The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

  “Come out into the courtyard with me,” Jerusha said, extending her hand. “Sit in the sunshine.”

  Without knowing why, Hephzibah followed Jerusha outside and sat beside her on the bench. The bright sunlight hurt her eyes, and the sound of birds and the wind in the trees seemed deafening. She stared at the door to her room, as if knowing that her freedom couldn’t last. She resented Jerusha for intruding on her solitude. But since Jerusha was already here, Hephzibah decided to use her to find out what she ached to know.

  “Jerusha . . . do you ever see my . . . do you ever see King Hezekiah?”

  “I saw him at the Temple this morning.”

  “How is he?” she whispered.

  “Hephzibah, why put yourself through this?”

  “The last time I saw Hezekiah he was dying . . . and it was all my fault.”

  Jerusha touched her shoulder. “The king has recovered completely, Hephzibah. He’ll be fine. He has lost a lot of weight, but he’s growing stronger and stronger every day.”

  Hephzibah tried to control her tears, but they spilled down her face. “Do you ever go to the palace? Do you see him there?”

  “I went to a banquet last week for the envoys from Egypt.”

  “How did he look?”

  “Hephzibah, don’t do this to yourself.”

  “You don’t know! You can’t possibly imagine how it feels to realize that you’ll never see your husband again!”

  “I do know how it feels,” Jerusha answered quietly. “When the king nearly died, my husband’s life was in danger, too. Prince Gedaliah was going to kill him. Eliakim sent me away so I’d be safe, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again.”

  Hephzibah looked away. “If . . . if you really want to be my friend, then describe him to me. Let me see Hezekiah through your eyes.”

  “All right.” Jerusha drew a deep breath. “The envoys came to honor him, Hephzibah, and they brought him magnificent gifts. First the Babylonians came, then the Egyptians—”

  “He’s a man of great importance . . . yet he loved me,” she interrupted. “I could never quite grasp it. He loved me. . . . I owned a place in his heart. I wish . . . I wish I had realized how precious his love was. I never would have gambled with it.” She wiped the tears that continued to fall, then looked at Jerusha again. “What did he look like that night?”

  “He wore the crown of David on his head and a robe of deep purple. When he walked into the banquet room and the trumpets played their fanfare, he looked tall and stately, a man of dignity and stature. The Egyptians seemed small beside him.”

  When Jerusha stopped, Hephzibah closed her eyes and continued describing him from memory: “His beard and hair shone like copper in the lamplight, and his shoulders were broad and straight. I could never take my eyes off him—I loved to watch him from across the room, especially his hands. They’re so large and strong, and he can’t seem to talk without using them. I used to tell him that if he sat on his hands he’d be speechless. Then he’d laugh. How I loved to hear him laugh! Have you ever heard his laughter, Jerusha?”

  “I haven’t heard him laugh in a long time. He carries a burden of grief with him all the time, wherever he goes. He’s still mourning his loss. I know that he loved you very, very much. I used to see it in his eyes. I can’t look into his eyes anymore, because the pain is so naked and so intense. I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel guilty and punish yourself, but so you’ll know that the love you shared with him was rare and true and very deep. Hang on to that. Treasure that knowledge. And understand that he still loves you, still grieves for you—for what you both lost.”

  “But it can never be fixed,” Hephzibah said.

  “No, it can’t be fixed.”

  “Then learn something from me, Jerusha. Don’t ever go against your husband’s wishes. Nothing is worth that risk.”

  “You’re worth it, Hephzibah. In God’s eyes and in mine.”

  Suddenly Hephzibah realized what Jerusha was saying. “Jerusha! You’re not supposed to be here, are you? Your husband would never approve if he knew you were here with me!”

  “But my husband is wrong. I came back, because I knew it was the right thing—”

  “No! I thought my husband was wrong, too, and now I’d give anything to choose differently. Leave, Jerusha, and don’t come back! Go home and take your husband in your arms, and never let go of him. Get out of here!”

