Grateful. She could not bring herself to acknowledge his words, or even to look up at him.
Javan waited a moment for her to react. He did not like her silence or her tears. He liked the way the other men looked at her even less. She seemed fragile, as though she were about to shatter, and all of the soldiers were aware of it. He knew that, at the first sign her unnatural composure was breaking, he would be trampled by men trying to reach her first, despite his claim on her. She was worth any risk.
Looking at her more closely, Javan noticed the moisture glistening on her forehead. More tiny beads shone above her lip. The heat had to be intense under the cloak, and it concerned him. He had chosen that one because it looked to be the lightest one there, but he knew that it put additional stress on her to suffer its warmth. He considered for a fleeting moment letting her take it off, but decided against it. His men watched her too closely already, and the garment it covered was much too revealing.
A sudden thought disturbed him. What would he say if one of his men offered for her? Such a thing was only too possible. He forced down the thought, and turned deliberately to the work at hand.
Taleh heard no order given, but the soldiers stirring about her started down the street, surrounded by donkeys laden with goods hastily strapped upon them. More donkeys and oxen pulled carts and wagons piled with the possessions of Minnith, her family’s among them. She knew the city had wealth, her own house had been filled with its share, and her anger grew at seeing it appropriated so freely.
She forced her lips to shut against the livid words that wanted to spill out of her mouth. If she said what she wanted to say, they would kill her where she stood. She did not know why, but she did not really want to die yet.
The procession of soldiers, carts and a few prisoners wound its way down the sloping streets of the city toward the valley outside the walls.
Everywhere Taleh saw the painful evidence of defeat. Their way was littered with the rejects of the soldiers’ spoils. Chairs sat in perfect condition in the hard-packed street next to remnants of doors splintered with iron clubs. Cooking pots lay in heaps alongside the houses from which they evidently had been taken. Clay shards added to the clutter, remains of water jars and vessels for flour and grains.
Clothing lay scattered about the street. Some had already been piled out of the way, but more draped from windows, or peeped between still-closed lattices. She told herself the gaily colored fabrics were simply discarded, tossed aside during the search. The dust irritating her nose did not hide the scent she now knew was blood, too pungent to ignore, its stench heavy on the air.
Taleh looked, and saw the bodies of the dead.
She tore her eyes away from the houses, and the windows with their terrible sights. She kept her gaze on the ground, seeing only what lay before her feet. She felt sick, torn between anger and relief. It could be her body lying in a tangled mass. Her robe could lend grotesque gaiety to the blood-stained dirt. How could she be glad to be alive, walking meekly among the victors, when her city lay dead?
As from nowhere, Chelmai’s arm appeared in Taleh’s sight. She stopped, barely in time to avoid stepping on her sister. She knew, somehow she knew with absolute certainty, that she was totally alone. The pain in her heart came out in a keening cry, tearing at her throat, searing her with despair.
Falling to her knees, Taleh wept terrible sobs. She ached to take Chelmai in her arms and forgive her for the cruelty of the past years, but she could not bring herself to touch the mutilated body, all that was left of her sister. Instead, she caressed Chelmai’s hair where it lay spread upon the street, rocking over the corpse as grief swallowed her up.
Strong arms came around her waist and lifted her away, letting her dangle. How dare they intrude in her personal sorrow? She screamed with rage, kicking back with her feet before the ground met her feet and skinned her heels. Angered beyond comprehension, she whirled around with both hands clenched into fists, ready, eager to inflict whatever damage she could. Before she could hit anyone, her hands were caught and held fast, and then blackness engulfed her.
C H A P T E R 4
The smell of smoke greeted her, tickling her nose. Someone held a skin of water to her mouth, and she swallowed without opening her eyes. Heaviness lay around her heart and she could not remember why. She heard the sound of a multitude of people. From somewhere close by there was much weeping. She opened her eyes, only to see the face of the Hebrew soldier who had spared her life.
Her grief washed back over her, cruel in its force, and she rolled away from him, curling tightly into herself as the tears began again. She knew they were out of the city now, and wondered how she got here. Could someone have carried her? Why would the victors bother? Why not kill her beside her sister?
The wind shifted and the smoke became thicker. She recognized the difference in the smell of this smoke. It carried the stench of death, burning her nose and eyes, and she began to cough.
Apparently Javan was satisfied with her recovery, for he lifted her gently from behind, and set her onto her feet. He walked around to face her. She knew the tears had stained her face, for she could feel their drying tracks. She refused to look at him, and pointedly turned away. That was a mistake, she found, for before her lay her city, slowly surrendering to the fury of the flames that burned high into the sky. She gave in to her anger, and whirled around, striking his face with the flat of her hand.
It made a very nice sound, a solid crack that eased her pain a little.
To her surprise, he did not move toward any of the weapons hanging from his belt. In fact, she suspected the look on his face was satisfaction, but that was hardly credible. He smiled, not a taunting smile. It was gentle, almost as if he understood what she felt.
She refused to accept that, until he put her thoughts into words.
“Let your anger out. You are too small to hurt me, but I know you want to try.” He turned and walked away from her, leaving her alone and aching with sadness that felt too big to fit inside her body.
