In the Shadow of Jezebel (30 page)

L
EVITICUS
16:29–30

On the tenth day of the seventh month you must deny yourselves and not do any work—whether native-born or a foreigner residing among you—because on this day atonement will be made for you, to cleanse you. Then, before the L
ORD
, you will be clean from all your sins.

S
heba wound the last length of yarn on her spindle, feeling an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. She raised a single eyebrow and issued the challenge. “Ready, Princess Zibiah.”

Keilah laid her own spindle aside and lifted Samson from the goatskin rug—out of the field of play. Zibiah sat on the rug, legs outstretched, spindle tucked between her feet against two heavy pieces of leather. Sheba assumed her position—leaning back against the princess, legs outstretched, spindle ready to unwind. Keilah sat on a cushion with her elbow propped on the table to help support Samson as he nursed.

“Don’t start until I’ve settled Samson into nursing. I want to see who’s winning.” Keilah nestled Samson into position to begin his meal and lifted her free hand in the air to begin the competition. “All right, grab the thread . . .”

Sheba and Zibiah leaned toward their feet, pinching the leader thread, ready to begin winding their ball of yarn. This little
contest was their favorite part of the day, the moment they wrapped their finished yarn into tight, neat balls, with a strand to draw from the middle. Sheba’s hands ached from her daily task, a wonderful weariness born of productivity.

“Okay, start wrapping.” Keilah’s verbal signal was less than enthusiastic, and though Sheba felt Zibiah’s frantic whirling behind her, she was distracted by the concern in Keilah’s whisper. “Come on, sweet boy. You’ve got to eat or this infection will get worse, and then we’ll both be in trouble.”

“Come on, Sheba. You’re not even trying!” Zibiah continued her frenzied pace. Sheba increased her speed but kept an eye on Keilah and the baby.

Watching her friend’s intimate moments with Samson piqued the ache in her heart. On most days, Keilah’s presence warmed her, giving her a much-appreciated dose of motherhood. She and Jehoiada never discussed children. The subject seemed too painful for him and too confusing for her.

Amid Jehoiada’s other lessons, he’d explained Yahweh’s promise of King David’s eternal ruler. Every woman with a drop of David’s blood thought she could bear the Anointed One. Sheba, as the daughter of Jehoram and one of his Judean wives, was a candidate through both parents’ lineage. But did she really want to have children? Watching Keilah with baby Samson reminded her that she’d never known an ima’s love.

Shame wracked her. How could she be relieved at the prospect of childlessness? Was she evil as Leviathan—or simply thankful for one less opportunity to fail?

“Done!” Zibiah leapt to her feet, holding her ball of yarn aloft like warriors’ booty.

Sheba turned her head to wipe tears, hiding emotions that had so suddenly overwhelmed her. She heard Keilah sniff and found her wiping tears as well.

Zibiah fell to her knees between them. “Well, I would have let Sheba win if I’d known you’d both be this upset.” They laughed together, knowing Zibiah’s humor eased into compassion. She took Sheba’s hand. “Has Queen Athaliah called you back for another meeting? Are you and Jehoiada arguing?”

Sheba stared at the ceiling, trying to blink away her tears. It wasn’t working. Her emotions had become steadier during the waxing and waning moons, but for Sheba, any tears were too many. What if she couldn’t stop them? What if her friends grew weary of her moods? With a frustrated sigh, she smiled and shook her head, sparing them her burdens. Sparing herself the risk of more pain. Would she ever be able to talk as freely about her feelings as Zibiah and Keilah did?
Yahweh, are You weary of my weeping?

“You can trust us, you know.” Zibiah’s eyes glistened now.

Sheba nodded, refusing to cry—or confide. “I do trust you. It’s me I don’t trust.” It was partially true.

Zibiah’s face twisted, tears beginning in earnest, and Keilah brushed her cheek. “Have we made you cry now?”

“Why haven’t I conceived yet?” Zibiah’s voice was small.

The nursemaid tilted her head, compassion radiating. “Sometimes it takes awhile, especially when you must share your husband with other wives. How often does he come to you?”

“He visits almost every night now, since all but three of his other wives are with child. But the queen is forcing him to take more wives—ten more noblemen’s daughters, I think. And when they arrive, my time with Hazi will again be limited.” She paused, as if the words were too bitter to speak. “What if one of his new wives steals his heart from me?”

