In the Shadow of Jezebel (34 page)

Panic welled inside her. “Yahweh, I can’t be pregnant. Please.” It was a whisper, but the snow amplified the sound, making her words seem all the more horrific. What kind of woman prayed that?
You’re
Athaliah’s daughter, the kind of woman who will lock
her child in a closet.
Sheba covered her ears, blocking out the silent voices in her head. “No,” she said through tears.

“Jehosheba?” Jehoiada’s warm embrace captured her. “What are you doing out here? You’ll freeze.” He lifted her into his arms like a child, and when he saw her tears, he curled her into his broad chest—so close she could hear his heartbeat.

Somehow he opened the door while still holding her. She heard Zibiah and Keilah gasp but knew they’d understand her need to be alone with Jehoiada. True friends didn’t always need an explanation right away. “Come back tomorrow,” he was saying to them, and she heard the click of the door. And then silence.

He lowered her to the goatskin rug by the brazier and removed his winter wrap. “I see you have water on to boil. Were you preparing tea?”

She nodded, staring into the brazier. “Mint.”

He prepared the tea, a cup for each of them, handed one to her, and sat beside her on the rug. “Are you ready to talk?”

How should she begin? How could she tell him that the one gift he’d yearned for his whole life had finally been given—but she was too afraid to be happy about it?

“Zibiah and Keilah seemed happy when they left. Did they hurt you in some way that you don’t want them to know?”

Good guess, but no.
He was so wise, so patient. Perhaps he could be a good enough parent for them both.

“I’m pregnant.” The words toppled out before she planned how to say them.

Jehoiada looked as if he’d stopped breathing. Completely still.

“Did you hear me?”

He blinked once. Then again. Finally, he breathed deeply and studied his tea. “Are you sure?”

It wasn’t exactly the response she’d anticipated. “When women spend as much time together as Zibiah, Keilah, and I,
their cycles tend to align. All three of us were feeling nauseous this morning and realized we were two Sabbaths beyond our due time.”

He took a sip of tea. “So, you’re all three with child?”

Sheba noted his hand shaking as he lowered the cup, and a tiny spark of something eternal lit deep within. “Isn’t it amazing that we’re all three pregnant at once?”

Gently he reached for her hand but kept his gaze on the tea. “Will you tell me why I found you outside crying while the others were inside rejoicing?”

She tried to pull away, shame searing her cheeks. But he lifted her hand and kissed her palm, holding her gaze. “I love you, Jehosheba, and you have the heart to love a dozen children. Now, tell me why you were crying.”

His commanding voice broached no argument, but his tenderness laid bare her deepest shame.
How did you know?
she wanted to scream. Instead, she let the balm of his love soothe the old wounds this news had opened. “I’m afraid I’ll ruin your child.” Tears strangled her, and she added on a sob, “As I’ve been ruined.”

He gathered her into his arms, cradling her, rocking her, cherishing her. Oh, how she loved this man.

When her tears were spent, he looked into her eyes. “You are no more ruined than I am by this life, my love. I am broken in ways you must help me fix, and I’ll help you when you are in need.” He captured her chin and whispered, “And together we’ll teach our child of Yahweh.” He looked almost giddy, his eyes suddenly growing wide as if he’d been struck by some grand new thought. “And it’s a good thing our new living chambers are almost finished, because who knows how many children the Lord will give us!”

2 C
HRONICLES
21:20

Jehoram was thirty-two years old when he became king, and he reigned in Jerusalem eight years. He passed away, to no one’s regret, and was buried in the City of David, but not in the tombs of the kings.

T
he cases of central court should have been decided earlier in the day, but Hazi’s disruptions delayed proceedings all afternoon. Jehoiada pounded the scepter of Solomon on the platform again, resorting to the only nonverbal hush tactic he knew to quiet the raucous prince, his disrespectful noblemen, and the spoiled cousins. When their drunken laughter drowned out the herald’s announcements, Jehoiada leapt to his feet, ready to jerk a knot in someone’s tail, as his abba used to say when Jehoiada was a child in need of a spanking. Hazi was too old and well protected for physical violence, but the Carite guards were about to earn their mercenary wages.

