Gods And Kings (10 page)

The throbbing cadence of drums faded and died with the last of Molech’s victims. The crowds returned to their homes in somber silence to finish preparing for the siege. As Uriah walked beside King Ahaz through the city gates and up the hill to the palace, he wondered how the king felt about what he had just done.

Uriah had been a priest all his life. He had sacrificed thousands of animals and was no stranger to bloodshed. But none of his sacrificial victims had ever looked at him the way Ahaz’s son had. No dumb beast had ever shown such terror.

Uriah had told himself it would be just an empty ritual—another sacrifice like all the many others he had presided over. But he had never witnessed human sacrifice before, and he was not prepared for the overwhelming revulsion he now felt.

For a brief moment, when Isaiah had blocked the king’s path, Uriah had found himself praying that Ahaz would listen to him, that he would stop the terrible slaughter before it began. But the king had ignored the prophet’s words and carried Uriah’s carefully laid plans to their deadly conclusion.

It was still early morning, but Uriah stumbled wearily through the city streets and up the hill as if he had worked a full day of heavy labor. He reached the palace numb and exhausted. As he accompanied Ahaz down the corridors to his chambers, he heard anguished cries of grief and mourning coming through the open windows of the king’s harem, and Uriah shuddered. What had he done? He had managed to save Abijah’s son, but what about the other child? He had condemned another mother’s son—another innocent child—to death.

“She’ll get over it,” Ahaz grumbled, as if reading Uriah’s mind.

“As soon as the next one is born, she’ll forget.”

Uriah fought the urge to punch him. Ahaz talked about his concubine as if she were a cow that quickly forgot her weaned calf. But Uriah remembered how desperately Abijah had pleaded for her child’s life, and he knew she would never forget. Nor, he guessed, would Zechariah. Suddenly his teacher’s pathetic condition made sense. The first victim had been his grandchild.

When they reached the king’s private chambers, Uriah waited for Ahaz’s orders, struggling to keep his features unreadable, his emotions hidden from view.

“Well, it’s over,” Ahaz sighed. “I think everything went well, don’t you? And I was glad to see that more of the city elders have finally realized how serious our situation is and have offered up their sons, too.”

Uriah mumbled a vague reply, unable to meet Ahaz’s gaze.

“I believe Molech will hear us this time,” Ahaz said, as if trying to convince himself. “He’s a very powerful god, you know. He asks for a great sacrifice, and so his power must surely be very great in return.”

Uriah didn’t reply. His anger at the king’s superstitious ignorance came close to the flash point. He had little patience with the stupidity of idolatry and was eager to begin the monumental task of teaching Yahweh’s laws to Ahaz, beginning with the first commandment. But not today. Today Uriah was too physically and emotionally drained to do anything.

“I guess there’s nothing more we can do except wait for the invasion,” Ahaz said. His confidence in Molech seemed to abruptly vanish, and his fear became transparent in his trembling voice. “How long do we have, Uriah? How long before the siege begins?”

“A few days perhaps. Certainly no more than a week.” Uriah tried to sound calm, to instill a measure of confidence in the panicky king.

“Are we prepared? Can we withstand it?” Ahaz’s face wore the pathetic look of a beggar pleading for alms. Uriah battled his revulsion as he recognized the king for what he was—a coward. Only a coward would send his children to their deaths in order to save his own life.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he replied. “Defensively, our city is well situated. The enemy will grow tired of the siege long before we will.”

But Ahaz didn’t look convinced. He paced the length of the sitting room, wringing his hands. Uriah longed to escape from him, to run as far from the palace as he could and never return. He would have to support Ahaz and be his strength through this crisis, and he wondered where he would find the energy. He already felt exhausted.

“Your Majesty, if I may be excused, I need to oversee the Assyrian tribute payment,” he said, grasping at any excuse.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Ahaz replied.

Uriah hurried away before the king changed his mind. He knew he really should supervise the Levites as they collected the gold, but he felt numb and sick, as if he had swallowed a heavy stone. He left the palace through the royal portico and headed up the hill to the Temple.

