In the Shadow of Jezebel (24 page)

“Jehoiada was married?” Sheba’s whole world tilted. How had she not known Jehoiada had been married—and had no children?

Keilah’s expression reflected the same panic Sheba felt. “I thought you knew. I didn’t mean to—”

Sheba looked at Zibiah. “Did you know?”

“No! I never knew the high priest until I met you both at the wedding feast.”

As she stared hard at Zibiah, the next question lodged in her throat.
Did Hazi know?
She tried to steady her breathing, but it came in quick, uneven bursts. Did Keilah tell her to intentionally hurt her? Ima Thaliah would have. Women always had an agenda. How could Sheba have trusted these two so freely?

Sheba bolted to her feet and hurried to the door. “I’m sorry to be abrupt, but Jehoiada asked that our visit end before the midday meal. I’m needed in the kitchen to . . .” Her brain was too addled to think of a lie. Thankfully the women rushed toward the door without need of one.

“Forgive me, my lady. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Keilah had swaddled Samson, her eyes filling with tears as she walked out the door.

Sheba couldn’t speak but nodded, confused. Was there malice in Keilah’s words? No. The widow hadn’t lied to her.

Jehoiada had lied.

The one person she thought she could trust—he’d lied. She’d been utterly gullible to trust him.

“Should I stay or go?” Zibiah lingered at the door.

“Zabad!” Sheba screeched at the chief gatekeeper as he ambled through the priests’ hallway. “The princess needs an escort.”

Zibiah waited in awkward silence until Zabad arrived at the door. “I won’t say anything to Hazi. May I come back tomorrow?”

Sheba nodded, avoiding the woman’s gaze. Was Zibiah as skilled a liar as Hazi? Had she been sent by Ima Thaliah?

Zabad led her away, and Sheba closed the door, then leaned back and banged her head against it—harder and harder. She had no one. No one.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
If she let a single tear fall, could she stop the flood? She must keep her wits or all was lost.

I’m already lost.
Finally, releasing a low moan, she slid into a heap on the stone floor, tearing out handfuls of hair. “He lied. Jehoiada lied. The only person I trusted betrayed me.” Another thought pierced her soul and paused her lament. “Yahweh, are You a lie as well?”

Silence answered. Nothing. How could she trust an invisible God? No list of omens. No entrails or oil or arrows to interpret.

Wailing low and deep, she laid her cheek on the cold tiles, wishing Mot would swallow her into the utter darkness of his well-defined doom.

At least she could trust death.

2 C
HRONICLES
17:3, 5–6

The L
ORD
was with Jehoshaphat because he followed the ways of his father David before him. . . . The L
ORD
established the kingdom under his control; and all Judah brought gifts to Jehoshaphat, so that he had great wealth and honor. His heart was devoted to the ways of the L
ORD
; furthermore, he removed the high places and the Asherah poles from Judah.

J
ehoiada enjoyed his morning with Hazi, discussing King Jehoshaphat’s long and faithful reign. The young prince seemed genuinely interested in hearing not only the stories of his ancestor but also the real truth of what made Jehoshaphat strong.

“Your saba was a great man first, and then he was a great king. The annals of kings said he walked with Yahweh in the ways of David.”

“But what does that mean?” Hazi asked, and Jehoiada delighted in telling the stories of David as shepherd boy, warrior, and persecuted king-to-be.

Disappointed when Nathanael knocked to announce the priests’ midday meal, he asked, “Have I frightened you away, Hazi, or will you return tomorrow?”

“I’ll be back, my friend, but I’m ready for a break. I’m starving! Let’s see if our wives have finished their gossip so I can take Zibiah back to the palace.” Jehoiada hesitated too long, and Hazi’s cheerfulness died. “What is it? Are you and my sister quarreling?”

Jehoiada issued a “that’s none of your business” glare, and Hazi lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay, but will you at least walk me to your chamber? I get lost in this Temple’s maze of hallways and galleries.”

How could Jehoiada explain that he was afraid to return to his rooms because he didn’t want to see a wet nurse or hear a baby cry? “Of course, but I don’t know what’s so difficult about the side chambers. They were constructed in a horseshoe shape around the Temple . . .”

Hazi regained his jovial demeanor as Jehoiada explained Solomon’s floor plan. They reached his chamber and he lifted the latch, but something blocked the door. Hearing scuffling on the other side, Jehoiada opened the door slowly and glimpsed a flash of Jehosheba’s sky-blue robe as she dashed into the bedroom. The two men stood in the outer room, puzzled.

“Jehosheba?” the priest called out, lifting both eyebrows at Hazi.

The prince shrugged as a weak voice echoed from the bedroom. “Zibiah already returned to the palace. I sent Zabad to escort her.”

