Among the Gods (35 page)

Joel wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I hardly know where to begin.”

“I know what you mean,” Amariah said. “I wonder if this is how my father felt when he began to reform the nation after King Ahaz died.”

“This has to be worse,” Joshua said, “much worse. Manasseh has reigned for a long time. If any man ever deserved God’s wrath, it’s him.” He walked in silence for a moment, then said, “Ironic, isn’t it? My father’s first job for your father was repairing the Temple.”

He had been chasing memories of Abba all day, but they had eluded him, darting out of sight every time he tried to picture his face. There were two more places he wanted to visit, but he needed to confront them alone. “I’ll meet you later tonight,” he told the others. “I want some time to look around the city by myself.”

Joshua threaded his way through the jostling crowds, following the street that led to the Damascus Gate. Jerusalem seemed noisy and strident, the people he passed rushed and ill-tempered. He was surprised to find himself longing for the peace of Elephantine Island and the gentle sound of lapping water. When he reached the gate he paused, drawing a deep breath for courage. Then he hurried through it to face the king’s execution pit.

The site was unchanged, a well-used testimony to the brutality of Manasseh’s reign. Joshua stared at the scourging posts and the deadly stones that littered the ground, picturing them splattered with innocent blood. If he walked through the pit, he imagined that the earth itself would be soaked with it. Abba had suffered here, died here. Joshua didn’t even know where he was buried. He found it difficult to live with the fact that he might never know. He hoped that Manasseh’s suffering was ten times greater than what he had inflicted here.

The last place Joshua visited proved to be the most painful of all. He reentered the city and wandered through the broad streets of elegant houses that stood below the palace until he found his boyhood home. Like the execution pit, it seemed unchanged, except that someone else now lived there. He gazed at the front door for a long time, the ache in his throat so large he couldn’t swallow. He thought of his mother’s words:
“I will thank God for all that He has given me, not curse Him for all that I’ve lost.”

He would remember the good times, the happy memories: Mama sitting beneath the tree in their tiny garden, teaching him to count as they shelled dried beans; Abba crouching to greet his children after work, Joshua and Jerimoth both talking at once, Tirza and Dinah clamoring for his kisses. He imagined Grandpa Hilkiah returning home from the Temple in his prayer shawl, pausing to reverently kiss the
mezuzah
on the front door, his fingers caressing the box that contained the sacred law. Joshua peered at the doorframe, but the mezuzah, like his grandfather, was gone. He slid his fingers beneath his eye patch to wipe his eyes, then finally turned and hurried away.

As he made his way through the jumble of streets to his rented house near the marketplace, he silently thanked God for all that He had given him—for his peaceful life on Elephantine, for his infant grandson, for Nathan and for Miriam. Then he thanked God for Miriam’s stubbornness. Because of it, he would find her waiting for him in their tiny home, ready to comfort him.

Manasseh’s peace proved elusive; the warmth of God’s presence, fleeting. As he sat in his prison cell day after day, sifting through the refuse of his life, condemnation and guilt continually buried him beneath their weight, leaving him alone with his devastating doubts. God couldn’t possibly forgive him. His grace would never reach as far as this wretched pit. Despair forced Manasseh to sing the words of his mother’s favorite psalm over and over until he believed them once again. “‘He does not treat us as our sins deserve….’”

His mother had worshiped Asherah for a time. Rabbi Isaiah had admitted it was true. At last Manasseh understood why this psalm had been so important to her.
“As far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us….”

The only other measure of comfort Manasseh found was in prayer. It was through prayer that he eventually accepted the fact that he would live the rest of his life in this cell and probably die here. His life sentence no longer brought terror but quiet resignation. Even though God had forgiven him for all that he’d done, Manasseh still had to suffer the consequences of his sins. And that seemed right to him.

