by Mesu Andrews
Two burly watchmen entered, eyes straight ahead, their expressions betraying nothing. “The Gevirah summons Lady Sheba. It’s urgent.”
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2 KINGS 8:28–29
Ahaziah went with Joram son of Ahab to war against Hazael king of Aram at Ramoth Gilead. The Arameans wounded Joram; so King Joram returned to Jezreel to recover from the wounds. . . . Then Ahaziah . . . went down to Jezreel to see Joram son of Ahab, because he had been wounded.
Sheba’s legs trembled so violently she stumbled into the watchman leading her to Ima’s chamber.
“My lady! Are you all right?” The guard behind steadied her before she went to the floor, and she hung suspended between the two men.
The watchman on her right eyed the guards at Athaliah’s doorway but kept his voice low. “It’s good news, my lady. Don’t be afraid.” Clearing his throat, he righted her roughly—undoubtedly a show for the Gevirah’s watchmen.
Relief washed over her, and she gathered her tattered courage, straightening her robe and tucking stray curls beneath her headpiece. Why did the palace feel so foreign under Judean guards? Was it because Hazi’s Carite mercenaries resonated loyalty and brotherhood no matter where they served? She glared at the swaying Judean watchmen as she walked through Ima’s door. At least the Carites stood for honor. The four men at Ima’s chamber could barely stand at all.
“It would appear your guards mixed too much beer with wine last night, Ima,” Sheba announced as she strolled confidently toward the Gevirah, who sat on her balcony couch. “The two who escorted me seemed competent, but your chamber guards stink of horse manure and vomit. Surely the Gevirah of Judah should have the finest watchmen, not the dregs.”
“Ha!” Ima Thaliah clapped her hands, appearing delighted. She elbowed Mattan, who stood at her right. “Isn’t she splendid? I told you our training wasn’t wasted.”
She motioned to the guard on her left—his brass and leather breastplate distinguished him as a commander. Ima stared at Sheba while whispering to the man. He focused on the tiled floor, his neck and ears crimson, jaw muscles dancing to some rhythmic beat.
“Yes, Gevirah. It will be as you say.” He nodded, gave Sheba a sideways glance, and exited.
Before the door closed behind him, Sheba watched the commander withdraw his sword. The door clicked shut, and a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air. Then another. Two thuds jarred the chamber door, and indistinct shouting erupted in the hall.
Sheba’s heart raced, and she cast a disbelieving glance at the Gevirah. A serene smile was firmly fixed on her face, and Mattan’s features were set like granite. Unable to hide her disgust, Sheba at least curbed it. “If you kill every watchman that displeases me, we’ll be defending the walls with women by morning.”
The Gevirah chuckled, but Mattan’s frown deepened. Sheba’s stomach rolled as silence was restored outside the chamber.
Finally, Ima Thaliah sighed and smoothed her purple linen robe over her knees, adjusting the emerald and pearl brooch at the center of her gold belt, precisely in the center of her waist. “Now, my dear. I have news of Ramoth Gilead.”
Sheba worked to keep her expression passive, prepared for anything. Yahweh, please let Hazi be safe.
“My brother Ram was injured.”
“Oh, Ima. I’m sorry.” And she truly was. “Is he all right?”
The Gevirah seemed unsettled by the display of compassion. Clearing her throat, she glanced at Mattan, readjusted herself on the couch, and continued as if Sheba hadn’t spoken. “Ram and his driver retreated to Jezreel, where his wounds will heal before he returns to battle. Hazi, however, proved himself a noble warrior and a capable leader among the Israelites. General Jehu was reportedly quite impressed.” She was fairly beaming—in spite of her only brother’s injury.
“That’s good news.” Sheba’s tone betrayed her disapproval.
“It is very good news, young lady. The Israelites took the city with few losses, and Hazi is a hero. Jehu remains in Ramoth to secure the city while Hazi has gone to Jezreel to comfort his uncle Ram. Don’t you see? It’s the first step in unifying the nations under Hazi’s rule and Baal Melkart’s great power!”
“Yes, Ima. I’m happy for Hazi. That’s wonderful.” Sheba glanced at Mattan, whose gaze nearly burned a hole through her. Why was he here? He never attended their meetings anymore. “May I ask, what does Mattan think of Hazi’s victory?”
