THIRTY

Benaiah’s sandals pounded the dirt, rocks forcing him to stumble and leap, willing himself to keep running faster. He was bone weary from the continuous fighting, and he knew that Josheb and Eleazar were too. Still, they had to hurry. The leather straps holding his water skin were digging into his shoulders, but he did not care.

They were running along a narrow canyon formed by flooding during spring rains, so it was now dry enough to follow the riverbed and the tracks of their quarry. His breath was labored, and he drew strength from his comrades on either side. They gave him hope that their women would be safe in their arms before long. He could almost see her hair, almost taste her skin, and his blood churned with anger for the man who would dare touch her—and for the sorrow Benaiah himself had been to her.

The canyon narrowed and disappeared as they ran, leading to another series of boulders over which they had to climb. It was frustrating terrain. The Amalekites might be waiting to ambush them around any corner.

They had no idea how many Amalekites there were. This was a strategic nightmare, but there was no choice. Ahead were cliffs, craggy openings, hidden canyons — any number of places for fleeing soldiers to escape.

Josheb, in the lead, threw his arm up, and they skidded to a halt, pitching forward onto their hands and knees behind cover. Despite their heavy breathing, they strained to listen.

A slight breeze kicked up sand around them, but there was no other sound. No shouts, no screams. Josheb leaped back up to his feet and resumed running, Eleazar and Benaiah falling into step behind him. Their eyes searched the ground for any clue about the Amalekites.

At the end of the boulder field, pinched by the cliffs of the box canyon they were in, was the opening to the plains in the distance. Beyond that, Benaiah knew, was a broad slope of sand. That would be the Amalekites’ best escape route, if their goal was to scatter across the open plains. The three men looked at each other quickly to confirm and then ran faster, their sandals kicking up dust and pebbles.

The gap approached. Eleazar ran out in front of them, and as Benaiah watched, he suddenly jerked his spear up over his head, gaze fixed on something he could see through the gap in the cliffs. Benaiah and Josheb called to him, but he did not respond.

Eleazar charged forward through the gap, faster than Benaiah or Josheb could run. As Benaiah emerged from the gap himself and could see down the slope, Eleazar was ramming the spear into the chest of an Amalekite who had been standing over a huddled figure.

Next to them, Benaiah recognized Sherizah and Deborah running up the steep slope toward them and away from a group of Amalekites, who were quickly gaining ground on the women.

Benaiah and Josheb never broke stride, racing down the sandy slope in tight formation to their wives. But as he ran, Benaiah caught a glimpse of the giant man at the base of the slope. So it was him, just as he’d feared. The pharaoh’s warrior.

The women screamed for help. Josheb and Benaiah sped forward. Benaiah finally reached the slender figure running toward him. He caught her, clutched his wife in his arms. He felt a burning in his eyes, but fought it. There was still a battle ahead. “Are you harmed? Tell me quickly!”

“No, I am unharmed.”

She pressed her hands on his face and wept. As Benaiah held her, he looked up to see Josheb checking his own wife, fighting tears but failing.

There was no more time. The Amalekites were closing.

Josheb shouted, “Run back into the canyon behind us! Eleazar, stay with them, Benaiah and I will hold them in the gap—it’s too narrow for all three of us. If we fall, you have to get them back. Gain as much distance as you can right now.”

“You send me back with the women during a battle?” Eleazar said. But he turned and obeyed, leading Rizpah and Deborah in a sprint through the gap in the cliffs in the direction they had come. Benaiah touched Sherizah’s face, kissed her one more time, and whispered to her. She nodded her head and turned away, her eyes red and swollen.

No time. Never enough time.

Sherizah joined the others and rushed back up the slope toward the safety of the canyon. Benaiah and Josheb took their positions in the narrow gap where they could best defend themselves and crouched, weapons ready.

The Amalekites had reached the body of their fallen comrade, and Benaiah could see their faces twisted with hate. Even though they had turned and run like cowards the night before, now they were insane with lust and vengeance.

