The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  “Shh. We’re going to dress up as servant girls and pretend we’re on our way to the spring for water. Listen—I have it all figured out. Abba said the prince spends a lot of time drilling with the captain of the palace guards. I know where the guardhouse is. It’s close to the Water Gate. The men practice there every morning.”

  “You’re really crazy!” she said, shaking her head. “Go back to bed.”

  “Miriam, name your price. I’ll do any favor you ask if only you’ll help me.” She gripped her sister’s hand between hers.

  Miriam studied Hephzibah as if she were a stranger. “You’re actually serious about this, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Very serious. I’ll give you anything you want.”

  “I sure hope I don’t act this crazy when it’s my turn to get betrothed.” She pulled her hand from between Hephizbah’s and swung her feet to the floor.

  “Then you’ll help me? Oh, thank you! Thank you!” Hephzibah wrapped her sister in a hug.

  Miriam held up her hand in warning. “For a price, remember? First of all, swear to me that you’ll help me find a royal husband, too.”

  “I swear it.”

  “And you’ll give me those golden earrings that Abba bought you in Beersheba.”

  Hephzibah hesitated, then agreed. “Okay. Done.”

  “And . . .”

  “Don’t get greedy, Miriam. I think that’s more than enough, don’t you?”

  “No, swear to me that if we get into trouble, you’ll say I was innocent but you forced me to do it.”

  “We won’t get into trouble.”

  “Swear?”

  “Okay, I swear. By Asherah and Baal: I forced you to do it. Now, please—let’s hurry!”

  They padded their beds with cushions and crept down to the kitchen, where Hephzibah bribed two servant girls into lending them their clothes. Then, with their faces discreetly veiled, Hephzibah and her sister hurried down the back lanes to the Water Gate, balancing water jugs on their heads.

  The sun had not quite reached the top of the Mount of Olives yet, but it bathed the streets with hazy, golden-pink light. Hephzibah shivered in the servant’s thin gown, and Miriam’s hand felt icy as Hephzibah towed her through the streets behind her. Curiosity propelled Hephzibah forward at a rapid pace, but Miriam, who didn’t share her motivation, dragged her feet as if wishing she had never come.

  As they neared the Water Gate, Hephzibah heard hearty shouts coming from the courtyard near the guard tower and the metallic ring of sword against sword. “See?” she whispered. “I told you they practice here every morning.”

  They followed the wall of the courtyard until they came to an open gate and peeked inside. Dozens of men stood around the perimeter of the yard, cheering two guardsmen who were engaged in a duel. Some of the observers wore the tunics of the palace guard, some wore ordinary clothes, and a few wore the embroidered robes of the nobility.

  “Great. So how are we going to know which one is your prince and future husband?” Miriam asked.

  “Let’s listen for a minute. Maybe we can find out.”

  “I don’t like this,” Miriam said nervously.

  “Shh.”

  Hephzibah scanned all the faces of the young noblemen, searching for one who resembled King Ahaz. The task seemed hopeless, so she turned her attention to the duel. The older of the two sparring guards seemed to be winning, and as he pressed his advantage, his young opponent finally threw down his sword in defeat.

  “You win, Captain Jonadab,” he conceded. The watching men cheered.

  “Psst—we can’t stay here forever,” Miriam whispered. “We’re going to get caught.”

  “Please. One more minute.”

  “Who’s going to challenge me next?” the victorious captain asked, scanning the crowd. “How about you, my prince?”

  Hephzibah froze as the captain nodded toward a young dark-haired man in his early twenties. The prince shrugged off his embroidered robe and tossed it aside, striding forward amid a chorus of shouts and cheers. Hephzibah’s heart began to pound, not with excitement but with fear. He had a trim, compact build, very different from King Ahaz’s, but there was something in his swagger, a hint of arrogance or cruelty in his eyes that frightened her.

  Oh, please, Lady Asherah. Don’t let it be him.

  The young prince seemed to have more self-confidence than skill, and the captain repeatedly cut short his attempts to show off before his audience. Before long the prince seemed to realize that he was making a fool of himself, and he angrily sheathed his sword.

