In the Shadow of Jezebel

by Mesu Andrews

  And then he saw them.

  Prince Ahaziah, Princess Jehosheba, Obadiah, and Zev the Carite captain stood discreetly near the Guards’ Gate in the inner court—the entrance normally used by palace and Temple staff. Why hadn’t they entered through the King’s Gate as was customary for royalty? What business had Obadiah with the princess? Had the king’s condition worsened? They would surely send for Mattan if he’d died—considering the royal sons’ burial last night at Baal’s temple.

  He stole another glance at the princess standing between the Carite and her brother. She was stunning, lithe, and graceful—more beautiful than he’d remembered. Her dark, round eyes beckoned him, though her uplifted chin screamed nobility. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the distraction.

  The Levite hymns were ending, and Jehoiada was expected to offer the sacrifice. Preoccupied yet dutiful, he descended the porch stairs, gathered the wriggling year-old lamb in his arms, and heard the crowd gasp when he reached the platform surrounding the brazen altar. Only after the fleeting memory of Amariah’s painful struggle up the altar steps did Jehoiada realize why the worshipers had grown utterly silent. Toting the stout, yearling lamb up the steps was effortless for Jehoiada. In all his years as a priest, he’d wrestled dozens of rams and bulls to the slaughtering tables in the courtyard. But no one except other priests had seen it.

  As if sensing his discomfort, the lamb stilled and looked up with its mournful black eyes. “I know you don’t deserve it,” he whispered to the innocent lamb, “but that’s the point.”

  The two priests waiting exchanged worried glances, no doubt wondering if the new high priest had lost his mind—talking to sacrifices.

  Jehoiada placed the animal on the platform, held its neck over the drainage trough, and raised his voice. “May the blood of the lamb atone for the sins of God’s people.” With a swift, clean slice, Jehoiada offered the atoning blood into the channel surrounding the altar. He knelt there until the light of life left the lamb’s eyes. Thank You for forgiving Your people, Yahweh.

  While the other priests went about the work of sectioning the lamb for burning, the prayers of Yahweh’s faithful created a reverent hum. Jehoiada received the sacred grain offering from a third priest, who had baked the flatbread this morning using fine flour and the purest olive oil—always seasoned with salt.

  Jehoiada lifted the grain offering before the crowd with his right hand and held a quarter hin of fermented wine in a pitcher with his left. “May these offerings made by fire be a pleasing aroma before the Lord—even as the prayers of His people ascend to His holy throne.” He tossed the unleavened bread into the fire and poured out the wine, mingling it with the blood of the lamb.

  The Levite choir began their closing hymns, and Jehoiada descended the altar stairs, his heart and mind consumed with the realization of his high and holy calling. This would be the last sacrifice he’d make as an ordinary priest. After his ordination, he would appear before the people wearing the golden garments of the high priest—the ephod, the breastpiece, and the diadem affixed to his turban. In the past, he’d performed the morning and twilight services when Amariah had been unable to serve due to illness, but care for God’s people had never before rested squarely on his own shoulders.

  “Brother Jehoiada.” Zabad approached, jarring him from his contemplation as he reached the porch steps. “Prince Hazi and Obadiah have come with the princess to see you. Captain Zev has asked to escort them to your private chambers for a brief meeting.”

  Everything within Jehoiada screamed, No! I’m distracted enough! We must begin our preparations immediately! But he remembered the four troubled faces and sensed something out of the ordinary. “Ask them to wait in my chamber. I’ll explain my delay to Nathanael so the assistants can continue their work.”

  Zabad bowed and hurried to deliver his message. Jehoiada glimpsed Zev and the prince ushering the princess through the inner court, noting her wince when they supported her arms. Obadiah shook his head and followed like a fretting ima. Dread crept up Jehoiada’s spine. This visit had nothing to do with King Jehoram.

  Jehoiada quickly explained the circumstance to Nathanael while the senior priest announced suspended public worship during the seven-day ordination service. Faithful worshipers began grousing but were soothed by the promise of ordination sacrifices on the community’s behalf.

