In the Shadow of Jezebel

by Mesu Andrews

  Beads of sweat gathered on Jehoiada’s brow. A nod was his only reply as he offered the white Thummim back to the assistant and turned to face Remiel as the stones jostled within the breastpiece. The air hummed with anticipation, but for Jehoiada the scene felt as if he were in another place.

  “The breastpiece is ready, my lord,” Elan said, giving Jehoiada the encouragement he needed.

  The new high priest reached into the breastpiece. His fingers slid around one stone—then released it and drew out the other.

  The white Thummim. Yahweh said yes.

  A cheer arose, so loud the Temple rafters shook, and Jehoiada braced himself against the table while well-wishers slapped his back and offered premature congratulations. Had they forgotten the circumstance of this bizarre marriage? Had they and the king lost their senses? But the question uppermost in his mind, the issue that stole his breath: What kind of marriage can I have with the child I met in the quarry?

  14

  1 SAMUEL 18:25

  Saul replied, “Say to David, ‘The king wants no other price for the bride than a hundred Philistine foreskins, to take revenge on his enemies.’”

  Well after dawn, Sheba awoke, curled in a ball atop her fur-covered bed, wearing the filthy robe she’d traveled in all day from Jezreel. The Asherah she’d forgotten to pack for Jezreel sat on the bedside table. “Perhaps if you’d been there to protect me, I wouldn’t be promised to a priest of Yahweh.” Jizebaal’s teraphim had certainly betrayed her.

  Sheba’s mouth tasted like a camel smelled, and her stomach noisily protested missing last night’s meal. She had just reached for the servant’s bell when a knock sounded on her door. Perfect timing. “Come!” she said, her voice as rough as she felt.

  A maid entered and assumed a deep bow. “You’ve been summoned to the king’s chamber—immediately.”

  Sheba dropped the bell, hearing it clatter to the tile floor as she dashed out the door, down the hall, and up the grand staircase. Nearly slipping in front of Hazi’s chamber, where a servant knelt scrubbing bloodstained tiles, she righted herself and leaned against the wall, mind racing. Had Abba died in the night? God, oh god, whichever god is listening, please don’t take Abba so soon.

  Hurrying to the king’s private suite at the end of the hallway, she slowed her pace when she saw the Carites standing like pillars on each side of the entry. No torn clothing or ashes in their hair or beards. A measure of relief crept into her frantically beating heart.

  Sheba bowed to the guards, and they opened the doors without hesitation. The fumes of incense and human waste nearly overwhelmed her. Clay incense bowls surrounded Abba in his bed, now the centerpiece of what used to be the king’s private meeting chamber. Abba Jehoram appeared pale as the white linen beneath him. Hazi sat on a couch to his left and Ima on a couch to his right, dabbing her nose with a purple sachet holding aromatic spices. Mattan stood like a gold-turbaned soldier behind Ima Thaliah, stone-faced. He’d barely acknowledged Sheba since the Gevirah announced her marriage to the Yahweh priest.

  “You look as bad as your abba.” Ima’s disapproving gaze roamed the length of Sheba’s morning appearance. “How dare you come into the king’s presence like a beggar?”

  “Thaliah.” Abba’s one-word rebuke quieted his wife and warmed Sheba’s heart. Though only days had passed since he’d been her champion, it seemed a lifetime since anyone had challenged Ima Thaliah.

  “Please forgive me. I meant no disrespect.” Sheba bowed, holding back tears. “I’m afraid sleep was a miser and made me a beggar. I awoke to your summons and responded without preparing myself.”

  “Come, sit between us, Sheba.” Ima Thaliah’s voice softened, and she patted a place on the couch beside her.

  Sheba glanced at Hazi, trying to guess what was coming. He looked grim, and her heart plummeted. Servants hustled about the room, tearing sheets into bandages and rinsing soiled cloths. The palace physician consulted with three other Baal priests, no doubt preparing to plead for supernatural healing since a physical one seemed hopeless. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she’d be called on to assist the other priestesses, stitching the priests’ wounds after their frantic chanting, dancing, and cutting.

  “We’ll attend your brothers’ funeral pyre this evening at twilight.” The warmth in Ima’s voice sent a shock of warning, and her smile resembled Jizebaal’s.

