The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  Before long, so many unanswered questions were burning inside Eliakim that he could no longer stop himself. “You actually lived with the Assyrians?”

  “Yes—with their army.”

  “All this time?”

  She nodded and her vacant stare unnerved him. She seemed to shrink away every time he looked at her, as if drawing inside herself. He had never met a human being so empty and haunted before. Whatever they had done to her had robbed her of her humanity and ripped her soul from her.

  Suddenly Eliakim had another thought. “Have you actually watched how they lay siege to a city and wage war?”

  “Yes. I lived with their army for more than three years.”

  “You could be a tremendous help to me, Jerusha. I work for King Hezekiah, and—”

  “Eliakim—let it wait,” Hilkiah said.

  “Okay, okay . . . but would you be willing to talk about it with me sometime?” he asked her. “After you’ve rested? Maybe in a couple of days?”

  “Son, drop it,” Hilkiah warned.

  But Eliakim knew how important her experiences were, and he held her gaze until she finally nodded in agreement. “Thank you. Your experience could prove invaluable to us.”

  “You poor, sweet girls,” Hilkiah murmured. “I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through, how you must have suffered. But it’s over now. You’re here, and I promise to take good care of you.”

  “We had no place else to go,” Maacah said. “Everyone is dead—all our friends, all our relatives . . .”

  “Not all your relatives,” Eliakim said. “Your Uncle Saul came here.”

  “He did? Where is he?” Maacah asked.

  Eliakim winced. “We wanted to help him, but your uncle is a very proud man.”

  “Yes, I offered him a job in my shop,” Hilkiah said, “but he told me he couldn’t accept charity.”

  “He left for the Negev,” Eliakim finished, “and we haven’t heard from him since.”

  “This is your home now,” Hilkiah said. “We are your family. It’s the very least I can do for your dear father. Ah, God of Abraham, how I will miss him—” Hilkiah’s voice broke. “I can’t believe he’s really gone.”

  Eliakim grieved for their friends, too. And he knew that every feast day, every holiday, he would be reminded of Jerimoth and his unshakable faith in God—a faith that magnified Eliakim’s own unbelief. God had finally rewarded Jerimoth’s faith. Jerusha sat a few feet away as if resurrected from the dead.

  “I have prepared a hot bath for your guests, master, and clean beds,” a servant announced.

  They all stood, and when Eliakim hugged Maacah, he felt every one of her bones through her thin clothes.

  “Thank you for helping us,” she said tearfully.

  “You don’t need to thank us,” Hilkiah said. “This is your home now. I just praise God that you’re safe. Good night, and sleep well. We’ll talk in the morning, after you’ve rested.”

  When they were alone, Eliakim rested his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Are you all right, Abba?”

  Hilkiah blinked back his tears. “We must go to the Temple together—to recite prayers for the dead.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He wondered if his father would remind him of Jerimoth’s faith or chide him for his stubborn unbelief. Now was the appropriate time to say, “I told you so.” But instead, Hilkiah wandered slowly from the room without uttering another word.

  Eliakim returned to his workroom. It would be so much easier to prepare for an Assyrian assault if he knew their strengths and weaknesses. Using Jerusha’s experience, he could make sure Judah would be secure.

  Jerusha!

  Jerusha had returned from the dead. It was incredible. Impossible. Tonight Eliakim had witnessed a miracle.

  Jerusha awoke enveloped in a cloud. She bolted upright and stared fearfully at her strange surroundings. The elegant room was like a palace, with polished bronze mirrors and lampstands, woven rugs and tapestries, ivory beds with creamy sheets and soft cushions. Everything felt wrong. She didn’t belong here.

  “What’s the matter?” Maacah asked sleepily.

  “Nothing. For a minute I forgot where I was, that’s all.”

  “I know what you mean,” Maacah sighed. “I can’t believe we made it here.”

  Jerusha caressed the soft sheets, marveling at the way they felt next to her clean skin. The hot bath she had taken last night seemed like a dream. She hadn’t felt this clean in a long, long time. But a sense of foreboding hovered over her, a feeling of wariness and mistrust, as if Iddina might burst through the door any moment and snatch her away.

