Uriah watched as his servants prepared his bath, and for the first time in days he started to relax. He had taken a great risk when he’d gotten rid of King Ahaz, but the risk had paid off. The emissaries had been sent back to Israel, avoiding a disaster that would have destroyed his nation. And so far, Hezekiah hadn’t pursued the cause of Ahaz’s death.
The new king had not only allowed him to continue as palace administrator, but in a few hours Uriah would preside over the coronation wearing the mitre and ephod of high priest. The crisis was over, and Uriah had remained in power.
“Your bath is ready, my lord,” a servant announced.
But before Uriah had a chance to undress, Captain Jonadab arrived at his door. “Forgive me for disturbing you, sir, but you wanted to stay informed on all aspects of security for the coronation.”
The captain’s worried expression made Uriah uneasy. “Yes—what is it?”
“Well, a short time ago my soldiers and I broke up a riot in the marketplace. Now, that’s not too unusual, considering that this is a festive occasion and the people are starting to celebrate, if you understand what I mean. In fact, people are coming into the city from all over the countryside, and the feasting and drinking are well underway, and—”
“Get to the point,” Uriah said.
“Well, sir, I know how much trouble his kind has caused you in the past. . . .” Jonadab eyed him nervously, as if afraid that Uriah might blame him for bringing this bad news. “You see, the fellow who started the disturbance claimed to be a prophet of Yahweh.”
Uriah shouted a curse. He might have known this would happen. He should have expected Isaiah to return—and he should have been better prepared. If he had sent his men to watch the gates, he could have arrested him before he entered the city.
“Was it Isaiah?” Uriah asked.
“No, sir. He was younger than Isaiah and dark-haired—a peasant from the countryside, to judge by his clothing.”
Uriah knew that if a prophet of Yahweh were in Jerusalem, he would try to reach King Hezekiah, perhaps by disrupting the coronation ceremony. Uriah could never allow that to happen. “Where is he now?”
“I arrested him,” Jonadab said, “and took him to the guard tower. The mob beat him pretty severely during the riot, and he was nearly dead by the time I arrived to break things up. He’s still knocked out cold.”
Uriah felt only slightly relieved. But he knew better than to forget the incident. “I want this prophet brought to me as soon as he regains consciousness so I can question him. And since there may be more than one of them, I want you to double the number of guards at the coronation ceremony.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it right away.”
“Understand this,” Uriah said, waving his finger in Jonadab’s face. “These men are a great threat to King Hezekiah!”
Jonadab bowed and left the room.
The news left Uriah shaken. Yahweh’s prophets had been silent for so many years that he had dared to believe that the last of them was finally gone. If they reappeared now, competing with him for King Hezekiah’s confidence, they could destroy everything that Uriah had worked to build. He was proud of the reforms he had made in the strict Jewish religious system, reforms that Isaiah and his followers would call too liberal. He had centralized the state religion at the Temple with himself as high priest. These prophets, with their narrow-minded, outdated views opposed all that Uriah had worked for—and they also opposed him. In their opinion, Uriah’s religious tolerance deserved the death penalty.
“Do you still wish to bathe, my lord?” Uriah’s servant asked.
Uriah nodded, but as he eased himself into the warm, scented water he was unable to relax. Instead, he reviewed all the plans he had made for the coronation ceremony, alert for any security flaws. He couldn’t risk the possibility that these men might influence the new king. He had to make sure they never reached Hezekiah.
Zechariah shaded his eyes, squinting in the glare of the afternoon sun. He stood with the other Levites on the Temple porch, waiting for the coronation to begin. But even when he craned his neck he still couldn’t see the king’s platform. When he’d learned that Hezekiah’s coronation would take place in the Temple, he’d begged one of the friendlier guards to allow him to sing in the Levites’ choir so he could watch his grandson being crowned king. Now, as applause thundered from the huge crowd assembled in the courtyard, Zechariah pushed forward for a better view. The Temple guard rested his hand on his shoulder and drew him back.
