The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  “But you told me last night that you remembered the ride. You said Shebna drove like the demons were after him.”

  “I did? Well, give me a drink and maybe I’ll remember some more.”

  Joshua’s frustration mounted. “Try to think, Hadad.”

  “I’m tired of thinking! Your servant girl has been badgering me about it all day!”

  “Miriam has?” Joshua asked in surprise.

  “Yes. She’s sure an insolent little thing. I’ll bet the only reason you put up with her is because she’s pretty.”

  “I don’t find Miriam attractive,” Joshua said. “Her mother was a prostitute. Listen, I’m going back to Jerusalem for my fiancée in a few days. That’s why I was hoping you could give me the name of someone who would help me.”

  “I can’t even remember what happened yesterday, let alone nine months ago,” Hadad said. Joshua sighed and crouched beside him to untie his hands. “You’re letting me go?” Hadad asked.

  “I’m sorry for holding you prisoner all day, but I’ll be taking a huge risk when I go back, and I was hoping to find at least one ally in Judah. I’m leaving at the end of this week. If you suddenly remember something, will you come back and tell me?”

  “Sure. But I think you’re insane to go back there. She must be some woman.”

  “Yes. She is.” The thought of Yael made Joshua more determined than ever to rescue her and marry her, regardless of the danger.

  “Do you want a word of advice?” Hadad asked. “Go back as a Moabite.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve changed a lot in the last few months. You’ve put on muscle. You’re not just pale skin and bones anymore. I didn’t recognize you. So take the masquerade one step further. Cut your hair and beard like the Moabites do. You’re so brown from the sun, you’ll look just like one.”

  “But the Torah forbids us to cut the hair off the sides of our heads or clip the edges off our beards like the pagans do.”

  “True. And they would never expect Eliakim’s son to violate the Torah, would they?”

  “No, I guess they wouldn’t.” Joshua thought about how he had already been violating the Torah—working on the Sabbath, eating with pagans, planning to build a temple dedicated to idols. He felt ashamed.

  “He’s right, you know.” Joshua whirled around at the sound of his brother’s voice. He hadn’t heard Jerimoth come out to the courtyard. “Your hair will grow back once you return here safe and sound,” Jerimoth continued. “I think it’s a good suggestion, Joshua. I can use my connections to get you a job with a Moabite caravan traveling to Jerusalem. It will be a perfect disguise.”

  Jerimoth’s offer moved Joshua. For a moment he couldn’t speak. “You’re going to help me, then?” he asked.

  “Of course. You’re my brother.”

  14

  Dinah screamed and writhed in pain. “I can’t go on!” she cried. “I can’t!” She had labored for hours, but the baby refused to come. She had never imagined such relentless agony, such unbearable suffering. The midwives and royal physicians hovered around her bed telling her what to do, yet she felt utterly alone. No one soothed her or held her hand. She wanted her mother.

  “You’re fighting against us, my lady,” one of the midwives told her. “You’re resisting the birth. Don’t you want this baby to be born?”

  Dinah didn’t know the answer. The child had been conceived in violence, fathered by a man she hated, a symbol of Manasseh’s mastery and ownership of her. And she had resented her pregnancy at first because it prevented her escape. Maybe she didn’t want this baby to be born.

  But no, the child belonged to her, too. He was part of her, part of Mama and Abba. She just wanted the pain to end.

  “Push!” the midwife told her. Dinah cried out as her body strained to force the baby from her womb. In a terrible burst of burning pain, it was finally over.

  “It’s a boy! A son!” someone cried out. “The royal heir has been born!”

  Above the bustle of activity, Dinah heard her baby crying. “Let me see him,” she begged. “He’s mine.” But the royal physician blocked her view as he bent to sever the umbilical cord. When he finished, the child was whisked away, no longer hers.

  “The king has a son!” the midwife announced triumphantly.

  Dinah lay back, exhausted and shivering, as the physicians turned all their attention to her son. Her role had ended. She didn’t matter. “He’s my son,” she wept. “Please, let me hold my son.” The midwife wrapped a blanket around Dinah, ignoring her pleas. Dinah closed her eyes and cried until she finally drifted to sleep.