She took her first good look at the people around her. She stood in a small group of young women and girls, all captives. A few of them, mostly the younger ones, carried their grief as heavily as she, but the rest were blatantly angry. Most of them had cloaks covering them, and she wrapped her arms around her reaching for her own.
It was gone! She looked down in alarm, only to see it carefully folded in a neat pile at her feet. Had the soldier done that? Had he seen how hot it made her?
Why was he being so kind to her?
Only a handful of guards stood around the frightened girls, although these were well-armed. No tents had been set up for the guards, nor any for the women. That did not surprise her, for she did not expect her captors to care about her comfort.
Except, perhaps, for Javan.
A slight distance away, she saw a group of young men. They, too, were under guard. More captives from Minnith? Why keep them separate from the women?
Unless they feared a revolt. Very wise of them.
Dusk was settling in, frustrating her survey, but she could see enough to know they would go no further this night.
Taleh turned her attention back to the women. She recognized several of them. It gave her a flash of pleasure. She did not know their names, but just to see a familiar face, even if only from the marketplace, was soothing.
The women’s faces were openly sullen. A few of them, mostly the younger ones, carried their grief as heavily as she, but the rest were blatantly angry.
Firelight flickered in the growing dark, away from the glow of the burning city. In the dim light of the faraway flames she saw forms passing to and fro. So that was the camp of the army!
No one could accuse them of becoming too familiar with their captives, she thought bitterly. The fickle breeze changed again, this time bringing the scent of cooking food, vague whiffs against the darker scents from the city. Taleh realized for the first time that she had not eaten all day. Would he, that soldier
, think of bringing her food? It was one thing to spare someone from death, but quite another to treat her as an ally. No, she decided, she had better prepare herself for a hungry night.
When she picked up her cloak, her pillow tumbled out. Her sandals were there as well. She could not remember having them in her hands after she had seen Chelmai – she stifled a flinch. She would not think about that now. She could not. Perhaps tomorrow she would be able to see hope where none existed tonight.
She smiled grimly. How could tomorrow be any worse?
Still, someone had carried her pillow for her – in fact, must have carried her as well. Might they want her for a slave? She was young and healthy in spite of her frail appearance, doubtless good for many years of work.
With a sigh, she arranged herself on the ground gingerly and laid her head on the pillow. It seemed to hold her mother’s scent. Wrapping her cloak tightly around her against the first chill of the coming night, she closed her eyes and waited for sleep to take her.
Javan strode through the camp, trying not to let his fatigue show. This was the last city, Jephthah had promised. Tomorrow they would start for home.
Home. He wondered if there still was such a place. What waited for him? No family, no house. He did not know who still lived from so long ago. He looked around him at the sea of men, an army of the dispossessed. How many of them felt the same?
At least they would not go back empty-handed, the way they had left. In all directions, men stood around campfires, bathing their robes and armor in the water from the cisterns outside the city. The Law required purification for the taking of life. It seemed especially appropriate here in Ammon. The defilement of the land seemed to seep into every pore, polluting them with too many ugly sights, too much grief.
Blankets and robes taken as spoil lay about unused. Until they had time to wash these things, too, they would not use them. The goods felt heavy with the uncleanness that was Ammon.
Pots scrubbed earlier now bubbled with food. Rich smells of cooking meat, vegetables and garlic drifted on the air. While the men waited, they chewed on dried fruit and fresh bread, nuts and grain, and new wine. The larders of Minnith had been generous. If they were careful, the food should last them some time.
A tall man with a purposeful stride caught his attention. He walked toward the largest of the few tents set up, the same one toward which Javan headed. Javan watched the man with affection. Soldiers stood up to greet the man respectfully, and from time to time he would pause to exchange a few words.
Where would he have been without Jephthah?
Several of the men followed the commander, and Javan picked up his stride, joining them at the doorway of the tent. He looked back quickly. Jephthah had picked a spot far enough away from the rest of the camp so they could speak freely. Their words would not be overheard. He smiled at his friend as the big man ducked under the flap, and followed him inside, letting the tent flap drop behind them.
Javan sat cross-legged on a rich rug, looking across at Jephthah. Between them lay a wineskin, still full, and a bowl of fruit, almost empty.
The rest of the men had gone. Javan felt safe in teasing his friend. “You have resorted to a tent now, Jephthah? Who would think it? Can it be that you have finally become as tired as the rest of us? Or are you getting old?”
“Old? Never! I just could not pass it by, even though it is much too heavy to carry any further. I will have to leave it here. It is far too large for one donkey, as I see you have already noticed. We have more than enough animals loaded down with plunder already. But it does not hurt to give our slaves something to look at, does it?”
“Perhaps not.”
Jephthah’s levity dropped away, and he looked at Javan with somber eyes. “So, Javan, our war is over. Do you have any questions on the route I have chosen back to Gilead? Have you wondered how our people will receive us?”
