests’ courtyard—sacred ground. No one would dare wear sandals in the priests’ court.

  He rolled off his bed and hurried to the door, pressing his ear against it. An explosion of chaos erupted on the other side. He swung open the heavy cedar panel and stood in stunned horror. Two bodies lay in the courtyard outside, and a young Temple guard met him in the doorway. “Stay in your chamber with the high priest! Protect the high priest!”

  The guard tried to push him inside, but Jehoiada was too hulking to be shoved anywhere. “Wait!” He grabbed the guard’s collar. “Tell me what’s happening!”

  “It’s a raid on the Temple.” He attempted another shove, but this time Jehoiada stepped aside, causing the guard to lose his balance.

  “You guard the high priest!” Jehoiada said, pulling the young man inside and shoving him toward Amariah’s adjoining door. “You have weapons to protect him, and I’m needed to defend the Holy Place and its furnishings.”

  The guard steadied himself, hand on sword hilt. “You seem quite capable of defending yourself and the high priest. But how will you defend the Holy Place without a weapon?”

  “I would never shed blood in Yahweh’s Temp—”

  “What’s going on out here?” Amariah’s sleepy countenance fled when he saw the guard.

  The young man bowed. “We heard it all began when King Jehoram told his sons about Elijah’s letter and removed them from their positions as governors. He’d hoped to stave off God’s wrath, but his attempt at restitution merely enraged his sons. They rallied their personal guards to pillage Yahweh’s Temple.”

  “Jehoram’s sons are behind this?” Jehoiada didn’t wait for the answer. Propelled out the door by righteous rage, he heard Amariah’s garbled shout but kept moving. Amariah’s forgiving nature wasn’t in Yahweh’s best interests this time. Jehoram’s sons must pay.

  Weaving his way through the Temple’s inner court, he nearly retched. It looked more like a battlefield than a place of worship. Moonlight and torches revealed the broken bodies of Temple guards and gatekeepers who had given their lives to protect Yahweh’s presence. A heavy rain soaked through Jehoiada’s robe and mixed with priests’ and Levites’ shed blood, reddening the tile. Fury built as Jehoiada approached the stairs, w
here the pillars Jachin and Boaz supported the roof of the Temple porch.

  Barely had his foot hit the first step when he heard the shofars—rams’ horns blaring from every watchtower of the city. Jerusalem was under attack.

  Impossible! Confused, Jehoiada ascended to the porch—the highest point in the city—where he could see over Jerusalem’s walls into the valleys on the east, south, and west sides. When he reached the platform between Jachin and Boaz, his heart nearly failed him. Baal priests inside Yahweh’s Temple! Billowing, white linen robes and cleanly shaven heads left no doubt of their pagan allegiance. The wicked delight with which they defiled the sacred golden objects confirmed they were Jehoram’s sons.

  Ignoring the shofars and the city, he ran screaming through the doorway. “How dare you defile the Holy Place of Yahweh! Get out! You will not—” A blow to his belly sent him to his knees, gasping for air. An unfamiliar Judean soldier stood over him, grinning, holding one of the sacred lampstands—a symbol of God’s presence used as a weapon against His priest.

  Another blast of the shofars, and the folly inside the Temple stilled. “What was that?” One of the arrogant princes looked at Jehoiada and scoffed. “Do you use shofars to call in reinforcements? Our watchmen will just kill the next wave of priests too.”

  Still gasping, Jehoiada gathered enough breath for a single threat. “Ask your watchmen what the shofars mean.”

  The other princes halted their celebration, noticing their brother’s concern. “What do they mean?”

  By now, the watchmen had raced to the doors and stood silent. They turned to their regents, their faces finally reflecting the proper fear. “The city is under siege, my lords. It appears those caravans we passed on our way into the city weren’t harmless Cushites after all.”

  In a panic, King Jehoram’s sons gathered the golden utensils, stuffing anything valuable into the pockets of their priestly robes. Jehoiada’s fury reignited, and with a roar he tackled two of the princes before their guards could defend them. He felt the hard, swift blow of a sword hilt to his head and staggered back, landing near the table of showbread. Through a fog, he watched Jehoram’s sons and their watchmen scurry from the Holy Place like rats into the darkness.

  Jehoiada stood on wobbly legs and made his way to the porch, watching archers on the city walls send fiery arrows into the onslaught of an enemy attacking from the south and west. Priests and Levites dotted the Temple’s courtyard, ministering to those who’d been injured or killed.

  Anger. Fear. Despair. Each emotion warred for dominion.

  “Jehoiada! Jehoiada, help!” a familiar voice shouted from the courtyard below.

  Scanning the figures in the rain and commotion, he noticed a contingent of men advancing toward the steps, swords extended from both sides and shields held aloft, hiding the identity of those inside the mini cocoon. Jehoiada hurried down the stairs to meet them, and as he drew near . . . Obadiah? King Jehoram? The two men were escorted by three hulking soldiers—Carites, the king’s mercenary guards—one behind and one on each flank, creating an impenetrable shield around the nobleman and king.

  “Jehoiada, it’s an invasion!” Obadiah said, breathless. “Hurry, we must hide the king.” Jehoram stood silently, shivering between his four saviors, his hair hanging in wet ringlets and dripping with each quake.

  For a long moment, Jehoiada, too, was speechless, the irony overwhelming. “You’re right, Obadiah. It is an invasion—but not of Jerusalem alone. Would you like to see what the king’s sons did to the Holy Place, the lampstands, the table of showbread?”

  Obadiah began shaking his head, waving off Jehoiada’s protest before he’d finished. “We don’t have time for that now. King Jehoram must be saved! Jerusalem is under attack!”

  “Yahweh’s Temple was under attack by his sons!” Jehoiada shouted, advancing toward Jehoram. The Carite guards stepped forward, swords drawn. “Why should I care about this worthless pagan king?”

