Faith of My Fathers (10 page)

“Rabbi, you once told my father this: ‘Some of your descendants, your own flesh and blood who will be born to you, will be taken away and they will become eunuchs in the palace of the king of Babylon.’ Am I one of those descendants?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

“You’re lying! You saw the future so clearly during my father’s reign. Do you expect me to believe you when you suddenly claim blindness during mine?” Isaiah didn’t reply. “Give him the next scroll,” Manasseh ordered. “Tell the court what it is, Rabbi, and who wrote it.”

“It’s a psalm, written by King Hezekiah.”

“Is it an original or a copy?”

“An original. This is the king’s handwriting.”

“I never saw my father’s psalm until today, Rabbi. There is no copy of it here in the palace. Did you know it existed, Eliakim?”

He glanced at the parchment Isaiah held in his hand and recognized Hezekiah’s handwriting. “No. I never saw it before either.”

“Why did you steal this from my father?”

“I didn’t steal it,” Isaiah answered quietly. “Your father gave it to me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why,” Isaiah said with a long sigh. “He wrote it right after his illness, the time he nearly died. He gave it to me on the first morning he was able to get out of bed when I accompanied him to the Temple. He asked me to keep it for him. And so I have.”

“Did you put a curse on my father?” A hush suddenly fell over the hall, as if every man held his breath. “First you told my father he would die, then you suddenly changed your mind and told him he would live fifteen more years. How would you know the date of his death, to the very month, unless you were the one who cursed him?”

The outrageous accusation seemed to stagger Isaiah. Several long moments passed before he could answer. “Yahweh’s hand rested on Hezekiah from the time he was a small child and God rescued him from Molech’s flames. I loved Hezekiah like a son. I could no more curse him than I could curse my own son.”

“And is it your own son who you’re plotting to place on my throne, Rabbi?”

Isaiah seemed to sway slightly as if rocked by Manasseh’s words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Or perhaps it’s Eliakim’s son?”

A stab of fear ripped through Eliakim’s composure.
Not Joshua.
Please, God, don’t involve Joshua in Manasseh’s delusions
.

“Show them the next scroll. Who is this servant of Yahweh who will sit on David’s throne?”

Isaiah’s hand trembled as he took the scroll. “He’s the promised Messiah, Your Majesty. The seed of the woman who will save the world from their sins.”

“Do you deny that this king will sit on the throne of David?”

“No.”

“When will this happen?”

“Only Yahweh knows when the Messiah will come.”

Manasseh gripped the armrests of his throne until his hands turned white. “I will offer you one final chance, Rabbi. Will you prophesy for me as you did for my forefathers? Will you reveal my future?”

“I can’t, Your Majesty. I don’t know what your future is.”

“Eliakim, you’ve heard his refusal. Do you still wish to defend him?”

“What you’ve asked him to do is impossible, and I—”

“As my palace administrator and most trusted advisor, tell me—is Isaiah justified in refusing my direct order?”

Eliakim’s limbs began to shake, not with fear but with anger.

Manasseh was twisting Isaiah’s words. The rabbi wasn’t receiving a fair trial. “He is justified, Your Majesty. Only Yahweh can do the impossible.” Manasseh’s face seemed to turn to stone. “Show the rabbi the last three scrolls. Are those your words, Rabbi? Written in your own writing?”

“They are.”

“And have you spoken these prophecies publicly, as well?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Then I accuse you before all these witnesses of uttering teachings that contradict the Laws of God!”

Again, the entire assembly seemed to catch its breath. Eliakim could hear his heart pounding in his ears. The sentence for blaspheming the Torah was death.

“Number one, Rabbi. Did you write these words: ‘I saw the Lord seated on a throne, high and exalted’?”

“Yes.”

“But the Torah says, ‘No one may see God and live.’ ”

“I know it does.”

“Then why did you make such a blasphemous claim?”

“Because it’s true.” A murmur of surprise swept through the crowd. Manasseh leaned forward, perched on the edge of his throne.

“Number two. Did you write these words: ‘Seek the Lord while he may be found; call on him while he is near’?”