“Please, Zechariah—you promised me that you’d keep quiet. That’s the only reason I agreed to let you watch today.”
“But I can’t see. Please let me move a little closer. I’m not going to disturb the ceremony.”
His friend Shimei, who stood nearer to the front, turned around. “Here, let him trade places with me—it’s his grandson, after all. You haven’t missed anything yet, Zechariah. The nobles and king’s advisors are making their entrance.”
“Very well—go ahead,” the guard agreed. “But remember: Uriah will murder both of us if you cause any trouble.”
“I’ll be silent, I give you my word.”
Shimei quickly traded places with Zechariah, giving him an unobstructed view of the king’s platform in the center of the Temple courtyard. The nobles and advisors leading the procession had taken their places near the Assyrian altar. In a moment, Hezekiah would come forward to be anointed King of Judah. Zechariah had never dreamed he would live to see this day.
The trumpeters, assembled on the wall surrounding the Temple, sounded their fanfare. The gates to the courtyard slowly swung open. Zechariah held his breath. The crowd caught their first glimpse of their new king, and their cheers nearly drowned out the trumpets.
Hezekiah carried himself with the posture and bearing of a soldier as he strode to the platform to take his place. He wore a sword strapped to the belt of his royal tunic. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his curly brown hair and beard had an auburn luster in the sunlight. Zechariah’s vision blurred as tears filled his eyes. Hezekiah still looked the same to him. He was older and taller, but he still looked the same. Zechariah remembered the curly-haired little boy who had run through the rain-washed streets to the Temple, splashing his feet in all the puddles, and he longed to hold him in his arms as he had so long ago.
Hezekiah acknowledged the wildly cheering crowd, then held up his hand to call for silence. His other hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword. The noise slowly subsided.
“Men of Judah and Jerusalem,” he shouted. “I am Hezekiah ben Ahaz, rightful heir to the royal house of David. I lay claim this day to the throne of my father, Ahaz ben Jotham.”
His deep voice spoke with authority, and he reminded Zechariah of King Uzziah.
“My reign will be equitable and just—and absolute,” Hezekiah continued. “When I sit in judgment over this kingdom, you may expect my decisions to be impartial. And in return, I will expect the honor and tribute that is due me by virtue of my position as king and heir to the throne of Judah.”
A roar of approval went up from the crowd and the trumpets sounded their fanfare once more. Uriah stepped forward, wearing the mitre and ephod of the high priest. Hezekiah sank down on one knee as Uriah anointed his head with oil.
“May your reign be blessed with peace and prosperity,” Uriah said, “by all the gods of Judah.”
“No!” Zechariah gasped. The priest’s words struck him like a fist in his stomach. All the gods? Hezekiah knew there was only one God—why would he allow Uriah to pray that way?
But even as Zechariah watched, the priests were slaying the king’s sacrifices, carrying them up the ramp of the Assyrian altar, offering them to pagan gods. Zechariah’s pain was greater than any he had ever known. All his years of waiting, all his prayers had been in vain. Hezekiah no longer believed in Yahweh. Zechariah fought back tears as his hope withered.
Where was Isaiah? Where were all of Yahweh’s prophets? If only one
would prophesy to Hezekiah—maybe he would listen and remember. Zechariah scanned the huge crowd, hoping to see Isaiah pushing his way to the front to prophesy as he used to do in the days of King Jotham and King Ahaz. But no one challenged the double ring of guards that stood at the base of the king’s platform.
Maybe he should go forward himself—surely Hezekiah would remember him. But Zechariah glanced over his shoulder and saw the Temple guard watching him carefully. He had given the guard his word.
Uriah finished his prayer, and a scribe stepped forward from among the Levites to present the manuscript scroll that contained the Divine Law for Kings. If only Hezekiah would read it. Maybe it would help him remember everything that Zechariah had taught him. But by now, Uriah had probably altered the Divine Law to conform to all the other changes he had made to the Torah.
