The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  But just as Jerusha willed her lumbering feet to move, two Assyrian horsemen suddenly appeared at the far end of the alley, blocking their escape. The girls tried to turn back, but the soldiers thundered toward them, leaning over in their saddles to swoop Jerusha’s cousins off their feet. The girls screamed in terror as the soldiers pushed them facedown in front of them across their horses’ saddles.

  Uncle Saul tried to grab one of the horses’ bridles to stop them, pleading with the men. “Don’t take my girls! Please, I’ll pay any price—any ransom you name, if only you’ll let them go! Please, I beg you!”

  The Assyrian drew his sword and in one powerful slash chopped off Uncle Saul’s hand. Jerusha nearly fainted at the sight, but Abba suddenly grabbed her from behind. “This way, Jerusha! Hide under the cart! Hurry!” He swung her around and urged her back toward the square, pointing to an oxcart parked several yards away. She saw her mother and sister cowering beneath it. A few yards away, an Assyrian soldier snatched a baby from a woman’s grasp and hurled it beneath his horse’s hooves to be trampled.

  Screams and shouts and thundering hooves roared in Jerusha’s ears as Abba pushed her toward the cart. It seemed a hundred miles away. She moved as if walking under water, her body refusing to obey her commands. Tears blinded her vision as she staggered the last few yards toward the safety of the cart. She was almost there. Her mother reached for her hand, then suddenly shouted, “Jerimoth, look out! Behind you!”

  Jerusha glanced over her shoulder and saw her father facing yet another Assyrian soldier. “No! Get away from her!” Abba cried. He gripped the horse’s bridle with both hands to try to turn the animal aside, ducking to avoid the man’s slashing sword. “Run, Jerusha, run!” he yelled.

  She made a final, desperate scramble for the safety of the cart and heard her mother scream again, “Jerusha, watch out! Behind you!” Out of nowhere, another mounted solider appeared alongside her. She tried to fight him off, flailing her fists and clawing his arms as he reached for her, but he scooped her up effortlessly and threw her facedown across the front of his saddle.

  “No! Oh, God, no!” she screamed. “Abba, help me! Save me!”

  Jerusha struggled to free herself, but the soldier held her down, pressing his hand against her back. She managed to lift her head as the horse wheeled around and saw her father running toward them. Then she heard the soft swish of metal as her captor unsheathed his sword. She remembered the blood and horror of Uncle Saul’s severed hand and shouted, “Abba, no! Stay back!”

  The Assyrian leaned sideways in his saddle and slashed out toward Abba with his sword. Jerusha saw a crimson gash appear across her father’s forehead, and he sank to his knees, his face covered with blood. Then he disappeared from her sight as the horse pounded up the road, away from the village.

  Jerusha screamed as the horse sped faster and faster, away from the village of Dabbasheth, away from her family and safety. They galloped for several minutes, then the horse slowed and the soldier slapped Jerusha, shouting angrily at her in his strange language. When she didn’t stop screaming, he struck her again and again until she finally stifled her cries. She felt numb with pain and fear.

  “I don’t want to die—please, I don’t want to die,” she whimpered. A few minutes later they stopped near a grove of sycamore trees beside a farmer’s field. Several other horses were already tethered there, and Jerusha heard muffled screams and coarse laughter coming from among the bushes. Her heart pounded with a new terror as she realized what was about to happen.

  “No . . . no . . . please don’t,” she sobbed. The soldier dismounted and pulled Jerusha off the horse, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. As he carried her into the woods, she saw her cousin Serah fighting with all her strength against the soldier who was trying to pin her to the ground. When Serah wouldn’t stop struggling, the soldier beat her with his fists until she no longer moved.

  Jerusha knew it would be useless to fight. The blows her captor had already given her throbbed painfully. She wanted to live through this nightmare and find her way home, so she decided not to struggle. Jerusha knew it was the right decision, but she couldn’t make herself stop crying. Her terrified screams blended with all the others until the woods echoed with the sound. Even the wind seemed to shriek with fear.

