The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

“Well, why didn’t you send for me right away? We could have gathered a delegation to petition him. There are plenty of men who disagree with Hezekiah. We could persuade him to listen to us.”

  Shebna remembered the determined look on Hezekiah’s face and shook his head. “I don’t think—”

  “Yes! There are plenty of influential people who believe we should stay under Assyria’s protection. I know the taxes are high, but we’ve lived in peace since my father made his alliance with them. Why jeopardize that now?”

  “Stop shouting at me and sit down. I am telling you the king would not have listened—not to me, not to you, not to a whole delegation.”

  “Who brainwashed him, then? My grandfather?”

  Shebna recalled passing Zechariah on the stairs to the palace rooftop the night Hezekiah had made his decision. “Maybe so.”

  “I knew it!” Gedaliah shouted. “That old man and his prophets have more power in this government than you do!”

  “You’re wrong. They have no power at all.”

  “Oh really? Take a little tour of our nation, then, if you don’t believe me. Those religious fanatics are causing trouble everywhere. I’ve got one named Micah who’s been trying to stir things up in Lachish, telling me to tear down our temple to the sun god. My father had the right idea in dealing with these fanatics—he never tolerated any of their religious garbage.”

  Shebna allowed Gedaliah to ramble and shout until he finally ran out of venom. “Are you finished?” he asked.

  Gedaliah cursed and slumped into a chair.

  “Now listen to me, Gedaliah. I know your brother very well, and believe me, he is not going to listen to reason. This is some sort of a test he is putting himself through to prove that he has faith in his god.”

  Gedaliah bolted to his feet again. “What? He’s trying to prove a point by putting our entire nation at risk?”

  Shebna moved to within inches of Gedaliah, staring hard at his unreasonable guest. “Listen to what I am trying to tell you. It is impossible to talk him out of it. You had better consider some other options.”

  Gedaliah sat down again, his brow furrowed, his body tense. “I’m governor of one of Judah’s largest cities. Maybe we could organize a coalition of other city-states, persuade them to rebel against the king and become independent. Then we could pay the tribute to Assyria ourselves—”

  “It would never work.”

  “Why not?”

  “King Hezekiah is much too popular with the people. You could never incite the masses to rebel against him. They would tear you to pieces if you tried. I am sure you heard what happened all over the country after the Passover feast—how the men of Judah destroyed all of Ahaz’s shrines and high places on their way back to their homes? It happened in nearly every city, all the way down to Arad.”

  “I know,” Gedaliah said. “They went after my temple in Lachish, but I wouldn’t let them destroy it.”

  “And do you really think you can fight that kind of popularity, that spirit of nationalism, all across Judah?”

  “What if we convinced the military to back us up?”

  Shebna gave a short laugh. “What military? If you are talking about the palace guard, General Jonadab would lie down and die for his king. He trained you and Hezekiah since you were children—remember?”

  Gedaliah cursed in frustration. “Well, if the king is going to go ahead with this suicidal rebellion, then at least we can convince him to make some alliances with other nations. We can’t possibly take on Assyria alone.”

  “That is exactly what I am trying to do,” Shebna said.

  “And is my brother listening to you?”

  Shebna sat down at the table again and toyed with his bread. “It is not that easy. The timing is never right. Besides, I cannot freely offer my advice unless the king asks for it.”

  “You’re stalling, Shebna. You don’t want to lose your precious job, do you?”

  “It has nothing to do with that.”

  “Are you going to stand up for what you believe, or are you going to sell out, just to keep your fancy lifestyle?”

  Shebna leaped from his seat. “I do not know why I am even listening to you. I know what you are really after—you want to be the king. Well, I have no intention of helping you. Your brother is doing an outstanding job, considering the mess he started with. And who knows? Maybe he will succeed in this, too. Maybe he will get away with rebelling against Assyria.”

  “And maybe he won’t!”

  “Assyria has other problems within her empire. She is too busy to be concerned about our puny country. And it will certainly be in our best economic interests if we do not send the tribute.”

