by Mesu Andrews
Gomer sat in the shade of a lonely scrub bush, shuffling through her travel bag for her last piece of bread. Moldy. How long had she wandered in the wilderness? What did it matter? No one would find her body anyway. The jackals would pick her bones clean. A pack of them had circled her campfire every night since . . . well, for a long time.
She checked the sun over her shoulder. It hadn’t moved. Yuval would be proud of her. She’d remembered the old woman’s instructions. Keep the sun at your back all day. How had her face become so blistered with the sun at her back?
She must be somewhere in Israel by now. She had counted six days before her mind grew muddled.
A faint sound in the distance clattered like a cymbal falling to the floor. Not a wilderness sound. A people sound. She listened harder. Her heart pounded. It was a soldier sound.
Many soldiers.
She’d lay her head on this bag and rest a moment. Should she find the soldiers? Would they help her or kill her?
A sudden splash of water revived her. “What?” She sat up, her head swimming. The sound of men’s laughter surrounded her.
“Well, she’s alive after all.” A large soldier nudged her ribs with his sandal. “You got a name?”
Gomer shielded her eyes, trying to judge by his armor if he was Judean or Israelite. He stood in the sun’s glare. She couldn’t tell.
He kicked her this time, and she curled into a ball, gasping. “I said, you got a name?”
“Yes. I’m Gomer.”
“Gomer, eh?” He crouched beside her. “Complete.”
She furrowed her brow, unsure what he intended.
“Your name. Gomer. It means complete.” He stood and announced to the rest of his troop, “She looks like a complete mess to me, but maybe our girls can clean her up and make her useful.”
“Wait.” Her voice sounded more like a croak. Her tongue swollen and sticking to the roof of her mouth. “Where am I?”
“You’re in Israel, Complete. And you’ve just been acquired by Pekah, one of King Menahem’s officials, to serve General Eitan’s royal guard.” He turned and began shouting orders; a whole band of people scurried at his command. “You two, load her into that cart. She doesn’t look like she can walk with the rest of the harlots yet. You, Atarah, as soon as she can walk and dress, I want her serving with the rest of the women. How many did we lose at the last town?”
Through a haze of confusion, Gomer watched this woman named Atarah give a trembling report to Pekah. “Two women died from dysentery at the last town, my lord.”
“Well, maybe Complete over there can do the work of two women when you get her healed up.” He grabbed her throat and pulled her face to within a handbreadth of his own. “We can’t stop moving, Atarah. General Eitan has ordered us to Arpad, and we must arrive in time to observe Assyria’s pillage tactics. If you make me late, I will practice what I learn on you. Do you understand?”
Atarah nodded but made no sound. Pekah shoved her away, turned, and pressed on—shouting orders again to the men under his command.
Gomer felt herself being lifted, gasping at the sharp pain in her side where the officer’s sandal had left its mark. The name Eitan floated through her consciousness like a familiar spirit in a recurring nightmare.
The woman Atarah leaned over and whispered, “If you have a god, Gomer Complete, pray that it kills you now. That would be the most merciful fate for a harlot in Israel these days.”
Gomer laid her head back and let the jostling cart shake her into darkness. Her last thought—regret that she’d kept the jackals away.
Hosea hurried to Uzziah’s rented house, wondering what could be so urgent that the king would call him away from his students at midday. He’d noticed Isaiah’s absence from class and prayed Aya was all right. She was expecting their second child, but it was too early for her to deliver.
He emerged from the sycamores, entering the clearing where Uzziah’s camp had become a small village. “Unclean, unclean” was now little more than a whisper.
Isaiah stood beside his cousin near the audience tapestry, arms folded over his chest. Hosea sensed the tension immediately. “I came as quickly as I could, my lord. What’s happened?”
Uzziah’s eyes, visible between the bandages, remained alert—but today they radiated fear. “We received word during the early rains that the Assyrians continue to press their campaign west. They’ve seemed content to let raiding parties harass most towns, except for Arpad. The siege ended recently—Arpad has fallen.”
“Arpad is more than a full moon’s march north of Samaria. Isn’t it good news that Assyria is moving away from us?”
