Jezebel was going to die in the dusty streets of Samaria.
Ahab was off his horse, shoving men out of the way to get to her. She heard him scream her name, watched him moving as if the world had slowed to a crawl, as if the distance was too great. Confusion took command; none of her priests or Ahab’s soldiers or the commoners moved out of his way or obeyed. Everyone was shouting orders to the others or reaching for her. Hands grabbed at her from all sides, and her gown tore at the shoulder as someone grabbed the sleeve and pulled.
Then she saw deliverance. Ahab’s sword, the sword of Moses, flashed in the afternoon sun like a silver strike of lightning as Ahab unsheathed it, the muscles of his broad arm pumping as the sword began to cut through the men. He smashed it against shoulders and heads and used it as a club to reach the litter. The men fell away like broken dolls, dropping silently as Ahab leaped up, his eyes telling Jezebel that he was stronger than she knew. Maybe he said something, but she heard nothing except the pounding of her heart and the explosion of staggered breaths. She reached for him, keeping one hand on her belly to stop the pain.
His sword sheathed, he wrapped his arms around her as men lowered the litter to the ground. With no other choice, she sank into Ahab’s arms. He lifted her without effort, carrying her up the steps into his palace. Looking up into his face, with its grim determination to safeguard her, to rescue her from the people and the pain, she felt a new pain. When his eyes met hers, she knew the truth.
He did love her, a real love. Nothing good had ever happened in her life, but she closed her eyes and told herself not to try to hold onto this.
She was going to disappoint him.
9
Inside her chambers, Jezebel was on her side, her face buried in pillows. Sound carried in this so-called palace; it still had so few furnishings and carpets. She screamed into the pillows, refusing to let servants hear her and doubt that she was strong enough to deliver a child. She would come out with a child even if it took her life. Her name would not suffer.
Sargon entered the room, and Jezebel’s heart leaped when she heard his voice.
“You’re here,” she whispered, having little strength to speak.
“I wanted to see you wearing a crown,” he said. He was wearing his necklaces, and the fat gold ring that signified his position of chief priest of Phoenicia. How good it was to see those ornaments again.
She tried to smile, but the pain was too much.
He leaned over her, smoothing her hair back. Seeing his eyes, which were like none other, comforted Jezebel. Blue they were, and they flashed like lightning in his face, which was handsome and weathered, his age being hers plus forty. His hair was pure white, kept neatly groomed, and his beard disguised a wry red mouth that reminded her of home.
“Your husband is outside,” Sargon said. “He demands that a Hebrew midwife be sent in. What is your wish?”
Jezebel clenched her teeth to keep from making a sound as a wave of pain hit. “What is yours?”
Sargon tilted his head to one side, thinking. “Birth is sacred and magical. Midwives serve their gods, and the Hebrew god does not like you.” He looked at her. “I am not scolding you. Your father should have warned you about this Yahweh. He knew. He sent you because he thought you were the only one strong enough to face Yahweh and defeat him.”
Jezebel caught her breath for a brief, bright moment, the air sweet and cool. Her father had seen something worthy in her.
Sargon continued. “The Hebrew midwife must not enter. Do I have your consent to lead?”
She nodded.
Sargon’s voice rose above the others, a deep comfort to her. “It is the seventh day of the month; a day of powerful magic for the Hebrews!”
The other priests quieted to listen.
“You do not understand the forces at work against us on this day,” Sargon said to the other priests. “Seven is a holy number to them, the number of creation. But this god Yahweh has no companion or rival. What he chooses to create, he can choose to destroy. To deliver her child on the seventh day puts Jezebel under Yahweh’s power.”
“What do we do? No one can stop a birth,” another priest asked. He was one of four who huddled around, worthless. They had been the ones her father had sent, and her father never had given her the best of anything. Until Sargon’s arrival.
“We will try to delay the birth until the moon sets tonight,” Sargon replied. “Can you prepare anything?” She thought he must be speaking to an ashipu.
The pain was intense. She begged for relief. There was a drug of forgetting that the ashipu prepared for wealthy women; she could sink away from the pain.
Sargon’s hand rested on her head. “Let us wait. You are strong. Fight to hold the child in.”
She moaned in agony.
Ahab could not, by his nation’s Hebrew law, enter the birthing chamber, but she could hear him pleading with Sargon, begging that a Hebrew midwife be permitted inside. She glanced up to see Ahab standing in the doorframe, looking like a child caught stealing. He cleared his throat and pushed a woman forward.
“Her name is Deborah. She is an excellent midwife.” Ahab nodded and left, not bearing to look at Jezebel. Deborah came to the princess at once, feeling her forehead, urging her to sit up and drink some water. Jezebel turned over a little, trying to shield her belly from this woman.
“Everyone out! I have work to do,” the midwife said, shaking her finger at the men, with the confident tone of a woman who had delivered every child born within the city. Sargon turned to an ashipu and nodded. The ashipu moved fast, crossing the room quickly, and brought something to Jezebel’s lips. As Jezebel drank, she saw a priest grab the midwife, his hand over her mouth as he pushed her from the room. As the door opened and closed, and Jezebel’s eyes grew heavy, she felt the air stirring around the bed.