Slowly the months passed. Soon it would be a year since his arrest. As the nights grew colder and summer faded into fall, he begged the guard for a blanket against the chill. He lay huddled in the corner one morning, trying to keep warm, when he heard two sets of footsteps descending the stairs. Manasseh sat up in surprise, listening. He was astonished when the guards started prying the bar loose from the cell door, as they had when they’d removed Zerah’s body. They must be giving him the blanket he had asked for. They must be removing the bar to shove it inside. He heard the bar fall to the floor with a loud crash, and he crouched near the door, ready to take the blanket.

“You may come out,” a voice said.

Manasseh didn’t understand. Did they want him to come out for the blanket? He couldn’t seem to move.

“I said, you may come out, King Manasseh.”

No. He remembered the taunting games the guards had played once before and refused to believe it. He waited for the joke to end, for his food and water to slide through the hole as they always did. But the hand that reached into his cell was empty.

“Come … take my hand. Let me help you.”

The door to his cell stood open. The guard was telling him he could crawl through it. Manasseh had dreamt of doing it so many times that this seemed unreal, another dream. Slowly, he lay down on his stomach and inched forward, his eyes clamped tightly closed against disappointment. As soon as his shoulders emerged, two strong sets of hands gripped him beneath his arms and pulled him the rest of the way. Manasseh cried out in terror.

“It’s all right, we’re not going to hurt you,” one of the guards said as they hauled him to his feet. Manasseh’s knees wouldn’t support his trembling legs. The men propelled him down the passageway toward the stairs against his will, away from the safety of his cell.

“Stop…. What are you doing to me? Where are you taking me?”

“We’re setting you free.”

“No … no …” he moaned. He refused to believe it, refused to trade his quiet acceptance and resignation for false hope and then despair.

When they reached the room at the top of the stairs, the huge, open space terrified Manasseh after being enclosed for so long. He felt as if he were shrinking. Strange, elongated shapes floated past him, and several moments passed before he realized that he was seeing people. He clapped his hands over his ears to escape the deafening sounds that clamored all around him. When one of the guards tried to pull his hands down, he resisted.

“Please,” the guard said. “Give me your hands, King Manasseh. I want to take your shackles off.”

He hesitated, afraid to believe him, then finally held out his trembling hands. The guard removed the heavy bronze fetters from his wrists, then his ankles, for the first time in nearly a year. Manasseh felt naked without them, his body so light he was afraid he might float. He rubbed his arms in disbelief, staring at the bands of skin that had remained cleaner beneath his bonds.

Someone took his arm and gently guided him into a smaller room close by. So much time had passed since Manasseh had felt another person’s touch that the warmth of it brought tears to his eyes. Three servants waited for him beside a plastered
mikveh
large enough to immerse himself in; a fragrant scent he couldn’t identify filled the room. As they stripped off his filthy rags and helped him into the hot bath, he wept. God’s grace and forgiveness had stripped and cleansed him this same way.
“Wash me, and I will be whiter than snow….”

Manasseh clung to his blue tassel, moving it from hand to hand as the servants scrubbed him clean. The water became so murky that he could no longer see the bottom. Afterward, they trimmed his hair and beard. He stared at the long strands that dropped to the floor, astonished to see that they were white. Finally, the servants made him lie down as they carefully filed off the bronze hook and removed it from his nose.

When Manasseh stood before a mirror, dressed in new robes, he didn’t recognize the very old man facing him. He lifted a shaking hand to touch his sunken cheeks, his grizzled beard, and the man in the mirror did the same. “That’s not me…. It can’t be me,” he murmured. He saw a dead man, pulled from his grave, with gray skin and black-rimmed eyes. Most terrifying of all was the glimpse of hell he saw in those eyes.

Someone took his arm again, and he floated, dreamlike, out of the building for the first time. How beautiful the world was! Manasseh wept aloud when he saw the azure sky, the billowing clouds, the radiant sun. And birds! He had forgotten about birds—how they sang, how they soared through the air. He stood in awe to watch a palm tree swaying in the wind, its long, graceful branches waving like green arms. Beautiful … oh, so beautiful! He lifted his face and the breeze caressed it like fingers, then ruffled through his hair. Everything he gazed at or touched seemed graced by the hand of God, a gift just for him.