“Jehoiada, don’t.” Zabad blocked his path, moving left and right with each step as if they were maidens in a dance.

“As the Lord lives, Zabad, if you don’t get out of my way, I’ll take your sword and cut you off at the knees!”

“There’s a young messenger approaching who resembles Obadiah’s aide.” Zabad nodded to the back of the sparse crowd.

Jehoiada recognized the lad and motioned him forward. The boy hesitated, his big eyes as round as camel hooves.

“You’ve scared him to death,” Zabad whispered. “Smile a little.”

Considering the dispersing crowd and Hazi’s drunken inability to form a sentence, Jehoiada conceded the day’s end and offered his kindest smile to the boy. “You there. Are you waiting to see me?”

The approximate ten-year-old with deep-set brown eyes seemed to regain a spark of confidence, propelling him against the flow of the exiting crowd. “Yes, my lord. Master Obadiah requests your presence immediately to speak of urgent matters.”

“Well, lead us to him then.”

“Yes, my lord. Follow me.” The boy turned and cleared a path through the crowd like a warm knife through butter. “Make way. Make way for Yahweh’s high priest, please.”

Jehoiada raised his eyebrows at Zabad, both men duly impressed at the fine young man in Obadiah’s employ. They exited the palace and followed him south through the city streets.

“Where exactly does Obadiah live?” Jehoiada asked. Strange, but he had never considered the old nobleman living anywhere except his palace chamber.

“Master Obadiah’s home is in the City of David, though he maintains a chamber on palace grounds for late nights.”

“And how long have you served Obadiah?”

“I was born in his house. My abba serves as Master Obadiah’s stableman.”

As they passed through the marketplace, Zabad pointed out the direction of the brothel where they had found Gadara and Keilah a mere eight new moons ago.

Isn’t
it amazing how life can change so thoroughly in such
a short time?
Jehoiada thought. Gadara now visited Sheba and Keilah regularly in their new living chambers, checking on their pregnancies and even learning how to spin. Zibiah’s child would, of course, be delivered by the palace midwife, but Hazi had given permission for both Sheba and Keilah to attend the birth.

Jehoiada inhaled deeply, feeling the warm, dry air bake him
inside and out. Winter had been cold, the spring cool and damp, but summer descended like a rough camel-hair robe, the skies stingy with rain even before the early grapes ripened. Athaliah’s scrolls came to Sheba less often—only two since the last new moon—and seldom held any news they hadn’t heard through merchants’ gossip or palace rumor.

“Here we are.” The boy opened a vine-covered gate and led Jehoiada and Zabad through a terraced garden to a lovely estate overlooking the Kidron Valley. He then stopped, bowed, and extended his hand toward an arched doorway, where a bundle of blankets lay on a low-lying couch.

The bundle jostled—and then coughed. Jehoiada’s blood ran cold. “Obadiah?” He knelt beside the frail frame of his oldest friend. “How long have you been ill? I had no idea.” Palace gossip said the nobleman had been sent on a journey for the queen.

The boy reached for Zabad’s hand, leading him past the archway toward another chamber. The little chatterbox had already begun explaining to the chief gatekeeper all he knew of Obadiah’s household guards and security measures.

“That’s quite a steward you have there, my friend.”

The nobleman tried to smile but used his strength to grip Jehoiada’s hand instead. “I won’t be able to guide you through the quarry, you know.” He swallowed with effort, and Jehoiada was tempted to spout platitudes about a sure recovery and many more years ahead. But what was the point? Obadiah was dying.

“Tell me what to do.”

“Focus on preserving David’s descendants on Judah’s throne. Israel is lost to Jezebel, and Judah languishes in her shadow—for now. You must protect the future at all costs.”

