The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Then we would be honored to sign your treaty!”

  Hezekiah wanted to shout in triumph, but he held back. “Good. Let’s go back to my palace, and you and Shebna can negotiate the details.”

  Hezekiah stared at the Babylonian seal on the treaty he held in his hands. “You did it, Shebna!” he said, thumping him on the back. “This is unbelievable!”

  “And it is only the beginning. As head of the alliance, you will soon take your place as a world leader.”

  “When I remember the mess I inherited . . . well, I never dreamed this day would come.”

  “None of your forefathers since King Solomon has signed a treaty of alliance with a great world power like Babylon. And you signed as equals. You will owe Babylon no tribute.”

  “Unbelievable!” Hezekiah breathed. “Listen, I’m too excited to sit still! I’m dismissing court for the day so we can celebrate this—” A shout by the throne room door interrupted him. Hezekiah looked up in time to see Isaiah push past the chamberlain and stride into the throne room unannounced. Shebna leaped to his feet.

  “Just a minute. You do not have permission to come in here!”

  “What did those men say?” Isaiah demanded to know. “Where did they come from?”

  Shebna grabbed the prophet and tried to force him back toward the door. “You cannot barge in here asking questions. Get out!”

  Isaiah’s face displayed a mixture of bewilderment and fear, and it unnerved Hezekiah. “Shebna, wait,” he said. “Let him come in. We have no reason to hide the truth from him. The men came from Babylon, Rabbi.”

  Isaiah groaned. All the excitement that had crackled through the throne room a moment ago suddenly vanished. Isaiah looked up at Hezekiah, and his face was filled with dread.

  “What did they see in your palace?”

  “They saw everything I own. The armory, the storehouses—I didn’t hide any of my treasures from them.”

  Isaiah closed his eyes, a look of despair written across his face. But when he opened them again, they flashed with anger. “I have some very hard words for you, King Hezekiah. You might prefer to hear them in private.”

  “Who do you think you are, talking to the king this way?” Shebna shouted. “Get out!”

  “No, let him speak,” Hezekiah said quietly.

  The prophet walked toward the throne, his eyes never leaving Hezekiah’s. “Early in your reign you asked me to speak Yahweh’s Word, didn’t you, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes, I did, but—”

  “Then hear the Word of God, King Hezekiah! Alone or in front of all these people?”

  “Alone.”

  Isaiah’s slim body seemed to tremble with the effort of restraining himself until the last of Hezekiah’s officials had left the room. Then his words poured out with a fury that stunned Hezekiah.

  “You showed the Babylonians your treasures, your great riches, but did you acknowledge the Source of all your wealth? When you took them through your storerooms, were you praising God for all that He has given you, or was Yahweh far from your thoughts? Did you tell the Babylonians that Yahweh is your greatest treasure, not your gold and jewels, or did pride silence you?”

  Hezekiah cringed as he recognized the truth of Isaiah’s accusations, but he hurried to defend himself. “I didn’t invite the Babylonians to come here. They heard about my illness, and they came—”

  “They came to marvel at your miraculous healing! But did you give God the glory for your renewed health? Did you testify to His unearned mercy and grace in restoring your life? Or did you let their flattery convince you that you must be a very important man since God listened to your prayers?”

  Hezekiah remembered how he had let the Babylonians bow to him, calling him “favored one,” and he turned away from Isaiah’s probing gaze.

  “‘Pride goes before destruction,’” Isaiah told him, “‘a haughty spirit before a fall!’ Pride says, ‘I did it! I accomplished everything by myself!’ Pride leaves out God!”

  Hezekiah groped behind him for his throne and sank down. He recalled how many times in the past few days he had marveled at all that he had accomplished during his reign. At the Temple, during the banquet, in the armory and storehouses—he had forgotten God and never once acknowledged that He was the One who had brought renewed prosperity to his nation. Hezekiah knew he deserved Isaiah’s rebuke. But the prophet wasn’t finished.

  “God should have been glorified in the Babylonians’ eyes, not you, King Hezekiah! What do you have that He didn’t give to you? What do you own that wasn’t a gift from Him?”