She wilted into Sheba’s arms, sobbing. “Shh, my friend. Don’t be afraid. Hazi loves you deeply.” She and Keilah exchanged a heartbroken glance, Keilah’s pure and innocent, Sheba’s entirely too informed. In yesterday’s scroll from Ima Thaliah, among other reports of Baal’s growing influence came news of Hazi’s imminent marriages to ten more noblemen’s daughters—from wealthy families faithful to Baal Melkart.

“Sheba, you know what harem life is like. The other wives scheme for Hazi’s affection and barter for his time as if he were a trinket in the market. They go to Baal’s temple, offering sacrifices to win Mattan’s favor, hoping he or your ima will manipulate Hazi on their behalf.”

Sheba silently mourned for her friend, a prisoner of palace
intrigue day and night, but she couldn’t let her lose hope. “Hazi sees the purity of your love, Zibiah, the love of Yahweh’s covenant marriage—a lasting promise that never wanes, never dies.”

“But can he recognize it while he continues to worship Baal?”

Zibiah’s question escaped on a sob, and Sheba grasped her shoulders, meeting her gaze. “I’m not giving up on him, and neither is Yahweh. You mustn’t either.”

Keilah whimpered. Startled, Zibiah and Sheba watched her normally calm facade crumble. The nursemaid tried to reposition Samson, who fussed and fidgeted at her breast. Grinding her teeth, she was obviously in pain. Finally, she gave up and hoisted the baby into Sheba’s arms. “I’m scared,” she whispered and opened her robe, revealing large, red splotches on both breasts. Sheba and Zibiah gasped as Keilah closed her robe just as quickly, tying her belt. “I’ve had a fever since last night, and Samson doesn’t want to nurse because my milk has changed. Both breasts are hard as rocks. I’ve tried warm compresses, but nothing helps.” Tears stopped her words, but she didn’t need to explain.

“Have you seen a midwife to get herbs?” Sheba asked.

Keilah shook her head. “I can’t pay her, and if Samson’s family finds out, I’m afraid they’ll find another nursemaid.”

Zibiah removed an ivory comb from beneath her head covering. “Here. This will help pay a midwife and maybe even feed the widows until you’re feeling better.”

Keilah covered the comb in Zibiah’s hand, gently pushing it away. “Thank you, my friend, but I can’t. If Samson’s family sees a midwife, they’ll know something is wrong. And if the midwife makes me stop nursing, I’ll stop producing milk. Then I’ll need more than a comb to feed my widows.” She took a deep breath, regaining control.

Before Zibiah and Sheba could argue, Keilah stood and began gathering her things. She lifted Samson from Sheba’s lap. “Since tomorrow is the Day of Atonement, I’ll have the whole day as Sabbath after the sacrifice. I just need rest and I’ll feel better.” Zibiah and Sheba stood to offer hugs, and a little mischief crept into Keilah’s smile. “I’ll see you both tomorrow at the sacrifice,
and then I’ll be back the day after to show Zibiah how a
real
woman winds a ball of yarn.”

This morning’s vestments were much lighter than the golden garments Jehoiada usually wore. On the Day of Atonement, the high priest dressed in a simple linen undergarment, tunic, belt, and turban. His ornate ephod, breastpiece, and diadem rested on the wooden cross in the corner of Nathanael’s chamber, waiting to be donned after Jehoiada made atonement for himself and the Israelites in the Holy of Holies.

Will the Lord be displeased that my heart is divided
in duty, part of me fulfilling the role of high
priest, part of me seeking the entrance to the quarry?

“You seem distracted.” Nathanael’s voice scraped like bone on bone, interrupting Jehoiada’s contemplation of the Most Holy Place. The second priest’s face shadowed with concern. “You can’t have a moment’s lapse when you minister before the mercy seat. I don’t want to haul out a dead high priest because he was daydreaming about his lovely wife.” He pulled on the rope fastened to Jehoiada’s ankle—the method by which they would extract his body if he displeased Yahweh in the Holy of Holies.

Jehoiada met Nathanael’s teasing with a scowl, but his young friend wasn’t easily cowed. Should he confide in Nathanael about the quarry entrance? Surely if the Temple was attacked, someone besides the high priest must enter the Most Holy Place to rescue the Ark . . .

