by Mesu Andrews
With a defeated sigh, he began packing his meager belongings. He rolled his mat and collected his writing palette. His most valuable treasures hung around his neck—a small leather pouch containing his prince’s seal and Ishma’s purple ribbon.
He stepped outside his tent, looking out over the camp. Ishma. How he longed to see her. By the time they arrived in Jerusalem that evening and he washed a year’s worth of Philistine blood and dust from his body, it would be too late to visit Isaiah’s household.
Tomorrow. He strapped on his weapons. Tomorrow I will see my Ishma.
Hezekiah was awakened in his palace chamber barely past dawn by a persistent messenger who insisted Queen Abijah must see him right away. Hezi burst into her chamber, thinking her ill or injured, but instead found her bright and shining, welcoming her son to break his fast. Frustration, like a bad fig on moldy bread, roiled in his belly.
During and after the meal, Ima chattered on about noblemen’s daughters and betrothals until Hezi thought his head would burst. Abba rescued him with a summons to his private chamber, where he demanded a full report of the Philistine conflict on Judah’s southwestern border. He seemed pleased with Hezi’s progress but complained about the amount of supplies the army used. Abba then recounted every gory detail of Assyria’s victory over Samaria. Hezekiah would rather have endured Ima’s betrothal chatter—almost.
When Abba unfurled a scroll with the banquet seating plan, Hezekiah could endure the inane banter no longer. “Excuse me, Abba, but I must send an invitation for tonight’s banquet.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who would you invite? I’ve commanded every nobleman’s attendance.”
Hezi hesitated but a moment. Abba deemed uncertainty weakness. “I’ll invite Isaiah’s best student—the one I’ve been competing against all these years.”
“Make sure you return after you send the message,” Abba said. “We still have much to prepare before tonight’s banquet.”
Hezi groaned inwardly, hurrying to the chief scribe’s chambers. His first glimpse of Ishma would have to wait until tonight’s banquet. He scribbled a handwritten message:
From Hezekiah ben Ahaz, Commander of Judah’s 7th Regiment, Loyal Student of Master Isaiah, the Royal Tutor.
The teacher is invited to the celebration banquet of King Ahaz in the Throne Porch to be accompanied by his honorable wife and supreme student, Ishma.
Peace be with you until we meet this evening.
Hezi rolled the scroll, smeared on a dollop of wax, and pressed his seal into it. “Take this to Master Isaiah immediately, and return to me with his answer.” The young messenger nodded and fled.
Knowing he would see Ishma would sustain him through the tasks of the day. He stared down the hall at Abba’s chamber door. Perhaps he should be flattered that the king seemed pleased to see him, but he’d learned that there was always more to his abba than he revealed. His excitement was certainly genuine, but it likely had little to do with Hezekiah’s return to Jerusalem.
20
From watchtower to fortified city they built themselves high places in all their towns. They set up sacred stones and Asherah poles on every high hill and under every spreading tree. At every high place they burned incense…They did wicked things that aroused the LORD’s anger. They worshiped idols, though the LORD had said, “You shall not do this.”
—2 Kings 17:9–12
Isaiah reclined at his lavishly stocked banquet table with four other noblemen—the recorder, two secretaries, and the royal treasurer, who was his dear friend and Eliakim’s abba, Hilkiah—and Hephzibah. The secretaries offered curt bows to the lowly tutor, then began quiet conversation with the recorder. Isaiah was relieved to skip the polite banter. Hilkiah was far more intelligent and vastly more interesting.
Isaiah glanced at Hephzibah, who sat moping between him and Hilkiah. Isaiah nodded toward his daughter, signaling his friend to make an effort. “You look beautiful this evening, Hephzibah,” Hilkiah said.
Lifting her head, she squared her shoulders. “Thank you, Lord Hilkiah.” Her smile faded, and she returned her attention to fidgeting hands.
“Tell me how we were so graced with your presence on the men’s side of the hall?” Hilkiah’s kind manner couched the question without a sting.
“The palace administrator assumed the invitation addressed to ‘Isaiah’s supreme student, Ishma,’ was for a boy.” Hephzibah looked up again, a spark in her eyes. “I must be a well-kept secret.” Hilkiah’s laughter joined with the celebration in the hall, where most of Judah’s noble class had arrived from every town and village to celebrate Assyria’s victory over Israel.
