by Lynn Austin
“I’ll have to think about this,” Manasseh mumbled.
“That’s fine. But don’t forget what you just read—’Let them stay with their mothers for seven days, but give them to me on the eighth day.’”
Manasseh closed his eyes to try to quell his nausea. “I won’t forget.”
15
Joshua hadn’t realized how homesick he had been for Jerusalem until the caravan started the steep ascent to the city. He gazed at the familiar hills and the gleaming Temple on Mount Zion with a knot of emotion in his throat. He wanted to absorb all the wonderful, familiar sights and sounds, drinking them in like a thirst-crazed man, but he didn’t dare. Once they passed through the city gate he had to be careful to keep his head down so no one would recognize him.
He spent the afternoon unloading the caravan goods at their destination in the marketplace. Then, as the day grew late, Joshua found himself anticipating the sound of the Temple shofar, timing it almost to the second by the descent of the sun in the west. When it finally trumpeted, he thought of his father. Going to the Temple had never become routine for Eliakim, and his face would change at the sound of the shofar to a look of joy, expectation, peace. Even on the last evening that Joshua had worshiped with him, his father had gone with anticipation, eager for his appointment with Yahweh.
The special fanfare also announced the beginning of the Sabbath. Joshua had planned this trip so that Yael would have an extra day to get ready before they left Jerusalem.
The other caravan drivers ate their evening meal and settled back with their wineskins, ready to drown out the weariness of their long journey and hard work. They invited Joshua to join them, but it was time for him to go to Amasai the Levite’s house. On the Sabbath, his father-in-law would preside over the dinner table for the traditional meal with his family: his wife, his three sons, his daughter, Yael.
Joshua checked to make sure the letter he would deliver to Amasai was still in the pocket of his cloak. The sealed roll of parchment was blank inside, but it would provide an excuse to get Joshua past the servants and face-to-face with Yael’s father.
He took a winding route to Amasai’s house to make certain he wasn’t being followed, approaching the large stone building from the rear. He stood in the shadows, watching the back door for a long time to check for guards. Then he circled around to watch the front. He had expected to see many lamps burning as the family welcomed the Sabbath, but the lights inside the house were few and dim. It almost looked as if no one was home.
When he was certain the house wasn’t guarded, Joshua stepped from the shadows and walked toward the door, pulling the roll of parchment from his cloak. He wished he could silence his pounding heart and the rush of fear that surged through his veins. They made it difficult for him to think. It seemed to take a long time for the servants to answer his knock.
When the door finally opened, it wasn’t a servant he faced but Yael’s oldest brother, Asher. He was only a few years older than Joshua and they had known each other well, but Asher gazed into Joshua’s face without recognizing him. “Yes? What is it?” he asked.
“I have a letter for Amasai the Levite.” Joshua spoke in Aramaic instead of Hebrew.
“Let me see it.” Asher reached for the scroll, but Joshua pulled it away.
“I must give it to Amasai in person.”
“He isn’t here. I’m his son. I’ll make certain he gets it.”
“May I wait until he returns?”
“No. Either give it to me or be gone.” Asher started to close the door, but Joshua wedged his foot inside, preventing him from shutting it.
“Tell me when Amasai will return.”
“First tell me who sent you here.”
Joshua saw the fear in Asher’s eyes and realized that their mutual suspicion had created an impasse. He would have to take a chance and reveal himself. Joshua rested his hand on his hip, close to the dagger he had tucked into his belt. “Asher, look at me carefully,” he said in Hebrew. “I’m Joshua, Eliakim’s son.”
Asher inhaled sharply. His eyes widened in surprise. “It is you!”
“Is your house still under guard?” Joshua asked. Asher shook his head. “Then let me come in.”
Asher seemed even more fearful now that he knew who Joshua was. He stood frozen in the doorway, dazed, until Joshua grew tired of waiting and forced his way inside.
Yael. At last he was going to see Yael. She would be seated at the Sabbath table, finishing her meal. He strode past Asher into the house, but the dining room was dark, the table empty. No one else was home. Asher had closed the front door and followed Joshua inside.
“Where’s Yael? Where’s your father?” Joshua asked.
