The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

by Lynn Austin

  “God of Abraham, thank you,” Joshua murmured.

  Long after the viceroy had left the assembly with his delegates to await Amariah’s decision, Joshua and the other elders sat in stunned silence. “Could this be God’s plan to win back the nation?” Amariah finally asked.

  “We’ve waited so long for this,” someone said. “I have children and grandchildren who don’t know any other home but Elephantine.”

  Joshua said nothing. Unlike their last assassination plot, which Joshua had forced on Amariah by bullying and coercion, this plan would come to pass without his interference. He was certain that joining the rebellion was God’s will, that the long season of exile was over at last. He had sacrificed his right to revenge as part of his vow to save Miriam’s life, but Manasseh’s crimes demanded justice, and Yahweh was a God of justice.

  “I’m no longer the legal heir,” Amariah said. “We know that Manasseh has a son. The boy must be nine or ten years old by now. I won’t plot to kill him.”

  “I agree with you,” Joshua said. “But you could serve as co-regent with him until he is old enough to reign alone. After living under Manasseh’s influence, I’m sure he’ll need a great deal of guidance.”

  The prince turned to the high priest. “Could I hear your thoughts on all this, Joel?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” he said, shaking his head. “The viceroy may well be on our side, but he’s still an Assyrian. No doubt he’s as ruthless and cold-blooded as his brother and all the rest of them are. Would God really use a pagan to help us?”

  “Yes, I think He might,” Amariah said. “I’ve studied all of Rabbi Isaiah’s prophecies, and he insists that the Assyrians are God’s instruments of judgment.” The prince paused, scrutinizing his advisors’ faces, inviting their comments. As hard as it was for Joshua to remain silent, he determined not to pressure Amariah. God’s will must be done. When no one spoke, the prince drew a deep breath. “Going to war means putting ourselves, our brethren, and our sons at risk. I won’t do it unless I’m certain this is what God wants. Joel, would it be appropriate to seek God’s word with Urim and Thummim?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. That’s why we made a replica of the ephod—for decisions such as this one.”

  Long before the priests made the appropriate sacrifices, long before they offered prayers for divine guidance, Joshua knew which stone God would lead Joel to select from his ephod. Yahweh had clearly orchestrated all these events to bring them to this day of judgment against King Manasseh. Joshua felt no surprise at all when Joel drew Thummim, only a deep sense of satisfaction and peace.

  “This opportunity is from God,” Prince Amariah announced. “We’re going to sign the treaty and join Viceroy Shamash-Shum-Ukin’s rebellion.”

  In the months that followed, all but the most essential business came to a halt on Elephantine Island as Joshua helped the exiles prepare for the coming revolution and the liberation of their homeland. While the soldiers honed their fighting skills, Joshua sent spies into Judah to gauge the extent of support they could expect from their countrymen. The men returned with encouraging reports of widespread discontent under the Assyrians’ domination, along with shocking stories of the wickedness and idolatry that had spread throughout the land under Manasseh’s evil reign.

  “It’s time,” Joshua assured Prince Amariah. “God’s judgment is long overdue. We’ve lived more years on Elephantine Island than we lived in Jerusalem. My son, Nathan, was a child when we left and has grown to manhood here. I’m about to become a grandfather, like Abba was the night this all began. It’s time.”

  “I know,” Amariah said. “My sons were all born here. To them, the Promised Land is only a place they learned about in school.”

  Joshua spent long hours with Amariah and General Benjamin’s sons, planning the approaching invasion. With promises of weapons and support from Pharaoh and the Assyrian viceroy, he felt confident that his well-trained regiments, experienced in battle, could easily overpower Manasseh’s forces. Joshua himself would lead the commando squad that would infiltrate Jerusalem ahead of time, opening the gates for the invading troops.

  As he waited restlessly for the Assyrian viceroy’s signal, the contentment Joshua had finally found on Elephantine Island rapidly disintegrated. Everything he had learned to accept about life in Egypt began to irritate him, from the grainy beer they were forced to drink in place of wine, to the stench of rotting fish that seemed to permeate every inch of the island.

  “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve tasted good Judean wine?” he asked Miriam. “Or eaten an olive fresh-picked from the tree?”

  “I remember how steep the streets of Jerusalem were,” she said, laughing. “I wonder how I will ever manage with my crutches.”

