EIGHTEEN

As he watched them come, Jonathan deduced what must have happened.

The remainder of the Philistine army had crossed the pass near Megiddo the day after leaving Aphek and set up camp near the small town of Shunem. The men had engorged themselves on whatever was found there, livestock or women, while their commanders plotted the assault. While the bulk of the force had remained in sight, that night a regiment had snuck across the valley and waited at the base of the northern slope of Mount Gilboa. It was this regiment that was attacking first.

Jonathan could see the bulk of the Philistine army only now making its way across the plains to provide the second wave of the attack. They looked like a wave of hot metal from the horizon all the way across the plain and around the base of Gilboa. Jonathan watched it, feeling its presence, feeling the awesome power and majesty of such a force, and closed his eyes, wondering if Gareb knew they were coming.

He turned and looked at his men. They were frantically preparing weapons, those who had them, while archers were testing the bow lines and foot soldiers were tying fresh leather straps around the grips of spears and swords. They were stretched in a line along the middle of the mountain, their backs to a deep forest bordering the barren slope they were stationed on. They had the high ground and would be able to hold it for a while. If the Philistines overcame their lines, they could fall back over the ridge and disappear into the forest.

Good men, all of them, Jonathan thought. They did what they were ordered. Those who remained, anyway. Others had left, and he guessed they were probably with David by now.

He shook his head, then walked down the row of his men, letting them see him, letting them feel his presence; they would draw strength and courage from it. The tide of metal in the valley grew, but he felt calm.

Jonathan moved along the line to the north, toward the dark forest, noting that the sun was quickly approaching the last part of its journey. It was remarkable how fast the Philistines had broken camp and assembled their attack march. The advance regiment was already on the Gilboa slopes, the rest only a few hours behind.

They must be confident, and why would they not be? He looked across the waves of so many men. He would have been just as confident.

It was different now. Before, when he knew he was protected by the covering, numbers had not mattered. They had not mattered when he climbed the cliffs at Michmash, and they had not mattered in the years since then, when Israel walked with a proud swagger in the confidence of Yahweh’s blessing.

But they mattered now. Deep in his soul, they mattered, and he did not want them to. He walked to the forest, trying to ignore them.

On the farthest edge of his line, he saw a young man, a boy, he realized, with no beard on his face. He was hastily fashioning the tip of a root into a point with a skinning knife.

“Find something metal.”

The boy blushed and looked down. Jonathan clapped him on the back and continued walking. He’d come to the end of his line of men now, and he glanced back. There were a paltry few hundred of them. He sighed as he thought about how many hardened Philistine soldiers awaited them below, then turned back and moved into the tree line.

It was immediately cooler, and he shivered. The undergrowth was thick, forcing him to leap over shrubs and tangled branches to get further in. After fighting through it a moment longer he reached a clearing, full of boulders, and sat down on one, still in the shade.

It was very calm. He listened to birds over his head and felt the chill of shadows across his neck and body. There were several pebbles in his sandals, and he took them off, emptied them, then let his feet air out for a while. It was wonderfully quiet. Few sounds of the army made it through the wall of trees. He would not have even known a battle loomed. Jonathan liked the quiet.

David was probably going back to his fortress at Ziklag. Spies had not seen him with the Philistine army in days. He must have been ordered away, but why? Why would they send him off? To attack our rear? Surely he would not do it. Not his own people. Jonathan left that thought buried.

It had been years since they’d fought side by side. They had not spoken in a long time, nor had any other contact. He nodded. It was better that way. David might have gone to the other side, and if he had, Jonathan would not have blamed him. Not after the way he had been treated.

Birds chirped wildly over his head in the canopy somewhere. He leaned back, found a tree trunk, and gratefully rested against it, enjoying its strength.

And then he felt the drums. They pounded through the forest, animal skins being struck with clubs. The war drums of the Philistines. The battle would begin within the hour. He had to get back. No time for rest.

Roots for spears.

