Reign (28 page)

“He hasn’t been heard of or seen by anyone, in any of the territories, for a long time. I doubt he’s still alive. He was under no one’s protection, and he had a talent for insulting kings.”

Heavy steps coming toward them from the hallway ended the conversation. Lilith opened the door and nodded to Ahab, who entered the chamber with a heaviness in his step.

Ahab sat on the bed and motioned for Lilith’s dismissal. When she left, he groaned, his head in his hands.

Jezebel rose and joined him, sitting next to him on the bed, their thighs touching.

She rested a hand on his leg and spoke to him tenderly. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

“Naboth loved the law,” he said. “He would have wanted it upheld.”

Jezebel patted his thigh. “Go on. Take possession of Naboth’s land. It is forfeit to you for his crimes.”

Ahab did not rise, so she grabbed him by the arm, forcing him up, pushing him toward the door.

“Bring back something wonderful, and we’ll have the cooks prepare a meal tonight,” she told him, her voice high and confident. “We’ll celebrate a coming child and the peace of winter.” She patted her womb, knowing a child was within again, her third. She hoped this would be the end: of children, and of Ahab’s weakness.

By the end of their time in Jezreel, Jezebel had to walk to the dining hall with both hands under her belly to support its weight. Perhaps the child within was growing very big, or her body was growing weary. By evening she was so tired, and the weight was hard to carry. Her eyelids were heavy too. The dark sky all afternoon, the chill wind, the early shadows that fell over the valley, all these conspired to make her want nothing more than sleep. She would entertain Ahab and perhaps a few of the elders tonight at dinner but excuse herself early and return to bed.

She entered the small dining hall, which held no more than twenty, and so had not been used for the recent feast. A table was set with two oil lamps at each end, and servants worked quickly to bring out bowls and platters. The food looked no different. She groaned inwardly. Why had she labored to get Naboth out of the way if the servants didn’t even know what to pick?

Several elders joined her, including one who had made an accusation at the feast. Both were cordial to her, inquiring about her health and the coming child.

Three other elders sat with them. Two of the men owned fine homes in Samaria and traveled with Ahab for the winter, presumably for relief from the weather. The other man was local to Jezreel, and a wealthy landowner himself. Jezebel looked forward to getting his opinion on her recent acquisition.

Ahab had not arrived, so Jezebel motioned for Lilith to draw near. “Find out why Ahab is delayed. Tell him his guests are seated and waiting.”

She nodded and stepped away as a page entered and addressed them all.

“The king is unwell. He will not join you tonight.”

Jezebel gritted her teeth and rose. She had slept in his bed every night of the winter, but he had drifted further away from her each day.

“Please excuse my husband.” She addressed the men, who were still staring at the untouched food. They wanted to eat, and none dared move until she was gone. They were more concerned with offending her than with honoring their own appetites. That’s what a small god reduced a man to, she thought as she left.

She found Ahab exactly as she dreaded she would. He was in their chamber, lying curled in a ball on the bed, his face turned to the wall.

“Ahab.”

Her arms crossed, she waited at the door. Her abdomen was so heavy it hurt, and she hadn’t eaten a thing. She had gotten rid of every enemy between her and Ahab, but she could not conquer his moods. She left him there, refusing to say even one encouraging, or inquiring, word.

She refused to fight for him even one more time. He deserved to fall into that pit and burn.

Ahab remained in his chamber two days. He did not allow her to enter, and she was too weary to fight. Fighting for Ahab was pointless. His god had ruined him completely. He could have been a great king.

Two days later, she entered their chamber without knocking, motioning for the guards to step aside and remain silent. One guard’s hand had flown to his sword, and he moved quickly out of her reach.

She noted the dank smell inside. His bed table had a pitcher of what smelled like stale beer, plus a loaf of uneaten bread and curds that had shriveled to stone.

She had to stop and take a deep breath. The baby tumbled inside her womb. She grabbed the blankets covering Ahab and ripped them off, letting them fall to the ground. He still did not move, but he groaned, proof he was alive.

“Get up,” she said.

He did not move. She shoved one hand against his shoulder.

“Get up, king!” She sneered the word
king
, hoping to wound him. He had to fight back.

He did not move but did speak, his voice hoarse and dry. He’d been crying. “I knew. You set him up. Didn’t you?”

“Do you want me to answer that? Or are you going to be a man and get out of that bed and run this kingdom?”

He sat up and turned on her, his face blotched and red and his eyes swollen. He looked like he had been in a fight, but she knew he had been alone in this chamber. He was not dressed in his royal robes but had on sackcloth, the garment of a mourner. It was a loin covering made from hair. She didn’t want to look closely but judged it to be camel or goat hair. His chest was bare and smudged with ash. Ashes were in his hair, too, discoloring his face, especially along his hairline. She looked at the bed and saw it was smeared in ash.

Ashes were for the dead.

“Are you still grieving for Naboth?” she asked.

“I’m grieving for us,” he replied.

She wanted to vomit. There was no end to his weakness.

“There is an old Assyrian curse,” Ahab said, “perhaps you’ve heard it. ‘May dogs tear your flesh at the city wall.’ You see, when an enemy is killed, the body is desecrated and dogs allowed to eat it. The bones are carried off in different directions, even outside the city.”