  “Nothing, Rabbi.”

  “Yes, nothing. And God can take everything away from you again in an instant, leaving you just as you started. Would you like proof of that?”

  “No.”

  “If you truly understood the holiness of God, you would have a proper attitude about yourself! Now, hear the word of the Lord Almighty.”

  Hezekiah lowered his head and gripped the armrests, bracing himself for more.

  “‘The time will surely come when everything in your palace, and all that your fathers have stored up until this day, will be carried off to Babylon. Nothing will be left,’ says the Lord. ‘And some of your descendants, your own flesh and blood who will be born to you, will be taken away, and they will become eunuchs in the palace of the king of Babylon.’”

  Hezekiah never doubted that every word of Isaiah’s sobering prophecy would come true. But two thoughts filled him with quiet hope—it would take place in the future, not during his reign; and God would give him descendants, sons of his own flesh and blood.

  “The word of the Lord you have spoken is good,” Hezekiah said quietly. “I’ve done wrong. I should pay for my sin.” He looked up and saw the prophet shaking his head.

  “No, I don’t think you realize what you’ve done,” Isaiah said. “When the Babylonians come back someday, I don’t think you understand what they’ll do to this holy city . . . they’ll—” He stopped, unable to finish, then turned and strode from the throne room.

  13

  “Praise the Lord, O my soul;

  all my inmost being, praise his holy name.

  Praise the Lord, O my soul,

  and forget not all his benefits.”

  Jerusha stood in the Women’s Court, listening as the Levites sang her favorite psalm. She wished she were a Levite so she could sing glorious songs of praise to God; for when He had spared King Hezekiah’s life, He had spared her husband’s life, as well. Now she and Eliakim could go on as before, sharing their love, watching their children grow.

  God had given them such beautiful children, so bright and strong. And now a new one would be born next spring. She touched her abdomen, which already showed signs of the baby she carried, and thanked God again for all the happiness He had given her.

  “Who forgives all your sins

  and heals all your diseases,

  who redeems your life from the pit

  and crowns you with love and compassion.”

  The crowd in front of Jerusha parted slightly, and she caught a glimpse of Eliakim standing beside the king on the royal platform. She couldn’t help feeling proud of him, standing there so tall and handsome. That important man was her husband! How could she ever thank God for such a miracle?

  Someone stepped in front of Jerusha and she lost sight of Eliakim for a moment, but now she had a clear view of King Hezekiah. His illness had left him paler and thinner than before, and she saw a few streaks of gray threaded through his hair and beard. But even more noticeable than the limp in his step was the lingering sadness in his eyes and in the slant of his broad shoulders. It seemed as though part of his spirit had died even though his body had recovered.

  Jerusha shook her head, wondering if the king still mourned for his wife. She also wondered how Hephzibah could have done such a stupid thing—to worship a pagan idol. Why would she deceive her husband, knowing how hard he had fought against idolatry
, how hard he had worked for reform? Without warning, Jerusha found herself thinking that Hephzibah deserved to die.

  “The Lord is compassionate and gracious,

  slow to anger, abounding in love. . . .

  He does not treat us as our sins deserve or

  repay us according to our iniquities.”

  “O God, forgive me,” Jerusha prayed when she heard the words the Levites were singing. She had deserved to die as much as Hephzibah did. But God had forgiven her. She wondered if Hephzibah had found the same forgiveness. Eliakim told her that the king had banished his wife to a villa with his former concubines. Hephzibah would live out her days there, childless and forsaken. Jerusha recalled her own desolate existence as an Assyrian slave and knew that hopelessness and despair would be Hephzibah’s constant companions for the rest of her life.

  “‘May the Lord make his face to shine upon you . . . and give you peace.’”

  As the high priest pronounced the benediction, a feeling of peace rested on Jerusha. God had forgiven her sins. But suppose she had never made peace with God. Suppose she still lived with the guilt of her sins, unrepentant, unforgiven, unloved. Jerusha shuddered.

