The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  “My lady, the concubines will go to the harem, but you’ll have the most beautiful suite of all, the one that’s reserved for the king’s favorite wife.”

  Hephzibah smiled to try to hide her pain, but she knew the truth. She was Hezekiah’s only wife, but not his favorite. “Here, I don’t want those clumsy servants to carry these,” she told Merab, handing her the ivory box that contained her wedding jewels. “Will you take them to our new apartment for me?”

  “With pleasure, my lady.” Merab strode from the room, carrying the box like a treasure.

  A few minutes later, when the palace servants returned for another load of Hephzibah’s things, she suddenly decided to see her new suite for herself. But as she entered the outer sitting room, she heard Merab’s voice in the bedchamber, arguing with someone.

  “My lady will not live with the concubines! She’s the king’s wife! She’ll live here, in the wife’s chambers!”

  “I’m in charge, and I’ve already decided,” the harem eunuch replied. “The wives’ quarters are only for King Hezekiah’s favored wives, the ones he’s pleased with. Your lady goes in the harem with the rest.”

  Hephzibah felt as if she’d been slapped. She stifled a cry and leaned against the wall to keep from falling over.

  “How dare you insult my lady?” Merab cried.

  “The prince spent his wedding week with your lady and hasn’t sent for her since. It’s been more than six months. Does it sound to you like she’s a favored wife?”

  Hephzibah covered her face, wishing she could hide from the ugly truth. As the eunuch continued to argue with Merab in the next room, his words struck Hephzibah like the lashes of a whip. “He never asks for her—that speaks plainly enough to me. Besides, she failed to conceive his child. She’ll go into the harem until he sends for her again. I’m not going to clutter up the finest suite in the harem with a wife he doesn’t want. Now that he’s the king, he can choose any woman in the nation for his wife. And the one he chooses will live here.”

  Hephzibah sank to the floor, weeping. The eunuch ignored her as he swept out of the room, but then she felt Merab’s arms around her, soothing her, and she knew by her trembling voice that Merab was crying, too.

  “Don’t cry, baby. It’s okay.”

  “No, it isn’t, Merab. My husband doesn’t want me. He doesn’t love me.”

  “Shh. Don’t listen to that hateful man. It isn’t true.”

  But Hephzibah knew that it was true. She hadn’t pleased Hezekiah and he had rejected her. No matter which room she lived in, Hephzibah would spend the rest of her life alone in the king’s harem with no husband and no children. She would have no other purpose in life except to be a decoration at banquets and feasts. She was barely eighteen years old, and her life was over.

  “What am I going to do, Merab? I don’t want to be imprisoned here until I die. Why doesn’t my husband love me?”

  “I don’t know, baby,” the servant said, rocking her. “He only spent a week getting to know you. It’s so unfair.”

  “Why couldn’t Hezekiah be an ordinary man instead of the king? Then I could encourage him when he wakes up each morning and comfort him at night. I would always be by his side to take care of him, entertaining important guests for him, and raising his children. I want to love him like a real wife and have him love me in return. Why can’t it be that way?”

  “Let’s go home, baby—back to your father’s house. This was a terrible mistake.”

  “No,” Hephzibah cried. “We can’t go back home!”

  “But why not? Your father loves you. He’d rather die than see you this unhappy.”

  “I can’t go back. I don’t want anyone to know that I’m a failure.”

  “But you’re not a failure.”

  “Merab, I heard what the eunuch said just now. My husband wasn’t pleased with me. That’s why he didn’t send for me again.”

  “But he’s hardly given you a chance.”

  “Besides, if I go home in disgrace, Papa will never be able to find a husband for Miriam. Oh, what am I going to do? I can’t live like this for the rest of my life!”

  Merab drew her closer and they wept together. Hephzibah stayed in her arms for a long time, pouring out her sorrow. She loved Merab like her own mother, but there was one thing she would never be able to confide in her, one thing she hadn’t shared with anyone because it was the most painful irony of all: She loved Hezekiah—more than she loved her own life. She would stay in the harem until the day she died as long as there was hope that one day he would remember her and send for her again. She could never love another man as much as she loved him.

