by Mesu Andrews
An iron grip bit into her arm. “You were destined to be a queen.” Ima Thaliah’s whisper felt hot on her cheek and stunk of day-old garlic.
Sheba ducked through the low entrance and emerged into a large, torch-lit tomb connected by an endless corridor to smaller chambers. In this main sepulcher, shelves lined the right wall, and a low-lying rock slab served as a center table, where Zev and the priests laid Hazi’s wrapped body. The smell of death and sweaty men grew unbearable as Judean commanders squeezed in and priests filed out.
“Where are the priests going?” The realization awakened Sheba’s senses and weakened her knees. Ima Thaliah ignored her, whispering to Zev and Mattan—but a queen of destiny would not go unheeded. “I assume you’ve prepared Judah’s watchmen for Mot’s vengeance should their sacrifices during the Marzeh ceremony displease him, Ima.” Her indignation received more than one concerned glance from the guards and seized the queen’s attention.
“Your quick mind pleases me, my dear, but you will address me as Queen Athaliah now.” A simple nod to the guard beside Sheba sent his fist into her left cheek. Light exploded with the pain, and Sheba fell into the arms of a second man, dazed. She felt herself supported between two watchmen as Ima continued. “Don’t ever forget that you are alive at my pleasure and for my purpose.”
Sheba regained her footing—and her senses. Cheek throbbing, she offered a stately bow. “Forgive me, Queen Athaliah.”
Athaliah returned a curt nod. “It is my pleasure to forgive you, Sheba, and my purpose that you serve as high priestess.”
Sheba swallowed hard, trying to tamp down rising panic. “High priestess?”
“Yes, that’s why you’re here. I had to keep you safe while I send the watchmen to raid Jehoiada’s precious Temple. I couldn’t risk your husband using you as a hostage or a shield.”
With every shred of control, Sheba trained her features. “I had a visitor today who confided information from Jehu’s camp. Raiding Yahweh’s Temple would be a critical error, my queen.” Looking at the watchmen on her right and left, she played the bluff. “I know without doubt you do not have the loyalty of the military or the people of Judah. In fact, I have reason to believe at least one person in this room is faithful to Yahweh.”
“Who?” Athaliah’s rage boiled quickly. “Tell me who and I’ll kill him myself.”
An empowering peace surged through Sheba. “I will not divulge anything else until this chamber is cleared.”
“Out! Get out or I’ll have you all killed for treason!” The queen’s fury blazed hotter than the torches. Even the commanders fled like haunted spirits from Hazi’s tomb. “Mattan and Zev will stay. No one else.”
The two men looked as if they’d been sentenced to death.
Sheba touched her throbbing cheek, waiting for the tomb to grow quiet. “You once asked me to win Jehoiada’s heart in order to unite Judah with Israel, to restore the glorious days of David and Solomon.” Seeing she’d gained their rapt attention, she lowered her voice, drawing them in. “I’ve won Jehoiada’s heart. Now we must have time to rebuild Judah. Jehu ruined Jizebaal’s plan—”
“Don’t you think I know I’m ruined?” Thaliah seethed.
“Jizebaal is ruined, Ima. You still have choices.” The comment seemed to startle Thaliah, and Sheba glimpsed her vulnerability. Jehoiada was right—she was ruling with fear because she herself was afraid. A lump lodged in Sheba’s throat, making it impossible to speak.
Ima Thaliah lifted her chin and forced her resolve. “I have lived in the shadow of Jezebel all my life. The world has not yet seen my strength.” Quick as an Egyptian cat, she grabbed Mattan’s jeweled dagger and sliced her forearm, drawing a steady stream of blood. “Almighty Melkart, lead us to victory!” she cried.
Mattan immediately began chanting, and Ima turned on Sheba with the blade.
“No!” Sheba screamed, jumping out of her path.
Zev blocked the queen’s advance. Incensed, Ima Thaliah raised the blade over her head, but Zev snagged it and twisted her hands behind her back, blood smearing both him and the queen. “I cannot let you harm yourself further, my queen.” His statement was respectful but firm, seeming to jar Thaliah from her frenzy.
The dagger fell to the dirt floor, and both Sheba and Mattan lunged to retrieve it—Sheba snatching it from the bloodthirsty Baal priest.
“You must cut yourself,” he challenged, eyes fixed on Sheba. “You must prove your devotion to Baal Melkart.”
