THE SOLOMON KEY
A Novel
by
SHAWN HOPKINS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either a work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Certain stock images ©Shutterstock
Copyright © 2011 Shawn Hopkins
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN: 1466330880
ISBN-13: 978-1466330887
eBook ISBN:978-1-61914-554-2
RECOMMENDATIONS
If you enjoy this story, the author recommends The Shell Game: Second Edition by Steve Alten, The Atlantis Prophecy by Thomas Greanias, and The Scroll: A Legend of Jerusalem by William Weber.
DEDICATION
For Greg Artman, my good and faithful friend
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
All of the following played a role in the construction of this book, and I am indebted to them all. Matthew Friedman, Matthew Biehl, David and Joel Dunham, Denise Hoagland, Bill Little, Noelle Wayne, Bill Weber, Allison, Jeremy Robinson, Ryne Douglas Pearson, and Doug Dorow. Thank you all so very much.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novel was formerly released by WestBow Press in January of 2011 under the title, Even the Elect. However, there are some key differences between the two versions. The Solomon Key is set an additional ten years into the future than is Even the Elect, and therefore the historical events within this edition are mostly fictitious. Additionally, The Solomon Key is about 60,000 words fewer than ETE and focuses not so much on the sociopolitical climate of the day but rather leaves it as the insinuated backdrop. And whereas ETE has a bibliography of fourteen pages, The Solomon Key has only four. If the reader desires more information on the topics within this book, Even the Elect is still available in both print and eBook formats. The Solomon Key has also been through another edit, and so the writing itself is better. I hope you enjoy it!
Shawn Hopkins,
Barnes and Noble, Bucks County, PA
8/22/11
PART I
HOLY SECRETS
For the mystery of iniquity doth already work: only he who now letteth will let, until he be taken out of the way. And then shall that Wicked one be revealed, whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit of His mouth, and shall destroy with the brightness of his coming: Even him, whose coming is after the working of Satan with all power and signs and lying wonders.
—2 Thessalonians 2:7-12
Benaiah, the son of Jehoiada, concealed himself within the shadows of a large rock formation that sat reaching into the desert air like a man’s disfigured arm breaking forth from the depths of sheol and begging for water. The sun had just finished its descent, the Great Sea ablaze across the horizon as she swallowed the fire into her bowels. Even at such a great distance, Benaiah could feel the charging winds gliding over the sea’s surface, freezing the desert air and pulling closed the curtains of night behind them.
They circled around him, coming not only from the Great Sea to the west, but also from the Salt Sea to the east, and the sea Moses split five hundred years ago from the south. Stars twinkled like ice in the sky, dancing before the moon. And though a deep chill was biting at his skin, his mind was too preoccupied with what had to be done for him to notice.
Below Benaiah was the camp, his army. He left its company to retreat up this jagged structure for some time to pray, to prepare. It was the son of Zadok who had suggested stopping here for the night, a spot just south of the Negev and enclosed by small mountains. Benaiah knew of its advantages — the blockage of wind and the concealment of torchlight and sound. But he also knew of its disadvantages. Attack. Being surrounded. Arrows storming down from the rocks above. Even if the king’s army hadn’t tracked them by now, there was a chance that the remaining Amalekite army had — the Negev desert south of Judah being their home. And though King David had struck them severely when recovering his wives and property from the raid on Ziklag, a small remnant had escaped on camelback. Had they since rekindled their old alliances with the Canaanites and Moabites? Benaiah didn’t know. It was possible. A dangerous journey he had indeed embarked on, leading his hand-picked army away from Jerusalem and into the wilderness of Paran.
Benaiah took his eyes off the camp and the scattered torchlight below and scanned the shadows dwelling among the rocks. They sat still and unmoving. The heavens then drew his gaze, countless beaming stars singing with an intensity capable of humbling even the proudest of men. But instead of making him feel small and irrelevant, humbled by its majesty, the sight seemed only to intensify the importance of his mission. The God who had created all those stars with a mere wave of His hand had dealt with Israel many times before, both in blessing and in judgment.
But it wasn’t from coming blessings that Benaiah and his army were fleeing. King Solomon had broken the Lord’s command, had disregarded the counsel of his father David.
And thou, Solomon my son, know thou the God of thy father, and serve him with a perfect heart and with a willing mind: for the Lord searcheth all hearts, and understandeth all the imaginations of the thoughts: if thou seek him, he will be found of thee; but if thou forsake him, he will cast thee off forever.
Solomon had indeed departed from the law of the Lord, offering sacrifices to the pagan gods of his countless pagan wives. So, surely, God would judge His chosen once again. Benaiah only prayed that, unlike his king, God would deal with him mercifully, sanctifying the mission.
He set his gaze back down to the scattered camp below. The stars seemed to spotlight the scene, drawing heaven’s attention to their deeds and the vitality of their cause.
He was old now, and his service to King David seemed a lifetime ago. Someone else’s even.
