Elijah (39 page)

She walked more sprightly, a rekindled flame growing inside her bowels. Her hair had grayed in recent years and her skin had become a bit sallow. Yet she had guarded carefully against fleshiness, so that her stomach still was almost flat and her skin unusually smooth.

Meor-baal returned quickly with the information she sought. He had located the man she wanted, an ambitious, simple-minded captain who was slightly a fanatic toward Melkart and Asherah. He was a good leader who inspired his men to battle with promises of help and rewards from Baal.

“Delightful,” Jezebel laughed. Meor-baal had not seen her so excited in a long time. Her zest was infectious, and soon he was laughing with her as she caricatured Elijah’s wild hair and rustic dress.

She grew serious after a few moments. “Meor-baal,” she instructed, “I want you to arrange for messengers to wait for the soldiers to return with Elijah. The moment they approach the gate I want criers to rush to their posts and announce to the city his capture. The people must know that Baal is stronger than Yahweh’s curse.”

Meor-baal bowed. He had aged more quickly than she, and had gained considerable weight. Still, their friendship had deepened over the years, even more since she had become Queen Mother rather than Queen.

The captain was outside the door when the priest made his exit. He entered Jezebel’s conference room with a practiced but cautious air of confidence. A scar from a former battle ran from his forehead down the side of his nose very close to his left eye. The eye still was good but the scar made it appear a bit larger than the other. He was dressed in a warrior’s tunic and cradled his dress helmet in his arm. He bowed, “At your service, my Queen Mother.”

“How strongly do you believe in Melkart?” Jezebel asked abruptly.

The soldier stood at attention. “He is the strongest of all the gods,” he replied.

“Stronger than Yahweh?”

“Yes, honored Queen Mother.” He laughed softly. “Much stronger.”

“Then how do you account for Yahweh’s victory years ago on Mount Carmel?” she pressed.

The captain considered the question carefully. “I have thought much about that contest,” he responded. “I must admit that I do not know how Yahweh won. A weaker god wins an occasional battle. But if Yahweh were stronger his nation would be stronger. And he would not allow Baal in his domain.”

Jezebel’s inner smile did not appear on her face. The reasoning of rustic men amused her. What difference did it make what arguments the captain used, though, so long as his belief in Melkart was firm. Her next question was crucial, though, and she looked at him intently. “Are you afraid of Elijah?”

The warrior smiled, causing the scar on his face to deepen. “He is the prophet of Mount Carmel,” he said. “Surely he is Yahweh’s strongest prophet. But Baal is stronger. If I ever meet him, it will be in the strength of Melkart. Melkart is stronger, so Melkart will win.”

“But what about Carmel? Melkart did not win there.”

“Sometimes prophets lose touch with the gods.”

“And you are in touch.”

The captain fidgeted nervously, but only for a moment. “Yes,” he said flatly.

“All right,” Jezebel said. “I am giving you the most important assignment of your career.” She stretched herself upright in her throne chair. “The prophet of Yahweh has pronounced that the king will die. You must find him so we may break his curse by the power of Baal.”

The captain beamed. “His arrest will be my pleasure.”

“He lives on a hill not far south of here,” the Queen Mother continued. “Find out the location from one of the priests. Bring him to Ahaziah, but announce your arrival so I can be there. Treat Elijah as you please on the way, but I want him alive when I see him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Queen Mother Jezebel.” The captain bowed and turned.

He gathered his men quickly to brief them. Mounted, without chariots, the party circled Samaria’s walls and turned south toward Mounts Ebal and Gerizim. The sky was bleak, overcast with a mottled blanket of dark gray high-topped clouds. The captain teased his men about needing such a large force to arrest one man, skillfully seeking to quiet the fears of those who knew of Elijah’s power. They were going to a picnic, not to a battle. To emphasize the point, he stopped his contingent at Kozoh and again at Elmathan for wine. By the time he led his fifty down the steep wadi that passed at the foot of Elijah’s hill the men were laughing and singing the robust songs of Asherah.