They led him into another building, into a room with walls painted white and blue and ocher. Thick woven rugs covered the floor, and he stopped to kneel, to trace their swirling, multicolored patterns. He had to touch everything, feeling the nubby texture of the plastered walls, the fine weave of the linen tablecloth, the cool smoothness of the bronze lavers. He had nearly forgotten what colors were, but now they exploded all around him: pulsing crimsons, cool greens, dancing yellows. A woman entered with a tray of food, and he stared at her, transfixed. How astonishing a human face was! So soft, so delicate and perfect!

Then he smelled the food. When they seated him at the table laden with delicacies, he could only stare at it and weep, afraid that everything would disappear if he touched it, like the food always did in his dreams. He ate a few bites of each item they served him, but his shrunken stomach and starved palate were unable to tolerate more. One sip of wine made his head reel, and he pushed the cup aside, his senses already overburdened.

After the meal, Manasseh was reunited with the half-dozen of his nobles who had survived. They looked like walking skeletons, and he was terrified of them at first. His secretary was an ancient, crippled man, barely able to walk or speak. Together, they stood before the Assyrian rabshekeh.

“You’re free to return home, King Manasseh,” the rabshekeh told him. “Our investigation has found you innocent of all charges of conspiracy. Your record has been cleared. We will provide you with transportation so you can return to your homeland.”

Manasseh couldn’t understand what was happening to him. Experiencing God’s forgiveness in his prison cell had been a far greater gift than he had expected or deserved. To be pardoned by the emperor, set free, allowed to return home, was beyond his comprehension. He fell at the Assyrian’s feet, weeping at Yahweh’s goodness.

That night he slept in a room with two tall windows and shutters that opened to the starry night sky. Manasseh stared in wonder at the heavens until the air grew too cold and he had to close the latches. He lay down on his bed and closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, he traveled back in time on his final memory journey.

Abba had held his hand as they’d walked through the palace treasure house. The vessels of silver and gold, the caskets of precious stones and jewels left Manasseh awestruck.
“All of this will be yours someday,”
Abba had told him,
“but listen carefully, son. Don’t let worldly goods or the praises of men fill you with pride. That’s what happened to me. I did nothing to deserve all this wealth. Everything you see is a gift from God.”

Abba had tried to explain how he had sinned, but his words had repulsed Manasseh. He didn’t want to believe that Abba could ever sin. His father was perfect. He could never do anything wrong. And so Manasseh had closed his ears to his father’s confession, and to his warning. But Abba had made him memorize a verse from the Torah, and now the words came back to Manasseh in his room in Babylon as if he had just learned them.
“When you are in distress and all these things have happened to you, then in later days you will return to the Lord your God and obey him. For the Lord your God is a merciful God; he will not abandon or destroy you.”

All his life Manasseh had feared living in his father’s shadow, afraid that Yahweh wouldn’t perform the miraculous feats during his reign that He had during Hezekiah’s. But tonight Manasseh knew that God had performed an even greater miracle for him than slaying 144,000 enemy Assyrians. God had forgiven him, erasing the record of his sins.

The knowledge was too much for Manasseh. He fell to the floor on his face and worshiped God.

28

J
OSHUA SAT BEHIND THE WORKTABLE
where his father had once sat and stared at the documents spread out in front of him. After working nonstop for nearly a month, he still hadn’t finished sifting through all the unfinished business Manasseh’s palace administrator had left behind. So much of it was worthless garbage—pages of strangely worded omens and reports from the astrologers about which days were favorable to act and which ones weren’t. He sat back and rubbed his eye, remembering Miriam’s warning about straining it with too much reading.

After living more than half his life-span, Joshua was finally working at the job for which he had trained, beginning the work he once thought he’d spend a lifetime doing. Clambering around construction sites with the hot Egyptian sun on his back seemed to belong to a dream world from which he had finally awakened. But as Joshua gazed at the courtyard outside his window, he found that he missed the fresh air and sunshine more than he thought he would; missed the sense of accomplishment he felt as he watched a new building take shape. Most of all, he missed working with Nathan.

