by Mesu Andrews
A wave of nausea washed over Jehoiada. He’d never heard such a blasphemous interpretation of Yahweh’s victory at Mount Carmel.
“Which returns me to my original question,” the king pressed. “If your God is so powerful, why didn’t He strike down my sons for invading His Holy Place?”
Fighting the urge to pummel the king of Judah, Jehoiada kept his tone even. “Perhaps I can answer your question when you answer mine. On the night of our escape, someone mentioned a letter from Elijah. What did the letter foretell—if you don’t mind me asking?”
Lamplight gleamed in the king’s eyes. Was it indecision battling behind the windows of his soul? Fear? Anger? “I do mind you asking,” Jehoram said finally. “But because you might provide some understanding, I’ll tell you. Elijah said that because I had killed my brothers and walked in the ways of the house of Ahab, Yahweh would strike my people, my sons, my wives, and everything I own. Plus, He’d afflict me with a disease in my bowels.” He lifted a single eyebrow. “I suppose we have to admit Elijah got that one right, but he said my bowels would eventually come out. Have you ever heard such lunacy?” He scoffed, waving his hand as if shooing a pesky gnat.
Jehoiada’s anger surrendered to pity—and then shame. Yahweh, how do You tolerate any of us? Our feeble little minds and bodies have no grasp of Your infinite plan.
“Well, don’t just sit there!” the king shouted. “Tell me what you think!”
“I think Yahweh will strike your people, your sons, your wives, and everything you own—and your bowels will fall out of your body.”
Silence. Nothing but the trickling of water down the walls of the quarry.
“Yahweh had His chance to kill my sons in the Temple. Why didn’t He do it the moment they trespassed?”
Ah, the king’s original question made more sense in light of Elijah’s letter. Timing. The king wanted to know when the events in the letter would take place. Jehoiada himself had often struggled with God’s timing. “We don’t get to decide when or how Yahweh acts, King Jehoram.” Amariah had spoken those words countless times, but they sounded contrived on Jehoiada’s lips.
“But if my sons and I die, hasn’t your precious Yahweh broken His covenant to forever maintain a son of David on Judah’s throne? Where’s the justice in that?”
“Justice?” Jehoiada’s pity fled, chased by quick fury. “You measure the Creator’s justice? You, the pagan king, who killed his godly brothers and innocent Judean governors so you could steal the treasures your abba Jehoshaphat gave them before he died. You speak to Yahweh—to me, His priest—about justice?”
“I don’t want to lose my sons! Can’t you understand that? Don’t you have sons?”
The question pierced Jehoiada’s heart, silencing his fury.
The king masterfully interpreted the silence. “You don’t! You don’t have sons. Ha!” Rising up on his elbow, he goaded Jehoiada. “You’re probably like Mattan—celibate, unmarried.”
“I am not like your Baal priest in any way, I assure you. I was happily married for forty years to a beautiful woman whom I loved more than breath.”
The king held his gaze, refusing to be cowed. Silent, blinking, measuring—the two stared. Jehoiada would have thrashed any other man, but he waited, refusing to be baited into more futile words.
Finally, King Jehoram spoke. “Have you lived on the Temple grounds all your life?”
Not sure why it mattered, but realizing he must answer the king, he offered a single word. “Yes.”
“Even as a child?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Jehoiada gritted his teeth, begrudging his obligation to explain. “The high priest and his second priest always live on Temple grounds with their families. I am Amariah’s second, as my abba was the second to Amariah’s predecessor.”
“And why is it necessary for the high priest and his second to live on Temple groun—”
“Really, I don’t see why—”
“I am still your king, and you will not interrupt me!”
The sound of gravel crunching underfoot drew their attention, and Jehoiada blew out their lamp. The quarry darkness engulfed them, so utterly black it weighted them like soldier’s armor. A dim light shone in one of the passageways, brighter as it bounced closer.
Trying to steady his breathing, Jehoiada whispered, “Stay here. I’m going to wait at the tunnel entrance to surprise them.”
Taking his sword, he rose and kept his hands outstretched to keep from running into the natural limestone pillars. He stepped carefully, stealthily, toward the ever-brightening tunnel.
“Shalom! We’re back!” came Obadiah’s strained whisper.
