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  Ahab ran for his chariot, landing in it as the horses jerked forward violently, causing him to clutch the sides as he tried to hang on and find a certain grip. The chariot rocked back and forth over the road, the horses racing under the stinging whip of the driver. The sky darkened, and the air grew cold.

  Ahab stood and saw the figure of a man racing ahead of the horses, the lightning illuminating him as Elijah, thunder chasing him but not fast enough. Together the men cut through the gusts of rain, and the horses followed Elijah as he ran along the Kishon River, running straight for Jezreel.

  Jezebel

  Jezebel’s fingers bled as she waited to hear the news from Mount Carmel. She chewed her nails to the quick, tearing them with the edges of her teeth.

  The day wore on. The sun melted across the dry brown landscape beyond Jezebel’s window. Shimmers of heat over brown-and-white buildings made her servants squint to see the horizon. The only visible clouds were clouds of dust stirred by those animals that remained, the ones that had not died or been eaten, roaming the empty streets like crying ghosts, bleating skeletons of the past. The city was quiet. All had gone to watch the gods compete.

  The palace was quiet too. Jezebel had never known silence like this before, like the expectant hush before the answer to a question. The servants spoke in whispers, even those from Phoenicia like Lilith. The brown fields beyond her window swayed in the hot breeze as dead stalks rubbed against each other, a raspy accompaniment for the insects who would keen their one note over and over, all night.

  She had hated those insects when she first arrived here, hearing only them and not the sound of ocean as she slept, but their true advantage had become plain enough within the first month. They sang this way as long as nothing moved through the grass around them. When predators came near, they silenced. She admired that nature had found a way to stop its enemies. Surely those beasts that ate the smaller ones had not sprung from the same womb as the others. Asherah had birthed men, perhaps, and even other gods, but these smaller hungry things had come from another mother, intent on death. But this Jezebel wondered in secret, for no word had ever been spoken of another goddess. There were only other names for Asherah, not other incarnations. There was much that could not be explained by Baal and Asherah, and Jezebel had learned not to try.

  The afternoon sun was still too high to consider going to bed, but there were no servants to amuse her. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited. She stopped chewing her fingernails when the blood ran down her palms and into her sleeves. She felt it drying in the cracks of her mouth and licked at the crusts. It was salty and tasted like the metal of a knife.

  Lilith motioned to the servants to change Jezebel’s robes. They seemed alarmed at the blood, and Jezebel laughed at them, smearing her bloody fingertips across a girl’s face, slowly dragging a finger across the girl’s mouth until it dripped red.

  “You look beautiful,” Jezebel whispered. The girl trembled, and Lilith pushed her away, scowling at Jezebel.

  The other servants worked without words, trying to avoid touching her, slipping a fresh robe on their princess, rubbing away the mineral pigments on her eyes and mouth with a bit of linen dipped in olive oil. They complimented her loudly and too often. They rubbed the green oil then into her face, gentle circles that lifted away the dirt and blood of the day, bringing roses to her complexion and a glow to her cheeks. They moved next to her hands and feet, then smeared a thick perfume paste onto the top of her head. A comb of ivory spindles wove through her black mane, carrying the scent down to the ends, until her hair smelled of frankincense and sage, a rich scent that made her think of hunting in dark forests. She sighed as they left her, bowing as they exited, leaving her in her chamber with its bed canopied in linens, and her tables for the vanities of cosmetics and gods. She had a clay statue of Asherah that she kept in one corner, the face painted as her own, an oil lamp always burning before the little goddess with hollow eyes. Athaliah did not like it and said the stone holes followed her around the room. No, Jezebel had told her, they follow you farther than that. They follow you deep into your soul, and you must appease her or she will see what is in your heart. Goddesses were hungry, angry things. They ate what you loved.

  The sky seemed to read Jezebel’s thoughts, turning dark even at this hour, and she felt the air in her chamber change. It was heavy and cool. Then she understood. It was going to rain. She turned to Asherah, still standing on the table, still impassive, and she blessed her loudly. Throwing open her chamber doors, she yelled for her servants to attend her at once.