Sheba aimed carefully crafted words at the queen once more. “I prove my allegiance to the Almighty God every day. If I return to Yahweh’s Temple with cuts on my body, the trust I’ve built with Jehoiada will be lost. You fight your war and I’ll fight mine, but know this. Jehu conspires with the sons of Rekab to build chariots, and he fights for Yahweh. Consider that before you shed blood in the Temple where your queen of destiny woos the high priest.”
Zev released Ima Thaliah, and the queen straightened her robe, casting an impatient glance at Mattan. “Well, get me something to staunch the bleeding!” She held her hand over the wound, blood seeping between her fingers, and walked around Hazi’s wrapped body to face her daughter. “You speak with poise and conviction, my dear. I have raised you well.”
Sheba forced a smile and kissed her ima’s cheek. “I must return to the Temple before Jehoiada becomes suspicious. May I have Zev escort me?”
Without answering, Queen Athaliah turned her back, nodding her approval to the Carite. Mattan began chanting his Marzeh, and the Baal priests waiting outside the tomb joined the eerie dirge. Zev and Sheba crept through the City of David in lengthening shadows of the coming night.
Jehoiada paced a flat limestone path in the quarry near the pool where he, Zev, and Obadiah had once hidden King Jehoram. A lifetime ago. He released a sigh and turned abruptly to retrace his steps. The pitch-covered torch swished, dropping pieces of charred cloth and singeing his gray hair and woolen robe. He’d left behind his golden garments in case . . .
He glanced at the other side of the pool, where Keilah and Gadara tended the three babies. Zabad had remained in their living chamber above to direct Jehosheba if—when—she returned from Hazi’s tomb. Yahweh, I will serve You faithfully no matter what happens, but please . . .
After Zabad had nearly dragged him away from the burial site, Jehoiada had returned to the Temple with a keen sense of urgency to hide the children in the quarry. Nathanael waited above with Zabad to rush into the Holy of Holies if the Ark needed to be lowered through its secret passage. Surely Yahweh would show mercy if someone other than the high priest entered the Most Holy Place to save the Ark.
Laying the torch aside, Jehoiada fell to his knees, weeping. “Yahweh, protect Your Temple, Your Ark, Your priests, Your people. I don’t have an army like Jehu. No horses or chariots. I am one man who strives to be obedient. I have only my love for You—and for my wife.”
“Jehoiada!” Gadara shouted in a panicked whisper.
His head snapped toward the brightening tunnel entrance. Someone—or an army of someones—approached from the city. Had Athaliah discovered their secret?
Two silhouettes appeared, piercing him with relief. “Jehosheba! Zev!”
He grabbed his torch and staggered across the quarry’s uneven floor, his wife and the Carite meeting him halfway. Jehosheba fell into his arms, weeping.
But Zev grinned and shook his head. “Your wife has the tactical mind of a general. You should have seen her handle the queen, and she knew you’d be hiding here—all of you.” He gasped when he glimpsed the babies.
Jehosheba raised her head at the pause, and Jehoiada noticed her bruised cheek. Instant fury caused him to clutch her head in his hands. “Who hit you?”
“Jehoiada, I took a risk—and lost. But I won when it mattered.”
“Your life is not a game, Jehosheba. What if you had lost when it mattered?”
She cupped his cheeks and planted a gentle kiss on his lips. “Yahweh is God. You and Zecharia
h are safe. My heart is at rest, my love. These are the things that matter.”
Jehoiada’s throat tightened, silencing any attempt to reply. He drew her close again but noticed Zev’s shoulders shaking, head bowed. Jehoiada drew Jehosheba’s attention to their friend. “Zev, my friend, thank you for all you’ve done to keep Hazi’s son—our future king—safe.”
The hardened Carite pressed both thumbs against his eyes, regaining control. “I tried to save Zibiah, you know.”
Jehoiada released his wife and steadied the Carite’s shoulder. “Do you want to tell us what happened?”
“The watchmen must have sent Zibiah’s maids back upstairs. When we heard them knock, I told her not to let them in, but she wouldn’t listen. As soon as the maids entered, the watchmen rushed in with them, and the guards got to me before I could defend Zibiah.” Zev closed his eyes and shook his head as if disgusted with himself. “Ten of them pinned me to the floor before everything went black. I awoke in the prison, staring at Athaliah herself, eye to eye. She said all Hazi’s wives and sons were dead, and I had two choices: join them in Mot’s underworld or go to Caria to train a new royal guard to protect her.” He lifted his gaze and offered a slow, sinister smile. “I’ve never believed in Mot.”
