In the Shadow of Jezebel (16 page)

Jehoiada stumbled back against the door frame. “Yahweh, help her.” The whispered prayer escaped before he realized he’d spoken, and the young woman winced as if she’d been slapped.

Prince Ahaziah stepped forward, his eyes red-rimmed, his face chiseled granite. “Actually, I was hoping
you
would help her.”

Confused, Jehoiada regained his footing and crossed his outer chamber in three steps. The young woman recoiled as if frightened—of him. “What happened to her?” He posed the question to any of them but directed his increasing anger at the men. “Who did this?” he shouted.

Obadiah drew a breath to answer, but the prince intervened. “A priest!” He matched Jehoiada’s fury. “A priest did this!”

Obadiah stepped between them, placing a calming hand on both their chests. “Jehoiada is not like Mattan. Tell him what happened to your sister. He will listen.”

Ahaziah lifted his trembling chin, grasping at nobility, struggling against tears. “Ima Thaliah and I attended the burial ceremony for my older brothers last night at Baal’s temple. Mattan asked Sheba to serve as chief priestess, bestowing that honor since her marriage disqualifies her from the role of high priestess.” He stepped aside, showcasing the violence. “Mattan said four dead princes required a great deal of virgin’s blood to gain entrance into Mot’s underworld.”

Jehoiada’s whole world tilted precariously on the edge of a single question. “How could your sister—my newly betrothed—serve as a Baal priestess?” His tone betrayed his threat. Yahweh’s high priest could never marry a pagan priestess.

Prince Ahaziah appeared suddenly confused, then panicked. “You knew she was a priestess! When she demanded to see Abba in the quarry, she told you—”

Obadiah turned slowly toward the prince. “No. Princess Sheba told
me
she was a priestess—on the road to Jerusalem before we entered the quarry. If you didn’t disclose that to Jehoiada in negotiations, he didn’t know and can’t be bound by the betrothal.”

Every eye turned to Jehosheba as the legal ramifications settled like dust after a windstorm. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin—but couldn’t staunch her tears. “I am a princess of Judah, trained as a Baal high priestess. I did not intend to hide either fact. To me, they are one and the same—it is who I am.”

Jehoiada’s heart broke at her hopeless tone. He stepped toward her, but she flinched like a frightened animal and stepped behind her brother. All breath left him. “I won’t hurt you.”

She trembled violently, clutching the prince’s sleeve with her good hand, peering around his broad shoulder.

Jehoiada backed away, unwilling to cause added distress. “Jehosheba, you are more than priestess and princess. Those are simply roles you play, like Astarte in the Festival of Awakening. It’s not who you
are
.” He paused, his throat tight with emotion, and then whispered, “I will marry the princess. I pray you destroy the priestess before the priestess destroys you.”

E
XODUS
20:3, 5–6

You shall have no other gods before me. . . . For I, the L
ORD
your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me, but showing love to a thousand generations of those who love me and keep my commandments.

S
heba hid behind Hazi, regretting this visit to Yahweh’s Temple and its high priest. Jehoiada’s presence filled the tiny chamber—a man of power, conviction, zeal. The cuts on her arms, back, and legs burned like a thousand hornet stings, and the only image in her mind was Jehoiada hoisting the lamb on the altar as if it weighed no more than a feather. She’d seen many sacrifices but never a man so large, so strong—with such a passion for his god. His whisper was so tender now, but what would he do when he discovered their marriage was a ploy to destroy his god? Would he turn his flint knife on her as Mattan had done last night?

“Stay away!” She hid her face in Hazi’s back, startling the three men in the room.

The priest’s voice was a mingling of emotions she couldn’t decipher. “I won’t hurt you, Jehosheba. I promise. Sit down here at my table.”

Sheba peeked over Hazi’s shoulder and found the big priest’s hand outstretched, inviting.
Those
are simply roles you play
, he’d said when she declared herself priestess and princess. “Were you playing a
role
when you cut the lamb’s throat?” She tried to sound formidable, but hiding behind Hazi undoubtedly spoiled the effect.

The high priest’s hand dropped to his side, and the remaining anger drained from his features. “No, I was obeying Yahweh’s command to atone for our people’s sin. He chose me as His high priest, and I must sacrifice innocent animals to save the people God loves.”