  “But, Hephzibah—”

  “I’ll tell the gatekeeper never to let you in again. Now, go!” She pushed and prodded Jerusha until she finally stood up.

  “I’ll go,” she said. “But I want you to know that no matter what you’ve done in the past, God will forgive you the moment you ask Him to. There’s a song that the Levites sing at the Temple. I want to tell you the words.”

  “But then you have to leave.”

  Jerusha nodded. Her voice trembled as she recited: “‘Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits—who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion. . . . He will not always accuse, nor will he harbor his anger forever; he does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love for those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.’”

  Jerusha looked at her uncertainly, as if she wanted to embrace her but was afraid. Hephzibah folded her arms across her chest to signal her unwillingness.

  “You can believe those words,” Jerusha said quietly. “I know they’re true. I’ve lived them.” Then she turned and walked from the courtyard.

  For Hephzibah it was a beautiful poem—nothing more. No one would redeem her life from this lonely, empty pit. And neither Hezekiah nor his God would ever forgive her for pledging to sacrifice her child to an idol. She rose from the bench and slowly walked back to her room, closing the door behind her.

  The house was quiet when Jerusha arrived home, the children still napping. She hung her shawl on a hook beside the door and sank down wearily on the bench to remove her sandals.

  “Where have you been?”

  Jerusha jumped at the sound of Eliakim’s voice. She slowly lifted her head and looked up at him, unsure how to answer.

  “Eliakim . . . what are you doing home?”

  She tried to smile as he walked slowly toward her, but he didn’t return her smile. Sorrow filled his dark eyes, and she had to look away from him. She remembered Hephzibah’s words: “Don’t ever go against your husband’s wishes. Nothing is worth taking that risk,” and she began to tremble. She bent to unfasten her sandal, trying to conceal her guilt, but her fingers fumbled with the straps. Eliakim pulled her hands away and took them in his.

  “Jerusha, I came home two hours ago. The servants didn’t know where you went. I’ve been worried.”

  Please, dear God! Jerusha silently prayed. I obeyed you—I did what you asked me to do. Please don’t let him hate me. O God, I couldn’t live like Hephzibah. I couldn’t live without Eliakim!

  He gently squeezed her hands, and his handsome face blurred as her eyes filled with tears. Why had she defied his wishes?

  “Jerusha? Why aren’t you answering me?”

  “I . . .”

  Suddenly Eliakim let her hands slip from his. “You went back to see Hephzibah, didn’t you?” he said in a whisper.

  “I had to.”

  “Get out of my house!” He spoke so softly she barely heard him, but his words sent a shiver of terror through her.

  “Eliakim, no! Listen to me—”

  “It’s too late for explanations.” He yanked her cloak off the hook and shoved it into her hands, hauling her to her feet. “I said get out!”

  “Eliakim . . . no . . . no!”

  “Didn’t I make it clear why you couldn’t have anything to do with Hephzibah? Don’t you understand that you’re compromising my integrity?
I’m having a hard enough time hanging on to my job without this!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve opposed King Hezekiah on every major issue for the past six months. Shebna told me that if I can’t support the king’s decisions, I’d better resign before I’m fired. I was so desperate I went to see Isaiah and begged him to back me up. Do you know what he did? He backed me up, all right. He condemned King Hezekiah in front of the entire city! I feel like a traitor!”

  “Eliakim, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. . . .”

  “That’s why I came home today. The king was so upset at being damned in public that he refused to hold court. I don’t know if I even have a job to go back to. And now this! If anyone finds out you’ve struck up a friendship with Hephzibah . . . I don’t know what I’ll do! Everything’s falling apart!”

  “I’ll explain to the king that you had nothing to do with it, that I disobeyed you. . . .”

  “He’s not in the mood for explanations, Jerusha.” Eliakim passed his hand over his face and groaned. “Why did you do this to me, Jerusha?”

