The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  When the music ended, Hezekiah faced the people. “Now that you have rededicated yourselves to Yahweh, you may bring your peace offerings and thank offerings.” The overwhelming response amazed him as hundreds of men brought their offerings forward. Zechariah and the other Levites had to take over for the exhausted priests as the people brought animals to them in a steady stream. As the morning wore on, a misty rain began to fall, washing gently over the worshipers, and it seemed to Hezekiah that it cleansed the entire city. The Levites continued to praise and sing in spite of the rain until the last offering was finally placed on the fire.

  Hezekiah bowed his head as the high priest delivered the benediction: “‘The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.’”

  “Amen,” Hezekiah murmured. He felt a sense of relief knowing that peace had been restored between him and God. He had a new beginning after so many wasted years. Now he could begin to lead his nation on God’s path.

  8

  Jerusha lifted the tent flap and dragged the heavy water jug over to the hearth, lacking the strength to carry it. Her limbs ached, and she felt horribly ill as she battled waves of nausea. She knew that she would receive no compassion or relief even if she was sick, so she struggled with her work in silence, willing her seething stomach to be still.

  Black flies swarmed around the food, and she swatted uselessly at them. They hovered everywhere, clinging to the dishes and cooking pots. Everything about Jerusha’s new home seemed oppressive and evil, as if all the color had drained out of the world, leaving only darkness. Dull black tents stretched endlessly in every direction. The Assyrians’ curly hair and pitiless eyes were black. The ever-circling vultures darkened the sky, blotting out the sun.

  Birds no longer sang during the day—or else they were drowned out by the cries of human pain and torture and the distant sounds of battle. At night the hyenas and jackals boldly roamed about in the darkness, fighting and feasting on the bodies of the fallen. Jerusha couldn’t escape the smell of rotting flesh, but to the Assyrians the scent was a sweet-smelling perfume. Death was their sport, their way of life, their god. Her life had become an unceasing grind of slavery, preparing meals during the day, being used and abused by Iddina and his fellow officers at night.

  Jerusha had lost track of time as the days and weeks merged together endlessly. Had she been captured a month, six months? She no longer knew, nor could she recall joy or laughter or love. When she tried to remember her home and her family, she found that the memories had faded, merging with the suffering all around her. She could remember her family only as she had seen them last: Abba covered with blood, Mama and Maacah cowering in fear. She recalled how the grape arbors and olive groves of her homeland looked after they’d been looted and burned. Death and destruction were all she knew.

  “You’d better hurry up!” Marah’s angry voice brought Jerusha back to the present.

  “I can’t work any faster,” she moaned. “I feel awful.”

  Marah continued to grind grain in silence, offering no sympathy. From the beginning, Jerusha had shared the three-room tent and all the cooking duties with Marah, but if Jerusha had hoped for any love or friendship, she was soon disappointed. Marah had retreated long ago to a secret world inside her own mind in order to escape from the Assyrians and her living death sentence. She had nothing to give Jerusha beyond the basic instructions of their daily work.

  Jerusha had guessed Marah to be in her late thirties and was startled to learn that she was twenty. She seemed like an aging, bitter woman, her beauty used up, her youth and innocence long dead. Through the scattered, fragmented sentences Marah offered from time to time, Jerusha learned that she had been captured more than a year earlier during an Assyrian raid like the one on Dabbasheth. Her husband and tiny son had been brutally slaughtered in front of her. Now Marah often retreated to a world inside herself, sitting alone in her tent in a huddled ball, rocking endlessly, staring at nothing. Once withdrawn that way, she was deaf, blind, unreachable.

  “What’s wrong with you today?” Marah asked. “Why are you so slow?”

  “It’s my stomach. I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

  The smell of burning dung suddenly reached Jerusha’s nostrils, and she could no longer control her nausea. She dropped the dough she was kneading and fled behind the tent to vomit.