The people God loves?
Sheba was speechless. The gods might lust for each other and for beautiful women, but they didn’t feel
love
for humans. Who was this Yahweh, and who was this priest? She swallowed the lump in her throat. And why would he agree to marry
her
?

“Come, Sheba. Sit down.” Hazi cradled her elbow and she cried out. It seemed everywhere he touched her bore a wound from last night’s ceremony. He waited, coaxing her with his eyes. “Let’s at least listen to what Jehoiada has to say.”

The priest backed away, keeping Hazi between them. Trembling, she moved to a cushion beside the low table. Hazi sat beside her, letting her rest against him. Closing her eyes forced a stream of tears down her cheeks. Ima Thaliah would be appalled at her behavior—not at all like a queen of destiny.

“Okay?” Hazi whispered. She nodded and peeked beneath her lashes. Hazi addressed the priest, who waited patiently by the door. “All right, Jehoiada. Please sit with us.”

The priest crossed the distance in two steps, nimbly folded his legs beneath him, and cleared his throat. “I wish to make myself clear, Prince Ahaziah. I stand by my agreement to marry Princess Jehosheba under the conditions of our original negotiation. I ask that Jehosheba worship Yahweh alone and live with me as a common priest’s wife. If she still agrees to those terms, then she is
not
a Baal priestess—correct?” He lifted his brow, awaiting Hazi’s answer.

Sheba sat up, studying the big man. “But I
am
a priestess,”
she said stubbornly. “And don’t talk about me as if I’m not in the room. Why are you now arguing reasons you
should
marry me?”

The priest grinned and folded his hands on the table. “I apologize, Princess Jehosheba.”

Sheba’s breath caught at the sight of dried lamb’s blood on his hands. Following her gaze, he noticed it too and rose from the table to wash his hands in the basin. When he returned to his cushion, he wore an impish grin. “I’ve never met a priestess so afraid of blood.”

Hazi snorted—almost a chuckle. She shot him a glare and refocused on the priest. “I doubt you’ve met many priestesses.” Obadiah and Zev tried to stifle their grins. “And I’ve never seen a priest lift a lamb like it was a toy or wield a knife with such skill.” Her voice caught, emotions still as raw as her wounds. All the mirth in the room evaporated.

Jehoiada’s eyes welled with tears. “Yahweh’s priests never use knives to sacrifice a human being—man or woman, adult or child.” He spread his hands flat on the table—thumb to thumb, they nearly spanned the small, round top. “These hands will never harm you, Jehosheba. If you become my wife, these hands will protect you and show you kindness every day of my life. Remember what I said about marriage being a covenant, representing Yahweh’s love?”

She nodded, not sure if she wanted to hear more of his ridiculous views on marriage.

“When we become husband and wife, we will be united before Yahweh with an unbreakable bond. Marriage is a covenant, an oath founded on the character of those pledging their lives. It’s not a treaty maintained by fear or manipulation.” He laced his fingers together, causing her to look into his eyes once more. “I must have your word that your hands, your lips, and your heart will never worship Baal Melkart again. I need to know that you will enter into this marriage as a covenant.”

She locked eyes with him, refusing to blink, refusing to confess all the deceit she had planned for this so-called marriage. How could he ask her to enter a covenant? Ridiculous! This was political strategy, sheer survival, nothing more.

“Sheba, he’s a good man.” Hazi’s whisper sounded like a shout in the silence. “Jehoiada can give you life. If you return to serve Mattan . . .”

She closed her eyes.
Death.
She knew what awaited her with Mattan. Something in him had snapped when he discovered she no longer belonged to the priesthood. He’d stopped his lusty stares and seemed to be plotting her ruin.

“I give you my word,” Sheba said, wiping stubborn tears, avoiding the priest’s gaze. “I will not worship Baal Melkart.” Her words hung in silence. Why wasn’t he answering? Did he expect an argument, more discussion? She met his gaze and displayed her carefully honed facade, emptying herself of all emotion. Ima would have been proud.

Jehoiada seemed at a loss, confusion warring with disbelief on his chiseled, masculine face.

Hazi broke the awkward silence. “I fear for her safety after Mattan’s aggression last night. How quickly can you marry her?”

“Oh, by the gods!” She hung her head, humiliated beyond repair. “Am I a broodmare or a king’s daughter?”