Death was in the chamber with them. She knew that as she slipped away. She knew his smell, the way he reeked of old nests and smoke and stinking fruit. He was there, and he was hungry. Jezebel wished now she had not desired him months ago. She knew why she was in this rat-infested city with a prince she had not chosen.
She was here to destroy a god. She would live for that.
Blood ran from the soft folds of Jezebel’s robe onto the floor. She woke in a dark chamber lit only by oil lamps scattered on tables throughout the room. Glancing at the window, she judged the hour to be before dawn. Instinctively, she reached for her stomach. The child had not yet been born. The day of awful magic for the Hebrews had passed; the potion had worked, allowing her to deliver hours later, when the moon had changed and it was a new day.
She lurched forward, screaming. The air was heavy with the odor of sweat and vomit. Pale-faced attendants laid wet linen strips against her forehead as she cursed them. A large roll of dirty linens was carried away by two male servants who strained as they lifted it.
She screamed again, a sound of fury meeting pain, and gripped the arms of her servants so tightly that they would not be able to carry her goblets for days. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she gave one last desperate push and expelled the child onto the blankets. The baby let out a tinny cry.
Jezebel’s eyelids fluttered, and she fell into a strange vision. Far from the room, a serpent moved in the shadowlands, its mouth opened wide, venom spraying softly from its fangs in the moonlight.
Sargon tended to the baby, severing the cord and using salt water to bathe it. The smell of the sea overpowered the room, transporting Jezebel home. Ahab had given her this child, that man whose body had once been the sea, his strong waves breaking over her, and she was returned to the churning depths, this treasure revealed, this wailing red siren that captivated Sargon. His face shone with pleasure when he saw Jezebel watching. He used an ivory dish shaped like an ibex to pour olive oil over the child’s shivering body, then set to work with his right hand, rubbing it in. The child t
urned its head, and Jezebel looked into its eyes for the first time.
Jezebel felt nothing, which was sweet relief. It opened its mouth, a soundless little gesture, as if forming a word for her.
“It is a girl,” Sargon said.
Jezebel brought a hand to her face to hide her shame.
He presented the infant first to the statue of Asherah, lit from within by a yellow candle, and then presented her to the princess. Jezebel looked at the child, who squirmed and cried. She caught sight of herself in the mirror hung low by her bed and saw her hair disheveled, the tiny blood vessels in her eyes burst from the exhaustion of birth, the dark rings underneath. Temereh had looked prettier than this when she died. Temereh had not been strong, though. She had not been chosen. She had only been born to speak for the gods, not kill one.
Jezebel reached down to touch the baby, and servants huddled around, smiling nervously. Jezebel pinched the infant, who screamed.
“Welcome to Samaria,” she said. She waved the baby away. “Take her to a nursemaid, and send for an attendant to wash me at once. And bring me a bowl of red copper to drink lest another child see the womb empty and desire entrance from the other world.”
She slept then and woke sometime later, groggy and sore. Her groin burned and throbbed in agony. Her head pounded as if someone had smashed her brains in with an iron. Opening her eyes, she saw she was alone with Sargon. She had not been alone with him since she left Phoenicia.
“How much do you know of my trouble here?” she asked.
He looked up from the papyrus he was reading. With a gentle smile, he set it on the table beside his stool and crossed to her, bringing his stool with him. He sat next to her.
“There are fanatics in every empire,” he said. “Elijah is yours. He is your best chance. If you can get rid of him, you’ll get rid of the god. No one wants to worship a god without someone to lead them. That is human nature.”
“Why wasn’t I warned?” she asked. “He’s cursed the people with a drought, and they think it is my fault. And there is Shalmaneser, and Ben-hadad … my father did not prepare me for this.”
He reached out and touched her cheek. “I think he prepared you very well.”
Outside the chamber, a bird sang, a pure and sweet song. A peace descended in the stillness of the room. They were alone, yet Jezebel sensed something more, but it had a lightness to it. She saw her reflection in Sargon’s eyes, this man who had taught her to sacrifice, who had led her into the world of gods and goddesses and visions. In his eyes, she saw she was still a young woman. A thought came to her, clear and soft: her past did not have to be her future. Maybe she had looked at life through the wrong eyes. Maybe there was something more. Something else.
She wanted to ask Sargon if he had ever heard strange, peaceful whispers, but something told her he hadn’t.
Sargon laid his hand on her shoulder, and as he blinked, her reflection was lost. Smiling up at him, she remembered who she was, what she was born to do. Jezebel was born to reign.
The bird beyond her chamber fell silent.
10
Ahab
Ahab sat on his throne as two advisers argued and five elders presented their requests. So many voices made it hard for him to think, and he rubbed his forehead for relief from a growing headache. Omri had retired an hour ago, worn out by the bickering that could not be resolved with a sword. Ahab was thankful. He was embarrassed by the truth, which was that it had not rained for nearly a year. The pregnancy and the move to Jezreel for the winter had disguised the passage of time, but this was the truth. Jezebel’s body had given up its secrets, and the passage of time had given up Ahab’s.
