The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  “I spoke the words Yahweh told me to speak.”

  “Finally, then, did you tell my father that God would add fifteen years to his life, so that he would die at age fifty-four?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Even though Yahweh promised our forefathers in His Word, ‘I will give you a full life-span’?”

  Isaiah stared at the floor for a moment as if deep in thought. Eliakim had often witnessed the surging power of God as it flowed through the rabbi whenever he prophesied. He expected that power to fill Isaiah now, blasting Manasseh’s lies and accusations into dust. But when Isaiah finally looked up, his eyes were sad, defeated. He was simply an old man, bound in chains.

  “I could give a good answer to all of these charges, Your Majesty, but I won’t. It would only compound your guilt.”

  “My guilt!”

  “Yes. It’s better for you to sin in ignorance than in willful rebellion against God.”

  Manasseh stood. “Eliakim, you’ve heard these charges against Rabbi Isaiah and how his words have blasphemed the Torah. How do you find this defendant?”

  “I find him not guilty! But your guilt is written all over these robes I’m wearing!” Eliakim rushed toward Manasseh, but the chain between his ankles tripped him, dropping him to his knees with a jolt of pain. He continued to shout as he struggled to stand. “This is my father’s blood! You murdered an innocent man, and if you condemn Isaiah to death, you will be murdering one more!” He was close enough to see that Manasseh’s entire body was shaking.

  “Your own testimony in front of all these witnesses has condemned you both to death!” Manasseh said. “I hereby confiscate all of your property and condemn you both to be publicly executed the morning after the Sabbath. In addition, I sentence Isaiah to be tortured until he confesses to causing King Hezekiah’s death. Now take them both out of my sight!”

  Eliakim stared defiantly into the terrified faces of his friends and colleagues as the soldiers hauled him away. He couldn’t help hating them for their cowardice.

  Once again the soldiers led him and Isaiah down the treacherous stairs, into the black pit beneath the palace, and left them there, still wearing their shackles.

  Why was this happening? Why hadn’t Yahweh intervened to save them? This may indeed be part of God’s plan, as the rabbi said, but like a weaver standing too close to his tapestry, Eliakim couldn’t see how it all fit together.

  5

  Jerimoth paused at the crossroads where the road from Heshbon intersected with the Way to Beth-Horon. The animals needed a brief rest, and then the caravan would ford the distant Jordan River and cross into Judean territory. He was almost home.

  His trip to Moab had been enormously successful. Jerimoth could hardly wait to see his grandfather’s face when he saw what excellent deals he had made. At age twenty-eight, Jerimoth had everything a man could wish for—a lovely wife, a healthy daughter, a prosperous business that he loved, working as a cloth merchant like his grandfather and great-grandfathers before him. Jerimoth loved the challenge of making shrewd investments, the delicate art of haggling over prices, the battle of wills to see who would be the first to concede their price. Abba and Joshua lived with their heads in the clouds, occupied with politics and government, but Jerimoth had more in common with his grandfather. Hilkiah understood the lure of the marketplace. He had taught Jerimoth everything he knew, then made him a full partner in the business when Jerimoth had married three years ago.

  He bore a physical resemblance to Hilkiah, as well—short and stocky with twinkling brown eyes—even though he had been named for his maternal grandfather. Jerimoth’s black hair was already growing a little thin on top, his forehead a little high, his waist a little plump, thanks to the pampering of his sweet wife, Sara. After being away from home for almost two weeks, he was eager to return, eager to hug her and his two-year-old daughter, Rachel, with the dancing eyes and soft, black curls.

  The caravan had rested long enough. It was time to get his drivers back on the road. The day promised to be hot, and Jerimoth knew the men would be content to rest under the palm trees all day if he let them. He didn’t take much notice of the lone figure hurrying up the road until the man called his name.

  “Jerimoth! . . . Master Jerimoth!”

  It was Maki, his grandfather’s servant. The man had worked for Hilkiah since before Jerimoth had been born.