  Mattan leaned over her shoulder, his beady eyes suddenly devouring her. “After your maids have done what they can to make you more appealing, you’ll serve as chief priestess for tonight’s ceremony—since it will most likely be your last offering to Baal Melkart.” He smiled, his pointed nose resembling an eagle’s hooked beak. Sheba felt like prey. “Since you’ll never be initiated as a high priestess, I believe your ima will appreciate the special role I have planned for you in tonight’s festivities.”

  Dread strangled her voice, and she reached for Abba’s hand like a lifeline. He squeezed her fingers, and she found him smiling through a pained expression. “They’ve chosen a new Yahweh high priest, my lamb.”

  “Already?” she said, turning to Ima Thaliah.

  “Yes, and he’s coming here to discuss the arrangements.”

  “Here? When?”

  “Soon.” Abba ventured another smile, but the effort seemed to cost him dearly. A low moan escaped, and beads of perspiration gathered on his brow. Sheba released his hand, snatched a wet cloth from a servant, and began dabbing Abba’s forehead herself.

  Hazi stilled her hand and tilted her chin to meet his gaze. “Sheba, he’s coming here now to talk about your marriage. Perhaps you’d like to . . .” A sweet smile creased his lips. “I don’t know. Maybe smudge a little dirt on your other cheek so they match?”

  “Now?” She used the cloth to scrub both cheeks, hoping to redden them. She bit her lips, tasting blood, and then smeared them together. A knock on the door stilled her. Back stiff. Eyes wide. “What do I do now, Ima?”

  Athaliah rolled her eyes and commanded the servant at the door. “Escort the priest.”

  Sheba laced her fingers together on her lap, waiting for the first glimpse of her new husband. Would he be short, tall, fat, thin? He must be handsome. She couldn’t bear to stare at an ugly man for the rest of her days . . .

  “You?” Sheba gasped at the sight of him—the angry old priest from the quarry. There must be some mistake. She glanced at Ima, Abba—both stared at their guest. She looked at Hazi for reprieve, but his compassionate gaze told her there was no mistake.

  Jehoiada had sent a Levite to the palace this morning as a simple courtesy to inform them of Yahweh’s choice of high priest. He’d thought, Surely the king will wait to speak of wedding plans until Jerusalem is rebuilt. But no! Jehoram summoned Jehoiada to his chambers immediately, despite the mounds of restoration yet to be done.

  Frustration at its peak, Jehoiada determined to engage the king in real bridal negotiations. He’d negotiate as fiercely as any other suitor, demanding the bride’s fidelity—to him and to Yahweh—and requiring her to leave her abba’s household, as would any other bride.

  Escorted by two Temple guards, Jehoiada ignored the Carites at the king’s chamber and pounded on the door himself. After an inexcusable delay, the double cedar doors opened, and the smell of illness assaulted him. The beleaguered faces of the king, the queen, and their two children startled him into the painful world of Jehoram’s illness and the adjustments this family was enduring.

  “You?” he heard the young woman gasp, and for the first time he considered her broken dreams. From the moment this marriage was mentioned, Jehoiada had considered only the high priest’s interests. But what of this young woman’s first love? What of the children she’d hoped for? His heart nearly stopped at the thought. Did the princess know of Jehoiada’s previous marriage, of his childlessness?

  Her cheeks were flushed. So young, so beautiful—she looked terrified. Yahweh, did You really consecrate this marriage with the Thummim?

  “Co
me, Jehoiada,” Jehoram said, his voice weak. “Surely I haven’t grown more repulsive than I was yesterday.”

  Jehoiada realized he’d stopped at the threshold. Regaining his senses, he proceeded into the chamber, thanking the servant who placed an extra couch near Prince Ahaziah. Jehoiada took his place between the prince and the king’s bed. “You are not repulsive, and I’m sure you feel better under your physician’s care.”

  King Jehoram attempted a smile but winced instead.

  Prince Ahaziah offered his hand in greeting. “I’d like to thank you properly for protecting Abba during the raid.” His expression, his whole countenance, seemed genuine. “I’ll be speaking for King Jehoram today since his illness makes it difficult to converse.”