The captain gathered his men in a tight group around him so Elijah could note the force of the arresting party. He looked up the hill and called loudly, “Elijah!” The prophet did not immediately appear. The captain screamed the name louder, then turned and swore to his men. He hoped he could avoid climbing the steep hill.

Elisha looked toward his master. “The time has come, Elijah,” he said.

Elijah threw on his mantle and walked slowly toward the crest of his hill, then stooped low behind a thick bush. He could hear clearly the raucous laughter of the soldiers, interspersed with insults toward the man they came to capture. He was not surprised by Ahaziah’s action. The man was desperate. How much easier for him simply to call on Yahweh for help. Jezebel was the power, of course. She could never let such a challenge to Baal go unanswered.

The prophet rose and stepped to the crest so the soldiers could see him. The hill sloped too steeply for horses, so the soldiers would have to climb on foot. The men laughed louder now, pointing upward and joking about his appearance.

“Hey, Elijah,” the captain called loudly, “you dervish.” The men roared. Elijah sat down on a rock to stare down impassively onto the soldiers. “Elijah,” the captain repeated, “you crazy man of a weak god. The king wants to see you. Come with us.”

Elijah’s forearm rested easily on his knee. “What does Ahaziah want?”

“What do you think, prophet of Yahweh?” The captain spoke more sternly now. “You will learn to respect the king and you will learn the power of Baal.”

“If Baal can heal, let him heal. Or is he too weak to break Yahweh’s word?”

The captain motioned for his men to remain in their places. He dismounted and stood in front of his horse. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he shouted at the top of his voice. “Elijah, you so-called man of a god, come down or I will come and drag you down.”

Elijah stood to his feet and looked down the long slope toward the close-ranked warriors. He could see each face. Some appeared amused, others were intense with anger. He called back to the captain. “You would challenge the power of Yahweh with the force of arms?”

The leader’s face relaxed from its anger. He spoke tauntingly. “Hey, Elijah, I wasn’t on Mount Carmel. You’re talked to soldiers now, not prophets and priests. I warn you. Come down now or you will wish you were dead.”

Elijah recalled the derisive laughter of the salt diggers. What of the gentle voice now? Should he become a prisoner of the soldiers the people would award Baal a great victory. Even Ahaziah’s death would not eclipse the significance of his capture.

He spoke in measured words. “You must know, Captain, that Yahweh will not allow me to be captured. You will do well to return to Samaria.”

The captain slowly withdrew his sword from its sheath. He gestured with his other hand for his men to dismount. They gathered around him quickly, drawing their swords as they moved.

Elijah held his hand outstretched toward them. “Yahweh has warned you, Captain. Now all Israel will know that the God who sent fire on Mount Carmel can meet on any god’s battlefield. If I truly am a prophet of Yahweh, let fire come down from heaven to consume every one of you.”

The captain’s face was impassive. As if in common ritual, all fifty-one men raised their swords high, their points like lightning rods toward the slated sky. It happened then. Lightning streaked in blinding waves from the moisture-filled heavens to touch the tip of every sword. Thunder roared its deafening proclamation of disaster as brilliant light flashed through armor and men to sizzle on the earth. Warriors were thrown in wild heaps by the force, flung onto their backs and sides and chests, electricity crackling in their armor. The horses behind them reared up and neighed in terror. The nearer ones fell to the ground, some of them dead; the ones behind broke into frantic gallops up the narrow trail.

Not a man moved. Each hand held still to its sword, seared flesh welded to iron handles. Shreds of burnt, smoldering cloth lay on and around the blackened flesh of bodies lying promiscuously together, a center heap with straggled corpses flung around the perimeter.

Elijah stared down at the scene, his horror mixed with anger. He was not repelled at the sight any more than at the slaughter on Carmel. He could understand God’s vengeance better than God’s gentle voice. And so could other men . . . and so could other men.

