The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  He heard a whoosh as dried palm branches in an earthenware jar caught fire, then the angry crackle of flames as they jumped to a tapestry banner hanging above the jar. Beside him the woven lattice screen that shielded Hephzibah’s bath erupted in flames, and from there the fire quickly leaped up the gauzy curtains that enclosed her bed. It was spreading out of control. He had to do something.

  Hezekiah tore off his outer robe and used it to fight the rapidly spreading fire. Hot smoke choked him as he swung the robe into the middle of the flames, over and over again, beating with desperate strength.

  But the fire spread faster than he could fight it. A wall of flames surrounded Hezekiah, following the arc of spilled oil. Heat seared his chest where he had torn his tunic; flying sparks singed his arms and face. He ignored the pain as he battled on.

  Suddenly he heard Hephzibah scream. She had backed into a corner beside the flaming bed with no way to escape. He tore the blazing curtains from the canopy to clear a path for her, shouting, “Run, Hephzibah! Get out of there!” She didn’t move.

  Before he could grab her and pull her out, a piece of flaming debris suddenly fell onto his clothing, igniting the hem and tassels of his tunic. He wrestled to extinguish his burning clothes, crying out in agony as the oily flames burned off a large patch of skin on his leg.

  Dizzy with shock and pain, Hezekiah fought for his life and for Hephzibah’s, desperate to bring the fire under control. When he could no longer use his robe to beat the flames, he bailed water from the bath to soak the carpet. He scooped handfuls of sand from the toppled idol to douse burning puddles of oil. He grabbed the flaming tapestry banner and tore it down so the fire wouldn’t spread to the ceiling beams. Choking on acrid smoke, he yanked the curtains off the windows before the fire reached them and used the heavy cloth to smother the flames. After what seemed like many hours, the fire was finally out.

  Hezekiah sagged with exhaustion. His lungs ached from breathing smoke. His blistered hands burned as if still immersed in the flames, and the shin of his right leg where his clothes had caught fire was a throbbing, open wound. But it was better that he suffered, better that he burned in the flames than his firstborn child.

  The smell of burnt flesh and hair lingered in Hezekiah’s nostrils, and it seemed appropriate to him. It was the smell of idolatry.

  Hephzibah’s shattered Asherah lay among the ashes where it had fallen, its severed head smiling as if nothing had happened. Hezekiah bent down and painfully scooped up a fistful of sand, then walked over to where Hephzibah still cowered beside the bed. He grabbed her hand and forced it open, pouring sand into it.

  “Here’s your goddess,” he said. “Pray to this.”

  Then, stepping over the smoldering wreckage, he left her.

  Servants rushed into Hephzibah’s room from all directions, but she didn’t move from where she sat slumped in her gutted bedroom.

  “What have I done? What have I done?” she sobbed.

  Hezekiah was gone. The moment he walked out her door, Hephzibah knew she had lost him forever. The anguish and bewilderment she’d seen on his face would haunt her for the rest of her life. She wished she had died in the fire.

  She knew how much Hezekiah’s God meant to him, how hard he had worked for religious reform. Why had she deceived him and betrayed him by worshiping an idol? Her reasons seemed trivial to her now, beside the enormity of Hezekiah’s anger and hatred. He would never forgive her. She wanted to die.

  She stared at the handful of sand she clutched and watched it slowly slip away between her fingers. She had lost Hezekiah, her only reason for living, over a handful of worthless sand.

  Hezekiah limped down the hall toward his chambers in a daze, coughing smoke from his lungs. The searing pain from his burns was slowly penetrating his shock, but the pain of what Hephzibah had done to him was far greater.

  Before he reached his door, he saw Eliakim running up the hall toward him. “What happened, Your Majesty? We smelled smoke. Are you—God of Abraham, help us! Look at you!”

  Hezekiah glanced down at his torn, burnt clothes. “There was a fire in the harem. . . .” he said dazedly. “Some oil lamps spilled. It’s . . . out now. . . .”

  “Your Majesty, you’re badly burned! Here—let me help you.”

