The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

  “Punishing you? Why would He punish you?”

  “After our baby died I was supposed to bring a sin offering to the Temple, but I didn’t do it. Why should I? I didn’t sin.”

  “Of course you didn’t sin. Where did you hear such a thing?”

  “The king said it’s Yahweh’s Law.”

  “Well, I don’t care if your husband is the king—it’s not right! How can he put one woman under so much pressure to give him an heir? That’s why kings have harems in the first place. Everyone knows that as soon as a husband takes a concubine, his wife gets pregnant. Wasn’t Isaac born after the concubine’s son?”

  “I guess so.” Hephzibah was glad she had confided in her mother. She felt better after sharing the feelings she had hoarded so long.

  “Listen, Hephzibah—I’ve never had much use for Yahweh and all His rules. He’s an angry god, full of wrath and vengeance. Asherah gave me children, not Yahweh. The goddess understands women. And didn’t she answer your prayers once before? Didn’t you pray to Asherah when you wanted to marry the prince?”

  “Yes.”

  Mama pondered something for a moment, then said, “I’ll be right back.”

  She returned a few minutes later with a small bundle, wrapped in an embroidered cloth. At first Hephzibah thought it was a baby and she wondered where it had come from. Then her mother unwrapped a golden statue of Asherah and thrust it into Hephzibah’s arms.

  “Here. I want you to have this. She has blessed our home with children; now let her bless yours.”

  “But the king forbids it! He won’t worship any god but Yahweh.”

  “And has Yahweh given him a son? Of course not! Asherah is the goddess of fertility, not Yahweh. Your marriage is unfruitful because the king has angered her. He turned his back on Asherah and destroyed all her sacred groves and altars, banished all her priests. Of course she’s punishing him. And you’re suffering because of it. But if you worship her faithfully and renew your vows, maybe she’ll show forgiveness. Take this. Your husband doesn’t even have to know about it.”

  Hephzibah hesitated, not sure if she could deliberately deceive Hezekiah. But what if her mother was right? What if her husband had offended Asherah? Yahweh seemed so cold and forbidding, demanding animals and sacrifices and blood. Asherah embodied life and love. The goddess would give Hephzibah a child, not rip it away from her. She looked down at the golden figure with the full bosom and pregnant belly. Then she wrapped the idol in the embroidered cloth again and held it to her breast.

  “Thank you, Mama,” she whispered.

  28

  Jerusha sat on the stone bench in Hilkiah’s tiny garden and stared up at the starry sky, pretending she was home. She had grown accustomed to the confinements of city life, but her heart still longed for rolling green hills and open spaces. She remembered how millions of stars had twinkled in the clear night sky back home—sons of Abraham, Abba had called them. She missed the sound of the wind in the trees outside her window, the soothing hum of insects, the soft crunching of straw as the oxen chewed their feed in the stall beneath her room. City sounds were so different. They were strident noises, rushed and wearisome.

  “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” Eliakim asked as he stopped beside her. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Of course not.” She moved to make room for him on the bench. “Do you like to look at the stars, too?”

  “Yes, but I have to confess, that’s not why I came out here. I came out to escape.”

  “What are you escaping from?”

  “Another marriage proposal. They’re becoming embarrassing.” He sighed as he ran his fingers through his rumpled hair.

  “Don’t you want to get married?”

  “Sure, but how am I supposed to choose? The best price? The prettiest maiden? The most impressive papa? It’s all ridiculous, and I’m getting sick of it. I’m hardly worth haggling over.”

  He sighed again and fell into a long silence, not looking at the stars at all, but sitting hunched with his arms on his legs, his hands dangling between his knees. Jerusha understood why all the proud fathers fought over someone as handsome and important as Eliakim. As a country farmer’s daughter, Jerusha had been content to marry Abram, a poor, hardworking farmer like Abba. But she was no longer a suitable wife for any man.

  “Why don’t you just pick one, then, and get it over with?” she said at last. She played with the smooth Elath stone necklace he’d given her, envying the woman he chose.

