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Solomon stood on his bedchamber balcony when the news of the horrendous defeat reached Jersualem. A bloodied and nearly dead soldier gave the report. Joshua’s death, along with thousands of others, filled Solomon with a grief he had never experienced before. Not even when his mother had taken ill and suddenly died.
Now he stood on his balcony in the late afternoon sun, watching the hustle and bustle of his people below, many looking up at him with fear and anger. This latest news cast a cloud over the city so deep and heavy, anyone within ten miles of the great capitol could feel it. Solomon knew if he did not obey Chemosh soon, he would lose everything. Including the war. He had no choice. If Benaiah was not killed, all Israel would be lost.
Solomon gripped the stone rail, wondering if he should simply cast himself over. So simple. So quick. So easy. To be free of this weariness, this grief, this pain, this madness and confusion . . . he shook his head and drew back. No. He could not kill himself. He feared death too much.
He turned into his bedchamber and sat down at his golden desk near one wide window. He carefully dipped the quill pen into the ink and began writing.
By orders of his royal majesty in Jerusalem, Captain Benaiah is summoned to the Royal Court immediately. Signed, King Solomon.
He folded the paper and sealed it with hot wax. He stared at the summons with a sigh. He would order Captain Benaiah here. He would have him killed. As painlessly as possible. Probably while he slept. He would have his men slit his throat in the night. Make it look like suicide. Hide his body in the caverns of Zion where he could offer it to Molech and Chemosh. Strange, Solomon thought, that I should murder my closest friend in the same manner Caleb tried to murder me. And Benaiah risked his own life to save mine. Strange, indeed.
“What other choice do I have?” Solomon cried out into the silence. I have no other choice. I am trapped. Trapped. If one man should die for the sake of Israel, how can the Lord condemn me? How?
“Are you there, Lord?” Solomon shouted in rage. “Are you? Do you even hear me anymore? Can you show me what I must do? Or will you leave me to Chemosh? Why have you abandoned me? Why?”
He rose to his feet, flinging his chair back on the floor. He grabbed a crystal pitcher of wine and threw it against the wall. Glass and wine shattered across the wall. “Where are you, YHVH? Where are you?”
He slumped against the table, weeping. I’m so tired of this madness. It must stop. It must stop. Please, Lord, speak to me. Show me. Give me a sign. Anything. Please, I need your help. I need you.
A could, sinister whisper filled his mind. Kill the captain and you will find your strength. All shall be yours when his blood is spilt. Solomon squeezed his eyes as the whisper began, laughing in his soul. He grabbed the orders and hurried to his bedchamber door. The guard on the other side snapped to attention as the king shoved the paper into his hands.
“I need this delivered to the eastern front immediately. Captain Benaiah must report here no later than tomorrow night. Understood?”
The guard bowed. “Yes, my lord. I will have it delivered at once.”
The guard hurriedly departed. Solomon closed his door behind him, leaning into it. There, Chemosh, are you happy? He will be dead by tomorrow night. Is that enough?
Nothing. No voice. No whisper. Nothing. So lonely . . . so very lonely.
Solomon climbed onto his bed and pulled the rope that hung next to it. The bell chimed in a distant room. A soldier rushed to the royal bedchamber and opened the door.
“Your majesty?” The soldier bowed.
“Bring me three of my concubines,” he ordered.
The soldier saluted and hurried out.
It was midnight when the soldier shook Benaiah from his fitful sleep. He looked up into the bloodshot eyes of the soldier, wiping his own eyes in confusion.
“I am sorry, Captain Benaiah, but the king has sent word for you to come immediately. He wants you in Jerusalem by tomorrow night. It is only two hours before dawn. You should leave soon.”
Benaiah nodded as he sat up in bed. He was in his tent, a lone torch flickering over the center table covered with maps.
“Thank you, soldier. Prepare my horse at once.”