Jehoiada’s blood ran cold. “Does this mean you’re truly loyal to Athaliah?”
A satisfied grin lit Zev’s features. “A servant of Yahweh could never be loyal to Jezebel’s daughter.”
Jehoiada and Jehosheba gasped in unison. “Servant of Yahweh? You, Zev?”
He chuckled and nodded, seeming almost shy. “It’s not something I announce publicly.” The sparkle in his eyes told Jehoiada it had been a well-kept secret for quite some time.
“Did Hazi know?” Jehosheba asked, her voice quaking.
“I prayed with him as his life ebbed away, Princess. Only Yahweh knows a man’s heart in those final moments of life. Only Yahweh.”
Jehosheba hugged the man so tightly he winced, his recent injuries still painful. Jehoiada gently patted his wife’s shoulder. “Come, my love. Let’s share our joy with the rest of the family.”
Keilah and Gadara had set aside their spindles while Zechariah, Joshua, and Prince Jehoash kicked and cooed on a veritable cloud of goatskin rugs. “I thought you’d never get over here,” Gadara grumbled as they approached. “Now you’ll have to repeat all the news.”
Zechariah squealed the moment he saw Jehosheba. She scooped him off the rug, weeping with joy at their reunion. Keilah gathered Joshua into her arms, leaving Prince Jehoash lying on the soft white curls. Gadara’s wary eye warned Jehoiada away like a bear from her cub—no doubt she recalled the prince’s reaction at Jehoiada’s last attempt.
But Zev heeded no warning and needed no invitation. His warrior-calloused hands lifted the infant prince with the care of a master potter. “Shalom, my lord Jehoash,” he whispered. “I am Zev, your protector. Yahweh our God has kept His covenant to David and will someday place you on your abba’s throne. I will guard you on that day and rejoice in Yahweh’s victory.” Zev’s tear dropped on the prince’s cheek.
Gadara raised a skeptical brow. “Well, I guess that covers part of the news, doesn’t it?”
Zev smiled, weary but radiant. “I leave at sunrise for Caria and will return to Jerusalem with a new royal guard—loyal to me and to Yahweh.” He placed the prince in Jehoiada’s arms. The babe remained still, seemingly infused with the Carite’s peace and strength. “Guard Hazi’s son with your life and teach him to walk in the ways of David. When the time is right, we’ll place him on Judah’s throne and destroy Athaliah’s reign.”
Jehoiada studied Prince Jehoash’s innocent face—the face of a king. Then he reached into his pocket and extended his clenched fist, holding it out to Zev without a word.
Jehosheba gasped, drawing Zev’s attention. Her eyes filled with tears, and she nodded enthusiastically, coaxing the Carite to accept Jehoiada’s unseen gift.
Looking confused but intrigued, the captain opened his hand.
Jehoiada dropped Hazi’s signet ring onto his palm. “Keep this with you always. The day I summon you to the Temple will be the day you place this ring on Jehoash’s finger—the day we place King David’s descendant back on Judah’s throne.”
Epilogue
2 KINGS 11:4, 9–11
In the seventh year Jehoiada sent for the commanders of units of a hundred, the Carites and the guards and had them brought to him at the temple of the LORD. He made a covenant with them and put them under oath. . . . Then he showed them the king’s son. . . . He gave the commanders the spears and shields that had belonged to King David and that were in the temple of the LORD. The guards, each with weapon in hand, stationed themselves around the king—near the altar and the temple.
Queen Athaliah ruled her people as she had raised her daughter—cold, distant, and ruthless—and the fear she wielded against Judah sliced her own soul. Within four years, the threats on her life grew so numerous she became a prisoner in her own palace. By her sixth year, she could no longer appear in the Throne Hall. Keeping to her private chamber, Athaliah valued only Mattan’s counsel, and Sheba alone brought her comfort.
This day dawned bright and clear, as if Yahweh Himself had arrived for the coronation. Sheba sat on the frayed embroidered couch beside Ima Thaliah, heart pounding with joy and sorrow, waiting for the imminent sound of Temple trumpets.
Ima was completely unaware.