“I guess you haven’t heard. My father is dead. King Manasseh executed him, just like he executed your father.”
Joshua’s heart speeded up. “Was it because of me?”
“Only indirectly. Sit down, Joshua.” Asher motioned to a chair and then slumped onto a bench nearby. But Joshua was too tense to sit. “After the king executed your father and Rabbi Isaiah, my father and the high priest were outraged,” Asher told him. “Especially when they learned that no one had come to Isaiah’s defense. They decided to send Manasseh a message through the liturgy at the Temple. Manasseh executed both of them for it.”
“What about Yael?”
“The soldiers almost destroyed this place searching for you. They were convinced that we were hiding you somewhere. They guarded all of us for months, in case you tried to contact us. It looks like they gave up too soon.”
A tremor of fear rocked through Joshua. “They didn’t hurt Yael, did they?”
“No, but they made her life a living hell—watching her day and night, accusing her of helping you escape, threatening her with prison or worse. After they killed our father, she grew so nervous and fearful we were all afraid she would lose her mind. She wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep. . . . It was pretty hard on all of us. So my brothers and I finally decided . . . well, we decided that the best thing we could do for her was to have her marry someone else.”
Joshua leaned against the wall to keep from falling over as the room tilted. He wanted to cry out but could only utter one word. “Who?”
“Joshua, what difference does it make—”
“Tell me who she married!”
“One of the Levite musicians. Amos.”
Joshua knew the man. He was a widower in his thirties with several small children to raise. Joshua had survived the loss of everything else in his life by focusing on his love for Yael. She was the reason he got up in the morning, endured hard labor all day, continued living. She had been the only thing God hadn’t taken from him. Now Yael was beyond his reach, as well. Tears of anger and despair sprang to his eyes, but he forced them back. What had he done to deserve this? My God, my God . . . why?
Asher rose from his seat and touched Joshua’s shoulder. “Listen, I’m sorry. We—”
He twisted away. “Leave me alone!” He needed to flee this house and its memories of Yael, and run as fast and as far as he could, but he had to wait until the strength returned to his shaking limbs. If he tried to walk now, he would fall on his face.
“Joshua, have you seen what King Manasseh has done to this country? Have you seen the abominations?”
Joshua didn’t answer. Yael was married to someone else.
“First, the king reopened all the high places for worship,” Asher told him. “Then, after he killed my father and the high priest, he wouldn’t allow anyone to be ordained in their places. Instead he ordained a new priesthood and a new high priest. None of them are from the tribe of Levi.”
Asher’s words seemed to swirl around Joshua like a vapor that he couldn’t quite grasp. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Joshua, the new priests are Sodomites. The king let them build altars in the Temple courtyard. They brought their sin and pagan worship into Yahweh’s Temple. Manasseh is holding all of the real priests and Levites hostage.
He’s forcing us to perform the daily sacrifices and feast days side by side with his paganism. If we refuse, he says he’ll kill all of us and our families.”
Joshua shook his head. None of what Asher said was important to him. His life had been irrevocably cut off from this world, and without Yael, none of it seemed real to him anymore. None of it mattered. The room fell silent.
Then Joshua heard a new sound, and he imagined for a moment that it was Yahweh, laughing at him. But it wasn’t laughter. It was weeping. Asher had covered his face.
“You can’t imagine such darkness, Joshua! He made an Asherah pole. King Manasseh put an Asherah pole in the holy of holies beside the ark of Yahweh!”
Joshua didn’t know this King Manasseh. This wasn’t his boyhood friend. “Why are you telling me all this?” he asked again. “I don’t work for him anymore. I have nothing to do with him.”
“Please help us, Joshua. We’ve all heard how you helped your own family escape. Help us escape, too.”
“Where is your God, Asher?” he asked bitterly. “Why doesn’t Yahweh help you escape?”
Joshua turned and staggered out of the door. He no longer cared about soldiers or guards as he jogged, unheeding, down the middle of the street. Yael—he had to rescue Yael. They had forced her to marry a man she didn’t love. He knew where Amos lived. He sprinted through the streets searching for the house, then pounded on the door until a servant answered. Joshua showed him the sealed letter.