  Finally Jerusha’s captor halted and threw her to the ground. The smell of his unwashed body made her gag. She turned her face in revulsion, and he slapped her again, yelling at her angrily.

  “Oh, God . . . I don’t want to die,” she sobbed. “Not now, not like this. Please, God, please—I don’t want to die!”

  2

  IN THE SOUTHERN KINGDOM OF JUDAH

  King Hezekiah let his grandfather lean on his arm for support as they slowly walked down the hill from the palace. The sound of grinding hand mills and the smoke of early-morning fires filled the air around them, stirring memories for Hezekiah of another morning walk with his grandfather years earlier. It seemed a lifetime ago. Yet in the short time since he had been reunited with Zechariah, the bonds of love between them had been rewoven as if no time had passed at all.

  Hezekiah’s robes billowed in the brisk spring wind, and the gray sky threatened rain as they neared the Water Gate. “Are you sure you don’t want to turn around and go back inside?” he asked Zechariah. “Maybe it isn’t such a good idea to recite our prayers out here.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Don’t forget—once the Temple is purified, we’ll be praying outside every morning in all sorts of weather. Even the rare snowstorm.”

  “I guess that’s true dedication,” Hezekiah said, laughing. He acknowledged the guards who bowed to him as he passed through the gate, then he and his grandfather started down the steep ramp that led out of the city.

  Zechariah seemed unchanged to Hezekiah. Of course he had aged, his movements slowing, his hair and beard changing from gray to white. And now Hezekiah stood almost a head taller than his grandfather. But Zechariah had the same noble, dignified features Hezekiah had loved so much, the same gentle green eyes full of wisdom and humor. He smiled to himself, remembering how he had once thought that Yahweh must look like Zechariah.

  “How’s this?” Hezekiah asked when they reached a terraced olive grove near the Gihon Spring. The trees offered welcome shelter from the cold gusts of wind.

  “It’s perfect.” Zechariah sighed with contentment as he sat down to rest on the low wall surrounding the garden. He gazed all around, as if seeing trees for the first time in his life, and Hezekiah winced at this reminder of Zechariah’s long imprisonment. He was glad they had come, in spite of the damp air.

  “You know, son, there’s a reason I wanted to come outside to pray,” Zechariah said. “It’s too easy to believe in our own importance when we’re surrounded by our own creations all day.” He reached to pluck a silvery green leaf from an olive tree and twirled it between his fingers. “But look at this. Can we fashion anything as fragile and perfect as this leaf—or as solid and enduring as those mountains?”

  “‘As the mountains surround Jerusalem,’” Hezekiah recited, “‘so Yahweh surrounds his people, both now and forevermore.’”

  “Ah . . . you still remember.”

  “How could I forget? You recited that verse to me every morning when you first opened the shutters. And I was thinking about it just this morning when I saw how foggy it was. The mountains were nowhere in sight.”

  “Yet you know they’re still there, just as Yahweh is still faithfully surrounding our nation, even though our sin and idolatry have hidden Him from sight.”

  Hezekiah bent to pick up one of the dozens of stones that lay scattered on the ground and absently tossed it from one hand to the other. “I love this sad little nation, rocks and all. I wish it still resembled the land of milk and honey our ancestors knew.”

  “God will answer your prayers, in time, if you’re faithful to Him.”

  “Your trust in God seems so . . . so limitless compared to my own tiny see
d of faith. I’m afraid that it’ll be insufficient, especially for the overwhelming task I’m facing. Besides getting rid of the idolatry, I want to win back all the land that’s rightfully mine, the land my father lost to the Philistines and Ammonites. We need the farmland of the Shephelah and cities like Beth Shemesh to guard the mountain passes into Jerusalem and give access to the coastal trade route. We need the fortified cities in the Negev and Arabah. And Elath, our seaport on the Red Sea. These territories once belonged to my ancestors,” he finished, tossing the stone he was holding toward the Gihon Spring. “And they’re rightfully mine.”

  “You remind me of King Uzziah, son. His reign prospered, not only because he dreamed big dreams, like you—but because he loved God. With God you can do anything—anything at all.”

