Chariots to jordan, p.12
Chariots to Jordan, page 12
Miriam slowly rose from the well and placed a large clay pot next to the full bucket of water. Lifting the bucket she dumped the water into the pot, spilling as much as made it into the pot. Turning to Gideon she said ominously, “I hope that’s not too late.” Then cradling the pot in her arms, she marched to the house without waiting for a response.
Chapter Sixteen
“Edrei, that’s your destination,” King Ben-Hadad said as he poked his finger at a small ink dot on the map. “You are to invade the village, capture as many as you can, and destroy houses, crops, and anything of value. Leave nothing behind.”
Naaman pursed his lips and said in a neutral tone, “That will send a very loud message to the Israelites.”
“That’s exactly what I want to do,” Ben-Hadad said, his jowls quivering. “I want them to know that Syria is a force that must be respected.” Turning slightly to face Naaman, he asked, “How many men will you require to do this?”
Naaman straightened up and stretched the muscles in his back as he considered the question. “It’s a sleepy village of only a few hundred people. They won’t be expecting us, so they’ll be undefended. The most difficult part will be bringing the captives back to Damascus.”
Ben-Hadad looked hard at Naaman. “I agree; they can be unruly. How many men will you need?” he repeated more strongly.
Naaman took a quick breath and said, “Three hundred. I can do it with three hundred.”
“Fine,” Ben-Hadad said, nodding his head, which made his jowls shake even more. And almost as an afterthought, he added, “Take Adad with you as your second-in-command. He’ll keep control of the captives when you come back.”
Naaman shifted the sword that hung at his side and replied seriously, “I’d rather not.”
Ben-Hadad raised his eyebrows at Naaman’s mild refusal. “Why?” he said as he too straightened up and adjusted the large leather belt that encircled his ample girth.
“I don’t like him; he’s—”
“No one likes him,” Ben-Hadad interrupted. “But he’s my cousin’s son, and I have to use him somewhere.”
“I can send him on a different campaign with one of my other commanders,” Naaman offered.
Ben-Hadad shook his head rapidly. “No, no. Naaman, I want you to take him. You’re the commander of all my forces and the best leader I have. If anyone can control his anger, it’s you.”
“He’s out of control.”
Ben-Hadad raised both of his hands as if to stop any more words from coming. “Naaman, take Adad as your second-in-command. Train him. Teach him. Do what you can with him. But try not to get him killed—or to kill him yourself out of frustration,” he added only partly in jest.
Naaman swallowed hard and clenched his teeth to stop the rising anger he was feeling. “When should we leave?” he asked in a voice that expressed his dissatisfaction about Adad.
“As soon as you can make all the necessary preparations,” Ben-Hadad answered, barely a fraction of a second before a knock sounded on the door. “Enter,” Ben-Hadad shouted.
An underfed servant noiselessly breezed into the room and bowed at the waist. “The vizier is here for his appointment with you.”
“Show him in,” Ben-Hadad said. He turned to Naaman. “May you have success in your campaign.”
Still upset over having to deal with Adad, Naaman gave a halfhearted smile, gathered up the parchment map, and left the room.
* * *
The next several days preparing to raid Edrei would have gone much smoother had Naaman’s new second-in-command not inserted himself in virtually every step of the process. Out of total frustration, Naaman created a long list of tedious tasks and told Adad not to come back until they were all completed. Free of the constant interruptions, Naaman eventually managed to get everything done and breathed a sigh of relief. Now he could finally spend some time with his wife before he must leave.
Leaning back against the plush purple cushions on the couch, Naaman stretched his legs in front of him. Looking across the room at his wife, he said, “Karinah, that meal was delicious. Thank you.”
Karinah looked up from the roses she was arranging and smiled, but she could tell from the tone of his voice that there was more to the comment than complimenting her on a meal. Setting the roses on a small table, she walked across the tile floor with practiced elegance and gently sat beside her husband, drawing her feet up on the couch beside her.
