Among the Gods (Chronicles of the Kings Book #5)

by Lynn Austin

  “Are you in pain? Where?”

  “My legs …”

  “Miriam, do you understand what that means? You can feel something! Even if it is painful!” Joshua began to hope that she might live. God was answering his prayers. He uncovered her feet and massaged them gently. “Can you feel that? Can you feel my hands?”

  “They’re so hot! Your hands feel like they’re on fire!”

  He saw no reason to tell her it was from a fever. He continued massaging her feet and legs, silently praising God. “Does that help at all, or am I making the pain worse?”

  “Yes … no … I don’t know,” she wept. “Do you really think the feeling will come back? And that I’ll live?”

  “Yes. I have faith in the power of God.” Joshua felt so ill he wanted to collapse again and go back to sleep, but he continued to massage her limbs as his mind slipped toward delirium.

  “I’m so thirsty,” Miriam said after a while. Joshua licked his parched lips, craving a drink, too.

  “I know, but I don’t want to leave you all alone while I go look.”

  “I’ll be okay. Please go.”

  “All right. Maybe I can find something to eat, too.” As he stood, another wave of dizziness nearly felled him. He covered her with the broken tree branch to shield her from the sun and hide her from view. Joshua knew he was too sick to go, but for Miriam’s sake he ignored his own pain and started forward on legs as stiff as planks, limping on his injured ankle as he skirted the base of the cliff.

  He told himself to stay alert, to search for water, to watch for soldiers, but his mind wandered hopelessly from those tasks as he stumbled over the dry, rock-strewn ground. His head ached so badly that he wanted to lie down and close his eyes, but he wanted a drink of water even more. He willed his feet to keep walking. The arid ground was baked dry, waterless.

  After too many fruitless minutes of searching, Joshua remembered that he had seen a road from the top of the cliff. Maybe it led to a village, to a well or a spring. He headed in what he hoped was the right direction, staggering through brown knee-high grass.

  He found the road and—thank God!—there was a wide shimmering pool of water in the middle of it! He limped toward it, laughing and weeping, his feet tripping over each other. But the closer he got to the pool, the smaller it shrank until the mirage faded and vanished before his eyes.

  Joshua sank to his knees, too weary to rise again, and crawled to the side of the road to rest in a patch of shade beneath a stunted bush. He couldn’t think what to do. He must not give in to his fever. He had to find water, he had to get back to Miriam. It all seemed impossible. The sun’s glare multiplied the agony in his head, and he closed his eyes to escape it. He awoke to the distant creak of wagon wheels, the rumble of hooves. The sun was high overhead. Joshua cursed himself for falling asleep. A frantic voice inside told him to take cover, to find a place to hide in case the figures moving slowly toward him were Manasseh’s soldiers, but his body felt as paralyzed as Miriam’s body was. He couldn’t will himself to move. He watched in horrified fascination as the procession moved closer and closer, wishing only for a drink of water before the soldiers killed him.

  As the men walking in front of the caravan drew nearer, Joshua saw by their brightly patterned robes and flowing keffiyehs that they weren’t soldiers after all but Ishmaelites. He had a brief, feverish memory of making plans with Jerimoth to escape with a caravan of Ishmaelites if anything went wrong.

  Everything had gone wrong! Hadad had betrayed them, Miriam had fallen, and Joshua had killed Hadad instead of Manasseh. But this couldn’t be Jerimoth’s caravan of Ishmaelites. They were traveling in the wrong direction. This road led to Jerusalem—Egypt was the other way. He wondered if the traders were friendly, if they would give him some water or sell him into slavery like Joseph. Did Ishmaelites still do that?

  One of the men in an Ishmaelite robe resembled his brother. Jerimoth would give him a drink. Joshua knew it couldn’t possibly be his brother, but he wanted so much for it to be him that he gripped the spindly branches of the bush and hauled himself to his feet. The surface of the road rocked and swayed like a boat on the sea. Joshua took a few stumbling steps, then collapsed in a heap in the middle of the road.

  If it weren’t for the dark eye patch, Jerimoth never would have recognized the battered, dusty man as his brother. “God of Abraham, thank you!” he shouted. “It’s Joshua! Hurry! Hide him in the back of the cart!”