  She didn’t know how long she had dozed, but the Temple shofars awakened her as they trumpeted the news: King Manasseh had a son.

  “He isn’t Manasseh’s son,” she murmured. “He’s mine.”

  The midwife returned after Dinah awakened. “Would you like something to eat, my lady?”

  “I want to see my baby. Bring him to me. He must be hungry.”

  “The wet nurse has already fed him.”

  “But that’s my job!”

  “No, my lady. Your job is to have more sons. That won’t happen if you nurse him.”

  “I’m his mother! I want to take care of him!”

  “You are the mother of the king’s heir. The baby has dozens of servants to take care of him.”

  Dinah kicked the covers off and tried to get up. “I labored all day and night for him. I’m going to hold my baby!”

  “No, my lady. Lie down. You’ll injure yourself.”

  “Then bring him to me.” She lay back against the cushions as the midwife hurried from the room. Dinah hoped she would bring him. She was much too weak to walk to the nursery by herself. Before long, the woman returned, carrying a small bundle. She hesitated for a moment, then laid the baby in Dinah’s arms.

  Dinah loved her son the moment she saw him. He was so tiny and precious, a perfect little boy. She brushed her lips against his soft, black hair and smelled his sweet baby scent. She had been so afraid he would look like Manasseh, but she saw no resemblance at all. The baby’s complexion was pink, his wrinkled face still a little squashed from his struggle to be born. She wondered what Manasseh would name him.

  “I’ll call you Naphtali—my struggle,” she whispered to him. She lifted his hand and kissed his tiny fingers. One day he would be the king and wield a scepter in that little hand. The royal blood of King David flowed through his veins.

  “Is that your destiny, my little one? Will you be the king one day?” If she escaped with him, he would be just an ordinary man. Was it wrong to take Naphtali away from his future throne? Besides, where could they go? How would they live? Would Manasseh ever stop pursuing them, searching for his firstborn son? But maybe it was a greater wrong to leave him here for Manasseh to raise. Dinah felt so confused, so lost. Naphtali was the only family she had left.

  A few minutes later the midwife returned. “Let me take him, my lady. You need to rest.”

  She kissed his forehead, holding him close. “Sleep well, little Naphtali,” she whispered. “Grow strong.”

  Hadad went straight to the inn to get drunk again as soon as he left Joshua’s house. It was the only way to make the pain go away. Why did Joshua have to stir up all those memories of his grandfather again? Hadad had been trying so hard to erase them all, especially the ones of their last night together in Jerusalem.

  His grandfather had found out where Hadad had been spending his evenings when he should have been studying. Shebna had stood in the doorway to Hadad’s room with his arms folded across his chest, his face revealing his anger and deep disappointment.

  “There is something much more important than intellect or ancestry,” Shebna had told him, “and that is moral integrity. Right now, you lack it. I will not give you my name so that you can contaminate it with filth like your father did.”

  Then came the memory Hadad wanted most to forget. “I hate you, old man!” he had shouted. “Why don
’t you admit it—you hate me, too!”

  The anger on Shebna’s face had transformed to sorrow. He lowered his head, speaking so softly Hadad had barely heard him. “No, I love you, Hadad. That is why I care enough to discipline you.”

  In the fifteen years they had lived together, his grandfather had never told Hadad that he loved him. But Hadad didn’t respond to his grandfather; instead he had gone out to get drunk.

  He wished he knew if Shebna had been able to hear him after he suffered his stroke. Hadad had tried to tell his grandfather that he didn’t hate him, that he loved him, too. He’d begged Yahweh not to let Shebna die, to give him another chance to make things right. But he never got it.

  After leaving Joshua, Hadad went on a drinking binge for the next few days to chase away the memories. In his sober moments, he wished he could remember something that would help Joshua. The man was insane to return to Jerusalem. He was going to get himself killed. At times he thought of the sharp-tongued servant girl, Miriam. She had asked him why he didn’t make something of his life. But Hadad knew it was too late to change. He no longer needed to earn a good name. The only person he wanted acceptance from was dead.