  “The blessing of rain has come!” she shrieked to them, clasping her hands and swirling as she prayed, chanting the name of Baal, the name of the god who had finally given Asherah the word to call out for rain. “Now will Asherah refill our bowls with grain and the jugs with wine! Now the people will serve me with one mind!”

  The servants rushed to the window to witness the sky. Lilith was beaming with pleasure for her mistress.

  The servants raced outside, dancing, the rain soaking their robes and splashing into their open mouths. Jezebel pulled herself to the window and made sure of what she saw.

  The older women stood on the balcony of the courtyard, holding jugs out to be filled, gathering empty pots and stashing them, filled, as fast as they could, shouting to the others to stop their dancing and help them. The younger servants, for once, had the bad ears and did not hear them. They danced and laughed, their wet robes slapping as they weaved and skipped.

  Jezebel watched as darkness crept toward the palace. The dark clouds stormed past the city gates, coming for Jezebel, the storm growing in fury. Her hair blew straight back in the wind, baring her throat. She raised her hands to cover her throat, unsure of this strange answer to her sacrifices. Lilith’s hands turned white as she gripped the windowsill, seeing the storm that approached.

  “I want the people to see me when it rains,” Jezebel said. “I want them to know who ended the drought.”

  Jezebel and Lilith made their way through corridors that echoed with rain as if a thousand angels stamped their feet on the roof. Outside, a raindrop hit her right in the face. But rain could not insult her, she thought. Wind drove the rain, not gods. The noise of fat, heavy drops hitting hardened, dry soil sounded like small explosions, loud and close. Jezebel moved back up several steps, trying to get under the roof, to save the royal robes and the cosmetics so carefully applied. The rain changed direction. It drove in sideways, pelting Jezebel in the face, ruining her makeup until black rivers of kohl ran down her cheeks and she lifted her arms over her face for protection, the posture of an adulteress caught in her shame.

  “Asherah, save us!” Lilith cried.

  In the distance a dark shape ran, an animal fleeing the lightning and rain. It moved with strange grace. Jezebel watched it, mesmerized. Thoughts fluttered in her head like a wounded bird in the path of horses, but she could not hear their words. The animal drove closer, in a straight line, a tall animal with long hair. The animal ran closer still, right for her, and she felt his eyes were upon her, and that his eyes were lightning. It was Elijah. Behind him, in a chariot, was Ahab. Her heart leaped up. Ahab was running Elijah down, driving him to his death before her! Yes, that was why she trembled! The rain had come for her enemy!

  Lightning split the sky, illuminating everything. Jezebel turned to command Lilith to help her escape, but she was gone. The servants were fleeing. A single guard remained with the princess, his face pale as death. Jezebel motioned for him to step aside so that she could enter the palace and find shelter. The guard stood immovable, his eyes fixated on Elijah, whose hair flew behind him in the dark storm as he flew along the main road with unnatural speed.

  Ahab shouted something to her, but his words were carried away by the wind. Elijah was no less than a few hundred paces from Jezebel when she shoved the guard back and fled inside. She shut the main doors to the outer entrance and
drew the wooden bolt to lock them. She grabbed a torch off the wall and held it to the doors. Made of wood that had dried in the drought Elijah had called down, they burst into flames.

  The storm howled outside, and the doors shook in the wind as the flames grew wilder. At once, the wind blew the doors open. Burning embers flew at her, singeing her hair as she screamed and ducked behind her arms. Rain pummeled the entrance, driving at Jezebel as the wood hissed all around her, her fire killed by the drenching rain.

  Trails of smoke snaked around Jezebel’s ankles, their soft licking dying as the rain soaked her robes. She ran for the safety of her chamber, and the rain came on and on.

  Obadiah

  When Obadiah entered the princess’s chambers that night, he saw Lilith sitting in the corner, her face against the wall, still weeping over the thrashing Jezebel had given her. The servants had all heard it, even over the constant sound of rain. Ahab had retreated to another chamber and did not call for Jezebel. Obadiah would be forced to tell her himself.

