At that cry everything came to a halt. The circle slowed and stopped. The chanting ceased. The dancers turned and gaped at the king. The music dragged, hesitated, soured, and fell apart. The wailing infants grew quiet. From across the circle Ezra caught a glimpse of Shub’s face, pale and wide-eyed as if he had just snapped out of a nightmare. Slowly the prophet’s son lowered his harp and stared.

In the silence that followed, Ezra saw the man in red come striding across the open space toward them. Bells tinkled at the hem of his flowing robe, and bright rings flashed on his long fingers. The features of his face, as grim and severe as if they were chiseled from stone, lurked threateningly within the shadows of his scarlet head covering. On he came, with a slow and stately step, until he stood beside the king. There he stopped and smiled thinly down at Hezekiah.

“Your son?” he said, glancing sideways at the king. “Well! I think it’s fairly clear what he is doing here. The Red King has drawn him. For a purpose.”

Ezra could see that Ahaz was shaken. The great talker, the easy conversationalist, the social charmer, the persuasive leader —this is how Ezra had always thought of his king. Now he saw him as someone a lot like himself: small, shivering, frightened, vulnerable. Quickly his eyes moved from the king’s face to the face of the man in red, and then to the dark, overclouded face of the sky above. From beyond Hinnom’s western rim, the sound of distant thunder reached Ezra’s ears.

“What are you saying, Tammuz . . . great priest?” asked Ahaz. He barely moved his cracked, dry lips as he spoke. Sweat ran in two trickling streams down his cheeks.

“I say nothing,” answered the priest of Molech. “The great Red King speaks for himself. Can’t you hear him? Isn’t his will plain to all who have eyes to see and ears to hear?”

A low murmur ran around the circle. Ahaz turned a pale face upon his son and said nothing. Ezra saw the pleading look in Hezekiah’s eyes as he returned his father’s glance.

“Weren’t we speaking of this very thing tonight, just before we called the circle together?” the priest persisted. “Haven’t you confided to many of your advisors and closest friends your firm belief that only the power of Molech can remove the Assyrians’ thumb from the small of Judah’s back? As in the past, so it will be on this occasion. By the hand of the Red King we may yet fight fire with fire.”

More voices. Another rumble in the sky. And close at hand, one of the Molech worshippers suddenly spoke. “He is right, Your Majesty. We discussed this subject at your dinner party the other night. You remember. We agreed then that Assyrian gods might very well be the key to ridding us of the Assyrians . . . and their tribute. You said so yourself.”

That voice, thought Ezra. A sick thrill of recognition coursed through his brain and body as it rang in his ears. He turned to see the darkly handsome face, framed by a black beard. Hanun. Him again! If Hanun were there, could his mother be there too? Once more he scanned the circle in search of her face, but to no avail.

“It is true,” King Ahaz was saying. Sweat poured down his face. His eyes were fixed on the ground. “I did say it. But this,” he added, looking up at the priest, “I never meant to go through this again!”

“Ahaz,” said Tammuz in calm, measured tones, “it is clear to me that Meni, the Lord of Destiny, and Molech, the Red King, have joined counsel this night. The sacrifice has been provided. Yes! Provided by the hand of Molech, that the power of Molech might be released!”

With that the priest laid one hand on Hezekiah’s shoulder. With the other he beckoned to two dark-robed men who stood several paces away, awaiting his orders.

“Bind the boy!” he called. “Let him be prepared. He goes to join his brothers. He goes to the great Red King. It is the will of Molech!”

“Molech! Molech!” chanted the circle of worshippers.

“Now stand away!” shouted Tammuz with a flourish as the men in the dark cloaks drew near. Just beyond them Ezra could see Shub, his kinnor under his arm and an alarmed expression on his face. In the next moment the prophet’s son began to cross the open space at a run.

“Away! Keep to yourselves!” the priest shouted, his arms raised above his head, the huge sleeves of his red robe falling down around his shoulders. “Do not come near, for I am holier than you!”

“Holier! Holier! Holier than we!” echoed the crowd.

“And this boy —this prince of Judah —he is holier than all. He goes to the Red King!”

