Gods And Kings (9 page)

“We’ve debated long enough. We have to carry out the king’s orders today. The tribute must be sent to Assyria before the siege begins. And the sacrifice must be held immediately. We can’t waste any more time arguing. It’s time to vote.”

He ignored the scattered murmurs of dissent and scooped up the container of pebbles used for voting. As he passed it around, each man took one black and one white stone.

“If you wish to support me as high priest and revive our Temple worship, put in the white stone,” he ordered. “If you wish to tie my hands with your antiquated traditions and wait for the Temple to fall down around you, put in the black stone.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Azariah pleaded. “He’s giving us no choice!”

“That’s because there
is
no choice—don’t you understand that? We’re the dying custodians of a dying institution. We need change.

Now vote.”

“No!” Azariah hurled his stones at Uriah’s feet. “I refuse to accept your leadership. I refuse to have any part in a vote for idolatry. The very idea is an abomination to God himself!” He strode from the room. Conaniah and a few others followed.

Uriah held his breath, waiting to see how many more would leave. When enough men remained for their decision to be legally binding, he exhaled. He quickly passed the box for the vote, listening to the dull thud of the stones as they hit the bottom. When it came around to him, he tossed in his white stone, then turned the box over and dumped its contents in the middle of the circle.

“Count them,” he ordered.

He could tell by the mixture of black and white that the vote would be close. Uriah watched tensely as two scribes separated and counted the stones. If the vote went against him, he would have to resign as high priest. His authority over the priests and Levites and his power to make changes in the Temple would come to an end. But if he won, today would bring a new beginning.

“Twenty-three black,” the first scribe announced.

“And twenty-eight white,” the second one added. “The vote has gone in your favor, Uriah.”

They passed the container to collect the unused stones, and the men silently filed out, exhausted from the emotional strain of the meeting. When he was alone, Uriah sank onto his uncle’s seat on the dais, staring at the stones still piled in the center of the room.

He had won. He had a new position of power with the king, and now the priests and Levites supported his leadership, as well. His whole life had shifted in the past few hours and had finally come into focus.

Uriah knew he should be elated, but his victory left him with a hollow feeling inside that he was afraid to examine too closely. He would wait until the sacrifice to Molech was over, he told himself. Maybe then he would feel differently. Maybe then he could silence the nagging voice that haunted him.

4

H
IS MOTHER’S SCREAMS JOLTED
him awake. Hezekiah opened his eyes and the nightmare returned. Like the rumble of an approaching storm, the soldiers poured down the hallway toward his room. They were coming again—for him.

The last time they came, Hezekiah hadn’t known the horror that awaited Eliab. But this time he knew. He needed to run, he needed to hide, but there was no place to hide. His mother’s screams grew louder, closer.

Maybe this was just a dream. Maybe he would wake up. But when he saw his brother’s empty bed next to his, he remembered the stench and the roar of the flames, and he knew it wasn’t a dream.

The soldiers flung his door open and pulled him from his bed. Strong hands tried to force the tunic over his head. Hezekiah remembered Molech’s gaping mouth and how his brother had fallen, headlong into the flames, and he fought against the soldiers with all his strength. But they picked him up effortlessly, almost amused at his struggle, and carried him out of his room.

The hallway was shadowy and dim, but he saw dozens of soldiers in the flickering torchlight. The high priest was there, too—the tall, broad-shouldered man Hezekiah had seen in his father’s council room.

Mama was on her knees, clinging to his feet, pleading with him.

“Uriah, please! I beg you! Please don’t take my son!” Her eyes were wild and frantic, her face chalky with fear.

“Mama, help me!” Hezekiah cried. “Help me!” He struggled to go to her, but the soldier held him tightly.

“Please, Uriah, please!” she begged.

“Abijah, don’t …” The high priest tried to take her arm and help her stand up, but she clung to his legs.

“They’ve already killed my Eliab. Isn’t that enough?” she asked.

“Please don’t kill Hezekiah, too! I beg you! For my father’s sake! For my sake, have mercy on my son! He’s all I have left!”

“Take her out of here,” Uriah said quietly.

