Love In A Broken Vessel (34 page)

“But even if I reached Arpad in time, what could I do—”

“The size of the gathered coalition armies is substantial.
It’s a risk, Hosea, but if you can convince Menahem to stand against King Pul, perhaps the others will join the resistance.”

Hosea saw Isaiah’s eyes flutter closed. His friend was obviously frustrated but resigned to Uzziah’s desperate request.

“What does King Jotham think of the idea? I don’t see Commander Hananiah ready to charge in as my rear guard.” Hosea’s stomach twisted at the mention of Ammi’s abba. The commander had stormed into Tekoa the evening after Gomer left and searched every corner of the camp. In a rage, he’d damaged property and shouted threats. King Uzziah had ordered that he be forcibly removed, but to Hosea’s knowledge, he’d never been disciplined for his actions—nor had Gomer been found.

“Commander Hananiah has been relieved of his command.”

“What?” Hosea and Isaiah spoke in concert.

Before Uzziah could answer, a cool breeze stirred the sycamore fig trees above them. Isaiah gasped. “It’s Yahweh, isn’t it?” He stared into the trees as if he might see the physical presence of Elohim.

Hosea was both awed and delighted. The Lord’s manifest presence was like a familiar tune on a favorite harp. “Yes, my friend. It’s Yahweh.” He closed his eyes and let the voice wash over him.
The people of Israel went to Assyria. They were like wild donkeys wandering off alone. The people of Ephraim sold themselves to their lovers. Even though they sold themselves among the nations, I will gather them now. They will suffer for a while under the burdens of kings and princes.

The words stopped. The breeze calmed. Hosea opened his eyes and found both his friends staring.

“Your face is as red as Gomer’s hair.” Isaiah’s eyes sparkled, and he was seemingly delighted by his observation.

Gomer.
Why would he mention Gomer at a time like this? “Let’s concentrate on the message from Yahweh. I believe He wants me to deliver it to King Menahem personally.”

“Thank you, Hosea.” Uzziah’s eyes expressed both gratitude
and sorrow. “I can’t send troops with you. Jotham believes their presence might draw King Pul’s attention and bring a premature invasion. And Judah has no general. Commander Hananiah was relieved of his command because . . . well, his character was revealed through the death of another young girl who suffered similar circumstances as those Gomer described to Yuval.”

Hosea’s heart squeezed in his chest. Why did they have to say her name? Why couldn’t they leave Gomer to herself and focus on Yahweh and the mission before them? “I don’t want troops, my lord. Remember,” he said, following his own advice, “Yahweh has promised to rescue Judah without bows, swords, wars, horses, or horsemen. Perhaps it means He’ll use a simple prophet.” He tried to smile.

Uzziah nodded, seemingly overcome with emotion, exhaustion, or both. Isaiah laid his arm around Hosea’s shoulders and bid his cousin farewell.

The two men walked back to camp, and Isaiah was quiet, almost brooding.

“Trust Yahweh, my friend,” Hosea said, hoping to relieve his friend’s fears. “I have no doubt He’s called me to Arpad. He’ll shelter me beneath His wing.”

Isaiah stopped, his eyes filled with unshed tears. “When you heard Yahweh’s message, I saw Gomer’s face.”

The words assaulted him, stole his breath.

Isaiah steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. “You will see her in Arpad
.
”

• H
OSEA
13:15–16 •

Yahweh’s scorching wind will come from the east. . . . Their springs will run dry, and their wells will dry up. . . . Their children will be smashed to death, and their pregnant women will be ripped open.

G
eneral Eitan leaned back on the stack of pillows Gomer had arranged as she handed him a polished brass mirror. “You’ll stay in my tent again tonight,” he said, reaching for her wrist instead of the shiny metal. “I don’t mind sharing you with my officers, but I don’t want Menahem to catch a glimpse of you.” He squeezed harder, digging her silver wristband into her flesh. “Do you understand me?”

She winced but forced a smile. “I’ve had our good King Menahem. I have no desire to leave your tent.”

“Ha!” He released her wrist but grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her into a quick, harsh kiss. “You’re good for my ego,” he said, taking the mirror. “Now shave my cheeks and trim my beard. I can’t meet King Pul looking like an uncivilized pagan.”

Gomer leaned forward, suspending his dagger near his throat. The blade caught a glint of torchlight, and he captured
her wrist again. “Cut me, and I’ll bury you with Arpad’s citizens.”

She pulled away from his grasp. “Lie back. You sound like an old woman. I’m not going to cut you.” Gomer feigned anger to hide fear, willing her hand to stop shaking.

A wicked smile moved his cheek under the blade, nearly causing her to nick him. “That’s why you’re my harlot. You’ve got fire in your blood.”

More like ice in my veins.
Roiling hatred kept Gomer alive. She hated the gods, hated the other women in camp, hated the barbaric Assyrians—at least what she’d seen from a distance. But most of all, she hated this man lounging under the scraping of his dagger. Eitan, the brutal soldier from Samaria who had beaten her, was now her master. He owned her. Fate was almost as cruel as Eitan.

