The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  People were stopping to listen to him, gathering around both of them. Hephzibah lowered her head, trying to hide her face. She wanted to run, but the crowd hemmed her in.

  “‘Do not be afraid,’” Isaiah continued. “‘You will not suffer shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated. You will forget the shame of your youth and remember no more the reproach of your widowhood. For your Maker is your husband—the Lord Almighty is His name—the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer; He is called the God of all the earth. The Lord will call you back as if you were a wife deserted and distressed in spirit—a wife who married young, only to be rejected,’ says your God.”

  “Please don’t offer me false hope,” she begged. “I know God will never forgive me for what I’ve done.”

  Isaiah didn’t seem to hear her. “‘For a brief moment I abandoned you, but with deep compassion I will bring you back. In a surge of anger I hid my face from you for a moment, but with everlasting kindness I will have compassion on you,’ says the Lord your Redeemer.”

  “Please stop. Why are you doing this to me?” she asked. It was as if he hadn’t heard her.

  “‘Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed,’ says the Lord, who has compassion on you. ‘O afflicted city, lashed by storms and not comforted, I will build you with stones of turquoise, your foundations with sapphires. . . . All your sons will be taught by the Lord, and great will be your children’s peace. In righteousness you will be established; tyranny will be far from you; you will have nothing to fear.’”

  “No. It isn’t true. Hezekiah will never forgive me, and neither will his God!”

  She turned and forced her way through the crowd, leaving Isaiah behind, a look of bewildered sorrow in his eyes. When she reached the Temple gate, Hephzibah kicked off Hoglah’s floppy shoes and carried them as she ran down the hill through the streets. By the time she reached the villa and hurried past the dozing gatekeeper, her feet were bruised and filthy.

  She fled to her tiny cell and tore off Hoglah’s clothes, sending the old widow away without a word of thanks. Then she closed the door to the outside world and latched the shutters, sitting alone in the darkness. She wouldn’t try to leave the king’s villa again.

  20

  Iddina ducked inside the Philistine temple and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. The stone structure felt refreshingly cool after the dust and heat outside. He found Emperor Sennacherib waiting for him in the inner chamber.

  “There you are, Iddina. Congratulations—you’re doing a splendid job of inspiring fear in our enemies. Most of them are giving up without a fight.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Iddina hadn’t seen the emperor since they had begun the western campaign. Sennacherib preferred to follow after the conquest collecting the spoil, while Iddina rode at the forefront, paralyzing the enemy with waves of shock and terror before the first bloody assault. Iddina bowed slightly. “The campaign has gone well.”

  “Frankly I’m a little surprised that the Egyptians haven’t come to help their allies yet,” Sennacherib said.

  “The Egyptians are cowards, preferring to fight close to home.”

  “But if they had joined forces with their allies, they might have raised an army nearly the size of mine.”

  “Yes, it was a stupid strategy on their part, Your Majesty.”

  The emperor picked up a golden chalice from among the pile of sacred temple vessels and waited as his servant filled it with wine. Then he shoved the golden image of Dagon aside and hoisted himself up on the raised platform to sit in the god’s place.

  “I want you to hear what I’ve written in my annals, Iddina. Go ahead—read it to him,” the emperor told his scribe.

  “‘From the annals of Sennacherib,’” his scribe read, “‘Luli, King of Sidon, fled out to sea and died. His fortified cities of Sidon, Zarephath, Achzib, and Acco were stunned by the prevailing arms of Assur, my god, and they bowed at my feet.’”

  “And now you can add the story of King Mitini of Ashkelon,” Iddina said. “When he saw our forces surrounding his city, he went insane.”

  The emperor laughed. “All of our victories should be so easy! Pour me some more wine,” he told his servants, “and tell the soldiers to bring in the Philistine priests.”

  Two soldiers entered with the captive high priest of Dagon, a distinguished-looking man with flowing white hair and beard. His stout body, dressed in a robe of fine linen, testified to a life of ease and privilege, but he moved in a daze, as if trying to awaken from a bad dream. Iddina smiled as he watched the sweat pour down the man’s face as if he were a common laborer. As a man of power and one of the Philistine elite, the high priest had probably never perspired like this in his entire life. The soldiers brought two other priests in with him, one in his mid-forties, the other in his early twenties. Their chalky faces and jerky movements betrayed their terror.