The soldier saluted and left. Benaiah yawned and scratched his thick, red hair. Why on earth would the king want to speak with me so soon? He frowned. He hoped it would be good news.
King Solomon lay in his bed, his three concubines giggling and laughing. Solomon held a goblet of wine in one hand as the women snuggled into him, kissing, stroking and rubbing his body. Solomon sipped the wine and smiled. “You three are my favorite, you know.”
The women giggled some more and continued to caress his body. Solomon shut his eyes, sinking into his bed, the wine filling his chest with warmth, his mind buzzing. The warm bodies of the women pressed into him, pulling him into the pleasure he so worshipped . . .
One of the women screamed in terror.
Solomon jerked in response and sat up. The concubine stared at Solomon’s hand in dread. Solomon, in utter confusion, followed her panicked gaze. His hand had turned completely white.
Leprosy.
A second concubine also screamed. Solomon tore off his blanket and saw both his legs rotting away, the under skin pinkish white. All three women scrambled out of bed. They looked at the king in horror.
Solomon groped his way out of bed and pulled on his robe. The concubines backed away. He hurried to a large mirror on one wall. His entire face was leprous, and chunks of shriveled skin hung off his neck. He backed away in confusion, spinning around. He looked around, his eyes wild. His hands, arms, his bare chest and his legs . . . all covered in leprosy.
“What is happening to me?” Solomon shouted. “What is happening to me!”
The concubines fled from the room. Instantly, the guard hurried in and stared in alarm at the king. “My lord, what has happened?”
Solomon shook his head. He felt a fire burning in his mind. His forehead throbbed with pain as if someone beat an iron hammer against the inside of his skull. Oh, Lord, what are you doing to me? What are you doing?
The king shoved past the stunned guard and into the hall. He bounded down the corridor. I have to find help! A physician! Xyla. Someone! I must find . . . Rebecca! Yes, Rebecca! She will know what to do. I must find her! To the palace!
Solomon bounded through the empty corridors. It was late at night, well past midnight, and few people roamed the halls save for an occasional guard. As he passed another mirror, he realized he no longer could recognize himself. His skin was literally falling off his face. Oh, Yah, help me!
Solomon bounded through his banquet hall. Several guards watched the man run, not knowing who he was. They stared at Solomon in bewildered shock. He burst from the hall and into the cold night air. He stopped on his porch, breathing hard. He looked at the huge Ashtereth pole looming before him. He thought he saw a shadow high atop the pole, red slitted eyes gazing upon him, laughing, mocking him.
Did you really think I would give you power? Did you really think I would help you defeat your enemies? Now, you have your reward, you puny man. Enjoy your leprosy!
The burning sharpened in his mind. Solomon screamed as he raced across the courtyard. He ran from the royal court and across the broad avenue toward the queen’s emerald palace. He reached the marbled porch and grabbed the handle of the main door. Locked, of course.
Several guards rushed toward him, their spears pointed at him.
“Who goes there? Who are you?”
Solomon grabbed the end of one of the spears and twisted away. “Fools! Open this door! It is your king!”
Several more spears jabbed the air in front of him. The guards looked at him, their faces horrified. It was clear they had no recognition of their king.
“Unclean!” One of the guards hissed. “This man is unclean!”
The guards backed away but formed a ring of spears around him.
“You don’t understand!” Solomon shouted. He reached up to touch his face and felt skin drop onto his fingers. “I am Solomon! I . . . it’s me! I must speak with my wife! I must speak with Queen Rebecca now!”
The guards approached him, spears held tightly. “The king is with his concubines. And you look nothing like him. Lepers are not allowed near the queen’s palace. Or the king’s court. Leave at once!”
Solomon swore under his breath. “You fools! I’ll have all your heads for this.” He snarled and turned away. The guards parted and watched him flee.
The king turned back toward his court but several more guards blocked the arched opening. Swords drawn, they approached the king.
“What are you doing?” Solomon gasped.
“Lepers are forbidden here. You should not even be in the city. You must leave immediately!”