Joshua stood, compelled by a sudden urge to find his son and see how his work was progressing. They had assigned Nathan the task of removing the barricades from around the palace and restoring the facade. Joshua started toward the door, then stopped; he didn’t want his son to think he was hovering over him, checking up on him. He returned to his seat again.

Maybe once they reclaimed the Temple Mount, he and Nathan could work side by side on the repairs. Nathan’s original designs and expert craftsmanship would far outshine the gaudy idols that currently littered the Temple courtyards. But he couldn’t begin the work; Manasseh’s priests were still deeply entrenched there. Without a military force, Amariah and Joel weren’t prepared for a power struggle with them yet. In fact, as Joshua and the prince quietly went about their work, most of the nation remained unaware that they had taken control of the reins of government.

Joshua was tired of sitting; he needed to stretch. He picked up two documents that required Amariah’s seal and decided to deliver them himself. He found the prince in one of the council rooms, poring over lists of Assyrian tribute demands.

“Have you seen these accounts, Joshua?” he asked in astonishment.

“Not yet. Why? Are they in bad shape, too?”

“It’s a wonder our nation isn’t bankrupt!”

As Joshua skimmed the list Amariah handed him, a palace servant interrupted. “Excuse me, my lords, but a messenger has just arrived from one of our northern border outposts.”

“Send him in,” Amariah said. He looked up at Joshua, frowning. “Who would send us a message from the northern border?”

Joshua shrugged. “Who even knows that we’re here?”

The disheveled messenger appeared as though he had come a long way in a short time and still hadn’t caught his breath. He stared openmouthed at the two of them, as if he hadn’t expected to find anyone in charge. Obviously, the border outpost hadn’t received word of Prince Amariah’s return, and that made the man’s message an even greater mystery.

“Yes? What is it?” Joshua asked.

“I was sent ahead to tell the palace servants to prepare for the king’s arrival.”

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” he asked irritably.

“You have to get everything ready. The king is coming!”

“The
king
? Which king? Who sent you here?”

“King Manasseh. He gave me the order himself.”

Joshua opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Amariah scrambled to his feet, then abruptly sat down again as if his knees had given way. “Is this some kind of a joke?” he asked.

“No, my lord. King Manasseh and his entourage arrived in Judean territory earlier this morning. They are on their way to Jerusalem right now. They are not far behind me, in fact.”

“That’s not possible!” Joshua shouted. “King Manasseh is dead!”

The messenger backed up a step. “He’s not dead, my lord. The Assyrians escorted him as far as the border. I saw him myself. I talked to him.”

“Was he still in chains?” Amariah asked, his voice a whisper. The messenger shook his head.

“He was wearing royal robes, my lord. You’ll see for yourself. King Manasseh will be arriving shortly. I was told to run ahead—”

“NO!” Joshua’s anguished cry was deafening. “God of Abraham,
no! No … NO!”

Amariah closed his eyes. “You’re excused,” he told the messenger. “Go tell the other servants to get everything ready.”

“This can’t be true … it can’t be!” Joshua couldn’t catch his breath.

“I’m afraid it might be,” Amariah said quietly. “Manasseh was arrested for treason, but he wasn’t guilty, remember? The Assyrians must have found that out.”

“O God of Abraham, how could you do this to me again!” Joshua collapsed to the floor and buried his face in his hands. “How
could
you?” The sound of his bitter cries filled the room.

When the anguish of his soul was spent, Joshua looked up at Amariah. “You realize that we’re traitors once again. For taking control of the government when no one else would … for wanting to rid the country of idolatry, for wanting to turn people’s hearts back to God…. We’re traitors! He’ll execute both of us.”

“Not if we leave before Manasseh gets here.”

Joshua shook his head. “I’m not running anymore. I’m tired of this game. I’m tired of working for a God who seems to be on my enemy’s side. Let Manasseh kill me and get it over with.” He covered his face again.

“What about Nathan and Miriam?”

