The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  “Listen, Maki,” Joshua said calmly, “I think I should go home and—”

  “No, you can’t go home! Master Hilkiah died to protect you. You must hide. If they capture you, then he died for nothing. That’s why I’m helping you. I’m doing this for Master Hilkiah!”

  “I’m sorry, but I just can’t believe your story, Maki. There’s no reason for any of it to happen. King Manasseh is my friend. Abba and I work with him. Maybe if I went to the palace and talked to him I could straighten this out and—”

  “If you walk out of that door, Master Joshua, you are a dead man.”

  “I’ll be careful to—”

  Suddenly the servant leaped at him, and before Joshua could react, Maki wrestled him to the ground. He was more than a head shorter than Joshua and old enough to be his father, but the servant fought with the strength of a desperate man.

  “I can’t let you leave this house,” Maki said as he tied Joshua’s hands behind his back and dragged him toward the opening. “You must get into the cistern. Now!”

  Dinah lay on the bed, unmoving. Manasseh had finally left her. Now she wanted to die.

  The carved bed was inlaid with ivory and spread with fine perfumed linens, but the sheets made her cringe, as if they crawled with scorpions. She trembled at the feel of them beneath her skin. She stood up, nauseated with shock and pain.

  The room was dark, but Dinah didn’t search for a lamp. She could hide better in the darkness. She groped her way around the room and found a mikveh, half full of water, behind a latticed screen. The water was cold, but she sank into the bath and began to wash. She was filthy, so filthy. If only she could wash away the memory of him, but the horror was beneath her skin, inside her soul, and no amount of scrubbing would cleanse it. She thought of her mother and began to sob. Mama had been raped, too. But that man had been a stranger, not a trusted family friend. Dinah wasn’t sure which was worse.

  When she could no longer endure the frigid water, she climbed out and dressed again. Maybe Manasseh would let her go home now. Abba would hold her in his arms to comfort her and tell her everything would be all right. But she knew that her life would never be the same. She had been disgraced. No one could marry her now except Manasseh, and the thought of marrying him made her want to vomit.

  She tried to open the door, but it was locked. So were the window shutters. Dinah curled up on the window seat, hugging her knees, shivering with cold and fear. She closed her eyes tightly, hoping the memory of what he had done to her would fade away, but it wouldn’t. She couldn’t make it stop happening over and over again in her mind.

  “God of Abraham, please help me,” she wept. “Please, please help me.”

  3

  King Manasseh had slept poorly, his sleep disturbed by restless dreams of intrigue and conspiracy. He didn’t know who to trust in his nightmares, as one by one his faithful servants and friends turned against him, plotting to stab him or strangle him while he slept.

  As soon as it was light, Manasseh dressed and began to sort through the scrolls and documents his soldiers had confiscated from Isaiah’s house. He separated them into piles on the table in front of him, laboring to make sense of them. On one pile he placed the prophecies that had already been fulfilled: words of warning to King Ahaz; Eliakim’s rise to power; the destruction of the northern nation of Israel; the promise of deliverance from Sennacherib’s forces. The size of the pile and the startling accuracy of Isaiah’s predictions stunned him. He had never realized how truly powerful Isaiah was.

  A second pile held oracles against other nations: Philistia, Moab, Damascus, Cush, Edom. Some of these predictions had already been fulfilled. Others, like the final destruction of the dreaded Assyrian Empire, had not.

  On a third pile he placed prophecies that peered ahead into the distant future. These described the cataclysmic devastation of the earth itself and talked of a future kingdom in which the wolf would live with the lamb, and the lion would eat straw like the ox.

  Ox—the soldiers hadn’t found Ox. Manasseh still called Joshua by his boyhood nickname, even though he had finally outgrown his adolescent clumsiness. The fact that Ox had gone into hiding, successfully eluding the king’s soldiers, proved that he was indeed part of Isaiah and Eliakim’s conspiracy. Manasseh didn’t want to believe that his trusted friend would betray him, too, but now that Ox had vanished, Manasseh had no choice.

