by Mesu Andrews
“Get off the camel, but wait outside. I’ll tell the general we’ve got a visitor, and he can decide what to do with you.” The man disappeared inside the fine tent. Not as elegant as some but far above the sackcloth and sticks Menahem had used while pillaging Tiphsah.
Hosea tapped the camel’s shoulder and swayed with the beast as it knelt. Heart pounding, he shuddered at the mention of the general—undoubtedly Eitan. Yahweh, protect me. His feet had just touched the ground when he heard the familiar growl of Israel’s top soldier.
“I thought King Menahem made himself clear during your last visit to Samaria.”
Hosea turned, standing nose to chest with the hulking general. He lifted his chin, finding Eitan smiling down at him.
“You’re a dead man, Prophet.”
“I would suggest you wait to kill me after I deliver Uzziah’s message.” He held up the sealed scroll.
Eitan snatched it from his hand. “The last scroll nearly got you killed. Why should I let you live to deliver this one?”
“Because part of the message isn’t in the scroll.” Hosea tapped his forehead. “It’s in here.”
Eitan raised one eyebrow and began walking. Hosea followed, assuming they were moving in Menahem’s direction. “We’ve learned some exceptional torture strategies while here in Arpad, Prophet. Perhaps we can practice on you after your message has been delivered.” The general chuckled, clearly amused at his own wit. Hosea swallowed the lump in his throat, thankful he’d already emptied his stomach.
They arrived at a second black tent, equal in size but with armed guards on each corner. Eitan swept aside the tent flap, exposing a darkened interior, the aroma of incense wafting out from within.
Hosea hesitated, two guards eyeing him like Sampson looked at rodents.
“Come!” a gruff voice shouted from within the tent.
Hosea entered the dark sanctum of the man who’d promised to kill him the next time they met. He took three steps inside, stopped, and bowed, allowing his eyes to adjust before proceeding farther. He lingered in the respectful bow, looking right and left. Eight men surrounded the king, all but one wearing armor. Hosea assumed he was a scribe since he held Uzziah’s scroll unfurled.
“King Uzziah asks that I refuse to pay tribute and says I should reinstate the coalition.” Menahem stared at him dangerously, then chuckled. And then he laughed, nearly bursting a neck vein, so unbridled was his folly. The others ventured nervous chuckles until the king’s humor faded. “So, tell me, Prophet. Why would you risk your life to bring a message that is as ridiculous as the vomit on your beard?”
A little embarrassed at his appearance, Hosea wiped his chin. “I also bring a verbal message.” He paused, the only acknowledgment a slow nod from the king. “A message from Yahweh.”
“Tread carefully, Prophet,” Menahem said. “You are still breathing because I remain in good humor.”
Hosea moved a few steps closer, and General Eitan stepped between them, lifting one side of a dangerous smile and fingering his dagger. Hosea swallowed hard, praying as he spoke. “Yahweh says to you, King Menahem, ‘The people of Israel went to Assyria. They were like wild donkeys wandering off alone. The people of Ephraim sold themselves to their lovers. Even though they sold themselves among the nations, I will gather them now. They will suffer for a while under the burdens of kings and princes.’” Hosea fell silent, holding his breath, waiting for the king’s command—life or death.
“I don’t understand.” Menahem’s voice was as unreadable as his expression. “Is Yahweh for us or against us?”
“You have foolishly aligned yourself with Assyria, but Yahweh has promised you a few more years of reprieve from destruction. They will be years of suffering under foreign kings and princes—but at least you still have a kingdom, King Menahem.”
Hosea was certain the next words would be his death sentence. Instead, the king grinned. “I think your god is losing his grip on reality, because the other gods are smiling on us. Rains are coming in season, orchards and fields produce record crops. Our cisterns are full and our storehouses are overflowing. Peace with Assyria means increased trade with tributary nations and greater access to the coastal ports of Tyre, Sidon, and Byblos. Israel has never been stronger, Prophet.”
Hosea drew a breath to repeat a separate prophecy Yahweh had given him earlier. He’d rehearsed it again and again, preparing for this moment. But a mighty wind swept through the black tent, snuffing out every torch except one. The guards drew their swords, and Eitan threw himself in front of Menahem—as if flesh and blood could stop the wind.
