by Lynn Austin
Almost imperceptibly, Hezekiah began to relax. His sobs died away to soft whimpers. Zechariah swallowed the lump in his throat and continued reciting: “‘For in times of trouble, Yahweh will keep me safe in his shelter. Yahweh will hide me in the secret place where he dwells and will set me up on a high rock . . .’”
Eventually, Hezekiah fell asleep in Zechariah’s arms. The oil lamps flickered, then burned out. But Zechariah continued to recite throughout the long night until the first soft rays of sunlight lit the room. “‘Yahweh is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. . . . Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Yahweh is with me.’”
6
Uriah stood atop Jerusalem’s walls and gazed down at the enemy troops encamped in the valley below. The sun would soon dip below the rim of the western hills, and he realized that he had been listening unconsciously for the trumpet to announce the evening sacrifice. But there would be no trumpet. It hadn’t sounded for more than six weeks, since the day the Aramean armies poured into the valleys surrounding Jerusalem and the siege had begun. So far the city’s thick walls and steep cliffs had withstood the enemy’s attacks, but supplies and tempers were growing short. And with no wood for the altar fire, no lambs for the offering, the daily sacrifices in Yahweh’s Temple had ceased.
Uriah turned away and descended the long flight of stairs from the wall to the street. He felt tense and exhausted as he made his way to the palace throne room, dreading his meeting with King Ahaz. Every day the king sent him to the top of the walls to survey the enemy encampments, but the king refused to look for himself. Messengers raced in and out of the throne room with news of the latest attempts to breech the gates, but Ahaz wouldn’t observe the fighting or offer words of encouragement to his meager troops. He had vowed not to leave the palace until the siege was over. Uriah had been forced to act as a buffer between the king, isolated in his palace, and the real conflict taking place outside.
A palace chamberlain opened the door for Uriah, bowing to him, then ushered him into the king’s presence. The leisurely splendor of the throne room was a stark contrast to the noise and confusion of warfare outside. Uriah had difficulty adjusting to the change. He entered wearily and bowed low before the king.
Ahaz appeared bored as he slouched on his massive ivory throne. He acknowledged Uriah’s presence with a limp wave of his hand. “This cursed weather,” he said with a groan. “I can’t take this heat.” The servants who were fanning the king with palm branches began waving them faster.
Uriah glanced at his smaller throne beside the king’s, wishing he could sit down, but Ahaz offered no invitation. The afternoon heat pressed against Uriah like a wall. He longed for a cup of cold water from the Gihon Spring, but the only water available came from the city’s cisterns and tasted warm and stale.
“Yes, it’s very hot, Your Majesty,” Uriah said. “I’ve come to report that—”
“I’m tired of just sitting here, tired of this stifling throne room, tired of watching all these useless advisors of mine scurry around all day whispering and arguing.” The knots of men scattered around the throne room froze, eyeing the king with alarm. But Ahaz made no effort to move off his throne, in spite of his claim to boredom. “I’m sick of this cursed siege,” he said. “Six weeks already! Six weeks of sitting cooped up in this city waiting for help to arrive. When are the Assyrians going to come to our rescue?”
Uriah was tempted to reply that he was a priest, not a prophet, but he forced himself to be patient. “I’m certain that help will come any day now, Your Majesty. The tribute we sent has surely reached the Assyrian emperor by now.” He recalled the long, winding caravan that had been hastily sent to Tiglath-Pileser, loaded with the last of the Temple’s wealth. Uriah had stood on the tower of the north gate with Ahaz and watched the camels depart, nodding their way slowly down the road, calmly chewing with their crooked jaws. That was the last time that Ahaz had left the palace. A day and a half later, thousands of enemy troops had arrived and the siege had begun.
“Well, what’s taking the Assyrians so long?” Ahaz grumbled. “I’m cut off from the rest of the world. I don’t even know what’s happening to my nation—or if I have a nation left.”
Uriah saw the king slipping into one of his foul moods, and he searched for an excuse to get away from him. It seemed as if he spent more time trying to keep the king from becoming depressed than he did helping him run the country. Today Uriah had no energy to spare for either task.