  And then, just as it seemed he was firmly mired in a life of drunken stupor, glimpses of his last night in Jerusalem returned.

  “King Manasseh has gone crazy,” his grandfather had said as he’d gathered their possessions that last night. “We will not wait for the outcome of Eliakim’s trial.”

  Shebna had been a smart man, a survivor of palace intrigue and upheaval. As soon as he’d heard that Isaiah and Eliakim were in prison, he’d ordered Hadad to harness the horses to his chariot. They had left late that night.

  And suddenly Hadad remembered who had warned them. He lifted his head from the table and looked around for the innkeeper, signaling to him. The man hurried over. Hadad was his best customer.

  “Yes? You would like more wine?” the innkeeper asked. “I see that your cup is empty.”

  “What day is it?” Hadad asked.

  “The last day of the week.”

  Hadad saw by the pale light coming through the open door that it was very early in the morning. He had slept at this table all night. With his head pounding like hammer blows, he pulled himself to his feet and laid a pile of silver on the table for the innkeeper. Then he stumbled through the door and down the street toward Joshua’s house, hoping he wasn’t too late.

  Hadad never would have recognized Joshua when he met him in the street if Joshua hadn’t been walking with his older brother. He had not only squared off his beard and trimmed his hair and sideburns, but he wore a band of cloth tied around his head and a sleeveless Moabite laborer’s tunic, open to his waist. It revealed his strong chest and shoulders, bronzed by the sun. He had even tied a Moabite amulet around his neck. King Manasseh himself wouldn’t have recognized him.

  “Hadad!” Joshua shouted when he saw him. The sound echoed painfully through Hadad’s head. Joshua gripped his shoulders to steady him. “Did you remember something?”

  “Yes. I know who warned us that your father and Isaiah had been arrested. It was Prince Amariah.”

  King Manasseh heard the babble of petitioners’ voices as they waited outside his throne room, but the responsibility of making so many important decisions no longer worried him. The omens had spoken favorably that morning; the guidance he had received from the starry hosts had been clear. He was ready to pronounce his judgments.

  Zerah sat beside the king, dressed in the high priest’s garments. The palace administrator’s sash and keys were fastened across his shoulder. “Your Majesty, before we begin, may I speak with you alone for a moment?” Zerah glanced meaningfully at Amariah, seated on the king’s left-hand side.

  Manasseh guessed that Zerah wanted to discuss something religious. They both knew that the king’s brother didn’t agree with Zerah’s new methods of worship. Amariah had argued with Manasseh about all the changes at first—the shrines on the high places, the altar for divination, the Asherah pole—but then Amariah had suddenly stopped arguing and withdrawn into himself.

  “You’re excused, Amariah,” Manasseh told him.

  “I’ll be in my rooms if you need me.” Amariah’s shoulders were slumped as he shuffled from the throne room.

  “I’m still worried about him,” Manasseh said when he and Zerah were alone. “He’s doing an adequate job as secretary of state, but he lacks enthusiasm for his work. He lacks enthusiasm for anything.”

  Zerah leaned back in his seat and combed his fingers through his woolly beard. “Don’t worry. He’s harmless. My people have been watching him for months now, and he’s not involved in any conspiracies or rebellions. I think he’s a coward, if you want to know the truth. He cries out in his sleep sometimes.”

  Manasseh frowned. “How closely do you watch him?”

  “I do what needs to be done, Your Majesty. But I don’t want to discuss Prince Amariah. He’ll come around to our way of thinking eventually. It’s you I’m concerned about.”

  A ripple of fear crawled up Manasseh’s spine. Dread seemed to stalk him, but he didn’t know why. “What’s wrong?”