Josheb held his sword up to his face and closed his eyes. “Praise to our God.”

“Arrows to our enemies,” Benaiah replied. He glanced quickly behind them. Eleazar was leading the women through the boulders. This would be harder than last night, when they were fighting drunken, disorganized rabble.

The Amalekites rushed the gap. Josheb parried the first spear thrust and shoved his blade between the shoulders of the first man, then twisted and struck the second man’s head with his shield. Benaiah sidestepped the charge of the third man, turned, and thrust his spear into the man’s lower back. All three Amalekites yelled, vainly groping at the weapons that had killed them. Benaiah tried to jerk his spear free, but to his horror the shaft snapped, leaving the head buried in the dying man. Josheb had leapt back to his position.

Benaiah tossed aside the broken spear. The Amalekite soldiers kept coming. In the distance, the Egyptian stood back, watching the fight, twice as large as either Josheb or Benaiah, much larger even than Shammah, his arms as thick as Cyprus trees.

Images of the time he had fought this man next to the sea came to his mind. Benaiah had been driven back under the merciless onslaught, driven back further, not strong enough to withstand …

A rush of blood lust, wave after wave, washed over Benaiah until he could hardly see through the red. He shouted hoarsely and ran toward the Amalekites, fresh fire in his body.

“Benaiah! Stay in the gap! It’s better to defend!” Josheb shouted, But Benaiah ignored him. David’s orders had been for total destruction. He would happily give them that.

Benaiah swung his fist into the face of the next man, cracking the bones. As the man fell, Benaiah yanked the war club from a strap across his back. He had been waiting to use it, and panting, he killed the next man with it. The club dented the stolen Philistine armor the soldier was wearing and crushed his rib cage. The soldier cried out, tears springing to his eyes, but Benaiah drove the club into his throat to quiet him.

Two more approached, trying to come at him simultaneously from two sides, but the club lashed out once more, breaking both Amalekite swords with the same blow. Aghast at their shattered swords, they turned to run, but lunging after them, Benaiah hit both in their lower backs, breaking their spines.

He let the lust for vengeance overtake him. He saw his daughters, the blood on the floor, the face of his wife as she wept and told him what happened years ago.

Josheb broke to the side, drawing away half of the remaining Amalekites. Two carried spears and three swords, but Josheb struck down four of the men almost instantly. The last man lunged at him, and he easily parried the sword thrust with his shield, causing the soldier to thrust high. Josheb slipped his spear low and thrust it into the man’s leg. He fell to his knees. Josheb buried his sword to the hilt in the Amalekite’s chest and held it there a moment, looking into the dying man’s face as he gasped for breath.

The light quickly faded from the man’s eyes, and Josheb withdrew the blade and knelt to catch his breath and control the pain. Sand clogged his eyes and sweat drenched the leather armor on his torso. His muscles shook from weariness.

Only one Amalekite remained, and the giant. The final soldier broke into a run. Benaiah chased him, shouting his war cry, and clouted him across the neck, snapping it. The man’s cries were muffled in the sand.

Josheb tried to steady his breathing. Only three men remained upright—Josheb, Benaiah, and the giant, who had stood calmly watching the struggle. Saving his energy, Josheb thought. He knew we would be exhausted after battling the foot soldiers.

Benaiah staggered back to where Josheb sat resting in the sunlit sand. The fire that had raged in him had cooled. He was suddenly so tired that he’d almost fainted after the last soldier fell. Not all the men they had defeated were dead; the unearthly screaming of dying men echoed against the canyon walls, calling out for a mercy killing. The Egyptian simply watched them, no expression on his face. Benaiah and Josheb leaned against each other.

“He … never joined them,” Benaiah sputtered between breaths.

Josheb shook his head. “Saving himself, waiting for us to wear out.”

