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  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.

  She nursed him. She didn’t know why, but she wanted to.

  “For strength,” Lilith suggested.

  Jezebel glanced up. She hadn’t realized she had spoken out loud. She was nursing Joram as she reclined in her bedchamber of the queen’s residence in Samaria. She appreciated being back in the Samarian capital, with more space and amenities. Especially since she had no husband. He walked lightly, casting glances behind him wherever he went. He refused to sleep in their bed any longer.

  “What shall I prepare for the ceremony?” Lilith asked, rising from her stool. She had been practicing her letters at the queen’s desk. It was good to see her find use for her time, for these wasted hours in Israel, their wasted lives.

  “The pink, with t
he red sash. Bright colors,” Jezebel said, stroking Joram’s hair.

  Joram stopped nursing and drifted to sleep. He was warm, nestled against her, but this animal warmth was all the two shared. He was nothing more than a reminder that she had strengthened Ahab’s claim to the throne, and Ahab was not strong enough to hold onto it. She wished she hadn’t had him, but perhaps she also wished for some of her spirit to flow into his. If he was fierce, if he conversed with darkness and was not afraid, he might survive. She wanted something of her life to survive and tell her tale. If she couldn’t defeat this god, if she couldn’t have a real man for a husband, at least someone could warn others. Someone could tell her story.

  A shadow passed over the window as a storm cloud rolled past, obscuring the light. Another storm was coming. A strong wind blew through the room, and the statue of Asherah tilted, its stone face unchanging. It toppled and fell to the floor, and Jezebel lifted her face to the moon and wept without tears.

  Three full years of peace and prosperity ensued. Israel renewed its covenant with Tyre, and Ahab promised Athaliah to Jehoram, son of the king in Judah. Israel would be united by marriage with the southern tribes. Israel prospered, and the children grew.

  Her dreams grew bleak and strange. No longer did they frighten her with visions, but drained her in their abject silence. She dreamed of darkness without sound, without color. She was grateful to wake, chilled and her bedclothes wet with sweat, and she gasped in relief to see the sun breaking into her room.

  Ahab, once so eager to love her, avoided her now. He could have been a great king with her at his side, but he lacked her strength. She had children now, though. There was still a way to make her name great, if she used them well.

  She sat on the edge of her window one dawn, when the full moon was still high above. Far away, the queen of heaven was calling the tides, the waters rising and revealing the treasures they had concealed in the deep, on a shore Jezebel would never see again. Insects buzzed about, and she heard the low scrape of an olive press in the distance. One of the elders who lived nearby must have had servants up late tonight, pressing the olives, preparing for the coming winter. The drought still haunted the wealthy. Not one of them left the future to chance. Every olive was plucked and pressed, every vegetable uprooted and stored.

  Steady, soft hoofbeats approached and went past. Jezebel leaned forward from between the pillars to see who went to the palace at this hour. It was a single rider bearing the colors of Tyre. He did not drive his camel hard, so she knew his business was not urgent. Standing here, in the darkness before the small statue of Asherah, she suddenly knew why he had come. A white cloud rolled in front of the moon, a shroud hung over her brightness.

  Her father was dead.

  She searched her heart but felt nothing like grief. He had wasted his reign.

  She would not waste her own. She would not waste her children.

  Obadiah

  Palace business was a comfort to Obadiah, as he tended the records and oversaw the daily operations of the summer. The papyrus from Egypt was improving in quality, but he was grateful for the Phoenicians, who supplied him with better materials. Papyrus stank as it aged, even if he loved the way it soaked up his ink, compliant and thirsty, so eager for the words.

  The previous evening he had finished recording the gifts sent to Tyre. Jezebel’s father, now dead, had had a son by one of his concubines, and this son, Baal-azzor, took the throne in Tyre. Obadiah sent gifts of grain and gold and spices. Obadiah was slow to rise the next morning, weary from long hours bent over his desk. His shoulders hurt, and yet he pushed himself to stand and move about. He had much work to do.

  Jehoshaphat, the king of Judah, was to come for an official visit. By order of King Ahab, who had specified only that he had urgent business to discuss. Jehoshaphat agreed to come, and the date was set. It had taken three messengers and fourteen pieces of papyrus to get this done.

  As the hours wore on, Jehoshaphat proved his word, to the day. His entourage filled the palace to overflowing. Israel’s elders gave lodging to his elders. The inns hosted his lesser attendants and servants. Once again Obadiah ordered huge quantities at the market, and the streets burst with people and animals and goods delivered to the palace. Time passed quickly, making him remember the years of turmoil, before the years of peace had lulled all to sleep.

  Late in the evening, after all were settled and sleeping from the long journey, Obadiah was summoned to Ahab’s chamber. The bed was tidy and the table next to it was laid with wine and fruits. Ahab had scrolls open upon his desk, with a carpet under it.

