Faith of My Fathers (Chronicles of the Kings #4)

  At last Joshua stood upright and started walking again. “It’s clouding over,” he said, still wheezing. “I think it’s going to rain.”

  “So what? I don’t care if I get wet. Do you?”

  Joshua shrugged off the challenge and ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture so much like Eliakim’s that Manasseh couldn’t help grinning.

  “What? What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, Ox.”

  It would be natural for Joshua to take his father’s place someday, seated at the king’s right hand, continuing his father’s work. But when Manasseh thought about taking his own father’s place, sitting on King Hezekiah’s throne, his smile vanished.

  They reached a fork in the road. One path led in a winding route up the Mount of Olives; the other curved to the right and eventually veered back toward the southern gates of Jerusalem. The sun was gone, now, and the air had turned cold. Manasseh felt a few drops of rain and turned right.

  “Alms ... alms for the blind ...” An old woman sat in the middle of their path, calling out to them in a feeble voice. Her gray hair, matted like a bird’s nest, stuck out from beneath her widow’s shawl. Her lined face reminded Manasseh of a dried fig, and the thick, gray film that covered her eyes turned his stomach. She stretched out her hand, as gnarled as an olive branch, and grasped Joshua’s robe as they passed by.

  “Kind child, can you spare a mite for a poor blind widow?”

  Joshua stopped and looked down at her, his face filled with concern. He patted his sides beneath his outer robe. “I’m sorry. I didn’t bring my silver pouch.”

  Manasseh grew impatient. “Come on, Ox. It’s starting to rain.”

  “Wait—do you have any silver with you? I’ll pay you back. The Torah says, ‘He who is kind to the poor lends to the Lord.”’

  Manasseh heaved a sigh to let Joshua know how aggravated he was, then dug out his money pouch. He chose the smallest silver piece he could find and bent to place it in the woman’s outstretched hand, careful not to touch her. But she suddenly grabbed Manasseh’s wrist in a viselike grip with her other hand and drew his palm close to her face until it was only inches from her filmy eyes.

  “Open your palm, boy. I’ll read your future for your kindness.”

  “No, don’t let her do it!” Joshua cried. “The Torah says—”

  “Calm down, Ox. It’s only for fun. It doesn’t mean anything. Go ahead, old woman. Tell me all about my future.” He gave Joshua a sharp look, warning him to keep quiet about his identity. The woman would have no idea she was studying the king of Judah’s palm. She pulled it closer to her face and moved her head from side to side as she examined it.

  “Ah ...” she said, her voice hushed with awe. “This is a hand that will wield great authority one day! You will hold the lives of many people in this hand!”

  “You shouldn’t let her do this,” Joshua mumbled, shuffling his feet.

  “Oh, be quiet. What else do you see, old woman?”

  “I see a long life with many sons. And power! Enormous power! You are destined for great renown, boy!” She seemed reluctant to release his hand, as if some of his power might rub off on her while she held it.

  “Okay, let’s go now,” Joshua said. But Manasseh grabbed his friend’s gangly hand and thrust it beneath the woman’s face.

  “What about his future? Read his, too.”

  “No! I don’t want her to!” He tried to pull free, but Manasseh and the old woman pried his palm open and held it tightly. She pulled it close to her eyes and studied it for a moment, then suddenly dropped it as if it had burned her.

  “What? Tell me what you saw,” Manasseh said. The old woman shook her head fearfully and motioned for them to get away from her. “We’re not going until you tell us what it said,” Manasseh insisted.

  “Danger!” she cried, still shooing them away. “Great danger!”

  “My friend is in danger?”

  “No! He is a great danger to you!” She fixed Manasseh with her blind-eyed stare, and he couldn’t turn away. He stood frozen, pierced by her voice and her filmy eyes. “Your lifeline and his take opposite paths. Warring paths. The authority belongs to you, but he will be much more powerful. The forces that are in him will be too strong for you!”

  “She doesn’t know anything,” Joshua said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “He’s not your friend, boy!” she told Manasseh. “He’s your enemy! He’ll try to destroy everything you do!”

