The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

  “Umm. That feels good. Don’t stop.” She seemed to know what he needed even before he asked. He smiled in spite of himself. “Where was I?”

  “You were going to tell me what Passover means.”

  “Umm. Passover . . . It’s a celebration of freedom, Hephzibah—the anniversary of our nation’s deliverance from slavery. God heard our cries of suffering and freed us from serving the Egyptians so we could serve Him. The men of Judah work hard all year in order to make a living, but when Passover comes, they can lay aside their work for eight days and rest and feast and thank God.”

  “And how will they feast for eight days if our nation is so poor?” The charming way she cocked her head to one side when she asked a question amused him.

  “Good question, my dear lady,” he said, smiling. “That’s why I’ve been so busy. I’m opening the royal storehouses and donating animals from my own flocks and herds. I want to make sure that everyone who comes, rich or poor, will have eight days to relax and feast and celebrate Yahweh’s goodness.”

  “Since you’re providing the food, it seems to me they should celebrate their king’s goodness instead.”

  “No, I’m not the Messiah,” he said with a sigh. “I may be able to feed the people for a week, but the rest of the year we’re still slaves to the Assyrians. They demand more and more tribute every year and—”

  “Shh . . .” Hephzibah stopped massaging and put her fingers over his lips. “You have all day to worry about such things. Now it’s time to forget about them.”

  He pulled her onto the couch beside him. “You’re right. Help me forget.” Her warm skin was soft and fragrant as he kissed her neck. She laughed softly.

  “What’s so funny?” Hezekiah asked.

  “Your beard is tickling me.” She tugged on it playfully, and Hezekiah laughed, too.

  “Ah, Hephzibah—you’re so good for me. Your laughter, your love . . . they’re just what I need.” He held her close and realized for the first time how very precious she had become to him in the past months.

  “This is the best part of my day,” Hephzibah murmured, “being with you. But our time together is always too short.”

  “And I’m afraid it will be even shorter tonight. I can only stay a few minutes.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I’m sorry. But there’s too much work to do.”

  “Can’t your servants and officials do some of it? Do you have to do everything yourself?”

  “I’m still not sure who I can trust and who’s waiting for a chance to stab me in the back. Remember Uriah?” he asked, poking her back gently with his forefinger. “I’m making a lot of changes in a very short time and probably a lot of enemies, too. People resist change. Besides, my father’s government was so corrupt that the only way I can be sure things are done right is to do them myself.”

  “You’re scowling again, my lord.” She gently smoothed his forehead with her fingers. “You’re not supposed to talk about all your problems—remember?”

  “And you’re supposed to help me forget my problems—remember?”

  “Then I guess I’d better do my job.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him—driving Passover far from Hezekiah’s mind.

  Jerimoth sighed and tugged on his beard as he surveyed his vineyard one last time. “I guess everything will be all right until we get back.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Hodesh said. “Come on.” She looked impatient as she stood waiting beside the cart with Maacah. Jerimoth walked around the loaded wagon again, examining the wheels, the paired yoke of oxen, the harness fittings. He made certain that the new spring lamb he had chosen from his flock was tied securely to the load, then turned to the young man he had hired to watch over his land while he was away.

  “You’ll remember everything I told you?” he asked. “You’ll remember to watch for my daughter Jerusha? She’ll be coming home soon, you know.”

  “I’ll watch for her, sir.”

  Jerimoth sighed again, and with a final, worried glance at his farm, he set off with his wife and daughter on the pilgrimage to Jerusalem for Passover. A seed of hope had been planted in his heart, and Jerimoth had nurtured it, clinging to King Hezekiah’s promise that the Assyrians would release Jerusha if he returned to Yahweh. Jerimoth and his family traveled south toward Dabbasheth, skirting the village and its painful memories, then passed through the towns of Cabul and Rimmon. Soon the road turned east, and they journeyed over the rolling hills to Migdal on the sparkling Sea of Galilee.