  “I’m not in the mood for a real fight,” he said. His eyes flashed dangerously.

  The captain gave a respectful bow. “Another time, then.”

  “Is he Prince Hezekiah?” Miriam whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on. We’ve been gone too long already. Let’s get the water and go home.” Miriam tugged on her arm until she reluctantly turned away.

  Hephzibah felt frustrated and disappointed as she headed through the gate and down the steep slope to the spring. A long line of servant girls and slaves waited beside the spring, chattering happily as they filled their jugs. The water was cold, the work harder than Hephzibah had bargained for, and even with her jug only half full she could barely lift it.

  “That’s full enough, Miriam—let’s go,” she whispered, and they headed back up the ramp to the city. As they neared the guards’ courtyard again, Hephzibah decided that she had to try once more to see Hezekiah.

  “Just one more minute,” she pleaded with her sister. “That’s all—I promise.”

  They peered through the open gate and saw that the captain had a new opponent—another nobleman. He was tall and strongly built, yet amazingly agile for his size, darting out of the captain’s reach, then lunging to take the offensive. His skill with the sword was breathtaking, and Hephzibah’s pulse raced as she watched him sparring.

  He was poised, confident, handsome. His curly brown hair and beard looked coppery in the morning sun. Hephzibah began praying to every god that she could think of that this nobleman would turn out to be Prince Hezekiah. It was too much to hope for, but if she learned who he was, maybe her father could arrange a betrothal to him instead.

  Suddenly Miriam cried out. Icy water drenched Hephzibah’s legs as her sister’s water jug crashed to the ground. A strong hand clamped down on Hephzibah’s shoulder and swung her around. Four guardsmen had moved up unnoticed behind her and her sister, and now the men surrounded them, leaving no escape.

  “I’ve never seen you two girls before,” one of them said, pawing at Hephzibah’s veil. “Let’s have a look at you.”

  “Yeah—I want to see what I get for my money,” another said as he snatched Hephzibah’s water jug from her hands.

  “No! Leave us alone!” Hephzibah cried. She twisted away from the soldier, and her veil tore partly away from her face.

  “Hey now! She is a pretty one,” the soldier said. “Remember, I saw her first.” He moved behind her and pinned her arms to her side, his hands bruising her arms.

  “No, please! Let me go!” Hephzibah begged as she struggled to break free. “Stop!”

  As the men closed in around them, Miriam began to scream. One of the soldiers grabbed her and clamped his hand over her mouth. Hephzibah struggled with all her strength, crying out in terror, but the soldier was much too strong.

  “Let them go.”

  The command was spoken with authority. The knot of soldiers parted, and Hephzibah saw the handsome nobleman standing before her. He was breathless from the duel, the front of his tunic wet with sweat. He sheathed his sword and spoke again.

  “These girls are terrified, can’t you see that?”

  “They’re just common serving girls, my lord,” one of the soldiers replied. “They come around here for only one reason—to meet soldiers.”

  “Resisting is part of their game, sir,” the soldier holding Hephzibah added.

  “N-no, plea
se . . .” she stammered. “We weren’t playing a game. We didn’t want to meet soldiers. . . .”

  The nobleman studied Hephzibah’s unveiled face as if trying to determine if she was telling the truth. His deep brown eyes were somber, almost melancholy, and the intensity of his gaze unnerved her. Finally he turned his attention to the four men.

  “Soldiers under my command will never misuse their power on defenseless people,” he said. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord,” they muttered. The soldier holding Hephzibah released his grip. The nobleman retrieved her water jug from the man who’d taken it and handed it to her.

  “Go home,” he said. “And don’t come around here again.”

  Hephzibah nodded and gripped her sister’s hand. When she tried to walk, the street felt unstable beneath her shaking legs. She had completely forgotten about her betrothal or finding the prince, when she suddenly heard a voice from the crowd shout, “Prince Hezekiah, I’ll challenge you next.”

  She froze at the name, then risked a glance over her shoulder. As if in a dream, she saw the tall nobleman acknowledge the offer.

  “I’ll accept that challenge,” he said, and a smile flickered across his solemn features.

