by Mesu Andrews
The bundle jostled—and then coughed. Jehoiada’s blood ran cold. “Obadiah?” He knelt beside the frail frame of his oldest friend. “How long have you been ill? I had no idea.” Palace gossip said the nobleman had been sent on a journey for the queen.
The boy reached for Zabad’s hand, leading him past the archway toward another chamber. The little chatterbox had already begun explaining to the chief gatekeeper all he knew of Obadiah’s household guards and security measures.
“That’s quite a steward you have there, my friend.”
The nobleman tried to smile but used his strength to grip Jehoiada’s hand instead. “I won’t be able to guide you through the quarry, you know.” He swallowed with effort, and Jehoiada was tempted to spout platitudes about a sure recovery and many more years ahead. But what was the point? Obadiah was dying.
“Tell me what to do.”
“Focus on preserving David’s descendants on Judah’s throne. Israel is lost to Jezebel, and Judah languishes in her shadow—for now. You must protect the future at all costs.”
Jehoiada squeezed his friend’s hand, tried to smile. “You said you’d never give up on Jehoram. Well, I’m not giving up on Hazi.”
An almost imperceivable nod. “Yahweh’s wrath is a terrible thing, Jehoiada, but He is just.” A coughing fit interrupted. After a sip of watered wine, Obadiah settled back onto his couch. “I believe Athaliah knew of the Philistine raid before it happened—perhaps even aided the enemy.”
“No! Even Athaliah wouldn’t have her own sons slaughtered.”
“She had no idea her sons were going to be here, remember? Jehoram summoned them on the morning Athaliah took Hazi and Sheba to Jezreel.”
Jehoiada’s stomach rolled. Was that why she tortured Jehoram so ruthlessly? “Why do you believe she knew of the raid?”
“Remember the gold that was supposedly stolen from the palace?”
Jehoiada nodded, the image of Hazi’s golden wine goblet coming to mind.
“When I annexed the small farms to the royal treasury, I noted large revenues of gold and silver with no explanation of their source. The specific items listed were suspiciously familiar. They returned to the treasury slowly, when foreign trade increased and Hazi began receiving gifts from visiting ambassadors. Hazi wouldn’t recognize the pieces because he wasn’t involved in politics before Jehoram’s illness. And no one would dare accuse Athaliah because every official on Hazi’s counsel is there at the queen’s pleasure. Even the sons of King Jehoram’s dead brothers sold their souls to Athaliah for a seat at Hazi’s side when Jehoram finally dies.”
Jehoiada squeezed the bridge of his nose, wishing, dreaming, praying that Hazi would find his spine and embrace the faith of his saba Jehoshaphat.
“Equally troubling is Mattan’s increasing power among the people. I suppose you’ve heard of his reported ‘miracles.’”
Jehoiada nodded and then teased, “How do you discover these things while you’re shivering on your sickbed?”
The question coaxed a weak grin from the nobleman. “Athaliah isn’t the only one with spies.” But his smile died, and he seemed stricken by a thought. “Jehoiada, I’ve discovered which of your Temple servants has been giving information to the queen.”
Jehoiada’s heart skipped a beat. Of course he wanted to know—needed to know—but dreaded the betrayal. “Who?”
“I’m sorry, my friend. It’s Eliab.”
The name stole his breath. Apart from Nathanael and Zabad, Eliab was the man Jehoiada trusted most. “Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so. He was evidently disappointed not to be chosen high priest, and then felt overburdened to perform all your duties when Jehosheba needed your comfort.”
Jehoiada’s hurt roiled into fury, boiling his blood, making him tremble. “He’ll never perform my duties—or any priest’s duty—again.”
Obadiah’s hand squeezed his arm with surprising strength. “Your anger, my friend, has become an idol every bit as real as Asherah or Baal. You must choose to destroy it before it destroys you.”
Gasping, Jehoiada jerked away. “How dare you? I am Yahweh’s high priest, and I have made atonement for my sin and the sin of this nation—”
“And yet you willfully choose anger over reason, anger over prayer, anger over forgiveness—as Hazi chooses his ima’s advice over yours, and Athaliah chooses Jezebel’s gods over Yahweh.”
Jehoiada was frozen, speechless, at the conviction of his friend’s words. Could Obadiah be right? Could an idol be more than wood or clay?
