TWENTY-SIX

Josheb strained to hear over the noise of the camp. It had sounded like a ram’s horn, but he wasn’t sure. He looked at his two companions and gave a slight shrug. If it was the shofar, then — there it was.

A volley of stones and arrows poured out of the woods, piercing and pummeling the surprised Amalekites. Darkness was close, and the smoke from the celebration fires obscured his vision, but Josheb could see the far side of the encampment just well enough to sense the confusion and panic. The attack had come as a complete surprise to the Amalekites. Joab’s men were pouring arrows into the camp, and the men close to the trees were dying noisily.

Josheb saw the soldiers nearest to them look up from their fires, as if they heard something across the camp but were unsure if it was just a rowdier celebration by their comrades. Those who had been drinking stared dumbly at each other, but the sober ones were instantly alert.

There were shouts; men began pointing. A few of them finally started looking for their weapons. But all evening they had been dropping them in irresponsible places, and the drunken soldiers would never find their weapons now that darkness had fallen.

Josheb relished it. This was the least-prepared army they had yet faced. Surely Yahweh was going before them into battle, and it would be a slaughter. He closed his eyes, listened to his spirit, told himself not to be overconfident, but to focus. Focus on the speed. Speed is everything. His arms and legs were ready from the fiery proving ground of David’s army. They would not fail him if his mind was right. Eleazar was on his left, Shammah was on his right, Shammah praying aloud. Wait for it.

Eleazar said something. Josheb did not hear it. “What?”

“When they reach the tent?”

“Yes. Or if they start retreating this way.”

The spear was steady enough in his hand, and it felt good to him. The spear had a point on both ends. Better for sticking and removing quickly. Better for engaging multiple enemies. That is what we do: we engage multiple enemies and show the men that Yahweh is in the battle and that numbers do not matter. Drive the spike through the armor. Hit, withdraw, check the man, engage again, move faster next time.

When it began for the three of them, it would be about instinct and speed. His conditioning would hold all night if necessary; many hours of training runs up the mountains with the two beside him had assured that. The arrows abruptly stopped, and then came the cry of a hundred angry warriors charging out of the woods and smashing against the left flank of the perimeter. Don’t move yet, just listen. It will come.

Joab was attacking.

Joab flung his shield forward and struck the first man’s skull. As the man fell, Joab planted his foot on his chest and swung the sword across the man’s throat. He kept moving. “Stay in the line! Stay in your line!”

The men were already through the perimeter, but darkness was making it difficult to stay in a line as they charged. They couldn’t see obstacles until they were on top of them, and some of the men tripped over discarded satchels and weapons.

Another man appeared. Joab stabbed at him quickly but missed, and he was forced to duck the return swipe. There was a shout, and the man swung again, but Joab was ready. He dove to his left side and crouched. The fighter was skilled. A lance flashed by out of the blackness, glancing across Joab’s hip.

Joab clutched the wound, forced to retreat momentarily from the fight. There were screams and sounds of men dying everywhere around him. Smoke blew across from a campfire, clouding his vision. There was the Amalekite — charging him through the night again. Joab parried and brought his small shield up to the man’s face, but his opponent saw it coming. With a grunt, he dove low himself and plunged the tip of a sword into Joab’s thigh.

The Hebrew yelled in frustration at his inability to kill the man. His fighters were pressing hard toward the command tent, encountering little resistance—but lacking leadership from Joab, they were beginning to slow down. Joab tried to shout commands to them but was forced to stagger backward from the Amalekite’s attacks.

Rage flooded his mind. He threw his shield forward in a feint and aimed low with the sword—but missed. The small man moved impossibly fast and never let Joab slip a cut through. Feint, catch the blade with the shield, retreat a step.

Joab too was fast but found himself feeling strangely weaker. Only a few moments into the battle, he was tiring. It made him furious. The man was too quick and too skilled. Joab spun to his right and ran toward a small tent, hoping to get a barrier between them.

Joab’s troops called for him, and he could see their confusion through the flaming light of the camp. They were losing the advantage of surprise! They had to keep moving! He reached the small tent, searched for the relentless soldier, and spotted him appearing out of the darkness. Joab had a good angle this time, but again the man disappeared. Joab shouted and spun, searching for him.