  “As your priest, it’s my job to intercede for you with God, to tell you how to stay in His favor. You don’t have to do what I tell you, of course, but it’s my duty to keep you informed.” Zerah’s startling brows arched meaningfully. “It concerns your son. Your firstborn. If you want power over your enemies and the patronage of God—”

  “What are you saying? You’re not going to tell me to sacrifice my son!” Manasseh stared at Zerah, horrified. This time he had gone too far.

  “Not sacrifice him, Your Majesty. Offer him. There is a huge difference between the two. Offering Isaac was the defining moment in Abraham’s life. God said, ‘Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.’ This offering is the most awe-inspiring act of faith a man can make. And because Abraham was obedient, God said, ‘I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky . . . Your descendants will take possession of the cities of their enemies.’ Isn’t that what you want, Your Majesty?”

  Once again Manasseh felt as if Zerah had backed him into a corner. He was terrified to do what Zerah said and terrified not to. He couldn’t deny the fact that his reign had been blessed since he’d started following Zerah’s advice. And no disasters had struck him for deviating from the Torah, as he’d been taught to expect. But offering his firstborn seemed like too much to swallow.

  “I can’t forget my father’s horror of child sacrifice,” Manasseh said. “He condemned people to death for offering their sons. And he hated my grandfather for offering his sons to Molech.”

  “But don’t forget, your father was offered and redeemed, just as Isaac was. God accepted King Ahaz’s offering and blessed his reign with peace. Under Ahaz, our nation never knew the warfare we experienced during your father’s reign.”

  “But the Torah clearly says not to do it.”

  “Are you certain of that, Your Majesty? I brought a Torah scroll with me so I could show you what it says. First, let me read about Abraham: ‘Then God said, “Take your son, your only son . . . Sacrifice him as a burnt offering.’” You see? It was God himself who commanded Abraham. God instituted the ritual.”

  “But I remember reading other places in the Torah where it said—”

  “You’re right. Child sacrifice is mentioned in many other places. But I think you should read what it says for yourself.”

  Zerah had placed markers in the Torah scroll. Manasseh opened to them, one after the other, and read:

  “Consecrate to me every firstborn male. The firstborn offspring of every womb among the Israelites belongs to me, whether man or animal.”

  “After the Lord brings you into the land of the Canaanites and gives it to you . . . you are to give over to the Lord the first offspring of every womb.”

  “Do not hold back your offerings . . . You
must give me the firstborn of your sons . . . Let them stay with their mothers for seven days, but give them to me on the eighth day.”

  “All the firstborn are mine. When I struck down all the firstborn in Egypt, I set apart for myself every firstborn in Israel, whether man or animal. They are to be mine.”

  “Every firstborn male in Israel, whether man or animal, is mine.”

  Manasseh stopped reading. “I get the point, Zerah. But I also know that the Law commands us to redeem our sons with silver.”

  “That verse is found among the rules for the priests and Levites. ‘The first offspring of every womb, both man and animal, that is offered to the Lord is yours. . . . ‘ meaning the priests! Doesn’t that sound like a contradiction, Your Majesty? God doesn’t change His mind. Why would He say in a dozen places that the firstborn are His, then suddenly decide that they belonged to the priests? Tell me, who receives the silver when a firstborn son is redeemed?”

  “The priests and Levites do.”

  “See what I mean? The priests not only profit financially but steal the power and blessings that are supposed to be yours when you offer your firstborn to God.”

  Manasseh kneaded his forehead with his fingertips. He felt an ache deep in his stomach, as if fear had hatched from its shell to gnaw at him. “I just don’t know if I can do this.”

  “It’s not a disgrace to admit that your faith isn’t strong enough, Your Majesty. God gives us the freedom to serve Him or not to serve Him. But do you want power? Do you want to earn God’s favor and blessing?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you must give everything you have to Him in total devotion, like Abraham did. If you do, God will be obligated to you. And don’t forget, you have an enemy in Joshua ben Eliakim. Will he offer his firstborn son to Yahweh?”

  “Joshua? Never!”

  “That gives you an advantage, then, doesn’t it? Besides, your son is also his nephew. That gives you an even greater advantage.”