Javan’s lips thinned. “We have fought their war. After releasing them from eighteen years of unrelenting attacks, I hope they will receive us well.” He paused, his thoughts far away. “I have asked about my home from time to time. Every traveler, every caravan of traders that came near . . . When the Ammonites came, the whole city was destroyed. I have heard it was rebuilt. I hope there will be some in the city who will remember me.” Again he hesitated, but the older man did not rush him. He waited patiently for Javan’s next words. “I have learned something, Jephthah. I have learned not to underestimate this people’s capacity for cruelty.”
For a moment both men were silent. Javan, for his part, knew that no matter how far away he got from this land, he would never be able to forget the altars he had seen. Child sacrifice. He was not sorry to be leaving. Neither was he sorry for his part in this war.
The tent was quiet for several moments. Javan’s thoughts went out to the camp of the women. She sat there, Ammonite, angry and beautiful. What had possessed him to spare her?
Jephthah finally spoke. “So, tell me, Javan. What other thoughts are troubling you?”
Javan looked at his commander with narrowed eyes. He had not expected him to be so quick to notice his preoccupation. Had he not hidden it well?
Jephthah grinned. “We have known each other too long. Your face gives you away.” At Javan’s look of chagrin, he hastened to add, “Only to me, of course.”
“I want to marry a captive.” Javan heard himself say the words and knew they were true. He did not know who was the more surprised. .
Jephthah burst into a roar of laughter. “The truth, Javan,” he finally managed to say.
Javan sat silently while his chief laughed, stunned himself at the decision his mind had made, shocked at how right it sounded. “I mean it. I know it is difficult to believe. I surprise even myself.” He wondered if he dared even pray for wisdom on this decision, the pull of his heart was so strong and he knew what he wanted
Now he said, with no trace of humor, “It is true, Jephthah. I want to take a captive as wife.”
Disbelief replaced the smile on Jephthah’s face, and for a long breath he could not speak. At last he said, “Do you mean what you have said?”
Javan stood up, unable to sit still with the force of his thoughts. At the tent entrance, he pulled back the flap and gazed out over the camp. “I swore vengeance against this people for what they had done to me. I am all that is left of my family. I learned to hate them when I saw all the altars . . .” his voice trailed off, but he recovered himself and continued. “She was hiding under the bedrolls. I knew someone was there – it was so obvious. I cannot say what made me look first. I could have killed her.” Pain and delayed fear crept past his defenses into his voice. He did not mention the moments on the battlefield. Her reasons were her own and Javan wanted to allow her that. She had lost too much already, and would lose more in the days ahead. Everything familiar.
Jephthah did not speak. Javan went on, “We passed someone she knew, probably a relative, on the way out of the city. Before that happened she was mostly afraid, but I am sure she hates all of us now, myself included. In spite of that, I find I cannot give her up.”
He stopped, surprised at himself, the open flap clenched in his hand. As chief, Jephthah had to understand. They were friends, and Jephthah knew how much he had against the Ammonites, and how strange it was that he wanted to take one as wife. Jephthah had not wanted the men to take captives at all, much less as brides, but the Law said it could be done and Jephthah would never go against the Law.
How grateful he was for that Law.
The camp of the women was too far away, and he could not see her, but the guards were still there, their clothes light patches against the darkness, the city’s fading glow casting sparkles off their armor, and so she was there, too. He wanted to look at her again, to ensure himself that she was real, to see if she still drew him. With a sigh, he dropped the tent flap and turned back to face Jephthah. “Well?”
“It is the Law. If she is pure, you are free to marry her. She must be beautiful to h
ave this effect on you.” Jephthah’s voice was devoid of emotion. Javan knew the struggle his friend had not to argue with him. Somberly, Jephthah went on, “Javan, you do know the rules for captive brides, do you not?”
“Yes, I know. I cannot know how she will react, though. Shaving her head, her hair . . . I never gave it a thought before. She will fight that, I am sure.”
“There is more to it than that, Javan.” Impatience crept past Jephthah’s control. “The hair will grow back. It is you I worry about. She is a worshipper of the Baals. Who can know what beliefs she will want to keep? Can you prevent that from corrupting your household? Those very altars you hate so much, she is a part of that. Can you keep your faith when you want to please her? If the fields go dry and she wants to beg Baal for rain, what will you do?”
“I will tell her the rains come from God.”
“She will no doubt agree with you.” Jephthah leaned forward. “But which god, yours or hers?” He took a breath, not long enough for Javan to reply. “Also, you do know that for a lunar month, you cannot claim your rights. You know that? You accept that?”
“Yes.”
“You say that as if it was easy. I can only make you aware of your responsibility.” Jephthah’s eyebrows came down in a scowl. “As long as you know and abide by the rules of the Law, you may have her. But I am surprised.”
Javan watched Jephthah struggle not to change his mind. He could almost feel the ‘no’ hovering on his friend’s lips. When nothing more came, he sat down, limp with relief. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Know this, Javan. I do not like this. You know my reasons as well as I do. Do not make me regret this.”
C H A P T E R 5
Taleh woke to the sun shining in her face. Her body was stiff and sore, which surprised her. She felt disoriented, as if something was not quite right. It had all been a bad dream, had it not?
Temper The Wind (Ancient Israel) Page 3