Eleanor Jong - Jezebel

Finally, ahead of Amos in the arch of the Palace gateway stood Ithbaal, with the wine bowl of Kotharat, the Goddess of marriage. The King raised the bowl high, then he turned to face Jezebel and summoned her forward.

‘Go in safety, go in peace, go in contentment,’ he intoned. ‘May your journey through life be rich and fertile, and may it please the great pantheon of our Gods.’ He drank from the bowl then handed it to Jezebel. It sat heavily in her palms, steadying their tremor. She looked uncertainly at him, then lifted the bowl and sipped from it, the wine sweet in her dry mouth.

He leaned forward to take the bowl from her. ‘I will miss you,’ he murmured softly. ‘But you will become a great emissary for our kingdom. And every one of our people gathered here to see you go believes that too.’

Jezebel looked around her at the Palace officials, at Rebecca sniffing proudly into her apron, at the fishermen, the traders, the priests and all the families of Tyre clustered together, each of them perhaps holding their breath just as she did, uncertain of the future. She swallowed hard, and gave the bowl back to her father, then straightened herself as she knew she must, her bead-edged scarf rippling over her shoulders, and looked out across the causeway towards the land.

‘To Samaria.’

It was a long walk down through the crowds that lined the road, their cheers rolling around her like the waves on the beach. But she knew as she crossed the causeway that those same crowds would ebb away quickly enough too. Her city would forget her. In the days since Jehu had left, she’d prayed to forget him too, just to escape the pain of the memories. The almond sweetness was fading from the cushion on which he had lain, now tucked safely into the carriage behind her, but his image was stubborn and resolute in her mind. The love which had made her feel afloat above the petty concerns of trade and borders and politics now lodged deep in her stomach like nausea on a rolling sea. She doubted it would ever leave.

As soon as she reached the shore, Jezebel paused, waiting for the retinue to swell up around her and regroup for the journey, first along the coast and then inland. Priests, diplomats and officials clustered into their groups, all watching her intently. But it was not until the stable boys arrived that Jezebel spoke, tilting up her chin as she strode through the crowd.

‘I will ride from here.’

‘Your Highness?’ said Philosir, the senior official sent by Ithbaal to Israel. Beneath his headdress, his forehead was lined with all the wisdom of the kingdom, and those sharp blue eyes that had seen so much observed her shrewdly. ‘Your carriage would be more comfortable.’

‘I want to ride.’

‘It is very warm this morning,’ said Beset, ‘and we have a long slow journey ahead of us all day. You’ll want to look your best when we arrive tomorrow.’

‘I won’t hide away among this delegation,’ said Jezebel. She paused, trying to still the fear in her voice. ‘It is my place to lead it as any Phoenician princess should.’

Philosir and Beset exchanged the briefest of looks, then Philosir clapped his hands. A horse was brought forward with a mounting block, and Philosir offered his hand to Jezebel to mount.

‘I understand you very well,’ said Jezebel as she took it, settling herself side-saddle in all her finery on the horse. ‘But I must begin as I mean to go on.’ However that might turn out to be, she thought to herself.

Philosir bowed his head, his grey hair curling at his shoulders, then he released the harness so that Jezebel could trot out of the group. She saw Daniel urge his horse forward to join her, but she shook her head and broke into a canter to put space between her and the group. Too far and they would canter to catch up with her. But a small gap should allow her the solitude she craved.

It had been a small argument with Philosir this time, but she knew that would surely be the last of such victories. From now on, she must do as others wanted, from the diplomatic orders rolled up in parchment in Philosir’s chest, to the rituals of Amos and the priests, and not least the wishes of her husband-to-be. Rebecca had explained to Jezebel and Beset that Ahab wanted her as his second wife to give him a son, as those his first wife had provided had all died shortly after birth, leaving him with just one daughter. As she thought of this, Jezebel couldn’t help but remember Jehu on the roof of the Palace talking of first and second wives, the shame and impotence of being born a strong man to the wrong woman. She shivered a little and cast a brief look at Tyre, now receding against the shimmering blue of the horizon, its people attending to their own business again, their princess no doubt already a fading memory. Then she rode on, aware of the dull murmur of the retinue dragging behind her, trying to picture a bed she had never slept in, a lover she had never seen, and a future she could barely imagine. While miles ahead Jehu was probably forgetting his loneliness in the soft arms of some other girl.

The mountains had been a soft smudge on the horizon for a while, like dirty clouds belched by Shapash from her yellow sun. The land had none of the sparkling purity of the sea, and Jezebel had felt suddenly frightened when she glanced over her shoulder and realised she could no longer see the coast at all. The light was draining quickly across the dusty foothills around them as Daniel rode up beside her.

‘We are making camp for tonight because there is a spring just over there and soon it will be too dark to ride safely any further. Shall I bring some water to wash your face and hands?’

Jezebel looked past Daniel towards the well. It was a ramshackle wooden construction, dilapidated from use and with none of the elegant mosaics of shells that celebrated the carefully pumped water on Tyre. Some distance away were the huts and tents of a small Israelite settlement, as brown as the land around. But she knew appearances were deceiving. The land here concealed vast underground reserves of water.

‘Let’s get you off that horse. You should eat something and rest.’

Jezebel shivered. ‘I’m not hungry.’ She rubbed her belly. ‘I feel sick with nerves.’

Daniel smiled gently. ‘I’m not surprised. But some food and wine will settle you down and help you sleep. Even you have never spent a whole day in the saddle.’

Jezebel laughed ruefully and guided the horse to the rapidly assembling encampment. Tents were being erected and wood piled up for a fire, and she could hear the rhythmic evening chants of the priests. The land grew dark even as she looked at it, and she suddenly felt weary. As she dismounted she couldn’t even work out which way was home, and she stood alone on the edge of the busy group, watching them prepare everything for her just as she would expect it, so they might all pretend that this was still a little piece of Phoenicia. But there was nothing familiar in all this industry, not the nervous murmurings of her staff nor even in Daniel’s soft plucking of his nevel, tuning the twelve strings so that he might play soothing songs of home. Even the air smelled strange and dry, and Jezebel rocked back her head to breathe in from the sky and not the land. And there, far above her, sparkled Baal’s star – Ayish, as Jehu had called it – and there, as she traced the patterns in the sky with her finger, Kesil, his twinkling archer.

Where are you, my love? she wondered. Do you look towards Tyre as I do, and remember?

The next morning it was not the unfamiliar light that woke Jezebel, nor the strange soft breaths of the horses against the walls of her tent, but the awful heat in her skin and the lurch of sickness in her stomach.