Among the Gods (31 page)

“Are you all right?” Amariah asked in alarm. “Where’s Miriam? Shall I get her?”

“No, don’t … she’s not here….” He wrestled to control his terrible rage, knowing that it was choking off his life. “I’ll be okay … in a minute….” He managed to stand straight again just as the shofar announced the evening sacrifice.

“I’ll walk with you,” Amariah offered, but Joshua shook his head.

“I can’t go…. I can’t praise God….”

“Joshua, don’t do this to yourself. Don’t turn away from God. Let’s seek Him for answers together.”

“I’d be a hypocrite if I set one foot in that temple,” he breathed. “Go without me. I want to be alone.” He turned his back on Amariah and stumbled out of the rear door, heading toward the riverbank, hoping the prince wouldn’t follow.

He found the beach windswept and deserted, as barren and desolate as his own soul. His plans and dreams had been cruelly crushed. There would be no freedom from exile on Elephantine Island, no judgment or punishment for King Manasseh. Once again, God had slammed a door of hope in Joshua’s face. He stood alone for a long time, watching the sun set over the Nile, waiting for the terrible darkness to slowly close in around him.

24

K
ING
M
ANASSEH STOOD BEFORE THE BRONZE MIRROR,
admiring his reflection as his servants dressed him in his royal robes. What he saw pleased him. True, he had put on weight over the years as he’d slipped into middle age, but he thought the extra bulk, along with the strands of silver in his dark hair and beard, gave him added dignity. As he turned to leave his chambers for his daily omen-reading, his secretary stopped him.

“I thought you would want to know right away, Your Majesty. A runner has just reported that a large brigade of Assyrian soldiers crossed our border shortly after dawn. They are headed for Jerusalem and should arrive soon.”

Manasseh didn’t have time to wonder why. “Quickly, tell Zerah to make plans. We must greet our unexpected guests with a lavish welcome.”

When the Assyrians arrived, Manasseh was surprised to learn that Emperor Ashurbanipal had sent his personal spokesman, the rabshekeh, who requested an immediate audience. Manasseh greeted him with all the pomp and splendor he could afford, aware of what an honor he was being paid by this visit.

“I know that only the most urgent business could have brought such an important man as yourself this great distance,” Manasseh gushed. “I hope you won’t think me rude if I express my curiosity. Why am I being paid such an honor?”

The rabshekeh eyed him coolly. He seemed to take his time answering. “Did you receive Emperor Ashurbanipal’s notice about the rebellion led by his brother, viceroy of Babylon?”

“I was shocked by the news, of course, but very pleased to learn that the emperor has successfully quenched the rebellion—praise be to the gods.”

The rabshekeh wore a mocking expression as he applauded softly. “A fine performance, King Manasseh. You are a very good actor. But we have proof that you participated in the viceroy’s plot.”

Fear turned Manasseh’s blood to ice. “Never! It isn’t true! I didn’t know anything about the rebellion until I received the emperor’s notice!”

“You’re lying. The viceroy didn’t have time to destroy all of his documents before we captured him. We found a list of coconspirators. One of them was you—the ruler of Judah, son of King Hezekiah, heir to the dynasty of King David.”

“But it’s not true! It has to be a mistake!”

“The document bore King David’s seal—your seal. It was unmistakable.”

Manasseh glanced around in horror, noticing for the first time how many Assyrian soldiers had crowded his throne room, how menacing they appeared fully armed. His own bodyguards had vanished, and the Assyrians were blocking all of the doors. He felt the terror of being trapped with no escape.

“You … you have to believe me,” he stammered. “I never joined any rebellion!” He was sweating and nauseated, certain he would faint. He had to do something! The rabshekeh had to believe him! Then Manasseh suddenly realized how he had been framed. “Wait a minute. I’m not the one you want, it’s my brother … it has to be! He’s a traitor who fled the country years ago. He was still wearing a royal signet ring on his finger. He’s in league with my enemies. They’ve been plotting to topple my government for years. You have to believe me—this is all a mistake!”

“Nice try, Manasseh, but I don’t believe you. According to our records, your nation has a long history of rebellion. Your father, King Hezekiah, rebelled against Emperors Shalmaneser and Sennacherib.”

“Then your records will also show that I’ve faithfully paid tribute to Emperors Esarhaddon and Ashurbanipal—”

“Yes, while conspiring with Ashurbanipal’s brother. The Egyptians were also part of the rebellion, and we know that your son is named Amon, after Egypt’s most important god.”

