He rode into Jezreel under a sky the color of a bruise. The horse was lathered and its eyes rolled white and wild. Blood on the saddle. Blood on his hands like stigmata. Not his blood. The blood of a king shot through the heart with an arrow that flew true and pierced him between the shoulders as he fled. The usurper did not look like a king but he was one now. He had made himself one.

The prophet's oil still tacky in his beard. The words still burning in his ears like hot iron. Thus says the Lord God of Israel I anoint you king over the people of the Lord over Israel. And you shall strike down the house of Ahab your master. The men had thrown their cloaks at his feet and the trumpets sounded and that was that. A king made a king unmade. The voice of God moving through men like a sickness. Who was he to refuse.

The land was burnt by drought and the dust rose in devil clouds and the people watched him pass. Their faces betrayed nothing. The sun moved across the sky like a molten eye. Jezreel. The name itself a curse. Ahab's blood already soaking the ground where the dogs lapped it up. Naboth's vineyard. The circle not yet closed.

He sat in the dusty courtyard. Not yet in the chambers of the king. Not yet. First the sons. All seventy of them. The bloodline of Ahab severed like a throat cut quick and clean. He drank water from a clay cup. The water tasted of iron. Like everything in this land. Even the air.

Bring me papyrus and ink.

The servant bowed away backwards. Never turning his back. Already they feared him. Already they knew what he was.

The letters were short. Little more than a challenge. A dare. He wrote them with a steady hand. You have your master's sons in your keeping. You have chariots and horses a fortified city and weapons. When this letter reaches you select the best qualified of your master's sons and put him on his father's throne. Then fight for your master's house.

He knew they would not fight. He knew they would break like dry twigs. The dust in the grooves of his hands would not wash away. He had tried.

The messenger took the letters and rode out. Jehu watched him go. The man would likely die by week's end. Messages and messengers alike becoming dangerous things. The horse trailing dust like a ghost.

When the messenger returned the news was as he expected. The lords of Samaria had bent the knee. We are your servants. We will do whatever you say. We will not make anyone king. Do whatever seems best to you.

He did not smile. The satisfaction he felt was cold. The knowledge of the nature of men. How they would sell each other for a few more days of breath. How they would cut throats for a promise. How they would trade anything for a king who would leave them be.

He wrote the second letter. He could have written it before the first. The commands like stones dropped into a well. If you are on my side and ready to obey me bring me the heads of your master's sons by this time tomorrow in Jezreel.

The messenger did not look him in the eye. The man knew he was carrying death. The horizon swallowed him up.

By midday the seventy heads arrived. Piled in baskets like ripe fruit. The stench of them rising in the heat. The eyes open and staring at nothing. The flies already gathering. He ordered them placed in two piles at the city gate. The people would see them. The people would know.

Let them stay until morning.

He spoke to the crowd but he did not explain. There was no explanation that would satisfy. The thing being done was older than reasons. It was blood for blood. House for house. The Lord's work requiring the Lord's instruments. And he was but an instrument albeit a willing one.

You are innocent. I conspired against my master and killed him. But who killed all these. Know then that nothing the Lord spoke against the house of Ahab will fail. The Lord has done what he announced through his servant Elijah.

The people were silent. The dead made no sound save the buzzing of flies. The guilty and the innocent watched alike. In the dark they all looked the same.

He slept on a pallet on the floor. The king's bed too soft for him. The king's bed still warm with the memory of kings. He would make his own place. He would scour this land clean. He would burn out the infection. He would do what the Lord required. He would do more.

In the morning he killed all who remained of Ahab's family in Jezreel. All the great men. All the close friends. All the priests. He left none remaining. The blood ran in the streets. The people watched from behind shuttered windows. The birds gathered to feast.

The sun was relentless. The horses were tired. They rode toward Samaria. At Beth Eked where the shepherds bind their sheep he found forty-two men. They did not know him. They did not know what had happened at Jezreel. They were lambs walking to the slaughter.

Who are you.

We are relatives of Ahaziah and we are going down to greet the royal princes and the sons of the queen mother.

Take them alive.

The killing was quick. Forty-two men. The water in the cistern turned red. The flies came. The bodies were left where they fell. The land would take them back. The land always hungry for blood.

He rode on. The sun beating down. The horses' breath coming hard. A man approached on foot. A familiar face. Jehonadab son of Rekab. A man who lived in tents. A man who drank no wine. A man who had stayed pure when others had fallen away.

Is your heart true to mine as mine is to yours.

It is.

Then give me your hand.