  “What’s wrong, my child?”

  Jerusha looked up as Hilkiah came to meet her.

  “I was watching King Hezekiah during the sacrifice, Abba. He looks so lonely and depressed.” She took Hilkiah’s arm, and they started walking home together. “It made me think of Hephzibah, what she must be going through.”

  “And you knew exactly how she must feel,” Hilkiah said, nodding in understanding.

  “Do you think Hephzibah will ever find forgiveness the way I did?”

  Hilkiah stopped walking. He turned to face Jerusha, taking both her hands in his. “Our heavenly Father never gives up on any of His children. But He needs people who are willing to be His voice and His hands to reach the lost.”

  “You don’t mean me?”

  “How will Hephzibah ever hear that God forgives her unless someone tells her?”

  “But I’m still learning about God myself, Abba. I can’t talk to Hephzibah. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “On the contrary, you would know exactly what to say. You’ve lived through the same hopelessness she’s probably experiencing, and you know firsthand what God can do. Yahweh will give you the words, just as He gave you the words to say to Eliakim when he was suffering. God used you in my son’s life, Jerusha. Maybe now He wants to use you in Hephzibah’s life, too.”

  “I don’t even know if she’ll talk to me.”

  “Yahweh only asks us to try. The Scriptures say, ‘You turned my wailing into dancing. You removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing to you and not be silent.’ Give it careful thought, my child.”

  Jerusha thought of little else for the rest of the morning. She was afraid to go talk to Hephzibah, yet afraid not to go. Suppose she had refused to do what Hilkiah asked the last time? What would have happened to Eliakim? Was God really asking her to be His spokesperson to Hephzibah? She would learn the answer only if she went to see her.

  That afternoon Jerusha settled the children for their naps, then left them with the servants and walked down the hill from her house. She easily found the king’s villa near the new Western Gate; it was a magnificent house made of dressed stone and cedar, surrounded by a high wall.

  “I’m here to see Lady Hephzibah,” she told the gatekeeper.

  He blinked in surprise. “Lady Hephzibah?”

  “Yes. I’m the wife of Lord Eliakim, King Hezekiah’s secretary.” Her voice shook. She expected the man to slam the door in her face, but, much to her surprise, he motioned her inside.

  “Follow me.”

  He led the way along a covered walkway past an open courtyard where bees buzzed among the flowers and doves called to each other in the treetops. It was a peaceful setting, but it seemed too quiet to Jerusha, as if something was missing. Then she realized what it was; none of the king’s concubines had children. Without the sound of their laughter, the courtyard resembled a graveyard.

  The gatekeeper stopped beside the last door along the walkway. He knocked, then opened it without waiting for an answer.

  “Lady Hephzibah? Someone to see you.” He motioned for Jerusha to enter, then closed the door behind her and left.

  Hephzibah sat alone in front of a window, looking out on a narrow alley and the back wall of the villa. All the other windows of the dark, airless room were tightly shuttered. The tiny cubicle looked as though it had been built for a prisoner, not for a king’s wife. A coarse sheet covered the narrow bed and a pallet of straw. No mirror or tapestries hung on the walls, no perfumes or lotions lined the tabletop—only a tray of untouched food. Jerusha wondered why the king would punish Hephzibah this way. But as she gazed at the starkly furnished room for a moment, she suddenly understood. Hephzibah had chosen it to punish herself. She had made the room into a prison cell in which to serve her life sentence.

  The atmosphere of hopelessness and despair reminded Jerusha of the Assyrian camp, and she wanted to run out. What was she doing here? She didn’t know what to say to Hephzibah. She had decided so abruptly to come that she hadn’t had time to rehearse any words.

  “Lady Hephzibah?” she said shakily. “I don’t know if you remember me or not—my name is Jerusha? I’m Eliakim’s wife, the king’s secretary?” Her words seemed to come out all wrong and sounded more like questions. Jerusha waited for a response, but Hephzibah didn’t turn around.