  They lifted him into the wagon and Jerimoth climbed in beside him, ordering the Ishmaelites to turn the oxen around and hurry back to Nahshon. Joshua wept when Jerimoth gave him a drink of water. He was badly dehydrated and delirious, his filthy clothes stiff with dried blood. Jerimoth examined him for wounds and decided that most of the blood probably wasn’t Joshua’s. When he found the swollen gashes on his shoulder and thigh, he bathed the wounds as best he could in the jolting wagon, with water from his flask. The wounds were inflamed and festering and probably causing his fever.

  “What have you done to yourself this time, little brother?” he murmured. Jerimoth knew this had all started on that disastrous Passover night. God alone knew when it would end.

  “Miriam …” Joshua moaned. He called her name over and over as the cart rumbled down the long road back to the village. “Miriam …”

  Jerimoth finally decided to tell him the truth to quiet him. “Miriam’s dead, Joshua. Hadad killed her. Try to get some rest now. We’re almost there.”

  “She’s not dead … she’s alive …”

  “No, Joshua. One of your soldiers saw Hadad push her over the cliff.” He wondered if Joshua had found her body at the bottom. Maybe that’s what had disturbed him. “You’re going to be all right, Josh. We’re going to get the others, and we’ll all be out of Judah by tonight. Try to rest.”

  “Miriam’s alive! We have to go back for her!”

  Jerimoth didn’t know if Joshua was delirious or telling the truth. Could Miriam really be alive by some miracle? They would waste too much time going back for no reason, and even if she was back by the cliff, Joshua was in no condition to lead them to her. Jerimoth saw creamy stone buildings shining in the sunlight ahead of them; they were approaching the outskirts of Nahshon. “Joshua, we’ll be entering the village soon. I’m going to cover you with this rug. You have to keep quiet.”

  Joshua pushed the rug aside and struggled to sit, gritting his teeth. “Please don’t let her die…. You can’t let her die! Miriam is alive. You have to believe me…. She’s alive!”

  Joshua’s desperation convinced him. “Turn the caravan around!” Jerimoth shouted. “And God help us all.”

  It was long past noon when Jerimoth finally saw the cliffs in the distance again. He slid off the cart to walk beside it, watching for the place where they had found Joshua. One of the Ishmaelites spotted the trampled patch of grass where Joshua had lain beneath the bush. Jerimoth could faintly see the meandering trail Josh had made through the grass.

  When the cart drew to a stop, Joshua struggled to sit up. “Miriam …”

  “Stay here, Josh. We’ll find her.”

  Taking a skin of water and a rug, Jerimoth and two of the Ishmaelites followed Joshua’s trail to the base of the cliff. They combed the area, but there was no sign of Miriam. When Jerimoth realized their search had been a waste of time, he was angry with himself. They could have been across the border by now. He called to his men. “It’s no use. Let’s head back.”

  “Wait, Master Jerimoth! Look!”

  They found Miriam lying hidden beneath a tree branch. Jerimoth knelt beside her and felt for a pulse. “She is alive!”

  He raised Miriam’s head to pour some water between her lips, and she opened her eyes and moaned. “Hang on,” he told her. “We’re going home.” She cried out in agony when they lifted her onto the rug. “God of Abraham, please don’t let us hurt her any more than she already is,” he prayed. Jerimoth helped carry her back to the cart; they laid her beside Joshua.
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  “Miriam?”

  “She’s right beside you, Joshua. We found her.”

  Joshua groped for Miriam’s hand and linked his fingers in hers. “Thank God,” he wept. “Thank God.”

  Jerimoth turned the oxen around once more. “How fast can you make these animals go?” he asked the driver. “We need to hurry!”

  The road back seemed endless, the journey slowed by afternoon travelers, herds of sheep, and farmers returning home from market. At last the grape arbors on the outskirts of Nahshon came into view, and they followed the winding road that led up to the village. Jerimoth ordered the driver to slow the cart while he hid Joshua and Miriam beneath a rug in the back.

  “We’ll only stop long enough to collect the others,” Jerimoth told his men, “then we’ll make a run for the border. We can still reach it by sundown if we hurry.”