Hosea stood silently, allowing the Lord to speak for Himself.
The scribe sat poised with stylus hovered over his clay tablet, trembling. His wide eyes stared at the king for instruction. How does one record the breath of God?
“Speak, Prophet.” Menahem’s voice was a growl. “I am not a fool. I know when a god is real. But before you speak on His behalf, make sure you remind Him that you will feel Eitan’s sword if His words displease me.” The king’s threat had little venom when he was shaking.
A new message swirled in Hosea’s spirit. Similar but more personal for Israel’s ruthless king. “This is Yahweh’s final word to King Menahem of Israel: ‘Yahweh’s scorching wind will come from the east. It will blow out of the desert. Your springs and wells will dry up. The wind will destroy every precious thing in your storehouses. The people of Samaria are guilty as charged because you rebelled against your Elohim. You will be killed in war, your children smashed to death, your pregnant women ripped open—’”
“I will rip you open, Prophet!” Eitan advanced, dagger raised.
“Stop!” The single word from Menahem halted Israel’s top soldier. “The prophet is offended at our siege tactics from Tiphsah. But he will complete this prophecy, and then I will decide his fate, General.”
Eitan lowered his weapon and stepped back, seething.
Hosea expelled the breath he’d been holding and returned his attention to Menahem—keeping a watchful eye on the general who was hungry for his blood. “Yahweh has given you a final chance at repentance, King Menahem. Return to Yahweh and say, ‘Forgive all our sins, and kindly receive us.’ Confess that Assyria cannot save you. Agree not to ride on horses in battle. Never again say that the things your hands have made are your gods. Love orphans and the poor.” Hosea’s heart pounded more violently than when Eitan had charged him with the dagger. Yahweh’s mercy had never been so bold. “Though you have repeatedly sinned against Him, insulted and maligned Him, Yahweh’s love for Israel remains stronger than His anger. Choose Yahweh, King Menahem. Without Him, you face certain destruction. He is offering life—for you and your nation.”
The silence stretched into eternity, the implications of God’s mercy reeling in Hosea’s mind. Could Israel be saved after generations of apostasy? Hadn’t Yahweh declared them incurable? What if a single king—one faithful decision—led to the revival of a nation? Excitement coursed through his veins. Could even Gomer be saved?
“I will consider it.” Menahem’s words sent a wave of shock through the darkened tent.
“My lord?” Eitan’s question was interrupted by the king’s command.
“Have one of your guards escort the prophet to an empty tent. He’ll spend the night in camp, and I’ll make my decision in the morning after I’ve had time to think.”
Hosea noted a silent exchange between the king and his general before Eitan obeyed, giving orders to the escort.
When Hosea bowed to exit, Menahem warned, “Make sure you remain in your tent this evening. The general and I will be in the valley, attending King Pul’s feast near the city. We can’t guarantee your safety if you go wandering around camp.”
His stomach clenched at the realization. Wouldn’t Menahem offer his tribute tonight at the feast? He studied the near glee on Menahem’s face. You have no intention of repenting or setting me free. Whatever the king had planned, it did not bode well for Hosea—or Judah
.
“I have no desire to wander,” Hosea said. “I go wherever Yahweh directs me.” He bowed to the king and then followed two guards—to who knew where.
40
• HOSEA 9:7–8 •
They think that prophets are fools and that spiritual people are crazy. . . . And they are very hostile. Prophets are Elohim’s watchmen over Ephraim. Yet, traps are set on every prophet’s path.
Remember,” Eitan said as he sharpened his dagger, “you are to remain in this tent all night. The other harlots will transport food for the banquet, and the guard assigned to the prophet will address his needs.” When Gomer remained silent, he halted his dagger on the long leather strap and issued a dangerous stare. “Do you understand?”
“I understand.” Everything within her wanted to run to the prophet’s tent. Was it Hosea? Eitan had returned from Menahem’s tent in good humor, boasting about a Yahweh prophet on whom they’d practice Pul’s torture tactics after tonight’s banquet.