  “Then why did King Uzziah’s reign end so badly? What happened?”

  “Uzziah’s success resulted in pride, instead of gratitude. Foreign kings honored him for his accomplishments, and Uzziah took the credit for himself instead of giving the glory to God.” Zechariah was silent for a moment before continuing. “I’ve watched all three kings before you as they were tested by God—and failed. I pray that you’ll remain strong when you’re tested. Pride destroyed Uzziah. His son Jotham was destroyed by bitterness and your own father by fear. If they had placed their trust in Yahweh, how different things might have been for you.”

  Hezekiah felt a restless urgency to begin, to make the changes his country needed as quickly as possible. “I need your wisdom and experience,” he told Zechariah. “I’d like you to fill Uriah’s position as—”

  “No. I won’t serve as palace administrator.”

  His abrupt refusal disappointed Hezekiah—and confused him. He had assumed that Zechariah would be willing to help in any way that he could. “But . . . but why not? I need you. You’ve served as palace administrator before, and you’re experienced—”

  “I’m a Levite and a teacher of the Torah. I’ll help you with your religious reforms, but I won’t serve in your government.”

  “But I need you. How can I convince you to change your mind?”

  “You can’t. I’ll never hold a government position again.”

  Hezekiah exhaled in frustration. “I don’t know anyone who’s as qualified as you are. You know more about running the kingdom than all the members of my court added together.”

  “That’s flattering, but an exaggeration, I’m sure.”

  “But you’re still going to serve in the Temple, aren’t you?”

  “I’m much too old for that. Levites retire at age fifty. I’m close to seventy.”

  “Grandpa, please—there aren’t enough Levites to do all the work, and there are even fewer priests. I’m hoping that some of the younger ones will return to service once all the reforms are complete, but the men will need to be trained and—”

  “And so you want to call a wrinkled old Levite like me back into service for a while?”

  “Yes. Would you? At least do that much to help me . . . please.”

  Zechariah sighed and gazed up at the Temple walls, high above them. “The last time I wore my Levitical robes was the day I stopped your father from offering his sacrifice on the Assyrian altar, the day I became a prisoner. Do you remember what I told you when you saw me dressed in my robes that day?”

  “No . . . I’m sorry.”

  “You begged me to come back as soon as I was finished at the Temple so I could teach you more about Yahweh. I told you that I might be a little late, but I would be back. Well, I’m much later than I ever dreamed I’d be,” he said, resting his hand on Hezekiah’s shoulder, “but I’ll keep my promise and teach you Yahweh’s laws. And I’ll assist in the Temple until some younger men can be trained to replace me.”

  “Where should we start? The Temple looked to me like it was in pretty bad condition.”

  “It is, and we’ve already begun cleansing it as you asked us to. The next step is to assign the priests and Levites to their divisions the way King David established them, then anoint a new high priest. Of course the people will have to tithe the required Temple portion in order to support us.”

  “I’ll issue the orders. And I’ll contribute whatever I can from the royal treasuries, too. But what about the Temple structures? Won’t they require restoration?”

  “Yes, and I think I know the man to help us. My friend Hilkiah has a son who’s been trained as an engineer. Hilkiah is one of the few righteous men I know, and I’m certain that he has taught his son, Eliakim, to follow God’s laws, too.”

  “Good. I’ll send for him to oversee the reconstruction. But that raises another point,” Hezekiah said, stroking his beard. “Right now the hardest part of my job is figuring out who I can trust. Uriah probably wasn’t the only one who would like to take control of my kingdom.”

  “That’s true. It’s always a very dangerous time when power suddenly changes hands. You’ll need to take a strong stand until your sovereignty is firmly established.”

  “My father’s government was very corrupt—from the highest official to the lowest clerk. It’s little wonder that the prophet Micah condemned the leaders of Judah so strongly. In any event, I’ve called for a meeting later today with all of my father’s former advisors. I’m going to announce my decision to reorganize the kingdom according to the Law of Moses.”

  Zechariah’s eyes narrowed. “In that case, you’d better prepare yourself for a bitter power struggle, son. Some people will be eager to return to the laws of God, but most of the men who’ve been in control under Ahaz will surely oppose you—behind your back, if not openly.”