“The Red King!”

Shub ran up to Ezra, panic in his face. Ezra shot him a questioning glance and then looked over at Hezekiah, who was visibly trembling.

“Let the circle be extended!” cried the priest, his voice growing louder and more frenzied with every word. Each worshipper took three steps backward. “Wider and wider. Until there is room for all the gods and all the forces of the high and circling wheel of heaven. Sun and moon and stars. Call upon them, one and all, to attend us! Let there be no narrowing of the circle. Let their power be joined to the power of the Red King. Let them come and serve us in exchange for the sacrifice we offer!”

“Ezra,” pleaded Shub in an urgent whisper, “you see what’s happening! Do something!”

Ezra felt as if he were about to faint. “Me?” he said. “Me do something? What can I do?”

There was no time to think clearly. The dark-robed men were only a few steps away. Already their sinewy arms were outstretched to lay hold of Hezekiah. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Ezra grabbed the prince by the edge of his sackcloth cloak.

“Run, Hezekiah!” he shouted.

Then, dragging his friend after him, Ezra turned and fled.

“I’m right behind you!” shouted Shub.

This bold move took the priest and his men by surprise. The boys were several strides beyond the circle before they heard any noise of pursuit. Then a great outcry rose at their backs, followed by a flash of lightning and another peal of crackling thunder.

Ezra ran, conscious only of the wildly elongated and leaping shadows that the altar’s flames cast before him. Dimly, just ahead, he could discern the gray patches and rows of the terraced garden beds along the descending slope. Behind him he could hear Shub’s labored breathing and the pounding of his heavy footsteps. It seemed to him that the noise of the crowd and the shouts of their pursuers were fading. A thrill of hope shot through him. We’re going to make it, he thought. We’re going to make it!

Then, just as it looked as if the rows of grapevines were within their reach —crash!

“Mmmpphh!”

A burst of sounds just at Ezra’s back: a sickening thud, a muffled cry, the crunching of wood and the jangling of snapping strings. Shub, he thought. That clumsy Shub. He’s tripped and fallen again!

A nauseated feeling rising in the pit of his stomach, Ezra slowed his steps and turned to look for his friend. Instantly pain shot down his arm as strong hands grasped and held him. He heard Hezekiah cry out in anguish.

“Ezra,” whimpered Shub as two large men yanked him to his feet. “My kinnor! It’s ruined! Oh, we should never have come.”

In a matter of moments, all three boys stood once again in the flickering light of the altar, facing the king and the priest.

Ahaz had no indulgent smile for them this time. He avoided their eyes. He drew his cloak around his shoulders and stared down at his feet. At last he muttered, “I am sorry . . . my son. It seems there is no other way. Apparently it is the god’s will.”

“Even so,” assented Tammuz. “Now take him! Let him be brought near. The Red King calls!”

“No!” screamed Ezra, his eyes darkening with despair as two black-robed men stooped to bind the prince. “Hezekiah, I never meant for this to happen!”

Hezekiah turned to face his friend. He said nothing.

“It can’t happen. Not to you!” cried Ezra as the men tightened the knots of the cords. Then a crazy idea popped into his head. It had worked before; maybe it would work again. “Take me!” he shouted. “Take me instead. It’s my fault, Your Majesty. Let them take me instead!”

“I’m sorry,” mumbled the king, still without looking up. “It cannot be.”

“The Red King demands a king’s son,” said the priest, who stood beside Ahaz with folded arms. “No other will do.”

Ezra’s knees felt like rubber. His face was hot and feverish. I’ve got to stop this somehow, he thought. Suddenly he remembered something.

“But Hezekiah,” he said, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder as the men began to pull the prince in the direction of the altar, “what about Isaiah’s prophecy? What about the promise that Yahweh will protect you and make you sit on your father’s throne?”

“I don’t know,” said the prince. “He must have been talking about someone else. There must be another.”

Then the men dragged them apart. Ezra watched helplessly as his friend, in the company of the scarlet-robed priest, was led across the open circle to the base of the brick stairway that led to the altar.