The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  Hezekiah pulled on his beard as he wrestled with his decision, remembering Zechariah’s warning about making alliances with other nations.

  “What makes you so sure a foreign king would sign a treaty with us? Assyria is like a hungry lion aroused from a long slumber. And Judah would be easy prey after Israel.”

  “Then appeasing Assyria is the only answer.”

  Shebna’s advice made sense to Hezekiah, but he hesitated, unwilling to reach the same conclusion that King Ahaz had. “Maybe it would be better for my people if I paid the tribute,” he finally said. “Maybe it would spare them from an invasion, from bloodshed. . . .” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

  The decision perplexed him. It seemed that either choice would end in disaster. He stood balanced on that narrow wall again, the same place he had stood four years ago when he made his decision to rebel. Yet he saw no way down to safety.

  “Your Majesty, I would like to go inside and start working on the taxation proposal,” Shebna said. “Then if you decide to raise the tribute, it will be ready.”

  “Yes, maybe you should. You’re excused, Shebna.”

  He went back to his chambers, leaving Hezekiah alone. As he stood in the growing twilight, discouraged and depressed, a gentle breeze from the north carried the sweet aroma of roasting meat down the hill from the Temple. And as the fragrance of the evening sacrifice reached him, Hezekiah suddenly remembered Yahweh. He had stopped paying tribute because he had put his faith in God.

  Hezekiah tried to recall that Passover night when his faith had seemed so much stronger. He had worked hard to obey God’s Law since then, purging the idolatry from the land—but had he done enough? Would Yahweh spare his nation because of his faithfulness? He wished he knew the answer.

  He returned to his chambers, wandering idly through his rooms, his mind in turmoil. Had he done everything he could for God? Should he do something more? He rummaged through his scrolls until he found the one he had written with Zechariah, then he sat down beside the lampstand, searching for something he may have missed. When he read the words He must not take many wives, or his heart will be led astray, he stopped reading. Four years ago he had forsaken all his concubines for Hephzibah. But except for the baby that had died, Hephzibah had given him no children. Why hadn’t Yahweh provided an heir?

  “Where am I going wrong? Why is everything falling apart?” he asked aloud. God had forsaken him, betraying him to his enemies.

  Hezekiah sat alone for more than an hour, allowing the winds of self-pity to blow, piling doubt all around him. His faith in Yahweh had been in vain, the promises of God, a lie. He remembered his last afternoon with his grandfather, and Moses’ parting words to Joshua that became Zechariah’s parting words: “Yahweh himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” He longed to have more faith in God, and he remembered how Zechariah had snatched the Torah scroll out of his hand, saying, “Either your faith in God is absolute, or it’s worthless.”

  Hezekiah slowly paged through the Torah, longing to discover the source of Zechariah’s unshakable faith in God, searching for a promise he could cling to. He stopped when he found these words: “When you go to war against your enemies and see horses and chariots and an army greater than yours, do not be afraid of them, because the Lord your God, who brought you up out of Egypt, will be with you.”

  Hezekiah bowed his head and prayed for the strength to believe that promise, for the courage to stand firm in his decision not to send tribute, for the power to become a man of faith.

  “The struggle is always in the will,” Zechariah had told him. Hezekiah willed to believe. He silently vowed never to doubt Yahweh’s word again. He left the scroll open to the promise he had found and browsed through the stories of his childhood hero, King David, drawing strength from them. Then he stumbled upon the words that Nathan the prophet had spoken to David: “‘Your house and your kingdom will endure forever before me.’” It was Yahweh’s promise—to David and now to Hezekiah. His reign would endure; he would have an heir.

  He rolled up the scroll and put it away, then walked to Hephzibah’s chambers. She was his oasis in the desert, and he longed for the comfort of her arms. But Hephzibah didn’t run to him as she usually did. She never moved from her seat beside the window. He bent to kiss her and saw tears in her eyes.

  “Hephzibah, what’s wrong?” She didn’t answer, and he lifted her chin to make her look at him. “Please tell me.”

