by Mesu Andrews
Sheba heard the door creak open and then—silence. She jumped out of bed, throwing her robe around her shoulders. When she reached the outer chamber, she saw Gadara and Nathanael supporting Keilah between them. Jehoiada was as pale as his under-tunic.
“Is it time?” Sheba had barely spoken when a gush of water rushed from her body, wetting her feet. Shocked, horrified, she gaped at the four faces that undoubtedly mirrored her own.
“It’s definitely time.” Gadara laughed and startled both couples. Jehoiada frantically helped Sheba to one of the lamb’s wool cushions. Gadara, still amused, shoved her fists to her hips and shook her head. “Well, Priest, you’ll never use that cushion again.”
“Gadara, please!” Jehoiada shouted. “If you don’t have helpful instructions, keep silent!”
Sheba wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the feud her husband and midwife had begun at their introduction almost a year ago. As stubborn as two rams at one trough, neither Jehoiada nor Gadara were likely to relinquish command.
Gadara commandeered another lamb’s wool cushion and positioned it and Keilah beside Sheba, while the men scooted away the table and rug that covered the tunnel opening.
Sheba squeezed Keilah’s hand as the pain in her back grew suddenly more intense. Keilah breathed in slowly and blew out through pursed lips. Was Keilah teaching her to manage or having a birth pain of her own?
While Gadara gathered more strips of cloth, linens, wine, oil, and herbs, she instructed the men to bring twice the food. “We’re going to have two babies tonight, by the looks of it.” They’d been stockpiling supplies in the quarry for three days, and with each visit to the world below, Sheba’s fears diminished—a little.
A knock silenced all but Jehoiada. “Yes?”
“It’s Zabad. I have urgent business to discuss.”
Jehoiada nodded to Nathanael, who opened the door, inviting Zabad and Jehozabad inside.
“I don’t really have urgent business.” The gatekeeper grinned. “I saw Keilah and Gadara come this way and wondered if you need me to escort them.”
“No, Zabad, but thank you.” Sheba relished the men’s shocked faces. “Our husbands will escort us and assist the midwife.”
“Jehosheba . . . I . . . we . . . but you . . . ” Her high priest husband seemed unable to complete a thought.
Feeling the next pains beginning in her back, Sheba had no time for arguments. “Keilah and I can’t help each other, and Gadara can’t do it all. Jehoiada, this is your child and your tunnel. You’re helping. Ohhh!” She tried to breathe slowly, tried to relax as instructed, but her back felt a thousand daggers thrust into it.
Keilah extended her hand to Nathanael, nodding agreement though unable to speak through pained breaths.
Zabad and Jehozabad offered blessings and hurried out the door, promising to take care of the Temple responsibilities while the two top priests tended their wives.
“Sheba, you’ve scared those poor gatekeepers out of marriage for good.” Gadara chuckled as Jehoiada helped her descend the first steps into the tunnel.
Offering her a clay lamp, Jehoiada pointed to the inky blackness below. “You can use this to light the torches we’ve placed at the bottom.”
“Thank you, Jehoiada.” Gadara’s voice echoed from the passageway. “See how well we’re working together? You and I are going to bring your child into this world—and you’re going to really appreciate my helpful instructions.”
Jehoiada glared into the tunnel and then at Sheba. She wasn’t sure who was more frightened now—her or her husband.
40
2 KINGS 8:25–27
In the twelfth year of Joram son of Ahab king of Israel, Ahaziah son of Jehoram king of Judah began to reign. Ahaziah was twenty-two years old when he became king, and he reigned in Jerusalem one year. His mother’s name was Athaliah. . . . He followed the ways of the house of Ahab and did evil in the eyes of the LORD.
Jehoiada waited at the door of their chamber, trying to be patient. “Jehosheba, my love, we don’t want to keep Hazi and Zibiah waiting.”
Baby Zechariah had been awake half the night, and Jehosheba napped with him all morning, skewing the whole family’s schedule. Nathanael’s son, Joshua, wreaked equal havoc with the second priest’s household, and both top priests arrived breathless and weary for the morning sacrifice. Who could imagine that two month-old boys could disrupt the whole Temple complex?
“Jehosheba, please!” Frustration seeped into his tone.
