In the Shadow of Jezebel

by Mesu Andrews

  “You never have to fear me, my wife,” he whispered against her ear. “Why did Athaliah summon you? Maybe Zabad can escort you with a detachment of Temple guards.”

  In the protection of his arms, she could nod her agreement, but when tomorrow came, could she really walk into Athaliah’s chamber?

  “Sheba, my dear!” Ima Thaliah opened her arms but remained rooted to the floor near her couch. “I’ve missed you. Come, give your ima a hug.”

  Zabad took one step through the door with Sheba, and two Carites caught his arms. He started to fight, but Sheba placed a calming hand on his forearm. “I’m fine,” she whispered, holding his gaze. “Wait for me outside.” She sounded more confident than she felt.

  He wrested his arms from the gloating Carites. Sheba issued malevolent glares and they sobered. She’d almost forgotten the power of a princess.

  The queen had dropped her welcoming arms and was now standing, hands balled on her hips. “Really, Sheba, must you cause a scene wherever you go?” With a huff, she resumed her seat on the finely embroidered couch facing the balcony. An early summer breeze beckoned Sheba to join her.

  The enormous chamber seemed even bigger after living in Jehoiada’s modest rooms. With every step across the lush red carpets, she silently repeated Jehoiada’s oft-spoken advice. Live the truth; be wise without lies. She sat on the couch beside Ima, clasping her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting.

  The queen began her perusal immediately, her kohl-sculpted eyebrows rising in disdain. “Why do you greet me without cosmetics or lotions? Honestly, Sheba, you smell like you sleep in a sheep pen.”

  “On the contrary, Ima, I sleep with Yahweh’s high priest.” The comment earned a half grin from the queen. Though Ima’s criticism threatened a familiar stab of shame, Sheba remembered Jehoiada’s love and was strengthened. The taste of his kiss, his gentle touch—these convinced her she was desirable to the only one who mattered. “The wives of Yahweh’s priests are forbidden to wear lotions or perfumes.”

  “By the gods, why? Do they like their women smelling like sheep?”

  Sheba chuckled. “The priests keep only one type of scent on Temple grounds, the sacred incense burned before Yahweh. In order to avoid any temptation for priests’ wives to steal the precious scent, they’ve asked all wives on Temple grounds to forgo the luxury.” Ima didn’t need to know she was the only wife on-site at the moment.

  “You seem quite knowledgeable about life on Temple grounds, my dear,” Mattan said, emerging from behind the heavy tapestry separating Ima’s sleeping chamber from her meeting area. “Your knowledge will help with our plan.” A sickening grin creased his lips when he saw Sheba measure the distance to the door. “Don’t worry, Priestess. I won’t ask you to do anything that might force your husband to stone you.” Mattan and Ima shared a laugh.

  Sheba remained silent and straightened her spine, trying to stifle her fear and regain her dignity. “What is it you wish from me, Ima? I’d like to see Abba before I return to Yahweh’s Temple.” Narrowing her eyes, she held Thaliah’s gaze, making her point clear. “I’m sure you’ll find a way for me to see Abba Jehoram, since you obviously need my help.”

  “I’d like nothing more than to reunite you with your abba after our little chat.” She signaled Mattan to commence what Sheba assumed was the real reason for their meeting.

  The priest tented his fingers, tapping them together while staring at her with his dead gray eyes. “We’d like to know all you can tell us about Yahweh’s Feast of Weeks.”

  The request seemed utterly harmless, which frightened Sheba more than a blatant threat. “Why?” she asked Ima, refusing to converse with the weasel high priest.

  Ima turned her attention to Mattan, deferring to his answer. “We plan to institute in Judah a long-standing Phoenician festival called Marzeh. And we will celebrate Marzeh on the same day as Yahweh’s Feast of Weeks.”

  “Shavuot. Yahwists call it the Feast of Shavuot,” Sheba corrected him, feeling her defenses rise.

  Mattan and Athaliah exchanged satisfied grins. “Excuse me.” Mattan bowed. “I can see you will be most helpful in our quest to understand Yahwists.”

  Sheba stood abruptly, startling them both. “I really don’t see how I can be of any help. Why don’t you ask Jehoiada? He knows much more—”

  Ima Thaliah grabbed her wrist and twisted. “Sit down, Sheba—or have you decided not to visit your abba?” Her voice was tender and sweet, her message so vicious and clear.