  “So I see they’ve brainwashed you, haven’t they?” Gedaliah said bitterly. “Next thing I know you’ll be spouting faith in Yahweh.”

  “No—but I do have faith in King Hezekiah. And our nation is certain to benefit if he succeeds in this rebellion.”

  “Yes, and we’re certain to be annihilated if he doesn’t!”

  12

  Jerusha awoke as the first rays of dawn soaked through the seams of the heavy tent. The tense atmosphere that hung over the camp was unbearable, and she had slept poorly. The powerful Assyrian battering rams were poised to break through the walls of the besieged city at any time. Today might be the day, and the lust for battle, the scent of spoil, intoxicated the restless soldiers. Like wild animals that know their prey is cornered, the warriors prowled around the camp waiting for the signal to pounce and kill.

  As Jerusha lay on her mat, her baby thrashed and kicked restlessly inside her. She gently stroked her abdomen, trying to soothe the child back to sleep, but the activity inside her increased. Was it part of the Assyrians’ nature, even before birth, to fight and struggle? Would her baby, born into this atmosphere of death and destruction, be cursed into becoming like them? She shuddered at the thought of giving birth to a son in Iddina’s image.

  Iddina. The name alone had the power to terrify her. Everything about him seemed more animal than human: his powerful muscular stance, his stealthy catlike movements, his fierce brutality. He could torture and kill another human being as casually as a boy pulls the wings off a fly.

  Jerusha no longer dreamed of escaping. Some of the male slaves had tried it, but the soldiers quickly recaptured them. The Assyrians loved the challenge of a hunt, and they tracked runaways as a gleeful sport, wagering among themselves on the success of their pursuit. The Assyrians always recaptured their slaves. No one ever escaped. And the brutal punishment that awaited runaways was horrifying as the Assyrians prolonged their victim’s agony for days and weeks. Jerusha would never attempt to escape. There were much faster ways to die.

  She finally rose from her mat and began preparing the morning meal, dragging the heavy clay pots from the tent, rekindling the fire, grinding grain between the stones to make flour. She looked around for Marah and found her huddled inside the tent, mute and staring, paralyzed with fear. Jerusha would have to do the work alone.

  Iddina and the other officers had risen much earlier to meet with the priests and consult the gods for omens. Jerusha could hear the distant pounding of the barus’ drums and the faint drone of their incantations as she worked. Before long the drumming stopped, and when Iddina returned for his breakfast a few minutes later, Jerusha knew that the omens had promised victory. The great walled city was doomed.

  Iddina’s dark eyes glittered with hatred and with lust for battle. His every muscle twitched with readiness to kill. Jerusha had seen him in this state before and had watched in horror as he’d killed a slave for committing a minor mistake, snapping the man’s neck with his bare hands. The sight of him now sent a shiver down Jerusha’s spine. Her hands trembled uncontrollably as she served his meal. When Iddina finally left, she wept with relief.

  All that long day Jerusha listened to the distant sounds of battle. As she hauled fresh water from the spring, she heard a thundering rumble as a portion of the breached wall finally
toppled. As she washed the dishes and serving platters, the Assyrians’ piercing war cries drifted to her on the wind along with the first sounds of torture. She tried not to think about what it would be like to be one of the victims trapped inside the city with no hope of escape.

  And all day Jerusha’s baby thrashed inside her as if longing to join the battle. The stench of fire and death grew so overpowering it gagged her, and she wondered if the child could smell it, too—if it would poison his soul, even in the womb. The sky turned black with vultures, like dark-robed pilgrims flocking to a great feast. Jerusha watched and listened all day, then the next day, and the next. The soldiers didn’t return from their sport, and she was alone. Marah hadn’t moved from her place inside the tent.

  The brutality and violence Jerusha witnessed reached nightmarish proportions, with every kind of inhumanity imaginable. She envied Marah’s uncomprehending trance. The conquered inhabitants, already half-starved, were being tortured, dismembered, impaled, beheaded, flayed alive. Orphaned children, lost and terrified, cried pitifully for their parents. The moans and screams and cries of the condemned rang endlessly in Jerusha’s ears, day and night, as she worked and as she lay in her tent, until she begged God to strike her deaf. Where was He? Didn’t He hear her cries anymore? Didn’t He care?