More silence met her coarse question. She lifted her eyes to the high priest’s hard stare. “There is only one
true
God, Jehosheba, and that will be the last time you call on any other.” He turned to Hazi. “The seven-day consecration ceremony begins in three days. Afterward, there are two days before the feasts begin. Your family may decide whether I will marry the princess before or after ordination.” He rose from the table and offered a curt bow. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must help with preparations for ordination and Passover. Please send a messenger when you’ve decided the wedding date.”

E
XODUS
29:35

Do for Aaron and his sons everything I have commanded you, taking seven days to ordain them.

I
demand to see my abba!” Sheba shouted at the two Carites guarding the king’s chamber. She was desperate to discover if he’d approved tomorrow’s wedding ceremony. Hazi had taken Sheba to her chamber yesterday after meeting with Jehoiada, ordering a physician to tend her wounds. He then conspired with Ima Thaliah to set the wedding date and notified Yahweh’s high priest without Sheba’s knowledge, giving her only one day for bridal preparations. Tonight was her last night in the palace.

“Please, Princess, go back to your chamber.” The biggest guard, whom she met eye to armpit, broke protocol and spoke to her. “We’ve been given strict orders that no one is to see King Jehoram except the queen—not even you.”

“And who gave those orders?”

“I did.” The door opened a crack, and Ima Thaliah slipped through.

Sheba nearly swallowed the clove she’d been sucking on to freshen her breath for the wedding. Choking, gasping, she bent over, and Ima pounded her back and whispered, “If you continue
to make a fuss, I’ll send in Mattan with a priest of his choosing to sharpen your Astarte skills.”

Terror gripped her anew, so she allowed Ima to guide her to a private corner. “Why can’t I see Abba?”

“We’ve discussed this, Sheba—”

“But how can I leave the palace—leave my family—without even
speaking
to Abba?”

Sheba noticed a commotion at Abba Jehoram’s door and saw Hazi slip out of the chamber. “Why does Hazi get to see him and not me?” Without waiting for an answer, she shoved past Ima and began flogging the brother who’d betrayed her.

Hazi caught her around the waist and pinned her arms down, tearing open her freshly scabbed wounds. “Stop it, Sheba,” he whispered against her ear. “Abba doesn’t want you to see him like this. Stop. Fighting. Me.”

His strong arms held her immobile, and she dissolved into dejected sobs. “Why, Hazi? Why won’t Abba see me?”

Hazi loosened his grip and tilted her chin. “Abba is dying. He can’t eat. He can only lie in his filth and misery. I can hardly bear to see him myself. Abba is protecting you, little sister. Trust me.”

Could she trust him? She wasn’t sure after hearing his explanation when Ima asked why he’d shown Jehoiada Sheba’s wounds: “I realized the old priest could’ve nullified the betrothal on grounds that we didn’t disclose Sheba’s priestess standing.” Ima had congratulated him on his shrewdness, but Sheba marveled at his glib deception. What were his
true
motives for their visit to Jehoiada—concern for her well-being or political positioning? The uncertainty broke her heart.

Ima wrapped her arm around her son’s broad shoulders. “Come now, both of you. Tomorrow’s wedding will be a celebration, an anchor of joy in this sea of sorrow. Let’s go to Sheba’s chamber and finalize the details, hmm?”

Defeated, Sheba followed them down the guards’ stairway. They often traversed the circular steps to avoid gawking servants and Judean watchmen on the grand stairway. A Carite guard greeted them as they entered the women’s hall by Ima Thaliah’s private suite. They continued halfway down the corridor to
Sheba’s chamber, past the empty rooms where Abba’s wives once lived. The royal children had lived in separate quarters, closer to the courtyard so their nursemaids could play with them after daily lessons. Now everything in the palace felt empty, hollow, lifeless.

Yahweh’
s Temple couldn’t be any worse.
It was Sheba’s only consolation.

She pushed open her heavy cedar door and found two maids preparing henna stain for her hands and feet—at least this was one bridal tradition she needn’t forgo on her wedding day. “Out!” The maids bowed and left the henna behind.

