In the Shadow of Jezebel (15 page)

“Were you as amazed as me when the Thummim was drawn to approve your high priesthood?” Nathanael stood gazing at the white stone.

“I daresay I was every bit as amazed as you.” Jehoiada placed the stone into the pocket of the breastpiece. “Come, you two. Nathanael, I’ll show you to your chamber. You can sleep in my bed, and I get Amariah’s wool-stuffed mattress.”

The new second priest chuckled. “As it should be.”

Jehoiada stopped, a terrifying thought striking him like a blow to the head. “Zabad, now that you’re in charge of assigning priests’ chambers, we should talk about preparing a bridal chamber—if the princess actually agrees to my terms.” He felt his cheeks flush and noted the young men elbowing each other. “And Nathanael will need to live in the chamber next door.”

Zabad grinned and squeezed Nathanael’s cheeks. “Wouldn’t you rather wake up to a princess instead of this ugly mug?”

Jehoiada lifted a single brow, stopping their antics with a scowl. “I will awaken to the cleansing of the Molten Sea and the high priest’s garments.” He walked away, knowing they’d follow, hoping his blush would disappear by the time they needed to discuss tonight’s sacrifice. The thought of waking up to a beautiful princess was entirely too much to bear.

E
XODUS
29:40

With the first lamb offer a tenth of an ephah of the finest flour mixed with a quarter of a hin of oil from pressed olives, and a quarter of a hin of wine as a drink offering.

S
heba woke to afternoon sunlight streaming through her balcony with the eerie feeling of doom. She opened one eye and then the other, waking from sleep as deep as death, trying to remember what day it was, what year. Her eyes felt as if someone had poured sand in them—swollen and scratchy. With utter despair, life came rushing in.
I
’
m
to
marry
an
old
man
and
live
as
a
common
priest
’
s
wife
.

“Ooh!” she groaned, pressing her fists into her eyes.

“So you’re finally awake.”

She screamed, nearly falling off the bed at Ima Thaliah’s greeting. Irritation overcame decorum. “Haven’t you already ruined my life? What more can you do to me?”

Ima sat like an Asherah on the couch by the balcony. She raised a single kohl-defined brow, addressing the maids. “Leave us.”

Heat rose in Sheba’s cheeks. Fear. Regret. Shame. She should never have spoken so disrespectfully—especially in front of witnesses. “I’m sorry,” she said before the last maid hurried out the door. “I didn’t mean it. I’m tired, confused.”

Ima remained unmoved. Waiting. Sheba tried to tamp down her rising panic, unnerved by the extended silence, her heart beating like a drum. Could Ima hear it across the room?

“You seem to have assumed that our plan for your future has taken some unexpected turn.” Ima’s voice was cool, distant. “When I chose you as my daughter, I sent word to the Gevirah that we had our next queen of destiny. You were lively and quick-witted, accepting of change, and eager to learn—even as a young child. I believed you could be a queen.”

Sheba’s nerves gave way to confusion. “But how can I be a queen if I’m to live in squalor as a priest’s wife?”

Ima Thaliah sighed, shaking her head. “You are a queen of destiny because you will influence Yahweh’s high priest as an honorary daughter of Jizebaal. Your name will be remembered throughout history as a woman who saved the house of David by your sacrificial marriage.” At the mention of the house of David, a sudden warmth enfolded Sheba—not the familiar flush of fear, but a balm of peace unlike any she’d known. And just as quickly it was gone, replaced by a shiver and Ima’s piercing stare.

“I hope your tremor is a sign of excitement at the days ahead.” Thaliah tugged at a leather necklace, lifting a stone seal from beneath her robe. She produced a similar bauble from her pocket. “Do you recognize these?”

Sheba scooted off the bed and joined Ima on the couch. The spring breeze from the open balcony was cool, making her shiver again. “They’re seals like Abba uses to imprint his official mark on parchment scrolls.”

Ima Thaliah smoothed her hair, an affectionate gesture done a thousand times, but this time it felt contrived. “Yes, Daughter, but these seals are almost identical to Gevirah Jizebaal’s, different by only one letter. Mine adds the first letter of my name.” She pointed to the seal hanging from her neck. “And this one adds the first letter of your name.”