  He found only one prophecy that might foretell his own future. In it Isaiah warned King Hezekiah that some of his descendants would be carried off to Babylon at a future time. But it seemed unlikely that one of those descendants would be Manasseh. Babylon was no longer a major world power. The Assyrians had conquered the city several years ago and demolished it. Manasseh placed the scroll on a pile with a host of other confusing predictions that foretold the destruction of Jerusalem and the captivity of his nation, not by the brutal Assyrians, but by the Babylonians.

  Next Manasseh picked up a small scroll made of much finer parchment than all the others. As soon as he unrolled it, he recognized his father’s distinctive handwriting. Across the top Isaiah had written, A writing of Hezekiah king of Judah after his illness and recovery. The parchment contained a psalm, written by his father in the style of their famous ancestor, David.

  Manasseh had never seen the poem before or even known such a psalm existed. Stunned, he began to read. He heard Hezekiah’s voice in the words, saw his expressions and gestures between each line. When Manasseh finished reading, his eyes were wet with tears. This priceless legacy from his father belonged to him, not to Isaiah. Why did the rabbi have it among his scrolls? How had he managed to steal it from the palace?

  Manasseh laid it aside, determined to unravel Isaiah’s complicated conspiracy, and he began to reread all of the prophecies that might hint of intrigue. In some passages the rabbi spoke of deliberately causing confusion: “Be ever hearing, but never understanding; be ever seeing, but never perceiving” and “Bind up the testimony and seal up the law among my disciples.” But what worried Manasseh the most were references to a mysterious servant—“my chosen one in whom I delight;” a child who would “reign on David’s throne” and be worshiped as “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God.”

  Who was this servant? When had they planned for this coup to take place? Manasseh remembered the day the blind woman had looked into Joshua’s palm. “The authority belongs to you, but he will be much more powerful.” Could their intended usurper be Joshua?

  Manasseh still planned to offer Isaiah and Eliakim a fair trial, of course, allowing them the opportunity to present evidence in their defense. But before that took place, he needed to question the strange man he had found murmuring in the cemetery last night. Perhaps Zerah had additional proof to back up his accusations.

  The guards brought Zerah to the king’s chambers with his wrists and ankles in shackles. He tried to bow, but the ankle chain was too short, making it difficult for him to rise again without a guard’s help. His forehead was damp with perspiration, his lips white with pain.

  “Are you ill?” Manasseh asked.

  “It’s my wrist. I think the bone is broken. I’ve been suffering all night.”

  “Send for one of my physicians,” Manasseh told his servants. “Tell him to bring bandages and a splint.” The guards hauled over a bench for Zerah to sit on while he waited for the royal physician.

  “I’ve begun to investigate your accusations of conspiracy, Zerah. You were correct when you predicted that Isaiah would refuse to reveal my future. Also, that my palace administrator would support him.”

  “I’m not surprised, Your Majesty.”

  “But the soldiers who searched both houses found only vague references to a conspiracy.” He gestured to the piles of scrolls on the table in front of him.

  “They are supremely clever, Your Majesty. Any evidence that might condemn them would be cleverly hidden among the words of innocent-looking documents.”

  “A code?”

  “Exactly.�
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  “Then let me read one of them to you: ‘For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders . . . Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end. He will reign on David’s throne. . . .’”

  “Vague words, but their intent is clear, King Manasseh. They planned to replace you with their own man.”

  Manasseh stood and walked a few steps to his window, turning his back on Zerah, unwilling to reveal how upset he was by Zerah’s interpretation. “You should also know,” he said, striving to keep his voice steady, “that the soldiers found no mysterious books of incantations or magic spells, nothing to prove that Isaiah put a curse on my father.”

  “Did you find anything that belonged to your father among Isaiah’s things?”

  Manasseh felt as if all the blood had drained from his body as he remembered the psalm his father had written. He whirled to face Zerah. “Yes. Why?”

  “In order to invoke a curse, Isaiah would have needed something that belonged to his victim. Something very personal.”

  “I found a psalm my father wrote after he nearly died. It was in his own handwriting.”

  Zerah nodded. “It would have given Isaiah power over him.”

