by Lynn Austin
“Ahh . . . leave your hand there.”
“God of Abraham, help us—he’s burning up!”
“No,” Hezekiah said, “there was a fire but it’s out now. I put it out.”
“He’s delirious. Call the physicians.”
“I’m thirsty, that’s all. Water . . .”
Eliakim held a cup to his lips, and he drank greedily. But why had they given him salt water? It only increased his thirst.
Movement and activity suddenly swirled around his bed. So many people. They made the room tilt again.
“Stop,” he moaned. “You’ll make everything fall.”
“What are those for?” he heard Shebna asking. “What are you going to do to him?”
“Cold compresses will bring his fever down.” Hezekiah didn’t recognize the voice, but he suddenly felt a cooling sensation all around him. It felt so good, so cold. But, no—he was too cold. He couldn’t get warm. He began to shiver, trembling all over. He couldn’t stop. And the pain, the terrible pain—whenever he moved!
“Take them off! You are killing him!” Shebna shouted.
“We have to bring his fever down, my lord, or he will die of the convulsions.”
Was he going to die? Hezekiah didn’t want to die. It seemed as though Uriah once again held him in a death grip. The high priest was choking off his life. In another moment he would die. He had to fight!
“What is happening to him?” Shebna cried.
“The poison from his leg is spreading through his body.” Hezekiah heard the unfamiliar voice again.
He was so thirsty. Water. Why didn’t they give him a drink? Then he remembered: he had hidden the spring underground. Eliakim knew where to find it.
“Eliakim . . . listen . . .”
“Yes, Your Majesty?” He heard Eliakim’s frightened voice, but he couldn’t see him.
“The spring . . . inside the tunnel . . . get the water . . .” How could he make him understand?
“We have to change the dressing on his leg,” someone said. “We must cleanse it again.” Hands touched his leg, and Hezekiah cried out. They were taking the bandage off. No, they were taking his leg off.
“Stop . . . stop!” Somebody make them stop!
“Get away! You are going to kill him!” Shebna cried.
“We must cleanse the wound, my lord. The poison will kill him if we don’t.”
Shebna, help me! I don’t want to die!
“Lord Shebna, you’d better wait in the other room until we’re finished.”
“No, I must stay with the king.”
“Lord Eliakim, please take him out of here.”
“Come on, Shebna. There’s nothing more we can do.”
Hezekiah saw a hand in the darkness, slender and cool and white. It beckoned to him to come away into oblivion, away from the pain. The terrible pain.
Yahweh . . . help me. . . .
He heard someone screaming. Hezekiah couldn’t fight anymore. He was too tired, too weak. He wanted to stop fighting, to give in and float away from the agony—into nothingness.
He reached out for the ivory hand and clasped it in his own.
4
Hephzibah sat before the open window in her new living quarters, a musty, cramped room that had once belonged to one of Hezekiah’s concubines. All around her, the palace seemed emptied of life, abandoned and eerily silent.
“Merab, why is everything so quiet?” she asked her servant. “The courtyard, the hallways—the entire palace is like a tomb.”
“You’re shivering,” Merab said. “Come sit by the fire.”
“No—listen a moment.” Hephzibah paused, listening. “It’s too quiet; don’t you see? The silence scares me.”
“Let me close those shutters. You’ll catch a chill sitting by the window.” The handmaiden started to swing the wooden shutters closed, but Hephzibah stopped her.
“Wait. Look down there, Merab. That courtyard usually crawls with activity this time of day. But what do you see?”
“I see that it’s empty, my lady. Now come. The fire is nice and warm.” Merab closed the shutters firmly and latched them. She nudged Hephzibah closer to the charcoal brazier.
“But where are all the noblemen and petitioners? They usually come and go all day long. Something’s wrong, I know it is.”
“Nonsense.”
“Then why hasn’t the king gone up to the Temple? It’s been more than a week. I’ve watched for him every day. He has to pass below this window, but he hasn’t left the palace.”
