The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  She quickly sank into the chilly water and let it engulf her. She remembered her nightly rituals in the palace as she’d prepared herself for her husband with lotions and perfumes, and she could no longer contain her grief. Tears streamed down her face and blended with the water until body and soul were both drenched.

  At last she emerged, shivering and clean. Jerusha was waiting to wrap a thick towel around her. But when Hephzibah saw the bulging reminder of Jerusha’s pregnancy she suddenly recalled Isaiah’s impossible words, “More are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband,” and it seemed to Hephzibah that they were conspiring to torment her. She lashed out in anger.

  “You deliberately came here, pregnant and glowing, just to rub it in my face, didn’t you?”

  “Of course not. I already told you, I came here as a friend.”

  “Your lies don’t even make sense. Why would a woman of your stature do such humiliating work—servants’ work?”

  “Because I’m an ordinary farmer’s daughter, my lady. I’m used to serving. I enjoy it. Come, sit here and let me wash your hair.” Jerusha gestured to a bench and the basin of warmed water that the servants had left in the bath’s outer room. “I grew up in a simple home on my father’s land in Israel,” she continued as she lathered Hephzibah’s hair. “My sister and I always scrubbed each other’s hair.”

  The soap had a clean, fragrant scent, and Jerusha’s fingers felt strong and soothing as they massaged Hephzibah’s scalp. The bath had refreshed Hephzibah, and she relished the sensation of clean hair and tingling skin—yet hated herself for enjoying it.

  “I’m not your sister,” she said bitterly. “I no longer have a family. I’ve disgraced them all, and they want nothing to do with me. They even took my servant Merab away from me.”

  “I never had servants, growing up,” Jerusha said. “And I’m still not used to letting them wait on me and do all the work. I used to milk the goats, labor in the fields, bake bread, weave cloth—all good, honest work.” She gently eased Jerusha’s head back so she could rinse her hair, pouring dipperfuls of warm water over it until it was rinsed.

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re pretending to be my servant,” Hephzibah said.

  “I’m not your servant, my lady. I’m your friend. I imagine you must be very lonely here.”

  Lonely. The word didn’t begin to describe the desolation Hephzibah felt day after day. Hezekiah’s other concubines had mocked her or ignored her when they’d lived together in the palace, but now their hatred for her was undisguised. She was the reason they had been banished here in the first place, after Hezekiah had chosen her for his only wife. The servants in the villa didn’t try to conceal their dislike for Hephzibah, either, blaming her for Hezekiah’s illness and for the fact that he had no heir. Their loyalty to the king made Hephzibah everyone’s enemy.

  Jerusha wrapped a dry towel around Hephzibah’s hair when she finished and began massaging lotion on her shoulders and back. Jerusha’s touch was so gentle and soothing that it brought tears to Hephzibah’s eyes.

  “That’s enough,” she ordered after a few moments, unable to bear any gesture of love or tenderness. “I’ll do it myself.”

  Jerusha held out a gown for her to wear. It was a finely woven one, unlike the stiff sackcloth she had worn ever since the fire. Hephzibah stopped her as she tried to slip it over her head.

  “No, I don’t want that one. Where’s the gown I was wearing?”

  “It has to be washed, my lady. Besides, you don’t need to wear sackcloth any more.”

  “Aren’t I allowed to mourn all that I’ve lost?”

  “Of course. But your life isn’t over.”

  “The Lord will call you back . . .” Isaiah had promised. Hephzibah couldn’t afford to believe him, couldn’t afford to hope.

  “Don’t try to offer me hope, Jerusha. My life is over. This is a living death sentence.” Jerusha didn’t reply. She made Hephzibah put on the dress, then led her outside to sit in the courtyard where the sun could dry her hair. Hephzibah could hear children playing beyond the walls of the villa, voices and laughter in the distance. She hated sitting in the courtyard, hated being reminded that life went on as usual beyond these walls while her own life had come to an end.

