In the Shadow of Jezebel

by Mesu Andrews

  Jehosheba stood like a crumbling pillar, terrified of this man’s power over her. Did he truly love her, or was he a gifted liar like Hazi and the rest of them? She couldn’t give him her heart again—for if he broke it once more, it would end her.

  The trembling began in her shoulders—and grew to quaking as Jehoiada waited for her to respond. She dropped the bag and grabbed fistfuls of her hair, her breathing ragged, her mind becoming muddled. What should she do? Where could she go? A low whine started deep in her throat. As she clawed at the wounds on her face, the pain distracted her from the here and now.

  “Jehosheba, no! Shh, my love.” Jehoiada seized her wrists and then led her toward the bed. “Shh. Come here.”

  She thought he meant to bed her, and panic nearly blinded her. “No, please! I can’t give myself to you now.”

  “I only want you to lie down,” he whispered. “I won’t ask anything of you.” He cradled her elbow, guided her to the bed, and eased her head onto the lamb’s-wool pillow. Still shaking, she let him cover her with a linen sheet.

  He sat beside her, brushing sweaty hair from her forehead. “I’ve never lied to you, Jehosheba. Our marriage happened quickly, but we both agreed it was ordained by Yahweh. Remember? I heard Yahweh speak through the Thummim, and you realized He was at work when both Athaliah and Jehoram independently contrived our marriage.”

  She closed her eyes slowly, then opened them. Almost a nod.

  It was enough to invite more words from her husband. “Though I’m not perfect, I’ve never betrayed you, and I never will. Baal is a lie, Jehosheba. In the palace, people lie. But Yahweh is truth—perfectly dependable—and He has sealed a covenant of love with us that He’ll never break. Don’t let lies from your past tarnish the hope of our future. Trust Yahweh first, and then trust me.”

  The gentleness of his voice eased her shaking, but so many emotions and questions chased in circles around her mind.

  “Do you want to talk?” The mere question sent her into renewed trembling and tears. “Okay, no talking,” he amended quickly. “May I lie down beside you while you rest?”

  She nodded. More tears, less trembling.

  Jehoiada lay facing her. He closed his eyes too, and she fell into a fitful sleep.

  27

  LEVITICUS 24:5–6, 8–9

  Take the finest flour and bake twelve loaves of bread. . . . Arrange them in two stacks, six in each stack, on the table of pure gold before the LORD. . . . This bread is to be set out before the LORD regularly. . . . It belongs to Aaron and his sons, who are to eat it in the sanctuary area, because it is a most holy part of their perpetual share of the food offerings.

  Jehoiada edged slowly onto the bed, trying not to jostle his sleeping wife. She’d been resting all afternoon, giving him time to think, to pray. Lord, please don’t let my sin and the sins of others destroy this precious lamb. He glanced around their bedchamber, making sure everything was ready for when she awoke—clean linens, a fresh robe, pitchers of fresh water.

  Tears clouded his vision as he lay next to Jehosheba, studying this gift from Yahweh. He’d rehearsed her hysterical words again and again, trying to make the irrational, rational. I am not your love . . . Yahweh is a lie . . . Give me to Mot . . . Kill me now before Yahweh’s wrath devours me like it has Abba . . . Then her piercing words about his first wife, meant to destroy him. Jehoiada thought Jehosheba had overcome the ravages of Athaliah’s abuses, but he was wrong. The inner wounds were still healing, torn open with devastating consequences.

  Hazi had seen enough of Jehosheba’s collapse to frighten him. He’d returned shortly after she fell asleep, quietly knocking on the outer chamber, escorted by Zev and Zabad.

  “Did you know about my first wife and our childlessness?” Jehoiada had asked.

  The guilt written on Hazi’s face answered for him. “Who told her?”

  “The point is—you didn’t tell her. I thought she knew, so she found out from someone else and feels betrayed.” Jehoiada spoke in a whisper at the doorway, not wishing to wake his wife. When Hazi studied his bare feet like a scolded student, Jehoiada instructed Zabad to fetch Nathanael, requesting the extra linens, water pitchers, and basins. The chief gatekeeper eagerly obeyed and hurried down the hall, knocking on side chambers to find the second priest.

  When Zabad left, Hazi finally spoke. “Zibiah is very upset that Sheba called her a liar.”

