In the Shadow of Jezebel

by Mesu Andrews

  “I know about King Asa. Uncle Ram threatens Jezebel with the story regularly.”

  “You have to make a choice, Hazi. You can’t serve Yahweh and Baal.”

  “You sound like the Gevirah.” Hazi leaned back in his chair and then gawked as if seeing it for the first time. “Why isn’t this table and chair set in your living chamber? I sent it as a gift for Sheba.”

  The two ebony chairs and ivory-inlaid table had been delivered from the palace the day after Jehosheba’s collapse, but the sight of them sent her into a trembling panic. “We don’t really have room in our chamber, Hazi, and I thought we could use them while studying the records of the kings of Judah.”

  “Sheba hated them, didn’t she?”

  Jehoiada sighed, nodded. “But what I said is also true. We don’t have room in our chamber.” He tried to sound encouraging. Hazi had been especially concerned for his little sister.

  “She hated them because they reminded her of Jezebel—because everything at the Jezreel palace was ebony and ivory.”

  Jehoiada eyed his brother-in-law, utterly bewildered. “If you knew that, why did you send them?”

  “Has Sheba told you everything that happened in Jezreel?” Hazi’s chin rose defiantly, making his point.

  “No . . . I don’t know. But I don’t want you to tell me!”

  “Why? What if I think you need to know?”

  Jehoiada slammed his hand on the table. “Don’t you understand? Jehosheba feels betrayed by everyone who loves her. If you confide something about Jezreel that she hasn’t told me, then you’ve betrayed her again.”

  “Aaaggghh!” Hazi removed his crown and raked his fingers through his hair. “How do we help her then?”

  “We love her with integrity while Yahweh heals her from the inside out. It’s taken years for Athaliah to tear her down, Hazi. We’ve got to give ourselves time—and trust the Creator—to build her back up.” He placed his elbow on the table, hand in the air. “Whoever loses has to tell Athaliah that her daughter is feeling ill and is unable to answer her summons.”

  Hazi rolled his eyes and thumped his elbow on the table. “It’s hardly fair. You’re an old man.” They locked hands, and the arm wrestling began.

  Jehoiada had conquered many unsuspecting younger priests—usually winning their portion of vegetables or escaping waste pot duty. Hazi’s face reddened and his neck veins bulged.

  “Impressive strength for a prince.” Jehoiada’s compliment completely deflated his opponent, as intended.

  Hazi’s arm bent back, his hand pinned to the table. “Not fair, old man!”

  Jehoiada laughed, accustomed to similar reactions from overconfident young priests. “Give the queen my regards.” He stood, moving toward the door.

  Hazi remained seated. “Ima Thaliah commands Sheba’s presence.”

  Jehoiada halted where he stood, his back toward the crown prince. “Give me the truth, Hazi. No pretty arguments.”

  “Ima heard from one of her Temple spies that Sheba’s mind is gone. She fears the information she and the Gevirah divulged in Jezreel is at risk and might fall into Yahwist hands—namely, yours.”

  Jehoiada stormed back to Hazi, sweeping the chair and table aside like toys. “Your ima has Temple spies?” Hazi nodded, eyes round as sacred censers. “And you expect me to deliver my wife to her executioner?”

  “I’ll stay with Sheba for the meeting. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt her.”

  Jehoiada grabbed the prince’s robe, lifting him to his feet. Hazi winced, but the high priest merely drew him near enough to whisper, “You will remove the queen’s spies from Temple grounds. And let me assure you—if your ima hurts Jehosheba, I will hurt you.” Jehoiada released his robe and led Hazi out the door. “You will explain to your sister that she must face Queen Athaliah. I refuse to inflict this pain.”

  The two marched through the side gallery, down the steps, and across the inner court, and arrived at Jehoiada’s door. Hearing the women’s voices inside, Jehoiada paused, having learned that any sudden movements sent his wife into a panic. He issued a final glare at Hazi and opened the door slowly. Someone should have prepared them for the sight.

  The three women stood in a circle, drafts of wool wound round each shoulder, every one of them dangling a weighted spindle near the floor.

  Hazi was first to ask the obvious. “What are you doing?”

  Zibiah giggled. “We’re spinning wool. What does it look like?”