King David…
Benaiah had been one of David’s mighty men, more honorable than the thirty, but not attaining to the first three. Adino the Eznite, who had killed eight hundred men with his spear during one battle, was the first. Eleazar the son of Dodo, and Shammah the Hararite were the second and third. He would have been the fourth. Memories of those times projected against his mind’s eye. The adventures. But they drew no smiles. Joab... Solomon had given the command to kill him, and, even as he clung to the altar, Benaiah did slay him, cutting off his head and becoming the captain of Solomon’s army himself.
How things had changed.
A sudden noise came from behind, but he was not startled.
“What is it, Menelik?” he asked without turning.
Menelik, son of Solomon, came up and crouched beside him, ignoring the camp sprawled out below. “I know you have your doubts. I know your sense of loyalty must be confused. But you know that this is the right thing to do.”
Benaiah looked at the young man through eyes grown weary from experiences Menelik would never come close to knowing. “I know.” He paused, reconsidered. “I hope.”
“You are unsure?” Menelik asked defensively. “It must have been done,” he protested. “My father’s idolatry will surely bring God’s judgment to Jerusalem. It could not be left there under his care.”
“And of the priests of Levi?”
“We have enough with us to reinstate the law when it is returned at a safer time.” He paused. “Perhaps even the Temple itself will need to be rebuilt.”
That thought was like a dagger into Benaiah’s heart. Was it not so long ago that he watched with all of Judah as Solomon dedicated the finished Temple to the Lord and praised Him for His faithfulness? The memory brought a tear to his rugged and scarred face.
“What is it?” asked Menelik, noticing the tear as it reflect
ed the starlight.
“Better times, my friend.”
“The Lord will not cast us off forever.” He knew that from studying the books Moses had penned — the very knowledge that his once holy father, Solomon, had trained him up in.
He nodded. “You should get some rest. The journey has just begun.”
Menelik studied him for a second, about to depart.
Benaiah knew what was going through his mind. It was what went through most minds that observed his aged frame, his tired eyes. The stories. His reputation as one of the thirty great warriors. Slaying the two lion-like men of Moab. The lion in the snowy pit. The great Egyptian, five cubits high, his spear like a weaver’s beam. These were the things Menelik was thinking about. The things flashing through his mind.
“How long will you stay up here?” Menelik asked, a certain degree of care coating his words.
“As long as it takes.”
And it was then that Menelik finally noticed the swords leaning against the rock beside Benaiah. His eyes suddenly filled with panic. “You think they will come?”
Benaiah turned his whole body toward Menelik and looked straight at him, his gaze strong and unwavering. “Yes. Soon, I believe.”
Menelik looked about frantically, across the way and to the other mountainous formations surrounding them. “But the scouts have not come back with any news of—”
“That is because they are already dead.”
He shot to his feet, the finality of Benaiah’s stoic words pumping a surge of dread into his bloodstream. “What should I do?”
Benaiah blinked. “Protect it at all cost. Get it to your mother’s land and hide it until such a time as God makes clear. Then return it with all speed and diligence.”
The implication was not lost on Menelik, and he frowned. His old friend’s instruction suggested an absence during its execution. He swallowed the lump in his throat, reached out and grasped his shoulder with more emotion than he knew what to do with. “God be with you, and may He bless you.” He fought back tears. “Live.” Then he turned and scurried down the craggy rocks, toward the camp below.
Benaiah watched the shrinking form of Menelik, son of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, finally disappear into a tent on the desert’s sandy floor. Seconds later, he could be seen emerging with ten men — swords drawn and running toward the Levites.
Benaiah knew something that Menelik did not. Yes, his sense of loyalty was confused, which is why he had done what he had. He hoped Solomon would forgive him, that Menelik would forgive him, and that God would forgive him. He sighed, stood. It was time. He prayed for strength even as he watched skittering shadows stretch across the moonlit rocks, moving eerily toward him. He took one last look at the camp below and the object he was most likely going to die protecting. It gleamed under the torchlight, another reminder of better days, of happier times.
“Oh, holy One of Israel, may your presence be soon restored…” Then he took hold of the ring that hung around his neck and dropped it beneath his cloak, against his chest. He picked up both of his swords. Swords not new to the shedding of blood.
The first attacker came from the shadows to his right, seeming to explode right out of the rock itself. Benaiah cut him in two. He then urged his aged legs to move, summoning strength he had not known for quite some time. As he began running back and forth, he was surprised by the degree of agility in his stride. He hoped it was a sign that the angels were with him, that they were placing his steps along the edge of the jagged terrain. If they weren’t, if he was alone in this, then there would be little chance of his tired frame stopping the marauders from killing them all.
An arrow flew by his head and bounced off the rock wall he was fast approaching. It fell harmlessly into a void that stretched below — a void that Benaiah would like to evade. When he reached it, he threw both swords up into the air ahead of him and jumped, sailing over the large bottomless gap and reaching out for the wall’s serrated ledge. His hands found a small outcropping, and he pulled himself up, quickly rising to his feet between both his swords.
