Word Fulfilled, The (32 page)

A hoarse voice penetrated the wooden panel. “Uncle Hiram. Aunt Rizpah. It’s Jamin.”

Hiram threw open the door and his nephew stumbled in.

Thirty-eight

Nineveh, the Royal Palace

Sixteenth Day of Du’ûzu

onah rolled onto his back and stared through the gloom at the shallow, predawn gray that filtered through a narrow cleft in the wall. A lesser light fought to illuminate his weary heart.

Is this why was I sent here? To die in an Assyrian prison?
He gave up his search for answers to these and myriad other questions floating just within reach of his mind.

Countless times that night his hand went to his chest, and panic gripped him each time he felt an empty space where the medallion had rested for so many years. He squeezed his eyes against the persistent image of the heathen priestess fingering his heirloom, her smugness, the glint in her eye. Regardless of his efforts to push it away, her face hovered and taunted him in the murky dusk.

Exhausted after two wakeful nights, Jonah curled onto his side. His body shook in a spasm as his skin pressed against the cool dirt floor. His light robe, woven to dispel the heat of the open desert, afforded little protection against the dankness. He shivered again. How could the ground be so cold, yet the air so tepid? Nothing made sense. Nothing in Assyria—
cursed Assyria!
—made sense. Although addled and restless, he could feel the fatigue that weighed his eyelids and pressed them down beyond his resistance. He tossed just beneath the surface of consciousness.

A scrape disturbed his restless slumber. He opened an eye and blinked into a ray of daylight that streamed through the cleft. The air was warmer, and the floor had lost some of its bite. He turned his head as the noise grew. The scrape became a rattle at the low door of his cell. The panel ground on its hinges, and an unseen hand pushed it open.

“He’s in here.”

“Thank you.”

The first voice was gruff—the jailor’s. The second voice was soft and breathy—a woman’s.

Jonah pushed himself up. He squinted into the dim light as a figure ducked through the low doorway.

“Bang on the door when you’re finished. Have fun. I know he has no silver.” The jailor guffawed and slammed the door shut. His footfalls receded down the corridor, and all went quiet.

An awkward stillness hung in the air. Neither the figure nor Jonah moved.

After a moment, his visitor stepped toward him. The weak light revealed a woman, her face framed in loose wisps of graying hair. She remained silent while she studied Jonah’s face.

Jonah furrowed his brow and edged away from the strange woman until his back met the clay wall.
What is this?
His forehead grew warm.

She broke the silence in stilted Hebrew. “Are you . . . the man from Israel?”

Jonah didn’t respond.

“My name is Hannah. I have something for you.”

He pushed back against the wall. “I’m not . . . I don’t want anything.”

“I think you do.” She took two paces forward and settled to her knees in front of him. She reached out her hand.

“Stop! I don’t know what you want, but—”

A glint of metal flashed as Jonah’s medallion dropped from her palm. Suspended from her fingers at the end of its leather thong, the amulet twisted in the air and splayed brilliant gold from its polished surface in the narrow ray of light.

“How did you get that? Where did—”

She extended her other arm. An identical medallion fell from it and swung on a silver chain. The golden ambiance, now doubled, permeated the small room and almost blinded Jonah’s light-deprived eyes. The two discs danced together in the morning light, as though they rejoiced in their long-awaited reunion.

Jonah stared at the pendants, unable to move.

Hannah extended Jonah’s medallion and eased it into his lap. She released the thong and sat on the dirt floor. She lowered the twin pendant onto her own lap and curled her legs beside her. Her gaze never left his face.

“I have the same question for you. Where did you get that medallion?”

Hannah’s eyes darted over the gaunt figure against the clay wall. As her eyes accustomed themselves to the dim cell, she surveyed his face. He was pale, his eyes a shade she couldn’t describe, but not dark like she would expect in a Hebrew. She sensed his discomfort, but there were answers she needed. She hoped this would not take long.

Jonah’s eyes flicked to hers. “It was . . . long ago.”

She nodded.

“I found it after a battle. In the Valley of Jezreel.” He cocked his head. “You speak Hebrew. Do you know Israel? Have you heard of Jezreel?”

Hannah’s mind conjured the image of the valley where her beloved husband, Abim, must have died. She hoped it was a beautiful place. “I have heard of it from my parents. I am a . . . Jewess.” It felt odd after all these years to acknowledge her heritage. “My family was taken in an exile many years ago. We have a Hebrew community here in Nineveh.” She averted her eyes. “Although I know little of it.”

Jonah nodded.

“Why are you in Nineveh?” she asked suddenly.

“You don’t know? I thought the whole city knew.”

“I’ve spent little time outside my house since Ianna left. Even less since Mordac . . . since Mordecai died.”

“Ianna? Mordecai?”

“My daughter and my husband.” She blinked the moistness from her eyes. “I heard rumors of unrest but paid little attention.”