  “The Torah says, ‘Do not turn to mediums or seek out spiritists, for you will be defiled by them’!” Joshua shouted at the woman. He grabbed Manasseh’s arm and pulled him back the way they had come, breaking the old woman’s spell. The rain was falling hard now. “I’m sorry I made you give her the silver,” Joshua said, shivering. “She’s evil.”

  “But how did she know my future? How did she know about all my power?”

  “She doesn’t know anything! She said I’d have more power than you, and you know that’s not true. You’re the king, not me.”

  Manasseh recalled the fear he had seen in the old woman’s scaly eyes as she looked into Joshua’s hand and the way she had dropped it as if it were a hot coal. He stared at his friend as if at a stranger, then quickened his pace.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Manasseh. You know I’m not your enemy.” Joshua was panting as he hurried to walk beside him. “She’s lying! We’re best friends, aren’t we?”

  “That’s what I used to think.” Manasseh broke into a run as the rain suddenly poured down. Joshua couldn’t keep up with him.

  “Manasseh, wait for me!” He began to cough, trying to expel the air from his lungs so he could draw another breath. “Wait!”

  Manasseh ran on, the rain stinging his face, until he could no longer hear Joshua’s footsteps or his wheezing breaths behind him.

  When he reached the first bend in the steep ramp Manasseh finally stopped and looked back. Joshua stood in the pouring rain near the almond grove. He was bent double again, coughing and gasping for air.

  “Wait ...” he called. “Help me ...”

  Manasseh had only seen Joshua this sick twice before, and both times he had been bedridden for days afterward. The rain and cold air might make the breathing attack worse. Joshua was his best friend—his only friend—and Manasseh knew he should go for help. Joshua’s father would know what to do. But then Manasseh would have to see the tenderness and love in Eliakim’s eyes when he gazed at his son.

  “Please ... help me....” Joshua’s voice sounded weaker.

  Manasseh turned away from him and slowly walked up the hill to his palace as rain and tears coursed down his face.

  Part One

  Hezekiah rested with his fathers. And

  Manasseh his son succeeded him as king.

  Manasseh was twelve years old when he

  became king, and he reigned in Jerusalem

  fifty-five years. His mother’s name

  was Hephzibah.

  2 KINGS 20:21; 21:1

  I

  “WAIT HERE,” KING MANASSEH told his servants. “I would like to be alone for a few minutes.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  He left his entourage of palace guards and servants standing by the cemetery entrance and walked forward alone, toward his mother’s tomb. It was the close of a warm, spring day, just after the evening sacrifice, and Manasseh knew he would have only a few more minutes of twilight. Once night fell he would need a torch to make his way among the tombs. The graveyard was deserted and peaceful; the mourning doves in the distant trees grieved with him.

  At twenty-one, Manasseh had grown into a handsome man. His long, narrow face seemed sculpted from costly stone, his straight nose, square forehead, and jaw skillfully wrought by an artisan. He had inherited Hezekiah’s broad shoulders but not his height or strong frame. Like his mother, Hephzibah, he was slender and light-boned, with her thick dark hair the color of olive branches and her brown eyes flecked with gold. His
lean body was muscular beneath his linen robes; he still trained every day with his military tutor in order to stay strong and agile. For his size, Manasseh had become very difficult to beat in hand-to-hand combat.

  He reached the tomb he had hewn for his mother out of the cliffside and stopped. Hephzibah had died two years ago tonight. In a way it seemed like only yesterday that they had shared their evening meal together, yet when he tried to remember her smile or the sound of her singing, it seemed as if she had been gone forever. He stretched out his hand to touch the enormous block of stone that sealed the tomb, wishing he could reach for his mother and find her there. The stone felt warm, still holding the memory of the sun’s heat. He pressed his forehead against it and closed his eyes.

  When he finished reciting the prayers for the dead, Manasseh turned to leave. As he did, his foot kicked something lying on the ground in front of him. He bent to examine it in the twilight and found a small bouquet of wilting blossoms, wrapped in a roll of fine parchment. He recognized the writing as the beautiful calligraphy sold by the Temple scribes. He tilted the pages to catch the fading light and read the words:Praise the Lord, 0 my soul;

  all my inmost being, praise his holy name.

