In the Shadow of Jezebel (22 page)

Sheba continued her subtle watch while chewing another bite of garlic-and-onion-sautéed lamb. Zibiah hadn’t eaten anything. The girl’s first taste of lamb fell off her fork at Jehoiada’s outburst, and she’d nearly climbed into Sheba’s lap when Ima Thaliah began her taunting.

“Do your husband and the queen always fight like that?” she’d whispered.

“Only when they’re in the same room.” Sheba had laid a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder during the foray, and when Hazi rose to join in, she gave the girl a quick lesson in palace living. “When Ima returns to the table, we cannot whisper or mention the confrontation. We must smile and continue to eat delicately, as if nothing unpleasant is happening.”

Zibiah nodded, eyes wide with fright.

Ima returned to her cushion, perfect smile in place. “Zibiah,
dear, you haven’t tasted your lamb. I had the cook prepare it with spices from Beersheba so you’d feel at home.”

Zibiah clutched Sheba’s knee and smiled. She began shoving her food around the wooden plate, pretending to eat.

Hazi and Jehoiada seemed more settled into conversation, and Sheba slipped her hand beneath the table, working to dislodge the girl’s iron grasp. She lifted her fork, eyed Zibiah, and waited for her to do the same. The girl finally lifted her fork as well and began nibbling at the lamb on her plate.

“So tell me, Zibiah, why has my son chosen you as his favorite?” Ima asked. Zibiah choked on her third bite of lamb, and Ima slapped her back. “There, there, dear. You shouldn’t gobble such large bites.”

Tears pooled in Zibiah’s eyes, and Sheba knew they weren’t from choking. “I think it’s quite obvious why she’s Hazi’s favorite, Ima.” Smiling brightly, she noticed a fuss just beyond the queen’s shoulder and motioned toward Hazi with her wineglass. “It appears Hazi is changing the seating order.”

The queen spun around like a child’s toy top, and Sheba tried desperately to mask her delight as the servants moved Mattan’s cushion to the end of the table, placing Jehoiada at Hazi’s left.

Zibiah’s large, black eyes looked as if they might fall out of her head. “What will Mattan do?” Baal’s high priest had turned a deep shade of crimson on every visible surface.

Before Sheba could shush her, Hazi’s voice rang out over the buzzing crowd. “I’ve returned from visiting our brethren in Judah’s fortified cities with news of lingering hostility from nations on our borders.” At the mention of neighboring nations, the courtyard hushed.

“I’ll begin first with the reports from my uncle, King Joram of Israel,” Hazi used their uncle’s full name, making Ima Thaliah wince. “Israel is harassed on every side. Moab continues its rebellion, fighting among their own tribes while refusing to pay tribute in wool or lambs to Israel. Aram has increased raids on Israel’s north and northeastern borders since Hazael usurped Ben-Hadad’s throne, and Israel has once again lost control of Ramoth Gilead.”

“Oh no . . .” Dismay fluttered over the audience, and Hazi paused to let the impact of Israel’s weakening defenses settle in.

“Farther north, Assyria’s relentless King Shalmaneser has emerged from his land between the rivers, seeking to extend his domination westward, demanding tribute from the coastal nations of Tyre and Sidon. The mandatory tribute is so daunting that Phoenicia’s king—the Gevirah Jizebaal’s own brother—refused Israel’s request for military and economic aid.”

Sheba noted Ima Thaliah’s silent seething, but Hazi seemed undaunted, empowered by his recent tour of independence. “Amid all this grave news of our northern brethren, imagine my relief at traveling through the lovely hills of Judah and finding twelve loyal households with whom we could join the house of David, strengthening
our
nation.” He paused, seeming overwhelmed. “My brother Judeans, in the seven weeks since my departure, Jerusalem has been rebuilt into a capital that would make our forefathers proud. Let us pray that Prince Baal Melkart blesses your daughters to provide many fine sons.” He swept his hand over the lovely brides at the second table.

Resounding cheers began at the Baal priests’ table and spread through the gathering, quieting only when Hazi raised his goblet again. “And let us praise Yahweh for His gift of my beloved wife Zibiah, and pray His blessing on her womb.”

Obadiah stood and applauded, prompting obligatory praise throughout. Sheba’s heart lodged in her throat when she saw Ima Thaliah turn a dark smile on Zibiah. “I hadn’t realized you worshiped Yahweh, my dear.”

