The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  “But it’s the Sabbath,” Nathan said. “We’ll get in trouble if we’re caught gathering wood on the Sabbath.”

  “Then don’t get caught.” Her brother enjoyed the thrill of danger. Miriam knew he would get the wood.

  After they left, Miriam spent the next hour patiently bathing Master Joshua’s face and arms and chest with cold water from the cistern. He slept fitfully, and his coughing came from deep in his chest. As she worked, she learned every feature of his aristocratic face by heart: his wide, high forehead; his thick, gently arched brows; his full lower lip; his curly, black beard. When he briefly opened his eyes, she saw that they were so dark she could barely tell where the black centers began and ended.

  She had never been so close to a man before, except for Abba. The men Mama brought home were usually drunk, and Miriam stayed away from them, especially after one of them had tried to paw her. She studied Master Joshua’s hands as she bathed them, admiring his long, perfect fingers and immaculate nails. They were smooth rich-man hands, not chapped and rough like her own. She knew from the lavishly embroidered robe and fine linen tunic hanging on the rope above the hearth that he was telling the truth when he said his family had money. What would it be like to be a rich man’s wife?

  Before long the boys returned with eucalyptus branches bundled inside their cloaks. They threw them on the fire, filling the room with a pungent aroma, cleansing the air in the stuffy shack. After Miriam had bathed Joshua’s body in cool water for a long time, his fever seemed much better, his breathing easier. She finally moved his head off her lap and rose to tend the fire and stir the barley broth. His eyes blinked open.

  “Yael?” he whispered. “Don’t go, Yael.”

  Had he forgotten that her name was Miriam? Or was he calling someone else—maybe his wife? She felt a stab of jealousy that she couldn’t explain or understand. She knelt beside him again and tenderly caressed his cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

  Miriam hurried outside for a few more sticks of firewood, not wanting to be away from him for too long. Suddenly she thought of her mother’s many boyfriends. Miriam had never understood what drew Mama to them or why she would leave her children alone for weeks at a time to go away with them. But now Miriam felt an inexplicable attraction to this man and wondered how she could convince Master Joshua to take her away with him when he left.

  She went back inside and tended the fire, stirring the broth so it wouldn’t burn. Then she knelt beside him again and lifted his bound hands in hers. He opened his eyes.

  “Yael?”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m right here.”

  6

  When Eliakim heard the king’s soldiers descending the stairs, fear gripped him. Heart-pounding fear. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t catch his breath. His limbs trembled like a man with palsy, and he had to lean against the wall in order to stand. He helped Isaiah to his feet, and they huddled together, blinking in the blinding torchlight.

  The soldiers unlocked the door and herded them out of the cell. Eliakim’s knees could scarcely hold him, making it difficult to climb the steep, uneven stairs.

  He emerged from the lower darkness to palace hallways awash in golden sunlight. The dazzling brightness made his eyes water after nearly two days of total blindness. Eliakim could have walked sightlessly through these familiar corridors without the soldiers leading him. They took him as far as the throne room doors and stopped.

  While he waited to be summoned inside, Eliakim remembered the first time he had approached these forbidding doors. He had been awestruck to be summoned by King Hezekiah, astounded to learn that he would work for him. Eliakim thought of all that he and Hezekiah had accomplished together: building the walls, digging the tunnel, confronting the Assyrians, reforming their nation. Hezekiah had become his closest friend, yet now his son—only a few years younger than Hezekiah had been when they first met—was accusing Eliakim of treason and betrayal. He couldn’t believe it. Surely Manasseh wouldn’t go through with this. He wouldn’t execute his father’s trusted friends.

  The double doors swung open. The soldiers led Eliakim and Isaiah inside. The throne room was empty except for King Manasseh, seated on the throne, and a cross-eyed stranger with his arm in a sling who sat beside him in Eliakim’s seat.

  Manasseh seemed so young and insecure to Eliakim; his fine features were permeated with uncertainty. After two days of blindness, Eliakim’s eyes seemed to suddenly open and he saw that the king was a deeply troubled young man. What was Manasseh so afraid of?