“I have counseled the Gevirah to seize the victory for Baal Melkart,” Mattan said. “We plan to celebrate the Festival of Awakening even though our king—”
“Yes, since Hazi is away,” Ima interrupted, “we want you to attend the Festival of Awakening as a representative from Yahweh’s Temple—”
“No.” The word clattered like a clay dish on a tile floor.
The Gevirah’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What did you say to me?”
“Send word for Hazi to return from Jezreel.” She’d learned gentle distraction swayed more effectively than blatant rebellion. “The Awakening is still two Sabbaths away, Ima. That’s plenty of time for messengers to ride to Jezreel and bring Hazi back.” She sensed a slight softening, so she added with a smile, “We made the trip in less than two days. Surely Judah’s king hasn’t become so soft he can’t make the trip in two weeks?”
The barb wrenched a smile from the Gevirah. “As usual, Sheba, I’m a step ahead of you. I’ve already sent Hazi’s royal cousins to tell him of the festival, but I still want you to attend the Awakening.”
Sheba allowed a pause—only a few heartbeats—to cushion her reply. “I’m sorry, Ima, but no. Jehoiada will celebrate the Passover Feast at the same time, and I cannot—I will not—jeopardize the relationship I’ve built to make an appearance at one Baal festival. You commissioned me to make myself indispensable to the man you chose as my husband. Well, I am becoming his right arm. Now, let me complete the task for which I’ve been called.” Sheba’s heart was pounding. Had she lied? No! I didn’t lie! Wise without lies, Jehoiada always said.
“You see, Mattan,” the Gevirah said, elbowing the priest, “I told you we could trust her.”
“You’re beautiful in the morning.” Jehoiada brushed an ebony curl off his wife’s forehead, mesmerized by Yahweh’s gift of life and love. Zechariah stirred in his goatskin-lined crib, and Jehoiada scooted off their bed to retrieve the little one who had stolen his parents’ hearts.
When Jehoiada returned to bed with the babe in his arms, Jehosheba lay on her side, inspecting the stone seal Athaliah had given her with Jezebel’s insignia. “Will we ever be free of Jezebel’s shadow? Or will evil reminders forever bind our necks?”
Her questions intrigued more than troubled him. He placed Zechariah between them and then reached for the seal, rolling the intricate cylinder between his fingers. “I suppose we’ll always remember her evil because we live with its consequences daily, but we need not live in Jezebel’s shadow unless we let her block Yahweh’s light.” With a quick jerk he broke the leather tie, removing the seal from her neck.
She covered a small gasp, but then wonder laced her tone. “I think I finally believe that nothing will stand between us and Yahweh’s love.” She leaned across Zechariah, brushing a gentle kiss on Jehoiada’s lips. The baby squawked in protest. Jehosheba giggled and then offered him the first nourishment of his day. “I love waking up with both of you beside me.” Her smile mirrored Jehoiada’s contentment.
“Wait right there,” he said, determined to imprint this moment on their hearts forever. Jehoiada scooted off the bed and retrieved a hidden dagger from behind the loose stone in their chamber wall—a weapon he kept close since they lived nearer the city gate. He placed the hated seal on their limestone floor and crushed it with the dagger’s handle.
Jehosheba gasped. The sound pricked his heart. Did she regret his irrevocable act? He looked up and recognized the once-common fear etched on her face—quickly replaced by a beaming smile and confident nod.
Peace. It was his wife�
��s most beautiful adornment—more lovely than her gold and jewels on their wedding day. He hoped she could wear it more often. The news of Hazi’s safety had provided more comfort than their wool-stuffed mattress. His wife had snored most of the night, but he dare not tell her, lest she turn red as roses and never sleep another wink.
The sound of their chamber door scraping the limestone floor startled them both. Jehosheba paled. “No one enters without knocking.”
“Shh.” Jehoiada donned his robe, pressed a finger against his lips, and winked. Best not to appear rattled, but his wife was right. Zabad would never let anyone into their chamber unannounced. Not even Nathanael entered without knocking. Jehoiada secured the dagger in his belt, inhaled a steadying breath, and soundlessly opened their bedchamber door.
Zabad was crouched over a filthy soldier, so animated in their conversation that neither noticed his approach.
“What’s the meaning of thi—” Jehoiada’s sudden presence startled the soldier—his face heart-stoppingly familiar. “Zev?” A thousand questions swirled into a single whisper. “Where is Hazi?”