Seeming spent, Obadiah closed his eyes and rested his head on his pillow. “We’re too old to dance around the truth, Jehoiada. You’re my dearest friend, and Yahweh needs your undivided heart.”
“My lords!” Zabad ran through the archway, breathless, the young boy at his heels. “A palace messenger arrived with this scroll for Yahweh’s high priest. He said it was urgent.”
Jehoiada reached for the missive, noting Athaliah’s wax seal, not Hazi’s. Dread coiled inside, tightening as he broke the seal and unfurled the parchment.
My husband is dead. Take him, or he’ll burn in Hinnom.
Jehoiada crushed the parchment, wishing it were Athaliah’s neck. Your anger has become an idol . . . Destroy it before it destroys you. How could such evil reside in one human being? And how could he not react in anger? If not anger, then what?
Obadiah’s words replayed in his mind: You choose anger over reason, anger over prayer, anger over forgiveness. Maybe he could start with reason and work his way up to prayer. Forgiveness was beyond imagination at this point.
Jehoiada squinted up at Zabad, shielding his eyes from the late afternoon sun. “Is the messenger waiting for a response?”
“No. He delivered the scroll and ran.” Eyebrows raised, Zabad left his curiosity unspoken.
Jehoiada squeezed Obadiah’s shoulder and kissed his cheek as he stood. “Thank you for speaking hard truths to me, friend. Now I must share one with you.” Glancing at Zabad and the boy, Jehoiada kept his voice low. “King Jehoram is dead. If I don’t retrieve him immediately, the queen has threatened to throw his body into the Valley of Hinnom with the burning trash and dung.”
“Go, Jehoiada.” Obadiah’s voice was breathy, like wind through a reed pipe. “Jehosheba will need you now.”
Sheba stood alone in her abba Jehoram’s bedchamber, gazing down at a blanket-covered body. She couldn’t lift the blanket. The last time she’d seen Abba Jehoram, he was writhing in pain, barely able to speak, breathe, or concentrate—but he was alive. The shell of flesh under that blanket was so small. It couldn’t be Abba, could it?
Why had Ima Thaliah summoned her to the palace and then refused to see her? On a whim, Sheba had enlisted palace guards to escort her to Abba’s chamber, never expecting his body to still be here. The physician was packing his last basket of belongings, waiting to be escorted to his new home—in Tyre. He’d explained Abba’s death in gruesome detail, something about his intestines falling out.
Oh, Yahweh, why didn’t Abba turn away from Ima’s lies? Why didn’t he listen to his faithful abba Jehoshaphat? Tears streamed down her face as questions poured from her heart. And the most troubling of all—why was Hazi still following Ima Thaliah’s and Mattan’s advice rather than heeding Jehoiada’s warnings? He refused to leave the Throne Hall and grieve with Sheba, and he kept Zibiah locked in her chamber, denying Sheba a comforting visit with her friend.
So Sheba sat in King Jehoram’s chamber alone. With a corpse that couldn’t be her abba. Could it?
Gathering her courage, she reached for the corner of the blanket—
“You there!” a deep, male voice cried at the same time the chamber door banged open, and Sheba thought her intestines might fall out. “What are you doing here? We need to move the body.”
She gasped and then steadied her breath, mustering her most commanding voice. “Where are you taking my abba?”
The men—whom she now recognized as city wat
chmen—drew closer, studying her in the dim light. One offered a cursory bow and slapped the other, goading due respect. “I’m sorry, Princess Jehosheba. We didn’t recognize you. We have orders from Prince Hazi—I mean, King Hazi—to remove the body and clear the chamber. This room is to be used for storage of bedding and palace furnishings.”
A storage chamber? Taming her instant fury, she would save her diatribe for Hazi. The watchmen still hadn’t answered her question. “Perhaps I was unclear the first time I asked.” Remembering Ima Thaliah’s instruction on intimidating servants, she enunciated each word concisely. “Where. Are. You. Taking. My. Abba?”
The watchmen exchanged a worried glance. “To Hinnom?”
It was a question, not a statement, but it knocked Jehosheba onto her stool. “Leave me,” she said, breathless. When they lingered, she screamed, “Leave me!” She heard their shuffling feet and buried her face in her hands.