  When Jerusha stumbled back to her work again, Marah was staring at her with her hands on her hips. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, but an accusation.

  “No . . . I can’t be. . . .”

  “Why not?”

  “Because—” Jerusha started to say that only women who were married and had homes and husbands got pregnant, but the words died on her lips. For a painful, bitter moment she thought of her promised betrothal to Abram and the rosy-cheeked babies she had imagined they would have together. It had been her dream, all that she had asked for in life. Then the vision died with the realization of where she was and what she had become.

  “You are pregnant,” Marah said, and Jerusha knew it was true. She covered her face and wept. “I’ll take care of it for you,” Marah said after a moment.

  “What do you mean?” Jerusha couldn’t imagine why the cold, unfeeling Marah would offer to help care for her child.

  “I know how to take care of it so it’ll never be born.”

  Jerusha drew back. “No . . .”

  “It’s better to kill it now, before it grows too big.”

  “I could never do that!”

  Marah gave her a disgusted look. “Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She returned to her work.

  Jerusha didn’t think her life could become any more unbearable than it was. She was already living a nightmare that she could never awaken from, and now she had to face the fact that she was carrying a child. A baby conceived by rape was growing inside her, and she would have to give birth to it in this dark, evil place. She covered her face again and wept at the hopelessness of it all, her body shaking with her sobs. Why had God abandoned her to this living hell?

  “You’d better stop that and get back to work,” Marah warned. “If their breakfast is late, we’ll both get a beating.”

  Jerusha finally dried her eyes and picked up the lump of dough to resume her work. She had no other choice.

  “Oh, Miriam, it’s so good to be home again!” Hephzibah threw her arms around her sister and hugged her warmly. “You’re so grown up, Miriam. Turn around and let me look at you.” Hephzibah’s sister was now taller than she was, and nearly as beautiful with the same thick, curly hair and deep brown eyes. “You’ve become a woman overnight,” Hephzibah said.

  “Well, I am sixteen now.”

  “Come on—let’s go out in the courtyard and sit under the fig tree and talk like we used to do. Remember?”

  “It seems like you’ve been gone for ages,” Miriam said as they walked outside, arm in arm. “And now your husband is the king! I still can’t believe it. My own sister is married to the King of Judah! What’s it like?”

  Hephzibah sighed contentedly as they sat on the bench beneath the tree. She loved this tiny patch of trees and flowers that brought back so many warm childhood memories. She had said her wedding vows here. But her smile faded as she remembered the first months of her marriage.

  “I’ll tell you the truth, Miriam—at first it was very, very lonely being married. I had no friends in the harem except Merab, and I missed all of you so much.”

  “What about your husband? I thought being married would make up for leaving your family.”

  “Well, at first I never saw him. That was the worst part. He was more interested in the rest of his harem than in me, and I was very miserable. I didn’t know what I’d done to displease him.”

  Miriam circled her arm around Hephzibah’s shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell us you were so unhappy? We had no idea you were lonely.”<
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  “I was too ashamed to come home,” she said, closing her eyes. “I didn’t want Abba to know that I had failed as a wife.”

  “And I’ve been envying you for marrying royalty.”

  “Well, there wasn’t much to envy at first. But ever since my husband became king, everything has changed. Now we spend every evening together.”

  “So tell me your secret! How did you win him away from his concubines? I’ll have a husband of my own someday.”

  “I’d like to think it was something I did, but the truth is—I didn’t do anything. King Hezekiah says it’s against Yahweh’s Law for the king to have a lot of wives.”

  “What? Against the Law?”

  “That’s what he said,” she shrugged. “From now on I’m his only wife. He sent all of his concubines away. And you know what else? He says our son will be the next king.”

  “But kings always have huge harems. What about David and Solomon? Their harems are legendary!”

  “I know, I know. I don’t understand it. But it sure is wonderful to finally have my husband all to myself.”

  Miriam shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. I’ve never heard of that law before.”

