Reign (24 page)

He did not make it to the tents until nightfall. The moon illuminated the encampment so that he had to find shadows and stay in them. His cheeks were raw now from the hours of slow tears. He knew what soldiers did to unprotected women.

Ben-hadad was eating in his tent with the other kings, who were grumbling about the delay in Ahab’s promise of fighting. A servant played the lyre. Most of the soldiers were sleeping, but throughout the darkness he saw several fires burning well, certain signs that someone was still awake and feeding them. He saw men huddled around some fires, talking; and some playing dice and growling over lost wages. But at the far end of the camp, he saw one fire burning high, attended by two men who blocked an entrance to their tent. The tent was set away from the others.

Obadiah moved further away into the night and circled around to the back of the tent. He stood outside and listened.

Inside the tent, a man was negotiating.

“I will pledge my support for you both as commander,” he offered.

“The last man offered that and a thousand pieces of silver besides,” they replied.

“No man serving Ben-hadad has that kind of money!” the first man shouted. “If you accept lies as wagers, then please, take my support and two thousand pieces of silver!”

“Excellent. You are pledged for two thousand pieces of silver and your support. Move back to your post, and we will call the lucky ones within the hour.”

A woman screamed, and Obadiah knew her voice. With a swift movement, he plunged his dagger through the linen of the tent and ripped upward, pushing through the hole as the men inside scrambled for their swords. The tent flaps fluttered as the guards posted outside entered too.

Obadiah saw her, bound at ankles and wrists, her mouth bruised and bloodied, one eye swollen and purple.

He did not know where his strength came from—he had never fought for a woman, or for anything—but he drove his dagger into each man in a blinding, soundless fury. He wanted them to die, and he wanted them to hurt badly as they did. When the men lay on the ground, he drove his dagger into each of them again.

The sound of Mirra’s weeping brought him out of the silent trance of his power. He knelt before her, cutting the cords that bound her hands and feet. She tried to speak, but she could only shudder and close her mouth again. He lifted her into his arms and carried her from the tent. He moved to the shadows and worked his way out of the camp. Passing the tent of Ben-hadad, Obadiah nearly stumbled as he bumped into the king. Ben-hadad was relieving himself away from his men.

The king stared at the woman in Obadiah’s arms. Obadiah was grateful for once that he had been born with a face that no one ever noticed or remembered.

“A few of your men had a little accident back there,” Obadiah said, walking past, keeping calm. “See to it your men are better behaved. We are particular hosts.”

Taking Mirra back into Samaria, Obadiah entered a modest inn built for military men without families. He paid for the room, and once inside, he laid her on the bed and covered her with his cloak. He called the innkeeper up to the room and asked for warm milk. This he fed to her in small spoonfuls, careful to avoid the raw edges where the gag had burned across her skin. When she did not speak, he brushed her hair away from her face with his hand, seeing the thin wound from the knife on her neck. Tears came and she did not wipe them away. He did that for her, the tips of his fingers gently taking each one before it marked the length of her cheek, and he shook each one away into the dust on the floor.

When she stopped crying, he wrapped his arms around her, and she slept. He breathed in the scent of her skin, the scent of perfume and salt and the resin of the wood in the room around them. She pushed her face nearer to him, inhaling deeply too. He held her through the night, feeling the rise and fall of her chest and whispering words of comfort when the bad dreams came.

Ahab

Ahab rose as the spring sun crept across the ledge of the window. He would deal with Ben-hadad today. The night air warmed and grew still, all the noisy bellies filled and returning to hidden dens to sleep before they fed again. Only Jezebel did not stir, her skin growing paler in the morning light, as if something essential fled when the sun rose to greet her. He studied her, ashamed. Her frame was so small and thin from the drought that had stolen their bread. It was not hard to confirm a pregnancy, especially one already past its halfway mark.

He ran his hand along the covering draped over her prize, her claim upon him, upon the throne.

Why would Yahweh pursue Ahab when his fate was already determined within her womb? He could never abandon his Phoenician bride if she carried an heir. It had been too late, then, when Yahweh had pushed His own claim on Ahab.

It was too late.

Jezebel smiled, her eyes still closed, and reached for his hand as it caressed her shoulder. She had won long before Ahab had understood what was at stake.

He got dressed, then went to face Ben-hadad, wondering if God would indeed save him now. Ahab had just over two hundred officers ready, about fifty commanders, plus any strong man or boy who possessed a sword to fight. About seven thousand were ready to march.

Ahab wore his royal robes and lifted the sword of Moses as he prepared to address the men from the palace steps. First light shone around the edges of the men, illuminating their armor. Beyond them, fog rolled toward Samaria from the surrounding hills, creating an eerie ring around the city, the smoke from Ben-hadad’s fires making the fog thick blue. Samaria rose above it all, as if watching to see what the hills concealed.

Ahab descended the palace steps as the men parted, dividing into two rows for inspection. There were soldiers as far as his eyes could see, leading down the main road, he was sure, to the city’s edges. Ahab had built the wall up, and it had gates, but it had no real splendor or power to protect. No one had wanted to build during the drought. None had had the strength. The city wall would give no protection.

The men raised their spears and began chanting. A young man, no more than twelve, took up a drum and began beating it as his companion blew the shofar. The noise and clamor was so great he felt the earth shake under his feet.

Ahab lifted his sword higher, and they went wild, screaming louder, stamping their feet until thunder boomed back at them from the surrounding walls. Ahab motioned for silence and waited.

