by Mesu Andrews
The weight of her sacrifice crushed him again, but a gentle reminder warmed his heart. You will see her in Arpad. He grinned at Isaiah’s prophetic good-bye in spite of the danger.
“How can you smile at a time like this?”
“Because I’m trying to imagine how I’ll confess to Isaiah he was right and I was wrong.” Her brow furrowed in the confusion he’d hoped for. “Yahweh told Isaiah you’d be here, but I said Yahweh wouldn’t concern Himself with our marriage when Assyria threatened the whole world.” He reached for her hand and cradled it palm up. “Yahweh knew you’d be here, Gomer. Though I’m not always with you, He is.” Then he strummed her fingers like he’d done when they were children.
She bowed her head, hair cascading like a copper veil, hiding her face. After a few sniffs, she wiped a dirty sleeve across her eyes and nose. She grabbed the travel bag and held it out to him as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “I’ll distract the guards while you walk your camel out of camp. If you look like you know what you’re doing, no one will take notice. The moment you reach the road, get on the beast and go as fast as it’ll carry you.”
Hosea looked down once more into those hazel eyes he’d once known and loved. “Thank you, Gomer. I—”
“Come on. You’re wasting time.” She turned and fled the tent, leaving Hosea with a lump in his throat and a hole in his heart.
41
• HOSEA 10:11–12 •
Ephraim is like a trained calf that loves to thresh grain. I will put a yoke on its beautiful neck. . . . Jacob must break up . . . new ground. Plant righteousness, and harvest the fruit that your loyalty will produce for me.
Gomer lay on her tapestry in Eitan’s tent, waiting for the general’s return. She’d wet the fleece headrest with her tears, hoping—even praying to every god but one—that Hosea made it out of camp without being spotted. She’d leave it to Hosea to pray to Yahweh, since that particular god seemed especially cross with harlots in general and with her in particular.
How could Hosea say Yahweh was with her when every day held new torture? What kind of god allowed this kind of pain? What kind of woman rebels this brazenly and survives? She pushed the troublesome thoughts aside.
“What do you mean he’s not in his tent?” Eitan’s raised voice split the night air. “How can a prophet and his camel disappear from an Israelite camp? Bring me his guard!” The tent flap flew open, the force of his fury rattling the structure. Gomer sat up, watching him light the torch on the post. “Pour me some wine!”
She scurried from her tapestry to obey his command, hands trembling as she reached for the wineskin on the peg. She poured the wine, missing the wooden goblet, but Eitan was pacing and didn’t notice. Thank the gods. “Your wine, my lord.” She held out the goblet with a shaky hand.
The terrified guard entered, escorted by two officers, and immediately fell to his knees. “I am your faithful warrior, General. I obeyed your order to escort the harlot back to your tent, and when I returned, the prophet and his camel were gone.”
Gomer exhaled the breath she’d been holding. Well, at least it was quick. Perhaps the execution will be as merciful.
Eitan turned his dangerous smile on her but spoke to the guard. “So, my harlot lured you from your post so the prophet could escape?”
“No . . . um, well, I didn’t think . . . um . . .” Gomer noted the guard’s sinking expression.
“Ha!” Eitan clapped his hands in a mighty slap, causing everyone to jump. “It seems my harlot has outsmarted you.” He waved at his officers. “Kill him.” They dragged the guard out, screaming. Eitan focused on Gomer, a glint of wicked delight in his eyes. “Why would you risk your life for a Yahweh prophet from Judah?”
He was still smiling. Perhaps she would earn only a beating if she played the sassy harlot. “I’d rather not explain.”
His smile died, and she knew she’d miscalculated. He covered the space between them in two strides and grabbed her hair, laying his dagger against her throat. “Satisfy my curiosity.”
“He’s my husband.” She felt a trickle of warm blood run down her neck and marveled at the sharpness of his blade. Perhaps death would come quickly.
Eitan released her and let his hands fall limp at his sides. He stared blankly. “Your husband?”
She watched a war rage in the windows of his soul. Why had those words disturbed him so? “Yes, I was running away from him when one of your officers found me in the wilderness on their way to Arpad.”
