Naaman lay on his back on a wooden couch from which the cushions had been removed. Little streamlets of warm water ran down the sides of his temples, saturating his hair and then dripping onto the wooden plank, turning it dark.
“She says he can heal you,” Karinah said softly as she dipped the coarse rag in a clay basin, wrung the cloth out, and began lightly scrubbing the flakey white skin on her husband’s forehead.
Naaman blinked repeatedly as an errant drop of water slid into the corner of his eye. Whatever concoction the medical man had put in the water stung, and Naaman reached up with a stubby finger to wipe his eye. “And what do you think?” he asked sincerely. “Do you think a prophet of Israel can heal this hideous flesh?”
Karinah shifted in her chair, dropped the rag in the basin, and picked up a soft cotton cloth. Patting the water on each side of Naaman’s face, she said, “You should listen to her. She speaks so reverently of how he healed her father. It brings tears to my eyes even now when I think of it. She has unending faith in this man, and although I don’t know him, I believe in her and her faith.”
Naaman turned his head and gazed at his wife tenderly. Her long hair fell in loose curls on her shoulders and was a stark contrast to the almost-white robe she wore. “I’m a lucky man,” he said as he lightly stroked her cheek with the back of his painfully sore hand. “You deserve more than this grotesque appearance.” Swinging his legs from the couch, he sat up and clasped both of her hands in his. “I’m meeting with Ben-Hadad this afternoon; I’ll ask him to write a letter to the king of Israel so that I may meet with this prophet Elisha.”
A delighted smile spread over Karinah’s face as she gently squeezed her husband’s hands. “Gili believes he will heal you, and I believe Gili.”
Naaman returned the smile. “The little maiden has faith; that much is certain.” Pushing himself up from the couch, he winced as the weight of his body settled on his damaged feet. Bending slightly he kissed Karinah on the top of her head. “Thank you for once again scrubbing my head,” he said, and he shuffled uneasily from the room.
Naaman ate a lunch of dates drizzled with honey, almonds, and bread. Then he changed into a dark gray robe richly embroidered with white designs around the sleeves and collar. Stepping into the courtyard, he yelled to a servant trimming fronds from a miniature palm tree, “Obed, get my chariot. We’re going to the palace.”
Naaman looked up at the cobalt-blue sky and watched two Egyptian geese float to a graceful landing in the far corner of the courtyard. The massive birds honked noisily but didn’t fly away when Obed drove the team of black horses pulling the gleaming, copper-covered chariot up to where Naaman stood.
Tying the rawhide lines around a small post protruding from the front of the chariot, the middle-aged Obed jumped from the chariot. “It’s ready for you, Commander Naaman.”
Holding up his gloved hands for Obed to see, Naaman said, “My hands ache too much to hold the lines; you take me.”
“Certainly,” Obed said obediently and reached out his arm. “Let me help you step up.”
Pulling out of the gates, Obed slapped the lines on the horses’ rumps, and the two animals stepped out in a lively trot. The chariot’s steel-rimmed wheels rumbled against the hard-packed dirt road, churning up very little dust. Recent winter rain had left the ground damp but not muddy. As they approached groups of people, Obed’s deep voice bellowed out, “Commander Naaman’s chariot! Clear the way.” As if by magic, the crowds parted. It wasn’t out of respect that the people darted out of the way; it was out of fear. As much as Naaman had chastised him, Obed wasn’t above running into or over someone if they failed to move.
Reining the horses to a stop in front of the massive palace, Obed helped Naaman down from the chariot. Looking up at the hundred steps leading to the multi-pillared building, Obed asked, “Would you like me to help you up the steps?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Naaman replied. “But please wait for me here. I won’t be longer than one hour.”
“Yes, Commander,” Obed replied, as he walked in front of the horses to keep them calm.
Removing a black scarf from around his neck, Naaman carefully draped it over his head, letting it cover his ears and as much of his forehead as possible. As he ascended the stairs, he mused to himself that there was one positive thing about leprosy. Nobody wanted him around for any longer than was necessary. Slaves, servants, and all levels of assorted officials were eager to get Naaman out of the palace as quickly as possible, so when he arrived, they made certain he was ushered in ahead of anyone else who might be waiting. And that suited Naaman as well.
The meeting lasted much less than an hour. After quickly reviewing the strength of the Syrian army and the likelihood of war with the Phoenicians, Ben-Hadad changed the subject. “And what of your . . . condition?” Although less concerned about Naaman’s leprosy than the others in his palace, Ben-Hadad was troubled by Naaman’s unpleasant appearance and odor.
Naaman tugged uncomfortably at the scarf draped over his head and cleared his throat. “There is a little maiden, an Israelite captive from Edrei, who serves my wife,” he began. “She has told Karinah of a man in Samaria, a prophet by the name of Elisha, whom she insists can cure me.”
“Is there such a man?” Ben-Hadad asked skeptically.
Naaman nodded and continued. “She relates a story to my wife of his amazing power, of how her father was healed after he was gored by an angry cow.”
