In the Shadow of Jezebel

by Mesu Andrews

  The servants delivered the couches. Ima Thaliah took her place on the first, but as Hazi directed Sheba toward the second, Gevirah Jizebaal announced, “The couches are for Ahab’s family only, young woman.”

  The audience chamber fell silent, and Sheba gasped, glancing first at Ima and then at the Gevirah. How could this woman publicly flaunt the fact that she wasn’t Athaliah’s blood? Humiliated, she moved behind the couch and offered the seat to Hazi. He furtively reached back, offering his hand for comfort. Mattan stood behind Ima.

  Jizebaal seemed unwilling to let the matter die. “You’re not really my Thali’s daughter, are you? You’re one of Jehoram’s children from a Judean wife, and my Thali raised you as her own when your ima died. Isn’t that correct . . . what is your name—Beersheba, is it?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean . . .” Angry tears stung Sheba’s eyes, and she turned to Ima Thaliah for help—direction of any kind. Ima glared over her shoulder, offering nothing but warning. Sheba must face Gevirah alone. No tears. Ima Thaliah detests tears.

  Breathing deeply, she calmed herself and lifted her chin. “You are correct, Gevirah Jizebaal. I am the daughter of King Jehoram, adopted by Queen Athaliah.” Her voice grew stronger as she spoke. “And my name is Princess Jehosheba.”

  A slight grin creased King Ram’s lips. He leaned over and whispered something in the Gevirah’s ear—who ignored him and Sheba. Jizebaal redirected her attention to Ima Thaliah. “Since only Ahab’s princes remain in the gallery”—she motioned for the guards to close the doors, locking out any stragglers—“we will continue our political discussion. Go ahead, my son. As king of Israel, you should lead the discussion.”

  “Why, thank you, Ima.” Clearly amused, King Ram left his throne, causing his bodyguard to scurry from the dais and Ima Thaliah and Hazi to spring off their couches in a respectful bow. The king grasped Ima Thaliah’s shoulders, drawing her into an embrace. “Shalom, Thali. It’s good to see you.”

  Ima lingered in her brother’s hug, and a puddle of tears formed under her lashes. Ima’s crying? Sheba tried to remember if she’d ever seen the queen shed real tears. A few contrived drops when manipulation called for it, but never real emotion.

  Israel’s king whispered in his sister’s ear, and she nodded—secrets shared between siblings. He finally released her and said with a mocking tone, “You look awful! What have they done to you in Judah?”

  Uneasy laughter fluttered in the gallery of princes. Those dressed in royal robes ranged from toddlers to late teens. Though called princes of Ahab, they had to be Ram’s children—King Ahab had been dead for eleven years. But could all seventy belong to King Ram?

  Ima shoved his shoulder, as she’d done with Hazi at the pool. “Just because you’ve doubled the size of Israel with your own sons doesn’t mean you can insult the queen of Judah.” Sheba suddenly saw Hazi’s reflection in Uncle Ram and realized why Ima had always favored her youngest son. The king kissed Ima’s forehead, and she removed a linen cloth from her belt, repairing the smeared kohl around her eyes.

  King Ram returned to his throne, his bodyguard seemingly relieved to be finished with the nonsense. Ram clapped his hands, the sudden noise jostling the Gevirah’s crown. “I’ve got an idea! Let’s have the Gevirah, Thali, and Jehosheba retire to Ima Jizebaal’s chamber while I get to know my nephew and introduce him to my sons.” He met the Gevirah’s threatening stare and leaned forward, addressing Hazi in a mock whisper. “Though I’m supposed to call them the seventy princes of Ahab since I’m Abba’s only living heir. Ima thought we should honor him with my offspring.”

  “Ram!” the Gevirah huffed.

  But he continued without pause. “And I’ll confess to Mattan that I destroyed the Baal temple and stone in Samaria. It was a political move, really. Perhaps he can explain why Yahweh’s prophets are winning the hearts of my people. Is it punishment from Baal or simply because Yahweh is more powerful?”

  Jizebaal stared at him so intensely Sheba felt the heat. “Take care, my son, how you speak about almighty Baal Melkart.”

  Ignoring her, Ram tapped his cheek, feigning bewilderment. “Thali, didn’t one of Judah’s kings depose his Gevirah because she made an Asherah pole? I mean, she’ll always be my ima, but she needn’t have any official pow—”

  Jizebaal slammed her hand on her armrest. “Come, Thali! And bring the girl.” She stormed past Ram without a bow, turning her back on Israel’s regent—a serious breach in decorum.