“If it were anyone except King Pul, we might rejoice that he’d conquered a fortress so far north, but Assyria won’t be satisfied until they rule the earth. When victory over Arpad was imminent, King Pul summoned the coalition kings I had been trying to rally. He requested their presence for the final phase of his conquest. Menahem and his royal guard obeyed King Pul’s summons and began their way north with a reported tribute of 75,000 pounds of silver.”
Hosea squeezed his eyes shut and expelled a long, defeated breath. “That’s not good news.”
“It gets worse. Reports are flooding in of Pul’s intimidation tactics, displaying Assyria’s barbaric torture practices on Arpad’s citizens in the days after the conquest. They’re waiting until all the coalition nations arrive with their tributes to finish Arpad’s king and his advisors. If Menahem and the other kings pay their tribute to Pul, my dream of a coalition dies, Hosea. That silver will finance the Assyrian war machine’s march across the earth—and into Judah.”
Hosea felt as if the ground had shifted beneath his feet. “If the coalition is already gathered at Arpad, how am I to help, my lord?”
“Indeed!” Isaiah’s eyes flashed, his outburst startling Hosea. “There’s no reason for Hosea to risk his life.”
“Risk my life, King Uzziah?” Hosea glanced from one friend to the other. “What exactly are you asking of me?”
“I’m asking you—Judah is asking you—to travel to Arpad and reason with King Menahem before he pays tribute to Assyria. One man on a camel can reach Arpad in fifteen days, and my spies tell me the Assyrians’ torture is planned to last until the new moon.”
“But even if I reached Arpad in time, what could I do—”
“The size of the gathered coalition armies is substantial. It’s a risk, Hosea, but if you can convince Menahem to stand against King Pul, perhaps the others will join the resistance.”
Hosea saw Isaiah’s eyes flutter closed. His friend was obviously frustrated but resigned to Uzziah’s desperate request.
“What does King Jotham think of the idea? I don’t see Commander Hananiah ready to charge in as my rear guard.” Hosea’s stomach twisted at the mention of Ammi’s abba. The commander had stormed into Tekoa the evening after Gomer left and searched every corner of the camp. In a rage, he’d damaged property and shouted threats. King Uzziah had ordered that he be forcibly removed, but to Hosea’s knowledge, he’d never been disciplined for his actions—nor had Gomer been found.
“Commander Hananiah has been relieved of his command.”
“What?” Hosea and Isaiah spoke in concert.
Before Uzziah could answer, a cool breeze stirred the sycamore fig trees above them. Isaiah gasped. “It’s Yahweh, isn’t it?” He stared into the trees as if he might see the physical presence of Elohim.
Hosea was both awed and delighted. The Lord’s manifest presence was like a familiar tune on a favorite harp. “Yes, my friend. It’s Yahweh.” He closed his eyes and let the voice wash over him. The people of Israel went to Assyria. They were like wild donkeys wandering off alone. The people of Ephraim sold themselves to their lovers. Even though they sold themselves among the nations, I will gather them now. They will suffer for a while under the burdens of kings and princes.
The words stopped. The breeze calmed. Hosea opened his eyes and found both his friends staring.
Gomer. Why would he mention Gomer at a time like this? “Let’s concentrate on the message from Yahweh. I believe He wants me to deliver it to King Menahem personally.”
“Thank you, Hosea.” Uzziah’s eyes expressed both gratitude and sorrow. “I can’t send troops with you. Jotham believes their presence might draw King Pul’s attention and bring a premature invasion. And Judah has no general. Commander Hananiah was relieved of his command because . . . well, his character was revealed through the death of another young girl who suffered similar circumstances as those Gomer described to Yuval.”
Hosea’s heart squeezed in his chest. Why did they have to say her name? Why couldn’t they leave Gomer to herself and focus on Yahweh and the mission before them? “I don’t want troops, my lord. Remember,” he said, following his own advice, “Yahweh has promised to rescue Judah without bows, swords, wars, horses, or horsemen. Perhaps it means He’ll use a simple prophet.” He tried to smile.