When he reached the outer courtyard, he stopped to catch his breath. The scene was a stark contrast to the narrow valley where Molech sat enthroned. The Temple courts felt open and spacious, the view of the surrounding mountains unhindered by jagged cliffs. Everything seemed peaceful, the silence welcome after the noise of Molech’s ritual, the air sweet after the stench of burning flesh.

Uriah paused at the gate to the inner courtyard to steady himself and gazed up at Yahweh’s sanctuary. It was as familiar to him as his own face. Yet for some reason, it seemed alien and remote, like a scene from a dream. A faint breeze rippled the water in the huge brass sea where the priests washed, and the water gleamed like molten silver in the sunlight. Isaiah’s words rippled through Uriah’s mind:
“Wash and make yourselves clean… . Your hands are full of blood.”

Uriah gazed down at his hands. When he ministered in Yahweh’s Temple, they would become stained with the blood of the sacrifice.Today they had remained clean—yet they felt filthy. He looked up at the huge brass altar that dominated the center of the courtyard, its fires slowly burning as they consumed the lamb from the morning sacrifice. But as Uriah stared at it, the lamb seemed to take the form of a child in the shimmering heat.

He shuddered and shook his head to clear away the image. When he turned to leave, he nearly collided with Zechariah, who had staggered blindly into the courtyard. Zechariah lost his balance, and as Uriah grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him, he smelled wine on his breath.

“I have to stop him,” Zechariah murmured. He appeared frantic, his bloodshot eyes wild with fright.

“Stop who, Rabbi?” Uriah feared that Zechariah meant him—that he was coming, too late, to stop Molech’s sacrifice.

“King Uzziah … I must stop Uzziah!”

“King Uzziah is dead,” he said, shoving him away in disgust. “And you’re drunk.” Uriah’s anger and self-loathing boiled over, and he lashed out at Zechariah. “I admired you so much. I wanted to be just like you. You had the most brilliant legal mind the priesthood had seen in generations, and now you’re talking to a king who’s been dead for years. You’re a disgrace, Rabbi. How could you turn your back on everything you believed in?”

Zechariah didn’t answer. He stared into the distance, watching the birds fluttering around the roof of the Temple.

“I’m taking you back to your room,” Uriah said. “Stay there until you’re sober.” He spun Zechariah around and led him back to his chambers. Pity, guilt, and grief raged inside Uriah, but he carefully hid them behind his anger, the only emotion he dared express without losing control and breaking down.

“Look at this place!” he cried when they reached Zechariah’s room. “This entire building is falling apart! I’m tired of begging for the tithes that are rightfully mine, tired of going hungry year after year, tired of scraping and pleading. I swear to God I’ll win back the power and recognition our priesthood deserves and restore this Temple to its former glory, no matter what it takes. I was counting on your help to do it, Zechariah, but if all you want to do is drink, then stay out of my way!”

He gave Zechariah a shove, and the older man stumbled, losing his balance and collapsing in a heap on the floor. Several moments passed as he lay without moving.

Finally Zechariah looked up. His eyes were no longer vacant but filled with despair, the weaker man looking to the stronger one for answers. “Uriah …” he moaned. “Can I ever find forgiveness for what I’ve done?”

A chill passed through Uriah’s veins as he remembered the sacrifice to Molech—as he remembered what he had done. Then the room seemed to grow colder and colder as Zechariah’s agonized cries filled the air.

“Yahweh, please let me die … let me die … let me die!”

5

A
BIJAH WEPT WHEN THEY
brought Hezekiah to her and placed him in her arms. His hair and clothing reeked of smoke, but she held his sooty face between her hands and kissed him over and over, the grime mingling with her tears. Hezekiah clung to her, and she saw in his eyes all the horrors he had witnessed.

How had he been miraculously spared? She wondered if Uriah had intervened. Abijah had been stunned to see the high priest assembling the king’s sons for the sacrifice. She had hoped that, as Ahaz’s advisor, Uriah would oppose his idolatry, not help him. But if Uriah had heeded her pleas and saved Hezekiah, that was all that mattered.

“Yahweh,” Hezekiah whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming. “Yahweh!”

Abijah didn’t understand why he repeated the word again and again. Yahweh was the God that her father worshiped. How had her son heard His name at Molech’s sacrifice?

