Temper The Wind (Ancient Israel)

by Boyd, Mary Ellen

  The sounds of many feet coming up the street told her she was too late. Heavy feet marching with purpose, male feet. Deep voices, saying, “Check every house, men!” “I have someone here!” “Stop them! Do not let them get away!” Terrible ripping sounds, dying screams. Metal on wood. More screams. And a sickening smell that slid heavily through the air coming in the lattice slats.

  She looked frantically around the room, and saw the disarray, the clothes scattered carelessly about. It looked as though a might wind had swept through, or . . . or marauding soldiers.

  There was only time to hide.

  C H A P T E R 2

  Javan leaned on his spear and caught his breath. He hurt in every bone. The fighting had been fierce, but his men had acquitted themselves well. The field outside the city was littered with bodies, bodies and blood. God be praised, most of it was from the other side. He raised his head to look at the city that nestled on the hill in front of him. They still had to enter it.

  He dreaded this part. It had to be done, he could see that, but it was much easier to kill a man who was armed than to devastate a city.

  A tall outcropping of stone on the edge of the hill caught his eye. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he recognized what it was.

  A heavy hand clapped his shoulder, making him start.

  “Do you see it, too?” a deep, familiar voice asked.

  “Yes, Jephthah, I do,” he replied, turning to his commander. The man was big, heavily muscled and imposing. Yet about him there was an odd warmth, an instinctive impression of trustworthiness. Jephthah had given him hope after his father’s farm had been ruined by the Ammonites, the sheep and cattle stolen, the crops burned. Not even the fences had been left. He had been seventeen then, suddenly without home or family or work. There were so many of them, men without hope, men who had lost all that mattered. Until Jephthah. He had taken them with him, displaced himself because of the jealousy of his own brothers, and they had gone to Tob. More followed, as the attacks continued. There they trained, building an army and dreams of the future. When the men of Gilead, Javan’s home territory, had called Jephthah to fight their battles, they had agreed, knowing that in return they would have their lands again, their homes. And there would be time when this was all over for wives and children.

  Right now there was work to do.

  Jephthah met his eyes evenly. “Will you do it?”

  “Yes. I will. But I must tell you, Jephthah, I am so tired of seeing these little bones. I have always wanted a family, sons for my name. Every time I see one of those altars, I feel sick inside.”

  Jephthah’s eyes softened into those of a father. “I know, Javan. I know. It tears at me, too. Just remember when you get into the city – these people are the ones who did that. Do not stay your hand.”

  Javan smiled grimly at his commander, and whistled for his men.

  Javan puffed for air as he neared the top of the hill. Dread, not effort, sucked at his lungs. He had walked up one too many, seen the leering visages that watched over the sacrifices mock his attempts to wipe out what happened there.

  He hated them, the carved stone, the altar filled with bones of murdered babies, the people who could do this.

  He looked up at the ugly faces carved in the huge stones. The menace in the frozen expressions sent strange prickles down his spine. The sun stabbed at his eyes as he walked around the rock pillars. He winced at its brightness in a place so profane.

  His men gathered around and Javan saw his own thoughts on their faces. He gave the orders tersely, turning away deliberately from the faces on the stones. His men could smash the stone pillars and crush those hideous countenances to dust. He wanted to destroy the altar himself.

  Deep inside, he found the cold separateness that served him well at these times, that let him look into the face of such evil and remain untouched. He strode over to the altar, tightened his grip on the iron war club, and raised it for the first blow.

  Something caught his eye.

  He leaned in to look.

  The little body had not fallen down the slope of the altar. The blow that killed it prior to being placed here for burning was clearly visible. But it was so tiny – barely newborn. A boy – someone’s son. Javan whirled away. The coldness vanished before his grief and horror.

  He vomited on the stone platform where he stood.

  He lifted his head, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. His men stopped their work to stare at him, even though he was not the first to give in like that in these abominations.

  “We must dig a grave,” he said simply, and picked up one of the metal implements that rested against the altar. The hard soil gave way reluctantly as he scraped a hole for the tiny body. Walking back to the altar, he used the improvised spade to carefully peel the infant from the altar. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several of his men promptly vomit, just as he had done.

  He lay the baby carefully into the hastily scratched grave and covered it. There should be words said, but he could not find them.

  He turned back to the altar. His men stripped off their swords, shields and spears, and joined him with only their heavy war clubs. The metal heads caught the light as they all with one accord raised them. At Javan’s nod, the clubs came down, and the altar shuddered, then crumbled under their rage.

  Not long after, Javan and his men entered the city through the closest gate. Jephthah had already breached the primary entrance to the city, the large gate on the far side. This smaller one was used mainly to get out to the high place for sacrifice. Javan knew many would come this way, trusting in their gods to protect them as they fled the push of soldiers coming through the main gate.

  For many blocks, Javan and his men cut down the panicked people of Minnith, spurred on by the memory of the terrible sight at the altar of death. As the city fell under Jephthah, there was less and less resistance, then none. He finally held up his arm and stopped his men.

