In the Shadow of Jezebel

by Mesu Andrews

  “You’re right, Abba and Ima sent me to convince you to marry Jehoiada, but the truth is—I’m afraid for you to stay here alone after I’m gone.” She couldn’t meet his gaze, didn’t deserve his love and loyalty, but he tilted her chin up and studied her. “I don’t know what happened in Jezreel with Gevirah Jezebel”—they both chuckled at his daring use of the slanderous name—“but I know whatever they planned is tearing you apart, and I believe Jehoiada will protect you. It may not be the life you hoped for, but it’s life. Marry him, Sheba.” He tapped the end of her nose and grinned. “It will put my mind at ease while I marry every pretty girl in Judah.”

  She wanted to smile and pretend it was okay—but it wasn’t. “What about a bride’s betrothal year? What about a bridegroom preparing for his bride and coming with attendants to collect her? Am I to be robbed of every happiness in this life?” The last words were garbled by a sob, but Hazi didn’t need to understand what she said to know her heart.

  He gathered her in his arms again. “I don’t know exactly how your wedding celebration will proceed, but I know everyone in the city is adjusting to death and destruction. Perhaps your wedding will give Jerusalem something to celebrate while we’re trying to rebuild. I know it’s not perfect, but . . .”

  “I hate her. I hate both of them.” Sheba spoke the hard words softly into Hazi’s shoulder. He knew who she meant.

  “I know.” He held her. Silently. Patiently. Without judgment. When her muscles began to cramp, he helped her stretch out on the bed. “I’ll get your maids. You need some sleep, and I’ll return before the evening meal to hear your answer for Jehoiada.”

  The thought of giving an answer made her nauseous, but she let him send the maids. Sleep. She needed sleep. Perhaps the gods would reveal what she should do in a dream. And if Hazi likes this old man, perhaps he’s not all bad.

  She was too weary to wrestle with her thoughts and gave herself to the ministrations of her maids.

  Jehoiada returned through the King’s Gate to a multitude of curious priests awaiting word of the bride negotiations.

  “Will you pay a mohar out of the Temple treasury?”

  “When’s the wedding ceremony?”

  “Is she beautiful?”

  A string of questions and a line of priests followed Jehoiada all the way into the rear gallery, where more priests anxiously awaited his return. Before they could add their inquiries, Jehoiada lifted his hands—as much in surrender as pleading for silence. “Please, brothers. We have much to accomplish and little daylight to do it.” An eruption of more questions confirmed that the marriage topic wouldn’t be put off so easily.

  “All right. All right!” He slammed his hand on the center table, startling them into silence. “I presented King Jehoram with two conditions, and the royal household has promised an answer by tonight’s sacrifice. As for your other questions: No, the date has not officially been decided. No, Temple funds will not be used for a bride-price. And if the marriage occurs—as Yahweh directed through the Thummim—the princess will live on Temple grounds as the high priest’s wife and nothing more.”

  Shock. Disbelief. Utter horror stared back at him. What had they expected? That the couple would share a palace on the western ridge?

  “We have much to accomplish today,” he continued without addressing their obvious concern. “The first task being the appointment of my second priest. The Law gives no specific requirements, leaving it to the high priest’s discretion and Yahweh’s approval by Urim and Thummim. I have chosen Nathanael ben Jotham, of Remiel’s family. After drawing the family’s lot from the first basket last night, and Nathanael’s stone from the second basket, I believe the Lord’s hand of favor is on the young man.”

  An excited buzz worked through the room, and like the Red Sea the crowd of priests parted, allowing Nathanael to join Jehoiada.

  Nathanael bowed slightly, whispering, “Me? Are you sure? I have no idea what a second priest’s responsibilities entail.”

  Jehoiada chuckled and matched his quiet tone. “Neither did I when Amariah chose me.” Again lifting his voice above the excitement, Jehoiada questioned Nathanael publicly before drawing from the breastpiece. “Nathanael ben Jotham, of the family Remiel, I have chosen you to serve as second priest for all the days I, Jehoiada ben Jonah, serve as Yahweh’s high priest. You will be required to live in community, with whatever wife and children Yahweh blesses you with, in the chambers of Yahweh’s Temple for as long as you serve Him. Can you commit to such a calling?”