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning,” he said as he used his fingernail to pick at a leftover fragment of lamb meat that was stuck between his teeth.
Although he hadn’t said anything about his departure previously, the distracted way he spoke when they’d talked during the past several days told her this was coming. “Where?” Karinah asked as she smoothed wrinkles from her flowing pink robe, trying to sound only mildly interested while inwardly her stomach began churning.
“Places,” Naaman replied.
“When will you return?”
“As soon as I can.”
The conversation was nearly always the same. He never told her where he was going or when he would be back. It hadn’t always been like that. He used to give her more details, but that changed after his march through the Shahba, mostly at her insistence. When he’d told her he was going through the Shahba, she knew how treacherous it would be, and every minute he was gone, she wondered if he was dead or alive. And when he didn’t return when she’d expected, her worry turned to dread, almost incapacitating her with anxiety. Although she hated the ambiguity, she preferred it to the apprehension she endured by knowing where he was going and what he was doing.
Reaching up she brushed his dark hair away from his ear. “How much does it hurt?” she asked as her fingers skimmed the scaly white skin on his deformed earlobe.
“Not much, except when I touch it,” he said with a smile, gently goading her for touching his leprosy-laden ear.
Karinah studied his ear carefully then pursed her lips. “It’s getting worse, you know.”
Naaman pulled his head away from her hand then quickly rose from the couch. Walking to the window, he leaned against the sill. The evening sun was hidden behind a thick layer of billowy white clouds that hung from the sky like a massive wool fleece, subduing the light and casting eerie shadows over the landscape. “I know it is,” he growled as the hot midsummer breeze blasted his face.
Naaman lifted his right hand from the windowsill and rotated it in the fading light. The contrast between the darkly tanned skin on his arms and the stark white flesh of his hand was shocking even to him. For years the insidious disease had spread so slowly it was barely noticeable, but recently it was as if it had gained new life and gnawed at his flesh like a mouse eating cheese. All of his fingers were infected to his knuckles, and three of his fingernails had fallen off. Holding a sword was painful, and drawing a bow was impossible.
His left hand was only slightly better, and he now constantly wore carefully crafted leather gloves made of soft goatskin, regardless of the heat. It wasn’t his hands, though, that caused him the greatest pain; it was his feet, especially his toes. They were almost always raw and bleeding. He walked now with a pronounced limp.
After tedious searching, he found a sandal maker in Damascus to whom he had paid a considerable amount of money to fabricate a sandal specifically to his order. The sole and straps of the sandal were of standard design, but abnormally, most of his foot was encased in soft deerskin. It annoyed him when bits of sand or pebbles worked their way inside, but it was far better than stubbing his unprotected toes on a rock. The leather was hot and made his feet sweat, so he devised a way to wrap them in linen cloth. Each night after he removed the sandals, he soaked his feet, still wrapped in the linen, in a pot of water to dissolve the dried blood on the cloth. Only then did he carefully unwrap his feet to reveal his decaying toes.
Karinah walked up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her cheek against his back. “I love you,” she said quietly, and she squeezed him.
Turning to face her, Naaman kissed her softly on top of her head with his irritated lips. “I love you too.”
Chapter Seventeen
Naaman stepped into the chariot, gently stomping the dust from his feet, and turned back to study the three hundred foot soldiers stretched out behind him. Battle armor glistened in the sunlight, and twice his eyes involuntarily clenched shut when the light reflected off the breastplate of the man nearest him. The soldiers were formed in a long column, four abreast. The men in the outside columns had bows slung over their shoulders and quivers bulging with arrows. Short swords draped from their left sides and curved knives from their right.
The men in the middle columns held shields made of leather stretched tightly over wooden frames. They also carried long spears with heavy iron tips. From each man’s left side hung a long sword, much longer than those of the bowmen, with blades that curved in a shallow arc. They all carried knives on their right side, tucked in the leather belts. Every man—archer and swordsman—had a goatskin bag filled with water, draped over a shoulder and held in place with wide leather straps.