  Jerimoth found a caravan of other pilgrims who were headed to Jerusalem, and he joined them for the remainder of the trip, following the lush plains along the banks of the Jordan River. They reached the oasis of Jericho on the fourth day, feeling tired and irritable, their throats parched from the choking dust. The swaying palms of Jericho offered welcome shade, and even the bitter blue waters of the nearby Dead Sea looked inviting. After a night’s rest they began the final leg of their journey, following the rugged mountain road up to Jerusalem. They climbed steadily upward, passing dry stream beds and deep mountain gorges, until their legs ached and it seemed as if they had climbed to the skies. Late in the afternoon, as the caravan paused to water the animals, Jerimoth scanned the horizon and caught his first glimpse of Jerusalem.

  “Look, Hodesh!” he suddenly shouted. “There it is!” He could faintly discern the gold-colored walls of the Holy City as he squinted into the distance, nestled among the green-and-brown hills. He even caught the glint of the Temple’s golden roof, perched on the highest hill. This glimpse of their destination seemed to give all the tired travelers the extra encouragement they needed to finish their climb, and they continued on, reaching the gates of Jerusalem an hour before sundown. As soon as the sun set, the eve of Passover would begin.

  The caravan disbanded as soon as it entered the city, and each family went in search of friends or relatives to stay with. It was only after he reached Jerusalem that Jerimoth realized he had no place to stay during the festival. The crowded city seemed huge and strange to him, the walls confining, and he missed the open fields and broad skies of home. He wandered through the unfriendly streets, tired and disoriented, searching for a room in an inn until it was almost dark. But pilgrims crammed every available space, and all the rooms were taken. He felt desperate as he saw his daughter sitting on top of the cart looking pale and frightened. His wife was close to tears.

  “What are we doing here, Jerimoth?” Hodesh asked. “We don’t even know anyone.”

  “We’ll be fine, Hodesh. One of the innkeepers said to try the caravansary in the market square. It means sleeping out in the open, but it’s the best we can do.”

  Hodesh glanced anxiously at Maacah. “Is it safe? Won’t there be foreign caravan drivers there?”

  “We’ll go and see,” he said wearily. “I don’t know what else to do. Besides, we need some things from the market, don’t we? Come on.”

  When they reached the square, Jerimoth sent Hodesh to barter for food while he searched for an empty place to park his cart for the night. But as he listened to the caravan drivers settling into their places and heard their crude jokes and vulgar language, he realized that the caravansary was no place for his wife and daughter to sleep. He didn’t know what to do. He wandered farther down the street, where the shops were more elegant and well-kept, looking for an empty doorway to shelter them. When Jerimoth heard jovial laughter drifting from a nearby booth, he was drawn toward the sound.

  A round, bald-headed man and his servant were laughing merrily as they closed up a shop of elegant, imported cloth. Jerimoth stopped a few feet from the shop and stared at them. The jovial merchant turned to Jerimoth.

  “And what can I do for you, sir? I’m about to close my shop for the holidays, but if I can help you with anything . . .”

  Jerimoth wasn’t interested in the imported cloth. He didn’t know what to say. He stared at the merchant for a moment, wringing his callused hands. “I’m from Israel,” he finally
said. “I’ve come to celebrate Passover.”

  “That’s wonderful, wonderful! My name is Hilkiah, and if you’re a follower of the Eternal One, then you’re already my friend. Did you have a pleasant journey?”

  “I have no place to stay,” Jerimoth blurted.

  “Ah, I see. Are you traveling alone?”

  “No, I came with my wife and daughter.” He pointed to his cart standing on the corner by the square. Maacah sat on top of the load, looking tired and forlorn.

  “Ah, yes,” Hilkiah said gently. “What’s your name, my friend?”

  “Jerimoth.”

  “Well, then, Jerimoth, I’m celebrating Passover with my son, and we’d be honored to have you and your family as our guests.” He grinned so warmly that Jerimoth managed a tired smile. “Then you accept?” Hilkiah asked.

  “Yes, thank you. I’ve brought a lamb with me from my flock. I’d like to share it with you.”

  “Then it’s settled. I don’t live far from here. Give me a moment to finish closing my shop, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Jerimoth hurried back to where Hodesh and Maacah waited with the cart. “I’ve found a place to stay,” he told them. “Come on.”

  “Where? At an inn?”

