Gods And Kings (17 page)

When Hezekiah looked at the lamb again, not much remained.The priest had swiftly skinned and gutted it, and as the men gathered around the great altar, one of the priests walked up the ramp with the offering. Another priest sprinkled the lamb’s blood all around the base of the altar as the Levites sang: “‘But you are a shield around me, O Lord; you bestow glory on me and lift up my head. To the Lord I cry aloud, and he answers me from his holy hill.’”

Hezekiah watched as the worshipers dropped to their knees, then fell forward together, their foreheads touching the wet pavement’s stones. It was the same way people sometimes bowed before his father.

“‘I lie down and sleep; I wake again, because the Lord sustains me. I will not fear the tens of thousands drawn up against me on every side.’”

When the men finished bowing, they looked up at the priest who stood ready to present the sacrifice. “‘Arise, O Lord! Deliver me, O my God!”’

The priest placed the offering on the altar and stepped back as a pillar of flame soared high into the air. Hezekiah jumped back in surprise. No wonder Yahweh had power over Molech. He was also a God of fire.

“He is here!” all the men shouted. “He answers!”

Zechariah had assured him that Molech wasn’t real, but Hezekiah still feared the monster that had killed his two brothers. But after see-ing Yahweh’s power in the pillar of fire, he was nearly convinced that this unseen God was every bit as strong.

The priests placed the remainder of the lamb on the altar, but there was no pillar of flame this time—only a plume of smoke and the sound of hissing coals. The aroma that drifted from Yahweh’s fire smelled wonderfully sweet.

The worshipers all began to leave, and within minutes the courtyard stood deserted. The morning sacrifice was over, and now Hezekiah remembered his long-awaited tour of the Temple.

“Can we see the doors made of gold now?” he asked as Zechariah rose to his feet.

“Ah—the golden doors to the Holy Place. Yes, come on, then.”

They went through the gates as the last of the worshipers came out and crossed the silent courtyard to the porch of the sanctuary. They had to squeeze past the wooden scaffolding in order to see the huge double doors to the Holy Place. But when Hezekiah finally reached them, the doors weren’t golden at all. They stood stripped and bare, the wood gouged and scarred.

“They’re not gold!” he said. “They’re just plain old wood!” He felt Zechariah’s hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, son. I didn’t know. I guess King Ahaz took that, too. Ah, Yahweh, forgive him.”

Hezekiah felt cheated, his disappointment hitting him like a fist in the stomach. He followed Zechariah back across the courtyard and into the maze of Temple storerooms on the north side of the mount, but his enthusiasm for the tour had vanished. Zechariah tried to point out a few things along the way, but everything appeared dingy and drab to Hezekiah, with crumbling plaster and stringy cobwebs. When they came to a large storeroom, Zechariah seemed shocked to discover that the shelves were nearly empty. He looked around as if in a dream, then picked up a tarnished silver cup and tried to polish it against his sleeve.

“This was the treasury for the sacred vessels used in all the sacri-fices,” he said. “This room used to be full, but now … I guess everything was sent to Assyria.” Zechariah stared blankly at the empty shelves as if forgetting that his grandson was there. Hezekiah tugged on his grandfather’s sleeve to draw him back.

“What will the other king do with all of it, Grandpa?”

“I’m not really sure. Melt everything down, I suppose. I’ve also heard that heathen kings sometimes use holy vessels like these for drinking wine at feasts to their false gods. It hurts me to think of Yahweh’s sacred things being used in such a way.” He sighed and closed the door to the storeroom, then led the way down the hall. “I saved my favorite place for last—the Temple library.”

They entered a long, narrow room with a row of deep windows set high on one wall. Below the windows and on the opposite wall, dozens of niches had been carved into the thick, plastered walls. They were filled with hundreds of scrolls, the wooden handles protruding into the room. More shelves filled with scrolls were arranged in rows in the middle of the room, and between them were benches and tables where scribes and scholars could work. But only one scribe sat at his desk, copying the faded Hebrew letters from an ancient scroll. The other storerooms had smelled damp and musty but this room had the fragrant smell of parchment and wood.

“These scrolls contain all the laws that Yahweh gave our nation,” Zechariah said. “And they also tell the history of our forefathers all the way back to Adam and Eve. Yahweh’s truth is one thing that your father can never change or destroy.”