“Don’t be silly. The palace has more than one door. He’s probably using a different one.”
“No, he wouldn’t do that. I know he wouldn’t.”
“Come, sit by the fire.”
Merab took her hands and pulled her closer to the brazier. But when Hephzibah saw the coals glowing crimson beneath the grate, she remembered what she had pledged to do; she remembered how she’d vowed to throw Hezekiah’s child into the flames, and she began to tremble. Merab wrapped a woolen shawl around her shoulders and rubbed her arms.
“You should crawl into bed, my lady. This room must be colder than your old one. You’re always shivering.”
“I’m scared, Merab. I’m so scared—”
“Hush, now. You don’t need to be afraid.”
“But I’ve lived in this palace for ten years, and I know something is wrong!”
She noticed that Merab wouldn’t meet her gaze. The servant plucked lint off Hephzibah’s shawl, muttering, “Just look at this thing—how did it get to be such a mess?” Hephzibah gripped her arm.
“Merab, if you know what’s going on, you’ve got to tell me.”
“Let me find you another shawl. This one—”
“Tell me!”
Merab pulled Hephzibah into her arms and held her tightly.
“All right, baby. Shh . . . calm down. I didn’t want you to worry . . . but . . . King Hezekiah isn’t holding court because . . . because he’s ill.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know. No one will tell me. When I asked—one of the servants spit on me.”
Hephzibah pulled herself free. “I have to see him. I have to help him get well.”
“No, wait! They’ll never let you near the king, my lady. They’ll spit on you, too—everyone blames you for what happened to him.”
Hephzibah froze in horror. “What did you say?”
“Some people think that . . . that you . . .” She didn’t finish.
For days Hephzibah had relived the terrible moments just before the fire, remembering the anger and pain in Hezekiah’s eyes when he’d discovered her betrayal. Now, prodded by Merab’s words, the picture lurched forward, and she recalled the next scene. She had been trapped, and Hezekiah had stood in the middle of the flames, battling to save her life. His clothes had caught fire. She’d heard him cry out in pain when he had been burned. And the fire in the harem had been her fault.
She had to go to him, help him. She had to beg his forgiveness.
“Merab, you’ve got to distract the chamberlain long enough for me to slip out.”
“My lady, you know you can’t leave the harem.”
“I have to see my husband. I don’t care what they do to me.”
“Come. Lie down for a while. You’ll feel better—”
“No! You have to help me! I’m ordering you to help me!” She had never shouted at Merab before, and the servant’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, my lady.”
Hephzibah waited until Merab drew the chamberlain away, then she crept out of her room and through the palace hallways to Hezekiah’s chambers. But when she reached his door, it opened suddenly, and she found herself facing Shebna.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. Hephzibah’s heart raced with fear. She couldn’t draw a deep breath.
“I—I came to see my husband.”
“King Hezekiah no longer has a wife!”
“But I’m—”
“The kin
g has divorced you. I drew up the certificate, and he sealed it the day after the fire.”
“You’re lying. I never received any divorce papers.” But she remembered the revulsion and anger on Hezekiah’s face and feared Shebna was telling the truth.
He took a step closer to her. Hatred filled his voice. “That is because I did not have the divorce recorded yet. If King Hezekiah dies, you will become the property of the next king. I cannot think of a more suitable punishment than for you to be claimed by Prince Gedaliah on the palace rooftop in front of the entire city.”
“He’s not going to die!”
Shebna grabbed her shoulders, and his fingers dug into her. “You should have been stoned to death for what you have done. But that would have been too merciful. Now get out of here!” He shoved her roughly down the hallway toward the harem, then strode off in the opposite direction.
Shebna’s words stunned Hephzibah. She had to find out if they were true. She turned and ran down the hallway, stopping the first servant she met.
“Please help me. Where can I find Lord Eliakim?”
“This way, my lady.”
