Reign (4 page)

Ahab refused all offers to assist him in preparing for the dinner. He sat for most of the afternoon on his bed, head in hands, feeling dread wash up on him again and again. He had no idea how to please a woman, much less a princess. He had bought a few women after battles and kept a few as concubines, but their duty was to please him. Omri was probably relishing the thought of his son disappointing a princess, one last test to prove again that Ahab, instead of his brother, should have died all those years ago.

Ahab hadn’t chosen to survive. The sword had gotten to his brother first, that was all. Ahab knew it would come for him again one day. But this present duty, to marry into royalty and father royal children? Would Ahab ever be done proving to his father, and to the world, that he was a real man?

Later tonight, Ahab would be introduced to his royal bride. He would obey his royal father’s wishes and so lose his respect. He would become a very different sort of king. He knew enough about those men to despise them. Kings had hired his father to kill for them. His father said they were not man enough to do it themselves. Kings were no better than eunuchs, he said. They didn’t have what real men had. Omri had set out to make Israel into a military nation, to show kings what a real man did when he wore the crown. A real man didn’t need a son to bring respect to his name. Ahab would, and Omri never had.

Ahab had chosen to be loyal to his father, even if it cost him respect. The irony was that, according to Elijah, his loyalty provoked the god of Israel, the same god who had commanded that a son must honor his father. Did no one care that this god was full of contradictions?

A servant came to escort Ahab to dinner, and Ahab was surprised to find Obadiah standing outside the door, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his forehead. Obadiah looked nervous, as if he had something important to say, so Ahab held up a hand to the servant and nodded for Obadiah to speak.

Obadiah mumbled a few syllables, twisting his lips, as if searching for the right words. That was not unlike him. He lived for words. He lived through them and with them too. Ahab shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“The Phoenicians invented the alphabet,” Obadiah said finally.

Ahab stared at him. This could not be what he really wanted to say.

“I needed you to know that,” Obadiah said, rushing now. “I value their contributions. I would not slander their culture.” At this, he stopped, having either exhausted his thought or his courage.

Ahab moved on, pausing only to pat Obadiah on the shoulder. Whatever his trouble was, it could not compare to what Ahab faced. Obadiah slumped against the wall, defeated, but Ahab knew he would catch up in a moment. After all, this was a royal dinner in a foreign palace. Some things were meant to be experienced, not read about. As palace administrator of Israel, the servant highest in command, Obadiah had overseen all royal events but never attended a royal wedding.

Ahab was led past four bronze columns to the entrance of a temple. Inside, the torchlight reflected across white stone walls inlaid with opals and polished shells. The room glittered, alive with beauty. Three rows of polished cedar tables with ivory borders of vines and flowers were laid end to end. At the head of the rows was a massive table where Omri and Eth-baal sat, facing the guests. Ahab saw his men already seated at their tables and probably already half drunk.

Behind his father and Eth-baal, at the far end of the temple, was an elevated stage. There was an altar for sacrifices, made of gold, with tusks at each of the four corners, the sharp edges curving up over the center of the altar. Ahab did not know what Phoenicians sacrificed to their gods. Some gods liked grains; some preferred coins. Judging from this temple, these gods wanted only the best.

Next to the altar was a bowl that sat upon a stand. The stand had two rings in front in which to place torches. If these gods liked incense, he guessed that was the bowl to burn it in. Ahab was seated next to Omri, and as he took his seat, the musicians began.

Men carried drums made from tanned and stretched hides, beating the instruments with one hand as they began a low chant of two notes, high and low. They lined both walls of the temple. Dancers flowed from between the bronze pillars, weaving their way through the men, sheer veils wrapped around their bodies, trailing behind them in the air. Ahab found the dancers to be beautiful, which gave him hope. Maybe his bride would look like them, instead of the wild boar with brown tusks that he kept imagining. He pushed his bowl of beer away, his stomach knotting up, then decided he needed all the courage he could find to get through the dinner, even if that courage gave him a splitting headache in the morning.

A crescendo roll of thunder from the drummers signaled the arrival of the priest of Baal, the storm god, husband of the goddess Asherah. Obadiah shifted noticeably in his seat, trying to communicate his panic to Ahab with his eyes. Ahab frowned at him to be still, to not offend their host. The priest was a white-haired man draped in purple linen with a sash of gold rings around his thick waist. He wore the crown of the priest on his head, a simple gold band with serpents woven around it.