“I am your king!” Solomon shouted at the top of his lungs. His voice echoed on the stone walls.
“Right,” one of the guards laughed. “and I’m King David. You’ll have to come with us.”
The guards approached him, one carrying an iron chain. Solomon spun around and ran for his life. The guards pursued.
What is happening? This can’t be happening to me! I must find someone I know. My wives. Or my chief scribe. Or the High Priest. Where are they? Xyla, Ahazael, Azariah . . . someone! Yes, the Temple. I’ll go to the Temple. Azariah should be there.
Solomon bounded down an alleyway and headed toward the Temple. Too late. A dozen guards cut him off. He swore. Shofars began sounding through the city. He could hear shouts of “Unclean! Unclean! There is leper on the loose!”
Solomon hurried away. The guards blocked every alley, every street, every road, forcing him northward out of the city.
He glimpsed the wooden sign: Gideon’s Army Ale House. Yes! Yes, I’ve been there before. As a young man. Benaiah liked the innkeeper. He will remember me!
Solomon rushed across the street and through the wooden, hinged doors of the ale house. Bright firelight greeted him as he stumbled onto the clean swept wooden floor. It was nearly completely empty. The bald little innkeeper stoked the fire without looking up.
“We’re closing up,” he said. “The kitchen is closed.”
“You must help me!” The king yelled.
The innkeeper looked over his shoulder and his face melted into dread. “By the Temple, you’re a leper! Get out! Get out!”
Solomon shook his head, raising his hands. “No, no, no! You don’t understand. I’m the king. King Solomon. Remember me? My captain, Benaiah, is a good friend of yours. Please, you must help me!”
The innkeeper grabbed a broom and rushed toward him. “I don’t know who you are but you certainly are not the king! Get out of my establishment, leper!”
He swung the broom into Solomon’s chest. The king backed away as he continued to hit Solomon with the broom.
“Get out, leper! Out! Who even let you into the city!”
Solomon batted away the broom as he backed away toward the door. “Please! You must help me. Let me stay here at least until my captain returns. He will know who I am! Please!”
“If you are the king, why are you not in your court?” He demanded. “Get out!”
With the next whack, Solomon ducked out of the inn. He ran into two guards. Solomon frantically reached down and grabbed one of their swords, swinging blindly. The guards backed away. The king ran past them into the darkness of the street.
“There he goes!” A guard shouted.
Solomon dropped the sword and ran down the street. All ways stood blocked. He could only run out the main gate of Jerusalem. He swore as the guards ran toward him. Fools! All of them are such fools!
He bounded out the gate and onto the cold, Judean plains. Several guards poured out from the city, swords and spears glinting in the moonlight. Solomon dropped to his knees, almost completely out of breath. The guards kept their distance.
“Lepers are to be quarantined. Do not try to enter any village or town. You need to hide away yourself until we can fetch a priest.” One guard said. “I can take you to a safe house for lepers.”
Solomon struggled to his feet. His breath puffed from him in wisps. He felt so cold in his robe. “Please, let me speak with the queen. I am King Solomon. You must believe me.”
The guard shook his head. “Come with us to a safe house. You can stay there until we fetch a priest.”
“No!” Solomon screamed. “There is no time. I do not know what is happening to me. This leprosy may kill me! You fools! Let me back into my city!”
The guards circled him. One of them threw a chain at him. Solomon tried to twist away but the chain fell over his shoulders. In a few moments, hands snapped the shackles shut and Solomon found himself jerked by a guard on a horse.
“Keep a guard around him,” the guard on the horse shouted.
Several men surrounded Solomon as he was dragged forward. Solomon surrendered, following his captors.
For five, long hours they marched in the cold darkness, west across the plains, west and south. The more he walked, the more Solomon felt chunks of his skin falling off. His mind continued to burn.
“We should not even take him to a safe house!” One of the guards hissed. “Look at him. He is beyond healing. His infection would only make the other lepers worse.”