Zev seemed dazed, muted, unable to sort out details. Zabad shook his head and then shook the king’s guard—gently but firmly. “Zev, talk to me. Where is the king?”
“Jehoiada, who is—” Jehosheba arrived at the doorway, but she paused at the sight of Zev. “What are you—where’s Hazi?” she shouted, rushing toward him.
“Keep her quiet!” Zev came alive at the sight of Jehosheba. “Hazi said no one can know!”
Jehoiada grabbed his wife, who was already growing hysterical. Zabad seized the exhausted Carite by his breastpiece, shaking him. “What do you mean, ‘no one can know’? Where is King Hazi?”
Zev began to weep, burying his face in Zabad’s shoulder, sobbing like a child. “Hazi said I must tell Lady Sheba first. No one can know he’s dead until I tell his sister.”
Zabad met Jehoiada’s gaze, sharing the horror. Jehosheba buried her face in Jehoiada’s shoulder. “No! I can’t lose Hazi. Please, Yahweh, how much more must I endure?”
Jehoiada held her close, wishing he could shield her from the pain—knowing only one could truly comfort her. “This life is a wilderness, my love, but Yahweh leads us through it, offering His strength, His light, His love to bear the journey. We will endure this together because He’ll carry us when we can’t take another step.”
Her quiet tears turned to heaving sobs, grief wringing her heart in its merciless grip. Jehoiada carried her to the couch, rocking her until her crying ebbed.
Zabad ministered to Zev, pouring fresh water into a basin, then offering him a wet cloth. The warrior had returned to his dazed state, unable to move or speak. Helpless, Zabad looked to Jehoiada and shrugged.
Jehosheba noticed the exchange, inhaled a ragged breath, and joined Zev on the floor. She took the rag from Zabad and knelt beside the Carite, dabbing blood and dirt from his face. Jehoiada remembered with piercing clarity serving his wife in much the same way when her inner wounds grew too severe to express. With every rinsing of the cloth, Jehosheba ministered quiet . . . peace . . . healing. And Zev seemed to drink them in like a desert wanderer at an oasis.
Finished cleaning the Carite’s face and neck, Jehosheba lifted his left hand—and gasped. Hazi’s signet ring sparkled on his little finger.
Her reaction seemed to stir him. He removed the ring, placed it in Jehosheba’s palm, and folded her fingers over it. “Hazi asked that you give this to Jehoash someday—when he’s old enough.”
Jehosheba clutched it to her heart, nodding, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Can you tell us what happened?”
Zev dropped his gaze and nodded. “Yes, my lady. If I could trouble you for a glass of watered wine, I’ll tell you what I know.”
Zabad grabbed the wineskin from its peg, filled a wooden cup half full, and placed it on the floor beside the parched soldier. Zev’s hand trembled, but he lifted the cup quickly and downed the full serving in a single gulp. “Thank you,” he said, wiping his lips with a dirty sleeve.
Jehoiada pointed to two cushions. Zabad tossed one to the high priest, and both men huddled near the Carite to listen.
“During the battle for Ramoth Gilead, King Ram took two arrows, one each to the left arm and thigh. When it became clear the Israelites would roust the Arameans, King Ram placed General Jehu in charge and retreated to Jezreel to recover from his wounds.” Zev examined his wooden cup and then hurled it at the wall. “That’s when the general and his men began celebrating.”
Jehoiada exchanged a troubled glance with Zabad. “Where were Hazi and the Carites?”
“After the battle, we set up a separate camp west of Ramoth Gilead. The Israelites made it clear from the beginning—they wanted nothing to do with us.”
“What do you mean?” Jehosheba interrupted. “Ima Thaliah read me the letter saying Jezebel and General Jehu agreed that Ramoth Gilead must be retaken. Jezebel summoned Hazi to help fight.”
Zev’s features softened as if addressing a child. “Neither you nor young Hazi understands a soldier’s mind, my lady. General Jehu agreed Ramoth should be retaken, but he and the Israelites resented interference from a foreign king and his mercenaries. The Gevirah ordered Hazi to the battle to prove Jehu could be replaced.”
Jehoiada’s heart ached. If only Hazi had chosen Yahweh. “So, did Jehu kill Hazi?”