  “Enough! It is time to begin the search. Half of you will start from here and return to the gate. Check every house as you go. You may take plunder. Most of their wealth came at our expense, so it is ours. So says Jephthah. Remember the rules of the Law.”

  Javan divided his men into groups, and sent them off just as teams from Jephthah’s main force turned the corner onto the street where he stood. Acknowledging their presence, Javan called out, “We will start here.” The chieftain waved back, his voice caught up in the din around them. Javan stepped over to the nearest house.

  The thick wooden door was closed. Javan tugged on the bolt by reflex.

  It moved.

  Why was it not locked against the invaders? Perhaps the owners had fled and locking it would be a perilous waste of time. He shrugged. He would probably never know.

  The door swung inward, moving silently on its pivots. The large house was quiet, with no sign of an occupant. An open courtyard greeted him as he entered. Doorways stood agape in the walls on either side, and an opening directly opposite showed a stairway leading up to the second floor. Looking above, making no move toward the middle of the room, he continued his survey. A railing above ran the length of both sides of the house, guarding the edge of a balcony. From the railing one could look down upon the courtyard where he stood, but it was made of wooden slats, poor cover, and no one lay in wait. He could see more rooms on the second floor, presumably sleeping chambers, and the upper end of the stairs. The wall that hid the middle of the stairway could also hide an attacker, but the stillness was so complete, he believed it deserted.

  He looked at the furniture, chairs of polished wood, low couches, richly embroidered pillows big enough to sit on, and fancifully shaped oil lamps. Through the open doorways on either side, he saw more evidence of wealth.

  There was still no sign that anyone hid here. He motioned his men in, and crept cautiously across the room toward the concealed stairway. The floor, like the walls, was of stone, and his footsteps echoed back to him.

  Still no one
appeared, and he spared a thought for the rest of his men, moving cautiously through other houses, expecting death around every corner. He turned to the men who followed him in.

  “We must not be careless.” He kept his voice low. “Let us be sure the house is empty before we turn our attention to the spoils. We would not like to have a knife in our ribs because we were greedy. I will go upstairs. You search the rooms on this floor. If you find any foodstuffs, take them. We will need food for the march home.”

  The men nodded and moved slowly through the open doorways, weapons ready.

  His shield in place and his sword in hand, Javan swung around the wall that hid the stairway. It was empty. He eased quietly up the stairs, swung around the opening at the top, and moved down the passage to the front part of the house, passing each doorway carefully. No one burst out to challenge him, and he relaxed slightly when he reached the far room. He spared a quick glance at his men below, their caution mimicking his own.

  The room before him was obviously a woman’s. A hint of myrrh floated lightly on the air. Combs and hair ornaments lay on small tables alongside two highly polished copper mirrors. Women’s robes of all colors were tossed about, silent testimony to the speed with which the dwellers fled. In one corner, pallets had been rolled up and shoved out of the way. But it was strange, he realized as his war-sharpened eyes went back to the pile. How many pallets would it take to make a pile that size?

  He tightened his grip on the sword as he crept noiselessly across the wooden floor. Using the tip of the sword, he gently lifted the coverings.

  A scream of terror echoed through the room and down to his men. Javan’s sword swung up to strike.

  The young woman huddled under the pile saw only the blade. She did not even realize she was screaming as her death was poised above her.

  C H A P T E R 3

  The vision of her blood staining the walls smothered him. That he had been able to check his swing in time amazed him. He could not move. He could not lower his sword. His lungs hurt from the breath stopped up in them.

  The young woman before him was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Every feature of her face was delicate. Her cheekbones were high, giving definition to the fine bones. Her nose was straight, her skin golden, her hair black as night and long, falling around her shoulders and down her back in gentle waves. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, and large in her fragile face.

  After her first screams faded, she made no further sounds, no movement at all, just stared up at him in fear.

  Javan’s men burst into the room, and he whirled to face them, his sword still poised to strike. For an instant, uneasy silence prevailed. Javan lowered the sword but did not move away, blocking her from their sight. Possessiveness gripped him like a fever as he said fiercely, “She is mine.”

  The Law said he could, even permitted marriage, so long as the woman was untouched.

  The men slowly left the room, casting odd glances as they went. Alone with her again, Javan sheathed his sword and knelt beside her. A sudden image of her rose in his mind, frail and tired in slave’s garb, hair cut short to announce her status as she served at his table, and he felt uneasy. Something was wrong, but he did not know what it could be.

  “Are you a virgin?”

  Whatever answer she gave, it could hardly matter now. Afraid to look at him, and yet too frightened to look away, Taleh nodded.

  “What is your name?” She noticed the suggestion of an accent, a little shift at the end of his words.

  “Taleh.”