“Your Majesty, the fighting is over for the day,” he said. “With your permission, it’s time for your other advisors and me to prepare our daily reports.”
Ahaz nodded, blotting the sweat off his face with a linen towel. “The fighting is over for today,” he repeated to his advisors. “Everyone go and prepare your reports.” The counselors filed from the throne room, whispering among themselves. Uriah quickly turned to follow them, eager to escape from the gloomy king, but Ahaz called him back. “Stay behind, Uriah. You will join me for dinner in the banquet room.”
Uriah bowed slightly, gritting his teeth. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
The king’s servants scurried around Ahaz, adjusting his robes as they escorted him with exaggerated pomp from the throne room. Uriah followed him along the covered walkway toward the banquet hall, dreading the task of trying to lift his spirits. The air was slightly cooler in the open courtyard as the evening breezes blew in from the Judean hills, but they carried the scent of smoke from the valley below, a reminder that the nation was at war.
The banquet room had been built to serve hundreds of guests, but only one table had been prepared for the evening meal. It seemed lost in the vast, echoing space. When Uriah saw Abijah waiting to dine with her husband, he drew in his breath. She was so beautiful that he had to look away, afraid that his longing for her would be plain for anyone to see.
“Good evening, my lady,” he murmured as he bowed in respect. He kept his eyes lowered, avoiding Abijah’s gaze.
She bowed to her husband, then hovered close to him, fussing over him and plumping the cushions for him as she helped him get comfortable at the table. Uriah couldn’t watch. Abijah was much too lovely and intelligent to be married to a crude man like Ahaz. She should belong to a man who truly loved her—a man like himself.
The king motioned for Uriah to sit at his right-hand side and Abijah at his left. Uriah sank onto the cushions, staring in amazement at the exquisitely embroidered tablecloth, the shimmering silver bowls and plates. Servants glided in and out, bringing platter after platter heaped with delicacies: roasted lamb, cooked lentils and beans, cucumbers, melons, pomegranates, fig cakes, olives, grapes, cheese, and bread. Uriah would consider such a meal extravagant in prosperous times, but with his nation suffering, his city under siege, the meal seemed grotesque. He fingered his silver goblet, wondering why Ahaz had plundered the silver from the Temple if the king owned all of this. But he knew better than to question him. Ahaz could strip him of his new position as easily as he had awarded it.
When the meal had been spread before them, Uriah bowed his head to recite the blessing over their food. But before he could begin, Ahaz interrupted. “Go ahead, eat!” he said, gesturing to the table. “What are you waiting for?”
Uriah hesitated, wondering if he should remind the king of Yahweh’s law. He had promised himself that he would use his position as palace administrator to instruct Ahaz, but he had found very few opportunities so far. As Uriah searched for the right words, Ahaz reached across the table for a handful of olives and stuffed them into his mouth.
“Is something wrong?” the king asked.
“No, Your Majesty.” Uriah whispered a hasty prayer under his breath, then looked around for the pitcher of water for the ritual hand-washing. Ahaz stopped chewing and glared at him.
“Now what are you looking for?”
Uriah glanced at Abijah, hoping to take his cue from her. She had been raised in a devout home and cer
tainly knew what the law prescribed. But she seemed as unconcerned about the required washing as Ahaz did. Maybe it was because of the siege, he told himself. All of the city’s water supplies were being rationed.
“It’s . . . it’s nothing,” Uriah mumbled. Surely the ritual didn’t matter during wartime.
A servant appeared at Uriah’s side with a platter, heaped with juicy chunks of lamb. Since no daily sacrifices were being offered at the Temple, Uriah knew that the animal had been slaughtered as one of Ahaz’s many sacrifices to Baal. And judging by the blood pooling along the edges of the platter, it hadn’t been slaughtered according to the Law, either. As the high priest of Yahweh, he was forbidden to eat such defiled food. But as if in a dream, Uriah found himself grimly piling several slices of the meat onto his plate.
This was how sin took hold, his conscience tried to warn him. First with a drop, then a small trickle, and finally in a flood, all the laws and precepts he had faithfully followed all of his life would be washed away before his eyes if he wasn’t careful. But Uriah pushed the warning aside as he tried to remember his larger goals—restoring the Temple, empowering his priesthood, preserving his newly-won authority in the nation. Nothing else mattered—certainly not vain, empty rituals that had lost their meaning centuries ago.