The hardened Carite nodded—disbelief, wonder, fury mixed on his face. “I saw this with my own eyes, and I can hardly believe it . . . Hazi ordered the Carites to break camp and ride for Jezreel. We arrived late one night, and the next morning, a watchman shouted that a madman was approaching in a chariot, and another identified the driver as Jehu.”
“Jehu came alone?” Zabad’s military senses seemed offended by the thought.
“No, but the dust he kicked up by his driving hid the few troops he brought with him. King Ram sent a horseman down to ask if Jehu came in peace. Something seemed amiss to the king.” Zev shook his head, his eyes misting. “I wish he’d listened to his instincts.” Clearing his throat, he continued with a ragged voice. “When the first horseman didn’t return but instead fell into rank behind Jehu, King Ram sent a second horseman. But the second horseman also fell into rank. King Ram ordered his own chariot hitched, and of course Hazi wouldn’t be left behind. I drove his chariot, following Israel’s king . . .” His voice trailed off, and he wiped his hand down a weary face.
“What happened, Zev?” Jehosheba’s voice was small. “I need to know everything.”
“Jehu stopped his chariot on Jezebel’s herb garden, reminding King Ram that his abba Ahab had stolen that ground years before from the vineyard owner Naboth. Then he condemned idolatry and Jezebel’s witchcraft—calling her a pile of dung, though he knew she listened from the palace balcony. I think that’s when King Ram realized Jehu meant to kill him, because that’s when he tried to warn Hazi—but it was too late.”
Jehoiada gathered Jehosheba into his arms as Zev unfolded the most difficult details. “Jehu shot King Ram first. The arrow pierced his heart, my lady. He didn’t suffer. I wheeled King Hazi’s chariot up the road to Beth Haggan with Jehu and two other chariots swift on our heels. As we neared Ibleam, I heard Hazi cry out and saw an arrow in his back. Jehu and his men abandoned their chase then and turned back toward Jezreel.” He stared into Jehosheba’s eyes like a man haunted. “My king died in my arms at the Megiddo fortress with three requests: ‘Save my signet for Jehoash. Protect him and Zibiah. And Sheba must tell Ima Thaliah of my death—or there will be more blood. Too much blood.’”
Jehoiada’s arms tightened around his wife even as he began shaking his head. “No, Zev.”
“No, I can’t,” she agreed, panic in her voice. “Hazi was right about the blood. Whoever tells her will die, and others too—” She gasped. “Zibiah!” Jehosheba leapt to her feet, her brow creased, hand covering her mouth while she stood deep in thought. “Hazi was right, though. I must tell Zibiah and then get her
out of the palace before anyone else knows. We must hide her and Jehoash in the quar—” She clapped her hands over her mouth and glanced at Jehoiada as if she’d released a wild beast from her lips.
“Zev knows about the quarry, my love. Remember? We hid there together with your abba.” Jehoiada purposely left out the new tunnel entrance hidden by the goatskin beneath them. Though he trusted Zev, wisdom dictated keeping some secrets from the top Carite.
Zev cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “I’ve placed Hazi’s wrapped body in the quarry.”
“You carried him all this way—alone?” Zabad asked, his tone laced with respect.
“The soldiers at Megiddo helped me wrap and prepare the king’s body for burial. I left there at dusk and traveled all night on a dromedary, arriving at the quarry just before dawn this morning.” He lifted his chin, regaining his warrior’s mettle. “I welcomed Hazi into this world. I taught him to walk, to drink, and to fight. I protected him in life, and I held him in death. He will be safely buried in Jerusalem.” The Carite’s features hardened, and he pushed himself to stand. “And I will protect Zibiah and Prince Jehoash. Come, my lady,” he said, offering his hand to Jehosheba.
“No!” Jehoiada stood, intercepting her hand before she could seal the pact. “I admire your determination, Captain, and I’ll pray for Zibiah’s and Jehoash’s protection, but I will not allow my wife to meet certain death.”
“I’m going to fulfill Hazi’s last wishes.” Jehosheba’s quiet voice crashed like cymbals in Jehoiada’s ears. She stood behind him, laying her head against his back, arms around his middle. “Yahweh is my strength and my shield. My heart trusts in Him, and I am helped.”
Jehoiada bowed his head and held his wife’s arms tightly around him. Yahweh, forgive my doubt and fear. Strengthen my faith to trust You without question—no matter what comes next.
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