by Lynn Austin
“As palace administrator, I speak for the king.”
“Answer my question, Shebna! Did King Hezekiah tell you to come here?”
“I am trying to spare you the embarrassment of being publicly dismissed.”
“That’s very kind of you. And I thought you didn’t like me.”
“You will resign, then?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do not take too long, or the decision will be taken out of your hands.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It is a fact.” Shebna turned and left.
Eliakim sat deep in thought for several minutes. He shrank at the thought of being fired, but did King Hezekiah really feel the same way as Shebna? Eliakim had taken an oath of loyalty and obedience to King Hezekiah, but was it disloyal to disagree with him? Should he resign? For his family’s sake, Eliakim knew he would be wise to step down voluntarily. But what if this was Shebna’s idea and not the king’s? Eliakim would hate to let Shebna have his own way.
Finally, Eliakim spread a blank square of parchment on the table in front of him and carefully penned his letter of resignation. He signed it and sealed it with his signet ring, but he had no peace about the decision he had just made. He rolled it up and tucked it into the fold of his tunic, then put on his outer cloak.
“Where are you going, my lord?” his aide asked when he saw Eliakim leaving.
“I’m not sure.”
He pushed past his aide and left the palace, hurrying down the hill toward the city. He walked past the street where he lived, into the older section of Jerusalem with its closely packed houses and tangled, twisting streets. He passed horses and mules straining beneath their loads and children playing games in the dirt—and he had to watch his step to avoid the shallow gutters where waste water ran. He had walked this route long ago in the dark of night, and it had seemed spooky to a boy of thirteen. Years later, little had changed.
The streets all looked the same, and he wandered in circles for a while, passing the same tethered donkey three times before finally finding the rabbi’s modest house. As Eliakim stood on the threshold he was struck by the same thought he’d had the last time—why would Isaiah, grandson of King Joash, choose to live here instead of among the nobility?
Eliakim knocked on the gate and waited. “You will be a father to the house of Judah,” Isaiah had once predicted on this very spot. How astonishing that it had been fulfilled. But perhaps Eliakim’s term of office was over now.
He pounded on the front gate again, and Isaiah came to the door. His probing gaze and quiet dignity made Eliakim feel like a tongue-tied boy again. To his surprise, Isaiah bowed.
“What an honor, Lord Secretary. Please come in.”
Eliakim followed him inside and looked around. The fire in the hearth had burned out, and a chill had settled over the sparsely furnished house. Isaiah offered him a seat beside a table strewn with parchments.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
Eliakim didn’t know where to begin and he struggled to marshal his thoughts. “I’ve come to ask your advice, Rabbi. Shebna came to me a while ago and said that I should resign, since I disagree with all of King Hezekiah’s decisions. I think the king would have told me himself if he wanted me to resign, but I can’t be sure. I don’t know what to do. I remember how you once prophesied that I would hold this position one day, and I wondered if—”
“You wondered if I’d give you another prediction about your future to spare you the embarrassment of being fired?”
Eliakim stared in surprise, then looked away.
“Go see a fortune-teller, Eliakim. God doesn’t show us the future to spare our feelings.”
Eliakim felt like the child he had been years earlier. The silence became uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Rabbi,” he said at last. “May I begin again?” He ran his fingers through his hair and drew a deep breath. “When the ambassadors came from Babylon, I advised against making a treaty with them. They said they came to pay respect, but it didn’t ring true. I didn’t trust them or their motives. I don’t know—maybe I was wrong, but I spoke my opinion, and when the king ignored it I did as I was told. And as you know, King Hezekiah signed an alliance with Babylon.”
Isaiah nodded slightly. His face wore a look of keen interest as if probing for the truth, and Eliakim knew he would see through any lies or shading of the truth.