  Jerusha took out a comb and raked it through Hephzibah’s thick hair to smooth out the tangles. Hephzibah remembered how Hezekiah had loved to bury his fingers in her hair, and she squeezed her eyes closed to stop her tears. When Jerusha finished combing and Hephzibah opened her eyes again, a servant was approaching with a tray of food for lunch.

  “Let’s eat it outside, shall we?” Jerusha said. “The sun is so nice and warm.”

  “You can eat it wherever you want,” Hephzibah replied. “I’m not hungry.” She returned to her room and sank onto her bed. Jerusha followed a moment later with the tray, setting it on a table before sitting down beside her.

  “Look how thin you’ve become,” Jerusha said, wrapping her fingers around Hephzibah’s wrist.

  Hephzibah pulled her hand free. “I said I’m not hungry.”

  “You want to die, don’t you? That’s why you’re slowly committing suicide.”

  Hephzibah didn’t reply.

  “I understand how you feel,” Jerusha told her. “I felt the same way when I was a slave to the Assyrians. All hope was gone, and I almost did it—I almost killed myself.”

  “I should die for what I’ve done.”

  “Is your sin any worse than mine? I wasn’t just an ordinary Assyrian slave, Hephzibah. I made a bargain with my captors; I let them use my body in exchange for my life. I deserved to die, too.” She layered cheese and cucumbers on a piece of bread and thrust it toward Hephzibah. “Eat this.”

  Hephzibah saw the determination on Jerusha’s face and accepted the food rather than be force-fed.

  “I was without hope, too,” Jerusha continued. “But God helped me escape from that terrible place, and He gave me a brand-new life. Eliakim knew all about my past and everything I’d done, yet he forgave me, loved me.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Hephzibah said bitterly. “I’m happy for you. But you know very well that my husband will never forgive me, never take me back. I’ll be in this place until the day that I die!”

  Isaiah’s words came to her again, unbidden: “The Lord will call you back . . .” She wanted to scream.

  “Maybe that’s true,” Jerusha said. “Maybe you won’t leave this villa the same way I left the Assyrian camp.” She handed a slice of fruit to Hephzibah. “But I was still a captive for a long time after I escaped. I was so bitter and angry with God that I couldn’t accept my freedom or find forgiveness because I thought I didn’t deserve them. But on the day I asked God to forgive me for all the things I’d done, and for all my anger and hatred—that was the day I finally felt free inside. You can still find freedom and peace in this place—and even joy.”

  “Sing, O barren woman . . .” Isaiah’s words taunted her. Hephzibah lashed back in pain.

  “Will you sing songs of joy when the Assyrians invade us? They’ve declared war on us, in case you haven’t heard. I doubt if you’ll feel peace and joy when they breach the city walls and take you captive again!”

  Jerusha’s hand faltered for a moment as she poured from the pitcher, and Hephzibah glimpsed the terrible fear that she was struggling against. Hephzibah knew how cruel her words had been and how much pain she was causing Jerusha, but she didn’t know how else to drive her away. She didn’t want kindness and friendship. She didn’t deserve them. “What will happen to your faith in God, Jerusha, when the Assyrians kill your husband?”

  Jerusha swallowed hard. “God protected Jerusalem once before,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Judah was spared when the Assyrians invaded Israel, remember?”

  “Why weren’t you spared? Why did He allow all those terrible things to happen to you? If He’s a good God, why doesn’t He do something about all the evil in the world?”

 
“He does,” Jerusha said angrily. “God asks His people to stand up and fight against it. That’s why King Hezekiah is raising an army to fight the Assyrians. God asks each one of us to do our part in the war against evil, in our own way. He asked me to come here to see you because I know exactly how the evil one can tempt you to such despair that you’d want to end your own life.” Tears filled Jerusha’s eyes as she gestured to the table of food. “This is my way of fighting the evil in this world.”

  Hephzibah stood. “I want you to go now.”

  “But I want to be your friend,” Jerusha said, shaking her head. “I just want to spend time with you, talk with you, weep with you.” She stood and opened her arms.