“I’m coming!” She hurried into their outer chamber, tucking unruly curls beneath her headpiece. “I finished feeding Zechariah, and Gadara will stay with him and Joshua until we get back from our nephew’s ceremony.” Jehoiada stared at her like a besotted shepherd boy. “What’s the matter now?” She planted her hands on her hips, her cheeks flushed the color of roses.
“Four more days.” He hadn’t touched his wife since Zechariah was born. As high priest, he was considered sacred, separate unto the Lord, and could not touch his wife until after her purification. “Four more days,” he repeated, and her cheeks went from roses to grapes.
“Now who’s making us late?” She winked and walked past him, the sway of her hips a promise.
“It’s cold.” He reached for her winter wrap.
“Jehoiada, no!” She lunged at her shawl, scooping it away from him and around her shoulders. “It’s unclean.”
At times like these, Jehoiada admittedly battled discouragement at God’s laws. His frustration must have been evident.
“Only four more days,” she whispered, eyes sparkling. “Surely if Yahweh helped Hazi keep his word, He can help us.”
The reminder helped Jehoiada walk the Law’s prescribed arm’s length from his wife across the courtyard toward the southern portico. He wanted to ask if Jehosheba was as surprised as he that Hazi planned to attend Zibiah’s firstborn ceremony. But shouting a question like that across the outer Temple court seemed unwise. Zabad and Nathanael were confident that Eliab was an isolated betrayal, that all other priests and Levites could be trusted. Yahweh, let it be so. But Sheba’s visits to Gevirah Thaliah were scheduled to begin again after her purification, and he couldn’t risk any hint of the dangerous role Sheba was playing.
Nathanael met them at the outer court’s southern portico, jittery and stammering. “Please hurry! The king is most anxious to begin.” Ushering them into the third door on the right, he pointed Sheba toward her waiting friends. “Lady Zibiah is near to tears, pleading with King Hazi not to send his guards searching the holy places for you.”
“I’m sorry we’re late, Nathanael.” Jehoiada squeezed his shoulder, feeling sorry for his second. It was a thankless job. “Shalom, King Ahaziah!” Using the king’s full name always chafed Hazi’s tunic, but Jehoiada was the only one bold enough—or foolish enough—to chance it.
“We’re glad you could join us, Jehoiada.” The king’s gracefully arched brow issued a silent rebuke, as did the cool nod to his sister. “Sheba.”
Jehosheba was oblivious, already intently talking about Keilah’s nursemaid arrangement and Zibiah’s purification ending a single day before her friends’. Zibiah asked about their births, and Jehosheba expertly tiptoed that narrow wall of integrity—wise without lies. This tiny chamber sanctioned no secrets, making every whisper a shout.
Zibiah had invited only the three couples for the service, but Zev and Zabad lingered near the door, neither willing to trust his duty to the other. The harvest air was crisp outside, but inside the cramped chamber, the smell of bodies, braziers, and sacred incense overwhelmed the senses.
And then the young prince began to wail. Zibiah turned to Jehoiada, looking stricken. “I’m supposed to hand him to you, but do you want him if he’s crying?”
Chuckling, Jehoiada reached for his squalling nephew. “I’m afraid Yahweh requires our first and best—no matter the objection.” Bouncing the babe, he began the redemption ceremony. “The Lord said to Moses, ‘Count all the firstborn
Israelite males who are a month old or more and make a list of their names.’ Lady Zibiah, do you vow that this is the firstborn son of your womb?”
“I vow it.”
Turning to Hazi, Jehoiada paused slightly, searching the windows of his soul. “King Ahaziah, you have presented your son in Yahweh’s holy Temple to be listed by name among the Lord’s firstborn. What is the child’s name?”
“His name will be listed as Joash.” Hazi spoke without flinching, but Zibiah gasped at the name devoid of reference to Jehovah. Even Jezebel’s children bore names indicating Yahweh’s presence.
Jehoiada felt the affront like a dagger in his side. “If your son is to be redeemed in Yahweh’s Temple, he will bear a form of Jehovah’s name.” Without waiting for an answer, he pronounced, “The prince of Judah will be named Jehoash—‘given by God.’ Do you, as his abba, bring the five shekels for his redemption?”
The grapevine in the brazier sparked, its crackling almost deafening in the stillness. Hazi stood like granite, unyielding, disobedient, arrogant. Had Athaliah suggested the baby’s name, or was it the king’s doing? Where did the Gevirah’s evil stop and Hazi’s begin?
