by Angela Hunt
No matter what his reasons, every time I saw him straighten and prepare to ride back to the warriors’ camp, I realized he was done with being a husband. To everything, apparently, there was a season . . . a time to love and, when that ended, a time to wage war.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Judah
Three things,” Solomon wrote, “are stately in their stride, four of stately gait—the lion, mightiest of beasts, which turns aside for no one; the greyhound, the billy goat, and the king when his army is with him.”
Make that a governor, and I was observing a literal expression of that proverb.
I lay flat on my belly, my head resting on my fists, and watched Apollonius ride to the front line of his army. His metal armor gleamed in the morning sun, and a plume in his helmet danced to the steps of his horse. His militia, wearing similar helmets and armor, stood in a long line that seemed to stretch from east to west. He had, I noticed, placed his archers at the front, his slingers behind them, and his swordsmen at the rear. A group of chariots stood at the rear of the company, ready to fly to wherever they were needed.
The whinny of Apollonius’s horse broke the silence, and the governor barely managed to hold the animal still. He looked right and left to check his line, then he lowered his arm and pointed to the hill above our hiding place where I had stationed a line of one thousand warriors, enough to lure Apollonius forward without revealing the true strength of our force.
I smiled. Last night more than rabbits had slept on this hillside.
“Come on,” I whispered, tasting grit as the wind blew dirt across my teeth. “Come meet those you have determined to destroy. Come meet the people whose God is Adonai.”
On they came, striding over the barren plain. With banners waving and fine horses prancing over the sandy soil, they approached the hillside as casually as men who have set out for a walk on a pleasant day.
We had agreed that my whistle would signal the start of our attack, but I would have to time the charge carefully. I could not give the enemy archers time to nock their bows and send a wave of arrows into the hillside. I waited, patient as a spider, and felt the ground tremble beneath my limbs. I heard the chink of metal armor, the snorting of the governor’s stallion, and the flapping of his bold flag.
Still I waited.
Inhaling deeply, I breathed in the odor of unbathed, hardworking men, then I whistled as I used to when signaling my brothers. My men sprang up from their hiding places, tossing aside weeds, rolling out from behind boulders, crawling out of shallow burrows. With spears and slingshots and swords they ran toward the enemies of Israel, their weapons striking legs, arms, and tender bellies. Our archers, whom I had positioned at the top of the hill, aimed low, beneath the metal helmets, striking our enemies in the throat, chest, and eyes.
I ran for the man in the shining armor and caught the reins of the governor’s horse before he could turn the stallion. With my arm through the reins, I grabbed Apollonius’s leg and yanked him off the beast, nimbly stepping out of the way as he tumbled into the dirt. As he rolled to avoid his nervous mount’s hooves, I freed my arm, slapped the beast’s hindquarters and drove it away.
Then I crouched before the man who had blasphemed the God of the Jews and the Samaritans.
“You come against the children of Israel,” I said, grinning at the astounded look on the governor’s face. “Let me introduce you to Adonai, your maker, and the keeper of the keys to Hades, where you will soon join your friends.”
Apollonius’s mouth curled as if he wanted to spit. “Are you always so stupid?” Rendered awkward by his heavy armor, he rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up. “Or are you making a special effort today?”
I was too startled by his suggestion—and, truth be told, too slow—to come up with a witty rejoinder, so I drew my father’s pitted sword from its sheath and readied myself for a blow.
Apollonius may have been a governor, but he had also trained in swordsmanship. He withdrew his sword with a flourish and swung the blade in a wide arc. He crouched in a swordsman’s posture, and I knew I would be no match for his fancy footwork. Yet I possessed what he did not—skills that had been sharpened by four brothers who excelled in down-and-dirty play.
Gripping my sword with both hands, I charged him with an overhand blow, which he capably deflected. I ducked beneath his answering swing, then stepped to the side, energized by the noise of battle and the sight of sweat on his brow. My men were calling on Adonai, filling the air with cries of “For Jerusalem!” and “We have not forgotten Zion!” while our attackers did nothing but grunt and scream.
Apollonius matched my steps as we engaged in a bizarre dance to the death. “That’s a nice sword you have,” I told him, nodding at the intricate engraving on the hilt. “Kill many men with that?”
“Not so many men,” the governor answered, lunging toward my chest, “but a great many Jews. Last year I was in Jerusalem when the streets ran with blood.”
“And for that you will pay.” I pulled a dagger from my belt and turned sideways, presenting a smaller target, then thrust my sword at his heart. He moved out of the way, though I did manage to slice the exposed flesh at his neck.
He winced, then set his jaw, his features hardening in a determined stare. “You have delighted me long enough. Time for you to go.”
“Before you die”—I tightened my grip on my sword as I circled him—“you should know I have taken a fancy to your blade. I will use it against your king in every battle, and I will kill dozens of your countrymen with its fine edge. Those carvings on the handle will be caked with the blood of Seleucids and Samaritans and any who would come against those who uphold the Law of Almighty God.”
“Enough with your bragging,” Apollonius said, charging.