“The Lord has given Ben-hadad and this day into our hands,” he began. “My father bought this land with his own money. He established Samaria as the capital for Israel. But do you know why Omri built streets, even before he built the wall? Because there was a stronger king, with stronger men, who demanded it. Ben-hadad wanted streets so he could march on us, and observe our lives, and make easy claim on whatever he saw. Today, I tell you, the Lord will proclaim in a loud voice that Samaria does not belong to Ben-hadad! Samaria belongs to Israel! Our streets are our own! Our lives are our own! Let us march down these streets and defeat Ben-hadad in the plains!”

At this, the men dissolved into chaos, and Ahab mounted his horse, riding out. They fell in and rode too, those who had horses. Most ran on foot, some barely able to stand under the weight of their armor. The men who had once fought with Omri were too old. Even Omri stayed at the back, on an old white horse that seemed deaf to the cries of battle.

Samaria quickly disappeared into a cloud of dust stirred up by hooves and feet. He followed his guards, hands shaking from excitement and terror. Looking up, Ahab expected the Lord’s fierce eyes to strike through the fog and dust, holy lightning burning his enemies.

But the sky was calm as men swirled and raged below.

The Lord was here, though. Ahab could sense Him, and he slowed his pace a little from the dread of coming any closer to this God. The Lord wanted him to come closer, he could tell, to see the battle, to see the death that follows when people trust in what is false. Ahab’s heart seized, a painful skip, as his men rushed on, and he prepared to see the Lord’s deadly mercy.

On the advice of the prophets, Ahab had sent the junior officers in the army ahead of the more skilled troops. He suspected the prophets’ strategy would give the enemy a false confidence, and they would be lured like lambs into the real slaughter.

But the junior officers defeated Ben-hadad. A young commander, maybe no more than sixteen, returned to Ahab with Ben-hadad’s flag.

“Ben-hadad’s troops have retreated, and Ben-hadad fled on horseback! We have won!”

Ahab swallowed his shock and gave the signal to blow the shofar. The battle was over. Ahab felt lost, primed for a battle he wouldn’t get to fight.

“The name of the Lord be praised!” a soldier called to Ahab that evening in the camp.

“Yes,” Ahab replied. Though he stayed in the camp all night, no one praised his name. Ahab had hoped for a victory but had not counted on it costing him any pride.

Obadiah

It was midnight. Samaria slept below Obadiah, quiet without the men. He waited inside the city gates. Two guards stood outside; he could hear their hushed voices, but there were few men left inside the city. He held a woven cage with two doves inside. He had never been to Jerusalem or its temple, but he heard that it was good to bring an offering. Especially for a young woman seeking a new life.

The air had an edge of chill as the night grew black, and an owl perched on the wall overhead, his head turning in all directions. Obadiah watched it hunt. A small mouse crept out from a rock, drawn by the smell of bread that a soldier had dropped. The owl slid silently from its perch, never slowing, its talons falling down from its snowy white feathers as it pierced the mouse. Obadiah was alone again as the owl flew home to share the reluctant trophy.

Mirra appeared, treading so softly across the road that no dust stirred. She managed a small, uncertain smile, and he drew a deep breath.

“Did it go well?” he asked.

“My mother says you are a good man,” she replied. “She blesses your name.” The moon revealed shadows under her eyes that hurt his heart. He didn’t want to say good-bye like this. He wanted to see her strength return, and her smile, too. To let her go now was an act of faith, and yet Obadiah knew faith was all he had ever had. It had been enough once. It would have to be enough now and forever.

“Will she tell your father when he returns from battle?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “I hope she does not tell him everything. He would be so disappointed in me.”

Obadiah reached for her, knowing it would be the last time he ever touched her or looked upon her. He willed himself to remember everything: her scent, the softness of her skin and how her hair felt like water flowing across his arm.

“He will always love you,” Obadiah said, the words stinging like vinegar in his throat. He spoke of her father, but he spoke also of himself, and she would never know. “You must believe that. You will always be loved.”

She pulled away slightly and looked up at him. “You’ve been so good to me. Are you sure this is the only way?”

“Give me your outer robe,” he said.

She obeyed, her brow knotting as she did. He took the robe and walked a distance away so she would not see. He killed one of the doves with his hands, those fingers stained with ink now stained with blood. He dipped her robe in the blood before throwing the dead bird out into the darkness, where scavengers would dispose of it within hours. He tore the robe and left it at the gates.

“A merchant will discover it tomorrow morning,” he said. “The people will think you died, attacked by a wild beast. Only your mother will know the truth.” Obadiah did not tell Mirra what a burden the truth was, and would be, for her mother. It was a weight heavier than any stone. He did not add that Mirra’s mother would not have the strength to bear the burden alone; she would tell her husband. One day the entire city would know what she and Obadiah had done.

“But what of you?” she asked.

He led her to a horse from the royal stables, a fine gray one that would not be missed. Obadiah had purged it from the records. It had unfortunately died of a twisted stomach, the records said. She climbed up and held his hand tightly.

“I will keep you in my heart,” she said.

He let go of her hand. “No,” he replied softly. “Leave everything behind. You belong to Jerusalem now.”

17

Jezebel

Jezebel’s pains came fast in the late summer, and the hard labor was no surprise. The child had been restless from the moment of conception, refusing to be confined, impulsive and impatient.

“You have delivered a son,” the Hebrew midwife said. Jezebel wept but did not speak. She did not want to invite friendship with this Yahwehist, lest she—or worse, her son—be infected with that god of condemnation.

When she heard his first raw scream in this world, she rejoiced. She needed an angry son. Jezebel stopped her tears when the midwife gave the infant his salt bath. It was a good smell, the smell of birth and sea. She would never return to the ocean. She knew that. She would birth her children in a very different world, and she would die in it, having given Israel and its god the best of her years, the best of her body. She would give her life to this nation of traitors, who had sacrificed their babies and then murdered her priests. Her son would repay them.