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  “It’s not I who have caused this trouble in Israel,” replied Elijah, still standing in the road. “It is you and your government—for the comfort of a woman’s bed, you’ve abandoned Yahweh and embraced Baal.”

  “I am guilty, yes. Guilty of being a king. I worry about the people I can see, not gods. People who fill my treasuries. People who live in my cities. People whose lives are in my hands.”

  Elijah shook his head. “Ahab, the Lord knows how to care for these people. And He knows how to care for you. He has seen how you suffered as a boy, how you suffered seeing so many of your friends die. You could not save anyone. You were not born to be a savior. But you were born to be a great king. Obey the Lord, and He will guide you.”

  “No,” Ahab replied. “I will never serve a god who inflicts suffering, whether it is on a boy who is crushed without mercy or on a nation without water.”

  Elijah’s face was swept with sorrow, and Ahab felt a red shame, the shame that had haunted him since he was a boy, his father home from war and staggering, drunk with blood, through the tents, screaming for his coward son to come out. Ahab had been no taller than his father’s sword then. He remembered how his elder brother had laughed when he had wet himself in fear, how Omri had spanked him with his sword just for the amusement of the men.

  “Here’s what I want you to do,” Elijah replied. “Assemble everyone in Israel at Mount Carmel. And make sure that the special pets of your Jezebel, her hundreds of prophets of Baal and the whore goddess Asherah, are there.”

  Elijah was picking a fight. Ahab searched the face of the old prophet, a strange feeling that he should be grateful coming over him. Elijah was trying to rescue Ahab, the warrior prince. But from what? His vicious bride? Or an angry god? Ahab’s heart stirred, as if to tell him the answer, but he swallowed it up. He had made promises. He had to love her, because he knew what it was to be unloved. He couldn’t leave her to face that alone, and worse, he couldn’t leave her to face the Lord alone.

  Ahab knew the Lord might kill her.

  Jezebel

  The dust from the roads clung to Ahab, thick and flaking in patches along his knees and elbows, settling into lines along his neck. He had been gone a week looking for water. Jezebel had wondered if he had died or run away. A land without rain was no land at all. Why would he bother to return?

  He dismounted with a sour expression. Jezebel bit down on her cheeks, drawing them between her teeth. She would not flinch in embarrassment for him, that Ahab would reveal weakness with all the people watching and the soldiers milling around at the gates to Jezreel. He was displeased, and it could only mean she had displeased him.

  She had spied his return from her window and walked out to him, though she was big again with her second child. She thought the sight of her swollen body would please him. He had liked her pregnant, seemed to be even more gentle with her then, as if he was waiting for a softer woman to emerge instead of a baby.

  But despite his expression, he opened his arms to her and buried his face in her hair. She knew she smelled of sandalwood and musk, a perfume she did not usually wear, but even the women who sold perfumes had suffered in the drought, and their wares changed daily, dwindling, less expensive oils used in the mix. Obadiah had done well to procure even this.

  “Jezebel,” he whispered. “Jezebel, I have met our enemy today, the man who has caused this great drought. He proposes a match between the gods, between Baal and the Lord, at Mount Carmel.” He looked into her eyes now, desperate. “Tell me your prophets will agree.”

  His hand went to the back of her neck, forcing her face into his chest. He knew her well now, trying to silence her. She bit him, and he jerked her head back. Tears of pain came to his eyes, but he did not release her.

  Ahab continued. “Listen to me, for once! It is a good offer! All the priests of Baal are to assemble on Mount Carmel. Elijah will come alone. The priests will call upon Baal to send rain, using any method they wish. If Baal sends rain, Elijah will leave and never return, and the people of Israel will worship Baal and Asherah only. But if Baal does not send rain, Elijah will call upon the Lord for rain. Elijah says whichever god sends rain is the one god that Israel will worship. But only that god, and no others. It is not even a fair battle, four hundred prophets against one. But it is a good offer, and we must take it.”