“No—Uriah, no! You have to help me!” A knot of soldiers surrounded her. She screamed helplessly as they pried her hands from Uriah’s feet. Hezekiah fought and kicked with all his strength, crying in terror as he struggled to go to his mother. But she disappeared from sight as the men dragged her away, her agonized screams fading in the distance.

Then the high priest turned to Hezekiah. He gripped Hezekiah’s shoulders in his huge hands and shook him. “Be quiet!”

The power of his thundering voice stunned Hezekiah into silence.He gazed up at Uriah, and the man seemed like a giant to him. Hezekiah pleaded wordlessly for his life, too terrified to speak, but Uriah turned away.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said.

The soldiers made Hezekiah join the other children, the sons of Ahaz’s concubines. Hezekiah and his half-brother Amariah were nearly the same height and only a few months apart in age. But he knew that he was older than Amariah. As the eldest son of King Ahaz, Hezekiah knew he was next in line on the royal throne of King David. He was also next in line to die in the fire.

He couldn’t walk. One of the soldiers bent to pick him up, and he fought desperately to break free. But the more he struggled the tighter the soldier gripped him. Hezekiah kicked and flailed, clawing at the arms that encircled him, crying out in terror as he was carried through the halls and down the darkened stairways. By the time he reached the courtyard and the waiting procession, Hezekiah felt bruised and numb, too exhausted to struggle anymore.

The early morning sun hurt his eyes when he emerged from the dimly lit palace corridors. But as his eyes adjusted, he could see that everything was nearly the same as the last time—the huge crowds of people, the waiting priests and nobles, the white-robed children. Only the endless rows of soldiers were missing. And in the middle of them all was his father, King Ahaz.

The procession started down the hill through the city streets to the Valley of Hinnom again. The soldier who was carrying Hezekiah set him down and ordered him to walk, but Hezekiah’s legs trembled so violently with fear that the soldiers had to support him on either side. The two men pushed and dragged him through the streets until they finally reached the southern gate.

Hezekiah froze when he saw the jagged cliffs that marked the entrance to the valley of death. Once again, a thin column of smoke snaked into the sky in the distance. He couldn’t move.

“No … no …” he whimpered. But the soldiers jerked him roughly by the arms and propelled him forward against his will, his feet dragging.

Some of the other children started to wail, and the priests began their chant to drown out the pitiful cries: “Molech … Molech … Molech …” The throbbing cadence echoed off the cliffs and city walls, swelling as the procession inched closer to the site of the sacrifice. Each beat of the priests’ drums felt like a fist in Hezekiah’s stomach. They were almost there. He couldn’t escape.

Suddenly the man Hezekiah remembered meeting at the Gihon Spring pushed his way through the crowd, stepping in front of King Ahaz to block his path. Isaiah’s eyes flashed with anger, and his whole body shook with rage until he seemed about to burst apart. He shouted above the pounding drums in a voice that penetrated to the soul.

“Hear, O heavens! Listen, O earth! For Yahweh has spoken: ‘I reared children and brought them up, but they have rebelled against me. The ox knows his master, the donkey his owner’s manger, but Israel does not know, my people do not understand.’” “Get out of my way!” Ahaz said, shoving him aside. The king continued walking, his eyes fixed on the fire god ahead of him. But Isaiah stayed with him, walking backward to face him, shouting to be heard above the din.

“Ah, sinful nation, a people loaded with guilt, children given to corruption!” He spread his arms wide to include the entire crowd.

“They have forsaken Yahweh. They have spurned the Holy One of Israel and turned their backs on him.”

Again, Isaiah tried to stand in Ahaz’s path, and Hezekiah felt a glimmer of hope for the first time since he’d been awakened that morning. But the king shoved him aside—harder than before. Isaiah stumbled and nearly fell.

“Oh, my people, haven’t you had enough punishment?” Isaiah cried, fighting to regain his balance. “Must you forever rebel? Your country lies in ruins, your cities are burned, foreigners are plundering everything they see while you stand here helpless and abandoned!”

Hezekiah saw Uriah elbowing his way to the head of the procession to stand beside the king. He towered over Isaiah, but the prophet showed no fear as he met the high priest’s gaze.

“Your hands are full of blood,” Isaiah accused. “Wash and make yourselves clean. Take your evil deeds out of God’s sight! Stop doing wrong; learn to do right!”

