Читать книгу Jezebel - Eleanor Jong De - Страница 15

‘This city was built to keep strangers out,’ murmured Jezebel under her breath.

The carriage lurched and she clung on to Beset, not daring to look out at how the slopes fell steeply away. They had been travelling for much of the day across the undulating foothills but the city of Samaria now towered above them on a great flattened mountain as if all the Gods had chosen this as their table round which to sit and feast. The city was barely visible from down here, though as the long Phoenician entourage twisted and turned its way up the steep sides of the mountain, Jezebel glimpsed the dull yellow corners of buildings and shallow reeded roofs. The sun was already low in the sky and the air grew colder with every step of the horses’ hooves.

Finally the carriage slowed and Jezebel peered out at the looming city walls, a last defence against any determined invader who had made it this far. She could hear Amos and Philosir up ahead presenting their credentials to the gatekeepers, and a moment later a soldier appeared at the carriage window, his face creased from months of defending this harsh landscape, his hair long and greasy.

‘So you’re the Phoenician bride?’

Are you expecting any others? she wondered. She chose to ignore the word he’d used for ‘bride’. Rather than kingly consort, its meaning hinted at a brood-mare paired with a stallion. ‘I’m Jezebel, Princess of Tyre,’ she answered.

He stared at her as one might a strange sea creature beached on the shore. They’d paused before the ascent for her to assume her best purple travelling cape and the modest cap of the betrothed bride.

A shout went up at the head of the procession and with a great creak the gates were opened and a bugler played a single solemn note that sounded more like a peal of bad tidings than a welcome. The carriage lumbered forward once more and the procession dragged into the city. But there was none of the warmth and joy of the departure from Tyre, none of the cheering or the wash of the sea. Instead the city was flat with the clop of hooves on stone as they travelled among the walls within walls, deep into the heart of the city. Jezebel caught a glimpse of what was surely the King’s Palace, a huge stone edifice that rose up in the middle of the city, its sheer walls pockmarked with windows and wooden shutters. The Israelites who passed the carriage met them with cold curiosity, drifting begrudgingly apart to let them pass.

It wasn’t quite the warm welcome Jezebel had expected. She felt Beset’s hand link with her own beneath the cape.

The carriage jolted to a halt and the doors were snatched open. A pair of soldiers clad in leather armour stood on each side. Neither offered a hand.

Jezebel climbed out of the carriage as elegantly as she could, shaking out the heavy travelling cape over her dress. The procession had stopped at another closed gateway and Jezebel realised they were outside the Palace, for the great walls soared above her, pale against the dusk sky. In one of the high windows she thought she saw a woman looking out across the city, but when she looked again the figure was gone. Her gaze fell to the stony street beneath her feet and she shivered. Philosir appeared at her side, Amos behind him, the priest’s normally tranquil demeanour tainted with worry.

‘I apologise, Your Highness,’ said Philosir rather more loudly than was his usual custom. ‘I do not know why we are being kept here outside the Palace gates like tradesmen.’

Because it is a trade, thought Jezebel. And someone wants me to remember that.

After a short wait the gates yawned open and through them emerged Obadiah, the Israelite envoy who had arrived in Tyre the day after the Judeans. He wore a black robe over his tunic, embroidered at the edges in pale thread, but his head was bare and he looked rather scruffy next to Philosir. He had also dispensed with the permanently obsequious smile he had worn in Tyre and he looked humourlessly down his long narrow nose at Jezebel. She wondered fleetingly if her father had been deceived by the courtship of negotiation, like a maid duped at market by a flirtatious farmer. Nonetheless she took a deep breath and bowed while Philosir offered his hands to the other official in the traditional Phoenician greeting.

But Obadiah ignored them both, instead asking his soldiers, ‘Why have you brought them here? Escort them to the rear gate.’

Philosir asked sharply, ‘Is there to be no formal welcome?’

Obadiah raised his brows. ‘Before the wedding?’

‘This is a meeting of kingdoms, not just a marriage of convenience.’

Obadiah gave a dry laugh. ‘There will be a dinner this evening.’

‘Before or after the wedding?’ asked Beset. ‘Should Her Highness wear the wedding gown or—’

Obadiah waved a hand. ‘I will have someone see the girl to her chambers. The rest of you should follow the walls around to the far side.’ And then he strode off into the Palace compound without a backward glance.

Jezebel glanced at Philosir but the diplomat was himself exchanging angry whispers with Amos. So she took a deep breath and walked through the Palace gate after Obadiah, lifting her cape so that it would not drag in the dirt. She could feel every eye on her. Stopping, she turned around.

‘Well?’ she said in a voice so loud and clear it surely didn’t belong to the girl who was shaking so much inside she could hardly breathe. ‘Which of you will take me to my chambers?’

Her momentary courage was lost in a rattle of horses’ hooves and a spray of dust as a rider cantered round the Phoenician party and into the courtyard. The soldiers suddenly stood to attention and rapped their staffs into the ground, one of them dashing forward to take the horse’s harness as the rider dismounted.

‘From the look of you, I assume you are Ithbaal’s daughter,’ said the rider, a tall lean figure in a dirt-streaked tunic and leather jerkin. Greying hair fell in a tangle around his shoulders. He must have been twice Jehu’s age, at least. His nose was narrow and his eyes small and very dark as they watched her. A deep scar ran beneath his mouth and along his jawline. ‘They told me you were beautiful, although I would suggest that striking is a more accurate description.’

At least my face isn’t scarred, and my clothes are not filthy.

‘Your Highness?’ asked Philosir hesitantly.

Jezebel’s heart sank. Ahab?

‘And you must be the diplomat,’ replied the rider. ‘We will meet more formally later.’

He strode off through a courtyard, slapping the dust from his tunic, and Philosir moved quickly to Jezebel’s side. ‘I wish it could have been more auspicious a first meeting,’ he murmured.

‘I wish he could have been less rude,’ muttered Beset.

But Jezebel could only stare after him. And I wish he weren’t such an old man!