Isaiah peered at the recorder and secretaries, hoping they hadn’t heard the name Ishma. The three men were self-sequestered, intent on their conversation. If Ahaz were to discover Hephzibah’s story, the road to her prophecy’s fulfillment might have a few more ruts. How long, Lord, before You unite our Hephzibah with the new king of Judah?
Hilkiah leaned across Hephzibah, keeping his voice low for Isaiah. “How long since her adoption papers were finalized?”
“Three weeks. Isn’t Yahweh’s timing remarkable? Only three weeks before Hezekiah returned home, our Hephzibah became eligible for a royal betrothal.”
Isaiah noted his daughter’s hands trembling and furtively reached beneath the table to steady them. She grasped his hands with the strength of a soldier. The food on her plate had barely been touched. She’d eaten two bites of the lamb and one olive. She hadn’t touched her goblet of wine. Probably wise. Seeing her so unsure of herself reminded him of her first day in class. He’d wanted to spare her then and wished he could spare her the current discomfort. Maybe a little reminder would help.
Leaning close, he whispered, “What if everyone here was sitting in a large circle, and it was the first day of a class. Then I told you to go to a large pile of cushions and choose your favorite. What color would it be?”
Her face brightened with a smile that lit her eyes. “You know what color, Abba.”
“Red?”
She nodded with a little mist in her eyes. “Thank you, Abba.” Hephzibah sat a little taller and picked up some bread to scoop another bite of lamb. She turned toward the man on her left. “So tell me, Lord Hilkiah, have you begun betrothal plans for my friend Eliakim?”
Isaiah released a sigh and searched the tables across the aisle to find his wife. Aya’s beautiful face was etched with concern, but now he could offer a nod of assurance. Their girl was overcoming another obstacle with grace and courage.
The longer he scanned the crowd, however, the more he seethed. Didn’t King Ahaz’s celebration of Israel’s demise cross some sort of divinely drawn line? King Ahaz and his six sons reclined at a table on an elevated dais. On their table, amid the trays and platters of food, sat cubit-tall statues of the various gods from surrounding nations. Molek. Chemosh. Asherah. Baal. And King Ahab’s new obsession, Rimmon, Assyria’s pagan deity.
To the right of those hideous idols sat Judah’s elaborate throne. Overlaid with gold and inlaid with ivory, the throne’s rounded back and cushioned seat and armrests bespoke comfort and confidence. But the roaring lions carved into the armrests displayed the power of Judah during Solomon’s reign. Now King Solomon’s lion-headed scepter leaned haphazardly against one of the armrests. And after King Ahaz had downed his second wineskin, his crown sat as haphazardly on his head.
Judah’s king stood, and Hezekiah rose to steady him. The gathering stilled as the king lifted his goblet. “May the gods give us favor with Assyria’s new king, Sargon.” He stumbled back and added, “And grant the defeated Israelite king and his nobles swift deaths.” He tossed back the full goblet of wine, then demanded a quick refill from a nearby serving maid. Hezekiah whispered something and tugged at his abba’s arm, but King Ahaz shoved him away. “It’s time I officially named Hezekiah my co-regent. Though he’s entirellll…” He swallowed and tried again. “Entirelll…” A frown preceded a new attempt. “Though he’
s way too good to be my son, he’ll make a fine king when the Assyrians stake me to the ground.” He raised his goblet, oblivious to his son’s reaction.
Was it surprise or fear on Hezekiah’s face? Ahaz had always seemed so confident in the decision to align Judah with Assyria. If even he feared the new king, what must Hezekiah be thinking?
“Drink!” King Ahaz slapped Hezekiah’s back. “Where are the dancers and musicians to celebrate my son’s rise to power?” Musicians entered through the double doors at the rear of the hall playing a lively tune, while scantily clad women jumped and twirled trailing multicolored veils behind them.
One royal secretary leaned toward Isaiah and Hilkiah with lifted brow. “It’s an unusually lighthearted coronation ceremony, isn’t it? Don’t these things usually happen in the Throne Hall with visiting dignitaries in a somber service?” He laughed and drained his goblet. “Why should we be surprised? King Ahaz has never done anything like other kings of Judah.”