  She remembered the way he stretched when he rose from their bed in the morning and gazed out of the window at the hills surrounding Jerusalem as if they were his nourishment. She loved the way he held her face in his hands when he kissed her and how he buried his fingers in her hair. She had studied him by moonlight each night as he slept beside her, and she could trace by memory every line and plane of his face. She could recall his every movement, every gesture, every word that he’d spoken to her in their one short week together. She had to—because her memories of him were all she had left.

  18

  The sun had already set when Micah squeezed inside Isaiah’s home with the other disciples, curious to learn why the prophet had called this meeting. He hadn’t seen Isaiah and the others since returning home to Moresheth last spring to tend his crops, and he took a moment to greet his fellow prophets, embracing them warmly.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Isaiah said, speaking loudly to quiet the gathering. “I know that many of you traveled a long way to be here, and I’m grateful. Please, make yourselves comfortable so we can begin.” He stood near the hearth while his wife continued cooking behind him, and the air was fragrant with the smell of onions sizzling in olive oil. The single-room home served Isaiah as a kitchen, bedroom, and study, as well as a classroom, but it had few furnishings. Micah found a place to sit on the stone floor with the other disciples and leaned forward, listening intently.

  “Most of you have probably heard the news from Jerusalem,” Isaiah began. “King Ahaz is dead, and his son Hezekiah will succeed him as king.”

  Micah stared at him in surprise. “No, Rabbi, I hadn’t heard. I guess it takes a while for news to reach Moresheth. How did he die?”

  “It was very sudden,” Isaiah said, shrugging. “No one will say what happened.”

  “It was Yahweh’s judgment on an evil king,” one of the others said. Micah nodded in agreement.

  “The next few weeks will be critical ones for our nation,” Isaiah continued. “We don’t know anything about the new king, Hezekiah—whether or not he worships idols as his father did. But I’ll be returning to Jerusalem tomorrow, and I’m asking for your prayers. I believe that Yahweh wants His voice to be heard again.”

  “I agree, Rabbi,” one of the men said, “but maybe you should wait. Suppose the new king is as evil as King Ahaz was? You’ll be risking arrest.” The others murmured in agreement.

  “I understand your concerns,” Isaiah said, “but we’ve all been praying for a spiritual revival in our nation, and maybe it will begin with this new king. I must take advantage of this opportunity to prophesy to King Hezekiah in Yahweh’s name.”

  Micah shared Isaiah’s excitement. The rabbi was right—they had all prayed for an end to the moral decline in their nation, and this new king could bring change. If only someone could convince him to listen to the Word of the Lord.

  “I think it’s too dangerous for you to go,” the man beside Micah said. “King Ahaz had orders to arrest you if you tried to prophesy again. Besides, you’re too valuable to us here.”

  “I’m not afraid—”

  “We’re not questioning your courage, Rabbi, but what about Uriah? He’s still the high priest, and for all we know, he may still be the palace administrator, too. He knows who you are, and he knows that you oppose him. He’ll never allow you to s
peak to the king.”

  “It’s a chance I’ll have to take,” Isaiah insisted. “Yahweh’s Word must be spoken now, while there’s a transition of power.”

  “Then I’ll go for you,” Micah said, rising to his feet. “No one knows me in Jerusalem. I’ll prophesy to the king.”

  Isaiah took a moment to consider his offer, regarding him with a look of deep respect. “I have no doubt that you’re able do it, Micah. I saw the Lord’s calling on your life the first time we met. And as different as we are, you’re like a brother to me. But I have access to the palace and to the king. I’m a member of the royal family—”

  “And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t go,” Micah cut in. “You’re too well known. Someone will recognize you as soon as you walk through the city gates. But if I go, I’m just a simple farmer from Moresheth, coming for the king’s coronation like hundreds of other farmers.”

  “He’s right, Rabbi,” one of the men said. “Let Micah go in your place.”

