NINE

Karak, the Amalekite chieftain, hidden by the poor light of dusk and by the wall of the waste ditch near Ziklag, watched and counted how long it took the night-shift guard to replace the other man. They were lazy and far too slow. By the time the first figure had departed the shadow of the gate, Karak could have moved twenty men through the entrance without a word of warning. He smiled. It had happened just this way last night too. In another hour there would be another rotation, and that was when they would strike.

By a stroke of luck, the watchmen at the city gate had foolishly left the massive doors open to allow the cool breeze from the desert through. In the narrow corridor just inside the gate, there was a series of sharp-angled walls one had to pass through to actually enter the city. The most important rule in the defense of towns was to never ever leave the gates open at night, not for any reason. And yet here they were, blessed by Baal or whichever local god had seen fit to assure that lazy men would be guarding the gates that night, men unfit to march to the north to war.

Ziklag was perched at the top of a round hill with barren slopes. The countryside surrounding the Philistine city rolled gently away in all directions. Though they were at the edge of the great Negev Desert, the hills of cooler lands sat to the east, and the Great Sea was only a two-day walk to the west. Ziklag served as both a town and a watchtower for this part of the trade routes. The guards would be able to see an enemy threat coming from a long distance.

Karak could make out the paths the women traveled to get water from the nearby creek bed. The scout had watched them the previous day and counted how many women fetched water. If each woman hauled water for one family group — and Philistine households could be large—then the number of women reported hauling water was a good indication of how many people were inside. The scout also reported, to the delight of the chieftain, that almost no men were seen either leaving or entering the town.

He looked to his left and checked the rows of soldiers lying still in the drainage ditch hewn from the side of the hill. The city’s refuse and waste water was thrown out near the gate and trickled along the very area they were waiting in. It would have been checked frequently by true soldiers—it was too obvious an ambush position—but the Philistines had sent all their best men north. Old men and worthless men guarded their cities. The old men were too tired to search the ditch; the worthless men, too lazy.

Next to him was his deputy, and next to the deputy was the Egyptian mercenary. Karak would have enjoyed the mercenary’s job more than his own. Able to fight and capture plunder and never having to obey a king. He suspected the man was a spy for the ruler of Egypt, but that did not matter to Karak. For now, he was a good fighter and a terrifying presence on the field, worth the gold.

The Egyptian was the greatest fighter Karak had ever seen; no man alive could stand with him in single combat. Not even the vaunted Hebrew warriors they had heard about in the legends. He would decide the fate of nations if he rose up from the ranks and taunted his opponent. No enemy king would have a warrior capable of meeting him.

The night watchman had settled at the entrance gate and was no longer visible, sitting in the shadows. The chieftain wondered if it was an old man, sleepy from the day, unable to see past twenty paces in the darkness. He was amazed again at how fortunate they were that all of the fighting men in the land were in the north.

His troops would move quickly. There were two hundred of them, with the rest of his army waiting in the hills above. They would be difficult to control. None of them had ever been formally trained in the movements of armies, preferring instead to attack small outposts from the backs of camels, swinging their blades across the throats of women and farmers. But they had been attentive to their training for this mission. The promise of gold and women made for good fighters, and the Philistines had both.

He had not wasted manpower and time raiding many Hebrew settlements. They were poor and not worth the effort. But the kings of Amalek wanted vengeance for Hebrew raids along the borderlands. There was said to be a significant Hebrew population living in Ziklag, and since it was the furthest outpost of the southern borderlands, Karak had decided it was worth taking. It would be the perfect way to finish their raiding. And if they were successful, they would have captured so much bounty that they would need to return to their own lands to deposit it all and sell the slaves.

The moon was extremely bright, checkering the land with black shadows from all of the objects in the desert. City walls gleamed. Karak imagined the nightly rituals going on behind the walls. Workmen were probably stoking fires to heat and forge iron, the mysterious metal that had only recently been seen in his lands. Merchants were wrapping up their goods from the day of bartering and selling, women were putting children to bed. The women. Philistine women did not resist like Hebrew women did. He thought of them and smiled.