Jehoiada shared a concerned glance with Hazi, who patted his shoulder and whispered, “I’ll get one of the Temple guards to escort me to the Horse Gate. It sounds like your wife needs you. I’d better get back to the palace to see if my wife is in the same shape.” Hazi slipped out the door, closing it silently, and Jehoiada considered following him.

Coward
, he inwardly chided. He’d dreaded facing Jehosheba after the way he’d acted last night. The strength evident in her prayer had wrenched his heart. Why hadn’t he allowed her—the person he loved most—to help carry his burden? Pride. He didn’t want to admit that Yahweh’s high priest needed help. He must apologize, but now it seemed something had upset her during
the visit with Zibiah and the young widow. He took a deep breath, prayed for courage, and walked into their bedchamber.

Sunlight through a single, narrow window revealed his wife’s form curled into a ball on their bed. “Jehosheba? Are you all right?” That was a foolish question. He stepped closer but couldn’t see her face. He picked up two flint stones and struck them together, then lit a lamp in the wall niche over the bed.

Her face was splotchy as if she’d been crying, but her eyes were dry, fixed in a distant stare. Blinking.

He sat on the bed and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Jehosheba, my love?” Nothing. He waited, rubbing her arm gently.

“My name is Sheba, and I am not your
love
. Yahweh is a lie.” She turned over, pulling her knees tightly to her chest. “Get your hand off me.”

Jehoiada lifted his hand away. He sat stunned, trying to process the heartrending, life-changing statements she’d made. Where did he even begin to address her pain?

He leaned over her, whispering, “I . . . I don’t understand . . . What—”

“Get out.” Emotionless. Resigned. Empty.

He stared at her fetal form. This was not the wife he knew. Something—someone—had hurt her deeply. “No!” he said, sliding his arms beneath her, dragging her into his lap like a child. “I will not leave until you talk to me. Tell me what’s happened.”

She continued a vacant stare, barely breathing. He grasped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze, but the silent rage in her eyes terrified him. His wife was gone. The woman before him burned with hate.

He released her chin, and she turned away.

Shaken, he laid her gently on the bed and snuffed out the lamp. “I’ll return after tonight’s sacrifice.” No answer, and he sensed no remorse or tears. Fear coiled around his heart. If his wife wouldn’t tell him what upset her, perhaps Zibiah would.

Jehoiada marched past his Temple guards at the southern gate without so much as a nod. He’d never visited the palace without
an invitation, but he remembered ascending the grand stairway to the third floor when he visited King Jehoram’s chamber for bridal negotiations. Surely, if no one stopped him before he arrived at the king’s chamber, the Carites there would be happy to direct him to Hazi—or to the palace prison. He passed through the Horse Gate without any problem, but second thoughts assailed him as he walked through the bustling courtyard. Perhaps he should have told someone at the Temple where he was going.

“Jehoiada?” a voice called from behind him.

“Captain Zev! I’m thankful for a familiar face.”

“What are you doing here?” The Carite glanced all around. “Unattended? This isn’t the entrance you use to serve in the Throne Hall—and central court isn’t in session today.”

Suddenly feeling rather silly, Jehoiada cleared his throat before trying to explain. “I’m here to see Prince Hazi.”

“Weren’t you with him all morning?” Zev raised an eyebrow. “If you weren’t, he and I need to have a serious talk. I can’t be held responsible to protect him if I don’t know where—”

“No—I mean yes. Hazi was with me all morning, but I need to see him again.” Jehoiada refused to say, “Because my wife won’t speak to me, and Hazi’s new bride is the only one who can tell me why.” Evidently, Jehoiada’s pitiable expression convinced the battle-hardened warrior of his desperation.

“Follow me.” The captain led him to a secluded corner staircase circling upward to a third-floor entry beside the king’s private chamber. At the opposite end of the long, tiled hall, Zev approached a second set of double doors, where two of his men saluted and stood at strict attention. A single nod from their captain directed one of the guards to strike the door twice with his spearhead, then return to attention.

Jehoiada heard a female giggle and Hazi’s frustrated growl. The prince began his rebuke as he flung open the door. “This had better be important—” His mouth gaped when he saw Jehoiada. “What’s wrong? Is Sheba all right?” Zibiah appeared behind him, concern on her features too.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Jehoiada began.

Zev cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, my lord, I’ll wait
here until the high priest is ready for an escort back to the Temple.”

Hazi motioned Jehoiada inside. “Yes, yes, Zev. Thank you. Jehoiada, what’s happened?” He pulled the high priest into the chamber, closing the door behind him. Four male servants kept their heads lowered, two kneeling close to a food-laden table and two flanking a bronze washbasin and pitcher. Hazi must have noticed Jehoiada studying them. “Out, all of you!” They disappeared behind a heavy tapestry into a second chamber.