Sheba gasped, accepting the precious gift from Ima’s hands. “You had it carved for me?” Ima Thaliah nodded, her eyes misting as if genuinely moved by the enduring heirloom. Perhaps Sheba had been too hard on her. The visit with the Gevirah had
placed them both under enormous strain, and maybe, now that they had returned home, their relationship could regain the tenderness she craved.

“Here, let me fasten it securely.” Ima nudged her to face the balcony, and Sheba lifted her hair so she could tie the leather knot. “You must never take off your seal, Daughter. It’s like a second skin to you, and it will be the only way we’ll have to communicate when you live on the Temple grounds with the priest.” The words pierced Sheba’s freshly exposed heart. “Since he’s insisting you live like a common priest’s wife, we won’t be able to send a maid with you, so you’ll have to write any urgent correspondence and use your seal on the scroll to ensure its privacy. I’ll make sure you can trust at least one of the Temple guards, and we’ll exchange our messages through him.”

She fluffed Sheba’s hair around her shoulders and turned her around. “And do you see why your priestess training in several languages is so crucial? Find out which language your new husband does
not
understand, and use that one in our communications.”

Sheba maintained even breaths, refusing to grieve over leaving this woman who obviously cared nothing about her. “It seems you and the Gevirah have everything well thought out.”

Ima fiddled with the new seal dangling around Sheba’s neck. “Hide it beneath your clothes, and when your priest demands you remove it, refuse him. It’s good for a wife to refuse her husband
something
now and then.” She winked as if they were old gossips sharing a secret and then patted her knees, a nervous tick signaling she was ready to leave. “Well, it’s time I sent your decision to the priest. We don’t want to keep the old curmudgeon waiting.” Her forced cheerfulness was so sickeningly sweet, Sheba almost asked for bitter herbs to offset the charade. Instead, she remained silent, letting Ima brush her cheek. “Would you like me to send a personal message to your new bridegroom?”

Mischief crept into Sheba’s tone. “Tell him I’ll bring balm of Gilead for his creaking joints.”

Thaliah’s eyes lit with fury. “You will make Jehoiada believe he is the love of your life because that’s the way a woman gains
power over a man. If you haven’t learned that by now, Jehosheba, perhaps the Gevirah and I were wrong about you.” She sat there fuming, staring.

Sheba’s heart pounded again. This was her chance. If she was ever to refuse the marriage, now was the time. But what then? After all she’d learned about Ima Thaliah, the Gevirah, kings on thrones, and the destiny of queens . . . The world was a grinding stone, and she could choose to be the hand that turned the wheel or the kernel that was crushed.

She stood, and Ima Thaliah quickly matched her stance. “I’ll convince Yahweh’s priest he’s a god,” Sheba said. The approval in Ima’s eyes pressed her to the next level of dread. “And tell Mattan I’ll be ready to assist him with your sons’ burial service after our evening meal.”

Shortly before last night’s twilight service, a palace messenger brought word to Jehoiada that Jehosheba had accepted his terms. He’d nearly sliced off his thumb during the evening sacrifice—his concentration was lacking, to say the least.

This morning, Jehoiada stood on the elevated porch of the Temple with over three hundred priest candidates—robed, barefoot, and as nervous as he’d been while awaiting his consecration years ago. The weeklong ordination would begin in three days. Jehoiada would lead this morning’s regular sacrifice and then have a senior priest announce both the consecration and the wedding planned after the feasts. At least Jehoiada could concentrate on the Feasts of Passover and Unleavened Bread before his new wife demanded his attention.

Yahweh, help me focus
on serving You.
It would be a miracle, considering he recalled Jehosheba’s face with every breath.

Lifting his hands, Jehoiada began the familiar Hebrew prayer, inviting the congregation to recite with him. “Hear, O Israel: Yahweh is our God, Yahweh alone. Love Yahweh with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.” The crisp spring air rang with the melody of the faithful, the courtyard full to bursting. The Levite choir began their sacred psalms,
and Jehoiada folded his hands at his chest, content to scan the faces of those he would serve for the rest of his days.

And then he saw them.

Prince Ahaziah, Princess Jehosheba, Obadiah, and Zev the Carite captain stood discreetly near the Guards’ Gate in the inner court—the entrance normally used by palace and Temple staff. Why hadn’t they entered through the King’s Gate as was customary for royalty? What business had Obadiah with the princess? Had the king’s condition worsened? They would surely send for Mattan if he’d died—considering the royal sons’ burial last night at Baal’s temple.

