"Then I won't keep you. Thank you for coming."

Hezekiah pondered Joah's interpretation for a long time after the two men left. Although it seemed as though the Torah would permit a second marriage, he found it difficult to accept the idea after believing differently for so many years. He knew he could never love a second wife as much as Hephzibah, and it would be hard to treat them equally-even harder to share his time with another woman. And deep inside, he still longed for a son of Hephzibah's to inherit his throne.

As he struggled with these thoughts, he wondered how Hephzibah would react to what the Levite had told him. Would this news cheer her and offer her hope or enflame her bitterness and jealousy? She would have a lot to think about, and Hezekiah would need to talk everything over with her carefully before he made his final decision.

But why wait until tomorrow night? He would go back to Hephzibah's room and tell her tonight.

He quickly walked the short distance to the harem and saw a beam of light shining under her door. He knocked softly. Then, not waiting for the maid to answer, he opened the door and stepped inside.

"Hephzibah, I-"

But Hezekiah never finished what he had come to say. Hephzibah was kneeling in worship before a golden statue of Asherah.

2.

THE FLOOR SWAYED BENEATH Hezekiah's feet as he slowly walked toward his wife. He stared at the shrine, then at Hephzibah, unwilling to believe what he was seeing. He had stepped into a nightmare. This wasn't his wife kneeling before an idol. It couldn't be. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. He fought the urge to be sick.

Please let this be a dream.

But it wasn't a dream. It was real. And an agonized cry rose from deep inside him.

"No! Oh, Yahweh ... please ... no!"

He grabbed the front of his tunic with shaking hands and tore it down the middle. Then he ripped the fabric to shreds, crying out in anguish as he pulled it again and again, "How could you do this to me? How could you?"

All the blood drained from Hephzibah's face as she cowered before him. Hezekiah seized her by the shoulders, but his hands shook uncontrollably as rage pounded through him, and he quickly let go, afraid he would kill her.

"How long have you had this in my house?" he shouted. "How long have you worshiped an idol?"

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "I-I can explain-" Hezekiah couldn't look at her. He turned away in revulsion, and his eyes fell on the shrine she had made. Fine olive oil from his storehouses filled the silver lamps. The royal incense intended for Yahweh's sanctuary burned in the incense stands. The smiling G.o.ddess with her swollen belly and heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s gazed up at him with contempt.

Then he saw the urn bearing his own seal. He picked it up and read the d.a.m.ning symbols of Hephzibah's vow. Oh, Yahweh, no-not this. Horror rocked through him. She had pledged to murder his child.

"Hephzibah, you would sacrifice our son?"

"But I made the vow for you-so the enemy wouldn't invade your nation."

"No," he moaned, fighting tears. "No!"

His father had sacrificed his sons to Molech for the same reason. Hezekiah remembered his brother's terrified screams as he had rolled into the monster's flaming mouth. He shuddered in horror at the thought of Hephzibah throwing their son into the flames.

He stood paralyzed. Time had frozen, and it seemed as though he would be trapped in this chilling moment forever. But gradually his blood began to flow through his veins once again, transforming his shock into uncontrollable rage.

Hezekiah slammed the urn against the far wall with all his strength, shattering it into dust. He saw the obscene G.o.ddess smiling at him, mocking him, and he lost all control. He picked up the table as if it weighed nothing and hurled it across the room with a savage cry. The golden idol crashed to the floor, breaking open, spilling sand from its hollow center. What had appeared to be a solid gold statue had been a fake, molded from clay and thinly coated with gold.

The table and lamps and incense burners he'd overturned flew in every direction, knocking over one of the blazing lampstands. Before Hezekiah could react, the puddles of splattered oil quickly ignited and burst into flames. The fire licked across the carpet, engulfed a pile of reed mats, then spread to the silken floor cushions.

He heard a whoosh as dried palm branches in an earthenware jar caught fire, then the angry crackle of flames as they jumped to a tapestry banner hanging above the jar. Beside him the woven lattice screen that shielded Hephzibah's bath erupted in flames, and from there the fire quickly leaped up the gauzy curtains that enclosed her bed. It was spreading out of control. He had to do something.

Hezekiah tore off his outer robe and used it to fight the rapidly spreading fire. Hot smoke choked him as he swung the robe into the middle of the flames, over and over again, beating with desperate strength.

But the fire spread faster than he could fight it. A wall of flames surrounded Hezekiah, following the arc of spilled oil. Heat seared his chest where he had torn his tunic; flying sparks singed his arms and face. He ignored the pain as he battled on.

Suddenly he heard Hephzibah scream. She had backed into a corner beside the flaming bed with no way to escape. He tore the blazing curtains from the canopy to clear a path for her, shouting, "Run, Hephzibah! Get out of there!" She didn't move.