  The cart labored up the hill, then bumped through the cobbled streets of the village, coming to a halt at last outside their rented booth. Joshua pushed the rug aside and tried to sit up.

  “Where are we?”

  “At the market stall in Nahshon. Stay here. I’ll fetch the others.”

  “The others? Someone else made it?”

  “Dinah and Amariah are here. And two of the soldiers.” A tear slid down Joshua’s face. “Jerimoth … can you ever forgive me?”

  Jerimoth’s anger toward his brother had been smoldering since Passover night, increasing in strength each time Joshua demanded his own way or manipulated events with his rage. But as Jerimoth looked at his brother, lying bruised and broken, all his anger suddenly dissolved in a rush of pity. Joshua had paid dearly for his mistakes. His blind quest for revenge had done this to him. Jerimoth determined not to make the same mistake by allowing anger and unforgiveness to rule his life.

  “Of course I forgive you,” he said. “Stay here while I go inside.”

  The sacks of spices were still on display outside the booth, but the Ishmaelite traders who had remained behind to sell them were nowhere in sight. All at once Jerimoth froze when he remembered General Benjamin. Had he just rescued Joshua so that Manasseh could murder him? He remembered his father’s execution and began to tremble. He slowly parted the curtain to peer into the stall.

  General Benjamin stood in front of him with four armed soldiers. His weathered face was impassive, his powerful frame immovable. Dinah and the others huddled behind him. “Did you find Joshua?” the general asked.

  Jerimoth closed his eyes. “O God of Abraham,” he prayed.

  Jerimoth turned when he heard a noise behind him. Joshua had emerged from the wagon to stumble toward the booth. General Benjamin saw him, too.

  “So there you are, Joshua. My men have searched everywhere for you. You’re quite an escape artist.”

  “I’m the only one you want, General. Please, let all these others go.”

  General Benjamin gestured to the four soldiers. “I’d like you to meet my sons,” he said. “I wondered if they would be welcome in Egypt, too?”

  14

  MANASSEH HUDDLED IN THE SHADOW of his mother’s tomb, searching the constellations for his guiding star. A lone bat flitted like a shadow against the midnight sky, then vanished. He wondered if it was an omen. These days he seemed to wonder if everything was an omen, and he worried that he was going insane. When he recalled the blind woman’s prophecy that Joshua would be more powerful than he was, he wanted to weep.

  Hadad’s plot had failed. Joshua had escaped from Judah for a third time. “That means something, doesn’t it?” he asked suddenly.

  Zerah eyed him impatiently. “What does, Your Majesty?”

  “The number three … the fact that Joshua escaped from me three times?”

  “It means nothing,” Zerah said. He grimaced in disgust.

  “That beggar woman told me Joshua would be too strong for me, and she was right. Now General Benjamin is gone. Now my enemy has a military expert, too, and I’m going to have to live on edge like this for the rest of my life, wondering what he’ll do next, when he’ll strike, whom I can trust.”

  “You don’t know for certain that Benjamin was a traitor. They might have captured him or killed him for all we know.”

  “Don’t be stupid—his wife and four sons vanished, too.”

  “The sorcerer who is meeting us here is very powerful,” Zerah assured him. “He can tell us what the future holds.”

  But Manasseh refused to be comforted. “Did you see the emblem on their soldiers’ shields? An ox! Don’t you see how Joshua is mocking me?”

  Zerah turned on him with a rare burst of anger. “Pull yourself together! He didn’t defeat you, did he? You’re still the king of Judah; Joshua isn’t!”

  “But I wanted to win. I wanted him to die.”

  “Listen to me. We tortured those men for every last shred of information before we executed them. They were Joshua’s soldiers, and they were children! Your men captured all but two of them with no trouble at all, not even a scratch. I don’t care what emblem he puts on his shields, your forces are stronger than his!”

  “But General Benjamin—”

  “Good riddance to the old mongrel. You’re better off without him. Do you want him working against you inside your own barracks?”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Manasseh was grateful for Zerah’s strength and wisdom. He needed someone he could lean on, someone he could trust, a friend who would never betray him as Joshua had. He silently thanked the gods for sending Zerah to him.

