Gods And Kings (34 page)

“Whoever wants to press charges should bring witnesses before the judges at the city gate. If the prophet lives, he will have to pay for the damages. In the meantime, I’m placing him under arrest at the guard tower. As for the rest of you—go about your business or I’ll arrest you, as well!” He signaled to his soldiers, and they lifted the prophet beneath his arms and dragged him away.

Hilkiah sagged against his son as he watched the soldiers leave. When Eliakim finally loosened his grip, Hilkiah turned on him, angry and frustrated. “What is the matter with you? That man was God’s prophet. Why didn’t you help me instead of stopping me?”

“Abba, I helped you the best way I knew how—I kept you out of it. That mob was out of control. They would have killed anyone who helped him, including you.”

Hilkiah sank onto a stool, shaking his head. “I can’t understand why you don’t share my outrage. Do you even see the evil all around us, or have you grown so accustomed to it that it no longer bothers you?”

“Abba, I stopped you because they would have killed you, too, and—” “You were so young when it started creeping in that you probably can’t even remember when our nation still worshiped the one true God. I wonder if there are any good men left in the world, or if you and I and this prophet are the only faithful followers Yahweh has left?” He sighed in frustration. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard the Eternal One’s prophets speak. You probably can’t even remember them.”

Eliakim rested his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Yes, I do, Abba,” he said quietly. “I once met Rabbi Isaiah—remember? I went to warn him for your friend, Zechariah.”

“The prophets are the only hope for this nation,” Hilkiah said sadly. “They’re our only hope.”

“We have a new king now, Abba. Maybe things will be different.”

Hilkiah shook his head as he stared out into the street, watching the merchants sweep up the remains of their damaged booths. “No, I don’t think so. Each new king that has come and gone has been worse than the one before him: Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz … O God of Abraham, what can we do?”

“Come on, Abba. I’ll help you close up for the day. It’s almost time for the coronation.”

“Yes, I suppose we may, as well.”

“At least they didn’t damage your booth,” Eliakim said.

Hilkiah stood and began rolling up the colorful bolts of cloth he had placed on display, stacking them inside his shop for the night. The more he thought about Yahweh’s prophet and what he had suffered for his faith, the more Hilkiah’s thoughts grew into a pressing conviction of what he must do. He walked over to where his son was stacking cloth and took the bolt from his hands, careful to conceal his sense of urgency.

“The coronation will start soon, Eliakim. Why don’t you go on ahead and pick a good spot where we can watch it? I’ll close up the booth and meet you there in a little while.”

“You’ll finish faster if I help.”

“No, no, no. You go, son. I’ll be along shortly.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes! ‘Are you sure?’ he asks. Of course I’m sure. Go, already!” He motioned for Eliakim to leave, then turned his back and continued rolling up bolts of cloth and straightening the piles with deliberate patience.

“Okay, then. I guess I’ll see you later,” Eliakim said.

Hilkiah busied himself with his goods as his son set off up the street toward the palace. When he was certain that Eliakim was out of sight, he hurried over to the idol merchant’s booth.

“Shalom, my friend,” he said cheerfully as he bent down to help him pick up the remnants of his booth. “What a mess—what a mess!”

“Lousy religious fanatics,” the merchant grumbled. “I hate them!

They’re bad for business.”

“Yes … yes … I see what you mean.” Hilkiah prayed for God’s forgiveness as he gathered up the smashed idols. He helped the man clean up the debris and repair some of the damage, then stood back to survey their work. “So—how much do you figure it’ll cost you to make things right again?” Hilkiah asked, idly jangling the silver pouch that hung at his waist.

The merchant eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

Hilkiah hung his thumbs in his waist belt and patted the money pouch. “It’s a holiday, and my business has been good. I was lucky that none of my goods were destroyed, so I’m willing to help you out a little. That way we can both forget this whole nasty mess as quickly as possible and get back to business.”

“What’s in it for you?”

