The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  “The colonel fought beside me for a while. He was wounded and bleeding pretty badly. When we heard the call to retreat, he kept fighting. He stood his ground so we could all get away. That was the last I saw of him.”

  No, God. Please.

  It shocked Nathan to discover that he was praying. He repeated the prayer in an endless refrain as he made his way to the makeshift field hospital to search for Joshua among the wounded. Hundreds of blood-soaked men lay sprawled on the ground while the Egyptian physicians tended them with a mixture of medicine and sorcery. The air was filled with moans, with pleas for something to ease the pain, with the anguished cries of those who feared death. Nathan wandered among them in a daze, searching the faces for his father’s familiar eye patch. The torn and mangled bodies that were spread across the earth barely seemed human. Nathan was in a nightmare, and he longed to wake up.

  “I’m looking for my father. His name is Colonel Joshua ben Eliakim. Have you seen him?” he asked one of the medics.

  The man seemed as weary as his patients. “We don’t have time for names.”

  “He lost his right eye a long time ago. He wears a black eye patch.”

  “We look at wounds, not faces. . . . There are so many. Can you give us a hand?”

  “I have to find my father first.”

  With nowhere left to search, Nathan started down the long road of retreat, back to the battlefield, back to hell itself. He would never be able to accept his father’s death unless he gazed at his familiar, scarred face one last time and held him in his arms. He needed to say good-bye. And that he was sorry.

  All along the way the wounded and dying who had fallen beside the road begged for his help. At first Nathan tried to give drinks of water, words of encouragement, but there were so many dying men . . . too many. He saw several of his friends among the dead but not Joshua. Nathan walked for nearly an hour as if treading water—seeing the same mangled soldiers begging, dying—until he finally came to the field of trampled flax where the battle had taken place. It was strewn with thousands and thousands of bodies and discarded weapons, like flotsam along the banks of the Nile after a flood. The hot, stagnant air was filled with an eerie silence now that the battle was over, and the stench of decay filled his nostrils. The only movement was the rustle of wind through the grass and the slow circle of vultures wheeling overhead.

  So many dead. God of Abraham, so many. Please help me find him.

  It was like trying to find one drop of water in a vast ocean of slain. Heart-weary, Nathan staggered forward, turning over bloated bodies, gazing into staring eyes, searching for his father’s familiar face and black leather eye patch. It devastated him to realize that in all the years since Joshua first offered to be his father in the shack in Jerusalem, Nathan had never once called him “Abba.”

  “God of Abraham . . . help me find him,” he wept. “Let him still be alive. Please give me a chance to call him Abba . . . just one time . . . just once. . . .”

  At last, after hours of fruitless searching, grief and exhaustion and loss overwhelmed Nathan. He sank to his knees and retched. He wished he could heave all the pain and sorrow from his heart, as well, but it was bottomless. He wept uncontrollably as he had so long ago in Jerusalem, a small, lonely boy crying for his abba.

  He remembered the day he’d turned thirteen and had cried in Joshua’s arms, so afraid of losing him to the new baby; the day he’d been flogged and his father had begged to take his punishment, then carried him home and tended his wounds; the night his father had dragged him from the pagan worship festival, then fallen at the elders’ feet, pleading for mercy for his son. All those years, Nathan had denied that Joshua was his father, but now he finally understood; Joshua had loved him as much as any flesh-and-blood father ever could. Nathan had found his real father—and lost him.

  “I’m sorry, Abba,” Nathan wept. “Please forgive me . . . I’m so sorry.” He knew he was no longer talking to his earthly father but to God. He’s the Father you’ve longed for all your life, Joshua had once told him. Only God can fill that empty place inside you. Nathan had rejected God and rebelled against Him all his life, just as he’d rejected and rebelled against Joshua.

  “I know it’s too late to make things right between me and my father,” Nathan prayed, “but please give me another chance with you, Lord. Let me try to be your faithful son.”

