by Beth Shriver
“I did what Marcus asked of me. I’m sorry.”
Maximus strained against the emotion that welled up in him. He pulled away, despite Claudius’s resistance. The voices started again in his head, one voice telling him one thing, and another instructing to do something else.
Maximus squeezed his head with the palms of his hands, pushing them into his head until the pain became too great and he released his hands. “What has become of you? Why do you torment me with this false show of emotions? Do you try and make me forget? Forget what you did?”
Maximus stood hunched over, sweaty strands of hair hanging in his face. He took a step backward and stumbled into a chest of drawers. He turned and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His usually olive-colored skin had grown pale, and his eyes were dark as if a storm were brewing in them. His face was tense with grief.
“Being in this room for so many days, weeks, I have lost count, maybe months, I have come to terms with my past and my destiny. I have no strength for anger and was humbled when I was ousted from my power. I have no vendetta against you. I want to be cleansed of past sins before I die. The only way I know to do this is to redeem myself to those I have wronged. If I had the knowledge I would seek the atonement from this Messiah. It is said belief in Him brings forgiveness of one’s sins.”
Claudius stared down at his spent body as he sat propped up in bed. “Do you believe this could be true?”
Maximus had his hands flat on top of the chest, head down as he listened to his father ramble. He lifted his head and stared at his father’s reflection in the mirror.
“You turn against Zeus at the time of your death?” He shook his head in disgust. “You will surely be lost in the afterlife.”
Claudius gazed upon his frail ghost of a body. “When a man has nothing to live for, his death is welcomed, and his afterlife is his highest regard.”
Maximus found himself laughing, a poignant, loud bellow, too much for the moment, but he continued as Claudius looked on with a long, saddened face.
Maximus stopped abruptly and stared at Claudius. “Do not give me your looks of pity. I am alive and well. And you are at death’s door.”
Claudius’s eyes moistened and his voice caught as he spoke. “I am. This is true. But you are not well, my son.”
Maximus pushed off the dressing table and turned on him. Claudius sat perfectly still as his son approached. Not achieving the response desired, Maximus grabbed the pitcher from the bedside table and threw it to shatter over Claudius’s head.
Claudius ducked and raised his arm to block bits of clay from showering down on him. Maximus fell to one knee, breathing heavily. He pushed his robe from under his foot to keep from falling forward, and caught himself with his hand.
“No, I am not well.” Maximus confessed in words barely above a whisper.
Claudius touched the back of Maximus’s head, staring at the ground. “I will tell you of Marcus, but I am in need of water.”
Maximus felt strengthened by his words, and by the touch he both loved and hated from this man. He rose slowly, avoiding Claudius’s eyes, and grabbed the cup from the floor. Walking down the stairs to the closest wash area, he cupped the water in his hands and splashed it on his face, then pushed back his hair with his wet hands. He stared at his reflection in the mirror on the side wall.
What had become of his father? He hated to refer to him as Father. He had never acted the part when Maximus was a child. Why in the name of the gods would he begin now?
He decided Claudius was sentimental due to his impending death. If he were to know he could live again, Maximus felt he would surely revert back to his evil ways—just one more reason to let him die.
Maximus filled the cup and walked back to the tapestry. He would make sure Claudius knew Marcus’s manipulations against Maximus, and they would fall back on Marcus upon his return. His own condemnation of Marcus would not be accepted if the man returned a victorious general. He would need the help of others to find out what Marcus knew of Claudius and to accuse him of Claudius’s death.
This brought his thoughts to his frustration at not having received word from the general. Marcus’s actions were direct defiance and angered Maximus to no end. He had purposefully sent a scribe to record every detail—the army’s journey, decisions made, battle, death toll, losses, and gains—yet Marcus remained mute.
Maximus stepped into the room and placed the cup on the bedside table. As he stared up at his father, Claudius’s eyes were set upon something behind him. Maximus turned quickly to see a tall, cloaked figure shut the door and lock it with his key.
