The Strength of His Hand (26 page)

“Please … please … we’ll do anything you say… .”

“Tell me,” Iddina continued. “Is there nothing in Yahweh’s Temple that represents this unseen god?”

The younger priest sobbed pitifully, too distraught to answer. He pressed his hands to his ears to drown out the sounds of torture. The older priest struggled through his terror to reply, gasping between his words. “Yes. In the Temple … they have an ark made of gold. The cover is said to be Yahweh’s mercy seat.”

Sennacherib nodded at Iddina, pleased. “That’ll have to do. If we can’t have an image of Yahweh, we’ll settle for his throne.”

The younger priest looked up. “It’s very powerful, my lord!”

“Pardon me?” Sennacherib said.

“Yahweh’s ark! It contains powerful magic!”

“Is that so? Why don’t you tell us what you know about this magic?” Iddina spoke kindly to the young man, like a father to his son.

“Our ancestors once captured the ark of Yahweh in battle and brought it to Ashdod. They put it here in Dagon’s temple, but the next morning Dagon had fallen on his face before the ark.”

Sennacherib laughed out loud. “How amusing! We must remember that story, Iddina, and tell it to our priests. Maybe we should put Dagon’s image beside Yahweh’s ark again and see what happens.” He and Iddina laughed together.

The young man’s face looked pitifully hopeful. He had made the emperor laugh. Maybe he would be spared. He grinned nervously, his face a death mask. “Wait … there’s more. Our priests put Dagon back in his place, and the following morning he had fallen a second time. This time his head and hands had broken off and were lying on the threshold. To this day we’re forbidden to step on the threshold.”

“So Yahweh proved to be more powerful than Dagon,” Iddina said.

The older priest jumped in to finish the story. “But Yahweh was very angry with us for capturing his ark. When it arrived in Ashdod, he sent a plague and a pestilence with it.”

“What sort of plague?”

“He filled our city and the surrounding territories with rats and afflicted our people with deadly tumors. Thousands of Philistines died of these tumors until our leaders finally moved the ark to Gath. But then the tumors and rats afflicted the people of Gath, too. They begged the leaders to get rid of the ark of the god of Israel, so they carried it to Ekron. But when the panic of death filled Ekron, the rulers finally sent the ark away … back to Israel … with an offering.”

“What was your offering?” Iddina asked.

“We made golden images of rats and tumors, one for each Philistine city. Then the plague finally stopped.”

“A fascinating story! Did you get that all down?” Sennacherib asked the scribe who was writing rapidly. “Rats and tumors. What do you make of all that, Iddina?”

“I think I would like to capture this mysterious ark. Where does Hezekiah keep it?”

“In Yahweh’s Temple, in Jerusalem. It’s in a place that’s so holy that only their high priest has ever seen it.”

“Interesting,” Sennacherib said. “Yes, now I’m certain that I’d like to add this invisible god’s throne to my collection. Get it for me, Iddina.”

He smiled. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Sennacherib hopped down from the platform. “You have been very helpful, gentlemen. Thank you. And now—” Outside, the high priest’s screaming, which had added an ominous accompaniment to the long tale, suddenly stopped again. The perfect timing pleased Iddina. He waited, bowing his head as if in prayer while the two Philistines shivered and wept. They were probably hoping that their high priest was finally dead, that the torture was over.

But Iddina knew that if the soldiers did the job correctly, it wouldn’t be over for many long days. He glanced at their faces, savoring their torment. Minutes passed; then the agonized moans began once again.

“There,” Iddina said, smiling. “And now I believe it is your turn, gentlemen.”

The priests collapsed like rag dolls, whimpering pitifully. “No … no … please! We told you what you wanted to know!”

“Yes, you’re right—I did promise, didn’t I? Very well,” he told the soldiers. “Make sure you kill them quickly. Don’t take more than two or three days, all right?”

“But you said we would live!”

Iddina shrugged. “I lied.”

“Come in,” Hephzibah said when she heard the knock on her door. She expected it to be one of the villa’s servants, but when she looked up and saw Jerusha standing in her doorway she grew angry.

“What are you doing here? I thought I told you never to come back!”

“It’s all right. My husband knows—”

“I don’t care if he knows or not. I don’t want you here. Can’t you understand that?”

Jerusha walked into the room as if she hadn’t heard and began opening the windows, letting in light and air. Hephzibah hadn’t left her room or even opened the shutters since going up to the Temple.

