Prize of War Read online

  Chilling screams ripped the air as boiling water hit the climbers. The blistering fluid left behind angry red skin. The suffering soldiers jumped from the ladders, rolling down the revetments in the loamy earth, frantically trying to rid themselves of the burning liquid.

  The archers stayed back but continued loosing their arrows.

  As the Israelites scattered and the giants began to withdraw, Othni and a few others moved in to help the wounded. He found Malachi trying to get to his feet, which was proving difficult with the severe burns on his arms and legs. Directly under a ladder, he’d been hit hardest. His tunic, drenched with the fiery water, stuck to his back.

  Othni slipped his arm under his cousin’s bicep, trying to avoid the already blistering skin. He pulled him up, readjusting his grip to get a better hold on the younger man’s dead weight.

  Malachi groaned, his voice raspy.

  Othni’s chest tightened. The pain must be unbearable.

  They’d only gone a few steps when a large splash of burning liquid hit Othni’s calf. Pain seared a patch of scarlet on his skin. He whipped his head around—the Anakim had returned with smaller pots full of oil, which they were throwing as far as they could onto the retreating Israelites. A larger splash hit his upper arm. His skin burned, but he couldn’t brush the oil off while supporting Malachi. He stepped up the pace as Malachi groaned again.

  When they reached safety, a pair of camp boys stepped forward and started to take Malachi from him.

  “Wait.” Othni unsheathed his dagger and grasped the hem of Malachi’s tunic. He sliced at the fabric and slid the blade upward. He dropped the knife and grabbed with both hands, ripping it. One of the boys had removed the belt, and the fabric tore all the way to the neck. Othni gently peeled the wet tunic from Malachi’s back.

  His skin was a glistening, bright red. Blisters rose like the hills surrounding them. Malachi nearly collapsed onto the boys as they offered their support, and they led him away.

  Othni twisted to look at his calf. He bent to wipe off the liquid and stifled a scream, his whole body tensing when several layers of skin came off with the oil. He clenched his teeth and rested his fists on his knees until the pain eased. He took more care removing the oil from his arm.

  He glanced around the camp. Men lay groaning, skin covered in blistering, scarlet burns. The boys they had brought with them to watch the camp were running back and forth to the water, filling every available container. Men applied honey to themselves and their comrades.

  Othni wasn’t as injured as some, but he didn’t feel up to caring for anyone else. He wandered toward the dug-out spring, knelt, and gently poured water over his burns. Blisters already appeared on the crimson patches.

  He sat back and sucked in a deep breath. A catastrophe. That’s what this was—an unqualified disaster. How many had died? He closed his eyes at the memory of the bodies at the base of the wall. How could they recover them? Perhaps tonight, in the dark, they could sneak in.

  He grabbed a handful of sandy earth and let it sift through his fingers. A wilted blossom remained.

  The white-petaled flower with a yellow center was familiar. What was it—chamomile? His imma talked about chamomile … What had she said? This flower helped dull the pain of wounds—burns. There was another one, too … thyme. He gestured to one of the boys, who jogged over. He showed him the wilted plant. “Gather as many of these as you can.” He glanced around, searching the recesses of his memory, and spotted the low-growing plant with needle-shaped leaves and lavender petals. “And those, too. Boil some water and make a tea.”

  The boy frowned.

  “Just get it started. I’ll be there in a moment.” Finally, a use for all those lessons about plants his imma had made him endure. He dribbled water on his burns once more and then stood, groaning. He dragged himself one step at a time toward the fire pit, finally collapsing near it. If he could just get some sleep, maybe the pain would ease … His mind clouded. He drifted off.

  Arguing stabbed his ears. Who would be yelling? Not that they had to keep their presence a secret but loud noise in a camp was generally never wise. He looked up. Men stood in a circle surrounding Salmah and Enosh and …

  Caleb.

  With Abba gone, it was her responsibility to see the harvest was safely brought in. She ducked into the broadroom and grabbed the sickle and as many waterskins as she could find. Kneeling at the cistern in the corner of the central room, she filled them and then set them aside. She also gathered several rounds of bread and chunks of cheese.

