In the Shadow of Jezebel

by Mesu Andrews

  Defeated, Sheba followed them down the guards’ stairway. They often traversed the circular steps to avoid gawking servants and Judean watchmen on the grand stairway. A Carite guard greeted them as they entered the women’s hall by Ima Thaliah’s private suite. They continued halfway down the corridor to Sheba’s chamber, past the empty rooms where Abba’s wives once lived. The royal children had lived in separate quarters, closer to the courtyard so their nursemaids could play with them after daily lessons. Now everything in the palace felt empty, hollow, lifeless.

  Yahweh’s Temple couldn’t be any worse. It was Sheba’s only consolation.

  She pushed open her heavy cedar door and found two maids preparing henna stain for her hands and feet—at least this was one bridal tradition she needn’t forgo on her wedding day. “Out!” The maids bowed and left the henna behind.

  Ima Thaliah waited to speak until the door clicked shut. “We’ve negotiated wedding events with the high priest.” She glanced at Hazi, who sat on the couch near the balcony, stoic and silent, and then she assumed an instructional tone with Sheba. “After tomorrow’s ceremony and feast, you’ll go immediately with your new husband to live at the Temple. Unfortunately, because their ordination and Feasts of Passover and Unleavened Bread come in such quick succession, he has refused the traditional week of yihud after the wedding.”

  Hazi closed his eyes, as if anticipating Sheba’s pain.

  “He refuses me the union week?” she whispered, bracing herself against the bed. Loneliness choked her. Rejection robbed her of breath. Was she to be deprived of every joy of a young girl’s dreams? Where were the privileges the Gevirah had promised? Sheba saw only lost choices, a ruined life.

  “Sheba!” Hazi nearly shouted, evidently not the first time he’d spoken her name. “I tried to argue that even the patriarch Jacob spent a union week with a bride given to him in deception, but Jehoiada wouldn’t budge. He said ordination must occur before Passover, and Passover is only delayed if he’s defiled by a dead body within seven days of celebrating it.”

  “It’s all right,” she whispered, staring at the blood seeping through her bandages. “Perhaps he’s afraid of being defiled by a Baal priestess.”

  Hazi left the couch and nudged Ima aside, which earned him a scowl. He ignored her, knelt before Sheba, and cradled her hands. “He said marrying a beautiful princess wouldn’t make him unclean—simply distracted. He has promised to honor your yihud week immediately following Passover and the Feast of Unleavened Bread—because he wants to be completely focused on you.”

  Sheba slammed the iron doors of her heart closed. “Don’t, Hazi. Nothing about this match resembles a real wedding. No betrothal contract. Abba won’t be there. No foreign ministers will celebrate with a king’s daughter. We’re either at war with their country or their ambassador can’t arrive in such haste. I don’t suppose it matters that I relinquish yihud with an old priest—perhaps he’ll die before I have to bed him.” She lifted a cynical eyebrow in Ima’s direction and then turned her stare on the wall, snubbing both family members. Let them fume.

  Ima sat down beside Sheba, her voice surprisingly soft. “I know this isn’t a typical royal wedding, Daughter, but we’ll make it a wedding famed in Judah’s history. We’ll incorporate some of Tyre’s traditions, and since your bridegroom refused Mattan’s offer to officiate the service, Baal’s high priest will stand as proxy for your abba and escort you and me to the chuppah.”

  Sheba glared at her. “How can you let Mattan near me after what he did?” She lifted her sleeves, baring her bandaged arms.

  Ima lifted the sleeve of her own robe, revealing two tiny scars. “Mattan honored you with the initiation of a high priestess though the Gevirah robbed you of that role. My virgin blood was spilled—just like yours.” She lifted a single eyebrow, daring Sheba to argue.

  How could Ima compare her forearms to the gashes on Sheba’s arms, legs, back, and hand? If Hazi hadn’t wrested the knife from Mattan during the attack, she’d be dead.

  Hazi tugged her chin toward him. “I’ll officiate the ceremony as the crown prince of Judah, which means I’ll be waiting for you under the wedding canopy. Keep your eyes on me, Sheba, just like you’re doing right now.” He winked, trying to lighten the mood. “I need to practice standing under a chuppah—since I’ll marry a maiden in every city on my tour.”

  Sheba tried to smile but found herself studying her brother instead. Was he really resigned to his future of nameless, faceless wives? Or was this another convincing bluff for Ima Thaliah?