  “We must get the king to safety,” one of the Carites said, shoving Jehoiada aside.

  “No! Wait! He’ll take us to the high priest.” Obadiah grabbed Jehoiada’s arm and leaned close, whispering, “If Jerusalem falls and King Jehoram dies, a descendant of David will no longer sit on the throne, and Yahweh’s Temple will be lost. Do you want to be responsible for breaking the covenant Yahweh made with David? And if we don’t save Jehoram, do you want one of Athaliah’s pagan sons to reign?” The nobleman released him. “Now take us to Amariah.”

  Jehoiada glared at the king but surrendered to Obadiah’s persistence. This was a decision for the high priest. He turned toward their chamber, leading unholy men on holy ground to let the high priest determine their path. He glanced behind him at the archers—fighting, falling, dying—on Jerusalem’s walls. He could barely fathom it. Would the impenetrable city actually fall? No foreign invader had breached Jerusalem’s walls since Pharaoh Shishak in the days of Solomon’s son Rehoboam.

  “Who is attacking us, and how did they invade so quickly?” He threw the question over his shoulder, not caring who answered it.

  Obadiah seemed the only one capable of conversing. “First reports say it’s the Arabs from Cush who joined with the Philistines, but no one knows for sure.”

  They reached Jehoiada’s chamber and burst inside. The young Levite guard drew his sword and stood between the intruders and Amariah, looking as frightened as a lamb on the altar.

  “What is going on?” Amariah aimed his question at Jehoiada while the young man sheathed his sword. Jehoiada’s emotions were too frayed to speak rationally, so once again Obadiah answered.

  Placing both hands on Amariah’s shoulders, he spoke slowly and deliberately. “Listen to me, my friend. The city is under siege. We can hide the king if we act now, but can we also move the Ark of the Covenant?”

  “What do you mean, ‘move the Ark’?” Jehoiada interrupted. “And why must the priests hide the king?”

  “Quiet!” the other two men shouted in unison, silencing every breath in the room.

  Amariah’s answer came quickly. “We must protect the Ark, Obadiah. It is the very presence of Yahweh in our midst.”

  “I know, my friend, but we believe the Philistines are leading the attack, and considering their past history with the Ark, it’s unlikely they would dare touch it—even if they breach our walls.” Obadiah’s years of diplomacy were evident. “However, if our troops save Jerusalem or somehow recapture the city, we must have a descendant of David to reign and rebuild what we’ve lost.” He stepped back, placing a protective arm around the king’s shoulders. “King Jehoram is our first responsibility!”

  The high priest massaged his neck, exhaled, then shook his head and looked at Jehoiada. “I’ll remain in the Temple, and you accompany Obadiah to hide King Jehoram. You will protect the king with your life.”

  Jehoiada stared, dumbfounded. “How will you defend the Ark? You can barely walk up the stairs. And where will we hide a king?”

  One of the Carites joined the argument. “King Jehoram goes nowhere without his bodyguard.”

  Amariah exchanged a decisive nod with Obadiah, as if the two answered to no one but each other. “Jehoiada, I am the high priest, and you will obey me. Obadiah knows how to hide the king and maintain the safety of the Ark. And as for the king’s guard, only one of the Carites may accompany King Jehoram. The fewer people aware of his location, the better. Now go. All of you, go.”

  Amariah pushed his way through the delegation as if the matter was settled, but the lead Carite clearly had no intention of letting anyone leave until he gave the order. He grabbed the high priest’s arm, and Jehoiada lunged at him, ready to fight anyone who threatened his friend and Yahweh’s anointed.

  The other Carites quickly subdued Jehoiada, and Amariah shouted, “That’s enough! We have no time for this nonsense.”

  The Carite leader released Amariah, commanded Jehoiada’s release, and then bowed respectfully. “Please accept my apologies. I merely ask that the
high priest wait for my men to accompany him. Give them instruction to take the Ark wherever you like. They will guard it—and you—with their lives.” He lifted his head slightly to await Amariah’s answer.

  “That’s a brave offer, but no one may enter the Holy of Holies, let alone touch the Ark and carry it to safety.” Amariah exchanged some unspoken message with Obadiah. “Only Yahweh’s priests can pass through the pillars of Jachin and Boaz into the Holy Place. I’ll stand watch inside, near the golden altar, and you brave Carites may stand between Yahweh’s pillars.”

  “I’ll join the Carites,” the young Temple guard said, stepping forward to support Amariah’s left arm. “But if the raiders breach the pillars, we will enter the Holy Place to defend you—and the Holy of Holies to defend the Ark. I’d rather be stricken for holy zeal than watch Yahweh’s Temple or high priest desecrated.”

  Amariah’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “We all walk on holy ground tonight, my sons. It will be Yahweh’s will alone that preserves any of us until dawn.”

  8

  2 CHRONICLES 21:16

  The LORD aroused against Jehoram the hostility of the Philistines and of the Arabs who lived near the Cushites.

  The Carites and young Temple guard surrounded Amariah and whisked him out the door. Jehoiada turned to Obadiah and kept his voice level, though anger still simmered. “Well? Where are we going?”

  The lone Carite glared, equally impatient.

  Obadiah ignored the question, grabbed an empty shoulder bag, and started filling it with bread, hard cheese, lamps, wicks, and a flask of oil. “We’ll need hooded robes, one for each of us. And you’ll need a sword, Jehoiada.” He stopped packing and aimed a grin at the second priest. “Do you even know how to use a sword, my friend?”

  “I’ve never been trained to use one, if that’s what you mean.” Jehoiada stormed into Amariah’s room to gather the robes, offended that Obadiah would point out his limited experience. He wasn’t a gatekeeper, he was second to the high priest.