The Strength of His Hand (4 page)

Hezekiah closed his eyes and turned away. For a moment, Eliakim’s words felt more painful than any of his wounds. Hephzibah had been a gift, too—from Ahaz.

“If you love your wife … as I loved Hephzibah … then you’ll understand.” He opened his eyes again and looked up at Eliakim.

“Tonight … when I went to her chambers … she had a graven image of Asherah. She was worshiping it.”

“What?”

“I tried to destroy it… . I knocked over some oil lamps. The fire spread so quickly … it was out of control… .”

“Oh, God of Abraham!”

Hezekiah’s stomach twisted as he remembered the urn and the vow Hephzibah had written on it in charcoal.

“And she—” But grief choked off his words. He grimaced in pain, hoping Eliakim wouldn’t notice that he was trying not to weep.

“Your Majesty, I-I don’t know what to say… .”

There was nothing anyone could say. The unimaginable had happened. The valet hurried into the room with the wine, and Eliakim grabbed it from his hand. Hezekiah heard him pouring it into a cup. A moment later, Eliakim held it to his lips. “Here. It will help ease your pain.”

But as he drank the bitter wine, Hezekiah knew it would never ease the pain in his soul. He had never forgiven his father for planning to sacrifice him. How could he forgive Hephzibah for vowing to sacrifice his own child?

Eliakim held the cup for him until Hezekiah had drained it. He felt it burn a path to his stomach, but the throbbing, searing pain in his leg grew worse. He moaned in agony, unable to stop himself. Eliakim quickly poured another cup for him but he was too nauseated to drink more.

“No … I can’t.”

Another servant arrived with a bronze basin of water, and Hezekiah plunged his hands into it, longing for cooling relief. But the relief lasted only an instant, and he fought to keep from fainting as pain shuddered through his body.

He looked up at Eliakim again and forced himself to keep talking. “Even if I had found her … with another man … it would have been better than what she has done. She betrayed me … and everything I believed in. She brought that … into my own house!”

Eliakim held the cup out to him again, and Hezekiah saw deep sorrow in his friend’s eyes. “Your Majesty, what would you like us to do with her?” he asked quietly.

Idolatry demanded the death penalty. Hezekiah and Eliakim both knew it. But even in his anger, Hezekiah couldn’t pronounce the death sentence on Hephzibah.

“I can’t do it, Eliakim,” he said softly. “I can’t.”

Eliakim nodded in understanding.

“But she is no longer my wife,” he continued. “Have Shebna prepare divorce papers. She is dead to me. Never mention her name again.”

One by one, the court physicians arrived. “You must lie down, Your Majesty,” one of them said after seeing his leg. “We can tend you better that way.”

The servants helped Hezekiah to his bed, and the movement initiated another wave of pain and nausea that nearly overwhelmed him. He lay flat on his back, panting as he struggled to keep from crying out.

The physicians examined his arms and face and chest, spreading thick balm made with aloe on his numerous burns. Then they plastered his swollen hands with balm and loosely wrapped them in gauze. Finally they turned their attention to his leg. He had glanced at the wound himself and knew that all the flesh on his shin had burned away except for a few blackened shreds still lying in the open wound.

“The tassels and the gold threads from your robe have melted into the wound,” one of the physicians said. “And there seems to be dirt … or maybe sand?”

“Yes … probably sand,” Hezekiah said, remembering the hollow idol. “I threw sand on the fire.”

“I’m sorry, but we’ll need to clean the wound thoroughly. It will be very painful.”

“Go ahead.”

He would welcome the pain if only it would help him forget what Hephzibah had done. He fought back bitter tears at the irony of her betrayal; he had remained faithful to only one wife so he wouldn’t be tempted by idolatry—yet she had secretly worshiped idols all along. He had never known the evil hidden in her heart. He had confided in her, shared his life with her, loved her as he had loved no other person. But she had lied to him, pretending to serve God while keeping a secret part of herself, an evil part, hidden from him. All these years.

“We have special drugs we can mix with your wine, Your Majesty— for the pain.”

Hezekiah shook his head, remembering his father.

The physician motioned to the servants. “Get ready, then. You’ll have to hold him still.” They gripped his shoulders and ankles.