The treasurer grinned and rested the goblet on his ample belly. “Lady Hephzibah, I see you’ve eaten only a few bites of your meal. Shall I call over a serving maid to request something else? Duck? Venison? I believe I saw fish on one of the serving trays.”
“Oh no, please don’t. I—” Distracted, she looked toward the dais and then wilted into silence.
Isaiah followed her gaze and saw three dancing girls surrounding Hezekiah. Two draped him with veils and one draped herself across him.
Hephzibah’s cheeks nearly matched the purple ribbon in her hair. “Abba, when can we leave?”
Isaiah shot a quick glance at Aya, who motioned for Hephzibah to cross the main aisle and sit with her. Isaiah nodded. “It would be rude to leave before the king retires, but I could escort you across the aisle to sit with—”
“Excuse me, Lord Isaiah.” One of the stewards bowed, blocking his view of Aya.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Queen Abijah has asked the girl to join her on the dais.”
Isaiah heard Hephzibah’s breath catch. He looked toward the table at the right of the king’s throne. Queen Abijah inclined her head slightly. Isaiah wasn’t sure whether he should shout for joy or run for home, but he chose to match Queen Abijah’s measured response. “As the queen wishes.”
Hephzibah rose with grace and followed the steward to the dais. As she ascended the six steps, Isaiah scanned the room and noticed nearly every head turned in his daughter’s direction—including the king’s. King Ahaz set down his goblet and shoved aside a dancer to point her out to Hezekiah. Isaiah read his lips. Who is that girl?
Panic lifted Isaiah to his feet and propelled him toward the dais before Hezekiah could reveal the whole truth. The prince would have no idea about Hephzibah’s adoption. Three royal guards stopped Isaiah’s progress at the foot of the dais, but he’d captured King Ahaz’s attention. “My king, I’d like to introduce my daughter, Hephzibah.”
The music died, and the hall grew quiet. Tension rose with King Ahaz. Hezekiah jumped to his feet and hurried toward Hephzibah. “Abba, I’d like to introduce you to Isaiah’s prize student, Ishma.”
The king appraised her head to toe, seeming suspicious at first and then approving. “By the gods, boy, must I give you lessons on beautiful women? Why would you call this one ‘desolation’?” The tension snapped like a harp string, and laughter filtered through the hall.
Isaiah released the breath he’d been holding, but Hezekiah shot a piercing glance at his teacher before forcing a smile and raising his voice for the crowd. “I call her ‘Ishma’ because she was the only one of Isaiah’s students whose quick mind cut me as ably as I use my sword. Her beauty is surpassed only by her intelligence. I am left desolate in her wake.” Hezekiah offered Hephzibah an exaggerated bow, and the whole gathering erupted in applause.
Her face bloomed crimson, but she inclined her head like a queen. Hephzibah proceeded to her place beside Queen Abijah, seeming utterly relieved to relinquish focus to the musicians and dancers.
Hezekiah descended the dais, wrapping his arm around Isaiah’s shoulder and squeezing as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Your daughter? Hephzibah? I go to fight Philistines for a year, and you parade Ishma in front of jackals like a pompous princess.”
Halting before they reached his table, Isaiah kept his smile wide and his voice low. “We have much to discuss. When can we talk?”
“Now.” Hezekiah guided him to a back corner, where serving maids filled fresh goblets from wineskins. “Leave us, please.”
Isaiah noted the maids’ furtive glances and giggles as they brushed past the new co-regent. Hezekiah offered an impish grin, seeming far too at ease with young maidens. Isaiah’s stomach clenched like a fist. So many of Yahweh’s prophecies during recent years had pointed to Hezekiah as the righteous ruler to restore Judah to faithfulness and prosperity. Please, Yahweh! He must be the one.
Hezekiah waited until the maids were a safe distance away before showing his displeasure. “Why did you lie to Abba about Ishma?”
“It wasn’t a lie. Aya and I adopted her, and her legal name is Hephzibah, God’s delight is in her. We’ve chosen to call her Zibah at home. It fits—she is a delight.” Isaiah wanted to tell him about the dreams. He’d planned on it, in fact, but a nagging doubt gnawed at his belly. “What is it, Hezekiah? Why are you so upset?”
