Faith of My Fathers (27 page)

Joshua rubbed his eyes. He was tired of this discussion. It was almost dawn, and he had a long journey ahead. He didn’t want to hear any more. But the rabbi showed no sign of letting up on him.

“King David knew suffering like yours, Joshua. David’s father-inlaw gave his wife to another man, too. But David knew the secret of conquering despair. Of all the things he could have asked for—relief from his enemies, the restoration of his kingdom, his very life—what was David’s request? ‘One thing I ask of the Lord, this is what I seek . . . to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord.’ ”

Gershom gently laid his hand on Joshua’s lowered head. “Get still before Yahweh. Seek His face. Then wait for the Lord. Don’t be impatient. Remember, Jacob wrestled with God all night until the sun rose, saying, ‘I will not let you go unless you bless me.’ ”

“I’ve already lost everything. There is no blessing God could give me that would bring any of it back. What more does He want from me?”

“Ask Him. Then wait for His answer.” The rabbi’s strength suddenly gave out, and he sagged against the cushions and closed his eyes.

After a moment Joshua stood, his limbs cramped and stiff. “I should go now and let you rest.”

Gershom opened his eyes. “Take Isaiah’s scroll. There’s a leather bag with a shoulder strap under that table.”

“But what am I supposed to—”

“You’ll find a use for the scroll someday. May Yahweh go with you, my beloved son.” He smiled briefly and closed his eyes.

Asher was waiting for Joshua near the front door. “Thanks for talking to him,” he said. “I know it will help the rabbi rest in peace.”

Joshua wasn’t sure if anything he had said would ease Gershom’s suffering, but he nodded anyway. “Take care of him, Asher,” he said. Then he hefted the leather bag to his shoulder and they walked outside. Joshua was surprised to see how light the sky was, how fresh and clean the morning air smelled. The city’s stones glowed rosy pink, reflecting the dawn sky. He had forgotten how beautiful Jerusalem was, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. When he left this time, he would probably never see Jerusalem again.

Joshua wondered what had become of his old house. His family had left everything they owned behind, all of his father’s things, Hilkiah’s things, a lifetime of precious possessions. It was only a few blocks away, but he wouldn’t go past it. Better not to stir up any memories he couldn’t handle. He would return to his caravan, help load the cargo, move on without looking back.

Asher was still beside him when they reached the main street that ran from the palace and Temple to the marketplace. Even before he reached the corner, Joshua heard the rumble of marching feet. Asher pushed him into the shadows behind the buildings.

“Wait here. It sounds like soldiers. Let me have a look first.” Asher ducked around the corner, then returned a moment later. “Stay hidden. It’s a royal procession—King Manasseh.”

“Is he going up to the Temple?”

“No, he’s coming this way.”

“I have to see him.” Joshua pushed past Asher and peered around the corner at the approaching procession. Dozens of palace guards surrounded the king, white-robed priests trailed behind him. “What are all the guards for?” he whispered to Asher.

“The king imagines all kinds of conspiracies against him. He won’t go anywhere without guards.”

“Where is he going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, there are priests with him and you’re a Levite. You should know where—”

“Those are Manasseh’s priests.”

The procession was close now, and Joshua could see Manasseh clearly. More than nine months had passed, but the king looked the same. His handsome face was somber yet arrogant, his stride controlled, powerful, like a lion staking his territory. Except for the guards, Joshua saw nothing different about Manasseh, nothing that would explain why he had suddenly turned against Joshua and his family. Manasseh had been Joshua’s closest friend his entire life. They shared twenty years of memories and confidences, laughter and tears. But this man was a stranger to Joshua: a murderer, a tyrant.

Joshua wanted to rush forward and demand an answer, then plunge his knife into Manasseh’s gut in revenge for his father and his grandfather and his sister. A life for a life. But he had promised Jerimoth on oath that he wouldn’t do anything foolish. Their mother was doing well, but she couldn’t survive any more losses.

A moment later the king had passed by him. Crowds of curious townspeople followed the procession, and Joshua fell in step with them. Asher tried to pull him back.