Baby Jehoash cooed, finally at peace against Jehoiada’s large chest. The sound seemed to startle the king as if from a dream, and he nodded to Zev, who stood at the chamber door. Jehoiada watched Zev signal to another Carite waiting outside. Together they retrieved a large myrtle-wood chest and laid it at Jehoiada’s feet.
Hazi extended his arms, demanding his son before the high priest opened the chest. “The redemption price for a firstborn is five shekels. I give you three times my son’s weight in palace gold.”
Jehoiada kissed Prince Jehoash’s downy black curls. “On this day you have redeemed this firstborn child of Zibiah.” He stepped forward, placing him in Hazi’s arms. “King Ahaziah—held by God—this son of David is yours to protect as Yahweh’s gift: Jehoash, given by God.”
When Jehoiada stepped back, empty-handed, he saw the unshed tears in Hazi’s eyes moments before the king shouted, “Out! All of you.”
Startled and confused, the celebrants of this happy occasion exchanged glances and obediently moved toward the door.
“Not you, Jehoiada,” Hazi said.
Zibiah stood quietly beside Hazi, obviously desperate to leave with her son. Hazi wiped his face on the babe’s blankets and kissed Zibiah’s forehead, relinquishing their firstborn with a tender smile. She mouthed, “I love you,” and hurried to catch up with Sheba and Keilah. The exchange offered Jehoiada some hope.
The door clicked, and Hazi’s face clouded as he looked past Jehoiada’s shoulder. “Out, Zabad.”
Jehoiada nodded, but Zabad maintained a humble bow. “I’m sorry, my king, but I must refuse. I answer to a higher authority. As chief keeper of the threshold, I cannot leave anyone other than a Levite unsupervised on Temple grounds—even in the outer courts.” Zev stood beside him, stone-faced, eyes focused on a window on the opposite wall.
By the time Jehoiada looked back at Hazi, he was squeezing the bridge of his nose, teeth bared. “So, Jehoiada, let’s review. I’m the king of Judah, but I can’t name my son or order one of your guards out of the room?”
“In Yahweh’s Temple—”
“Do you trust Zabad, Jehoiada?” Hazi’s quick temper seemed to be more than just arrogance today.
Jehoiada sensed near panic in the young king. “I trust Zabad with my life—with Jehosheba’s and Zechariah’s lives.”
“Both guards stay. No interruptions.”
Zev and Zabad blocked the door, hands clasped behind them.
“Ima Thaliah received word from Jezebel that in the spring, when the season of war begins, Israel will engage King Hazael’s Arameans in battle at Ramoth Gilead.” Hazi sighed as if he’d hoisted mud bricks off his shoulders. “She’s ordered me—the Gevirah of Israel has ordered me, king of Judah—to bring my elite royal guard and join forces with Uncle Ram and his Israelite army.”
Jehoiada was silent, waiting to see how transparent Hazi would be. Jehosheba had confided Jezebel’s plans to combine Judah and Israel under Baal and make Hazi king, but Hazi had no inkling Jehoiada knew of the queens of destiny. “Why would Jezebel ask for only you and your Carites? Why not the whole Judean army, as Ahab requested Jehoshaphat rouse the whole nation to fight at Ramoth Gilead?”
“Why indeed? Ima Thaliah wouldn’t be the first Gevirah to ‘help’ her son, the king, to an untimely death.”
And there, Hazi let it rest. But Jehoiada’s horror reached new depths. Would Athaliah—whose rumored conspiracy with the Philistines caused her other sons’ deaths inadvertently—now send her last son intentionally into harm’s way?
“Hazi, I can’t believe that even your ima is that wicked.”
“I can’t take that chance, Jehoiada. I need you to protect Zibiah and Jehoash—no matter what happens to me.”
“But you aren’t actually going to Ramoth Gilead!”
“I have no choice, Jehoiada.”
“But you do have a choice. You’re the king of Judah! Choose Yahweh, Hazi, like your saba Jehoshaphat and his abba Asa before him.”
“Ima has the loyalty of Mattan, the Judean commanders, at least part of the Carites, and the noblemen. One man’s choice—even a king’s choice—to follow Yahweh can’t change a nation.”
“Yahweh will change the nation if you take the first step, believing—”
“Here’s what I believe, Brother. If my Carites and I don’t fight in Ramoth Gilead, Jezebel will muster Israel’s army and take my throne. Ima Thaliah may not be wicked enough to send me to my death, but I assure you—Jezebel is wicked enough to murder us all.”
Sheba, Zibiah, and Keilah left the Temple after morning worship, ambling down the garden path and through the palace’s Horse Gate. Life had developed a comfortable rhythm since Keilah began daytime wet-nurse duties with Prince Jehoash. Gadara cared for both Zechariah and Joshua between feedings, allowing Sheba and Keilah to travel between the palace and the Temple as needed.
“You look tired, my friend.” Zibiah placed a loving arm around Keilah’s shoulders. “Hazi’s been in Ramoth Gilead almost four Sabbaths. Since he let me continue Jehoash’s nighttime feedings, maybe I could take over daytime too. Who would know?”
“Who would know? Really?” Sheba looked from beneath shuttered eyes, glancing around the main palace entrance. Zibiah rolled her eyes, but Sheba couldn’t let it go. “I fought hard with the Gevirah to replace your chamber eunuchs with handmaids from your hometown. Please don’t do anything foolish, Zibiah.”
“I could nurse all three of our sons.” Keilah winked at them both. “If Sheba would let me have Zechariah.”
Chuckles eased the tensions, but Zibiah’s gaze grew distant as they ascended the grand stairway. “Why won’t either of you bring your sons here? Athaliah never comes to my chamber.”
Keilah looked at Sheba, brows arched, eyes bulged, mirroring her aggravation. How could Zibiah ask the delicate question here, where it echoed off the marble steps of the palace’s main thoroughfare? Sheba’s hesitation coaxed yet another question from her careless friend.
“So, has Gevirah Thaliah asked to see Zechariah yet?”
Horrified, Sheba gasped as they reached the top step—directly in front of Ima Thaliah’s door.
Zibiah let out a disgusted, “Well, what is she thinking? He’s almost five months old!”
Sheba grabbed her arm, shoving her toward her chamber, Keilah keeping pace. Sheba leaned close, grinding out a whisper. “Not another word until we’re inside your chamber.”
Zibiah, utterly contrite, hurried past two Judean watchmen posted at her door. “Sheba, I’m sorry. What did I—”
“You can’t be that ignorant.”
Once they were inside her chamber, Sheba’s words tumbled out like unwinnowed wheat, and poor Zibiah flinched as if she’d been slapped. Keilah dropped her gaze, studying her hands. Trembling with rage, Sheba worked to remember her friends ha
dn’t been steeped in deceit all their lives. They hadn’t been taught to think first and speak falsely. The chamber maids Sheba had trained pretended to be deaf—ignoring the conversation, continuing their duties.
“I’m sorry, Sheba.” Zibiah retrieved Jehoash from his cradle and then sat on one of three cushions gathered in a circle.
Keilah occupied a second cushion, still silent, and Sheba sat on the third, completing their daily circle of friendship. The sight of her nephew in Zibiah’s arms drained Sheba’s fury. She planted a kiss on Jehoash’s downy head. The awkward silence felt ugly. Unusual.
“I didn’t mean you were stupid. I meant you didn’t think before you spoke, and it could endanger—”
“I know.” Zibiah’s eyes glistened as she stroked Jehoash’s cheek. “You’re right. I didn’t think. I’m lonely, and I didn’t consider the danger to others.” She looked at Sheba, pleading. “But how could a savta not wish to see her grandson?”
“Surely you realize Ima Thaliah’s attention would not be like a doting savta, Zibiah. I consider it Yahweh’s protection that she’s never acknowledged Zechariah’s birth.”
“Let’s spin some wool!” Keilah’s clear attempt to change the subject prompted Sheba to reach for Zibiah’s hand. A little squeeze, a silent truce, and Keilah jumped to her feet. She retrieved the basket of spindles from the corner. “We haven’t had our spindles out since the babies came.”
Keilah and Sheba began their work while Zibiah rocked Jehoash, but a knock at the door stilled them all.
Sheba’s first thought was Zibiah’s careless remark. Had the Gevirah heard and now demanded to see Zechariah?
“Do you think it’s news about Hazi?” Zibiah’s face was as white as Egyptian linen.
Sheba hadn’t even considered news of Hazi. Her brother and his Carites had joined Israelites in battle at Ramoth Gilead—and she was worried about bringing her baby to a palace? Maybe she was becoming too cautious, too selfish. Yahweh, forgive me. She placed a soothing hand on her sister-in-law’s arm as a maid answered the door. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