  Sheba resumed her seat, focusing on a lamp in the wall niche across the room. “The Feast of Shavuot occurs fifty days after Passover, celebrating the first harvest of wheat. It is the second pilgrimage festival of three . . .” She offered a condescending waggle of her head at Mattan. “That means the second time all families of Judah are required to appear before the Lord at the Temple.”

  He returned her favor with prayerful hands and an exaggerated bow.

  She rolled her eyes and continued. “Between prescribed sacrifices by the high priest, each family brings a freewill offering according to the blessings they’ve received from Yahweh during the past year. It’s a time of celebrating and sharing with orphans, widows, and foreigners—you know, those less fortunate—”

  “And that, my dear, is why Baal grows in power and Yahweh’s power wanes.” Ima Thaliah placed her hand on Sheba’s knee, patting her gently as if explaining the stars to a grasshopper. “While Yahwists are celebrating their pathetic little kernels of wheat, servants of Baal will offer him gold and silver, fine jewelry, flocks and herds.”

  “I don’t understand.” Sheba felt like a grasshopper learning about the stars.

  “On the day Jehoiada coaxes poor farm families to share their meager produce with beggars, Hazi will return with his wives and their wealthy families. Mattan and I will invite all the wealthy noblemen from Judah to Baal’s temple, offering memorial gifts and sacrifices to the spirits that still hover near the tombs. Beloved King Jehoshaphat’s spirit will miraculously show his approval through sheep’s entrails—won’t he, Mattan?”

  “I’m sure he will.” The feigned innocence on the priest’s face made Sheba nauseous.

  Ima laughed, raising gooseflesh on Sheba’s arms. “And every nobleman will attend—a few more may even offer Hazi their daughters as wives.” She leveled her gaze, daring Sheba to disagree. “The nobles will attend because no one would risk the disfavor of Judah’s queen—and future king—by refusing an invitation to the first Marzeh.”

  All the blood drained from Sheba’s face. She wished Jehoiada were here to defend her—to defend himself. Had she betrayed him by divulging too much? She’d spoken the truth as he’d told her to do, but in the process she may have harmed him and Yahweh severely.

  “Come, Sheba. You look like you could use a visit with your abba to cheer you up.” Ima Thaliah’s eagerness seemed suspicious.

  “Really? You’ll take me to him?”

  “Of course. I’ve been trying to get him out of his chamber for weeks, but he’s become lazy, locked in his chamber with his concubines. Drinking too much wine, chewing qat from Arabia. He’s not even in his right mind most of the time. I’ve sent messengers to Hazi for him to make the major decisions of the kingdom.”

  Ima offered a hand of assistance, but Sheba stared at it, as confused by Ima’s civility as she was by Abba’s recklessness. “Abba hardly ever drinks too much, and the only time he tried qat was to soothe tooth pain a few years ago. I remember because he became sick from it. He’d never choose to—”

  “No one knows about his reaction to qat except you, me, and Hazi. The doctor who pulled the tooth is . . .” She smiled in Mattan’s direction. “Well, he’s no longer able to testify to any treatment he prescribed for your abba.” She grabbed Sheba’s arm, squeezing as if she might break it. “At Baal’s Festival of Marzeh, all of Judah will realize that King Jehoram blames himself for our sons’ deaths and guilt has driven him to unrestrained decadence. His absence at the festiva
l will be viewed as an offense against King Jehoshaphat and his sons—the spirits we’ve gathered to memorialize. Hazi’s strong presence will dispel any doubts of his leadership ability, and the kingdom will be his.”

  Sheba stared, stunned. “Hazi won’t do it. He loves Abba and won’t steal his throne. How could you pretend to love Abba all those years?”

  Ima motioned Mattan toward the door with a nod and then lowered her voice for Sheba alone. “I love those who submit to my will, and I love the children issued from my womb.” Her eyes grew sharp as daggers. “Your abba broke faith when he summoned our sons without my knowledge or approval. My sons were slaughtered while he hid like a rat in a hole.” A single tear leapt over her bottom lash, but she swiped it away, seeming offended at its intrusion. “Hazi is now my only child—and you are my queen of destiny. You will both do as I command.” Linking her arm with Sheba’s, she added, “Let’s go visit this great man you long to see.”

