by Mesu Andrews
“Why didn’t—”
“I’m sorry I can’t give you more details,” Jehoiada said, noting the brightening eastern sky, “but if anything happens to me, Obadiah knows the plan. We’ve met secretly during these last months. Right now, you and I must decide how to find the tunnel entrance today. When I enter the Most Holy Place for today’s three sacrifices, which offering poses the best opportunity for a search?”
Sighing, Nathanael referred to his scroll, studying the order of sacrifice. “Before your first entry, place burning coals from the Holy Place’s golden altar into a censer. Add two handfuls of finely ground incense before passing through the curtain to the Most Holy Place. The heavy smoke from the censer will conceal the Lord’s presence between the cherubim on the mercy seat atop the Ark.”
“That’s excellent news to keep me alive in Yahweh’s presence but not so helpful to detect a subtle deviation in the limestone floor. How will I see a tunnel entrance if I’m blinded by smoke?” Jehoiada’s frustration mounted as the eastern sky grew brighter.
“For your second offering, retrieve the bull’s blood that Eliab will have been stirring. This offering atones for your sins and the sins of your household by sprinkling the blood with one finger on the side of the mercy seat and seven times on the floor in front of—”
“On the floor! Yes!” His enthusiasm got a chuckle from his second. “I can inspect the floor while I sprinkle the bull’s blood.”
“Yes, the second time looks promising, but the third offering of goat’s blood uses the same method and placement if you need another chance to locate the tunnel. Your third entry atones for the pesha` of the Israelites—our deliberate sins and intentional rebellion. The smoke should have cleared by then . . .”
Jehoiada lost Nathanael’s final instructions in the overwhelming weight of his final atonement. For the pesha` of the Israelites—our deliberate sins and intentional rebellion. Images flooded his memory of the night King Jehoram had attended the Temple sacrifice with his arrogant princes—all priests of Baal. Jehoiada imagined the faces of his mortal enemies. Mattan, Queen Athaliah—their wickedness nearly choked him. Yahweh, how can I atone for their sins? The familiar anger started to rise, but then nausea swept over him in a wave. He clutched his belly, staggering to a wooden bench.
“Jehoiada!” Nathanael grabbed his arm, helping him sit down. “Are you ill?”
How could he answer? Yes, the burden of unrepentant sin made him sick, but as Israel’s high priest, did he get to choose whom the blood atoned for and whom it didn’t? He met his friend’s concerned gaze. “I’m not ill, Nathanael, but this duty is almost more than I can bear.” Inspecting his simple linen tunic and belt, he said, “I would much rather carry the weight of the ephod and breastplate than the sins of the whole nation on this single Day of Atonement.”
“May I offer some advice?”
Surprised, Jehoiada nodded.
“Don’t worry about the tunnel to the quarry. Concentrate on Yahweh’s commands and the purposes behind them. Fill the Holy of Holies with the burning incense of your worship. Make the atoning sacrifice for your own sin, and then your heart will be prepared to atone for others.”
Zabad’s knock on the door accompanied his summons. “The sun has risen, and Yahweh’s people wait at the gates for atonement.”
Gaining strength from these faithful brothers, Jehoiada left Nathanael’s chamber to cover the sins of a nation.
33
LEVITICUS 16:10
The goat chosen by lot as the scapegoat shall be presented alive before the LORD to be used for making atonement by sending it into the wilderness as a scapegoat.
Sheba stood at the edge of the inner court with Zibiah, keeping one eye on her husband and one eye on the Sur Gate. Keilah hadn’t come with her widows for this morning’s sacrifices. When Sheba asked Hobah, her favorite among the dear ladies, if she’d seen Keilah, Hobah had answered with a toothless grin. “Keilah didn’t bring us food this morning since we’re fasting for the Day of Atonement. I’m sure she’ll be here soon.” That had been before Jehoiada’s first sacrifice. Now he’d completed his third journey into the Holy of Holies.
Each time those great golden doors swallowed him, Sheba prayed for Yahweh’s favor. Have mercy, Yahweh. He is but dust. And each time, her husband emerged, alive but older, paler, more burdened.
Zibiah leaned over, whispering, “Where could she be?”
“I don’t know.” Sheba tried to keep her voice from shaking. “How long can you stay today?” She glanced at Hazi, standing nobly on the upper porch, observing the ceremony with the few Judean leaders still faithful to Yahweh. As Jehoiada placed his hands on the scapegoat, Hazi pointed as if explaining something to the nobleman beside him. Yahweh, forgive his hypocrisy. She had watched her brother become more comfortable lying about Abba Jehoram’s debauchery, lying about Ima Thaliah’s goodness, even lying about Judah’s future. How could he deceive so convincingly?
Zibiah kept her voice low. “I need to know that Keilah is okay.”
Sheba nodded and led the princess to the northeast outer courtyard. “When Elan takes the scapegoat into the wilderness, you go back to the palace with Hazi, and I’ll ask Hobah to take me into the City of David to find Keilah.”
“No, you will not!” Zibiah shouted, drawing the attention of everyone within a stone’s throw.
“Shh! I’ll take Zabad with me,” Sheba whispered, “and I’ll wear one of the sackcloth grieving robes I noticed in a storage chamber. No one will recognize me if I keep the hood pulled over my head.”
Zibiah stared at her for a long moment and then returned her attention to the altar, her jaw flexing wildly. “Hazi keeps me locked in that palace whenever I’m not with you. Queen Athaliah requested my presence at a special Baal sacrifice this afternoon. When I refused, Hazi ordered me to stay in my chamber. He plans to post Zev at my door to ensure I stay there.”
“He loves you, Zibiah, and he’s afraid.”
“I feel like a prisoner.” The words were barely a whisper.
“I know.” Sheba hugged her and kissed her cheek. “Yahweh will make this right somehow.”
Zibiah nodded but seemed unconvinced. Was Sheba convinced? Sometimes Yahweh felt near and His power unquenchable, but when her loved ones suffered, her faith lagged and she needed Jehoiada’s unwavering trust to reassure her. Yahweh, have mercy on my husband. He is Your faithful servant.
She hugged Zibiah’s shoulders. “Let’s go back to the inner court so I can say good-bye to Hazi and prepare to search for Keilah.”
The two moved through the crowd, Jehoiada’s deep, resonant voice drawing them toward the inner court reserved for priests and royalty. “For all these sins, O God of forgiveness, forgive us, pardon us, grant us atonement.” He stood high above the assembly on the platform of the brazen altar, beating his chest, tearstained cheeks turned heavenward.
Sheba gasped. “Oh, Zibiah, he looks ill.” Her horror escaped on a whisper. The sins of Judah had etched craggy lines on his kind and loving features. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his lips were drawn down in a mournful cry.
“I see it too.” Zibiah covered her gaping mouth.
Sheba reached for Zibiah’s hand. “After his sacred bath, he’ll change into his golden garments. Perhaps then he’ll look more like himself. I need to see that he’s all right before I search for Keilah. Do you think Hazi will let you wait with me?”
Zibiah squeezed her hand. “Maybe he’ll even wait with us.”
They watched the remainder of the ceremony in silence. When Elan finally led the scapegoat toward the Sur Gate, Hazi descended the steps of the upper porch, making his way toward Zibiah and Sheba. Worshipers bowed as he passed, his retreat stirring more attention than the departing scapegoat.
“Let the high priest anoint Prince Ahaziah as king!” someone in the crowd shouted.
“Blessings and long life to Judah’s new king, Ahaziah!” another voice added.
“Long live Kin
g Ahaziah!” People began shouting and shoving, surging toward the gates of the inner court. Temple guards filed down from atop the inner wall to help the Carites disperse the crowd. In zeal for their beloved prince, the worshipers now blocked the gates, creating a human barricade between Hazi and the palace. Trumpeters summoned watchmen from Jerusalem’s walls. Zabad gathered a cluster of Temple guards around Sheba and Zibiah and looked to Zev for direction.
“Take the women to Jehoiada’s chamber,” Zev said. Zabad nodded, his guards forming a human shield as they moved toward the high priest’s chamber.
Zibiah looked over her shoulder, straining to see beyond the priests and Levites in the inner court. “Will Hazi be all right?” she asked when they stopped outside Sheba’s door.
“Zev won’t allow anyone near Prince Ahaziah, my lady.” Zabad, somewhat breathless, directed his guards back to the fray and then nodded a quick bow. “Lady Zibiah, the people love your husband. I’m just hoping my guards can stop them from making him king before Jehoram breathes his last.” He gasped, his cheeks instantly flushing crimson. Offering Sheba a fully repentant bow, he spoke while staring at his bare feet. “Lady Jehosheba, please forgive me for speaking so casually about your abba’s condition.”
Sheba’s heart twisted at the truth of his words, but guilt raised her defenses. How many new moon celebrations had passed since she’d seen him? “My abba suffers Yahweh’s righteous judgment, but don’t contribute to Ima’s schemes with careless comments.”
“Forgive me, my lady,” Zabad whispered.
Releasing a sigh, she nudged his shoulder, coaxing him out of his bow. “You’re forgiven, my friend.” He looked up, his neck and cheeks crimson, and she felt sorry for the dear man.
At the sound of more trumpets, Zabad reached for the door. “Let’s go inside. They’re calling for reinforcements. I can’t escort Lady Zibiah back to the palace until the Temple courts are clear.”
Zibiah cast a furtive glance at Sheba and then offered Zabad a sweet smile. “If you’re sure Hazi will be all right, and he won’t expect me at the palace for a while”—she winked at Sheba—“we need to raid a storage chamber and visit a friend.”
Sheba gasped and then hid a smile, realizing what Zibiah had in mind.
Zabad’s eyes narrowed. “What could you two want from a Temple storage chamber?”
“Grieving robes.” Sheba hated using guilt as a weapon, but they needed to find Keilah. “And after that comment about my abba, you owe me a favor.”
The widow Hobah led Sheba and Zibiah through the City of David’s narrow streets, Zabad providing rear guard. Sheba pulled the sackcloth hood farther forward and tightened the grip at her neck. The chill of harvest was in the air, and it worked its way up Sheba’s spine. What if they couldn’t find Keilah?
Hobah led them first to the home of Keilah’s employer, leaving the three imposters, as she called them, standing in the shadows of an alley between two dressed-stone buildings. She approached one of the servants at a side door and returned with heartrending news. “The master threw Keilah into the street last night because she’d concealed her illness. The maid said to check with Gadara. She’s the only midwife in town who’ll help a woman without silver.”
Urged on by waning daylight, they hurried past the market booths. Sheba wondered why some merchants continued their trade on the Sabbath Day of Atonement but got her answer when she glimpsed their wares. Amulets. Asherahs. Even Egyptian gods: Anubis the jackal, Bastet the cat, and Sekhmet the lioness. Had Jehoiada’s travail for Judah covered the sins of these Judeans too?
“This is it.” Hobah emerged from an alley and pointed to a portion of the southernmost wall of the city. The wall itself stood as tall as six men, and dilapidated chambers were built into its crumbling surface. Sheba remembered King David’s family tombs lay carved in the bedrock of Mount Moriah near here. She had been twelve when the royal family made the long trek through the City of David for Saba Jehoshaphat’s burial—the keening processional, the acrid smell of the Hinnom Valley near the Dung Gate. The memories of death and mourning rushed in while they gaped at the southernmost section of the city—the brothel district.
“Keilah and I have known Gadara for years.” Hobah raised her chin, a glint of pride in her eyes. “Gadara helped Keilah care for us widows when we were ailing. There’s not a finer midwife in Jerusalem—but she’s got a temper. And she won’t appreciate you three barging in, demanding to see Keilah. I’ll go in alone and come back when you’re welcomed.”
Zabad watched her go and nudged the two princesses into a deserted alley across the street. “We shouldn’t have come. This is too dangerous. Look around you.” He tilted his head toward two surly men who had become quite interested in their presence. “If Hobah isn’t back by the time I count—”
“She’s here!” Hobah waved at them from the doorway of the brothel.
Zabad squeezed his eyes closed and clenched his teeth. “We must get in and get out. No lingering.”
Sheba hurried across the street, Zibiah close behind, and they greeted Hobah, who led them down the brothel’s long, dark hall. The passage eerily resembled the quarry where Jehoiada had hidden Abba Jehoram, and Sheba assumed the hall connected living chambers within the city’s wall.
“Hey, soldier. Did you bring your ima and sisters to chaperone?” Bawdy laughter came from prostitutes lingering in doorways, their single-windowed chambers spilling light on the packed-dirt hall.
“In here.” Hobah entered a tiny chamber, where Keilah lay on a pile of straw in the corner. A weary-looking woman sat beside her, dabbing her head with a wet cloth. The smell of herbs—and death—filled the stifling space.
The midwife turned and, without apology, inspected Hobah’s three guests. “Soldier, you were a fool to bring two princesses here, but I’d imagine if they have the vinegar to charge into a brothel, they’ll have what’s needed to tend Keilah.”
She plopped the cloth into the washbasin, slapped her knees, and stood. Then she marched toward Zabad like an army general and appraised him head to toe. “I suppose you’ll do. You’ll have to carry Keilah all the way to the Temple, you know. She hasn’t regained consciousness since we found her on the front steps this morning.” She extended her hand and offered her first smile. “My name is Gadara, and I’ll need to check on Keilah occasionally after you take her back to the Temple.”
Zabad opened his mouth but nothing came out. He tried again. Same result.
Sheba intervened. “We hadn’t planned on taking Keilah back to the Temple with us.” Whatever goodwill they’d built by coming, Sheba forfeited in that single statement.
“You will take her.” Gadara’s words were sharp as daggers. “Keilah has no hope if she stays. Either she’ll die from this infection, or she’ll die of a broken spirit when she’s forced to earn her living here.” The midwife crossed her arms, broaching no further argument.
“It’s settled then.” Sheba marched past Gadara, straight to where Keilah lay. Her face was the shade of ripe grapes, hair in sweaty clumps across her forehead. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her lips looked like they’d been dusted with wheat flour.
“She may not make it through the night.” Gadara spoke over her shoulder, confirming Sheba’s fears. Zibiah and Hobah knelt with Sheba beside Keilah’s still form. The heat of her fever radiated like embers of a fire.
Hobah cradled her hand, kissing it. “Shalom, my girl. Peace to you, sweet peace.” Weeping overtook her, and she melted into Zibiah’s embrace.
Sheba leaned over, kissing Keilah’s cheek, and whispered, “You’re not allowed to die. Do you hear me? Zibiah and I have much to learn and no one but you to teach us.” She cradled Keilah’s cheeks, coaxing her friend to wake. No response. “How could her condition worsen so quickly, Gadara?”
“This high fever seems to boil the blood. Frankincense is the most effective herb to break the fever, but it’s costly, and only the wealthy patients have access to it.”
Sheba
remembered one of the market booths they’d passed touting the finest-quality frankincense. “Zibiah, are you wearing that ivory comb you offered to help Keilah pay for the widows’ food?”
The princess’s eyes sparkled as she slipped the comb from beneath her hood and displayed it to the midwife. “Will this buy enough frankincense to treat her?”
“It should buy enough to get her through the worst of it—if she makes it that long.”
Keilah’s eyes fluttered, sending a rush of hope through the chamber. Gadara reached for the cool cloth and dabbed Keilah’s forehead. “Talk to her. Tell her you’re taking her to the Temple. Maybe hope will keep her fighting.”
Zibiah scooted closer. “Sheba wants you to live at the Temple with her, Keilah. What do you think?”
Keilah’s eyes remained closed, but a slight smile creased her lips, preceding a single word. “Nathanael.”
34
DEUTERONOMY 25:5–6
If brothers are living together and one of them dies without a son, his widow must not marry outside the family. Her husband’s brother shall take her and marry her and fulfill the duty of a brother-in-law to her. The first son she bears shall carry on the name of the dead brother so that his name will not be blotted out from Israel.
The sun was sinking behind Jerusalem’s western wall, casting a golden glow on the tawny stone. Jehoiada held the last yearling lamb for today’s sacrifice and made the death cut. He was exhausted, bone-weary, as he handed off the lamb to Eliab and lumbered down the altar steps, Nathanael at his side. The Law’s requirements for their first Day of Atonement together were almost complete. Only a few more details, and Judah would be as pure and holy to the Lord as possible—on this day of each year. Even Jehoiada’s personal failures would be forgiven.