Another priest walked forward, carrying the royal crown of Judah. Zechariah watched with a mixture of pride and pain as Uriah placed the crown on Hezekiah’s head. The new king rose to his feet, his chin held high, while the crowd roared, “Long live King Hezekiah!”
Zechariah gazed at his beloved grandson, standing with strength and dignity, the crown of the kingdom on his head, and he remembered all the other kings he had known—Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz. They had once stood here, too, so full of promise like Hezekiah. Now they were dead—and his hopes for Hezekiah were dead, as well. Zechariah thought his heart would break.
“O Lord . . . he doesn’t believe in you,” Zechariah murmured as he gazed at Hezekiah. “He doesn’t believe. . . .”
He could no longer hold back his tears. As Hezekiah laid his hand on one of the animals that would be sacrificed to an idol, Zechariah covered his face.
“Come on, my friend,” Shimei said, taking his arm. “Let’s get out of this hot sun. The coronation is over. Let’s go inside.”
“Yes, it’s over,” Zechariah said. He walked across the courtyard to his room without looking back.
Uriah sent all his servants away and sank onto his couch, exhausted and greatly relieved. The coronation had gone smoothly, without any disturbances. Perhaps the prophet in the marketplace today was the only one left. He could enjoy the ceremony now, in retrospect. Hezekiah had made a striking impression and the crowds seemed pleased with their new king. Uriah smiled to himself and felt his good mood return. But just as he began to relax, Captain Jonadab arrived, alone, looking even more worried than the last time.
“What’s the matter?” Uriah asked him. “Where’s the prophet? Is he dead?”
“No, sir. He didn’t die . . . yet. But I don’t have him.”
“Why not? Didn’t I order you to bring him to me?”
Jonadab cleared his throat. “When I got back to the guard tower, he was gone. While I was overseeing the extra security measures you ordered for the coronation, the guards released him.”
“They did what?”
Jonadab spread his hands. “None of the merchants showed up with witnesses to press charges. When a man came and paid the prophet’s fines and for all the damages in the marketplace, we had to release him. He was gone when I got back to the guard tower.”
“You fools!”
“How could we hold him if no one pressed charges?” Jonadab asked.
“Who paid the prophet’s fines?”
“I don’t know. My men didn’t ask his name.”
“Fools!” Uriah repeated. He hoped that his anger would conceal his deep fear from Jonadab. Someone had redeemed the prophet from prison—which meant that he wasn’t acting alone. There were more of them, and they would probably try to reach King Hezekiah unless Uriah stopped them.
“I don’t think you understand how dangerous these men are,” he told the captain.
“With all due respect, my lord—I don’t see how the prophet could be a danger to anyone. He was beaten nearly to death during the riot, and he still hadn’t regained consciousness when the soldiers released him from the guard tower. It will be a miracle if he even lives.” Jonadab was silent for a moment, then added, “I will resign my position if you wish, sir.”
“I don’t want your resignation, I want you to find the prophet and the men who are helping him. Now!”
“In a city that’s jammed with visitors? You’re asking the impossible.”
“Then do the impossible. They’re a threat to King Hezekiah. Don’t you understand that? I want to be notified the minute you have them in custody, and this time guard them well. Is that clear? Do it right this time!”
Jonadab lifted his chin. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
Hezekiah sat in his former study on the bench he had occupied for so many years as Shebna had tutored him. His coronation ceremony had ended a few hours earlier, and he still wore his royal robes, but he was too preoccupied to think about changing them. Scrolls littered the table in front of him, and he pored over them, feeling hopeless, his stomach knotted with dread.
If only he’d had more time to prepare, to learn to handle the reins of government gradually instead of having them thrust into his hands without warning. He felt like a passenger in a driverless cart, racing down a mountain road out of control.
He picked up a ledger from the top of a pile and read the title, “Annual Assyrian Tribute Payment,” then skimmed over the long list of items that followed and tossed it aside. The next ledger contained the following year’s payments, and its list of tribute was even longer, the financial demands much greater. He crumpled it between his hands and threw it on the floor. Suddenly the door opened, and Shebna walked in.