Both Jehoiada and the king sighed, but it was the priest who vented his frustration. “You’ve got to give us more warning. You almost met the business end of my sword.”
Obadiah and Zev walked toward the sound of Jehoiada’s voice, and the three of them followed the sound of the king’s tapping in order to find him in the looming darkness.
“What did you see at the entrance?” King Jehoram asked before the men lit a second lamp.
The two explorers shared a disappointed glance, and Zev delivered the bad news. “We didn’t dare return to the Sheep Gate, but the whole area north of the city is quiet as a tomb.”
“How will we know when it’s safe to leave the quarry?” Jehoram sounded more like a pleading child than a reigning king.
“Amariah will come,” Jehoiada said with certainty. “Or he’ll send someone he can trust. For now, waiting is best.”
Obadiah offered a compassionate gaze to the uncomfortable king. “Jehoiada’s right. We’ve got enough food for another day or two.”
“We didn’t see anyone coming in or out of the northern entrance, my lord. No one.” Zev’s grave tone insinuated some deeper meaning Jehoiada didn’t understand.
“Why the concern?” he asked. “Perhaps travelers are entering through the other gates.”
The other three men gawked at Jehoiada as if he’d grown a third eye. The king released a disgusted sigh and turned to Obadiah. “I was about to tell the priest why living on Temple grounds narrows his vision. Why don’t you interpret the broader view of decreased traffic through Jerusalem’s north gate?”
Obadiah’s forbearing smile made Jehoiada feel like a child. “It means the Israelites haven’t come to help us. It also means no merchants from the north, which cuts into our already diminished trade profits from those traveling between Damascus and Egypt.”
“Had you considered those issues, Priest? Allies and trade? Small things, really,” King Jehoram said, sarcasm dripping from each word.
Jehoiada wished he could wipe off the king’s smug grin, but he returned his own cynical sneer. “Why should I worry about trifles when such a godly man sits on Judah’s throne?”
Obadiah frowned at both priest and king. “Did Zev and I miss an important conversation while we were checking the time of day? It’s just past midday—if anyone was wondering.”
King Jehoram fixed a stony glare on Jehoiada while addressing Obadiah. “The priest and I were discussing the many ways he is different from Baal priests, including Mattan’s willingness to be involved in the world around him, whereas the Yahweh high priest—and his second—lock themselves away in their gleaming Temple, refusing to face the challenges of the real world.”
“The real world, as you call it, King Jehoram, is in Yahweh’s capable hands. Amariah and I dedicate ourselves to His service and allow the Lord’s prophets to deal with rebellious kings.”
Jehoiada saw Jehoram’s superiority crack. “My future may be forfeited, it’s true.” He paused and then struggled for words. “What if I offer Yahweh a gift—or a treaty like the treaty between two nations? Will it save my life or the lives of my family?”
Jehoiada scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. The Lord is not a man or king that He would condescend to a treaty.”
“What about His covenant with Noah?” Obadiah’s
quiet words echoed in the cavern. “Every rainbow is a reminder of Yahweh’s covenant. And what about the Lord’s covenant with Abraham that gave us the land beneath our feet? And what about the covenant Yahweh made with King David—”
“That’s different!” Jehoiada shouted. “Surely you can’t compare Jehoram with any of those righteous men!”
Obadiah waited until the echo of shouting died. “But God’s covenants with Noah, Abraham, and David weren’t based on their righteousness. Those men offered nothing to secure God’s promise.”
“And I’m willing to offer Yahweh my most precious possession,” Jehoram said, desperation lacing his tone. “What if I pledge my favorite daughter, Jehosheba, to marry Yahweh’s high priest?”
Jehoiada’s laughter echoed off the limestone walls. “Amariah is more than ninety years old. He would never marry your daughter. She’s a child!” When he realized no one else was laughing, Jehoiada stared at Obadiah, pleading for a reasonable man to join his reasonable argument. “Yahweh has given the Law to His people, and it’s the only way sins are forgiven, the only treaty available, King Jehoram!”
Like Obadiah, the king allowed a few moments of silence to punctuate Jehoiada’s shouting and then continued his argument. “Surely you realize the benefit of joining David’s royal house with Yahweh’s high priest. Amariah could give his blessing to the next high priest, a younger man. He could then marry my Jehosheba and become a member of the royal house—privy to the political and business aspects of the kingdom.”
