by Lynn Austin
The ceremony continued in a dizzying whirl of chanting and bloodshed until the combined heat of the sun and the giant altar nauseated Ahaz. He wished it would end. He wanted to lie down alone in his tent and try to weave the fraying strands of his life back together. But when the ritual finally ended, Jephia turned to him with a mocking smile.
“And now you’ll finally meet your ally, Tiglath-Pileser.”
Ahaz looked down at his robes, filthy with sweat and dust. “Dressed like this?”
Jephia merely smiled and led the way through the rubble to the former king’s palace, one of the few buildings in the city that was still intact. The emperor’s canopied throne stood on the palace steps, and the visiting kings were ordered to assemble on the street below it. The Assyrian emperor wore a long purple tunic of richly embroidered silk and a tall conical cap decorated with golden threads. The jewels that adorned his fingers and wrists glinted in the sun. A dozen slaves fanned him with palm fronds.
Ahaz stood below the throne in the dizzying heat, wishing he could lie down somewhere with a glass of wine to cool his thirst. “What happens now?” he asked Jephia.
“First, there will be a procession of captives. Then all the vassal kings will take part in a ceremony to pledge their submission.” Jephia had pronounced the word vassal with his usual contempt, but it no longer bothered Ahaz. He understood the reality of what it meant, and he knew that he’d been a fool to believe himself the emperor’s equal.
The procession began with squadrons from the Assyrian army. Ahaz watched as row after row of black-bearded warriors passed before him, their weapons flashing in the sun. Then the cavalry followed, with more horses than he’d ever seen together in his life. Still more warriors rode past in chariots, then the battering rams and siege towers paraded past. Ahaz remembered the fierce beating Jerusalem’s walls had suffered during the siege a few months before, yet the weapons the Arameans had used against him were child’s toys compared to the Assyrians’ arsenal. Jerusalem’s aging walls would topple in a matter of months under their assault.
Wave after wave of Assyrian soldiers marched past, until it seemed to Ahaz that the entire population of Judah must have paraded before him. Then came the plundered treasures of Damascus, heaped in golden piles on hundreds of wagons. Ahaz had never seen so much wealth, and it made his own gift to the Assyrian monarch seem worthless. The Aramean prisoners of war staggered behind the riches that had once belonged to them, led by the king and his nobles and princes. They wore only chains around their ankles as their captors led them through the streets by bridles that pierced their nostrils and lips.
When the captives reached the palace steps, the Assyrian emperor rose and unsheathed his sword to begin the long punishment of the defeated king. Ahaz watched in horror as the Assyrians staked the captives to the ground by their wrists and ankles and slowly tortured them to death. Clearly, the Assyrians were skilled at prolonging their victims’ suffering as long as possible. Shock and fear overwhelmed Ahaz as the agonized screams went on and on. When he was unable to endure another moment, he pushed to the rear of the crowd, fell to his knees, and vomited.
More than ever, Ahaz longed to be back in his palace in Jerusalem and away from the Assyrians’ horrible butchery. He wished he had never called upon this bloodthirsty emperor for assistance. As his nausea finally subsided, Ahaz remembered Isaiah’s warning: “You have entered into a covenant with death.”
Ahaz wiped his eyes and mouth and struggled to his feet, aware that he had to return and watch the rest. He looked up and saw Jephia waiting for him, and for the first time he saw a hint of compassion in the interpreter’s eyes. The tortures finally ended, but the cries of the dying men resounded in Ahaz’s mind for a very long time.
“Now the vassal kings and their attendants will line up to pay homage to Tiglath-Pileser,” Jephia told him, “assembling in order of importance and power.” Ahaz was humiliated to find himself among the least important. As he waited in line, trembling with fear, he wondered how he had ever imagined himself sitting with the Assyrian emperor as an equal, signing treaties and discussing the nations of the world.
At last he walked forward, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. “I am Ahaz ben Jotham, King of Judah and Jerusalem—Your Majesty’s humble servant and vassal.” He fell before the king with his forehead pressed to the ground, as all the other kings had bowed. The dust of Damascus filled his nostrils and throat. When he felt the touch of the royal scepter, he rose again, resisting the urge to wipe the dirt from his forehead and robes. He understood what he was—a pathetic puppet king, sworn to serve the Assyrians for the rest of his life. And if he rebelled or failed to send tribute, his punishment would be the same as the tortured king’s had been.