  He looked small and lost on Hezekiah’s enormous throne. Manasseh had inherited Hephzibah’s slight frame and would probably never reach his father’s imposing stature. Suddenly Eliakim understood the true root of the king’s paranoia. Manasseh would have to live up to Hezekiah’s stature in the eyes of his nation. That explained his desperate need to know his future and to learn if Yahweh would perform miracles for him, too.

  If only Eliakim could sit down with him, talk calmly to him, convince him, somehow, that all of life was a walk by faith. King Hezekiah had experienced fear and doubt and failure, as well. Eliakim wanted to reassure Manasseh that if he leaned on Yahweh in faith, he would be able to build confidence in himself. He stepped forward.

  “Your Majesty, I—”

  “Silence! I’m sick of your interrupting me, taking over for me, running the nation for me! You won’t speak until I tell you to!”

  Eliakim saw then that his own experience and wisdom had multiplied Manasseh’s insecurities. He should have stood in the background more, offered his opinion less often. And it had probably made matters worse that Eliakim’s son Joshua had consistently surpassed Manasseh in all of their studies together. Could fear and jealousy explain why Manasseh had turned against Eliakim’s family so suddenly?

  “God knows I have no wish to execute either of you,” Manasseh began, “but I cannot allow Isaiah to use his considerable powers against me. I am forced to conclude that anyone who refuses to work for me is working against me.”

  Eliakim resisted the urge to interrupt again. This was all a ridiculous misunderstanding, not a crime punishable by death. But he held his tongue.

  “I’ll offer you one last chance to change your mind, Rabbi Isaiah. Will you prophesy the future for me as you did for the kings before me?”

  Isaiah met the king’s gaze. “I don’t know your future, Your Majesty.”

  “Then I condemn you to death!”

  Fear shot through Eliakim. Manasseh was going to go through with this. He was actually going to execute them.

  “You can spare yourself additional torture, Rabbi, by confessing to the fact that you killed my father by putting a curse on him.”

  “I did no such thing, Your Majesty. I loved and respected your father as my own son.”

  Manasseh looked ill. Eliakim could see that he was afraid to go through with this but equally afraid not to. The king turned to the man seated beside him as if for reassurance and whispered something; then he faced Eliakim again.

  “Do you still find Rabbi Isaiah innocent, Eliakim?”

  All the air seemed to rush from Eliakim’s chest to make room for his wildly pounding heart. It would be so easy to declare Isaiah guilty and save his own life. But it was so much more difficult to do the will of God. Eliakim swallowed the lump of fear in his throat.

  “Isaiah is innocent, Your Majesty.”

  Manasseh closed his eyes. “Execute them both.”

  Eliakim swayed as his knees went weak. He was going to die. A jolt of sheer terror rocked through him, shaking him. He looked up at this selfish boy-king whom he had raised and loved; he waited until their eyes met.

  “I want you to know that I forgive you, Manasseh.”

  “Forgive me! For what? You’re the one who should be begging for forgiveness! You’re the traitor, the liar . . . the murderer! Take him out of my sight!”

  Eliakim couldn’t move. Two soldiers gripped his arms and led him through the doors. His mo
vements felt jerky, uncontrolled. Eliakim was ashamed of himself for being so fearful, but he couldn’t help himself. He was going to die.

  They hauled him outside. Dazzling sunlight seared his eyes, blazing with white light and heat as if the sun had moved closer to the earth during his time underground. He continued forward, propelled by the soldiers on either side of him, stumbling because of the chain that connected his ankles. The guards were marching him faster than his feet wanted to go.

  After only a moment, it seemed, they passed through the gate, leaving the city. A crowd had gathered, summoned by the executioner’s pounding drum. Hundreds of eyes stared at him curiously. Did they recognize him? Surely they would recognize Isaiah. But clothed in filthy robes that were stained with Hilkiah’s blood, Eliakim knew he and Isaiah both looked like beggars.

  They stopped when they reached the execution pit. Eliakim shuddered when he saw the torture Manasseh had devised for Isaiah. He would be strapped between two planks of wood and slowly sawn in half. The soldiers were already removing Isaiah’s chains in preparation.

