The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  “I don’t need a father. I can take care of myself.”

  “Well, too bad. You’re stuck with me.” When Nathan made a face, Joshua threw down the wood and grabbed Nathan’s chin in his hand. “No more of that, Nathan! You will treat me with respect, understand?”

  For the first time, the boy showed a ripple of fear. He nodded slightly, and Joshua released him.

  “I talked to the rabbi today. He said you’ve been missing a lot of classes lately. Want to tell me why?”

  “Because I hate it. I don’t need to learn all those stupid laws and things.”

  “Do you plan on making a living by stealing for the rest your life?”

  “I’m going to be a soldier.”

  “You will be one when you’re old enough, but in the meantime you’re going to study the Law with the rabbis like I did.” Joshua regretted his harsh tone the moment he’d spoken. It wasn’t the way his father would have said it. He saw rebellion flare in Nathan’s eyes.

  “You can’t make me!”

  “Yes I can.” He drew a deep breath. “But I’m not going to force you.” Again, he saw surprise on Nathan’s face. “If you want, you can come to the building site with me after your lessons. We’ve almost finished preparing the courtyard for the sacrifices and—”

  “I don’t care about the stupid sacrifices, either.”

  Joshua reached the end of his patience. He couldn’t befriend this little brat. He didn’t even want to try. He stood and turned to leave. “If that’s the way you want it, Nathan, fine. Since you don’t want me to be a father to you, and you don’t want to study, then you can go work for a living and pay me for your room and board.”

  “I’ll tell Miriam and everyone else how you—”

  He whirled around and gripped Nathan’s shoulders, hard enough to bruise him and, he hoped, hard enough to scare him. “Go ahead. Just try it. Who do you think they’ll believe—a respected official like me or a dirty little thief like you?”

  “They may not believe me, but they’ll believe Mattan.”

  He released Nathan, fear crawling all over Joshua at the thought of everything he could lose. In his desperation, he could think of only one way to silence Nathan’s threats and save himself. He scooped up the idol and hurried into the house, quickly gathering Nathan’s meager belongings.

  “What are you doing? What’s going on?” Miriam asked as she watched him. He didn’t reply. When he finished tying Nathan’s things in a bundle, he carried them across the courtyard to Jerimoth’s house and thrust the idol Nathan had made into his brother’s hands.

  “Nathan carved this. It’s the Egyptian goddess Taweret.” Jerimoth stared, open-mouthed. “I’m taking Nathan to the mainland to live with the Egyptians,” Joshua told him.

  “Wait . . . you can’t just drop the child on the mainland and forget about him!”

  “I know that,” Joshua said, even though it was exactly what he longed to do. “I know an Egyptian man who operates a forge over there. We get some of our equipment from him. I’m going to arrange an apprenticeship for Nathan with him.”

  “Joshua, he’s only a boy. . . .”

  “A boy who carves idols!” he shouted, gesturing to the figure in Jerimoth’s hands. “We can’t tolerate an idolater living under our roof.”

  4

  As soon as Hadad crossed the border into Judah, he felt a rush of emotion that was soul-deep. He was home. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Judah’s rolling green hills and rock-strewn valleys until he was gazing at them once again.

  Everything looked so wonderfully familiar—and yet so very different. The farther he journeyed into his country’s heartland, the more changes he noticed. Roadside shrines now dotted the road to Jerusalem, piled with offerings to the Baals, the carved idols draped with charms and amulets. Every hill he passed seemed to have become a high place with a sacred grove and Asherah poles and altars to the starry hosts. In one village Hadad saw the townspeople gathered to dedicate a new building, and he watched in horror as the remains of a sacrificed child were enshrined in one wall to ensure prosperity. Hadad had never been very religious, but this wickedness appalled him. It had happened so fast. And it was so widespread.

  He ate his evening meal at an inn in Beth Shemesh, but he had made up his mind not to spend the night within the walled city. When he rose to leave, the owner stopped him, urging him to stay. “The roads aren’t safe to travel after dark,” he told Hadad.