  “What happens at the feast?” she asked him, hoping he’d have kinder answers than Ima. “How long can we celebrate before I must leave the palace?”

  “That’s the best part, my darling.” Ima shoved Hazi aside this time and nestled beside Sheba on the bed. “You are to tease him. Use what you’ve been taught as a priestess of Baal to entice your new husband. And while you’re making him ache for your days of yihud after Passover, Hazi and I will spoil him with the pleasures and privileges Prince Baal offers his priests. By the time the abbreviated wedding feast is done, your Yahweh priest won’t want to leave the luxurious life of Baal’s pleasures.”

  The thought of tempting an old man nearly sent Sheba running for the basin, but she stared into the expectant faces of her ima and brother and knew she had no choice. “Send in my maids on your way out.”

  After a sympathetic smile, Hazi started toward the door, but Ima hesitated. “Would you like me to stay and direct your maids on proper wedding preparations?”

  A few days ago, Sheba would have been thrilled—honored, even—that Ima Thaliah wished to spend time with her. “No. I’ll direct my maids. Thank you, Ima.”

  Jehoiada’s knees nearly buckled when he first glimpsed the tall and slender silhouette of his new bride in the archway of the Throne Hall. She waited, veiled and radiant between Queen Athaliah and Mattan, until the palace musicians began King David’s wedding Psalm, her virgin attendants in two lines behind her. In the pre-wedding negotiations, Jehoiada had asked to maintain the tradition of bedeken.

  Hebrew brides were typically covered head to toe on their wedding day with a heavy veil woven with golden thread. After the patriarch Jacob was fooled by the heavily veiled Leah, every Hebrew husband had the right to visit his bride’s chamber and peek under her veil before the ceremony. It had become a joyous part of the wedding day, meant to give the couple a few private moments before the service. Jehoiada had hoped to speak with Jehosheba alone—even for a moment—to determine if she came to the chuppah willingly or under compulsion.

  But Jehoiada’s request was denied, the rejection written on a scroll of Tyrian parchment and closed with a seal bearing Jezebel’s name and Jehosheba’s first initial. The scroll read, “If the high priest refuses the tradition of yihud, the bride refuses bedeken. I will dress as a daughter of Tyre.”

  The whole thing was ludicrous. Yahweh’s high priest stood in Solomon’s palace, waiting under a wedding chuppah with the crown prince of Judah, to marry a king’s daughter—a pagan priestess. He winced. He’d promised to forget her past—but had she?

  The musicians’ stringed instruments strummed King David’s familiar song, and the Levitical choir continued their verses:

  Listen, daughter, and pay careful attention:

  Forget your people and your father’s house.

  Let the king be enthralled by your beauty;

  honor him, for he is your lord.

  The city of Tyre will come with a gift,

  people of wealth will seek your favor.

  All glorious is the princess within her chamber;

  her gown is interwoven with gold.

  Jehoiada felt a lump form in his throat. Was Jehosheba listening to the prophetic mystery of King David’s psalm written almost four generations past? He watched his willowy bride in her Tyrian gown interwoven with gold. An embroidered purple belt cinched her tiny waist, glimmering with rare jewels matching the crown of gold that held in pla
ce a sheer veil—through which large, kohl-rimmed eyes stared at him defiantly.

  No. She wasn’t listening to the song. Her eyes burned with the same fire he’d seen the first night they’d met in the quarry. Only one thing was different now. He knew the fire would consume her if Yahweh didn’t intervene.

  Jehosheba arrived at his side, the breeze of her approach carrying with it the sweet scent of acacia and lavender. She let her gaze linger on Jehoiada, offering a seductive pout, and then turned toward her brother. The veil danced as she trembled. His bride was a study in conflict, driven by too many masters.

  Prince Ahaziah raised his voice to the gathering. “Honored guests, priests of Baal, servants of Yahweh.” He nodded at each contingent huddled with their kind. “King Jehoram has asked me to welcome you on his behalf. The king is beset with a most inconvenient ailment and hopes to return to his throne shortly, but until then he’s asked Queen Athaliah and myself to satisfy the responsibilities of his office.”

  Jehoiada’s respect for the young prince plummeted. He knew from Obadiah’s reports that the king would not recover and, in fact, grew worse each day. The prince lied well. Wondering how much he could ever trust Hazi, Jehoiada was caught off guard when he heard the prince repeat his name.