“I’ve never seen such bad leprosy before,” their leader agreed.
“What sin must he have done to deserve such a fate?” Another guard said.
Solomon fell to his knees, halting the procession. What sin, indeed? Oh, Lord, what have I done? Is this now your final judgment on me? Is this what all my sin has brought me? Is this how I shall die?
“We cannot kill him,” the leader said. “We’ll leave him in the desert. We’ll let fate take care of him.”
“But that is still another hour’s journey! We’ve already traveled most of the night. And just to drop this leper in the desert?” Another guard asked.
“We cannot allow this man to infect anyone else. The farther away we take him, the safer we will be,” the leader said.
The chains violently pulled him to his feet and the butts of spears jabbed his back. He groaned in pain as he stumbled forward. For another hour they continued, the Judean plains giving way to sparse bushes, giving way to endless sand. The Wilderness of Sin stretched like a white, barren blanket across the Sinai Peninsula south and west toward Egypt. It was the wilderness the children of Israel had wandered for forty years under the judgment of the Lord. Now, under that same hand, Solomon faced the desert alone.
As the sun began to rise, they tied a blindfold over his eyes. For several more hours they led him deeper into the rocky desert. Eventually the chains lifted from him. His hands remained tied with a thick rope.
“We’ll leave him here,” the guard on the horse said.
Without another word the men began walking away. He heard the horse begin to trot. Solomon stumbled forward. “No, please. Please, take me to a safe house. Please, you cannot leave me here to die!”
Solomon’s feet caught on a boulder. He fell on his face. His chin hit a rock and he felt a sharp sting and blood splatter his bottom lip. He heard the guards laugh.
“Farewell . . . would be king!”
Solomon struggled to his feet, but by the time he regained his footing the sound of the guards had long since faded. He ran in the direction he thought he heard them, but without his vision he wondered if he simply ran in circles.
The heat of the desert began to pound on him, as the sand started to burn his bare feet. He stumbled to the desert floor in utter exhaustion. His throat felt so dry. His mind still burned. Oh, Lord, help me . . . help me . . . help me . . .
As evening approached and the desert began to cool, Solomon finally managed to cut through the rope on a sharp rock. It took most of the afternoon, but the last strand finally broke. He tore the rope off and ripped his blindfold. The bright late afternoon desert sun stabbed his eyes. As he lifted his hands to cover them, he saw several layers of skin hanging loosely, ready to fall. His hands appeared rotten to the very bone. The guards had spoken truly: no one had ever seen such a bad case of the skin disease.
He sat against a boulder, in the midst of an endless sea of sand. All around he could only see mountains and desert. Lost. Completely lost. Somewhere between Egypt and Israel. I’m going to die, he thought suddenly. This is how I am going to die.
He rose to his feet and pushed off from the boulder, stumbling through the hot sand. I must find water. Water. His throat felt so parched. His mind still burned. Must find water. Soon. He continued to stumble through the desert sand.
Benaiah arrived at Jerusalem around noon. The sun beat down relentlessly: another unusually warm day for so late in the fall. He rode straight for the king’s court, thinking he would go see the king immediately, though he had arrived earlier than expected.
As he unsaddled his horse in the royal stables, the queen rushed to meet him.
“Captain Benaiah! I heard you were on your way,” she cried as she embraced him. Benaiah held the queen close as she sobbed into his chest. “I’m so sorry about Joshua. So sorry.”
Benaiah felt a bit awkward holding the queen in such a way because of what Solomon had spoken in his rage a few months before. He gently pulled away from her and smiled sadly into her wet eyes. “He fought bravely. We will have a grand burial for him.”
She wiped her eyes. “Be careful, Benaiah. My husband has not been himself of late.”
“Oh?” Benaiah said with a frown. “I had hoped he was getting better.”