Chapter Eighteen
The green of the wheat fields was long out of sight as the army came closer to Alef. Under the sky of pure blue, the sun beating down on them made the afternoon ride long and hot. Men drank from their cow-skin flasks. The water was warm, and although not refreshing, replenishing the loss of fluid from the constant sweat from their bodies.
Enan squinted as he looked back to where the trail ended. A long string of soldiers, cargo, and animals snaked on for as long as he could see and farther.
Enan wiped his brow with his sleeve and squinted up ahead as a blurred mirage appeared in the distance. The same vision came over and over again to him as they rode—large trees and fresh water forming a pond from a waterfall, with green, lush grass all around.
He smiled to himself, knowing it wasn’t real, but enjoying the fantasy all the same. He glanced back to the men on foot just now joining the cavalry to rest and drink and took the moment to thank God for his steed. Patting Legend on the neck, Enan gave him a jolt, and he stepped lively. Without warning, Legend loped ahead, stopping at the top of a hill. Enan looked down into a valley covered in golden sand that reached a village not much larger than Zayin. It was encompassed with a circle of troops set up similar to that at Zayin.
Scouts had reported that Claudius’s army had separated before coming over the mountain, one on its way to Lamed, and the other here, to Alef. The split had surprised the commanders from the three small villages, but the warning gave Zayin’s men time to reach Alef.
Lamed would not fare well against a larger force, but the knowledge Josiah was in Alef gave reason for Zayin to protect the village.
As the men filed in, the families of Alef received Zayin’s small army with gratitude. The commanders went through formalities as the men set up encampment.
Levi called Enan to his tent by messenger, and when Enan arrived, he found Levi leaving. “Come Enan. We don’t want to keep General Boaz waiting.”
“Is it something urgent?” Enan stepped quickly to keep up with the man two decades his senior. “Not necessarily urgent, but of great importance.”
They walked past a long row of empty commander’s tents and finally reached a larger tent where the commanders and a few others had gathered.
As he surveyed the room, Enan gasped at the sight of the man sitting in the general’s chair behind a long thin table. Josiah. His face was broad, which made his large nose and heavy brow stand out. His hair was more gray than Enan had imagined, and his face quite long with whiskers. Enan had always envisioned him clean shaven. But when he stood, he was everything Enan imagined in the way he carried himself.
He scanned the room, his look of concentration giving the impression that he was memorizing each and every face. His eyes took an extra second on certain men before moving on to the next. When Josiah came to Enan, a small smile formed, and Enan realized how he must look, still in awe with his jaw dropped and eyes mystified. He drew himself together and stood at attention, but Josiah was long past him by that time.
An older gray-haired rabbi, who stood half of Josiah’s height, came up next to him. He opened his worn Torah and said the prayer, “Arise, oh Lord, in your anger. Rise up against the rage of my enemies. Awake, my God, decree justice. Let the assembled peoples gather around You. Rule over them on high. Let the Lord judge the people. My shield is God most high, who saves the upright in heart. God, You are a rig
hteous judge, a God who expresses His wrath every day. If we do not relent, You will sharpen the sword. You will bend and string the bow. You have prepared Your deadly weapons and make ready Your flaming arrows.”
The rabbi closed his Torah and examined the men standing before him. His pause was almost painful as there was not a word uttered or a sound made. He pursed his lips, and then smiled broadly as he spoke, and emphasized his words with his hands.
“These words are from our forefather, King David, from before his battle with the Benjamite, Cush. The Lord fights the battles for the righteous. We pray the outcome will be as we hope, that we will walk away victorious, and that our leaders will fare well, but that may not be God’s will. What we see as right in our minds, may not always be so. Therefore, I do not pray for your safety—I bless your service to God, for fighting for the freedom to carry down the faith of David to our future generations.”
Josiah placed his hand on the rabbi’s back. They spoke quietly to each other, and then the rabbi took his place among the rest. Josiah put his hands on the table. “I am pleased to see the men who fight with such allegiance. Tomorrow will be an important day, if not the most important day, of your lives. I am honored to go into battle with you.”
