Читать книгу Jezebel - Gardner Fox - Страница 9

The high priest dipped the myrtle twig into the golden basin and scattered drops of water from a spring dedicated to Baal over the persons of the young man and woman standing under the ornate canopy of white linen and gold brocade, the silver spears supporting it being held by two friends of the groom and two friends of the bride. The myrtle was a flower sacred to the gods; because of its eternal freshness, it symbolized affection and constancy.

Jezebel blinked when the spring-water touched her. Baal-Melkart was the god of weather, of rain and sun and wind, and water was a sign that he rained his blessings on this couple who stood before his altar. She wondered why she shivered at its touch. Certainly there was no need to shudder; she was gowned magnificently in a tunic of Cos linen so sheer her body could be seen and admired beneath it, and the value of the gems sewn into it exceeded the price of a small caravan. She was radiant with beauty, and no woman in all Tyre might match the glory of her long black hair.

A young boy knelt with a cushion in his hands; on it rested a tiny shoe. Jezebel reached for it and with her eyes cast down, handed it to Ahab. This was an evidence of good faith, an admission of the dependence of Jezebel upon her husband. In return, Ahab lifted a small coffer from another page—it was filled with gold and jewels—and passed it beyond Jezebel to the boy who reached for it; Jezebel merely brushed it with her fingertips in token acceptance of the bride price. As she turned her head to follow him, she saw the young physician from Israel, the good friend of Ahab, staring at her.

Jezebel smiled at him. He was so handsome! Not big and strong like her husband but slim and with wide, thoughtful brows. An intense type, with that full mouth and dark, piercing eyes. She wondered if she might develop a little ache or pain after the rites, in order that he might examine her. No; she must not give Ahab reason to be angry with her, just to gratify a whim. In her own way, she loved the prince of Israel and was determined that their marriage should be a good one.

The high priest was moving around in front of her, blessing her and her bridegroom. The ceremony was complete.

Jezebel put her hand on Ahab’s wrist, smiling up at him. He was so tall, so powerful. His arms were used to the heft of a shield or the tug of a brace of chariot horses on the reins, but they also served to crush her softness against him when Astarte goaded his loins. Her senses swam when she remembered the night—how long ago it seemed!—which they had spent in the Temple watching the deaths of Shubadad and her little girls.

She hoped that night would live again this night.

Rael tossed the nuts he held at the bridal couple, keenly aware of a tightness in his chest, of a slow sullen fury deep in his mind. Not Ahab but he should be walking the Temple floor tiles with Jezebel on his arm. His should be the right to strip her garments from her. His should be the body to crush her softness. His should be the power which would make her his own and fertilize her flesh for motherhood. A man nudged him and Rael for the first time realized that he was trembling.

He understood also that he hated Ahab.

Jehu had been smart. He had run away to avoid trouble over Jezebel. Rael wished that he had gone to Babylon with him. On the other hand, in Babylon he would not be able to see the woman whose image appeared in all his dreams; as he filed out with the other merrymakers bound for the feasting, he wondered if those strange dreams would ever prove prophetic.

His flesh leaped at the thought.

Omri died while the marriage cortege was in Cabul on its way to the cities of the plain, that the prince might show his people their future queen. A dusty rider threw himself from his foaming mount into the dirt where Ahab sat in the crimson saddle of a white mare, and rubbed his face on the ground. From the litter where she lolled at ease on fluffy cushions, Jezebel sat up straighter and lifted a brocade curtain the better to hear what was being said.

“Hail Ahab, king of Israel,” cried the rider.

The men closest to Ahab turned to one another with startled faces. Ahab himself scowled and quieted his unruly horse with a hand at its glossy neck.

“What nonsense is this?” he demanded harshly.

“Omri died last night, my king. Now Ahab his son rules in Israel.”

“Hail, Ahab,” shouted an officer, clanging sword on shield.

“Hail, Ahab king,” echoed a hundred tongues.

Jezebel put a hand to her throat, knowing the thick pulse of intense pleasure. So soon to be queen! So soon to sit on a throne, lording it over these adopted people of hers, these Israelites! Her eyes squeezed shut in her excitement and her red mouth curved into a smile. Just for a few seconds did she revel in her exaltation; then she smoothed out her features with an effort of will and pushed wide the brocade curtains.

A slave came running to help her from the litter. Other slaves dropped cushions on the ground so that she might walk on them as she crossed to the white mare where Ahab sat like a man stunned by a terrible blow. His face was blank, his eyes glazed.

She understood that he had loved his father. They had been close in the years of his youth and young manhood. He would be grieving deep inside him.

He started when she touched his knee. “You will want to ride for Samaria at once,” she said.

Ahab blinked. “You are understanding, my wife.”

“Go now. Fast and straight. Take only enough soldiers to guard you from harm. Leave the others to protect me. I will follow you at once.” She saw him glance at the litter, and shook her head. “I would slow you, even if I rode a horse. It is better that you go alone, that you may take power at once. It is not good for a land to be without a king.”