  “It won’t matter, Miriam. When we return to Jerusalem, we’ll all be walking on air.”

  Joshua was at home one evening, changing his clothes before the sacrifice, when Prince Amariah arrived unexpectedly at his door. Joshua appraised his pale face and strained features and knew that the moment he’d long awaited had finally arrived.

  “The rebellion has started, hasn’t it!” Joshua was stunned when the prince shook his head.

  “Can I sit down?” Amariah sank onto the nearest bench before Joshua could reply. “I haven’t told any of the others this news. I needed to talk to you alone, first.”

  Joshua felt a wave of dread. He drew a deep breath, afraid that the stones would soon begin to pile onto his chest. “What happened?”

  “The viceroy’s rebellion has ended before it ever began. Emperor Ashurbanipal learned of it somehow, and he executed his brother as a traitor.”

  “No . . . that isn’t possible!” Joshua’s limbs began to tremble with rage and disbelief. “You’ve heard wrong! This was God’s will . . . we sought His word. . . .”

  “It’s true, Joshua. The Assyrians sent announcements throughout their empire. The viceroy is dead. The rebellion is finished. I received word about it from Pharaoh himself.”

  “No,” he moaned, struggling for air. “I don’t understand! Why would God raise all of our hopes like this, just to dash them again? What is He doing to us?”

  “I don’t know,” Amariah replied. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “But we can still go ahead with our plans, can’t we?” he said in desperation. “People in Judah are fed up with King Manasseh. They’ll join our rebellion.”

  “You know that’s impossible. The emperor will be expecting trouble. His troops will be ready to quell any disturbances as quickly as they spring up. We’d never stand a chance on our own, and Pharaoh can’t help us, either.”

  “Is God in control or isn’t He?” Joshua shouted. “Why did everything fall apart? We prayed! We sought His will! He said yes!”

  “Joshua, the Urim and Thummim said only that it was His will to join the rebellion, not that we’d win our homeland back.”

  “But what was the point of it? Why join a rebellion that God knew would collapse?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “O God of Abraham, why?” he moaned. “I’ve been trying to be patient all these years, trying to settle down and be content here, but He’s kept me waiting like a petitioner outside His throne room, waiting for an audience, waiting for justice! Won’t I ever see it? How long, God? How long?” He bent over with his hands on his thighs, gasping for air, certain he would suffocate.

  “Are you all right?” Amariah asked in alarm. “Where’s Miriam? Shall I get her?”

  “No, don’t . . . she’s not here. . . .” He wrestled to control his terrible rage, knowing that it was choking off his life. “I’ll be okay . . . in a minute. . . .” He managed to stand straight again just as the shofar announced the evening sacrifice.

  “I’ll walk with you,” Amariah offered, but Joshua shook his head.

  “I can’t go. . . . I can’t praise God. . . .”

  “Joshua, don’t do this to yourself. Don’t turn away from God. Let’s see
k Him for answers together.”

  “I’d be a hypocrite if I set one foot in that temple,” he breathed. “Go without me. I want to be alone.” He turned his back on Amariah and stumbled out of the rear door, heading toward the riverbank, hoping the prince wouldn’t follow.

  He found the beach windswept and deserted, as barren and desolate as his own soul. His plans and dreams had been cruelly crushed. There would be no freedom from exile on Elephantine Island, no judgment or punishment for King Manasseh. Once again, God had slammed a door of hope in Joshua’s face. He stood alone for a long time, watching the sun set over the Nile, waiting for the terrible darkness to slowly close in around him.

  24

  King Manasseh stood before the bronze mirror, admiring his reflection as his servants dressed him in his royal robes. What he saw pleased him. True, he had put on weight over the years as he’d slipped into middle age, but he thought the extra bulk, along with the strands of silver in his dark hair and beard, gave him added dignity. As he turned to leave his chambers for his daily omen-reading, his secretary stopped him.

  “I thought you would want to know right away, Your Majesty. A runner has just reported that a large brigade of Assyrian soldiers crossed our border shortly after dawn. They are headed for Jerusalem and should arrive soon.”

  Manasseh didn’t have time to wonder why. “Quickly, tell Zerah to make plans. We must greet our unexpected guests with a lavish welcome.”