“I have an urgent message for Lady Yael,” he said. “Get her.” The servant disappeared, leaving Joshua on the doorstep, panting.
It was so hard to breathe. He unsheathed his dagger and held it by his side. Yael loved him, not Amos. He would rescue her from this place and take her back to Moab.
A moment later Amos appeared, alone. He was older and fatter than Joshua remembered. “Yes? What is it—?”
“The letter is for Yael! Only Yael!”
Amos nodded and turned to call behind him. “Yael, dear, please come here for a moment.”
Then she was standing in front of him, exactly as Joshua remembered her—the flaming halo of dark red hair, skin like unblemished ivory, warm brown eyes that made his heart tremble.
“Yes?” she said in her soft, familiar voice. She stared at Joshua, but he saw no flicker of recognition in her eyes. Amos draped his arm around her shoulder, protectively.
She was waiting, but Joshua couldn’t speak. Then, in a smooth, graceful gesture, Yael rested her hand on her abdomen, on the perfect little shelf that the baby growing inside her womb had provided. Amos’s baby.
Joshua could no longer control his grief. He turned and fled alone into the night.
Joshua ran blindly until his lungs heaved and he could run no longer. When he stopped to figure out where he was, he saw that he wasn’t far from the central marketplace. He crept back through the dreary streets to the caravansary, numb and shivery with shock. The other drivers were either asleep or drunk by now and took no notice of him. He found a place to lie down and wadded up his cloak for a pillow, tucking his dagger beneath it.
But Joshua’s pain wouldn’t allow him to sleep. Like a river in flood stage, his sorrow overflowed its banks, drowning him in deep, black water, engulfing the remaining shreds of his faith. He was finished with God, and God was evidently finished with him. Yahweh had taken everything that mattered away from him. Joshua would never pray again. There was no need to. He had nothing more to say to God.
He couldn’t stay in Jerusalem, but he didn’t want to go back to Moab. How could he mumble phony prayers with Joel and Jerimoth every morning and evening? How could he bear to live with their happiness? But he didn’t want to drown his grief in a glass of wine, either, as Hadad did. Joshua’s only option was to continue traveling with this caravan, allowing it to take him wherever it led, wandering the ancient caravan routes through Egypt, Cush, Aram, and Philistia, outrunning his pain. A few hours before dawn, when exhaustion finally won the battle with sorrow, Joshua slept.
Someone shook him awake. “Joshua . . . Joshua, wake up.”
His eyes flew open, and he was instantly aware of the fact that he was back in Judah. And that no one should have known his real name. Terror seized him. He had been caught! He grabbed his knife and scrambled to his feet, trying to focus on the shadowy figure who had awakened him. The man drew back in fear.
“Easy, Joshua. It’s only me, Asher.”
Joshua’s heart continued to pound even after he saw that Asher was alone, unarmed. “How did you find me?”
“You were dressed like a Moabite, and this was the only caravan from Moab.”
“What do you want?”
“We can’t talk here,” Asher whispered. “Follow me.”
Joshua remembered Jerimoth’s warning that a reward might be offered for his capture. He might be walking into a trap. He braced his legs to run and glanced around, planning his escape route if soldiers suddenly appeared. The main entrances would be guarded. Maybe he could lose his pursuers in the back lanes of the marketplace. But how would he get through the city gates? He didn’t have Maki to help him this time. As his heart crashed against his ribs, Joshua’s raspy breathing raced to keep pace with it.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, Asher. Tell me what you want.”
“It’s Rabbi Gershom. He asked to see you.”
“You told someone else I was here in Jerusalem?” Joshua’s panic soared at the thought of a servant overhearing Asher.
“I only told the rabbi. You know you can trust him, Joshua.”
Yes, Joshua knew that he could. Rabbi Gershom, his most demanding instructor, had taught the Torah to him and Manasseh for twelve years. He had demanded excellence, and Joshua had always worked hard to please him. Rabbi Gershom was wise, God-fearing, and exacting, and he could make Joshua feel as if he had done something wrong even when he hadn’t. But when Joshua did transgress, such as the time Manasseh had convinced him to skip their lessons and go for a walk, the grave look of disappointment on the rabbi’s face had been much worse than any rebuke he might have given. Being ill with a breathing attack afterward seemed like a minor punishment compared to what Joshua deserved. Now, when he remembered what he had done to his hair and beard, his hand flew to his face self-consciously.