  “I probably should. Abba’s disgusted with me for giving him such a hard time about it. But choosing a wife is a major decision, and I don’t want to make it arbitrarily. After all, I’ll be living with my choice for the rest of my life.”

  “Don’t you like any of them?”

  His eyes narrowed as he considered. “Want to know the truth? They’re all shallow, pampered, over-painted brats.”

  “Eliakim!”

  He laughed. “Well, it’s true. Anyhow, I can’t stand any of them, and I’m sick of talking about it. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “How’s your work on the walls coming?”

  “Great! Remember that older section I showed you near the Dung Gate? You should come and see what I’m doing there. It will take an army to move that wall when I’m done with it!” They both laughed at the irony of his words. “Anyway, you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I know. What about the new northwest wall?”

  “Well, I’d planned a casemate wall for that section, but after what you said the other day, I’m still not convinced that it’s going to be strong enough.” He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I just don’t know what to do there. Any ideas?”

  Eliakim was so kind and gentle—so serious, yet so boyishly natural. Jerusha knew she could easily fall in love with him, but she must never allow herself to do such a foolish thing. It was more than the obvious class differences or the fact that she was a penniless orphan and he was a wealthy aristocrat. Eliakim deserved someone pure and unsoiled for his wife, and Jerusha had been with many men. Falling in love with Eliakim was a hopeless folly that could only lead to disappointment in the end.

  “I don’t know, Eliakim,” she finally answered. “I think a casemate wall will probably be strong enough, won’t it?” She couldn’t bear to remind him that no wall was strong enough to keep out the Assyrians once they determined to get in.

  “Why doesn’t King Hezekiah appease them with tribute payments?” she asked. “Then he wouldn’t have to worry about the walls.”

  “Because we’d forfeit our freedom. We’d be their slaves.”

  Jerusha looked away. “So King Hezekiah would rather die than be a slave to the Assyrians?”

  “Well, it’s a lot more complicated than that, but yes, that’s basically what it boils down to.”

  A deep shame filled Jerusha. She had faced the same dilemma and had made the coward’s choice. If she could go back in time, she would let Iddina plunge his dagger into her heart rather than submit to him. She shivered.

  “Jerusha, you’re getting cold. Maybe we should go inside.”

  “No, I’m fine. I want to look at the stars a while longer.”

  “Are you sure? The proud papa is probably gone by now. It’s probably safe to go back in.” Eliakim’s mischievous grin made her smile. She hurried to change the subject, to say something to break the strong pull she felt toward him.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she said.

  “Sure . . . anything.”

  “It’s silly, really, but I was wondering how you got that scar on your neck.”

  “This?” He rubbed the thin line beneath his Adam’s apple.

  “It looks like someone tried to slit your throat.”

  “That’s exactly what happened,” Eliakim said, laughing. “This is General Jonadab’s handiwork, the commander-in-chief of King Hezekiah’s army. But we’re good friends now.”

  “After he almost killed you?”

  “Well, at th
e time he thought I was a dangerous rebel, plotting to overthrow King Hezekiah.”

  “You?”

  He drew himself up straight and proudly threw back his shoulders. “Yes, me!”

  The thought of gentle, scholarly Eliakim plotting a revolution made Jerusha laugh out loud. Against her will, she was drawn to him even more hopelessly than before. She knew she was being a fool. When Eliakim finally married his rich wife, her heart would break, but she was powerless to stop herself.

  “Would you like to hear the story?” he asked.

  “I’d love to.”

  And as a silvery moon rose above them, Eliakim told her the story of the night Micah prophesied to the king.

  Hezekiah watched as the oxen strained to move a massive building block for the new city walls. A cheer rose from the workmen as the stone fell into place on the bedrock, and Hezekiah relaxed the muscles he had been unconsciously tensing. As he moved closer and ran his hand over the stone’s rough surface, it seemed inconceivable to him that an army could topple such massive rocks. The fact that the Assyrians had toppled countless walls underscored the terrible power of his enemies.