Zibiah clutched Sheba’s knee again but didn’t reply. Ima Thaliah turned away, seeming suddenly eager to hear more of Hazi’s report.

“During my travels, I discovered information every bit as troubling as the murderous invasion of Jerusalem.” Hazi paused, letting silence build the anticipation. “After Edom rebelled against Abba Jehoram last year, the cliff rats of Seir crawled back to their holes and planned more evil deeds. It appears they knew of the impending Philistine raid and did nothing to warn us! They watched from a distance while our gates were breached
and then stole the booty from our attackers. And they put to the sword any Judeans who sought refuge in Edom’s mountains.”

Outrage filled the courtyard. Noblemen leapt to their feet, raising their fists and shouting obscenities. The rage became a roar, building, rolling, growing into a living thing until . . .

Obadiah walked up the center aisle toward the head table. Hazi met him, but over the noise, Sheba understood only that Obadiah wanted to address the guests. She held her breath. She hoped his court experience proved effective. From the look on Ima Thaliah’s face, his life depended on it.

1 K
INGS
18:3–4

Obadiah was a devout believer in the L
ORD
. While Jezebel was killing off the L
ORD
’s prophets, Obadiah had taken a hundred prophets and hidden them in two caves, fifty in each, and had supplied them with food and water.

I
am neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet,” Obadiah began, “but I have been given a revelation from Yahweh, the one true God of Jacob.”

Jehoiada was as stunned as everyone else. Obadiah, his friend and a nobleman, had spent his life hiding prophets in Israel and occasionally doing the same in Judah. But he had vehemently denied any role as a seer of God’s direct wisdom.

“This is what the Sovereign Lord says about Edom,” the old man began.

Shock. Silence. Awe. The guests at the feast watched this unassuming nobleman speak with power and authority born from above. Even the Baal priests sat in rapt attention. Jehoiada was almost as fascinated by the faces of those who listened as by the words of Obadiah’s prophecy.

“Because of the violence against your brother Jacob, you, Edom, will be covered with shame; you will be destroyed forever. On the day you stood aloof while strangers carried off
his wealth and foreigners entered his gates and cast lots for Jerusalem, you were like one of them. You should not gloat over your brother in the day of his misfortune, nor rejoice over the people of Judah in the day of their destruction. You should not wait at the crossroads to cut down their fugitives, nor hand over their survivors in the day of their trouble. The day of the Lord is near for all nations. As you have done, it will be done to you.”

The air throbbed with silence in the wake of Obadiah’s declaration. Jehoiada, realizing his mouth was agape, closed it. He observed Queen Athaliah and Mattan recovering their facades, replacing wonder with indifference.

Hazi stepped from the dais, embraced the old nobleman, and then addressed the crowd. “I’m not sure what qualifies a man to be called
prophet
, but with all my heart, I pray Obadiah’s words are a promise from Yahweh.”

A resounding cheer brought most guests to their feet, including Jehoiada. The Baal priests sulked where they sat.

Hazi invited Obadiah to dine at the head table, moving Jehoiada’s cushion down and placing Obadiah between them. Mattan sat moping on the end closest to his flock of priests below.

Obadiah kept his voice low, waiting until the queen’s attention was focused on Hazi’s new bride. “How is King Jehoram, my prince? I haven’t spoken with the palace physician since he was permanently moved into the king’s chambers.”

Hazi cast a furtive glance at Mattan before answering, but Baal’s high priest had begun drinking barley beer between glasses of wine and seemed thoroughly content to talk to the slab of fattened calf on his plate. “He worsens each day,” Hazi whispered. “When Zev and I returned from the tour, we were appalled at his condition—and the conditions in which he must live. Zev even asked me if I wanted him to end Abba’s suffering with the sword.”

Jehoiada’s heart nearly broke, and then Hazi leaned in, addressing him. “Are there laws against such a thing, Jehoiada? I know murder is forbidden by Yahweh, but have you seen my
abba? It wouldn’t be murder. It would be mercy to end his suffering.”

Jehoiada noticed Athaliah’s attention still drawn toward the women’s side of the table, so he ventured a cautious question. “Have Mattan and your ima counseled you on the decision?”

“Yes. Ima believes it’s the only merciful thing to do, and Mattan says that Mot would gently guide Abba Jehoram to the underworld . . .” Hazi’s whisper died, and his features grew somber. “I am asking
you
, Jehoiada. Are there
laws
against such a thing?”

