Elijah (3 page)

“If they help little they can but harm little. On the other hand, you may do well to enlist the aid of such a powerful God as Melkart.”

“The prophets of Yahweh say Israel is to serve only Yahweh.”

“Come, Ahab. You do not even believe that yourself, and how many of your people believe it? I doubt that even Yahweh is as jealous as your prophets claim.”

Ahab was silent, preferring to ignore the subject, but Jezebel intended to press her advantage. “Ahab, please, you will grant my request, won’t you?”

Ahab raised his goblet and drank deeply of the Sorek wine, his eyes studious. He stared at the dark liquid, swirling it slowly. “All right, Jezebel. You may or may not be right about Melkart’s strength, but you are surely right about the worship of Baal drawing our people together. You may have your temple.”

Jezebel smiled.

He looked at her, his eyes hardening. Then, reaching to her couch, he grasped her wrist and squeezed. Jezebel’s wine swirled over the brim and onto the polished floor. He spat his words through clenched teeth. “But hear me, my queen.” His sudden violence sent a chill to shake her body. “You are not to interfere in any way with the worship of Yahweh. Is that understood?”

Surprised, Jezebel tried to draw back, but Ahab’s grip only tightened.

She quit struggling. “Yes, Ahab, I understand.”

Ahab slowly released his grip. He spoke deliberately. “I’m sorry I hurt you. But be sure of this. I meant what I said.”

Obviously shaken, Jezebel touched her hair. The movement restored her composure. She smiled and sipped her wine. The conversation completed, they finished their meal in silence.

Ahab pushed his plate away. “Are you finished, my dear?”

Jezebel returned her goblet to the table and rose slowly. Every eye followed the royal couple until their departure was complete. When the door closed behind them the tables began to empty. Following perfect protocol, those seated nearest the king led the exit as others followed in order. The room became a sea of moving color. Brilliant flowing robes, flashing jewels, and embroidered linen moved toward the exit.

The room was empty now, but still it boasted the luxury of soft, colorful cushions, Oriental rugs, and linen tablecloths. Flames flickered in oil lamps, some on the tables, others attached to the walls. Servants came to salvage the remaining food, which would find its way to their own tables, or go to fatten animals in the royal courtyard, or to prolong the miserable lives of beggars for a few more hours.

Chapter Two

Jezebel sat erect in her throne chair, today more confidently a queen than yesterday. Meor-baal’s arrival in her conference room would herald a new day for Israel. He would be here soon.

The queen’s throne chair occupied a wall opposite a window which, guarded by a heavy bronze lattice, opened to the palace courtyard. The clinking of metal and an occasional snort of a horse accompanied by men’s grunts drifted into the room.

It was the window rather than the throne chair that dominated Jezebel’s conference room. On each side stood a statue. One was of Melkart, Phoenicia’s Baal-god, his stern, bloodthirsty eyes looking out from a bearded face. Clad only in a turban and a loincloth, he rested a battle-ax on one shoulder. The other figure was Asherah, whose fertility rituals dominated the worship of Baal. She stood immodestly cupping a breast in each hand, her naked body blatantly inviting men to engage in the fertility rituals of her cult.

Jezebel enjoyed her free moment of meditation as she waited for Meor-baal’s arrival. She was excited. Melkart’s stony eyes returned her stare, and the stirring within her breast was his promise of blessing. In her musings, she imagined a conquering army. She saw Ahab’s command booth set up on a hill overlooking the battleground. Hundreds of chariots raced across the valley floor, their drivers cracking whips over the heads of their sweating horses, shouting curses from dirt-streaked faces, wheels churning dust so that the earth itself joined their ranks. Bowmen lined the base of the hill in two rows, the bottom row kneeling to allow their standing companions to shoot simultaneously. At a shout, a hail of arrows darkened the sun like a cloud. Spears and copper shields caught the sun and reflected it on leather-vested, bearded men, awaiting with taut muscles the command to charge. Israel, led by Ahab and inspired by Melkart, would sweep over little Judah like a flood. Edom’s mountain fortresses would fall. Bedouin sheiks would offer tribute. The walls of Damascus would shatter under the battering ram of Israel.