“I want all my armor polished by the time I return.” He stood over her, threatening with his nearness. Israel’s general was as meticulous in his appearance as he was lethal in battle.
Her hands trembled, sloshing some precious oil into the dust while trying to rub it into the leather breastplate. “Don’t I always polish your armor perfectly?” He grabbed her arm, kissed her roughly, and stormed out of the tent.
She spit the taste of him from her lips and peered out of the tent, careful not to be seen if he should look over his shoulder. Other officers joined Eitan in their dress armor, primped and polished, whistling an eerie Assyrian tune used during ritual sacrifices and torture ceremonies. Though Eitan had made Gomer attend one ghastly event, her weak stomach proved more than her master cared to endure. Even from a distance, she heard the trilling of the chalil mingled with the shrieks and groans of dying men, women, and children. The tune would forever haunt her.
A shiver worked its way through Gomer’s body as she watched the line of harlots follow Israel’s elite soldiers out of camp. Each woman carried food in baskets on her head and over both arms. Two women transported a char-broiled antelope, suspended on double poles resting on their shoulders. Assyria’s king had magnanimously invited the visiting kings and their officers to tonight’s feast, making it clear that their gifts of gold and silver should be accompanied by enough food for the meal. Pul would provide the ghastly entertainment.
She stepped away from the tent flap, tugging her woolen robe around her neck and reaching for a blanket. Winter’s chill was in the air, but it was more than Arpad’s cold that sent a shiver down her spine. “What if it is Hosea in that tent, waiting to die?”
Her whisper was met with the familiar dark silence. She wrapped herself in the blanket and considered the single torch in the dark tent. Such a tiny light. Such consuming darkness. She stared at the flame and then closed her eyes. I still see it. The imprint of the flame still cast its glow on her mind’s eye. A slow, satisfied smile creased her lips, splitting a wound from yesterday’s beating. In that moment she knew two things: Hosea was the prophet Eitan had mentioned, and she must try to help him. “If I warn Hosea and he escapes, perhaps I will have left a little light in the world—even after Eitan kills me.” And she knew without a doubt her master would kill her.
Her decision made, she pawed through Eitan’s pile of weapons and found a dagger much like the one she’d carried while she prostituted herself in Jerusalem—lightweight with an iron blade and bone handle. She found a suitable sheath and strapped it above her right knee. She gathered a few food items on a tray to make her ploy believable but hid a travel bag under her robe. Then she charged out of the tent, in a hurry and on a mission, appearing as authoritative as possible in harlots’ garb.
She walked along the first row of tents, trying to spy a guarded shelter. Her perusal of the second row of tents revealed nothing but slovenly soldiers lounging by their fires. She marched past, turning down the next row.
“You there. Stop!”
Her heart raced as her feet froze.
A soldier approached from behind, grabbing her shoulder and whirling her around to face him. “Aren’t you General Eitan’s woman? Why aren’t you with the rest of the harlots at the feast?”
She painted on a smile and reached up to trace the line of his beard around his lips. “Which question would you like me to answer first?”
He stared at her, dumbfounded.
Giggling, she teased him further. “I’m Eitan’s woman, but he shares me with his officers. How long before you become an officer, hmm?”
“I, um . . . well, I . . .”
“Eitan instructed me to feed the prophet under guard,” she said, “but in his haste to leave for King Pul’s feast, he neglected to tell me in which tent the prophet was staying. Can you escort me to the prophet’s tent?” A demure tilt of the head, a few coy blinks, and the soldier was potter’s clay in Gomer’s hands.
“Of course. Follow me.”
He led her a few tents south and then stopped beside an unremarkable shelter guarded by a single soldier. Her escort whispered something to the man, who then stood aside without hesitation. “Go right in. He’s been praying aloud to his god since he arrived. It’s very annoying.”
You’re telling me? A deep breath, and Gomer straightened her robe. She looked at her dirty fingernails and calloused hands, wondering what Hosea would think when he saw her. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. All that matters is that he lives. The realization bolstered her courage, and she stepped inside the tent.