  Rinnah followed Acsah out of the house and through the city gates. Acsah had given up asking Rinnah to walk beside her. For four years, since she’d been sent to work for Abba by her family, she insisted on trailing her.

  Acsah passed Aunt Leah and Uncle Jonah’s field. Her mouth soured. Yet Leah wasn’t to blame. She’d done what she thought best for her niece. It wasn’t her fault Acsah would now be married to an overbearing, cocky, annoying … She blew out a long breath. Yahweh, help me to be a good wife to him.

  Leah emerged from the wheat, a basket hanging from her arm.

  “Is Uncle back there buried in the wheat?”

  “Yes, he left as the sun rose. I just took him some bread and cheese. I’m too old to be following the reapers.” She laughed, gentle lines around her eyes accenting the sound. She might have lived many years, but she was still beautiful, sharing Abba’s eyes as well as his laugh. “You’re alone—where is your abba?”

  “He left early this morning for Kiriath-Sepher.”

  “I wondered how long he would be able to stay away.” She chuckled. “Almost two weeks—not bad.”

  Acsah continued farther, to Abba’s wheat fields, the largest in Hebron. Her workers saw her and came in, smiling. She passed out bread and cheese while Rinnah handed around waterskins.

  “Penuel, Shemer, Eitan, Rapha. How is the reaping today?”

  “We’re making good progress.” Shemer wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Right, son?” He clapped Rapha on the shoulder. The dark-eyed young man smiled shyly then studied his sandals. Although old enough to marry, he never would. He was unable to live alone. His pleasing temperament, however, as well as his strong back more than made up for that, and Abba always found work for him, even outside of harvest and sowing seasons.

  “Excellent. Looks like a good crop this year. And you’ve left the north corners standing?”

  “One. We haven’t reached the other yet.” Shemer coughed as he gestured to the area beyond them. “There are a few women there already.”

  “Good.” Acsah nodded, thinking of the widows who depended on the grain left standing in every field for food for the coming year. She handed Rapha the last of the cheese. “I’m going to start tying up the sheaves. Rinnah and I’ve already eaten, so we’ll get started.”

  They followed Rapha into the field. He trotted to where the workers had left off, where wheat still stood tall. Swinging his sickle back with one hand, he grasped a handful of stalks with the other, then he brought the implement down hard and low, felling the stalks. He laid the dark yellow stems on the ground and repeated the process, moving through the row.

  Acsah gathered the fallen wheat, laying it in the crook of her arm until she had a bunch about as big as her fist. She tied the stalks together with another and then laid them on the ground. Once she had several bundles she stood them up together, leaning them against each other with room enough for air to circulate among them so they could finish drying in the blazing midsummer heat.

  Hours later she looked back on the rows and rows of bundled wheat soaking up the sun. Children scurried along the rows, picking up stalks that had fallen to the ground as she and the others had formed sheaves. She glanced over her shoulder at the women collecting the precious golden kernels that would feed them in the year ahead. Moses’s law decreed any fallen wheat belonged to the poor, along with the unreaped grain in the corner. Those who had land were compelled to provide, but those withou
t were instructed to gather for themselves.

  Which left women like Judith. She was far too fragile to walk this far from home, stand and pluck wheat for hours.

  Acsah would gather it for her and the other widows after everyone else had left, and deliver it later. It was one of the few acts of charity she could do out in the open, without fear of embarrassment for the recipient.

  Acsah moved past Rapha further into the field. Ahead of them, Eitan swung his sickle. As he neared the edge of the field, she expected him to stop and turn around, but he continued.

  “Eitan, leave the corner standing.”

  He kept swinging. “There’s already one corner left.”

  “I want two. We have more than enough wheat for ourselves, and we can afford to leave plenty for those who are less fortunate. Leave this corner standing as well.”

  He stood straight, but did not turn around. “That is not required.”