Ima Thaliah waited to speak until the door clicked shut. “We’ve negotiated wedding events with the high priest.” She glanced at Hazi, who sat on the couch near the balcony, stoic and silent, and then she assumed an instructional tone with Sheba. “After tomorrow’s ceremony and feast, you’ll go immediately with your new husband to live at the Temple. Unfortunately, because their ordination and Feasts of Passover and Unleavened Bread come in such quick succession, he has refused the traditional week of yihud after the wedding.”

Hazi closed his eyes, as if anticipating Sheba’s pain.

“He refuses me the union week?” she whispered, bracing herself against the bed. Loneliness choked her. Rejection robbed her of breath. Was she to be deprived of every joy of a young girl’s dreams? Where were the privileges the Gevirah had promised? Sheba saw only lost choices, a ruined life.

“Sheba!” Hazi nearly shouted, evidently not the first time he’d spoken her name. “I tried to argue that even the patriarch Jacob spent a union week with a bride given to him in deception, but Jehoiada wouldn’t budge. He said ordination must occur before Passover, and Passover is only delayed if he’s defiled by a dead body within seven days of celebrating it.”

“It’s all right,” she whispered, staring at the blood seeping through her bandages. “Perhaps he’s afraid of being defiled by a Baal priestess.”

Hazi left the couch and nudged Ima aside, which earned him a scowl. He ignored her, knelt before Sheba, and cradled her
hands. “He said marrying a beautiful princess wouldn’t make him unclean—simply distracted. He has promised to honor your yihud week immediately following Passover and the Feast of Unleavened Bread—because he wants to be completely focused on you.”

Sheba slammed the iron doors of her heart closed. “Don’t, Hazi. Nothing about this match resembles a real wedding. No betrothal contract. Abba won’t be there. No foreign ministers will celebrate with a king’s daughter. We’re either at war with their country or their ambassador can’t arrive in such haste. I don’t suppose it matters that I relinquish yihud with an old priest—perhaps he’ll die before I have to bed him.” She lifted a cynical eyebrow in Ima’s direction and then turned her stare on the wall, snubbing both family members.
Let
them fume.

Ima sat down beside Sheba, her voice surprisingly soft. “I know this isn’t a typical royal wedding, Daughter, but we’ll make it a wedding famed in Judah’s history. We’ll incorporate some of Tyre’s traditions, and since your bridegroom refused Mattan’s offer to officiate the service, Baal’s high priest will stand as proxy for your abba and escort you and me to the chuppah.”

Sheba glared at her. “How can you let Mattan near me after what he did?” She lifted her sleeves, baring her bandaged arms.

Ima lifted the sleeve of her own robe, revealing two tiny scars. “Mattan honored you with the initiation of a high priestess though the Gevirah robbed you of that role. My virgin blood was spilled—just like yours.” She lifted a single eyebrow, daring Sheba to argue.

How could Ima compare her forearms to the gashes on Sheba’s arms, legs, back, and hand? If Hazi hadn’t wrested the knife from Mattan during the attack, she’d be dead.

Hazi tugged her chin toward him. “I’ll officiate the ceremony as the crown prince of Judah, which means I’ll be waiting for you under the wedding canopy. Keep your eyes on me, Sheba, just like you’re doing right now.” He winked, trying to lighten the mood. “I need to practice standing under a chuppah—since I’ll marry a maiden in every city on my tour.”

Sheba tried to smile but found herself studying her brother
instead. Was he really resigned to his future of nameless, faceless wives? Or was this another convincing bluff for Ima Thaliah?

“What happens at the feast?” she asked him, hoping he’d have kinder answers than Ima. “How long can we celebrate before I must leave the palace?”

“That’s the best part, my darling.” Ima shoved Hazi aside this time and nestled beside Sheba on the bed. “You are to tease him. Use what you’ve been taught as a priestess of Baal to entice your new husband. And while you’re making him ache for your days of yihud after Passover, Hazi and I will spoil him with the pleasures and privileges Prince Baal offers
his
priests. By the time the abbreviated wedding feast is done, your Yahweh priest won’t want to leave the luxurious life of Baal’s pleasures.”

The thought of tempting an old man nearly sent Sheba running for the basin, but she stared into the expectant faces of her ima and brother and knew she had no choice. “Send in my maids on your way out.”

After a sympathetic smile, Hazi started toward the door, but Ima hesitated. “Would you like me to stay and direct your maids on proper wedding preparations?”

