by Lynn Austin
Nathan folded his arms across his chest and stared back in defiance. As the silence lengthened, he noticed with satisfaction how pale and haggard Joshua looked, how hard he had to struggle for each breath. For reasons he didn’t understand, Nathan enjoyed Joshua’s distress. Even more, he enjoyed adding to it.
“Do you care at all what this day has been like for me?” Joshua said at last. “Miriam could have died, our baby did die, and now my son, who has been missing all afternoon, comes home beaten half to death and won’t tell me what happened. I have no strength left for games, Nathan. Tell me who did this to you.”
“A bunch of Egyptian kids.”
“On the mainland? Why did you go to the mainland? You know it’s forbidden—”
“Because I felt like it.” He saw the color rise in Joshua’s cheeks as the grip he held on his anger began to slip. Nathan couldn’t resist a smirk of pleasure in spite of the fact that it made his lip crack and begin to bleed again. “Go ahead, beat me for disobeying.”
Joshua drew a breath to speak and began to cough. Several moments passed before he could talk. “Don’t say such stupid things. You know I’ve never beaten you, even when you’ve deserved it. Go get cleaned up, then we’re going to the mainland to see the Egyptian authorities.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Nathan paused, prolonging the agony for Joshua, watching him steel himself for what would come. “The fight started over a game of senet. I was gambling with some stuff I stole in the marketplace.”
Nathan expected an explosion of anger, but it never came. Instead, all the emotion drained from Joshua’s face, replaced by the icy detachment of a stranger.
“I see. Then I guess you’ve already received the punishment you deserve.” He turned his back on Nathan and walked away.
“When can I see Miriam?”
Joshua faced him again from the doorway, his words cold and deliberate. “Miriam is distraught after losing her baby. I didn’t dare add to her pain by telling her you were missing. You’re not going in to see her looking like that. You’ll stay away from her until your face heals.”
Nathan was so angry he wanted to punch Joshua. But he was in too much pain to fight with anyone. He had lost. Miriam could have died, and it was all his fault. He went to his room and lay down on his bed to weep, alone, in the dark.
17
MANASSEH COULDN’T BELIEVE THIS was happening to him. He watched the Assyrian delegation leave his throne room and felt too shaken to stand. The Assyrians had claimed they were offering a simple peace treaty but he knew better.
“This is the end of our sovereignty as a nation,” he murmured. “The Assyrians are going to swallow us alive.”
“You’re looking at it all wrong, Your Majesty.” Zerah shifted in his seat at Manasseh’s right hand so the other assembled nobles couldn’t hear his words. “The Assyrians are offering you a great political opportunity, and I think—”
“It’s not a political opportunity, it’s a threat—join the Assyrian Empire as their vassal or be annexed by their army!”
“Your Majesty, they said nothing about resorting to force. You know that Sennacherib’s army was destroyed—right outside your gates, in fact.”
“Wake up, Zerah! That was more than twenty years ago! They could give birth to an entirely new army and train them to fight in twenty years’ time. And you can be sure that’s exactly what Emperor Esarhaddon has done. Didn’t you hear what his delegates just said? ‘It’s the dawn of a New Assyrian Empire.’”
“Then why not join them? Your grandfather, King Ahaz, made an alliance with Assyria and brought peace to our nation.”
“My father always used King Ahaz as an example of how not to reign.”
“But your father was controlled by factions that—”
“I want it quiet in my throne room!” Manasseh suddenly shouted. The agitated murmuring stopped instantly. It had rumbled through the audience hall ever since the Assyrian delegates had departed, but now the king’s nobles and officials straightened in their places, their faces somber as they faced him.
In the hush that followed, Manasseh heard his guards talking among themselves outside his throne room door, but after a moment their voices stilled, too, as silence and fear spread like rising water. He could see by Zerah’s tense posture that he had more to say.
“Finish with it, Zerah, before I lose my patience.”
“I simply wanted to point out that your father also made alliances when it suited him. There’s nothing wrong with treaties.”
“My father’s alliances were made between equals. They never required him to pay tribute. Assyria wants us as their vassal state like the rest of the nations around us. I’d be selling our freedom—a freedom hard-won by my father.”
Zerah gave an elaborate shrug of surrender and slumped back in his seat. Manasseh knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t give up this easily. More arguments were sure to follow in the days ahead, before Manasseh was required to give the Assyrians his answer.
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, an
d 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 al
l 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.