Before Jehoiada could dismiss the king’s proposal, Obadiah interrupted. “Jehoiada, I believe the king’s plan is something the high priest himself should consider.”
“What? Obadiah, it’s ridiculous. Amariah will never—”
“You don’t know the high priest’s mind. Nor do you know Yahweh’s mind until you consult the Urim and Thummim.” Obadiah’s matter-of-fact tone left little room for reply. “Now, let’s eat. Zev and I found some berries near the entrance that will make a welcome addition to our bread and hard cheese.” He and Zev began a quiet conversation with the king, leaving Jehoiada to ponder the ludicrous proposal before him.
While watching the others divide the meager portions, Jehoiada found little appeal in the fare. After hearing Jehoram’s plan to use his daughter to gain Yahweh’s favor, he had weightier matters to chew on.
10
1 KINGS 21:19
Say to [Ahab], “This is what the LORD says: Have you not murdered a man and seized his property?” Then say to him, “This is what the LORD says: In the place where dogs licked up Naboth’s blood, dogs will lick up your blood—yes, yours!”
Escorted by the weasel eunuch Gevirah had assigned, Ima Thaliah and Sheba hurried down the now familiar hallway toward Jizebaal’s chamber. The faded purple tapestries that had captured Sheba’s attention at first no longer held her interest. After two endless days of waiting for news of Jerusalem, her only concern was Abba.
Without warning, Ima Thaliah seized Sheba’s arm, halting her progress, and then pressed a quieting finger to her lips. A mischievous grin awaited the eunuch’s realization that they no longer followed. Two camel lengths ahead, he glanced over his shoulder and jumped as if bitten by a serpent. “Why have you stopped? We mustn’t keep the Gevirah waiting!”
Sheba laughed outright while Ima Thaliah glared at the impudent servant. “Proceed to the Gevirah’s chamber and announce our arrival. Princess Sheba and I will enter directly.”
Only a moment’s hesitation preceded the man’s frustrated bow. The chamber guards opened the double doors at his approach, and Ima Thaliah began whispering as the doors clicked shut. “Jerusalem’s instability has hastened Ima Jizebaal’s plan to unite Israel and Judah. She’s eager to be rid of my brother Ram, and if Jehoram is dead, she intends to make Hazi king and begin unifying the nations immediately. We can’t let that happen.”
Every emotion inside Sheba screamed for release, but she’d honed her calm facade during the last two days’ insanity. While Ima Thaliah and Jizebaal spoke openly in King Ram’s presence about uniting Israel and Judah, Sheba watched Hazi’s face remain a blank parchment. He was a master of deception—a fine skill to possess amid their life of intrigue. He’d revealed no emotion, none of his opinions—even when the Gevirah unveiled her plan to eventually crown him king.
Sheba maintained her placid expression, keeping her tone level. “I am pleased to do anything you ask of me, my queen.”
“Good.” Ima Thaliah looped her arm in Sheba’s and began walking again toward the Gevirah’s chamber. “We must convince Jizebaal that my oldest son is a better choice for Judah’s immediate king. Otherwise, Ram will be dead before the new moon.”
Perhaps Abba Jehoram is still alive! Sheba wanted to scream. Instead, she walked silently, arm in arm with Ima Thaliah, as Jizebaal’s chamber guards opened the doors.
“There you are, Thali,” Jizebaal said. “We’ve been waiting.” Her icy stare could have turned rain to snow.
Sheba bowed, allowing Ima to precede her toward a low couch positioned near a circular ivory table. Judah’s queen took her place beside King Ram, and the seating appeared to alternate male/female. Sheba sat on King Ram’s left, sharing a couch with Hazi. The Gevirah was positioned on a couch of her own next to Hazi, and Mattan was flanked by both queens. He looked as stiff as the teraphim on the Gevirah’s balcony. Sheba scooted closer to Hazi, his nearness serving as silent assurance. Perhaps this morning won’t be as terrible as I feared.
Jizebaal clapped her hands, alerting her servants and startling everyone else. “Leave us.” The servants exchanged puzzled glances, hesitating only a moment before hurrying from the room.