The priest lit the incense in the bowl on the stage. Thick gray smoke rose, and Ahab caught the strange scent of a pungent balm, like a burning flower.

“My name is Sargon, representative of Baal, servant of Asherah. Pray and beg favor from heaven!” the priest commanded. Servants around the room fell to their knees and chanted the request. Ahab’s men looked at each other and him. A few raised their eyebrows. Obadiah looked like he was about to vomit. Maybe it had been a mistake to bring the administrator on this journey.

“We beg the god and goddess to bless the union between kingdoms! We ask for overflowing abundance and great wealth! And peace from our enemies!” Sargon lifted his hands and chanted in a tongue Ahab did not know.

“Only a priest would ask for those things together,” Omri whispered. “A warrior knows that the rich always get attacked. Doesn’t matter who they worship.”

The temple fell deathly quiet. Ahab heard crickets singing outside and dogs howling in the forests beyond the fragile walls of the temple. Looking around the edges of the room, he noticed chimes made from bones strung together that danced as a gentle wind from the beach blew through. Sargon lifted his hands above his head, and the Phoenicians in the room all bowed their heads in prayer.

Obadiah stood to leave. Ahab pointed to his chair. It was a command. Then Ahab bowed his own head lest he offend Eth-baal, who was plucking grapes from a bowl, looking bored. Ahab wondered if this was the moment Jezebel would be offered to him.

With his eyes closed for a moment of relief, he could not deny the horrid pounding of his heart, as scared to meet his bride as he had ever been on the battlefield. He would rather die, he thought suddenly, than take a wife. He wished he had drunk more beer, a lot more. He should have started drinking much earlier. His body seemed too small, his skin too thin to contain all the noise and agony inside.

Ahab felt the hairs along his arm rise as a heavy hissing noise slithered along the floor and soft fur brushed against his leg.

“Behold the mighty, fallen by Jezebel’s hand,” Sargon yelled. “His strength is ours tonight.”

Ahab opened his eyes, unable to breathe at the mention of her name. He could not see her in the room. He clenched his teeth, suspecting there was a reason for the delay. Maybe they wanted Ahab drunk too, so they could present the ugly woman. Although he had heard that she was two years younger than himself, which would make her fifteen, so he should think of her as an ugly girl and not an ugly woman.

Servants had dragged a dead lion into the temple, past the king and onto the stage, leaving a wake of blood behind them. They lifted the animal onto the altar. Sargon raised his knife as an offering to the statue of Asherah before slitting the throat of the lion, blood raining down, red against gold. Servants used bowls to collect the blood and began circulating the cups to the men at the tables. All were expected to drink it. Ahab refused to look at Obadiah, afraid Obadiah would beg permission to leave. Obadiah would never drink blood. Another odd command from the Hebrew god, who believed in spilling blood but never drinking it, preferring that the strength of his enemies be wasted on the earth.

The drums grew louder as Sargon blew a fine powder into each torch. They exploded into blue and purple sparks across the stage, arcing over the royal table. Sargon waved smoke from the incense bowl down onto Ahab, its thick sharp scent staining the moment into Ahab’s mind forever. He was shrouded in animal musk and the tang of blood in the air as he caught his first glimpse of her.

“Behold the Princess Jezebel!” Sargon called.

She rose from behind the altar. Ahab was always aware of his surroundings, yet he had not seen her come in, and this unnerved him as much as the recognition that followed. She was the girl from the forest, the one who had stolen his bag and from whom he had stolen a kiss.

He saw his jewels draped on her arms and dangling from her ears, but she was covered in many other jewels; ropes and strands wound around her body from neck to thigh. Heavy gold chains wound down her arms, with dangling ropes of rubies extending from her wrists to the ground. When she lifted her arms to bless the crowd, the rubies formed red wings that swept across the floor. She wore no clothes; against the torches she appeared as a wild, glittering red bird. The thick black curls of her hair climbed down her back. Her eyes were lined in black, each painted line extending from the corner of the eye all the way across into the hair framing her face. Her lips were painted red, brown lion’s blood drying slowly in the creases where her lips met.