  “Jehoiada?” he coaxed while the Throne Hall waited in silence.

  Yahweh’s high priest glanced at the quizzical stares of those around him. Athaliah, with her usual vengeful expression, joined Mattan’s sinister smirk. He turned to Nathanael, who had agreed to serve as friend of the bridegroom, and the kind young man whispered clarification. “Prince Hazi explained the ceremony as a bit unorthodox, including both Hebrew and Tyrian traditions, and he awaits your permission to proceed.”

  Jehoiada’s heart raced, and he thought perhaps this was the miraculous release he’d hoped for. He glanced at Jehosheba’s soulful, pleading eyes. Her lips, the color of the deepest red rose, trembled slightly.

  Do you trust the Word of Yahweh through the Urim and Thummim?

  Startled, Jehoiada turned to search out the questioner. Only Obadiah would speak to him so boldly—but he was perched on his cushion in the back row.

  Do you trust the Word of Yahweh through the Urim and Thummim?

  Again Jehoiada glanced about, but slowly he realized the voice emanated from deep within. Understanding dawned. Yahweh! Yes, I trust You.

  He returned his attention to his bride, who had gone pale waiting for his answer. “I am ready to proceed!” he nearly shouted, startling everyone.

  Prince Ahaziah chuckled and winked at Jehosheba. “Then as the representative of the king of Judah, I now join Yahweh’s high priest to the house of David. Jehoiada ben Jonah, do you vow to provide for Jehosheba, daughter of King Jehoram . . .”

  The words flowed through Jehoiada’s mind and over his heart. They were mere ceremony now. His vow had been made when he remembered the Thummim, the covenant made upon his promise to care for Jehosheba all his days.

  19

  DEUTERONOMY 17:2–3, 5–6

  If a man or woman living among you . . . has worshiped other gods . . . take the man or woman who has done this evil deed to your city gate and stone that person to death. On the testimony of two or three witnesses a person is to be put to death, but no one is to be put to death on the testimony of only one witness.

  After the ceremony Sheba and Jehoiada were escorted by a detachment of Carite guards to their feasting table in the grand courtyard—a low rectangular table perched on an elevated platform. Ima Thaliah sat at Sheba’s right hand, and Hazi, Mattan, and handsome Nathanael sat on Jehoiada’s left. Seating women with men publicly was quite unconventional, but as Ima promised, nothing about the wedding had been common.

  Sheba peered down the long row of honored guests, furtively inspecting the second priest. Why didn’t the Yahwists choose Nathanael as high priest?

  Jehoiada leaned forward, raised his eyebrow, and blocked her view.

  Mortified, her cheeks burning, she needed a quick distraction. She wrapped her veils tighter, accentuating her curves, and then began serving Jehoiada wine and tasty morsels with sultry glances and an occasional brush of skin. As the feast wore on, Yahweh’s high priest seemed more annoyed by her coy games than tempted, and Sheba’s confidence waned with each of his disapproving sighs.

  Trumpets announced the last round of speeches and jokes just before twilight. Panic threatened to choke her. In moments, Sheba would walk away from the only life she’d known.

  No longer a princess. Now, a priest’s wife.

  Hazi stood, bowing grandly, and the courtyard erupted in applause. He’d already won many hearts in Jerusalem. “Have you heard about the high priest who wandered into the Temple of Astarte?” Men began jeering as Hazi continued the coarse joke.

  Sheba glanced at her bridegroom, who appeared utterly miserable. Ima’s plan to win him with wealth and pleasure had gone awry. For the extravagant gifts of a golden waistband and an ivory-inlaid collar, he’d offered obligatory thanks before whispering to Nathanael that they’d sell the items to feed the poor in the City of David. He then dismissed the remaining Yahweh priests to make preparations for the evening Temple sacrifice. The man’s piety was infuriating.

  Ima Thaliah gripped her arm, pulling her close. “Why are you just sitting there? Charm your high priest.”

  Sheba donned her practiced smile and pressed against Jehoiada’s right arm while reaching for a pitcher. “How may I serve you, my husband?” she asked in a sultry voice, refilling his wine but refusing to meet his gaze.

  He placed his hand on hers, steadying her hold on the pitcher, and leaned close, his whisper warm on her cheek. “You may continue this pretense a little longer, but when you walk out with me at twilight, you will never again live a lie.” He tightened his hand on hers. “Do you understand, Wife?”