“What will you do while I attend Pul’s feast tonight with Menahem?” His hands violated her while he talked. How was she supposed to shave his cheeks when he kept moving?

“Your men brought back two antelopes from their hunt today. The other girls never get all the meat off the hides. I’ll stretch the hides and go down to the stream to wash a few clothes.”

He raised his head from the cushions, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Did I not make myself clear? I said you will stay
in my tent
tonight.”

“But there are only ten women to serve a hundred of your soldiers. If I stay in the tent, how will the others dress the game, prepare the feast, wash the clothes,
and
entertain Menahem and his men?”

He snatched the blade from her hand and hurled it at the center tent post, sinking it into the wood. “Your task is to obey your lord!”

His temper was hot and quick, but she dare not show fear. Any sign of weakness was an invitation for heightened abuse.

She leapt to her feet, her frustration real. “I’ll never finish shaving you if you keep interrupting!” She’d made it halfway
to the tent post when an iron grip snared her waist and dragged her back to the cushions.

“Mmm. Fire in your blood.” His leering gaze made her skin crawl, the look in his eye all too familiar. The other women in camp envied her, hated her for monopolizing the handsome young general. She wished he would take them instead.

She struggled, and he laughed at her futile attempts. Exhausted, she finally gave up, her bruises from last night still tender and aching. “Do what you must, but be quick about it.” She turned her face away, sighing. “You don’t want to have one shaven cheek for your first meeting with Assyria’s king.”

He laughed and burrowed in her neck. She feigned pleasure, pondering what she might do with the two new antelope hides.

Hosea left Tekoa the day after his meeting with Uzziah, nudged by the urgency of Yahweh’s call and harassed by Isaiah’s troubling prophecy.
You will see her in Arpad.
Why had the Lord told Isaiah and not him? And why must he
ever
see Gomer again?

He traveled hard on the first leg of his journey, pressing the Bactrian camel from Uzziah’s stable too hard. It went lame just north of Hazor. Hosea traded with a wily Aramean merchant, securing a fine young dromedary with one blind eye. The beast galloped for the next fifteen days over every kind of terrain, following the wide swath of death and destruction Assyria had left in its wake across the lands north of Israel. On the sixteenth night of his journey, Hosea slept on the outskirts of Aleppo, a small town just a morning’s ride south of Arpad. He’d spent the chilly night among merchants who had supplied the soldiers during the yearlong siege. Now their coffers were full from the visiting troops of nations called to witness King Pul’s final—and cruelest—forms of torture.

His camel lumbered north on the road to Arpad, and he searched the sea of soldiers for Israel’s army standard. The
smell of death assaulted him. He looked to the right and left, checking the soldiers’ camps for burning bodies. Nothing. He turned in the sedan atop his camel, checking the wind’s direction for the source of the acrid smell. When he reached the top of a rise, the beast stopped of its own accord. Its feet sank into the soil, softened by winter rains and fresh blood. Hosea followed the slope of the hill, looking toward the vanquished city.

“Elohim, no. Please no.” The whispered prayer ascended, and he leaned over to empty his stomach. He’d never seen anything so gruesome.

Arpad lay nestled in a valley, the surrounding area crimson with its citizens’ blood. Giant wooden stakes, as tall as the city wall, were planted around the perimeter like flowers in a garden. Impaled bodies, some still writhing, formed the grisly petals on each stem. How could any human do this to another?

Assyria’s so-called mental warfare had become legendary. If a king foolishly refused to pay tribute and become Pul’s vassal, Assyria marched on the city to overtake it. If the king dared close his city gates, King Pul instituted a siege. No water or food in or out, and Assyria maintained constant attacks on the gates and wall. The fiercest trained soldiers alive used the most advanced war machines on earth. Reports were consistent from Jerusalem to Aleppo. Assyria was unstoppable.

Arpad had lasted a year before their gates were breached. When Assyrian soldiers finally flooded the streets of the beleaguered city, starving people were tortured as Arpad’s king and its officials helplessly observed. King Pul lingered in his grisly display day after day, saving the worst torture for the city’s king and his officials. Hosea had learned during his overnight stay in Aleppo that the entertainment at tonight’s feast would be the death of Arpad’s king. The guest list was royalty—all the kings of Uzziah’s failed coalition. King Pul would give a final, vivid display of his victory, leaving them quaking in their sandals, too frightened to ever refuse tribute as the king of Arpad had done.

“Are you here to deliver Israel’s standard?” a soldier in Israelite armor demanded, grabbing the bridle of Hosea’s camel.

“Excuse me?”

“You! I see by the weave of your robe and blanket that you’re Hebrew. King Menahem has been waiting all day for the Israelite standard to display at tonight’s banquet. Your head is on a platter if something’s happened to it.”

Hosea’s heart was in his throat. Yahweh had just provided a guide to Menahem’s camp. “No, I don’t have the standard, but I bring a message to the king.”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “Sure you do. And I’m the king’s twin brother.”