Hezekiah clenched his teeth, reciting to himself as he braced to endure more pain:
Hear, O Israel! … Yahweh is our God—Yahweh
alone! … You shall love Yahweh your God with all your heart and …

The first agonizing stab sliced through him. Hezekiah cried out, then felt nothing more as he lost consciousness.

3

H
OURS LATER HEZEKIAH AWOKE
to agony. He tried to sit up, then moaned as pain overwhelmed him. One of the physicians appeared beside him in the darkness.

“Lie still, Your Majesty. Don’t try to move.”

His mouth and tongue felt dry. He could scarcely speak. “I’m so thirsty… .”

“Here. Take a drink of water.”

Hezekiah’s hands were useless—swollen and blistered beneath the bandages. The physician gently raised Hezekiah’s head and held the cup to his lips. Some of the water rolled down his throat; the rest dribbled down his chin into his beard. Hezekiah cursed his helplessness. “Do you want something for the pain, Your Majesty?”

“No.” He could scarcely endure it, but he refused to admit his weakness. “How long will I be like this?”

“In the morning we’ll examine your burns again and—”

“No. Tell me now.”

“Surely you realize that you’ve received numerous burns and—”

“How serious are they?”

“Your hands and part of your chest are badly blistered.”

“And my leg?”

“Your skin was completely burned away. The wound is very deep. And it’s been contaminated with sand and bits of cloth. We did our best to cleanse it, but—”

“How long until I’m healed?” How long would he suffer this unspeakable agony, this maddening helplessness?

“We can’t be certain, but you must rest for at least a week.”

A week. Lying helplessly with water dribbling down my chin
.

“No! Never!”

“But rest is the best cure, my lord.” He offered Hezekiah another drink, then wiped the water off his face as if he were a child.

“Leave me now,” he commanded.

“But you might need—”

“I’ll call you.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Hezekiah heard the door close. He was alone. He shut his eyes again, but the pain prevented him from sleeping.

He had found Hephzibah worshiping a pagan idol.

Hezekiah had never forgotten the vivid images of his brothers burning to death in Molech’s flames. How would he ever erase the image of his wife bowing before Asherah, pledging to sacrifice his child? He had fought the fires of idolatry all his life; tonight they had defeated him.

Alone in the darkness, Hezekiah didn’t try to stop the tears that rolled down his face and disappeared into his beard. Hephzibah, the only woman he had ever loved, had deceived him. How long had she worshiped idols? One year? Ten years? What did it matter if it was a day or a lifetime? He could never forgive her for what she had done.

“Man and woman … God’s presence will dwell in their midst.”
Years ago, his grandfather had explained God’s plan for marriage, and Hezekiah had thought he’d shared that kind of love with Hephzibah. In his happiness he had thought God’s presence had blessed them. But he had believed a lie. He covered his face with bandaged hands and wept.

By the time the sun rose in the morning, Hezekiah had vowed never to shed another tear over Hephzibah. He buried his love for her deep in his soul, along with his sorrow over losing her, locking them away in a place he vowed never to search. Two emotions commanded all his attention now: the agonizing pain of his burns and his unrestrained anger. He had allowed the anger to build during the night until it overshadowed everything, even his pain. As the sky began to grow light, he shouted for his valet. The three court physicians followed the servant into the room.

“Help me up,” Hezekiah ordered. “It’s nearly time for the morning sacrifice.”

None of the men moved.

“Don’t gape at me like that—I said help me up!” He struggled to sit, and his valet finally hurried over to help him. “That’s it. Now swing my leg over the side.”

The servant obeyed, and Hezekiah moaned involuntarily as the blood raced down his injured leg. One of the physicians stepped forward, his eyes wide with fear.

“Your Majesty, I don’t think—”

‘I didn’t hire you to think,” he said through clenched teeth. “I hired you to make me well. Find Shebna and tell him to bring the divorce papers. The rest of you help me get dressed.”

Hezekiah struggled into his clothes, each movement intensifying the pain. When the servants slipped his tunic over his head and the linen fabric brushed against his chest, he nearly passed out. The edges of his wounds, where blistered flesh met uninjured skin, were excruciatingly painful.

“Shall we order a sedan chair, Your Majesty?”

“What for?”

“Well, to carry you up to—”

“I don’t need to be carried.” He would not let Hephzibah’s idolatry turn him into a cripple.