Her brief glimpse of Hezekiah had left her deeply depressed. She’d been stunned by how haggard he looked and overwhelmed by the love she still felt for him. She had wept endlessly in the days since then, crying until her entire body ached. And each time Isaiah’s cruel words of false hope echoed through her mind, they felt like salt rubbed into her wounds. The food her servants brought every day went untouched. If she had believed that God would answer her prayers, she would have prayed to die.

“I’m not going away,” Jerusha said quietly.

The brightness in the room hurt Hephzibah’s eyes after days of darkness and tears. But when they adjusted to the light, she saw Jerusha removing items from a basket she had brought with her—soaps and lotions and fragrant oils.

“What are you doing?” Hephzibah demanded. “What are those for?”

“I’ve come to serve you, my lady.”

“You’re not a servant,” she said angrily. “You’re the wife of the king’s secretary of state. You belong in the palace, not waiting on me. I’m nothing!”

“You’re a child of God.”

“Don’t you dare preach to me about God. I’ll make you leave if you do.”

“All right,” Jerusha said quietly. “I didn’t come to talk about Him.

I came to attend to your needs.” She took Hephzibah’s arm and helped her to her feet, then guided her toward the door. “Come, my lady, a bath will help you feel so much better.”

Hephzibah didn’t want a bath, but she felt much too weary to fight. The best way to get rid of Jerusha was to give in to her and get this unwanted visit over with quickly. Hephzibah stepped outside, breathing fresh air for the first time in days, and reluctantly followed Jerusha across the courtyard to the
mikveh
.

The bath was in a separate building from the women’s living quarters, with an outer room for dressing and an inner room containing the sunken, plastered pool. Bathing was one of Yahweh’s laws for women, required for ritual purity every month, and it had long been a monthly reminder to Hephzibah of her barrenness. Now as she undressed and descended the stairs into the water, she suddenly recalled Isaiah’s words,
“Sing, O barren woman …”
Tears filled her eyes.

She quickly sank into the chilly water and let it engulf her. She remembered her nightly rituals in the palace as she’d prepared herself for her husband with lotions and perfumes, and she could no longer contain her grief. Tears streamed down her face and blended with the water until body and soul were both drenched.

At last she emerged, shivering and clean. Jerusha was waiting to wrap a thick towel around her. But when Hephzibah saw the bulging reminder of Jerusha’s pregnancy she suddenly recalled Isaiah’s impossible words,
“More are the children of the desolate woman than of her who
has a husband,”
and it seemed to Hephzibah that they were conspiring to torment her. She lashed out in anger.

“You deliberately came here, pregnant and glowing, just to rub it in my face, didn’t you?”

“Of course not. I already told you, I came here as a friend.”

“Your lies don’t even make sense. Why would a woman of your stature do such humiliating work—servants’ work?”

“Because I’m an ordinary farmer’s daughter, my lady. I’m used to serving. I enjoy it. Come, sit here and let me wash your hair.” Jerusha gestured to a bench and the basin of warmed water that the servants had left in the bath’s outer room. “I grew up in a simple home on my father’s land in Israel,” she continued as she lathered Hephzibah’s hair. “My sister and I always scrubbed each other’s hair.”

The soap had a clean, fragrant scent, and Jerusha’s fingers felt strong and soothing as they massaged Hephzibah’s scalp. The bath had refreshed Hephzibah, and she relished the sensation of clean hair and tingling skin—yet hated herself for enjoying it.

“I’m not your sister,” she said bitterly. “I no longer have a family. I’ve disgraced them all, and they want nothing to do with me. They even took my servant Merab away from me.”

“I never had servants, growing up,” Jerusha said. “And I’m still not used to letting them wait on me and do all the work. I used to milk the goats, labor in the fields, bake bread, weave cloth—all good, honest work.” She gently eased Hephzibah’s head back so she could rinse her hair, pouring dipperfuls of warm water over it until it was rinsed.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re pretending to be
my
servant,” Hephzibah said.

“I’m not your servant, my lady. I’m your friend. I imagine you must be very lonely here.”

