by Lynn Austin
Elongated shadows stretched across the chamber floor, reminding him that it was late afternoon. The Assyrian petition and resulting discussion had consumed his entire day. Manasseh had eaten nothing since breakfast, and hunger added to his ill humor. The king gestured to the officials seated in front of him.
“Well, what about all of you—my so-called advisors? Let’s hear your pearls of wisdom on the matter.” No one spoke or moved. Manasseh folded his arms across his chest and waited. The silence and the tension, like Manasseh’s nerves, stretched like drawn bowstrings. When the sound of the Temple shofar shot through the room, Manasseh stood. “Your sagacious advice will have to wait until tomorrow.”
The relieved nobles bowed before him as he swept from the room, with Zerah trailing a few discreet steps behind him. “I’ll have my evening meal in my chambers,” Manasseh announced as he strode down the corridor. “Join me there when it’s ready, Zerah. We have much to discuss.”
“What about the evening sacrifice?” Zerah asked. “Aren’t you going?”
“No. You’ll have to worship in my place.” Zerah appeared stunned by his uncharacteristic behavior but Manasseh kept walking, leaving Zerah to make his way to the Temple Mount alone.
As the door to his chambers closed behind him, Manasseh shrugged off his royal robe and let it drop to the floor. His suite was dark, the shutters closed against the afternoon sun, and the rooms felt cooler than the stifling throne room had.
“No, don’t open them,” he told his valet, gesturing toward the windows, “and leave me alone until my food is ready.”
“Shall I light the lamps for you, Your Majesty?”
“No. Just go.”
Manasseh stood in the darkened room, savoring the solitude. The world would be a much better place without all the people in it—except for a few to wait on his needs. He smiled at the thought, then quickly grew serious again when he remembered the Assyrians.
Things had been going so well in his kingdom until this crisis. And he knew without a doubt that it was a crisis, in spite of Zerah’s assurances that the Assyrians wanted only his friendship. Manasseh had hoped that he would never have to face what his father had faced, but here he was—in the same room, confronting the same enemy, the same decision. He imagined Hezekiah pacing alone just as he was, weighing his options, considering the risks. He stopped when he suddenly remembered that his father had Eliakim and Shebna to advise him. For the space of a heartbeat, Manasseh wished he also had those two brilliant men and the experience and wisdom they could offer. Then he recalled that they had been traitors, serving the interests of a conspiracy, robbing his father of his rightful power. At least Manasseh was free to make his own decisions, even if the responsibility did unnerve him.
He remained alone until Zerah returned from the sacrifice, then they sat down together at the small table in his room while the servants heaped their plates with lamb, bread, and fresh fruit and filled their wine goblets. Zerah ate in silence, and Manasseh knew he was waiting for him to speak first. He had little appetite for the food in front of him, still upset by the Assyrians’ visit.
“So, Zerah. You still believe Judah should become an Assyrian vassal?” he finally asked.
“I don’t think the consequences will be as horrible as you imagine, Your Majesty. The annual tribute they require isn’t much.”
“Maybe for now. It will undoubtedly increase each year.”
“It’s not in their best interests to destroy our economy. Besides, what other choice do we have? You said yourself they might try to annex us by force if we don’t join willingly.”
“There’s a third option, Zerah. We can refuse to surrender to their vassalage or to their army, just as my father did. That way I can preserve Judah’s freedom.”
Zerah laid down his bread and pushed his plate away. “Hold on. Your father paid a steep price for that freedom—forty-six cities destroyed, thousands carried into captivity. We would be an Assyrian vassal today if it hadn’t been for a plague.”
“Exactly! We’ll fight them the same way my father did.”
“With a plague?”
“My father’s priests called on enormous powers to defeat his enemies. I want you to find out what spells they used and call on the same powers.”
Zerah looked visibly shaken. “But . . . wait a minute. Surely you’re not asking me—”
“No. I’m ordering you. When we met seven years ago, you assured me that you had access to the same ancient powers and spells that Rabbi Isaiah had.”
“I do, but—”
“Then prove it!” Manasseh leaned across the table, challenging him.
Zerah started to protest, then stopped. As his eyes darted nervously, Manasseh noticed how close-set they were, how sinister they made him appear. Manasseh was surprised to discover that he suddenly distrusted him.
Finally Zerah smiled slightly and rubbed his hands together. “All right. But the only way I can do what you ask is if you let me consult one of the spirits first.”
He looked too self-satisfied, too smug. Manasseh’s suspicions multiplied. “Whose spirit do you want to consult?”
“King Hezekiah’s.”
Manasseh leaped from his seat, upsetting his wine. “You charlatan! You know very well I won’t summon my father!”
“In that case, I’m powerless to help you.”
Manasseh strode into his adjoining bedchamber, slamming the door behind him. He would never admit it to Zerah, but he was still ashamed of what he had done to his newborn son. Hezekiah had condemned child sacrifice and anyone who practiced it. Manasseh couldn’t bear to face him.
He kicked a footstool, sending it spinning across the room, then picked up a table and hurled it with both hands, giving vent to his frustration. Did Zerah really need to consult Hezekiah, or was he disguising his lack of power behind Manasseh’s fears? In all the years he had known Zerah, Manasseh had never mistrusted him until now.
