The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  He remembered all the hopeful faces gazing up at him from the crowd, and he felt sick. He longed to do something to help them, to repay their loyalty and hard work with renewed prosperity. But he didn’t know how. Several moments passed and neither man spoke.

  Finally, Shebna said quietly, “I have failed you, my lord. I am sorry.”

  “Sorry!” Hezekiah shouted. “Sorry? I don’t need your apologies, Shebna. I need your advice!” He grabbed a pile of scrolls from the table and waved them at Shebna before throwing them down again. “Where are the rules that tell me how to govern? Where are the instructions for kings to follow? Where is the order in all this chaos?” Hezekiah turned to the shelves and shoved a pile of scrolls onto the floor with a sweep of his hand. Then he dropped onto a bench, staring at the littered floor.

  “I care about my country, Shebna,” he said at last, “every rock-strewn, sunbaked acre of it. It’s been entrusted to me.” He gazed out of the window at the hills surrounding the city and realized how very much he did love his country. Then he bent down and began slowly picking up the scrolls.

  “You do not need to do that, Your Majesty,” Shebna said. “I will call a servant.”

  Hezekiah didn’t reply as he continued gathering up the scrolls. When he finally spoke, his throat felt tight. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Shebna. But I’m the king of this beautiful, pitiful little nation. And I will find a solution.”

  20

  Micah opened his eyes and pain exploded through his head. He moaned and fought the urge to sink back into unconsciousness to escape the agony. He tried to move and couldn’t. Every part of him ached, and he felt as if a huge stone rested on his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  Help . . . I need help.

  He tried to cry out, but all that emerged from his swollen lips was a hoarse rattle. He saw the flickering light of an oil lamp drawing closer, then a woman with soft hazel eyes peering down at him. She disappeared as quickly as she had appeared, and Micah heard her calling, “Master, Master—come quick! He’s awake!” When she returned, she set the lamp on the table beside him.

  Again, Micah tried to speak, to move, but the woman gently placed her fingers on his lips and shook her head. “Stay very still,” she urged.

  Micah felt too weak to struggle. He heard footsteps, then a plump little man with a jovial face appeared. A small skullcap covered his balding head. “Well, my friend—we’ve been quite concerned about you,” he said. “We weren’t sure if you would live through the night or not.”

  Through the night? Could it be night already? How long had he lain unconscious? Please, God, don’t let it be too late. Micah moaned and tried to sit up.

  “Steady, my friend. Take it easy,” the little man soothed when he saw him struggling. “It’s all right—you’re among friends. But you’ve suffered a terrible beating. In fact, I’d say it’s a miracle that you’re alive at all. You need to lie still and rest until you’re well. I’ll have my servant mix one of her concoctions to ease the pain and help you sleep.” He nodded to the woman, and she slipped from the room.

  Micah felt desperate. He had to get to the palace. He couldn’t let them drug him into unconsciousness. “No,” he moaned. “No . . .”

  “Shh. No one’s going to hurt you,” the man said, sitting down on the edge of Micah’s bed. “You’re probably wondering where you are and what happened, aren’t you? Just lie still, and I’ll tell you the whole story. My name is Hilkiah, by the way, and I’m also a follower of the Holy One of Israel—blessed be His name. But unlike you, I don’t go around causing riots in the marketplace—my son won’t allow it.” He smiled slightly. “Anyway, I’m a merchant, an importer of fine linen and dyed cloth, and I heard you prophesy today. I watched the whole ugly riot from my booth. Such a beating you had! Terrible, terrible!” he said, shaking his head.

  “After the soldiers carried you away and things calmed down a bit, I had a talk with the merchants whose stalls were destroyed. Now, I don’t blame you a bit for what you did. I agree that their idolatry is an abomination to the God of Abraham—blessed is He. And I can see that you’re a true prophet of Yahweh. So I helped the merchants forget their grievances with a little wine. Then I went to the guard tower, paid your fines, and here you are.” He smiled again. “As I said, we weren’t sure if you’d live through the night or not.”

  Night? Please, God, don’t let the banquet be over! Micah summoned all his strength in an effort to speak. “Night . . . is it . . . ?”

  “What’s that?” Hilkiah asked, leaning closer.