There was a man waiting for him.
Benaiah immediately bent to grab one of his swords, but the man reacted swiftly by stepping onto its blade, pinning it to the ground. In a split second, Benaiah let go of the trapped sword and pivoted his body in such a way as to avoid a swinging arc from the attacker’s sword. And then just as quickly, Benaiah twisted, standing up with his other sword in his left hand and swinging it over his head, its blade flashing under the starry light. Adding his right hand to the handle, he brought the weapon down hard across the man’s neck, sending his head bouncing down the steep slope behind him.
An arrow struck Benaiah in the back.
He grunted, turned to face three more men running to the ledge he had just jumped from. He stuck his foot under the blade of the dead soldier’s sword and kicked it up into his free hand. And then he threw it down at the lead attacker below. The sword flew end over end and buried itself into the man’s chest. Benaiah bent over and picked up his other sword just as one of the men below leaped from the ledge and grabbed the outcropping at his feet. A cross-swing from both swords in a scissor-like fashion, however, sent the man falling into the darkness below, screaming until striking a rock, his hands still at Benaiah’s feet.
The last of the three attackers turned and started running away from the ledge, but Benaiah leapt back down, landing with perfect footing, and quickly caught up to him, thrusting his sword through the man’s back. The soldier’s feet went out from under him, and he fell forward into an awkward pose between two intersecting protrusions below.
With blood dripping from his blade, Benaiah turned just as he heard someone leap down from a hidden position above. But the soldier’s landing had not been perfect, the moment of unbalance costing him both of his feet. The next speedy flash from Benaiah’s sword disconnected his enemy’s vocal chords from his mouth just before his ungodly scream could echo through the desert night.
Despite the cold air, sweat dripped from Benaiah’s face, and his heart heaved violently in his chest. Standing over the dismembered soldier, he was once more aware of the arrow sticking out of his back. It annoyed him, but he did his best to ignore it. Instead, he looked down to the camp below. His people were moving, preparing to travel onward to a new location. There would be no rest for them tonight.
He looked up and down the mountains, but everything was still and quiet. Had he gotten them all? Could there only have been six? Not likely.
He ran carefully through the rocky island, down its steep slope and into the sand where another mountain began stretching up out of the wilderness floor immediately in front of him. He was standing in the gap, a doorway leading out from the enclosed desert they had made their camp and into the open oceans of sand beyond. He stood motionless for a few seconds, watching his men in the distance. And then he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. The deep corridor that led to the vast deserts of Paran, formed by the two kissing mountains, was not empty…
The Amalekites.
Good, Benaiah thought. These people had been a scourge in Israel’s side ever since the Exodus. Quickly recalling God’s words to Moses and Balaam — that He would “completely blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven” and that “they would perish forever” — Benaiah wondered if he would prove to be the instrument by which God fulfilled His word, finally finishing what King Saul had been commanded to do so long ago. That would be fine with him.
He raised both swords and, without another thought, charged through the gap and entered the corridor. He could hear the heathen army laughing at him, their amusement echoing off the rock walls around him. He didn’t even feel the first two arrows that struck him.
Three horsemen charged away from the army, hooves kicking up sand in their wake. The torches the army held bounced light off the rock passageway, the horses and the charging Israelite lost in a confused spectacle of moving shadows.
Benaiah
moved to the right, the sword in his left hand slicing through the muscled neck of a horse, his right hand swinging around and striking across the back of the soldier. The horse and its rider splashed down into the sand.
The laughing stopped.
The two other horsemen had run past and were now turning about. They charged him again, but before they even got near enough to use their swords, they each had one of Benaiah’s through the heart. Three dead Amalekites, one dead horse. Only about a hundred left. He smiled as he retrieved his swords and watched the whole Amalekite army rush toward him.
He had survived these odds before.
When the army met him, the sound of clashing metal boomed out of the passageway and drifted up into the watchful skies above.
He fought bravely for the secret sitting in the camp behind him. He fought for his God and for the glory of Israel. But it would be almost another two hundred years, under the kingship of Hezekiah, before the Amalekites would finally disappear from history. And, ironically, it would be a prince from the tribe of Simeon, also named Benaiah, who would be the one to finally bring God’s promise to fruition.
But still, thousands of more years would come and go before his secret would be discovered. A secret that might just prove to be the key capable of unlocking the end — the end the future prophets would describe as a time of great travail...
As the Time of Jacob’s Trouble.
1
The Senator punched the roof of the car with a large hand while swearing under his breath. And then he swore again, louder. Sweat was forming on his brow and, in an attempt to ignore it, he turned his attention to his pockets, searching for a pack of cigarettes and lighter. He was angry. They got him. And this time they got him good. Those idiots were there again, despite the late hour and the scattered rain. Every weekend for the last month. It didn’t matter how many of them were arrested or beaten, even tortured, they just kept coming. But this time was different — the major media had caught it on tape.
The Solomon Key Page 1