Manasseh’s stomach twisted like wrung cloth. Was this how Joshua would finally defeat him? “Please, I can explain. The Egyptians have been harboring my enemies and my traitorous brother for years. I named my son Amon in order to gain the Egyptian god’s favor against them. Tell him, Zerah.”

“It … it’s the truth.” Zerah’s shaky voice was barely a whisper. He had the deathly pallor of a corpse.

“Please,” Manasseh begged, “tell your emperor that I can explain. You see, my enemies—”

“Save it for your trial.” The rabshekeh motioned to his men, and they moved toward Manasseh with barbed hooks and bronze shackles. He was afraid he was going to scream.

“What are you doing to me? You can’t …” They hauled Manasseh to his feet to strip off his royal robe. “No … stop!” He tried to resist, but there were too many of them, they were too strong. As he vainly tried to cling to his garments, one of the blue tassels tore off in his hand and he clutched it to his chest as if it could save him. They ripped away his tunic, as well, until he stood clothed in only his undergarments. He felt naked and exposed.

Manasseh stood shivering with fear and shame as the soldiers clamped cold metal shackles around his wrists, then his ankles. “Please don’t do this to me … please … I beg you to believe me!” The bonds felt heavy on his limbs, as if they would never come off again.

“Merciful mother Asherah, save me!” Zerah cried as the Assyrians tore off his clothes.

One after the other, every nobleman in the room was being stripped and shackled as Manasseh had been. He stood frozen in terror, listening to their pitiful pleas for mercy, but he saw no way out of this nightmare for any of them.

“I’m innocent! You’re making a mistake. I’ve never been part of a conspiracy. You’re arresting an innocent man!” Like words from a dream, Manasseh suddenly recalled how Isaiah and Eliakim had stood in this same throne room, repeating his very words. He understood the helpless outrage they must have felt at such a monstrous injustice.

“Save your defense for the emperor’s ears,” the rabshekeh said. “You’ll get your day in court in Babylon.”

“You’re not going to take me all the way to Babylon!” Terror filled Manasseh as he suddenly recalled Isaiah’s prophecy:
one of Hezekiah’s descendants would be taken in chains to Babylon
.

“Get him ready to go,” the rabshekeh ordered.

Manasseh cried out as four soldiers suddenly forced him down into his chair, clamping his head against the back of his throne. Then a burst of fiery pain ripped through him as the Assyrians pierced his nose with a barbed hook. Hot, wet blood streamed down his face. He tasted it, bitter and salty on his lips. As the limp paralysis of shock prickled through him, he moaned, struggling to stay conscious.

How could this be happening? He wasn’t a traitor. He was the king of Judah, a loyal subject of the Assyrian emperor. He remembered how Isaiah and Eliakim had proclaimed their loyalty, too.

Beside him, Zerah struggled against the soldiers holding him down. He was too old for this kind of treatment. He cried out in anguish as the Assyrians drove a hook through his nose, as well. Manasseh felt the helpless despair of being unable to save someone he loved.

“Zerah, call down your gods!” he pleaded. “You have power!” But when the soldiers stepped aside, Manasseh looked at Zerah’s bloody face and saw that he was unconscious.

Manasseh was certain that neither he nor Zerah would survive the long journey to Babylon. Many of his noblemen didn’t. The Assyrians gave them enough food and rest to keep them moving but not enough to prevent them from arriving weeks later in a horribly weakened condition. Manasseh’s skin blistered and peeled from hours beneath the burning sun, and his ankles chafed and bled after being rubbed raw by his shackles. He and his secretary had to support Zerah between them for the last leg of the journey after he became too weak to walk alone.

Every moment that he was conscious, Manasseh beseeched the gods for help, reminding them of his zeal and devotion, enumerating the shrines and altars he had built, the countless sacrifices he had slain for them. “Have we slighted one of them?” he asked Zerah. “Angered one? Did the priests neglect one of the rituals to bring this disaster upon us? Surely the stars would have foretold a calamity such as this. Why didn’t the omens warn us?”

Zerah’s laughter held a tinge of hysteria. “The minds of the gods are ever-changing and capricious. We have become pawns in their rivalries, Manasseh. Playthings for their amusement.”

“What about your powers, Zerah? Use your powers!” But as Manasseh watched his friend grow weaker each day, his hope drained as steadily as his own strength. They were both going to die in chains. Rabbi Isaiah had once caused the sun to move, but even he had been powerless to save himself after Manasseh had shackled him as they now were.