But the dark calm of the forest held Jonathan, and he gave in to it. His eyes remained closed, and he thought of wooden spears and running and sparring and laughter. There was always laughter in the camp when David was there. There was no laughter now. It was all out in the desert with David and Josheb and the others. Along with the pleasant camaraderie around the campfires. That had departed as well.

The incessant pounding of the drums had lulled him. He sat up and blinked, then shook his head to wake up. He desperately wanted to sleep, but not now. Sleep would come soon. The memories came as they always did before battle …

… lying around a campfire. David is there. It is a brilliant night of wondrous stars, deep and black and cold. I take the pieces of the lamb and set them down. David looks at me, confused, and I dip my hand into the warm depths of the animal and pull out flesh and blood and press it against his face. Then I take his wrist and clench it, feeling the hot blood stream through our fingers. From this day on, my brother, I will fight your enemies as if they are my own. A covenant of blood between us, to pass down through our sons and their sons …

But the days grow darker. David becomes too vicious, too coarse, too many women, too many vices. Yahweh, protect him from himself. He is your anointed. He does not know the depths of your covering yet. Be patient with him, God of my people, be patient with him. He will seek you …

The years pass and we must part. My soul has been cleaved. It is a clear night in the desert. Perhaps he will be able to make it to Samuel, who can help him. He will not tell me where he goes, because he knows I would help him, knows I would follow him. I would follow him anywhere. He looks at me; he knows how this hurts. But this is as it should be. We have no more wars together. Go, brother. Yahweh will be between us forever, in your line and in my line. Remember our covenant. Spare my children when you reign one day. He is weeping; he is still so young, and there is great anguish in his chest. He runs. My heart has left me, my brother …

Jonathan felt the burning in his own chest, strong now. He could stifle it in front of the men, but not in the quiet of the forest with the sound of the war drums. There were no tears at first, just a gasping for air at the pain of loss and sorrow and at the memories.

He gagged on his own coughs as if about to wretch. But there was nothing in his stomach; he had not eaten in a day because he had given all of his food to his men. He waited until the heaving in his gut calmed.

It would not be hard. Just run, right now. No Philistines, no roots for spears, just run and go. Join him. Restore the land. He desperately wanted to go. He could make it in a few days. He would disguise himself, go into Ziklag, and find David’s men. He would tell them he was a criminal looking for help. When David came out, they would embrace, and all would be right.

They would plan the rescue of the kingdom together. They would drive out the uncircumcised pagans together, capture Philistine cities and raid the Amalekite barbarians, and crush the enemies of Yahweh. They would establish peace in the land.

The tribes would unify immediately if they knew the two of them were waging war on their behalf. Judah and Benjamin, together at last. Philistia would become a vassal in a fortnight. And there would be laughter again. He would get to sit around the campfire like the old army days and listen to Josheb’s jokes as he teased Shammah. Eleazar would pace, and David would sing one of his new songs on the lyre when all went quiet for the night, and they would be able to feel Yahweh’s very presence among them because of it.

Then he sighed. He would not leave his father, could not leave his brothers. His troops. It was his destiny to be here, with these men.

When Jonathan reached the edge of the forest, there was the boy with the root spear at the end of the flank, packing his stores and hiding them under rocks as the men were trained to do so that the enemy could not steal them. A section leader was giving orders, and the men were listening. The boy was terrified but trying to disguise it. He clutched the handmade spear to his chest.

Jonathan knelt, feeling the coolness stinging his sweat. He needed to listen to Yahweh. Yahweh had spoken to him before and might do it again. Perhaps he would be with them. It was only Gareb and I against many, he thought, and he was there then.

Jonathan prayed, eyes locked on the line of men, on the boy with the root trying to look brave to the older warriors. Jonathan had not felt Yahweh’s covering in a long time. It had been many months since that warmth and strength were there. He had allowed himself to slip into the gloom of his father.

Just as he and David used to ask for it together, he asked for it now, when his heart was empty.

Gareb had heard nothing from Jonathan.

Watching from the farthest western flank of the Hebrew lines, he cursed and spat. The command area was empty, and the king was nowhere to be found. Most of the top generals were actually hiding themselves behind their men. Only Abner, the senior general of the army, seemed anxious to begin the fight. Gareb watched the valley fill with more Philistine foot soldiers.