“Ahhhh!” Eitan hurled his dagger at the center post, and Gomer felt a simultaneous blow to her cheek. A burst of light exploded, and stars decorated the tent’s interior. “No! You cannot be joined to the prophet!”
He reached for her, and she tried to crawl away. “Why? Tell me why you’re so angry!”
He grabbed her arms, lifting her feet off the floor, and ground out the words in her face. “Menahem has forbidden me to lay a hand on the prophet or anything that belongs to him. I was ordered to release him in the morning and let him ride out on his cursed camel unharmed. Now I can’t even kill you because if the king discovers you’re the prophet’s wife, it will be my head on a platter.” He threw her against a corner post. She felt a rib break but dared not scream. He’d turned to go, and she didn’t want to give him reason to return.
She melted into a heap, unsure what to feel. Relief? Fear? Victory?
“You will leave in the morning.” Startled, she looked up to find Eitan watching her from the tent opening, a sinister grin making his anger all the more frightening. “I’ll obey my king, and you’ll wish I had killed you.”
Samaria’s ivory palace taunted her in the distance. The last time Gomer had seen the gleaming limestone structure, she’d glimpsed its ivory and ebony furnishings. Granted, she’d been on trial before King Jeroboam, but even that seemed preferable to the shackles now chewing her ankles and wrists.
Eitan was right. Killing her would have been more merciful than the forty-two-day trek she’d endured during the dead of winter with the Aramean slave trader. The slaves wore leather covers over their sandals to protect their feet from ice and snow, but they wore only woolen robes as protection against the icy winter winds. Gomer remembered the glaring heat of her Judean wilderness wandering and decided that numbing cold was worse than blinding sun. By the time they crossed into Israelite territory, the climate had grown milder, and their feet had worn through the leather.
“New slaves, prime flesh coming through.” The vile little Aramean cleared a wide path leading up Samaria’s hill. He’d stopped north of Shechem to strip the ten remaining slaves of their woolen robes, forcing both men and women into the frigid spring water. It was both refreshing and excruciating on their raw wounds. They would enter the city naked but clean. “Keep moving,” he shouted, using his whip on one of the men he especially despised.
The journey from Arpad began with twenty slaves—twelve women, eight men. Seven men remained, three women. When someone slowed the pace, the trader severed that slave’s hand and foot, leaving them behind to die. The remaining slaves were left to drag the empty shackle—sufficient motivation to keep their legs churning on slippery terrain.
Gomer mustered her strength and lifted her head, approaching Samaria’s gates. She was shivering and wondered if it was because of her empty stomach or the light drizzle. She’d eaten only scraps after the trader and his three underlings ate their fill. Her curiosity stole her full attention, causing her to gawk like a visiting farm girl at Samaria’s city gate. It looked as worn as she felt, its fine metals tarnished and exposed wood rotting. She looked east, hoping to glimpse Asherah’s grove, her onetime haven. But the path was overgrown and unkempt. The boughs of the lush poplars and terebinths now dipped as low as Gomer’s spirits.
Merchants’ gossip was rife with tales of the oppressive tribute Assyria demanded from “cooperative” nations. She’d been confused at the difference between a vassal and a cooperative nation. Now she understood. Only the words were differen
t. The effects were the same—written in Samaria’s decay.
The chain of slaves entered the city, and Gomer glanced down the hill, longing to pound the gates of her old brothel. Tamir’s wicked face flashed in her memory, and the fleeting desire was replaced with disgust. How pathetic her life had become when even her old madam would be a welcome sight.
“Stay together, or I’ll cut off whoever’s lagging.” The hateful little Aramean snapped his whip again, and Gomer squeezed close to the man in front of her. Whatever modesty she’d preserved before this experience—which wasn’t much—had been lost somewhere between Arpad and Samaria. Onlookers taunted them as they passed. Some threw rocks and sticks. Others shouted obscenities. Gomer wished they’d throw food, though she doubted she could catch it with her wrists shackled and bloody.