  Ima Thaliah issued a silent reprimand to her brother as she hurried to catch up, and Sheba followed both women through an ivory-inlaid door, wishing she could stay and chat with the men.

  6

  2 KINGS 3:1–2

  Joram son of Ahab became king of Israel. . . . He did evil in the eyes of the LORD, but not as his father and mother had done. He got rid of the sacred stone of Baal that his father had made.

  Nearly running, Sheba rushed with Jizebaal and Ima down a long corridor lined with heavy tapestries—a sea of faded glory. Waves of heavy, woven rugs, draperies, and wall hangings bespoke a waning elegance reflected in the great Jizebaal herself. When Ahab died, the queen was given the title Gevirah—ima of the king. It was a title of grace and respect but implied her diminishing authority. Jizebaal had accepted the relegation as clumsily as Sheba rode her camel.

  The three women arrived at ornately carved cedar doors, where two guards bowed to their mistress and opened without so much as a nod. The soldiers’ attire combined Israelite armor and Phoenician-curled hair under leather helmets. Inside the chamber were ten eunuchs who immediately dropped to their knees, foreheads on the floor, hands extended forward.

  The Gevirah stepped over them as if they were stones in her path on her way to an open-door balcony. “Do you see how Ram treats me, Thali? It’s intolerable!”

  Ima Thaliah followed her to an ivory-inlaid ebony couch on the balcony overlooking the city wall. “Ram loves to show off, Ima. I’ll talk with him.” Thaliah settled on the couch beside the Gevirah and with her eyes directed Sheba to a goatskin rug in front of them.

  The eunuchs resumed their duties in the large divided chamber. Behind a partially drawn curtain, three eunuchs fluffed pillows and brushed furs that covered an enormous wool-stuffed mattress. In the larger chamber connected to the balcony, the remaining servants busied themselves straightening cosmetics, sewing garments, and weaving extraordinary patterns of Tyrian purple fabric. Sheba returned her attention to the women before her but kept her eyes averted. They seemed to be in a world of their own, and Sheba didn’t wish to intrude.

  “Thali, my darling, why can’t Ram be as pliable as your husband? If kings would simply leave the gods to their queens, nations would function much more smoothly.” Jizebaal’s demeanor had calmed, and she seemed content with leisurely conversation about trivial matters. Perhaps they’d discuss hennaed nails or scented oils next. Sheba inhaled the crisp country air, finally relaxing a little after the events at Gideon’s Pool.

  “My lord Ahab always left the gods to me,” Jizebaal was saying. “He only interfered when we named you children, insisting that I add Yahweh or Jehovah to your names: Athaliah, Ahaziah, Joram. But I’ve never called you by those names, have I? You’ve been Thali, Hazi, and Ram all your lives.” She brushed her daughter’s cheek, a loving gesture Ima Thaliah had offered Sheba countless times. The Gevirah cradled Ima Thaliah’s hand, patting it gently. “I’m glad you named your son after your brother Hazi. I know I complained about Hazi’s ability to reign after your abba Ahab died, but Ram is even worse.”

  Ima Thaliah jerked her hand away, eyes flashing. “You will not rid the throne of Ram as you disposed of Hazi.”

  Sheba’s mouth went dry. What was Ima Thaliah saying? Sheba had been only a little girl when King Hazi died after a year on Israel’s throne. She remembered reports that he’d fallen through his lattice-covered bedchamber window from the second story. Surely no ima would have . . .

  The Gevirah locked eyes with Ima Tha
liah. “I only do what’s necessary to maintain a lasting legacy, Thali—as will you.” Softening her features, she reached for Ima’s hand again, this time with a crushing grip. “And, of course, I would never hurt any of my children. But Ram’s unpredictable behavior is part of the reason I’ve changed our plan for your little Jehosheba.”

  Sheba swallowed hard at the mention of her name. Ima Thaliah’s tone remained calm, but Sheba saw her stiffen. “What about Sheba’s years of training to become the first presiding high priestess? She’s only weeks from her initiation at the Awakening Festival.” Crimson rose on Ima’s neck.

  Sheba’s heart raced at the familiar warning. Instinctively, she pulled her knees up, hugging her legs close as a barrier.