Hilkiah laughed. “‘What’s in it for me?’ he asks? Look at this mess! It’s an eyesore. It’s bad for business—yours and mine. And a lawsuit at the elders’ gate will be even worse.”

“But why would you want to help that filthy peasant?”

“I’m not helping him—I’m helping
you
. Besides, the poor beggar has suffered enough, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, we did get him pretty good,” he said, smiling.

“Precisely. You already got more justice than the elders at the gate will ever give you. Why bother with a lawsuit? Besides, I’ll wager that fellow hasn’t a shekel to his name.”

“That’s probably true.”

“Of course it’s true.” Hilkiah clapped the man’s shoulder and pointed him toward the inn down the street. “So—why don’t we drink a toast to the rebuilding of your booth? It’ll be my treat. We’ll round up some of these other merchants and they can join us.”

By the time Hilkiah bought a third round of drinks for the idol merchant and his allies, he knew that the prophecy in the marketplace had long been forgotten. And even if they suddenly did remember, they were much too drunk to testify. Hilkiah smiled, pleased with his afternoon’s work, and quietly slipped out of the inn.

Uriah watched as his servants prepared his bath, and for the first time in days he started to relax. He had taken a great risk when he’d gotten rid of King Ahaz, but the risk had paid off. The emissaries had been sent back to Israel, avoiding a disaster that would have destroyed his nation. And so far, Hezekiah hadn’t pursued the cause of Ahaz’s death.

The new king had not only allowed him to continue as palace administrator, but in a few hours Uriah would preside over the coronation wearing the mitre and ephod of high priest. The crisis was over, and Uriah had remained in power.

“Your bath is ready, my lord,” a servant announced.

But before Uriah had a chance to undress, Captain Jonadab arrived at his door. “Forgive me for disturbing you, sir, but you wanted to stay informed on all aspects of security for the coronation.”

The captain’s worried expression made Uriah uneasy. “Yes—what is it?”

“Well, a short time ago my soldiers and I broke up a riot in the marketplace. Now, that’s not too unusual, considering that this is a festive occasion and the people are starting to celebrate, if you understand what I mean. In fact, people are coming into the city from all over the countryside, and the feasting and drinking are well underway, and—” “Get to the point,” Uriah said.

“Well, sir, I know how much trouble his kind has caused you in the past… .” Jonadab eyed him nervously, as if afraid that Uriah might blame him for bringing this bad news. “You see, the fellow who started the disturbance claimed to be a prophet of Yahweh.”

Uriah shouted a curse. He might have known this would happen.

He should have expected Isaiah to return—and he should have been better prepared. If he had sent his men to watch the gates, he could have arrested him before he entered the city.

“Was it Isaiah?” Uriah asked.

“No, sir. He was younger than Isaiah and dark-haired—a peasant from the countryside, to judge by his clothing.”

Uriah knew that if a prophet of Yahweh were in Jerusalem, hen cere would try to reach King Hezekiah, perhaps by disrupting the coronatiomony. Uriah could never allow that to happen. “Where is he now?”

“I arrested him,” Jonadab said, “and took him to the guard tower. The mob beat him pretty severely during the riot, and he was nearly dead by the time I arrived to break things up. He’s still knocked out cold.”

Uriah felt only slightly relieved. But he knew better than to forget the incident. “I want this prophet brought to me as soon as he regains consciousness so I can question him. And since there may be more than one of them, I want you to double the number of guards at the coronation ceremony.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it right away.”

“Understand this,” Uriah said, waving his finger in Jonadab’s face. “These men are a great threat to King Hezekiah!”

Jonadab bowed and left the room.

The news left Uriah shaken. Yahweh’s prophets had been silent for so many years that he had dared to believe that the last of them was finally gone. If they reappeared now, competing with him for King Hezekiah’s confidence, they could destroy everything that Uriah had worked to build. He was proud of the reforms he had made in the strict Jewish religious system, reforms that Isaiah and his followers would call too liberal. He had centralized the state religion at the Temple with himself as high priest. These prophets, with their narrow-minded, outdated views opposed all that Uriah had worked for—and they also opposed him. In their opinion, Uriah’s religious tolerance deserved the death penalty.