Had Ima Thaliah always been utterly heartless? How could Hazi allow her to treat Abba this way—before and after death? If Sheba left the body unguarded to seek Jehoiada’s help, would she return too late? She couldn’t bear the thought of his body burning in the Valley of Hinnom.
Yahweh! Help me! What do I do?
The guards had left the door cracked open in their hurried departure, allowing sounds from a Throne Hall assembly to drift up the grand stairway. A rhythmic chant drew Sheba out the door, down the wide stairway, and toward the courtroom—a place usually reserved for men, and never appropriate for a woman large with child as Sheba was now. Still, the chanting drew her, the words becoming clear.
“Bless our new King Hazi! Bless our new King Hazi! Bless our new King—”
The cheering faded as Sheba strode toward Hazi’s throne, leaving scandalous gasps and whispered judgments in her wake.
“She shouldn’t show herself in public like that,” one old commoner grumbled.
Sheba stopped and met the old man’s gaze. “Why shouldn’t the daughter of a dead king beg for her abba’s last shred of dignity?”
The Throne Hall fell utterly silent, and Jehoiada stepped into her path, Zabad at his side. What was he doing among this rabble? Distrust, betrayal, accusation—all silenced when he held out his hand to escort her to Hazi’s throne.
Zabad followed them, and the three halted before the new king’s elevated dais. Jehoiada bowed. “Your sister and I humbly ask that you allow us to bury King Jehoram in the City of David.”
Sheba’s heart nearly leapt from her chest. How had Jehoiada discovered Ima’s plan to burn Abba’s body? She realized Yahweh had already been at work.
“You’ve heard my advisors’ counsel and the people’s wishes, Jehoiada. My abba is refused the right of burial in King David’s family tombs.” Hazi’s face was chiseled stone.
Sheba began to tremble with rage. How could he sit on Abba’s throne so cold, so unfeeling? How dare he—
“And I will not challenge my king’s command,” Jehoiada replied calmly. “I simply ask that you allow me to take your abba’s body, wrap it in spices, and lay it in the tomb of a dear friend, my lord. I will trouble you no further on the matter.”
Sheba shot a confused glance at the priest beside her. Who was this man, so eloquent and calm when his fury and bluster were needed?
“Your request is granted, Jehoiada.” Hazi nodded condescendingly and waved them away like pesky insects, leaning over to chat with a royal cousin.
Jehoiada gathered her under his wing, hurrying them up the aisle and out the double-cedar doors. “Come, my love, before your ima hears of your brother’s decision and forces him to change his mind.”
37
2 CHRONICLES 22:1, 3
The people of Jerusalem made Ahaziah, Jehoram’s youngest son, king in his place. . . . He too followed the ways of the house of Ahab, for his mother encouraged him to act wickedly.
Seething, Sheba let Jehoiada lead her out of the Throne Hall but stopped when they reached the grand stairway. “Who is this dear friend whose tomb will house my abba’s body?”
Jehoiada couldn’t have looked more surprised if she’d slapped him. He shuffled her to a quiet corner, away from Carite guards and watchmen, who had already perked to their conversation. “I’ve just come from Obadiah’s estate in David’s City. He loves Jehoram, and I’m sure he’ll willingly share his family tomb.” He paused, lifted an accusing eyebrow, and folded his arms across his broad chest. “I know why I was in the Throne Hall, but why were you there—with our child in your belly?”
“I was about to scream at my brother, but you didn’t give me the satisfaction.” Hesitantly, she considered his eerie calm. “What’s wrong with you?” She stomped her foot. “Why aren’t you yelling?”
He gathered her into his arms, hiding her in his warmth and strength. “Why aren’t you crying?”
She gasped and pulled away, startled. “I didn’t cry, did I?”
He chuckled and brushed her cheek. “Perhaps we’re both proof that Yahweh still works miracles.” He drew her close again, resting his head atop hers. “I’ll tell you about my visit with Obadiah later, and you can tell me how you’re feeling, but for now we must return to the Temple. I’ll send several priests to your abba’s chamber with spices and cloths to prepare his body for burial. From the reports I heard in the Throne Hall, it’s probably best if you don’t help with preparations.”