  “I understand. But how do I prepare for something like that?”

  Zechariah lifted his prayer shawl from around his shoulders and covered his head with it. “You pray. And you allow the Lord to be your strength. Remember—the Lord doesn’t give you strength, Hezekiah. He is your strength.” He gestured to the city walls on the cliffs above them and said, “When you’re surrounded by enemies, don’t rely on man-made fortifications or military power. Trust God.”

  Hezekiah nodded, but he knew he was a long way from understanding and having such strong faith.

  “Perhaps we should recite one of King David’s prayers this morning,” Zechariah said as he rose to his feet. “David wrote it when he was hounded by enemies who wanted to destroy him.”

  Hezekiah stood as well, lifting his own prayer shawl into place. He closed his eyes as he listened to his grandfather recite the unfamiliar words, vowing that they would one day be familiar to him, vowing that he would learn them by memory and believe what they promised.

  “‘Deliver me from my enemies, O God; protect me from those who rise up against me. Deliver me from evildoers and save me from bloodthirsty men. . . . But I will sing of your strength, in the morning I will sing of your love; for you are my fortress, my refuge in times of trouble.’”

  Hephzibah closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep when her handmaiden, Merab, entered her bedroom. “You’re not up yet?” Merab asked as she parted the filmy curtains that surrounded her bed. “Come, your breakfast is ready.”

  Hephzibah didn’t move from where she lay against the pillows. “Bring it to me, Merab. I want to eat it here in my room, alone.”

  “No, my lady. You can’t hide in here forever. You’re the king’s wife; the others are only his concubines.”

  “But I don’t want to eat with them. And they certainly don’t want to eat with me.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they want. Your position is superior to theirs, and they must do whatever you say.”

  “They don’t even respect me, Merab. They know Hezekiah hasn’t sent for me since my wedding week. They mock me.”

  “Don’t make excuses, my lady. Come.” She nudged Hephzibah out of bed and to her feet. “Face them. Claim your rights. And don’t allow them to make you a captive in your own palace.”

  Hephzibah felt sick with dread as Merab helped her get dressed and guided her down th
e passageway to the dining room. Hezekiah’s concubines were already seated around the low table and had begun to eat without her. She steeled herself for their usual taunts, lifting her chin and pretending to be indifferent as she joined them. When they ignored her completely, she wondered if they had grown tired of their game—or if this was their newest one.

  Hephzibah ate quickly, anxious to return to her room. She had nearly finished when the chamberlain of the harem hurried in. He stood with his hands on his hips, appraising the women as if trying to select one. The eunuch was a round, fleshy man whose pale body reminded Hephzibah of bread dough rising in a kneading trough. When the concubines noticed him, their chattering stopped.

  “I need one of you to come with me,” he said. “King Ahaz always wanted a concubine to warm up his chambers on a cold, damp day like today, and I’m sure the new king will, too, now that his time of mourning is over.”

  One of the concubines waved her hand at him. “Take me—I’ll gladly go.”

  Merab nudged Hephzibah. “My lady, you’re his wife,” she whispered. “Tell the eunuch you’ll do it.”

  Hephzibah hesitated, reluctant to risk rejection—even though she longed to be with her husband. When she didn’t react, Merab quickly spoke up. “King Hezekiah’s wife will come with you, Lord Chamberlain.”

  The eunuch stared at Hephzibah with mocking eyes. “Her? She’s the last woman the king would choose.”

  “How dare you!” Merab cried. She struggled to her feet, looking angry enough to strike him. The eunuch ignored her as he turned to appraise the others, deliberating for a moment before pointing to the girl who had already offered to go.

  “All right—you. But hurry up. The king could return to the palace any time now.”

  Merab’s face was red with fury. “How dare you insult my lady?” she cried. She followed the eunuch as he hustled the concubine from the room, and Hephzibah heard her scolding him loudly, all the way down the hall.

  “Oh dear, poor little Hephzibah,” one of the concubines said.