  “We’ll be guests of Hilkiah the merchant and his son.”

  “Who?”

  “He owns a shop. Over there. See?”

  “A stranger?” Hodesh asked. “You accepted an invitation from a stranger?”

  “Just come, Hodesh. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t like the idea. . . .”

  Jerimoth gestured to the caravan drivers in the square around him. “It’s better than this, isn’t it? It’s nearly sunset. Where else can we go?”

  Hodesh followed nervously as Jerimoth led the way to Hilkiah’s lavish shop. They both bowed low in respect. “My wife, Hodesh, and I are so very grateful, my lord.”

  “Now, now. None of that,” Hilkiah interrupted. “I’m pleased to meet you, Hodesh, but you must call me Hilkiah. Shall we go? I hope dinner’s ready, because I’m starved.” He patted his round belly and led the way up the hill to his house.

  King Hezekiah sat on the palace rooftop with his grandfather after the evening sacrifice, watching the steady stream of pilgrims flowing into the city for the feast. A pang of hunger rumbled through his stomach, and he thought of his older brother, Eliab. Hezekiah hadn’t eaten anything since dawn, fulfilling the traditional Fast of the Firstborn in his brother’s memory.

  “I had hoped that this many people would come,” he told Zechariah as another caravan passed through the gate below them. “But I still can’t believe it’s happening.”

  “Yes, it’s a wonderful sight, isn’t it?”

  Hezekiah thought he detected a note of hesitancy in his grandfather’s voice. “Is something wrong?”

  “Well—it’s just that the people are required to consecrate themselves before celebrating the feast.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Among other things, all the men must be circumcised.”

  “And you think some of them aren’t?”

  “I’m sure many of them aren’t,” Zechariah said, “especially the younger ones who were born during your father’s reign, after the Temple was closed. And if any of them have come from Israel, they’re probably ignorant of the Law. It’s not their fault, of course. They were never taught, but . . .”

  “So which is the greater sin—coming to Passover unprepared or not coming at all?”

  Zechariah shrugged. “If their hearts are longing to return to Yahweh, surely He is merciful even if the Law isn’t fulfilled. . . .”

  Zechariah’s answer sounded more like a question, and it disturbed Hezekiah. He wanted clear answers from God, precise rules that he could follow with confidence. If Zechariah didn’t know the answers, how could Hezekiah know them?

  The sun sank halfway below the horizon, and still the pilgrims streamed through the city gates. How many were there? How far had they come? Hezekiah thought of the long, arduous journey many of them had made, and it worried him that Yahweh might reject them because of their ignorance of the Law.

  “Isn’t there anything we can do for them?” he asked. Zechariah sat in silence for a moment, then stood and lifted his prayer shawl over his head.

  “We can pray for them.”

  Hezekiah followed his grandfather’s example, and they stood together on the palace roof. Prayer was still new to Hezekiah, so he was unsure how to begin. But he thought of all the people who had journeyed this far, and the problem he had created because of his ignorance, and the words came to him.

  “Lord, I pray that you’ll pardon everyone who determines to follow you, even if he isn’t properly sanctified for the ceremony.”

  Hezekiah prayed until long after the sun had set and his time of fasting had ended. By the time he and Zechariah finished, the first stars shone brightly in the heavens.

  Hezekiah looked at his grandfather hopefully. “Yahweh hears?”

  “Yes, He hears. It says in His Word that when we return to the Lord and obey Him with all our heart and with all our soul, He’ll have compassion on us.”

  Hezekiah looked out over the darkened hills that surrounded his city and murmured, “Please, Lord . . . have compassion on us.”

  Eliakim frowned as he stood beside Hilkiah, performing the ritual hand-washing before the evening meal. He didn’t share his father’s enthusiasm for inviting strangers into their house, and he was annoyed with Hilkiah for not consulting him first.

  “Where did you say these people are from, Abba?”

  “They’re from Israel, son—northern Israel.” He tossed Eliakim the towel as if that ended the conversation.

  Eliakim grabbed his father by the sleeve and drew him back. “You don’t even know them, do you, Abba?”

  “Certainly I do. They’re followers of Yahweh, blessed be He.”