“Someone might recognize you. It isn’t safe.”

“I want to know where he’s going.”

The procession passed through the marketplace and continued south, heading toward the Valley Gate. Joshua lagged farther and farther behind, wary of being trapped outside the gate in the narrow Valley of Hinnom. Except for the trampling feet and a few murmured whispers, the procession moved in silence. But suddenly, above the sound of marching, Joshua heard the faint cry of a baby.

Asher stood utterly still. “O God, no!”

“What’s wrong? What’s Manasseh doing?”

“He’s going to sacrifice his son!”

“His son? Manasseh has a son?”

“They announced his birth eight days ago.”

Joshua refused to believe it. Manasseh wasn’t a pagan. They had studied the Torah together. The king knew that child sacrifice was evil. But in the distance a column of smoke slowly rose in the sky. Joshua heard the drums, throbbing their deadly cadence. The sound echoed off the jagged cliffs. He grabbed Asher’s arm and started to run.

“Come on. We have to stop him.”

“Are you crazy? You saw the guards. They’ll kill you before you even get close to him.”

“I don’t care! I can’t let him do this. I can’t let him murder an innocent child.”

“Joshua, don’t—!”

Suddenly there was a loud shout and the drums rumbled like thunder. Then everything was still.

“It’s too late,” Asher whispered. “God help us all.”

It wasn’t just Abba and Grandpa and Dinah. They weren’t the only innocent ones to die in Manasseh’s bloodbath. How had Yahweh lost control of His nation? Why had he abandoned His chosen people to this evil man’s reign?

“Listen to me, people of Jerusalem, listen!” Joshua recognized the man who stood shouting a few hundred feet away from them, outside the Valley Gate. He was one of the company of prophets, a disciple of Rabbi Isaiah. “Manasseh king of Judah has committed these detestable sins,” the prophet shouted. “He has done more evil than the Amorites who preceded him and has led Judah into sin with his idols. Therefore, this is what the Lord, the God of Israel, says: ‘I am going to bring such disaster on Jerusalem and Judah that the ears of everyone who hears of it will tingle. I will stretch out over Jerusalem the measuring line used against Samaria and the plumb line used against the house of Ahab . . .’

” Joshua and Asher saw the three guards hurrying up the road toward the gate, and so did the prophet. The crowd began to scatter. “Run!” Asher whispered. “Why doesn’t he run?”

But the prophet continued to shout, undaunted by the approaching soldiers. “ ‘. . . I will wipe out Jerusalem as one wipes a dish, wiping it and turning it upside down. I will forsake the remnant of my inheritance and hand them over to their enemies. They will be looted and plundered by all their foes, because they have done evil in my eyes and have provoked me to anger from the day their forefathers came out of Egypt until this day.’ ” Before Joshua’s startled eyes, one of the guards drew his sword and ran it through the prophet’s body. The remaining crowd fled in fear as the man lay dying. His blood flowed, unavenged, in the dusty street.

Joshua took a final look at the dark funnel of smoke, curling toward heaven. Then he turned and ran up the hill to rejoin his caravan, determined to leave this godforsaken city forever.

16

M
ANASSEH STARED AT THE CEILING
beams above his bed and remembered his son’s cries—helpless, pitiful cries. He had almost called out to Zerah to stop the sacrifice. But then the drums had drowned out the sound, and in that emotional moment he had thought of Abraham, raising the knife high above his son Isaac, unwavering, unhesitant. Manasseh had renewed his resolve, watching in fatherly pride as Zerah approached the flaming altar with Manasseh’s firstborn son in his hands. God would honor Manasseh’s faith. God would intercede.

But no ram had miraculously appeared in the thicket. No divine hand had snatched his son from the altar. Manasseh had watched, paralyzed with horror, as the flames licked his son’s small body, reducing him to ashes and smoke.

Now Manasseh lay alone in his room, too stunned by what he had done to move from his bed. He couldn’t remember walking up the hill to his palace afterward. He didn’t know if anyone had spoken to him or if he had answered them. He had locked himself in his chambers, alone, giving orders not to be disturbed.