Asherah smiled, and Jezebel dreamed of the herds and flocks of Gilead and Bashan. She saw them multiply and become sleek. Waving fields of wheat and barley covered the valleys and plains of the land. Huge vineyards made the terraced hillsides invisible with their foliage. And Israel’s young men and women grew strong and fair. Israel one day would belong to Melkart and Asherah, and then the dreams would come true.

A rap at the door broke the queen’s reverie.

“Enter,” she responded.

A doorman appeared. “Meor-baal awaits outside, my queen.”

“Show him in.”

The doorman stood aside to allow the young man to enter the room, then closed the door behind him.

Meor-baal was dressed in a simple white linen robe, bound at the waist with a scarlet girdle, his turban circled with a matching cloth. “My queen.” He spoke with dignity as he bowed.

“Meor-baal, a chariot and supplies are being made ready for you at this moment. You will proceed with all haste to Tyre and present yourself to my brother. Baal-azar will aid you in gathering a complement of priests. You are familiar with the temple at Byblos. Go there if you must. I want you to bring back with you the best qualified men you can find.”

Meor-baal smiled. His heavy mustache dominated his beardless face. “It will be with the greatest pleasure, Queen Jezebel. How many do you want?”

“Four hundred.”

A wrinkle appeared on Meor-baal’s forehead, then quickly disappeared. “Four hundred?”

“Yes.” Jezebel enjoyed his surprise for a moment before she continued. “A temple will be built here and another at Jezreel. They must be staffed. I also want several teams of two, a prophet and a priest, strong enough to suffer the rigors of travel. They will go from village to town to set up shrines and altars. In addition, you will arrange for efficient engineers, stonecutters, masons, woodcarvers, and carpenters to plan and erect the temples.” Jezebel pulled a scroll from beside her and extended it to Meor-baal. “Here are your credentials. The scroll also contains a detail of my requests. Everything you need is in the chariot that awaits you. Now go, and may Melkart bless you, my priest.”

Meor-baal bowed and, without a word, strode in long steps from the room. The journey would take, he supposed, two days. His sandals shuffled easily on the stone steps as he descended to the courtyard. He stopped at the chariot long enough to tuck the folds of his robe into his girdle, then he mounted and took the reins from the handler. The chariot was of leather rather than bronze, frail but swift. The two-horse team, both bays responded with a lurch to Meor-baal’s shout and passed through the palace gates at a brisk trot. The leather tires whispered against the basalt rock pavement as Meor-baal guided his team through the city’s streets until, once outside Samaria’s walls, they gathered speed.

Meor-baal settled his team to a steady lope, guiding them north toward Ibleam. He mused about the trip. From Ibleam, which he should reach in time for a late lunch, he would turn northwest to follow the Carmel range to the garrison of Megiddo.

The trip was uneventful, crossing one wadi after another as he moved north, then riding the shoulder of Carmel under a gray sky.

Night came early under the overcast. Guards were closing Megiddo’s gates as Meor-baal began his ascent up the steep incline to the fortress. When the guards saw his approach, they held the huge iron-hinged oak gates partly open. One of the guards called to the sentries posted on the wall. Meor-baal stopped and, with the guards watching closely, produced the scroll from his robe. At the sight of Jezebel’s seal, the guards heaved to open the gates wider, and Meor-baal drove his horses through the first gate of the chariot fortress.

Inside the second gate, a leather-vested soldier climbed into Meor-baal’s chariot and reached for the reins. At his grunt and snap of the wrist, the team moved between rows of horse stables and chariot stalls.

Meor-baal watched in amazement. “So this is one of Solomon’s chariot cities?” he mused. “He was a great king, indeed.” Speaking more directly to his guide, he asked, “How many chariots, my friend?”