“Enough with your blasphemy,” I answered, and as he stepped toward me, I caught his blade with my sword, turning it from my body as I sank my dagger into his chest. The edge I had honed sliced through his armor and slid between his ribs, opening a river of blood that cascaded over the fine fabrics of his tunic and left him gasping.
The governor crumpled as his knees gave way. He looked at me, astonishment on his face, and then fell forward into the dust.
I lifted my sword and shouted, “We have cut off the head of the wolf!” There were other wolves, but this one would not come against us again.
I removed the man’s head from his shoulders, then picked up his sword and plunged the blade into the wound. Holding the prize high, I stepped onto the plain and lifted my bloody burden for all to see. “Hear, O Israel,” I called with as much volume as my spent lungs could muster. “This day is ours!”
For the next several days, I found myself in the center of a bewildering whirlwind. When we had finished chasing the surviving remnant of Apollonius’s army back into Samaria, we celebrated, burning the enemy dead and capturing the horses that had lost their riders. We praised HaShem, we danced and sang, we went through the enemy camp and salvaged the spoils—wineskins of fine wines, gold rings from aristocratic Seleucid fingers, sets of armor from fallen mercenaries. The enemy had even abandoned their supply wagons, so we feasted on dried venison, roasted beef, and marinated fowl. We enjoyed fruits we had not seen in months and washed them down with wines fine enough to grace a king’s table.
Victory made us giddy. But when the giddiness passed, I found myself feeling restless and uncertain. I knew another attack would come, but first Antiochus would have to learn about what had happened here. Then he would have to send his army. That meant we had time, a few weeks or even months, to enjoy a bit of ordinary life. We could go home to check on the livestock, tend our crops, and relieve family members who had been doing our work. Men who had left their families defenseless could go home and see that they were safe.
But what would I find at home? Leah had been so cold and distant the last time I saw her, and I did not know how to warm her heart. I had no idea what I should say when I next saw her. Would she be expecting the
husband or the commander?
I told the men they could return to their homes for two weeks. “Check on your crops,” I urged them. “Repair your houses, serve your wives, and spend time with your children. Sacrifice to Adonai, for He is good. Then return to camp.”
The camp emptied out the next day, but I did not go home with my brothers. Instead I took a horse and wandered through the wilderness, taking time to pray and consider what HaShem might have in store for us. He had been faithful to support us in our first battle, but I did not want to take His faithfulness for granted. I resolved to return His favor with faithfulness of my own.
After three days, I rode into Modein and dismounted, then led my stallion to the corral, now filled with uncommonly fine horses. Eleazar and Simon called a greeting, and Johanan waved from the doorway of his house. They had been home for at least two days and did not seem to have any problems with their wives.
My heart drummed in my chest as I approached my own house. I caught a glimpse of Leah through the window, and the sight of her, so small and youthful, brought a lump to my throat. I looked down at my body—dust covered me from head to foot, my limbs bore bruises and cuts, and I had not bathed in weeks. What woman would not run at the approach of such a brute?
But my appearance could not be helped. I brushed dust from my shoulders, swiped at my face with my hands, and walked into the house.
Leah froze where she stood. Her eyes widened, then she gave me a brief, distracted smile. “You surprised me,” she said, moving to the table where she prepared meals. “If you are hungry—”
“Truth be told, I am tired.”
I untied my sword belt, dropped it in the corner, walked to the bed and fell forward onto the mattress. I had thought to rest for only a little while, but by the time I opened my eyes again, daylight had vanished from the room.
Lit by the glow of a single lamp, Leah sat on the edge of the bed, her hair down and one shoulder bare. Her loveliness evoked my desire, and I reached for her.
She recoiled when she realized I was awake. “No.”
“I’m sorry.” I sat up and raked my hand through my filthy hair. “I will clean up. Sometimes I forget how dirty a fighting man can get—”
“I don’t care about that. We women get just as grimy in the caves.” Her countenance had drawn inward, a pale knot of trepidation.
“Then what do you care about?”
Beneath the smooth surface of her face I saw currents of emotion, a hidden stream desperate to break through. “May I . . . speak freely?”
“I wish you would.”
Her shoulders slumped in what looked like relief. “I . . . I do not think I was meant to be a warrior’s wife. I cannot stand violence. I despise cruelty. And knowing that my husband is wielding a sword and beheading his victims . . .” She shuddered. “I have tried to be pleased for you, but I failed. Now I know I cannot be happy as a warrior’s wife.”
With numb astonishment I realized she was being completely honest. Words flowed from her like a river, faster and more freely than ever before. “What are you saying?”
“I know you want to honor your father’s wishes,” she said, not looking at me, “but Johanan has expressed his desire to lead the army. Why don’t you let him command? He would be good at it, and you could stay in Modein and oversee the family fields. It is a good solution, I think, because I simply cannot be wife to a violent man.”
I could not have been more astounded if she had announced she was an angel sent from heaven. I blinked in silence, then felt my mouth dip in a wry smile. “Did Eleazar put you up to this?”
“I have not spoken to Eleazar.”
I blinked again as hope fell away. “Are you saying you don’t want to be married to me?”