Uzziah nodded, seemingly overcome with emotion, exhaustion, or both. Isaiah laid his arm around Hosea’s shoulders and bid his cousin farewell.
The two men walked back to camp, and Isaiah was quiet, almost brooding.
“Trust Yahweh, my friend,” Hosea said, hoping to relieve his friend’s fears. “I have no doubt He’s called me to Arpad. He’ll shelter me beneath His wing.”
Isaiah stopped, his eyes filled with unshed tears. “When you heard Yahweh’s message, I saw Gomer’s face.”
The words assaulted him, stole his breath.
Isaiah steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. “You will see her in Arpad.”
39
• HOSEA 13:15–16 •
Yahweh’s scorching wind will come from the east. . . . Their springs will run dry, and their wells will dry up. . . . Their children will be smashed to death, and their pregnant women will be ripped open.
General Eitan leaned back on the stack of pillows Gomer had arranged as she handed him a polished brass mirror. “You’ll stay in my tent again tonight,” he said, reaching for her wrist instead of the shiny metal. “I don’t mind sharing you with my officers, but I don’t want Menahem to catch a glimpse of you.” He squeezed harder, digging her silver wristband into her flesh. “Do you understand me?”
She winced but forced a smile. “I’ve had our good King Menahem. I have no desire to leave your tent.”
“Ha!” He released her wrist but grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her into a quick, harsh kiss. “You’re good for my ego,” he said, taking the mirror. “Now shave my cheeks and trim my beard. I can’t meet King Pul looking like an uncivilized pagan.”
Gomer leaned forward, suspending his dagger near his throat. The blade caught a glint of torchlight, and he captured her wrist again. “Cut me, and I’ll bury you with Arpad’s citizens.”
She pulled away from his grasp. “Lie back. You sound like an old woman. I’m not going to cut you.” Gomer feigned anger to hide fear, willing her hand to stop shaking.
A wicked smile moved his cheek under the blade, nearly causing her to nick him. “That’s why you’re my harlot. You’ve got fire in your blood.”
More like ice in my veins. Roiling hatred kept Gomer alive. She hated the gods, hated the other women in camp, hated the barbaric Assyrians—at least what she’d seen from a distance. But most of all, she hated this man lounging under the scraping of his dagger. Eitan, the brutal soldier from Samaria who had beaten her, was now her master. He owned her. Fate was almost as cruel as Eitan.
“What will you do while I attend Pul’s feast tonight with Menahem?” His hands violated her while he talked. How was she supposed to shave his cheeks when he kept moving?
“Your men brought back two antelopes from their hunt today. The other girls never get all the meat off the hides. I’ll stretch the hides and go down to the stream to wash a few clothes.”
He raised his head from the cushions, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Did I not make myself clear? I said you will stay in my tent tonight.”
“But there are only ten women to serve a hundred of your soldiers. If I stay in the tent, how will the others dress the game, prepare the feast, wash the clothes, and entertain Menahem and his men?”
He snatched the blade from her hand and hurled it at the center tent post, sinking it into the wood. “Your task is to obey your lord!”
His temper was hot and quick, but she dare not show fear. Any sign of weakness was an invitation for heightened abuse.
She leapt to her feet, her frustration real. “I’ll never finish shaving you if you keep interrupting!” She’d made it halfway to the tent post when an iron grip snared her waist and dragged her back to the cushions.
“Mmm. Fire in your blood.” His leering gaze made her skin crawl, the look in his eye all too familiar. The other women in camp envied her, hated her for monopolizing the handsome young general. She wished he would take them instead.
She struggled, and he laughed at her futile attempts. Exhausted, she finally gave up, her bruises from last night still tender and aching. “Do what you must, but be quick about it.” She turned her face away, sighing. “You don’t want to have one shaven cheek for your first meeting with Assyria’s king.”
He laughed and burrowed in her neck. She feigned pleasure, pondering what she might do with the two new antelope hides.
Hosea left Tekoa the day after his meeting with Uzziah, nudged by the urgency of Yahweh’s call and harassed by Isaiah’s troubling prophecy. You will see her in Arpad. Why had the Lord told Isaiah and not him? And why must he ever see Gomer again?