  Manasseh was grateful for the interruption when the royal physician arrived. He needed time to absorb this news.

  “Where would you like me to treat him, Your Majesty?” the physician asked.

  “Do it here. Unshackle him.” Manasseh sank into his seat again, watching in silence as the doctor carefully examined the prisoner’s wrist. Zerah uttered only a faint moan as the doctor realigned the bones, but he appeared pale as the doctor affixed the thin wooden splint to his wrist with bandages.

  “How did you break your wrist?” the doctor asked as he worked.

  Zerah glanced up at the king. “It happened during my arrest.”

  When the physician finished, he took a square of linen and tied Zerah’s arm in a sling. “It won’t be possible to shackle his wrist for a while, Your Majesty.”

  “The shackles are no longer necessary,” Manasseh said. “You may remove the ones on his ankles, as well.”

  After the doctor left, Zerah bowed low to Manasseh once again. “I am very grateful, Your Majesty.”

  “Can you decipher this code for me? I need proof of their conspiracy.”

  “You won’t need to decipher it in order to convict your enemies. The rabbi’s own words will witness against him. I’ve heard his so-called prophecies. He preaches things that contradict the Laws of Moses. May I show you?” Zerah gestured to the scrolls piled in front of the king.

  Before Manasseh could reply, the shofar trumpeted from the Temple Mount, announcing the morning sacrifice. “I’ll have my servants carry these to Eliakim’s office,” Manasseh said. “You may take all the time you need to read through them.”

  “How many blasphemies do you require in order to convict him, Your Majesty?”

  “The Torah requires two witnesses for the death penalty. But find three, an extra one for good measure.”

  “Very well, Your Majesty.”

  “‘I cry to you, O Lord . . . Listen to my cry, for I am in desperate need.’” Joshua paused to shift positions. His back and neck ached from standing bent in the cramped cistern, but if he stood straight, he would hit his head on the stone lid that sealed him in. He needed to rest his legs for a while. He lowered himself into the water, careful not to slip on the slimy stone floor as he had done earlier that night. When first lowered into the cistern, Joshua had panicked and, with his hands tied behind his back, had nearly drowned before righting himself in the water.

  Joshua knelt, the icy water reaching to his chin. But if he sat down, it would cover his head. He shivered in the darkness. “‘Set me free from my prison that I may praise your name.’” He finished reciting the psalm of David for the forty-second time. Or was it the forty-third? He had lost count.

  Would this long night never end? He tried to doze to help pass the time, but his shivering always awakened him, along with the continual struggle to breathe. His air passages had swollen shut, allowing only a thin stream of air in and out. Each breath whistled like the night wind through tree branches. He recited to stay calm, aware that panicking would only make the breathing attack worse.

  “‘I cry aloud to the Lord,’” he prayed, starting at the beginning again. “‘I lift up my voice to the Lord for mercy.’” He twisted his hands, trying in vain to untie himself so he could push the stone lid off. His wrists chafed from rope burns. Maki had tied his hands too tightly. Joshua had tried repeatedly to push the lid off with his back and shoulders but, although he had to bend his neck when he stood, he couldn’t quite get his back under the stone, even standing on his toes.

  Was he imagining it, or was the cistern growing a little brighter? Perhaps the new day had finally dawned and the light was filtering through the channel that brought rainwater into the cistern. He thought about calling for help but couldn’t draw a deep enough breath to yell.

  Joshua could no longer kneel in the chilly water. He stood again and wiggled his toes, which were growing numb. What had gotten into Maki? And why didn’t Yahweh help him?

  As if in answer to his prayer, Joshua heard the scrape of stone as the cistern lid slid to one side. The light of early dawn blinded him. He looked up, squinting, and saw Maki’s dark face and his silver hair and beard.

  “Master Joshua, I will feed you some food now. Then you must hide again.”

  “No, Maki, please! I’ll die if you don’t get me out of here!” The effort to talk made Joshua cough—deep, wracking coughs that came from low in his chest. His lungs had started to fill with fluid. He hadn’t had an attack this serious since Manasseh had stranded him in the almond grove in the pouring rain when they were boys. The fever that followed had nearly killed Joshua. “Please, Maki, don’t leave me in here.”