The Egyptian had been leaning on the shaft of his spear, which was decorated with paintings. Benaiah recognized the glyphs that Egyptians used in their artwork, as elegantly refined as the rest of their society. He knew they often decorated their weapons with representations of the spirits of men they had slain in battle. The Egyptian’s spear held so many there was barely room for more.

The mercenary looked at them from thirty paces away, arms crossed, holding the spear against his chest. “We have fought before, Hebrew,” the Egyptian said in their language.

Benaiah nodded, ignoring Josheb’s stunned expression. “It will end differently this time.”

“Did you learn more weapons? You would need to.”

“How did you learn our language?” asked Josheb.

“He was once a slave in our lands when he was young,” Benaiah answered. “He escaped and has hated us ever since. I battled him in front of Pharaoh several years ago for sport.”

“Who won?”

Benaiah shook his head. Josheb rolled his eyes.

The Egyptian said, “How did you learn multiple weapons? You had only the sword before.”

“From my brothers who have trained me. You battle a different Hebrew than you did before.”

The Egyptian looked at Benaiah a moment, then back to Josheb. “You serve the man David, is this not so?”

“Yes.”

“Does he pay well?”

“Enough.”

Their enemy raised his face to the sun and wiped his brow. “Mercenaries are highly paid in Moab. They raid the highway where the eastern caravans travel. We would do well there. Their kings are desperate to gain a foothold in this country.”

“You think that after stealing our women and burning our homes, you can talk us into joining you?” Benaiah scoffed.

The Egyptian shrugged. “It is war. You do the same.”

“No, barbarian, we do not,” Josheb said. His voice sounded weaker to Benaiah.

“I know what your men do to Amalekite villages. You are no different than they are. Besides,” he tilted his head slightly toward Benaiah, “you don’t seem the peaceful type.”

Benaiah had heard enough. He rocked to his knees and stood, then reached out his hand to help his partner up. “I will take point. Cover my left flank. We can get him in a rush.”

Benaiah studied the giant, planning his attack. He did not notice for a moment or two that Josheb had neither replied nor taken his hand. After a silent moment, Benaiah looked down. Josheb was lying still, eyes half open. Benaiah knelt and slapped him across the face. “Jokes come later. I need your help now.”

No response.

Benaiah slapped him again; this time Josheb’s eyes fluttered and focused on him.

It was then that Benaiah noticed the dark pool under Josheb’s back. The sand had absorbed most of it. He rolled his friend over and saw the hilt of a buried dagger. He felt the shock of it, hard. When had this happened? How?

As if answering, Josheb said, “One of the others threw it. I was too slow. I have enough for this last battle. Just help me up.”

Josheb’s voice was soft, but Benaiah felt in his grip a reserve of strength. He did not even consider forcing him to stay down; Josheb would have crawled to the fight. Benaiah pulled his friend up to a standing position. He tottered for a moment, seemed to find balance with the shaft of his spear, and waited.

The Egyptian warrior regarded them awhile longer. Then he held up his spear. Benaiah remembered that spear well. The head was iron and must have weighed hundreds of shekels.

The wind from the distant sea picked up slightly, tumbling over the foothills and stirring up the dust around them. Benaiah closed his eyes briefly to wait it out, then opened them to find the enormous man bearing down on them. He was so close, had moved so quickly, that Benaiah could only leap to the side. Josheb threw up his shield to absorb the first blow. The Egyptian’s spear was flying, first at Josheb, then smashing against Benaiah’s chest too quickly to be avoided.

Josheb had rolled away with renewed vigor, then leaped into the air and slashed across the Egyptian’s back. It struck a leather strap instead of flesh but was enough to slow the assault.

Benaiah’s eyes wouldn’t work — the Egyptian had thrown sand into them. He tried to shake off his surprise at how fast the giant moved, knew he should have remembered from before. Benaiah ran from the battle, hating himself for it but desperate to clear his eyes. He stumbled, heard the sounds of weapon on shield as Josheb fought the mercenary, tried to find the water skin lying on the ground. There were cries and grunts behind him, but he could not see. He groped maddeningly for the water pouch.