Ben-Hadad cocked his head slightly to the side and peered questioningly at Naaman. “And you believe this captive slave?” he asked as if Naaman was a gullible child.
Naaman took a deep breath and slowly expelled it through his nose. “I have consulted and followed the requirements of Baal’s priests, done as the best medical men of Syria have instructed, and even consulted sorcerers my wife has brought—all promised a cure if I gave them money and riches.” Raising his gloved hands, Naaman removed the scarf from his head to reveal the white, flaking skin on his face, the lesions on his nose, and his missing ear. “Having done all they required, I stand before you looking like this—worse than ever before.”
Ben-Hadad stole only the slightest glance before averting his eyes. Pausing only long enough to take another breath, Naaman replaced the scarf and continued, “Now comes a little Israelite maid, a slave, who has every right to wish I was dead for raiding her village and killing her family. Asking nothing in return, she tells me of a man in whom she has complete faith, a man who speaks for the Israelite God, Jehovah. Do I believe her? Yes, I do.” Naaman said with full conviction. “I believe her not only for the story she tells of the prophet healing her father but because of her example. There is no guile in the child. She’s incapable of lying or misleading.” Then after a short pause, he added, “Yes, Excellency, I believe her.”
Ben-Hadad stood in complete silence, mesmerized not only by the words Naaman spoke but the strength with which he’d said them.
Rising from his chair, Ben-Hadad said, “You shall go to this prophet immediately.” Turning to an aide who stood on the far side of the room, the king bellowed, “Call the scribe!” Then turning back to Naaman, he said, “Do you know where this prophet resides?”
Naaman shook his head. “Only somewhere in Samaria.”
Ben-Hadad pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “I’ll send a letter to the king of Israel. Certainly he will know where to find this prophet of their God Jehovah.”
At that moment, a frail little man dressed in an ink-spotted tunic entered the room carrying a beautifully carved box in both arms. Ben-Hadad smiled and said, “Dagon, I wish you to write a letter to Jehoram, king of Israel.”
The little man nodded and walked to a table, where he set his box down. Conscious that the king and Naaman were watching, he lifted the lid with an exaggerated movement and extracted a small piece of parchment—an extremely thin piece of sheepskin—and placed it on the table. Next, he removed a quill, a small pot of ink, and a bowl filled with white powder. Sliding a chair up to the table, he sat down and proclaimed, “I am ready.”
“Most Excellent King Jehoram,” Ben-Hadad began boldly as he strutted back and forth. But then there was a pause, a very long pause, as he continued to walk. Suddenly stopping, he turned to Naaman with a look of deep consternation on his face—he didn’t know what to say next! The frown on his face deepened as he stared at Naaman for one minute and then two. And then as if he had just solved the greatest mystery of mankind, a big smile spread across his face. “With this letter I am sending Naaman, my chief captain and the commander of all my forces, to you to be cured of leprosy.” He stopped and bobbed his head up and down in complete satisfaction.
Naaman looked at Ben-Hadad, waiting for him to say something more, to add a reference to the prophet, but Ben-Hadad simply looked at him with a smug smile and said conspiratorially, “That should make Jehoram uncomfortable and nervous enough to eagerly seek out this Israelite prophet.” And then with a hearty laugh, he added, “He’s going to think this is a trick and I’m trying to goad him into a war.” And Ben-Hadad was right; that’s exactly what the king of Israel would think.
Naaman raised his eyebrows and gave a weak smile. It wasn’t how he would have phrased the letter, but he had to admit there was some logic to it. Certainly the Israelite king would know where such an important man was residing and would make an effort to pacify Ben-Hadad by locating him.
After the little man concluded making his marks on the parchment, he sprinkled a fine dusting of the white powder on the wet ink to keep it from smearing and rolled the parchment up tightly. Then he brought the roll along with a small candle to where Ben-Hadad stood. After he had dripped several drops of wax on the edge, Ben-Hadad removed a signet ring from his hand and pressed it into the hot wax. A moment later he removed the ring from the wax and slipped it back on his finger. Returning to his box, the man removed a small leather container, slipped the roll into it, laced a lid in place, and then handed it to the king.
Ben-Hadad took the container from the little man and handed it to Naaman. “Naaman,” he began earnestly as he placed his hand on the commander’s shoulder, “you are my most trusted leader, the one to whom I turn when I need military counsel, and more faithful than all my other soldiers combined. I know these Israelites; they will want payment for curing you, so I’m giving you 750 pounds of silver, 150 pounds of gold, and 10 changes of clothing to pay this prophet.”
Naaman was taken aback and stared at Ben-Hadad in total surprise. He wasn’t shocked that the king told him to expect to pay for the healing—that was common—but that the king was willing to pay it was beyond belief. Had Ben-Hadad looked carefully, he would have noticed a small tear forming in the corner of his battle-hardened commander’s eye. Naaman cleared his throat and stammered out a simple, “Thank you.”
Squeezing Naaman’s shoulder tightly, Ben-Hadad said jovially, “Now go, and don’t come back until your skin is clean!” Leaving Naaman holding the letter, the king walked briskly out the door with a huge smile on his face.