An hour passed. The men were getting restless. A squad or two could lie still for hours and never even breathe loudly. But large groups clustered together for long periods of time began whispering and complaining. It was like moving a herd of cattle.

Karak saw movement at the gate. Another watchman changing shifts. It was almost time. They would go at the end of the new man’s shift, when he was most tired and eager to get back to his warm bed. Better get them moving.

He looked at his deputy, who was lying in the ditch behind him and waiting for a command. The man nodded and moved down the line. Each commander would be given the order.

Karak looked at the Egyptian, lying next to him watching the city gates. The Egyptian looked back and nodded. The warrior only spoke a few words of their tongue, so Karak let him operate alone. If he fell, he fell. Karak wasn’t going to put him in command of others.

Karak pointed at himself and made a gesture as if he were about to charge. He then pointed at the Egyptian and tried to indicate that the man should go through the gate first when they approached. Karak planned to follow him through. The mercenary nodded slowly and looked back at the city. Karak hoped the man had understood. When they breached the walls, there would be enough confusion and disorder. Faced with an abundance of helpless women and treasure, Karak had no expectation that his men would maintain discipline. But that was all right. Their greed and lust would get the job done.

The Egyptian’s spear was enormous, larger than even his. Enormous like the man was enormous. He stood a full head and shoulders above the chieftain, who was larger than any other in the army. Dark muscles were tightly strung all over his body. He kept himself very clean, as if more concerned with dressing well than fighting, but he easily dispatched a dozen Amalekite warriors at a time when they sparred. His monstrous spear swung with such force that two soldiers had their lungs crushed through their armor during one contest.

The deputy had returned from alerting the officers, and now it was time to wait again. A thick bank of clouds was settled on the horizon, distantly visible as a gray wall. It had not moved much during the night, unfortunately for them, so their approach would be far too obvious in the moonlight.

Cities in this land, Karak knew, usually focused their defenses on the gates. Single combat between champions was decided in the shade of the watchtowers during sieges, and the city elders often conducted business or held court between the towers. Kings stood on them to watch for messengers returning with news of distant wars.

Inside, the market would be near the entrance, crowded into narrow streets that allowed only three men to walk abreast. The market would maintain a festive atmosphere during the day, with caravans arriving and new wares being tested, wedding festivals being celebrated, and children chasing each other through the tight alleys and back passages overflowing with broken pottery shards and around the public oven and well.

Dwellings would be further in, some crowding the narrow streets and others, those of the wealthiest classes, along the walls. The governors and rulers of the city would have their quarters near the back, furthest away from the gates and from the common people. Now the rulers would likely be gone, seeking glory in the north against the Hebrews, while their cities burned and their cattle were stolen.

The moments passed and then it was time.

Karak reached down to tighten the leather straps on his foot wear. The iron-studded shield was fastened to his arm, the captured iron sword at his side. He fingered the hilt. Glancing around at the officers, he stood, spoke aloud to his gods, and began to run.

The Egyptian watched the chieftain leap over the lip of sand and followed. His spear was in his hand, he carried no shield, and he ran in long strides behind the Amalekite warrior. Behind, he heard the smattering of footsteps as scores of soldiers crawled out of their hiding places and followed their officers. They had shown poor noise discipline during the wait. The Egyptian worried that the town’s defenders might have heard them, but thus far there was no sign of activity.

His great height made him stand out in the crowd of running men. Long legs carried him fast, and he forced himself to slow down and follow the chieftain. Better to let an arrow from a hidden tower guard strike Karak first. Ahead, in the black shade of the city entrance created by the moonlight, the shift change was taking place. The invaders were in the open now and could easily be spotted, which happened as soon as he thought it.

