In the Shadow of Jezebel (36 page)

Without hesitating, Sheba matched her posture. “If Hazi is going to war in Israel, he cannot be distracted with worry about how you’re treating Zibiah in Jerusalem.” She stood, replaced the stool where she found it, and returned to issue her own stare. “Hazi loves Zibiah. I want to believe you once knew that feeling.”

Sheba turned to go, but stopped when Athaliah grabbed her arm. Tears glistened on the Gevirah’s bottom lashes. “I want you to visit me.”

The request sent a wave of pity through Sheba. “All right, Ima. I’ll come each week when Jehoiada judges at central court.” Seeing her opportunity for bargaining, she pressed, “And I’ll visit Zibiah after I see you.” She raised an eyebrow, standing her ground.

“Agreed.” Ima released her, and Sheba felt as if a camel load had been lifted from her shoulders. “One more thing, Daughter.”

Sheba stopped at the curtain, turned, waited.

Athaliah’s tears had disappeared, her kindness gone. “If your child is a girl, she’s mine.”

P
SALM
31:14–15

But I trust in you, L
ORD
; I say, “You are my God.” My times are in your hands; deliver me from the hands of my enemies, and from those who pursue me.

J
ehoiada lumbered down the altar steps, accepted a linen cloth from Nathanael, and wiped away the blood from the evening worship. He started toward the basins as they walked. “Let’s wash our hands and feet on the north side tonight. I want to be sure Micaiah feels comfortable assuming my duties when Jehosheba begins her travail.”

Three new moons had passed since they’d peacefully entombed King Jehoram on Obadiah’s estate—and then buried Obadiah a few days later. The old nobleman, true to his character, left all his holdings to his stableman and the young steward who had so impressed Jehoiada and Zabad.

Since so many priests had come into contact with the two dead bodies, Jehoiada waited until after the mandatory days of uncleanness to publicly reveal Eliab’s treachery. Jehoiada announced Eliab’s betrayal during the weekly change of duty and became so enraged Zabad had to restrain him. Obadiah’s warning about his temper blared in his spirit, and the cleansing of the Day of Atonement was too quickly marred. Athaliah had
breached their walls—not with guards and swords, but with the dark stain of sin and treachery that stripped human nature to its ugliest essence. Only time and Yahweh’s healing could rebuild what had been lost among His servants.

Climbing the three stairs to the separate place, Jehoiada surveyed the priests gathered around the five basins. No Micaiah. Nathanael dipped his hands into the fourth basin, but Jehoiada moved to the last. He’d try to find Micaiah tomorrow morning and use tonight for friendly banter with others—as was often his practice to keep morale high. Worshipers were few and offerings continued to dwindle, which meant offerings for priests were low and spirits sagged.

“How’s Lady Jehosheba feeling, my lord? My wife is due to deliver any day as well.” A young priest beside him splashed his hands, initiating conversation. A welcome change.

Jehoiada’s heart warmed to a man faithful to his duty even with a wife so close to term. “My Jehosheba is tired of this heat. How about your wife?”

“My Sarah must have her nap during midday, or she’s more dangerous than a she-bear with cubs.”

Jehoiada laughed, clapping a wet hand on his shoulder. “How long will it take you to get home when your Sarah begins her travail?”

“Not long. She’s in Bethlehem with her parents while I serve at the Temple.” He covered Jehoiada’s hand on his shoulder, kindness radiating from his smile. “We’re all in Yahweh’s hands, are we not?”

Jehoiada nodded, barely able to speak past his emotion. “What is your name?”

“I am Zechariah.”

“Thank you for reminding me of that, Zechariah.” The young priest bowed, and Jehoiada cleared his throat, hurrying down the steps before he blubbered like a maiden.

How tender and sweet was a willing heart.
Zechariah—
remembered
by the
Lord.
He had an uncle by that name. Perhaps Jehosheba would be agreeable to naming their son Zechariah.

Nathanael fell in step beside him, and they dragged their
weary bones into the holy chamber now used to robe and disrobe Jehoiada’s golden garments. The two top priests could live in the outer court chambers, but the sacred garments could not.

“Close the door behind us, will you, Nathanael?”

“But we’ll roast!”

Jehoiada slowly turned to face his second priest, having almost mastered his temper—on most days. Nathanael closed the door.