  Jezebel looked out over the city. Her calm was the stillness of a corpse. The darkness that had always been around her now resided within her. She had breathed it in for so long, walked under it for so many years, that at last she and the darkness were one.

  Obadiah approached, saying nothing. No one in the streets moved below. In the distance, he saw people returning to the city in small groups that moved slowly, from exhaustion or grief. Death was a terrible thing to witness, made worse by the knowledge that they had once encouraged those priests. The people made their way inside their homes, and yellow lights illuminated each, one by one, until the darkening city looked like a blanket of stars resting on the ground.

  He envied them, envied their light. Their houses looked warm and solid and small, made without room to whisper those words of betrayal or make deals, one against each other. Obadiah wished he had a small home, a small life. He thought of Mirra. The Lord had given Obadiah so much, but He had not given him Mirra. He was grateful she had not seen the gruesome end of those priests.

  “It was not Baal or Asherah, was it?” Jezebel broke the silence. “They did not send this rain.”

  “No,” Obadiah replied. He should have hated her. Other men did. But the time spent studying the scrolls, the laws and history of this great unseen God, made Obadiah love his enemy, for she lived without knowledge of Him. It was a poverty so unimaginable, so heartrending, that Obadiah could not hate.

  “The Lord sent the rain. The drought is over,” Obadiah said. “The people have chosen to worship Yahweh.”

  Her temper flared as she turned to face him. “I never told them not to! I only asked them to accept that there were other paths and other truths. Ask Sargon. Ask Sargon how much the people loved his temple rituals and prayers.”

  “Sargon is dead,” Obadiah said.

  She gasped, her hand coming to her mouth to cover her scream.

  Obadiah continued. “They are all dead. Every one of your priests either died or fled. I doubt they will ever return. Elijah challenged your prophets, and they failed. Baal never showed up. Elijah gave them the entire day to call on him. But when Elijah spoke, just once, fire fell from heaven. Yahweh was there, Jezebel.”

  “It was a trick!” she screamed, lunging for her little statue of Asherah, flinging it at his head.

  He ducked.

  “I am not here to gloat, princess. I am here to help,” Obadiah said.

  She laughed until her voice trailed away into a sigh. She sounded broken deep inside, in a place she would never reveal. But brokenness meant that something in her was torn open, that light might penetrate her heart at last.

  “It is not too late,” he said. “I can teach you about the Lord.”

  A fierce resolve stirred in the darkness of her eyes as she stood and addressed him clearly.

  “Tell Elijah that by my gods, by this time tomorrow, he will be dead. I will see his body dragged through the streets and hung up to burn before this is over.”

  Obadiah excused himself and left, his heart stricken. He would deliver the message, not in obedience to Jezebel, but because he feared for Elijah’s life. Something frightening lived in Jezebel, a madness that surfaced and made his blood run cold, rather like reaching into a dark sack of grain and finding a serpent.

  Jezebel

  Like all men, Omri underestimated her. He had assigned a guard to keep Jezebel in her chambers and away from Ahab. But the guard was young and afraid to hurt her. When he tried to keep her from leaving, he merely placed a hand on her arm. She grabbed it and bit until he screamed and released her, and she turned to spit his own blood at him before moving on. Lilith chased her, with Mirra clinging to the chamber’s doorway in horror.

  Jezebel paused only long enough to command Lilith to fix her princess’s lipstick. The guard had squirmed terribly. It was probably a mess.

  Once assured of her appearance, she completed a calm walk to Ahab’s chamber. The guard outside was startled by her arrival, unsure what to do. He reached for the door handle to hold it tight, exposing his left side. Right-handed like most men, he kept his sword there, so Jezebel found it easy to lift it free and run it through his thigh. He made an odd sound as he grasped his leg, the blood flowing like wine.

  Ahab’s concubine screamed to see Jezebel enter with a sword. Jezebel looked down and noticed that her robes were spattered in blood. She dropped the sword, grabbing the woman by the hair, dragging her, naked, from his chamber. She threw the woman outside and closed the door behind her.