  When the Assyrians arrived, Manasseh was surprised to learn that Emperor Ashurbanipal had sent his personal spokesman, the rabshekeh, who requested an immediate audience. Manasseh greeted him with all the pomp and splendor he could afford, aware of what an honor he was being paid by this visit.

  “I know that only the most urgent business could have brought such an important man as yourself this great distance,” Manasseh gushed. “I hope you won’t think me rude if I express my curiosity. Why am I being paid such an honor?”

  The rabshekeh eyed him coolly. He seemed to take his time answering. “Did you receive Emperor Ashurbanipal’s notice about the rebellion led by his brother, viceroy of Babylon?”

  “I was shocked by the news, of course, but very pleased to learn that the emperor has successfully quenched the rebellion—praise be to the gods.”

  The rabshekeh wore a mocking expression as he applauded softly. “A fine performance, King Manasseh. You are a very good actor. But we have proof that you participated in the viceroy’s plot.”

  Fear turned Manasseh’s blood to ice. “Never! It isn’t true! I didn’t know anything about the rebellion until I received the emperor’s notice!”

  “You’re lying. The viceroy didn’t have time to destroy all of his documents before we captured him. We found a list of co-conspirators. One of them was you—the ruler of Judah, son of King Hezekiah, heir to the dynasty of King David.”

  “But it’s not true! It has to be a mistake!”

  “The document bore King David’s seal—your seal. It was unmistakable.”

  Manasseh glanced around in horror, noticing for the first time how many Assyrian soldiers had crowded his throne room, how menacing they appeared fully armed. His own bodyguards had vanished, and the Assyrians were blocking all of the doors. He felt the terror of being trapped with no escape.

  “You . . . you have to believe me,” he stammered. “I never joined any rebellion!” He was sweating and nauseated, certain he would faint. He had to do something! The rabshekeh had to believe him! Then Manasseh suddenly realized how he had been framed. “Wait a minute. I’m not the one you want, it’s my brother . . . it has to be! He’s a traitor who fled the country years ago. He was still wearing a royal signet ring on his finger. He’s in league with my enemies. They’ve been plotting to topple my government for years. You have to believe me—this is all a mistake!”

  “Nice try, Manasseh, but I don’t believe you. According to our records, your nation has a long history of rebellion. Your father, King Hezekiah, rebelled against Emperors Shalmaneser and Sennacherib.”

  “Then your records will also show that I’ve faithfully paid tribute to Emperors Esarhaddon and Ashurbanipal—”

  “Yes, while conspiring with Ashurbanipal’s brother. The Egyptians were also part of the rebellion, and we know that your son is named Amon, after Egypt’s most important god.”

  Manasseh’s stomach twisted like wrung cloth. Was this how Joshua would finally defeat him? “Please, I can explain. The Egyptians have been harboring my enemies and my traitorous brother for years. I named my son Amon in order to gain the Egyptian god’s favor against them. Tell him, Zerah.”

  “It . . . it’s the truth.” Zerah’s shaky voice was barely a whisper. He had the deathly pallor of a corpse.

  “Please,” Manasseh begged, “tell your emperor that I can explain. You see, my enemies—”

  “Save it for your trial.” The rabshekeh motioned to his men, and they moved toward Manasseh with barbed hooks and bronze shackles. He was afraid he was going to scream.

  “What are you doing to me? You can’t . . .” They hauled Manasseh to his feet to strip off his royal robe. “No . . . stop!” He tried to resist, but there were too many of them, they were too strong. As he vainly tried to cling to his garments, one of the blue tassels tore off in his hand and he clutched it to his chest as if it could save him. They ripped away his tunic, as well, until he stood clothed in only his undergarments. He felt naked and exposed.

  Manasseh stood shivering with fear and shame as the soldiers clamped cold metal shackles around his wrists, then his ankles. “Please don’t do this to me . . . please . . . I beg you to believe me!” The bonds felt heavy on his limbs, as if they would never come off again.

  “Merciful mother Asherah, save me!” Zerah cried as the Assyrians tore off his clothes.

  One after the other, every nobleman in the room was being stripped and shackled as Manasseh had been. He stood frozen in terror, listening to their pitiful pleas for mercy, but he saw no way out of this nightmare for any of them.

  “I’m innocent! You’re making a mistake. I’ve never been part of a conspiracy. You’re arresting an innocent man!” Like words from a dream, Manasseh suddenly recalled how Isaiah and Eliakim had stood in this same throne room, repeating his very words. He understood the helpless outrage they must have felt at such a monstrous injustice.