  As Nathan bowed his head to the blood-soaked ground, even the breeze suddenly seemed to grow hushed all around him. In the unnatural stillness, he heard Joshua’s familiar voice in his heart, repeating the words he’d vowed so long ago: I won’t let you go, Nathan. I won’t give up on you. I promise. His father had been true to his word. In spite of all that Nathan had done, his father had never stopped loving him. And Joshua’s love and faithfulness were mere shadows of God’s.

  Nathan lifted his head as the sun slipped over the horizon in a wash of vibrant color. He knew—as surely as he knew that it would rise again in the morning—that God loved him, that He had forgiven him. After twenty years of searching, Nathan had found his true Father at last.

  Stars filled the sky by the time Nathan staggered back into camp. He wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep to forget the horror of this day, but the moans of the injured and dying carried across the field to him in the night. Remembering his promise to come back and help tend the wounded, Nathan made his way to where the exhausted medics were still hard at work.

  “I’d like to help. Tell me what I can do.”

  “The men are hungry. You can distribute food and help the ones who can’t help themselves.”

  Nathan ladled rations by torchlight and made his way in the dark among the rows of men, serving food to those who could sit and eat. Then he returned with more rations to help feed those who couldn’t. He crouched beside a bedraggled soldier who had one leg and both hands bandaged.

  “Are you hungry? Here, let me help you sit.” Nathan lifted the man’s head, then froze when he saw his father’s face. “Abba?” he whispered.

  Food spilled to the ground as Nathan clutched his father in his arms. A moment later he felt Joshua’s crushing embrace in return. “Nathan! Thank God!”

  “Abba . . . Abba . . .” It was all he could manage to say, but he thanked God that he could finally say it.

  At last Nathan released his father and leaned back to look at him, staring as if at a mirage. Joshua’s uniform was ripped and tattered into rags, and his eye patch was gone. Nathan barely recognized him without it. His hands trailed over Joshua’s face, his shoulders, his chest. “Are you all right, Abba?”

  “I’ll live,” he said, wiping his tears. “What about you? What are you doing here, son?”

  “I came to look for you. I had to find you . . . I had to tell you . . .”

  The wall Nathan had erected around his heart suddenly toppled to the ground, crumbling as if struck by an Assyrian battering ram. He fell into Joshua’s arms again.

  “I love you, Abba.”

  Miriam was surrounded by the other women of her family, but she felt utterly alone. All of their husbands were exempt from battle: Joel, because he was the high priest; Amariah, because he was royalty; Jerimoth, because he was too old to become a soldier. All of their sons were too young to fight. Only Miriam risked losing both of the men she loved.

  In spite of her loneliness, she refused to move out of her house; she needed the memories it held of Joshua and Nathan. Each time she went to the sacrifices, Miriam would gaze at the beautiful buildings, searching for memories of her husband in the temple he’d constructed. Her brother Mattan, who came often to help her, was touching in his devotion to her, but she hadn’t raised him to manhood as she’d raised Nathan. Prince Amariah came faithfully to share any news he had: the troops had arrived safely; they had joined Pharaoh’s other forces; a major conflict was expected soon.

  Then came the day Miriam had dreaded; Amariah’s grim expression told her he had come with bad news. “There’s been a battle,
Miriam. I’m told that our casualties were enormous. We’ll have to wait for names.” A week later he reported a second battle, equally devastating for Pharaoh’s forces. “The Assyrians have pushed deep into Egyptian territory, inflicting tremendous losses against the Egyptians. Still no names, but some of our wounded will be returning home soon.”

  Miriam hobbled to the dock each day to watch for the first ships. When they finally sailed into the harbor, neither Joshua nor Nathan was on board. Amariah questioned the survivors and told Miriam that both men had survived the initial battle, but no one knew about the second.

  Weeks passed, then months with the same disheartening story, the same maddening uncertainty—more battles, more losses, no word if either Joshua or Nathan still lived. Miriam spent hours waiting for ships at the dock or kneeling at the temple, praying for their safe return—or for the strength to cope if they didn’t. She remembered how Jerusha had remained steadfast in her faith, even after the devastating loss of her husband. Miriam prayed for the courage to follow her example.

