by Angela Hunt
“Judah.” I lifted my head when Simon called my name. My brother was striding toward me, his eyes glowing.
“Organize them,” he said when he stood close enough to speak in a normal voice. “Arrange them into companies. Help them understand what you want them to do. Each man will feel needed and useful when he is given a specific task.”
I nodded, grateful for the advice. Simon always knew how to cut to the heart of the matter.
Beginning with my brothers and cousins, I called men forward and awarded them the title of captain. “Go form a company of fifty,” I instructed, “and see which of your men has skill with a sword, a horse, and a spear. Find the best archers. See if anyone is a metalworker or a healer. And if a man has no skills at all, set him aside, for we can always use messengers.”
“And then?” Eleazar asked.
“Have them practice their skills,” I answered. “Set up straw dummies for the archers to shoot and the spearmen to charge. Have the horsemen practice riding with sword in hand. Cut wooden sticks for hand-to-hand fighting. Have your skilled men teach those who lack experience. If we are to save our nation, we must train for the fight.”
“What about the old and the very young?” Jonathan asked, frowning. “I have seen a few lads who are not yet shaving.”
“Make runners of the young ones,” I answered. “Put them in wagons and send them to the women so they can bring food and water to the camp. As to the old ones, have them pray. Not all weapons are made of wood and iron.”
“Anything else?” Johanan asked, his arms crossed.
I drew a deep breath, then shook my head. “Only two things—first, when I say we are to meet at sunrise, I expect to see every man at sunrise. Second, we will honor the Sabbath in camp. Beginning at sundown tonight.”
My captains nodded, then hurried off to gather their men.
After two weeks of training, I was beginning to believe the army of Adonai might be able to repel an attack of the king’s forces . . . if the attacking army had been incapacitated by food poisoning.
I was pouring water at the end of a hot day when Johanan entered my tent. His hair, dripping with perspiration, hung in raveled hanks over his forehead, and his handsome face looked weary. He regarded me with bleary eyes. “Pour me a cup, brother,” he said, sinking onto a fur-covered stool. “I am tired of running my men up and over the rocks.”
I handed him my cup. “How goes their training?”
He drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It goes . . . well, especially when I consider that my men are better suited for lying on their backs and dozing in the sun. I seem to have collected a group of shepherds who know more about mating and lambing than wielding a sword.”
“They’ll learn soon enough,” I said, pouring another cup of water. “And their training will serve them well when we are under attack. You’ll see.”
Johanan nodded, but his eyes had wandered to the corner where my sword lay. The old, nicked blade had been our father’s. “Have you wondered why Father named you commander of his army?”
I lowered the pitcher. “I’ve always thought it was because I’m the biggest of the lot.”
“Yet I am the oldest,” Johanan answered, his tone curiously flat. “By all rights, the position should have gone to the firstborn.”
I shot him a curious glance. “Do you want to command? Until lately, I have never known you to care about fighting. I had never seen you pick up a sword until last month.”
“If Father needed a fighter, I would rise to the occasion—and I did rise to it. When he called us to war, I did not hesitate to answer.”
“Then perhaps”—I spoke slowly, trying to be diplomatic—“he chose someone who did not have to rise to the role. Perhaps he remembered all the times he had to scold me for getting into trouble.”
Johanan snorted. “All the more reason not to choose you as commander.” His gaze moved into mine. “You’ve always been tough, Judah, but you are not—how should I put it? You are not sophisticated. I keep trying to imagine you before the governor or the king and . . .” He shook his head. “I simply can’t see it.”
I blinked, astounded by his words. “How sophisticated does a man have to be to swing a sword? Cannot a rough-mannered man kill as easily as a polished one?”
“You know what I mean. A commander must be a leader. He must be able to speak to kings, and he must understand the enemy he faces. He must be able to direct spies to gather information behind enemy lines and evaluate that information. In Jerusalem, I worked with many important people, wealthy men and even in the office of the high priest. I know how these people think.”
“No man can know everything, Johanan. So I will rely on captains like you and trust Adonai to take care of the rest.” I gave him a calm smile, hoping to flatter him out of his critical mood. “Trust me—I realize how heavily I will rely on you.”
Johanan stared at me, his brow furrowed. “Father was not wise in his old age. You should call on me, brother, when you have to meet with emissaries from the king. I will guide you as you consider how to respond.”
I sipped from my cup and nodded. “I will call on you, Johanan, because I respect you. But in the end, I will do what I think Adonai would want me to do.”
“Does He whisper in your ear, then?”
I winced inwardly, for Johanan was asking the same question I had asked myself. How would I know what Adonai wanted?
“He speaks through the Torah, the writings, and the prophets,” I answered. “And sometimes I think He speaks”—I patted my chest—“in here.”
Johanan blew out a breath, finished his water, and dropped the cup to the ground. “I am going to bed.”
“Rest well, brother. I am glad you stopped by.”
“You would be.” Johanan stood, his handsome face set in grim lines. “Only you.”
