by Lynn Austin
Ahaz gestured to his guards. “Very well. Grant her wish.”
Two of them moved forward and gripped her arms. Abijah’s heart pounded with terror. What had she done? She was going to die! Her children would grow up without a mother. She needed to kiss her baby good-bye and urge Hezekiah to remember what Zechariah had taught him—to never betray his God. What would become of her sons? Abijah’s limbs seemed to melt with fear. She couldn’t move or walk.
Lord, help me! she prayed.
And suddenly Yahweh’s peace washed over her, filling her. It was the same peace she felt up on the Temple Mount when she was in His presence; the same calm she’d felt when her father assured her that God was in control. Yahweh held her in His arms. Death wouldn’t separate her from Him, it would draw them closer. In the few minutes she had left before she died, she would put her children into God’s hands, knowing that they were safer there than in her own arms.
But before the soldiers had a chance to lead Abijah from the throne room, she felt God giving her the courage to say one final word. She turned and met her idolatrous husband’s gaze, repeating the words he loathed and feared: “Hear, O Israel. Yahweh is God—Yahweh alone.”
Uriah hurried down the hill to the palace, worried that he had been absent from Ahaz’s side for too long. The king’s emotions had been extremely unstable since he’d returned from Damascus, and Uriah couldn’t bear to be in his presence for extended periods of time. Ahaz had developed such an obsessive fear of doing something to anger his Assyrian masters or to insult their gods, that he imagined plots and conspiracies everywhere.
Uriah had said that he needed to meet with the Levites, but he had walked up to the Temple to be alone. He had stood on the mountaintop, breathing the familiar aroma of sacrifices and incense, enjoying the courtyard’s spaciousness after the dark confines of the palace, savoring the peace and quiet. The city of Jerusalem lay far below him, and so did its problems and concerns. He had gazed at the distant, unshakeable hills and had drawn strength from them.
But he had lingered longer than he’d planned. Now, as he hurried toward the throne room, he hoped that his absence hadn’t angered Ahaz. But the throne room doors stood open, and the king was no longer holding court. Shebna, the Egyptian tutor Ahaz had recently hired, stood outside the chamber with his shoulders hunched, his head bent low, his hands on his thighs as if in distress.
“Are you all right?” Uriah asked.
Shebna gave a start of surprise and looked up. Uriah could see that the man was deeply shaken, his dark face as pale and gray as a dead fish. “It is all my fault,” Shebna mumbled. “I mean, I may have caused . . . I didn’t mean to, but how was I to know that the king would respond in such a drastic way?”
Uriah took Shebna’s arm to steady him and felt his body trembling. “Can you calm down and speak clearly?”
“I need to know what I have done. Have I truly uncovered a plot or . . . or caused a terrible tragedy?”
The mention of a plot made Uriah uneasy. “We can’t talk here,” he said. He glanced around to see if they had been seen or overheard, then led the tutor down the hall to his own quarters. After dismissing his servants, Uriah once again asked Shebna what was wrong. The Egyptian drew a deep breath.
“As you know, I began my tutoring duties with Prince Hezekiah yesterday. But when we spoke, the prince told me that he already had a tutor. It was my understanding that I was to be the first one.”
“You are the first one,” Uriah said impatiently. “Hezekiah is barely old enough to start lessons.”
Shebna shook his head. “No, my lord. Prince Hezekiah said that his grandfather has been teaching him.”
Uriah felt a ripple of fear. “Zechariah?”
“I do not know his name—but he is a Levite.”
“Go on.”
“But it is too terrible—!”
Uriah saw Shebna’s horror and his own fear began to multiply. He wanted to shake the story out of him, but he forced himself to wait until the man was in control.
“I am sorry,” Shebna finally said. “I should have come to you, first. I made the mistake of asking King Ahaz about the grandfather. If only I had known. . . .”
“Known what?”
Shebna swallowed. “King Ahaz sent for his wife this morning while I was present. It was her father who has been teaching the prince, and she was the one who gave him access to the palace.”
Uriah had to sit down. “Wait a minute—what are you saying?”