  The young priest blinked several times before answering, and Jehoiada wondered if fear of another Urim rejection might deter him. “Yes, Brother Jehoiada. If Yahweh accepts my service, I will commit my life to Him.”

  Jehoiada placed both hands on Nathanael’s shoulders, steadying him, and then reached for the breastpiece of decision lying on the table behind them. Jehoiada lifted his brow at the priest’s assistant, silently asking if the stones were ready. A confirming nod, and Jehoiada reached inside. He closed his eyes and drew out the stone, holding it aloft without looking—so certain was he of Yahweh’s approval.

  The room erupted into cheers, and Nathanael covered his face and wept.

  Jehoiada engulfed him in a hug, surrounded by others joining their celebration. The high priest stepped aside, allowing those who knew Nathanael best to encourage him most. To feel rejected by Yahweh as he might have last night would embitter some, but this young man was willing to lay his heart bare before the Creator again. Jehoiada wiped a tear and called the group to order once more.

  “Another task lies before us, and then we must resume our many duties.” The priests quieted as Jehoiada continued. “Eleazar, the chief keeper of the threshold, was killed in the Temple attack. I’m appointing a new chief gatekeeper.” He scanned the sea of faces but saw only priests, no Levites. Addressing the priests nearest the doorway, he said, “Send for the Kohathite guard Zabad.” A low hum rumbled through the gathering. “Many of you won’t know this young man, but he’s largely responsible for saving Jerusalem, and I believe him to be courageous and strong of heart.”

  Zabad appeared at the doorway, confusion etched on his features. “You called for me?” He glanced around the room of priests, clearly intimidated, but stepped inside, fixing his gaze on the new high priest. “How may I serve you?”

  Jehoiada smiled, accepting the young man’s question as unwitting compliance. He extended his hand, summoning the Levite to the center table. He whispered for Zabad’s hearing alone, “Remember last night when I told you we’d need leaders to replace those we’ve lost?”

  Zabad’s brow furrowed, but he stood courageously as Jehoiada began his public questions. “Zabad ben Seth.” He paused, emphasizing Zabad as the son of a Levite, not simply the son of an Ammonite woman. The guard nodded furtive thanks. “I choose you as chief keeper of the threshold to oversee the Temple gates, treasury, and chambers, and to open Yahweh’s gates for His worshipers every day for the rest of your life. You will be required to live in community, with whatever wife and children Yahweh blesses you with, in the chambers of Yahweh’s Temple for as long as you serve Him. Can you commit to such a calling?”

  Zabad glanced around the room and back toward the doorway, where a few curious Levites had gathered. “May I ask a question before giving my answer, Brother Jehoiada?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why? Why would you make me chief gatekeeper? Why not honor one more worthy or experienced?”

  Jehoiada lifted his voice, addressing the growing crowd. “I have chosen Zabad because I have seen him defend Yahweh’s Temple and its high priest without prejudice or favoritism—against the king’s Carites, against heathen Philistines and Arabs—and I believe he would defend this Temple against even Yahweh’s priests, should any of us transgress His laws.” He placed a hand on Zabad’s shoulder. “This is why you are my choice. Shall we ask Yahweh for His decision?”

  Zabad gulped audibly, his eyes as round as the king’s incens
e saucers. A nod was his only reply, but it was enough to send Jehoiada’s hand into the breastpiece of decision once more.

  He held up the white Thummim in front of Zabad’s eyes before checking its color. “This, Zabad, is Yahweh’s approval of you. Don’t let any man say you are less than worthy of Yahweh’s best.”

  A reserved applause rippled through the priests, quite subdued compared to the festive response Nathanael had received. But Zabad didn’t notice. His eyes were full of Yahweh’s approval, which flowed in tears down his cheeks.

  Jehoiada watched the celebration surrounding him and was suddenly awed at Yahweh’s grace and mercy. Though he still mourned Amariah’s loss, the blossoming ministries of these young men provided hope, where yesterday there was only discouragement. And Jehoiada’s marriage to the young princess was beyond unconventional, but perhaps Obadiah had been right when he reported Elijah’s letter to Jehoram and said Yahweh was at work in Judah.

