“I thought this was a wedding,” Yonaton said. “They look as if they’re going to war.”
This vanguard was followed by a single, gilded chariot, much larger than the rest, carrying three passengers seated side by side. In the middle sat an older man draped in purple robes, with a high forehead and neatly groomed beard. He held his chest high as he gazed off into the distance. At his right sat a woman with coronets of steel-gray hair, the sun flashing off her many jewels. On his left sat a woman in a dove-gray dress, her face and hair covered by a white veil. A second line of chariots stretched down the road behind them. At the end of the caravan rode at least a hundred soldiers on horseback, with more coming into view. Each bore the cedar emblem on his chest.
Ovadia signaled to us with a wave. I played the first song that came to mind, one we’d practiced that morning, a fast, dancing melody. It was too cheerful for a march, but Yonaton joined in without objection. King Ethbaal probably couldn’t even hear us over the din of the horses. Ovadia walked down the hill, positioned himself by the side of road, and bowed to the royal chariot. He spoke with the King, climbed in beside the driver, and beckoned us to follow. Without stopping our music, we stepped down to the road and returned to the city as part of the royal retinue.
The main road of Shomron was too steep for the chariots, so the party dismounted at the city gates, where a large crowd was assembled to catch a glimpse of the bride. As she descended, four soldiers came forward with a covered litter. She stepped gracefully into a padded seat and drew the curtains around her, displaying nothing more to the disappointed crowd than a thin wrist and long, elegant fingers. The King and Queen walked slowly at the side of her litter as they ascended to the palace, followed by a winding trail of soldiers.
The procession stopped in front of the palace. Another servant ran forward to place steps before the litter, and the veiled bride stepped down, holding the hand of a maidservant for support. Ovadia escorted the royal family into the palace, and a maidservant followed, carrying an intricately embroidered sack made from some rich indigo fabric.
I wasn’t sure what we should do, but as no one had told us to stop the music, we continued playing and trailed the royal family toward the palace at a respectful distance. The plaza showed none of its earlier activity, standing empty except for guards. At the inner gates, Ovadia turned to King Ethbaal and asked, “Would the King like to be shown to his room to refresh himself before meeting with King Ahav?”
“No, I’ll see Ahav immediately.”
“Very well, my master awaits you. Please follow me. I will return immediately to accompany the Queen and the Princess to their chambers.”
Once her father had gone, the Princess pointed around the plaza and said something to her mother in a foreign tongue. Her words were meaningless to me, yet the melody of her voice aroused a desire to glimpse beneath her veil. My eyes rested on her hands, the only part of her not hidden from view. Her olive skin shone as if rubbed with oil.
“You Queen of Israel soon,” her mother replied in halting Hebrew. “If you wish to enter hearts of people, you must speak their tongue.”
“As you say, Mother,” the Princess replied, in a Hebrew far more fluid than her mother’s. Izevel swept her hand across the plaza again. “It’s little more than a fortress.”
The Queen examined the carvings around the entrance. “It has some beauty. Remember, palace is Queen’s domain. You cannot expect unmarried King to keep it properly.”
“I’m so glad you were able to make the journey, Mother. I will miss your wisdom once you are gone. You are right. The dignity of the palace is my responsibility now.” The Princess pointed to a painted vase atop a pedestal opposite the palace entrance. “Place it there.”
The maidservant put the vase on the floor, replaced it with the indigo sack, and untied its top so that it fell in a heap around the object it held. She then stepped away reverentially. On the pedestal stood a bronze statue of a man, a jagged lightning sword grasped in his upraised hand. A helmet as long as his torso extended above his head, reaching toward the sky. “Yes.” the Princess sighed. “That’s better already.”
I inhaled sharply and bit my lip. A statue—an idol—in the palace of the King of Israel? The shocked silence of the crowd in Beit El returned to me like a cold, ill wind. Even as I stood beneath the summer sky, gooseflesh crept up my arms.
My sleep was broken that night, but not by the old nightmare.
The caged bear, larger and fiercer than before, roared. It reached up its great paws and pounded the iron bars above its head. The sun sparkled off the jewels hanging around its neck, but the ruby pendant was gone—in its place hung the Princess’s bronze statue, its upraised arm ready to strike.
The bear curled a paw around a bar above its head and pulled down with all its weight until the bar snapped in its grip. It reached for another bar on the side of the cage and yanked until it broke as well. It grabbed another bar, then another, breaking each one in turn. Once the cage lay in ruins at its feet, the beast stepped free.
No longer confined, the animal grew at a terrifying pace. It climbed uphill, distending with each step until it reached the height of the palace itself. And it kept on growing. Paws the size of chariots whipped along the palace courtyard, hooked yellow claws ripping paving stones from their moorings. The monster grabbed the sides of the palace and tore it from its foundations. It raised the palace and placed it on its head, fitting it as tightly as a crown. In one colossal step, the bear breached the walls of Shomron and lumbered north.
I startled awake, my heart pounding. Unlike my old nightmare, there was no forgetting this time; every detail of this dream remained deeply etched in my waking mind. I slipped out of bed and looked out the window; my shoulders relaxed at the sight of the palace quietly bathed in moonlight. Still trembling, I reached for my kinnor. Nothing calmed me like music.
Growing up in a home where everyone slept in the same loft helped me learn how to quietly slip down the ladder and step out into the cool night air without waking anyone. I didn’t want to play near the house lest I disturb others’ sleep. It took only a moment to decide where to go.
No one was awake in the streets, though I passed numerous bodies snoring by the side of the road. Ovadia had mentioned that there weren’t enough places for everyone to sleep in anticipation of the royal wedding. The city was only ten years old and had never before held so many people.
