After a long time, Hezekiah looked up. He tried to speak, but a fierce tightness gripped his throat. “I should go,” he finally managed to say.
Isaiah stood and bowed slightly. “Thank you for sharing this Passover meal with us, Your Majesty.”
Hezekiah nodded as he rose to his feet. He embraced Isaiah briefly, then turned and left.
When Hezekiah stepped outside, the cold, damp air hit him like a pitcher of water tossed in his face. For a moment he felt disoriented, unsure where he was or where he should go. He started walking, but instead of climbing the hill to the palace, his feet carried him down through the twisting streets, out of the old City of David and into the new section Eliakim had built. The streets were deserted, but he saw lamps and candles flickering behind the shuttered windows and heard the faint sound of praise songs as the people of Jerusalem celebrated the Passover feast.
This brief glimpse inside happy homes where families were gathered together made Hezekiah’s life seem as barren and desolate as the Judean wilderness. He felt the familiar weight on his shoulders, the burden of loneliness and grief he had carried for so long, but he understood it now: it was a burden of his own making. He had fashioned it himself and fastened it to his own shoulders, making himself a slave to bitterness and unforgiveness. Passover celebrated a time when God saw the burdens of His people and lifted them from their backs, setting them free to serve Him.
Hezekiah had never been to the villa he had built for his concubines, and it took him a while to find it. When he finally did, the front gate was closed and barred. He saw lamps burning in the gatekeeper’s cottage and listened for a moment to the mumble of voices reciting the Passover story. Then he drew a shuddering breath and knocked on the door. Shuffling footsteps approached.
“Who is it?” The gatekeeper’s gruff voice let Hezekiah know he wasn’t happy about having his meal disturbed.
“It’s King Hezekiah.”
“Yeah, right. And I’m the Queen of Sheba. Go away, you drunkard! Get out of here before I call the guards!” The footsteps retreated.
“Wait! I am King Hezekiah.” He pounded on the gate again. “Open the door and I’ll prove it.”
“Quit your pounding! I’m not opening the gate to every drunkard who comes along claiming to be—”
“Open the peephole.”
After a pause, Hezekiah heard the man fumbling with the latch to the viewing square near the top of the door and muttering “I don’t know who you think you are, disturbing a man’s peace in the middle of his meal. . . .”
It was too dark for the gatekeeper to see out, and Hezekiah had no torch, so as soon as the little trap door opened he held his hand up to it, displaying his royal signet ring.
“Look. I am the king.”
He heard the gatekeeper gasp, then more frantic fumbling as the man removed the bars and opened the locks with trembling hands. “Forgive me! Oh, forgive me, Your Majesty,” he stammered. “I didn’t know. . . . I . . . I couldn’t tell . . .”
“Of course you couldn’t—never mind,” Hezekiah said as the gate finally swung open. He rested his hand on the man’s trembling shoulder. “Listen, I’d like . . . I’d like to see Hephzibah, please.”
As the man led him down the walkway to the last door, Hezekiah was grateful that it was dark, grateful that the gatekeeper couldn’t see his face and read the emotions battling inside him.
“Here, my lord. This is her room.” The gatekeeper started to knock, but Hezekiah stopped him.
“Wait. I’ll do it. Go finish your dinner.” The man bowed repeatedly as he backed away.
Hezekiah stared at the closed door for a long time, remembering the last time he had walked into Hephzibah’s room at the palace. His chest heaved as he relived all the shock and pain he had felt when he found her bowing to a golden idol. But then he remembered his own sin—remembered the golden box from Babylon covered with pagan images, remembered the Babylonians bowing to him and honoring him as the favored one of the god Shamash. He closed his eyes and knocked.
“Come in.”
His heart twisted at the sound of Hephzibah’s soft, familiar voice. He lifted the latch and opened the door.
Hephzibah was sitting on her bed gazing down at her lyre on the bed beside her. She wasn’t playing it, but her fingers stroked the frame as if the feel of the smooth wood brought back cherished memories. When she looked up and saw Hezekiah, she cried out. Then she slid off the bed and fell to her knees to bow.