Levi spoke. “Josiah, we did not plan for your presence during the battle.”
Many nodded their agreement, and General Boaz spoke. “I will stay back with you at a vantage point where we can be of service if needed, but more importantly provide commands.”
Josiah furrowed his brow in thought.
Boaz spoke again, with deference. “It would be a great privilege to receive your advice.”
Josiah waved a hand of approval and felt for the chair to sit again. A man not much older than Enan helped Josiah to his seat, and General Boaz laid a scroll down and unrolled it for all to see.
Commanders, the general, and Josiah decided the tactics together. Enan said little, but learned much from his senior commanders, and felt honored to be a part of such a group of men.
When all was said, Josiah spoke his last words. “You are brave men. You know we are outnumbered five to one and yet you are here, and so am I, to the surprise of many.” He gazed upon Enan as well as a few others as he said this and then continued, “Even if you were all to leave me, I would stand alone with only God at my side, for this is the hour our people need us most. You have much to fight for. Your families will be at your back as you come to battle.”
General Boaz took a step closer to Josiah and bowed. “I will always stand by you, Josiah.”
Levi stood at attention. “It is an honor to serve a great leader.”
Others offered their praises until the tent was a murmur of voices. Josiah raised his hands to quiet the men. They talked over their strategy, and then each went his way to try and sleep.
As Levi and Enan were leaving, Enan made eye contact with the young man behind Josiah for a brief moment. His height caught one’s attention, and his dark locks hung almost into his deep brown eyes. Although a handsome man, his face seemed heavy with burden. He nodded and Enan returned the gesture.
Levi noted the exchange but kept silent until they stepped outside the tent. “Do you understand your place in tomorrow’s charge?
Still digesting all he had just learned, Enan responded with hesitation. The magnitude of all that was to happen within just a few hours did not seem real. He knew sleep would not come to him tonight. “Yes, I understand.”
Levi tilted his head to the side to study Enan. “Do you know who that young man was?”
The change from one subject to another brought Enan out of his thoughts. “No, do you know him?”
Levi faced forward again, his face drawn and serious. “Yes, but most do not. His father doesn’t want him to fight, but he insists, just as Josiah did when he was a young man.”
Enan stopped and stared.
Levi chuckled. “There is a resemblance if you look for it.”
Levi had not stopped walking, and Enan hurried to catch up. “What is his name?”
“Stephen, Josiah’s oldest son.”
****
Before dawn, General Boaz drew up his army. Josiah arrived shortly after to inspect the units. A circular encampment with carts had been placed outside the village walls acting as a palisade. Village guards stood at the wall as reinforcement.
Josiah urged his horse into the center, and men stopped whatever task they were performing and gave their attention to him without any general’s command or call to attention. Josiah’s army respected his words and wanted to hear them. Josiah bowed his head in prayer. The men hung their heads, and a moment of silence followed. Then Josiah began to speak to his men in a tone low, but steady.
“The way we live differs from our enemy. If we could live in peace, we would not. But we are forced to choose war to preserve our present way of life. Let our security not rely on our defenses but on the valor which flows from our hearts when we are summoned to battle. God be with us.”
Josiah circled his horse throughout the troops and raised a sword to end his speech. The men called out a thunderous shout as a horn blew, and Josiah led them forward.
Enan’s heart pounded like a drum, deafening him. The leather reins slipped through his clammy palms and sweat beaded across his brow. He might be as well-trained as any man on the field, but was any man truly ready for this?
General Marcus’s force began to advance in standard formation. Marcus’s main cavalry had not gotten into formation as the horses had taken extra time to descend the mountain side.
Josiah seized the opportunity and attacked Marcus’s army, hoping to crush the majority of it before the cavalry arrived.
Levi motioned for Enan to charge, leading at a horse’s length ahead of the other men. A sound came from both directions, a high screaming wail put forth by their enemy. The sound reverberated in front of them, unnerving Enan. He felt certain it had done the same to the men behind him. He needed to rally his men.