  “There are still a few hours of twilight, and I need to go a little farther. I don’t mind sleeping in a barn if I have to.”

  “You’ll find no place to stay in the countryside,” the innkeeper warned. “Judean farmers no longer extend hospitality to passing strangers. They’ll run you off with threats and curses . . . or worse.”

  Hadad wondered if the man was telling the truth or trying to gain his business. “What would they have to fear from me?” he asked.

  “They fear the night, and if you’re smart, you will, too. You’ll risk the worst sort of assault if you sleep anywhere except behind a locked door at night. That’s when the worship at the shrines takes place.” Hadad gazed at him blankly. “The male shrine prostitutes,” the man said in a whisper. “Believe me, you don’t want to be out there after dark.”

  “If Judah is so unsafe, why doesn’t the king do something about it?”

  The innkeeper gave a snort of laughter. “Who do you think is behind it all? Listen, I’m warning you for your own good—wait until tomorrow to finish your journey.”

  “But tomorrow is the Sabbath. I won’t be able to travel on that day.”

  “How long have you been away from Judah?” the man asked, eyeing Hadad curiously. “The Sabbath laws haven’t been enforced for more than a year.”

  In the end, Hadad took the man’s advice and spent the night at the inn. His goal was much too important to jeopardize by taking foolish risks. He arrived in Jerusalem on the Sabbath and saw that the innkeeper had told the truth. The city gates stood wide open to trade and travel, and merchants and shoppers crowded the streets, buying and selling goods. It might have been any other day of the week. Hadad was glad he wouldn’t be delayed, eager to finish what he had come to do.

  He walked straight up the hill to the king’s palace, where he’d once lived with his grandfather, but Hadad barely recognized his former home. King Manasseh had constructed so many barricades, it resembled a fortress. Hadad couldn’t get past the first gate without submitting to a thorough search.

  “State your name and your business,” the guard demanded.

  “I’d like an audience with King Manasseh.” The guard laughed and would have quickly turned him away, but Hadad knew how to gain entrance. He held out his fist, displaying his grandfather’s signet ring with the emblem of the House of David. The guards let him pass to someone higher in authority. Hadad did the same with each new official he faced, refusing to give his name or state his business, displaying his ring and demanding an audience with the king.

  At last he stood before Lord Zerah, the palace administrator—a stranger wearing Lord Eliakim’s sash, keys, and signet ring—the second-highest official in the nation. Hadad had known most of King Manasseh’s nobles and officials, but he’d never seen this man before. His close-set eyes beneath sharply peaked brows made him look cross-eyed.

  “I want an audience with King Manasseh,” Hadad said.

  “First tell me who you are and what your petition is.”

  “My name is Hadad.” He pulled his grandfather’s ring from his finger and handed it to Zerah. “Give this to the king. It will tell him who I am. I’ve come to discuss his enemy, Joshua ben Eliakim.”

  Lord Zerah disappeared with the ring, and while Hadad waited, surrounded by four palace guards, he searched in vain for a reminder of the home he’d once known. The palace he remembered had been filled with sunlight and mountain air and the constant bustle of activity. But now, with so many of the windows and doorways boarded, it was a place o
f darkened hallways and trapped smells. When a chamberlain finally summoned him, Hadad wasn’t ushered into the throne room, as he’d expected, but into the private chambers he had once shared with his grandfather.

  Hadad’s throat tightened until he could scarcely swallow as memories of Shebna washed over him. He recalled his grandfather’s crisp, accented voice; the way he stood with arms akimbo; the proud way he walked, head held high. Manasseh and the cross-eyed administrator sat watching Hadad, the guards hovering close.

  “Where did you get this ring?” Manasseh asked. He toyed with it, tossing it lightly into the air and catching it again.

  Hadad cleared his throat. “It belonged to my grandfather, Lord Shebna. He was King Hezekiah’s secretary of state—as well as yours. We lived in these rooms.”