“No, Hephzibah! Don’t! Don’t bow down to me!” Hezekiah dove forward, catching her by the shoulders to stop her. “Please don’t, Hephzibah. I’m . . . I’m just a man, can’t you see? A sinful man—like any other.”
She covered her face and wept.
Hezekiah pulled her up and seated her on the bed again, then crouched in front of her. He could barely speak. He struggled to force out each word.
“I’ve come to ask your forgiveness, Hephzibah. I had no right to condemn you. I . . . I was so horrified when I saw the sin and idolatry in your heart. But now I see that the same sin is in my heart, too. I’m as capable of idolatry as you were . . . as my father was . . . as any other person is. I’m sorry, Hephzibah. I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me?”
Hezekiah buried his face in her lap and wept, remembering all that he had lost, realizing the terrible consequences of his sin and unforgiveness—the devastation of his land, the captivity of his people. Gradually he became aware of Hephzibah’s hands caressing his shoulders, of her tears falling into his hair as she bent over him.
“No, Hezekiah . . . no . . . I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
He lifted his head to look at her. “None of us do. But God doesn’t treat us as our sins deserve.” He took her hands in his. “I should have shown you that. I should have shown you my God instead of making you serve a God you didn’t know. I only showed you His rules and laws. But God doesn’t want us to worship Him out of fear. He’s our Father, and He wants us to learn to love Him with all our heart and all our soul and all our strength. I should have helped you know Him, Hephzibah. Then you would have loved Him. He’s a merciful God, a God of love and compassion and forgiveness. But I never told you that. I never helped you see Him. Can you ever forgive me?”
“But I’ve wronged you and deceived you. You have every right to be angry with me.”
“God will not harbor His anger forever. How can I? My anger and bitterness were killing me, just as surely as my illness was. They poisoned my relationship with God and separated me from His love, just as they separated me from yours. Will you give me another chance, Hephzibah? Will you let me show you this awesome God of forgiveness whom I worship?”
“I’ve already seen Him,” she whispered. “Tonight. You showed Him to me tonight when you came here. If you can forgive me after the terrible things I’ve done to you, then I can believe in God’s forgiveness, too.”
Hezekiah stood, pulling her to her feet with him, and clasped her to himself.
God had joined them together. She was part of him. And as he took her face in his hands and kissed her, he felt whole again for the first time in nearly a year. Man and woman—then God will dwell in their midst.
“Let’s go home,” he whispered.
He snuffed out the lamp and closed the door behind them. Leaning close together, clinging to one another, they walked up the deserted streets to the palace.
27
When Hezekiah reached the palace, he was surprised to see torches and lamps burning in the council room and throne room. “You’d better wait for me in my chambers,” he told Hephzibah; then he hurried down the hall to find out what was wrong.
“Your Majesty!” Shebna said breathlessly. “We have been searching all over for you. I have already summoned Eliakim and your other advisors. A message has arrived from the Egyptian camp. All is lost.”
“What?” Hezekiah couldn’t comprehend this news.
“Pharaoh’s forces met the Assyrians in battle at Eltekeh. The Egyptian
s were slaughtered, Your Majesty.”
“O God! No!” Hezekiah felt as if someone had squeezed all the blood from his body.
“The Assyrians mowed them down like summer hay.”
The words of Isaiah’s warning not to rely on Egypt’s help sprang unbidden to Hezekiah’s mind: “This sin will become for you like a high wall, cracked and bulging, that collapses suddenly, in an instant.”
“We have no allies,” he murmured. “We’re the only nation left.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Shebna’s face looked like a corpse’s. “I am sorry. I never should have convinced you to join the alliance. I never should have promised you Egypt’s help. Now you will surely be forced to surrender Jerusalem.”
Close to midnight Eliakim returned home from the palace, exhausted. He found his father waiting up for him.
“What happened, son?”
“The Assyrians crushed Pharaoh’s army at Eltekeh.”
“No!”
“It’s over, Abba. All our allies have been defeated.”
The spirit seemed to go out of Hilkiah, and he dropped to the bench near the door. “What’s going to happen now? Will the Assyrians come back here?”