  Nearly ten months after the war began, Amariah came to Miriam’s house one evening before the sacrifice. She saw the mixed emotions playing across his features and waited, holding her breath. “The war is over, Miriam. The Assyrians have captured Memphis. Pharaoh Taharqo surrendered and has been taken captive.”

  “What’s going to happen now?” she whispered.

  “The Assyrians will leave occupation forces behind, but I doubt if they’ll come this far south. Except for higher tribute payments, we’ll probably be able to live much as we did before.”

  “No wonder God moved us so far upstream,” she murmured.

  “I had the same thought.” He smiled faintly, then turned serious once again. “Some of Pharaoh’s troops have been taken captive as spoil. The Assyrians will deport them to other lands. I’m told that they usually choose officers rather than enlisted men.”

  “Joshua?”

  “Maybe. God alone knows. But the rest of our men will be coming home.”

  Over the next few weeks, the boats started to return with Elephantine’s soldiers. Neither Joshua nor Nathan was among the first to arrive home. Miriam waited and prayed, watching every day for their ship.

  After two weeks of anticipation and dread, she finally spotted a tall figure wearing a dark eye patch standing against one of the ships’ rails. As the ship drew closer, Miriam scarcely dared to hope that it was her husband. But no other man from their island had the same proud stance, the same unruly black hair and scarred beard. It was Joshua! Tears blurred her vision, but not before she recognized the wiry figure standing beside him—Nathan!

  Miriam quickly scrubbed the tears from her eyes and looked again. They were alive. They were together. She stared in disbelief at the easy manner they had with each other, the casual, affectionate way Nathan hooked his arm over Joshua’s shoulder. God not only had brought them back to her but had somehow brought them to each other. They were father and son at last.

  Nathan spotted Miriam first and pointed to her for Joshua. They waved joyously, leaning so far over the rail that Miriam laughed, certain they would both topple overboard. Before the sailors could tie the ship to the dock, Joshua leaped across the gap to shore and ran to her, swinging her into his strong arms, crushing her in his embrace, mingling his tears with her own.

  “I’m home, Miriam! I’m finally home! And I never want to leave you again!”

  Part Three

  But Manasseh led Judah and the people of Jerusalem astray, so that they did more evil than the nations the Lord had destroyed before the Israelites. The Lord spoke to Manasseh and his people, but they paid no attention. So the Lord brought against them the army commanders of the king of Assyria. . . .

  2 Chronicles 33:9–11

  23

  “Come look at this ship, Nathan.” From the small rise where Joshua worked to build a new addition to the military garrison, he had a clear view of Elephantine Island’s harbor and the magnificent vessel that was sailing into it. “What do you make of it, son?” he asked when Nathan climbed up to join him.

  Nathan whistled appreciatively. “Quite a sight! It’s flying Pharaoh’s banners. But I think I see Assyrians on board, too.”

  “You’re right. It must be on some sort of diplomatic mission, but I can’t imagine why they’ve come here.”

  “You’d better run home and take a bath, Abba,” Nathan said, grinning. “They’ll never believe you’re one of Elephantine’s leading elders dressed like that.”

  Joshua squeezed Nathan’s shoulder. “Keep a close eye on the Egyptian laborers until I get back.”

  As he hurried home to bathe and change his clothes, Joshua tried to shake off the vague sense of foreboding that had sailed into his heart at the strange ship’s approach. Since returning from war several years ago, he had finally found peace and contentment for the first time since leaving Jerusalem, and he didn’t want anything to disturb it. He whispered a silent prayer that whatever this official mission might bring, it wouldn’t bring an end to the way of life he’d grown to accept.

  Joshua had been much in demand on the island as an architect and builder in the years that followed the war, and he was especially proud to be in partnership with his son. A gifted sculptor, Nathan added the artistic flourishes and embellishments that set their work apart. Their distinctive building style earmarked most of Elephantine’s finest structures.