  “God, help us,” he murmured.

  Eliakim climbed out of the trench, his face and neck sunburned beneath a layer of dust and sweat. He stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for Hezekiah’s reaction.

  “Very impressive, Eliakim. Now let’s get out of this sun.”

  Eliakim followed him to a square patch of shade beneath the foreman’s tent where Shebna and Jonadab waited, fanning themselves. They both looked wilted, and sweat poured off Jonadab’s bald head in a steady stream.

  “Don’t you have any water around here?” Jonadab asked Eliakim.

  “Just this.” Eliakim produced a dusty waterskin, sloshing it to see if there was any left. “It’s probably warm—”

  “I don’t care!” Jonadab grabbed it and tipped the spout to his lips, gulping noisily, then held it out to Shebna.

  Suddenly a look of horror crossed the general’s face when he realized that he had quenched his own thirst before offering it to the king. “I . . . I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he stammered, wiping the spout on his tunic. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, thanks, Jonadab,” Hezekiah said. “But you’ve underscored a point I was about to raise—our critical need for water. The double walls, the weapons in the citadel, the fortifications we’re building will all be useless if we die of thirst. The four of us are going down to the Gihon Spring right now, and we’re going to find a way to safeguard our water supply.”

  Hezekiah led the way out of the tent, climbing over the clutter of rocks and debris from the construction. After filing through the gap where the new gate would stand, they followed the road down to the spring. Goats quietly grazed along the steep hillside beside the aqueduct, while workmen across the valley vigorously shook the first ripe olives from the branches. Life went on, unhurried, as if the Assyrian army didn’t exist. But the peaceful scene in the Kidron Valley belied the sense of restless urgency Hezekiah felt.

  When they reached the spring, he squatted beside the water, cupping his hands for a drink, splashing some onto his face and neck. The sun blazed in the hazy sky like the fires of Molech, and Jonadab found a patch of shade on the low wall of a terraced olive grove where they could sit. As Hezekiah stared at the city above him, the golden stones shimmered in the heat. He traced the line of ancient walls that encircled the old city, then Solomon’s walls, added to protect the upper hill and the Temple. The fortifications looked impressive from the valley.

  Jonadab was looking up at the city, too. “It’s an ideal city to defend, Your Majesty—a natural fortress, built on such a steep mountaintop that my armies could defend it forever if—” He stopped abruptly and looked at Hezekiah.

  “I know,” Hezekiah said. “If only we had water. But I refuse to give up. The defense of Jerusalem depends on it.”

  Shebna’s blue-black hair glistened with sweat. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow. “We could construct more cisterns inside the walls, haul water up to fill them during peacetime, then use it in times of war,” he said.

  “That’s a possibility,” Hezekiah said, “but a temporary water source such as a cistern causes problems with morale. People know that sooner or later it’ll run dry, and they start hoarding water or trampling each other to get at it.”

  “I’ve considered constructing walls around the spring,” Eliakim said, “but it would be impossible to connect them to the city walls. The slopes are too steep.”

  Hezekiah shaded his eyes and stared up at the city again, trying to see it from the enemy’s viewpoint. “I came here with my grandfather when I was a child, and he told me the story of how King David’s armies conquered Jerusalem.”

  “I learned that story, too,” Eliakim said. “David’s men found a secret passageway, didn’t they? And it led them up into the city?”

  “I do not think we can put much faith in those stories,” Shebna said. “King David’s exploits were greatly exaggerated after his death until they reached mythical proportions.”

  “Then how did they get inside the walls?” Eliakim asked.

  “That’s a fair question,” Jonadab said. “Jerusalem would have been hard to conquer by conventional methods of war, especially in King David’s time.”

  Hezekiah scooped up a stone and tossed it from one hand to the other as he spoke. “My grandfather said that the Jebusites dug a shaft so they could draw water during a siege. David’s men found the entrance here at the spring and crawled up the shaft into the city.”

  Shebna frowned skeptically. “That mountain is made of solid rock. How could they dig a tunnel through it?”