He turned to walk away, but Hosea stopped him with an extended scroll. “Look! It bears the seal of King Uzziah from Judah. I’m telling you, I have a message. Now take me to Menahem.”

A moment of decision flashed in the soldier’s eyes. “Give me your reins.”

Hosea tossed him the camel’s lead and prayed as the surly guard led him off the road and deep into one of the camps. The familiar scents of Israelite-spiced foods dulled the death scent. Soldiers lounged by campfires, and a few women scurried between tents. A stream rushed through the backside of the encampment, and Hosea thought he caught a glimpse of auburn hair bent over rocks on the shoreline.

Yahweh, is it Gomer?
His heart thundered.
She is dead to me. Why do I care?
But he nearly fell from his sedan, twisting to see behind him as the guide rounded a tent corner and halted at a large, black goat’s-hair tent. He’d never know who had been at the river.

“Get off the camel, but wait outside. I’ll tell the general we’ve got a visitor, and he can decide what to do with you.” The man disappeared inside the fine tent. Not as elegant as some but far above the sackcloth and sticks Menahem had used while pillaging Tiphsah.

Hosea tapped the camel’s shoulder and swayed with the
beast as it knelt. Heart pounding, he shuddered at the mention of the general—undoubtedly Eitan.
Yahweh, protect me.
His feet had just touched the ground when he heard the familiar growl of Israel’s top soldier.

“I thought King Menahem made himself clear during your last visit to Samaria.”

Hosea turned, standing nose to chest with the hulking general. He lifted his chin, finding Eitan smiling down at him.

“You’re a dead man, Prophet.”

“I would suggest you wait to kill me
after
I deliver Uzziah’s message.” He held up the sealed scroll.

Eitan snatched it from his hand. “The last scroll nearly got you killed. Why should I let you live to deliver this one?”

“Because part of the message isn’t in the scroll.” Hosea tapped his forehead. “It’s in here.”

Eitan raised one eyebrow and began walking. Hosea followed, assuming they were moving in Menahem’s direction. “We’ve learned some exceptional torture strategies while here in Arpad, Prophet. Perhaps we can practice on you after your message has been delivered.” The general chuckled, clearly amused at his own wit. Hosea swallowed the lump in his throat, thankful he’d already emptied his stomach.

They arrived at a second black tent, equal in size but with armed guards on each corner. Eitan swept aside the tent flap, exposing a darkened interior, the aroma of incense wafting out from within.

Hosea hesitated, two guards eyeing him like Sampson looked at rodents.

“Come!” a gruff voice shouted from within the tent.

Hosea entered the dark sanctum of the man who’d promised to kill him the next time they met. He took three steps inside, stopped, and bowed, allowing his eyes to adjust before proceeding farther. He lingered in the respectful bow, looking right and left. Eight men surrounded the king, all but one wearing armor. Hosea assumed he was a scribe since he held Uzziah’s scroll unfurled.

“King Uzziah asks that I refuse to pay tribute and says I should reinstate the coalition.” Menahem stared at him dangerously, then chuckled. And then he laughed, nearly bursting a neck vein, so unbridled was his folly. The others ventured nervous chuckles until the king’s humor faded. “So, tell me, Prophet. Why would you risk your life to bring a message that is as ridiculous as the vomit on your beard?”

A little embarrassed at his appearance, Hosea wiped his chin. “I also bring a verbal message.” He paused, the only acknowledgment a slow nod from the king. “A message from Yahweh.”

“Tread carefully, Prophet,” Menahem said. “You are still breathing because I remain in good humor.”

Hosea moved a few steps closer, and General Eitan stepped between them, lifting one side of a dangerous smile and fingering his dagger. Hosea swallowed hard, praying as he spoke. “Yahweh says to you, King Menahem, ‘The people of Israel went to Assyria. They were like wild donkeys wandering off alone. The people of Ephraim sold themselves to their lovers. Even though they sold themselves among the nations, I will gather them now. They will suffer for a while under the burdens of kings and princes.’” Hosea fell silent, holding his breath, waiting for the king’s command—life or death.

“I don’t understand.” Menahem’s voice was as unreadable as his expression. “Is Yahweh for us or against us?”

“You have foolishly aligned yourself with Assyria, but Yahweh has promised you a few more years of reprieve from destruction. They will be years of suffering under foreign kings and princes—but at least you still have a kingdom, King Menahem.”

Hosea was certain the next words would be his death sentence. Instead, the king grinned. “I think your god is losing his grip on reality, because the other gods are smiling on us. Rains are coming in season, orchards and fields produce record crops. Our cisterns are full and our storehouses are overflowing. Peace with Assyria means increased trade with tributary
nations and greater access to the coastal ports of Tyre, Sidon, and Byblos. Israel has never been stronger, Prophet.”

Hosea drew a breath to repeat a separate prophecy Yahweh had given him earlier. He’d rehearsed it again and again, preparing for this moment. But a mighty wind swept through the black tent, snuffing out every torch except one. The guards drew their swords, and Eitan threw himself in front of Menahem—as if flesh and blood could stop the wind.

Hosea stood silently, allowing the Lord to speak for Himself.