  “We can’t stay here,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “They’re so rich. Are they royalty?”

  Maacah laughed. “No, Uncle Hilkiah is a merchant, and Eliakim builds things for King Hezekiah.”

  “Will their wives mind if we stay here?”

  “Uncle Hilkiah’s wife died a long time ago, and Eliakim isn’t married yet.”

  “But we don’t belong here, Maacah. Look at this place. It’s like a palace.” She tried to rake her fingers through her hair but found only short stubble.

  “Uncle Hilkiah says this is our home now. He wants us to stay,” Maacah insisted.

  “Why are you calling him ‘Uncle’? These people aren’t our relatives.”

  “Yes, they are. Well, they’re almost family.”

  Jerusha shook her head. “The only way I’ll stay is if they let us work as servants.”

  Maacah sat up in bed. “Jerusha, listen to me. Abba loved Uncle Hilkiah. They were like brothers. And we always stayed here whenever we came to Jerusalem for the feasts.”

  Jerusha couldn’t comprehend Maacah’s words. While she had suffered through hell, her family had stayed here with these strangers. This home represented a time in Jerusha’s life she longed to forget. But before she could argue further, there was a knock on the door. A servant entered, carrying two bundles.

  “Master Hilkiah asked me to buy you something to wear, so I bought these. . . .”

  Jerusha stared as the servant unfolded two dresses and laid them onto the bed. The gowns, made of deep blue linen, looked soft and silky. Exquisite gold embroidery decorated the long sleeves and neckline. Jerusha had never seen such beautiful dresses. She couldn’t speak.

  “I hope they’re all right,” the servant said.

  “They’re beautiful!” Maacah cried. “Where’s Uncle Hilkiah? I want to thank him.”

  “He and Master Eliakim went to the Temple for the morning sacrifice. They’ll be home soon. I’ll call you for breakfast when they return.”

  After the servant left, Maacah scrambled out of bed and held up the dress, admiring herself in the tall bronze mirror. “It’s so beautiful! Oh, Jerusha, feel it!”

  The dresses and veils were designed for unmarried women—virgins. Jerusha remembered Iddina and the other officers, and shame overwhelmed her. The dress was a lie. She wasn’t a virgin. The rape wasn’t her fault, but what followed afterward had been her choice.

  “I can’t wear that dress, Maacah. I can’t accept such a gift.”

  Her sister’s smile faded. “Why not?”

  Jerusha couldn’t find words to express how she felt. Because I’m not worthy, she wanted to scream. The bath last night had cleansed her on the outside, but nothing could ever purify her on the inside. She had chosen to prostitute herself. How could she live with the shame?

  “Jerusha, why not?” Maacah asked again.

  “Because . . . because . . . Oh, what am I doing here?” she cried. “I don’t belong here!”

  Maacah sat down beside her and held her close. “Abba brought us to Jerusalem for Passover so we could pray for you. God led us here, to this house. And Uncle Hilkiah always prayed for you, too. He loved Abba as much as we did. He would do anything for Abba’s sake. He means it when he says that this is our home now.”

  Jerusha heard her sister’s words, but t
hey didn’t explain why she deserved to live—or how she could live with her shame. Finally Maacah grasped Jerusha’s hands and pulled her out of bed.

  “Come on—try on your dress. Please? You have to wear something.”

  Reluctantly, Jerusha allowed Maacah to help her get dressed. The fabric felt soft and smooth as it draped around her body in gentle folds. She tied the sash around her waist, then helped Maacah get dressed.

  “We made a terrible mess of our hair,” Jerusha said as they stood in front of the mirror.

  “Like you said—it’ll grow. You still look beautiful, Jerusha. Be glad you don’t have my horrible freckles.”

  Someone knocked on the door, and Jerusha pulled it open, expecting to see the servant again. But Eliakim stood in the doorway wearing an embroidered skullcap on his tousled hair and a prayer shawl draped over his shoulders. He stood a head taller than Jerusha, with the confident posture of a man of wealth and authority. Jerusha fought the urge to bow. She saw his mouth open in surprise as he appraised her in obvious admiration.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” Maacah said.