  Jehoiada stared at his brother-in-law, incredulous. “I suppose Jehosheba thought Zibiah broke her promise about keeping silent.” Indignation rose up, causing the overdue question to be asked. “Explain to me how you could sentence your sister to a life of barrenness without even gaining her consent. The Law gives all Jewish maidens the right of refusal before they enter into a betrothal . . .” He stopped, realizing how foolish he sounded. Why would Jehoram and Athaliah care about the Law of Moses?

  “Jehoiada, you’re making too much of this.” Hazi broke into his charming smile, bracing the high priest’s shoulder like an old friend. “Sheba is a strong woman. She’ll overcome this, and she’ll have lots of nieces and nephews to bounce on her knee—”

  “Don’t you dare.” Jehoiada ground out the words as Zabad arrived with Nathanael.

  The second priest toted fresh linens over his arm. “Jehoiada, you’re bleeding!” Nathanael wiped blood from the sacred breastpiece and pointed to a smear on the ephod.

  Hazi’s face drained of color. “What did you do to her? I want to see my sister!”

  He tried to push past the chamber door, but Jehoiada stopped him, tears choking his voice. “She cut her face on my breastpiece, offering her own blood to Baal or Yahweh. Her mind is confused, and she’s frightened. She will have peace in this chamber.” He released Hazi, who stumbled backward into Zev’s arms, dazed, speechless.

  In the awkward silence, Nathanael took charge. “May I suggest Eliab perform the high priest’s duties tonight and tomorrow while you tend to your wife’s needs?” Jehoiada nodded, and Nathanael turned to Hazi. “My lord prince, might I ask if you would send something from the palace that might refresh Lady Jehosheba? Perhaps her favorite food or some luxury we don’t have here?” The capable second priest continued his detailed planning at the door, and Jehoiada slipped inside and melted onto the embroidered couch.

  Finally, Nathanael entered and closed the door, leaving the two men alone. The second priest helped Jehoiada stand and then began removing the priestly garments—crown first, then he unwound the turban. Nathanael had just removed the breastpiece and ephod when they heard another slight knock. Zabad let himself in, followed by three priests, each carrying a fresh pitcher of water, a basin, and a towel. Nathanael waited until the others left before removing the high priest’s tunic, giving Jehoiada a chance to wash the scratches on his face before donning a fresh woolen robe.

  “Thank you,” Jehoiada said as his second took away the golden garments and dirty water. “I don’t know how I can ever repay your kindness.”

  “There are no debts in Yahweh’s service. It is my privilege to serve you—and Him.” He bowed, maneuvered the door open with his elbow and foot, and then turned. “I’ll leave a tray of bread and cheese outside your chamber for this evening’s meal.” And he was gone.

  Jehoiada’s stomach rumbled at the thought. A dusky amber glow lit the bedchamber now. The evening service would soon be starting.

  Jehoiada found the food tray outside the door as Nathanael promised but didn’t want to eat without Jehosheba. So he lay beside her, watching her sleep, aching to touch her.

  Dried blood from the breastpiece cuts had pasted clusters of hair to her cheeks and forehead. Long, black lashes lay in clumps, dried together with tears. The front collar of her gown was bloodstained—but all this could be washed away. Yahweh, how do I heal what’s broken inside her? What lasting scars caused her to yearn for Mot and doubt Yahweh? What emotional cruelty had created the need to pack a bag and flee at the first sign of conflict?

  His stomach rumbled aga
in, and this time he blamed anxiety. The sound roused his wife, her face so peaceful—until she glimpsed him lying beside her. Her eyes filled with tears, and the trembling began instantaneously.

  “What are you doing here?” She bolted upright, looking at the dusky glow from the window. “Why aren’t you at the sacrifice? Where is your breastpiece? Your ephod?” Her breathing grew ragged. “You’re heaping more of Yahweh’s wrath on me.”

  Jehoiada lay still, speaking quietly. “Did you know that your ancestor King David once ate the holy showbread?”

  Her only response—blinking streams of tears down her cheeks. At least she was looking at him, holding his gaze, listening.