  Jehoiada nodded, agreeing. He glanced at Athaliah and the princess—the queen cool and distant, the young woman trembling, unwilling to meet his gaze. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaled, shook his head. “Perhaps we should reconsider this marriage, Prince Ahaziah. Isn’t it plain that your sister deserves a younger—”

  “No!” Jehoram rallied his strength.

  “No!” Queen Athaliah’s eyes blazed, and she placed a quieting hand on the king’s shoulder. “My husband and I have discussed the matter and both agree that offering our daughter to Yahweh’s high priest is a worthy match—whether it averts His judgment or not. We seek to make a covenant with the god of Jehoshaphat.”

  Jehoiada considered the queen’s argument, realizing Jehoram must have shared the details of their conversation in the quarry since Athaliah’s words so closely matched the king’s pleas. “We do not make covenants with Yahweh,” Jehoiada replied. “The sons of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are already in covenant with Him, and the best course of action for everyone would be to abide by the covenant He gave to Moses at Sinai, which is the Law. Now, if you’ll let me explain—”

  “The king of Judah needs no explanation of his own heritage,” the Baal high priest sneered. “You take the term covenant too literally, Priest. It’s a simple treaty marriage to unite the king’s house with Yahweh’s priests.”

  “A treaty marriage,” Jehoiada repeated as understanding began to dawn. This was as much—or more—a political maneuver as a spiritual act. “And why do you wish to join the house of David with Yahweh’s high priest?”

  Prince Ahaziah tapped his shoulder, wresting his attention from the stone-faced queen. “You see, Jehoiada, as high priest you judge matters concerning the Temple in central court at the palace only once a week. On all other days, you remain sequestered on Temple grounds. Abba Jehoram feels that through the treaty marriage with my sister, you’ll become more attuned to the overall political matters of the entire nation.”

  Jehoiada studied the prince’s eager expression. He’d obviously been briefed on all that Jehoiada and King Jehoram had spoken about in the quarry. If he knew Jehoiada had lived in the Temple all his life, he undoubtedly knew of Jehoiada’s previous marriage and inability to produce children. If that presented no problem for the royal household, Jehoiada would leave the issue unspoken. However, some things must be declared.

  “If I am to marry Princess Jehosheba, she must agree to my terms.”

  The princess sat stoically perched beside Athaliah, still refusing to look at him.

  Ahaziah scooted to the edge of his couch, apparently prepared to negotiate. “We waive the mohar, understanding that you as a priest of Yahweh have no personal wealth to offer as payment for a bride.” He chuckled, nerves seeming to get the better of him. “I suppose you’re a little like the young David, who paid the bride-price for King Saul’s daughter in Philistine foreskins.”

  Jehoiada was not amused. “I’m not young, nor am I asking for the king’s daughter.”

  Ahaziah cleared his throat and continued. “Well, Sheba will still receive a shiluhim from Abba Jehoram on her wedding day. The dowry will be reduced due to the recent raid but will probably contain greater wealth than you’ve seen in your life.” The prince’s features registered regret as soon as the words escaped.

  “Have you forgotten that I minister in the splendor of Yahweh’s Temple every day—that is, every day of my pauper priestly life?”

  “I’m sorry, Jehoiada. I—”

  “How could you know what my life is like, Prince Ahaziah?” He clasped the young man’s shoulder, casting a penetrating gaze in the queen’s direction. “I don’t believe your ima or any of her children have attended a single sacrifice at Yahweh’s Temple.”

  Queen Athaliah offered a slow, sinister smile. “How flattering that you’ve noticed our absence, Priest. But I assure you that my children and I are extremely devout.” She patted the princess as if stroking a pet. “Sheba has been well trained in ritual arts and will continue to serve Judah well as a confidante in political matters.”

  Jehoiada felt as if his chest were on fire. Ritual arts? Confidante in political matters? Containing his initial spark of fury, he issued a condescending smile equal to the one given. “I will gladly marry your daughter, Queen Athaliah, after our ordination ceremonies and after our Feasts of Passover and Unleavened Bread.”