Saul’s army was full of hardened veterans who had engaged many times, up close and where it mattered, but their ranks were thin, even more so now than several days before when he had walked the encampment with the servant Eliam. Many had deserted, going back to their farms and herds while they still could.

He glanced at the water rack. Eliam was staring wide-eyed at the mass of armed and trained soldiers gathering below them. Future armor bearer to Jonathan. He laughed at the thought. Well, it would not be necessary anyway. They would all be dead by evening, loyal to the last. The disloyal ones had fled and would live, and the loyal ones would die this day. Wonderful.

Deciding to make himself useful, he started counting battle standards. The Philistines were arrogant and proud and clearly informed any opposing army exactly how many of them there were. Each group of marching soldiers in the valley was divided into companies, with each standard suspended over the head of the commander.

He lost track after five thousand men. Their own pitiful force would be outnumbered ten to one. Never had it been a problem before, but here they were, out in the open, about to fight using the very form of warfare that had led to their destruction in ages past. No conferring with the priests, no briefings from commanders. It was unlike Jonathan to leave the men stranded and without knowledge of their strategy.

There were a few bright spots. The Philistines had taken the bait and were attacking uphill. The arrogance of their generals would not let them bypass the Israelite army and fight defensively. Of course, a massive assault to the front like this one would probably end in Philistine victory as well, Gareb thought. Either way, the nation would change after today if they lost. No more united tribal loyalty. No more monarchy. Even if he escaped, Saul would be able to rally few supporters.

Finally, after hours of movements and pounding war drums, the vast array of Philistine companies and regiments ceased their movements, resembling a monstrous serpent lining the valley back toward Shunem. He could not see any of their giants or champions, which meant that they did not intend to leave this contest up to the gods. That had gone badly for them the last time. He chuckled. It would be nice to have David with them today.

The chariot companies sat in the rear. What for? To chase them in the valley if they fled that direction?

There was brief shouting down the lines, and Saul emerged from behind a group of men. Much taller than anyone else, he easily stood out against the rocky slopes. Even now some of the men still believed in him. Men of the tribe of Benjamin, most likely.

Gareb watched Saul make his great strides to the front of the line and then turn toward the troops. He waited. This was the point where the king gave speeches to rally them, but Gareb did not hear any words. The king only stood silently, back turned to the enemy, his armor bearer next to him.

Gareb looked back at the Philistine lines, about a hundred reeds away, and saw archers making their way forward. They shouted and waved their standards, taunting the Israelites. He could hear them all the way up the side of the mountain. The sound easily carried across the boulders and rocks. The Israelites answered.

The sun glinted on the shields and swords of the Philistines. Gareb laughed. Swords. How nice it would have been to have more of them.

The Philistine archers would follow the first line of assault, waiting until they were close enough to use the foot soldiers as cover and volley arrows into the Hebrew ranks. It would be devastating. There would be enormous casualties immediately. The Philistine arrows were heavy and iron tipped, and his men were protected only by thin shields and leather armor, with bits of copper stitched into the vests.

While the archers reloaded their bows, fresh Philistine troops would push forward in a surge behind the first ranks. They would repeat that cycle every half hour, supported by constant barrages by the Philistine archers, until the Israelites were destroyed. There would be heads and weapons captured as war prizes. The throne of Israel would be without an heir. David would lead his rebel army on raids and continue to get rich, and the people would suffer as they always had in these lands.

Gareb had supported David once. He’d thought what Saul had done to him was awful, but that was years in the past. Now, he could not understand why the man would abandon his brothers to slaughter at the hands of pagan Philistines. He knew Jonathan wanted to join David—he could tell when they spoke — but he didn’t understand it. Jonathan was more a man than David could hope to be: loyal, true, and faithful to his fellow Israelites until the end. Which is today, Gareb thought. Faithful and loyal and dead.

Saul continued facing his army silently, then turned around, raised his arms, and shouted something. A challenge. He wanted the Philistines to come. He was provoking them.