“The king accused his wife of treason along with her father. He said they and another man who is of royal blood were conspiring to assassinate him once they had brainwashed his heir. The king’s wife denied everything, but he . . . he ordered her to be executed.”
“Not Abijah!” Uriah sprang to his feet, the cry out of his mouth before he could stop it.
“The king gave her a chance to prove her loyalty—the same way that you have proven yours, my lord. He demanded that she worship Asherah. But she refused . . . and . . .”
“No! I need to stop this!” Strength surged through Uriah as he ran toward the door. He jerked it open so violently he nearly tore it from its hinges.
“Wait, my lord!” Shebna called from behind him. “Wait! It is too late! They already took her out to be executed.”
“NO! You’re lying!” Uriah whirled around and grabbed the tutor’s shoulders, nearly shaking the life from him before regaining control of himself.
“I am sorry,” Shebna murmured. “It is true, and I am so very sorry.”
“No, forgive me,” Uriah said, releasing him. “Did I hurt you?”
“Just tell me, my lord, for my own peace of mind—did I do the right thing?”
Uriah was too distraught to offer reassurances to this man. Abijah—executed? It was too horrible to grasp. He wanted to break down and cry, but he didn’t dare weep in front of Shebna. His eyes burned with the effort of holding back his grief. “I-I don’t know,” Uriah finally said. “I’ll find out and—and I’ll let you know. You may go now.”
Uriah covered his face and collapsed to the floor as soon as Shebna was gone. Why hadn’t he been there? If only he had remained in the throne room. If only he hadn’t stayed at the Temple so long. He had saved Abijah’s father and her son—why hadn’t he been there to save her?
Abijah . . . gone? Uriah recalled his last conversation with her, when she had begged for her father’s life. She had insisted that if Ahaz ever commanded her to sin against Yahweh she would choose to obey God, not him. “At the cost of your life?” he had asked her.
“Yes—even at the cost of my life. Because if I denied my God, I would have nothing left. He would give me the strength to make that choice.”
Uriah covered his mouth, fighting the urge to be sick. At that moment he hated Ahaz enough to murder him. The king had married the only woman Uriah had ever loved—and now he had killed her. Uriah scrambled to his feet. He couldn’t serve Ahaz for one more day—one more hour!
He would resign. That’s what Zechariah had asked him to do months ago. “Help me oppose Ahaz’s idolatry,” he had begged. “You’re serving the wrong king.”
But Uriah knew what would happen if he resigned now. Ahaz had no qualms about executing his supposed enemies—Zechariah, Isaiah, his own wife! Uriah would be next.
And he didn’t want to die.
“Oh, God!” he moaned as he sank to the floor again. But it was a cry of despair, not a prayer. Uriah couldn’t recall the last time he had prayed. “Every time you compromise, something inside your spirit dies a little,” Zechariah had warned him. Was that why God seemed so far away now? Was that why Uriah couldn’t bring himself to make the same choice that Abijah had made, to die for her faith?
No. Uriah still believed in Yahweh, still served Him. He could do more good for God if he remained alive and served at the king’s side than if he died a martyr. He had already saved Hezekiah’s life and Zechariah’s. And he might have saved Abijah’s life, too—if he ha
d been there. Oh, God, if only he had been there! But he hadn’t been—and Abijah was dead.
Abijah was dead.
Grief suddenly overwhelmed Uriah. He buried his face in a pillow so no one would hear his bitter sobs, and wept.
Hezekiah was surprised to see Shebna in his bedroom the next morning when he woke up. He had enjoyed the hour that he’d spent with him yesterday, visiting the royal stables and watching the soldiers sparring. But Shebna could never replace his grandfather.
“Why are you here?” Hezekiah asked as he climbed out of bed.
“Your father says that you are no longer a baby. Now that you have begun your studies with me, it is time you moved out of the nursery.”
Shebna had brought half a dozen servants with him, and they began packing all of Hezekiah’s things and removing them from the room while he got dressed and tied on his sandals. Shebna wasn’t smiling his phony grin the way he had yesterday. His face, like his eyes, was very somber.