Before he could ponder further, Nathanael began quizzing him—again. “All right, your bath is complete, and you’re wearing the white garments only. Are you
sure
we’ve done this correctly?”

“I prepared Amariah for the Day of Atonement for forty years. I know how to do
your
job. It’s my ability with the high priest’s tasks that I question.”

“Let’s go over them again.” Nathanael reached for the scroll they’d perused four times this morning. “You’ve chosen the bull and ram for yours and Sheba’s atoning sacrifice. Zabad will
open the Temple gates at sunrise, and you’ll choose two goats and a ram for the Israelite community’s atonement. You’ll then slaughter the bull as a sin offering for you and your household, and we’ll have Eliab stir the bull’s blood in the trough to keep it from coagulating while you cast lots at the Temple entrance to determine which goat will be slaughtered and which will become the scapegoat. Are you listening? The timing is crucial.”

Jehoiada grinned at his meticulous second priest and glanced at the eastern sky through the chamber window. Barely a glow. They had time to form a plan. “Nathanael, your schedule must allow me to search for a tunnel entrance in the Most Holy Place.”

The shock on his face was worth divulging the secret. “A tunnel? What do you mean, ‘a tunnel’? A tunnel leading where? And how do you know—”

Jehoiada lifted his hand, stopping the questions. “For now, let me say that Obadiah is the only other soul who knows the full details. I’ve told you in case I displease the Lord today and meet His wrath.”

Nathanael’s eyes glistened. “I can’t bear to think of it, but go ahead. Tell me what I need to know.”

“The tunnel was built as an escape for the Ark if the Temple should fall under attack. When King Solomon built the Temple, Yahweh warned that Israel would one day turn to foreign gods and that He would destroy His Temple. Solomon believed Yahweh and built the tunnel under the Holy of Holies in order to rescue the sacred articles and protect King David’s lineage—and then Solomon destroyed all record of the quarry. I believe if the Temple comes under attack, the Lord will allow consecrated priests to use the tunnel in the Most Holy Place to protect His presence.”

“Why didn’t—”

“I’m sorry I can’t give you more details,” Jehoiada said, noting the brightening eastern sky, “but if anything happens to me, Obadiah knows the plan. We’ve met secretly during these last months. Right now, you and I must decide how to find the tunnel entrance today. When I enter the Most Holy Place for today’s three sacrifices, which offering poses the best opportunity for a search?”

Sighing, Nathanael referred to his scroll, studying the order of sacrifice. “Before your first entry, place burning coals from the Holy Place’s golden altar into a censer. Add two handfuls of finely ground incense before passing through the curtain to the Most Holy Place. The heavy smoke from the censer will conceal the Lord’s presence between the cherubim on the mercy seat atop the Ark.”

“That’s excellent news to keep me alive in Yahweh’s presence but not so helpful to detect a subtle deviation in the limestone floor. How will I see a tunnel entrance if I’m blinded by smoke?” Jehoiada’s frustration mounted as the eastern sky grew brighter.

“For your second offering, retrieve the bull’s blood that Eliab will have been stirring. This offering atones for your sins and the sins of your household by sprinkling the blood with one finger on the side of the mercy seat and seven times on the
floor
in front of—”

“On the floor! Yes!” His enthusiasm got a chuckle from his second. “I can inspect the floor while I sprinkle the bull’s blood.”

“Yes, the second time looks promising, but the third offering of goat’s blood uses the same method and placement if you need another chance to locate the tunnel. Your third entry atones for the
pesha`
of the Israelites—our deliberate sins and intentional rebellion. The smoke should have cleared by then . . .”

Jehoiada lost Nathanael’s final instructions in the overwhelming weight of his final atonement.
For the
pesha`
of the Israelites—our deliberate sins and intentional rebellion
. Images flooded his memory of the night King Jehoram had attended the Temple sacrifice with his arrogant princes—all priests of Baal. Jehoiada imagined the faces of his mortal enemies. Mattan, Queen Athaliah—their wickedness nearly choked him.
Yahweh, how
can I atone for their sins?
The familiar anger started to rise, but then nausea swept over him in a wave. He clutched his belly, staggering to a wooden bench.