“What?” Numb with despair, Joshua didn’t comprehend Amariah’s words.

“Your wife and son are in danger. Do you want Manasseh to kill them, too?”

How many years ago had he escaped with Nathan and Miriam? Nathan had been a skinny urchin, brazenly challenging the king’s soldiers. Miriam had helped him escape the second time, too, after the explosion at the Temple. He remembered how she had unpinned her hair and tossed it over her shoulder as she courageously entered Asherah’s booth. He and Miriam had escaped Manasseh’s soldiers a third time, after the abortive assassination attempt. The thought of doing it a fourth time overwhelmed him.

“How could God put us through this all over again?” he questioned, struggling to breathe. “How could He let Manasseh go free when He had a chance to punish him? How could God let such an evil man parade back into town to carry on with his wickedness? I don’t understand! I just … I …”

“Joshua, we have to get out of here before Manasseh returns.”

He shook his head. “Do me a favor. Take Miriam and Nathan back to Egypt for me.”

“You know Miriam isn’t going to budge one inch without you. Now get up! We need to go!” Amariah took Joshua’s arm and hauled him to his feet. They hurried through the main palace doors and found Nathan working outside.

“Abba! What is it? What’s wrong?” he said when he saw Joshua.

“My brother has returned,” Amariah told him.

“You mean … King Manasseh?”

Amariah nodded. “We’ve got to get out of the country. Do you know where Joel is?”

“He went to Anathoth to see what’s become of his family’s property. He didn’t expect to be back until this evening. Do you want me to go get him?”

“No!” Joshua shouted. “How would you ever find him? No, Nathan, I want you to get out of Judah, now! You have a wife and a child to think about.”

Nathan seemed to study him for a long moment before saying calmly, “I’m not leaving without you, Abba. And we can’t leave without Uncle Joel, either.”

Joshua couldn’t think what to do. The terrible injustice of Manasseh’s release from prison so overwhelmed him that he lacked the will to fight. Nathan took his elbow and they started hurrying away from the palace.

“Abba, listen. I don’t think we’ll be in danger if we all wait at your house until Uncle Joel comes back tonight. King Manasseh won’t know that you’re here—hardly anyone does.”

“The elders know,” Joshua said. “And all the palace servants.”

“But they’ve collaborated with us this past month,” Amariah said. “If they reported us, they would be just as guilty as we are in Manasseh’s eyes.”

“How can Manasseh be back?” Joshua said with a moan. “This can’t be true. God of Abraham, please let this be a mistake!” He was finding it more and more difficult to breathe.

“Nathan’s right,” Amariah said. “We’ll probably be safe at your house for now. Neither the elders nor the servants know where you live. We can plan our escape while we wait for Joel.”

“God of Abraham,
why
?” Joshua wanted to tear his clothes in grief, but he lacked the strength. “Why is God doing this to me again? Haven’t I had enough of that man? Isn’t it enough that he ruined my life?”

“Abba, shh … people are staring.”

“I don’t care.” They reached one of the city’s main intersections and had to push their way through the huge crowd jamming the streets. Excitement charged the air, as if the people awaited a momentous event. Joshua halted.

“What’s going on here?” he asked a bystander. “What’s everyone waiting for?”

“King Manasseh has returned. We’re gathering to watch his procession.”

Joshua stared, dumbfounded. It was true. His enemy had returned. How could God do this to him?

He swayed on his feet, and Nathan gripped his arm. “Let’s get out of here, Abba,” he whispered urgently.

“No. I want to see him.”

“Abba, are you crazy?”

“He’ll never recognize me after all these years. Especially in a crowd this huge.”

Nathan turned to Amariah. “Can you please talk some sense into my father?”

“I want to see Manasseh, too,” Amariah said quietly. “I think we’ll be all right.”

Nathan groaned. “At least take your eye patch off, Abba, so you’ll be less noticeable.”

Joshua untied the leather thong and tucked it under his belt, silently cursing himself for not wearing his dagger. If he had a weapon, he could disembowel his enemy before anyone stopped him. As he considered jogging home for it, the trumpets suddenly announced the king’s arrival.