Zibiah placed her hand on his arm. “Please, Jehoiada, tell us how Sheba’s doing.”

Hazi looked at his wife askance. “I thought you said you enjoyed this morning’s visit with Sheba and Keilah.”

“I did.”

“Then how did you know Sheba was upset?”

Zibiah cradled her husband’s cheeks and kissed him gently. “Women can enjoy a friendship and still cry.” She paused and cast a furtive glance at Jehoiada. “Plus I told Sheba I wouldn’t tell you until we had a chance to talk tomorrow.”

“But do you know what’s wrong with her?” Jehoiada’s desperation built with each word.

Zibiah looked first at Hazi and then at the high priest. “Yes, but I won’t break Sheba’s confidence. I won’t say anything until after I talk to her again.”

Jehoiada felt his temper rising, but what could he do? Zibiah was keeping her word, and he couldn’t fault her for that. But he needed answers. “Would you both return to the Temple with me to speak with Jehosheba?” Emotion tightened his throat, and he feared losing control. “Hazi, I haven’t seen her like this since you first brought her to my chamber after Mattan cut her. She’s desperate. I don’t know what else to d—” His voice broke, and he rushed to the door. “I’ll wait outside for your answer.”

Wiping his eyes, he fairly ran into the hallway, where Zev was waiting as promised. “I’ll escort you to the Horse Gate, Jehoiada.”

Shoulders slumped, the high priest heard hushed voices inside the chamber and realized how foolish he’d been. He and Anna
had been married for forty years and never once needed family help in a quarrel. Ready to turn and leave, he was startled when the chamber door opened and both Hazi and Zibiah appeared. Gratitude strangled his voice.

Hazi placed a hand on his shoulder. “Zev, we’re going back to the Temple.”

The captain led them down the guards’ circular stairway as discreetly as possible. Queen Athaliah had nearly toppled the head table yesterday when she heard of Zibiah’s daily visits. She didn’t need to know of two visits in a single day.

Sheba lay in her bed, dozing in and out of desolation. She was alone in this world, completely alone. The one person she thought she could trust—a betrayer. The one she thought loved her—a liar. Awake, she yearned for the abyss. Asleep, she dreamed of death.
Yahweh, if You are real, release me
from this meaningless life. Mot, if you exist, swallow me
whole.
Her tears reclaimed her, confirming her fear. She’d lost control and would almost certainly lose her mind. Would she become like Jezebel and Athaliah? Maniacal? Destructive? No. She would take her own life before she ruined so many others.

Jehoiada’s face taunted her memory. Why had she so easily given her heart? How could she have been so foolish?
Never again. Never again.

“Sheba?” A woman’s voice.

It couldn’t be.
Sheba lifted her face out of the pillow she was using to muffle her cries. “Zibiah?” Her brother’s wife stood in the doorway. Beautiful. Innocent. “What are you doing here?” And then Hazi and Jehoiada appeared behind her, and she knew—Zibiah had betrayed her too. “Get out, all of you!” She threw the pillow at them, then a wooden cup from the bedside table, then her comb. “Out! Get out!” She clutched at the blankets, the air, her robe, seeking something else to throw.

Before she could grab the lamp, strong hands pinned her arms to her sides. The scent of her husband—sacred incense, burnt offerings, Yahweh’s high priest. “Nooooo!” She raged against
his strength, kicked and flailed, clawed at his face. “Liars! All of you, liars!”

“Hazi, take Zibiah out!” Jehoiada pressed Sheba beneath him, wrapping his legs around her.

“Jehoiada, don’t hurt her!” Hazi’s voice. “I’ll take Zibiah home and come back.”

Leaving! My brother
is leaving me!
Another betrayal fueled her hysteria. “Let me go!” she screamed. “Kill me! Give me to Mot! Where is your knife? Use it! Use it!” The words came from somewhere deep inside, frightening her as much as Jehoiada’s strength terrified her.

He was crying, “Please, Jehosheba, please,” tightening his grip, pressing his full weight against her.

The precious stones of the sacred breastpiece scraped her face. She felt the sting, tasted blood. Perhaps her blood would satisfy the gods. Digging her face against the sharp stones, she chanted, “Blood for Baal. Blood for Yahweh. Blood for Baal. Blood for Yah—” She glimpsed the red stains on the sacred ephod and realized her sacrifice had soiled the precious garment. Panic reclaimed her. “Have mercy, Jehoiada! Kill me now before Yahweh’s wrath devours me like it has Abba!” Completely trapped beneath his weight, she could do nothing but squirm and shriek wildly.