  As Isaiah looked around at the roomful of men, Micah glanced at them, too. He saw by their expressions that he had their support. And he knew he would be in their prayers. “Let me do it,” he repeated.

  “Are you sure you understand the risks involved?” Isaiah asked. “We don’t know how King Hezekiah will react to a prophecy from Yahweh.”

  Micah nodded, as he took his place on the floor again. “I could be arrested or even killed. But I still want to go.”

  Isaiah sank onto a stool near the hearth. “I don’t know. . . . We’ll need to help you think of a way to get close enough to prophesy. If Uriah is still the palace administrator, you’ll have to get past him, somehow. You can’t exactly stroll up to the palace and talk to the king. Public street prophecy may not be possible, either. The crowds will be enormous, and I imagine that the new king will be very heavily guarded.”

  “Rabbi, would any of your relatives in the palace help us?” someone asked.

  Isaiah thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I’ve been out of touch with them for too long. A great deal of political intrigue takes place with a change of administration, and most of the nobility wait to see who’s really in power before they take sides. I’m afraid I can’t trust any of my blood relatives to risk their lives for one of Yahweh’s prophets.”

  “What about the priests and Levites? Would they help us?”

  “Maybe . . . My friend Zechariah had the courage to stand up to King Ahaz, and he was arrested for it. He’s King Hezekiah’s grandfather. You could try to contact him—if he’s still alive.”

  Micah nodded, but it seemed improbable that King Ahaz would have allowed any of his opponents to live.

  “What about the palace guards?” one of the young prophets asked. “Might one of them help Micah get close enough to speak to the king?”

  “I have an uncle in the palace guard,” someone offered. “But he’s assigned to a sentry post at the Water Gate, not the palace.”

  Isaiah stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Hmm. It’s a possibility. . . .”

  “Or how about one of the servants at the palace? Could Micah trade places with one for a day and get close to the king that way? Maybe while he dines?”

  “Does anyone have a contact among the palace servants?” Isaiah asked.

  No one answered.

  “What if he sold some of his produce to the palace kitchens and made his own contact? A pretty serving girl, perhaps?”

  “It’s a good idea,” Isaiah said, “but I’m afraid it would take too long. He’ll have to act quickly, within the next few days, if possible. I think that the new king will be most receptive—if he’s receptive at all—while he’s still gathering his advisors and deciding how he will begin his reign. Once Uriah and his supporters manage to gain Hezekiah’s confidence, it will be too late.”

  The room fell silent except for the crackling of the fire and the sound of Isaiah’s wife stirring a wooden spoon in an earthenware pot. Micah had felt a range of emotions from hope to despair as they’d tried to formulate a plan. A prophecy from God could turn the king’s heart—and the nation—back to Yahweh. But how would Micah ever get close enough to do it? He tried to picture himself walking up the steep road to Jerusalem, climbing the hill to the palace, standing before the king—and he suddenly saw the solution.

  “I know what I must do,” he said quietly. Everyone turned to him as he rose to his feet again. “Isaiah said it at the very beginning. I will simply walk into the palace and speak to the king.”

  Stunned silence fell.

  “Listen,” he continued, “the king will probably announce a feast day to celebrate his coronation, right? I’ll wait until evening, when the eating and drinking has gone on for a while and everyone has relaxed his guard. Then I’ll walk boldly into the palace as if I belonged there and speak to the king. Isaiah can draw a map so I’ll know my way to the banquet hall. After that I’m in Yahweh’s hands.”

  Isaiah studied him, his brow furrowed in thought. Micah felt everyone’s eyes on him. His plan was simple but outrageously daring. He waited. At last, one of the other prophets spoke. “You can’t possibly attempt such a foolhardy plan.”

  Micah’s temper flared. “I suppose you would have called David foolhardy when he went before Goliath, armed with only a sling,” he said, turning on him. “Or maybe Joshua was foolish to think he could conquer Jericho by marching around blowing trumpets? I can’t question the way Yahweh chooses to work. I simply obey Him. I feel compelled to go to Jerusalem, compelled to walk into the palace and prophesy to the king. And if I’m wrong, if I am acting foolishly, then maybe I was never called to be His prophet in the first place.”