“Yes.”

“Even though it is written: ‘The Lord our God is near us whenever we pray.’ Have you never read that?”

“I have.”

“Then you knew you were uttering blasphemy?”

“I spoke the words Yahweh told me to speak.”

“Finally, then, did you tell my father that God would add fifteen years to his life, so that he would die at age fifty-four?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Even though Yahweh promised our forefathers in His Word, ‘I will give you a full life-span’?”

Isaiah stared at the floor for a moment as if deep in thought. Eliakim had often witnessed the surging power of God as it flowed through the rabbi whenever he prophesied. He expected that power to fill Isaiah now, blasting Manasseh’s lies and accusations into dust. But when Isaiah finally looked up, his eyes were sad, defeated. He was simply an old man, bound in chains.

“I could give a good answer to all of these charges, Your Majesty, but I won’t. It would only compound your guilt.”

“
My
guilt!”

“Yes. It’s better for you to sin in ignorance than in willful rebellion against God.”

Manasseh stood. “Eliakim, you’ve heard these charges against Rabbi Isaiah and how his words have blasphemed the Torah. How do you find this defendant?”

“I find him not guilty! But
your
guilt is written all over these robes I’m wearing!” Eliakim rushed toward Manasseh, but the chain between his ankles tripped him, dropping him to his knees with a jolt of pain. He continued to shout as he struggled to stand. “This is my father’s blood! You murdered an innocent man, and if you condemn Isaiah to death, you will be murdering one more!” He was close enough to see that Manasseh’s entire body was shaking.

“Your own testimony in front of all these witnesses has condemned you both to death!” Manasseh said. “I hereby confiscate all of your property and condemn you both to be publicly executed the morning after the Sabbath. In addition, I sentence Isaiah to be tortured until he confesses to causing King Hezekiah’s death. Now take them both out of my sight!”

Eliakim stared defiantly into the terrified faces of his friends and colleagues as the soldiers hauled him away. He couldn’t help hating them for their cowardice.

Once again the soldiers led him and Isaiah down the treacherous stairs, into the black pit beneath the palace, and left them there, still wearing their shackles.

Why was this happening? Why hadn’t Yahweh intervened to save them? This may indeed be part of God’s plan, as the rabbi said, but like a weaver standing too close to his tapestry, Eliakim couldn’t see how it all fit together.

5

J
ERIMOTH PAUSED AT THE CROSSROADS
where the road from Heshbon intersected with the Way to Beth-Horon. The animals needed a brief rest, and then the caravan would ford the distant Jordan River and cross into Judean territory. He was almost home.

His trip to Moab had been enormously successful. Jerimoth could hardly wait to see his grandfather’s face when he saw what excellent deals he had made. At age twenty-eight, Jerimoth had everything a man could wish for—a lovely wife, a healthy daughter, a prosperous business that he loved, working as a cloth merchant like his grandfather and great-grandfathers before him. Jerimoth loved the challenge of making shrewd investments, the delicate art of haggling over prices, the battle of wills to see who would be the first to concede their price. Abba and Joshua lived with their heads in the clouds, occupied with politics and government, but Jerimoth had more in common with his grandfather. Hilkiah understood the lure of the marketplace. He had taught Jerimoth everything he knew, then made him a full partner in the business when Jerimoth had married three years ago.

He bore a physical resemblance to Hilkiah, as well—short and stocky with twinkling brown eyes—even though he had been named for his maternal grandfather. Jerimoth’s black hair was already growing a little thin on top, his forehead a little high, his waist a little plump, thanks to the pampering of his sweet wife, Sara. After being away from home for almost two weeks, he was eager to return, eager to hug her and his two-year-old daughter, Rachel, with the dancing eyes and soft, black curls.

The caravan had rested long enough. It was time to get his drivers back on the road. The day promised to be hot, and Jerimoth knew the men would be content to rest under the palm trees all day if he let them. He didn’t take much notice of the lone figure hurrying up the road until the man called his name.

“Jerimoth! . . . Master Jerimoth!”

It was Maki, his grandfather’s servant. The man had worked for Hilkiah since before Jerimoth had been born.