  “Sit like a queen, Sheba!” Ima slapped her, quick as lightning. “Or you will stand like a pauper until you can stand no longer.”

  “Forgive me, Ima.” Sheba quickly knelt and delicately centered herself on folded legs, rearranging her fine linen robe. Chin lifted. Eyes forward. Pleasant smile. Cheek on fire. The queens resumed their discussion.

  “As I was saying,” the Gevirah nearly purred, deepening the creases around her lips, “Sheba, as you call her, will fulfill a new role in the plan my father, the great King Eth-Baal, passed on to me. We will continue to expand inland the Phoenician heritage and the worship of Baal Melkart.” For the first time she turned her black eyes on Sheba. “Has Thali taught you of our Phoenician heritage?”

  Sheba shot a panicked glance at Ima Thaliah. Of course Ima and Mattan had instructed her on Phoenicia . . . and Aram, Assyria, Egypt, Philistia, Cush, Edom, and every other nation of political or economic importance to Judah. A slight nod from Ima gave Sheba permission to speak.

  “Phoenicia’s cities have been assaulted by greedy nations for centuries, all eager to steal seafaring secrets and tactical ports. Your marriage to King Ahab was different than other treaty marriages, however, by benefiting both nations equally. Israel gained access to Phoenicia’s seaports, and Phoenicia traded freely for Israel’s rich agricultural products—grain and livestock. The treaty was unique in one other way—you, Gevirah, since you weren’t the typical treaty bride, but rather Tyre’s delegate on Israel’s soil, educated as a Baal priestess.”

  The Gevirah clapped her hands and cackled like an old hen. “Thali, she is marvelous! Is she as capable in languages and ritual arts?”

  Ima Thaliah offered Sheba an approving wink before answering. “She speaks Egyptian, Hebrew, and Phoenician fluently, and she writes all three equally well. Sheba has shown great promise in magical arts. Mattan reports that her ability at reading omens rivals his own.”

  The Gevirah’s kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed to slits, studying Sheba as if she herself were an omen. She clapped again, summoning her chief eunuch. “Bring me a goblet of water and a flask of oil. We’ll prove the girl’s skill.”

  Sheba felt the tension ease from her shoulders. She excelled at readings. If this was the only test, she’d easily be found worthy.

  The eunuch placed the goblet and flask before her, and the Gevirah poured a little oil into the water. Sheba inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and exhaled. “Almighty Prince Baal, Rider of the Clouds, speak!”

  When she opened her eyes, she noted both queens had joined her on the rug, their heads bent over the goblet with hers. “I see two nations, harassed on every side,” Sheba said, interpreting two large globs of oil with smaller bubbles bumping against them. When the two larger drops of oil combined, the now-single dollop clung to the side of the goblet. A shiver worked its way up Sheba’s spine as she slowly met the curious expressions of the queens.

  “What is it, Sheba?” Ima asked. “I haven’t done a reading in years. I’ve forgotten the art.”

  Jizebaal stirred, maneuvering her old bones back to the couch. When she was finally settled, Ima Thaliah beside her again, the Gevirah challenged Sheba. “I haven’t forgotten the art, Sheba. I know what that reading tells us. Do you?”

  Sheba swallowed her hesitation. “Two nations harassed on every side come together as one—but there will be disaster in the morning.” She saw approval in both women’s eyes—and dread.

  “You’ve proven yourself, Sheba,” Jizebaal said with a slight grin. “Now, let me explain your reading in more detail. King Ahab and King Jehoshaphat built both Israel and Judah into world powers, but their heirs are squandering the two nations. Neither Ram nor your abba Jehoram is strong enough to rule, so it is the destiny of queens to reunite Israel and Judah into one nation, to be ruled by one king—and its people will worship our almighty Baal Melkart.”

  Reunite Israel and Judah? One king? This was treason!

  “What about the disaster in the morning?” Sheba voiced her only safe question.

  Ima intervened. “With every exchange of power, there is bloodshed, Sheba. This is the destiny of queens I mentioned to you in the Pool of Trembling. Concentrate on the honor the Gevirah has bestowed on you, Daughter. Your name will be remembered with ours as women who influenced history, shaped nations, and ruled kingdoms.”

  Ruled kingdoms? These women were insane! They actually thought themselves rulers.

  Ima’s black eyes glinted like polished obsidian. “What do you say to such an honor, Jehosheba?”