  “When Saul was still king of Judah, David fled his murderous attempts and was hungry when passing through Nob. Ahimelek the priest had just replaced the sacred showbread with fresh loaves at the Tabernacle. David and his men ate the old showbread—though the Law said it should only be eaten by priests.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her response.

  She turned her back to him, curling into a ball. “I don’t care about showbread.”

  She might not care, but her trembling had eased and her crying abated. Perhaps apathy was better than panic—for now. Jehoiada scooted off the bed, retrieving a pitcher of water and washbasin with a clean cloth. He walked to the other side of the bed, placed the basin on the table, and poured fresh water over the cloth. He wrung it out and began dabbing her face. She didn’t resist.

  It was a start.

  After a few more damp cloths, her hair began to loosen from the wounds on her cheeks and forehead. He gently pulled it away and began explaining again. “I am consecrated showbread, my love. Sometimes I am present in the Holy Place before Yahweh, but on other occasions—like tonight—I am given over for a special purpose.” He wiped her fresh tears with the cloth. “I am showbread to nourish a daughter of King David.”

  She turned away and shook her head, shame as visible as the blood that stained her robe. “I am a priestess of Baal, not a daughter of David. I am Athaliah’s daughter—not by blood but by careful training. We were pretending I could become something else.”

  He leaned down to kiss her. She turned away. So he brushed his lips against her ear. “We were not pretending. You are becoming something else, with Yahweh’s help and my love. All your life, you’ve been abused by those who should have protected you. But it wasn’t your fault, Jehosheba. It’s something that happened to you, not who you are.”

  Her eyes grew distant. She’d withdrawn again, the shutters closed on the windows of her soul. Gone, and he didn’t know how to bring her back.

  Serve her. The words blew over his heart like a warm breath, giving direction.

  Remembering the servants he’d observed at the palace, thinking of Nathanael’s humble spirit, Jehoiada busied himself around the chamber. He carried the embroidered couch from the outer room, lifted his wife’s empty shell, and laid her on the couch. Her head rested on its edge. He placed an empty basin on the floor and released her long, black mane over the armrest. He knelt beside her, one hand pouring water from a pitcher while the other massaged the blood and sweat from her hair. The aroma of acacia and lavender filled the chamber, scented oils Hazi had brought from the palace that Jehoiada worked into the taut muscles in her neck and shoulders.

  Eyes closed, she began sobbing quietly. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, continually rinsing her hair, massaging the oils into her silky skin, cherishing the precious gift Yahweh had given him. Words would only betray the moment. Fine arguments, deception, and broken promises had driven her to this brokenness. It was time for action—time to live the truth he’d touted so long.

  He reached for one of the wool towels to wrap around her wet hair, but Jehosheba clutched his neck, deep, racking sobs shaking her. He laid everything aside and drew her into his lap on the floor, rocking her as she poured out her pain. Time held no purpose. Love had no bounds. The chamber was completely dark by the time she grew quiet, and Jehoiada’s legs had progressed beyond cramping to utterly numb. He laid her on the goatskin rug and stood, stretching in the moonlight.

  “I’m sorry.” Jehosheba’s small voice was barely audible even in the black stillness.

  Jehoiada rushed to lift her to the bed. She weighed no more than a yearling ram. “No, my love. No,” he said, wishing he could see her face. “There’s no need for apologies.” He waited, but the silence stretched into loneliness. He lay beside her again.

  “I’m afraid.”

  He found her hand in the darkness, cradling it in his own. “Whatever comes, we’ll face it together. Yahweh will never leave us.”

  Yahweh, give me understanding to speak when You’ve given wisdom and listen when she’s ready to share.

  Sheba woke to the sound of hushed voices in the outer room. “Jehoiada?” Trembling, she saw his face at the bedroom door almost immediately. He looked exhausted.

  Keilah appeared behind him, and Sheba’s heart stopped beating. She heard herself gasp.

  Jehoiada hurried to the bed and sat beside Sheba, his huge frame moving side to side, keeping her from seeing the wet nurse. “Keilah was worried when she didn’t see either of us at the sacrifice this morning. She was just leaving.”

  Sheba’s mind reeled. “Do you want her to leave? Are you angry that she came?” In the new light of dawn, she wondered if she might trust Keilah. Had she been silly to think the nursemaid might have intentionally hurt her?

