by Austin, Lynn
“Here. You must be hungry, Master Joshua.”
“He needs something warm, Abba. I’ll heat up the broth.” She finished wringing Joshua’s robes and hung them on a rope suspended above the fire. As they began to steam dry, the smell of wet wool gagged Joshua. He couldn’t eat the bread.
“Are you doing this for the ransom money, Maki? Abba will pay any price if you just—”
“How dare you accuse me of coveting your money! I risked my life to save you. I’m putting these children’s lives in danger, too.”
“But it doesn’t make sense. Why would someone want to kill me?”
Maki’s face went rigid with anger. “Once again, Master Joshua, I will tell you everything I know. The soldiers broke into your house, searching for you. They killed your grandfather and your sister. They didn’t tell me why. This morning I returned to your house before dawn, hoping to get my clothes and a pair of sandals, but the house is still surrounded by soldiers. I didn’t dare go in. Then I went to your brother’s house, but it’s well-guarded, too. The same with Amasai the Levite’s house. Soldiers everywhere.”
“And all of them are waiting to arrest me, I suppose.”
“You still don’t believe me?”
“How can I believe you? There’s no reason for anyone to arrest me!” Joshua’s outburst triggered another coughing fit, and it was several minutes before he could stop. The girl knelt in front of him with a bowl and a spoon, waiting to feed him. The fragrant broth smelled of leeks and garlic, and Joshua suddenly realized how hungry he was. He let her feed it to him, careful to eat slowly and not burn his mouth. The soup soon warmed him from the inside.
The room grew brighter once the sun rose above the surrounding hills, and Joshua got his first good look at this girl who called Maki “Abba.” She was in her midteens, he guessed, and very thin, but he saw a woman’s body beneath her coarse, ragged robes. Her swarthy skin and dark hair looked like they could use a good washing with strong soap. He hoped she didn’t have lice. Her oval face was very plain, marred by a dark mole on her cheekbone beneath her left eye. But she had been kind to him. He clung to the hope that once her father left the house she would help him escape. He struggled to recall her name. He thought Maki had mentioned it. Yes … it was Miriam.
“Thank you, Miriam,” he said when the bowl was empty. He tried to catch her eye, but she kept her gaze averted as she rose to give some of the broth and chunks of bread to the two boys.
When the shofar sounded for the morning sacrifice, Maki cursed. “If I had a robe to wear, I could go to the Temple. Maybe I could learn something that would help you.”
“Here, take my robe, Abba,” Miriam said. “And you can wear Master Joshua’s sandals.” There was nothing feminine about the ragged outer robe Miriam wore. It might have once belonged to a man. She was about the same height as Maki, and it fit him well, but Joshua’s sandals were much too big for Maki’s feet. He fastened them on anyway and shuffled to the door.
“Keep the door and window closed,” Maki told her. “If anyone comes, hide Master Joshua in the cistern again. And don’t leave the house for any reason. Understand?”
“Yes, Abba.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Joshua glimpsed a pale blue sky and thin, high clouds as the door opened briefly, then slammed shut again. His only hope of freedom was to befriend Maki’s children. Maybe he could talk them into setting him free.
“Miriam, may I have a drink of water?” he asked. She didn’t reply. Instead, she gave the water dipper to the older boy, and he held it to Joshua’s lips. The boy was a filthy little urchin, the kind that Joshua had seen trying to rob money pouches outside the Temple gates and stealing fruit from the vendors in the marketplace. He looked as though he had never had a bath or a decent meal in his life. “What’s your name?” Joshua asked him.
“Nathan.”
“How old are you?” The boy shrugged. “Listen, Nathan, my wrists are getting sore. I think your father—”
“He isn’t my father!” Nathan’s hands balled into fists. He stood poised as if for a fight.
“I’m sorry … I think Maki tied this rope too tightly. My fingers are growing numb. Can you loosen it for me?” Nathan shook his head, his face sullen. Joshua tried again. “Is that your little brother? What’s his name?”