  Jehoiada’s heart nearly burst when he saw the smile on Jehosheba’s face. Forgetting his anger at Hazi, he hurried to his wife, who chewed her bottom lip, concentrating.

  “This was Keilah’s idea when she heard that Zibiah lived in Beersheba—sheep country.”

  Zibiah chimed in. “I sent one of the guards to the palace to gather the wool and spindles.”

  Jehoiada’s heart twisted in his chest. Yahweh, thank You for giving Jehosheba this joy—before the grief. He met Hazi’s gaze, lifted an eyebrow, and spoke. “Jehosheba, your brother has something to say.”

  Her hands dropped to her sides, knotting the hard-earned yarn. Fear stole the pleasure from her features. The other women stilled too and then gathered around her. Hazi stood alone, and Jehoiada almost pitied him. Almost.

  Sheba stared at the ivory comb on her bedside table and willed herself to stop shaking. “I want a mirror to see how my cheeks are healing before I meet with Ima.”

  Jehoiada had removed every mirror from Temple grounds when he’d discovered Sheba crying at her reflection. He’d promised that her self-inflicted cuts from the breastpiece would heal completely, but the rough, peeling scabs told her she could expect Ima’s disdain.

  “Look at me, Jehosheba.” He tilted her chin, and she obeyed. “You don’t need a mirror. See your reflection in my eyes. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, and I love you more than life. And Yahweh Himself loves you with an everlasting love.”

  She cradled her husband’s gray beard and peered into the deep-set, dark eyes that searched her heart. “In your arms, I can believe all those things.”

  In the weeks since she’d discovered Jehoiada’s first marriage, her tears had become less frequent. She still startled easily and felt a constant trembling within, but Yahweh somehow seemed more real, felt more present in her solitude. Jehoiada’s staggering transparency had taught her much about the invisible God they must both trust.

  Jehoiada kissed her gently, but his passion grew—seeming almost desperate—as he clutched her finest robe like a lifeline. She pressed his shoulders, a gentle reminder that a roomful of guests lingered in their outer chamber. “I must go.”

  “If you’re not back before the twilight sacrifice, I’ll put a sword in every Levite’s hand and search the palace.”

  She laid her head on his chest, listening to his heart thunder. “If I’m not back before the twilight sacrifice, you should search the Valley of Hinnom for my bones.”

  “Jehosheba!” He grabbed her shoulders. “Don’t say that.”

  She pecked his cheek with another kiss. “For the first time since Hazi’s feast, I’m calmer than you are.” The thought comforted her.

  The two emerged from their bedchamber and met four sullen expressions—Hazi’s, Zibiah’s, Keilah’s, and Nathanael’s. Each looked as if they’d already carved her sarcophagus and chosen the tomb.

  “Are Zabad and Zev waiting to escort us to the executioner?” Sheba’s offhanded remark earned rebukes from everyone but Hazi.

  He chuckled, offered his arm, and bowed. “It won’t be so bad. We’ll prepare some of your answers on our short walk, and when we get to Ima’s chamber, I’ll do most of the talking.”

  “You always do most of the talking.” Sheba grinned, heart pounding, and stepped away from her husband to link arms with Hazi.

  She glanced over her shoulder, fighting tears, for one more look at Jehoiada as they walked out the door. Nathanael pressed against Jehoiada’s chest, holding him back, whispering something as de
termination knit her husband’s brow. Zabad closed the door behind them, providing rear guard, as Captain Zev led them toward the Guards’ Gate.

  Hazi tightened his grip on her arm and squeezed her hand. “Relax, you’re with me, Sheba. I’m still your Hazi.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. As promised, he began coaching her on their journey between the Temple and palace. “Ima will use her usual tactics with you, attacking immediately. She’ll put you on the defensive somehow—criticize your appearance, insult Jehoiada, challenge your loyalty. Something to throw you off balance right away. She’ll undoubtedly say something about the marks on your face, so be ready.”

  Sheba stopped abruptly, nearly causing Zabad to trample her. “I never realized her comments followed a pattern. She always does this to me, doesn’t she?”

  Hazi’s belly laugh captured the attention of several guards milling about. “Yes, little sister. She always does this.” He gathered her under his arm and began walking again.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” She was still contemplating when they passed the Horse Gate and neared the servants’ entrance.