Hezekiah stood and took a step forward. The room whirled, and his vision narrowed to a tunnel. The physicians rushed forward to catch him.

“No! Leave me alone. I can walk by myself.”

Hezekiah put one foot in front of the other, ignoring his agony and the bizarrely tilting floor, until he reached the couch in his sitting room.

“Thank you for your services,” he told his physicians. “You may go home.”

“But you can’t—” ‘

‘Yes, I can. And I will. Good day.”

As he waited for Shebna, Hezekiah tried to calculate how far he would need to walk to get to the Temple, how many stairs he would have to climb.

“Pour me some of that,” he told his servant, indicating the flask of strong wine Eliakim had made him drink the night before. The warm wine burned all the way to his stomach, but he drained the cup, hoping the drink would numb the pain enough to get him to the Temple and back again.

“Now bring me something to eat.”

A few minutes later, Shebna arrived carrying a parchment scroll. He stared at Hezekiah in shock.

“You look terrible, Your Majesty! Do you really think you should be out of bed?”

“Obviously I do! I’m sitting here, aren’t I? Where are my divorce papers?”

“I have them.” He held up the scroll, then let his hand drop to his side again.

“Did Eliakim explain why I asked for them?”

“Yes. I have heard the story, Your Majesty. I am very sorry.”

“The entire nation has probably heard the story by now. That’s why I’m going up to the Temple. Nothing—no one—is going to stop me from setting an example for my nation.”

“Do you think it is wise to let the people see you like this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you looked in a mirror, Your Majesty?”

Hezekiah looked down at his bandaged hands and sighed. “I shouldn’t have fought the fire. I should have let everything burn.”

“I saw the damage this morning,” Shebna said. “The room was completely destroyed.”

“Good. Have it rebuilt some other way. For my new wife.”

Hezekiah’s stomach twisted as he said the words. The divorce would be final. He would never see Hephzibah again. He wondered how he would learn to love another woman—or to trust her. But maybe love and trust didn’t matter. Maybe having a son would be enough.

“Show me those papers, Shebna.”

“Are you certain? A more suitable punishment would be to—”

“I’ve never been more certain!”

Shebna sighed and passed him the scroll. Hezekiah tried to take it between his bandaged hands, but he lost his grip and the scroll tumbled to the floor.

“I curse her for what she has done to me!” he shouted. “And Yahweh has cursed her, too. Now pick it up and let me sign it.”

“But how can you possibly sign?”

“I’ll find a way. Take these miserable bandages off me.”

“I am not a physician—” ‘

‘Take them off!”

Shebna opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and carefully lifted Hezekiah’s right hand. He found the end of the bandage, untied it, then gently unwound the dressing. Hezekiah tried to hold his hand steady as Shebna worked, but his entire body seemed to shake with his rage and his pain. Beneath the gauze, huge pulpy blisters covered his swollen palms.

“Good heavens!” Shebna breathed.

“It looks worse than it is,” Hezekiah said, but he realized that he would not be able to grip a writing instrument or sign his name. He held out his left hand. “Take the other one off, too.” When Shebna finished, his dark face looked pale. “Now slide my signet ring off,” Hezekiah ordered.

“But it will never come off. Your finger is too badly swollen.”

“Coat it with oil first. There’s some over there, in the lamp.”

Hezekiah wondered how long it would take him to grow accustomed to the constant, relentless pain and if there would ever come a time when he finally would be free from it. He had made up his mind to persevere in spite of it, but when Shebna rubbed the oil on his finger and tried to pull off the ring, Hezekiah cried out, unable to stop himself.

Shebna shrank back. “I am sorry, my lord!”

“I’m all right. Try it again.”

“No. I will not do this.”

“Shebna, I’m ordering you to slide this ring off my finger!”

“I would sooner resign than inflict any more pain on you.” His eyes met Hezekiah’s and held them defiantly. In a battle of wills, Hezekiah knew that Shebna’s stubbornness matched his own. The valet broke the tension as he entered with a tray.

“I’ve brought your breakfast, Your Majesty.”

Hezekiah stared at Shebna a moment longer, then said, “You’re excused.” He refused to allow Shebna or anyone else to watch as the valet spoon-fed him his breakfast.