Manasseh saw Babylon, sprawled on a great plain, long before they reached it. A wide, shimmering moat surrounded the city, along with walls as high as two of Jerusalem’s walls piled one on top of the other. The great ziggurat towered higher still, crowned by a temple to Babylon’s gods. The Assyrians marched the prisoners through one of the city’s one hundred bronze gates, making examples of them as traitors, parading them through the streets of Babylon in chains, as they had paraded them through Jerusalem. Thousands of people thronged to watch. Too humiliated to lift his gaze, Manasseh saw little of the magnificent city except the ground beneath his aching feet. He had commanded Isaiah to tell his future; now he had fulfilled the very words of his prophecy.

Manasseh was still supporting Zerah when the soldiers led them into a squat, mud-brick barracks, then down steep, narrow stairs to the jail, deep underground. At first Manasseh was grateful to be out from under the pitiless sun until he glimpsed the dank, airless dungeon that would be his prison. The door to his cell was a crude hole in the rock wall near the floor, barely two feet in diameter. He struggled in panic as the Assyrians forced him to the ground and made him crawl through it on his stomach. Inside, four barren, rock-hewn walls enclosed a windowless space barely eight feet square. There was no pallet, no bedding, only a hole in the corner for a toilet. High above his head, three holes no wider than his fist allowed light and air to filter in. The guards pushed Zerah into the cell behind Manasseh, then bolted a wide iron bar in place over the opening, leaving only a narrow slot at the bottom to pass food and water through. The sound of the great iron nails being driven into the rock, sealing him permanently inside, brought the terror of suffocation.

“I can’t take this!” Manasseh wept. He curled into a tight ball, hugging himself, as he battled hysteria. “Do something, Zerah! Help us both, or I’m going to go insane in here!” But Zerah appeared to be in a stupor as he slumped in the corner, staring blindly at the wall. He rocked slightly, as if cradling a baby, and uttered a soft, keening sound.

Manasseh crawled across the floor to him and took his face in his hands, forcing him to look at him. “Zerah, look at me! Say something! Talk to me!” Zerah’s glazed eyes were unseeing. Manasseh clung to him and wept until the cell grew dark and he finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

He awoke to the dim light of dawn and the sound of their food being slid beneath the bar into the cell—a bowl of water and a plate of cold table scraps. Manasseh felt the fiery heat of Zerah’s body and realized that he was burning with fever. He scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees, hampered by the shackles that still chained him hand and foot, and pleaded with the guard through the narrow grate.

“Please, my friend needs a physician. Have mercy, I beg you. Don’t let him die in this terrible place.” His voice echoed and died in the silent jail. As if in a dream, Manasseh suddenly recalled the night his soldiers had brought the badly beaten body of Joshua’s grandfather to him. Hilkiah had needed a physician, too, but Manasseh had condemned him to a prison cell to die. Were the gods playing games with his mind, reminding him of the past? Were they punishing him for his sins? But no, he wasn’t a sinner. Sin was an illusion.

“I’m going crazy,” he murmured as he crawled back to where his friend lay. “You have to get well, Zerah. You can’t leave me all alone in this place. I’ll go mad.” He lifted Zerah’s head to give him a sip of water, but he couldn’t swallow. Water dribbled from the corners of his mouth into his beard. Manasseh held him in his arms, helpless to do more.

As the cell grew lighter he noticed the huge, festering sores on Zerah’s ankles where the shackles had rubbed his flesh raw. They weren’t healing as Manasseh’s blisters were but had turned a sickly greenish color, with darker streaks radiating up his legs. The heavy bonds, still in place, bit deeply into Zerah’s wounds. During the night Zerah’s insides had turned to water, but there was no way to clean him or change his clothes. The stench killed any appetite Manasseh might have had, and he watched, uncaring, as rats brazenly carried away their food.

For several days, Zerah was incoherent with fever. Manasseh hoped he was reciting incantations to bring healing or to get them out of this stinking prison, but he knew in his heart it was mindless babbling. He swatted the flies that swarmed around Zerah’s sores, but as time passed, he eventually gave up the impossible task.

Their food came only once a day, and Manasseh soon learned to eat it before the rats did. Using the meager bowl of water to cool Zerah’s fever had proved futile; instead, Manasseh carefully rationed it between them. By the end of the week his friend’s body had grown so foul that Manasseh didn’t want to be near him anymore, let alone touch him. But the guard continued to ignore his pleas for help.