  “And a bit of happy news,” the senior priest added. “Our new high priest will marry Princess Jehosheba, daughter of King Jehoram, in a private wedding ceremony!” A resounding cheer rose, and Jehoiada ducked his head, fairly running toward his chamber to escape well-wishers.

  Whispering a prayer as he hurried across the inner court, he stopped outside his door and inhaled a calming breath. Why was his heart beating like the hooves of a horse in a chariot race?

  He opened the door and began talking at once. “How may I help—”

  The sight of her took his breath. Princess Jehosheba stood like one of the Temple pillars—as white as limestone from the quarry. They’d removed her outer cloak and pushed up the sleeves of her robe. Bloodied bandages lined her forearms, and her left hand bore a stitched wound.

  Jehoiada stumbled back against the door frame. “Yahweh, help her.” The whispered prayer escaped before he realized he’d spoken, and the young woman winced as if she’d been slapped.

  Prince Ahaziah stepped forward, his eyes red-rimmed, his face chiseled granite. “Actually, I was hoping you would help her.”

  Confused, Jehoiada regained his footing and crossed his outer chamber in three steps. The young woman recoiled as if frightened—of him. “What happened to her?” He posed the question to any of them but directed his increasing anger at the men. “Who did this?” he shouted.

  Obadiah drew a breath to answer, but the prince intervened. “A priest!” He matched Jehoiada’s fury. “A priest did this!”

  Obadiah stepped between them, placing a calming hand on both their chests. “Jehoiada is not like Mattan. Tell him what happened to your sister. He will listen.”

  Ahaziah lifted his trembling chin, grasping at nobility, struggling against tears. “Ima Thaliah and I attended the burial ceremony for my older brothers last night at Baal’s temple. Mattan asked Sheba to serve as chief priestess, bestowing that honor since her marriage disqualifies her from the role of high priestess.” He stepped aside, showcasing the violence. “Mattan said four dead princes required a great deal of virgin’s blood to gain entrance into Mot’s underworld.”

  Jehoiada’s whole world tilted precariously on the edge of a single question. “How could your sister—my newly betrothed—serve as a Baal priestess?” His tone betrayed his threat. Yahweh’s high priest could never marry a pagan priestess.

  Prince Ahaziah appeared suddenly confused, then panicked. “You knew she was a priestess! When she demanded to see Abba in the quarry, she told you—”

  Obadiah turned slowly toward the prince. “No. Princess Sheba told me she was a priestess—on the road to Jerusalem before we entered the quarry. If you didn’t disclose that to Jehoiada in negotiations, he didn’t know and can’t be bound by the betrothal.”

  Every eye turned to Jehosheba as the legal ramifications settled like dust after a windstorm. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin—but couldn’t staunch her tears. “I am a princess of Judah, trained as a Baal high priestess. I did not intend to hide either fact. To me, they are one and the same—it is who I am.”

  Jehoiada’s heart broke at her hopeless tone. He stepped toward her, but she flinched like a frightened animal and stepped behind her brother. All breath left him. “I won’t hurt you.”

  She trembled violently, clutching the prince’s sleeve with her good hand, peering around his broad shoulder.

  Jehoiada backed away, unwilling to cause added distress. “Jehosheba, you are more than priestess and princess. Those are simply roles you play, like Astarte in the Festival of Awakening. It’s not who you are.” He paused, his throat tight with emotion
, and then whispered, “I will marry the princess. I pray you destroy the priestess before the priestess destroys you.”

  17

  EXODUS 20:3, 5–6

  You shall have no other gods before me. . . . For I, the LORD your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me, but showing love to a thousand generations of those who love me and keep my commandments.

  Sheba hid behind Hazi, regretting this visit to Yahweh’s Temple and its high priest. Jehoiada’s presence filled the tiny chamber—a man of power, conviction, zeal. The cuts on her arms, back, and legs burned like a thousand hornet stings, and the only image in her mind was Jehoiada hoisting the lamb on the altar as if it weighed no more than a feather. She’d seen many sacrifices but never a man so large, so strong—with such a passion for his god. His whisper was so tender now, but what would he do when he discovered their marriage was a ploy to destroy his god? Would he turn his flint knife on her as Mattan had done last night?

  “Stay away!” She hid her face in Hazi’s back, startling the three men in the room.