Jehoiada motioned Nathanael forward two steps to whisper, “I believe it’s time we tell Keilah about the quarry entrance.” Nathanael remained silent, eyes narrowed, waiting. He wasn’t making this easy. The high priest pushed up one corner of a smile, trying to appear pleasant. “Perhaps then Keilah could convince Jehosheba to deliver our child in the quarry.”

“Absolutely not!” Nathanael recoiled as if he’d stumbled on a serpent.

“What do you mean, ‘absolutely not’? Why do you care where my wife gives birth? If Jehosheba has a daughter, Athaliah will send an army through our gates to steal
my
child!”

“Jehoiada, you’re missing the point. We must trust our safety to Yah—”

“My family’s safety
is
the point! Yahweh gave us wisdom and strength to build the tunnel under our living quarters. Why does Jehosheba refuse to use Yahweh’s provision to deliver our child?”

Nathanael waited in silence, unmasking Jehoiada’s soul. Since Obadiah’s death, his second priest had become the friend who reflected truth like freshly polished brass.

Regaining control, Jehoiada squeezed the back of his neck. “Nathanael, I’m frightened. When Jehosheba told me three months ago that she’d confronted Athaliah, I wanted to strangle her—and then applaud her. Her courage is astounding.”

“Yes, it is.” Nathanael barely blinked. “But . . .”

“But she’s come so far, and I don’t want anything—or anyone—to hurt her again.”

“Yahweh is her protector—not you. Yahweh protects His Temple, His people, His nation.”

“I know all that! But why doesn’t He
do something
?” In a
surge of anger, Jehoiada picked up a clay lamp and threw it against the wall.
Forgive me, Yahweh, but hear my
complaint!
The prayer felt compulsory. At the moment, he wanted to be heard more than forgiven.

Nathanael kept his head bowed, focusing on the broken pieces of clay on the floor.

Jehoiada still panted with pent-up fury while the oil trickled down the wall—like teardrops raining down. Was Yahweh grieved by his sin? Obadiah had been grieved by King Jehoram’s sin. Jehosheba was grieved for Hazi. Why was Jehoiada’s first response always anger?

“We cannot win this battle in our own strength, Jehoiada.” Nathanael’s eyes glistened, his tone steady, firm. “The tunnels, the Temple guards, Jehosheba’s relationship with Athaliah—none of it will save your child or the Temple. Only Yahweh can protect us.”

Jehoiada set his jaw, working to walk the fine line of passion without crossing over to anger. “Worshipers flock to Mattan’s temple, showering the Baal stone with silver and gold while performing all manner of indecent acts. And somehow Mattan convinced the people he prayed down a miraculous rain over that cursed stone—nowhere else, only on the stone in the courtyard.”

Concern softened Nathanael’s stare. “I hadn’t heard about the latest ‘miracle.’”

“Impressive in the middle of a drought, hmm? And how will Athaliah use Mattan’s power and the people’s support? I’ll tell you!” he said when Nathanael drew a breath to answer. “If the queen comes for my daughter, we do not have the strength—in the Temple or through the people’s support—to stop her. Athaliah and Mattan will take my daughter and put her to work scouring waste pots with parchment pieces of Moses’s Law.”

“Don’t give up, Jehoiada.”

“I’ll
never
give up!” Rage burned in his belly, and he considered throwing another clay lamp.
Yahweh, forgive me, but . . .
His prayer echoed as if spoken in a cavern of his mind, mocking.
Forgive me, but
 . . . ?
When had qualifiers to forgiveness become acceptable practice? Anything after “Forgive me” nullified his
confession—like bringing a crippled lamb to the altar. Nothing but perfect repentance would suffice.

“Jehoiada?” Nathanael placed a hand on his shoulder, concern etched on his features. “Are you all right? You’re perspiring terribly. May I open the door?”

Jehoiada patted his friend’s hand and then directed his gaze to the oil-stained wall. “My tantrum left oil streaks, much like my anger leaves tear streaks on the cheeks of those I love. I’ve harmed many with my sin—perhaps as many as Athaliah.” He saw sympathy on the second priest’s face and felt his anger ebbing as the truth soaked into his soul. “You were right when you said only Yahweh can protect us, Nathanael. And only Yahweh can help Jehosheba decide where she will deliver our child.” He shook his head, emotion nearly closing his throat. “Why is it so difficult to trust our God when He’s proven Himself faithful again and again?” He asked the question but expected no answer. Rather, he submitted himself to Nathanael’s ministrations.