  Eliakim’s hands shook as he held them out for the soldiers to remove his shackles. They pushed him against the whipping post and tied him to it, his face scraping the scarred wood. Someone ripped his robe down to his waist, laying his back bare for lashing. Isaiah stood a few feet away from him.

  “Rabbi?”

  Isaiah turned to him. An expression of profound peace radiated from the rabbi’s face, flowing, it seemed, from his very soul. Eliakim caught a glimpse of the Eternal One’s peace.

  “Yahweh,” Eliakim whispered. Instantly the peace of God filled him, as well. Yahweh was beside him—no, inside him—shielding him with His love.

  “Make your confession,” the guard ordered. “Everyone who confesses will have a share in the world to come.”

  Eliakim closed his eyes and leaned against the post. “‘Hear, O Israel. Yahweh is God—Yahweh alone.’”

  When the Sabbath ended, Jerimoth rose at daybreak to finish the steep climb to Jerusalem. With his head covered and his eyes lowered, he followed a few paces behind his grandfather’s servant, Maki, pausing every so often to switch the bulky provision bag to his other shoulder.

  Maki had been unwilling to give Jerimoth any additional information about his family’s safety, promising to tell him everything once they were in Jerusalem. Jerimoth hadn’t pressed him. For now, the less he knew the more clearheaded and calm he could act.

  They decided to enter the city by the Damascus Gate. It would be busy this time of day, and they could blend in with the crowd. But as they drew near they saw a huge crowd pouring from the city, their voices a roar of excitement.

  “What’s going on?” Maki asked a passerby. “Where is everyone going?”

  “To the execution.”

  Maki swayed slightly and his face grew pale. Then he continued walking, faster now. The king’s execution grounds were just outside the gate. They would have to pass by them. Jerimoth hoped they could slip through the gates unnoticed in all the excitement.

  As they neared, Jerimoth was surprised to see people already turning away from the spectacle. Usually the common people lingered long at these grisly affairs, savoring every gory minute. But judging by their faces, this execution had proved to be too much for the mob. It must be a particularly brutal one.

  “Wait here,” Maki told him. “I’ll go see.”

  Jerimoth didn’t know what drew him, but he ignored Maki and followed closely behind him. Maki elbowed his way to the pit and stopped, peering between the spectators. Suddenly he whirled around again, turning his back so abruptly on what he had seen that he collided with Jerimoth.

  “Maki . . . what?”

  “God in heaven! Don’t look!”

  The two men struggled with each other as Maki tried to turn Jerimoth around and push him away. Jerimoth continued to move forward, a terrible foreboding in his racing heart. The crowd in front of them turned to view this new commotion, and as they parted, Jerimoth suddenly understood why Maki didn’t want him to see.

  In a pool of blood too horrible for words, Rabbi Isaiah lay dead. A few feet away, another man had been stripped to the waist and lashed to the pole. The soldiers had just finished scourging him with a whip and his back lay open, bloody and raw. When they cut the leather thongs, the man crumpled to the ground. Then the soldiers began pelting him with stones. The condemned man looked up and Jerimoth froze in horror.

  It was his father.

  “Ab—!” he started to scream, but Maki cut him short with a slap to his face.

  “Insolent servant! I said we’re leaving! Now come!” Maki gripped Jerimoth’s arm and dragged him away. Jerimoth’s feet stumbled drunkenly beneath him.

  He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what to do. He had to stop them. He had to help Abba. What had they done to him? God of Abraham . . . Abba!

  Maki towed him through the winding streets and back lanes into a stinking ghetto of slums and shacks. But Jerimoth didn’t see any of it. His eyes were blind to everything but the terrible image that was burned on his heart: the look of agony on Abba’s face . . . the bloody lash marks on his back.

  “I’m sorry, Master Jerimoth,” Maki wept as he half-carried him through the filthy streets. “We were too late. God in heaven, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. . . .”

  When Joshua awoke he was still lying in front of the fire with his hands tied. Miriam bent over him, laying a cold compress on his forehead. The air smelled of eucalyptus.

  “You’re awake,” she said. “I think your fever has finally broken.”