Over the following weeks, my men and I searched out villages and towns where the king’s men were tormenting Jews who chose to follow the Law of Adonai. We searched for Hellenes who had been informers and led others astray; our warriors pulled them out of taverns and inns and from the backs of swift horses. We killed them where we found them and left them on the road as a warning to other blasphemers. And though we fought with enemies in diverse places, we did not lose a single man.
Whenever I felt myself wavering in purpose or determination, I remembered what Eleazar had told me—I had been called to defend Adonai’s people. Usurpers had entered the land promised to the sons and daughters of Abraham, and these Gentiles were attempting to annihilate our people and give our lands to others. This we could not allow, for Adonai, the Master of the universe, had ceded the land to us. We would not surrender our God-given heritage without a fight.
Once I reminded myself of these truths, only one individual had the power to weaken my resolve . . . and I found myself wavering every time I saw her.
Leah did not approve of my new role. Though she never upbraided me with words or actions, I felt disapproval in the chilly tone of her greeting, her refusal to meet my gaze, and her stiffness when I tried to wrap her in my arms. The woman who had been pure sweetness when we lived in Modein now drizzled gray disapproval whenever I visited the women’s settlement.
None of my brothers’ wives reacted with such cold hostility. Neta complained loudly and often about suffering hardship in the wilderness, but she was always thrilled to see Johanan and welcomed him to the caves with hugs and kisses. Morit was more subdued with Simon, especially since God had now blessed them with two little sons. Ona had always been quiet, yet she greeted the wagon with a smile when we visited the women and seemed delighted to welcome Eleazar.
While I desperately wanted to ask Leah why she was so unhappy with me, I could not ask such a personal question amid so many eavesdroppers. I attempted to take her to a private place, but once she realized my intention, she put up her hands and walked back to the women’s camp. Frustrated with her and forlorn without her, I always left the caves feeli
ng uneasy and unsatisfied. Somehow it did not seem right for a commander to be at peace with his men and at odds with his wife.
“I will never understand,” I told Eleazar as we rode away from the Gophna Hills one afternoon, “why a woman expects her husband to read her mind.”
Eleazar laughed and clapped my shoulder. “I have been called brave on occasion,” he said with a grin, “but I am a complete coward when I am forced to figure out what is troubling my Ona. I might hazard a guess as to what she is thinking, but if I get it wrong”—he smashed his fist into his palm—“I would sooner take a dozen blows. She will say I don’t care about her, for if I cared I would know what troubles her. How can I know when she won’t speak her mind?”
For the sake of my men—and my sanity—I deliberately placed Leah at the back of my mind once we returned to camp. I could not worry about her when I was supposed to be training an army. I could not wonder what she was thinking when I had to figure out how to feed and provision thousands of Israelites who had left their families to defend our people. I could not indulge in lovesickness when my duty to Adonai demanded my best.
With each sunrise, my responsibilities chafed more urgently. Far too many of our people had willingly surrendered their heritage and identity in order to be accepted by the Gentile intruders. Adonai would have to show me what to do to deliver our people before they disappeared entirely, and He would have to grant me the strength to do it.
We were training on borrowed time. Word of our activities was certain to reach Antiochus Epiphanes, and when it did, he would send his army south. If, as I had heard, he was off waging war against the Persians and Armenians, he would send one of his generals with an army intent on wiping us from the face of the earth.
So when we were not searching for blasphemers in the villages and towns of Judea, we practiced our fighting skills and kept a wary eye on the plains. We knew the Seleucids were coming, but we did not know when.
Chapter Thirty
Judah
In a territory north of our camp, Apollonius, governor of Samaria, gathered Gentiles and a large force of Samaritans to fight against the army of Israel. When news of the approaching army reached us, we were dismayed but not surprised. The Samaritans were relatives—a people who claimed to be descended from Israelites who survived the Babylonian invasion and intermarried with native peoples—a practice forbidden by the Law of Moses. The Jews who returned to Judea after the exile never trusted the Samaritans, and nothing in our neighbors’ recent behavior had improved our opinions of them.
“I can’t believe he enlisted Samaritans,” Simon said, his brow furrowed. “I had hoped they would stay out of this fight. After all, the Seleucids defiled their Temple, too—”
“They’re on their way.” A breathless scout burst into the tent where Johanan, Simon, and I were discussing battle plans with my captains. “Hundreds of mounted men and at least a thousand foot soldiers.”
An undeniable feeling of purpose rose in my chest as I looked at my brothers and my captains. Purpose . . . and eagerness. “This,” I told them, a thrill shivering through my senses, “is why we have been training. This is why we have struggled, toiled, and gone hungry.”
I looked at those faces—long faces, round faces, young faces, old faces, pale faces, flushed faces—and to a man, I saw the light of determination in their eyes. Today these men would stand behind me, and we would need the strength of Adonai to face the challenge approaching us.
“Have the riders mount up,” I told the captains. “Archers should prepare their arrows. Tell the swordsmen to strap on their armor, and the slingers to fill their pouches.”
“Will we go north to meet them?” Eleazar asked.
“We will march only as far as Lebonah,” I answered, giving him a grim smile. “I know that area, and we will be able to hide ourselves on the hillside. They will ride straight into our welcoming arms.”