  “Save your defense for the emperor’s ears,” the rabshekeh said. “You’ll get your day in court in Babylon.”

  “You’re not going to take me all the way to Babylon!” Terror filled Manasseh as he suddenly recalled Isaiah’s prophecy: one of Hezekiah’s descendants would be taken in chains to Babylon.

  “Get him ready to go,” the rabshekeh ordered.

  Manasseh cried out as four soldiers suddenly forced him down into his chair, clamping his head against the back of his throne. Then a burst of fiery pain ripped through him as the Assyrians pierced his nose with a barbed hook. Hot, wet blood streamed down his face. He tasted it, bitter and salty on his lips. As the limp paralysis of shock prickled through him, he moaned, struggling to stay conscious.

  How could this be happening? He wasn’t a traitor. He was the king of Judah, a loyal subject of the Assyrian emperor. He remembered how Isaiah and Eliakim had proclaimed their loyalty, too.

  Beside him, Zerah struggled against the soldiers holding him down. He was too old for this kind of treatment. He cried out in anguish as the Assyrians drove a hook through his nose, as well. Manasseh felt the helpless despair of being unable to save someone he loved.

  “Zerah, call down your gods!” he pleaded. “You have power!” But when the soldiers stepped aside, Manasseh looked at Zerah’s bloody face and saw that he was unconscious.

  Manasseh was certain that neither he nor Zerah would survive the long journey to Babylon. Many of his noblemen didn’t. The Assyrians gave them enough food and rest to keep them moving but not enough to prevent them from arriving weeks later in a horribly weakened condition. Manasseh’s
skin blistered and peeled from hours beneath the burning sun, and his ankles chafed and bled after being rubbed raw by his shackles. He and his secretary had to support Zerah between them for the last leg of the journey after he became too weak to walk alone.

  Every moment that he was conscious, Manasseh beseeched the gods for help, reminding them of his zeal and devotion, enumerating the shrines and altars he had built, the countless sacrifices he had slain for them. “Have we slighted one of them?” he asked Zerah. “Angered one? Did the priests neglect one of the rituals to bring this disaster upon us? Surely the stars would have foretold a calamity such as this. Why didn’t the omens warn us?”

  Zerah’s laughter held a tinge of hysteria. “The minds of the gods are ever-changing and capricious. We have become pawns in their rivalries, Manasseh. Playthings for their amusement.”

  “What about your powers, Zerah? Use your powers!” But as Manasseh watched his friend grow weaker each day, his hope drained as steadily as his own strength. They were both going to die in chains. Rabbi Isaiah had once caused the sun to move, but even he had been powerless to save himself after Manasseh had shackled him as they now were.

  Manasseh saw Babylon, sprawled on a great plain, long before they reached it. A wide, shimmering moat surrounded the city, along with walls as high as two of Jerusalem’s walls piled one on top of the other. The great ziggurat towered higher still, crowned by a temple to Babylon’s gods. The Assyrians marched the prisoners through one of the city’s one hundred bronze gates, making examples of them as traitors, parading them through the streets of Babylon in chains, as they had paraded them through Jerusalem. Thousands of people thronged to watch. Too humiliated to lift his gaze, Manasseh saw little of the magnificent city except the ground beneath his aching feet. He had commanded Isaiah to tell his future; now he had fulfilled the very words of his prophecy.

  Manasseh was still supporting Zerah when the soldiers led them into a squat, mud-brick barracks, then down steep, narrow stairs to the jail, deep underground. At first Manasseh was grateful to be out from under the pitiless sun until he glimpsed the dank, airless dungeon that would be his prison. The door to his cell was a crude hole in the rock wall near the floor, barely two feet in diameter. He struggled in panic as the Assyrians forced him to the ground and made him crawl through it on his stomach. Inside, four barren, rock-hewn walls enclosed a windowless space barely eight feet square. There was no pallet, no bedding, only a hole in the corner for a toilet. High above his head, three holes no wider than his fist allowed light and air to filter in. The guards pushed Zerah into the cell behind Manasseh, then bolted a wide iron bar in place over the opening, leaving only a narrow slot at the bottom to pass food and water through. The sound of the great iron nails being driven into the rock, sealing him permanently inside, brought the terror of suffocation.