  “What brings you so far from home, Maki? Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

  Maki was breathless and perspiring heavily in the afternoon sun. Jerimoth led him to the palm tree he had been resting under and offered him a drink of water. He thought it odd that Maki carried nothing with him, no water or provision bag. Why would Hilkiah send him on such a long journey unequipped?

  Maki drank great gulps of water, then eased off his shoes and poured some on his blistered feet. The sandals appeared to be brand-new. No one in his right mind would walk all the way from Jerusalem in unbroken shoes.

  “What’s wrong, Maki?” Jerimoth asked, crouching beside him.

  “Master Jerimoth, I know that what I’m going to tell you will sound crazy.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to a small child. “But you know of my undying loyalty to Master Hilkiah. You must believe me.” His hazel eyes stared so intently that Jerimoth felt a wave of fear.

  “Of course I’ll believe you.”

  Maki drew a deep breath. “For reasons I cannot know or imagine, King Manasseh has turned against your family. If you go back to Jerusalem, your life will be in great danger.”

  “In danger? How can this be?”

  “I have been doing what I can to save your family, but . . .” He stared down at his lap, twisting the corner of his robe in his hands. “But my efforts haven’t always been successful.”

  “What do you mean?” Jerimoth’s heart hammered against his ribs.

  “To make sure you would believe me, I brought this message from Master Joshua.” He reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a jagged potsherd. The cryptic message read, Follow Maki’s instructions. It was signed, Joshua.

  “What instructions? What do you want me to do?” Jerimoth asked.

  “You must leave your caravan here. It will surely give you away if you bring it back to Jerusalem. The only way I can safely smuggle you into the city so that we can rescue your family is if we trade places. I will be the rich master returning home from a business trip. You will be my servant.”

  Jerimoth’s legs ached from crouching. He stood and leaned against the trunk of the tree as he tried to comprehend the unsettling news. He had known Maki all his life. The man served as a valet to Hilkiah, working beside him in the shop, caring for him at home now that Hilkiah was semi-retired. Jerimoth had known Maki to be loyal and hardworking but never imaginative. He was fairly certain Maki couldn’t make up a story like this. He stared at the potsherd in his hand. Why would Joshua use something so crude? They had plenty of parchment at home.

  “But, Maki, how? Why? You have no idea what this is all about?”

  “No, Master Jerimoth, I don’t. But you must believe me!”

  “I do believe you. I’m just trying to think. . . .” He swatted absently at the flies buzzing around him as he tried to make sense of Maki’s story. A short distance away the mules grazed leisurely, their tails swishing. His drivers dozed beneath the palm trees. The peaceful scene made Maki’s story seem like a tall tale, but the oozing blisters on his feet offered the most compelling evidence of his sincerity.

  “All right. We’ll have to go back to Beth-Jeshimoth and rent some temporary storage space for these goods. Then we can trade clothes and start on our way.” He saw relief on Maki’s face and tears in his eyes as he turned his face away.

  Jerimoth grasped Maki’s elbow and helped him to his feet, but he didn’t release it right away. “What about my wife and daughter?”

  “They are unharmed, Master Jerimoth.”

  Finding safe storage space in Beth-Jeshimoth took longer than J
erimoth hoped and cost him too many daylight hours. By the time he paid the disgruntled mule drivers and started home on foot, it was late in the day.

  Maki proved to be a convincing actor as he played the part of Jerimoth’s rich master. His silver hair and close-cropped beard looked very distinguished and his nut-brown skin glowed with Jerimoth’s expensive oil. Jerimoth’s new robe fit Maki well, but the threadbare cloak he had swapped it for smelled as if it had never been washed.

  Jerimoth’s anxiety grew to enormous proportions as he contemplated Maki’s story. He had the urge to run all the way home, but the journey was uphill and Maki was limping painfully. They were still several miles from Jerusalem when the sun began to set, marking the beginning of the Sabbath. Jerimoth wanted to weep in frustration. The Law forbade them to travel any farther.

  With a knot of fear in his stomach, he passed through the city gates of Michmash and began to search for an inn. They would have to spend the night here. And all day tomorrow.