A guard had stepped from the darkness to greet his replacement, then, seeing the rushing horde, cried out a warning. The two of them scurried to shut the gate. The Egyptian ran faster, pouring all of his strength into running. Since neither of the watchmen appeared to be an archer, the Egyptian set aside any concern about being first and sprinted ahead of the Amalekite chieftain. The gate was shutting, the two men shouting and working together. No one else from the city had come yet. He ran harder.

When he was ten reeds away, he saw that he would not arrive in time and threw the great spear toward the entrance. It flew through the entrance of the gate and buried its head in the sand. The wooden doors stopped against the shaft, protruding through the opening. The watchmen shouted and pushed harder. The gates did not move. They kept pushing, unaware of what blocked them.

The Egyptian reached the doors at last and lowered his shoulder, slamming into the opening and prying it wide enough to squeeze his torso through. He let out a terrible shout, grabbing the shaft of his spear and twisting until he finally burst through to the other side. He swung his spear toward a watchman, an old man, to his left, slamming him against the wall before his partner could react. The Egyptian did not wait; he swung the spear again, smashing the side of the other Philistine’s head with the iron tip.

The Amalekite chieftain and his men burst through the gate behind him, forcing the doors completely open. Karak shouted, urging the men to move faster. The Egyptian wiped his brow with the hem of his tunic and ran down a street that angled away to his left.

There were a few torches and lamps being lit in windows as he passed. A woman screamed. He stooped to grab a handful of sand to dry his palms and kept running. He wanted to reach the Hebrew quarter. He had seen it on a scout of the town, before offering his services to Amalek. He’d pretended to be a slave in order to wander the streets.

To his amazement, he had discovered that the town, though Philistine, was owned and dominated by a Hebrew warlord whose men had been raiding trade routes. There was a storehouse in their quarter that would be a great prize.

He followed the wall, hearing the sounds across the city of the Amalekites destroying everything they touched. Men on a raid were filled with lust and violence. There would be great chaos in Ziklag tonight.

Karak urged his men forward through the darkened streets. They were setting fire to the buildings and shops of the market and breaking into homes. He ordered the men to douse the flames; it was not time yet. He bellowed at a man who had already seized a woman and was tearing off her clothes. “Not yet! Wait until the city is in hand!”

The soldier cursed and threw her down.

He had ordered the men before they set off to capture the city first, then plunder. The chieftain knew what happened to a man when he was raiding, but they needed to keep running. It would be impossible to control eventually, so he had to control it while he could. There might be more soldiers present to defend the city further in.

The two companies of men under his immediate command split, shouting and running. He looked around for the Egyptian, did not see him, and kept running. He had tried to tell the man to secure the northern part of the city — hopefully he had understood. Karak stayed a little behind the main assault force, the better to control it. Several men ran with him, waiting for instructions. He felt his sweat stinging his eyes.

They pressed on, street after street, clubbing every man they saw. Some tried to surrender, and they struck them as well. His orders had been clear: There was to be no killing if possible, because much of the bounty would be the high prices brought in the slave markets of the south.

Children who had awakened during the commotion ran outside. His men hit them with the shafts of spears and kept running, trying to penetrate deep into the city, trying to reach the far side before sweeping back through again. As each block was taken, he left behind a group of men to guard it until they returned.

One Philistine took command of a group of others and holed up in a stone building used as a meeting hall. They blockaded the doorway from inside, then threw stones and fired arrows from the roof. But they were untrained, and their efforts were futile. The chieftain simply sent men around to scale the back of the building.

There were screams. The fighters on the roof had thrown a vat of oil over the side and lit it on fire. It burst into flames as it hit the ground. His men ducked out of the way, and remarkably, miraculously, none had been touched by the fire. He shouted orders. Men moved.

After a few moments, more heads appeared on the roof — his own men. An officer reached over the side, pounded his fist, and shouted the signal. The chieftain bellowed another order, and the men kept running. They had to move, had to move quickly, and he urged them on with shouting and threats and curses. Flames were everywhere on the buildings now, and he cursed at his men for setting more fires. He had wanted to clear the buildings of plunder before setting fire to them, but once the tide had begun, he could not stop it, only direct it. They kept rushing forward.