  Ahab looked at Obadiah with a brief and formal nod, but his eyes did not meet Obadiah’s. Ahab had trouble meeting anyone’s eyes. Three years of peace, and he had felt none of it. He had grown more despondent every year, plagued by the omen hanging over his head.

  “Ramoth-Gilead belongs to the northern tribes but is still in Ben-hadad’s control,” Ahab said.

  Obadiah nodded. It was true. Ben-hadad had been spared and allowed Israel access to more markets, but he had done no more than that. He had never become a true ally—just a sleeping enemy.

  “That is why I’ve called Jehoshaphat to us,” Ahab continued. “I want him to go to war with me. Take back Ramoth-Gilead.”

  “Jehoshaphat does not have a powerful army,” Obadiah said.

  “They have the Lord,” Ahab said quietly. “When I faced Ben-hadad in the past, God was with me.”

  Ahab sat at his desk and rested his head in his hands. Then he drew a deep breath, like a man who had thought many times of what he should say. He looked up at Obadiah with a solemn face. His eyes, though, were empty. Obadiah saw the defeat in his slumped shoulders, in the years scratching their marks into his forehead and around his eyes, how he moved as if weighed down by shackles.

  “You want to be a great king,” Obadiah said.

  “No,” he said quietly. “It is too late for that.”

  “Then why take Ramoth-Gilead?”

  “God has waited to take my life. There is a chance I can change His mind. I can do something.”

  A heaviness weighted the air, making it hard to breathe. Obadiah’s chest began to throb, bursting with words that demanded to be heard. It was not his place to say them.

  He could not say them.

  And then he did.

  “It is not about you, Ahab. It is about Him. The Lord hates Jezebel because children are sacrificed to her gods. Infants, some given willingly by poor young mothers who could not feed them, some given because they are born with defects, some stolen. She calls her gods Baal and Asherah. Some call them pleasure and freedom, but they are neither. They are demons. The Lord is angry because you allowed His people to worship demons and kill the youngest children.” The roof of his mouth burned as the words rushed past, saving Obadiah from the hungry dead that clung invisibly to Ahab. Obadiah had read the truth, he had known the truth, but to speak it was a frightening new power. It was a clumsy, blunt power, but the most he had ever had. His head buzzed inside, the force of true words spoken at last making him dizzy.

  Ahab’s expression did not change. As if he had heard nothing, he talked of rights and cities. “Ramoth-Gilead is rightfully ours. Obadiah, you can confirm that in the records of our history. If I go out against Ben-hadad, if I can strike him down in battle, as the Lord desired, I can make it right with the Lord. Perhaps I can revoke His curse on my sons. I can face death if I know I have saved my sons.”

  “How many sons must die for you, Ahab, before you do what is right?” Obadiah said.

  The king did not hear him.

  22

  Jezebel

  At last, after so many years of pain, Ahab had decided to act like a king. He was going to make himself worthy of the crown he had been given. She had hated him for that more and more as the years had passed, that he had been given what she had fought for and
lost, then earned on her back. She understood Omri’s disdain for his son.

  Tears ran down her cheeks and landed on her lap. The stain spread, its darkness growing, and she saw it widen its path, moving fast, shooting to her knees as it grew and covered her robes, the darkness reaching up over her belly, spreading up toward her neck. She watched it, transfixed. She had not seen her own tears for years.

  The two kings were announced, and Jezebel stood, her knees shaking from the discovery of tears. She pressed her hand to her face, to feel them before they disappeared. They would never return. With a true king for a husband, she would never cry again.

  Jehoshaphat and Ahab walked into the throne room and sat with Jezebel at the table that had been set for the first meal of the day. Each was dressed in his kingly robes, a long multicolored tunic and a shorter tunic of white linen over it, with embroidered sashes that caught the morning light. Jehoshaphat wore a purple outer robe and a sash with red workings. Ahab had his red outer robe on, and a gold sash with gold beads.

  “You approve of my beloved daughter? You are pleased with the match?” Jezebel asked Jehoshaphat, handing him a bowl of grapes.

  He took them from her but passed them on. “She is beautiful, like her mother.”

  Jezebel attempted a smile as she reached for the bowl of dates stuffed with almonds and fried in honey.

  “Athaliah will be an exceptional queen someday,” Jezebel said. “A strong queen in Judah, a strong queen in Israel.”

  Jehoshaphat choked on the milk he drank and cleared his throat, holding up one hand to keep the servants from attending him. He glanced at Ahab, and then at her, as tears from the mishap welled in his eyes. “My apologies,” he said.

  “Having a daughter first has always been seen as a slight from the gods, but that is wrong,” she said, hearing her high, sharp voice as if someone spoke for her. “Although our work is different, we aren’t afraid of a little blood. We are born rulers.”