He thought of his father.

A year before he died, Hezekiah had walked with Manasseh and Amariah down to the Valley of Hinnom. The boys had sat on the grass together while Hezekiah told them in a quiet voice how his brothers had died there. Then he’d told them how King Ahaz had plotted to kill him, as well. Manasseh remembered the tremor in his father’s hushed voice as he’d spoken. He had seen tears in Hezekiah’s eyes as he had placed his strong hands on Manasseh’s shoulders and gazed steadfastly into his eyes. “You are my firstborn, Manasseh. You belong to Yahweh. But by His grace He allowed me to redeem your life with silver. You will live to serve Him and to take my place one day.”

Manasseh had tried to ask his father questions about Molech’s sacrifices, but Hezekiah shook his head. “I can’t speak of it, son. I . . . I have no words. There are no words in any language.”

Now Manasseh understood. The sacrifice today had penetrated his soul, becoming a visceral experience of sight and sound and smell beyond human description. Manasseh couldn’t talk about what he had done, couldn’t deal with it or rationalize it because he lacked the words. Yet the scene replayed endlessly in his mind.

He needed to get out of bed and go downstairs. He needed to take his place on his throne and run his kingdom. Guilt was merely a device of the priests, invented to control him. Sin was an illusion. He had earned power and favor with God through this act of faith. But Manasseh couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He had no words.

“You are my firstborn, Manasseh. . . . You will live . . .”

Why had he allowed his firstborn son to die?

“Where are you going, Lady Dinah?”

“To the nursery to see my baby. If I waited for him to be brought to me, I would never see him.”

Dinah was tired of begging to see her son, tired of being told that the servants were busy feeding him or bathing him, or that he was asleep. As her breasts ached with the milk her baby should be drinking, Dinah hated Manasseh more than ever for denying her the role she was meant to play. But when she reached the nursery, Naphtali’s crib was empty.

“Where’s my son?” she asked the nurse.

“King Manasseh sent for him this morning, my lady.”

Dinah went cold with fear. She imagined little Naphtali, so tiny and vulnerable, being placed in Manasseh’s cruel hands. “He sent for him? Why?”

“He didn’t say, my lady.”

Then Dinah remembered. Today was the eighth day. Naphtali would be taken to the Temple to be circumcised and dedicated to God. It was the covenant ritual of her people.

“Please tell the nurse to bring him to me as soon as he gets back.” He would need his mother to comfort him, to soothe away his pain and his tears.

The morning passed slowly, like a heavily laden cart rolling up a steep hill. “Have they brought my baby back, yet?” Dinah asked the servant who brought her noon meal.

“No, my lady.”

Maybe Manasseh was holding a feast or a celebration for him. Even so, Naphtali was only an infant. He would need to be fed and to be put to sleep in his own bed.

Late in the afternoon, Dinah returned to the nursery. Surely they must have brought him back by now. They had neglected to tell her. But not only was Naphtali’s crib still empty, but the blankets and linens had been stripped off of it, as well. And the shelves with his swaddling clothes were all bare. Was Manasseh hiding him from her?

Dinah ran through the corridors to the servants’ quarters to find the nurse. The woman sat on her bed, her eyes red and swollen from weeping. Dinah knelt in front of her.

“My son . . . Where is my son?”

The nurse closed her eyes. “He’s gone.”

Dinah grabbed the woman’s arms, shaking her. “What do you mean he’s gone? Where did Manasseh take him?”

“To . . . to the Valley of Hinnom.”

“No!” Dinah screamed. Her fingers dug into the woman’s arms. “Why did you let him take my son? How could you give my baby to that monster? How could you let Manasseh kill my beautiful, perfect baby?” She wasn’t asking the nurse—she was asking God.

“He . . . he’s the king, my lady. How could we refuse him?”

The horrible impact of what Manasseh had done struck Dinah with brute force. She collapsed to the floor, screaming, tearing at her clothes and her hair. More servants rushed into the room, lifting her from the ground, carrying her to her room, laying her on the bed. Someone held a cup of wine to her lips. It tasted bitter with drugs.