Everything seemed to be happening too fast. Hezekiah didn’t want to move out of his room. What if his grandfather came back, looking for him? He wanted to stay here, near his mother, even if she was busy with the new baby all the time. He fought back tears as he watched the servants carry away his things.
“Are you ready to go?” Shebna asked, gesturing to the door.
Hezekiah nodded, but he wanted to see his mother first, to tell her that they were making him move away from her. He needed to hug her and say good-bye. He ran through the door ahead of Shebna and turned down the hall toward the harem, knowing that Shebna wouldn’t be allowed to follow him. He burst through the door to his mother’s suite without knocking—but she wasn’t there. The room looked huge and empty, stripped of all her things. Even his baby brother’s cradle was gone.
“Mama?” he called as he searched the vacant suite. “Mama, where are you?” The rooms were so empty his voice echoed.
“You don’t belong in here. You need to get out.”
Hezekiah whirled around. The harem eunuch stood in the doorway.
“Where’s my mama?”
“She’s . . . she’s gone.” The eunuch’s voice sounded strange, as if something was choking him. “Come here,” he said, beckoning to Hezekiah. He backed away.
“Where did she go?” he asked warily. Wherever it was, no matter how far away, he would find her and go to her.
“Hasn’t anyone told you?” the eunuch asked.
“Told me what?”
The man swallowed. When he spoke his voice was very soft. “Your mother is dead.”
“No, she isn’t!” Hezekiah shouted. “It isn’t true! She isn’t dead!”
But the eunuch closed his eyes and nodded. “I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t true. Your mother was a beautiful woman . . . and we will all miss her.”
Hezekiah bolted past the man and ran from the room, blinded by the tears he could no longer hold back. He wanted to keep running forever—he didn’t care where. But Shebna grabbed him as he sprinted past his old bedroom and pulled him inside the room. It was empty, just like his mother’s room. Even his bed was gone.
“Let me go! Let me go!” he cried as he struggled with Shebna. The tutor released him, but he stood in front of the door, blocking the way out.
“I am sorry, Hezekiah. I wanted to tell you about your mother in a much kinder way, but you did not give me a chance.”
“It isn’t true! She didn’t die!”
Shebna sighed. “I know how difficult it must be for you to accept it—but it is true. Do you understand what it means when someone dies?”
Hezekiah understood all too well. It meant she wasn’t coming back—ever. He would never see her again. He had watched his brothers die, and they were gone forever. Hezekiah sank down on the bare floor and sobbed. Too many things were changing. He was losing all of the people he loved. He didn’t even get a chance to see Mama one last time or say good-bye! Now he was alone—so alone. Hezekiah buried his face in his arms and cried until his whole body ached.
After a while, he was aware of Shebna sitting down beside him. The tutor laid a comforting hand on Hezekiah’s shoulder. “I am sorry,” he murmured. “I am truly sorry.”
Shebna had known all about his mother. Maybe he knew about his grandfather, too. Hezekiah lifted his head. “Do you know where my grandpa is? You said you would find out.”
The tutor hesitated for such a long time that Hezekiah wondered if his grandfather was dead, too. At last Shebna drew a deep breath. “I am sorry if I misled you when I agreed to find an answer to your question yesterday. I can teach you to read and to work with numbers. I will gladly teach you everything I know about nature and about history and geography. But if you have a question about your family or about religion, you must ask your father.”
His father.
Hezekiah’s grief hardened into hatred at the mention of his father. He was the one who was making everything in Hezekiah’s life change. His father had ordered the sacrifices to Molech. His father had built a pagan altar in Yahweh’s Temple, and Zechariah had gone up there to tell him it was wrong. “Your father is very unpredictable,” his grandfather had said. “I’m not sure how he will react.” His father was the reason Zechariah had never returned.
Hezekiah lowered his head again, weeping with grief and helpless rage. His father was the cause of all his sorrow. But he was the king of Judah, and Hezekiah was powerless against him.