  Jostled back to the present as the priests exited, Jehoiada shouted above the commotion, “You’ve each been given your tasks for this day. We’ll meet back here shortly before the twilight sacrifice.”

  Nathanael and Zabad lingered beside him, and Jehoiada opened his hand, realizing he still clutched the white Thummim.

  “Were you as amazed as me when the Thummim was drawn to approve your high priesthood?” Nathanael stood gazing at the white stone.

  “I daresay I was every bit as amazed as you.” Jehoiada placed the stone into the pocket of the breastpiece. “Come, you two. Nathanael, I’ll show you to your chamber. You can sleep in my bed, and I get Amariah’s wool-stuffed mattress.”

  The new second priest chuckled. “As it should be.”

  Jehoiada stopped, a terrifying thought striking him like a blow to the head. “Zabad, now that you’re in charge of assigning priests’ chambers, we should talk about preparing a bridal chamber—if the princess actually agrees to my terms.” He felt his cheeks flush and noted the young men elbowing each other. “And Nathanael will need to live in the chamber next door.”

  Zabad grinned and squeezed Nathanael’s cheeks. “Wouldn’t you rather wake up to a princess instead of this ugly mug?”

  Jehoiada lifted a single brow, stopping their antics with a scowl. “I will awaken to the cleansing of the Molten Sea and the high priest’s garments.” He walked away, knowing they’d follow, hoping his blush would disappear by the time they needed to discuss tonight’s sacrifice. The thought of waking up to a beautiful princess was entirely too much to bear.

  16

  EXODUS 29:40

  With the first lamb offer a tenth of an ephah of the finest flour mixed with a quarter of a hin of oil from pressed olives, and a quarter of a hin of wine as a drink offering.

  Sheba woke to afternoon sunlight streaming through her balcony with the eerie feeling of doom. She opened one eye and then the other, waking from sleep as deep as death, trying to remember what day it was, what year. Her eyes felt as if someone had poured sand in them—swollen and scratchy. With utter despair, life came rushing in. I’m to marry an old man and live as a common priest’s wife.

  “Ooh!” she groaned, pressing her fists into her eyes.

  “So you’re finally awake.”

  She screamed, nearly falling off the bed at Ima Thaliah’s greeting. Irritation overcame decorum. “Haven’t you already ruined my life? What more can you do to me?”

  Ima sat like an Asherah on the couch by the balcony. She raised a single kohl-defined brow, addressing the maids. “Leave us.”

  Heat rose in Sheba’s cheeks. Fear. Regret. Shame. She should never have spoken so disrespectfully—especially in front of witnesses. “I’m sorry,” she said before the last maid hurried out the door. “I didn’t mean it. I’m tired, confused.”

  Ima remained unmoved. Waiting. Sheba tried to tamp down her rising panic, unnerved by the extended silence, her heart beating like a drum. Could Ima hear it across the room?

  “You seem to have assumed that our plan for your future has taken some unexpected turn.” Ima’s voice was cool, distant. “When I chose you as my daughter, I sent word to the Gevirah that we had our next queen of destiny. You were lively and quick-witted, accepting of change, and eager to learn—even as a young child. I believed you could be a queen.”

  Sheba’s nerves gave way to confusion. “But how can I be a queen if I’m to live in squalor as a priest’s wife?”

  Ima Thaliah sighed, shaking her head. “You are a queen of destiny because you will influence Yahweh’s high priest as an honorary daughter of Jizebaal. Your name will be remembered throughout history as a woman who saved the house of David by your sacrificial marriage.” At the mention of the house of David, a sudden warmth enfolded Sheba—not the familiar flush of fear, but a balm of peace unlike any she’d known. And just as quickly it was gone, replaced by a shiver and Ima’s piercing stare.

  “I hope your tremor is a sign of excitement at the days ahead.” Thaliah tugged at a leather necklace, lifting a stone seal from beneath her robe. She produced a similar bauble from her pocket. “Do you recognize these?”

  Sheba scooted off the bed and joined Ima on the couch. The spring breeze from the open balcony was cool, making her shiver again. “They’re seals like Abba uses to imprint his official mark on parchment scrolls.”

  Ima Thaliah smoothed her hair, an affectionate gesture done a thousand times, but this time it felt contrived. “Yes, Daughter, but these seals are almost identical to Gevirah Jizebaal’s, different by only one letter. Mine adds the first letter of my name.” She pointed to the seal hanging from her neck. “And this one adds the first letter of your name.”

