Jezebel by Megan Barnard EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Megan Barnard
- Language: English
- Genre: Ancient Historical Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
I grew up fascinated by the images of the goddess Astarte. Her face was
everywhere in our palace, in the city of Tyre. Carved into ivory tiles,
etched into blue glass, embroidered into vibrant hangings that showed
her and El, her husband. She was the queen consort of El, but secretly, I
thought of El as her king consort. After all, it was her image, not El’s, that
adorned our city, for she was the mother of all.
I can still remember being very small, trying to be still and quiet as my
mother braided my hair. Mother had never touched my hair before, but that
day she sat me on a low stool and began to weave her fingers through it.
Her hands were surprisingly gentle, and the motion should have calmed me,
but I could barely sit under the weight of my mother’s strange attention. I
clenched the edges of the stool, trying to be good, and stared at the
embroidered hanging of Astarte on the wall opposite. Her form was
beautiful, with hips and breasts so full they seemed to drip with the life she
created. She was unsmiling, and her hair was braided like mine, eyes wide
and heavy-lidded.
“Who is she?” I jabbed a pudgy finger at the wall so sharply that my
mother squawked, and her hands yanked my hair.
“It’s the goddess Astarte. You know this, Princess,” my nurse, Shapash,
said from across the room, eyes wary as she looked at my mother, as if
expecting a rebuke.
I frowned at her, imagining that my dark eyes were burning coals that
could explode with fire whenever I wished. I hated how formal she became
in my mother’s presence. And I could not bear, even at such a young age,
I
being treated like a fool. “I know it is Astarte. But who is the woman?
Didn’t her face come from a real woman? Who is she?”
“It doesn’t matter,” my mother said, continuing to braid my hair, her
hands deft as she wove the strands into each other. “She gave the goddess
her likeness. That is all that matters.”
“But what was her name?” I insisted, squirming around in my seat so that
I might look at my mother. “Was it you?”
“Of course it wasn’t me.” My mother laughed as she did at almost all my
questions. “We don’t know her name.”
“But I want to know who she is,” I said, my voice starting to tremble,
though I didn’t understand why. “Won’t her name be written down in the
books of kings, like Father’s?”
“Of course it won’t.” Mother’s voice was edged in annoyance, like a crab
about to snap at my soft flesh. “She was a woman who did her duty, as all
women before her. As I did and as you will.”
“But you are queen.” I turned to look at my mother’s kohl-rimmed eyes,
at the gold bangles on her wrists. Her body was as shapely as Astarte’s.
“Your name will be written down beside Father’s.”
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