Jerusha had asked Eliakim the same question. “I don’t know, Abba. No one does.” He saw his father studying him.
“But you think they will.”
“Yes,” Eliakim sighed. “I do.”
“God of Abraham, help us!”
“We discussed it all night, Abba. When Sennacherib demanded our surrender the last time, King Hezekiah decided to hold out, hoping the Egyptians would come to our rescue. Now that Egypt is defeated, the Assyrians are sure to come back and demand our surrender again.”
“And will the king surrender?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “King Hezekiah listened to what everyone had to say, but he didn’t tell us what he would do.”
“What did you advise him to do?”
“I told him we should never surrender. Jerusalem is well fortified and can withstand a lengthy siege. We have plenty of food and a steady water supply. I told him we should wait and trust God.”
“Yes. That’s good advice.” Hilkiah stood and squeezed Eliakim’s shoulder. “You look exhausted, son.”
“I am.”
“Get some sleep. You’re going to have some rough days ahead of you. What a terrible way to end a beautiful Passover celebration!”
Jerusha was asleep with the baby nestled beside her when Eliakim crept into their room. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness, then stood beside the bed gazing at them. The sound of his son’s raspy, labored breathing made Eliakim ache inside. He watched Joshua’s tiny rib cage swell and shrink with each breath.
What would Jerusha do if he died? How could she survive the loss of a second child? And what on earth would happen to her if the Assyrians came back? He might lose her forever to her fear.
The unknown weighed heavily on Eliakim’s heart. All his instincts urged him to protect his family, to shelter and defend them, but he was helpless to do it. He held the second highest position in the land and had enough money to buy anything he needed, but wealth and power couldn’t secure a future for his family. Only Yahweh could.
Suddenly a deep stillness filled the room. It took Eliakim a moment to realize why—the baby had stopped breathing.
“No! O God, no!” He snatched him from Jerusha’s arms. “Breathe! Joshua, breathe!” he cried, shaking his limp body. “O God, please—please don’t take my son!” In desperation, Eliakim put his mouth over Joshua’s and breathed into him. God of Abraham, please!
“Eliakim, what’s wrong?” Jerusha cried. “Where’s the baby?”
After a moment Eliakim put his ear to the baby’s face and heard a faint rasping sound as Joshua drew one shaky breath, then another and another.
“The baby’s here, Jerusha. I have him. It’s all right.” He put his hand on Joshua’s chest and felt his heart beating weakly. The baby coughed once, then whimpered softly. “Go back to sleep, Jerusha. I’ll rock him for a while.”
Eliakim walked with his son, willing the air in and out of his lungs, willing his unsteady heart to keep beating. Eliakim’s legs felt so weak he could barely stand, and he wanted desperately to sit down, but if he did he might fall asleep. And if he fell asleep, Joshua might stop breathing again. Eliakim felt utterly helpless.
“God of Abraham, you have power,” he prayed. “You can do anything. You’re a God of miracles. You can heal Joshua. You can protect us from the Assyrians. You can make Jerusha whole again. There’s nothing I can do but turn to you, Lord. You hold all our lives in your hand. Please help me, Father. Help little Joshua. . . . God of Abraham, help us all.”
“Your Majesty, let me go back,” Iddina begged. “I can make King Hezekiah surrender now. His allies are all defeated.”
Emperor Sennacherib took another bite of fruit and licked the juice from his fingers. “I admire your zeal, Iddina, but don’t you want to rest a day or two after our stunning victory?”
“No. I want to conquer Judah.”
“Why worry about it? King Hezekiah’s forces are so feeble that—”
“I don’t want to risk an attack from the rear once we invade Egypt. Let me finish him off while the Egyptians are still stunned.”
“Very well,” the emperor said, wiping his hands on a towel. “How do you want to proceed?”
“You remain here, Your Majesty. I’ll bring Hezekiah a message from you demanding surrender.”
“Write it for me, Iddina. You have a persuasive way with words. How many men do you want?”
“I’ll leave fifty thousand here with you and take the rest.”