As the servant led her to Eliakim’s office, Hephzibah struggled to calm down, to put her thoughts into focus. She had to plan what she would say to him. Eliakim was kinder and more compassionate than Shebna; he would help her. He would tell her the truth. But she was so frightened she could scarcely breathe.
Eliakim sat behind a huge table, sifting through piles of correspondence and official records. He looked up as Hephzibah entered, then his mouth froze in a hard line. The unfamiliar chill in his dark eyes frightened her more than Shebna’s open hatred.
“What do you want, Hephzibah?”
“Please, my lord—I need to see my husband.”
“That’s impossible,” he said coldly. “The king is no longer your husband.”
Shebna had told the truth. Hephzibah stared at Eliakim, horrified.
“According to the Law,” he continued, “the king has the right to divorce you because of your idolatry.”
Hephzibah swallowed, trying to stem the flood of her fear and grief. “Listen, please. I know Hezekiah hates me, but you have to believe me! When that statue broke open . . . and all the sand poured out of it, I knew that it wasn’t really a god. I knew . . .” She couldn’t finish. She covered her face and wept. “I’m sorry . . . so sorry.”
Eliakim sighed. “Look, you’re not supposed to be here. I’ll call a servant to take you back to the harem.” He walked around the wide table toward the door, but she blocked his path.
“Please tell me the truth—is Hezekiah going to die?”
Eliakim stared past her without answering, as if she had no right to know. She fell to her knees in front of him.
“I have to know. Please! I beg you!”
When he finally spoke, his words filled her with dread. “King Hezekiah is gravely ill.”
“From the fire?”
“Yes.”
“Please let me see him. I just want to see his face again. I just want to explain. . . .”
“Hephzibah, don’t beg. Stand up.”
“No. Not until you answer me, my lord. Please!”
At last Eliakim looked down at her. The anger in his eyes had softened. “I wish before God that none of this had happened, Hephzibah. But the truth is, you sealed your own divorce papers the day you chose to worship an idol. There’s nothing I can do to help you. I’m sorry.”
He rang for his servant, then pulled Hephzibah to her feet. “Take her back to the harem,” he ordered, then he closed the door in her face. The servant led her away like a prisoner.
Before they reached the harem, Hephzibah stopped. “Wait. Don’t take me back.”
“I have orders, my lady.”
“I will give you a fistful of gold if you help me.”
“Sure you will.”
“I mean it! A full shekel of gold. I’ll swear it!”
He eyed her with suspicion. “Show me this gold.”
“I can’t. It’s in my room, and if I go back to the harem, they won’t let me leave again. But I swear I’ll give you as much gold as you want if you’ll take me into my husband’s room.”
Hephzibah saw the greed in the servant’s eyes. “What happens once you’re inside?” he asked. “What do you want to do?”
“Nothing. I just want to see him—that’s all.”
“And for that you’ll give me a shekel of gold?”
“Yes. I swear by my life.” Hephzibah’s heart pounded wildly as she watched him consider the idea.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
Hephzibah followed behind him, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. When they got to the king’s chambers, he stopped.
“Wait here,” he commanded, then he disappeared inside.
Hephzibah tried to stay calm as she waited for the servant to return, but she couldn’t stop thinking of Eliakim’s words: “King Hezekiah is gravely ill.”
At last the door opened, and the servant came out. “The king is asleep,” he told her.
Hephzibah went limp. Hezekiah never slept in the middle of the day. Something was terribly wrong.
“Swear to me you won’t wake him,” the servant demanded. “You have to stay hidden behind me. You can’t make a sound. And you’d better not get me into trouble, or you’ll owe me a lot more than a shekel.”
“I swear.”
“I must be crazy for doing this,” he mumbled, but he led the way inside.
Hephzibah recognized the three men huddled in the sitting room. They were the royal physicians who had attended her the night her baby died. She kept her head down and followed the servant into the next room.