  Jehoiada looked perplexed. “No, no. I thought you would want her to leave. She came to me crying, confessing that she was to blame for your pain—the one who told you about Anna.”

  “Anna?” The name escaped on a sob, piercing Sheba’s heart. “Was that your wife’s name?”

  A shroud of shame swept over Jehoiada’s face, and he seemed to struggle with control before leaning forward to kiss her forehead. “Yes, my love, her name was Anna. There is much we need to discuss.”

  Sheba glimpsed the back of Keilah’s robe and heard the outer door click. “Wait! Don’t let her leave!” she shouted, startling her husband. He looked hurt, but she had to explain to Keilah. “This wasn’t her fault,” she said through tears. “She can’t believe this was her fault, Jehoiada. Please.”

  He nodded somewhat reluctantly and left their bedchamber about the time Sheba heard more voices.

  “Keilah! I’m so glad to find you here.” It was Zibiah’s voice, and then Hazi chimed in, chattering at Jehoiada. Sheba wanted to find a hole and crawl in it. She couldn’t face everyone at once.

  “Sheba?” Zibiah appeared at the door, hope and trepidation sketched in equal parts across her face. She gathered Keilah under her wing, and the two stepped together across the threshold into Sheba’s sanctuary.

  “Please, don’t,” she said, choked by tears. They stopped, waiting for her to say more. “I can’t talk now, but please don’t give up on me.” She turned over, sobbing into her pillow, emotions completely out of control again. Would she ever be able to speak without crying? Were fear and darkness her permanent prison?

  “Ladies.” She heard Jehoiada’s strong voice. “Thank you for checking on Jehosheba. Neither of you were at fault for her sorrow, and she’ll need good friends when she’s regained her strength. May I send for you both when my wife feels ready for a visit?”

  Sheba kept her head buried in her pillow but heard both women’s kind assurance of their love and friendship. She didn’t deserve such goodness.

  “And Keilah.” Jehoiada lowered his voice as if Zibiah had already gone. “I owe you an apology. I treated you coolly because of my own pain. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “Of course, my lord, think nothing of it.”

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  Sheba wanted to see their faces, but she dared not risk more pity by emerging from hiding too soon. Feet shuffled to the outer chamber, and the door clicked. She sensed Jehoiada’s return and peered out from beneath her pillow. “Thank you.” Tears started again, and she
growled her frustration.

  He sat on the bed, pulling her close. “We must talk about many difficult things in the days to come, my love. If I promise not to be ashamed of my tears, can you promise to abide with yours?”

  Such sweetness melted what little restraint she had left. How could anyone be this good, this loving? Surely he would disappoint her again or grow tired of her weakness. Dare she open her heart to him once more?

  “Let me tell you about my life,” he said, laying her on a pillow and crawling into bed beside her. “Make yourself comfortable, because it’s a long one.” His dark eyes sparkled, and she almost grinned. Almost.

  Sheba yearned to nestle under his wing, but her eyes fell on the partially packed shoulder bag from last night. Jehoiada, Hazi, Zibiah, and Keilah—could she trust any of them? All of them? None of them? Perhaps if she preserved a relationship with Keilah, she’d have a way out if Jehoiada proved as good a liar as Hazi.

  28

  PSALM 116:11

  In my alarm I said, “Everyone is a liar.”

  No, Hazi.” Jehoiada paced the small Temple side chamber. “I don’t care if Queen Athaliah sends the whole Judean army after her. Jehosheba is not going to the palace for a private meeting with your ima. Only a few weeks have passed since Sheba’s collapse, and she’s just begun eating regularly again. She’s in no condition—emotionally or physically—to face the queen.”

  “But Zibiah says she’s improving, that she’s talking to both her and Keilah now.”

  “She’s talking, but she’s not ready to play war with Athaliah!” Jehoiada ceased his pacing and sat in the chair opposite Hazi. “Why don’t you stand up to Athaliah and tell her to visit Jehosheba at the Temple?”

  “Because I enjoy breathing.”

  Jehoiada lifted a brow. “We’ve been talking about your saba Jehoshaphat for weeks now, but perhaps you don’t know the story of his abba Asa. When Asa became king, he deposed his ima—the Gevirah Maakah—because she made an Asherah pole. Perhaps we should learn more about King Asa.”