  “Blasphemy!” the high priest cried when he saw Sennacherib sitting in Dagon’s place, drinking from the ritual cup.

  “But I conquered these gods of yours, so who is superior?” Sennacherib asked. “Why shouldn’t I take Dagon’s place and drink from his cup? I am obviously more powerful than he is.”

  More soldiers entered and began taking all the sacred vessels and images away as booty, clearing the sanctuary while the men talked. The high priest looked bewildered, as if watching his life come apart before his eyes.

  “Would you like a moment to say good-bye to your gods?” Iddina asked him.

  “Where are you taking them?”

  “To the temple of Nisroch in Assyria,” Sennacherib said. “I have a rather nice collection of all the gods and goddesses I’ve conquered. Now I can add these to my collection, as well.”

  He hopped down from his seat and strode around the temple, examining the furnishings, signaling to the soldiers who streamed in and out whenever he saw something that appealed to him. Iddina liked working with Sennacherib; he didn’t waste time. The emperor could plunder the temple and interrogate these priests at the same time.

  “But that’s not why you’re here, gentlemen,” Sennacherib said. “Our next target is your neighbor to the east, the king of Judah. I understand that he’s your ally. You can spare yourselves an agonizing death by cooperating with Iddina, my Rabshekah. You simply have to tell him what he wants to know, and he’ll let you live.”

  The high priest looked at the other two. “Don’t help them. Die like men, not traitors. They’re going to kill us all anyway.”

  “Whether or not you die isn’t what’s important,” Iddina said. “It’s how long it takes you to die that matters.”

  The high priest shook his head, staring stubbornly as Sennacherib sat down on the platform again.

  “I assume you don’t want to cooperate then?” Iddina asked him.

  “I’ll do nothing to help you.”

  Sennacherib sighed, shaking his head. “That’s too bad.”

  Iddina signaled to two of his soldiers, and they gripped the high priest’s arms and dragged him from the room. Iddina studied the pallid faces of the other two priests while he waited, feeding off the fear he saw in their eyes. The room fell silent. The torture his soldiers would inflict on the high priest would be horrible, but what took place in these men’s imaginations was a much more potent form of torture.

  A full five minutes passed without a sound. Sennacherib sipped his wine, looking thoughtful. Iddina stood perfectly still, his arms crossed on his chest, not moving a muscle. Sweat poured down the faces of the two priests, and Iddina could see their knees trembling. The shaking gradually spread through their entire bodies.

  Suddenly, quite close by, an agonized scream tore through the silence. Terror gripped the two priests in its power, and they fell to their knees, their legs no longer able to support them.

  “I’ll cooperate,” the younger one cried. “What do you want to know?”


  But Iddina simply smiled and cocked his head toward the anguished cries as if listening to beautiful music. Several more minutes passed and the screaming continued, blood-curdling, horrifying, until both priests began to weep. The older priest crawled forward on his knees and gripped Iddina’s feet.

  “Please . . . please . . .”

  “Tell me about Judah’s king,” Iddina said.

  The priest’s voice shook as the words tumbled out. “His name is Hezekiah . . . from the dynasty of David. He has reigned fourteen years . . . he’s popular with the people . . . very prosperous . . . a soldier . . .”

  “What gods does he worship?”

  “One . . . only one god . . . Yahweh. The king is telling the people that Yahweh will deliver them from your hands.”

  Iddina laughed out loud. “What makes him think Yahweh will succeed when your gods and the gods of all the other nations have failed?”

  “I-I don’t know. Yahweh is a powerful god. . . . He sent terrible plagues on Egypt centuries ago when Hezekiah’s people won their freedom . . . and he intervenes in Judah’s battles, giving them victory.”

  “We’ll soon see about that,” Iddina said. He suddenly remembered how Jerusha had eluded him, and he grew tense with excitement as he neared his goal—he must defeat her god.