  Manasseh studied him like a cat watching a mouse, then abruptly tossed the ring to him. Hadad caught it in his fist and slipped it onto his finger.

  “I remember you, Hadad. You studied with my brother Amariah.”

  “That’s right.”

  “When you and your grandfather vanished into the night a few years ago, I was forced to conclude that you were also part of Eliakim’s conspiracy.”

  Hadad shook his head. “My grandfather was never a traitor, just wise enough to leave the country and avoid arrest. I went with him.”

  “Where have you been hiding all this time?”

  Hadad quickly grew impatient. After the long journey, the endless waiting, and the innumerable searches, he wanted to get down to business. “What difference does it make where I’ve been? I’m back now. Don’t you want to know why?”

  Manasseh’s strange eyes flared like a bonfire, and the guards on either side of Hadad gripped his arms. “Where is your traitorous grandfather?”

  Hadad forced himself to be patient. “My grandfather died of a stroke shortly after we left Jerusalem.”

  “Can you prove that you and Shebna weren’t involved in Isaiah’s plot?”

  “Can you prove that we were?”

  Manasseh gripped the armrests as he bristled with anger. The palace administrator covered the king’s hand with his own, caressing it to soothe him. A shiver ran down Hadad’s spine at their casual intimacy. These were evil men. There were no other words to describe them. Hadad understood why Prince Amariah had been so anxious to flee his brother’s palace. He also knew he had found the source of the moral decline he had witnessed throughout Judah.

  Manasseh looked the same—handsome chiseled features, eerie golden eyes, hard muscles beneath his tunic. Yet he appeared totally different—unpredictable, unstable, with a gleam of crazed madness in his eye. He sat forward in his seat, as if poised to spring from it and tear open Hadad’s throat.

  “What do you want, Hadad?”

  “Nothing. But I have something you want very badly.” He waited, forcing Manasseh to ask.

  “And what is that?”

  “Joshua ben Eliakim.”

  Manasseh’s eyes flamed again. “I’m listening.”

  “I know where he is. And where your brother Amariah is, as well. I can deliver them both to you.”

  “Where? How?”

  “They’re in hiding at the moment, but Joshua would return to Judah in a heartbeat if he thought there was a chance to assassinate you. If you lay a trap, I’ll convince him to walk into it.”

  Manasseh’s eyes seemed to bore through Hadad. “How do I know you weren’t sent by Joshua to lay a trap for me?”

  “You won’t even have to leave your palace. Stay here with all your bodyguards. Send a decoy in your place.”

  Manasseh leaned back in his chair, silently stroking his beard. “What do you think, Zerah?” he asked.

  The palace administrator had been watching King Manasseh’s every move with fascination, but now he turned his gaze to Hadad. “What’s in it for you?” Zerah asked. “What do you want out of this deal?”

  The question of payment had never occurred to Hadad. He still had plenty of gold from his grandfather. And he certainly didn’t want a position of power in Manasseh’s evil government. His reward would be Dinah. She was the only prize he coveted. But Hadad would never tell King Manasseh the truth. Dinah had once been the king’s concubine.

  “Revenge,” he said quietly. “Same as you. I want to watch Joshua die.”

  “If you know where he is, then why don’t you kill him yourself?”

  Indeed, why not? Joshua wasn’t surrounded by dozens of guards, as Manasseh was. Hadad could easily slip onto the island after dark and kill both Joshua and Amariah while they slept, then escape with Dinah. Instead, he had come to Jerusalem.

  “Because it would be too easy, too merciful to kill him myself,” Hadad finally replied. Anger and passion made his voice quiver. “You’ll make him suffer, King Manasseh. Joshua hates you with every ounce of strength he has. The knowledge that you won, that he died by your hands, will torture him more than I ever could.” Hadad curled his hands into fists. He felt the guards tighten their grip on his arms as his muscles flexed.

  “Why do you hate Joshua?” Manasseh asked.

  “He stole something that belonged to me.”

  “What did he take?”

  Hadad clenched his jaw, remembering. “Do you want me to deliver him to you, or don’t you?”