  Eliakim gripped the bars of his prison cell and stared out into the blackness, his eyes straining for any pinpoint of light. He knew from the distant shofars that the Sabbath had begun. Unless Yahweh provided a miracle, tomorrow he would die.

  “Talk to me, Eliakim.” Isaiah’s voice echoed in the void behind him. “The darkness is bad enough—let’s not make it worse by enduring it in silence.” Eliakim slowly turned around and leaned against the bars.

  “I have no idea what to say.”

  “Well, we can always talk about our doubts and our fears. Yahweh knows them all anyway.”

  “I can’t believe you struggle with doubts, Rabbi.”

  “Nonsense. Of course I do. In fact, right now I’m wondering what I might have done differently to avoid involving you.”

  “I think it’s the other way around. I was responsible for training Manasseh. I raised him after King Hezekiah died. I think I must have failed somehow, to—”

  “Don’t lay his guilt on yourself, Eliakim. You raised Manasseh faithfully, according to God’s Law. But once he became an adult it was up to him to choose whether or not he would follow God’s teaching. He alone is responsible for his actions.”

  Eliakim nodded, then realized that Isaiah couldn’t possibly see him. He groped in the darkness toward Isaiah’s voice and sank to the cell floor to sit beside him.

  “I’m so worried about my family. Jerusha . . . my children. There wasn’t any warning. I didn’t have a chance to make sure they were safe. If Manasseh would kill Abba, then . . .”

  “Have you committed your family to God? Have you placed them in His hands?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then leave them there. Don’t take the burden on your own shoulders again. No matter what happens, they are safe in Him.”

  Eliakim closed his eyes, fighting his tears. “Joshua is only twenty-two. He has an entire lifetime ahead of him. Lately he’s been half-crazy in love with Amasai’s daughter.” Eliakim managed a small smile, remembering Joshua’s mournful yearning. “I know we’re not supposed to play favorites with our children, but Joshua is very special to me. He died in my arms when he was a baby . . . and I breathed my own life into him. He was a miracle baby, born while the Assyrian army surrounded Jerusalem. He has always been so bright and quick, so sincere about following God’s Law, so eager to live righteously. Ever since he was a child he wanted to work for the king—to follow in my footsteps. I had no idea that following my path would lead him here.”

  “Eliakim, your son isn’t here in prison with us. If King Manasseh had arrested him, don’t you think that he would be?”

  The thought comforted Eliakim for the moment. “Are we really going to die tomorrow?” he asked.

  “As the psalmist has written, ‘All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.’ If this is our time, Eliakim, Yahweh is ready to receive us.”

  “The king must have gone crazy, accusing you of cursing Hezekiah. Where did he get such an insane notion? Is Hezekiah’s son really capable of . . . of torturing you to death?”

  “We’ll learn the answer tomorrow.”

  Eliakim ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Are you afraid to die, Rabbi?”

  Isaiah let out a long sigh. “Yes, I fear the pain of death—but not death itself.”

  Eliakim leaned his head against the stone wall. “Am I wrong to pray that Manasseh won’t go through with this?”

  “No, I’m praying the same thing.”

  “I’ve known Manasseh since he was a baby. I rejoiced with his father and mother when he was born. I watched him grow and mature. How can he accuse me of conspiring against him? I’ve worked my entire life to build this nation so that he would have something to inherit. I don’t deserve this, and neither do you.”

  “Do you hate him?” Isaiah asked.

  “I . . . I hate what he’s doing to us.”

  “Can you forgive him, Eliakim?”

  “I—”

  “No, don’t answer right away. Search your heart first.” Isaiah laid his hand on Eliakim’s arm. “King Manasseh brutally murdered your father. He twisted our words and our motives so he could falsely accuse us and condemn us to death. Tomorrow morning he will execute us. Do you wish for revenge? Do you want to see Manasseh pay for what he has done to us and to your father?”

  “God, help me,” Eliakim whispered. “Yes.”

  “Yes,” Isaiah echoed. “Yes, so do I.” For a moment neither of them spoke and a deep silence filled the underground cell.