  The queen shared a triumphant glance with the Baal priest behind her, making Jehoiada’s next words to Prince Ahaziah all the more satisfying. “And I have two more conditions. First, she must renounce any claim to Baal Melkart and worship Yahweh alone.” He heard gasps all round but continued undaunted. “Second, she will leave the palace and live on Temple grounds as a common priest’s wife, not as a pampered princess or partner in whatever you have planned for Judah. These are my terms.”

  He stood amid a flurry of Jehoram’s pained cries and Athaliah’s outraged shrieks. Prince Ahaziah met him eye to eye and extended his hand. “I will speak with my sister and send word of her decision by sunset tonight.”

  “Good. Our seven-day ordination begins in four days, and I don’t want anything to distract from our worship of Yahweh.”

  The prince nodded his agreement. Jehoiada turned and walked out of the room, his back to the raging royals.

  15

  1 CHRONICLES 9:19

  The son of Korah . . . and his fellow gatekeepers from his family (the Korahites) were responsible for guarding the thresholds of the tent just as their ancestors had been responsible for guarding the entrance to the dwelling of the LORD.

  Sheba watched the priest walk out of her abba’s chamber, stunned by his rudeness, amazed at his boldness. No one had ever treated Ima Thaliah that way—not even Abba.

  “He’ll regret the day he crossed swords with me.” Ima threw herself back onto the couch beside Sheba, directing her comment at Abba, whose face twisted in pain.

  Sheba cast a woeful glance at Hazi, and emotion closed her throat. She’d held her tongue and her tears in check during the priest’s visit, but she was at her limit. Shoulders back, head held high, she wrapped herself in tattered dignity and walked toward Abba’s chamber door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Ima shouted behind her.

  “Let her go, Ima.” Hazi’s quiet words nearly released the floodgates of Sheba’s tears, but she held on.

  She glided down the grand stairway and through the hall of women, then opened her chamber door with exaggerated control. Startling her maids, she kept her voice level. “Get out. Now. All of you.” Her trembling began before the last maid hurried past her. Sheba slammed the door and flung herself across her fur-covered bed, releasing her screams into an embroidered pillow.

  Muffled and completely unsatisfying, her tantrum spent what little energy she had left. She lay on her bed, numb. How had her life come to this? A few days ago, she had skipped into an evening meal, her only care the ruby earring a clumsy maid had dropped under her couch.

  Now she faced the yawning emptiness of a lonely existence among poor priests in the Temple of a god she wasn’t sure existed—scheduled after some ceremony and two feasts.

  A timid knock interrupted her pity fest. She grabbed a clay lamp and hurled it against the door. “Stay o
ut!” The latch clicked, and she looked for another lamp to ready her aim.

  Hazi peeked around the edge of the door. “Is it safe?” Her wellspring of tears gushed again, and he hurried to her side. “Oh, Sheba.” He gathered her in his arms and rested his chin on her head. “I suppose your first meeting didn’t go as well as we’d hoped.”

  She shoved him away. “As well as we’d hoped? How long had you known I was to marry Methuselah?”

  “Ha!” Hazi’s belly laugh lightened the mood. “He’s not that old, is he? I thought he was quite good-looking for an ancient priest.”

  Sheba wouldn’t be distracted. “How long have you known, Hazi? And did you realize I would be reduced to a maid?”

  His eyes softened, and he smoothed the curls off her forehead. “Ima summoned me to Abba’s chambers only a few moments before you arrived. That’s when I was told of Yahweh’s new high priest. They prepared me with a list of demands for bride negotiations that Jehoiada never gave me the chance to stipulate.” He winked and issued a tentative smile. “But I like him, Sheba.”

  “Then you marry him!” Sheba thrashed him with her pillow. “How old is he anyway?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but Abba said he served with the high priest Amariah during Saba Jehoshaphat’s reign.”

  Sheba gasped, doing some quick figuring in her mind. “He’s got to be at least . . .”

  “But he doesn’t look any older than Abba,” Hazi added before she could hazard her guess.

  Her brother was pressing too hard in this priest’s favor. Her eyes narrowed, measuring his all-too-perky expression. “Ima sent you in here, didn’t she?”

  Pursing his lips, he hesitated before answering. “We’ve always been honest with each other, haven’t we, Sheba?”

  Her heart twisted. She ignored the question and said, “Tell me, Hazi. What is it?”