  “What . . . hour . . . ?”

  “You want to know what hour it is?”

  Micah nodded.

  “I don’t know—it must be close to midnight.”

  “No!” Micah groaned and closed his eyes, praying for strength. Why hadn’t he kept silent in the marketplace? How had everything gone so wrong? Maybe he could still make it to the palace if he left right away—if the palace wasn’t too far. He had to try.

  “I’ve got . . . to go . . .” he whispered, and he struggled to get up, fighting against his pain and the dead weight of his body. It was no use. His head pounded violently, and something sharp stabbed his chest with every breath he took. The throbbing ache in his left arm was agonizing. He began to cough from his efforts to move and tasted blood.

  “Now listen, my friend,” Hilkiah said with concern. “You’ve got to take it easy. What is it that’s so important? Are you supposed to be someplace else?”

  “Yes,” Micah breathed. “The king . . .”

  “Just lie still a minute,” Hilkiah soothed. He looked up at the servant who had returned to the room. “Our friend seems anxious to go somewhere, and he’s quite determined in spite of all his injuries. Can you bring him a little broth to sip for strength?”

  She nodded and hurried away as a young man in his late twenties entered the room. He was tall and thin, scholarly looking, with a high forehead, tousled black hair, and a beard. His deep brown eyes had the same warmth as Hilkiah’s. “What’s going on, Abba?” he asked. “Has the prophet recovered?”

  “Yes, he’s conscious now. This is my son Eliakim,” Hilkiah told Micah. “And I still don’t even know your name.”

  “Here, Abba—let’s help him sit up,” Eliakim suggested.

  The two men stood on either side of the narrow bed and gently lifted Micah to a sitting position, propping him up with pillows. He cried out in pain as they moved him and coughed up more blood, but his breathing seemed to ease once he was upright, and he found it easier to talk.

  “I’m Micah . . . of Moresheth,” he said.

  “Okay, Micah. My servant has some broth for you, and it should give you a little strength. Then maybe you can tell us what it is that’s so important.”

  The woman had returned with a small bowl of chicken broth, and she sat on the bed beside him to spoon it into his mouth. Micah felt like a helpless child as some of it trickled past his swollen lips and ran down his beard. Again, he blamed himself for his failure. But he hadn’t eaten since leaving Isaiah’s house early that morning, and the warm soup renewed his strength. He ate all he could, stopping several times to cough. Each time, the piercing stab in his chest dug deeper.

  “I think his ribs are broken,” the woman said, gently feeling Micah’s chest. “Can you move this arm?”

  Micah tried in vain to raise his limp left arm, sucking air through his teeth as the throbbing pain increased.

  “Yes,” she soothed. “It is broken, as well.”

  “Oh, dear,” Hilkiah said. He turned to his son. “Can you fix it for him, Eliakim?”

  “I’m an engineer, Abba, not a physician. Buildings and roads I can fix. But people?” He shrugged helplessly. “He needs a physician.”

  Hilkiah sighed. “We’ll have to wait until morning to send for one. Will you be all right until then, Micah?”

  He summoned all his strength and shook his head. “I have to leave . . . now.”

&nbs
p; “What must you do that’s so important, my friend?”

  “I’m on a mission . . . for the prophet Isaiah.”

  “Isaiah?” Hilkiah repeated. “Isaiah is still alive?”

  Micah nodded.

  “God of Abraham, thank you! We were afraid he was dead. They’ve kept my friend, Zechariah, locked up all these years for speaking out against King Ahaz—he’ll be happy to know that Isaiah is safe.”

  “Zechariah’s alive?” Micah asked. “The king’s grandfather?”

  “Yes. He’s under house arrest at the Temple, but I know one of the guards, and he allows me to visit him once in a while.”

  Micah closed his eyes, thanking God for at least one more ally in Jerusalem. But he couldn’t waste another minute, no matter how painful it was to move, to breathe. “I must go to the palace tonight. I must prophesy . . . to King Hezekiah.”

  Hilkiah looked at Micah with awe. “No wonder you’re so anxious! Eliakim, we have to help our friend get to the palace.”