At the rear of the column, two dozen camels grunted loudly as their drivers poked and yelled commands to urge them to their feet. The ponderous mounds of supplies swayed wildly as the beasts slowly unfolded their hind legs and then struggled to stand on their front legs. On their backs were containers of dried meat, figs, dates, almonds, cheese, and additional supplies of water that the men would consume over the week it would take them to reach the sleepy village of Edrei.
“Are the men ready to move out?” Naaman called to Adad, who was seated on a tall black horse that tossed its head and pranced nervously.
“They are, Commander,” said Adad with an enthusiasm he could not hide. He thrived on the excitement and anticipation of battle.
Lifting the long leather lines that ran from the chariot to the bridles of the large black horses, Naaman gently slapped the beasts’ rumps and commanded, “Forward!”
Adad instantly repeated, “Forward,” in a booming voice and listened as four soldiers at the head of the column blared out the tones on their trumpets, signaling the contingent to move forward. Adad gently spurred his horse about and pranced forward. “You’ve become a legend, you know. Even after all this time, people talk of how you found a route through the Shahba without a guide.”
Naaman pulled lightly on the reins to guide his horses around a clump of weeds. “I had help.”
Adad waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, the old soldiers talk of how it was the gods who guided you.”
Naaman shot a sideways glance at Adad. “Syria’s gods had nothing to do with it,” he said curtly. “It was Bisha who got us through.”
Adad reared back in his saddle. “Bisha? The merchant trader? The old man who died last year?”
Naaman gave a single nod.
“How could that old man have helped?” Adad sneered.
“It’s a long story,” Naaman replied abruptly, unwilling to continue the conversation. “But believe me, it will be much easier this time.”
Over the years since the disastrous first expedition, Ben-Hadad had sent many scouts across the Shahba, and they had marked the trail. Although rarely used, the forsaken, desolate volcanic fields of the Shahba had been tamed, and crossing it was only slightly more difficult than any other route into Israelite territory.
King Ben-Hadad had once again chosen the rarely used route to launch the surprise attack on Edrei. But this time Naaman marched with different orders. When he attacked Ramoth-gilead, his orders were to kill every man, woman, and child, and then destroy the village. This time his orders were to kill those who resisted but take as many slaves as possible.
“I want to enlarge my palace and build new monuments,” Ben-Hadad had told Naaman. “I need many new, strong slaves.” Those that were fit enough would be kept in Syria; those that weren’t would be sold to the Phoenicians or perhaps even the Egyptians.
* * *
By late afternoon of the third day, the soldiers were almost out of the Shahba. As he surveyed the changing scenery before him, Naaman let out a sigh of relief. The black volcanic sand had given way to dirt of varying shades of brown and gray, and in the distance he could see pockets of green cedar trees dotting the hillside. The worst was behind them. They had crossed it without death, sickness, or setbacks.
Adad rode up beside him and reined to a stop. “It was much easier this time, eh, Captain?”
Naaman nodded his head. “Much. Still, it was three long days filled with nothing, and I’m glad to have it behind us.”
“And me as well.”
Naaman pointed in the distance. “We’ll camp at the same place we did last time and prepare to attack. Edrei is an easy day’s march from here. Two days from now, it will all be over, and we’ll be marching back to Damascus.”
Chapter Eighteen
Gili walked softly to the door of her parents’ bedroom and lifted the latch as quietly as she could. Inching the door open, she stared intently at the bed where her parents lay sleeping. The moonlight streamed through the windows of the room behind her and perfectly silhouetted her in the doorframe. She stood motionless, and except for the barely audible whimpers, she could have been a statue.
Miriam rustled ever so slightly in the bed and said softly, “What’s the matter, Gili?”
It was all the invitation Gili needed, and she scurried across the floor to half sit and half lie on the bed. She threw her arms around her mother, hugging her tightly.