There!

He fumbled with the skin, found the opening, then poured the water across his eyes. The burn made him cry out, but after the second time enough dust had washed out for him to see.

Josheb, running in a circle, was trying to strike at the man’s legs, but the long night of fighting and the dagger wound had slowed him. Benaiah staggered back toward the fight — and watched in terror as Josheb’s spear was too slow in a thrust. The mercenary caught it with his shield and wrenched it away. Josheb tried to leap backward, but the Egyptian raised his spear high to deliver a killing blow; there was no way for Josheb, weakened and slow, to avoid it.

Benaiah threw his club. It flew low and hit the giant’s waist, an ineffective blow but enough to force the man’s spear to veer to the right, missing Josheb’s neck but landing on his outstretched leg.

Benaiah threw himself toward his friend, tackling him out of the way of another strike just in time. When they stopped their tumble, Benaiah sprang up, but the Egyptian was bearing down on them again with incredible speed, spear raised. Without his club, Benaiah groped around for anything, found a rock the size of a melon, and hurled it with all his strength.

The stone thudded against the Egyptian’s face. He staggered to the side, dropping the spear. He coughed and gagged, sounding like a burbling river. He knelt, clutching his neck.

Benaiah too knelt for a moment and focused on his breathing, his vision swimming. Stay down, pagan. I need a moment.

Lying in the sand several steps away was the great spear. Benaiah’s club was next to it.

Josheb was not moving.

Benaiah pulled his friend’s face close. He was still breathing — he must have passed out from loss of blood. He looked quickly at the Egyptian, still coughing up blood, his head hanging. Then he looked up at Benaiah across the sand, smirking through the blood on his bronze face. Benaiah rolled to his feet. He would end this now.

The Egyptian pushed himself up and stood. The spear was back in his hand — when had he reacquired it? Benaiah could not help but marvel at the spear. The giants of Gath also used them, but they were slow. This man was fast.

Benaiah pointed to the war club lying on the ground near him. “This is from my tribe, Egyptian. I have killed many with it. Including many of your own countrymen. Your civil problems are even worse than ours.”

The mercenary’s dark eyes flickered toward the club. Then he wiped perspiration and blood from his face and smiled a misshapen smile. Enormous muscles twitched beneath his skin. He made no reply. The sun pounded the sand around them. The fading screams of dying men echoed against the cliffs.

Then the Egyptian rushed, faster than before. But this time, when he kicked the sand to distract him again, Benaiah was ready for it. He rolled to his side and snatched the war club in a single motion. The spiked hardwood tip of the club swung low and caught the Egyptian as he passed. The huge man yelped and buried the head of his spear in the sand to stop his momentum. Benaiah reached back with the club and swung it again, missing this time but forcing the Egyptian to pivot off balance to avoid the strike.

More sand in his eyes; he blinked it out. Watch the weight shift, the spear is so large he will need to—down now!

The spearhead whistled next to Benaiah’s ear, slicing deeply into his scalp in the same spot as the lion had wounded him. Not serious, he judged quickly, though he felt blood pour from the wound. Keep moving!

They broke apart to reset their attacks and circled. Benaiah was running now, running in a circle, finding strength from somewhere, rotating the war club in his hand. He should have wrapped the grip tighter — sweat was making his hand slip.

The Egyptian, losing patience, lunged with the spear, terribly fast, forcing Benaiah to leap back. But when he did, he finally saw his opening.

As the shaft of the spear reached its full length, instead of using the pause to dart away, as he normally would have, Benaiah jumped forward and, before the Egyptian could recover the enormous shaft, Benaiah had pushed it to the ground with the bottom of his foot. In the same instant, he yelled and smashed the war club with all his strength across the Egyptian’s face.

The Egyptian thrashed and released his grip on the spear shaft. It had been a solid blow. The man’s face was crushed. He would die from the strike.