She nodded, thankful for his sensitivity. “I’d like to stay and visit Zibiah. Hazi wouldn’t let her come to me, but he didn’t say I couldn’t visit her chamber.” Jehoiada gave her a doubtful look, but she pleaded, “She hasn’t been able to meet with Keilah and me for over two moon cycles. Hazi is even more protective now that she’s pregnant.”
“All right, but I’ll send Zabad when we’re ready to move your abba’s body to Obadiah’s estate.”
Jehoiada insisted on escorting Sheba to Zibiah’s chamber. Zabad also appeared—he must have been waiting somewhere discreetly while they talked. At the top of the grand stairway, they faced Ima Thaliah’s doors, where twice the usual contingent of Carites stood. Sheba hurried to the left, getting as far away from Ima as possible.
They arrived at Zibiah’s double doors at the opposite end of the women’s hall, also doubly guarded on this sad day. Sheba pecked a kiss on her husband’s cheek and offered a smile to Zabad. “Thank you both for taking such good care of me.” The two hurried away, shoulders weighed down with the cares of a nation. Yahweh, bless them.
She returned her gaze to the Carites at Zibiah’s chamber, raised an eyebrow, and they opened to her. Perhaps no one would trouble a grieving princess today.
“Sheba!” Zibiah dropped her spindle and ran with open arms. Their tummies bumped before they could manage a hug. “I’m sorry about your abba.”
They lingered in the long-overdue embrace, soaking in the strength of a true and abiding friendship. “I’m sorry Hazi isn’t the man we’d hoped he could be,” Sheba whispered, making sure none of Zibiah’s eunuchs overheard.
Aching backs forced the hug’s end long before their hearts were ready. “Come, sit here on the balcony. There’s a breeze.” Zibiah shoved aside the spindle and knotted yarn she’d been working.
“Oh no! Should we try to untangle it?”
Zibiah waved away the concern. “It’s fine. I’ve got cubits of yarn. It’s all I do these days.” She smiled, the corners of her lips quivering. “So tell me. How’s Keilah? And Gadara? Do you like your new living quarters?”
Thankful not to talk about Abba Jehoram, Sheba spoke of happier things. “Keilah has a cute, round belly twice our size! Of course, I’d never tell her that. She eats like a bird, so it’s not her weight.”
“Do you think she’ll have a big baby? Maybe a big, strapping boy?” Zibiah’s eyes misted immediately. “Hazi has six sons now. Six sons and three daughters.” She began rocking, trying to quell her tears, but finally turned away, burying her face in her hands.
“Zibiah, what is it?”
“I t
hink it would be best for you to go, Sheba. I’m thankful you came, truly, but . . .” She shook her head, unable—or unwilling—to finish.
Sheba studied her friend more closely. Dark circles shadowed wary eyes, and she trembled from head to toe. Two eunuchs lingered on either side of the doorway, failing any attempt at subtle spying. Four more shuffled pillows and dusted trinkets. Why eunuchs, rather than serving maids?
Seeing the chamber with fresh eyes, Sheba noted a tray with only one goblet and a plate of food—both untouched. The meal resembled prison rations rather than princess fare. “How long since Hazi has visited you, Zibiah?”
“Not long, really.” Her shaky smile betrayed the lie.
“Out!” Sheba shouted at the eunuchs, startling poor Zibiah. “All of you, out now!”
The chief eunuch, branded with a god of Tyre, bowed repeatedly as he approached. “But my lady—”
“Would you like me to report your rebellion to Ima Thaliah or King Hazi?”
The eunuch backed away without further protest, herding the others out of the chamber.
Alone now, the two women fell into each other’s arms, and Zibiah’s nightmarish existence unfolded. “I’m a prisoner in this chamber. Athaliah’s eunuchs never leave me alone—never! They feed me bread and watered wine. They relay terrible threats from the queen—awful plans if my child is a girl. My balcony is my only source of fresh air, and I don’t remember the last time I saw Hazi.” Hysteria was taking hold, her words erupting in despair.
“Zibiah, Zibiah, shh!” Sheba held her tightly, trying to soothe, for fear the guards would charge in at the sound of her wailing.
When Sheba stood to get the goblet of wine, Zibiah clutched at her robe. “Don’t leave me!”
“I won’t leave. I’m right here.” Sheba returned to the couch and drew Zibiah close, singing a Levite psalm:
