In the Shadow of Jezebel

by Mesu Andrews

  He placed her gently on the bed and lay beside her. “Hazi has already devised a plan to visit me and hear stories of Jehoshaphat’s faithfulness while you and Zibiah get to know each other.”

  “So that’s why he fought Ima Thaliah so hard to let Zibiah visit the Temple each day?”

  “You’ll finally have another woman to talk to.”

  The idea pierced her. How could she tell him friendship terrified her? She scooted into the bend of his arm, listening to the heart that had loved and accepted her unconditionally. Women had never been kind to Sheba. Athaliah used her. The handmaids feared her. What did Sheba know of being a friend?

  He kissed the top of her head. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “You said nothing wrong, but I might have.” She sat up and tried to quiet her racing heart. “Do you remember Keilah, the young widow from Shavuot?” A barely perceptible nod. “Well, she already attends every morning service, so I invited her to stay awhile longer and spend time with me each day. You know, so we could—”

  “Is she bringing the child?” He sat abruptly on the edge of the bed, his back to her.

  Sheba remained silent, startled by his reaction. Did he despise children? The station of wet nurse?

  “I said is she bringing the child?” He kept his back turned, but his voice rose.

  “Yes, I suppose she is.”

  “I have duties that will keep me away from our chambers each morning. Make sure she’s gone when you come to the kitchen for our midday meal.” He walked to their outer chamber.

  Sheba sat, completely baffled, crushed. The longer she sat there, the angrier she became. She heard dishes rattle, and finally a cup shattered. “This is ridiculous,” she whispered as she leapt off the bed. Rounding the corner, she began shouting before her shadow fell in the outer chamber. “What is so terrible about a baby in our chambers?”

  She stopped the moment she saw Jehoiada slumped over, kneeling, sobbing. “What is it?” She ran to him, but he waved her away, his head shaking violently. “Jehoiada, talk to me.”

  His strong arm pointed her toward their bedroom, commanding her to go. Still no words.

  She turned but glimpsed him clutching his head with both hands, rocking now, silently keening. He wasn’t in physical pain. She was certain of it. This was a rending of his soul, something too deep to speak aloud. She lingered at the door between their two rooms, torn. What does a wife do when her husband cannot—will not—share his inner war?

  Pray. The answer came like a gentle voice on the evening breeze. Without thinking how she might sound, she whispered into the stillness, “Hear, O Israel, Yahweh is God, Yahweh alone. May the Lord look down on you, His servant and high priest, and give you strength to bear whatever burden seems too heavy to share with your wife. May Yahweh give you wisdom and understanding to know the measure of my love for you.”

  She walked into their bedroom as her husband’s silent mourning turned to racking sobs. She left the door between the rooms open, hoping Jehoiada would sense her need to help and open his heart.

  Sometime after the moon passed its zenith, she woke to silence—and an empty bed. Perhaps the dawn would shine some light on her husband’s pain.

  25

  2 CHRONICLES 21:4

  When Jehoram established himself firmly over his father’s kingdom, he put all his brothers to the sword along with some of the officials of Israel.

  Sheba stood in the Temple courtyard at sunrise between two women, letting the psalms of the Levitical choir strengthen her. Her lonely night had extended into a solitary morning, adding to her disquiet. Jehoiada and his golden garments were gone when she emerged from their bedroom—undoubtedly both had made their appearance in Nathanael’s chamber before the second priest had expected them. Sheba wondered if anyone else in the sparse crowd noticed their high priest’s somber mood. He’d delegated this morning’s altar sacrifice to Eliab—not a blatant indication of a troubled high priest, but certainly a signal to those who knew him that Jehoiada was not himself.

  Zibiah leaned close, whispering, “I hope Jehoiada didn’t feel compelled to invite Hazi to stand in the priests’ court. Hazi came early this morning—before the Temple gates were opened—to bring his sin offering so he could stand with Jehoiada.”

  Perhaps that’s why Jehoiada left our chamber so early. A little relief nudged away the dread Sheba had felt since last night. “Jehoiada isn’t easily compelled,” she said, working at a smile. “I’m sure if Hazi’s sacrifice was sincere, Jehoiada gladly made atonement to the Lord on his behalf.”

  Keilah tugged on Sheba’s other sleeve. “My lady, the baby is beginning to fuss. Perhaps I should go and let you and the princess enjoy some time alone—”

  Sheba’s chastising glare stopped further excuses. “I want to spend time with both of you. I think you and Zibiah will become fast friends too.” She reached into the sling and brushed the baby’s rosy cheek. “No more talk about princesses. We’re all simply friends while here on Temple grounds.”

  Keilah offered an unconvincing smile and quieted the babe as the last notes of the choir faded. The faithful Yahwists began to disperse, and Sheba led her fledgling friends through the gate of the inner court. Zabad watched with an eagle’s eye as Keilah and Zibiah removed their shoes. Sheba had secured special permission for Keilah to enter the court of priests. Zibiah qualified as Hazi’s wife, but no one could walk the sacred ground with sandals on their feet.

  Sheba hurried them toward her chamber, hoping to avoid any contact with Jehoiada.

  “Wait!” Zibiah tugged in the opposite direction. “Aren’t we going to speak to our husbands first?”

  Sheba’s stomach knotted, but Keilah lightened the mood, rolling her eyes in feigned frustration. “Uhh, newlyweds.” All three chuckled, and Sheba breathed a sigh of relief as they nudged Zibiah toward the high priest’s chamber.

  Upon reaching her door, Sheba was suddenly nervous, thinking of all the things their living space was not. “I’ve never entertained guests here. It’s not very big, and since we eat with the priests, we don’t have a real kitch—”

  Zibiah placed a quieting hand on her shoulder. “We’ve come to visit you, not to inspect your home.”

  Sheba swallowed hard and opened the door.

  “Oh, Sheba, it’s lovely!” Zibiah was the first inside, walking four steps and sliding her hand over the embroidered couch under the single window. “And you don’t need a kitchen.” She pointed toward the small, stone-ringed fire pit and washbasin, where cups and supply baskets hung from the walls. “You’ve got everything you and Jehoiada need right here.”

  “It’s a palace to me.” Keilah’s words revealed a heart longing for a brighter future. “And I’m so grateful you invited me to see it. Thank you, my lady.”

  Sheba wanted to hug her but refrained, afraid she might squeeze the baby in his sling or overstep social boundaries. Zibiah had no such qualms, however, and gathered both women in a tight embrace—sending the squished infant into a full-throated squall.

  “All right, all right.” Keilah nudged her new friends aside and freed the boy from his sling. “Why don’t you come out here and meet my new friends? Samson, this is Lady Zibiah and Lady Jehosheba.”

  Amid a flurry of oohs and aahs, baby Samson’s mood seemed to improve. Zibiah sat on the embroidered couch, and Sheba offered Keilah the spot beside her.

  “If you don’t mind, my lady, I’d rather sit on a cushion beside the table. It’ll be easier to nurse Samson when the time comes.”

  “Oh, of course.” Sheba sat on the couch beside Zibiah while Keilah propped her elbow on the table and sat the baby in her lap.

  “How old is your son?” Zibiah asked. Sheba felt her cheeks grow warm and wished she’d explained Keilah’s circumstances to Zibiah privately.

  Keilah seemed unfazed. “Samson was born six full moons ago, but he’s the son of a wealthy Jerusalem family. I’m only his daytime wet nurse. I return to the City of David each night to care
for other widows who can’t earn a wage like I can.”

  “I’m sorry, Keilah.” Zibiah reached out, brushing the woman’s shoulder. “You’re so young to be a widow. How did your husband die?”

  Sheba watched the two women in amazed silence. Their ease and depth of sharing seemed so natural. Was this how friends spoke?

  “He was a watchman on Jerusalem’s wall during the Philistine raid,” Keilah was saying. “I had just delivered his evening meal when a small contingent of raiders took my husband’s watch by surprise. They entered the city disguised as caravaners, sneaked up the western wall, and killed our guards. Then they posed as Jerusalem watchmen while their comrades scaled the same wall from the other side.”

  Sheba gasped. “Oh, Keilah, how did you find out the details of the attack?”

  She paused as if weighing her words. Sheba was ready to apologize and withdraw her question, thinking she’d ruined her first attempt at conversation.

  The nursemaid answered in a voice barely over a whisper. “My baby and I were still on the wall delivering my husband’s meal when the raiders attacked and killed the first of our watchmen. The Philistines held me hostage while they . . .” Keilah’s mouth twisted with emotion, making more words impossible. She buried her face in Samson’s neck, and as if sensing her grief, Samson began to cry too.

  Zibiah scooted off the couch, reaching for the boy. “Here, give him to me. I’m sorry, Keilah. You don’t have to tell me any more.”

  Sheba was mortified, heat racing up her neck and cheeks. “Keilah, please forgive me. I should nev—”

  “No!” She beat her fists against her legs. “I haven’t been able to tell anyone. There’s no one left to listen!”

  Sheba joined the widow on the floor, cradling her balled fists. “We’re listening.”

  The young widow squeezed her eyes shut as if reliving the scene. “They killed my husband first—mercifully, as I was to realize later—with a single sword through his heart. I cradled our newborn son in my arms. He had lived only two full moons. When they hurled him off the western wall, I thought it was the worst they could do to me.” She shook her head, seeming consumed by the memory while Sheba and Zibiah listened in horror. “The Philistines took their turns with me, and I prayed . . . oh, how I prayed . . . that they would hurl me off the wall. They didn’t.” She bowed her head, taking a deep breath, regaining composure. “When they tired of me, I was left for dead and found the next day by Judean soldiers. They took me to Samson’s family, who said they would pay for my healing herbs as long as I wasn’t carrying a Philistine child.”

  “Yahweh, help us.” Sheba’s sorrow turned to indignation. “How could anyone be so cruel?”

  Keilah slowly turned to meet her gaze. “Yahweh did help me. I did not become pregnant, and the family not only paid for my recovery but hired me as Samson’s wet nurse.” She attempted a quivering smile. “Life is cruel, but Yahweh is good, my lady.”

  “You are right on both counts, Keilah.” Zibiah’s strong affirmation startled the baby, and he wailed in earnest. His nurse offered her arms, and Zibiah set him in the familiar resting place.

  “Tell me, Lady Zibiah, how has life been cruel to you?” Keilah placed the babe in his sling, opened her robe, and began feeding to comfort him. She met the new bride’s gaze and pressed, “A woman who has married the crown prince doesn’t spend time with a beggar woman unless she’s known adversity.”

  “But she didn’t know you were a beggar,” Sheba said without thinking.

  Keilah exchanged a knowing glance with Zibiah. “The princess may not have known my exact circumstances, but my appearance told her I am a woman well below her station.” New tears formed on her lashes. “Such humility gave me courage to share my heart.” Swiping away the tears, she ventured a half smile. “Can you share your heart, Lady Zibiah?”

  Sheba watched a moment of indecision shadow the new bride’s face. She’d seemed so confident, so adept at the social graces. “I think I can trust you both. My ima told me, ‘Don’t trust anyone in Jerusalem, especially from the palace.’” She laid her hand on Sheba’s arm. “But I don’t suppose you qualify for that anymore, do you?”

  The girl’s transparency lightened the moment for Sheba to tease. “Well, Keilah thinks my chamber is a palace.”

  All three chuckled, Zibiah’s winding down with a faraway stare. “I guess my adversity began when King Jehoram killed the governor of Beersheba, his brother Jehiel.” She met Sheba’s eyes without condemnation or apology. “Your abba Jehoram ordered the executions of any other wealthy landowners faithful to Yahweh and placed his son, a Baal priest, as the new governor over Beersheba. My abba understood the king’s message and converted to Baal worship in order to save our lives and his wealth—though our family had been devout Yahwists for generations. My brother refused to convert and was found murdered in a ditch outside the city.”

  Sheba felt the blood drain from her face, horrified. She remembered Abba’s brothers’ deaths, the royal cousins who lived at the palace under guard, and the Gevirah’s revelation that Abba Jehoram had murdered his brothers at Ima Thaliah’s command. Nameless stories—until a young woman she knew lost a brother and called evil by its real name. “Zibiah, I’m so sorry. I had no idea—”

  “Of course, you couldn’t have known,” she said. “What do women have to do with politics?”

  Sheba’s mouth suddenly went dry. She would avoid that topic like a hot ember. “How have you maintained your devotion to Yahweh when your abba worships Baal?”