Hezekiah couldn’t understand why his grandfather seemed so proud of this room. There was nothing valuable here, no silver or gold—only dusty, yellowing scrolls.

“You’re disappointed in the Temple, aren’t you, son?”

Hezekiah shrugged and stared at his mud-spattered feet. Zechariah rested his hand on Hezekiah’s shoulder.

“I’m very sorry for misleading you about the glory of this Temple.

I’ve been blind to how badly it has deteriorated, until today. I was remembering how magnificent it all was during the golden age of King Uzziah. But that was long ago. I’m sorry, Hezekiah. Today I’m seeing it through your eyes—how it really is, not how it used to be.”

“I wish it was still beautiful, Grandpa. Why did my father have to wreck everything?”

“Come. Sit down over here.” Zechariah led Hezekiah to one of the worktables, and he watched as Zechariah scanned the stacks of scrolls. When he found the one he wanted, Zechariah sat down beside him and carefully unrolled it.

“You know, Yahweh isn’t surprised that your father’s enemies attacked him all at once. In fact, Yahweh caused it to happen. This scroll is from the Torah and was written before the children of Israel moved to this land. May I read you some of it?” Hezekiah nodded but didn’t look up as he idly kicked his sandal against the table leg.

“‘After you have had children and grandchildren and have lived in the land a long time,’” Zechariah read, “‘if you then become corrupt and make any kind of idol, doing evil in the eyes of Yahweh your God … you will quickly perish from the land that you are crossing the Jordan to possess.’”

Hezekiah didn’t understand. He looked up at Zechariah, waiting for him to explain.

“The reason your father had to strip the Temple,” he said, “is because our enemies attacked us from every side. They destroyed entire cities and carried thousands of people away as captives. It happened just as Yahweh said it would, because the people have turned away from Him to worship idols. Your father gave Yahweh’s gold to the Assyrian king so he would save us from our enemies. We’re supposed to be servants of Yahweh, but now we’re servants of Assyria instead.”

Hezekiah felt a shiver of fear. “Will Yahweh go away and stop being our God?” he asked.

“Well, let me read the rest of this to you, and maybe you can answer that question yourself: ‘But if from there you seek Yahweh your God, you will find him if you look for him with all your heart and with all your soul. When you are in distress and all these things have happened to you, then in later days you will return to Yahweh and obey him. For Yahweh is a merciful God; he will not abandon or destroy you.’

“He’ll forgive us, Hezekiah,” he answered softly. “Yahweh loves us, and He’ll forgive us if we’ll only turn back to Him. I know with all my heart that this is true.”

Hezekiah stopped kicking the table leg, and they sat in silence for a moment.

“You know, son, someday you’ll be the king of Judah and—” Zechariah stopped. “No. You’re much too young to understand the responsibilities that lie ahead. We’ve talked enough for today.”

Hezekiah struggled to understand all that his grandfather had said, but his disappointment was too great.

“Grandpa?” he asked at last, “couldn’t Yahweh kill all our enemies and save us? Then my father wouldn’t have to spoil His Temple.

Couldn’t Yahweh do that?”

“Certainly He could! Don’t you remember the story I told you about how Yahweh helped David defeat Goliath?”

Hezekiah nodded.

“And remember Joshua and the battle of Jericho? And how Yahweh caused the sun to stand still so Joshua could defeat the five Amorite kings? Yes, of course Yahweh could defeat
all
of Judah’s enemies.”

“Then why didn’t He, Grandpa?”

Zechariah’s face looked sad as he shook his head. “Because our nation no longer believes in Him … and so no one bothered to ask Him to.”

9

T
HE DESERT WIND SWIRLED
across the road, raising a cloud of soot and dust. King Ahaz closed his eyes to shield them from the dirt and to block out the scene of utter desolation lying before him. The escort of Assyrian soldiers had halted Ahaz’s procession a short distance from Damascus and left him to wait in the searing heat with only the canopy of his chariot to protect him from the sun. Ahaz rubbed the grit from his eyes and opened them again, but the dismal view hadn’t changed.

The magnificent city of Damascus stood in ruins. Thick stone walls that had once offered protection now displayed gaping holes. Ahaz glimpsed jackals scavenging through the debris. As far as he could see, black Assyrian tents spread like a low-hanging cloud across the charred plain, revealing no trace of the rich vineyards and olive groves that once graced the fertile river valley. Where thick forests of sycamores and carob trees once stood, only blackened stumps remained.