  22

  DEUTERONOMY 16:10–11

  Celebrate the Festival of Weeks to the LORD your God by giving a freewill offering in proportion to the blessings the LORD your God has given you. And rejoice before the LORD your God at the place he will choose as a dwelling for his Name—you, your sons and daughters, your male and female servants, the Levites in your towns, and the foreigners, the fatherless and the widows living among you.

  Jehoiada held his brokenhearted wife on the small couch in their outer chamber. “Abba didn’t even recognize me. He’s out of his mind with pain, writhing on a straw pallet in his chamber. Only one doctor is allowed to treat him, and that man looks like death.” Overcome, she sobbed the broken words into the sleeve of Jehoiada’s priestly robe.

  “I should never have let you go,” he whispered—as much to himself as to her.

  She lifted her head, pausing her tears. “I may never see Abba alive again. As difficult as it was to see him, I needed to go.”

  He wrapped her in the cocoon of his priestly robe, wishing he could protect her from life’s pain. She’d already seen too much. Yahweh, how can she endure more? One of the Levites’ psalms came to mind, and Jehoiada laid his cheek on top of his wife’s head. “When King Saul’s jealousy caused him to pursue David in the wilderness, David prayed to the Lord, ‘Hide me in the shadow of Your wings from the wicked who assail me, from my mortal enemies who surround me.’ Just like my arms enfold you now, beloved, Yahweh surrounded David with protection, saving him from the whole Israelite army.” Jehoiada tilted Jehosheba’s chin up, peering into her eyes. “We must both remember that Yahweh is the one who protects you, Jehosheba. Hide in the shadow of His wings, my love.” Did she realize he spoke those words as much for his own comfort as for hers?

  She snuggled closer, pulling his arms around her tighter. “I must remember that Yahweh is big enough.”

  The absolute innocence of her faith squeezed Jehoiada’s heart. “Indeed Yahweh is more than big enough, and though I cannot fathom how, He loves you even more than I.” She didn’t respond, and Jehoiada sensed the telltale sniffing of fresh tears. He sat her upright to search her expression. “What? What is it?”

  “I’m not sure you’ll love me when I tell you what I’ve done.” She averted her eyes. “Mattan was waiting in Ima Thaliah’s chamber when I arrived. They plan to ruin Shavuot with a competing Baal festival called Marzeh, luring wealthy noblemen of Judah to believe lies about Abba Jehoram.”

  Jehoiada tucked a stray curl under his wife’s headpiece, touched by her zeal for the Lord. “We can’t prevent people from believing lies, but we’ll continue to worship Yahweh and welcome whoever comes for Shavuot—”

  “But you don’t understand,” she shouted, her eyes suddenly wild. “I betrayed you! I betrayed Yahweh! I revealed the rituals of Shavuot, and now they’ll make sure Marzeh attracts the elite of Jerusalem to Baal’s temple.” She leapt to her feet and began pacing. “Perhaps you could find out how Elijah made fire descend on Mount Carmel, or maybe somehow trick people into thinking—”

  “Jehosheba!” Indignation erupted, startling his wife, leaving her frozen where she stood. “Elijah didn’t command the fire on Mount Carmel—Yahweh did. And Yahweh’s servants don’t use tricks to attract worshipers.”

  She wiped away all expression, and he sensed the door of her heart slam shut. “I understand,” she said, rolling her shoulders back, straightening her spine. “May I be excused to the bedchamber? I’m tired.”

  Jehoiada closed the distance between them in two steps, but she stood like a statue, her focus on his chest. “Jehosheba, please. I’m sorry I shouted again, but you must realize Athaliah didn’t summon you to discover answers about Shavuot.”

  Curiosity seemed to force her to meet his gaze, and he wiped a lingering tear—and then held it out for her inspection. “This is what Athaliah and Mattan wanted—turmoil. They want to divide us.”

  “Arrr,” she growled, squeezing her eyes closed. “Why do I let her manipulate me?”

  Jehoiada tilted her chin and she opened her eyes. “You’ve lived in Athaliah’s shadow all your life—as she lived in the shadow of Jezebel. Fear, distrust, and deceit were daily bread, and it takes time to break the chains binding your heart and mind. But Yahweh is faithful, Jehosheba.” He brushed her cheek tenderly. “And I get to demonstrate His love to you for the rest of my life.”

  She hugged him fiercely. “I love you, Jehoiada.”

  His heart nearly melted—it was the first time she’d spoken those words. “And I love you, my wife.” Thank You, Yahweh, for comforting us both in the shadow of Your wings.

  Priests and Levites stood reverently at dawn in the inner court while Jehoiada carried another year-old lamb to the pyre atop the brazen altar. Sheba stood at the north court gate, separate from others who lived at the Temple. Though Jehoiada had helped her make the proper sin offering—a male goat without defect—she still felt unclean, when beneath her robe she bore the scars of a Baal priestess.

  The sight of her husband’s sacrifice no longer frightened her now that he’d taught her the enormous value of each offering. The daily services provided ongoing worship and atonement for the community’s unintentional sins. Each Sabbath heaped more worship on a God who had blessed abundantly the previous six days, and each New Moon served as yet another opportunity to remember, worship, and sacrifice. Today the outer courts were already filling with faithful Judeans who’d come to celebrate Shavuot.

  Gooseflesh rose on her arms as sunrise cast its glow on Jehoiada’s high priestly garments. Nathanael had arrived to dress him well before the cock crowed, as was their daily routine. This morning, however, Sheba asked if she could watch the process in their outer chamber. Nathanael seemed a bit unnerved by her presence, but Jehoiada used the opportunity to continue his wife’s education of Yahweh’s symbolic ways.

  Each piece of Jehoiada’s daily golden garment was applied in order. He slept in his linen undergarment, so Nathanael helped him don the white tunic first. Then came the sky-blue robe with wool pomegranates and bells woven into the hem, cinched at the waist with a belt of embroidered wool and twisted linen. The high priestly ephod fit like an apron, held in place by two sardonyx stones at the shoulders. The breastpiece of decision hung around Jehoiada’s neck, set with twelve precious stones—three across in four rows, one for each of Israel’s original twelve tribes. Jehoiada then lowered his head, allowing Nathanael to settle the high priest’s turban in place. When he lifted his head, the golden crown with the inscription “Holy to the Lord” shone in the lamplight. Sheba had gasped at the sight, finally realizing why the priests’ garments were considered too holy to launder. When they became soiled, they were cut and twisted into wicks for the golden lampstands in the Holy Place.

  “Hear, O Israel: Yahweh is our God, Yahweh alone.” Jehoiada’s declaration over the morning offering brought her back to the moment.

  “Why me?” she whispered to no one, watching her husband lift his hands to heaven and then signal the Levite choir to begin th
eir psalms. She was afraid to even whisper the real truth. Yahweh, why did You give me a husband so handsome, faithful, strong, and gentle? One who loves me enough to teach me of You? Finally, someone I can trust.

  Tears coursed down her cheeks as she remembered the young priests teasing Jehoiada about marrying a beautiful young princess. It’s I who married above my equal. She wiped her tears and grinned, amused that her self-assessment might conflict with Ima Thaliah’s destiny of queens.

  Sheba noticed a group of older women entering the Sur Gate. Huddled together, they were followed—actually, more like herded—by a younger woman with a baby in a sling. “Shh, keep your voices down,” the young woman said. “Stay together, and don’t take food or wine from anyone except a Levite or priest. I’ll find a place near a Temple guard so that no one harasses us.”

  Fascinated, Sheba listened as one of the older women tugged at the younger’s robe. “Keilah, tell us again why we can’t accept food or wine from anyone except the priests?”

  “Because the beggars said Baal’s temple servants plan to offer tainted bread and wine in the Shavuot crowd, hoping to frighten future worshipers.”

  Sheba’s heart was in her throat. If the rumor was true, she must warn Jehoiada. She rushed to the woman named Keilah and grabbed her arm, startling her horribly and waking the babe in the sling.

  Keilah’s face paled to match the Temple limestone. “My lady?” She bowed at once, as did the women with her, and Sheba was left standing in a sea of tattered brown robes, a squalling babe the only sound.

  “No, please stand. I heard what you said about the tainted bread and wine.”

  Keilah stood, her shoulders slumped, head still bowed. “I spoke without knowledge. It was a rumor. I meant no disrespect against the queen or any of your family. I—”