  “Carmel divides the land,” Jezebel said, “between Phoenicia and Israel. Does he think he can humiliate me? Don’t even reply. Such an offer is an insult to the crown.”

  Ahab released her. His decision was in his eyes, a calm rejection.

  “I accepted his offer. Tell Sargon to get your priests ready. We will set out in three morning’s time.”

  Jezebel grabbed Ahab’s arm, making sure her fingernails cut him. “Do you think Baal or Asherah will come when called, like a pet? You will provoke their anger. Worse things will happen!”

  Ahab shrugged as if he did not believe in Baal. As if he only believed in Elijah’s power to end the drought. He had never loved her, probably, even though he said he did. He might have taken bribes from the elders, with promises to humiliate Jezebel. Elijah might have done the same. She looked around for any familiar Phoenician faces. She was being poisoned here, just as she had been at home. She had never been loved. Used, but never loved.

  “You were not born to royalty,” Jezebel shouted. Ahab wrapped his arm around her waist and forced her to walk, nodding with a calm assurance to the soldiers who kept guard.

  “We can argue in private,” he said to her. “I was not born as a royal, but I do know how to control my wife.”

  She huffed, her chest constricting with pain. He was an enemy, just like every man she had ever known.

  “You want to embarrass me,” she said. “But you are the one who will be embarrassed. Elijah’s first aim is to strip away all choice from the people, to force them to recognize one god alone. The Lord will not answer you. You’ll know what I feel like.”

  “I would love to know what you feel,” Ahab said. “I have only guessed at it, and I have never been right. I hoped you would welcome the chance to end the drought, to show the power of your gods.”

  She wavered, wondering if she should trust familiar hatred or her husband. He said many things, but he had not made her happy. He had not removed the shadows that plagued her even on bright and clean days.

  “And what will you do, husband,” she said, “if this magician wins and calls down rain? What will he want then? Any man who brings rain will be more powerful than the king.”

  “I doubt he wants to be king,” Ahab said.

  “I doubt you do.” She made her words sharp, hoping to wound him. Wounded men were dangerous. They fought harder and with less discrimination. She wanted a warrior like that, not this thoughtful prince at her side.

  “You wanted to end the curse,” Ahab said. “Prepare your priests, instruct them to represent Baal well.”

  “You built that temple,” she said. “You built the pole to Asherah, too. Will you allow yourself to be tested? Your judgments questioned?”

  “People are dying, Jezebel! What do I matter?”

  “When Elijah kills you for the throne, he will kill me, too. Athaliah will die.” She rested one hand on her womb. “You will never see the face of your next child. You will never know if it was a son. You will never know how close you were to a real reign.”

  “Without rain, what good is a child? What good is the throne?” Ahab asked, his head dipping down in defeat.

  She spoke gently. “Without an heir, what good is a king? Do not give in, Ahab. A child will be born to us. Perhaps we will have a son, and your throne will be secure at last, and forever. You are so close to having everything you want.”

  He looked at her, his eyes searching hers. “I think what I want is a god named Yahweh.”

  She gasped, trying to step back from the searing betrayal, bu
t his hold on her was firm.

  “If you do this, you will go to the contest alone,” she said, picking up the edge of her robe and shaking it once, letting the dust mark the boundary between them. “And you will remain alone.” She placed such emphasis on her last words that he could not miss her meaning.

  His expression shifted. He felt something new for her, she saw it in the way his brows raised and his lips parted slightly. It looked like pity. She had hated it as a child and hated it now.

  “I have always defended you,” Ahab said. “I may be the only man who has ever truly loved you. Do not throw me away for a god who hasn’t even answered your prayers.”

  “Betrayal is not love!”

  Ahab’s voice was soft. “This time, it is.”