  “What about my concubine? He has Dinah, too, doesn’t he? I want her back, as well.”

  Hadad hadn’t expected Manasseh to ask for Dinah. According to Hadad’s plan, Joshua and Amariah would both die and he would escape somewhere—maybe back to Moab—to live with Dinah on his grandfather’s gold. He swallowed hard.

  “Dinah is dead. She died of a fever when Joshua was hiding in the swampland near Gaza.”

  Several emotions played across Manasseh’s face, but sorrow wasn’t one of them. He turned to his administrator. “What do you think, Zerah?”

  Hadad tried not to flinch under Zerah’s intense scrutiny. Hadad knew nothing about the man, but the look in Zerah’s eyes told him that he was perversely wicked, without conscience.

  “I think you should lock Hadad in prison until we find out whether or not he is telling the truth,” Zerah said.

  Manasseh nodded to the four guards surrounding Hadad. “Can you beat the truth out of him?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Do it.”

  Hadad’s first whiff of the airless hole made him gag. He had time for only a fleeting glimpse of his fellow prisoners in the palace dungeon before the guards disappeared up the stairs with the torches and left the prison in total darkness. He thought he had counted about five other men crowded into the tiny cell, some shackled hand and foot, others unfettered like himself.

  The guards had stripped Hadad of his outer robe and sandals, and the sodden straw felt warm and mushy beneath his bare feet. He leaned against the barred door, determined he would collapse from exhaustion before he would sit in his own filth, much less lie down in it.

  Someone in the corner on his right was moaning in agony. The sound was continuous, unending. Hadad waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, but it never happened. The darkness in the cell was total. He sensed someone standing very close to him, felt the moisture of breath on his face.

  “Who are you?” a voice rasped. “Who did you kill?”

  “No one,” Hadad mumbled. “Get away from me.”

  “Where shall I go? Through the bars? Or maybe I can float up near the ceiling for a while.” His laughter had the timbre of insanity.

  “You want space?” another voice in the darkness asked. “Why don’t you put that old man over there out of his misery and take his space?”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Hadad asked. He heard several people chuckle.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” the voice nearby said. “They torture everyone in this cell sooner or later.”

  “Yeah, sooner or later.” The voice came from someone sitting near Hadad’s feet. “If you confess, you’ll die sooner. If you don’t confess, you’ll d
ie later.” Everyone but Hadad laughed.

  For the first time, Hadad realized that he might die in this stinking hole. The knowledge should have staggered him, but he felt nothing—no fear, no regrets . . . nor did he long to cling to life at all costs. He realized then that he had no reason to live. Everything that usually drove a man—love, work, friendship, dreams of the future—had all been stolen from him. Even if King Manasseh set him free, Hadad had no desire to begin a new life all over again without Dinah. He had started a new life in Egypt and had ended up in this dungeon. All he wanted was vengeance—to make his enemies pay for stealing Dinah away from him—or death.

  Hadad leaned his back against the door and smiled, but no one saw him in the darkness. “They can’t kill me,” he murmured. They couldn’t kill someone who was already dead.

  Time must have passed, but living in eternal darkness, Hadad had no way to mark its passing. He might have been imprisoned for days or weeks or even years. The guards occasionally delivered meals of rotting food and stale water, but Hadad allowed the other prisoners to fight over his portions.

  When Hadad had long since given up standing, the old prisoner’s moans finally ended in a death rattle. The guards didn’t remove the man’s body right away, and Hadad heard his cellmates fighting over his ragged tunic, hoping for a scrap of cloth for warmth against the dungeon’s cold nights. Then the other prisoners took turns sitting on the corpse, using it for a bench to avoid the filthy floor.

  Every so often the guards dragged one of the prisoners away to be tortured. They didn’t take him far; Hadad could hear the muffled blows, the agonized screams, the guards’ laughter. The prisoner always returned unconscious. Hadad knew that the suspense of waiting for his turn had been carefully calculated to heighten his fear, but he felt strangely unafraid.