Jehoiada noticed poor Obadiah shifting uncomfortably between them. “There are indeed laws against it, but more suitable to your circumstance is the story of your ancestor David, who faced a similar dilemma. He waited years to be named king and then punished a man for killing King Saul when he’d been mortally wounded. King David believed—as I do—that it’s never right to take the life of the Lord’s anointed king.”

At the mention of
king
, Queen Athaliah interrupted their conversation. “Did someone speak of the king?”

Jehoiada straightened, tight-lipped, and Obadiah looked like he might relinquish his few bites of fattened calf. Hazi, however, equaled his ima’s pretense with a blinding smile. “Your intuition is astounding as always, Ima! Indeed, Jehoiada was telling me David was a man of integrity who waited for King Saul’s death before assuming his throne. David waited
years
to become king.”

Athaliah’s eyes narrowed, aiming daggers at Jehoiada. “Unfortunately for King Jehoram, I’m sure his overindulgence and diseased body will demand his life much sooner. I doubt years will pass before Hazi becomes Judah’s king.”

Jehoiada met her stare, refusing to be cowed.

Hazi lifted his goblet and leaned forward between them, effectively breaking the battle glare. He took a long draw of wine before he spoke. “Jehoiada regrets his outburst over the golden tongs and asks to make amends by offering hospitality to Zibiah.”

Hazi’s awkward change of topic clashed like a tone-deaf Levite. Even the young brides cast questioning glances at him.

The high priest recounted Hazi’s carefully chosen words.
Jehoiada regrets
his outburst . . . asks to make amends by offering hospitality to
Zibiah.
None of it was untrue. The standard of “wise without lies” reached a new level in this world of kings and queens. Hazi tiptoed on high and narrow walls, and Jehoiada must be sure they didn’t fall off the edge.

Queen Athaliah seemed perplexed by Hazi’s tactless transition. She laid her fork aside and kept her eyes focused on Jehoiada while addressing her son. “You’re saying that Yahweh’s high priest will admit the golden tongs were part of a miraculous gift from Baal?”

Jehoiada flushed. “I will nev—”

“I said . . .” Hazi leaned into Athaliah’s line of sight, blocking her view of Jehoiada again. “My brother-in-law regrets his outburst. And that is enough.” Taking another swig of wine, he focused on the courtyard. “Jehoiada has also confided that Sheba is bored and needs a friend. I think Sheba and Zibiah will get along famously. I plan to have guards escort Zibiah to Sheba’s quarters for a visit each day.”

“Out of the question.” Athaliah slammed her hand on the table, causing Zibiah and Sheba to jump and the whole courtyard to still. Realizing her lapse in etiquette, the queen lowered her voice. “Sheba can come to the palace daily, but I see no reason for Zibiah to visit the Temple.”

“Of course there is reason, Ima,” Hazi said, raising his wine for another sip. “The reason is simple. Zibiah is my wife, and I wish her to visit Yahweh’s Temple.” Setting his goblet on the table, he spoke in a voice barely perceptible. “I have always been—and continue to be—a willing lamb in service to you and the Gevirah, but if you so much as touch a curl on Zibiah’s head . . . I. Will. Destroy. You.”

Before she could respond, Hazi stood, shouting above the din. “Begin the music and dancing!”

Queen Athaliah resumed her practiced smile and toasted the approving crowd, offering a seemingly improved countenance to her daughter-in-law. Jehoiada toasted Obadiah, a silent cel
ebration of hope sparked by Prince Hazi’s zeal. He could hardly wait to return home to gain Jehosheba’s insights.

Sheba sat on the couch in their outer chamber, watching as Nathanael helped Jehoiada remove the high priestly golden garments. After a long day of feasting, they were both tired, but Jehoiada’s routine of disrobing was as sacred as his predawn procedure. Careful to reverse the exact order, the second priest removed the golden diadem from the turban before unwrapping the long strip of linen from Jehoiada’s full head of silver hair. When Nathanael lifted the jeweled breastpiece from her husband’s neck, she mustered her courage. “Could I look more closely at the breastpiece?”

Even in the dim lamplight, she noted Nathanael’s eyes bulge. Jehoiada patted his shoulder, easing the man’s obvious trepidation. “You may
look
at it, but take care not to touch it. It’s a sacred object, consecrated to Yahweh for the use of His high priest alone, my love.”