  Hezekiah didn’t answer. He had suddenly noticed a slight depression where the spring bordered the slope of the hill. He tossed the stone down and leaped to his feet.

  “Do you suppose the tunnel is still here?” Eliakim asked, following Hezekiah as he skirted the water’s edge.

  “I don’t know. But my grandfather trusted the chronicles of David to be accurate.”

  When Hezekiah got as close as he could along the bank, he shed his sandals and outer robe, tucked the hem of his tunic into his belt, then waded into the icy waters of the spring. By the time he reached the curious depression on the side of the hill, he was soaked to his thighs.

  For several minutes he and Eliakim worked to pull out the overhanging weeds and stones until they saw a small, cavelike entrance leading into the side of the cliff.

  “Get a torch!” Hezekiah shouted.

  Jonadab hurried up the ramp to the guard tower by the Water Gate. While they waited, Eliakim and Shebna helped Hezekiah remove more rocks and rubble that had accumulated in front of the entrance to the cave. By the time they had cleared an opening large enough to squeeze through, Jonadab had returned. He handed the torch to Eliakim, who ducked through the hole and disappeared into the side of the hill.

  “Your Majesty!” he shouted. “You’ve got to see this!”

  Hezekiah squeezed through behind Eliakim and found himself in a narrow slit between two high rock walls. Eliakim stood several feet in front of him, holding the torch, but beyond him the walls disappeared into inky darkness. The floor beneath Hezekiah’s bare feet felt very rough. The walls, which were only a foot apart at the bottom, gradually grew wider apart until they reached the ceiling, just inches above his head.

  “Shebna, come see this,” Hezekiah called. He waded into the tunnel to make room for him. In the murky light he saw his friend gaze around, stunned.

  Shebna leaned against a wall, mumbling, “I cannot believe it!”

  “How far back does it go, Eliakim?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty. Let’s find out.”

  Eliakim sloshed forward into the darkness, and Hezekiah waded behind him, barely able to see, feeling his way along the walls. The rock seemed to absorb what little light they had, and Shebna, who was in almost total darkness, had to hold on to Hezekia
h’s belt as they groped through the icy, knee-deep water. The crudely cut slit meandered as it wound for several yards into the mountain; then the ceiling gradually lowered until the tunnel ended in another arch-like entrance close to the water’s surface. Eliakim ducked through first, momentarily plunging Hezekiah and Shebna into total darkness.

  “I don’t believe it!” Eliakim cried. “Come look at this!” Hezekiah entered a large, cavernous room, nearly round, with walls much smoother than the tunnel’s walls. “It’s a holding tank!” Eliakim exclaimed. “For the water!” He raised the torch as high as he could and shone it all around. “Look! There it is! That’s where the shaft was!”

  Hezekiah spotted a depression in the middle of the smooth ceiling, no wider than a small man’s shoulders. Someone had packed it tightly with rocks and rubble. “King David probably didn’t want his enemies to find it,” Hezekiah said.

  Eliakim’s eyes were wide. “And I thought it was just a bedtime story! Who would have ever believed it?”

  “It certainly looks man-made,” Shebna said as he ran his hand across the walls.

  “It probably was a cave originally,” Eliakim said, “and the Jebusites enlarged it. The limestone in this area has a lot of natural caves and fissures. The spring itself comes from underground somewhere.”

  Hezekiah gazed around in amazement, not sure which astounded him more—discovering a possible way to secure their water supply or learning that the ancient story was true. This narrow, black tunnel carved in the mountain encouraged him, inspired him, and renewed his faith.

  “Let’s go,” he said. His legs had begun to ache from the numbing water. He followed Eliakim out, then sat in the sun to warm himself.

  Shebna bristled with excitement. “If that truly is a shaft that leads up to the city, then this could be our answer. We could reopen it, and—”

  “I don’t know,” Jonadab said, frowning. “We’d have to get rid of the aqueduct and hide the spring, or the enemy could find the tunnel as easily as we did. I’d hate to risk it.”