“Your Majesty!” he said in surprise.
“What do you want, Shebna?” For a reason he couldn’t explain, Hezekiah felt angry with his tutor for the first time that he could recall.
“I am sorry for disturbing you. I came back for some of my things, but I did not expect to find you here. I assumed my tutoring duties were over now that you are the king.” Shebna’s wide grin and the look of pride on his face made Hezekiah angrier still.
“You haven’t finished your job, Shebna. In fact, I’d say that my real education has just begun!”
Shebna’s smile faded. “I have tutored you since you were a child. You have exhausted all of my knowledge.”
Hezekiah stood, knocking the bench over backward. “But everything you taught me is worthless knowledge. It has nothing to do with real life.”
“What do you mean? I do not understand.”
All the frustration that Hezekiah had stockpiled exploded in anger. “I’m the king of a nation that’s in ruins! My kingdom is in shambles—my reign is a joke. That’s the reality. And you never taught me what to do about any of it.”
“Your Majesty, you have been king for only a short time. You will learn what you need to learn quickly. You have a sharp, clear mind, and you learn so fast—”
“Oh yes—I learn very fast,” Hezekiah cut in. He knew it wasn’t fair to use Shebna as an outlet for his frustration, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Do you want to know what I’ve learned in the few days since my father died? I had my first briefing with Uriah and my other advisors this morning. Do you want to know what I learned? First of all, that my father’s advisors are all worthless! Uriah’s the only intelligent one of the bunch, and I don’t like him. I also learned that our nation is bankrupt!”
“That cannot be true.” Shebna righted the toppled bench and sank down on it.
“But it is true,” Hezekiah said. “While you and I sat in this room and studied all these useless scrolls, my father and his advisors sold Judah into slavery to Assyria. Sure, you taught me that Judah has a treaty with Assyria, but never the fact that this treaty makes us their slaves! Look at these tribute demands!” he said, shoving one of the ledgers into Shebna’s hands. “And the lists get longer every year.”
Shebna looked shocked as he scanned the list. “I am sorry. I did not know. . . .”
“Our nation’s territory has shrunk to half the size it was fifty years ago,” Hezekiah went on. “The Philistines,
Edomites, Israel, Aram—everyone has carved out his share. We have no seaport, no fortified cities except Jerusalem, and even these walls are crumbling down around us. The national treasuries are empty. There is no surplus in the storehouses. Everything our people labor to produce goes to Assyria.”
He paced in front of Shebna, tugging his beard in frustration. “I have no real power. Judah is one of dozens of puppet states in the Assyrian Empire. I have no army, no defensive weapons, and I can’t afford to raise an army because we’re bankrupt.”
He stopped pacing and leaned against the table, shaking his head. “I never dreamed I’d be king so soon—or that I’d inherit such a mess. I’m supposed to preside over a banquet in a few minutes, and I’ve never felt less like feasting in my life.”
“I am truly sorry, my lord,” Shebna said softly.
“You know what infuriates me the most? The fact that I sound just like my father did with his lousy temper. No wonder he never wanted me to learn about running the government. He’s made such a mess of it.”
“Well, it certainly explains why he drank so heavily,” Shebna said.
“I don’t want to escape from responsibility like he did. I want to find a solution. The question is, how? The more our country produces, the more Assyria takes. And the chronicles tell what happens to any nation that tries to rebel. None of them has ever succeeded. How did Judah get into this mess? And how am I going to get us out of it? I’ve been poring over all the records, trying to figure it out, but I haven’t found any answers.”
Shebna was silent for a moment before saying, “At least you have the support of the people. At your coronation today the crowd loved you. I never saw them that supportive of King Ahaz.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Hezekiah asked, turning on him again. “They expect something of me. They’re counting on me to solve all the problems my father created. And I don’t have any answers. I don’t even know where to begin. How popular will I be a year from now if things aren’t any better? Or if things are worse?”