Before he could grab her and pull her out, a piece of flaming debris suddenly fell onto his clothing, igniting the hem and ta.s.sels of his tunic. He wrestled to extinguish his burning clothes, crying out in agony as the oily flames burned off a large patch of skin on his leg.

Dizzy with shock and pain, Hezekiah fought for his life and for Hephzibah's, desperate to bring the fire under control. When he could no longer use his robe to beat the flames, he bailed water from the bath to soak the carpet. He scooped handfuls of sand from the toppled idol to douse burning puddles of oil. He grabbed the flaming tapestry banner and tore it down so the fire wouldn't spread to the ceiling beams. Choking on acrid smoke, he yanked the curtains off the windows before the fire reached them and used the heavy cloth to smother the flames. After what seemed like many hours, the fire was finally out.

Hezekiah sagged with exhaustion. His lungs ached from breathing smoke. His blistered hands burned as if still immersed in the flames, and the shin of his right leg where his clothes had caught fire was a throbbing, open wound. But it was better that he suffered, better that he burned in the flames than his firstborn child.

The smell of burnt flesh and hair lingered in Hezekiah's nostrils, and it seemed appropriate to him. It was the smell of idolatry.

Hephzibah's shattered Asherah lay among the ashes where it had fallen, its severed head smiling as if nothing had happened. Hezekiah bent down and painfully scooped up a fistful of sand, then walked over to where Hephzibah still cowered beside the bed. He grabbed her hand and forced it open, pouring sand into it.

"Here's your G.o.ddess," he said. "Pray to this."

Then, stepping over the smoldering wreckage, he left her.

Servants rushed into Hephzibah's room from all directions, but she didn't move from where she sat slumped in her gutted bedroom.

"What have I done? What have I done?" she sobbed.

Hezekiah was gone. The moment he walked out her door, Hephzibah knew she had lost him forever. The anguish and bewilderment she'd seen on his face would haunt her for the rest of her life. She wished she had died in the fire.

She knew how much Hezekiah's G.o.d meant to him, how hard he had worked for religious reform. Why had she deceived him and betrayed him by worshiping an idol? Her reasons seemed trivial to her now, beside the enormity of Hezekiah's anger and hatred. He would never forgive her. She wanted to die.

She stared at the handful of sand she clutched and watched it slowly slip away between her fingers. She had lost Hezekiah, her only reason for living, over a handful of worthless sand.

---- Hezekiah limped down the hall toward his chambers in a daze, coughing smoke from his lungs. The searing pain from his burns was slowly penetrating his shock, but the pain of what Hephzibah had done to him was far greater.

Before he reached his door, he saw Eliakim running up the hall toward him. "What happened, Your Majesty? We smelled smoke. Are you-G.o.d of Abraham, help us! Look at you!"

Hezekiah glanced down at his torn, burnt clothes. "There was a fire in the harem... ." he said dazedly. "Some oil lamps spilled. It's ... out now... ."

"Your Majesty, you're badly burned! Here-let me help you."

With Eliakim's aid, Hezekiah stumbled inside his chambers and sank onto his couch. He heard Eliakim calling for servants and issuing orders, but his voice sounded as if he were shouting from the end of a long tunnel.

"Fill a basin with cold water. Hurry! You-run to the harem. There was a fire there. Make sure it's out. And you-fetch the royal physicians quickly."

Hezekiah's valet stood over him, wringing his hands.

"Get some strong wine," Eliakim told the man. "Now!" The servant dashed off, leaving them alone.

Hezekiah felt the pain surging and expanding like a powerful tide, strengthening every minute. His hands and his chest burned as if still immersed in the flames, but the greatest agony came from the burn on his leg. He forced himself to talk between labored breaths, struggling to stay conscious.

"I guess I was foolish ... to try to fight the fire ... myself. But I couldn't call for help... . I didn't want ... anyone ... to see ..."

Sweat poured down Hezekiah's face into his eyes. He tried to wipe it away with his forearm, his swollen hands as useless as if they belonged to someone else. Eliakim grabbed a linen cloth and mopped his face and neck.

"Hold on, Your Majesty. Help is coming."

"My leg," Hezekiah groaned.

"Yes, I know. G.o.d of Abraham-it's very bad."

Hezekiah had to keep talking. He didn't want to pa.s.s out. "Eliakim, you're married, aren't you?"

"Yes, don't you remember, Your Majesty? I married the Israelite woman who escaped from the a.s.syrians."

"I remember her ... astounding courage ..." He leaned his head against the cushions and stifled a moan. "Do you ... do you love her?"

"Yes. I love her as I love my own life. She is a precious gift to me, from G.o.d."

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, G.o.d 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 p.r.o.nounce 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 ta.s.sels 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d-Yahweh alone! ... You shall love Yahweh your G.o.d with all your heart and ...

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

3.