  Hazi tapped Zev’s shoulder, halting his captain, and then turned to the Temple guard behind them. “Zabad, I’d like you and Zev to stand guard while I meet privately with my sister in the captain’s chamber. I’ll return with Sheba in a few moments.” Zev blocked Zabad from the royals, hand ominously placed on his sword.

  Zabad reached for Sheba with one hand and his sword with the other. “Jehoiada won’t approve—”

  “I am Judah’s crown prince!” With the speed of lightning, Hazi—trained by the king’s Carites—wrenched the Temple guard’s arm and rendered him helpless, his dagger at Zabad’s throat. “I don’t take orders from Yahweh’s high priest. Is that clear?”

  Zev grabbed Sheba’s arm, pulling her clear of the fracas.

  Zabad’s face was crimson fury. Fearing he’d do something heroic—and utterly unnecessary—to protect her, Sheba jerked free from Zev’s grip. “Hazi, put your dagger away.” She marched toward Zabad, grabbed Hazi’s wrist, and pushed it away from the guard’s jugular as she reassured Jehoiada’s dear friend. “My brother will not harm me, Zabad. We both get a little tense before meeting Ima Thaliah.”

  She turned and shoved her brother toward the servants’ quarters, casting a glance over her shoulder. Zev and Zabad stood awkwardly side by side. She hoped they didn’t kill each other by the time she and Hazi returned.

  Hazi sheathed the blade as they walked down the long, smelly corridor. She assumed it was the guards’ barracks, though she’d never seen their accommodations until now. Hazi opened the last chamber door on the right, and she followed him in, closing the door behind them.

  He stood in the center of the room, a superior smirk on his face. She walked to within a handbreadth and slapped him. “That was stupid and uncalled-for.”

  A slow, sinister smile creased his lips. “And that’s how I hoped you’d respond.”

  “What?” She tilted her head, releasing a frustrated snort. “You’re insane.”

  “And you must prove to Ima you’re not.” He stepped forward, backing her up. He kept walking toward her, stalking like a lion cornering his prey. “No! Don’t retreat!” he shouted. “Sheba, you’ve been meek as a lamb for weeks. You must remember how to fight or Ima will destroy you.”

  She felt the heavy cedar door behind her. Yahweh, help me! There’s no way out. She glanced at Hazi’s dagger and back at his eyes.

  He smiled. “Sure, go for my dagger. Try it.” She flattened herself against the door, turning her face away, wincing as he drew near. He slammed both hands against the door beside her face, shouting, “If you show weakness, Ima will kill you and everyone you hold dear! You’ve got to prepare for the fight.”

  Without thinking, she drove her knee into a man’s most vulnerable spot. Was it Ima Thaliah’s priestess training that prepared her to disarm a man, or was it in answer to her prayer that she remembered the tactic? Regardless, it worked. Hazi staggered, bent over, groaning.

  She stood there, rattled, but felt a measure of satisfaction. “I think I’m prepared to fight now, Brother. Would you still like to do the talking, or should I plan to carry the conversation?”

  29

  LEVITICUS 1:2; 2:1–2

  Speak to the Israelites and say to them: “When anyone among you brings an offering to the LORD, bring as your offering an animal from either the herd or the flock. . . . When anyone brings a grain offering . . . their offering is to be of the finest flour. They are to pour olive oil on it, put incense on it and take it to Aaron’s sons the priests . . . and burn this as a memorial portion on the altar, a food offering, an aroma pleasing to the LORD.”

  Zev nodded to one of the two Carites at Queen Athaliah’s chamber door. The soldier rapped on the double doors with his spearhead, and Zabad leaned forward to whisper in Sheba’s ear, “Are you all right, my lady?”

  She barely had time to pat his forearm and nod, assuring him for the third time since returning from Zev’s chamber. His worried expression was the last thing she glimpsed before Zev and the two Carite guards nudged her and Hazi into Ima’s chamber and closed the door.

  “Sheba, you look like walking death! And your face—how awful!” Athaliah gasped. Mattan stood like a sentry beside Ima’s couch, his bald head gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Ima cradled Sheba’s elbow, leading her on the narrow red carpet, while Hazi followed close behind. “What has that Yahweh priest done to you?”