  Isaiah stood to embrace Micah, and his eyes shone with respect. “May Yahweh bless you, my friend, for your courage and faith,” he said. “And now it’s time for the rest of us to pray.”

  Micah left before sunrise, following the winding mountain road through the Judean hills to Jerusalem. By the time he reached the Valley Gate on the city’s southern wall, he was hot and tired, and his legs ached from the strain of his steep climb.

  He stopped to rest at the Shiloah Pool, cupping his hands to sip the cool spring water. He felt out of place in this bustling city where everything seemed to move at a breathless rate. He studied the unsmiling people hurrying past, longing for a familiar face, but no one acknowledged his greetings. Rich and poor, priest and slave, they either regarded Micah and his simple peasant clothing with contempt or else ignored him altogether. And he realized that this was their attitude toward Yahweh, too. They either hurried through life, ignoring Him, or they regarded Yahweh and His commandments with contempt.

  As Micah looked down the valley to the west, he saw the jagged cliffs that marked the entrance to the Valley of Hinnom. Isaiah had described the sacrifices that took place at Molech’s shrine, but it seemed almost unbelievable to Micah that parents would offer their children to idols. He knew that a clump of spreading oaks nearby marked a sacred grove for worshiping Asherah, and all along his journey he’d seen altars to Baal in every clearing and hilltop in Judah. How had these changes come so quickly? A few years ago, Micah had journeyed to the northern kingdom of Israel and prophesied against that nation’s idolatry, but he’d believed that there was still hope for his nation. Now he saw that her wound was incurable, too. The scourge of idolatry had come to Judah, reaching the very gate of his people, even to Jerusalem itself.

  Weariness and depression settled over Micah as he recognized the hopelessness of his mission. It was too late for his nation. His was only one voice, shouting against thousands of others. What could he possibly hope to accomplish? No one would listen to a poor peasant farmer—including the king. Isaiah was an educated man of royal blood, and the king hadn’t listened to him. What was Micah doing here? This was useless. Stopping evil was like trying to hold back the waves of the sea.

  He stood, convinced that he should turn around and go home to his farm in Moresheth without even bothering to enter the
city. But then he remembered how fervently Isaiah and the others had prayed for him throughout the night, and he knew that they would continue praying for him until he returned. They were relying on him to be their spokesman, to remind King Hezekiah of Yahweh’s covenant with the nation. If the new king would repent, maybe the whole nation would repent, as well. It might be too late, but Micah knew that he had to try. He pushed his weariness and depression aside and walked through the crowded gate into the city.

  The sun stood directly overhead, and Micah’s shadow looked nearly invisible beneath his feet as he started walking through Jerusalem’s streets. In a few more hours he would watch the coronation at the Temple and then the feasting would officially begin. After that he would wait until everyone at the king’s banquet had his fill of wine. Then he would go inside and speak Yahweh’s words to King Hezekiah.

  Micah saw the golden roof of Yahweh’s Temple shining on the hill above the city, and he started walking in that direction. He hadn’t made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in years—ever since learning that Ahaz had closed the sanctuary doors and set up the Assyrian altar. Micah could scarcely remember a time when the holy festivals of Passover and Tabernacles had been celebrated.

  The city had seemed beautiful years ago when he was a boy and King Jotham reigned, but now as Micah made his way through the steep, narrow streets, Jerusalem seemed dirty and decayed, cloaked in rags of poverty. He knew how greatly he and the other Judean farmers had suffered under the burden of taxes to Assyria, but all around him he saw proof of how much the city dwellers had suffered, as well. Jerusalem had been a magnificent city once, but now her walls and houses seemed to be tumbling down, and many merchants had boarded up their shops altogether. Beggars of all ages sat in the dust, pleading for alms from everyone who passed by. At least in the country the people could grow food to eat.