Water bag in hand, Eliam watched Saul yell at the Philistines. He rehearsed in his head everything he was supposed to do: Run the water to the lines when men retreated for rest, pull out bodies as they fell so that no one tripped, and plug the hole in the lines if one opened nearby. And watch what the armor bearers did. Every major leader had an armor bearer who would be supporting them. But surely that was madness. How would he possibly see them in the fray?

There were more Philistines than he could count, against just a handful of Israelites. Eliam watched the Israelite soldiers mutter and joke and laugh nervously. Strange, how they did that right before battle.

Eliam clutched the water skin in his shaking hands. He was cold. The sun was out, but he was cold. Everything Gareb had said was coming true.

Then came a massive yell, and the echo of it rolled among the rocks, sounding as though it was everywhere at once. The Philistines were yelling, advancing now at a run. But it had happened so quickly! That was it? No other buildup? He had expected a long, drawn-out series of taunts and silences, but now there was yelling and the first ranks of Israelites were rushing downhill to meet their enemy. They moved in close formation, with shoulders touching. Then they met the first ranks of the Philistines and began to strike low.

It all seemed slow and unreal. Numb, Eliam watched helplessly as the men struggled and pressed, then started moving so slowly that Eliam half thought they would eventually sit down and take naps together. From where he was sitting, it looked as if there was nothing happening at all, just men swinging shiny objects and scuffling as if playing together.

A shout. Someone pointed at him, and he stood and ran forward, seeing the first ranks of Israelites falling back for rest. He reached a man, and immediately the noise of battle finally hit him. Screams and shouting and cries for help, clanging of swords and axes on shields and flesh.

The soldier took the water pouch from him, his face covered in thin bright blood, his breathing raspy. He drank, then threw the skin back. Eliam picked it up and ran back to the supply tent to refill it.

He struggled for balance among the rocks as he sprinted, expecting to feel an arrow bury itself between his shoulders at any moment. He reached the tent doubled over, panting, exhausted from the uphill sprint. Eliam wiped his face, heard the screams, wiped his face again, and snatched another skin. He made eye contact with the boy refilling the water skins from larger containers they had filled from the spring below.

Back down the slope, he saw the fight spreading along the side of the mountain. But where were the archers? No arrows had flown.

Eliam climbed to the top of a boulder in several quick steps. Finally able to see over the heads of the Israelites, he saw that only part of the Philistine army was pressing up the hill. They had still not sent the full force. Even the archers were still down the slope. He leapt from the boulder and ran downhill, filled now with dismay. The men were fighting hard, holding their lines, but there were not enough of them.

The sun relentlessly drained him of energy. He ran better in the evenings and in the cool of a forest, not in the brightness of the sun.

Another man shouted over the noise, close by, and Eliam ran to him, water splashing over his chest and sand spraying his face. The soldier took it, thanked him, poured the water over his head, took a long drink, and handed it back to him. The battle moved even slower now. The men were getting tired along the front ranks, and the replacements were slow to move forward. The Philistines would be putting fresh troops in at any moment.

Eliam turned and ran back up the slope.

Jonathan looked back toward the forest and shook his head violently. Put the thought away. Never again.

He ran from the tree line and into the open field, ashamed of his hesitation. The battle had begun, and he was angry at himself for hiding in the trees. With leaping strides he reached his equipment, checking as he ran the progress of the Philistine push. His father was in command, a short way behind the lines, but Jonathan’s regiment was moving sluggishly and chaotically.

He picked up his sword and shield. No armor this day — he needed to move quickly, to finish well. He snatched up his bow and quiver and ran down the mountainside to his lines.

The men were disorganized and tired but holding. They were good men, and he would not abandon them again. Forget the desert.

Jonathan stopped himself by planting his foot against a boulder and pulled an arrow out of the quiver, fixing it in place and releasing in a single motion. The shaft spun through the dusty battle lines and hit a Philistine officer so hard that the breaking of the man’s ribs could be heard across the field. He fell sideways, his face wide-eyed with shock, unable to shout or breathe from the impact.