  “But it is allowed. And generosity is never a bad thing.”

  Turning, Eitan drew in a long breath. He studied her for a long moment, then turned back and continued swinging his sickle as if she’d never said anything at all.

  She was not letting this happen. She marched to three or four paces ahead of where he was reaping, and stood there, in the wheat, arms crossed, daring him to keep swinging.

  It was ill-advised, to say the least. She made sure to walk right in front of him, made sure he knew she was there, so he wouldn’t chop off her legs with the wheat. Still, he could always claim it was an accident.

  “What are you doing?”

  All across Abba’s enormous fields, the other reapers halted at the harsh sound of his voice.

  “Turn around, and start reaping the other way. This part stands.” She kept her voice calm and sweet. Or tried to.

  “Move.”

  “No. This part stands.”

  Eitan looked beyond her. “Is that what Caleb said?”

  “It is. We talked about it when he bought another field this year.”

  “Perhaps I should check with Shemer.” Eitan stalked off.

  Of course. Why should he believe her, a mere woman? At least she had tried.

  And if Eitan, barely a man, not even old enough to marry, questioned her desire to help when she was still Caleb’s daughter, what would happen when she was Enosh's wife?

  Caleb was the only person Othni knew whose voice got softer the angrier he became. Now he waited before Enosh, hands at his sides, fingers splayed, neck muscles pulsating. “What were you thinking? I never gave permission for a direct attack. What made you think this had any chance of succeeding?”

  Enosh stood silently a moment, rapidly blinking eyes the only sign of his uncertainty. “We had to do something. The siege wasn’t working. We couldn’t wait forever.”

  Othni cringed as he ripped a flower into bits. Bad answer. Caleb liked thought-out, solid reasons for action, not simply a lack of better options. To him, that meant you just hadn’t found a better alternative yet.

  Caleb turned to Salmah. “Did you approve this nonsense?”

  “He did not,” Enosh said. “I did it before dawn without his knowledge.”

  At least he admitted that.

  Caleb limped away several paces. After a moment he returned, his face contorted. “How many men have we lost? Have we even been able to recover all the bodies yet?”

  Enosh slowly shook his head, crimson on his ears.

  Caleb stepped nearer to Enosh, almost nose to nose. “I don’t care how or when, but I want every body recovered. Before dawn.” His voice was low, almost imperceptible.

  Enosh pressed his lips into a thin line then stormed away.

  The captains remained silent, apprehension as thick as the walls around Kiriath-Sepher. Would Caleb fault them for not stopping Enosh? Even Salmah hadn’t been able to do that.

  Their leader faced Salmah once more. “How could you let this happen?” His voice had almost returned to its normal volume. Perhaps he wasn’t so angry as he was frustrated. He raised his face to the clouded sky. “How many families do I have to tell their sons aren’t coming home? How many more are permanently injured?”

  Visions of Malachi’s back crossed Othni’s mind. His own arm screamed in pain.

  Caleb scanned the leaders around the fire pit. “Are all the captains here?”

  Salmah bowed his head. “No. Four were on the wall and are seriously wounded.”

  Caleb’s gaze rested on Othni. He beckoned him.

  Othni stepped forward. “Yes?”

  “Your plan won’t work anymore, will it?”

  Othni grimaced. “I doubt it. They won’t fall for a false retreat now. If they were going to chase us, they would have done it this morning. They know our strengths and weaknesses, and they know they can defeat us as long as they stay behind that wall.” He paused. Dare he bring up the tunnel? “I have another idea, though. But we’ll have to do it tonight.”

  Caleb blew out a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest. “Tell me.”

  After Othni talked to his uncle, he finally got to drink another cup of chamomile and thyme tea and lie down. Sleep wasn’t coming, though. His body still pulsated with agony. Any movement was excruciating. Liquid-filled bubbles appeared randomly over his upper arm where the oil had burned the deepest. The skin around them blazed a bright red. There were only a few blisters on his calf.