Elisha stood close behind him. As Elijah turned, his servant spread his arms to receive the prophet’s embrace. A thrill of victory grew so fiercely in their breasts that they wept. Elisha spoke first. “Surely,” he said ecstatically, “Ahaziah will repent now.”

Elijah shook his head. “No. Ahaziah is too weak to repent. Especially with Jezebel at his side. But perhaps the next king will. Perhaps.”

The horses scattered once they reached the road. Some ran into fields and stopped, snorting their fear, rearing and galloping away when villagers approached them. Some ran south, others north.

None of the horses returned to Samaria. The noon hour passed and the messengers stared with increasing nervousness down the road that ran along the city wall. A worried Meor-baal posted lookouts on the southeastern parapet.

At two o’clock, an hour before the afternoon sacrifice, Jezebel summoned her priest. “Perhaps,” he ventured, “villagers faithful to Yahweh were able to overcome the contingent.”

She shrieked. “Able to overcome fifty-one good fighting men?” Her face was flushed, her hands trembling with anger. She stepped down from her dais and walked to the statue of Melkart by the window. She stared at it for a long time. Her arms hung tight to her sides and she clenched and unclenched her fists repeatedly. Finally she turned. “Meor-baal, come here.”

The priest immediately stepped close to her. Jezebel spoke directly into his face, loudly. “Order all of the standing army stationed in the city to the large courtyard immediately. I will give the orders to them myself. Move quickly. I want Elijah by nightfall.”

Meor-baal bowed.

Word of the call to arms spread rapidly. Soldiers walked away from half-filled wine goblets and pseudo-worried prostitutes. Fathers and husbands quickly kissed their families. Religious soldiers interrupted their sacrifices and left their offerings behind. Within little more than an hour all but a few stragglers had gathered in the assembly area by the city gate.

Jezebel stood on a quickly-improvised podium. She was dressed in a purple robe trimmed in red, her Queen Mother headdress in place. She raised her chin a bit as she began. “I speak for the king. He has ordered a crucial mission for which only the bravest and most select soldiers should volunteer.” She paused, watching the curious, rough faces staring at her in anticipation. “All of you who worship Melkart step forward. The rest of you fall back,” she ordered. The shuffling began, but, to her surprise, fully two-thirds of the troops fell back. Yahweh had gained more ground than she thought. “You soldiers who do not worship Melkart are dismissed,” she shouted.

Jezebel reweighed her plan carefully as Yahweh worshipers moved away. Some five hundred soldiers would be left. She had intended to send all of the Melkart men after Elijah, but the surprising show of Yahweh’s strength called for caution. The marginal believers would add weakness, not strength, to the battle of the gods.

“Now,” she shouted at last, “who is the best among you?”

The soldiers looked around to find Baal-hanan. A shouting tumult, as his comrades raised his arms and shouted his name companionably, indicated him to be on the left side of the assembly.

“Come forward,” Jezebel ordered.

Baal-hanan made his way to the podium.

“Come up here,” she said softly.

He mounted the stand quickly, as muted exclamations of surprise swept through the crowd—surprise that a common soldiers would be given such an honor.

The Queen Mother spoke quietly, making sure her instructions would be heard only by him. He was to select fifty of the best warriors, each one dedicated to Melkart, and order them to prepare to ride at once. When that was arranged, he was to meet her in her conference room.

She answered Meor-baal’s quizzical look as they walked to Jezebel’s chambers. “Melkart obviously has guarded the champion carefully in all his battles, my dear priest. I chose a man whom Melkart likes.”

A half-hour later Baal-hanan was announced. Jezebel accepted his bow, then told him of the king’s injury and Elijah’s curse. The first contingent had not yet returned, she explained. She spoke with strained emotion. “Look toward the window at Melkart.”

Baal-hanan obeyed. The stone god was caught in half-stride, a loin cloth coming to midthigh, a high turban on his head. He was bearded, with a large battleaxe on his shoulder. His eyes were large and staring.

“Walk closer,” she ordered. “See what Melkart will say.”

Baal-hanan walked self-consciously to the statue. He stared into the large eyes and studied the axe.