  Hephzibah closed her eyes, afraid she would faint. Then she felt Miriam tugging angrily on her hand and she turned toward home again, clutching her water jug.

  “It’s all your fault,” Miriam said, still weeping as they climbed the hill. “I never should have come with you.”

  “Miriam, I’m sorry. But it’s all right now—we’re fine.”

  “We were nearly raped!”

  “Shh—not so loud. And stop whimpering, we’re almost home. If Abba finds out what happened, we’ll be disgraced. We’ll both die old maids.”

  By the time they reached the servants’ entrance at the rear of the house, Miriam had composed herself. But when Hephzibah reached the safety of her bedroom, all her pent-up fear and excitement finally caught up with her. She collapsed onto her bed and began to weep. Miriam shook her angrily.

  “What’s the matter with you? We made it home safely. You saw your stupid prince; why are you crying now?”

  “Yes, I saw him—and now I want to marry him more than anyone else in the whole world. If Abba doesn’t get him for my husband, I know I will surely die.”

  Hephzibah paused for breath when she reached the sacred grove of Asherah on the hill outside Jerusalem the following afternoon. The day was blistering hot, and the servants who led the young bullock and carried her grain and wine offerings sweated from the exertion of their climb and the size of their loads. They gazed at her expectantly when they reached the top of the hill, as if hoping she would offer them a share in the feast after the sacrifice.

  Hephzibah felt a sense of awe as she considered the enormity of her mission and its importance for her future. She must please the goddess, must somehow win Lady Asherah’s favor and secure her betrothal to Prince Hezekiah. Her other suitors no longer interested her, nor was she content to leave her destiny in the hands of others. Hephzibah had decided to appeal to the ultimate source—Asherah, goddess of love and fertility.

  The high priest of Asherah looked impressed when he glimpsed the extravagant offering Hephzibah’s servants bore. He hurried over to greet Hephzibah, bowing slightly. She could tell by his clothing that he was one of the many foreign priests that King Ahaz had brought to Jerusalem. They seemed to be multiplying throughout the land, growing in boldness as well as in numbers.

  “How may I help you?” the priest asked.

  “I wish to make an offering to the goddess,” she told him, “and pour out a drink offering and burn incense.”

  The priest’s brows arched slightly. “The goddess will be pleased with such devotion. Do you have a petition to make?”

  “Yes, and also a vow.”

  “Very well.” He smiled faintly and led the way into the grove. An altar and several incense burners stood inside the stone enclosure. An Asherah pole stood beyond them in an inner grove.

  As the priest lit Hephzibah’s incense and prepared to slay the bullock, she knelt before the golden image of Asherah and closed her eyes in prayer.

  “Queen of heaven,” she prayed silently, “I bring my offering to you, asking that you would please grant my petition. Please let me be married to Prince Hezekiah.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes as she remembered the glint of sunlight on his sword, the sheen of sweat on his tanned arms and legs, the burnish of copper in his dark hair and beard. She imagined being held in his arms, becoming his wife.

  “If you’ll answer my prayer, Lady Asherah, and bring about our marriage, I vow this day to give the first daughter from our union to you.”

  She never doubted her ability to fulfill her vow. Kings were interested only in sons. A daughter would be hers to do with as she pleased.

  Hephzibah kissed the little statue reverently. Then, suddenly overcome with emotion, she hurried from the sanctuary to preside over the sacrificial feast with her family and friends.

  15

  “Hephzibah, my darling, how beautiful you look! Fit for a king!”

  Hephzibah saw a glow of pride in her father’s eyes. “Oh, Abba, do you really think so? Do you think the prince will be pleased to have me for his wife?”

  “When he sees you, he will faint for joy. Turn around and let me look at you.”

  Hephzibah’s embroidered wedding gown had been fashioned by the finest craftsmen in Jerusalem. She wore golden bracelets on each arm, loops of gold in each ear, a chain of gold around her neck with a ruby pendant the size of her thumbnail—her betrothal gifts from the palace. Her maids hadn’t pinned up her dark, wavy hair yet, and it flowed loose down her back. Hephzibah did a small pirouette in the center of the room, and her father sighed, slapping his arms to his side in a gesture of helpless awe.