“Is it over now?” he asked Jephia. “May I return to my tent?”
Jephia shook his head. “The king has invited you to a banquet in his honor. You can’t refuse his invitation.”
They followed the others inside the palace, into a huge banquet hall decorated with tapestries depicting the many nations in the Assyrian Empire. Dancers whirled across a platform to the music of an orchestra while hundreds of slaves stood beside the tables, ready to serve the kings. Ahaz was led to his seat at the lowest-ranking table where meat dishes, breads, vegetables, and fruits of all kinds lay spread before him. The food repulsed him. He felt only an unquenchable thirst.
Near his table slaves poured wine into a huge bowl, then ground a mixture of leaves and seeds into a fine powder and stirred it into the wine. When they finally served it, Ahaz gulped it down. The slaves replenished his cup as quickly as he emptied it.
It was meant to be an extravagant feast, but Ahaz couldn’t enjoy it. He couldn’t forget the horrors he had witnessed that day or the withering dread he’d felt as he’d bowed before the Assyrian king. He swallowed another cupful of wine and stared at the linen tablecloth as the noise and merriment roared in his ears.
Gradually, Ahaz felt the wine taking effect, and it seemed as though the room began to sway with the music. He liked the sensation at first, but as he looked up at one of the tapestries on the wall, he was startled to see that the figures on it had somehow come to life and were dancing in front of him. He shut his eyes to blot out the strange image, but swirls of light and color appeared before him in the darkness, spinning crazily. His head felt as if it might shatter into a thousand pieces.
He quickly opened his eyes but had trouble focusing them. As he fumbled for his glass of wine, his hand seemed to suddenly detach from his wrist and float through the air. Ahaz grabbed the glass with both hands and gulped another drink as he fought to control his splintering mind. When he tried to set down the empty glass, it slipped from his grasp and crashed to the floor.
“What’s happening to me?” he cried, clutching his head.
“It’s the wine,” Jephia told him. His voice seemed to come from a distant corner of the room. “The Assyrians mix powerful drugs with their wine and allow the gods to take them on a journey into the world of the spirits. It’s part of their worship.”
Ahaz moaned. He didn’t want to journey to the spiritual world. If he could journey anywhere, he would like it to be home. He covered his face with his hands, trying to envision Jerusalem’s familiar sights: his palace, Yahweh’s Temple, the terraced hillsides surrounding the city. But Isaiah appeared before him, instead: “You will be devoured by the sword!”
Ahaz uncovered his eyes, and the prophet vanished. He reached for the new glass of wine that the servants had brought him, and took another drink. “I’m losing my mind!” he told Jephia.
“It’s useless to fight the power of the drugs, King Ahaz. Let the spirits carry you away.”
Ahaz knew Jephia was right. He was too sick and exhausted to fight, and so he yielded to the control of the drugged wine. As he did, his mind suddenly came into focus, and it seemed as if he could think more clearly than he ever had before. In a blinding flash of revelation, he realized what Isaiah’s words
really meant: the wealth of Judah would be devoured as Ahaz struggled to meet the Assyrian tribute demands, tribute that would fund the Assyrian sword.
He closed his eyes and the prophet reappeared in a swirl of flashing lights. “The understanding of this message will bring sheer terror,” Isaiah warned. “The bed will be too short to stretch out on, the blanket too narrow to wrap around you.” Ahaz knew what that prophecy meant, too. He had faced the truth about himself today, and he could no longer blanket it with lies. He opened his eyes, seeking to escape from the prophet’s words in the only way he could: he drank the remaining contents of his cup.
For several minutes—or maybe it was hours—the room spun in circles around Ahaz as the potent mixture took effect. Then the motion gradually slowed, and all the horrible events of the day began to fade and blur into a past that he could scarcely remember. His fears shrank and then dissolved entirely, as a wonderful feeling of euphoria overwhelmed him. Ahaz wanted that feeling to last forever. He wanted more wine.