“Press on! Forward!”
More of Marcus’s cavalry men rode down off the foothills to join their comrades. Marcus’s heavy cavalry changed everything. Josiah’s light cavalry numbered less than half of the enemy’s, and was no match for Marcus’s heavily equipped horsemen.
Marcus’s infantry abandoned their former positioning and began to advance. Boaz had already joined his men, leaving Josiah on the far hill watching the slaughter. The fighting extended to his ground, and Josiah was forced to forge ahead, only to become a target for Marcus’s men.
Marcus, having led the charge and then moved to the right of the battle to give commands, advanced upon Josiah and charged him head—on, causing Josiah’s horse to rear and throw him back into the dirt. Marcus jumped from his horse, grabbed Josiah, and brought him to his knees.
Marcus held him at his throat with one hand, a sword at his neck with the other. “What do you have to say, mighty Josiah?” Mockery dripped from Marcus’s words as he tightened his grip on Josiah’s cloak. Josiah attempted to stand. Marcus pushed him back onto the ground. Josiah knelt, staring at the general who held his life at the tip of his sword.
His voice was strong and unwavering. “We accept with obedience what God sends us, but with determination the adversity that comes from the foe.”
Marcus drew together his brows and straightened as he stared into the eyes of the man he was sworn to kill. He noticed that men had gathered at his side, still watching their backs. He pulled Josiah closer to him. Josiah’s eyes never left his as Marcus pierced him with his sword. He severed his head and lifted it high to display to his men.
A unanimous shout arose and carried through the crowd of men wandering into the circle around their commander and former adversary. The battle waged on around them. Attacks came from all sides. Reeling under the everlasting impact of Marcus’s cavalry charges, Josiah’s infantry fell into disarray and then collapsed.
Enan stared at his fallen comrades and those of his enemy lying only a few feet apart.
He raised his hand in silent prayer but kept his eyes on the ending of this battle. Marcus’s third line of archers shot hundreds of arrows within a matter of minutes. This caused such an insurmountable number of casualties to Enan’s regiment that few were left standing.
“Shields!” Enan yelled to any within earshot. Suddenly, a howl began down through the flight of arrows and dying men. It grew into a chorus of screams from his side and yells from the other.
Lowering his bow, Enan scanned the area for his few remaining comrades and called, “Get into line!” A small group of men stood close to him, irresolute, and Enan yelled again. “Gather together, press on!”
Enan jerked at his horse and moved back to follow the line of men now forming. He glanced behind him and saw an opening, a clearing through the fight to safety. His first thought was to turn and run, a deserter but alive. He moved quickly, trying not to notice the debris of shattered arrows in shields, fallen carts, and broken bodies around him.
He looked back again as the men moved in and noticed a foot soldier with a boyish face moving toward the oncoming line. The boy reached behind his back for an arrow and quickly put it to his bow. Now Marcus’s men were on him. There was a flash of steel and the boy was down. Enan turned away, the image hardened in his mind.
Up ahead, a comrade stood holding their billowing flag, taken from a dead flag bearer’s hand. He clamped it against his body with what was left of his right arm. One of his men glanced at Enan.
Enan stopped, ashamed of his cowardice. He circled in front of the group of fewer than a hundred men, and gave his command.
“Formation!” He looked into their faces knowing that ahead of them was certain hell, and behind them was possible escape.
Enan led the charge, and within only minutes most of the men were down. He fought and watched as one by one, they all fell, and he found himself in one last fight of swords on horseback with Marcus’s cavalryman.
As he lashed out with his sword, he felt a piercing stab through his leg. The pain paralyzed him, and his body went stiff. He felt his sword slip from his hand and drop to the dirt. With a puff of dust, it was out of his reach, leaving him defenseless and injured. His last thoughts were to make it to the opening and keep going. He would find his way to safety and fight again, but not this day.