  Praise the Lord, O my soul,

  and forget not all his benefits ...

  He didn’t need to read the rest to recognize his mother’s favorite psalm. She had sung the words and haunting melody to him nearly every night when he was a child until he, too, knew it by heart. Sorrow engulfed him from the unexpected memory. When he realized that Joshua’s mother, Jerusha, had probably placed it there, he tasted the bitterness of envy, as well. Both of Joshua’s parents still lived, and even his elderly grandfather, Hilkiah. Manasseh had grown up beside this large, close-knit family—Eliakim and Jerusha, Joshua, his older brother, Jerimoth, and their sisters, Tirza and Dinah. Yet he always felt as if he stood outside, gazing through a window at the kinship and love they shared. Manasseh and his younger brother, Amariah, were very different from each other and had never been close.

  He tucked the flowers inside the parchment again and left the bundle where he found it. But as he rose to his feet, he glimpsed a faint flicker of light among the tombs farther back in the cemetery. He walked a few steps in that direction, searching for the source of the light, but the graves looked dark and shadowy. Then he crouched and peered between the markers until he spotted it again: a single lamp, well-shaded. It might be necromancers. They sometimes defied the Law by practicing divination in cemeteries, consulting the dead in occult rituals.

  His guards at the entrance were all looking the other way to give him privacy. If he shouted for them, he would probably scare the culprits off. The thought of surprising the criminals and making the arrest himself excited Manasseh. He pulled his dark outer robe closed and belted it so his pale undertunic wouldn’t be visible in the dark and give him away. Then he crept quietly toward the light.

  He was lithe and agile, and he moved silently among the tall cedars, crouching occasionally to keep the lamp in sight. He was close now. He could hear someone mumbling in a singsong voice, but the words sounded like nonsense.

  Only one shadowy figure knelt beside the newly buried grave. His bent head was a ball of woolly hair and beard, surrounded by a halo of light from the lamp. He had sacrificed three pigeons and cut them in two, separating the halves. Now he was drawing symbols in the patch of dirt between them as he mumbled incantations. Manasseh’s heart thumped with excitement. He had all the evidence he needed to condemn the man. He quietly circled around him, then stepped out of the shadows in front of him.

  “What are you doing?”

  The man gasped and leaped to his feet. “Stay back!” He pulled a knife from inside his robe and swirled his foot in the dirt to erase the symbols he had drawn.

  Manasseh’s heart leaped faster. He had never considered that the necromancer might be armed, even though he had seen the slaughtered pigeons. The palace guards were too far away; the man could kill him before they could run to his rescue. He cursed himself for his foolish mistake.

  “Easy, now ...” Manasseh said as he sized his opponent. The man was a few inches taller and about twenty pounds heavier than Manasseh. He didn’t look particularly strong and was at least ten years older than he was. But this wasn’t a training exercise. The man must realize he would be condemned to death, and he probably wouldn’t hesitate to use his weapon.

  “You can’t escape,” Manasseh said. “My soldiers have you completely surrounded.” He watched the man’s eyes, waiting until he glanced sideways for a moment, and then Manasseh seized his chance. He grabbed the man’s wrist with his left hand and punched him as hard as he could in the midsection with his right. The man expelled all the air from his lungs with a grunt. Then Manasseh kicked the legs out from under him and brought him to the ground, slamming his wrist against a rock until he dropped the knife. He planted his knee in the man’s diaphragm and picked up the knife, holding it to his throat.

  “I suggest you don’t resist me.”

  The man nodded, his eyes fearful. His chest heaved as he strained to get his wind back. After a moment, Manasseh stood.

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Zerah son of Abner.”

  “Sit up slowly, Zerah, and take off your belt. Slowly! Now put your hands behind your back.”

  Zerah gasped in pain as Manasseh tied his hands together. He had probably broken Zerah’s wrist when he’d slammed it against the rock. Manasseh pulled the knot even tighter until Zerah cried out.