  “My lord,” she began tearfully, “I’m so afraid . . .”

  He thought of Jerusha’s chilling report that morning and felt his stomach turn. “What are you afraid of, my love? Tell me. You know I’d do anything to make you happy.”

  “Would you really do anything?” she whispered.

  “Tell me, my love.”

  She inhaled as if summoning courage. “My lord, I’m so afraid you’ll have to divorce me because I’m barren. I beg you, please, go to one of your concubines tonight instead of me. Just until she gives you a child—just until you have an heir. The child could become ours. Please, my lord?”

  Hezekiah’s faith in Yahweh’s promises blew away in a gust of doubt: Hephzibah was barren. She would never give him an heir.

  For a moment he considered doing what she asked. Then anger exploded inside him—anger at himself for doubting so soon after his vow of faith, anger at the impossible decisions he faced, anger at his own helplessness. He hated his helplessness most of all, remembering how he had stood helpless before Molech.

  “No!” he shouted as he turned away from Hephzibah. “No, no, no! Yahweh promised that the house of David would endure forever! Do you think He’s going to break His promise now?”

  “Can’t the promise be kept through a concubine?” she asked. Her stubbornness infuriated him.

  “No, it can’t! God promised Abraham an heir, but he listened to his wife and fathered Ishmael! Isaac was the son of the promise, not the concubine’s son! I won’t listen to you. Don’t you have any faith in Yahweh at all?” She covered her face, but he pulled her hands away. “Why don’t you stop feeling sorry for yourself and start trusting in God?”

  He strode from the room, banging the door shut behind him. The irony of his words struck him as he walked back to his own chambers. He was as guilty of doubt and self-pity as Hephzibah was. And he knew that the great anger he felt was not toward his wife but toward himself.

  27

  Eliakim rummaged through his scrolls and drawings, making a mess of his tiny workroom. “We’re all waiting for you,” his father called from the dining room. “Are you eating breakfast with us or not?”

  “Start without me,” Eliakim said, gazing at the mess he had made. “I’m busy.”

  “He’s busy!” Hilkiah said, loudly enough for him to hear. “He’s always busy, but too busy to eat? Well, never mind. We’ll eat without him, won’t we, girls? No sense in all of us starving.”

  Eliakim sorted uselessly through the mess for a few more minutes, then finally wandered out to where the others were seated around the low table. He bent to scoop up a handful of olives, then stood beside the table chewing absently, his mind on the dozens of projects he was supervising for King Hezekiah.

  “What now?” Hilkiah scowled. “You’re too busy to sit down?”

  “What did you say, Abba?”

  Hilkiah bowed with exaggerated politeness, indicating Eliakim’s empty cushion. “Would you care to join us?”

  Eliakim glanced across the table at Jerusha as he sat down, then quickly looked away. She wore the Elath stone necklace he had given her and the lovely deep blue dress she had worn the day she accompanied him to the king’s advisory meeting. Hilkiah had bought the girls a dozen new dresses, but Eliakim’s favorite was still this beautiful blue one. He had admired her courage so much that day. He also recalled his panic when she collapsed in his arms, struggling for sanity, but Jerusha had tremendous inner strength. Not many p
eople could have survived her ordeal.

  “What is it that has you too busy to eat?” Hilkiah asked.

  Eliakim gulped down some yogurt, feeling foolishly self-conscious. “The city walls. There are still a dozen places that have to be reinforced, besides the new walls that—” He stopped mid-sentence as an idea struck him. He could take Jerusha with him to inspect the walls, and she could explain how the Assyrians would attack them. He looked up to ask if she would come with him, then abruptly lost his train of thought. Her hair had grown, and it now reached her chin, curling softly around her lovely face. He had never seen a woman with short hair before. It was unheard of. But it looked extremely attractive on Jerusha.

  “Did you swallow an olive pit or something?” Hilkiah asked.

  Eliakim looked at his father. “What?”

  “You stopped in the middle of your sentence. I thought maybe you were choking on the food you’ve been bolting down. Have you bothered to taste it at all?”