Uriah signaled to two of the soldiers. “Keep this man out of our way,” he told them. Then he turned, joining Ahaz and the priests of Molech as the procession moved, step by step, toward its destination.

Isaiah made no more attempts to follow the king as the two sol-diers held him back. But he stood by the edge of the road and pleaded with the people as they filed past him. “‘Come now, let us reason together,’ says Yahweh. ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool. If you are willing and obedient, you will eat the best from the land; but if you resist and rebel, you will be devoured by the sword.’ For the mouth of the Lord has spoken.”

Isaiah’s efforts seemed futile. The chanting crowd followed the king’s example, ignoring Isaiah’s words, turning away from him. The last door of escape seemed to slam shut in Hezekiah’s face. All hope was gone. He was going to die.

But as the soldiers dragged Hezekiah forward, he turned to see Isaiah looking directly at him, staring straight into his eyes. His gaze seemed to penetrate deep inside Hezekiah, stripping him naked.

“Don’t be afraid,” Isaiah told him, “for Yahweh has ransomed you. He has called you by name. You belong to Yahweh. When you go through deep water, Yahweh will go with you. And when you ford mighty rivers, they won’t overwhelm you. When you pass through the fire, you won’t be burned. The flames will not hurt you. For Yahweh is your God. The Holy One of Israel is your Savior.”

The soldiers tightened their grip on Hezekiah’s arms, propelling him forward once again. He turned his head, trying to keep Isaiah in sight, waiting for Isaiah to rescue him from the soldiers’ grasp, but the prophet couldn’t move.

Over and over Isaiah’s words throbbed in Hezekiah’s ears to the pounding beat of the drums.
“When you pass through the fire, you won’t be burned … for Yahweh is your God… .”
Over and over he repeated the words to himself, as if they possessed the power to protect him from what lay ahead.

The mob formed a circle around Molech, as close as the billowing heat allowed. In front of Hezekiah, the priests and their attendants mounted the steps of the platform, carrying the children. Molech waited with outstretched arms, his brazen image glowing, his mouth

open wide. Hezekiah’s legs buckled and he collapsed, paralyzed with fear. He tried to fight back as one of Molech’s priests scooped him up, but the priest pinned his arms to his sides as he carried him up the steep steps and set him down on the platform. Once again Hezekiah faced the fiery monster.

The high priest of Molech began to chant the ritual of sacrifice, but Hezekiah heard none of the words. He was only aware of the intense heat on his face and the outstretched arms reaching for him.Isaiah’s words still echoed over and over in his mind to the rhythm of the drums and the pounding of his heart.
“When you pass through the fire … Yahweh is your God… .”
The priest holding Hezekiah’s shoulders tightened his grip, as if sensing that his instincts screamed for him to flee.

Now the chanting crowd reached a frenzied, deafening pitch. The moment of sacrifice was near. Hezekiah could no longer hear his own screams above the noise of the crowd, the beating of the drums, and the roar of the flames. The words of Isaiah that he had repeated to himself began to blur, and in his terror he remembered only one word:
Yahweh
.

The monster’s huge brass eyes stared down at him, tongues of flame darted from his gaping mouth. Molech’s priest finished his prayer and turned toward Hezekiah.

“Yahweh!”
Hezekiah screamed in terror, over and over again.

“Which one is the firstborn?” Molech’s priest asked.

Uriah looked down at Hezekiah. Their eyes met. But when he stretched out his hand, it rested on Amariah’s head. “This one.”

Molech’s priest reached past Hezekiah and grabbed Amariah.Hezekiah saw the wrong son being hurled into the fire god’s arms.He heard his half-brother scream as he rolled toward the open mouth.He watched Amariah die in the flames instead of himself.

As the roaring crowd continued its cry for more, Hezekiah felt dazed. Another child was thrown into the flames, and another and another until the nauseating stench filled the air, stinging his eyes, burning his throat, gagging him.

Then it was over.

Isaiah’s words resounded in Hezekiah’s mind once again:
“When you pass through the fire, you won’t be burned … for Yahweh is your God.”

And Hezekiah fainted in a heap on the platform.