  Sheba stared back—two women, identical but for the deep wrinkles creasing the Gevirah’s face. “How will you reunite the nations, and who will be the king?” From the dangerous squint of Ima’s eyes, her response was less than pleasing.

  But Gevirah’s tone seemed rather cheerful. “Let’s review the kings enthroned at present, little Sheba, and perhaps you can decide who we’ll choose.”

  Ima Thaliah squeezed her eyes shut. Trouble.

  Jizebaal prattled on. “Your abba Jehoram has done everything Thali has told him to do. He killed his brothers, made Thali’s sons governors in their places, and holds his nephews captive to ensure no retribution from other relatives. He even made Baal worship mandatory on every high place in Judah. His only mistake was almost getting himself killed during Edom’s rebellion.”

  She leveled her gaze, all playfulness gone, and a warning shofar sounded in Sheba’s mind as the Gevirah ground out the words. “My son Ram, on the other hand, has lost Moab’s tribute, and Samaria wallows in ruin after a yearlong siege. The Yahweh prophet Elisha increases in popularity and fancies himself a statesman, healing Aram’s leprous commander—the very man who shot my lord Ahab.” Without warning, she lunged off the couch and grabbed Sheba’s throat, strangling, hovering over her with a rasping voice. “Who should be king of our new nation, little Sheba? Do you dare instruct—”

  “Ima, enough!” Thaliah shoved the Gevirah away, and Sheba skittered backward from the lunatic woman.

  Shaking violently, Sheba rubbed her neck and then looked down at her trembling fingers. Bloody. Her neck burned where the Gevirah’s fingernails had left their marks. No wonder so many in Judah called her Jezebel, “pile of dung.” Jizebaal had clearly earned her enemies.

  “Hazi!” the Gevirah hissed. “Your brother Hazi will be king as soon as we clear the thrones, you stupid camel.”

  Sheba’s heart nearly stopped, and she felt herself grow pale. “What do you mean, ‘clear the thrones’?” She glanced over her shoulder at the eunuchs in the room. None of them seemed bothered by the treason being discussed.

  Jizebaal must have noticed her concern. “Are you worried about the servants’ discretion?” She clapped her hands and motioned over two eunuchs carrying trays—one with olives and cheese, the other with three wine goblets. Both knelt and placed their trays on the tiled floor. “Open your mouths,” the Gevirah commanded.

  They obeyed, staring aimlessly beyond Sheba’s left shoulder. She gasped and looked away. No tongues.

  Jizebaal pointed to the other servants in her chamber. “None of them can write or speak. I trust them completely because I control them completely. It’s the only way to ensure unquestioning obedience.”

  Ima Thaliah’s words ech
oed in the corners of Sheba’s mind. If you ever disobey me, you’ll wish I had drowned you in Gideon’s Pool of Trembling. She shuddered at the memory.

  “Are you cold, my dear?” Jizebaal purred. “You are farther north than you’re accustomed to.” The Gevirah straightened her robe, seeming to have wholly regained her composure. “How long have you spent training to be a Baal priestess, Sheba?” She picked at a snag on her blue silk scarf, docile as a lamb.

  Resettled on her knees, Sheba placed her trembling hands in her lap and tried to ignore her stinging neck. “Ima Thaliah began my training when I was five, and I’ve served Prince Baal in thirteen Awakening Festivals.”

  “Your training is a testimony to the patience instilled into Thali as a queen of destiny. Unlike kings, who lead armies into battle and kill thousands for a quick victory, queens of destiny shape nations with our wits, and we only sacrifice a few lives as it becomes necessary.” The Gevirah turned a foreboding glare at her daughter. “If my son Ram changes, grows more respectful, he could reign in Israel for years.” Returning her attention to Sheba, she leaned forward and whispered, “And if you perform your duties well, perhaps your abba Jehoram will keep his throne until we’ve prepared Hazi to unite our nations peacefully.”

  Sheba swallowed a lump the size of Mount Hermon. Abba’s life depended on her success? “And what are my duties?”

  Jizebaal shifted her attention to Athaliah. “How well has Sheba learned Astarte’s seductive arts?”

  Ima Thaliah’s neck burst into a deep shade of crimson that undoubtedly matched Sheba’s cheeks. “She was training as a high priestess, so Mattan and I didn’t concentrate on perfecting those skills.”