When he had calmed himself a bit, Manasseh crossed to his window and opened the shutters. Now that the sun had set, a cool breeze blew through the room from the Kidron Valley below the palace. Ahaz’s clock tower loomed in the courtyard beyond his window, and Manasseh recalled the story his father had once told him. As Hezekiah had lain dying in this room, Isaiah had called upon supernatural forces to heal him, then he’d made the tower’s shadow move. The prophet had indescribable powers at his fingertips—and Zerah claimed to possess those powers. Was he telling the truth, or was Zerah a liar?
As Manasseh brooded, his doubts and fears multiplying, Zerah quietly slipped into the room and rested his hands on Manasseh’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. Please . . . let’s not fight. I can’t bear to have you angry with me.”
“I thought you had access to spiritual power. You told me you knew the same spells that Isaiah used.”
“I do.”
“Then why won’t you do what I ask? Call down a curse on the Assyrians for me! Destroy their army!”
“All right. But first we need to make sure that it’s God’s will. What was right for King Hezekiah may not necessarily be right for you.”
“Kill a thousand sheep and cattle if you have to. Consult the stars. Seek guidance from the spirit world. Examine every avenue. I want omens that are clear and unmistakable, Zerah. I want your guarantee—” He stopped as an idea suddenly came to him. “Why don’t you summon Rabbi Isaiah instead of my father?”
“I could try . . . if that’s your wish . . .”
Manasseh spun around to face him. “How did my father reach his decision to defy the Assyrians? What did he base it on? He didn’t believe in omens or guidance from the stars. How did he know it was God’s will?”
“I assume he sought the advice of men who did have access to the hidden things.”
“You mean men like Eliakim?”
“Yes.”
“Then how did Eliakim know? I governed by Eliakim’s advice for almost ten years, and he never even noticed the stars, much less
consulted them. He did everything by the Torah. It was tiresome. He would make me consult the Law if I wanted to spit on the ground. From what I recall, my father stuck pretty close to the Torah, too. You’ve spent the past seven years convincing me that the Torah is just a bunch of useless, outdated laws designed to enslave me. I agree with you. Now show me how I can know God’s will—with certainty—without it.”
“The omens will reveal—”
“But I’m dependent on you to interpret them for me!”
Zerah’s face went rigid. “You don’t trust me? You think I’m deceiving you?” When Manasseh didn’t reply, Zerah’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t believe this! How can you doubt that I’d want anything but the best for you? For us?”
“I want the certainty my father had.”
“Then let me summon him. Ask him yourself how he knew what to do.”
“No!”
“Listen, you were a child when your father died. You don’t know how certain he was. You don’t know if he had doubts or fears, much less if he really knew God’s will.”
In an instant, memories of Hezekiah returned to Manasseh as clearly as if Zerah had summoned his spirit. He recalled Hezekiah’s strong hands and sweeping gestures, his deep voice resonating with power, the way his dark, probing eyes would soften with love when he looked at Manasseh. Hezekiah’s scent seemed to fill the room again, the way it had before he died. Manasseh struggled to cling to these snatches of his father’s memory before they slipped away, fitting the pieces together, recreating the man he had loved so deeply. When the last memory finally faded, he was left with one conviction.
“My father knew God’s will, Zerah. My father knew God.”
They stared at each other in silence for a long time before Zerah spoke. “What do you want me to do?”
“You’re a priest; put me in communication with his God. Get answers for me. And swear to me that you’ll tell the truth.”
“It hurts that you doubt me.”
“Too bad. This decision is much too important for me to be concerned about your feelings. It’s almost dark enough for the astrologers to work—send them up to King Ahaz’s tower to study the skies. Then go up to the Temple and start sacrificing animals for omens. I’ll join you in a little while. I want answers, Zerah.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. We won’t disappoint you.”
Zerah left to do what he’d commanded, but as Manasseh sat alone in the room once again, staring at the remnants of his meal, he found that he couldn’t get his mind off the men who had served his father. He wished he could summon the spirits of Eliakim or Shebna or Isaiah to advise him, but then he recalled that they were traitors and realized that he couldn’t trust what they said. Their spirits might try to deceive him, too.
Suddenly he had a better idea. Manasseh may not be able to talk to the prophet, but perhaps Isaiah’s writings contained a clue about what he should do. He summoned his servant.
“Several years ago I confiscated all of Rabbi Isaiah’s personal papers,” he told him. “Find my secretary and tell him to get those documents out of the archives and bring them to me.”
When the servant returned with Manasseh’s secretary they piled the prophet’s scrolls on the table. “Help me look through these,” Manasseh ordered. “I want to read all of the prophecies that haven’t been fulfilled yet, especially the ones that might tell me what the Assyrians are up to.” As his servants lit more lamps, Manasseh snatched up the closest parchment and sank down on his couch to read it.
Then Isaiah said to Hezekiah, “Hear the word of the Lord Almighty: 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.”
Manasseh stopped reading and looked up.
“What is it, my lord?” his secretary asked.
