by Lynn Austin
“But you had no choice.” It was what he wanted to believe.
“Oh yes, I had a choice,” she said bitterly. “And I chose to be their prostitute.”
Eliakim felt sick to his stomach. “Dear God,” he moaned. “It’s not true.”
“I’m sorry, but it is true. I never meant to hurt you, Eliakim. But I knew you could never say you loved me if you knew the truth about me. You would hate me as much as I hate myself.”
Eliakim felt numb with grief and rage. The Assyrians had used and destroyed this beautiful girl whom he loved so deeply. Anger and hatred rose up inside him until they seemed to strangle all the joy and love he had ever known. He wanted to mutilate the Assyrians, by the thousands and tens of thousands, for what they had done to Jerusha—and to him, for it was as if they had violated him, as well. Somehow he would get even. He would make them pay.
“Eliakim, please . . . marry one of your father’s brides—a virgin, someone who could give you a happy home. You’re a member of the king’s royal council. You can’t marry a harlot.”
Eliakim looked at her, and the thought of Jerusha willingly sleeping with dozens of men was more than he could bear. He rose from the bench and walked silently into the house.
When Eliakim was gone, Jerusha stood alone in the courtyard. Above her head the dazzling stars floated and swam as she gazed at them through silently falling tears. The moon on the horizon shone nearly as brightly as the sun, bathing the empty bench where Eliakim had sat in pale yellow light.
Gentle Eliakim, with his dark, tousled hair and warm brown eyes . . . Jerusha loved him. In spite of all her resolve, all her efforts not to, Jerusha loved him—so much that she had told him what she had hidden from her own family: the truth about herself. Jerusha had suffered the loss of her child, her parents, her freedom, her dreams. She had felt the deep wounds of death and sorrow and grief. She had known anguish and despair and pain. But on this achingly beautiful night, none of those feelings seemed as painful to her as love. Eliakim loved her. But she could never belong to him. And she would have to live the rest of her life without him.
Eliakim slumped at his worktable, staring blindly at the drawings in front of him while Jerusha’s words echoed painfully through his heart. “Many men . . . I chose to be a prostitute.” The hatred that he felt toward the Assyrians was such a new feeling to him, yet it was so strong, it paralyzed him. In his imagination he held a sword, slaughtering thousands of them, avenging Jerusha’s shame. They would never get past his walls. They would never get their cursed hands on Jerusha again.
But Eliakim wasn’t a warrior. He couldn’t fight the Assyrians with a sword. His only weapon was his agile mind and his ability to plan and build. As the drawings in front of him slid into focus, Eliakim suddenly realized how he would fight the Assyrians—the water tunnel.
It had probably taken the Jebusites years to expand a natural cave into a usable water system, yet the tunnel King Hezekiah had proposed would be four times as long and nearly impossible to dig. How could he work fast enough to complete it before the Assyrians marched south to Jerusalem? But if he told the king that it couldn’t be done, the Jebusite shaft would be reopened. And now Eliakim knew that he would never risk even one Assyrian soldier crawling up that shaft into his city.
Fighting his anguish and grief, Eliakim lit three more oil lamps and bent over his drawings with renewed determination. He would find a way to do the impossible, a way to bring water into his city, a way to defeat the cursed Assyrians. He would get revenge in his own way.
By the time the morning sun began to lighten the eastern sky, Eliakim was nearly finished. He heard sounds of activity in the kitchen as the household began to stir, and he sketched one last drawing. He was ready to present his plans to the king.
“Eliakim, are you almost ready to go?” Hilkiah called from the hallway outside his room. It was time for the morning sacrifice, but Eliakim knew that he couldn’t go with his father to worship God. He couldn’t pray or give thanks. He had nothing to pray for except revenge.
“I’ll have to skip the sacrifice this morning,” he called back. “Go ahead without me.” He should have known that a moment later Hilkiah would hurry into his room.
“Why not? What’s the matter? Are you sick?”
“No, it’s just that—”
“You look terrible!” Hilkiah gasped.