“The Assyrians have not crossed our borders. Even Ben-hadad is at home! Get up and take a bath. Act like a man.” She grabbed his hair, pulling straight up, trying to drag him out of bed.

Ahab grabbed her wrist. “We are the dead, Jezebel.”

She jerked her hand back and stood, the air in the room too cold as it entered her lungs. A coldness descended, so cold that she saw her breath as her chest heaved in and out.

Ahab shook his head, his eyes only empty darkness, staring at the black smears across his hands. He spoke in a low voice, not quite a whisper.

“I saw Elijah,” he said.

The cold clench in her stomach grew tighter as the walls seemed to move away.

“He accused me of murder,” Ahab said. “I murdered Naboth to get the land. That’s what he said.”

“How long has he been in Jezreel?” she asked. How much did he know? She thought of the letters circulating among the elders. Had Elijah read one? Or had his god whispered all this in his ear? Was Yahweh here too?

Another drought was coming. She felt the dread making her legs heavy and cold, and her head began to hurt. They had just recovered from the first one. A second one, so soon, would kill them all.

Ahab shook his head with such grief on his face, she would have thought he was wishing for that curse. He wouldn’t even look at her as he spoke, and he choked on some words. Elijah’s curse stuttered out in his weak and unwilling voice, the voice of a very bad child.

She pressed her hand to her mouth as he spoke, the sound of his voice unbearable, like burning oil in her ear.

“It is not a drought. He said Omri’s line will end,” Ahab began. “God has vowed to wipe out every male in our family line, even those of my lesser wives. And as for you, queen of the cursed, dogs will eat you by the wall of Jezreel. Any of those of our family who die in the city will be eaten by dogs. Any of our family who die in the country will be eaten by birds. No burials, no mourning, no afterlife … We’re going to die. Our children are going to die.”

He tilted his head back and let out a wail that terrified her.

Then, with the slow speed of dread and resignation, he reached into a clay pot on the bed, bringing up a handful of ashes and dumping them on his head. A low gray cloud spread out from the bed and rolled to envelop her. She stepped back. She would not accept this curse or lie on a bed and wail for her throne.

She grabbed the bedside table and overturned it, food and crockery splattering the walls and the bed and her robes. She grabbed the crock of ashes from the bed and smashed it to the floor, sending a giant billowing cloud rolling across the room. The smoke rose from her feet as she pointed a finger at Ahab.

“You wanted Naboth’s land. I got it for you!”

He just looked at her, his tears making fresh tracks through the grime on his cheeks.

“Your children have been threatened,” she said. “Your wife, too!”

He did not move.

“Get up and fight, or I will kill you myself!” she screamed.

Ahab shook his head slowly, his gaze moving past her, over her shoulder, as if seeing something in the distance she did not. Her hands curled into fists as her body tensed, ready to hurt him, to force him from that stinking bed and out into the street to meet his accuser. Lunging forward as she raised her hand to strike his face, all strength left her. She crumpled to the floor, sobbing.

“You never loved me,” she wailed.

She had given him an heir, given him security and honor, two things he could not get with his sword. Everything precious, their name and their future, was lost in these ashes. The grief of giving her name to this man who proved so unworthy of it was so great, she could not breathe. Her throat was raw and thick, and she gasped for breath between heaving sobs. She wished, with everything in her heart, that she had never married him. She wished for time to reverse, for her mother to live, for Temereh to throw her into that pit instead. Everyone would have been happier.

Finally, seeing he would not rise for her, she stood with a force she had never known. “I hope you die! The throne belongs to a man like your son. He will not be weak like you. ”

Ahab stood to meet her at last, his face contorted in pain or fear. She did not know him anymore. “Could you be so blind?” Ahab yelled. “Could I have been so blind? What have I done? All these years, wasted. With you.”

“That’s what you never understood, Ahab. Your father never intended for you to take the throne; he didn’t think you were strong enough. That’s why he married you to me. I was the guarantee that you’d hang onto the throne. Your father, and my father, they knew what we were.”

“Through you my kingdom was lost,” Ahab said, his eyes meeting hers, cold and certain of his truth.

She stepped back and walked toward the door, the gray dust swirling around her feet as she stepped. She turned to see him easing himself back onto the bed of ashes, prepared to take up his mourning once more. She made her words clear and distinct to pierce his sullen haze.

“I made you a king, but I cannot make you a man.”

21

Jezebel

They had peace.

Strange as it was for Jezebel to witness, peace settled over them all as the year passed. There was peace in Samaria and peace in Jezreel. They had good crops, and good weather, and good prices at the market. They traded with surrounding nations and saw their highways busy with camels and donkeys and families with children who ran ahead, laughing.

Twice a man of Yahweh had predicted utter doom for Ahab. Once he was told he had lost the kingdom, then he was told his very life was forfeit, as was hers and her children’s and any male connected to Ahab.

Yet they had peace. The shadow that should have loomed over her did not. It was simply gone.

In the fall of that year, Jezebel had her second son. Ahab named him Joram, meaning his god Yahweh was exalted. Jezebel only smirked. Joram was bigger than his brother had been at birth, bigger than his sister, too. He had dark swirls of hair and dark brown eyes that peered intently into the face of anyone who held him. He did not cry much, or squirm, or protest rough handling.