Behind him! The lance struck Joab’s side, an indirect hit, just a cut in the flesh, but he felt warm blood erupt through his war tunic. He finally landed a blow with his own blade against the man’s face. It was with the blunt side, not lethal, but enough to buy him a moment to regroup as the man clutched his shattered nose.

The Amalekites wore heavy armor, stolen; that should have given the Hebrews a speed advantage, but Joab couldn’t get his body to respond as quickly as he needed. This warrior was halting the entire flank charge almost by himself, and Joab felt angry and embarrassed.

He checked his wounds while the man spluttered. Surface only, nothing serious, but the blood was dripping down his thighs. His wounds burned, and he was annoyed at the unexpected pain. Thick dirt kicked up from the fighting caked around his wounds.

The Amalekite warrior had recovered from the hit and was now glaring at him from twenty paces away. Despite the blood from his broken nose, the man did not look tired or concerned in any way. And the more Joab looked at him, the less he looked like an Amalekite.

David pointed toward the left flank, where Joab was attacking. Benaiah saw them crush through the perimeter almost without slowing, but then Joab’s men stopped. The surprise had been complete—why had they stopped? Press it, Joab, now!

It was too dark to see individual warriors; he could not make out Joab from that distance. The enemy was still so bewildered by the surprise assault that, despite the slowed attack, some stood looking at one another, mounting no defense. A few carried on laughing and eating, some were so drunk they kept pulling at the female captives, unaware they were under attack. Only a few began to search for weapons and shout warnings.

The assault led by Abishai was still pressing hard. Benaiah and David searched hard for Joab through the smoke and darkness, seeing only glimpses of men’s faces as they ran by a campfire.

David leapt up and shouted over the noise to Benaiah as he ran, “Wait until you see them reach the tent, then attack!”

Benaiah jumped up as well, wincing at his legs’ stiffness from the cold night of waiting. “Sir, we are your guard; we need to come with you!” he shouted back.

“Later, not now! Meet me in the center!”

Benaiah saw him disappear into the hedge of shrubs down the hill toward Joab’s position.

Sherizah had been in the tent for hours.

Other women had been brought in, groped, inspected, and removed, but she was kept inside the whole time. She kept her face toward the ground as they continued to question her, stealing occasional glances from the corner of her eye. No, she had not seen them forging iron. No, she did not know when they would return. No, she did not know if they were planning more raids.

The giant never spoke. The Amalekite chief was letting a deputy question her, because he was getting drunk and was no longer very interested in what she said. He grabbed a fresh wineskin, looking increasingly groggy after filling his belly with the offensive meat. She held her left hand tightly with her right, as she always did when she was nervous. The Egyptian stared at her body the entire time she stood in front of them; she could feel his eyes on her, and she gripped her hand tighter.

She had finally guessed him to be Egyptian. Egyptians frequently traveled the trade routes near Ziklag, and she had seen their caravans come through many times with exotic spices and colored linens. They were an elegant race in speech and dress. This man was no different, but his tremendous size seemed very odd to her. Such a large man, carrying weapons twice as big as normal, looked strange wearing delicate garments.

The shouting outside the tent grew louder, and then a man burst through the tent flap. He blurted out a sentence, and the reclining men immediately sat up, then leaped to their feet, the chief slower because of the wine. They charged past her and through the flap. After pausing a moment, she followed them outside.

The Amalekite army ran around scattered, drunk, wailing noisily, swinging at phantoms. To her right, she heard the unmistakable sound of metal clashing. An attack? The Egyptian darted past her toward a tent a short distance away. Sherizah was too shocked to move and could only listen to the growing fray at the edge of the camp, growing louder. The sound of men dying and screaming in death was everywhere. Bodies scuffled through the dust and the night, the dust glowing eerie orange as it reflected the fires.

The women from Ziklag, several hundred of them, were lying on the ground next to her. David’s wives, Abigail and Ahinoam, sat holding their knees to their chests, faces anxious.

There was a horrible crashing sound nearby. A soldier had tripped over a log, knocking over a rack of spears and shields. Chaos and confusion everywhere. Who was attacking them? She finally spoke loudly to Abigail. “Who are they?”