Sighing, the new ruler squeezed the back of his neck and looked away. He’d never struggled to meet Isaiah’s gaze before. “I thought she was different.” He choked on a cynical laugh.
Defenses rising, Isaiah grabbed his arm. “What are you implying?”
“It’s obvious you’ve made her like all the other pampered and perfumed noblemen’s daughters. You’ve probably arranged her betrothal, haven’t you? Who is it, Isaiah? Who did you sell her to?”
Isaiah couldn’t decide whether to slap him or hug him. Relief displaced his concerns and prompted a smile—which fueled Hezekiah’s ire.
“I turned away priestesses in the temples of Dagon for her.”
The frustration in his voice turned several heads at the back tables.
Isaiah shushed him and huddled closer. “If my daughter was the only reason you refused to sleep with temple prostitutes, then you aren’t worthy of Hephzibah’s love—or Yahweh’s throne.” He held the boy’s gaze while his words hit their mark.
“You know that’s not the only reason I refused the priestesses, Isaiah.” He wiped both hands down his face and growled. “Abba sent orders to my captain that I was to spend the night with a priestess of Dagon before coming home. I took her into my tent, paid her a full shekel—which was more than she earned in a year—and taught her the Shema, the commandments, and three psalms of David.” He raised his left eyebrow and grinned, and Isaiah couldn’t remain cross.
Isaiah’s laughter garnered disparaging looks from the musicians. He and Hezekiah were drawing more attention than the entertainment. He nudged the young co-regent’s shoulder, and they both turned their backs to the tables. More certain than ever that Hezekiah was the prophesied king, Isaiah was ready to confide God’s plan. “We adopted Hephzibah after Aya and I both heard from Yahweh that you would sit on the throne—with Ishma as your queen. But neither Ishma nor Judah would be characterized by desolation any longer. Yahweh changed her name, and He has shown me great and marvelous things about your reign as Judah’s king.”
Hezekiah blinked. No words.
“Did you hear me?” Isaiah braced the young man’s shoulder.
Finally, as if waking from a dream, Hezekiah glanced around the room and back at Isaiah. “It’s a lot to take in, Isaiah. Have you spoken to Abba about a betrothal?”
“No. I wanted to talk with you first.” Isaiah hesitated. “I may not be the best person to propose the betrothal to your abba. Even if he considered it a good match, he’d likely refuse if he thought I wanted it or Yahweh decreed it.”
Hezekiah didn’t seem offended or even surprised. “You’re right.” Turning back toward th
e gathering, he gazed longingly at Hephzibah. “How will we convince Abba to make the match if you can’t suggest it?”
While the lovesick co-regent stared at his heart’s desire, Isaiah noted the king’s sharp eyes assessing his son’s gaze. Even after downing several wineskins, King Ahaz was as perceptive as any man Isaiah had met. Though loud, obnoxious, and contemptible, this king could read people like scribes read parchment. And it appeared he’d just recognized Hezekiah’s greatest weakness.
King Ahaz rose and raised his goblet again, signaling the musicians to cease. “Isaiah, you can’t have my new co-regent all to yourself. Hezekiah, my son, leave your teacher to his friends and come here so I may confer on you the blessings and responsibilities of your new office.”
Hezekiah offered Isaiah an apologetic pat on the arm and made his way up the center aisle. King Ahaz welcomed him, reaching up to rest his arm around the shoulders of a son who was now two handbreadths taller than his abba.
King Ahaz signaled his high priest. “Uriah, come forward to anoint the new co-regent of Judah.” Stepping back, he offered his hand as an invitation. “Queen Abijah will stand at her son’s side as he is crowned.” Surprised, yet pleased, Queen Abijah rose from her table and stood proudly beside Hezekiah.
Three servants emerged from a side chamber, each one carrying an element for the coronation. One held a flask of oil for the anointing. Another carried what appeared to be King Jotham’s crown on a scarlet pillow. The third, a purple robe with a fox-fur collar—the style worn by Judah’s king alone. Isaiah’s sense of dread returned. Hezekiah’s coronation wasn’t a spontaneous decision made by a drunken king. King Ahaz had carefully planned it and worked hard to appear impulsive. Why?