“He’s Mattan.” The younger boy’s dark eyes were infected, the corners and lashes crusted with mucus. He had a large, running sore on his leg that looked as if it wasn’t healing properly.
“What happened to your leg, Mattan?”
“He burned it when he fell on the hearth,” Nathan answered.
Their stubborn faces told Joshua that his plan to befriend them wasn’t working. He decided to appeal to their greed instead. “Listen, I had a silver pouch when I came in here. Maki must have taken it when he stripped off my clothes, but I have more silver at home. A lot more. I work for King Manasseh. Do you know who he is?” They stared at him, unblinking. “Well, I work for him. So does my father. They’ll give you a great deal of silver if you untie me and—”
“Stop talking or we’ll put you in the cistern again,” Miriam said.
“Please, Miriam, I don’t know why your father is doing this to me, but you must realize that it’s wrong to hold someone prisoner. Can’t you help me? Now that he’s gone, can’t you—”
“Nathan! Mattan!” she said sharply. “You have chores to do.” They obeyed immediately, leaving Joshua alone by the hearth. No one spoke as the boys rolled up their bedding, then drew water from the cistern to rinse the dishes. After a while the girl approached to add more wood to the fire.
“Miriam, why won’t you help me?” Joshua asked. She shifted his robes on the clothesline and rehung them to finish drying. A moment later he heard her grinding grain between two stones. Joshua closed his eyes and tried to doze, the warmth of the fire bathing his face.
After what seemed like a very long time, Maki returned. Without a word of greeting, he crossed the room and stood looking down at Joshua, his face grim. “Your father wasn’t at the sacrifice this morning. When is your brother due back from Heshbon?”
Joshua hesitated, unsure if he should tell Maki or not. But perhaps he could win his freedom by cooperating. “He’ll probably get home late today. He won’t want to travel tomorrow, on the Sabbath.”
“Then I must leave immediately and try to meet up with him along the way. If I don’t warn him, he will walk into their trap. May I borrow some of your silver to buy a decent pair of shoes?”
“Take as much as you need.”
“If the rumors are true, Master Joshua, then I’ve learned two things. First, someone warned Lord Shebna that he was also in danger and he has fled the country.” The regal face of the Egyptian Shebna, one-time tutor and palace administrator, flickered in Joshua’s memory.
Maki paused, biting his lip, the look of anguish on his face so genuine that Joshua almost believed it was real.
“And the second thing?”
“Your father and Rabbi Isaiah are in the palace dungeon.”
4
ELIAKIM KNEW THE LONG NIGHT had finally ended when he heard the Temple shofar sounding faintly in the distance. His father’s body, which he still clutched in his arms, had grown stiff and cold, his blood crusted hard on Eliakim’s clothes. Sometime during the night, Isaiah’s whispered prayers had gradually grown fainter until he had drifted to sleep. Eliakim knew by the sound of his breathing that he hadn’t awakened yet.
Eliakim hadn’t slept. The darkness in the cell had penetrated his soul, settling in his heart beside his unanswered questions.
“I will drive him like a peg into a firm place,” Isaiah had once predicted. “All the glory of his family will hang on him.” But there had been more to that prophecy: “The peg driven into the firm place will give way … the load hanging on it will be cut down.” Eliakim caressed his father’s cold face in the darkness, trying to memorize its contours, trying to comprehend w
hy God had made Hilkiah suffer for his son’s fall from power.
As that firm peg, Eliakim knew that all the weight of his family had hung on him: “its offspring and offshoots—all its lesser vessels, from the bowls to all the jars.” That meant not only Eliakim’s father but his children. And his grandchildren. He closed his eyes.