Another arrow, another officer crashed to the earth, and Jonathan screamed with anger as he fixed a final arrow and drew the bow back as far as his strength would allow. Across the haze of the slope he saw several rows of officers wearing fish-scale armor. They were pointing at him and ordering their men to advance, assuming they were too far out of his range to be endangered.

Jonathan held the string next to his cheek, feeling the wispy sinews on his lips, and aimed the tip two cubits over the head of the closest man. He watched the dust to gauge the wind direction and moved the tip slightly to his left. Two cubits high, two cubits left.

The officer he aimed for was clearly the one in charge of that side of the front, driving his men forward and almost penetrating the Hebrew lines. Next to him was an armor bearer. Jonathan’s elbow ached from the strain, but he held his breath once more to steady it. He thought of the old saying David’s warriors used.

Praise to our God, and arrows to our enemies.

The tip whistled away suddenly, disappearing in the immense dust cloud obscuring the battlefield. Jonathan could not follow its path, but as he began to run again, he saw the officer’s head jerk to the side. As he pulled out his sword and ran in the direction of his own lines, a gap formed in the center of the Philistine rank.

The arrow had sliced through the neck of the first officer, almost severing his head, and embedded itself in the throat of the shield bearer.

Philistine discipline broke for the moment, and the troops pulled back from the assault, terrified by the warrior who had struck down two of the mightiest fighters on the field from such a distance.

Jonathan reached his own men and elbowed his way forward, shouting encouragement and trying to reach the front. Some who saw him cried out in relief and gave the regiment’s war cry. Jonathan forced his way through the ranks past his men and came out directly in front of a Philistine’s shield.

He raised his own shield and struck hard, shattering the man’s teeth and knocking him backward into his troops. He slashed downward with the sword and killed him, then leaped away from a blow by another.

He darted straight ahead, across the short gap between the two armies, and past and through the surprised ranks of Philistines, until he was directly behind their first line. It was so bold a move that the Israelite soldiers believed him slain and began to wail, until at last he emerged between the helmets of their enemies, alone and moving fast.

The enemy soldiers still faced toward the Israelites, unaware of the break in their ranks. Jonathan was free to dart behind them, severing tendons that crippled their legs forever. He moved so swiftly that none of the Philistines even noticed him, and many fell, clutching their useless legs. He ran hard, ignoring the sweat in his eyes, and swept his blade again and again.

As he ran, on his left up the slope was the first rank of Philistines he was attacking, and on his right down the slope was the second wave making its way up the mountain. Philistines in the second wave pointed at him and shouted, but he ignored them, yelling and cutting. An arrow flew past his head and buried itself in the back of the Philistine soldier next to him, then another arrow did the same. The archers were firing at him foolishly as he ran among their own men.

Jonathan’s heart was pounding blood through his veins so hard that he thought it would erupt from his chest. He sliced, bringing down many men without them even being aware of him. A sound penetrated his concentration: the Israelites cheering him. He looked back. The entire left flank of the Philistine assault had been beaten back. Keep moving, don’t stop, need to move, he ordered himself.

The next wave of assault came, but he was still behind the first rank of Philistines, and the commanders of the Philistine archer regiment had ceased their men from firing. Holding his bloody sword over his head and waving his shield, muscles burning, Jonathan bellowed a war cry to his men, who returned it. They fought harder.

He turned slightly to the right, down the hill, and before the startled Philistines could react, he burst through the second wave of them, another one-man attack right into the mouth of the monster, calling aloud, calling for the covering, shouting and swinging his sword at any exposed flesh that came in front of him.

He reached the last of the second wave and shoved through it, feeling a sudden burn as a blade cut across his side. It wasn’t deep, so he ignored it and turned back uphill, toward the forest, and staying behind the second rank of men, starting to run and cut once more. Men fell screaming, and he screamed also.

His blade moved and flashed. Philistines dropped. Their archers, waiting for their chance, were nevertheless held back by their officers, probably because they saw how thin the ranks of the Israelites were — too thin for archers to be effective.