The Assyrian soldiers had set a brisk, exhausting pace and the long journey had wearied Ahaz. Every bone and joint in his body ached from the jolting ride, and he desperately wanted to bathe and lie down in a cushioned bed. But as he gazed at the desolate city in front of him, he knew that his accommodations couldn’t possibly be luxurious. Ahaz sank back in his chariot with a groan.

“This heat is intolerable! Don’t just stand there—fan me!” he told his valet. He closed his eyes as the servant waved a palm frond back and forth through the suffocating air. Several minutes passed before the valet roused him.

“Your Majesty, someone is coming.”

Ahaz stood up, watching nervously as three chariots approached, then halted amid a choking cloud of dust. The warrior who emerged from the lead chariot was Assyrian, armed with a sword, bow, and spear. His tunic was embroidered with golden threads, and he wore his black hair and squared-off beard in the style of royalty. Ahaz climbed from his chariot and bowed before him, certain that this was the great monarch, Tiglath-Pileser, greeting him as a friend and ally.

“I am Ahaz ben Jotham, King of Judah and Jerusalem,” he announced. The Assyrian responded with a few mysterious sentences, then motioned to a man in the chariot behind him to come forward and translate.

“You needn’t bow down,” the translator explained. “He is only the Rabshekah—the Assyrian emperor’s representative.”

“Oh. I see.” The mistake embarrassed Ahaz, and he felt his cheeks flush.

“The Rabshekah will deliver the tribute that you’ve brought to the emperor’s storehouses. He will also take command of the Judean soldiers and weapons that you have brought the emperor as a gift.”

“Wait a minute,” Ahaz said in alarm. “There must be some mistake. These soldiers are all that’s left of my army. I didn’t intend them as a gift. Can you explain that to the Rabshekah?”

The translator gave a short laugh. “I don’t think you want me to do that. The vassal nations of Assyria aren’t allowed to have armies.You won’t need one. You’re under Assyrian protection now. Tell your troops to follow the Rabshekah, King Ahaz. Then you must follow me.” He gave a smirking grin, and Ahaz fought the urge to slap him.

Helpless rage flooded through Ahaz as he relayed the order to his captain, then he watched in numb silence as his army marched away with the Assyrian escort. He had departed Jerusalem with a grand procession; now he would be disgraced when he returned with only his personal chariot and a handful of servants and bodyguards. He wondered if his soldiers would ever be allowed to return to their homes and families again.

When the dust settled once more, the interpreter broke the uneasy silence. “I will take you to your tent now.”

“Tent? My
tent
?” Ahaz repeated, his humiliation turning to outrage at being accorded only a tent for his accommodations. But he quickly suppressed his anger, realizing that without an army he was scarcely in a position to protest. He mounted his chariot with an angry groan, and the interpreter crowded in beside him, pointing the way for the driver. Ahaz stared glumly at the distant ruins of Damascus as the chariot jolted down the dusty road.

“I’m Jephia, son of Shemaiah, of the tribe of Naphtali,” the interpreter said. “Your tent isn’t too far.”

“Naphtali?” Ahaz asked. “You’re an Israelite?”

“Of course. That’s why I was chosen to interpret for you.”

“How did you end up in Damascus?”

Jephia stared at him. “How did I end up in Damascus?” he repeated incredulously. “You’re obviously very naive when it comes to the Assyrians, King Ahaz ben Jotham. The Assyrians captured me when they invaded Israel. I’m their slave, their property. They can bring me to Damascus or anywhere they please. And it pleased them to make me your interpreter.”

Ahaz looked away so he wouldn’t have to see Jephia’s mocking grin. “I saw evidence of the Assyrian invasion on my journey through Israel,” Ahaz mumbled.

“Yes, our king wisely surrendered and paid tribute in order to spare Israel from the total destruction that Damascus received. Most of my countrymen won’t suffer deportation—at least for now. But my nation is a vassal state of Assyria, and that means—” Jephia paused and laughed with contempt. “That means we are
all
slaves. Here’s your tent, King Ahaz.”

The chariot drew up to a small encampment outside the ruined city walls. Ahaz’s tent, consisting of four large rooms, was much bigger than he had expected and well supplied with food, wine, and to his great amazement, a portable bath.