  Eliakim spread his hands. “What? You can’t be serious, Abba. He can’t even sit up by himself. How can he possibly go to the palace? Listen, Micah, you’ll have to wait until you’re stronger. You’re in no condition to prophesy to anyone.”

  Micah shook his head. “No. It must be tonight. . . . I won’t get a second chance. Help me.”

  Eliakim stared at him as if unable to comprehend his determination. “Okay, then,” he finally said. “Let’s get him ready to go.”

  Micah was grateful when Eliakim took charge. “You can’t wear these bloody clothes,” he said, “so we’ll dress you in one of my father’s robes. And we’ll have to bind your ribs to ease the pain. Maybe we can bind your broken arm, too.”

  “Just hurry, please,” Micah begged. “There’s not much time.”

  The servant worked swiftly and gently, binding Micah’s throbbing ribs with long strips of cloth soaked in a fragrant mixture of aloe and balm. He nearly fainted when she and Eliakim realigned the bones in his arm, but once they were finished and his arm was tightly wrapped in strips of cloth, the throbbing eased. But as Eliakim was helping Micah get dressed in one of Hilkiah’s robes, someone pounded on the front door.

  Eliakim looked at his father. “Who can that be at this late hour?”

  Micah’s stomach tightened with dread. “They’re searching for me,” he said.

  “Who is?”

  “I’m not sure, but they probably found out about my prophecy in the marketplace. I can’t stay here. I’ve got to get to the palace.” Micah was angry with himself all over again for bungling the task that Isaiah had entrusted to him.

  Someone pounded on the door again, and an angry voice cried out, “Open the door, or we’ll break it down!”

  “Please,” Micah begged. “I need to leave.”

  Outside the door, Captain Jonadab’s patience was diminishing with every second. If someone didn’t open the door soon, he would tear it from its hinges. He was tired and hungry, and he’d grown more anxious and irritable as the day had progressed. The prophet still hadn’t been found. And if he posed a threat to King Hezekiah, then he must be found.

  Jonadab had retraced every step the prophet had taken since he’d arrived in Jerusalem that morning. He had interviewed everyone who’d witnessed the riot in the marketplace and had forced the soldiers to relate every last detail about the man who’d paid for the prophet’s release.

  With every hour that passed, the witnesses had become more incoherent as the coronation festivities and the drinking had escalated. And Jonadab had grown more apprehensive at the thought of facing Uriah again without the prophet. He could never hope to make him understand the difficulty of finding an ordinary peasant in a city that was teeming with them.

  Then, just when Jonadab had been ready to give up, one of the merchants remembered the name of the man who had paid for his damaged booth—Hilkiah. And he remembered that Hilkiah was a cloth merchant who also had a booth in the marketplace. Jonadab and his men had painstakingly searched for Hilkiah’s house, and now, close to midnight, they had finally found it. The prophet had better be inside.

  Jonadab couldn’t wait any longer. “Break it down,” he commanded.

  Inside, Eliakim took charge. “Abba, get a couple of servants to help you with Micah. Go out through the back. I’ll stay here and stall as long as I can. Hurry! Go!”

  “How will I ever thank you?” Micah asked.

  Eliakim looked at Micah’s swollen face and twisted left arm, and it seemed as if the prophet would collapse to the floor if the servants let go of him. He would need a miracle to be able to prophesy.

  “You need to thank Abba, not me,” Eliakim said. “Now hurry. And God go with you.”

  The pounding on the door intensified. “I’m coming!” Eliakim shouted, then waited as long as he dared, holding his breath. But they were no longer pounding—they were trying to break it down.

  “Who is it?” he shouted again. “What do you want?”

  “Captain Jonadab of the Palace Guards. Open the door or we’ll break it down!”

  Eliakim lifted the oak bar and opened the door a crack, hoping to stall for a few more minutes. But as soon as the soldiers saw an opening, they kicked the door wide, and it slammed into Eliakim’s head, nearly knocking him off his feet.

  “Are you Hilkiah, the merchant?” the captain shouted.

  “No, I’m his son Eliakim.” The blow had stunned him, and he rubbed the bruise on his forehead.

  “Where is Hilkiah? And where is the prophet?”

  “My father isn’t here,” he said, trying to stay calm. “And I don’t know anything about a prophet.”