  “But we must forgive him,” Isaiah said at last. “‘The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love.’ As His chosen people, we bear His image. We, too, must forgive.”

  “How, Rabbi?”

  “We must not wish for vengeance. ‘Will not the Judge of all the earth do right?’ Don’t let Manasseh rob you of a lifetime of righteous living by hoarding hatred for him in your heart. There is no place for evil in the presence of a Holy God. Can you imagine yourself standing before Yahweh’s throne tomorrow, asking for His grace, with the ugliness of hatred staining your heart? We must kneel before Him and confess our sin of unforgiveness, confess our hatred and our desire for revenge. Then we must let go of it, asking God to remove it from our hearts. We must choose to cancel the debt of justice that Manasseh owes us. If we do that, you and I will be free. We can go to our Father in peace. We can behold Him face-to-face.”

  Deep in his heart Eliakim clung to the hope of a miracle. Maybe God would change Manasseh’s heart. Maybe he and Isaiah would be spared.

  It would be easy to forgive Manasseh if forgiving him would allow Eliakim to return to his home and to his family; if he could lie down tonight beside Jerusha again, watch Joshua marry the girl he loved, hold his new grandchild in his arms. If he could continue living the full life he had lived until two days ago, Eliakim would find it much easier not to wish for revenge. But to trust God in the darkness, when the dawn might bring his death . . . this was the most difficult thing Eliakim had ever done. He knelt in his prison cell beside Isaiah and pressed his forehead to the stone floor.

  “‘Search me, O God, and know my heart,’” he whispered. “‘Test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting. . . .’”

  Miriam sat on the floor of her shuttered house and sorted through the basket of barley to remove the twigs and stones. It seemed strange that the grandson of Abba’s wealthy master lay propped against her hearth with his wrists and ankles bound, wrapped in her blanket. She hoped he wouldn’t start talking again or trying to bribe Nathan into setting him free. Nathan might do anything for a price. But Miriam believed her father’s story. Abba wouldn’t lie to her. She would keep Joshua tied until Abba came back.

  It worried Miriam that Master Joshua wasn’t breathing right. He sounded as if he had just run up a steep hill and couldn’t catch his breath. Miriam stole glances at him from time to time as she rinsed the barley an
d cut up leeks to make their meal. Sometimes he was watching her, too, and it embarrassed her. She had given Abba her outer robe, which left only her undertunic. She tried to stay on the opposite side of the room so he couldn’t see her. It was dark with the window shuttered. Mattan or Nathan could give him water.

  But when the barley was ready, Miriam had to go near him to put the pot on the fire to cook. She knelt beside him warily and poked the coals to rekindle them, then added another stick of wood and made a place for the pot among the embers.

  “Miriam, please help me.” His voice was a weak whisper.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Let me go home.”

  His face was flushed, and he was sweating. Maybe he was too hot by the fire. But no, he was shivering. She touched his brow.

  “You have a fever.”

  “I need a physician.”

  “I can’t pay for a physician.”

  “I can . . . my family can. Please . . . send one of your brothers to get my father.”

  “Abba said your father is in the palace dungeon.”

  Joshua moaned and shook his head from side to side. “He’s not . . . can’t be. . . .”

  “My abba doesn’t lie.”

  He closed his eyes in defeat, then seemed too weak to open them again. Forgetting her fear and embarrassment, Miriam studied him up close. He would be very handsome if he weren’t so pale and ill. Dark circles rimmed his eyes like bruises. Without thinking, she brushed his curly black hair off his forehead. It felt soft and clean, not greasy and matted like her own hair. But he was burning with fever. What if he died? She couldn’t let him die. Abba had risked his life to save him. Her father was depending on her. Miriam had once nursed her brothers through a terrible fever. She knew what to do.

  “Nathan, draw another basin of water from the cistern,” she ordered. “Mattan, bring me every clean rag you can find.” The man moaned as she gently eased him down, resting his head in her lap. “Now, both of you go gather some eucalyptus branches. We need to burn them to freshen the air.”