Miriam eased her hand from beneath the wool blanket and gently ran her fingers through the girl’s long hair. “It’s okay, little lamb,” she whispered. “Everything is all right.”
This was nothing new. Countless times over Gili’s ten years, a vivid dream of one sort or another would cause the little girl to flee from her room in the middle of the night, seeking the security of her mother’s arms. Sometimes she would be sobbing, but most often, like tonight, she would whimper softly, needing the reassurance that her mother was near.
Through a sleep-fogged mind and with eyes still closed, Miriam asked, “What’s troubling you tonight, my joy?”
Gili shook her head and snuggled more closely against the warmth and security of her mother.
The two of them lay quietly, Miriam drifting in and out of sleep and Gili completely awake. Gili slowly reached up and softly stroked her mother’s cheek. “Momma, are you awake?” she whispered.
“Uh huh,” Miriam answered groggily, more asleep than awake.
“There were soldiers,” Gili said softly as she continued stroking Miriam’s cheek. “Many of them.”
Miriam shifted slightly, and Gili immediately took advantage of the added space to wriggle more deeply into the bed and slide her cool feet against Miriam’s legs.
“Soldiers?” Miriam mumbled, as the forces of sleep and consciousness waged war in her head.
“They were everywhere,” Gili said a little louder than a whisper. “Here, in Edrei,” she said, patting Miriam on the cheek as if to make sure her mother was awake and listening.
Sleep fled, and Miriam’s eyes opened. Her stomach tightened in a knot, and a sense of dread washed over her. On many occasions since Gideon had been gored, the little girl had been given promptings and impressions that the others never felt. Miriam had thought about it repeatedly over the years, wondering if her daughter’s sensitivity was a result of her closeness to Elisha or if she was drawn to the prophet because of her natural spiritual capacity. Either way, Miriam had learned to listen carefully to Gili’s utterances about future events.
Gideon rolled over and groaned as Miriam pushed herself upright in bed. In as calm a voice as possible, she said, “Do you want to tell me about the soldiers, honey?”
Gili didn’t sit up but instead pulled the blanket tightly around her shoulders and nestled more tightly against Miriam. In a voice betraying her distraught emotion, Gili said, “It was terrible. My dream was terrible.”
Sensing Gili’s anxiety, Miriam reached over and gently shook Gideon’s shoulder. “Wake up,” she said softly but firmly.
Unlike Miriam’s slow awakening, Gideon immediately sat up with his senses scrambling to analyze if there was a threat and what it was. “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked rapidly.
Miriam patted his shoulder. “Be calm. Gili had a bad dream and wants to talk about it.”
The tension drained from Gideon as he looked at Gili snuggled tightly against Miriam. “Oh.” As he leaned his back against the bed’s headboard, he said soothingly, “Hi, precious,” and patted the bed in the space between him and Miriam.
Gili tossed the blanket aside, scurried over Miriam’s legs, and wrapped her arms around Gideon’s neck. Clinging with all her might, she blurted out, “They killed you, Daddy. The soldiers killed you and—” That was as far as she got before the rest of her words were washed away in a burst of tears and unintelligible mumbles.
Gideon hugged Gili tightly and kissed her lightly on the side of her head. “It’s all right, Gili,” he comforted as he patted her gently on the back. “Nothing is going to happen to me.”
Although Gideon couldn’t see her clearly in the dark, he could sense Miriam staring at him, and he could only imagine the look of panic on her face. As much for Miriam’s benefit as Gili’s, he said, “Everything is fine. You just had a bad dream. In the morning, things will be just like they always are. When morning comes, you’ll—”
“No, it won’t, Daddy,” Gili insisted, pushing herself slightly away from Gideon. “You don’t understand. Everything won’t be fine.”
Gideon reached up and grasped each of Gili’s arms. With his face only inches from hers, he said calmly and reassuringly, “Gili, you had a very bad dream. You’ll see—things will be better in the morning.”