  “What were you doing here in the cemetery?” Manasseh asked as he walked around in front of him again. Zerah didn’t answer. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know that you have to answer me.” Zerah stared at the ground near Manasseh’s feet. “Very well, then,” Manasseh said. “Here’s something to think about.”

  He bent to retrieve a small jug he spotted lying among Zerah’s things. He removed the stopper and sniffed. As he suspected, it contained extra oil for the lamp. He dropped the lid on the ground and dashed the oil all over Zerah’s face and hair. It ran down the front of his tunic, soaking it. Manasseh tossed the jar aside into the darkness and bent once more to pick up the lamp. He held it close to Zerah’s round, shiny face. Zerah’s eyes were narrow and close set, giving him the appearance of being cross-eyed. He had a large, rounded nose and full lips, as sensuous as a woman’s. But his most prominent features were his thick eyebrows, arched like twin peaks above his eyes.

  Manasseh relaxed now that he was in control and savored the rush of exhilaration that surged through his veins like strong wine. “Now, I think you’d better tell me what you were doing here, Zerah son of Abner.”

  “Seeking guidance,” Zerah replied after a moment. His voice was surprisingly calm.

  “From the dead?”

  Zerah nodded slightly “From their spirits.”

  “Even though it’s against the law? You must have known you were breaking the Law of Moses, as well as the laws of Judah.”

  Zerah’s eyes flared as if Manasseh had fanned a bed of coals. “It may be against the laws of Judah, but it’s not against the Law of Moses!”

  “You seem quite certain of that.”

  “My father is a priest. And so am I.”

  “I’m not familiar with any Temple priests named Abner. Nor do I recall seeing you in service. You’re over age thirty?” Zerah nodded. “When were you ordained?”

  “My father was a priest in Samaria and a prophet, as well. We’re descendants of the prophet Zedekiah, who prophesied for King Ahab and Queen Jezebel. My family fled to Judah when the Northern Kingdom fell to Assyria, during your father’s reign.”

  “So you’re a priest of Baal.”

  “Baal ... Yahweh ... the same god with many names.”

  “Oh no, Zerah. They’re not the same at all. I’ve studied the Torah and—”

  “You studied the Torah with the phony Temple priests. They o
nly taught you what they wanted you to know. They kept the hidden things from you.”

  “What hidden things?”

  “The Secrets of the Ancients ... the Wisdom of Abraham ... the ability to read signs and omens. And to foretell the future.”

  “Only Yahweh knows the future.”

  Zerah gave a short laugh. “That’s what your Temple priests want you to believe so they can stay in power. If they can make you depend on them, they can control you.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Am I, King Manasseh? Why is it that the rulers of all the other nations in the world are priests as well as kings, but you’re not allowed to share the priests’ power? Other kings have access to the hidden mysteries, but you can’t even enter your own Temple sanctuary.”

  “Of course not.” Manasseh spoke with indifference, but Zerah’s words had struck a raw nerve. He was the king, yet Yahweh’s priests made him feel like an outsider in his own Temple.

  “It wasn’t always that way, you know,” Zerah continued. “The rulers of our nation used to be priests. Surely you’ve read of Melchizedek, King of Salem, who was also a priest of God Most High? Our father Abraham acknowledged his kingship and his priesthood by paying him a tithe. And Melchizedek blessed Abraham in return.”

  Manasseh recalled the story, but it sounded different, somehow, when Zerah told it. The Temple priests had been Manasseh’s teachers. Their interpretation of the Law was all that he knew. He sat down on a large stone in front of his prisoner. “But that was before we received the Law at Sinai.”

  “Yes! Exactly! This ceremony you interrupted tonight is the purest form of our faith—the way our fathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob worshiped. It’s all recorded in the first Book of the Torah. Abraham took a heifer, a goat, and a ram, each three years old, along with a dove and a young pigeon. He cut them in two and arranged the halves opposite each other.” Zerah gestured with his head to show how he had done the same thing. “Then the spirits appeared to Abraham at night and foretold his future. How his family would be slaves in Egypt. How they would be delivered during the fourth generation. And how he would go to his fathers in peace and be buried at a good old age.”