“I think Mattan has betrayed me. I’ve seen a great swell of Judeans enter the city during the past few days, but Mattan says he didn’t summon them or declare a special feast.” She stared out her open balcony doors, addressing no one—or perhaps she spoke to the gods who had failed her.
“It wasn’t Mattan.” Sheba’s words, spoken so softly, echoed through the chamber, mocking years of carefully crafted phrases.
The queen’s eyes flashed, and then a wicked grin creased her lips. “Ah, my girl. You’ve always exceeded my expectations.”
Sheba reached for her ima’s hand and knelt before her, stubborn tears gathering on her lashes. “We’re not playing a game now, Ima. You must listen. We haven’t much time.”
“Our lives are always a game to the gods, Sheba. We’re nothing but ants on a hill, tormented by gods with big sticks.”
“No, Ima, Yahweh is not like other gods. He is the one true God, and He loves His people, cherishes them—cherishes us. He will forgive—”
“Forgive?” Athaliah ripped her hands from Sheba’s grasp. “You think Yahweh will forgive Jezebel’s daughter? Don’t be a fool. I hate Judah’s god, and He hates me.” Her sharp black eyes had grown dull. Like pounding swords against a boulder, Ima’s intensity was blunted against Yahweh’s constancy, and Sheba felt more pity than revulsion for the woman she once thought great.
Trumpets blared from the Temple grounds, and a mighty shout rose in unison. “Long live the king! Long live the king!”
Athaliah shot to her feet and hurried to the balcony for a glimpse at the outer courts of Yahweh’s Temple. Sheba followed, arriving in time for Ima’s accusation. “What have you done? What about the queens of destiny?”
“Yahweh made a covenant with David that his descendants would reign forever on Judah’s throne.” Sheba wiped a triumphant tear, not even trying to hide it. “Hazi’s son lives. My nephew, Jehoash, is now Judah’s king.” Sheba held the queen’s gaze, waiting, hoping her ima would somehow accept—
“Nooooo!” Ima Thaliah fled from her chamber, screaming, leaving her double cedar doors ajar.
Sheba wondered if Ima noticed the absence of Carites, then shook her head, returned to the balcony, and scanned the sea of people flooding the courts of Yahweh’s Temple.
“Long live the king! Long live the king!” they cried, the sound like waves crashing against a crumbling sea wall.
Sheba watched from the palace balcony as the queen’s lone figure dashed into the Temple courts she’d avoided so long. The irony chilled her. Ima Thaliah would di
e on the only day she visited Yahweh’s Temple.
Jerusalem fell silent.
“Treason!” Ima’s bloodcurdling screech split the air. “Treason!” she cried, suddenly trying to retrace her path toward the palace.
Jehoiada, having vowed not to shed blood on Yahweh’s holy grounds, raised his hand in the direction of the Horse Gate. Temple guards followed his command, descending on Judah’s queen like hawks on prey. Sheba turned away, unable to watch the execution of the only ima she’d ever known.
A great shout ascended, drawing Sheba’s attention to the Temple grounds again. There, on the porch between the pillars Jachin and Boaz, stood Jehoiada with their new king—Jehoash, only seven years old.
Yahweh had blessed the high priest’s family with two sons now. They stood with their abba and the king, wide-eyed and frightened. Her heart ached at what these little ones had seen in their brief lives—ached with an ima’s heart. Thank You, Yahweh, for showing me how to love my children.
A wave of peace flowed over her. Perhaps now Jerusalem will enjoy peace as well. Even as the thought formed, she watched the Temple courts empty like a stream of grain pouring from a great silo. Frenzied, people raced from the Eastern Gate, past the palace grounds, toward the city . . . No, toward Baal’s temple. From Sheba’s vantage on Ima’s balcony, she glimpsed only Baal’s outer courts, but she need not see more. Mattan would die by the sword he’d sharpened. Renown. Power. Wealth. Could any of these save him now?
Returning her attention to Yahweh’s Temple, Sheba watched as her husband and sons were escorted by Carites down the garden path toward the palace entrance. Zev carried Jehoash proudly in his arms, fulfilling his promise to Hazi.
And I am free. Sheba’s heart swelled at the thought. Her fears purged. Tears unleashed. Love realized.
Lifting her face to the cloudless sky, Sheba sent a prayer heavenward. “Let the shadow of Jezebel never darken Judah again, O Lord, and may Your kingdom endure forever and ever. Amen.”