“One hundred fifty,” the guide replied without looking from the lane. “And four hundred fifty horses.”

They continued at a slow trot past rows of stone hitching-posts, each separated from the next by a stone manger, then crossed a courtyard and halted before a large house.

“Come,” the guide grunted. “Our captain will give you food and lodging. I will present you to him.”

Meor-baal stepped gratefully from the chariot. His legs felt a bit wobbly as his feet touched the ground after his long ride.

Drizzle fell all during the night and Meor-baal slept well to the gentle sound. By sunrise the overcast had begun to break. By midmorning, with Meor-baal well on his way, white, fluffy, cheerful clouds spotted the sky. The priest was grateful for the fresh horses the captain had given him. His journey would go faster than expected.

The smell of the Great Sea greeted his nostrils. Were it not for the low ridge of hills near Carmel he would be able to see the water. Mount Carmel rose majestically from the valley floor to thrust its headland out into the sea like the battering ram of a conquering army. The mountain caught the sea rains first, as their clouds passed east, and so remained green throughout the year. Vineyards and orchards covered its slopes, separated by bare rocks from thick brush and forests at its summit. “Truly you are a home of the gods!” Meor-baal whispered in awe. “Ah, and the day is near, Yahweh of Israel, when Baal will end the contest for this great mountain and banish you to the wastelands of the desert.”

The young priest reined up to slow his horses, pondering whether to take the time to visit the shrines of Melkart and Asherah at Carmel’s summit. Then, thinking better of his schedule, he returned his team to the journey with a snap of the reins. Carmel would have to wait.

Late in the afternoon the walls of Tyre appeared, rising out of the sea itself. Where it not for the white clouds in the background the dark stone walls of the island city would have been hard to see. The western sun cast shadows from the south port’s fortifications across a convoy of Egyptian trading vessels anchored in the harbor. He felt proud. Melkart had been good to Tyre.

Meor-baal turned his team onto the wide mole that formed one of the harbors and connected the island with the mainland. Passing through Tyre’s gates, he drove his horses with obvious familiarity through the flat stone streets to the palace of Baal-azar and reined up at the entrance.

From one of the square parapets that stood on each side of the sealed gates, a guard called for him to identify himself.

Meor-baal called back, “I bear a personal message from Queen Jezebel of Israel to her brother, the great King Baal-azar of the Phoenicians.”

The guard spoke to someone whom Meor-baal could not see, then called back, “Drive your team just inside the gates and halt them.” At those words, the huge oak gates swung outward. Meor-baal snapped his reins and stepped his sweating team the few paces inside, where a massive chain barred further progress. A heavy-bearded, leather-vested soldier stood waiting. His conical cap indicated his captain’s rank. He stretched an open hand toward the young priest. “Your credentials.”

Meor-baal handed him a small, tightly-rolled scroll. It was sealed with wax, into which Jezebel had pressed her official seal. The captain barked a command and a mustached young man stepped into the chariot.

“Leave your chariot and team to this man’s care and come with me,” The captain directed.

Meor-baal handed the reins to the mustached one and followed the captain, who strode briskly across the courtyard to a flat-roofed house. Inside, he turned to Meor-baal. “What are you called?”

“Meor-baal.”

“You are not an Israelite?”

“No, I am from Byblos. I was born from a sacred union in the temple of Baal.” Meor-baal continued with obvious pride. “My mother was a zonah, and of course I do not know who my father was. Now I am a priest of Baal serving my Queen Jezebel.”

The stony, disinterested features of the captain’s face melted. The son of a temple prostitute was sacred, especially one so young who already was such an important priest. He bowed, his sword clinking on the stone floor.

Rising to his feet, the captain announced softly, “Hot water and fresh clothing will be brought to you. I will have two men serve you during your stay. In the meantime, I will arrange an interview with the king.”