  “Y-yes . . . she is,” he stammered. He swallowed hard, and Jerusha noticed the long scar that stretched across his throat. Then she looked away, embarrassed by his lingering gaze. “You’re both beautiful,” he said. “Please, excuse me for staring, but I can’t believe the transformation!”

  “Your father bought these dresses for us,” Maacah said.

  “Abba did? They’re lovely.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, Jerusha—I need to ask a big favor of you.”

  She looked up at him again, and his eyes were warm and kind. He was unlike any man she had ever known. Abram had been rugged and robust, a man of the land, like Abba; Iddina had been vicious and brutal. But handsome Eliakim was sophisticated, refined, well-educated. Once again, Jerusha felt the urge to bow.

  “It’s a really big favor,” he said. “I know you’ve been through a terrible ordeal and that you probably need time to rest, but you could be such a tremendous help to me. I’m meeting with the king today to plan the defense of the nation. If you could come with me and—”

  “Absolutely not!” Hilkiah’s voice thundered from behind Eliakim. “You leave those girls alone! Give them a chance to recover from all they’ve been through. Such a son I raised! Asking such a thing!”

  “But, Abba, it’s urgent. She could tell us—”

  “Absolutely not. It can wait.” Hilkiah pushed past him into the room, pleading with Jerusha. “Will you please forgive my son? He has a head that he never uses.”

  Jerusha smiled faintly at the kind little merchant, and her emotions seemed to stir to life after lying dead for so long. She remembered the stranger who had helped her escape, and suddenly she wanted to help Eliakim, to repay the debt she felt she owed.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Jerusha said. “I’ll go with Eliakim. I’d like to help him.”

  26

  King Hezekiah surveyed the somber faces of his councilmen as they assembled to hear his plans for the nation’s defense.

  “Is everyone here? Can we begin?” he asked Shebna, seated beside him.

  “No, Your Majesty—we are waiting for Eliakim. He has the drawings.”

  A moment later Eliakim hurried in with his arms full. “I’m sorry for being late, Your Majesty,” he said as he dropped his burdens on a table. “But I’ve brought a guest—someone we all should listen to.”

  “You know that all visitors must be approved by me first,” Shebna said. “It is too late to change our agenda now.”

  “But I didn’t have any advance notice myself. We only met for the first time late last night. Please, Your Majesty—I promise it’ll be very helpful to our discussion of Judah’s defenses.”

  Hezekiah hesitated, then decided to trust Eliakim’s judgment. “All right. Bring him in.”

  “Well, it’s . . . uh . . . it’s a woman, Your Majesty.”

  Shebna appeared outraged. “A woman in council? No. That is unheard of. We cannot—”

  Hezekiah held up his hand to silence him—and to stop the whispering among his advisors. “Are you certain this is relevant, Eliakim?”

  “Yes. Very relevant.”

  Again Hezekiah hesitated before making such an unprecedented decision. “Bring her in.”

  Shebna slouched in his seat, but Hezekiah’s advisors sat up in amazement. Eliakim motioned to his guest. The woman who entered was painfully thin, her face so shrunken that her cheekbones protruded. Haunting green eyes dominated her face, and fear dominated her skittish movements. She seemed terrified by the somber atmosphere and staring faces. How could this half-starved young woman possibly help with Judah’s defenses?

  “You may begin, Eliakim, whenever you’re both ready,” Hezekiah said.

  “Your Majesty, this is Jerusha, daughter of Jerimoth. She is a refugee from Israel.”

  An eerie silence crept over the room. Hezekiah knew that the Assyrians had pronounced a death sentence on Israel, but to see living proof of it in this emaciated woman unnerved him.

  “The fact that Jerusha is here at all is a miracle,” Eliakim continued. “She was captured by the Assyrians and lived with their army for more than three years.”