“Heavenly Father, I won’t bargain with you for my own life. I’ll accept in faith whatever you’ve willed for me. But I plead with you—as one father to another—I plead with you for my family. For Jerusha. For Jerimoth. Joshua. Tirza. Little Dinah. I know that they’re innocent of whatever madness the king has accused me of. He has already murdered Abba—let him murder me, too, if he must. But please, not my wife and children. Not their little ones …”
Eliakim had no idea how long he prayed. In his world of utter darkness, time no longer held any meaning. Eventually Isaiah awoke and convinced Eliakim to lay his father’s body aside. Then they knelt together and recited morning prayers. The familiar words lifted Eliakim’s sorrow for a moment and transported him to the Temple. In his mind he saw the dazzling golden roof and sacred vessels, smelled the aromas of incense and roasting meat. For a brief time the universe made sense again, reflected in the order and beauty of the sacrifice, echoed in the harmony of the music. But when their prayers ended and Eliakim opened his eyes, he faced his dark prison cell once again.
When the palace guards descended the stairs with torches, the light was as blinding as the noonday sun. The guards hauled both men to their feet and fastened shackles to their wrists and ankles. When Eliakim tried to walk, he discovered that the shackles were connected by a short chain. Squinting into the glaring light, Eliakim recognized one of the guards.
“Levi, thank God it’s you. Please tell me what’s going on.” Levi wouldn’t answer. Eliakim had known the guard for almost twenty years. Despair tightened around his heart.
“My father is dead,” Eliakim said softly. “I don’t care what you believe about me, but you know that Hilkiah was a righteous man. Promise me that you’ll give him a decent burial.” Levi didn’t answer, but when Eliakim met his gaze for a moment, he saw Levi’s silent promise that he would do it.
As they climbed the narrow, ladderlike stairs from the dungeon, Eliakim’s eyes gradually adjusted to the light. Several times he had to hold on to Isaiah to prevent him from falling. Like himself, the rabbi was weak from cold and hunger. The soldiers led them to the waiting area, outside the throne room.
“Will we be allowed to bathe and change our clothes?” Eliakim asked. His robes, like Isaiah’s, were covered with filth from the dungeon floor and stained with Hilkiah’s dried blood. The chamberlain was a man Eliakim had known since he first came to the palace as King Hezekiah’s engineer, but he wouldn’t answer Eliakim or look at him.
The doors finally opened and they were led inside the throne room. The great hall was packed with nobles and elders. The entire court had been called to witness their trial. Eliakim’s friends and colleagues—men he had worked with closely under Hezekiah and now Manasseh—were seated in their usual places. But in the unnatural silence that hung over the assembly, Eliakim glimpsed their enormous fear and horror. He was on trial for proclaiming Isaiah’s innocence; any man who spoke up in their defense would join them in the dungeon. He scanned the room carefully but didn’t see his son Joshua. His absence offered Eliakim a ray of hope.
Isaiah bowed before King Manasseh. But Eliakim rebelled at the thought of bowing to Hilkiah’s murderer. He looked Manasseh in the eye and saw distrust and suspicion. Where had they come from? How had these seeds, which Eliakim had never realized were there, sprouted and grown to such enormous proportions so quickly?
“I charge you both under oath, by the Living God, to tell this court the truth,” Manasseh said.
“I do so swear,” they answered.
“We’ll begin with you, Rabbi. The chamberlain will show you some scrolls that were found in your house. Do you recognize them?”
Isaiah glanced through them briefly. “Yes, they are mine. I wrote them.” He appeared calm and poised. Eliakim wished he could have even a small measure of the prophet’s peace instead of the intense anger and fear that pounded through him.
“Then you will recognize that all of these prophecies have already been fulfilled—with amazing accuracy.”
“Yes, they have.”
“Then do you still deny under oath and before my court that you possess the power to foretell the future?”
“I possess no such power, Your Majesty. Only Yahweh knows the future. I am merely His vessel. A bowl may hold the food that gives life and strength to the body, but the bowl has no power in itself.”
Manasseh shifted uneasily on his throne. Eliakim knew he was nervous. The king had never tried such a serious case on his own before, without Eliakim or Shebna to help him prepare for it. But the seats on either side of the king, places either he or Shebna had occupied for over thirty years, were empty. Where was Shebna?
“I want you to look carefully at this next pile of scrolls,” Manasseh continued. “Are they yours?”