A few days ago, Sheba would have been thrilled—honored, even—that Ima Thaliah wished to spend time with her. “No. I’ll direct my maids. Thank you, Ima.”

Jehoiada’s knees nearly buckled when he first glimpsed the tall and slender silhouette of his new bride in the archway of the Throne Hall. She waited, veiled and radiant between Queen Athaliah and Mattan, until the palace musicians began King David’s wedding Psalm, her virgin attendants in two lines behind her. In the pre-wedding negotiations, Jehoiada had asked to maintain the tradition of bedeken.

Hebrew brides were typically covered head to toe on their wedding day with a heavy veil woven with golden thread. After the patriarch Jacob was fooled by the heavily veiled Leah, every Hebrew husband had the right to visit his bride’s chamber and peek under her veil before the ceremony. It had become a joyous
part of the wedding day, meant to give the couple a few private moments before the service. Jehoiada had hoped to speak with Jehosheba alone—even for a moment—to determine if she came to the chuppah willingly or under compulsion.

But Jehoiada’s request was denied, the rejection written on a scroll of Tyrian parchment and closed with a seal bearing Jezebel’s name and Jehosheba’s first initial. The scroll read, “If the high priest refuses the tradition of yihud, the bride refuses bedeken. I will dress as a daughter of Tyre.”

The whole thing was ludicrous. Yahweh’s high priest stood in Solomon’s palace, waiting under a wedding chuppah with the crown prince of Judah, to marry a king’s daughter—a pagan priestess. He winced. He’d promised to forget her past—but had she?

The musicians’ stringed instruments strummed King David’s familiar song, and the Levitical choir continued their verses:

Listen, daughter, and pay careful attention:

Forget your people and your father’s house.

Let the king be enthralled by your beauty;

honor him, for he is your lord.

The city of Tyre will come with a gift,

people of wealth will seek your favor.

All glorious is the princess within her chamber;

her gown is interwoven with gold.

Jehoiada felt a lump form in his throat. Was Jehosheba listening to the prophetic mystery of King David’s psalm written almost four generations past? He watched his willowy bride in her Tyrian gown interwoven with gold. An embroidered purple belt cinched her tiny waist, glimmering with rare jewels matching the crown of gold that held in place a sheer veil—through which large, kohl-rimmed eyes stared at him defiantly.

No. She wasn’t listening to the song. Her eyes burned with the same fire he’d seen the first night they’d met in the quarry. Only one thing was different now. He knew the fire would consume her if Yahweh didn’t intervene.

Jehosheba arrived at his side, the breeze of her approach carrying with it the sweet scent of acacia and lavender. She let her gaze linger on Jehoiada, offering a seductive pout, and then turned toward her brother. The veil danced as she trembled. His bride was a study in conflict, driven by too many masters.

Prince Ahaziah raised his voice to the gathering. “Honored guests, priests of Baal, servants of Yahweh.” He nodded at each contingent huddled with their kind. “King Jehoram has asked me to welcome you on his behalf. The king is beset with a most inconvenient ailment and hopes to return to his throne shortly, but until then he’s asked Queen Athaliah and myself to satisfy the responsibilities of his office.”

Jehoiada’s respect for the young prince plummeted. He knew from Obadiah’s reports that the king would not recover and, in fact, grew worse each day. The prince lied well. Wondering how much he could ever trust Hazi, Jehoiada was caught off guard when he heard the prince repeat his name.

“Jehoiada?” he coaxed while the Throne Hall waited in silence.

Yahweh’s high priest glanced at the quizzical stares of those around him. Athaliah, with her usual vengeful expression, joined Mattan’s sinister smirk. He turned to Nathanael, who had agreed to serve as friend of the bridegroom, and the kind young man whispered clarification. “Prince Hazi explained the ceremony as a bit unorthodox, including both Hebrew and Tyrian traditions, and he awaits your permission to proceed.”

Jehoiada’s heart raced, and he thought perhaps this was the miraculous release he’d hoped for. He glanced at Jehosheba’s soulful, pleading eyes. Her lips, the color of the deepest red rose, trembled slightly.

Do you trust the Word of Yahweh through the Urim
and Thummim?

Startled, Jehoiada turned to search out the questioner. Only Obadiah would speak to him so boldly—but he was perched on his cushion in the back row.