The chain of captives trudged up a narrow alley, and Gomer’s panic began to rise. Where was the trader leading them? The tombs were the only thing north of the city. She knew there was a slave market in Samaria but had never seen it.
Then she smelled it, and it smelled like her.
Filth. Excrement. Slaves. She heard the moaning of tortured souls and knew why they’d placed the market beside the tombs. Why go on living when life is living death?
“Form a line so the slave master can inspect you.” The Aramean snapped his whip again, and Gomer jumped, lining up shoulder to shoulder with men on both sides. “Look at this one,” he said to the slave master. “She’s a mess now, but she was General Eitan’s personal harlot.”
Gomer willed herself to stop trembling and focused on a nondescript cloud in the sky, allowing the man to inspect her from head to toe. “She was once beautiful, I’m sure, but she’s been ridden hard like an old mare. The men who buy my slaves are looking for the sleekest, finest fillies in the kingdom.”
Gomer emptied herself of all that was human, becoming the thing men desire. She lifted her hand to his cheek, taking with it the shackled hand of the slave beside her. “Do you have any idea what a woman of pleasure learns from so many teachers?” She nestled her face in his sweaty neck, whispering, “Give me the chance to prove myself to a customer. I will not disappoint him—or you.” She gagged on the words and for the first time was thankful her stomach was empty. She stepped back into line, noted the glazed look in the slave master’s eyes, and knew he’d be her advocate.
“Loose her shackles. I’ll redeem her.” A stately older gentleman stepped out of the shadows. He offered slow, steady applause. “That was an impressive performance.”
She inclined her head, a regal bow.
“I can see why Eitan favored you.”
“He didn’t favor me. I was his alone.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Do you know the general personally?”
The slave master dislodged the pins from her wrist shackles and removed them. The relief was overwhelming. She closed her eyes and blew cool breath on the raw, chafed flesh, lingering in the momentary respite.
Her eyes shot open, and her panic returned. A potential employer stood waiting. Had her delay angered him?
He was staring, an unknown emotion fueling a pleasant smile. “I’ve met General Eitan and King Menahem. I know them well enough to stay out of their way and keep my treasury locked.”
Gomer felt her ankle shackles fall to the ground, and she nearly fell with them. Free. She’d never fathomed the richness of the word until this moment. She returned her gaze to the intriguing nobleman, also realizing she would never be free again. She bowed deeply. “How may I serve you, my lord?”
The man counted five pieces of silver into the slave master’s hand and then hoisted her into his arms. “First, I will serve you.”
Embarrassed more by her weakness than her nakedness, she pushed resistant hands against his chest. “Please, my lord, I can walk.”
He stopped, and she leaned forward, thinking he would set her feet on the ground. Instead, he crushed her to his chest. “Stop struggling.” His voice was firm but not angry. She froze, ceasing all movement, afraid he would take her back to the market. But he resumed his stride and repeated more gently, “You can stop struggling now.”
The kindness of his tone pierced her, and she fought emotions she thought long dead. She laid her head against his chest, deciding to obey his command, hiding her tears.
He slowed when they reached an ornate wooden cart. Four wheels, almost as tall as Gomer, bore hammered gold on their spokes. A stack of tapestries lined the cart bed, and when he hoisted her onto them, she sank into the softness as though it were a cloud. “Let’s cover you up,” he said, unfurling a heavy blanket over her. “You must be freezing, and we need not parade you again—”
“No, wait!” As the fine weave floated onto her travel-worn, bloody body, she thought of the beautiful things she was soiling. “I’m unclean.” King Uzziah’s familiar word rang in her memory. Unclean! Unclean! A knot of emotion choked off any further argument.
The man leaned over the cart rail, kissed his finger, and transferred it to her forehead. “Everything in this wagon can be washed clean, little one. Including you.”
He unwound the reins from a hitching post, adeptly stepped on a spoke, and then swung onto the driver’s bench. Gomer marveled at the older man’s strength and agility. She guessed him the same age as Amos and Yuval—in fact, his features and demeanor reminded her of Yuval. She relaxed into the tapestries, resting her arm over her eyes. Will I see a resemblance to Yuval in everyone who treats me kindly?