Startled, he glanced down at her. She had made him understand by her words that with Omri dead, the land of Aram under Ben-hadad its king, might rise against Israel as it had risen up against David and later against King Solomon. The Aramaeans were troublemakers, as were the people of Bashan to the east, the Moabites and Ammonites to the south. Israel stood surrounded—well, not quite surrounded, since Phoenicia was its ally—but certainly uncomfortably close to easy attack, on several sides.

Omri had a reputation as a soldier who had held his neighbors to a restless peace. His son Ahab was unknown either as ruler or as warlord. Men like Ben-hadad of Aram and Mescha of Moab would scarcely wait to test him.

Ahab was constantly finding himself amazed by his bride. He had married her for her physical attractions alone, heightened by the memory of a night spent in her embraces; now he was learning that she was more than a sensualist, that she had a keen mind, quick to leap to judgment, alert to seize at weakness.

Already, she had captivated the cities of Israel by her beauty. The people delighted in her loveliness which she enhanced by the arts of her exotic Tyrian garb, in her generosity which prompted her to unlock the coffers carried on great wagons in the rear of their cortege and to distribute handfuls of silver shekels to the screaming, laughing crowds. The merchants she charmed by her knowledge of their problems, suggesting that they form a private army with which to patrol the caravan routes against robbers and promising to use what influence she might have with Omri to lessen their taxes.

Now she was demonstrating that she understood statehood.

“Leave someone with me you can trust to follow you swiftly and without pause. Zubral, perhaps, who is captain of your guards, or even Aael.”

Ahab nodded. “Rael, then. I’ll need to arrange military matters while I see to the burial of my father and Zubral will be a help.”

No expression touched her face, but inwardly Jezebel laughed. She could have told him which man he would choose to take, which man to leave behind. There had been no need for her even to hint. She would have hugged herself with glee if she had not been so concerned with decorum. This big husband of hers could be managed very easily.

She waited there in the hot sunlight while he called his orders. He came back to her, the white mare dancing sideways, and leaned from the saddle to kiss her pouting lips. Then he backed away, waved an arm and toed the Sheban horse to a gallop.

Jezebel waited until Ahab was a dust cloud to the north.

Then she turned on a cushion and fell sprawling.

Voices cried out in horror. She heard the pound of feet.

Hands were under her arms, lifting her up. She had a brief glimpse of Rael’s tight face, white and drawn, before her head rolled back and she let herself relax more fully into his arms. He held her easily—she was pleasantly surprised at the strength of his slim body—as he carried her toward her litter.

As he put her on the cushions, he said to a man at his back, “I’ll have to examine her. I don’t think she’s too badly hurt, but I want to be sure. Break out the tent. We’ll camp here.”

Rael slipped inside the litter and drew the brocade curtains for privacy. Never before had he been so close to Jezebel. The golden draperies through which the sun shone with an aureate lustre seemed to bound an entire world in which he and this woman were the only inhabitants. His heart was slamming so loudly he could hear its muffled thuds. His forehead glistened with sweat.

He fought to control his muscles.

His hands were shaking fitfully when he stretched them out to the slim white leg bared from red leather sandal to her upper thigh. There was a scratch of blood on the knee, no more; it glistened red and evil against the white skin. His mouth opened. He placed his parted lips to the little wound and drew at it hungrily.

“Oh,” murmured Jezebel.

Rael whispered against her skin, “Sometimes there is infection when the cut touches dirt. Why this should be I do not know, yet it is so. I’ll draw the diseased blood—if there is any—into my mouth.”

He bent to her again and put his palms on her thighs as if to hold her leg motionless. He touched her not as a physician but as a lover, with gentle reverence, and he made a caress of his touching. Jezebel shivered suddenly and moaned.

“Your hands are trembling,” she breathed.

“I have never put hands on a queen before,” he answered. “I am afraid.”

She smiled and put her hands over his. “They are cold, too. Perhaps the physician is in need of his own counsel. Here, let me warm them.”

She drew his fingers upward toward the opening of her embroidered tunic. It was a garment designed to copy the peplos of the Mycenaeans, its linen so sheer that where the diffused sunlight touched it, it seemed to shimmer and vanish. As he looked along her bared thigh, Rael could see the inner slopes of her breasts where the garment had pulled apart.

Jezebel held his wrists in her clutching fingers, lifting his hands to the parting tunic. A moment she paused, smiling into his flushed face, then placed his palms on her breasts.

They were full and ripe, soft yet growing harder as his fingers closed about them. It seemed to Rael that all time hung suspended before the tactile delights of his hands. Her lips fell open to aid her deep breathing and her cheeks were flushed. Lazily she squirmed, making her breasts move in his palms, adding to his pleasure.

“Your hands are warm now,” she whispered.

Before the steady gaze of her eyes and the command in her voice, he let his fingers trail away from her bared breasts, down across her body to her thighs. Now he caressed her tenderly, all pretence gone, and bent to kiss her flesh.

Jezebel smiled. Ahab was her husband, her king. Rael would be her slave.