  “Now, I want you to calm down,” Zerah soothed, “and forget all about your enemy for a while. This is an exciting night for you. Your mother’s spirit will be summoned from beyond. She’ll tell you everything you want to know. Think of it! You can talk to her tonight. How long has it been since you’ve spoken to her?”

  “She died more than four years ago,” Manasseh said quietly.

  “Ah, look…. This must be the sorcerer coming now.”

  A line of torches bobbed up the path toward them, and Manasseh heard the faint bleating of goats. The thought of talking to his mother sent a shiver of excitement down his spine. Such power at his fingertips!

  Sensing his excitement, Zerah moved closer to Manasseh’s side. “If we’re successful tonight, Your Majesty, perhaps we can conjure up King Hezekiah next time.”

  “No! Not my father! I’m not ready!” Manasseh heard the panic in his own voice.

  “Why not?”

  Manasseh wouldn’t answer. He was unwilling to admit to Zerah that he was afraid to face his father. But long after the ceremony ended, Manasseh continued to ask himself why he feared him so.

  “I see it hasn’t taken General Benjamin long to set this place in order,” Joshua said. He stood with Prince Amariah at the garrison on Elephantine Island, watching the soldiers spar in the courtyard, listening to the sound of clashing practice swords. In the two weeks since their safe return to Egypt, the general had already established a measure of order and discipline among the men that even Hadad had never achieved.

  “Between General Benjamin and his sons, this will soon be Pharaoh’s finest fighting unit,” Amariah said. “Maybe now I can concentrate on governing instead of trying to train the men.”

  It struck Joshua as odd that Amariah had said, “I can govern” instead of “we,” and he wondered what Amariah’s reasons were for asking him to come to the fort. This was the first time he had seen the prince since their return two weeks earlier. Joshua had needed that much time to regain his health and strength.

  “Let’s talk inside,” Amariah said suddenly. He led the way to his audience hall and took his seat on the modest throne, then motioned for Joshua to sit beside him. The prince seemed calm and serene, all his usual nervous gestures strangely missing.

  “I’ve had a lot of time to think these past few weeks,” Amariah began. “And I’ve decided to relieve you of your duties as my second-in-command.”

  For a moment Joshua’s anger flared as if a spark had touched dry gra
ss. Was Amariah trying to punish him by taking away his lifework? What other work was he supposed to do on this island? Then he remembered Miriam’s warning that his rage would destroy him one day, and he battled to douse the flames.

  “I understand,” he said quietly. “I’ve made a lot of stupid mistakes and shown poor judgment by—”

  “Hear me out, Joshua. This isn’t about your past mistakes, it’s about mine. I promised God that if Dinah and I got out of Judah alive, I would stop running away from my responsibilities. Governing this island community is God’s will for my life. I understand that now. In the past I’ve depended on you more than on God to make my decisions. It’s time I learned to depend on Him.”

  His words prodded the malignant lump of guilt that constantly devoured Joshua’s peace. He needed to start cutting it away. His chest ached as he drew a deep breath.

  “Amariah, I need to ask your forgiveness. I was wrong to force you to marry Dinah. And I was wrong to involve you in my quest for vengeance. I acted in rebellion—it wasn’t God’s will. Can you ever forgive me for what I’ve done to you?”

  Amariah was quiet for a moment. When he finally spoke, Joshua was struck by how much his voice resembled King Hezekiah’s—strong and resonant. “I’ve been angry with you for everything that happened, but I’m angrier with myself for allowing it. Even so, God taught me some valuable lessons. I do forgive you.”

  Joshua closed his eyes for a moment. The relief he felt was immense and absolute, like removing a heavy pack at the end of an exhausting, uphill journey. “I don’t blame you for firing me,” he finally said. “I understand completely.”

  “No, I don’t think you do understand because I haven’t finished yet. God brought us to Elephantine Island to preserve our faith and our worship—to be the remnant of true believers that Isaiah spoke of in his prophecy. We need to stop thinking of Egypt as our temporary home and build a permanent life here. When I was running from Manasseh’s soldiers and I thought about going home, I thought of Elephantine.”