  With Eliakim’s aid, Hezekiah stumbled inside his chambers and sank onto his couch. He heard Eliakim calling for servants and issuing orders, but his voice sounded as if he were shouting from the end of a long tunnel.

  “Fill a basin with cold water. Hurry! You—run to the harem. There was a fire there. Make sure it’s out. And you—fetch the royal physicians quickly.”

  Hezekiah’s valet stood over him, wringing his hands.

  “Get some strong wine,” Eliakim told the man. “Now!” The servant dashed off, leaving them alone.

  Hezekiah felt the pain surging and expanding like a powerful tide, strengthening every minute. His hands and his chest burned as if still immersed in the flames, but the greatest agony came from the burn on his leg. He forced himself to talk between labored breaths, struggling to stay conscious.

  “I guess I was foolish . . . to try to fight the fire . . . myself. But I couldn’t call for help. . . . I didn’t want . . . anyone . . . to see . . .”

  Sweat poured down Hezekiah’s face into his eyes. He tried to wipe it away with his forearm, his swollen hands as useless as if they belonged to someone else. Eliakim grabbed a linen cloth and mopped his face and neck.

  “Hold on, Your Majesty. Help is coming.”

  “My leg,” Hezekiah groaned.

  “Yes, I know. God of Abraham—it’s very bad.”

  Hezekiah had to keep talking. He didn’t want to pass out. “Eliakim, you’re married, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, don’t you remember, Your Majesty? I married the Israelite woman who escaped from the Assyrians.”

  “I remember her . . . astounding courage . . .” He leaned his head against the cushions and stifled a moan. “Do you . . . do you love her?”

  “Yes. I love her as I love my own life. She is a precious gift to me, from God.”

  Hezekiah closed his eyes and turned away. For a moment, Eliakim’s words felt more painful than any of his wounds. Hephzibah had been a gift, too—from Ahaz.

  “If you love your wife . . . as I loved Hephzibah . . . then you’ll understand.” He opened his eyes again and looked up at Eliakim. “Tonight . . . when I went to her chambers . . . she had a graven image of Asherah. She was worshiping it.”

  “What?”

  “I tried to destroy it. . . . I knocked over some oil lamps. The fire spread so quickly . . . it was out of control. . . .”

  “Oh, God of Abraham!”

  Hezekiah’s stomach twisted as he remembered the urn and the vow Hephzibah had written on it in charcoal.

  “And she—” But grief choked off his words. He grimaced in pain, hoping Eliakim wouldn’t notice that he was trying not to weep.

  “Your Majesty, I-I don’t know what to say. . . .”

  There was nothing anyone could say. The unimaginable had happened.

  The valet hurried into the room with the wine, and Eliakim grabbed it from his hand. Hezekiah heard him pouring it into a cup. A moment later, Eliakim held it to his lips. “Here. It will help ease your pain.”

  But as he drank the bitter wine, Hezekiah knew it would never ease the pain in his soul. He had never forgiven his father for planning to sacrifice him. How could he forgive Hephzibah for vowing to sacrifice his own child?

  Eliakim held the cup for him until Hezekiah had drained it. He felt it burn a path to his stomach, but the throbbing, searing pain in his leg grew worse. He moaned in agony, unable to stop himself. Eliakim quickly poured another cup for him but he was too nauseated to drink more.

  “No . . . I can’t.”

  Another servant arrived with a bronze basin of water, and Hezekiah plunged his hands into it, longing for cooling relief. But the relief lasted only an instant, and he fought to keep
from fainting as pain shuddered through his body.

  He looked up at Eliakim again and forced himself to keep talking. “Even if I had found her . . . with another man . . . it would have been better than what she has done. She betrayed me . . . and everything I believed in. She brought that . . . into my own house!”

  Eliakim held the cup out to him again, and Hezekiah saw deep sorrow in his friend’s eyes. “Your Majesty, what would you like us to do with her?” he asked quietly.

  Idolatry demanded the death penalty. Hezekiah and Eliakim both knew it. But even in his anger, Hezekiah couldn’t pronounce the death sentence on Hephzibah.

  “I can’t do it, Eliakim,” he said softly. “I can’t.”

  Eliakim nodded in understanding.