Then Eth-baal rose and gestured to her. “I offer my daughter, Jezebel, in marriage to the house of Omri, to his son, Prince Ahab of Israel.”

Ahab rose, arms extended to accept her. She froze, her eyes on her father, who turned away and stumbled from the temple. When she looked back at Ahab, the violent flash of hate in her eyes was unmistakable. He barely heard the murmurings of the other guests, the Phoenician men especially. She surveyed the room with a cold fury, her back noticeably stiffening.

Some inner decision made, the red angel descended the stage, walking to Ahab, her mouth set in a hard cruel line. She walked to him and kissed him on the mouth, symbolizing her acceptance of the union. She took some of his lip in her mouth and bit. Ahab pulled back in shock as the room erupted in cheers. Only Ahab sensed what that kiss really was: a hard promise of pain. Jezebel didn’t want this union any more than he did.

Ahab glanced to see if Omri had noticed the princess’s immediate disdain. Omri sat back down, unconcerned. Omri had repeatedly said that he’d long forgotten the touch of any woman and had never chosen to remember. He acted as if he hated women, but Ahab knew the truth. Omri had loved just once, and it had destroyed all that was human and whole about him.

“Teach the gods how to love!” Sargon commanded the guests.

From the corner of his eye, Ahab saw Obadiah flee the room. Ahab kept his full attention on his bride, though he saw dancers disrobing and his men doing things with women they had only bragged about. Sargon urged them to make love and celebrate the freedom and pleasure of Baal and Asherah.

Ahab reached for Jezebel, unsure of what he was to do, if he should remove her robe of jewels in front of everyone, to lead this strange ceremony. She moved with the blinding speed of a sword, catching his hand and biting it hard. This time, blood sprang up, smearing across her face as he jerked his hand back. She stood, defiant, her eyes blazing.

Did she think he meant to hurt her? He held up a finger, as if to call for peace, and then slowly moved it toward her face. She did not flinch or pull back. He used his finger to wipe her cheek. His touch was deliberate and soft, the way he would treat a frightened, wounded child on the battlefield, one that spoke a language he did not know.

She stared at him, unmoving, but a flicker of hunger passed through her eyes. He knew hunger, but he was surprised that she did too. What did she hunger for? It was not for him; he could see that in her eyes too. He displeased her somehow. She had no choice but to accept him; she was a girl, and a royal. Could that be the reason for her hatred of him?

There was no doubt, from her expression—she had been forced to become his bride, and she did not want him. She didn’t care what he could give her as prince of Israel. She needed something entirely different, but what she wanted was a mystery. She showed her hunger when he touched her kindly. Perhaps no one had ever dared touch her before. But she was a vicious girl. What man would want to touch her? A man could save a woman from any enemy, except herself.

A dark memory shook his heart. Ahab had failed to save his brother. But this was not a battlefield, and there were no real enemies here, just a frightened, angry bride and a reluctant husband.

Ahab had never fought for himself; he had always fought for others, and in another’s name, but when he looked at her, he knew this fight was his. He would prove Elijah’s warnings wrong and his father’s disdain an error, and he would please this girl.

Jezebel

Six Years Prior

888 B.C.

Most nine-year-olds were not allowed at the temple during sacrifices. But Jezebel was not like most nine-year-olds, especially not those who had loving parents and a familiar place to sleep. Jezebel’s father, the highest priest in the land, was embarrassed by Jezebel, it seemed to her. Her identical twin, Temereh, got to sleep with their father and mother in the temple’s living quarters, but Jezebel had to beg for a bed among the servants. Some cared about her tale of woe; some didn’t. But they determined where she slept, and sometimes she didn’t get to sleep at all. She wandered through the city streets at night, peering in windows, rummaging in trash. One time she found a broken statue of the goddess, the feet snapped off, but she wrapped her in her sash and carried her about for comfort. She told herself the goddess meant comfort, and she wanted to believe that. Baal and Asherah were worshipped, god and goddess, like husband and wife, but girls were supposed to worship Asherah most of all, because Asherah symbolized the sacred feminine. Asherah symbolized all women, and all that women could aspire to be.