  “Where is Yahweh’s Temple?” Sennacherib asked.

  “In Jerusalem.”

  The younger priest suddenly entered the conversation as if anxious to cooperate, his voice high-pitched with fear. “The people used to worship at altars and high places scattered throughout the country, but when Hezekiah became king he destroyed all the shrines. He makes the people worship in Jerusalem now.”

  “Was this a popular decision?” Iddina asked.

  “No, not everyone agreed with it.”

  “Could I use this to turn the people against their king?”

  “Yes, I-I think so.”

  Sennacherib picked up a small calf idol, handling it like a toy. “Tell us about their god, Yahweh. What form does he usually take?”

  The younger priest spoke first. “The Judeans have no image to represent their god. He is—”

  “Wait a minute. What do you mean, no image?”

  “It has been that way for centuries. Their laws forbid the people to make an image of their god.”

  Iddina couldn’t comprehend anything so foolish, and he felt angry at the Judeans for denying him an image for the emperor’s collection. “But how can they worship without a representation of their god?”

  “They hold sacrifices to an unseen god. It is the wonder of all the nations, this imageless worship of theirs.”

  “One god with no image? And they’ve convinced the ignorant masses to believe in something so vague and foolish?”

  “Yes, they—”

  The screaming outside suddenly stopped, and Iddina held up his hand for silence. Both priests held their breath, waiting, probably guessing that their high priest was dead. Iddina knew better. He smiled to himself, knowing that the soldiers would revive the man any minute. He waited until the chilling cries began all over again, until the two priests wept uncontrollably, pleading with him between screams.

  “Please . . . please . . . we’ll do anything you say. . . .”

  “Tell me,” Iddina continued. “Is there nothing in Yahweh’s Temple that represents this unseen god?”

  The younger priest sobbed pitifully, too distraught to answer. He pressed his hands to his ears to drown out the sounds of torture. The older priest struggled through his terror to reply, gasping between his words. “Yes. In the Temple . . . they have an ark made of gold. The cover is said to be Yahweh’s mercy seat.”

  Sennacherib nodded at Iddina, pleased. “That’ll have to do. If we can’t have an image of Yahweh, we’ll settle for his throne.”

  The younger priest looked up. “It’s very powerful, my lord!”

  “Pardon me?” Sennacherib said.

  “Yahweh’s ark! It contains powerful magic!”

  “Is that so? Why don’t you tell us what you know about this magic?” Iddina spoke kindly to the young man, like a father to his son.

  “Our ancestors once captured the ark of Yahweh in battle and brought it to Ashdod. They put it here in Dagon’s temple, but the next morning Dagon had fallen on his face before the ark.”

  Sennacherib laughed out loud. “How amusing! We must remember that story, Iddina, and tell it to our priests. Maybe we should put Dagon’s image beside Yahweh’s ark again and see what happens.” He and Iddina laughed together.

  The young man’s face looked pitifully hopeful. He had made the emperor laugh. Maybe he would be spared. He grinned nervously, his face a death mask. “Wait . . . there’s more. Our priests put Dagon back in his place, and the following morning he had fallen a second time. This time his head and hands had broken off and were lying on the threshold. To this day we’re forbidden to step on the threshold.”

  “So Yahweh proved to be more powerful than Dagon,” Iddina said.

  The older priest jumped in to finish the story. “But Yahweh was very angry with us for capturing his ark. When it arrived in Ashdod, he sent a plague and a pestilence with it.”

  “What sort of plague?”

  “He filled our city and the surrounding territories with rats and afflicted our people with deadly tumors. Thousands of Philistines died of these tumors until our leaders finally moved the ark to Gath. But then the tumors and rats afflicted the people of Gath, too. They begged the leaders to get rid of the ark of the god of Israel, so they carried it to Ekron. But when the panic of death filled Ekron, the rulers finally sent the ark away . . . back to Israel . . . with an offering.”

  “What was your offering?” Iddina asked.

  “We made golden images of rats and tumors, one for each Philistine city. Then the plague finally stopped.”

