by Mesu Andrews
From the adjoining room, he heard the Carite chuckle. “If we put a sword in that big priest’s hand, only someone very foolish or very brave will cross him.”
Jehoiada returned, tossing robes at the three waiting men. The Carite’s grin was friendly, not superior, putting Jehoiada at ease. “I suppose if we’re going to risk our lives together, I should know your name.”
“I’m Zev.” The Carite bowed slightly.
Jehoiada returned the polite gesture. “My name is Jehoiada, and I’ll get a sword from one of the Temple guards in the courtyard on our way to . . .” He raised his brow at Obadiah, who had already donned his robe and was helping King Jehoram with his.
“I don’t have time to explain.” The nobleman pulled his hood over his head, and the other men hurried to do the same. Jehoiada glimpsed King Jehoram’s pale features and saw him wince as Obadiah cradled his shoulders, leading him like an old woman out the door. “Keep your swords hidden unless you need them,” Obadiah whispered over his shoulder.
They hugged the wall along the rainy courtyard. From the shadows, Jehoiada recognized one of his Levite guards, who was understandably startled by the four shrouded figures approaching.
“It’s me!” Jehoiada raised his hood slightly when the guard drew his weapon. “Don’t ask any questions. Just give me your sword and continue helping the wounded. If the city falls, get as many of the sacred articles out of the Temple as you can.” To his credit, the Levite silently offered up his sword, his expression mirroring Jehoiada’s fear and confusion.
“This way!” Obadiah looped King Jehoram’s right arm around his neck, led them through the Temple’s Sur Gate, and nearly ran toward the northern city gate.
Suddenly realizing their destination, Jehoiada cast a questioning glance at Zev. “We can’t exit the Sheep Gate in the middle of a siege!”
Obadiah ignored them, continuing his intrepid path.
A few cubits before they reached the gate, Zev leapt in front of the nobleman. “Stop! You’re not taking the king out of the city!”
“The entrance to the quarry is along a narrow path outside the northern wall.” Obadiah kept his voice low, motioning to the guards in the watchtower above. King Jehoram moaned, and Obadiah alternated glances between the king and his stubborn escorts. “He’s getting worse. Please! We must hurry.”
Zev looked to Jehoiada as if testing the trust of an ally. Jehoiada wasn’t sure why they’d formed this tenuous bond, but the Carite seemed genuine. Jehoiada measured the king’s growing discomfort and pinned Obadiah with a stare. “First, tell us how you know about this quarry.” When the nobleman drew breath to protest, the priest folded his arms and planted himself beside Zev. “We will have answers before taking one more step.”
“All right! King Solomon used foreign slaves—corvée—to quarry the limestone beneath Mount Moriah and build the Temple. Yahweh warned Solomon that Israel’s idolatry would someday force Him to punish His people and demolish the Temple. Solomon believed God, and by destroying all record of the quarry and sealing its entrances, he hoped to secure a hiding place for the Ark when God’s judgment fell. The only ones to know of the quarry’s existence from generation to generation have been Yahweh’s high priests.”
“Then how do you know?” Jehoiada asked the nobleman.
“And why couldn’t the king know?” King Jehoram spoke his first slurred words, and Jehoiada readied a biting reply—until he realized the drops running down the king’s face were perspiration, not rain. Jehoram was suffering severely.
“I know of the quarry,” Obadiah confessed, “because Amariah asked me to hide the prophet Eliezer there after he issued the Lord’s scathing message against King Jehoshaphat.”
Jehoiada remembered Eliezer’s prophecy—only one of two times Jehoshaphat had earned Yahweh’s displeasure. “All right,” he said, nodding to the Carite. “Let’s find this secret quarry.”
Zev returned the nod and then glanced over his shoulder at the southern slopes of Jerusalem. “The enemy is approaching from the west and southwest. I’ll tell the watchmen at the gate that we’re escaping with King Jehoram to a caravan I’ve arranged—that we’re taking him to a northern fortified city.”
Zev disappeared into the watchtower, leaving Jehoiada and Obadiah supporting the ailing king. Within moments, the heavy iron gate opened and Zev returned, helping Jehoiada shoulder Jehoram’s weight so Obadiah could lead them on a muddy path along the city wall.