Benaiah reached down and grasped the fallen spear.

He would help the man along.

As the Egyptian thrust his hands away from his face to see his attacker, Benaiah drove the spearhead deep into the man’s chest. The huge man lurched, toppled, and crashed to the sand.

Benaiah, his vision red with his own blood, shouted and pushed the spearhead further. The man pounded at the shaft and struggled against it, but Benaiah held strong. The Egyptian gasped and sputtered curses. He wrenched against the wound—then, seeing it was futile, he lay still. He glared up at Benaiah and tried to speak, but there was too much blood in his throat.

Benaiah twisted the spear and plunged it again. And again. An Amalekite sword was nearby, so he gripped its blood-splattered hilt and swung it down on the Egyptian’s neck, severing his head.

Benaiah strode up the slope with the head, stamping through the sand to the nearest fallen Amalekite soldier—still alive, struggling for his own breath. Benaiah saw the faces of his children through the darkness and blood.

He thrust the head into the wounded man’s face. “I have beheaded your Egyptian champion, and now I will cut off your head as well! You will fight no battles in the afterlife!” he shouted, then impaled him with the sword, cursing into his ears as the dying man struggled.

When the Amalekite lay still, Benaiah ran to the next one, working his way up the slope, finding some dead but others alive. Each time, he screamed and spat curses into their ears, then finished them. He would kill every one of them.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled, ready for battle.

It was Eleazar. Behind him were the three wives. Rizpah was next to Eleazar, but Deborah was kneeling next to Josheb, trying to fix his wound. Sherizah was staring in horror at her husband.

Until now, she had never looked at him with fear.

He glared at her, still filled with rage — but not rage at her. Women should not see this. He wanted to strike Eleazar in the face with his club for bringing the women back.

Eleazar held both of his shoulders. “Benaiah! It is over! Let them be!”

His blood was pounding. Sweat poured; his breath was heated and savage. He felt rage, so much rage. He wanted to kill them all. Kill them and kill them and kill them.

“Stop it! Listen to my voice! Stop! They are all dead!” Eleazar had a strong grip. He was not letting go. The power in his friend’s grip was enough to force Benaiah to stop. Slowly, he began to fight the vengeance and rage in his heart.

He tried to breathe normally, but his arm was still shaking — so hard that he dropped the club. He looked at Sherizah again, her face awash with fear, and he gripped his elbow with the other hand, desperately trying to stop the shaking. Cover me in the day of war, Yahweh, cover me in the day of war, cover me in the day …

He pinched his eyes shut and fell to his knees, letting the head of the Egyptian mercenary drop next to his sword. He rolled onto his side, panting, eyes closed. The sand stirred and swarmed against him; his hands still trembled with hate. He turned onto his belly and crawled, tasting the sand in despair, then brought his knees up to his chest.

Benaiah opened his eyes and squinted across the blood-soaked sand.

There were children running toward him.

They were screaming, laughing as if they knew he was about to chase them. His beautiful daughters, giggling with delight as they climbed the sandy slope to him.

He sat up and cried out to them. Reached for them. But now they were gone.

Benaiah lowered his head, his eyes closed.

Eleazar sat next to him and put his arm around his neck. The two of them remained still for a while, staring at the horizon. Deborah and Rizpah were working on Josheb’s wound. Benaiah could feel Sherizah standing nearby, then felt it as she walked away.

Slowly at first, Benaiah began to weep. He felt it growing within him, moving inexorably to the surface, and he didn’t have the strength of will to stop it. Soon great heaving sobs were bursting from his chest. For his daughters. For his failures. For all the things he wanted to say to Sherizah but never had.

Eleazar said nothing. Benaiah felt his arm around him, squeezing tight. Willing comfort to his friend.

Evening came. Wind blew the sand in swirls across the battlefield, stinging the faces of the living, gathering on the silent forms of the dead.