He pulled the man up into the chariot. The old man's beard was white as bone. His eyes clear as water. His hand rough as tree bark. A man who had not bent to the ways of the city. A man who had not bowed to Baal.

Come with me and see my zeal for the Lord.

They rode to Samaria together. The old man and the new king. The land stretched out before them. Hard and unforgiving. The horizon a knife's edge. The cities of men like wounds on the face of the earth.

When they arrived at Samaria he killed all who were left of Ahab's family. None survived. The word of the Lord through Elijah fulfilled. The blood watering the dusty ground. The people watching from shadows. The people always watching.

By night he spoke with Jehonadab. The lamp guttering. The shadows long on the wall. The sound of the city outside. The sound of grief and celebration both. The sound of change.

I need your counsel. The worship of Baal runs deep in this land.

Deeper than blood. It will take more than blood to root it out.

Blood is what I know.

Then use what you know. But use it wisely.

The plan formed between them. A trap. A sacrifice. The Baal worshippers gathered in their temple. All the prophets. All the servants. All the priests. None missing. They wore their ceremonial robes. They brought their sacred objects. They did not know they were lambs. They did not know they were already dead.

Search and make sure there are no servants of the Lord here. Only worshippers of Baal.

The crowd checked among themselves. No followers of Yahweh were among them. They were pleased by this. They did not see the soldiers gathering outside. They did not see the swords being sharpened. They did not see their own deaths written in the cold eyes of the king.

Bring vestments for all the worshippers of Baal.

The priests brought out the sacred robes. Each worshipper put one on. They were marked now. They were counted. They were chosen.

Jehu and Jehonadab entered the temple. The smoke of sacrifices rising. The chanting started. The sound of drums. The sound of men and women who believed they were in the presence of their god. Who did not know they were in the presence of their executioner.

Offer the sacrifices.

The priests began their rituals. Jehu slipped out with Jehonadab. He whispered to his captain. Station eighty men outside. Let no one escape. If anyone escapes it will be your life for his.

The captain nodded. He knew what was to come. He had seen it in the eyes of the king.

When the sacrifices were finished Jehu gave the order. His men entered the temple. They carried swords not sacrificial knives. They killed everyone inside. Men women children. The blood ran on the floor. The blood soaked the sacred robes. The blood spattered the sacred stones. The cries rose to heaven. No god answered.

They dragged the bodies out and went to the inner shrine of the temple of Baal. They brought out the sacred stone and broke it. They tore down the temple. They made it a latrine. It remains a latrine to this day.

The sun was setting when the work was done. The sky red as if reflecting the blood spilled below. Jehu walked through the ruined temple. The dead piled like cordwood. The smell of blood and excrement and incense mingled in the air. The flies gathering. The ravens watching from broken walls.

So I have destroyed Baal worship in Israel.

The old man looked at him. His eyes reflecting the dying light. You have destroyed the worshippers. The worship is harder to kill.

Jehu frowned. The truth bitter in his mouth. Men could be killed. Ideas were harder to eliminate. The roots went deep. The seeds scattered. The weeds would grow again.

The Lord said to me your sons shall sit on the throne of Israel to the fourth generation. What more can a man ask for.

A clean conscience perhaps.

Jehu laughed. The sound harsh in the gathering dark. I have no use for a clean conscience. I have a kingdom to rule.

That night he stood alone at the window of what had been Ahab's chamber. The night cool against his skin. The stars wheeling overhead. Indifferent to the affairs of men. Indifferent to blood and death and succession. He thought of the seventy heads at the gate of Jezreel. He thought of the forty-two relatives of Ahaziah dead by the cistern. He thought of the blood on the floor of Baal's temple. He thought of the voice of the Lord speaking inside him. The voice like fire. The voice like a sword. The voice telling him to kill and kill and kill.

He had done what the Lord commanded through Elijah. He had cut down the house of Ahab like a man harvesting grain with a sharp sickle. The bodies fell. The land would be better for it. But he knew the truth. He had not turned away from the sins of Jeroboam son of Nebat which he had caused Israel to commit. The worship of the golden calves at Bethel and Dan. The golden calves remained. Some compromises were necessary for a man to rule. Some sins were too deeply ingrained to be cut out.

The prophet had anointed him. The Lord had spoken. Jehu had obeyed in his fashion. If his hands were bloody it was the Lord's work they had done. Not all of it perhaps. But enough.

In the courtyard below men were gathered around fires. Their faces like demons in the darkness. They were his men now. They had helped him kill a king. They had helped him kill princes and officials and priests. They would help him rule. They would help him kill again when the time came. And the time would come. The time always came.