  Eliakim’s face felt warm. Explaining his preoccupation would only make matters worse. “Uh . . . the food’s excellent. And we’re laying the foundations for the new walls.”

  He didn’t know what else to say, so he shoveled more food into his mouth, silently pondering the idea of taking Jerusha with him. It made a lot of sense, but he decided to wait until after his father left for work. Hilkiah was fiercely protective of his girls.

  At last Hilkiah pushed away from the table. “Well, I’m off to my shop,” he said. Maacah walked with him to the door, leaving Eliakim alone with Jerusha. He watched her gather up the bowls and serving dishes, debating how to ask her without breaking his promise not to remind her of her ordeal. He remembered how it felt to hold her frail body as she trembled with terror, and he cleared his throat nervously.

  “Uh . . . Jerusha? I was wondering . . .”

  She stopped stacking dishes and looked at him, fingering her necklace. He wished she were wearing a different dress.

  “It . . . uh . . . it just occurred to me that you could help me with the walls—if you don’t mind, that is.”

  “The walls?”

  “Yes. I’d like you to come with me and see what we’ve done and what we’ve got planned, and maybe . . . you know . . . give us a different perspective—how the enemy would see it.”

  “I don’t know anything about walls, Eliakim, but I’ll come if you think it would help.”

  “I think you’d be a big help! Listen, I have to gather my things together, so you have a few minutes—if you want to go change your clothes or something. . . .”

  She looked down at her dress in dismay. “Is there something wrong with this dress?”

  “No, no! It’s fine! It’s just that it’s so nice, and we’ll be—you know—climbing on walls. . . .” He left the sentence dangling and fled to his workroom to gather his project drawings and his wits. He hoped she would change out of that beautiful, distracting dress. He couldn’t seem to think straight when she wore it. When Jerusha reappeared she had changed, but that dress proved every bit as distracting as the first. He sighed in resignation as they headed out the door.

  For the first part of the morning they visited the older sections of the wall that had been damaged during King Ahaz’s reign. Eliakim explained terms like “casemate” wall and “header and stretcher” construction, and Jerusha took an interest in everything, asking questions, offering comments.

  Still, she had an eerie coldness about her, a lack of emotion that intrigued and challenged him. Eliakim found himself trying to amuse her, trying to make her laugh and come alive. Her smile, when it finally spread across her face, reminded him of the first tiny wild flowers that bloom after a freezing winter.

  Shortly before noon he took her to one of the highest points on the wall, above the steep cliff overlooking the Kidron Valley. He watched her face as she stood with her hands resting on the top of the wall, looking across the beautiful valley toward the Mount of Olives. A gentle breeze rustled her skirts, and the sun shone on her hair, edging it with gold.

  “It’s so beautiful up here!” she said. “Look how far you can see!”

  “Yes. Isn’t this some view?” He felt strangely short-winded, as if he had run up a steep hill. “You can even see the Judean wilderness, way over there. See?”

  As Jerusha gazed at the horizon, Eliakim stared breathlessly at her long, slender neck. He felt an almost unbearable urge to kiss the hollow of her throat. He gripped the parapet with sweating hands, forcing himself to look away.

  “I think I see it.” She pointed to the distant horizon. “Those brownish-gray hills?”

  “Uh-huh. That’s where the wilderness starts.”

  When she lowered her hand it accidentally brushed against his, and an alarming, thrilling shock soared up Eliakim’s arm and through his body. He had never felt anything like it before.

  “It seems odd to be looking down from the top of the walls instead of being in the valley with the Assyrians,” Jerusha said. “The city feels so secure up here, but—”

  “But what? Tell me. That’s why I asked you to come.”

  “The Assyrians would scarcely worry about these walls. They’re just a trivial annoyance standing in front of their goal.”

  A wave of fear and frustration washed over Eliakim as Jerusha’s words reduced months of hard work into rubble. “But they can’t get their battering rams up to the base of these walls! Look how steep that cliff is!”

  “They wouldn’t attack here. They’d choose a weaker place.”