  Ahab sat up in bed, naked as well. She could not tell if he was pleased to see her. He looked surprised, though.

  “Did you mean anything you told me?” Jezebel asked. “When you promised me a future here, and your love?”

  Ahab lifted his chin, watching her. “The Lord won on Mount Carmel. I’ve decided to follow Him as my God. Not just the God of the people, Jezebel—as my God.”

  Jezebel removed her shawl, letting it fall to the floor before she crawled into bed beside Ahab. He moved to one side to make room for her, but he did not touch her.

  She turned to face him, placing her hand on the curve of his lower back, pulling against him, drawing them together.

  “I’ve lost everything because of you,” she whispered, her raw fingers caressing the skin on his back. It hurt to touch him.

  Ahab hesitated, as if confused. Jezebel waited for his body to take control of his mind. She would never allow him to humiliate her again. No one, not even a god, would take from her what she had earned. Nothing Ahab had ever said was true, and she would not trust him again. She didn’t need to.

  Yahweh might give rain, but Jezebel might yet give Ahab an heir. She placed his hand on her stomach, a reminder that some things could not be undone.

  15

  Jezebel

  Late in the night Jezebel heard the alarm sounding from the walls of Samaria and froze in bed, stiff with dread. A ram’s horn had pierced the dark silence of the late spring night in three long blasts, the signal of danger. Ahab was already throwing on his robe and running from the room.

  She lurched up, fully awake. There were more sounds in the distance, real sounds, the noise of hoofbeats. An army had surrounded the city.

  Quickly she rose and threw on a robe over her linen shift. A guard already had a torch down from its bracket, and Jezebel saw the terror in his eyes as he led her to the throne room in the palace. Lilith and Mirra stumbled out of the servants’ room, looking about wildly, disoriented. Mirra seemed ready to collapse. She cried that she did not want to be given to a soldier as nothing but war spoils.

  Messengers and guards sprinted past as Jezebel entered the corridor leading to the throne room. No one spoke as they passed. She heard the fast slapping of sandals against the mosaic floors. Whatever was happening at the outskirts of the city, she guessed, was urgent, but no one had died yet. Every
one rushed toward the throne room to be advised or to deliver news. She passed a young boy of about thirteen posted outside the door leading from this interior corridor into the throne room. He had wet himself, but he had not abandoned his post. Tight, nervous energy pulsed in the air. Voices were soft and urgent, and everyone moved with speed. On the throne was Omri, looking disheveled and tired. She had not seen him in four months, at least. He looked much older.

  Ahab was consulting with three or four soldiers. Each had dirt clinging to his robe, and none had hair or beards that had been groomed in preparation for admittance to this room. Whatever was out there was coming fast. Obadiah stood to Ahab’s left, nodding as he listened to the soldiers’ reports, whispering sideways to Ahab, perhaps filling in details.

  When she stepped closer in, the voices stopped. The nervous energy turned on her like a needle-sharp arrow pulled tight across the string in its aim. Ahab looked past his men, his eyes meeting hers for the first time since they had returned from Jezreel.

  “Jezebel,” King Omri said, loud enough that all stopped and watched, “Ben-hadad entered our gates tonight.”

  “I tried to warn the court,” she replied.

  “Ben-hadad was going to come for Israel someday,” Ahab said. “We both knew that, Father.”

  “Are you questioning my loyalty? Or admitting your incompetence?” she mocked.

  Omri stood, his old face red with fury. Unable to speak, he pointed at her, and guards moved to escort her away. She held up a hand as the other cradled her womb.

  “Be careful how you handle me. I carry Ahab’s child.”

  Whatever happened, Jezebel knew Ahab would either realize she had been right all along, that Elijah had weakened the kingdom and therefore should be exterminated on sight, or Ahab would be carried off into exile, and she would belong to a new king. The child within wouldn’t survive, but she would, and those who survived could start over. None of it mattered. Everyone would have to honor her no matter who won.