As Eliakim rose to his feet, he caught a quick glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked pale and tired, and his bloodshot eyes had dark circles beneath them. He could have feigned illness quite easily, but he had never lied to his father.
“I’ve been up all night working on these plans for the king,” he said as he pushed his hair off his forehead. “I need to get washed up before the meeting at the palace. Go without me.”
Hilkiah studied him carefully, then glanced down at the cluttered worktable before looking back up at him. “You proposed to her, didn’t you?” he asked softly. Eliakim could only nod. “And she must have said no. I’m so sorry, son. I truly am.”
Was his grief that obvious? Could his father and everyone else in Jerusalem look straight into his heart and see that it was shattered? The only way he could get through this day and the days and months to follow was to do what he had done all night—make the tunnel his reason for living, his obsession.
The blast of the shofar broke the silence. “You’re going to be late, Abba,” he said hoarsely. “Go without me.” Hilkiah turned without a word and left.
Eliakim slowly gathered the drawings he’d worked on all night into a pile. They were more than a design for a water tunnel. They were his plans for revenge. He slammed his fist on the table with all his strength. “I hate them! May God curse them all!”
Eliakim made his way to the rear of the house and ducked out through the servants’ door, afraid that he would run into Jerusha in the hallway or on the stairs. If it hurt this much to think about her, how could he bear to face her? His stomach rumbled as he trudged up the hill to the palace, but the thought of food made him sick.
The court chamberlain gave him an odd look when he arrived at the throne room. “You’re much too early to meet with the king,” he said. “He always goes to the morning sacrifice, and then—”
“I’ll wait.” Eliakim found a bench outside the throne room and collapsed onto it. He was tired, but a good night’s sleep would remedy that. The deep ache he felt inside, however, would probably never go away. He twisted one of the parchment scrolls in his hands, rolling it up tightly, then unrolling it again as he waited. When he remembered that he would have to face Shebna, he cringed. Shebna hated him. He would probably argue against any plan of Eliakim’s—especially this one. But Eliakim knew that his plan would succeed. It had to.
At last a scribe emerged from behind the closed door and motioned for Eliakim to come inside. His footsteps echoed hollowly in the high-ceilinged room. He remembered the day he had brought Jerusha here, and he felt the balled fist slam into his gut again. He bowed to King Hezekiah, then quickly began his presentation.
“Your Majesty, with your permission I would like to begin construction immediately on what I’ve called the Siloam tunnel. As you’ve requested, the water will flow underground from the Gihon Spring to a new retaining pool within the city’s walls.” He produced a diagram showing the location of the new reservoir he’d labeled the Pool of Siloam.
The king appeared surprised but pleased. “Then you’ve found solutions to all the obstacles we discussed, Eliakim?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, I have. And I also believe we can complete the tunnel in less than a year’s time.”
“Oh, really?” Shebna said. “That sounds too good to be true.”
“Yes, it does,” Hezekiah said. “How are you going to accomplish all this?”
Eliakim tried to sound confident. “The first problem is the tombs of the kings. Since it would be a sacrilege to exhume them, we will simply tunnel around them.”
“But that will take even l
onger,” Shebna said.
“True, but I have two other ideas that will make up for the time we’ll waste. They will also solve the second problem, which is a fresh air supply.”
King Hezekiah sat forward on his throne, peering anxiously at Eliakim’s drawings. “Let’s hear them.”
Eliakim was so tired that the room swam. He felt as if his speech was slow and ponderous. He drew a shaky breath. “The old Jebusite tunnel seems to meander aimlessly, as you may recall, and at first I wondered why. But when I looked more closely, I discovered that the Jebusites followed a natural fissure in the limestone and a vein of softer, more porous rock. The holding tank and shaft were part of a cave system, which was probably already there.”
“Perhaps they were in a hurry, too,” Hezekiah said.
“Yes. So if we follow natural fissures and use caves, too, it will make the tunneling proceed much faster. Now, as Shebna pointed out, there’s also the problem of the accumulated rubble from the tunnel giving away our secret. To solve it, I have redesigned the northwest wall. . . .”