  She had always been petite and delicate, but now she looked frail and haggard, as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. She wore a tunic of plain cloth, and her hair was unpinned as if she were in mourning. The way she stared sightlessly out the window reminded Jerusha of Marah, who was probably still a slave in the Assyrian camp. And except for the grace of God, Jerusha knew that she would still be held captive, too. She had been right to come. She had to help Hephzibah find release.

  “We’ve met before, Lady Hephzibah, at several state banquets. Maybe you remember, we sat together at the women’s table?” It seemed cruel to remind Hephzibah of the life she had lost and would never live again. Jerusha recalled the tender longing she often saw in the king’s eyes as he gazed at Hephzibah across the crowded banquet room, and she shuddered at the terrible consequences of Hephzibah’s sin. O God, please don’t ever let me destroy Eliakim’s love, she prayed.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter if you remember me or not,” Jerusha continued. “I just thought . . . I mean, I’ve come to . . .” She stopped. Why had she come? She felt helpless as silence filled the room.

  Then Hephzibah slowly took her eyes from the window and turned around. Jerusha felt a jolt of shock; it was like viewing a corpse. Hephzibah’s beautiful face had no life or color in it, and her eyes were past sorrow, past grief, as if forever washed dry of tears. In fact, she showed no emotion at all, and suddenly Jerusha wondered if there was even a woman inside this shell for God to reach. She groped for the edge of the cot and sat down.

  “Why?” Hephzibah asked suddenly. Her low voice sounded dry and raspy, like an unused hinge. “Why did you come here?”

  “Because you were once so kind to me when I was new at the palace. I wasn’t the daughter of a nobleman like you, but you never made me feel inferior. You helped me learn everything and . . . and made me feel as if I belonged.” Before she could stop them, tears filled Jerusha’s eyes. Hephzibah had no hope. Her life would continue this way until the day she died. It was a punishment more cruel than stoning.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Jerusha said, wiping her tears.

  Hephzibah turned back to the window again. “If you came here to pity me, you can go home now,” she said. “I don’t need your pity.”

  “No, that’s not why I came. You were once a friend to me when I needed one, and I want to be a friend to you.”

  Hephzibah didn’t reply. She held her body so still she might have been carved from stone. Jerusha knew that Hephziba
h was forcing her body not to feel, knowing she would never be held or loved again. Jerusha wanted to gather her into her arms and comfort her like a child, but Hephzibah would never accept consolation.

  “No,” she said without turning around. “I don’t need a friend.”

  “But I’d like to—”

  Hephzibah turned swiftly, cutting off Jerusha’s words. “Didn’t they tell you what I did?”

  “Eliakim told me about the fire. About how . . . about why it started.”

  “You can’t even say the words, can you? I was worshiping an idol!”

  “Yes, I-I know.” Jerusha reminded herself that she also had been a sinner and that she needed to extend God’s love and forgiveness to Hephzibah. “But I still want to be your friend.”

  “Then I’m sure they didn’t tell you all of it,” Hephzibah said, looking past her.

  Suddenly Jerusha didn’t want to know any secret that horrible. She wanted to run back to her home and her children and forget this tortured woman.

  “Y-you can tell me,” she forced herself to say instead. She sensed Hephzibah’s inner struggle, needing a friend but also wanting to punish herself by driving away any chance of friendship. Jerusha steeled herself for some terrible revelation, but she wasn’t prepared for the truth when Hephzibah finally blurted it out.

  “I pledged my child—King Hezekiah’s child—as a burnt sacrifice to Asherah. If I hadn’t been caught, I would have burned our baby alive, as soon as it was born.”

  The memory came back to Jerusha with dreadful power: the warmth of her newborn daughter nestled beside her, then her horror and helplessness when Iddina snatched her baby from her arms. She had fought with all her strength to stop him, to prevent him from burning her daughter alive, but she hadn’t been able to save her. Jerusha couldn’t comprehend why Hephzibah would willingly allow her child to die such a horrible death. She shuddered as her own wound ripped open afresh; then she began to cry.

  “Now do you still want to be my friend?” Hephzibah asked.