  “I feel much better.” Joshua remembered how his fever had begun to rise shortly after Maki left, and he’d been filled with despair, certain he would die in this stinking hovel. “Did you take care of me?” he asked. She nodded shyly. “Thank you. How long have I been sick?”

  “Two days. Would you like some broth?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She turned to fill a bowl from the pot of soup near the flames. “Who is Yael?” she asked with her back to him.

  “Yael? Why?”

  “You were calling her name.”

  Yael. If this ordeal ever ended, he would see his lovely Yael again. In three months’ time she would be his wife. Her father had finally agreed. The embers on the hearth beside him glowed deep red, the color of her hair. Joshua remembered his dream now. He must have felt Miriam’s hands bathing his face to cool his fever and dreamt it was Yael. He rolled onto his side and sat up with the blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. Someone had untied his ankles.

  “Did Maki come back?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  Joshua was thoroughly sick of this one-room hut with its uneven dirt floor and musty smell. He was tired of staring up at crooked ceiling beams that were so rotten that mud and straw from the roof trickled down every time the wind blew. How could anyone stand to live here? He longed for his own home, where the large rooms allowed light and air to stream in and sweet-smelling linens covered the ivory beds. Even his servants’ quarters were cleaner than this shack.

  Suddenly the door opened and Joshua’s brother stumbled inside. “Jerimoth!” he cried out. “Thank God you’re here!”

  Jerimoth didn’t reply. He didn’t seem to notice Joshua at all but stared straight ahead, as if in a trance. He looked very ill, his face blanched of all its color. Then Jerimoth’s face twisted with anguish and horror. He crumbled to the floor beside Joshua like a wall of blocks built by a child and cried out from the depths of his soul. It was a savage howl of incomprehensible sorrow and staggering grief. His pain shuddered through Joshua.

  He felt his own hands fall free as Miriam untied them. Joshua embraced his brother, covering his body with his own as if he could shield Jerimoth from whatever had hurt him. Everyone in the room fell silent, caught in the horror of Jerimoth’s piercing cries. Joshua gripped his brother tightly, fearing he would shake apart with the force of his agony.

 
Gradually Jerimoth’s cries grew weaker and died away into silent weeping. Joshua gripped his brother’s shoulders, the rope still dangling from one of his wrists, and made his brother meet his gaze.

  “Jerimoth, tell me.”

  “It was Abba . . .” Jerimoth’s hoarse voice sounded like a small child’s.

  Joshua’s heart pounded faster. “Tell me.”

  “They killed him, Joshua. He’s dead.”

  The room began to whirl as it had when Joshua lay ill with fever. He gripped Jerimoth’s shoulders as if to hang on for balance. “Who killed him?”

  “King Manasseh. He executed him. I . . . I saw Abba. He . . .” Jerimoth collapsed again, unable to finish.

  Maki had also come through the door, closing it behind him. Joshua looked up at him, his eyes imploring the servant to say it wasn’t true. But Maki’s grief-stricken face confirmed Jerimoth’s words. The servant grabbed the front of his robes—Jerimoth’s robes—and tore them again and again.

  “How do you know this, Maki? Tell me everything.”

  Maki’s voice was barely a whisper. “When we got to the city gate, we saw a crowd gathering to watch an execution.”

  “Abba’s?”

  Maki nodded. “He was being scourged. Afterward . . . the soldiers stoned him to death.”

  A cry of anguish, twin to the one Jerimoth had uttered, rose inside Joshua, but he choked it back. His father couldn’t be dead. Abba would always be there—wise, strong Abba. He was the pillar that supported their entire family. How could he be dead? “You witnessed this, Jerimoth? This is true?” Joshua breathed.

  “Oh, God of Abraham!” he wept. “Yes . . .”

  Joshua knew, then, that everything Maki had tried to tell him for the past three days was also true. Manasseh’s soldiers had ransacked his house. They had beaten his grandfather to death and trampled through his blood. They had strangled Dinah for refusing to betray him. They were searching for him, to arrest him. Maki had indeed risked his life to save him. Abba, beloved Abba, was dead. The horror of the truth overwhelmed Joshua, but unlike his brother, he wouldn’t weep, wouldn’t cry out.