  Why had she done it? Why had she put Hephzibah’s needs before her own husband’s? She had to think, had to remember why—before she lost Eliakim forever.

  “I didn’t want to disobey you, but I had no choice. God compelled me to go, Eliakim. Who would speak for God if I didn’t?”

  His expression changed as if she’d slapped him. “What did you say?”

  “I said, Who would speak for God if I didn’t?”

  He groaned, then quickly turned and walked away from her, disappearing down the hall. A moment later she heard the door to their courtyard slam. Jerusha waited, unsure what to do. Her fear of losing Eliakim rose to terrifying proportions. At last she followed him outside to the garden. He was sitting on the bench with his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his face.

  “Eliakim, talk to me! What’s wrong?”

  “That’s what Isaiah said. He asked who would speak for God in the palace if I didn’t.”

  “Then you know how hard it is to obey God when there’s so much at risk, so very much to lose. Going back to see Hephzibah against your wishes was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I had to tell her that God loved her, that He would forgive her—don’t you see?”

  Minutes passed as Eliakim sat with his head in his hands, the longest minutes of Jerusha’s life.

  “Please don’t send me away,” she whispered. “Please, Eliakim. I love you so much.”

  He reached for her and drew her to him, resting his face against her body as she stood over him. “I’ve forced you into the same trap I’m in, Jerusha,” he said softly. “But obeying God is always the right choice. Will you forgive me?”

  She crouched beside him and answered him with a kiss.

  17

  Shebna stepped out of the new chariot he had brought back from his trip as ambassador to Egypt and stood with his hands on his hips, watching the workers hew out his tomb from the rocky cliff face. The monument disappointed him. The pyramid on top looked so much smaller than he’d envisioned.

  “Careful! You are taking too much off!” he shouted to the mason chiseling it from the bedrock. “I want to be able to see it from up there.” He pointed to Jerusalem, across the Kidron Valley from where they stood.

  Shebna wanted this monument to be visible from his palace window; he wanted to gaze down on it from the Temple Mount during the long, boring services. He’d chosen this prominent spot, the highest on the ridge, to build an imposing memorial to himself, knowing that future generations would pay homage at his grave. It must be a tomb fit for a king.

  The project foreman walked forward to bow to Shebna, dusting his hands on his tunic. “It will be the most magnificent tomb in Jerusalem, my lord. Except for the king’s, of course.”

  “But not as magnificent as the tombs of my ancestors. Have you heard of the great pyramids of Egypt?”

  “Who hasn’t, my lord?”

  “The Egyptians know how to immortalize their great leaders.” He frowned at the rough pyramid taking shape on top of his tomb, wishing it was larger. Even so, it would be the only tomb that had a pyramid. “You will remember to prepare a large place above the door for the inscription?”

  “Of course. It’s on the plans you gave me.”

  “Well, make certain you consult those plans once in a while. Take care you do not make a stupid mistake. You cannot put the stone back once you have chiseled it off.”

  “I know that, my lord.”

  “You are building a memorial that will be looked upon for centuries to come, like the tombs of David and Solomon. I helped bring about this age of prosperity and glory in Judah, and . . .” Shebna stopped when he saw the foreman’s attention wander to a point beyond his left shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

  “Excuse me, sir, but you have company.”

  Shebna whirled around to find Isaiah standing beside the new chariot. The rabbi appraised it carefully, running his hands over the blue and gold deities painted on the sides; then he wiped his hands on his thighs as if they had been contaminated.

  “Are you looking for me, Rabbi?” Shebna asked. He hoped not. He felt wary of this complex man, distrustful of his secret sources of information. Isaiah had an uncanny knack of guessing the future, and he had used it to manipulate King Hezekiah over the years. He seemed to want to control the king, yet he had refused the palace administrator’s job when Hezekiah had offered it to him. Isaiah was a descendant of the house of David—did he want to be king? Shebna couldn’t make sense of the man.