With quickened pulses and surging blood in our veins, we stalked out to meet the aggressors.
The night before the battle, after my men had hidden themselves among the rocks and grasses of the hills near Lebonah, I rode my horse onto a ridge and looked down at the enemy camp. Apollonius, warned either by his scouts or his false gods, had stopped short of our ambush and camped for the night.
The governor’s tents were of far better quality than ours. Campfires, spaced at regular intervals, danced in the darkness, filling the plain. Several large tents glowed from the light of torches within, and even from where I stood I could see painted designs on the sprawling fabric domes. One of those tents belonged to Apollonius, whom I hoped to soon meet.
My men lay on the hillside where I had positioned them. They had no fires to keep them warm, no soft beds, no dinner, and no wives for comfort. In the darkness they might rise to stretch their limbs, but come morning they would be as still as the stones around them, waiting for the enemy to awaken and advance.
Like snakes we would lie poised to strike a lethal blow.
I let my horse pick his way down the ridge and positioned the beast out of sight behind a boulder, hobbled him, and stretched out on the hilltop. My men were obediently following orders—no one deserted his position, no one spoke. I could hear distant whinnies from the enemies’ horses and the occasional burst of laughter, but nothing else.
As the wind gently scissored the grass near my ear, I drifted into a light doze in which familiar stories mingled with odd images I did not understand. I saw the faces of my people—a mother with seven sons, a copper pan large enough to fry an entire cow, a young man bleeding before his weeping mother as his brothers lay burned and broken on the floor. The scene shifted and I saw women with somber expressions, children in odd garments, bearded men with dark hats on their heads. I saw crowds shuffling forward, carrying bundles and baskets toward large boxes with wide doors. Tears streaked the women’s faces and children screamed as uniformed men herded them into the boxes, then suddenly I stood in the room with them, breathing sour air, leaning against strangers as the box moved, jostling and vibrating in every corner, rattling even the floor beneath our feet . . .
Then we were walking, all of us pitifully naked and as thin as reeds. The women and children no longer had hair and the men had lost their beards. We walked toward a huge building with a chimney through which gray smoke rose to poison a pure blue sky. As we walked with mincing steps, I saw hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people piled in a ditch, men, women, and children lying atop each other like clay dolls, lifeless eyes staring at nothing, children with open mouths and pale, frozen limbs—
“Why?” I shouted, trying to wrest the others from their stupor. “Why are we walking into this place?”
The women in the slow-moving line answered with the tortured mother who had lost seven sons: Because we did not believe anyone could be so cruel. A murmur rose from the earth itself, trees and stones whispering words too terrible to be spoken. Because we did not see the danger until it was too late to resist.
We did not believe anyone could be so cruel.
We did not see the danger.
Too late.
I awakened as if slapped from sleep by an invisible hand. Gasping, I sat up and stared into the darkness, trying to make sense of where I was and what I had witnessed in the vision.
I was sitting on a hillside near Lebonah, waiting with the army of Israel. The sky above me was black, not blue. We were waiting for those who were determined to annihilate us. We might be resting with our eyes closed, but we were not blind.
I drew a deep breath, crossed my legs, and rested my arms on my bent knees, unwilling to close my eyes again.
Chapter Thirty-One
Leah
I slipped away from the other women as the sun sank below the rim of the hills. As I stood in the mouth of a cave, their careless chatter provided a stark contrast to the thick blanket of silence hovering over the men’s distant camp.
Our warriors were gone, having departed the day before. They were striding forward
to face their first major battle, and I knew Judah had determined to win a victory or die trying. He would not accept middle ground; no peaceful surrender would do for his army.
I wanted to be as confident as he was, but doubts swirled in my head. Up until now, he and his men had only engaged in surprise attacks. They had dragged shepherds and farmers from taverns and held swords to the throats of unarmed men. Their string of easy victories, I feared, had come to an end.
On the morrow they would face an actual army with heavily armed men, many of them exceptionally skilled in warfare. From talking to my brothers-in-law, I learned that the Seleucids were trained mercenaries, well-fed soldiers who were paid to kill for a king. They were not fighting for freedom or justice; they fought for glory, honor, and money. If they found themselves losing a battle, they would retreat and save themselves to fight another day.
Judah, I feared, would never retreat. His ragtag group—volunteers who had been living for months on bread, goat cheese, and whatever bits of meat we could scavenge from wild animals in the wilderness—would die before surrendering.
I wrapped my arms around myself as a chilly wind swirled outside the mouth of the cave. So much for my marriage. I hated violence and had married to get away from it, yet life or fate or Adonai had brought me back to the place where I started. My gentle husband had become a warrior, and I would soon be a widow, as would most of the women behind me. And even though Judah had to know I did not approve of this war, he had not given up his command, but had plunged ahead in his reckless work.
Did he truly love me, or had he married only because his father required it? When he told me his name meant “the hammerhead,” I should have known that he preferred fighting to loving. He had revealed himself to be a man’s man, a creature born and bred for conflict, and he seemed to enjoy the pitched heat of a fight. He would consider it an honor to surrender his life on some blood-soaked battlefield, so why had he agreed to take a wife?