“Yahweh Adonay, I will follow You into life and into death. I will worship You in want and in plenty. I will—” Hosea smelled her perfume before he opened his eyes and saw her. “Gomer.” Her name escaped on a whisper, his throat tightening against any further utterance. He stood to meet the wife he’d exiled, remembering Isaiah’s prediction.
She, too, seemed silenced by their past. Her chin trembled, her lips pressed into a thin, pale line. She was bony and bruised, had cuts on her lip and above her cheekbone. Her hair was uncovered, the lustrous copper curls dulled by dust and tangles.
Righteous fury rose within him. “Who has done this—”
She lowered her voice. “Please, Hosea. There’s no time. Eitan said he and Menahem were keeping you here overnight in order to torture you after tonight’s banquet. You must escape now.” She knelt, removed the travel bag from her robe, and wrapped the food on the tray for his journey.
“Wait,” he said, grasping her shoulder, kneeling beside her. She was trembling. “Eitan? You’ve gone back to Eitan?” Anger warred with pity. How could she choose to endure such abuse?
Their eyes met. He saw momentary fury, but the spark was doused with immediate despair. “I did not go back to him, Hosea. A troop of soldiers found me in the wilderness, and the gods have continued their sick games with my life.” She wiped an errant tear and glanced over her shoulder, whispering, “Now take this food and ride as fast and far as you can. I don’t think Eitan will break camp to pursue you, but he might send a small detachment. Stay off the trade routes and get back to Judah.” She brushed stray curls from his forehead. “Don’t ever come near Menahem or Eitan again, Hosea. They will kill you.”
He held her gaze—and for the first time in years, she didn’t turn away. The golden flecks were swallowed up by weary brown, but compassion seemed to have replaced the bitterness. “I’m Yahweh’s prophet, a watchman over Israel and ready to die for the Lord if I must.” He touched her cheek, but she startled like a frightened colt. “But why are you risking your life to save me, Gomer? Eitan will kill you if he finds out you’ve helped me.”
She laughed mirthlessly and stood, holding out the travel bag. “I’m already dead to you. Remember?”
Hosea stood and took the bag, his cheeks warming. “Yes. I remember.”
“Well, I was dead inside long before you and your god declared it. Tonight, when I realized Eitan planned to kill you, I thought by helping you live, m
y death will have at least meant something.”
The words pierced Hosea’s soul. “So if I escape, Eitan will know it was you who helped me? Why didn’t you bribe the guards or sneak in here unnoticed?”
A slow, sad grin spread across her face. “I have nothing to bribe the guards with, Hosea, and I’ve never been good at going unnoticed.”
“I can’t leave you here,” he whispered. “I won’t.”
“What do you mean, you won’t? You must leave!”
Hosea clamped one hand over her mouth and the other behind her head, drawing her close. “Shh, the guards will hear you.” The travel bag fell to the ground, and she melted against his chest. Hosea cradled her and felt her silent tears soak through his robe. What had they done to his wife that could make her choose sacrifice over survival? Yahweh, what am I to do now?
Gomer pushed him away and wiped her face with her sleeve, creating great smudges of dirt from cheek to chin. “I can’t go with you, Hosea. I’m a harlot. Even your god said I’d always be a harlot.”
He wanted to argue, wanted nothing more than to take her back to Judah and love her. Please, Yahweh. Is she truly incurable?
The torchlight danced with a gentle chill wind. Gomer stood still as a statue. Hosea closed his eyes, drinking in the familiar voice in his spirit: I will cure them of their unfaithfulness. I will love them freely. I will no longer be angry with them.
Hosea gasped and buried his face in his hands, relief washing over him. Thank You, my Lord, Adonay Elohim.
Yahweh’s breeze swept from the tent, swirling Gomer’s robe around her legs, causing her to whimper. “What now? Will your god kill me before Eitan has a chance?”
Hosea gathered her into his arms. “No. No. I’m not sure what Eitan will do, but you will live. Yahweh has promised it.”
She pulled away from him, renewed wariness on her expression. “Don’t be a fool, Hosea. I’ve disobeyed Eitan, and the guard outside is a witness against me. I won’t live to see the dawn.”