  A murmur of astonishment swept the room. Hezekiah leaned forward. “I would like to hear everything you can tell us about the Assyrians, Jerusha,” he said. “Would you share your story with us?”

  Jerusha’s trembling legs could barely hold her. Hezekiah waited, watching her anxiously. Eliakim took her arm to support her, and Hezekiah heard him say quietly to her, “Take your time. You’ve been through so many terrifying events already. You don’t need to be scared now. You’re among friends.”

  She nodded, then began to speak in a voice that was so soft that Hezekiah had to strain to hear her. “I lived with my family on my father’s land until the Assyrians raided our village. They captured my two cousins . . . and . . . and . . .”

  “It’s all right—take your time,” Eliakim soothed. “Forgive me for making you relive this, but it’s so important. Please, Jerusha?”

  She took a deep breath. “They killed my cousins, but I was allowed to live as . . . as their slave. I served as a cook for four army officers, and I traveled with them as they waged war.”

  Hezekiah could scarcely stay seated. “You actually lived with the Assyrian army? You watched how they besiege cities?”

  “Yes. I will tell you what I can about them.”

  “That would be a tremendous help to us, Jerusha,” Hezekiah said. “But first, I’m curious to know how you escaped.”

  “I didn’t escape. They set me free, just for fun. It was a contest to see who could track me down again.”

  “That’s outrageous!” General Jonadab cried. “What kind of men would do such a thing?”

  Hezekiah shook his head in disbelief. “And yet they obviously didn’t recapture you. How did you escape from them?”

  “I . . . I walked night and day, across the mountains. And I made it back to my father’s land. But they caught up to me and—” Tears filled her hollow eyes and slipped silently down her thin face. “My sister and I hid in a cistern beneath my father’s house while the Assyrians killed my parents and destroyed our land. We wandered everywhere, searching for our relatives, but there’s no one left. The country has been destroyed—thousands of people are dead. . . . It is a holocaust.”

  Hezekiah remembered Isaiah’s prophecy: “Until their cities are destroyed—without a person left—and the whole country is an utter wasteland.” He fought a surge of fear, the same fear that had destroyed his father.

  “My sister and I walked to Jerusalem,” Jerusha continued, “to stay with my father’s friend, Master Hilkiah. We traveled at night over the mountains, avoiding the roads and Assyrian horse patrols. It took us three months to get here. We hid in caves and in tombs, sometimes for days, until it was safe to come out again. The Assyrian armies were swarming all over Israel, but we finally escaped a
nd crossed the border into Judah.”

  The men stared at her in awe and respect. “I commend you for your incredible courage,” Hezekiah said quietly. “Now, tell me—do you think the Assyrians will be able to conquer Samaria?”

  “Yes, I’m certain they will.”

  General Jonadab stood up. “Wait a minute—Samaria is a great fortress city with strong, thick walls. And it’s built on a steep hill, much like Jerusalem. How can they defeat it?”

  “The Assyrians use powerful weapons of war and machines that can break down even the strongest walls. Besides, they don’t accept defeat. I’ve never seen them lose. They’re willing to wait many years until a city starves to death or dies of thirst.”

  “And that is Jerusalem’s greatest weakness,” Shebna said. “Our water supply. We could never withstand an Assyrian siege.”

  “He’s right,” Jonadab nodded in agreement. “Can you tell us about these war machines?”

  “They build powerful battering rams on wheels, fortified so they can attack the walls without being set on fire from above. The men inside them are armored against arrows and spears. The machines keep attacking the wall in the same place until a breach is made and the wall crumbles.”

  “But if the city is built on a hill, like Samaria, how do these machines get near the base of the walls?” Shebna asked.

  “They send men out ahead of the army to chop down trees and clear a path for the marching troops. They use the trees, along with rocks or mud bricks, to build ramps up to the walls. They have men who are trained to build these earthworks and handle the machines of war. They also have men who tunnel under the wall.”

  Hezekiah thought about Jerusalem’s ancient, crumbling walls and knew the Assyrians already outmatched him. “What about their other weapons?” he asked grimly.