  “That’s not the only one. King Hezekiah wants me to learn all sorts of rules and rituals, like special baths and offerings and forbidden foods. He talks about Yahweh so much that sometimes I get a little jealous. But he says that if I obey all these laws, Yahweh will bless us with a son—many sons.”

  Miriam looked at her in disbelief. “That’s really crazy. I’ve never heard of Yahweh granting sons. Everyone knows you pray to Asherah if you want children.”

  “Shh! Please, Miriam! I’m not allowed to even mention the name of another god. King Hezekiah doesn’t believe in any god but Yahweh, and I have to do the same.”

  “He’s taking a big chance, then, if he wants to have sons. You’ll be barren if he offends the fertility goddess.”

  “Shh—I know, I know.” Hephzibah found it easy to believe in one God when she was with Hezekiah at the palace, but now that she was home, reminded of the old ways, the old loyalties, she felt guilty for heartlessly abandoning Asherah.

  “Is it true that the king tore down the big altar of Assur that used to be in the Temple?” Miriam asked. “And that he even destroyed the sacred serpent of Moses?”

  “Yes, it’s all true.”

  “Well, I know Abba has been very upset about all the changes your husband is making. Every time he comes home from the palace he shouts about the terrible things that are going to happen to our nation because the king has offended all the gods.”

  “I know—it scares me, too,” Hephzibah admitted. “But my husband refuses to believe in any god but Yahweh.”

  “Do you still believe in them?”

  Hephzibah had asked herself the same question many times. She had assured Hezekiah that she would abandon all her other gods, but sometimes she felt a lingering fear for deserting them. What if Yahweh really wasn’t the only god?

  “I’ve decided to believe what my husband believes,” she finally said.

  “But what about your vow, Hephzibah? You pledged a daughter to Asherah’s service—remember?”

  “That was before—I mean, how was I to know my husband would forbid me to worship Asherah?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Well, maybe once we have a son, King Hezekiah will be a little more open-minded about who I worship. But for now, I just want to please him, Miriam. I’ll do anything he asks.”

  “You really love him, don’t you?”

  Hephzibah thought of the warmth of Hezekiah’s arms, the passion of his kisses, and all her other concerns vanished. “Yes. More than anything else in the world.”

  Miriam sighed. “I hope I can learn to love whoever Papa chooses for me.”

  “You will. Just wait and see. Has Papa been making any inquiries for you yet?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s waiting to see who’ll be appointed to the important positions in the new court. . . . Do you know if there are any eligible men on the council?”

  Hephzibah reached up to pluck a leaf off the fig tree. “Well, there’s Shebna, the new palace administrator. He isn’t married—but he’s too old for you. There’s a new chief engineer named Eliakim who’s becoming pretty important. He isn’t married, either.”

  “Is he handsome?”

  “Yes, in a scholarly sort of way—high forehead, dark, rumpled hair and beard, slim build—”

  “I want a husband as handsome as yours.”

  Hephzibah tossed the leaf at Miriam playfully. “That’s impossible. There’s no one in the whole kingdom who’s that handsome.”

  “Do you remember when you made me sneak out to try to see what Prince Hezekiah looked like?” Miriam asked.

  Hephzibah laughed. “How could I forget? If Abba had found out, he would have stoned both of us!”

  “Tell the truth,” Miriam said. “You were afraid the prince would be a fat, ugly toad like his father, weren’t you?”

  “Well, can you blame me? But when I saw him that day, he was so tall and handsome, with those dark eyes . . . I wanted to be his wife more than anything in the world. I was so afraid that King Ahaz would change his mind and I’d never know what it felt like to be held in Hezekiah’s arms.”

  “But now you do,” Miriam sighed.

  “Yes. The goddess has answered all of my prayers.”

  “And is being married to him as wonderful as you dreamed it would be?”