  “Will you answer a question for me?” Isaiah asked politely.

  “I will try.”

  Isaiah took a step closer, and his stance suddenly became challenging. “What are you doing here, and who gave you permission to cut out a grave for yourself here, hewing your tomb on the height and chiseling your resting place in the rock?”

  “I do not need anyone’s permission to take whatever tract of land I please and do whatever I want with it.” Shebna squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, confident in the power and position he held. But much to his amazement, Isaiah suddenly smiled, a fleeting grin of superiority and satisfaction that quickly vanished.

  “Beware, the Lord is about to take firm hold of you and hurl you away, O you mighty man.”

  His words infuriated Shebna. “Just who do you think you are!”

  “He will roll you up tightly like a ball and throw you into a large country. There you will die and there your splendid chariots will remain—you disgrace to your master’s house!”

  “How dare you talk to me that way? I am—”

  “I know who you are, Shebna.”

  “Then you know that I have played a key role in shaping this nation and bringing about this age of prosperity.”

  “Yahweh brought about this age of prosperity, not you.”

  “I have educated the king and advised him from the very beginning of his reign—”

  “And now you will bring about the destruction of everything he has built.” Isaiah took another step closer, and his eyes bore into Shebna’s. “Woe to those who go down to Egypt for help, who rely on horses, who trust in the multitude of their chariots and in the great strength of their horsemen, but do not look to the Holy One of Israel, or seek help from the Lord. . . . He will rise up against the house of the wicked, against those who help evildoers.”

  “I have heard enough!” Shebna shouted. “You know nothing about government. What right do you have to criticize my decisions? This alliance with Egypt will be Judah’s salvation if Assyria—”

  “The Egyptians are men and not God; their horses are flesh and not spirit. When the Lord stretches out his hand, he who helps will stumble, he who is helped will fall; both will perish together.”

  “Myths and lies! King Hezekiah’s only weakness is that he continues to believe in your myths and lies. And my single failing as his teacher is that I have been unable to convince him to reject thes
e childish superstitions that he clings to. But now with these treaties, I have begun to change his thinking. At last he is beginning to understand the need for alliances with other nations. And when he finally discards your worthless, outdated laws, it will be the crowning achievement of my term of office as palace administrator!”

  The self-satisfied smile on Isaiah’s face flashed again—swiftly, fleetingly. “This is what the Lord, the Lord Almighty, says: ‘Go, say to this steward, to Shebna, who is in charge of the palace: . . . I will depose you from your office, and you will be ousted from your position. In that day I will summon my servant, Eliakim son of Hilkiah—’”

  “Never!”

  “‘I will clothe him with your robe and fasten your sash around him and hand your authority over to him—’”

  “Liar! That will never happen!”

  “‘He will be a father to those who live in Jerusalem and to the house of Judah. I will place on his shoulder the key to the house of David; what he opens no one can shut, and what he shuts no one can open.’”

  “Not Eliakim! Anyone but that self-righteous—”

  Shebna rushed toward Isaiah, angry enough to strike him, but the rabbi calmly turned his back and walked down the path toward the Washerman’s Field. A string of curses poured from Shebna’s mouth, but Isaiah showed no sign that he had heard them. Trembling with fury, Shebna climbed into his new chariot again.

  “Take me back to the palace,” he told the driver. But Shebna felt none of the pride in his new vehicle that he had felt earlier, and the journey up the steep ramp to the city felt bumpy and uncomfortable. One thing he knew for certain: Shebna feared Isaiah’s words as he feared little else.

  Hezekiah stared at the letter in his hands, wishing he could crumple it between his fists and toss it into the flames. “It certainly didn’t take our allies very long to make their first demand,” he said.

  “What is it?” Shebna asked.

  “They want us to help the Philistines overthrow King Padi of Ekron.”

  “Why?”

  “He refuses to join our coalition.”