  “A fascinating story! Did you get that all down?” Sennacherib asked the scribe who was writing rapidly. “Rats and tumors. What do you make of all that, Iddina?”

  “I think I would like to capture this mysterious ark. Where does Hezekiah keep it?”

  “In Yahweh’s Temple, in Jerusalem. It’s in a place that’s so holy that only their high priest has ever seen it.”

  “Interesting,” Sennacherib said. “Yes, now I’m certain that I’d like to add this invisible god’s throne to my collection. Get it for me, Iddina.”

  He smiled. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Sennacherib hopped down from the platform. “You have been very helpful, gentlemen. Thank you. And now—”

  Outside, the high priest’s screaming, which had added an ominous accompaniment to the long tale, suddenly stopped again. The perfect timing pleased Iddina. He waited, bowing his head as if in prayer while the two Philistines shivered and wept. They were probably hoping that their high priest was finally dead, that the torture was over. But Iddina knew that if the soldiers did the job correctly, it wouldn’t be over for many long days. He glanced at their faces, savoring their torment. Minutes passed; then the agonized moans began once again.

  “There,” Iddina said, smiling. “And now I believe it is your turn, gentlemen.”

  The priests collapsed like rag dolls, whimpering pitifully. “No . . . no . . . please! We told you what you wanted to know!”

  “Yes, you’re right—I did promise, didn’t I? Very well,” he told the soldiers. “Make sure you kill them quickly. Don’t take more than two or three days, all right?”

  “But you said we would live!”

  Iddina shrugged. “I lied.”

  “Come in,” Hephzibah said when she heard the knock on her door. She expected it to be one of the villa’s servants, but when she looked up and saw Jerusha standing in her doorway she grew angry. “What are you doing here? I thought I told you never to come back!”

  “It’s all right. My husband knows—”

  “I don’t care if he knows or not. I don’t want you here. Can’t you understand that?”


  Jerusha walked into the room as if she hadn’t heard and began opening the windows, letting in light and air. Hephzibah hadn’t left her room or even opened the shutters since going up to the Temple. Her brief glimpse of Hezekiah had left her deeply depressed. She’d been stunned by how haggard he looked and overwhelmed by the love she still felt for him. She had wept endlessly in the days since then, crying until her entire body ached. And each time Isaiah’s cruel words of false hope echoed through her mind, they felt like salt rubbed into her wounds. The food her servants brought every day went untouched. If she had believed that God would answer her prayers, she would have prayed to die.

  “I’m not going away,” Jerusha said quietly.

  The brightness in the room hurt Hephzibah’s eyes after days of darkness and tears. But when they adjusted to the light, she saw Jerusha removing items from a basket she had brought with her—soaps and lotions and fragrant oils.

  “What are you doing?” Hephzibah demanded. “What are those for?”

  “I’ve come to serve you, my lady.”

  “You’re not a servant,” she said angrily. “You’re the wife of the king’s secretary of state. You belong in the palace, not waiting on me. I’m nothing!”

  “You’re a child of God.”

  “Don’t you dare preach to me about God. I’ll make you leave if you do.”

  “All right,” Jerusha said quietly. “I didn’t come to talk about Him. I came to attend to your needs.” She took Hephzibah’s arm and helped her to her feet, then guided her toward the door. “Come, my lady, a bath will help you feel so much better.”

  Hephzibah didn’t want a bath, but she felt much too weary to fight. The best way to get rid of Jerusha was to give in to her and get this unwanted visit over with quickly. Hephzibah stepped outside, breathing fresh air for the first time in days, and reluctantly followed Jerusha across the courtyard to the mikveh.

  The bath was in a separate building from the women’s living quarters, with an outer room for dressing and an inner room containing the sunken, plastered pool. Bathing was one of Yahweh’s laws for women, required for ritual purity every month, and it had long been a monthly reminder to Hephzibah of her barrenness. Now as she undressed and descended the stairs into the water, she suddenly recalled Isaiah’s words, “Sing, O barren woman . . .” Tears filled her eyes.