That was the wall Jerusha had said was the easiest to attack. Suddenly a vision of Jerusha filled Eliakim’s tired mind. She was standing on the wall beside him, looking down at the city, her hair blowing gently in the wind. Lovely Jerusha—a prostitute. Eliakim cleared his throat.
“As you know, that section of the wall is very vulnerable to Assyrian battering rams. So instead of a casemate wall, hollow in the middle, we will fill in the space, some twenty feet thick, with the rubble from the tunnel. When the enemy’s battering rams attack it, the rubble will avalanche down on them.”
“Brilliant!” Hezekiah exclaimed, and even Shebna showed grudging respect.
But Eliakim knew that his final proposal was the one most likely to meet with opposition. He drew a deep breath. “Finally, to solve the problem of fresh air in such a lengthy tunnel and to greatly accelerate the digging schedule, I propose to begin digging at both ends of the tunnel simultaneously and work toward the middle.”
Silence met him. Shebna and Hezekiah stared in disbelief.
“There would be fewer problems with fresh air in two short tunnels than in one long one,” he hastily explained. “And two work crews, digging day and night, could accomplish twice as much as one.”
Hezekiah stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I understand that, Eliakim, but how would you ever get them to meet in the middle?”
“Especially if you are following natural fissures in the rock instead of tunneling in a straight line?” Shebna added.
Eliakim produced another diagram. “Look—the tunnel that will start at the new Pool of Siloam will be running approximately west to east as it detours around the graves. And the tunnel that begins at the Gihon Spring will curve like this and end up running approximately north to south. Eventually they will cross paths in the middle.”
Shebna frowned skeptically. “Not necessarily. If you follow the natural fissures in the rock like the Jebusites did, the tunnel would twist and turn in all directions. How on earth would you ever make two meandering tunnels meet in the middle? You would have no way of knowing where they were, underground.”
“No, my lord, I am sure it will work,” Eliakim said defiantly. He knew he could never explain to them the power of hatred that would drive him until he succeeded. “We’ll dig the shaft just wide enough and high enough for the workmen to squeeze through, at first. Then once the two tunnels join, we can enlarge them and adjust the angle of descent so the water will flow. I will make careful measurements of all the distances and plot all the twists and turns on a map. We’ll be able to hear the sound of the picks from the other side once we’re close. I know it will work, Your Majesty. I know it.”
Hezekiah took the scroll from him and studied it. Eliakim waited tensely, suddenly aware of how badly he needed sleep. The only sound he heard was the chirping of birds in the trees outside the palace window, and it annoyed Eliakim, as if they had no right to be so happy. Then a sparrow picked up the refrain that had been sounding in his ears all night and sang it to him over and over again: many men . . . many men . . . many men.
At last the king spoke. “Digging one tunnel through solid rock would be a challenging project for anyone to tackle. But digging two zigzagging tunnels that have to eventually meet in the middle has to be nearly impossible. Can’t we find another way to—”
“No!” Eliakim felt sick with rage and disappointment. He knew better than to argue with the king, but he no longer cared what happened to him. “No, Your Majesty! If we do it any other way it will take too long! We don’t have time! If the Assyrians attack us next—” He stopped, startled to find he was shouting at the king. He lowered his voice. “I know I can do it, Your Majesty. I know I can. Please give me a chance.”
The king looked at Shebna for a moment, then back at Eliakim. “We all understand the seriousness of the Assyrian threat and the critical need for water during a siege.” Hezekiah paused, and Eliakim waited in agony for him to finish. Sweat ran down Eliakim’s face and the back of his neck, even though the air in the throne room was cool.
“If you’re sure this is the only way, Eliakim—very well. You may dig your tunnels.”
“‘I am my beloved’s, and he is mine,’” Hephzibah sang. Her sweet voice had the power both to soothe and to stir Hezekiah, and he leaned back against the cushions to listen. The love he felt for her overwhelmed him.