He traveled hard on the first leg of his journey, pressing the Bactrian camel from Uzziah’s stable too hard. It went lame just north of Hazor. Hosea traded with a wily Aramean merchant, securing a fine young dromedary with one blind eye. The beast galloped for the next fifteen days over every kind of terrain, following the wide swath of death and destruction Assyria had left in its wake across the lands north of Israel. On the sixteenth night of his journey, Hosea slept on the outskirts of Aleppo, a small town just a morning’s ride south of Arpad. He’d spent the chilly night among merchants who had supplied the soldiers during the yearlong siege. Now their coffers were full from the visiting troops of nations called to witness King Pul’s final—and cruelest—forms of torture.
His camel lumbered north on the road to Arpad, and he searched the sea of soldiers for Israel’s army standard. The smell of death assaulted him. He looked to the right and left, checking the soldiers’ camps for burning bodies. Nothing. He turned in the sedan atop his camel, checking the wind’s direction for the source of the acrid smell. When he reached the top of a rise, the beast stopped of its own accord. Its feet sank into the soil, softened by winter rains and fresh blood. Hosea followed the slope of the hill, looking toward the vanquished city.
“Elohim, no. Please no.” The whispered prayer ascended, and he leaned over to empty his stomach. He’d never seen anything so gruesome.
Arpad lay nestled in a valley, the surrounding area crimson with its citizens’ blood. Giant wooden stakes, as tall as the city wall, were planted around the perimeter like flowers in a garden. Impaled bodies, some still writhing, formed the grisly petals on each stem. How could any human do this to another?
Assyria’s so-called mental warfare had become legendary. If a king foolishly refused to pay tribute and become Pul’s vassal, Assyria marched on the city to overtake it. If the king dared close his city gates, King Pul instituted a siege. No water or food in or out, and Assyria maintained constant attacks on the gates and wall. The fiercest trained soldiers alive used the most advanced war machines on earth. Reports were consistent from Jerusalem to Aleppo. Assyria was unstoppable.
Arpad had lasted a year before their gates were breached. When Assyrian soldiers finally flooded the streets of the beleaguered city, starving people were tortured as Arpad’s
king and its officials helplessly observed. King Pul lingered in his grisly display day after day, saving the worst torture for the city’s king and his officials. Hosea had learned during his overnight stay in Aleppo that the entertainment at tonight’s feast would be the death of Arpad’s king. The guest list was royalty—all the kings of Uzziah’s failed coalition. King Pul would give a final, vivid display of his victory, leaving them quaking in their sandals, too frightened to ever refuse tribute as the king of Arpad had done.
“Are you here to deliver Israel’s standard?” a soldier in Israelite armor demanded, grabbing the bridle of Hosea’s camel.
“Excuse me?”
“You! I see by the weave of your robe and blanket that you’re Hebrew. King Menahem has been waiting all day for the Israelite standard to display at tonight’s banquet. Your head is on a platter if something’s happened to it.”
Hosea’s heart was in his throat. Yahweh had just provided a guide to Menahem’s camp. “No, I don’t have the standard, but I bring a message to the king.”
The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “Sure you do. And I’m the king’s twin brother.”
He turned to walk away, but Hosea stopped him with an extended scroll. “Look! It bears the seal of King Uzziah from Judah. I’m telling you, I have a message. Now take me to Menahem.”
A moment of decision flashed in the soldier’s eyes. “Give me your reins.”
Hosea tossed him the camel’s lead and prayed as the surly guard led him off the road and deep into one of the camps. The familiar scents of Israelite-spiced foods dulled the death scent. Soldiers lounged by campfires, and a few women scurried between tents. A stream rushed through the backside of the encampment, and Hosea thought he caught a glimpse of auburn hair bent over rocks on the shoreline.
Yahweh, is it Gomer? His heart thundered. She is dead to me. Why do I care? But he nearly fell from his sedan, twisting to see behind him as the guide rounded a tent corner and halted at a large, black goat’s-hair tent. He’d never know who had been at the river.