Jehoiada squeezed his friend’s hand, tried to smile. “You said you’d never give up on Jehoram. Well, I’m not giving up on Hazi.”

An almost imperceivable nod. “Yahweh’s wrath is a terrible thing, Jehoiada, but He is just.” A coughing fit interrupted. After a sip of watered wine, Obadiah settled back onto his couch. “I believe Athaliah knew of the Philistine raid before it happened—perhaps even aided the enemy.”

“No! Even Athaliah wouldn’t have her own sons slaughtered.”

“She had no idea her sons were going to be here, remember? Jehoram summoned them on the morning Athaliah took Hazi and Sheba to Jezreel.”

Jehoiada’s stomach rolled. Was that why she tortured Jehoram so ruthlessly? “Why do you believe she knew of the raid?”

“Remember the gold that was supposedly stolen from the palace?”

Jehoiada nodded, the image of Hazi’s golden wine goblet coming to mind.

“When I annexed the small farms to the royal treasury, I noted large revenues of gold and silver with no explanation of their source. The specific items listed were suspiciously familiar. They returned to the treasury slowly, when foreign trade increased and Hazi began receiving gifts from visiting ambassadors. Hazi wouldn’t recognize the pieces because he wasn’t involved in politics before Jehoram’s illness. And no one would dare accuse Athaliah because every official on Hazi’s counsel is there at the queen’s pleasure. Even the sons of King Jehoram’s dead brothers sold their souls to Athaliah for a seat at Hazi’s side when Jehoram finally dies.”

Jehoiada squeezed the bridge of his nose, wishing, dreaming, praying that Hazi would find his spine and embrace the faith of his saba Jehoshaphat.

“Equally troubling is Mattan’s increasing power among the people. I suppose you’ve heard of his reported ‘miracles.’”

Jehoiada nodded and then teased, “How do you discover these things while you’re shivering on your sickbed?”

The question coaxed a weak grin from the nobleman. “Athaliah isn’t the only one with spies.” But his smile died, and he seemed stricken by a thought. “Jehoiada, I’ve discovered which of your Temple servants has been giving information to the queen.”

Jehoiada’s heart skipped a beat. Of course he wanted to know—needed to know—but dreaded the betrayal. “Who?”

“I’m sorry, my friend. It’s Eliab.”

The name stole his breath. Apart from Nathanael and Zabad, Eliab was the man Jehoiada trusted most. “Are you sure?”

“I’m afraid so. He was evidently disappointed not to be chosen high priest, and then felt overburdened to perform all your duties when Jehosheba needed your comfort.”

Jehoiada’s hurt roiled into fury, boiling his blood, making him tremble. “He’ll never perform my duties—or any priest’s duty—again.”

Obadiah’s hand squeezed his arm with surprising strength. “Your anger, my friend, has become an idol every bit as real as Asherah or Baal. You must choose to destroy it before it destroys you.”

Gasping, Jehoiada jerked away. “How dare you? I am Yahweh’s high priest, and I have made atonement for my sin and the sin of this nation—”

“And yet you willfully choose anger over reason, anger over prayer, anger over forgiveness—as Hazi chooses his ima’s advice over yours, and Athaliah chooses Jezebel’s gods over Yahweh.”

Jehoiada was frozen, speechless, at the conviction of his friend’s words. Could Obadiah be right? Could an idol be more than wood or clay?

Seeming spent, Obadiah closed his eyes and rested his head on his pillow. “We’re too old to dance around the truth, Jehoiada. You’re my dearest friend, and Yahweh needs your undivided heart.”

“My lords!” Zabad ran through the archway, breathless, the young boy at his heels. “A palace messenger arrived with this scroll for Yahweh’s high priest. He said it was urgent.”

Jehoiada reached for the missive, noting Athaliah’s wax seal, not Hazi’s. Dread coiled inside, tightening as he broke the seal and unfurled the parchment.

My husband is dead. Take him, or he’ll burn in Hinnom.