“Then today the Egyptians came. Again, I disagreed with signing an alliance with them, and—” He stopped suddenly, shaking his head. “Rabbi, I don’t understand why you’re not speaking out against these treaties the way you did once before. You were so opposed to the Ashdod rebellion that you prophesied stripped and barefoot. Yet this time you’re silent. Why? Is this different somehow? Are we supposed to join the alliance this time?”
“God’s Word hasn’t changed.”
“Then why haven’t you prophesied against this treaty with Egypt? I strongly advised against it today, but I was only one voice.”
“And you think the king would listen if I went stripped and barefoot again?”
Eliakim shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, Rabbi. Maybe he would.”
“No. King Hezekiah’s pride has drowned out the voice of God. Until that pride is silenced, the king wouldn’t hear me if I shouted God’s Word from the pinnacle of the Temple. Hezekiah knows the right thing to do. He has God’s written Word in the Torah, and he has the experience of God’s protection from Assyria. But he has chosen to trust in the strength of pagan nations. He wants to be like them. There is nothing I can say that will change his mind. ‘Pride goes before destruction,’ and when God destroys Babylon and Egypt, we will be destroyed along with those we trusted.”
A runner of fear twined itself around Eliakim, clinging to him. “But I don’t agree with the king, Rabbi, and it’s getting more and more difficult for me to carry out his plans. Maybe I don’t belong in the palace anymore. Maybe I should resign.”
“Do you believe your advice to the king is what God wants him to do?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“And are you afraid to continue speaking the truth? Afraid of what will happen to you?”
Eliakim remembered preparing to die at Gedaliah’s hands months earlier. Why did he hesitate now? “Maybe fear is part of it,” he said.
“Let me ask you this, Eliakim—do you believe Yahweh put you where you are? And that He did it for a reason?”
“I do,” he said quietly. “I know I couldn’t have earned such an honor by myself.”
“Then who will speak for God if you don’t? God put you at the king’s left hand, Eliakim. If Hezekiah asks for your advice, give it to him. Yes, you might be humiliated and thrown out of the palace for speaking for God. Are you willing to risk that?”
Eliakim thought of how Isaiah had gone stripped through Jerusalem’s streets and he felt ashamed of his own fears. “I would like to be willing . . . but won’t you help me, Rabbi? I can’t do this alone.”
Isaiah rose and walked back and forth across the tiny room a few times. Finally he turned to Eliakim. “I went to see King Hezekiah after the Babylonians came. I spoke God’s Word. He didn’t ask for it, but I gave it to him anyway. I’m not certain he understood what it meant. He hasn’t asked for my advice this time, either, because, as the psalmist has written, ‘In his pride the wicked does not seek him; in all his thoughts there is no room for God.’ I have the Word of the Lord for Hezekiah. It’s right here.” He gestured to the pile of scrolls on the table. “You may read these if you’d like, Eliakim. They say the same things you’re telling him.”
“Then why won’t you share them with the king? Please, Rabbi. I can’t challenge him all alone.”
Isaiah stared at the scrolls scattered on the tabletop for a moment, deep in thought. “Confronting kings with the Word of God isn’t new for me, Eliakim. I’ve had plenty of practice.” He smiled fleetingly, then sighed. “But I had hoped . . . Hezekiah has tried so hard to do what is right
, I’d hoped that I would never have to do this—opposing him like I did his father.”
“But you’ll do it? You’ll prophesy to him?”
Isaiah nodded sadly, and Eliakim felt as if he could breathe again. “Thank you, Rabbi.”
“No, don’t thank me, Eliakim. Unfortunately, my words will do no good. King Hezekiah will not heed them.”
15
The banquet with the Egyptians ended very late, and the strain from the elaborate affair left Hezekiah feeling too tense and edgy to sleep. As he passed the deserted harem on his way to his rooms, the familiar longing for Hephzibah tugged at him. She would always soothe him and help him wind down after a day such as this one, and a painful, lonely ache filled his soul in the place that Hephzibah had once filled. He turned away from the harem, telling himself not to dwell on what he had lost. Yet he found that he couldn’t do it.