  “Well, Taleh, my name is Javan. I claim you as my prisoner. You will be put with the other captives and taken to Gilead, where my home is . . . where it will be. When we get there, we will see what will become of you. Until then, if anyone – anyone at all – asks, you must tell them that you belong to Javan. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, hoping he did not see her surprise. During those few moments she had stolen to hide herself, she had prayed fervently to all the gods of Ammon to protect her, to let her end be quick and painless, but had not placed any hope on having those prayers answered. The gods of Ammon did not deal well with the women who believed in them under the best of conditions, and she had not been obedient recently.

  This was not how it was done. She had heard the Ammonite men tell their stories. She tried not to listen to such tales, for she did not want to know of all the different ways to make people die.

  Would he get angry if she returned his survey? She lifted her eyes to his and saw a smile in them. He was still on one knee in front of her, so she could not tell his height, but he seemed to take up a lot of space. His eyes were a warm brown, and his hair, too, was dark, and curly with sweat.

  He had a strong, masculine face. Thick eyebrows, slightly darker than his hair, emphasized the power in his unblinking gaze. A beard that must have once been neatly trimmed did little to hide his well-formed jaw. His forehead was high, shiny with sweat and dotted with splashes of blood. More brown dotted his straight, thin nose.

  Although the beard could have hidden them, Taleh saw no smile lines, nothing to soften his face. Had he come to her dressed as a common man, Taleh would have known just by looking at his face that he was in disguise. There was too much living in it, a concentration of power held in check, to ever be ordinary.

  She pulled her gaze away from his face, and some undisciplined part of her wondered how old he was. His hair had no gray, but his expression held too much sadness and experience for him to be young. His body was not the slender, rangy one of a young man. He had broad shoulders, well-muscled. His arms were massive, and a brief vision of what they could have done to her with that sword made her shudder. His coat of mail she avoided, for she could not bear to wonder whose blood coated the metal-encrusted strips of leather that so thoroughly covered his chest.

  The soldier – Javan, he said his name was – suddenly stood up, and towered over her as he did so. He held out his hand to her. She looked at it, and back up at his hard face, and after a long hesitation she tentatively put her own in his. His big hand dwarfed hers, and she had to stifle a shudder. He pulled her to her feet. She found herself a mere handsbreadth from his chest and the leather breastplate. The smell of the blood assaulted her, heavy and sweet. It combined with the pungent scent of his drying sweat to overwhelm her, burning her nose. Taleh felt herself sway.

  The man noticed, for her arms were grabbed even as she stiffened, willing herself not to faint. She would preserve that much of her dignity at least. Pulling herself out of his gentle grasp, she stepped back until the heavy smell of blood faded.

  The soldier turned his attention to the clothes strewn about the room. He picked up a cloak of fine wool out of the pile. Despite the heat of the day, he walked over to her and slipped it around her shoulders.

  “Keep this on until you are with the other women.” His voice was the voice of an army commander as he gave the order, and Taleh knew that she must not disobey, despite the sweat already trickled down her back.

  He moved toward the doorway of her room, and then stopped. “Is there anything in here that you need for the journey? When we go we will burn your city, so if you need a blanket, or sandals for the walk, you must take them now.”

  Need? She needed her family. She needed the world that his army had invaded.

  A pillow peeked out from the mess, the one stuffed with goat’s hair. Her mother spent hours embroidering the covering. Taleh picked it up and held it close, hoping he would not see her tears. Her cloak would have to serve as a blanket. Who besides herself would carry whatever she took? She looked down at her bare feet. He had mentioned sandals. She found her most comfortable pair, sensing his eyes upon her while she put them on. His unrelenting gaze made her feel awkward. He must be expecting her to try to escape, she thought. In a macabre sort of way, it was almost funny. There was no place for her to go.

  She would have liked to wear a different robe, but she did not want to anger this man, and she certainly was n
ot going to change clothes in front of him. The one she wore would have to do. At least she had the cloak. She was not naïve, she knew why he had covered her, and she was not sorry to obey his wishes on the matter, despite the heat.

  “I am ready.” Taleh made herself walk toward him. She did not want him to have to come get her.

  He nodded and drew his sword. A flash of panic gripped her before she realized it was not pointed at her. He again became a soldier, expecting the enemy to jump out from each opening. She followed him along the passage and down the stairs. The time for escape was long past. The city had been taken.

  Her soldier hurried her across the courtyard. She did not know the reason for his haste until they neared the doorway and the emptiness of the room finally caught her attention. She knew when he saw the awareness on her face. He refused to allow her to look back, but shoved her ahead of him into the street and pulled the door shut with unnecessary force.

  As her eyes adjusted to the glare of the lowering sun, she saw the street was filled with activity, except the people moving about were not Ammonites, and they were loading up their plundered goods on her neighbor’s carts. Taleh turned her eyes away, unable to watch, but not before she recognized much of her family’s own possessions.

  Anger rose in her with shocking speed, burning off the numbness, and it took all her strength to control it. She focused instead on her sandaled feet, and on the angry tears that sparkled like jewels as they fell.

  How long she stood silently she did not know, but finally a tall figure stopped before her. A familiar voice said gently, “You will not find living with us to be oppressive. Be grateful you still have your life.”