A servant entered. Moving like a shadow. Keeping his distance. As men do from those who have killed kings.

My lord there is news from the border. The Arameans have taken Ramoth Gilead.

Jehu nodded. There was always another enemy. There was always another battle. The work of a king is never done. The killing never ends. The blood never stops flowing.

Prepare the chariots. We leave at first light.

The servant withdrew. Backing away. Eyes downcast. The fear of death on him like a smell.

Jehu looked at his hands in the dim light. The blood was gone but he could still feel it. Sticky between his fingers. Under his nails. In the lines of his palms. He wondered if it would always be there. Invisible but present. The price of a crown. The price of obedience. The price of power.

Outside the wind began to blow. It would be a clear day tomorrow. Good weather for riding. Good weather for war. The seventy heads would be gone from the gate of Jezreel by now. The birds would have done their work. The bones would be scattered. Soon no one would remember their names or their faces. History belonged to the victors. History belonged to those who survived.

Jehu was a survivor. He had survived battles and conspiracies. He had survived his own conscience. He would survive this too. He would survive until the Lord called him home. Until the sword found him as it finds all men eventually. Until the blood he had spilled was paid for with his own.

In the distance a dog howled. Then another joined it. Then another. The sound rising to the indifferent stars. He remembered the prophecy about Jezebel. That dogs would devour her in the territory of Jezreel and no one would be able to say this is Jezebel.

He had fulfilled that prophecy. Her blood was on the wall. Her blood was on the horses. Her blood was on his hands along with all the rest. The painted queen. The Baal worshipper. The killer of prophets. Her flesh torn by dogs. Her bones scattered. Her name a curse.

So be it.

God had chosen him for this work. God had seen something in him. A hardness perhaps. A willingness to do what soft men could not do. Necessary things. Terrible things. Things that would haunt his dreams but would purge the land. Things that would stain his soul but would save Israel. For a time at least. For a generation. For as long as the memory of blood remained fresh.

Jehu had not asked for the crown. But he had taken it when offered. He had not asked to be the Lord's instrument of vengeance. But he had become it. Now he was king. Now the real work would begin.

The crown felt heavier than he had expected. But his neck was strong. He would bear it. He would bear it until he could not. Then another would take it up. Another would be chosen. Another would spill blood in the name of the Lord. And so it would go. Until the end of days. Until the Lord returned to judge the living and the dead. Until all crowns were cast down and all kings knelt before the true King.

He thought of the seventy sons of Ahab. He thought of his own sons sleeping safely in their beds. Would someone someday come for them with a sword and a prophecy? Would someone someday pile their heads at a city gate? Would someone someday speak the words of the Lord over their bones?

Not while I live.

The night grew darker. The fires below burned down to embers. The stars overhead. The land waited. Patient as only the land can be. Waiting for the next king. Waiting for the next prophet. Waiting for the next sacrifice. Waiting for the blood that would surely come. The land always thirsty. The land never satisfied. The land remembering every drop spilled upon it. The land keeping count.

Jehu did not sleep. Kings who sleep deeply rarely wake up. The sword finds them in their dreams. The sword follows them into darkness. The sword is always waiting. Just as the Lord is always waiting. Just as judgment is always waiting. Just as blood always calls for blood.

He watched the night pass. He watched the stars fade. He watched the sun rise red as blood on the horizon. Another day. Another battle. Another chance to prove himself the Lord's anointed. Another chance to kill in the name of a God who demanded blood. Who was never satisfied. Who watched from the heavens with eyes like fire. Who spoke in the hearts of men with a voice like thunder. Who chose his instruments carefully. Who chose men who would not flinch at blood. Who chose men like Jehu.

The horses were ready. The chariots waited. The men stood prepared. Their swords sharp. Their eyes watching him. Waiting for the word. Waiting for the command. Waiting for the king to lead them to more blood. More death. More glory.

He mounted his chariot. The reins rough in his hands. The horses stamping. Eager to run. Eager to carry him to war. He looked back at Samaria. The city that was his now. The city bought with blood. The city cleansed with fire. The city that would remember his name.

The whip cracked. The horses surged forward. The dust rose behind them like a shroud. The sun climbed higher. The day began. The work of a king never done. The work of the Lord's anointed never finished. The blood never enough. The sacrifice never complete.

He rode toward Ramoth Gilead. Toward the next battle. Toward the next killing. Toward the next test. The voice of the Lord inside him. The crown heavy on his head. The blood of seventy sons on his hands. The eyes of the prophets on him. The judgment of history waiting. The sword always falling. The circle never closed.

So be it.