  “Abba, you know what I mean. You’ve invited strangers into our home again.”

  “They’re followers of Yahweh. Why should you need more information than that?”

  “Because Micah was a follower of Yahweh, and I remember all the trouble it caused when you invited him into our home.”

  “Hasn’t God paid us back for all our trouble—a double portion?”

  “Yes, and I grew to admire Micah, so I suppose it was good that we helped him, but—”

  “And I’m sure you’ll grow fond of Jerimoth and Hodesh and their little daughter, as well.”

  “Listen, you have to admit that the soldiers made a terrible mess of our house that night, not to mention nearly slitting my throat.” He rubbed the long scar on his throat protectively.

  “Eliakim, I give you my pledge. Our guests will not slit your throat. Okay? Let’s eat.”

  “Abba, will you listen to me?”

  “The Torah says that it’s a great blessing to extend hospitality to strangers at Passover. Amen.”

  Eliakim looked at his father skeptically. “The Torah says that?”

  “You don’t believe me? Didn’t the Eternal One heap blessings on us for helping Micah? Aren’t you working for the king himself?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Amen. And you’ll see how greatly Yahweh will bless us in return this time, too. You can never out-give God. Don’t ever forget that.” Hilkiah punctuated each word by poking Eliakim’s chest with his forefinger. He smiled, and Eliakim knew the discussion had ended. He followed his father into the house, wondering if the Torah really said it was a blessing to help strangers or if Hilkiah had conveniently made it up.

  Their guests were already seated on cushions around the low dining table, and Eliakim struggled to conceal his shock when he saw how poor they looked, how exhausted and frightened. Where had his father found them?

  Hilkiah gestured expansively as he made the introductions. “My friends, I’d like you to meet my son, Eliakim. And this is Jerimoth, his wife, Hodesh, and their daughter Maacah.”

  ??
?I’m happy to meet you,” Eliakim said. The strangers lowered their heads in his presence as if he were royalty. He felt uneasy.

  Hilkiah recited the blessing and they began to eat. Eliakim didn’t want to stare at the strangers, so he stole quick glances at them between bites of food. He noticed that they were ill at ease with the elegant table settings, silken floor cushions, and rich food. Jerimoth reminded him of Micah, tanned and muscular with work-callused hands. He had thick, bushy black hair, mottled with gray, and mournful green eyes. His short, squat wife seemed built for hard work—and she looked out of place in Hilkiah’s elegant home attended by servants. Their daughter was little more than a shadow, so thin that only her thick braids seemed real to Eliakim, the rest of her a mere ghost. Wherever they had come from, Eliakim decided to make peace with them.

  “My father tells me you’re from Israel,” he said as he passed Jerimoth the bread. “Are you close to the border of Aram?”

  Jerimoth nodded. “It isn’t too far.”

  “I hear that the Assyrians control all of that territory now. Have their armies ever come as far south as your village?”

  Jerimoth flinched as if he’d been struck. The bread slipped from his fingers as his hand touched the jagged scar on his forehead. Eliakim saw the pain in his guest’s eyes and wished he had never asked the question.

  “Yes, we’ve seen their armies,” Jerimoth finally replied. His voice faltered as he struggled for composure. “A few months ago they raided our village. They destroyed most of my crops and . . . and they carried our daughter Jerusha away.”

  “I’m so sorry, my friend,” Hilkiah said. He rose to go to Jerimoth’s side, resting his hand on his shoulder “I’m so sorry. . . .” But Jerimoth didn’t seem to hear him. He gazed straight ahead as if looking into the past, at scenes only he could see.

  “The Assyrians have no hearts as we do,” he said in a hollow voice. “They can’t be moved to pity or touched by pleas for mercy. They flowed over our borders like a flood, and the earth was red with blood when they left. They’re deaf to pain and blind to human suffering. If you beg for mercy, they will cut out your tongue. If you lift your hands to plead with them, they will cut your hands off. I’ve seen them rip babies from their mother’s arms and toss them beneath their horses’ hooves to be trampled. They will torture your loved ones in front of you, then put out your eyes, leaving you to remember the sight forever.