The Arm of God

Chapter 1

IT WAS A MISTAKE bringing Omar.

When he dropped from the wall and ran toward me, he was scared. I could see it in his eyes.

A smuggler’s moon hung high overhead, perfect for a raid, bathing the armory compound with sufficient light to do what we came to do while casting shadows deep enough to conceal our movements.

The boy was a questionable choice from the start. I knew that. But I needed someone with speed and no one was faster than Omar. A shepherd, I’d seen him scurry over rocks like a hare, cross an open field like a gazelle.

Still, it was a mistake bringing him. I should have brought Samson. He wasn’t as fast as Omar, but he was less skittish. I hadn’t chosen Samson because he had that…that, well…there was something about him that made me uneasy. And when you’re leading a raid behind enemy walls, you want to have confidence in your team.

The boy skidded to a stop, his eyes brimming with fear.

Why have you left your post?

The boy’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

I gripped his shoulder to calm him and felt nothing beneath his tattered woolen tunic but bones.

Tell me what you saw, I said.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to tell me.

A voice thundered from the other side of the armory gate, loud enough to wake the city, loud enough to make Omar jump, loud enough to snap the other team member’s heads its direction. A Philistine officer was demanding to know why there was no guard at the gate.

I could have told him. There was no guard at the gate because I’d arranged for a distraction, two very seductive distractions.

I’m…I’m sorry, Omar stammered. I was watching the girls. I didn’t see the officers coming.

The three other team members looked to me for orders.

I motioned toward the back wall. They bundled up what they had, slung their goatskin bags over their shoulders, and made their way to the planned point of exit.

Eri…I’m sorry! Omar whimpered.

Go! We trained for this. You know what to do.

The boy’s shoulders slumped, melting under the heat of my gaze.

We’ll talk about this later, I said with more compassion than I felt at the moment.

Still, the boy hesitated. Only for an instant, but long enough for me to take note. In battle, hesitation—even a slight one—can get you killed.

I shouldn’t have brought him. He was too young. Maybe in a few years, after he’d matured, had more training—

I watched Omar run to join the others.

One by one my team scaled the back wall. I walked over to a stack of newly crafted swords, selected one, hefted it—feeling its weight and balance—and swung it in defensive and offensive moves. My feet slipped in loose dirt. I’d have to adjust for that during the fight.

I gripped and re-gripped the weapon. It was far superior to our bronze swords. A part of me hoped the gate would open so I could give the Philistines a taste of their own blade. But as satisfying as that would be, my primary objective was to do whatever it took to give my men time to escape.

The thought occurred to me that because of Omar’s inattention I might die tonight in a Philistine armory. I waved off the notion as I would a fly. For my people, living in the shadow of the Philistine Pentapolis, thoughts of death were as common as…well, flies.

The shouting escalated. The officer’s voice was giving out and that was making him even more angry.

His incessant bawling reminded me of an incident in our village when I was a young boy. There lived a man named Bukki who was known for his boasts and unwanted advice. He had purchased an ox from a renowned Judean farmer.

On the day of purchase Bukki left the village with great flourish telling everyone he passed that when he returned he would be leading his new ox, such an ox as they had never seen.

But the ox never made it to the village.

That year the Sorek River was swollen from heavy rains and in the valley just below our village the beast sunk to his haunches in mud. Frightened, the ox struggled, and the more he struggled, the more he sank; and the more he sank, the louder he bellowed.

Despite the efforts of the men in our village, the great black ox could not be pulled from the quagmire. All that day and all night the mournful cry of the ox filled the valley and drifted up the hillside. There was no corner of the village, no house, no room where you could escape it.

When all attempts failed to save the ox, Bukki collapsed in the mud beside the beast and wailed. It is still debated on lazy Sabbath afternoons which of the two bellowed louder, Bukki or his ox.

To this day we have a saying in our village whenever someone complains about their life: Better to be you than Bukki’s ox.

The bellowing on the other side of the gate died down, which meant that if soldiers were going to enter the compound it would be soon.

I backed into the shadows. Emerging from the darkness would give me the element of surprise, a tactical advantage, short-lived, but useful if I was going to take on the entire armory guard alone.

I checked the progress of my men. Jahleel, the largest of us by nearly two heads, was lumbering up the rope. It was slow going. He was carrying both his bag and mine. He appeared to be the last man.

This wasn’t our first raid. In weapons and armor the Philistines had a decisive military advantage. Their armament was forged from iron, ours from softer bronze; that is, for those who had weapons. Many of our soldiers fought with household knives, carpenter’s hammers, ox goads, and stones. These raids would put real weapons into their hands.