  “Jehoiada is very kind to me, Ima.” Sheba nodded at Mattan before taking her seat at the opposite end of the couch. “I haven’t been myself since Hazi’s banquet.”

  Ima joined her, sitting too close, and Hazi pulled up a stool at Sheba’s right. “Perhaps you’re with child.” Ima grasped her hand, patting it, massaging it. “Or was it the old priest’s fault that he and his first wife never had children?”

  Sheba’s heart twisted inside her. “I suppose we’ll know in time.” For a fleeting moment, she’d hoped Ima hadn’t known. She shouldn’t have been surprised.

  “Jehoram said the priest confessed he and his first wife never had children, but there’s always a chance that she was the barren one.” Ima glanced at Hazi. “Tell your sister there’s always hope, dear.”

  “Sheba knows where to place her hope, Ima.” Hazi’s tenderness washed over Sheba, his eyes, his smile, his gentle voice. He winked and took her other hand. She felt like a toy being tugged between warring children—Hazi’s compassion on one side, Ima’s scheming on the other.

  Sheba closed her eyes, remembering Hazi’s advice on their short journey from the Temple. Ima Thaliah had done everything he had warned—criticized Sheba, condemned Jehoiada, and planted doubts. His methods had certainly been deplorable, but perhaps his heart could be trusted. She opened her eyes, strengthened, ready for whatever came next.

  “I summoned you both to emphasize the importance of your roles in our success.” She snapped her fingers, signaling Mattan to retrieve the scroll lying on the table beside her. He placed it in her palm and gave a cursory bow, his dead gray eyes never leaving Sheba.

  “I received this urgent message from Gevirah Jizebaal.” Ima Thaliah unrolled the rather large scroll and began reading.

  From Jizebaal, Gevirah of Ram, the Reigning King of Israel.

  To My Revered Daughter, Thali, Queen of Judah.

  We send greetings with blessings from almighty Baal Melkart, Rider of the Clouds. May he bless the fruit of your womb—our beloved crown prince, Hazi. And may the gods grant special favor to the lovely Sheba as she casts the spell of Astarte on Yahweh’s high priest.

  The words sent a shiver through Sheba, and Ima Thaliah looked up. “Are you cold, dear? Would you like Mattan to fetch a blanket from my bed?”

  Fighting for control, Sheba cursed her weakness. “No, Ima. Thank you. I’m still battling what remains of my illness. Please continue.” She bowed her head, hoping to hide her fear but knowing Ima saw
everything.

  Aram continues their border attacks, and the usurper King Hazael threatens another siege on Samaria. Baal Melkart continues his faithful protection of cities, but small farms and Israelites on our eastern borders are savagely attacked. Your brother Ram refuses to restore mandatory worship of Baal Melkart, and Elisha continues to gain support of the rural areas with three prophets’ schools near Jericho, Bethel, and Gilgal.

  Ram refuses to mandate Judean military aid, but I’m sure you will guide Hazi in the proper course of action. The time is drawing near for our nations to unite under one god.

  Written by my own hand.

  Sheba kept her head bowed, refusing to acknowledge the pressure the Gevirah’s letter placed on their shoulders. Silence stretched the tension like a bowstring.

  Finally, Hazi sighed. “Ima, I know you feel obligated to do as the Gevirah suggests, but Judah cannot offer military aid when our own army was decimated so recently. Our general was killed in Edom’s rebellion, and hundreds of watchmen died in the Philistine raid. During my tour of Judah, I reestablished leadership of garrisons in the fortified cities, which created some stability, but the watchmen my brothers installed when they became governors were given free access to the temple prostitutes. It will take time for the new commanders to drill real discipline into these soldiers.”

  “Your abba was a fool. I told him our sons weren’t ready to appoint leaders.”

  Sheba’s head shot up, anger shoving aside every other emotion.

  The queen smiled wickedly. “Finally, a glimpse of the old Sheba.”

  Her neck and cheeks burned, but before Sheba could release her venom, Hazi laid a quieting hand on her arm. “We’re not going to discuss past decisions, Ima. We’re going to talk about now. Judah has no army to help defend Israel. Uncle Ram and General Jehu know it. That’s why they refuse to ask for Judah’s help. The Gevirah—and you—would be wise to listen to your sons.”