“So many? What do you need 185,000 men for? How strong is Hezekiah?”
“The more men I take the more overwhelmed he’ll be, and the sooner he’ll surrender. I’ll rejoin you in a few days, a week at the most. We’ll march into Egypt together.”
“Good. By the way, your men did an excellent job in their war against the rats. I haven’t seen one in a couple of days.”
“Good riddance to them.”
“Yes, but now my senior officers are complaining that the rats were infested with fleas. Once you killed the rats, the fleas hopped onto all our men.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“Well, I promised them that you’d allow the men to get a good bath before we invade Egypt.”
“It’ll have to wait, Your Majesty. We didn’t find any water outside Jerusalem the last time we were there.”
“No water?”
“None, sir.”
“Oh, well—I’m sure you’ll think of something, Iddina. You’re a very resourceful man. Maybe the soldiers can use the Judeans’ baths once you’re inside the city.”
“We’ll do that, sir. And now if you’ll excuse me, I want to make sure the army is prepared to march at dawn.”
Inside the officers’ camp, one of the generals showed Iddina his arms and legs, peppered with red welts. “It’s these cursed fleas. I’m sick to death of them. Can’t we wait another day before we invade Jerusalem so my men have time to wash their clothes and bedding? We’re all miserable.”
“No. We leave at dawn.”
“But everyone is itching like the devil, and—”
“How hard is it to kill a flea?” Iddina shouted. “We’re the most powerful army the world has ever seen! You want me to halt the conquest of an empire so you can kill a handful of fleas?”
“No, my lord.”
“Be ready at dawn!”
Iddina stormed off before the general could reply and made his way to the priests’ camp to seek omens for his final campaign against King Hezekiah. But even though it was early evening, the priests’ camp was deserted, the campfires cold, the torches unlit. As he walked around the high priest’s tent, he heard a low moan coming from inside. Iddina tossed the flap aside and ducked in. The gloomy tent reeked of vomit.
“Who is it?” the high priest groaned. r />
“Iddina.”
“Please, my lord. You have to help me. . . .”
Iddina found a lamp and lit it, then carried it to the high priest’s bedside. “Get up! My men march to Jerusalem tomorrow. I need omens.”
“I already know what the omens will say—and you’ve got to help me!”
Iddina squatted down and gazed at the priest. His face looked swollen, his eyes bloodshot. He shivered with fever. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are the other priests?”
He shook his head and moaned. “Remember the omens, Iddina? I saw them. They foretold death!” He clutched the front of Iddina’s tunic. “You’ve got to help me. I don’t want to die!”
Iddina tried to push him away, but the priest grabbed Iddina’s hand and thrust it inside his tunic. “Feel this. What is this lump? What does it mean?” His fiery skin burned with fever. But when Iddina felt the hard, egg-sized tumor in the priest’s armpit, he recoiled in horror.
“No, don’t leave me!” the priest cried. “Help me! Don’t leave me here to die!”
But Iddina turned and fled from the tent. He found another priest lying in the next tent, moaning feverishly. He held a light near the man’s side and stared at the enormous dark tumor under his arm. When he found a third priest vomiting blood, Iddina fled to the safety of his own tent.
He sat in the darkness for a long time, wondering what to do, unable to deny the paralyzing fear he felt. He had conquered Yahweh’s army of rats, but now the plague of tumors had begun. His final showdown with Yahweh would come tomorrow.
Yahweh possessed powerful magic, and Iddina had no priests to help him ward off this magic. He knew that he had a host of various gods on his side, but was this Judean god stronger than all of them? He had wrestled with that question for seven years, ever since Jerusha had escaped.
Doubt and fear haunted Iddina. Was it only a silly superstition planted by the Philistines? Had there really been more rats than usual, or had he imagined it? Was the fact that three priests were sick with tumors a mere coincidence? He would learn the answer tomorrow. He would settle once and for all the question of which god was superior. Tomorrow he would convince King Hezekiah to surrender, and by tomorrow night he would be inside Yahweh’s Temple. He would confront the imageless god and conquer him and carry away his golden throne.