Hezekiah had deeply regretted losing his temper with Hephzibah and had worked hard to reassure her of his love. “I don’t care about an heir,” he had told her. “I belong to you.” The thought of sharing himself with anyone else repulsed him, just as he would never want to share Hephzibah with another man.
“‘Place me like a seal over your heart,’” she sang, “‘like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like a blazing fire, like a mighty flame.’”
He watched her delicate hands as they plucked the harp strings and thought of what his grandfather had once told him—God dwelt in the midst of married love. Hezekiah silently thanked God for making his love for Hephzibah possible. If he hadn’t obeyed the commands to the king, he might have had many concubines, but he never would have known love. For the first time, Hezekiah saw God’s laws not as negative commands but as His loving provision for His people.
“‘Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away. If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, it would be utterly scorned.’”
As Hephzibah sang the beautiful words, a deep contentment filled Hezekiah. He knew love and joy and the rich blessings of God as his nation continued to prosper. Only the threat of Assyria cast a shadow over his kingdom and his happiness.
Hephzibah finished her song and laid down her harp. “What is it, my lord? You looked so content lying there, then suddenly you looked so worried.” She nestled close to him, melting into his arms as if she were part of him.
“It’s nothing, my love, nothing,” he murmured. Her arms twined tightly around his neck, and her skin felt cool and smooth.
“I love you, my lord.”
Hezekiah sighed. Something about his beloved wife calling him “my lord” saddened him, and he struggled to define it. “Sometimes it’s lonely being the king, Hephzibah. Everyone must keep their distance from me, and it’s almost as if there’s a fence all around me like—like the barrier around the royal dais at the Temple. No one dares to cross it. No one dares to be honest with me. No one dares to anger me. They tell me only what they think I want to hear. It’s all necessary, I suppose, but it’s lonely sometimes. Even those closest to me, like you and Shebna and Jonadab—you all call me ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘my lord,’ and the invisible barrier can never be crossed.”
He stopped and shook his head, not sure what he was trying to say. “Sometimes I wonder about God. I wonder if He truly delights in all our religious forms and rituals or if they are barriers that keep us at arm’s length from Him. I wonde
r if He wouldn’t rather have our simple love, like a father with his children, instead of as a king and his subjects. Am I making any sense?”
Hephzibah took his face in her hands, gently smoothing his thick beard. She kissed him softly, then looked into his eyes. “Yes. I understand. And I love you with all my heart, Hezekiah.”
Later that night, after Hezekiah left, Hephzibah knelt by the carved wooden chest beside her bed. She removed the small bundle wrapped in an embroidered cloth and took out two incense burners and a golden lampstand. She carefully spread the cloth on top of the chest and set the golden statue of Asherah in the middle of it. Then, murmuring the proper prayers, she laid out her offerings of grain and oil and incense before the smiling goddess. She gazed at Asherah’s swollen belly, longing more than anything else in the world to give Hezekiah a son, an heir to rule after him in the land he loved so deeply.
“Please, my lady,” she prayed. “I love him so much! Please forgive his unbelief and grant him a son.”
Part Three
Hezekiah did . . . what was good and right and faithful before the Lord his God. In everything that he undertook in the service of God’s temple and in obedience to the law and the commands, he sought his God and worked wholeheartedly.
2 Chronicles 31:20–21 NIV
30
King Hezekiah ducked inside the foreman’s tent beside the Gihon Spring. “I’ve come for that tour you promised me, Eliakim.”
The engineer sat hunched on a low stool behind a makeshift table that was piled with scrolls, clay tablets, and chunks of rock. He looked up in surprise, then scrambled to his feet to bow.
“Certainly, Your Majesty. We’ve accomplished quite a lot already.” Eliakim’s words lacked enthusiasm, and he looked thin and haggard. His shoulders sagged as if still bent over the table.
“Are you ill, Eliakim? Do you need some time off?”
“No, I’m fine.” But his boyish grin was missing, and dark circles rimmed his eyes.