  “You’re too beautiful to cover with a veil. The whole kingdom should see Prince Hezekiah’s beautiful bride. Let’s leave the veil off.”

  “Abba, you’re teasing.”

  “I have a right to be proud of my beautiful daughter,” he said, kissing her forehead.

  “Hephzibah, why are you standing around?” her mother asked as she bustled into the room. “Fix your hair. Put your veil on. You should be down in the courtyard with your bridesmaids already. The prince could come for you any minute.”

  “Mama, there’s lots of time. We’ll hear the groom’s procession coming. It’s still early.” She felt surprisingly calm and happier than ever before in her life. She had dreamed about Hezekiah for months, sacrificed and prayed and made vows to Asherah in order to reach this day, and now the goddess had answered her prayers. Today he would come to take her for his wife.

  “Is your sister ready? Have you seen her?” Mama fussed. “What’s taking her so long? I’m going to check on Miriam. Papa, go watch for the procession.”

  “I’d better do what I’m told,” her father said with a wry smile, but there was love in his eyes as he watched his wife hurry off.

  Hephzibah felt a tingle of excitement spread through her. Her husband would look at her with love, too. “Thank you, Abba! Thank you for this wonderful day!” she said, hugging him.

  “May the goddess bless you with many, many sons,” he murmured. As he turned to leave, Hephzibah saw a tear in his eye.

  She knew she should go downstairs and let her maids pin up her hair, then take her seat in the flower-strewn chair beneath the fig tree, but her heart was too full of joy for her to sit quietly and wait. She wanted to dance and leap and sing. She ran to her window, listening for the music of the groom’s procession, but heard only the usual city sounds. Servants and slaves and merchants went about their affairs as if it were an ordinary day. Didn’t they know that today would mark the beginning of a love so deep and strong that it would outshine the love of Solomon for his Shulammite maiden?

  Hephzibah smiled as she picked up her lyre, singing the beautiful song of Solomon to herself: “‘Listen
! My lover! Look! Here he comes, leaping across the mountains, bounding over the hills. . . . My lover spoke and said to me, “Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come away with me.”””

  Hezekiah stood before a tall bronze mirror as his servants dressed him in his wedding robes and placed a small golden crown on his head. He saw Shebna’s reflection as he stood behind him, nodding his head in approval.

  “You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” Hezekiah told him. “I hope you realize this is all your fault. The only reason I’m getting married is because you said I should appease my father.”

  Shebna grinned. “You look magnificent, my lord—like a king.”

  “Well, I don’t feel like a king; I feel trapped. My life is controlled by a man I despise.”

  “Try to smile anyway. It is your wedding day.”

  His wedding day. Hezekiah knew he should try to act pleased, but instead he brooded over the fact that months had passed and King Ahaz hadn’t said another word about giving him a government position. Hezekiah still regretted losing his temper and wished he had kept quiet about Ahaz’s trade agreement, but maybe Shebna was right. Maybe after his wedding he would regain his father’s favor.

  At last everything was ready—even if Hezekiah wasn’t. He followed the dancers and musicians as his groom’s procession journeyed down the hill from the palace. Crowds of people thronged the streets to join in the revelry, cheering and scattering branches and flowers at his feet. Hezekiah felt as if he were on display, like an article in the marketplace under a gaudy striped awning. He wished he could do something to earn cheers besides get married. His heavy wedding garb seemed to suffocate him.

  Mercifully, Ahaz’s trade minister lived close to the palace, so Hezekiah didn’t have to parade through the entire city. The procession waited in the street while he and his brother Gedaliah, who was his groomsman, went inside.

  His bride was waiting for him in her father’s courtyard, seated in a chair beneath a fig tree, surrounded by bridesmaids. He couldn’t see her veiled face, but she looked like a mere child to him, too young to be given in marriage. She was clothed in layers of embroidered linen, and Hezekiah wondered if she felt as hot and miserable as he did. But when he took her hand it was cold, and he felt a rush of pity for the girl. Perhaps she was as unwilling to endure this charade as he was.