Lonely
. The word didn’t begin to describe the desolation Hephzibah felt day after day. Hezekiah’s other concubines had mocked her or ignored her when they’d lived together in the palace, but now their hatred for her was undisguised. She was the reason they had been banished here in the first place, after Hezekiah had chosen her for his only wife. The servants in the villa didn’t try to conceal their dislike for Hephzibah, either, blaming her for Hezekiah’s illness and for the fact that he had no heir. Their loyalty to the king made Hephzibah everyone’s enemy.

Jerusha wrapped a dry towel around Hephzibah’s hair when she finished and began massaging lotion on her shoulders and back. Jerusha’s touch was so gentle and soothing that it brought tears to Hephzibah’s eyes.

“That’s enough,” she ordered after a few moments, unable to bear any gesture of love or tenderness. “I’ll do it myself.”

Jerusha held out a gown for her to wear. It was a finely woven one, unlike the stiff sackcloth she had worn ever since the fire. Hephzibah stopped her as she tried to slip it over her head.

“No, I don’t want that one. Where’s the gown I was wearing?”

“It has to be washed, my lady. Besides, you don’t need to wear sackcloth any more.”

“Aren’t I allowed to mourn all that I’ve lost?”

“Of course. But your life isn’t over.”

“The Lord will call you back … ”
Isaiah had promised. Hephzibah couldn’t afford to believe him, couldn’t afford to hope.

“Don’t try to offer me hope, Jerusha. My life
is
over. This is a living death sentence.” Jerusha didn’t reply. She made Hephzibah put on the dress, then led her outside to sit in the courtyard where the sun could dry her hair. Hephzibah could hear children playing beyond the walls of the villa, voices and laughter in the distance. She hated sitting in the courtyard, hated being reminded that life went on as usual beyond these walls while her own life had come to an end.

Jerusha took out a comb and raked it through Hephzibah’s thick hair to smooth out the tangles. Hephzibah remembered how Hezekiah had loved to bury his fingers in her hair, and she squeezed her eyes closed to stop her tears. When Jerusha finished combing and Hephzibah opened her eyes again, a servant was approaching with a tray of food for lunch.

“Let’s eat it outside, shall we?” Jerusha said. “The sun is so nice and warm.”

“You can eat it wherever you want,” Hephzibah replied. “I’m not hungry.” She returned to her room and sank onto her bed. Jerusha followed a moment later with the tray, setting it on a table before sitting down beside her.

“Look how thin you’ve become,” Jerusha said, wrapping her fingers around Hephzibah’s wrist.

Hephzibah pulled her hand free. “I said I’m not hungry.”

“You want to die, don’t you? That’s why you’re slowly committing suicide.”

Hephzibah didn’t reply.

“I understand how you feel,” Jerusha told her. “I felt the same way when I was a slave to the Assyrians. All hope was gone, and I almost did it—I almost killed myself.”

“I should die for what I’ve done.”

“Is your sin any worse than mine? I wasn’t just an ordinary Assyrian slave, Hephzibah. I made a bargain with my captors; I let them use my body in exchange for my life. I deserved to die, too.” She layered cheese and cucumbers on a piece of bread and thrust it toward Hephzibah. “Eat this.”

Hephzibah saw the determination on Jerusha’s face and accepted the food rather than be force-fed.

“I was without hope, too,” Jerusha continued. “But God helped me escape from that terrible place, and He gave me a brand-new life. Eliakim knew all about my past and everything I’d done, yet he forgave me, loved me.”

“That’s wonderful,” Hephzibah said bitterly. “I’m happy for you. But you know very well that my husband will
never
forgive me,
never
take me back. I’ll be in this place until the day that I die!”

Isaiah’s words came to her again, unbidden:
“The Lord will call you
back …”
She wanted to scream.

“Maybe that’s true,” Jerusha said. “Maybe you won’t leave this villa the same way I left the Assyrian camp.” She handed a slice of fruit to Hephzibah. “But I was still a captive for a long time after I escaped. I was so bitter and angry with God that I couldn’t accept my freedom or find forgiveness because I thought I didn’t deserve them. But on the day I asked God to forgive me for all the things I’d done, and for all my anger and hatred—that was the day I finally felt free inside. You can still find freedom and peace in this place—and even joy.”

“Sing, O barren woman …”
Isaiah’s words taunted her. Hephzibah lashed back in pain.

“Will you sing songs of joy when the Assyrians invade us? They’ve declared war on us, in case you haven’t heard. I doubt if you’ll feel peace and joy when they breach the city walls and take you captive again!”