Men began ignoring his orders. They pulled women out of homes, screaming, tearing at their clothing, and assaulting them in the open of the street while their children howled. He raged at them to keep moving, but he needed to stay with the main assault, and so he left them behind.

The tide struck the far wall at last, near the stone houses of the city rulers and elders. There was no more resistance. After sending a squad into the city governor’s home, he turned the flow of men toward the northern part of the city, where the Egyptian had presumably gone. He would search for the man along the wall, as agreed—if the mercenary had even understood what he was being told.

They kept running. He had fewer and fewer men around him as each block passed, and he was forced to post a rear guard in case a counterattack emerged from the shadows. But there were no opposing fighters, hardly any men anywhere, and those they found, they easily captured. The wave of his soldiers pressed hard down the dark streets and alleys of the Philistine city. He felt his sweat and blood racing, and despite the stress of controlling his men, he could not contain a shout of pleasure.

The Egyptian listened to the growing storm of rage in the distance; they were still a good distance away. An occasional Philistine man had emerged from a dwelling as he’d passed, but he’d raced past them. Women shrieked from windows but he ignored them. He needed to reach the Hebrew quarter.

And there it was at last, a separate area of buildings, storehouses, and tents along the northern wall of the city. He recognized the multicolored shawls and caravan covers as Hebrew, the garments and clothes required by their bizarre god who claimed to be the only one. He’d never understood such a concept: Why would a man choose to follow only one god when there were so many other areas of life where he required the gods’ services?

Women looked out from the openings of their homes. It was inexplicable that no men would have been left behind to protect them, especially while they lived among enemies. As he ran past them, he heard more shrieks and screams.

When scouting the town the previous winter, the Egyptian had seen a large building along the wall. It looked like a row of shops from the front, but the size of it aroused his curiosity. He’d had to leave after only a day; even though he’d worn the garments of a slave laborer, his size always aroused suspicion. But in that time he had seen men coming and going from the building, passing a sentry in the doorway each time they entered.

The Egyptian came around a corner and saw the building ahead. He pulled at the handle, but it was locked. He lowered his shoulder and crashed through the doorway, breaking the hinge.

He was astonished. It was an immense storeroom of gold, jewels, and precious metals. It was hard to see much in the dark, but the room was so full of treasure that its contents gleamed and sparkled in the splash of moonlight seeping through the doorway. It was everything he’d suspected it would be. Mounds of loot gathered from hundreds of caravans were heaped in every corner, as though a great king of Egypt had been buried in his throne room full of gold. There were fine cloths, woven garments, precious stones and metals, and countless other luxuries like those he had coveted in the palaces of the pharaoh.

Whoever this warlord was, he had done well for himself.

The Egyptian saw another doorway in the corner at the far end of the moonlight coming from outside. He could only make out some of the items inside: a rack of weapons, a stack of greaves, other pieces of armor. He assumed the room was full of them. He pulled a sword off the rack and tilted it so he could examine the craftsmanship.

Iron.

The Egyptian replaced the sword. He stared, thinking. Most interesting. Hebrews with iron weapons. Were they forging them or capturing and hoarding them?

He smiled, wiped his face, held his spear across his shoulders, and walked back outside. He had found the storehouse first. Claimed it. Any man who disputed this would be dealt with.

Moving it all was impossible, of course. He would carry the best of it and be content to return later when the pharaoh’s armies invaded. They would sweep through Amalekite lands, capturing any treasure that had found its way into their filthy tents, and then push into Hebrew country. There would be more storehouses like this one. Pharaoh would reward him with lakhs of gold for his spying, more than could be pulled by a hundred oxen.

He stood silently and looked at the moon, large in the sky. Nearby was the sound of crying and whispers, and he nodded. They would cry louder when the barbarians arrived, as they would soon. The rape of the city had already begun. It was most inappropriate, most unbecoming a man of the River Kingdom. Cold night air basked him. He listened and waited.