Deafening cheers rang in Joshua’s ears as the people welcomed King Manasseh home. The sound even drowned out the clatter of hoofbeats as the Assyrian chariots swept the king into Jerusalem. Joshua was unaware of his own bitter groaning or that he was gnashing his teeth until he felt Nathan’s comforting hand on his shoulder. When the first few chariots came into view, Joshua strained to see above the crowd. The drivers were Assyrian, and the procession resembled a royal escort, but he couldn’t see Manasseh—the passengers were all elderly, white-haired men. Joshua searched for the king’s dark hair and arrogant face in vain.

“Where’s Manasseh?” he asked Amariah. “Can you see him?”

“No. These must be his officials. Maybe he’s at the end of the procession.” But after the last chariot rolled past, Amariah stared at Joshua in disbelief. “We must have missed him and didn’t recognize him!”

“They were all much too old,” Joshua said. “Maybe it was a rumor after all.” The mob surged forward to follow the chariots, and Joshua felt himself being swept along with it.

“Please, let’s go home, Abba,” Nathan begged.

“Not yet. I have to see him.” He took Nathan’s arm so he wouldn’t lose him in the crowd and grabbed onto the back of Amariah’s belt. The procession didn’t stop at the palace but continued up the hill to the Temple. In the distance, Joshua saw the chariots halt outside the gates. The white-haired officials disembarked. “Come on, let’s hurry,” he told the others.

“We’re not going inside the Temple grounds, are we?” Nathan asked.

“We won’t stay for any pagan ceremonies; I just want to see him. He’ll be on the royal platform.” Joshua pushed his way forward, towing the others through the gate, into the Court of the Gentiles. When they reached the main courtyard, it was so tightly packed they could go no farther. Joshua craned his neck and caught a glimpse of the royal platform just as one of the old men mounted it.

“That’s Manasseh!” Amariah cried.

Joshua stared at a thin, stoop-shouldered man with white hair and a grizzled beard. “No, it can’t—” Suddenly the old man lifted his head and thrust out his chin in a gesture that was unmistakably Manasseh’s. Joshua felt as if he’d been stabbed in the gut.

“O God of Abraham, why did you let him come back?” he moaned.
“Why?”

“Abba, shh …” Nathan begged.

Gradually the cheering died away and a hush whispered through the crowd as they waited for King Manasseh to speak. Joshua had to hold his breath in order to hear him above the sound of his own labored breathing.

Manasseh faced the Temple sanctuary and raised his hands high in the air. “‘Hear, O Israel,’” he said in a shaking voice. “‘Yahweh is God—Yahweh alone! Love Yahweh your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength.’” Manasseh dropped to his knees. Then he fell prostrate before the astonished crowd. The sound of his loud weeping resounded in the silent courtyard.

“I don’t believe what I’m seeing …” Amariah whispered.

It seemed to Joshua that a long time passed before Manasseh finally stood again. It was longer still before he could speak. The stunned crowd was utterly still, waiting.

“We’ve all been greatly deceived,” Manasseh said. He gestured to the four-faced image in front of the sanctuary. “These are idols. Worthless idols! I want them out of Yahweh’s Temple! And I want anyone who still worships them to get out, as well!” He sagged, as if his strength had given way. His officials caught him to keep him from falling off the platform, then hustled him down the royal walkway to the palace.

They all stood frozen for a long moment before Amariah spoke. “What do you make of that?” he asked.

“I don’t believe any of it.” Joshua closed his eyes, too weak and dizzy to think. The crowds buffeted him as they filed from the courtyard, but he couldn’t move.

“I believe it,” Amariah said quietly. “I’m going to go down to the palace to see him.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Joshua cried. “It was your fault the Assyrians arrested him! He’ll murder you!”

“I don’t think so. Whatever happened to him in Babylon changed him, and not just on the outside. He was genuinely weeping just now. And he recited the Shema. He never would have done that the last time I saw him.”