  Eliakim ran his fingers through his tousled hair. “Like the northwest section. That’s why I plan to reinforce that area and build a casemate wall.” Jerusha didn’t reply. “Now what are you thinking?” he asked anxiously.

  “You’re working so hard, Eliakim, and all of your fortifications will certainly slow them down—”

  “Slow them down!”

  “But the Assyrians don’t care how long it takes. Six months or six years—it’s nothing to them.”

  “So I’m wasting my time and the king’s money? If they decide to attack Jerusalem, nothing can save us? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that I’ve never seen them lose.”

  “So if they decide to attack us—then what? It’s hopeless?”

  She stared into the distance, her eyes wide. When she spoke, something much deeper than ordinary fear edged her voice. “If I heard that the Assyrians were coming to besiege this city I’d run away—into the desert somewhere.”

  The wind blew her hair into her face, and as she brushed it away her hands shook. Eliakim felt ashamed of what he had done, and for a horrible moment he feared that she would collapse again. But when she spoke her voice sounded normal.

  “I’m sorry, Eliakim, but you wanted to know what I thought.”

  “I’d better take you home,” he said, exhaling. “It’s nearly lunchtime.”

  “Eliakim, wait.” Jerusha touched his arm, and Eliakim’s heart began to race. “I’m really sorry. You’ve worked so hard on these walls, and I called them useless. They’re not—it’s just that I’m still so afraid. I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?” Her beautiful green eyes filled with tears, and Eliakim’s heart squeezed.

  “I asked for your honest opinion, and that’s what you gave me. There’s nothing to forgive. Come on. Abba will worry if we’re late.” He took Jerusha’s arm and helped her down the steep steps from the wall.

  Hephzibah sat in her parents’ garden beneath her favorite fig tree, but she found no comfort in the familiar surroundings. Once again she had failed to conceive, and so she had come home rather than endure the bitterness of not being held by her husband. Mama would hold her and comfort her. Mama didn’t care if she broke Yahweh’s ridiculous law.

  “I know I should mind my own business,” Mama said as she tenderly stroked Hephzibah’s thick hair, “but can’t you tell me why you’re so sad? Are you still mourning your baby?”

  Hephzibah nodded, fighting
tears. “Why do I still feel so empty? It’s been almost four years.”

  Her mother drew her closer. “I know—I lost a baby, too.”

  “But you had more children, Mama. I have none.”

  “You will, darling. You will.” Hephzibah’s mother was silent for a moment, then fumbled for words. “I know we’ve never discussed your private life before, but—I just wondered—do you see your husband very often?”

  Hephzibah guessed what her mother was trying to ask, and since she had no one else to talk to about her fears, she opened her heart to her mother.

  “My husband has no other wives or concubines except me. I should have conceived by now. I feel like a failure.”

  “The king has no harem?” her mother asked in astonishment.

  “He says it’s against Yahweh’s Law.” She heard the bitterness in her voice and recognized a familiar prickle of jealousy at the mention of Hezekiah’s God.

  “You’re the king’s only wife?” her mother repeated.

  “He says Yahweh’s Law allows him only one wife. But that’s the problem—don’t you see? If I don’t give him an heir, he’ll have to divorce me and marry someone who isn’t barren.” She hated that word. It reminded her of the lifeless Judean wilderness, and she imagined her womb dry and shriveled like a withered leaf that would crumble at the touch.

  “Couldn’t a concubine give him a son?”

  “No, he got very angry when I asked him that question. I’ve never seen him so angry. He made it very clear that he will never take a concubine.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I love him so much, Mama, yet I can’t enjoy being with him anymore. Every time he comes to see me I wish he would go away, because I know I’ll fail him again. Yet I don’t want him to go away! I love him, and I’m so afraid he’ll leave me forever! I’m not even making sense, am I?”

  Hephzibah cried quietly as her mother held her. “Sometimes I’m filled with hope—maybe this time, maybe this month. But then my time comes—and I’ve failed again.” She tried to wipe away tears that wouldn’t stop. “Do you think Yahweh is punishing me?”