Eleanor Jong - Jezebel

Finally the carriage slowed and Jezebel peered out at the looming city walls, a last defence against any determined invader who had made it this far. She could hear Amos and Philosir up ahead presenting their credentials to the gatekeepers, and a moment later a soldier appeared at the carriage window, his face creased from months of defending this harsh landscape, his hair long and greasy.

‘So you’re the Phoenician bride?’

Are you expecting any others? she wondered. She chose to ignore the word he’d used for ‘bride’. Rather than kingly consort, its meaning hinted at a brood-mare paired with a stallion. ‘I’m Jezebel, Princess of Tyre,’ she answered.

He stared at her as one might a strange sea creature beached on the shore. They’d paused before the ascent for her to assume her best purple travelling cape and the modest cap of the betrothed bride.

A shout went up at the head of the procession and with a great creak the gates were opened and a bugler played a single solemn note that sounded more like a peal of bad tidings than a welcome. The carriage lumbered forward once more and the procession dragged into the city. But there was none of the warmth and joy of the departure from Tyre, none of the cheering or the wash of the sea. Instead the city was flat with the clop of hooves on stone as they travelled among the walls within walls, deep into the heart of the city. Jezebel caught a glimpse of what was surely the King’s Palace, a huge stone edifice that rose up in the middle of the city, its sheer walls pockmarked with windows and wooden shutters. The Israelites who passed the carriage met them with cold curiosity, drifting begrudgingly apart to let them pass.

It wasn’t quite the warm welcome Jezebel had expected. She felt Beset’s hand link with her own beneath the cape.

The carriage jolted to a halt and the doors were snatched open. A pair of soldiers clad in leather armour stood on each side. Neither offered a hand.

Jezebel climbed out of the carriage as elegantly as she could, shaking out the heavy travelling cape over her dress. The procession had stopped at another closed gateway and Jezebel realised they were outside the Palace, for the great walls soared above her, pale against the dusk sky. In one of the high windows she thought she saw a woman looking out across the city, but when she looked again the figure was gone. Her gaze fell to the stony street beneath her feet and she shivered. Philosir appeared at her side, Amos behind him, the priest’s normally tranquil demeanour tainted with worry.

‘I apologise, Your Highness,’ said Philosir rather more loudly than was his usual custom. ‘I do not know why we are being kept here outside the Palace gates like tradesmen.’

Because it is a trade, thought Jezebel. And someone wants me to remember that.

After a short wait the gates yawned open and through them emerged Obadiah, the Israelite envoy who had arrived in Tyre the day after the Judeans. He wore a black robe over his tunic, embroidered at the edges in pale thread, but his head was bare and he looked rather scruffy next to Philosir. He had also dispensed with the permanently obsequious smile he had worn in Tyre and he looked humourlessly down his long narrow nose at Jezebel. She wondered fleetingly if her father had been deceived by the courtship of negotiation, like a maid duped at market by a flirtatious farmer. Nonetheless she took a deep breath and bowed while Philosir offered his hands to the other official in the traditional Phoenician greeting.

But Obadiah ignored them both, instead asking his soldiers, ‘Why have you brought them here? Escort them to the rear gate.’

Philosir asked sharply, ‘Is there to be no formal welcome?’

Obadiah raised his brows. ‘Before the wedding?’

‘This is a meeting of kingdoms, not just a marriage of convenience.’

Obadiah gave a dry laugh. ‘There will be a dinner this evening.’

‘Before or after the wedding?’ asked Beset. ‘Should Her Highness wear the wedding gown or—’

Obadiah waved a hand. ‘I will have someone see the girl to her chambers. The rest of you should follow the walls around to the far side.’ And then he strode off into the Palace compound without a backward glance.

Jezebel glanced at Philosir but the diplomat was himself exchanging angry whispers with Amos. So she took a deep breath and walked through the Palace gate after Obadiah, lifting her cape so that it would not drag in the dirt. She could feel every eye on her. Stopping, she turned around.

‘Well?’ she said in a voice so loud and clear it surely didn’t belong to the girl who was shaking so much inside she could hardly breathe. ‘Which of you will take me to my chambers?’

Her momentary courage was lost in a rattle of horses’ hooves and a spray of dust as a rider cantered round the Phoenician party and into the courtyard. The soldiers suddenly stood to attention and rapped their staffs into the ground, one of them dashing forward to take the horse’s harness as the rider dismounted.

‘From the look of you, I assume you are Ithbaal’s daughter,’ said the rider, a tall lean figure in a dirt-streaked tunic and leather jerkin. Greying hair fell in a tangle around his shoulders. He must have been twice Jehu’s age, at least. His nose was narrow and his eyes small and very dark as they watched her. A deep scar ran beneath his mouth and along his jawline. ‘They told me you were beautiful, although I would suggest that striking is a more accurate description.’

At least my face isn’t scarred, and my clothes are not filthy.

‘Your Highness?’ asked Philosir hesitantly.

Jezebel’s heart sank. Ahab?

‘And you must be the diplomat,’ replied the rider. ‘We will meet more formally later.’

He strode off through a courtyard, slapping the dust from his tunic, and Philosir moved quickly to Jezebel’s side. ‘I wish it could have been more auspicious a first meeting,’ he murmured.

‘I wish he could have been less rude,’ muttered Beset.

But Jezebel could only stare after him. And I wish he weren’t such an old man!

The chambers she had been allocated were a pleasant surprise. Not only would they furnish comfortably with all the cushions and couches she had brought with her from Tyre, but they commanded an excellent view far across the land towards the west. Across a narrow corridor outside her room was a long balcony above one of the internal courtyards, thick with climbing plants, though their flowers were barely in bud due to the relative cold up here. In her memory, Tyre was already so low and small, and even with the spectacular view she couldn’t see the sea along the line of the setting sun.

And somewhere to the south, on another mountain sat Jerusalem, and Jehu.

A snap of barking cut the evening peace and Jezebel shuddered. Down below a group of wild dogs strained on chains as they dragged a pair of soldiers around the castle walls, their mottled coats rippling over their muscular limbs, their mean faces wrinkling up over sharp yellow teeth as they howled up through the shadows towards her.

‘They can smell the infidels.’

Jezebel twisted away from the window. A woman stood behind her. The voice had been so low and hard she’d thought it a man’s. The face was hard too, and her hair was scraped back into a brutally tight twist. She looked as old as King Ahab, as old even as Jezebel’s own father, her skin lined like the layers of rock that formed the mountain beneath Samaria.

Jezebel gave a cordial nod of greeting but the woman made no effort to respond, so Jezebel said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘The dogs. They know Yahweh isn’t your God.’

Jezebel felt her politeness grow taut with impatience at the woman’s tone. ‘He is one of the pantheon of Phoenician Gods. He is the son of El and the brother of—’