“Please, I must stop,” the king whispered.
“We can’t stop,” Zev said. “We’re too close to the gate, and there’s no cover to hide us if the marauders should circle north.” Looking to Obadiah, he whispered, “How much farther to the quarry entrance?”
“Not far.”
Jehoiada noticed a foul odor and scanned the area of mostly undeveloped hill country. But the smell was distinctly human. “We’re too far north to smell the Dung Gate, and the northerly wind isn’t strong enough to carry the odor. Where is that stench coming from?”
Obadiah stopped, turned, and offered the king a pitiful look. “Oh, my lord, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know your condition had worsened so quickly.”
Head bowed, King Jehoram hung limp between Zev and Jehoiada. “Just keep going, Obadiah. According to Elijah, my condition is going to do nothing but worsen.”
Obadiah met Jehoiada’s gaze, eyes glistening. “The entrance is just behind those rocks and brambles. There’s a pool inside where we can clean him and refresh ourselves.”
Jehoiada shared a glance with Zev. What did the Carite think of Judah’s king and Yahweh’s judgment? Obadiah wanted to protect King Jehoram from foreign invaders, and Amariah had commanded Jehoiada to do so. But who would protect the king from Yahweh’s judgment? And did Jehoiada even wish to try?
Dread robbed Sheba’s first night’s sleep in Jezreel. Disaster in the morning, the oil and water foretold. What could it mean? When the moonlight streamed through her window nearly as bright as noonday, she gave up all attempts at slumber and knelt before the life-sized clay teraphim beside her bed. She’d forgotten to pack her own Asherah and was forced to bow before Jizebaal’s ancestral god. Perhaps if Sheba divined the secrets of the underworld, she could prepare for whatever disaster lay ahead.
But the teraphim proved as cantankerous as the Gevirah. No divination proved conclusive. Blood did not congeal at any decisive location, nor was the anointing oil diverted by unseen cracks. The teraphim’s only definitive effects were left in dark circles beneath Sheba’s eyes that her maids had worked since dawn to mask with heavy cosmetics.
“Should I braid your hair today, my lady, or will you wear it loose under your head covering?” One of the maids brushed her hair while another worked scented oils into her feet. A third had almost finished applying the malachite and kohl to her eyes when a loud knock sounded on her door.
Sheba inhaled a strengthening breath, certain it was Ima Thaliah, uncertain she was ready for the battles to begin this early in the morning. “Open the door.” She flicked her wrist at Jizebaal’s eunuch, a gift from the Gevirah. This one still had his tongue—an indication of his purpose. You two-faced spy. She remained utterly still, hoping the maids would finish her cosmetics quicker. She mustn’t keep the Gevirah waiting.
Her handmaids let out prim gasps, and Sheba sensed someone approaching. Ready to offer a casual greeting, she opened one eye. “Hazi!” She bolted off the couch and into his arms.
He grabbed her waist and swung her around as he’d done since they were children. Then, planting her feet on the floor, he burst into laughter.
“What?” Sheba stomped her foot, feigning a pout.
He signaled to one of the handmaids for the mirror and held it in front of her, revealing a random streak of kohl from her eyelid past her brow to the edge of her hairline. Evidence of her startled maid’s hand. Sheba cast a blazing glare and every maid fell to her knees, face to the tiles, hands extended.
Hazi retrieved a cloth from one
of their hands, spit on it, turned her chin, and wiped away the damage. “The Gevirah wears heavy kohl, but I think this might be a little much.”
Sheba pounded his iron stomach, and he flinched, chuckling. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Then, realizing Jizebaal’s eunuch was laid out on the floor beside her maids, she amended her question. “Why don’t we go out to the balcony and enjoy a breath of morning air?” She slipped her hand inside Hazi’s elbow, led him to the balcony, and started to pull the lattice door closed on the eunuch who had followed them. When he protested, she interrupted. “Would you please bring dates, goat cheese, and bread. My brother is always hungry.” She shoved him back inside, closed the lattice door, and locked it.
Hazi still held the cloth in his hand and looked a little confused. “What was that about?”