  Joshua’s apprehension didn’t diminish once he’d bathed and changed his clothes and joined Prince Amariah and the other elders in the audience hall. The visiting delegation was composed of a mixture of Egyptians and Assyrians along with countless slaves, but the central figure in the drama was a lavishly dressed Assyrian who carried himself with the air of royalty. Joshua shifted restlessly in his seat beside Amariah as he waited for all the rituals of protocol, the diplomatic pleasantries, the exchange of gifts and compliments, to finally come to an end. Pharaoh’s ambassador introduced the Assyrian dignitary.

  “This is Shamash-Shum-Ukin, viceroy of the Assyrian province of Babylon. He is also Emperor Ashurbanipal’s brother. Pharaoh thought you might be interested in what he has to say.”

  “We are honored by your visit, my lord,” Amariah said, bowing slightly. “And very interested to hear what brings you such a great distance.”

  Joshua had to listen closely to follow the viceroy’s long, rambling speech, rendered in poorly pronounced Hebrew by a translator. The Assyrian complained in unflattering terms about his brother’s reign and the hardship his policies had brought to vassal states and provinces such as Babylon. But when the viceroy finally reached the point of his lengthy discourse, his words astounded Joshua.

  “I’ve come to propose a revolution against my brother Ashurbanipal’s harsh reign. I will lead the revolt myself, with all of Babylon’s rich resources at my disposal. The leaders of many beleaguered vassal nations—including the new Egyptian pharaoh, Psammetichus—have already pledged their support. I was hoping for yours, as well.”

  For a moment, Amariah gaped at him speechlessly, then he eyed the Egyptian officials warily. “I am honored that you would travel all this way to confer with me, my lord, but I’m afraid you have a greatly exaggerated view of my importance. I am the leader of only a small band of expatriates from Judah, nothing more. And I govern this island only by the gracious consent of Pharaoh.”

  “Your humility is admirable, Prince Amariah,” the viceroy said, “but the truth is, we have a great deal in common. You long to rebel against your brother’s reign as much as I long to rebel against mine.”

  Joshua could no longer stay seated. “Excuse me, how did you know—?”

  “That he is a son of King Hezekiah? An heir to the royal dynasty of King David? It’s simple—Pharaoh Psammetichus told me.”

  “We’ve known the truth about your identity for a long time, Prince Amariah,” the Egyptian ambassador said. “When King Manasseh learned you’d sought refuge with us, he requested your extradition
as a traitor. Pharaoh Taharqo refused, as did the current pharaoh. You Judeans have proven yourselves loyal subjects and valiant soldiers.”

  “Both are qualities I’m looking for,” the Assyrian viceroy added.

  Joshua was still on his feet, struggling to comprehend this astounding turn of events. “Excuse me once again, but I need to know . . . have you asked King Manasseh to join your rebellion?”

  “I’ve been careful to approach only those leaders who have clearly displayed anti-Assyrian sentiments. Judah’s king is not among them. In fact, he has launched several very bloody purges among his own nobility, executing anyone suspected of disloyalty to the empire. I also happen to know that there is a great deal of discontent among the common people of your nation because of the heavy taxation my brother Ashurbanipal has imposed on them. They lack only a legal heir of David—such as Prince Amariah—and a trained military force—such as the one he commands here—to rally them to revolt against Manasseh.”

  “God of Abraham,” Joshua murmured as he groped for his seat. “You’re finally going to let us go home.” He listened to the remainder of the meeting as if in a dream.

  “I’ve come to ask you to sign a treaty of alliance with me, Prince Amariah, and join my rebellion. When we are victorious, you will be the king of Judah, an independent state in a confederation of states with myself as the leader.”

  “When would this revolution take place?” Amariah asked quietly.

  “I am in the final stages of planning a coordinated strike—perhaps within a year’s time. My plan is to ignite so many small fires of revolution throughout the empire that my brother will be unable to extinguish them all at once. I could use a stronghold such as Jerusalem in the very heart of the western vassal states, cutting Ashurbanipal’s lines of communication and supply. If you decide to join me, Prince Amariah, you would have ample time to prepare your forces, plan your strategy, then await my signal to liberate your homeland.”