  Jezebel

  Jezebel waited for Ahab to sleep that night, unwilling to talk to him further. He did sleep, after six bowls of wine. He had complained that the wine tasted like vinegar. Everything was spoiled here. He was restless; his legs kicked at the linen coverlet. He groaned as his dreams began, and she wondered what his mind showed him. What was it like to live with so many deaths to his name? What did he feel? Temereh’s face floated to the surface in the dark waters that were her dreams. Her sister was bloated and her skin raw and red, as if drowned in a lake that burned.

  As she listened to Ahab’s labored breathing, the strange voice whispered to her. A desire to listen shamed her. The silence in this black chamber was a grave to her. She rose, letting her feet touch the ground without a noise. Opening the chamber door brought only a faint gold light into the room. The nearest guard was at the far end of the hallway, under a torch in a bracket on the wall. He stood and bowed when he saw her. She lifted one finger to her lips and closed the door behind her. She said nothing as she went past, only lifting her hand to indicate she did not wish to be followed.

  She pulled her robe up to keep it from dragging along the stone as she took the main steps down and out of the palace. The guards were not pleased with her insistence that she go into the night alone. They would have thought her mad if she tried to explain, but she was certain the voice wanted her to wander tonight. The sound of thunder, a low grumble in the distance that meant rain was coming. In the open night, insects chirped as the wind blew a fetid, warm breath.

  She followed the main path, past the nobles’ houses, past the military quarters. As she neared the gate, a journey of about thirty minutes, for she was weary and slow, she knew why she had really come.

  A golden calf stood on a wooden platform with wheels. The calf was about the size of a donkey, plainly designed, one of the two golden calves Ahab had allowed for the worshippers of Yahweh. He hoped to keep them and their offerings in Israel, and she had hoped that was all their god required.

  She stood still, listening for the sound of rain. The cry of an infant somewhere in the distance was an accusation, and she put her hand over her womb by instinct. The city was black, darker than she had ever seen it. Omri had forbidden fires even though they drove away the biting plagues of night insects.

  Stopping her breath, she listened again. She did not hear thunder, or even feel the promise of rain in the air. She looked to the heavens, those bright stars sheltering the city, then looked back to the calf, a bright yellow god bathed in starlight. So this was the god of the Israelites. She walked toward him, her heart rising in her chest. They were alone, this calf-god and the princess. She stood before him, staring into his blind gold eyes. She reached out her hand, touching him, and found him cold.

  She stepped back, confused. This could not be Yahweh. This calf was no god. Her mind flashed to Baal and Asherah, and what the revelation meant of them, too.

  Lightning flew across the sky, the explosion of sound on its heels. She fell to her knees in terror. Her enemy was alive and near. She had not seen his face in this calf, she knew that, but he had seen hers, and he was out there, waiting.

  And he was angry.

  13

  Jezebel

  Jezebel paced in her chamber the following day until Sargon arrived.

  “To send even one priest will legitimize Elijah,” Sargon said.

  “I agree,” Jezebel replied, “but Elijah is not our real problem anymore. The people are. They will follow anyone who delivers rain.”

  “We need magicians,” Sargon said.

  “We need gods,” she countered. “The gods you always promised me were listening.”

  Sargon did not answer. Jezebel had to calm her mind without him, without words or comfort or promises. Why had his confidence faded? If someone asked her to prove the sun existed, she would have pointed to it, unafraid. Why was Sargon afraid to prove his gods? Where was his certainty? Where was hers?

  Together they assembled the priests outside of the queen’s palace that night. All lined the steps, and Jezebel spoke to them words of encouragement, while messengers ran up and down the steps and elders and commoners milled around, a nervous, excited energy palpable. She looked back at her own holy men. They had no excitement, no visible hope of miraculous events to come. They just took long, steadying breaths and spoke very little. Some chewed their lips, and some talked to themselves under their breath as they cut sharp, disdaining glances at the people gathering at the palace.

  “The people did not call for this contest,” Jezebel reminded them. “Do not be angry with them. But do not disappoint them. Or me.”