Jonathan ran, swung his sword, and stumbled over rocks. His arm ached, but he willed it up again. The fire was coming. He felt it increasing and burning and raging into his body.

The archers began firing arrows at him again, and he held up his shield, hearing the clanking and pounding against it from the iron tips, and feeling the sweat blur his vision. Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving.

He drove his sword into the neck of a terrified archer and felt the wash of blood as it sprayed him. It felt warm and good, as it had in the old days. He laughed deliriously. Before he realized it, he had reached the flank of the Philistine line.

One last man, another archer, stood at the end of the line. Jonathan feinted as the Philistine stabbed wildly with the staff of his bow. Then the Philistine turned and tried to flee, but Jonathan ran up behind him, thrust his sword through the man’s back, and forced it upward. The tip exited the man’s throat. The Philistine seized violently, shaking and coughing blood.

Jonathan let the man slide off his blade and drop. Battle rage had taken over. He charged up and over rocks to his men, who faced him, shouting.

The Philistines had ceased their assault for the moment, regrouping after the surprise attack from the rear. Commanders, afraid to lose even more troops to the Hebrew demon warrior, pulled their ranks back and reformed skirmish lines. There was shouting, but for now it was calm on this side of the field.

He threw the sword to the ground and fell forward, collapsing onto his shield, too tired to look up, letting his face fall into the dirt. Around him were the cheers and shouts and the war cry of his regiment — his men, the regiment he had trained and led and fought with, called out to him. But he lay still, listening to his breath, letting himself heal.

Gareb had seen Jonathan rush out of the forest, press through the line, and crash directly through the ranks of the Philistines. It was an attack worthy of a madman, and now he shouted alongside the other men in jubilation. There was a man, he thought, and he charged forward. There would be no one left among them at the end of this day to write the song about it, and none of their own people would remember, but it did not matter.

It would be remembered by the Philistines.

Eliam struggled to pick up the water again, unable to believe that he could make another trip back up the mountain. Blisters and raw skin covered his hands, and his toes were bloody from striking against rocks. He had no idea how long it had been since the battle started, but he was surprised to see the sun a good distance lower in the sky. It was confusing—how could it have gotten so much lower?

He cursed the pain in his foot from the arrow that had struck him during his last climb up the mountain for water. He’d managed to break off the shaft, but the head was still buried deep between the bones of his foot.

And then he was angry—angry that the stupid arrow had managed to fly perfectly toward his foot. It could not have been aimed at his foot, only fired randomly through the air by some lazy Philistine archer, and it had been a perfect shot. Of all the ways to be wounded, he thought, furiously biting down on the broken shaft he had put between his teeth to control the pain.

He stumbled and fell, dropping the water skin, then watched in horror as the precious liquid disappeared into the sand. He cursed and beat the ground with his fists, then bit down harder on the wooden shaft. He reached down in another effort to loosen the buried arrowhead, but if anything he only pushed it further in. The point had exited through the bottom of his foot, and he could feel it stuck into the sole of his sandal. There was screaming and shouting all around him. He was closer to the lines than he’d thought.

Eliam rolled over in the sand and let the sweat drip off the bridge of his nose. He hated the screaming of dying men. His foot burned terribly. Men scuffled and fought very close to him. Smoke? Was something burning? He was afraid to look up, but finally did. He saw no fire. But something is burning because I can smell it.

Suddenly he wanted to run, straight away from this mountainside. He wanted to disappear into the forest and never feel another arrowhead sink into his foot again.

He sat up. There was the forest, nearby. All he had to do was run. He could reach the spring, he could—

There were louder shouts. He turned to the right and saw the Israelite line, blurry in the dust, pushing the Philistines back down the slope with the force of higher ground. Eliam coughed and blinked. The Israelites were pushing them back? They were advancing! Not possible.

The Philistines were pulling back to regroup, and the Israelite troops yelled and thumped their shields with their weapons. For the first time in many days, they sounded … exhilarated. He could sense it in their faces and in their cries. He searched the field desperately to see what was causing it.

It was Jonathan, staggering back up the hill from behind the Philistine lines, dozens of enemy dead behind him.