After removing Jehoiada’s golden garments, the second priest anointed his burdened friend with a little mischief. “You should try the waste pot argument with Jehosheba. That one might get her to deliver in the quarry.”

Jehosheba ladled a spoonful of lamb’s broth into her mouth, checking the temperature. Still warm. But Jehoiada needed to arrive soon or their evening meal would grow cold. She’d wanted to share the meal alone in their chamber rather than with the community of priests as usual. Their small table was decorated with a flowering desert cactus placed in the center of the tiny blanket she’d made for their babe. Tonight, she would refuse—for the final time—Jehoiada’s ridiculous request to make the quarry her birthing chamber.

How could she make him understand? When Gadara came for her weekly visits, she and Keilah talked about which of their chambers should be designated for birthing. Sheba, of course, would never disclose the existence of the quarry or the tunnel to the two women, but when describing the perfect
setting, both Keilah and the midwife said the room should be relaxing, a place where she could focus on the loving friends around her.

They’d bemoaned poor Zibiah’s plight. Hazi had refused to give Zibiah the title
queen
, but neither would he allow Gadara—a brothel midwife—to attend his favorite wife’s birth. Sheba and Keilah had simply been grateful he’d allowed them to attend, even if they had to endure the old palace midwife. They’d secretly prayed they wouldn’t be having their babies at the same time—Zibiah needed her friends.

“Jehosheba?” She jumped at Jehoiada’s whisper in her ear, plopping the wooden spoon back in the broth. He chuckled, his warm hands lifting her by the elbows to stand. “I’m sorry I startled you. I called your name at the door, but your thoughts were elsewhere.” He lifted an eyebrow, waiting.

“Should we eat the lamb broth before it gets cold?” Heat began rising in her cheeks.

“I don’t mind cold soup. It’s hot outside.” He leaned down, pressed a gentle kiss at the bend of her neck. “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

She’d almost completely mastered her emotions in Gevirah Thaliah’s presence, playing the cunning lioness, a worthy opponent for Jezebel’s daughter. Why couldn’t she hide her emotions from Jehoiada? She swallowed the tightness in her throat, trying to maintain control—all of it extending the silence that confirmed her husband’s instincts.

“Come, my love.” He nudged her toward the cushioned couch. “You sit there, and I’ll wait until you’re ready to tell me.” A lamb’s wool pillow lay by the table. He grabbed it, placed it at her feet, and sat down. Waiting again.

Suddenly annoyed by his tenderness, she swiped at her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” His grin flung her past annoyance to fury.

“Do you think if you bow to my every wish, I’ll agree to have this baby in the quarry? Well, I won’t.”

“Why don’t we talk about that?”

“You mean, why don’t
you
talk while
I
listen. You have all
these reasonable arguments, but you haven’t listened to any of my concerns, Jehoiada. Not one!”

His smile disappeared, deep creases etching his brow. “I’m listening now, Jehosheba.” And he was—intently—his eyes unveiling her deepest fears.

“What if we get down there and can’t find our way out? No one knows the tunnels like Obadiah. You, Zabad, and Jehozabad have done some exploring, but what happens if your torches fail?” She paused, but he waited, drawing unrealized fears into the light. “What if Gevirah Thaliah attacks the Temple grounds during my travail, and no one comes to retrieve Gadara, Keilah, and me? Our child will die with us in a dark hole in the ground.”

Jehoiada finally looked away, releasing a long sigh. “It seems neither of us is willing to trust Yahweh with our child, are we, Jehosheba?”

Her breath caught, the question stabbing her. Of course they trusted Yahweh. They lived three courtyards away from a madwoman intent on destroying them.

When he returned his gaze, his tone was as gentle as the hand on her cheek. “All right, my love. In which of our five rooms will Gadara set up the birthing chamber?” Where was his fury, the angry arguments she’d prepared for?

Sheba searched his eyes. Clear. Peaceful. She should have rejoiced. So why did she feel all the more like weeping? “And that’s another reason the quarry would never do. We’d have to tell Gadara and Keilah about it. You’ve always said, ‘The fewer people who know, the better.’”

“Yes, I’ve always said that, and Gadara would undoubtedly instruct me on a better way to build the tunnel.” He chuckled and brushed her cheek.

“But Gadara wouldn’t tell anyone, Jehoiada. She knows how to hold her tongue when she must.”

“Where would
you
like to birth our child, beloved?”