  Hephzibah longed to be held, but she folded her arms tightly across her chest, fighting the urge. She didn’t believe in second chances. Jerusha and Isaiah were trying to keep her hope alive, and Hephzibah didn’t want to hope. Nothing good could possibly come of it, only despair and sickness of heart when that hope was finally dashed.

  “I want you to go,” Hephzibah repeated. Jerusha didn’t move. “All right, I’ll eat something,” Hephzibah said, stuffing food into her mouth. It was difficult to swallow beside the lump of grief in her throat. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said, “There, are you happy? You’ve had your own way—I bathed and I washed my hair and I ate. Now go home.”

  “Hephzibah, please—”

  “You’re hurting me more than you’re helping me, don’t you see? Leave me alone and don’t ever come here again!” She turned her back as Jerusha quietly gathered up her things and put them in her basket. Hephzibah kept her back turned as Jerusha left, closing the door behind her.

  21

  As twilight fell, General Jonadab slumped against the parapet on top of the city wall and closed his eyes. In a few minutes the sky would turn dark enough to send a message by signal fire to King Hezekiah in Jerusalem. He wished he had better news to tell the king than that he had failed, that the Assyrians would soon demolish his fortified city of Mizpeh.

  Nothing had gone as Jonadab had thought it would. The defense of Judah, which he had planned and prepared for, had collapsed in shambles. Thousands of Assyrians had poured through the mountain passes into Judean territory, destroying everything in their path. Without reinforcements, the Judean army could only huddle inside their fortifications and wait for the Egyptian army’s help.

  The wall beneath Jonadab shook with the rhythmic pounding of a battering ram. Like a thudding heartbeat, it never ceased day or night. He felt the wall shuddering, weakening with each powerful blow. In the waning light he watched his aide approach, skirting along the top of the wall, bending low.

  “How much more pounding do you think this wall can take?” the man asked, crouching beside Jonadab.

  “Not much more. Is the millstone ready?”

  “They’re bringing it now. Are we going to throw it off after dark?”

  “It’s our only chance. The Assyrians keep the battering rams too well protected in daylight.”

  “Their archers are deadly, sir.”

  “I know. I’m tired of watching row after row of our finest soldiers fall every time we peer over the wall to take aim. No more.”

  Jonadab’s troops had suffered such devastating losses that he had finally ordered them not to return the enemy’s fire. The Assyrians stood below in orderly rows, archers in front, artillerymen with sling stones behind. Each row fired, then knelt to reload in routine, lethal fashion.

  “The flaming torches didn’t work?” his aide asked.

  Jonadab shook his head, his face grim. “The Assyrians were ready for them. They doused the flames before the battering rams even caught fire. Listen—hear that?” In the silence between each pounding blow, the clear sound of hammer and chisel chipping against stone rang out in the night.

  “What is that?”

  “They’ve got sappers working to enlarge the hole the battering rams have made. They’re right below us. We can’t even see them, let alone stop them.”

  “Persistent, aren’t they? What’s their hurry?”

  Jonadab rubbed his eyes. “From the time Sennacherib made his first strike against Babylon, his strategy has been to move so quickly that the allies wouldn’t have time to rescue each other. It’s working, too.”

  “Where are the Egyptians? Why aren’t they here helping us, General?”

  “I’d give my right eye to know. We could have defended the mountain passes with their help and kept the Assyrians out of Judah. Now the enemy has broken through, and we’re no match for them alone.”

  Jonadab rose to a crouch as a knot of soldiers came into view, rolling and heaving a huge millstone toward him. Then, raising his shield to protect his head, he stood and peered over the wall at the battering ram below him. As he gauged his target, a sling stone whizzed past his head.

  “General, look out!”

  A second stone bounced off the edge of his shield, smashing into the side of his face. Jonadab’s aide grabbed him around the waist and pulled him down behind the wall.

  “General, you’re hit!”

  “No, I’m all right. It’s just a nick.” But the fist-sized rock had stunned him momentarily, and his cheek stung painfully as he wiped away the blood with his fingers. “Roll the millstone over here,” he said when he had recovered. “That cursed battering ram is right below us. And maybe we can flatten a few of those mongrels with the chisels while we’re at it.”