The tears she’d held back since yesterday suddenly breached their dam, words rushing out on a torrent of sobs. “They won’t let me be a high priestess, but I don’t want to marry Yahweh’s high priest. What if I can’t influence him because I was never trained as an Astarte priestess? And why can’t women make choices plus enjoy privileges?” She buried her head on his shoulder, emotions forming her pleas more than reason. Her big brother had always been her best friend, and she told him everything—but no more. Revealing the Gevirah’s detailed plans could endanger him.
When her crying ebbed, she wiped her eyes and was startled to find Hazi staring at her, something undefinable in his gaze. “Don’t let them take your heart, Sheba. They’ll try, but don’t let them.”
Was it fear? Anger? Desperation? Whatever it was, his reaction frightened her more than anything the Gevirah had said. Instead of melting into his arms, she turned away. “What? What do you mean?” She would do anything to guard their relationship, so she forced a giggle. “No one will ever have my heart but you, Brother. You know that.” She stood at the balcony railing, gripping it as though it were a lifeline.
Hazi spun her around to face him, digging his fingers into her flesh. “Don’t treat me like an imbecile. I know Ima threatened you at Gideon’s Pool. I don’t know what she and the Gevirah told you in private chambers, but I know this, Sheba. Ima tries to own you. She’ll steal everything that’s precious—and destroy it—if you let her.” He released her, and his tone softened with his gaze. “But she can’t take away your ability to love, little sister. Don’t let her take that—from us.”
Her throat too tight to speak, Sheba fell into his arms, thanking the gods for someone who knew her struggle without explanation. “I love you, Hazi.” As they held each other, silence spoke what their words couldn’t.
Ferocious pounding rattled the balcony doors, and then a key in the outer lock. Sheba roared her frustration. “How dare you—”
Ima Thaliah stood like a sacred stone—immovable—inspecting Sheba’s red-rimmed eyes, Hazi’s sober countenance. “You must have heard already.” Without waiting for an answer, she marched onto the balcony, returned the key to the chamber guard, and began shouting orders. “Close the door and stand watch.” Turning to her children, she demanded, “Tell me how you two found out before I heard the news!”
Sheba shot a puzzled glance at Hazi, fear and confusion rendering her speechless.
“We don’t know much, Ima,” Hazi said, playing coy. “Tell us what you’ve heard.”
“The only certainty right now is that the Philistines and Arabs have invaded Jerusalem, but the walls still stand. Ram is speaking with General Jehu, and they’re considering sending Israelite troops to help.”
Sheba hurried to the balcony railing, hiding her shock from Ima Thaliah.
“I should never have left Jerusalem.” Hazi’s voice sounded tortured. “I must ready the Carites to return home. You and Sheba can remain here—”
Sheba turned, ready to protest, and saw Ima frantically embrace her son. “You will stay here with us, Hazi! If your abba is dead, we’ll send messengers to Judah’s fortified cities and crown one of your older brothers as king.” Awkward silence followed her outburst. Seeming almost embarrassed by her emotions, she released him, straightened her rumpled robe, and returned to her stony countenance.
“What do you mean, if Abba is dead?” Sheba tried to staunch her tears, but this terrifying possibility on top of yesterday’s barbaric revelations . . .
“You are a princess of Judah, Sheba—and now a queen of destiny. Act like it.” The utter disgust in Ima’s reprimand slapped her as surely as a physical blow. Judah’s queen turned her attention to Hazi. “Right now, our best strategy is to remain in Jezreel until we know Jerusalem’s standing—and that’s the end of the matter.”
Hazi trembled with barely controlled rage.
Please, Hazi. Don’t make trouble here. Sheba remembered the Gevirah’s glowing report of Hazi’s pliability. It was the only thing keeping him alive.
He rolled his shoulders back, straightened his spine, and then inhaled before offering Ima an exaggerated bow. “If I am dismissed, General Athaliah, I would like to confer with King Ram and his commander. Perhaps I can arrange the menu for our midday meal—unless you’d like to decide that too.” Without waiting for a reply, he marched away and slammed the lattice door—and Sheba’s chamber door beyond.
Ima Thaliah turned to Sheba, lifting a single eyebrow. “He needn’t bother with the menu. We’re having roast lamb with lentils and garlic.”