The bear slept. Its shaggy back rose and fell with each breath. I approached the bars of the cage and assessed the great beast. Its finery was gone, somehow removed for the night, and a deep musk radiated from its hunched form. I crouched nearby and plucked a nigun my aunt used to sing to me when I woke from a nightmare, confused and afraid. Despite my delicate picking, the music roused the bear; it sat up and snuffed at the air. I stopped playing, but it was too late. The beast rose to its full height, growled, and thrust its paws between the bars at me. I retreated as it snarled, blinking in the dark.
Standing at a safer distance, I closed my eyes and listened to its voice. Daniel said he heard the song of the sheep in my music. The bear was no different than my sheep, really, only larger and more dangerous, with a slower and more powerful rhythm. I plucked again at my kinnor, searching for the right sound.
After a few fumbling moments, a simple melody began to emerge from the lower register of my instrument. It just felt…right. I opened my eyes to see the bear standing silently, no longer lunging for me through the bars. I stepped forward, closer, but it still didn’t move. I began to hum, adding my voice to the notes of the kinnor. The beast tilted its head and released a groaning sigh. I took another step forward—the bear was now within my reach, which meant that I was within its reach too. Still humming, I removed my hand from the strings and extended it between the bars. The bear didn’t move. I laid my hand on the back of its mammoth paw, probing the thick fur.
The animal turned its head—I pulled my hand back, fearing a strike that never came. I returned my hand to the strings, quietly strumming the bear’s song. The animal closed its eyes with a low grunt. It crouched, lay down, and rested its head on the back of its paws. I reached in through the bars and scratched the bear behind its neck, the same place where the man grabbed for the ruby necklace earlier that day. I continued to stroke the spot until the bear sank again into a deep slumber.
Rabban Gamliel said: Beware of rulers: if they befriend, it is only for their own benefit. They act friendly when it is to their advantage; faithless during times of need.
Pirkei Avot 2:3
8
The Alliance
The High Priest’s presence filled the wedding canopy. His commanding eyes peered from beneath thick, black eyebrows set within a broad forehead. His heavy beard hung over white linen robes hemmed with golden bells, which tinkled as he smoothed a golden sash at his waist. The plaza in front of the canopy was wreathed in living boughs and heaps of summer fruits, blending a threshing floor at harvest with a king’s table at feast time. A mass of torch-bearers stepped into the plaza and sliced a path through the crowd of noblemen. Dov struck the first three notes alone, and the rest of us joined in on the fourth, just as we had rehearsed a dozen times the day before. An expectant silence fell over the crowd as all turned their attention up the aisle.
King Ahav appeared in snowy white linen for his wedding day. He walked alone, eyes focused straight ahead, until he took his place next to the High Priest. Only then could I get a good look at his face, which reminded me of Uncle Menachem’s when selling a ram for slaughter.
Next appeared a towering man in violet robes that billowed out over husky arms and a muscular chest, his hand cradling the handle of a sword at his side. Unlike King Ahav, his eyes swept across the aisle, examining the crowd with each step. I knew there were many in Israel opposed to the marriage—is that what he was looking for? Did Princess Izevel need protection at her own wedding? As the man’s eyes passed over the musicians, a chill swept through my body, but the cold eyes didn’t pause. With a swirl of vivid cloth, he stepped under the canopy and positioned himself next to the High Priest, who took a half step away from the body-guard and peered at him from the corner of his eye.
The royal family of Tzidon now appeared. Princess Izevel stood veiled in the middle, her smooth black hair flowing over her shoulders, dark against the white of her dress. King Ethbaal’s proud face tipped upwards, honoring neither crowd nor king with his attention. He led his wife and daughter forward in step with the music. I recalled the harsh gaze that Yosef had fixed upon Ovadia, insisting that he in no way wished to add to this celebration. Yet here I was playing the music that was drawing Izevel, step by step, closer to becoming queen. I swallowed the stone that formed in my throat.
At the end of the aisle, King Ethbaal dropped his gaze to his daughter, lifted her veil and kissed her gently on the forehead. A soft pink flushed in Izevel’s light olive cheeks. She appeared only a few years older than me—she couldn’t have been more than sixteen. A familiar scent of wildflowers surrounded the Princess, and I suddenly knew what had become of the afarsimon oil Seguv brought to Shomron. The Queen drew her daughter under the canopy and led her in a circle around King Ahav.
The High Priest stepped forward. “May all who have assembled here be blessed. We are the children of Abraham, whose tent opened to all sides to welcome guests. We placed our canopy under the sky, recalling the Holy One’s blessing to Abraham that his children would be as abundant as the stars of the heavens…”
I was barely listening, my attention drawn more to the scene around me, to the royal families and the crowd, than to the words of the High Priest. King Ahav tipped his head upwards, mirroring King Ethbaal. Neither king watched Izevel, still circling King Ahav. But her eyes never left the face of her future husband as she walked the traditional seven circles, each one tighter than the last.
“…Marriage is the joining of two halves, destined from creation to be one. The first woman was separated from Adam and then returned, so they could bond together as one flesh. From this union came all men…”
How different my own wedding would be if Uncle Menachem ever allowed me to marry Dahlia. Two of my younger cousins would precede us up the aisle carrying a rooster and a hen; the canopy would be supported by poles cut from the four trees planted when Dahlia was born; we would be surrounded by family and friends, not strangers and dignitaries. I glanced at Dov, leading us with his nevel, who in the final days of rehearsal continued to be impressed by my playing. I hadn’t asked him about returning to play in the King’s court—I’d have to do that after the wedding.