“Is Babylon still an Assyrian vassal?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Good. Then this doesn’t concern me.” He tossed the prophecy on the floor and picked up another one. He scanned through it quickly, then slowed as he came to these words:
When men tell you to consult mediums and spiritists, who whisper and mutter, should not a people inquire of their God? Why consult the dead on behalf of the living? To the law and to the testimony! If they do not speak according to this word, they have no light of dawn.
Manasseh dropped the scroll and sprang to his feet.
“Are you all right, Your Majesty?”
“I don’t have time to read these.” He hoped his secretary didn’t notice the tremor in his voice. “Finish reading them for me. Leave all the ones I should see, and take the rest back to the archives. I’m going up to King Ahaz’s tower.”
By the time Manasseh had climbed the last winding step to the top, his fear had transformed into anger. He took little notice of the magnificent star-filled sky or the luminous quarter moon perched above the distant horizon. “Where’s Zerah?” he demanded. The royal astrologers looked up from their charts and scrolls in surprise.
“I don’t know, Your Majesty.”
“Didn’t he tell you I was coming?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. We’ve just finished reading your stars this very minute.”
“Well, what do they say?” He sank onto the stone seat that his grandfather had built into the tower wall. Ahaz had always needed to rest when he reached the top.
The chief astrologer consulted his clay tablet of notes. “The stars say that this is a good time for setting goals, Your Majesty, and for making solid plans to achieve them. A struggle could result in a commitment if it rests on a firm foundation. Carefully made plans should go almost as expected, but be prepared for some resistance. Stay alert and you may solve a puzzle if—”
“What in blazes are you talking about? Your gibberish is the only puzzle that needs to be solved!”
“I’m sorry . . . we—”
“Abstractions! You haven’t offered me a single concrete word of advice!”
The astrologer eyed the armed bodyguards accompanying Manasseh and dropped to his knees in front of him. His associates quickly did the same.
“Forgive us, my lord. We didn’t realize you needed an answer to—”
“Didn’t Zerah tell you about the Assyrians?”
“He didn’t want to tell us too much or it might influence our readings.”
“The blind leading the blind, is that it?”
“I’m not sure I understand, Your Majesty.”
“That’s my point! If you don’t know what my question is, how in blazes are you going to give me an answer!”
“My lord, if you could give my colleagues and me a few minutes—”
“There’s not a cloud in the sky!” Manasseh said, sweeping his arm across the horizon. “The stars are shining for everyone to see! Can you read what they say or can’t you?” The astrologers huddled in consultation for a moment, comparing notes, then the leader gingerly stepped forward again.
“You are entering a fortuitous time for making agreements that involve stability and security. But expect a few surprises. There may be more going on than you know about. Watch and listen. Important changes may be starting that could alter the shape of your destiny. Seek out the powers behind these changes and work with them. The objective is to have everybody win, so don’t exclude an opposing faction if—”
Manasseh interrupted him with a storm of cursing. “What kind of worthless mumbo jumbo is that? I need specific guidance!” It took every ounce of restraint he possessed to keep from ordering his guards to hurl all four astrologers off the top of the tower. Instead, he turned away, descending the steps in a blind rage, then headed up to the Temple Mount to find Zerah.
The scene at the top of the hill resembled something from a nightmare, with flickering fires and slaughter
ed animals and chanting, shadowy figures. Zerah dominated the eerie tableau, and the firelight danced across his face and illuminated his frizzy hair and beard like a halo as he stood beside the massive altar. He had rolled up his sleeves to examine a sheep’s liver, and his arms were soaked to the elbows in blood that looked glossy black in the dim light. A dozen priests hovered near him, slaughtering animals and ripping the skins from them. Grotesque, disemboweled forms dotted the courtyard around the men as blood drained in a dark pool at their feet. The gore made Manasseh’s stomach reel. He couldn’t remember ever seeing so much blood; Yahweh’s priests and Levites had always slit the animal’s throat, catching its blood in a basin.
Zerah took one look at Manasseh’s face and dropped the sheep’s liver into the basin. “Manass—I mean, Your Majesty, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Your astrologers are worthless! I want clear answers—do’s and don’ts! All they’re doing is mumbling vague abstractions!”
He shivered as he recalled Isaiah’s prophecy: “When men tell you to consult mediums and spiritists, who whisper and mutter . . .”
Zerah rinsed his hands in clean water and dried them on a linen towel. “You had do’s and don’ts when you had the Levites ordering you around. You’re way beyond all that now. Why would you ever want to go back to dogmatic rules when your own inner guides can help you make the right decision?”
Again, Manasseh recalled Isaiah’s words: “ . . . should not a people inquire of their God?”
“Consult the Urim and Thummim for me,” Manasseh said.
Zerah’s bushy eyebrows met in the middle in a frown. “Are you certain you want to do that?”
“Why not? Is this bloody mess of sheep guts going to tell me whether or not I should sign an alliance with Assyria?”
“My omens will serve as a guide. Like the stars, they’ll help you reach the decision that’s right for you. With Urim and Thummim the decision is given to you—yes or no. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“I’m prepared to do God’s will if I ever find out what it is!”