  Hephzibah couldn’t help smiling. “Even more wonderful. Someday you’ll find out, little sister. I know that my husband doesn’t love me yet—not as much as I love him. But I’ll make sure that he does someday . . . no matter what it takes.”

  “Even if it means forsaking Asherah and following a bunch of crazy rules and rituals?”

  “Yes, whatever it takes. And as soon as I give him an heir, I know he’ll be truly mine—forever.”

  9

  Hezekiah slowly traced his index finger down the yellowed parchment, then paused. “Is this where we stopped yesterday?”

  “Yes, that’s the place,” Zechariah said. “We were reading about Moses and the plagues of Egypt.”

  Hezekiah smiled at his grandfather. “I remember the first time you told me the Passover story, when I was a child.”

  “Yes, you especially liked the plague of frogs, remember?”

  “That’s because I could imagine the panic in the harem if the ladies woke up with frogs in their beds.” They both laughed.

  Hezekiah had chosen the classroom where he had spent so much time with Shebna to begin his study of the Torah with his grandfather. They worked together every day, with Zechariah explaining God’s laws as Hezekiah copied the scroll in his own hand. The work bonded them even closer together than before.

  “I also remember how you begged me to take you to the Passover feast,” Zechariah said, “but of course there was no feast. In fact, there hasn’t been one for a long, long time.”

  “Now that the Temple has been purified and the daily sacrifices are being offered again, couldn’t we reinstate the feast days, too?” Hezekiah asked.

  “We certainly could. In fact, the Torah says . . . let’s see . . . where is it?” Zechariah unrolled the scroll and spent several minutes searching for something. “Here it is! This passage describes the first Passover feast, and it says, ‘This is a day you are to commemorate; for the generations to come you shall celebrate it as a festival to Yahweh.’”

  Hezekiah stroked his beard. “Then Yahweh commands us to celebrate it?”

  “Yes, and I think it would unify our people and strengthen their faith if we reminded them of this monumental landmark in our nation’s history.”

  Hezekiah felt a growing excitement. “When is Passover traditionally celebrated?”

  “It’s too late. The time has just passed.” Zechariah frowned. “It was supposed to be held on the fourteenth day of this month, but we were st
ill purifying the Temple then.”

  “You mean, we’ll have to wait an entire year to celebrate it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Hezekiah’s disappointment felt close to anger. “Celebrating this feast could have accelerated all our reforms, even more than the covenant sacrifice.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right. The people are ready for a fresh start. With Passover as a reminder of God’s deliverance, maybe they would have abandoned their idolatry for good.”

  Hezekiah rose from his seat and stood in front of the window that looked down on Jerusalem. Sounds from the city drifted up to him—children squealing in play, wagon wheels rumbling over the stone streets, shouted greetings and curses. He wished he could remind all these people what God had done for them in the past. “If only we didn’t have to wait an entire year!”

  “Wait a minute,” Zechariah said. “It seems to me I recall . . .” He picked up the Torah scroll and began searching through it again. “Let me try to find it.”

  As Hezekiah watched his grandfather squint at the tiny, hand-printed letters, he noticed how tired Zechariah looked. His face was pale with fatigue, and his movements seemed slow and painful. He had worked hard to purify the Temple, then had pitched in to help with the covenant sacrifice. The task of slaughtering more than three thousand animals had tired the younger men—and Zechariah was nearly seventy. But he had never complained, nor had his enthusiasm for Hezekiah’s reforms waned.

  “Here it is!” A smile of victory spread across Zechariah’s face. “Here’s the answer! Some of the Israelites missed the first Passover feast because they were ceremonially unclean. They asked Moses what they should do and . . . Well, here. You read it.” He passed the scroll to Hezekiah, and Hezekiah sat down again to read aloud.

  “‘When any of you or your descendants are unclean because of a dead body or are away on a journey, they may still celebrate the Lord’s Passover. They are to celebrate it on the fourteenth day of the second month at twilight.’” He looked up. “Do you think this applies to our situation?”