He stole another glance at the princess standing between the Carite and her brother. She was stunning, lithe, and graceful—more beautiful than he’d remembered. Her dark, round eyes beckoned him, though her uplifted chin screamed nobility. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the distraction.

The Levite hymns were ending, and Jehoiada was expected to offer the sacrifice. Preoccupied yet dutiful, he descended the porch stairs, gathered the wriggling year-old lamb in his arms, and heard the crowd gasp when he reached the platform surrounding the brazen altar. Only after the fleeting memory of Amariah’s painful struggle up the altar steps did Jehoiada realize why the worshipers had grown utterly silent. Toting the stout, yearling lamb up the steps was effortless for Jehoiada. In all his years as a priest, he’d wrestled dozens of rams and bulls to the slaughtering tables in the courtyard. But no one except other priests had seen it.

As if sensing his discomfort, the lamb stilled and looked up with its mournful black eyes. “I know you don’t deserve it,” he whispered to the innocent lamb, “but that’s the point.”

The two priests waiting exchanged worried glances, no doubt wondering if the new high priest had lost his mind—talking to sacrifices.

Jehoiada placed the animal on the platform, held its neck over the drainage trough, and raised his voice. “May the blood of the lamb atone for the sins of God’s people.” With a swift, clean slice, Jehoiada offered the atoning blood into the channel
surrounding the altar. He knelt there until the light of life left the lamb’s eyes.
Thank You for forgiving Your
people, Yahweh.

While the other priests went about the work of sectioning the lamb for burning, the prayers of Yahweh’s faithful created a reverent hum. Jehoiada received the sacred grain offering from a third priest, who had baked the flatbread this morning using fine flour and the purest olive oil—always seasoned with salt.

Jehoiada lifted the grain offering before the crowd with his right hand and held a quarter hin of fermented wine in a pitcher with his left. “May these offerings made by fire be a pleasing aroma before the Lord—even as the prayers of His people ascend to His holy throne.” He tossed the unleavened bread into the fire and poured out the wine, mingling it with the blood of the lamb.

The Levite choir began their closing hymns, and Jehoiada descended the altar stairs, his heart and mind consumed with the realization of his high and holy calling. This would be the last sacrifice he’d make as an ordinary priest. After his ordination, he would appear before the people wearing the golden garments of the high priest—the ephod, the breastpiece, and the diadem affixed to his turban. In the past, he’d performed the morning and twilight services when Amariah had been unable to serve due to illness, but care for God’s people had never before rested squarely on his own shoulders.

“Brother Jehoiada.” Zabad approached, jarring him from his contemplation as he reached the porch steps. “Prince Hazi and Obadiah have come with the princess to see you. Captain Zev has asked to escort them to your private chambers for a brief meeting.”

Everything within Jehoiada screamed,
No! I’
m distracted enough! We must begin our preparations immediately!
But he remembered the four troubled faces and sensed something out of the ordinary. “Ask them to wait in my chamber. I’ll explain my delay to Nathanael so the assistants can continue their work.”

Zabad bowed and hurried to deliver his message. Jehoiada glimpsed Zev and the prince ushering the princess through the inner court, noting her wince when they supported her arms. Obadiah shook his head and followed like a fretting ima. Dread
crept up Jehoiada’s spine. This visit had nothing to do with King Jehoram.

Jehoiada quickly explained the circumstance to Nathanael while the senior priest announced suspended public worship during the seven-day ordination service. Faithful worshipers began grousing but were soothed by the promise of ordination sacrifices on the community’s behalf.

“And a bit of happy news,” the senior priest added. “Our new high priest will marry Princess Jehosheba, daughter of King Jehoram, in a private wedding ceremony!” A resounding cheer rose, and Jehoiada ducked his head, fairly running toward his chamber to escape well-wishers.

Whispering a prayer as he hurried across the inner court, he stopped outside his door and inhaled a calming breath. Why was his heart beating like the hooves of a horse in a chariot race?

He opened the door and began talking at once. “How may I help—”

The sight of her took his breath. Princess Jehosheba stood like one of the Temple pillars—as white as limestone from the quarry. They’d removed her outer cloak and pushed up the sleeves of her robe. Bloodied bandages lined her forearms, and her left hand bore a stitched wound.