Her new master slapped the reins, prodding the single ox that was yoked to his cart. He leaned back and explained, “Most people think me a bit unconventional, using an ox to pull my cart in the city, but Samaria’s hills tire a donkey or mule. I’m a merchant, and Sampson here helps me transport my goods with steadier footing on muddy streets.”
Sampson. The name of Gomer’s cat in Tekoa. Anger replaced her weepy disposition. If the gods were playing tricks, she refused to be their game piece. No more sentimental journeys about Uzziah or Yuval or a stupid cat. “Excuse me, my lord, but would you mind giving me your name?” Exhaustion tore at her, but she might as well begin her work now. But if he said his name was Hosea, she would throw herself beneath the ox’s hooves.
He turned on his seat, a glowing smile revealing brilliant white teeth. He was quite handsome for an older man. “I am Ezri, little one. Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner.” He seemed pleased that she’d initiated. “And what is your name?”
“Gomer. My name is Gomer. It means complete.” She was suddenly thankful for the Israelite officer who’d found her in the wilderness and his trivial knowledge of names.
“Complete,” he said, returning his attention to the road ahead. “Well, Gomer, I believe it suits the plans I have for you. My wife died three moon cycles ago, and I keep a few servants in my home. I think you’ll make my household complete.”
Gomer pondered the revelation, realizing that Ezri would have been one of the wealthy merchants in Samaria while she lived in Tamir’s brothel. Had he been one of her customers whom she’d failed to recognize? “My lord, I used to live in Samaria—in a house owned by Tamir. Are you familiar with her business?”
She heard him sigh. “I know of Tamir’s brothel. In fact, the woman who owned the brothel before Tamir was a family friend of mine. But I never required a harlot’s service. I remained loyal to my wife for the thirty-two years we were married.” He cast a grin over his shoulder. “I’m sure you and I have never met.”
She noticed a slight dimple in his right cheek, above his manicured, gray beard. “But you realize who I am—what I am?”
“As I said before, most people think me unconventional, Gomer. I yoke an ox to my cart in the city, and I purchase a young harlot to be my companion in my old age.” He shrugged his shoulder and chuckled. “I guess we’re both plowing new ground, aren’t we?”
42
• ISAIAH 6:1 •
In the year King Uzziah died, I saw Adonay sitting on a high and lofty throne. The bo
ttom of his robe filled the temple.
King Uzziah’s burial processional stretched from Jerusalem’s southernmost gate through the valley of Hinnom and up the hill toward En Rogel. It seemed all of Judah had gathered to mourn their leprous king.
Hosea noticed Isaiah swipe at both eyes, and his heart broke. Uzziah’s death had hit his friend hard, the king’s role as second abba felt all the more keenly with the loss.
“Was your abba Amoz able to speak with Uzziah before the end?” Hosea’s voice was hushed.
Isaiah had chosen to walk among the prophets rather than join the royal household at the head of the processional. Honoring Amoz’s wishes, Isaiah and Uzziah agreed to keep silent about his idolatry under the condition that his worship cease. Many of the younger prophets had no reason to notice the strained familial relationship.
“Abba visited Uzziah the day before his death, but I wasn’t invited. They spoke privately. When he returned home, his countenance was brighter, so I assume he and cousin Uzziah made their peace.” Isaiah glanced at Hosea, smiling through tears. “I believe Aya has softened Abba’s heart in many ways while he’s lived in our home.” They trudged in silence through the muck of Hinnom, the acrid smoke of lingering fires irritating already weepy eyes. “Yesterday, when I emptied our waste containers on the dump pile, I saw broken pieces of an idol, Hosea. I believe it was Abba’s Asherah.” His features were a mix of joy and fear. “What if he’s made all this progress, opened his heart—and then my prophecy today turns Abba away again? I don’t know how I could go on, knowing I’d embittered him at the moment he started to believe . . .”
Hosea halted Isaiah with a hand on his shoulder, allowing other prophets to pass them on the march toward the burial field. “Are you sure of your call, Isaiah? Did you hear Yahweh’s voice?”