  On the third night Iddina and the other officers finally staggered home to their tents, intoxicated by the thrill of their conquest, soaked in the blood of their enemies. Iddina carried two trophies of war, the severed heads of enemy noblemen, which he hung from the branches of the tree beside his tent. He believed they contained powerful magic.

  Jerusha remembered how her father would return from his vineyards on a summer day beaming with pride as he carried the first ripe grapes from his vines as a gift to his family. Her life had become a mockery of real life, a twisted nightmare she couldn’t awaken from. Jerusha was weary of death—the sight of it, the smell of it, the sound of it. She didn’t know why she struggled to live anymore, except that the only way to conquer her Assyrian captors was to cheat them out of her death. Life became very precious to her, her own life and the life of the child that struggled inside her.

  Somehow she would defeat her captors. She would go home again. She would find a way to rejoin the world of the living.

  13

  Perspiration dripped off King Hezekiah’s brow and splashed on the scroll that was unrolled before him. He mopped his face and poured a drink of water from the pitcher. As soon as the rains had ended, a khamsin had blown into Jerusalem from the Arabian Desert, bringing oppressive heat and clouds of fine dust that seemed to penetrate every shuttered window and doorframe. Two days ago the land had been green, the wildflowers in full bloom, but then the khamsin had begun to blow, and suddenly the air was stifling and the earth was baked brown and coated with a layer of gray dust.

  Hezekiah glanced up at his grandfather. He looked unwell. For weeks Hezekiah had begged him to slow down, without success. Hezekiah leaned back in his seat and stretched, trying to mask his concern.

  “Why don’t we quit for today?” he said. “It’s too hot to work.”

  Zechariah didn’t even look up. “If we keep going, we can finish the fifth Book of Moses.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather rest?” Hezekiah asked.

  Zechariah gestured impatiently, and Hezekiah returned to his work, carefully copying Moses’ final commands to the Israelites. He worked as fast as he dared, barely noticing what the words said, and when he finished, he quickly rolled up the scroll. Zechariah stopped him, placing his hand on top of Hezekiah’s.

  “Son, I want you to keep these words of Moses very close to your heart. They were Yahweh’s promise to Joshua as he prepared to lead His people. And they will be God’s promise to you, too: ‘Be strong and courageous. . . . Yahweh himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.’

  “There have been times in my life when I have been very discouraged,” Zechariah said, “and even a time when I turned away from Yahweh altogether. But one truth I know—He never abandoned me. You have a huge task ahead of you as you lead this nation back to God, and you’ll be forced to make some difficult and dangerous decisions. Yahweh never promised that your life would be without problems. But meditate on what He has promised. Let it be your strength. God will never leave you or forsake you. He commands you not to be afraid, so to be fearful is to doubt God. And that is a sin.”

  Hezekiah gazed down at Zechariah’s wrinkled hand resting on his own and remembered his warm, reassuring touch from childhood. He trusted his grandfather as he trusted no other person on earth, and he knew Zechariah would give an honest answer to the question that haunted Hezekiah’s thoughts like an endless refrain. His eyes met Zechariah’s clear, keen eyes and held.

  “Am I making a mistake in not sending the tribute to Assyria?” Hezekiah asked.

  Zechariah studied him gravely for a long time without answering.

  “Am I?” Hezekiah repeated.

  “No, son. It’s never a mistake to trust God.” He squeezed Hezekiah’s hand reassuringly, then gathered his scrolls together. “Sometimes you may feel like you’re all alone, especially after I’m gone. . . .”

  “What do you mean, after you’re gone?”

  “But Yahweh will be with you. He will never leave you.”

  Hezekiah knew that his grandfather’s words were meant to comfort him, but they gave him an unsettled feeling, as if they were Zechariah’s parting words instead of Moses’. He wanted to question him, but Zechariah gathered the scrolls together and rose to his feet.