Sheba’s heart twisted. Could she really be so cold? “Would you stay with me for a while, Ima?” Perhaps a little time together would remind Ima Thaliah of their bond—who they were before they arrived in Jezreel, before the Gevirah issued threats and changed Sheba’s future. Maybe time together would remind Ima Thaliah of the love she had for Abba Jehoram.
“Your maids are lazy and undisciplined, Sheba. If you’d commanded them as you should, they would never have allowed Hazi into your chamber before finishing your cosmetics. Now we’ll likely be late for our meeting with the Gevirah.” She lifted a carefully painted brow. “Take care of your servants, Daughter, or I’ll discipline them—and you.”
“Yes, Ima.” Sheba bowed as Queen Athaliah left the balcony with the same slamming of doors as her son moments before. Tears threatened again, but this time Sheba refused them. She would not suffer weakness—nor would she let herself consider what might be happening in Jerusalem.
9
1 KINGS 18:26, 36, 38–40
Then [the prophets of Baal] called on the name of Baal from morning till noon. “Baal, answer us!” they shouted. But there was no response. . . . Elijah stepped forward and prayed: “O LORD . . . let it be known today that you are God in Israel.” Then the fire of the LORD fell and burned up the sacrifice. . . . When all the people saw this, they fell prostrate and cried, “The LORD—he is God! The LORD—he is God!” Then Elijah commanded them, “Seize the prophets of Baal.” . . . They seized them, and Elijah had them . . . slaughtered there.
Jehoiada hummed one of the Levite’s psalms, trying to block out the incessant sound of water dripping down the quarry walls. They’d set up camp near a pool of crisp, clean water, but King Jehoram’s declining condition made it difficult to keep their water clean.
“Obadiah?” King Jehoram stirred, waking after another nap.
“No, it’s me, the priest Jehoiada.” He picked up the only clay lamp burning and positioned the small circle of light to encompass the king. The quarry ceiling in this area was as lofty as the Temple, a vast chasm at the bottom of a system of divergent tunnels and narrow passageways. Without Obadiah’s sharp memory and sense of direction, none of them would have found this quarry, nor would they find their way out.
King Jehoram lay on his side, propped on one elbow, using his now-filthy robe as the only padding between him and the limestone floor. Jehoiada sat down and placed the lamp between them. “Obadiah and Zev have returned to the entrance, checking the time of day and making sure we haven’t been discovered.”
“Has there been any report on the city? Have either of them tried
to reenter through the Sheep Gate?”
“Not yet.” Jehoiada bowed his head, praying for wisdom. He’d had two days to gather his thoughts and calm down. “King Jehoram, may I ask you about something you said on the night we escaped?”
The king released a beleaguered sigh. “I’d actually like to ask you a few things about that night as well.” Jehoiada bowed his head, deferring to the king’s questions first. “You said my sons invaded the Temple and attacked the Holy Place and its furnishings.”
Jehoiada nodded.
“Why didn’t Yahweh strike them dead that night? If He’s so powerful and demands such exacting holiness, why not kill anyone who steps into His Temple the moment they trespass?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you see, here’s how my wife and Jizebaal would explain it. They would say Yahweh is declining in strength and Baal Melkart is increasing. They would say their priests can outshine your sacrifices with divination and sorcery, and so far, Priest, I would have to agree with them.”
Jehoiada tamped down his rising temper and kept his voice calm. “And what about Elijah’s rousing victory over Jezebel’s priests of Baal on Mount Carmel?”
Jehoram erupted with a full-bellied laugh. “Well, the queen of dung, as you call her, concedes that Elijah’s three-year drought, the slaughter of Baal’s priests on Mount Carmel, and the pillar of fire that consumed the offering were impressive displays of Yahweh’s strength.”
“But . . .” Jehoiada coaxed.
“But after Elijah incited the Israelites to kill the Baal prophets, he ran for Jezreel and didn’t wait for the rest of the display. The Gevirah says immediately after hearing of her priests’ slaughter, she began killing Yahweh’s prophets, and only then did the storm god Baal send rain. Why do you think Baal worship rose again so quickly in Israel? Queen Jizebaal convinced the people that Baal Melkart sent the rain to end the drought after she killed Yahweh’s prophets.”