The making of iron weapons was a closely guarded Philistine military secret. Even if we knew the secrets of the iron forge, it wouldn’t help us. Iron ore was a metal not found in Judean hills and the Philistines kept tight control over importing.

And so, we venture into the jaws of Leviathan—that ancient serpent that spewed the Sea Peoples onto our land so many years ago—to equip our armies with the enemy’s weapons.

The latch on the gate sounded with a heavy THUNK. The hinges creaked and the gates began to open.

One final check on the team’s progress. Jahleel had reached the top of the wall, having swung an enormous hairy leg over it. With his backside sticking up the way it was, the soldiers couldn’t help but see him.

For me, there was only one way out. Through the gate.

I assessed the situation. Four soldiers were entering the compound. A torchbearer led the way. Behind him were two officers. Behind them, another torchbearer. Their demeanor was routine which meant our presence had not yet been detected.

In the time it took my heart to beat a single beat, I’d formed a plan of attack.

I’d rush the lead torchbearer and shove him into one of the officers with enough force to knock them both to the ground. I’d dispatch the second officer before he had time to draw his sword and kill the trailing soldier who would be juggling both torch and sword. Then, I’d turn back to the men on the ground and kill them before they had a chance to get up or sound the alarm.

How many soldiers awaited me beyond the gate? I didn’t know. I’d deal with that if I survived long enough to get out of the compound.

I crouched into battle posture, my blood racing, my arms and legs swelling with strength, my eyes sharp and alert.

By now Jahleel was slipping over the wall. They hadn’t seen him. Good.

Decision time.

Make a dash for the back wall and hope to make it over before the soldiers caught up with me? Or fight my way through the front gate?

I stepped out of the shadows.

A small figure darted past me, making a high-pitched, unearthly screech that filled the compound, eerily sounding like Lilith, the shape-shifting witch who flies through the night searching for children to strangle.

Omar.

Waggling an iron sword over his head, his ragged shepherd’s tunic flapping in the moonlight, his gaunt face creased with shadows from the torchlight, he charged at the soldiers.

The horror on the faces of the Philistines would have been comical had not Omar’s death been imminent. To my knowledge, the boy had never held a sword in his life. Instinctively, the soldiers were reaching for their weapons. I didn’t know if I could reach the boy in time to save him.

Screaming at the top of his lungs, Omar threw his sword at the soldiers. Not a well-aimed throw, but high and tumbling, hilt over blade. The soldiers ducked, protecting themselves with their forearms.

Omar hit the ground, slid between their legs in a great cloud of dust and, without breaking stride, regained his feet and scampered out of the armory compound and into the street.

The sword came down, striking one of the officers on the arm and drawing blood, but not enough to hurt him. I’d suffered worse cuts making my way through a mountain thicket.

The Philistine soldiers stared at the officer, his wound, one another, then at the tiny backside of the Hebrew shepherd boy as he disappeared into the night.

That was when the bellowing began again.

A flood of curses and orders erupted from the officer who was wearing the fresh red stripe on his arm. Spewing spittle, he shouted at his men to give chase. And as they rumbled after Omar, I suddenly found myself standing alone in a Philistine armory holding an iron sword with no one to fight.

Befuddled doesn’t begin to describe how I felt. Omar had given us time to escape, and probably saved my life.

Still, it was a mistake to have brought him.

While he was faster than any Philistine wearing armor, he didn’t know the streets. And while I felt confident they couldn’t catch him, they could wear him down.

I dropped the sword between two furnaces, their smoldering red embers eerily resembling the eyes of Leviathan. Beyond the wall, high on a ridge as though straddling the back of the Great Sea beast, sat the columned Temple of Dagon and the Palace of the Seren of Ashdod.

Every day in my prayers I prayed that I would live long enough to see those structures reduced to rubble, to see the people and gods who inhabit them thrown back into the sea.

Tonight was but a step on that journey. If our tribe’s history had taught me anything, it was that courage and faith were not always enough when arrayed against superior armament. On the battlefield, men of faith were still men of flesh.

My father’s death taught me that.

A Danite warrior, he was one of thousands of Hebrew soldiers who had been cut down like wheat by the iron Philistine scythe of war.

I made my way to the back wall, saying a prayer for Omar.

Chapter 2

dropping to the ground outside the armory compound, the other three team members looked at me expecting some sort of explanation. I held out my hand to Jahleel. He handed me one of two goatskin bags he was holding. The weight of it surprised me. It was heavier than I’d expected. I don’t know why I’m always surprised at how much iron weighs. Maybe because we don’t handle it often.

Let’s go, I said.

A hand grabbed my arm.

Where’s the boy? Dathan asked.

What happened? Jahleel asked. What was that unholy screeching?