Jehoiada crushed the parchment, wishing it were Athaliah’s neck.
Your anger has become an idol . . . Destroy it
before it destroys you.
How could such evil reside in one human being? And how could he not react in anger? If not anger, then what?

Obadiah’s words replayed in his mind:
You choose anger
over reason, anger over
prayer, anger over forgiveness.
Maybe he could start with reason and work his way up to prayer. Forgiveness was beyond imagination at this point.

Jehoiada squinted up at Zabad, shielding his eyes from the late afternoon sun. “Is the messenger waiting for a response?”

“No. He delivered the scroll and ran.” Eyebrows raised, Zabad left his curiosity unspoken.

Jehoiada squeezed Obadiah’s shoulder and kissed his cheek as he stood. “Thank you for speaking hard truths to me, friend. Now I must share one with you.” Glancing at Zabad and the boy, Jehoiada kept his voice low. “King Jehoram is dead. If I don’t retrieve him immediately, the queen has threatened to throw his body into the Valley of Hinnom with the burning trash and dung.”

“Go, Jehoiada.” Obadiah’s voice was breathy, like wind through a reed pipe. “Jehosheba will need you now.”

Sheba stood alone in her abba Jehoram’s bedchamber, gazing down at a blanket-covered body. She couldn’t lift the blanket. The last time she’d seen Abba Jehoram, he was writhing in pain, barely able to speak, breathe, or concentrate—but he was alive. The shell of flesh under that blanket was so small. It couldn’t be Abba, could it?

Why had Ima Thaliah summoned her to the palace and then refused to see her? On a whim, Sheba had enlisted palace guards to escort her to Abba’s chamber, never expecting his body to still be here. The physician was packing his last basket of belongings, waiting to be escorted to his new home—in Tyre. He’d explained Abba’s death in gruesome detail, something about his intestines falling out.

Oh, Yahweh, why didn’t Abba turn away from
Ima’s lies? Why didn’t he listen to his
faithful abba Jehoshaphat?
Tears streamed down her face as questions poured from her heart. And the most troubling of all—why was Hazi still following Ima Thaliah’s and Mattan’s advice rather than heeding Jehoiada’s warnings? He refused to leave the Throne Hall and grieve with
Sheba, and he kept Zibiah locked in her chamber, denying Sheba a comforting visit with her friend.

So Sheba sat in King Jehoram’s chamber alone. With a corpse that couldn’t be her abba. Could it?

Gathering her courage, she reached for the corner of the blanket—

“You there!” a deep, male voice cried at the same time the chamber door banged open, and Sheba thought
her
intestines might fall out. “What are you doing here? We need to move the body.”

She gasped and then steadied her breath, mustering her most commanding voice. “Where are you taking my abba?”

The men—whom she now recognized as city watchmen—drew closer, studying her in the dim light. One offered a cursory bow and slapped the other, goading due respect. “I’m sorry, Princess Jehosheba. We didn’t recognize you. We have orders from Prince Hazi—I mean,
King
Hazi—to remove the body and clear the chamber. This room is to be used for storage of bedding and palace furnishings.”

A storage chamber? Taming her instant fury, she would save her diatribe for Hazi. The watchmen still hadn’t answered her question. “Perhaps I was unclear the first time I asked.” Remembering Ima Thaliah’s instruction on intimidating servants, she enunciated each word concisely. “Where. Are. You. Taking. My. Abba?”

The watchmen exchanged a worried glance. “To Hinnom?”

It was a question, not a statement, but it knocked Jehosheba onto her stool. “Leave me,” she said, breathless. When they lingered, she screamed, “Leave me!” She heard their shuffling feet and buried her face in her hands.

Had Ima Thaliah always been utterly heartless? How could Hazi allow her to treat Abba this way—before
and
after death? If Sheba left the body unguarded to seek Jehoiada’s help, would she return too late? She couldn’t bear the thought of his body burning in the Valley of Hinnom.

Yahweh! Help me
! What do I do?