  “Liar!” Jonadab shouted. Without warning, he drew back his arm and punched Eliakim in the jaw, knocking him to the floor. “Your father and anyone else who is helping this man are enemies of the king!”

  Eliakim lay on the floor, cradling his jaw, hoping it wasn’t broken. It throbbed painfully and he tasted blood. He was furious with his father for getting him into this mess, for always sticking his nose into other people’s affairs and trying to help. When he saw the look of angry determination on Captain Jonadab’s face he was tempted to tell the truth. But he loved his father, and this situation was serious. He didn’t care about Micah, but he had to get Hilkiah out of trouble somehow.

  “Search the house—he must be here,” Jonadab commanded. Then he grabbed Eliakim by the arm and yanked him to his feet. “Where is your father? Tell me, or I swear I’ll beat it out of you.”

  Eliakim never doubted that he meant it. He wiped the blood from his lip, stalling as he tried to think up an answer. But before he could reply, a soldier emerged from the room where Micah had been, carrying his bloody clothes.

  “Captain, look . . . the prophet’s clothing. He was here. And this looks like some sort of map.”

  Before Eliakim could react, Jonadab unsheathed his sword, and in one smooth, swift movement he grabbed Eliakim from behind and pinned his arms to his sides, then held the blade to his throat.

  “Where is he?” he demanded.

  Sweat ran down Eliakim’s forehead and into his eyes. “Y-you mean the peasant who owned those clothes? He’s d-dead. My father tried to save him, but he was too badly hurt. He died several hours ago.”

  Jonadab pressed the sword to Eliakim’s neck and drew it across his throat until a ribbon of blood ran down the blade. Eliakim cried out in pain. He was going to die.

  “Are you telling the truth?” Jonadab breathed.

  “Yes! It’s the truth!”

  Jonadab lowered his sword and cursed, pushing Eliakim away. “If the prophet is dead, then he’s no longer a threat to the king,” he told one of his men. “But Uriah won’t be content until he sees his dead body—and Hilkiah’s.”

  One by one the soldiers returned with no other sign of Hilkiah or the prophet. From what Eliakim could see, they’d left the house in shambles from their search. He sank down on a bench by the door, badly shaken, and pressed the edge
of his robe against the wound on his neck to try to stop the bleeding. They had nearly slit his throat. He was still trembling with shock when Jonadab turned to him again and placed the tip of his sword below Eliakim’s breastbone, applying just enough pressure to make him wince.

  “Where did you bury him, and where is your father?” he demanded.

  “My father has property outside Jerusalem. He left hours ago to bury the man there—in the tomb of his ancestors.”

  “Then you’ll show us where this property is,” he said, hauling him to his feet. Eliakim wished he were a better liar.

  “Listen, it’s a long, difficult journey over the mountains, especially at night. I’ll gladly take you there at dawn.”

  “We can’t wait until dawn. Let’s go.”

  “W-where are you taking me?”

  Jonadab didn’t answer. He ordered two of his men to stand guard at Hilkiah’s house, then shoved Eliakim ahead of him into the street.

  Hephzibah sat at the women’s table across the banquet hall from Hezekiah, watching him, waiting for his gentle smile to light up his face. He’d been crowned King of Judah today. This was a festive occasion, his coronation banquet. But her husband’s face looked strained and somber. He hadn’t smiled once throughout the entire evening, and she wondered why. She wished she could go to him and say something to make him smile or even laugh out loud again. If only she could make him love her. But he didn’t love her. And tonight was the first time she’d seen him since the week of their marriage.

  At the table beside Hephzibah, the concubines ignored her as they enjoyed the feast, drinking cup after cup of wine. Hephzibah had barely touched her food. She was surrounded by hundreds of people at a banquet that honored her husband, but she could barely contain her grief.

  She had obtained everything she wished for all her life—until now. And she was powerless to change her situation. Merab had won her the right to live in the wife’s suite until Hezekiah chose a new wife for himself. But like kings everywhere, he would probably marry many wives besides Hephzibah, even the daughters of foreign kings. Hezekiah would never belong to her alone. She would never be the love of his heart. Kings didn’t love their wives as other husbands did. She was only one of many women whose job it was to bring him pleasure and provide heirs for the kingdom.