Читать книгу Jezebel - Eleanor Jong De - Страница 7

Salt spray glistened in the stallion’s mane and stung Jezebel’s cheeks. She leaned close into the neck of the horse, urging the animal on through the low waves. Ahead, the city of Tyre rose up out of the lapis blue of the Great Sea, the white walls of the Royal Palace and the temples like the crest of a perfect wave just ready to break.

As Jezebel reached the causeway that climbed onto the lower reaches of the Tyrian island, Shapash the sun Goddess had already begun to draw her heavy head towards the soft shoulder of Yam, the God of the sea. Jezebel knew she should turn south at the city gates, towards the Palace and the stables. Rebecca, her maid, would be waiting to tut and sigh at how the young princess had surrendered her carefully arranged elegance for the dishevelled disarray of any other fifteen-year-old girl let loose for an afternoon.

But Jezebel couldn’t resist one last whip of the wind in her hair and instead turned north, daring the horse faster and faster round the city walls. She galloped out along the narrow stone promontory, built on the orders of her father to protect the harbour from the heaving discontent of winter seas. For a moment, she felt like she was flying, until the stallion tensed beneath her, his ears pricked and eyes wide. He shuddered to a halt. Jezebel grabbed at the harness to steady them both, her knees digging hard into the saddle cloth. ‘Steady, boy!’

The promontory fell away steeply on either side, the sheer walls plunging deep into the natural well that Tyrian ships called home. For a moment she felt dizzy, as though the tide was rising fast to meet her, and she laughed in spite of the unexpected rush of fear, and patted the horse’s neck. ‘Don’t you dare tell Father I brought you out here.’

She glanced back along the wall but they were quite alone up here. A large crowd had gathered below on the wooden docks that nestled into the curve of the harbour, their attention entirely on a wedding party disembarking from small redwood boats. Snatches of pipe music and laughter drifted up. Jezebel spotted a girl of about her own age stepping off the boat, her hands taken up by a young man. They both wore the plain linen tunics favoured by fishing families, but the young man wore a second overskirt, a shenti in rich Tyrian purple. Jezebel’s older brother Balazar wore the same type of garment – if somewhat more bejewelled – every day as he strutted the enclosed gardens of the Royal Palace. Jezebel guessed this young man must be one of the fishermen whose rare right to wear the purple cloth came from the back-breaking daily grind of harvesting the precious sea snails that gave up the dye. His bride was lucky to marry such a man, for if she could ignore the terrible smell of the rotting snails he must endure to make the dye, and if he could rise up steadily from fisherman to trader, perhaps one day he would sail her in a much larger boat down the coast to Ashdod or even as far as Egypt.

The crowd cheered as the young man draped a fine purple veil over his bride’s hair, and beneath Jezebel the horse grew restless. She shivered and glanced towards the setting sun.

‘Father will be expecting us,’ she said quietly.

She turned the horse around where the wall widened and let it trot back into the city. But she could not resist a last look down at the wedding party. The dock was now edged by the sparkle of shell lamps. The girl looked so happy as her husband fastened a purple-edged cape at her throat. Jezebel’s hand reached absently to her own throat and the fat Red Sea pearls that rested on her skin. Perhaps Rebecca would know who the happy couple were, perhaps they were young cousins of hers and she would be able to tell their story. The island was full of faces Jezebel recognised and who would smile respectfully when they saw their princess ride by, but whose names only Rebecca could know.

Though when she sees me like this, Jezebel thought, I doubt if she will ever speak to me again.