“I do not know. Keep your head down, Sherizah!” She spoke with authority, and Sherizah obeyed. She knew that even David listened to her when she spoke, and David was a hard man.

Sherizah fell to her knees and crawled next to them. Abigail rallied the captive women and children toward herself. She shouted for everyone to lie still and not flee, to avoid being hit by arrows and blades.

The Egyptian appeared with a bundle tied to his back and in his hand a spear that looked as if it weighed more than she did. His enormous palm closed painfully on her arm, and she screamed as he pulled her up as effortlessly as if she was a doll. He dragged her stumbling behind him, and the other women screamed her name.

They wove through the tents and campfires. Sherizah tripped, biting her tongue and tasting the coppery blood taste. His grip was painful.

Sober Amalekites, charging toward the commotion, stopped when they saw them. The Egyptian bellowed. “You are finished here—but if you come with me you will live!”

Several of the men turned without pausing and ran beside them through the camp. Sherizah tripped every few steps over a spear shaft or passed-out soldier, but the giant kept holding her up, seemingly without effort. He steered the group away from the battle toward escape. She heard a scream and turned.

Two of the Amalekite soldiers following the Egyptian had grabbed Deborah and Rizpah, the wives of Josheb and Eleazar, for themselves. Deborah screamed again and stuck her finger in her captor’s eye. The man cursed and threw her down. He slapped her hard across the head, then pulled her by the hair and dragged her after the group.

Sherizah felt like she was running through a mud bog. Her limbs and thoughts were moving too slowly. Everything around her was too slow and yet so very fast at the same time, and she could not force herself out of the bog to think clearly.

They leapt and ran, the women crying and the soldiers cursing, between tents, around passed-out soldiers, past the noise of battle and toward the black edge of the encampment.

Shammah’s eyes were still closed. Eleazar paced behind them. Josheb was standing and staring at the camp. Joab’s men had not yet reached the command tent; too much time had gone by, and now surprise had been lost. “We need to hit them. Now,” Eleazar said as he walked back and forth.

Shammah opened his eyes. Arrows filled the quiver on his back, and a blade was tucked in his belt. He had been concentrating on the weapons and how to move them efficiently. Not slow, not fast — efficient.

All of them had trimmed their beards that afternoon while they waited for nightfall, and Shammah, regretting it now because he believed Yahweh blessed a man with a full beard, combed at the remaining hair on his face. “No, the tent must fall first. Do not be overeager.”

Eleazar swore. “I always hated ambushes.”

Earlier, Josheb had pointed out a group of figures slipping out of the camp and disappearing into a wadi some distance away. They had decided to let them go. It was only a handful. If they moved from their position too soon, the Amalekites might be able to escape into the canyon behind them.

Shammah closed his eyes again, concentrating on keeping his breath steady. It was always this way, he thought. Even the hardest man needed a few moments before the fight.

You train my arms for war, you train my arms for war.

David pulled the second sword off of his back and prayed louder as he ran, feeling the fire beginning to come over him. Yes, Yahweh, bring it to me now on this day. His sandals were steady on the rocks. Black everywhere. He could see the flames through the trees and ignored the slapping branches. Both swords were in his hands and ready as he ran.

Bursting into the clearing, he saw a warrior facing away from him, toward the command tent. He was not watching his position, and David made him pay for it with his life. The blade flashed, and the Amalekite flew backward.

He took careful aim at the next man and drove the Philistine sword between his ribs. He spun with both blades and dropped two more as they tried to defend the camp.

He saw the line of Abishai’s men to his right and decided he would scold them later for missing the four soldiers he had just killed when they swept through the area. Sloppy soldiering he could not tolerate.

You train my arms for war. By you I can run upon a troop. By you I can pass through the valley of the shadow.

Joab’s line was ahead to the left, still fighting their way forward but far too slowly. The command tent should have been taken already, but David could not see what was stopping them, and he could not find Joab.

Then he spotted him. Joab was circling an Amalekite warrior, and even though he could not see him clearly, David felt a tug of apprehension in his spirit. The fire raged in his heart. Danger? Warning?

He slowed to a trot to make sense of it. The fire roared so heavily that he was forced to stop. His ears rang, and his skin crawled with restrained power waiting to be loosed.