After a long time, he felt Shebna’s hand on his shoulder again. “You are not alone,” he said quietly. “I am your friend. If you want to talk, perhaps it will help you feel better.”
Hezekiah wanted his terrible pain to go away. It was too hard to feel this way. He hurt so much he could scarcely breathe. But he didn’t want to talk to Shebna.
“When the rainy season comes,” Shebna continued, “it seems as if it will never end. But then one day the clouds part and the sun shines again. It will be that way with your sadness, too. There is so much I want to teach you about the world. And believe me, the sunlight of knowledge is a wonderful healer. When you are learning something new, you will begin to forget your loss for a little while. I can help you forget your terrible sadness, if you will let me.”
Hezekiah wanted to believe him. But then he remembered his mother’s empty room, remembered that she was dead, and he began to cry all over again.
“Would you like to be alone for a while?” Shebna asked. “Or shall I stay?”
Hezekiah didn’t think he could bear it if one more person left him. “Stay,” he whispered.
“Very well.”
Hezekiah sobbed until he had no tears left. When they finally died away, he felt empty inside. Shebna rose to his feet, stretching his lanky body.
“When you are ready, Hezekiah, I have selected a horse for you. A trainer is waiting to teach you to ride it. And I have another surprise. The armory is crafting a sword just your size, for you to practice with.”
Hezekiah raised his head and wiped his face on his sleeve. “Will it be sharp?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
Shebna smiled. “Would you like it to be?”
Hezekiah nodded.
“Then let’s go tell them, shall we?” He extended a hand to help Hezekiah to his feet.
Part Two
Ahaz . . . shut the doors of the Lord’s temple and set up altars at every street corner in Jerusalem. In every town in Judah he built high places to burn sacrifices to other gods and provoked the Lord, the God of his fathers, to anger.
2 Chronicles 28:24–25 NIV
13
Hezekiah glanced at the clock tower in the courtyard outside the window of his study. It was time for his appointment with King Ahaz. He rose from his seat beside Shebna and straightened his robes, then raked his fingers through his beard to smooth it. He wished he could avoid this meeting altogether.
“I’m a grown man, Shebna. Why does being summoned by my father always make me feel like a child?”
“He is the king,” Shebna replie
d, rolling up the scroll they had been studying. “It is his job to make everyone feel belittled.”
“No, it’s more than that. No matter what I do, he makes me feel like I’ve failed to measure up to his expectations. And I never know what to expect when he summons me. He never tells me the reason beforehand.”
Shebna set down the scroll and leaned back. He was now in his late forties with silver streaks through his dark hair. His lanky body was thinner than ever, as if every morsel he ate fueled a mind that was always at work, analyzing, reasoning. “Did the king summon you to the throne room or to his private chambers?” he asked. “That should give you a clue.”
“Private chambers. A personal matter, I presume.”
“Hmm. Relationships between fathers and sons can be notoriously difficult, especially for two men who are as different as you and your father are.”
“Yes, and he’s also the king—that makes our relationship impossible.” Hezekiah started toward the door, but Shebna touched his sleeve, stopping him.
“A word of advice? Be careful. King Ahaz has an unpredictable temper. Whatever happens, do not make him angry.” The worried look on Shebna’s face surprised Hezekiah. He’d never realized that his tutor was so afraid of Ahaz. But now was not the time to ask him why.
“Thanks for the advice,” Hezekiah said. He hurried away to face whatever surprises lay ahead.
King Ahaz aroused a broad range of emotions in Hezekiah, from fear and hatred to pity and revulsion. But those emotions rarely included respect—and never, that he could recall, had they included love. His bitterness extended back as far as he could remember, though the exact cause of it was long forgotten. He avoided Ahaz as much as possible and dreaded being summoned to see him.
A servant opened the door for him to his father’s opulent chambers. Thick carpets warmed the stone floors and Assyrian tapestries decorated the walls. The scent of incense filled every corner of the room, sticking in Hezekiah’s throat. He bowed low, steeling himself for a possible confrontation and remembering Shebna’s warning. Regardless of what happened, he would not arouse Ahaz’s anger.