As the servants refilled his glass again and again, the only fear that troubled Ahaz was the fear that his cup might run dry.
10
Zechariah awoke from a deep sleep to find Hezekiah standing over him, shaking him. “Grandpa . . . Grandpa, wake up.”
He blinked his eyes, trying to focus them. “What is it, son?”
“What’s that noise? Listen . . .” The sound of hammers ringing against stone drifted into the room from the courtyard below the bedroom window.
“It sounds like they’re building something,” Zechariah replied. “It sounds nearby, too.” He yawned, his mind still fuzzy with sleep, and swung his feet to the floor. He saw Hezekiah eyeing his slow movements with the impatience of youth. “You don’t have to wait for me, child. Go on—open the window and have a look. Tell me what you see.”
Hezekiah darted across the room and tugged on the heavy curtains until they opened. He stood on his tiptoes peering down into the courtyard.
“Grandpa, you’re right. They’re building something down there. Come and see.” Zechariah shuffled to the window and boosted Hezekiah for a better view. “What are they making, Grandpa?”
“I have no idea.”
They watched as workers removed paving stones from the center of the palace courtyard to dig a foundation. More workers labored to haul huge limestone blocks to the site. The base of the cleared area was small, but judging from the number of stones, the finished building was going to be tall. A tower, perhaps? Was Ahaz preparing to worship the heavenly bodies in addition to all the other gods he worshiped?
Zechariah suddenly realized how bright the room was. “Oh, my—look how high the sun is already,” he said, pointing toward the Mount of Olives. “We’ll have to hurry, or we’ll be late for the morning sacrifice.” He put on his robe and smoothed down his hair and beard, then helped Hezekiah finish dressing.
“Can we go see what the men are building, first?” Hezekiah asked.
“There’s not enough time. We’re late as it is.”
“Don’t forget this,” Hezekiah said as he handed him his prayer shawl. Zechariah smiled.
“You’re learning, aren’t you, son? You’ll make a fine man of God, one day, just like King David.” Zechariah draped his prayer shawl over his shoulders, and they hurried through the palace hallways and out to the street.
The sound of ringing hammers should have receded in the distance behind them, but as they climbed the hill, Zechariah was surprised to hear hammers pounding in the Temple courtyard, as well. It was a sound that definitely didn’t belong there. He began to walk faster, a trickle of fear running like sweat down his spine. As soon as he passed through the Temple gates, it was as if the earth had shifted from under him and the familiar landscape of the Temple’s inner court had tilted askew.
“What are they doing, Grandpa?” Hezekiah asked, but Zechariah was too shocked to reply. Overnight, the altar of Yahweh had been moved from the middle of the courtyard using sledges and pulleys and teams of oxen. A huge new altar was being constructed in its place.
Zechariah hoped he was dreaming. But as he moved closer, Zechariah was horrified to see that the changes were much worse than he’d imagined. The brass side panels for the new altar were covered with graven images.
“No . . .” he murmured. “No, that can’t be—not here in Yahweh’s Temple!” But in the center of each panel, the Assyrian god, Assur, stood astride a winged sun. Zechariah stared in horrified disbelief.
The presiding Levites and priests emerged from the Temple’s side door in a frightened huddle, as if fearful of the wrath of God. They gathered around the altar of Yahweh that now stood on the north side of the courtyard.
Zechariah felt Hezekiah tugging on his sleeve. “Grandpa, why is it all changed?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out. Wait right here.” He left Hezekiah standing by the gate to the inner court and hurried over to speak with the priest who was preparing for the morning sacrifice.
“What is that abomination doing here in Yahweh’s Temple?” Zechariah asked, pointing to the new altar that was being built. “It’s idolatry! What’s it doing here? Who ordered this?”
The priest glanced around before answering in a hushed whisper. “King Ahaz ordered it. He sent the plans for it from Damascus and told Uriah to have it built before he returns.”
“And Uriah agreed to this?” Zechariah asked in astonishment.
The priest gestured helplessly. “What could he do? It was the king’s command. We’re supposed to offer all of the sacrifices on the new altar when it’s finished. Yahweh’s altar will only be used for seeking guidance.”