The stench in the darkened bedchamber halted her. The sour smell of sickness filled the stale air, and she couldn’t seem to breathe in the oppressive heat. Hephzibah wanted to throw open the heavy curtains and shutters and let light and air into the room, but she cowered behind the servant and waited for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dark.
When she could finally see the shrunken figure in the bed, Hephzibah backed away. This wasn’t her husband. This was someone else. But then the stranger moaned and turned his face toward her. It was Hezekiah.
He was impossibly thin, as if all his flesh had melted away, and his face looked gray beneath his dark beard. As he tossed in a delirium of fever, his random thrashing caused him great pain, and he moaned in agony. The burn on his leg was the source of the stench, a blackened, oozing sore that turned Hephzibah’s stomach.
He was dying. There could be no doubt. She cried out in horror.
“Hezekiah! No!”
Without thinking, Hephzibah pushed the servant aside and sank to her knees beside the bed, seizing Hezekiah’s hand in both of hers.
“Please don’t die hating me,” she begged. “Please let me explain.”
His hand felt hot with fever. His waxy blue nails and fingertips looked like a dead man’s. The servant clutched her around her waist, trying to pry her away from him, but she fought him off.
“Please, Hezekiah! You can’t die. You can’t!”
Hezekiah’s eyelids slowly opened, and a dazed look of pain filled his unseeing eyes.
“So . . . thirsty . . .” he mumbled.
With a surge of desperate strength, Hephzibah freed herself from the servant and grabbed a cup of water from the table beside the bed. She held it to Hezekiah’s lips. They were tinged with blue around the edges like his lifeless fingers.
“Hephzibah?” he whispered.
“Yes, my love. It’s me.”
“Hephzibah . . . I . . .” Then Hezekiah’s face twisted in pain, and he let out a terrible moan. “Oh, God . . . help me . . .”
He began to shiver, the spasms shaking his body convulsively, and Hephzibah never felt so terrified or so helpless in her life. If she could have seized the life in her own body and forced it into his, she would have done so.
Someone grabbed her and hurried
her out of the room. The terrible sound of Hezekiah’s moans followed her into the hallway. Eliakim stood outside the door.
“What have I done? What have I done?” she sobbed. “He’s dying—dear God, he’s dying!”
“Hephzibah, stop it,” Eliakim said.
“Is he going to die? Please don’t let him die!”
“The physicians will do everything they can to save him.”
“Let me help . . . let me do something. . . .” The servant had to support her, or she would have collapsed to the floor.
“Take her back to the harem,” Eliakim told him. “This time make sure she stays there.”
“But I want to take care of him,” she pleaded. “He’s my husband.”
Eliakim shook his head. “No. He isn’t your husband. Not anymore. And don’t try to come here again. There’s nothing more you can do for him.”
Nothing more she could do.
Hephzibah knew she would never see Hezekiah again.
5
Hezekiah drifted into consciousness, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. Instantly the relentless pain overwhelmed him, and he wanted to slip away again. But if he did, he might never wake up.
Was he dying? Was this what dying felt like, growing weaker and weaker each day while the pain grew stronger and stronger? The sickness that had spread through his body consumed his life like fire licking up straw. He fought to stay conscious in spite of his agony.
He turned his head and saw Eliakim sitting beside the bed with his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. Hezekiah licked his dry lips and tried to speak.
“Eliakim . . .”
He bolted to his feet. “You’re awake?”
“I’m so thirsty.”
Eliakim put his hand behind Hezekiah’s neck and raised his head to help him drink. The water tasted good and surprisingly cold. How did they keep it so cold when the room felt so hot? He drank all that he could, even though most of it ran down his beard and soaked the bandages on his chest.
“I dreamed that Hephzibah came,” he murmured when he finished. “I dreamed she gave me a drink.” How long would it take until he could forget Hephzibah completely? How long until he could erase from his mind the memory of what she had done?
“Can I get you anything else?” Eliakim asked.