  The priest’s voice was a mingling of emotions she couldn’t decipher. “I won’t hurt you, Jehosheba. I promise. Sit down here at my table.”

  Sheba peeked over Hazi’s shoulder and found the big priest’s hand outstretched, inviting. Those are simply roles you play, he’d said when she declared herself priestess and princess. “Were you playing a role when you cut the lamb’s throat?” She tried to sound formidable, but hiding behind Hazi undoubtedly spoiled the effect.

  The high priest’s hand dropped to his side, and the remaining anger drained from his features. “No, I was obeying Yahweh’s command to atone for our people’s sin. He chose me as His high priest, and I must sacrifice innocent animals to save the people God loves.”

  The people God loves? Sheba was speechless. The gods might lust for each other and for beautiful women, but they didn’t feel love for humans. Who was this Yahweh, and who was this priest? She swallowed the lump in her throat. And why would he agree to marry her?

  “Come, Sheba. Sit down.” Hazi cradled her elbow and she cried out. It seemed everywhere he touched her bore a wound from last night’s ceremony. He waited, coaxing her with his eyes. “Let’s at least listen to what Jehoiada has to say.”

  The priest backed away, keeping Hazi between them. Trembling, she moved to a cushion beside the low table. Hazi sat beside her, letting her rest against him. Closing her eyes forced a stream of tears down her cheeks. Ima Thaliah would be appalled at her behavior—not at all like a queen of destiny.

  “Okay?” Hazi whispered. She nodded and peeked beneath her lashes. Hazi addressed the priest, who waited patiently by the door. “All right, Jehoiada. Please sit with us.”

  The priest crossed the distance in two steps, nimbly folded his legs beneath him, and cleared his throat. “I wish to make myself clear, Prince Ahaziah. I stand by my agreement to marry Princess Jehosheba under the conditions of our original negotiation. I ask that Jehosheba worship Yahweh alone and live with me as a common priest’s wife. If she still agrees to those terms, then she is not a Baal priestess—correct?” He lifted his brow, awaiting Hazi’s answer.

  Sheba sat up, studying the big man. “But I am a priestess,” she said stubbornly. “And don’t talk about me as if I’m not in the room. Why are you now arguing reasons you should marry me?”

  The priest grinned and folded his hands on the table. “I apologize, Princess Jehosheba.”

  Sheba’s breath caught at the sight of dried lamb’s blood on his hands. Following her gaze, he noticed it too and rose from the table to wash his hands in the basin. When he returned to his cushion, he wore an impish grin. “I’ve never met a priestess so afraid of blood.”

  Hazi snorted—almost a chuckle. She shot him a glare and refocused on the priest. “I doubt you’ve met many priestesses.” Obadiah and Zev tried to stifle their grins. “And I’ve never seen a priest lift a lamb like it was a toy or wield a knife with such skill.” Her voice caught, emotions still as raw as her wounds. All the mirth in the room evaporated.

  Jehoiada’s eyes welled with tears. “Yahweh’s priests never use knives to sacrifice a human being—man or woman, adult or child.” He spread his hands flat on the table—thumb to thumb, they nearly spanned the small, round top. “These hands will never harm you, Jehosheba. If you become my wife, these hands will protect you and show you kindness every day of my life. Remember what I said about marriage being a covenant, representing Yahweh’s love?”

  She nodded, not sure if she wanted to hear more of his ridiculous views on marriage.

  “When we become husband and wife, we will be united before Yahweh with an unbreakable bond. Marriage is a covenant, an oath founded on the character of those pledging their lives. It’s not a treaty maintained by fear or manipulation.” He laced his fingers together, causing her to look into his eyes once more. “I must have your word that your hands, your lips, and your heart will never worship Baal Melkart again. I need to know that you will enter into this marriage as a covenant.”

  She locked eyes with him, refusing to blink, refusing to confess all the deceit she had planned for this so-called marriage. How could he ask her to enter a covenant? Ridiculous! This was political strategy, sheer survival, nothing more.

  “Sheba, he’s a good man.” Hazi’s whisper sounded like a shout in the silence. “Jehoiada can give you life. If you return to serve Mattan . . .”