  “You’re right, son. It’s too hot to work. Let’s quit for today.”

  Hezekiah walked Zechariah to the door, and when they embraced, he was aware that he held someone very precious in his arms.

  Zechariah paused to catch his breath several times as he walked up the hill to the Temple. It was hard to breathe the stifling air, and the dust burned his lungs. When he reached his room in the Temple side chambers, he felt dizzy. He lay down on his bed to rest for a few moments, and the next thing he knew, his friend Shimei was shaking him awake.

  “Zechariah—we’ve been looking all over for you. It’s time for the evening sacrifice.”

  “Evening? You mean I’ve been asleep all afternoon?” He felt groggy and disoriented. He tried to sit up and couldn’t.

  “It’s the heat, my friend. Don’t worry about it. Besides, it’s too hot to do much of anything except sleep. Someone else can take over your duties if—”

  “No thank you, Shimei. I’m fine. I’ll be right there.” Zechariah closed his eyes for a moment after Shimei left, marshaling his strength for the tasks ahead. He remembered a time when his body felt vigorous and strong, a time when his life stretched before him and his beloved wife stood by his side, a time when he had important work to accomplish for King Uzziah—a lifetime ago.

  The heat was still oppressive even as evening drew near. The water in the Bronze Sea felt lukewarm as Zechariah stood with the others in the Temple courtyard to wash. The sun perched on the crest of the mountains west of the city, but as soon as it set the Sabbath would begin, and Zechariah would have extra duties to perform in preparation for it.

  He helped Azariah with the evening sacrifice, feeling as if he were floating, every movement dreamlike. When the service ended, Zechariah fetched the fresh loaves of bread along with a jug of olive oil to replenish the lamps. The other Levites helped him wash his hands and feet again before he entered the Holy Place, working quickly as the sun set.

  The symmetry and perfection of Yahweh’s Holy Place struck Zechariah as he entered the sanctuary. Everything had been built according to God’s design, and now that it was restored, Yahweh’s order and beauty shone through. Zechariah turned to the golden lampstand first, trimming the wicks and replenishing the oil so that the flames would burn all night. Then he replaced the old bread with the fresh loaves, working by the light of the flickeri
ng lamps.

  As he prepared to leave, Zechariah thought he heard a fluttering noise coming from behind the holy veil. He stood still to listen. It sounded like a bird had gotten inside the Holy of Holies. But how could that be? Then in the hushed silence, the room slowly grew brighter, as if the sun were emerging from behind a cloud.

  But the sun had already set.

  Zechariah heard the fluttering sound again, like a soft whisper. He was certain that none of the priests had gone inside the Holy of Holies, but that was where the whispering sound came from. The Law forbade him to enter the holiest place. If something were amiss, the high priest would have to investigate.

  Zechariah walked closer to the thick veil and listened again. The room had grown noticeably brighter now, the light emanating from beyond the veil. Zechariah shivered. He heard the noise again, like the sound of rustling silk.

  “Zechariah . . . Yahweh has remembered.”

  “Yahweh has remembered”—it was the meaning of his name. He fell to his knees, trembling. The room grew brighter and brighter until the light forced Zechariah to close his eyes, shielding them from its glow. It shone brighter than the sun, brighter than ten thousand suns. He felt the light soak through his robe and touch his skin, washing over him, engulfing him in wave after wave of brilliance and love.

  Overwhelming love.

  He never could have put the feeling into words. It was the love he felt for his children and grandchildren. It was the tender intimacy of his wife’s embrace. It was the love he’d felt as a child, wrapped in his mother’s bosom or sheltered in his father’s protecting arms. It was all of these and more.

  Yahweh.

  Wave after wave of Yahweh’s presence washed over Zechariah until he felt completely consumed. He bowed his forehead to the floor, aware that he was unworthy of such love. He reached out for something to hold on to and grasped the hem of the holy veil. He wanted to look up, to see his God face-to-face, but he was afraid.

  “Zechariah.”