“Yes, they are.”
“One of them predicts the downfall of Assyria, another the destruction of Jerusalem. These prophecies haven’t been fulfilled yet, have they?”
“No, Your Majesty, they haven’t.”
“Will you please tell this court when they will take place?”
“I can’t. I don’t know when.”
“You can’t, Rabbi? Or you won’t?”
“Your Majesty, when you send one of your servants on an errand, bearing your message, you reveal only the message you have entrusted the servant to deliver. He doesn’t know the mind of the king or what Your Majesty has planned for the future.”
Anger and frustration hardened Manasseh’s face. Eliakim knew the young king lacked the experience and maturity to deal with Isaiah’s quiet wisdom.
“Rabbi, you once told my father this: ‘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.’ Am I one of those descendants?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty.”
“You’re lying! You saw the future so clearly during my father’s reign. Do you expect me to believe you when you suddenly claim blindness during mine?” Isaiah didn’t reply. “Give him the next scroll,” Manasseh ordered. “Tell the court what it is, Rabbi, and who wrote it.”
“It’s a psalm, written by King Hezekiah.”
“Is it an original or a copy?”
“An original. This is the king’s handwriting.”
“I never saw my father’s psalm until today, Rabbi. There is no copy of it here in the palace. Did you know it existed, Eliakim?”
He glanced at the parchment Isaiah held in his hand and recognized Hezekiah’s handwriting. “No. I never saw it before either.”
“Why did you steal this from my father?”
“I didn’t steal it,” Isaiah answered quietly. “Your father gave it to me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why,” Isaiah said with a long sigh. “He wrote it right after his illness, the time he nearly died. He gave it to me on the first morning he was able to get out of bed when I accompanied him to the Temple. He asked me to keep it for him. And so I have.”
“Did you put a curse on my father?” A hush suddenly fell over the hall, as if every man held his breath. “First you told my father he would die, then you suddenly changed your mind and told him he would live fifteen more years. How would you know the date of his death, to the very month, unless you were the one who cursed him?”
The outrageous accusation seemed to stagger Isaiah. Several long moments passed before he could answer. “Yahweh’s hand rested on Hezekiah from the time he was a small child and God rescued him from Molech’s flames. I loved Hezekiah like a son. I could no more curse him than I could curse my own son.”
“And is it your own son who yo
u’re plotting to place on my throne, Rabbi?”
Isaiah seemed to sway slightly as if rocked by Manasseh’s words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Or perhaps it’s Eliakim’s son?”
A stab of fear ripped through Eliakim’s composure. Not Joshua. Please, God, don’t involve Joshua in Manasseh’s delusions.
“Show them the next scroll. Who is this servant of Yahweh who will sit on David’s throne?”
Isaiah’s hand trembled as he took the scroll. “He’s the promised Messiah, Your Majesty. The seed of the woman who will save the world from their sins.”
“Do you deny that this king will sit on the throne of David?”
“No.”
“When will this happen?”
“Only Yahweh knows when the Messiah will come.”
Manasseh gripped the armrests of his throne until his hands turned white. “I will offer you one final chance, Rabbi. Will you prophesy for me as you did for my forefathers? Will you reveal my future?”
“I can’t, Your Majesty. I don’t know what your future is.”
“Eliakim, you’ve heard his refusal. Do you still wish to defend him?”
“What you’ve asked him to do is impossible, and I—”
“As my palace administrator and most trusted advisor, tell me—is Isaiah justified in refusing my direct order?”
Eliakim’s limbs began to shake, not with fear but with anger. Manasseh was twisting Isaiah’s words. The rabbi wasn’t receiving a fair trial. “He is justified, Your Majesty. Only Yahweh can do the impossible.”
Manasseh’s face seemed to turn to stone. “Show the rabbi the last three scrolls. Are those your words, Rabbi? Written in your own writing?”
“They are.”
“And have you spoken these prophecies publicly, as well?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Then I accuse you before all these witnesses of uttering teachings that contradict the Laws of God!”