Izevel’s long fingers gripped the arms of her throne. The great oaken chair with the cedar emblem had been made for the visit of her father, King Ethbaal of Tzidon. Months later, the throne remained,now the seat of his sixteen-year-old daughter, Izevel, the Queen of Israel. “Did any resist bowing?”
“Indeed, for those already loyal to Baal did not journey to the Calf at all.”
“How did you handle the stubborn?”
Yambalya laughed. “The people of Israel are sheep. If the men in front of them bow, they bow as well.”
The Queen relaxed her grip and leaned back in the overlarge throne. “Did none cause any trouble?”
“The tale grows even better, my Queen.” A grin played at the corner of Yambalya’s mouth. “Come,” he called.
Two men stepped from the shadows. Like Yambalya, the younger one wore the deep violet robes of the priests of Baal. The other wore a soldiers’ tunic embroidered with the cedar tree of Tzidon. The soldier bowed before the Queen, holding out a sword for her inspection. “We took this from one of the men at the roadblock, my Queen.” He spoke without lifting his face.
Izevel reached out and took the weapon. She fingered the cedar tree emblem carved into the hilt. “This belonged to one of my soldiers?”
“It did, my Queen. To one of the four who never returned from…” his eyes flickered to her face and returned to the floor, “…from dealing with the prophets.”
Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the sword. “Was the man who carried it a prophet?”
“He looked like no prophet I’ve ever seen. He had the face of a soldier, covered in scars.”
Her hand closed on the sword’s hilt. “You killed him?”
“The ground has already swallowed his blood, my Queen.” The soldier bent his head to the side, pointing to a tattooed pattern of dots stretching down his neck and extending below his tunic. He touched an inflamed area on his neck, a newly printed black splotch at its core.“This one is for him.” The soldier met her eyes. “And so may all of her majesty’s enemies perish.”
“Excellent.” Izevel gave him a cold smile. “One man did not kill four of my soldiers on his own. Had he no companions?”
The soldier shot a glance at the young priest standing at Yambalya’s side, then returned his gaze to Izevel. “On this point, we disagree, my Queen.”
“What is this?” Izevel eyed the young priest. “Explain.”
The young priest bowed low as he stepped from behind Yambalya’s protective shadow. “An old man passed soon after your soldiers killed the one with the scars.”
“An old man?” Yambalya’s eyes shot to his priest. “What old man?”
“He was too old to bow,” the priest said to his master, “but he caused no other trouble.”
The soldier scoffed. “If he was strong enough to walk from Beit El, he was strong enough to bow.”
“He was old and confused,” the priest said. “His grandson made that clear.”
“What grandson?” Izevel’s eyes darted back and forth between the speakers.
“There was a boy who passed before the one with the scars,” the young priest said.
“If the grandfather was merely confused,” the soldier said, “why did his grandson not pass through with him? Why separate himself?”
“You forced the people to pass through one at a time.” The priest’s voice rose to meet the soldier’s. “They separated in the crowd.”
The soldier shook his head. “He did not look confused to me. He exposed his neck to the sword. He wanted us to strike him down.”
“Why would a man do that?” Izevel’s eyes narrowed.
The soldier only shrugged, but Yambalya offered an answer.“Israel venerates mercy, the virtue of the weak. The prophets think showing the people we do not share their love of weakness will rouse them against us.”
“So he was a prophet?” The Queen turned her full gaze on the young priest.
He shrank back. “I cannot be certain, my Queen.”
Yambalya placed his hand on his disciple’s shoulder. “Trust your instincts. Was this old man a prophet or no?”
The priest lowered his head. “I expect he was, Master.”
Yambalya’s hands closed on his neck and lifted him clear off the ground. “You let him pass through alive?”
“We couldn’t kill all who refused to bow,” the young priest said. “Sixty men waited to get through.”
“Those men would have done nothing had it not been for the boy.” The soldier grimaced. “He was the one who roused them to resist.”
Yambalya released the priest, who fell to the floor.
“Agreed.” The priest nodded at the soldier, the unlikely ally who had come to his defense. “Once provoked, we could not have handled them all. Even if our soldiers had won the battle, we could have sparked a rebellion.”
“Did you not think to follow them?” Yambalya asked the soldier. “Kill the old man and the boy where no one would see?”
“There were too many men on the road,” the soldier replied. Not all the mistakes belonged to the priest. “Someone would have seen.”
“Fool! You let a prophet escape?” The Queen turned her wrath on the soldier. “Now he’s perhaps in Shomron itself. He could be rallying others around him even as we speak.”