  Malachi mercifully slept. His back was nearly one continuous blister, at least where the skin had not peeled off with his tunic. If he were awake, the pain would be intolerable. Othni never should have let him come.… Aunt Mariah would never forgive him if anything happened to him.

  Othni scanned the camp. Perhaps it was fortunate he was exhausted and miserable. Otherwise he would be pounding Enosh into the ground right now. Malachi’s wounds were some of the worst. One of his fellow captains had comparable injuries.

  And Enosh was completely unharmed. Walking around blaming everyone else for their own injuries. What kind of commander did that? A leader looked out for his men, took responsibility, fought with them. He didn’t send them into dangerous situations and then stand back and watch. And he certainly didn’t fault them for getting wounded.

  Salmah approached. “We have to get some water down Malachi.”

  “He’s finally asleep. Do we have to wake him?”

  “He’s not sleeping. He’s close to unconscious. So, yes, we somehow have to get water into him.”

  Othni dragged himself up and followed. How had he missed that? Probably because he was concerned with his own body’s needs.

  “Take his other arm. Let’s get him up and try to avoid his back.”

  They lifted Malachi onto his knees, shaking him awake. Salmah gave him sips of tea—thyme for the pain, chamomile for sleep.

  Malachi swallowed it, whimpering. “Please, just leave me alone.” He jerked away, groaning, and lay down again.

  “Did he drink enough?”

  Salmah shrugged. “I’m not sure.” One of the boys brought him a clean cloth and a bowl of water with chamomile flowers in it. Salmah dunked the cloth and lay it across Malachi’s back.

  Malachi screamed.

  “Malachi, it will help with the pain.” Salmah shot a look at Othni and shook his head.

  “No, it hurts too much. Leave me alone.”

  “We’ll try again later. Keep watch on him.” Salmah instructed the boy to keep dripping the water on Malachi’s back.

  Othni sat beside him, his right leg bent to keep it out of the sand. One decision—one bad, selfish decision—had led to so many deaths, so much suffering, not only here but for the families of those who were lost. How much thought had Enosh put into his choice? Had he thought it through, or had he acted in haste, trying to do too much before Caleb arrived?

  Malachi moaned in his sleep. What had Enosh's choice meant for his cousin? How much pain lay ahead for him?

  It was impossible to know, but Othni would never look at a decision the same way again.
Because once done, nothing could ever be undone.

  Chapter 4

  “In whose hand is the life of every living thing,

  And the breath of all mankind?”

  Job 12.10

  Acsah paced in the common room. Three days. Abba had been gone for three days. Had he arrived safely? What was he doing? How was the battle going?

  The sun nearly touched the horizon, and hunger panged. Acsah stretched and rubbed her lower back. The days had been long, hot, and hard since Abba had left, but the harvest was complete. The sheaves would be dry by tomorrow, and threshing could begin. She poured crushed barley into a bowl, added water and mixed it into dough.

  She shuffled to the low oven in the courtyard. Almost without thought, she shaped rounds of bread for tomorrow and patted them in place. Heat flushed her face as she peeled them from the side of the oven, placed them on the growing stack, then patted several more in place.

  A donkey’s bray pulled her attention away. A young, dirty-faced boy sat atop the gray animal at her garden’s gate. He looked very much like one of the messengers that had arrived every few days with news of the siege before Abba left. Why would one still come now? Had he come to tell her Abba was wounded … or worse? She rose and forced herself to move toward him, blocking out unwanted images.

  He dismounted, squinting into the sun. “Are you Acsah?”

  “Why? Who are you?”

  “Your father sent me. I bring word from Kiriath-Sepher.”

  Her breath caught. “Is he all right? Was he injured?”

  The boy blinked, brushing his hair from his face. “No. He only wishes you to know he arrived safely and hopes to return within the week.”

  She let out her breath. “And what can you tell me of Enosh ben Terah?”

  He swallowed, and his face darkened. “I can tell you nothing of him. I can only deliver the message I was given.” He climbed back on his donkey and rode into town, toward Hebron.