  She called for Athaliah from the nursery. She had to be guarded should events turn sour. It was strange to look at her, to see how she had grown, with dark hair and dark eyes, able to say many words clearly. Many words except mother. Jezebel would teach her what mother meant for her, but later.

  Later in the evening, Jezebel wanted to see Ahab and called for him but heard words exchanged outside her chamber door as the servant left to deliver her request. She knew then that orders had been given, probably by Omri, to isolate her from Ahab. Her fate would be decided without her because she was nothing but a female, born to be ruled by men.

  She cursed the burden of being born with a womb.

  She tried to sleep, but there were nettles stinging in her stomach and cold fears that seized her. She had planned on ending the reign of Yahweh here in Israel, and now she was caught in his trap.

  Ahab

  The day of the battle arrived to clear and silent spring skies. There were no clouds and no winds. Nothing moved above them, not even a bird.

  All wildlife had fled; even the birds migrated elsewhere. There was no life to sustain their journey here. Dead brown plains surrounded Mount Carmel in every direction. The skeletons of dead shrubs stood twisted toward the approaching people with gnarled branches that clawed the air as if crying out for water that never came.

  Many from Samaria and the surrounding land had come to witness the contest because there was no way to plant a crop in the brittle, dry earth. No berries grew, no lettuce sprouted. There was no work, there was no food, and there was no relief. The contest had at least brought hope, and the people had been stirred by that. Ahab fought the resentment that built in his chest, swallowing the dry air to hold his curses inside. What had they come to see, really? he asked. A prince lose the kingdom, or a prophet make a fool of himself?

  They walked to reach Mount Carmel along roads that led toward the cool Mediterranean. Such a journey should not have even been possible; it was the rainy season. The roads should have been impassible, but they were dry and hard and cracked. Some whispered that this was a sign. If the Lord had once destroyed the earth by flood, he now displayed his wrath through drought. Mount Carmel stood before them, a wide flat mountain that looked more like a giant table for the gods. Fitting, Ahab thought. Mount Carmel would offer everyone a good view of the destruction about to occur. Whether it was an inheritance or a reputation that was destroyed, all would have a good seat. The only modest rise was near the center, just above a spring. As the peop
le climbed, the sound of trickling water caused a riot of screams and activity, fathers pushing their children to the front, mothers cradling infants and stepping over the elderly to get to it. The spring emerged from a trio of flat rocks nestled at the base of a broom tree. The water bubbled as it came up and flowed in a steady stream down the mountain, being absorbed into the earth again before it reached the plains.

  The people knelt along the edges of the spring, scooping up the water with their hands, gulping and gasping for air. Ahab saw tears running down their faces, especially the mothers with young. He bowed his head in shame to see what the drought had done to them. Athaliah had not lacked water.

  Ahab rode through the slow-moving crowd, noting how their bones stood out at sharp jagged angles. When they turned their faces up to look upon him, he saw their moist eyes, dull and yellow, the hunger eating through their bodies, picking them off one by one, starting with the weak and old. He saw few infants among them, but he did not think infants could thrive if mothers had no milk. The rumors he had heard that infants were sacrificed to Asherah were exaggerated. Maybe one or two had been; he could not help what people did when driven mad by hunger, and the hunger was Elijah’s fault, not his. But he did not believe that it was becoming accepted, not among the Israelites.

  He spurred the half-dead horses that pulled his chariot, flanked by weary guards, and arrived above the spring where Jezebel’s priests had assembled in a seething mass. He remembered seeing maggots churning in a festering wound on a soldier. That was what these priests resembled, with their white robes and blank dark eyes.

  His own royal robes hung loose around his wasting body, and he stepped down as servants moved to carry a throne to place it at the foot of the modest peak. He watched the faces of his people as they assembled beneath him. They were drawn and hungry, and he felt his throne could not be placed on steady enough ground. If these gods did not make rain, the people would look again to him, and his time as king would be over. It would be a small matter to kill him when all were promised water and water was denied. The sound of the spring drove the point home.