  They rolled the millstone into place, then Jonadab signaled to his archers to line up on either side of him and create a diversion. A hail of Assyrian arrows and sling stones followed their meager volley, and even in the fading daylight Jonadab saw too many of his Judean soldiers falling under the onslaught.

  “Okay, heave!” Jonadab put his shoulder to the huge millstone and helped shove it through the embrasure in the wall, frustration and bitterness fueling his strength. The stone tottered off the edge and disappeared. A moment later, anguished cries and the satisfying sound of crunching metal and wood came from below as the stone smashed into its target. Jonadab grabbed his shield and peered over to look. The millstone had crushed the armored section around the workers and broken the battering ram’s protruding beam clean off.

  “Bull’s-eye!” he shouted. “It’s out of business for good!” He ducked behind the wall again as a heavy round of arrows and stones pounded into his shield, nearly knocking it from his grasp. “They’re not too happy about it, either,” he said, grinning. The weary Judeans cheered. But the celebration ended quickly when one of the sweating men who had helped roll the millstone to the top of the wall suddenly stood up. “I’ve got to see this.”

  “No!” Jonadab cried. He dove forward to tackle the man around the knees, but he was too late. Two Assyrian arrows had already punctured the man’s chest. The soldier’s friends knelt beside him, cursing and weeping helplessly as he died. “How can they shoot like that in the dark?” Jonadab mumbled.

  He watched soberly as the soldiers tended to the other wounded and dying archers, aware of the undisturbed stillness now that the pounding had ceased and the wall no longer trembled beneath his feet. But thirty feet below, the faint clang of chisels meant that the sappers had resumed their work, finishing the job that the ruined battering ram had begun. It might take them longer, but those cursed heathens would accomplish their goal.

  Jonadab longed to give up, to lie down and recover the three nights of sleep he’d lost. But he had to hold the besieged city as long as he possibly could. He had to hang on until Egyptian reinforcements arrived. Together, they could still drive the Assyrians back.

  When all the wounded had been tended, he signaled to his aide, and they crept away. “How is the Assyrian ramp progressing?” he asked.

  “Quickly. Much too quickly.”

  “I want to see it.” The two men skirted the top of the wall, crouching low. All along the way, Jonadab saw his Judean soldiers huddling miserably behind the parapet with their weapons
lying idly beside them. Many of them—too many of them—wore bandages from earlier skirmishes. They were losing. Everyone knew it. In a matter of hours the Assyrians would breach the walls, and hundreds of thousands of them would pour inside. Outnumbered, the Judean defenders would be slaughtered.

  Jonadab’s aide stopped when they reached the section of the wall where the Assyrians were constructing their earthworks. “It’s right down there, sir.”

  “Prepare some torches. We’ll throw them over the side as a diversion instead of risking more of our archers.” His men retrieved bundles of tightly wrapped straw soaked in oil, manufactured by the women and children of the besieged city. When Jonadab gave the signal, the soldiers lit the torches and hurled them over the wall in a steady volley of flames. Then he carefully raised his shield and gazed down at the scene below.

  Progress on the ramp had proceeded so quickly that he could scarcely believe his eyes. It was nearly three-quarters finished! He saw laborers scattering to avoid the rain of torches and realized that the Assyrians had continued to work on the ramp even though the sun had set. Under clear, starlit skies and a brilliant moon, they could work throughout the night. He stared down in angry disbelief until a shower of stones and arrows forced him to duck down.

  “Curse them all! How could they make that much progress? Can’t we stop them?”

  “They keep up a steady covering fire to protect the workers, General.”

  “Then fire on the workers!”

  “Our men won’t do that, sir. The Assyrians are using captured Judean slaves to build the earthworks. We’d be killing our own people.”

  Jonadab closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. It shuddered beneath him as another Assyrian battering ram pounded into the wall nearby. Exhaustion and despair tore into Jonadab like a pack of wild beasts clinging to his throat. He no longer had the strength to shake them off.