Jonah lowered his voice. “I was sent by
Adonai
with a message to the city to repent, or face destruction.”

“You are a prophet?”

Jonah’s nod lacked enthusiasm.

She frowned. “I heard of an Israelite being imprisoned, but I didn’t know why. I have heard of no such message.”

“The authorities did not receive it well.”

“Yes, that I heard.” She hesitated. “My daughter, Ianna, is the High Priestess of Ishtar.”

Jonah jerked his head up at the strange woman. A Jewess, the High Priestess of Ishtar? A child of the Promise served the most vile of heathen goddesses? This was unthinkable. He was too well aware of the idol’s influence. Her tentacles ensnared pagan cults in different guises throughout many lands. In Sumeria she was Inanna; in Phoenicia she was known as Astarte; in Cyprus she became Aphrodite; and even in his own beloved homeland, she was the Canaanite Ashtoreth, consort of the most despicable of false gods, Ba’al. But a Jewess as her High Priestess? How could this be? The notion pulled his mind back to the scene in the temple square.

He thought of the elders who helped him deliver his message and their abuse at the hands of the gentile Assyrian mob. He lifted a silent prayer that none were seriously injured. The elders had been the only ones, it seemed, to accept the message—and not even all of them had.

Then another thought struck him. Was he sent to Assyria to minister to his own people in exile, not to the heathens? Could it be that
Adonai
might not destroy the city, lest He destroy some of His chosen ones also? Perhaps he was to deliver a message of hope, even to lead them back to Israel before the destruction. Then God could have His way with Nineveh. At last, something his heart could grasp! He was a messenger of hope to the Jews of Nineveh—just like he had been six years ago to Samaria. The attractiveness of the idea obscured the angel’s words that he was to preach repentance to the whole city, not rescue a part of it.

But as quickly as his heart soared, it spiraled back to earth. He was still in prison. How was he to deliver any kind of message, to lead anyone away, while in prison? He fought to reclaim the lost hope.

 
“There is a story.” The woman broke the silence as though she read his thoughts. She gazed plaintively into his face. “Do you want to hear?”

Jonah began to retort that he had no interest in the story of an apostate Jewess—especially one who put him in this filthy Assyrian prison—but the look that clouded Hannah’s eyes choked back his words. His heart quivered, and then, curiously, settled into a gentle rhythm. When he finally found his voice, it came in little more than a whisper.

“I seem to have little else to occupy my time.”

Lll

Ahu-duri studied the tablet bearing the edict of the
ugu lugal’s
selection. He brushed his finger over the seal imprint and nodded his satisfaction before he handed it to the courier.

“This must be delivered to the king as quickly as possible. Tell him I will return to Kal
ḫ
u after the installation ceremony.”

The courier bowed, then slipped the royal missive into a leather case and departed.

The vizier turned and ambled to his cushion. With a sigh, he stretched out and hefted his wine cup. He upended the vessel above his mouth and let the dregs run down his tongue and into his throat. Kaheri’s voice startled him, and he hacked at several drops that diverted down his windpipe.

“What is it, Kaheri?” he croaked.

“A thousand apologies, my lord. There is a visitor. A woman.”

“Yes, yes. See my sister in.”

Kaheri cleared his throat. “It is not your sister, my lord. It’s the High Priestess of Ishtar.”

Ahu-duri rose to his feet as quickly as the heat rose to his face. “I’ll see her in. Bring wine and fruit. Quickly.”

The vizier hurried to the courtyard gate. Protocol demanded he admit her personally, a rule he was more than pleased to observe with this priestess.

Two soldiers fidgeted next to the portal. They stole glances at the petite beauty who waited outside the gate. Through the portal, the vizier saw the High Priestess adorned in all the finery of her office. He also noticed that, despite the ornate regalia, her silky robe did not detract from her figure. Quite the opposite.

“Open the gate!” he barked. “Do you not know who it is?”

The guards scrambled to their task, then stepped back against the garden wall. Their eyes widened at the regal priestess as she stepped into the garden. Two attendant priestesses in scant blue tunics followed.

“My lord.”

“High Priestess.” Ahu-duri bowed and hoped his face did not betray his warm forehead. “Please come in. Join me in the garden.” He gestured for her to walk at his side.

Ianna nodded and took her position on his left. As they reached the turn in the path, she turned toward her escort. “Wait here. I shall not be long.”

The priestesses bowed and stepped to the side of the path. They glanced back toward the two gawking soldiers and shared subdued smiles. Kaheri arrived with the wine and fruit as the vizier and his guest arrived at the cushion. He set the food and drink on the low wall, then retreated to the palace.

Ahu-duri offered Ianna his seat. She nodded demurely. Ianna eased herself into the vizier’s seat, shoulders erect. Her slender fingers rested lightly on her lap, and her curled legs formed a gentle angle beneath the sleek fabric of her gown. The royal emissary fought to keep his eyes on her face. He settled onto the low wall of the garden plot.