  She closed her eyes. Death. She knew what awaited her with Mattan. Something in him had snapped when he discovered she no longer belonged to the priesthood. He’d stopped his lusty stares and seemed to be plotting her ruin.

  “I give you my word,” Sheba said, wiping stubborn tears, avoiding the priest’s gaze. “I will not worship Baal Melkart.” Her words hung in silence. Why wasn’t he answering? Did he expect an argument, more discussion? She met his gaze and displayed her carefully honed facade, emptying herself of all emotion. Ima would have been proud.

  Jehoiada seemed at a loss, confusion warring with disbelief on his chiseled, masculine face.

  Hazi broke the awkward silence. “I fear for her safety after Mattan’s aggression last night. How quickly can you marry her?”

  “Oh, by the gods!” She hung her head, humiliated beyond repair. “Am I a broodmare or a king’s daughter?”

  More silence met her coarse question. She lifted her eyes to the high priest’s hard stare. “There is only one true God, Jehosheba, and that will be the last time you call on any other.” He turned to Hazi. “The seven-day consecration ceremony begins in three days. Afterward, there are two days before the feasts begin. Your family may decide whether I will marry the princess before or after ordination.” He rose from the table and offered a curt bow. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must help with preparations for ordination and Passover. Please send a messenger when you’ve decided the wedding date.”

  18

  EXODUS 29:35

  Do for Aaron and his sons everything I have commanded you, taking seven days to ordain them.

  I demand to see my abba!” Sheba shouted at the two Carites guarding the king’s chamber. She was desperate to discover if he’d approved tomorrow’s wedding ceremony. Hazi had taken Sheba to her chamber yesterday after meeting with Jehoiada, ordering a physician to tend her wounds. He then conspired with Ima Thaliah to set the wedding date and notified Yahweh’s high priest without Sheba’s knowledge, giving her only one day for bridal preparations. Tonight was her last night in the palace.

  “Please, Princess, go back to your chamber.” The biggest guard, whom she met eye to armpit, broke protocol and spoke to her. “We’ve been given strict orders that no one is to see King Jehoram except the queen—not even you.”

  “And who gave those orders?”

  “I did.” The door opened a crack, and Ima Thaliah slipped through.

  Sheba nearly swallowed the clove she’d been sucking on to fres
hen her breath for the wedding. Choking, gasping, she bent over, and Ima pounded her back and whispered, “If you continue to make a fuss, I’ll send in Mattan with a priest of his choosing to sharpen your Astarte skills.”

  Terror gripped her anew, so she allowed Ima to guide her to a private corner. “Why can’t I see Abba?”

  “We’ve discussed this, Sheba—”

  “But how can I leave the palace—leave my family—without even speaking to Abba?”

  Sheba noticed a commotion at Abba Jehoram’s door and saw Hazi slip out of the chamber. “Why does Hazi get to see him and not me?” Without waiting for an answer, she shoved past Ima and began flogging the brother who’d betrayed her.

  Hazi caught her around the waist and pinned her arms down, tearing open her freshly scabbed wounds. “Stop it, Sheba,” he whispered against her ear. “Abba doesn’t want you to see him like this. Stop. Fighting. Me.”

  His strong arms held her immobile, and she dissolved into dejected sobs. “Why, Hazi? Why won’t Abba see me?”

  Hazi loosened his grip and tilted her chin. “Abba is dying. He can’t eat. He can only lie in his filth and misery. I can hardly bear to see him myself. Abba is protecting you, little sister. Trust me.”

  Could she trust him? She wasn’t sure after hearing his explanation when Ima asked why he’d shown Jehoiada Sheba’s wounds: “I realized the old priest could’ve nullified the betrothal on grounds that we didn’t disclose Sheba’s priestess standing.” Ima had congratulated him on his shrewdness, but Sheba marveled at his glib deception. What were his true motives for their visit to Jehoiada—concern for her well-being or political positioning? The uncertainty broke her heart.

  Ima wrapped her arm around her son’s broad shoulders. “Come now, both of you. Tomorrow’s wedding will be a celebration, an anchor of joy in this sea of sorrow. Let’s go to Sheba’s chamber and finalize the details, hmm?”