  “My ima and I remained true to the one God without Abba’s knowledge. When Abba heard the crown prince was coming to Beersheba for a bride, he arranged with the Baal priest for me to marry Hazi. Ima told me not to confess my true faith to the prince, but I couldn’t allow our marriage to be built on a lie, so I told him while we were alone during the bedeken ceremony.”

  Keilah gasped. “What did the prince say when you told him?”

  “Hazi laughed and said his sister would be pleased.” She squeezed Sheba’s hand. “And then he told me you were married to Yahweh’s high priest, which pleased my ima immeasurably.”

  Sheba’s heart swelled at the joy in her sister-in-law’s eyes. “What an amazing testimony of Yahweh’s goodness. Hazi was right. I am pleased.”

  An awkward silence settled between them as the obvious moment for Sheba’s story arose. Keilah settled Samson on her other breast, a fascinating process to the young brides, and then she turned to Sheba. “I’ve been wondering, Lady Jehosheba, how did your marriage to the high priest come about?”

  Sheba tried to maintain a smile but felt it fade. “I . . . um . . . well, we . . .” How much should she disclose? Where did she begin?

  Zibiah and Keilah exchanged a quizzical look, and Keilah spoke up again. “It can’t be worse than rape and murder.”

  Sheba stared into the expectant faces of two women who had laid bare their hearts. How could she lie to them—but how could she tell the truth? Who would believe Jezebel ruled both kingdoms with the destiny of queens? She didn’t dare confess to exchanging secret scrolls with the queen—documents written in Phoenician to appear hidden from her husband. And how could she betray her husband, confiding that he’d knelt in this very spot last night, sobbing for reasons unknown to her?

  Live the truth; be wise without lies. Jehoiada’s advice breathed into her heart, and she began her story.

  “My abba Jehoram is enduring Yahweh’s judgment for following the ways of Ahab’s household and for the sins against his brothers and other faithful men.” She squeezed Zibiah’s hand, comforting the girl, while still hating her abba’s suffering. “During an evening meal, on the night before the Philistine raid, Abba Jehoram received a mysterious letter from the prophet Elijah.”

  “You mean Elisha,” Keilah corrected her, seeming to have lost all inhibitions during their morning visit.

  “No, I mean Elijah.”

  “Ooooh!” both women crooned, duly impressed.

/>   Sheba grinned, amazed and strengthened by their transparency. “The letter predicted judgment on Abba’s entire household as retribution and a wasting disease of the bowels that would eventually claim his life. He called his governor sons from their cities the next morning with the intention of rescinding their positions, but the Philistines and Arabs stormed the city, killing the royal sons. Jehoiada and Obadiah, with the help of a single Carite guard, hid my abba until the danger passed, and Abba promised to offer me in marriage to the high priest in hopes of diverting Yahweh’s further judgment.”

  Zibiah’s eyes softened with compassion. “But your abba assumed Yahweh’s priests would choose a younger high priest when Amariah was killed.”

  Avoiding her pity and her question, Sheba gave a precise answer rather than a complete one. “The priests only suggest the new high priest, but ultimately Yahweh reveals His choice through the Urim and Thummim.” Her tears began before the last word was spoken, and she hated herself for it. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I love Jehoiada. I do.”

  Keilah’s eyes pooled with tears. “I see the way you look at him, Lady Jehosheba. It’s obvious you care for him deeply, but . . .”

  Zibiah alternated glances between the two, and Sheba was equally confused. “But what?”

  “When I went back to the City of David with my widows after Shavuot, they told me Jehoiada had been married before and his first wife never had children.”

  “Jehoiada was married?” Sheba’s whole world tilted. How had she not known Jehoiada had been married—and had no children?

  Keilah’s expression reflected the same panic Sheba felt. “I thought you knew. I didn’t mean to—”

  Sheba looked at Zibiah. “Did you know?”

  “No! I never knew the high priest until I met you both at the wedding feast.”

  As she stared hard at Zibiah, the next question lodged in her throat. Did Hazi know? She tried to steady her breathing, but it came in quick, uneven bursts. Did Keilah tell her to intentionally hurt her? Ima Thaliah would have. Women always had an agenda. How could Sheba have trusted these two so freely?