  “But it’s not safe to come out yet.”

  “Abba, look at him—he’s shivering. He’s sick.” The young woman they had awakened last night appeared in the semidarkness behind Maki’s shoulder. “We have to get him out of that cold water.”

  “Yes! God of Abraham . . . please!” Joshua begged.

  Maki stared at him for a moment as if deciding. “All right. Help me lift him, Miriam.” They grabbed Joshua beneath his armpits and strained to pull him out. His chest and stomach scraped along the rough plaster walls.

  “I’m too heavy . . . untie me . . . let me climb out.”

  “I can’t untie you, Master Joshua, until I’m certain you won’t try to run away. Nathan, Mattan, come help us.” Two small boys, about six and eight years old, appeared behind Maki. They couldn’t possibly lift him out, but they bent over the cistern to help, tugging on Joshua’s soaked clothes. Joshua used his legs to push, and after several minutes of heaving they finally succeeded in pulling him from the cistern. He lay on his side on the dirt floor. His drenched robes turned the dirt to mud in a puddle beneath him. He wanted to thank them for saving him, but a spasm of coughing overwhelmed him and he couldn’t talk. The pain in his chest was agonizing.

  “He’s shivering, Abba,” the girl said. “We have to get him out of his wet clothes.”

  “But there’s nothing else for him to wear.”

  “Wrap my blanket around him until his clothes dry. Let him sit by the fire.”

  Joshua lay on the floor, helpless, while they talked about him as if he couldn’t understand. “Untie me,” he begged, but he could say no more because every time he tried to talk he started coughing again.

  “Turn around while I undress him, Miriam. It’s not decent for you to help.” Maki tied Joshua’s ankles together with another piece of rope as the girl turned her back. He briefly untied Joshua’s hands and stripped off his wet clothes, then quickly tied him again. Joshua was too weak to take advantage of his moment of freedom. Maki wrapped a filthy, tattered blanket around him and dragged him over to the hearth.

  Gradually
, Joshua began to feel the fire’s warmth. His every breath was audible, like a prolonged gasp. “Maki . . . why?”

  “I told you why, Master Joshua. The king’s soldiers are searching for you. It isn’t safe. You must hide.”

  “How long . . . are you going . . . to keep me here?”

  “I don’t know. I need to find a way to smuggle you out of Jerusalem.”

  Despair engulfed Joshua like the cold waters of the cistern. No one knew where he was. How would they ever rescue him? Maybe he would die here in the hands of this madman before Abba could find him. He shivered with cold and the beginnings of illness while the two ragged boys stared down at him as if he were a captured animal in a cage. He felt like an animal, too, lying naked beneath the blanket, bound hand and foot, stripped of his dignity as well as his clothes. He was an important court official, the future palace administrator. He wanted to weep at the injustice and at his own helplessness.

  “Maybe he’s hungry, Abba. We should give him some food.” The girl was twisting his clothes, wringing the water out of them onto the floor. Maki pushed Joshua into a sitting position, propping him against the side of the hearth, and then held a piece of bread near his mouth.

  “Here. You must be hungry, Master Joshua.”

  “He needs something warm, Abba. I’ll heat up the broth.” She finished wringing Joshua’s robes and hung them on a rope suspended above the fire. As they began to steam dry, the smell of wet wool gagged Joshua. He couldn’t eat the bread.

  “Are you doing this for the ransom money, Maki? Abba will pay any price if you just—”

  “How dare you accuse me of coveting your money! I risked my life to save you. I’m putting these children’s lives in danger, too.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense. Why would someone want to kill me?”

  Maki’s face went rigid with anger. “Once again, Master Joshua, I will tell you everything I know. The soldiers broke into your house, searching for you. They killed your grandfather and your sister. They didn’t tell me why. This morning I returned to your house before dawn, hoping to get my clothes and a pair of sandals, but the house is still surrounded by soldiers. I didn’t dare go in. Then I went to your brother’s house, but it’s well-guarded, too. The same with Amasai the Levite’s house. Soldiers everywhere.”