The drought was real.
A curse was upon Israel. Ahab had chosen to obey his father instead of Yahweh, and because of his choice, people would suffer. Ahab had seen lands wiped out by drought and famine. He had never forgotten the children with bloated bellies and flies in the corners of their eyes, sitting next to dead mothers. Women went looking for food or water and died in the streets.
Jezebel entered, her body still clearly weak from giving birth only two days before. All the men dipped their heads once in respect, stepping back from the throne. Ahab had allowed a smaller throne to be built for her use in court, and she sat in it warily, keeping an eye on the men. Ahab cleared his throat, hoping to remind her of her manners. She still couldn’t be trusted to be civil with men she did not know. In fact, she still couldn’t be trusted to be civil to men she did know.
“Welcome to my future queen!” Ahab said. The men murmured in forced concurrence.
Ahab stood to make his announcement. “Next week, as some of you may know, is the Feast of First Fruits, an important day for the Yahwehists. I plan on holding a feast here at the palace, for everyone in the city of Samaria. We will celebrate the birth of my daughter, who is to be named Athaliah, or God is praised.”
There were whispers from those who frequented the temple of Baal, but Ahab was ready.
“I am not a Yahwehist. I am a ruler. I want peace. Let her name signal that we want peace with the Lord. I have seen drought, my friends. It is a terrible way to die.”
He judged by their faces that they were considering his words. He continued.
“This feast will appease Elijah. It will give our people cause to stay in Samaria for the event and not travel to the temple in Jerusalem as they have in the past. Their money will remain within our borders, which is good. We need every resource right now, including Elijah’s goodwill.”
Mirra’s father stepped forward. “We must conserve our food. I am loyal to you, Ahab, you know that, but I believe Elijah. If he says the drought will last, it will.”
“Do not be troubled, Amon,” Jezebel said, placing her hand on Ahab’s arm. “My priests have made an offering to my gods, who control the rain. They say Baal is well pleased at the construction of a temple in his name here. His wife, Asherah, has accepted our gift. It will rain.”
Ahab leaned in to her and whispered, “You cannot promise rain. If you don’t deliver, they will be at your throat.”
Jezebel turned to face him before speaking. He wished she would keep her voice lower. “This is your kingdom. Not Elijah’s. It doesn’t belong to a wandering band of prophets, either. You should never have let any of them live. And you have to make bold promises if you want to keep the throne.”
Ahab took her hand. “I can’t speak for gods I don’t believe in.”
“The time will come, Ahab, when you will have to believe in one. Life forces everyone to that moment.”
Ahab crushed her hand in his and pulled her to him. He pinned her other hand, and he wrenched her closer yet to whisper in her ear. He saw out of the corner of his eye that the elders noticed this display of displeasure with his wife. Her eyes went dead as he touched her like this. She did not seem to stay in her body when handled roughly. He had spent more than a year now trying to unlock her secrets, to discover what she hid and what she loved, but if he ever pushed her too far, her soul evaporated before his eyes.
He paid no attention to anyone else, not caring what they saw.
“Listen to me,” he said. “All my life I was forced to worship a man ten times as big as me, ten times as bitter as a scorpion. When he handed me the crown, there was a sneer on his lips. He knew it would be too much for me, that I could do little but bear its weight and suffer. And yet I have built new cities. I have filled the treasuries and brought to my land a princess of Phoenicia. I have done all this, and I have done it without god or man. Do not tell me I will be forced to do anything. I will never be forced again.”
He let go and saw that she was breathing hard, her eyes alight again, lips parted. She looked as if she felt desire for him, but how could that be? He had admitted a weakness to her, and she was not a woman who respected weakness. What did she see in him in these moments of confession?
She faced the court with a face like stone, betraying nothing of what she felt.
He turned and addressed the court once more. “I will amend my plans. Let us invite all people, from all provinces, to celebrate the birth and the feast at the temple of Baal and the shrine to Asherah, which are almost complete. After all, Athaliah does not belong to Yahweh. She does not even belong to me. She belongs to the nation.”
Jezebel reached for his hand, and a flush of warmth came over him.
Obadiah
Obadiah grieved to see the priests of Baal and Asherah moving through the new temple, preparing for the Feast of the First Fruits. The temple was an abomination. Built for Baal, it had two columns in front, leading to an open area. Along one side was an archway opening into a room of tile mosaics, with couches lining the walls.
Straight through the main room was a smaller three-walled chamber where a stone altar rested. Tonight it had two bowls for incense. Beautiful, ornate bowls with ivory designs of flowers and vines, Obadiah noted, meant to distract the new worshippers among the Israelites. Behind the altar was a fire pit that went down deep into the earth. It was above this that Baal’s arms extended as if to hear the prayers of his people. Obadiah noted how close the hands were to each other, slightly cupped. Here, he knew, they would place an infant. He had read too many accounts to have any more doubts that such evil could be embraced as good and necessary.
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