Sheba’s eunuch dared to question the Gevirah. “Would you like one of us to stay in case you have need of—” The Gevirah’s glare stopped him. He turned and fled with the rest.
Sheba gulped. What was Jizebaal about to say if even the mute servants were ordered out?
Surprisingly, King Ram spoke first. “We received word this morning from the prophet Elisha. Ben-Hadad, the king of Aram, is dead—murdered by his trusted officer, Hazael, who has stolen the throne.”
Sheba glanced at the others, waiting for someone to explain why this turn of events mattered when Abba and all of Jerusalem hung in the balance. “Is this the same prophet who wrote the letter to Abba?”
“What letter?” Jizebaal’s indignation reminded Sheba too late that the Gevirah didn’t know about the letter Obadiah had delivered the night before they left Jerusalem.
Ima Thaliah squeezed her eyes shut and sighed before reporting the news like a market list. “Jehoram received a letter written by Elijah’s hand, predicting disaster to the king’s household and a wasting illness of his bowels.”
Silence stretched into awkwardness, giving Sheba ample time to study the intricate carving on the table. Why had she spoken without thinking?
“The letter couldn’t have been from Elijah,” Jizebaal said finally. “He’s been dead for more than ten years. His students tell some ridiculous story about his departure to the underworld in a fiery chariot, but I believe the stinking, hairy prophet returned to Mount Horeb and died in the wilderness.” Waving her hand, she seemed to dismiss the rumors, the prophet, and the letter. “Now, get on with it, Ram.”
Ram turned to Sheba, his eyes having lost some of the sparkle she’d admired in days past. “The prophet Elisha is Elijah’s successor. He has helped us overcome the Arameans in recent battles, but—”
“Tell them how your prophet friend betrayed you, my son,” Jizebaal goaded with wicked delight.
“He’s. Not. My. Friend.” Ram released a sigh and turned to Hazi. “Someday, when you become king, remember that prophets and priests are never your friends. They are tools for gathering information and gaining power. Never trust them.” Sheba noticed Mattan squirm on his couch and wondered if Ram had somehow heard rumors of Mattan’s corruption. “Elisha predicts the new king of Aram will bring fire and sword to I
srael in the coming years. I suppose that means Elisha’s days of helping Israel are over.”
The Gevirah made no attempt to hide her smug grin. “And so ends King Ram’s momentary allegiance to Yahweh.”
Ram returned no spiteful comments—only a woeful expression as he cradled his sister’s hand. “I’m sorry, Thali, but it also means Israel’s military remains on high alert and can’t offer aid to Judah—no matter what Jerusalem’s condition after this raid.”
Ima Thaliah’s countenance remained chiseled stone, a silent nod her only reply.
Jizebaal’s overly cheery voice broke the tension. “Why don’t we let my grandson review the contingencies if Jehoram has been killed and yet we somehow retain power in Judah.”
Hazi, ever calm and controlled, cleared his throat. “Of course, we pray that almighty Baal Melkart has protected Abba Jehoram somehow, but if for any reason he becomes unable to rule Judah . . .” He paused and held Ima Thaliah’s gaze. “The succession will proceed in order from my eldest brother down. I will continue to serve in the royal guard, ensuring the safe transition of the throne from abba to son to son and so on.”
Ima Thaliah exhaled and then nodded at the Gevirah, her relief palpable. “My oldest son will make a fine king and will work to fill Judah’s treasury, using Abba Ahab’s more aggressive style of leadership.”
“Ha!” Ram showcased the fading opulence around them. “Because Abba’s style of leadership stuffed Israel’s treasury full of wealth,” he said, sarcasm as thick as his curly black hair.
Gevirah Jizebaal’s head turned slowly, like a cobra coiled to strike. “Would you spit on your abba’s grave and say King Ahab’s government failed? You squander what your abba built.”
“It was your interference that killed Abba and started this decline!”
The Gevirah ignored her son and turned to Hazi with the sweet smile Sheba dreaded most—it was the last warning before she lost control. “Ram thinks I interfered when I helped Ahab acquire the fenced plot of land you passed between the palace and Gideon’s Pool. That herb garden used to be a vineyard owned by a stubborn man named Naboth, who thought he could refuse when King Ahab asked to buy it. A strong king doesn’t ask—and will not be refused.”