Rebecca shook her head. “I have not spoken with him often since you last you departed, but his fits of rage have increased. And he spends more time than usual at the high altars in Zion. I think he continues with his sorcery.”
Benaiah felt his shoulders slump. So perhaps the Lord had caused their defeat after all. He felt a sudden surge of anger rise within him. Did Solomon care for no one but himself? Now Joshua, a righteous man, has died because of Solomon’s sin! Rebecca saw the flames of rage ignite in his eyes.
“Where is the king?” He whispered.
Rebecca shook her head. “I have not seen him for two days. Somewhere in his court, I am sure.”
Benaiah strode from the stables. He hurried into the banquet hall. A guard saluted him. “Captain Benaiah, welcome ho--”
“Where is the king?” Benaiah snapped.
“Well . . . I . . . I don’t know. He must still be in his bedchamber.”
Sleeping in, still, Benaiah thought with rising anger. He shoved the guard aside and stalked toward the back of the palace. In moments he reached the door of the king’s bedchamber. No guard. No guard? How strange. He pounded his fist on the door. Nothing. He pounded again. Still no sound.
“King Solomon! Your majesty, it is Benaiah! Are you up?” He yelled. Still no answer.
He opened the door. “You have slept far too long, you lazy bastard!”
The room lay empty. A half finished goblet of wine stood on the bed stand. The covers were still rumpled. What? The fire still burned low. Where?
Benaiah spun around and stalked back out of the room. He rushed down the corridor and accosted the first soldier he met. “Have you seen the king?”
The soldier shook his head. “No, captain. I thought he was still in be--”
“No, he is not. And his bed is unmade. Why have the maids not cleaned his room? It is past noon.”
“I don’t know, captain,” the soldier shrugged.
“Does anyone know where the king is?” Benaiah shouted as he shoved past the soldier and rushed down the hall.
As he turned a corner he ran headlong into the white haired Ahazael, chief scribe. Benaiah caught the fragile old man before he fell backward.
“Oh, pardon me!” The scribe said. “Captain! Good to see-”
“Where is the king?” Benaiah cut him off. “His bed is unmade. It’s as if he left his room in the middle of the night.”
Ahazael shook his head. “I was just coming to find out. He was supposed to meet me in the library an hour ago. You’re certain he’s not in his personal apartments?”
The two men rushed to check but the soldier Benaiah had run into had already searched them all. Nothing. Xyla emerged from a door off the hall and shook her head.
“I have not seen him all day,” the woman said. She looked as if she could not care in the least where her husband was.
Benaiah felt his rage at the king begin to transform into fear. Had something happened to Solomon? In all his years of service, he had never known the king to simply disappear like this. What had happened to the guard who was posted at the door?
“Do we have the manifest for who was posted to guard the bedchamber last night?” Benaiah asked Ahazael as they headed back to the lower floors.
“I’ll ask Michael.”
Yes, Benaiah thought. Michael, the head of the royal guard, should know.
In the banquet hall they found Michael speaking with several guards in hushed tones. He snapped to attention when he saw the chief scribe and captain of the guard approach.
“We need the manifest for who guarded the king’s chamber last night. Do you have it?”
Michael shook his head. “Don’t need it. It was Isaac.”
“Where is he?” Benaiah pressed.
Michael’s forehead crinkled. “I’ve been asking that all morning. I have not seen him all day. He should have been here an hour ago.”
Benaiah and Ahazael stared at each other. Something felt wrong. Very wrong.
Suddenly a pair of doors burst open from near the back of the banquet hall. A tall guard raced into the room.
“Isaac!” Michael yelled. “Where have you been? You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
Isaac, his eyes wide and his face flushed, looked terrified. “I . . . I’m sorry my lords. I have spent most the night and morning searching for the king.”
“What?” Benaiah, Ahazael and Michael all asked at once.
“He . . . he ran like a madman out of his bedchamber late last night. And I have been searching for him ever since. I even searched the city. No one has seen him!”