He felt his body pulled between two forces that wanted to burn him or push him forward. There was no pain, only the sensation of desperate struggle within him as he watched the Amalekite fighter circling with Joab. Then the heat spoke to him as it always did, and he closed his eyes and felt it, and knew what to do.

He gathered himself, afraid but ready. You promised victory, now let me claim it, God of my fathers, and do not let the adversary prevail.

Joab, clearly distraught now, tripped over a bundle of pelts hidden in the dark and thudded to the ground. David hurled the smaller sword through the night toward the enemy warrior, who saw it coming and blocked it with a shield.

David leaped over Joab, dodged the warrior’s first attack, and swung the sword of the Philistine giant toward the man’s side. The fighter saw it just in time to roll away, and the great sword struck the dirt. David yanked it back and took several quick steps away from the fighter.

The man was illuminated clearly now. This was no Amalekite soldier he was battling. He had seen these figures before.

Joab had regained his feet and charged into battle alongside him, but David held up his hand and shouted, “Go to your men. You will die if you remain here!”

Joab started to protest, but David turned on him, anger flashing, “Get back to your men!”

Joab left.

The fighter charged, and David dodged low and away. He stuck his leg out, missed the trip, then had to pull it back as the other man swung down a weapon with straps that he had pulled from out of nowhere. It kicked up dust as it missed and struck the ground. David saw metal shards attached to the leather straps, and the thought of them ripping his flesh open made him blanch.

The fighter began to set his feet for another strike, but David leapt toward him, caught him off balance, and the two of them fell together. David hit him on the mouth with the hilt of his sword, then pulled the leather weapon out of the warrior’s grip. He pushed himself off the man and rolled. David tossed the leather straps into the darkness.

But then the warrior was on him, attacking relentlessly, too fast to be controlled. David felt sudden desperation. The man moved too fast, was not tiring, and David felt the heaviness of Goliath’s sword suddenly return—it felt like it weighed as much as a yoke. His wrists burned.

The warrior slowed the assault for a moment, and David caught the man’s leg and tripped him, then spun away to get some distance.

“Adversary,” David said, “Yahweh has declared this day as holy for victory. In his name, be gone!”

The fighter crawled back to his feet and stood silently for a moment, watching David, blood smearing his face, which showed no expression. David held Goliath’s sword at eye level, strength returning and warming his wrists. He stared hard at the man’s eyes. The warrior rubbed his hand across his beard and wiped the blood off on his armor.

David shook his head quickly to fling the sweat from his brow. His eyes were blurry from the wind swirling from the escarpment above. “Adversary, in the name of Yahweh and by his great power, be gone!” David’s free hand fell to his waist and he pulled out the sling. He held the cords between his fingers and let the pouch drop next to his knees. David saw his enemy’s eyes glance at the sling. David had not intended to use his old shepherd’s weapon this night. It was too dark and the combat was too close. But it had the desired effect. So that none will ever forget that the battle is the Lord’s.

The fighter tipped his head slightly, as if acknowledging him, then walked away into the darkness.

David lowered his sword and took several deep breaths to steady his nerves. You train my arms for war, you train my arms for war, bless you for your covering. Thank you for testing me. Forgive me for leaving your council fires.

He prayed quickly and with urgency. Whatever came into his head, he gave thanks for. He stood a moment to breathe, then sprinted forward, tucking the sling back into his waist and keeping out the blade of the giant he had slain in his youth.

Benaiah watched the dimly lit blanket of the Amalekite command tent begin to waver. Joab’s men had begun to slash at the ropes holding it up. The firelight was failing, since the fires were no longer being stoked, and it was difficult to see, but Benaiah could tell that Joab’s men had surged forward again, so whatever David had done had worked. The two companies on the flank were annihilating the drunken raiders. Any who tried to surrender were butchered.

The clanging and clamoring increased. There were shouts, and then the dark shadow of the command tent collapsed in a terrific burst of dust and fragments of animal hide. Joab’s men had finally formed a line.

He bellowed aloud and jumped to his feet. The men echoed him, and surrounded by the sound of battle, they charged down the hill. Benaiah choked away the fear and ignored Sheol, because his turn had come and the men would be counting on him. There was nothing left to do this night but kill Amalekites.

It was the only thing he did well.