“Why didn’t the rabbi come here with you?” he asked.
“He can’t. He’s too weak to walk. He’s been bedridden for several months now. He’s dying, Joshua.”
Rabbi Gershom dying. The words made no sense. Gershom was a huge bear of a man, taller than Joshua’s father, with a body like the trunk of an oak tree and thick, hairy arms and legs. Bushy black brows jutted over his dark eyes, eyes that pinned you like hot, iron nails. Even his voice roared, bearlike, as he thundered the words of God’s holy Law. Joshua could never imagine Rabbi Gershom too weak to leave his bed. Asher might sooner ask him to imagine the Great Sea going dry.
“Please, Joshua. You would help the rabbi rest in peace.”
Joshua realized that they were almost all gone—all the faithful ones of King Hezekiah’s generation, the ones who had witnessed Yahweh’s miracles: his father, Rabbi Isaiah, King Hezekiah, the high priest, Amasai the Levite, Lord Shebna, Joah the scribe, and now Rabbi Gershom. Who would take their places? Joshua thought of the next generation. Hadad was a drunkard. Asher trembled helplessly behind the walls of his father’s house. Joel, the high priest’s successor, was in exile, working as a scribe in Moab. Joshua himself labored in foreign fields and temples.
“All right,” he finally said. “Lead the way.”
A deep uneasiness filled Joshua as he followed Asher up the hill to Gershom’s house. He lived just below the king’s palace and the Temple Mount, not far from Joshua’s old house. Joshua had avoided this part of town, fearing the memories. Flickers of winter lightning flashed in the deserted streets, but it was too far away to hear the answering thunder.
The rabbi’s house was dark and shuttered. Asher led the way inside with
out knocking. A solitary oil lamp burned on a stand beside Rabbi Gershom’s bed. He lay propped on cushions with his eyes closed, but he opened them as Joshua entered the room. Joshua recognized the thick brows and gimlet eyes, but they were on the wrong face, the wrong body—on a man half the size of the bearlike Gershom. His dark, swarthy skin was as pale as parchment. Joshua stared, and Gershom stared back, until Joshua realized that the rabbi hadn’t recognized him. He touched his sideburns as if he could make them grow back.
“I’m sorry, Rabbi. It’s me . . . Joshua ben Eliakim.”
“Yes, I see that now. Please, sit down.” The rabbi’s bed was a thick pallet of straw on the floor, covered with rugs. He motioned to a pile of cushions on the floor beside him, and Joshua sat down, cross-legged. Asher went out, leaving them alone.
“It seems we’ve traded bodies, young Joshua. You have grown strong and brown, while now I am the one who is thin and pale.” He smiled slightly, and Joshua looked away to hide his sudden tears. He had never known Rabbi Gershom to smile, much less attempt a small joke. “So, my son. Now you have come back to us, a changed man.”
Joshua cleared his throat. “I came back for my fiancée, but—”
“Asher has told me the story. I’m sorry.” The compassion in Gershom’s eyes stunned Joshua more than the smile had. This wasn’t the same stern man who had been his teacher for so many years. Gershom was a changed man. He reached for Joshua’s hand and covered it with his own huge one. “But even in something as painful as this, Yahweh’s will must be accomplished.”
Joshua’s face hardened at the mention of Yahweh. “I don’t know if I believe in God anymore, Rabbi.” He didn’t care if he shocked Gershom or disappointed him. In fact, he hoped the rabbi would throw him out of the house. He could deal with Gershom’s anger, but compassion and understanding from a man who was obviously dying was too painful to endure.
“Of course you believe in Yahweh!” Gershom said. “You wouldn’t be this angry with Him if you doubted His existence.”
Joshua realized that it was true. He wasn’t angry at fate or at circumstances but at a Person—Yahweh. The God his fathers had trusted and worshiped and served. The God who had inexplicably abandoned him.