Achar didn’t ask, but his eyes were full of questions.

I narrowed my eyes to indicate my displeasure. This was a military mission, not a village meeting. Soldiers—real soldiers—don’t question their commander during a mission.

We were in the heart of an unfriendly city that was locked up for the night, without weapons, in possession of stolen military armament, Hebrew men in Hebrew clothing with Hebrew facial hair, while the Philistine guard was alerted to our presence.

We’re moving out, I said.

Dathan’s grip on my arm remained firm.

The sound you heard was Omar, I said, berating myself for giving into them. While this wasn’t the time or place, their concern was genuine, and we were all members of the same small village.

The boy? Achar sounded impressed. It sounded like a demon of death.

His diversion is giving us the time we need to escape. Let’s not waste it. I shrugged off Dathan’s hand and turned to go.

Jahleel grabbed my arm.

Where is the boy now? he asked.

This behavior was unacceptable.

He escaped, I snapped. Now stay close, we need to move quickly.

But he doesn’t know the city!

We’re not just going to leave him!

Jahleel and Dathan spoke over each other.

It was a mistake to bring Omar. Jahleel and Dathan thought of him as a boy, not a member of a military team. Tonight’s raid had a dual purpose. While the primary goal was to seize armament, a secondary goal was to train my men to work as a team, to teach them to think and act like soldiers.

Standing toe-to-toe with Jahleel and Dathan, I looked them in the eyes—which wasn’t easy Jahleel being so tall—and spoke in measured tones.

Omar did what he did to insure that the raid would succeed. We will do the same. We have a plan. We will keep to the plan. I don’t want to hear another word from either of you. Is that understood?

This time when I turned and strode into the night no one stopped me.

WE MOVED IN SILENCE from shadow to shadow, ducking and running, crouching and listening, pausing only when necessary to evaluate our surroundings. Overhead, the moon darted from cloud to cloud mimicking our movement.

We had trained for this raid in the hills above our village, using large boulders for buildings and dirt paths for streets. The team was under strict orders not to speak. While all of them had a limited command of the Philistine tongue—a necessity to survive in a Philistine-dominated land—I alone was fluent in the language. And inside the city walls men whispering in a foreign tongue would alarm the locals. If they weren’t alarmed already.

In the distance, soldiers were shouting, the commotion coming from the west, the business section of the city near the marketplace that housed textile and pottery shops. We were moving east, the opposite direction. Omar was leading the soldiers away from us.

We came to Market Way, the widest and main artery of the city. I crouched at the edge of the street, using a merchant booth to hide me from view of the sentries atop the wall at the eastern gate. The remaining members of the team crouched behind me as I assessed our crossing.

The road was rutted from the wheels of daily traffic. During daylight hours I’d seen the broad way impassable, clogged with carts of every size and description, horses, mules, oxen, men, women, and boys carrying bundles of fruit and grain and all manner of goods on their backs. At the moment, it was deserted, but that could change suddenly and without warning. With sentries posted on the city wall, we were most exposed while crossing it.

As with every element of the raid, we’d trained for this. I turned to see if everyone was ready. Dathan and Achar met my gaze. Jahleel was staring off into the distance. West. His thoughts distracted by Omar.

I touched the big man’s arm. With a nod of my head I asked him if he was ready.

He nodded back. He was.

I checked to make sure the road was clear to the west, to see if there were any guards in the road looking for Omar.

There weren’t.

I looked east. The road was clear all the way to the city gate. The sentry on top of the wall was completing his transit in front of a guardhouse that stretched the width of the gate. He turned a corner. I saw his back. He turned another corner and disappeared.

Closing my eyes, I sang a song under my breath:

We have heard, O God,

Our fathers have told us,

The deeds you performed in their time.

Not by sword did they take the land,

Their arm, the victory did not win;

But your right hand, your arm, O Lord,

Did drive the nations out.

I opened my eyes. The guard reappeared from the far side of the guardhouse, walked toward us, turned at the corner, completing the circuit, and continued walking his post.

The timing was what I had determined when I’d planned the raid. Exactly how we had practiced it.

I waited for the guard to complete another circuit. I would cross first. Then, I would signal each man in turn, timing their crossing. Dathan would be next; then, Achar; then, Jahleel.

When we trained, Omar was positioned after Achar and before Jahleel. The fastest, he had no trouble crossing the distance within the allotted time. Achar always crossed with time to spare. Dathan was older, slower, but able to cross in time. Jahleel was the slowest. In training, he didn’t always cover the distance in time. But the blood races in proportion to the threat and I had no doubt that Jahleel would rise to the occasion.