  “But she is no longer my wife,” he continued. “Have Shebna prepare divorce papers. She is dead to me. Never mention her name again.”

  One by one, the court physicians arrived. “You must lie down, Your Majesty,” one of them said after seeing his leg. “We can tend you better that way.”

  The servants helped Hezekiah to his bed, and the movement initiated another wave of pain and nausea that nearly overwhelmed him. He lay flat on his back, panting as he struggled to keep from crying out.

  The physicians examined his arms and face and chest, spreading thick balm made with aloe on his numerous burns. Then they plastered his swollen hands with balm and loosely wrapped them in gauze. Finally they turned their attention to his leg. He had glanced at the wound himself and knew that all the flesh on his shin had burned away except for a few blackened shreds still lying in the open wound.

  “The tassels and the gold threads from your robe have melted into the wound,” one of the physicians said. “And there seems to be dirt . . . or maybe sand?”

  “Yes . . . probably sand,” Hezekiah said, remembering the hollow idol. “I threw sand on the fire.”

  “I’m sorry, but we’ll need to clean the wound thoroughly. It will be very painful.”

  “Go ahead.”

  He would welcome the pain if only it would help him forget what Hephzibah had done. He fought back bitter tears at the irony of her betrayal; he had remained faithful to only one wife so he wouldn’t be tempted by idolatry—yet she had secretly worshiped idols all along. He had never known the evil hidden in her heart. He had confided in her, shared his life with her, loved her as he had loved no other person. But she had lied to him, pretending to serve God while keeping a secret part of herself, an evil part, hidden from him. All these years.

  “We have special drugs we can mix with your wine, Your Majesty—for the pain.”

  Hezekiah shook his head, remembering his father.

  The physician motioned to the servants. “Get ready, then. You’ll have to hold him still.” They gripped his shoulders and ankles.

  Hezekiah clenched his teeth, reciting to himself as he braced to endure more pain: Hear, O Israel! . . . Yahweh is our God—Yahweh alone! . . . You shall love Yahweh your God with all your heart and . . .

  The first agonizing stab sliced through him. Hezekiah cried out, then felt nothing more as he lost consciousness.

  3

  Hours later Hezekiah awoke to agony. He tried to sit up, then moaned as pain overwhelmed him. One of the physicians appeared beside him in the darkness.

  “Lie still, Your Majesty. Don’t try to move.”

  His mouth and tongue felt dry. He could scarcely speak. “I’m so thirsty. . . .”

  “Here. Take a drink of water.”

  Hezekiah’s hands were useless—swollen and blistered beneath the bandages. The physician gently raised Hezekiah’s head and held the cup to his lips. Some of the water rolled down his throat; the rest dribbled down his chin into his beard. Hezekiah cursed his helplessness.

  “Do you want something for the pain, Your Majesty?”

  “No.” He could scarcely endure it, but he refused to admit his weakness. “How long will I be like this?”

  “In the morning we’ll examine your burns again and—”

  “No. Tell me now.”

  “Surely you realize that you’ve received numerous burns and—”

  “How serious are they?”

  “Your hands and part of your chest are badly blistered.”

  “And my leg?”

  “Your skin was completely burned away. The wound is very deep. And it’s been contaminated with sand and bits of cloth. We did our best to cleanse it, but—”

  “How long until I’m healed?” How long would he suffer this unspeakable agony, this maddening helplessness?

  “We can’t be certain, but you must rest for at least a week.”

  A week. Lying helplessly with water dribbling down my chin.

  “No! Never!”

  “But rest is the best cure, my lord.” He offered Hezekiah another drink, then wiped the water off his face as if he were a child.

  “Leave me now,” he commanded.

  “But you might need—”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Hezekiah heard the door close. He was alone. He shut his eyes again, but the pain prevented him from sleeping.

  He had found Hephzibah worshiping a pagan idol.

  Hezekiah had never forgotten the vivid images of his brothers burning to death in Molech’s flames. How would he ever erase the image of his wife bowing before Asherah, pledging to sacrifice his child? He had fought the fires of idolatry all his life; tonight they had defeated him.