“I like you, Judah—I could love you because I know you have a gentle heart. But the thought of your violence . . . makes me ill. I want to be sick.”
I gentled my voice. “I would worry about a woman who relished the violence of war.”
“It’s more than womanly reticence. I’ve seen you and your brothers out in the fields. You beat on each other in some kind of game, and even that makes me uncomfortable. I haven’t known how to tell you this, but if we are to be happy together, I think I should be truthful. My mother never confronted my father . . . so I have to.”
“What has your mother to do with this?”
She shook her head. “Will you promise to let Johanan lead the men? I understand why you fight to defend the helpless, but when you kill your own people—” She shuddered again. “I cannot bear the thought of it.”
I stared at her as my thoughts spun. Did she not understand that we had to cleanse the land? I wanted to please her, but how could I refuse to do the thing HaShem had called me to do? And if I let her have her way in this, what would stop her from asking me to do some other impossible thing?
“We are not killing our people. We are, when necessary, killing those who have betrayed our people. They have converted to the ways of the Gentiles, and they have informed on those who keep and honor the Law.”
“They are still Jews. They are still men.”
I had no answer to that.
“I cannot do what you ask.” Avoiding her eyes, I lifted my arms into the light. “These are the hands of a fighter. These are the limbs of a soldier. HaShem made me for His purposes, and fighting appears to be one of them. Father knew it. Even Johanan knows it. And as my wife, you must accept it.”
I expected her to nod and submit to my judgment, but fury burned in the eyes that turned toward me. “Have I not accepted enough? I did not quarrel when we moved to Modein. I did not complain when we moved to the wilderness. I have slept on the ground; I have starved when there was nothing to eat. I have shivered and gone without bathing, and I have silently witnessed murders and all sorts of violence committed in the name of Adonai. I have even come back to Modein with your family, watching every woman with her husband, but mine? He chose to stay away. And when he did come home, I asked for one thing, and he refused me.”
Suddenly she was kneeling at my feet, her eyes intent on mine, her face lifted in supplication. “If you love me, Judah, you will understand. I left a life of violence to marry you. I rejoiced because you took me from a house where my father ruled with cruel fists. I was learning how to relax here, learning to love you, but then your father—”
“My father was a righteous man.”
“He was, but Judah . . .” She clutched my hands and rested her cheek on my curled fingers. “I want to love you. I do not want to be miserable when we could be happy together. All you have to do is renounce the role your father thrust upon you.”
I felt hot tears on my skin, gelding tears, and jerked my hands away. I stood and walked toward the window where I looked out at the darkness.
On the first morning I woke as a married man, my bride had opened her eyes and tried to change me. “Judas Maccabaeus,” she’d said. “Do you not wish to cast off that name?”
How could I change who I was? Adonai had made me big and strong, and he had placed me in the middle of my father’s sons. Surely these things had been ordained for a reason.
Could I remain behind while my brothers and kinsmen went off to war? Could I become a farmer-shepherd when my people needed me? I was not born a commander, but Father chose me and Adonai honored my desire to please him. If I did not lead, Johanan would. But my elder brother had always cared more for himself than anyone else, and I could not imagine him riding out to face the enemy without first having made a convenient escape plan.
On the other hand, I loved my wife and wanted to honor her. Her honest confession about her past had removed a barrier that had stood between us, and I understood why she had been so timid and silent in the early days of our marriage. But now that I truly saw her, now that I fully understood, could I place my love for her above all else? She was flesh of my flesh, heart of my heart, and I longed to sacrifice myself for her and our children.
But I could not—wo
uld not—turn my back on the task Adonai had given me. And hadn’t He given me this woman as my wife? Surely the Master of the universe could find a way to reconcile my wife and my role as commander of the army.
I turned, sadness pooling in my heart as I looked at the woman crumpled at the end of our bed.
“Leah”—her name tasted bittersweet on my lips—“I cannot do this for you because I must obey Adonai. I know I am meant to command the army. I know I am meant to be your husband. So please do not ask this of me again.”
Her face rippled with anguish, then she turned the focus of her gaze to some interior vision I could not imagine. She rose slowly, as if she’d been injured, and walked to her table where she removed a towel from a bowl and began to shape a ball of dough.
I drew a breath, hoping to say something that might ease the sting, but what could I tell her? I could not relent, nor could I be a part-time commander. Adonai asked for all of a man’s heart, and I could not give Him less. I had given all my heart to Leah, too . . . but she didn’t want the part that carried a sword.
“I can promise you one thing,” I finally said, breaking the heavy silence. “When the war is over, when our enemy leaves Judea, I will lay down my sword and live in peace with you.”
“You cannot promise me anything,” she said, her voice soft. “Because unless you lay down your sword, you may never live with me again.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Leah
I pounded the ball, superimposing Judah’s face on the wrinkled mixture beneath my hand. Not until I had beaten the loaf a dozen times did I realize the irony—there I was, beating up bread dough because my husband refused to disavow violence.
I glanced behind me and was relieved to see that Judah had slipped out of the house. I needed time to be alone, to think about other things while I figured out how to live with a man who could not fulfill my deepest need.