“Eat, Uriah, eat,” Ahaz urged. “You’ve put in a full day’s work. You deserve it.” He turned to Abijah, boldly caressing her in front of Uriah and all the servants. “How about you, my lovely one? Are you enjoying the meal?”
Uriah risked a glance and saw Abijah’s flushed cheeks as she answered the king.
“Yes, my lord. It’s an honor to dine with you, as always. Here—have you tried one of these figs?” She leaned close to feed one to Ahaz, and Uriah had to look away. He remembered all the times she had dined with him at her father’s table, how her witty conversation and sparkling laughter were the highlights of his evening. To see her this way—little more than a beautiful servant to Ahaz—was unbearable. Uriah picked at his food for several minutes, pushing it around on his plate to make it appear as though he was eating.
“I want to ask you something, Uriah,” Ahaz said suddenly. “The other advisors aren’t here now, so tell me the truth. How are we really holding up against the siege?” The king continued to stuff food into his mouth as if he had asked about the weather instead of the state of his nation. Uriah studied him for a long moment, wondering if he should tell him the truth or lie to him, cheering him with half-truths and false hopes as he’d been doing for the last six weeks. Uriah decided that he was sick of the charade. Ahaz needed to hear the truth.
“Your Majesty, our greatest threat isn’t the enemy on the outside,” he said slowly. “Jerusalem’s walls and steep slopes are a formidable barrier. They can withstand a great deal.”
“Good.” Ahaz grunted and spat three olive pits onto his plate.
“The greatest threat in siege warfare is always morale. The people are starting to panic as they see their water supplies diminishing, and—”
“I thought I said to post guards at the cisterns and ration the water supplies,” Ahaz shouted, spitting small bits of food from his overfull mouth.
“That’s being done, Your Majesty, but—”
“By all the gods in heaven, this is the limit! Defending this city from the enemy is bad enough, but now you’re telling me I have to use my precious manpower against my own people? Curse them all!” He threw down his bread and pushed away his plate.
Abijah quickly moved to soothe Ahaz, kneading his shoulders as she whispered something in his ear. The king ignored her. He grabbed his wine goblet and drained it, then signaled for more. Too late, Uriah realized that it had been a mistake to give him the truth.
“I’m sick to death of this siege!” Ahaz said. “We should have sent the tribute to the Arameans instead of to Assyria. Maybe they would have gone home and left us alone. We could have thrown in a few thousand slaves, too, if that’s what they’re after. Do you think it’s too late to buy their favor?”
Uriah tried to hide his irritation at Ahaz’s stupidity. “The Arameans never would have been happy with tribute, Your Majesty. They want the whole nation of Judah. Besides, there’s no tribute left to send.” He deliberately kept his gaze on Ahaz, ignoring the silver-laden table in front of him.
Ahaz grunted and returned to his meal, downing another glass of wine. He ate in silence for several minutes, then asked abruptly, “How do you like your new living quarters, Uriah? Is everything satisfactory?”
Uriah suppressed his astonishment at the sudden change of topics. “Everything’s more than satisfactory, Your Majesty.” In fact, his rooms were luxurious compared to his old quarters on the Temple Mount where everything was falling into disrepair. He had moved to the palace a week ago, but Uriah still struggled to adjust to all his privileges as palace administrator.
“Good, good,” Ahaz said, biting into a chunk of bread. “I wanted you here in the palace, close at hand in case I need you. They were my brother Maaseiah’s quarters. . . .” Ahaz stopped eating. Uriah looked away as the king battled his emotions. “I never should have let Maaseiah go into battle,” he said in a trembling voice. “I should have sent somebody else. He didn’t even get a decent burial.”
Uriah knew how much Ahaz still mourned for his brother, and he silently marveled at the fact that the king had never shown remorse over the death of his sons. The memory of those children huddling together, gazing up at the priests in terror, made Uriah shudder. He glanced at Abijah again and saw the depth of her grief in her unguarded expression. He knew then that her hovering concern for Ahaz was an act, just as his own conduct was. They were both playing parts in this drama, with Ahaz as the central character—both pretending to be someone they weren’t. But Uriah had chosen his role deliberately; Abijah had never been given a choice.