“Do you still wish to bathe, my lord?” Uriah’s servant asked.

Uriah nodded, but as he eased himself into the warm, scented water he was unable to relax. Instead, he reviewed all the plans he had made for the coronation ceremony, alert for any security flaws. He couldn’t risk the possibility that these men might influence the new king. He had to make sure they never reached Hezekiah.

Zechariah shaded his eyes, squinting in the glare of the afternoon sun. He stood with the other Levites on the Temple porch, waiting for the coronation to begin. But even when he craned his neck he still couldn’t see the king’s platform. When he’d learned that Hezekiah’s coronation would take place in the Temple, he’d begged one of the friendlier guards to allow him to sing in the Levites’ choir so he could watch his grandson being crowned king. Now, as applause thundered from the huge crowd assembled in the courtyard, Zechariah pushed forward for a better view. The Temple guard rested his hand on his shoulder and drew him back.

“Please, Zechariah—you promised me that you’d keep quiet.

That’s the only reason I agreed to let you watch today.”

“But I can’t see. Please let me move a little closer. I’m not going to disturb the ceremony.”

His friend Shimei, who stood nearer to the front, turned around. “Here, let him trade places with me—it’s his grandson, after all. You haven’t missed anything yet, Zechariah. The nobles and king’s advisors are making their entrance.”

“Very well—go ahead,” the guard agreed. “But remember: Uriah will murder both of us if you cause any trouble.”

“I’ll be silent, I give you my word.”

Shimei quickly traded places with Zechariah, giving him an unobstructed view of the king’s platform in the center of the Temple courtyard. The nobles and advisors leading the procession had taken their places near the Assyrian altar. In a moment, Hezekiah would come forward to be anointed King of Judah. Zechariah had never dreamed he would live to see this day.

The trumpeters, assembled on the wall surrounding the Temple, sounded their fanfare. The gates to the courtyard slowly swung open. Zechariah held his breath. The crowd caught their first glimpse of their new king, and their cheers nearly drowned out the trumpets.

Hezekiah carried himself with the posture and bearing of a soldier as he strode to the platform to take his place. He wore a sword strapped to the belt of his royal tunic. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his curly brown hair and beard had an auburn luster in the sunlight. Zechariah’s vision blurred as tears filled his eyes. Hezekiah still looked the same to him. He was older and taller, but he still looked the same. Zechariah remembered the curly-haired little boy who had run through the rain-washed streets to the Temple, splashing his feet in all the puddles, and he longed to hold him in his arms as he had so long ago.

Hezekiah acknowledged the wildly cheering crowd, then held up his hand to call for silence. His other hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword. The noise slowly subsided.

“Men of Judah and Jerusalem,” he shouted. “I am Hezekiah ben Ahaz, rightful heir to the royal house of David. I lay claim this day to the throne of my father, Ahaz ben Jotham.”

His deep voice spoke with authority, and he reminded Zechariah of King Uzziah.

“My reign will be equitable and just—and absolute,” Hezekiah continued. “When I sit in judgment over this kingdom, you may expect my decisions to be impartial. And in return, I will expect the honor and tribute that is due me by virtue of my position as king and heir to the throne of Judah.”

A roar of approval went up from the crowd and the trumpets sounded their fanfare once more. Uriah stepped forward, wearing the mitre and ephod of the high priest. Hezekiah sank down on one knee as Uriah anointed his head with oil.

“May your reign be blessed with peace and prosperity,” Uriah said, “by all the gods of Judah.”

“No!” Zechariah gasped. The priest’s words struck him like a fist in his stomach.
All the gods?
Hezekiah knew there was only one God—why would he allow Uriah to pray that way?