“Hush, baby. You’re safe now,” she murmured. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

But as she gazed at her trembling child, she wondered if he ever would be the same. The winsome, curious boy who had brightened the palace corridors with his laughter was slipping away like fine silk through her fingers. Watching Eliab die had changed Hezekiah into a terrified child who awoke screaming night after night, afraid to sleep again and risk the nightmare’s return. But today’s sacrifice had severed the last cords of his reason and trust. He’d chosen to escape from the reality of a world that included Molech, retreating to a safer place within his own mind. And Abijah didn’t know how to reach him.She clung to his body as if the force of her love could bring him back.

Part of her wanted to retreat from reality, as well. Her life had veered so far from its natural course of marriage and family that it seemed to descend on a path to Sheol. She had married royalty, a descendant of King David … a man capable of killing his own children.

“They will never take you away from me,” she said, crushing Hezekiah to her. “Never.” But she knew it was an empty vow that she was powerless to keep.

Maybe she should pray. Maybe she should call on Yahweh, the God Hezekiah asked for. But wasn’t He the God who had married her to Ahaz? Hadn’t her father’s devotion to Yahweh won her the honor of marriage to the royal family? Abijah had never asked God for anything before. She had learned early in life not to have any wishes and desires of her own.

“You want nothing,” her mother had told her, “except what your father wants for you. What you want doesn’t matter.” Abijah had accepted that, had grown up knowing it would always be so.

She remembered a warm afternoon, shortly before her marriage, when Uriah had come outside to the courtyard of her father’s house where she sat, daring to talk to her alone. “Do you want to marry Prince Ahaz?” her father’s student had asked her.

“My choice doesn’t matter,” she had replied. “Surely you know that.”

“Because King Uzziah made a promise to your father?”

“No, because I’m a woman. I will be given in marriage—given, like a present. Do presents have the luxury of choosing who will receive them?” She had felt no bitterness, she had merely stated the truth.

“And you accept that, Abijah?” Uriah asked.

“Of course,” she replied.

Uriah had stared off into the distance for a moment, gazing at the golden roof of the Temple, barely visible above the trees and rooftops. When he turned to her again, she saw the tender concern written on his face. “Haven’t you ever wanted something so badly that you were willing to fight for it?” he had asked.

Abijah hadn’t answered his question. She hadn’t understood it then. But now she did. And something inside her, an inner strength she didn’t know she had, told her to fight for Hezekiah. She couldn’t let him slip away. She had already lost one son, and she couldn’t bear to lose another.

“Come back to me, sweetheart. Please, come back,” she begged. She took Hezekiah’s stiff little hands in hers and clapped them together, singing one of the rhyming songs he had once loved so much. He didn’t respond.

“Yahweh,” he sobbed.

For the remainder of the day Abijah fought for her son, trying every means she could think of to draw him back to a world he no longer wanted to be part of, a world he feared and mistrusted. The hopelessness of her battle exhausted her. His body remained rigid with fear, his eyes stared sightlessly.

As the afternoon waned she carried him to the window, but he wouldn’t look out. It was nearly time for the evening sacrifice. Then darkness would fall, and the long, terror-filled night would begin for both of them. She rocked Hezekiah gently and felt a sob shudder through him.

“Yahweh …”

Where had he learned that name? What part did the ancient God of her father play in this nightmare? She might never know.

Abijah’s maidservant entered the room with a tray of food, setting it on the small table beside the window seat. Her eyes were filled with compassion “My lady, you’ve been holding him all day. You need to eat something. Let me hold him for a while.”

Abijah shook her head. The food held no appeal. Her stomach churned with dread at the possibility that her son might never be whole. Hezekiah didn’t seem to hear the maid enter the room or speak, but when a shofar sounded in the distance, announcing the evening sacrifice, he jumped.

“Yahweh!”

Abijah decided in that moment what she must do for her child. If Hezekiah called for Him then she would call on Him, too. Yahweh held the key to his mind for some reason, so she would find that key and unlock it.

“Hezekiah, Mama has to leave you,” she told him, kissing his forehead, “but I’ll come back in a little while, I promise. Deborah will take you now.”

The maid looked surprised as Abijah stood and beckoned to her.