Forgetting Hephzibah had proven to be a hopeless task. It would have been easier to forget his own name. She filled his thoughts throughout the day and tormented his dreams at night. He would try to busy himself with the daily tasks of his life, but her image would return to him in unguarded moments, stopping him like a sword thrust through his gut. When he arose in the morning he would resolve that this would be the day he would forget her. He would start all over again. He would erase her from his mind. But slowly, silently, before he was even aware of what was happening, she would slip back into his thoughts, and the devastating sorrow would engulf him once more. A continual wail of mourning filled the background of his days, a cry that couldn’t be silenced. She was gone. He would never see her again.
Sometimes he wondered what Hephzibah’s days were like. Did she think of him a million times, too? Did she feel the same gnawing, churning anger and frustration at the hopelessness of it all? Was she sorry for what she had done? Did she suffer as he did? He would never know, never see her again. Never.
He went through the daily routine of running the kingdom on instinct, certain that his grief remained hidden. No one knew the torment he lived in or the pain he felt each time her face appeared in his mind. He hated her for what she had done.
Get on with your life. Forget her. He recited the little speech to himself whenever something would remind him of her, and sometimes he thought he was beginning to get on top of his grief, beginning to forget her. Then he would recall something she’d said, something she had done that had made him laugh, or he would see her empty place at the banquet table again as he had tonight, and his sorrow would swallow him alive. When would it stop hurting so much? When would the pain go away?
He hurried back to his own chambers, and when he opened the door he was surprised to find several lamps lit and a warm fire burning in the brazier. He was even more surprised to find a woman standing in front of the fire. Hephzibah?
Hezekiah shook himself. Hephzibah was gone. He would never see her again. This woman was very young, the age Hephzibah had been when they had first married. And she was tall and long-limbed, not dainty and petite like his wife.
“Good evening, Your Majesty.” She dropped to her knees, bowing with her head to the floor, and he recalled how awestruck Hephzibah had been at first. He took a few steps closer and waited.
“You may rise,” he said impatiently. She raised only her head, and he studied her features in the lamplight—dark brown eyes in an oval face; a fine, straight nose; skin the color of honey; a soft, sensuous mouth. She was a lovely woman but not as beautiful as . . . He caught himself making the comparison and hated himself for it.
“What’s your name?” he asked to break the uncomfortable silence.
“I am Abigail, daughter of Joah.”
“You mean, Joah the Levite? My scribe?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Sit down, Abigail, and tell me why you’ve come.” He sank down wearily on the couch, suddenly aware of how tired he was.
When Abigail sat down beside him, Hezekiah stared at her, amazed by her boldness.
“I have come here for you, Your Majesty,” she said. “That is . . . if you want me.”
Hezekiah looked around the room for the first time and realized that his valet and the other servants were gone. A tray of refreshments, a flask of wine, and two goblets lay spread out on a low table. He and Abigail were alone.
He saw, then, how carefully she had been chosen for him—beautiful, yet physically the opposite of Hephzibah. She was the daughter of an important family with a God-fearing father and was probably well versed in the tiniest letter of the Law. Hezekiah would never find Abigail, daughter of Joah the Levite, bowing down to an idol. Yet Hezekiah felt angry for Abigail’s sake, angry at whoever had arranged all of this.
“Shall I pour you some wine, my lord?” she asked.
“All right.” He saw her hand shake as she poured wine and handed it to him. He set the goblet down without tasting it. “Abigail—’a spring of joy.’ It’s a lovely name for a lovely woman.”
“Thank you,” she said with lowered eyes.
“Tell me something, Abigail. Who arranged for you to come here?”
“What do you mean, my lord?”
“You must realize that I wasn’t expecting you to be here. That this . . . that you . . . that it’s all a surprise to me.”
“Yes. They told me you might send me away.”