“You’ve suffered a great loss, Your Majesty,” Uriah forced himself to say. “I am honored that you chose me, although I know I can never replace Prince Maaseiah.”
Uriah’s words seemed to pacify Ahaz. He grunted and began eating again. “By the way,” he said with his mouth full of bread, “I understand you’re not married. How did you manage that?”
Uriah was at a loss for words. How could he explain that he had loved only one woman, and that he loved her still? Abijah should have been his wife, not Ahaz’s. He wondered if Ahaz ever took the time to talk to her. Did he know anything at all about her? Did he know that lilies made her sneeze or that she was afraid of spiders? Did Ahaz notice the way the corners of her mouth turned down slightly just before she smiled? Or didn’t Abijah smile anymore?
“I’m not sure, Your Majesty,” Uriah said, shrugging as if it didn’t matter. “No time to look for a wife, I guess.”
“Well, if you ever get lonely, just let the servants know,” Ahaz said. “They’ll arrange to have a few concubines sent to your quarters.” Ahaz reached to caress Abijah again, and Uriah nearly choked. Everything about this dinner disgusted him: the lavish opulence, the wasted food, the inane small talk. Ahaz was a fool, discussing concubines when his city was under siege. Uriah could no longer stand the sight of him. He studied his plate, toying with his food, wishing he had an excuse to leave.
The sudden crash startled him. He looked up to discover that Ahaz had just hurled a plate to the floor. “You’re lying to me!” the king said. “All my advisors are lying. The Assyrians aren’t coming and we’re all going to die, aren’t we?”
Uriah wondered how much longer he could disguise the hatred he felt toward his king. “It will all work out, Your Majesty,” he said calmly. “The Assyrians will come.”
“But that’s the trouble! Remember what Isaiah said? What if they don’t come as allies? What if they attack us, too?”
“They will come to help us, Your Majesty. I’m sure of it. Don’t listen to Isaiah. He’s a fool.”
Ahaz pushed his plate away and rose ponderously from his seat. “I don’t want any more food. I’m going t
o the council chamber and wait for the reports.” When Abijah rose to help him, Ahaz boldly kissed her. “Wait in my chambers,” he said.
Uriah couldn’t bear to see them together. He stood, doing his best to ignore Abijah, and followed the king out of the banquet hall and across the open courtyard. The air felt cooler now that the sun had set and the first few stars appeared in the sky above their heads. Uriah wished he didn’t have to go inside. He longed to walk slowly up the hill to the Temple Mount and enjoy the stars’ dazzling brilliance from the highest point in the city. Instead, he followed the king into the council chamber and sat down on the dais at his right-hand side.
Ahaz waited to start the meeting until a servant filled his wineglass. He drained it in one gulp and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Uriah tried to recall how many times Ahaz had drained his cup during dinner, but they were too many to count. When the king finally spoke, his words came out slurred. “Let’s get this over with. Somebody start.”
The army chief rose to his feet, shuffling through his scrolls with quick, nervous gestures. “Our casualties have been light today—only 24 men killed and 17 wounded. But our supplies of weapons are getting dangerously low, and we don’t seem to be recovering very many weapons from the enemy. They make sure every shot hits its mark. None are wasted.”
As he droned on in a boring monotone of statistics, Uriah noticed that Ahaz wasn’t listening. When the chief finished his report and sat down, several moments passed in silence as Ahaz gazed unseeingly into space. Uriah decided to take over, nodding to Ahaz’s defense minister.
“We’ll hear your report next.”
“The enemy concentrated their assault against our most vulnerable area, the northwest gate,” he began, making no attempt to disguise his anxiety. “We sustained only minor damage, but their repeated attempts to set the gates on fire were almost successful. We managed to douse the flames, but our water supplies are becoming critically low. In fact, there was nearly a riot at Solomon’s Temple today when a mob tried to break through the gates to draw water from the bronze laver.”