  Alone in the darkness, Hezekiah didn’t try to stop the tears that rolled down his face and disappeared into his beard. Hephzibah, the only woman he had ever loved, had deceived him. How long had she worshiped idols? One year? Ten years? What did it matter if it was a day or a lifetime? He could never forgive her for what she had done.

  “Man and woman . . . God’s presence will dwell in their midst.” Years ago, his grandfather had explained God’s plan for marriage, and Hezekiah had thought he’d shared that kind of love with Hephzibah. In his happiness he had thought God’s presence had blessed them. But he had believed a lie. He covered his face with bandaged hands and wept.

  By the time the sun rose in the morning, Hezekiah had vowed never to shed another tear over Hephzibah. He buried his love for her deep in his soul, along with his sorrow over losing her, locking them away in a place he vowed never to search. Two emotions commanded all his attention now: the agonizing pain of his burns and his unrestrained anger.

  He had allowed the anger to build during the night until it overshadowed everything, even his pain. As the sky began to grow light, he shouted for his valet. The three court physicians followed the servant into the room.

  “Help me up,” Hezekiah ordered. “It’s nearly time for the morning sacrifice.”

  None of the men moved.

  “Don’t gape at me like that—I said help me up!” He struggled to sit, and his valet finally hurried over to help him. “That’s it. Now swing my leg over the side.”

  The servant obeyed, and Hezekiah moaned involuntarily as the blood raced down his injured leg. One of the physicians stepped forward, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Your Majesty, I don’t think—”

  “I didn’t hire you to think,” he said through clenched teeth. “I hired you to make me well. Find Shebna and tell him to bring the divorce papers. The rest of you help me get dressed.”

  Hezekiah struggled into his clothes, each movement intensifying the pain. When the servants slipped his tunic over his head and the linen fabric brushed against his chest, he nearly passed out. The edges of his wounds, where blistered flesh met uninjured skin, were excruciatingly painful.

  “Shall we order a sedan chair, Your Majesty?”

  “What for?”

  “Well, to carry you up to—”

  “I don’t need to be carried.” He would not let Hephzibah’s idolatry turn him into a cripple.

  Hezekiah stood and took a step forward. The room whirled, and his vision nar
rowed to a tunnel. The physicians rushed forward to catch him.

  “No! Leave me alone. I can walk by myself.”

  Hezekiah put one foot in front of the other, ignoring his agony and the bizarrely tilting floor, until he reached the couch in his sitting room.

  “Thank you for your services,” he told his physicians. “You may go home.”

  “But you can’t—”

  “Yes, I can. And I will. Good day.”

  As he waited for Shebna, Hezekiah tried to calculate how far he would need to walk to get to the Temple, how many stairs he would have to climb.

  “Pour me some of that,” he told his servant, indicating the flask of strong wine Eliakim had made him drink the night before. The warm wine burned all the way to his stomach, but he drained the cup, hoping the drink would numb the pain enough to get him to the Temple and back again.

  “Now bring me something to eat.”

  A few minutes later, Shebna arrived carrying a parchment scroll. He stared at Hezekiah in shock.

  “You look terrible, Your Majesty! Do you really think you should be out of bed?”

  “Obviously I do! I’m sitting here, aren’t I? Where are my divorce papers?”

  “I have them.” He held up the scroll, then let his hand drop to his side again.

  “Did Eliakim explain why I asked for them?”

  “Yes. I have heard the story, Your Majesty. I am very sorry.”

  “The entire nation has probably heard the story by now. That’s why I’m going up to the Temple. Nothing—no one—is going to stop me from setting an example for my nation.”

  “Do you think it is wise to let the people see you like this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you looked in a mirror, Your Majesty?”

  Hezekiah looked down at his bandaged hands and sighed. “I shouldn’t have fought the fire. I should have let everything burn.”

  “I saw the damage this morning,” Shebna said. “The room was completely destroyed.”

  “Good. Have it rebuilt some other way. For my new wife.”

  Hezekiah’s stomach twisted as he said the words. The divorce would be final. He would never see Hephzibah again. He wondered how he would learn to love another woman—or to trust her. But maybe love and trust didn’t matter. Maybe having a son would be enough.