“What brings you so far from home, Maki? Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

Maki was breathless and perspiring heavily in the afternoon sun. Jerimoth led him to the palm tree he had been resting under and offered him a drink of water. He thought it odd that Maki carried nothing with him, no water or provision bag. Why would Hilkiah send him on such a long journey unequipped?

Maki drank great gulps of water, then eased off his shoes and poured some on his blistered feet. The sandals appeared to be brandnew. No one in his right mind would walk all the way from Jerusalem in unbroken shoes.

“What’s wrong, Maki?” Jerimoth asked, crouching beside him.

“Master Jerimoth, I know that what I’m going to tell you will sound crazy.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to a small child. “But you know of my undying loyalty to Master Hilkiah. You must believe me.” His hazel eyes stared so intently that Jerimoth felt a wave of fear.

“Of course I’ll believe you.”

Maki drew a deep breath. “For reasons I cannot know or imagine, King Manasseh has turned against your family. If you go back to Jerusalem, your life will be in great danger.”

“In danger? How can this be?”

“I have been doing what I can to save your family, but . . .” He stared down at his lap, twisting the corner of his robe in his hands. “But my efforts haven’t always been successful.”

“What do you mean?” Jerimoth’s heart hammered against his ribs.

“To make sure you would believe me, I brought this message from Master Joshua.” He reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a jagged potsherd. The cryptic message read,
Follow Maki’s instructions
. It was signed,
Joshua
.

“What instructions? What do you want me to do?” Jerimoth asked.

“You must leave your caravan here. It will surely give you away if you bring it back to Jerusalem. The only way I can safely smuggle you into the city so that we can rescue your family is if we trade places. I will be the rich master returning home from a business trip. You will be my servant.”

Jerimoth’s legs ached from crouching. He stood and leaned against the trunk of the tree as he tried to comprehend the unsettling news. He had known Maki all his life. The man served as a valet to Hilkiah, working beside him in the shop, caring for him at home now that Hilkiah was semi-retired. Jerimoth had known Maki to be loyal and hardworking but never imaginative. He was fairly certain Maki couldn’t make up a story like this. He stared at the potsherd in his hand. Why would Joshua use something so crude? They had plenty of parchment at home.

“But, Maki, how? Why? You have no idea what this is all about?”

“No, Master Jerimoth, I don’t. But you must believe me!”

“I do believe you. I’m just trying to think. . . .” He swatted absently at the flies buzzing around him as he tried to make sense of Maki’s story. A short distance away the mules grazed leisurely, their tails swishing. His drivers dozed beneath the palm trees. The peaceful scene made Maki’s story seem like a tall tale, but the oozing blisters on his feet offered the most compelling evidence of his sincerity.

“All right.We’ll have to go back to Beth-Jeshimoth and rent some temporary storage space for these goods. Then we can trade clothes and start on our way.” He saw relief on Maki’s face and tears in his eyes as he turned his face away.

Jerimoth grasped Maki’s elbow and helped him to his feet, but he didn’t release it right away. “What about my wife and daughter?”

“They are unharmed, Master Jerimoth.”

Finding safe storage space in Beth-Jeshimoth took longer than Jerimoth hoped and cost him too many daylight hours. By the time he paid the disgruntled mule drivers and started home on foot, it was late in the day.

Maki proved to be a convincing actor as he played the part of Jerimoth’s rich master. His silver hair and close-cropped beard looked very distinguished and his nut-brown skin glowed with Jerimoth’s expensive oil. Jerimoth’s new robe fit Maki well, but the threadbare cloak he had swapped it for smelled as if it had never been washed.

Jerimoth’s anxiety grew to enormous proportions as he contemplated Maki’s story. He had the urge to run all the way home, but the journey was uphill and Maki was limping painfully. They were still several miles from Jerusalem when the sun began to set, marking the beginning of the Sabbath. Jerimoth wanted to weep in frustration. The Law forbade them to travel any farther.

With a knot of fear in his stomach, he passed through the city gates of Michmash and began to search for an inn. They would have to spend the night here. And all day tomorrow.