“He can’t do that!” Zechariah shouted. The handful of men who were gathering to worship turned to stare at him. “Where’s Uriah?” he demanded.
“Probably still at the palace. He doesn’t come here every day—”
Zechariah strode back across the courtyard, through the gates, and down the hill to the palace. With every step he took, his shock transformed into anger. He was only vaguely aware of Hezekiah trotting behind him.
“Grandpa . . . Grandpa, wait. What about the sacrifice?”
“Not now, son. Go back to your room.” He hurried through the palace hallways to Uriah’s chambers, his anger burning hotter every minute. But when he stopped to catch his breath, he noticed Hezekiah staring up at him. “Go upstairs and wait for me,” he said again, as he pounded on Uriah’s door. It opened a crack and a servant peered out. Zechariah barged past him.
“Where’s Uriah? I need to speak with him. Where is he?” He was trembling with rage.
Uriah emerged from an inner chamber, followed by another servant. “What are you doing here, Rabbi?” he asked.
“You can’t let Ahaz do this!” Zechariah shouted. “You must put a stop to it!”
Uriah looked him over then muttered to his servants, “He’s probably drunk. Take him back up to the Temple.” The two men moved toward Zechariah.
“I’m not drunk, Uriah! Call them off,” he said as he tried to free himself.
The high priest stared gravely at Zechariah, then motioned to his servants. “All right—let him go. Give us a few minutes alone.”
Zechariah waited until the servants disappeared, his gaze never wavering from Uriah’s. “You have no right to do this!” he shouted. “And neither does King Ahaz! Make them stop!”
“You’ll have to calm down, Rabbi, and tell me what you’re talking about.” Uriah spoke to him as if he was a child. Zechariah struggled to contain his anger.
“I’m talking about that . . . that . . . abomination you’re building!”
“That ‘abomination,’ as you call it, is actually quite ingenious,” Uriah replied. He gestured to the construction in the palace courtyard, just visible outside his window. “The Babylonians invented it to keep track of time. The tower will have stairs that spiral down the side, and as the sun moves higher or lower in the sky, the tower will cast a shadow on the st
airs. Each stair represents an increment of time—”
“I don’t care about that! I’m talking about the heathen altar you’re building in Yahweh’s Temple!”
“I don’t need to explain my decisions to you,” Uriah said coldly.
“Yes, you do! I’m still a Levite, Uriah. And what you do in Yahweh’s Temple is still my concern.” He stared up at the tall priest and saw Uriah’s expression soften slightly, with respect.
“Listen,” he sighed. “I’m trying to centralize our national religion at the Temple. The king has altars all over the city, and it confuses people. This new altar will draw everyone back to the Temple—”
“Draw them back? You want people to come to Yahweh’s Temple to worship idols? That’s insane! This time you’ve gone too far. You’re bringing idolatry right into God’s house!”
“No, listen to me. Only at first.” Uriah spread his huge hands as he attempted to reason with Zechariah. “You know as well as I do that hardly anyone ever comes to the Temple anymore. The morning and evening sacrifices are very poorly attended. But if we can draw people back, eventually they’ll view Yahweh as supreme over all their idols. I’m doing it for the good of the Temple.”
Zechariah slowly shook his head. “Maybe you can convince all the others to believe you, but not me. No, Uriah. You’re lying to them and to yourself.” He glared at Uriah until the younger man finally looked away.
“I can’t tell King Ahaz what to do,” he said quietly. “He ordered me to build the altar, and I have to do what he says.”
“I thought that was why you took this position—so you could teach him Yahweh’s laws?”
“I’m trying to. But I need more time.”
“You’ll never change Ahaz by working for him. You have to fight against him. Take a stand, Uriah. Show him he’s wrong. You must resign as palace administrator.”
“Resign?” Uriah gave a short laugh as he began pacing in front of Zechariah. “Resign—and then what? He’d make me resign as high priest of the Temple, too. Then maybe I could take up farming? Or serve as a priest in some remote village out in the desert somewhere? No. I’m not going to resign. Not now—”