  Sheba gasped, accepting the precious gift from Ima’s hands. “You had it carved for me?” Ima Thaliah nodded, her eyes misting as if genuinely moved by the enduring heirloom. Perhaps Sheba had been too hard on her. The visit with the Gevirah had placed them both under enormous strain, and maybe, now that they had returned home, their relationship could regain the tenderness she craved.

  “Here, let me fasten it securely.” Ima nudged her to face the balcony, and Sheba lifted her hair so she could tie the leather knot. “You must never take off your seal, Daughter. It’s like a second skin to you, and it will be the only way we’ll have to communicate when you live on the Temple grounds with the priest.” The words pierced Sheba’s freshly exposed heart. “Since he’s insisting you live like a common priest’s wife, we won’t be able to send a maid with you, so you’ll have to write any urgent correspondence and use your seal on the scroll to ensure its privacy. I’ll make sure you can trust at least one of the Temple guards, and we’ll exchange our messages through him.”

  She fluffed Sheba’s hair around her shoulders and turned her around. “And do you see why your priestess training in several languages is so crucial? Find out which language your new husband does not understand, and use that one in our communications.”

  Sheba maintained even breaths, refusing to grieve over leaving this woman who obviously cared nothing about her. “It seems you and the Gevirah have everything well thought out.”

  Ima fiddled with the new seal dangling around Sheba’s neck. “Hide it beneath your clothes, and when your priest demands you remove it, refuse him. It’s good for a wife to refuse her husband something now and then.” She winked as if they were old gossips sharing a secret and then patted her knees, a nervous tick signaling she was ready to leave. “Well, it’s time I sent your decision to the priest. We don’t want to keep the old curmudgeon waiting.” Her forced cheerfulness was so sickeningly sweet, Sheba almost asked for bitter herbs to offset the charade. Instead, she remained silent, letting Ima brush her cheek. “Would you like me to send a personal message to your new bridegroom?”

  Mischief crept into Sheba’s tone. “Tell him I’ll bring balm of Gilead for his creaking joints.”

  Thaliah’s eyes lit with fury. “You will make Jehoiada believe he is the love of your life because that’s the way a woman gains power over
a man. If you haven’t learned that by now, Jehosheba, perhaps the Gevirah and I were wrong about you.” She sat there fuming, staring.

  Sheba’s heart pounded again. This was her chance. If she was ever to refuse the marriage, now was the time. But what then? After all she’d learned about Ima Thaliah, the Gevirah, kings on thrones, and the destiny of queens . . . The world was a grinding stone, and she could choose to be the hand that turned the wheel or the kernel that was crushed.

  She stood, and Ima Thaliah quickly matched her stance. “I’ll convince Yahweh’s priest he’s a god,” Sheba said. The approval in Ima’s eyes pressed her to the next level of dread. “And tell Mattan I’ll be ready to assist him with your sons’ burial service after our evening meal.”

  Shortly before last night’s twilight service, a palace messenger brought word to Jehoiada that Jehosheba had accepted his terms. He’d nearly sliced off his thumb during the evening sacrifice—his concentration was lacking, to say the least.

  This morning, Jehoiada stood on the elevated porch of the Temple with over three hundred priest candidates—robed, barefoot, and as nervous as he’d been while awaiting his consecration years ago. The weeklong ordination would begin in three days. Jehoiada would lead this morning’s regular sacrifice and then have a senior priest announce both the consecration and the wedding planned after the feasts. At least Jehoiada could concentrate on the Feasts of Passover and Unleavened Bread before his new wife demanded his attention.

  Yahweh, help me focus on serving You. It would be a miracle, considering he recalled Jehosheba’s face with every breath.

  Lifting his hands, Jehoiada began the familiar Hebrew prayer, inviting the congregation to recite with him. “Hear, O Israel: Yahweh is our God, Yahweh alone. Love Yahweh with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.” The crisp spring air rang with the melody of the faithful, the courtyard full to bursting. The Levite choir began their sacred psalms, and Jehoiada folded his hands at his chest, content to scan the faces of those he would serve for the rest of his days.