Benaiah grabbed the shoulders of Isaac. “Do you know the penalty for losing the king?”
Isaac shrunk in fear. “Please, my lord, I have done everything to search for him. I have enlisted the city guardsman to help. No one can find him.”
Benaiah swore. He spun around to face Ahazael. “His concubines. Or wives. Who was with him last night?”
“My lord!” Isaac said. “You should know something.”
Benaiah, Ahazael and Michael turned to face the trembling guard.
“The king . . .” He swallowed. “He . . . he did not look normal.”
“What do you mean?” Benaiah snapped.
“He . . . his skin was all white . . . and flaky looking . . . almost leprous.”
“That’s impossible,” Ahazael said.
“I could barely recognize him,” Isaac said. “But I’m certain it was leprosy. The three concubines with him fled, shouting out leper. I know it sounds crazy, but that is what I saw.”
“Do you remember who the concubines were?” Benaiah pressed.
Isaac thought for a moment. “I don’t know their names, but if I saw them I could point them out.”
Benaiah nodded and spun toward Michael. “I want every last wife and concubine assembled in this hall at once.”
Michael saluted and barked the orders. In under half an hour, all one thousand women stood in the banquet hall, shoulder to shoulder, crowding so much that there was little room to stand. Benaiah stood with Isaac on the highest step near Solomon’s golden throne. Isaac searched the faces.
“There are so many of them,” Isaac said. Benaiah nodded. Please, Lord, help us here. Please.
“There! There they are!” Isaac pointed to three frightened women cowering in a corner.
Two guards shoved them toward the throne. They looked like trapped mice as they beheld the crazed face of the red bearded captain.
“What happened to your husband? Where is King Solomon?”
The women shook their heads, falling into tears. “We don’t know! We fled. He . . . it was terrible! Terrible! One moment he was fine and the next his skin was falling off and he had leprosy all over him. We just ran away. We are so scared!”
The rest of the words jumbled into tears and screams. The gathered wives and concubines began to murmur quietly to each other as shock of Solomon’s plague began to spread through the room. Benaiah waved them away and the guards removed them. Ahazael swore. “Whatever has happened, we have four witnesses who believe they saw Solomon struck with the worst case of leprosy known to man.”
“My lord,” Isaac said. “I could barely recognize him. If I hadn’t seen him standing in his own room, I would never have known who he was. If he left the court, no one would have recognized him. No one.”
Benaiah clenched his fists. “We must find him!”
Michael shoved his way through the crowd of women and saluted. Two of the queen’s palace guards stood behind him. They looked ghostly white with fear.
“Captain Benaiah, Scribe Ahazael, I think I found some answers,” he gestured toward the two guards. “Tell them what you told me.”
One of the guards began to stutter. “Pl . . . please . . . we did not . . . we did not know--”
“Out with it!” Benaiah yelled.
“There was a man trying to get into the queen’s palace last night. He was a leper and claimed to be the king.”
“No!” Benaiah breathed.
“He looked nothing like the king, my lord. Nothing. We drove him off. He tried to return back here but we told him he needed to leave the city. He gave us a chase but we finally managed to drive him out of Jerusalem.”
“Where is he?” Benaiah demanded.
“We . . . we . . .” the guard swallowed. “Forgive me, lord, but he looked so terrible, so badly stricken, we thought it unwise to bring him to a safe house--”
“Where is he?” Benaiah screamed.
“We led him out into the Wilderness of Sin. The desert. We left him there.”
“You what?” Benaiah gasped.
“We thought he was only a leper.”
“And is this how you treat lepers in Israel?” Benaiah demanded. He turned to Michael. “I want these guards arrested and placed into the dungeon. We will decide what to do about them later.”
Michael saluted and placed the guards under arrest.
“My lord!” One of the arrested guards shouted. “We can lead you to where we led the king. We can help you find him!”
Benaiah stared at the guard for a moment and then nodded. “Very well. Take us to him.”