She reconsidered after hearing his caution, and besides, Jehoiada’s explanation reminded her of another topic. “How did Hazi convince you to let Ima Thaliah keep the consecrated Temple objects? They used the gold tongs to serve meat today, and Ima said they used the wick trimmers and other utensils in the Marzeh service last night. How can that be all right?”

“Yahweh’s sacred objects in Baal’s temple?” Nathanael’s face paled, and his pained expression revealed more sorrow than anger.

Jehoiada squeezed the bridge of his nose, sighed, and placed both hands on Nathanael’s shoulders. “Athaliah’s sons stole the sacred objects during the raid and hid them in Baal’s temple. Mattan discovered them, and the queen is determined to keep them. Hazi believes if I fight Athaliah on this, I’ll lose the Temple items
and
get loved ones hurt in the process. The consecrated objects had already been defiled in Baal’s temple, so I traded golden objects for priceless lives.” He searched his second priest’s eyes. “Do you understand, my friend?”

Nathanael remained silent, seeming deep in thought. When he answered, his words were heartfelt, not contrived. “I do understand. Consecrated objects are replaceable.” With an affirming nod, he resumed the disrobing process, lifting the ephod over Jehoiada’s head.

Sheba watched silently, her stomach twisting as she considered Hazi’s influence on her husband. By the time Nathanael completed his task and bid them good night, Sheba’s question fairly spewed out. “So, if Hazi convinced you to think like we do in the palace, does that mean I must now measure your every word—as I do his?”

Jehoiada stood in his simple white tunic, looking completely vulnerable. “No, my love. No.” He joined her on the couch, removed her head covering, and twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. “I’ll admit, it felt wrong at first, but Hazi explained that I must lose some battles to win the war. I believe it’s the right thing to do.”

She remained unmoved, searching his eyes for any sign of corruption. Had his time with Hazi tarnished her husband’s integrity? In the unshuttered windows of his soul, she saw nothing but pure surrender, complete honesty.

He bounced his wiry eyebrows. “Zibiah worships Yahweh.”

“Zibiah worships Yahweh!” Sheba giggled and squealed—very unlike a queen of destiny.

He kissed her gently and then hoisted her into his arms. “Let’s talk about this in the other room.” A roguish grin creased his handsome face.

She enjoyed the weightless journey to their bedchamber and let her head rest against his chest. “Maybe Hazi will begin to worship Him too.”

He placed her gently on the bed and lay beside her. “Hazi has already devised a plan to visit me and hear stories of Jehoshaphat’s faithfulness while you and Zibiah get to know each other.”

“So that’s why he fought Ima Thaliah so hard to let Zibiah visit the Temple each day?”

“You’ll finally have another woman to talk to.”

The idea pierced her. How could she tell him friendship terrified her? She scooted into the bend of his arm, listening to the heart that had loved and accepted her unconditionally. Women had never been kind to Sheba. Athaliah used her. The handmaids feared her. What did Sheba know of being a friend?

He kissed the top of her head. “Did I say something wrong?”

“You said nothing wrong, but I might have.” She sat up and tried to quiet her racing heart. “Do you remember Keilah, the young widow from Shavuot?” A barely perceptible nod. “Well, she already attends every morning service, so I invited her to stay awhile longer and spend time with me each day. You know, so we could—”

“Is she bringing the child?” He sat abruptly on the edge of the bed, his back to her.

Sheba remained silent, startled by his reaction. Did he despise children? The station of wet nurse?

“I said is she bringing the child?” He kept his back turned, but his voice rose.

“Yes, I suppose she is.”

“I have duties that will keep me away from our chambers each morning. Make sure she’s gone when you come to the kitchen for our midday meal.” He walked to their outer chamber.

Sheba sat, completely baffled, crushed. The longer she sat there, the angrier she became. She heard dishes rattle, and finally a cup shattered. “This is ridiculous,” she whispered as she leapt off the bed. Rounding the corner, she began shouting before her shadow fell in the outer chamber. “What is so terrible about a baby in our chambers?”

She stopped the moment she saw Jehoiada slumped over, kneeling, sobbing. “What is it?” She ran to him, but he waved her away, his head shaking violently. “Jehoiada, talk to me.”

His strong arm pointed her toward their bedroom, commanding her to go. Still no words.

She turned but glimpsed him clutching his head with both hands, rocking now, silently keening. He wasn’t in physical pain. She was certain of it. This was a rending of his soul, something too deep to speak aloud. She lingered at the door between their
two rooms, torn. What does a wife do when her husband cannot—will not—share his inner war?