  She dropped the pitcher, shattering the Egyptian amphora and spilling wine on his priestly garments. Gasping, she leapt to her feet, covering her mouth with trembling hands and staring in horror at the crowd who stared back. Hundreds of eyes focused on her awkwardness.

  What will Ima’s punishment be this time?

  A shadow hovered over her, and a hand brushed her face—light as a feather. “It seems I’m to be anointed twice in two days.” She felt Jehoiada’s breath against her cheek again, his nearness suddenly a relief, not a threat. “Today anointed with wine as your husband, and tomorrow with sacred oil as high priest. I consider both Yahweh’s calling.” He coaxed her hands away from her mouth, kissed her palms, and cradled them gently to his chest.

  Hazi leapt to his feet and raised his goblet. “Lift your glasses to celebrate the union of Yahweh’s high priest with the house of David.”

  Sheba pulled her hands from Jehoiada’s grasp, struggling to steady her ragged breaths. How dare he pretend kindness after his harshness had caused her blunder? He appeared confused—even hurt—that she pulled away.

  Distracted, she noticed Mattan whisper something to Hazi, causing her brother to relinquish his role as host. Baal’s high priest motioned for the audience to be seated, and Jehoiada cast a questioning glance at Sheba. She answered with a shrug.

  Mattan swept his hand over the crowd. “King Jehoram has asked that I not allow you, his honored guests, to leave this grand occasion without sharing his hope for the nation of Judah. Princess Sheba’s marriage celebrates the joining of Yahweh’s high priest to the house of David, but let it also mark the blending of old traditions and new expressions.” He paused, allowing approval to spread. “Let this marriage inaugurate a new day in Judah—a day in which the beloved King Jehoshaphat’s traditions are revered, and the auspicious Prince Ahaziah’s reforms are explored!” He seized Hazi’s hand, lifting his arm like a champion charioteer, and the room burst into applause.

  Sheba stood with the rest, clapping wildly, but noticed her husband and his second priest sat awkwardly without so much as a smile. She felt her cheeks flame, embarrassed at the open disrespect Jehoiada show
ed. The applause died as others, too, noticed his rebuff and resumed their seats. Hazi sat beside his new brother-in-law and cast a questioning glance at Jehoiada, who met Hazi’s gaze with a pitiable expression. Yahweh’s high priest placed a hand on Hazi’s shoulder as if comforting him. The crowd grew still, the moment tense.

  Mattan shattered the silence. “Our good Prince Ahaziah plans to follow in his saba Jehoshaphat’s wise footsteps and tour the cities of Judah, assuring them of his commitment to their safety and exploring necessary national reforms. If we are to survive in this ever-changing world of trade, we must embrace the cultures around us and learn to respect all people and all gods.”

  The crowd cheered once more, but Sheba kept a watchful eye on a dancing muscle in Jehoiada’s clenched jaw. Sheba still envisioned him toting the lamb up those altar stairs and slicing its neck. She scooted closer to Ima Thaliah, choosing a known threat to her unknown fear, while Mattan prattled on.

  “Though we’ve decided to forgo Baal’s Festival of Awakening—out of respect for those killed by the Philistines and Arabs—the Yahwists have chosen to proceed with their annual festivals of Passover and Unleavened Bread. As a show of solidarity, Prince Ahaziah has agreed to participate in their festivals this year.” A flutter of approval worked through the crowd, and Hazi nodded, receiving the hushed praise.

  Sheba saw Mattan glance at Jehoiada, a silent challenge of sorts. “In lieu of our festival, Queen Athaliah has asked that we enact Baal’s Awakening as the final event of our wedding feast. What could be more appropriate than a true royal wedding to celebrate the sacred marriage of Prince Baal and Lady Astarte? Let the new life of Jehoiada and Jehosheba produce fruit in keeping with the new life of our crops and livestock. My assistant priest, Gattam, will become Prince Baal in the sacred act, and our lovely bride, Sheba, will play the part of Astarte.”

  Wild applause met Mattan’s introduction, but Sheba couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She kept her eyes downcast, humiliated. How could she enter a marriage tent with a priest during her wedding feast—before she lay with her husband? Ima and Mattan had placed her in an impossible situation. If she played the part, she betrayed her husband. If she didn’t play the part, she betrayed her nation.