“That’s what I’m wondering. Who told you? Who made all these arrangements? Was it my palace administrator, Shebna?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She searched his face, anxiously. “Are you angry?”
In a way he was angry. Shebna had no right to interfere in his personal life—to simply decide that he needed a woman and then send one to his chambers. But he couldn’t summon enough energy to release that anger. Ever since his illness, Hezekiah had felt very little emotion at all, walking through each day in a flat, gray haze. Maybe Shebna was right. Maybe he needed a wife. And his nation certainly needed an heir to the throne, a son to take his place when he died.
“No, Abigail,” he said at last. “I’m not angry.”
She looked so worried that he instinctively drew her into his arms to console her. But as he felt her heart beating rapidly against his chest, he wondered if it was fair to Abigail to ask her to be with him like this. Would he ever be able to stop comparing her to Hephzibah and see her for herself? Even if she bore him a dozen sons, would he ever love her as he’d once loved Hephzibah? Or trust her completely, with his heart and soul? Many years ago his grandfather had said that a wife deserved all of her husband’s love and devotion. Abigail certainly deserved that, but Hezekiah wondered if he could give it to her. He released her and held her at arm’s length.
“Abigail, look at me. I need to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Is this what you want, to come to my bed, to be part of my harem? Or are you here out of obedience to your father and Shebna?” She lowered her eyes. “Please, Abigail. I’m not trying to trick you. I need to know that this is something you want.”
As he waited for her to answer, he thought of Hephzibah again, of the risk she’d taken when she had sneaked out of her house to catch a glimpse of the man she would marry. He knew her strong will and daring had been part of her, part of the reason he had loved her so much. He wanted to close his mind against the pain and the memories of Hephzibah that Abigail was forcing him to relive, but he couldn’t seem to do it.
“Is this what you want?” he asked again. “You surely know that living here in the palace harem won’t be a normal life for you. Don’t you want a husband and a family—a life like other women?”
“I would obey my father, no matter who he told me to marry,” Abigail replied. “He knows what’s best for me.” She gave the standard, predictable answer, what everyone expected her to say.
Hezekiah stood. “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “but is it what you want? You have a mind . . . opinions . . . desires, don’t you?”
“Yes, I
have desires.”
“And what are they?” He saw the uncertainty in her eyes and said, “You may tell me, Abigail. Your words will never leave this room.”
She didn’t answer at first, and when she finally spoke it was slowly, hesitantly. “For as long as I can remember, ever since I was a child, you have been the king of Judah. I’ve watched you from the Women’s Court as you stood on the royal dais at the Temple. My father—the entire nation—respects you because you are such a great king. Year after year we’ve waited for the announcement of the birth of your heir. But it has never come. All your people grieve for you.”
Hezekiah wondered where this long, rambling speech was leading, but he forced himself to be patient with her.
“Your Majesty, all my life, all I have ever desired is to have a husband and children. I would be content to marry an ordinary man or maybe a Levite like my father. But you must understand that to be chosen . . . to be honored with the privilege of bearing the king’s son . . .” She stopped, and he saw tears in her eyes. “There are many women who would envy me because I am here with you.”
“Abigail. Do you want to be here?”
She stood and reached to tenderly touch his face, as if to assure herself that he was real, that she wasn’t dreaming.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I can’t believe that I am.” Her gesture and words moved him. He hadn’t known such tenderness since his last night with Hephzibah.
Hezekiah felt the stirring of desire for the first time since the fire. But at the same time he knew the terrible pain that accompanied love. He feared he might hurt this gentle girl the way Hephzibah had hurt him.
“Thank you for your honesty, Abigail. Now I owe you the truth, as well. Before you decide that this is what you want, you need to understand that I’m not certain I can ever love anyone the way I loved—” He couldn’t say Hephzibah’s name. “The way I loved my first wife. Could you live with that, Abigail? You’re so young. Could you live the rest of your life with me, knowing that I might never be able to say the words ‘I love you’?”