Clutching my bag to my side, I could feel the scratchy goat hair against my hand and wrist. My feet shuffled in the dirt, finding solid ground. I eyed the far side of the road, then checked the guard. He was approaching the first turn.

The guard was three steps from the corner. Two. One.

My legs coiled.

The guard turned the corner, his back to me.

I sprang forward—

—and was pulled backward.

At the last moment, someone had grabbed me from behind. With the sudden reversal of direction, my feet had gone forward, my body had gone backward, and I landed hard in the dust on my backside, looking up into the face of—

Jahleel.

I’m going after the boy, he said.

What? I gasped.

Achar weighed in: Omar got what he deserved. He could have gotten us all killed.

He made a mistake, Dathan argued. But that doesn’t mean we should abandon him.

How can I look his father in the eye? Jahleel added.

Enough! I hissed, scrambling out of a very undignified position. This is intolerable! Not another word! Not…another…word!

I closed on Jahleel.

When I recruited you for this raid, did you, or did you not, agree to take orders from me?

He’s just a boy, Eri, Jahleel pleaded.

Answer the question.

Jahleel let out a sigh. I agreed to follow your orders.

I turned to Dathan and asked the same question.

I agreed, he said.

Then, to Achar.

I agreed, he said.

To all of them, I said, Omar is a soldier. I recruited him to be a soldier. He accepted that role and is doing his duty as a soldier. To think of him as anything less than a soldier discredits and belittles him. More than that, it diverts your attention from the mission at hand and not only jeopardizes the success of the mission, but puts us all in greater danger.

I challenged each of them. Dathan. Achar. Jahleel. None of them met my gaze. Fine, for now. We would talk about this again in training.

Repositioning myself, it took me several circuits of the guard to calm myself. My men weren’t as ready as I’d thought they were. Was I expecting too much of them, too soon? After all, they weren’t professional soldiers.

Jahleel was a farmer.

Dathan, a baker.

Achar worked his father’s olive press.

But tonight they were soldiers. And if they couldn’t take orders on a night raid, what would they do in the chaos of battle?

I took a deep breath.

The sentry appeared from the far side of the guardhouse. Crossed the front. And when he turned the corner and his back was to me, I sprinted across the road, reciting the timing song as I ran, navigating the ruts, driving forward with each step, peering deep into the dark places on the far side of the road, watching for any movement.

I reached the other side with two stanzas to spare. With my back against the rough surface of a mud-brick wall, my chest rising and falling from exertion, I took a moment to catch my breath.

Achar’s eyes were fixed on me, awaiting my signal.

I checked the road.

Both directions were clear.

The sentry.

He was behind the guardhouse.

I stole a glance at Achar. His eyes were on me, not the guard. Good for him. Just as we trained.

The guard appeared. Crossed the front. Reached the corner and turned his back.

I gave Achar the signal and began the timing song:

We have heard O God,

Our fathers have told us….

Achar’s strength was in his short legs, having pushed the stone wheel of his father’s oil press in countless circles since the time he was a small boy. While larger presses used mules, Zabdi ben Gera, Achar’s father, used his nine sons. Having performed the task of a beast of burden all his life, it wasn’t surprising that Achar had taken on the characteristics of one. He was stubborn and willful at times, but those qualities also made him a tenacious and tireless fighter. He had proved himself skillful with the sword.

Not by sword did they take the land,

Their arm, the victory did not win…

Achar was a patriot. We all were. But each of us also had personal reasons for fighting the Philistines. Achar was no exception.

The second son of Zabdi ben Gera, as a boy, Achar came across his older brother’s body lying beneath an olive tree. His throat had been slit by a passing Philistine merchant who stole the family’s wagon laden with that year’s crop. Achar ran after the merchant and was beat senseless and left for dead in a ditch.

But your right hand….

With time to spare Achar slid to a stop in the dirt beside me. He hadn’t broken stride until he’d reached the shadows.

Dathan was next. He was the oldest member of the team with a wife and five daughters.

At the proper moment I signaled him and heard his grunt all the way across the road as he rose on tired knees and ran toward me. Starting was a challenge for him, but once he got going, he could keep up with me.

There was one time he outran me. Every time I see Dathan run, I think of that day. It wasn’t a contest. And neither one of was fast enough on that day.

At the time, Dathan and his wife had six daughters. We were returning home from the market at Ashdod. Two of his older daughters—they must have been eight- and nine-years-old at the time—were walking the two-year-old between them. They had lagged behind.

We heard the rumble of the chariots and the moment we saw them we knew there was nothing we could do. They were side by side. Racing. The older daughter tried to pick up her little sister, but the two-year-old was laughing and pulled from her grasp.

The next instant, she was rolling in the dirt, lifeless, beneath the hooves of the horses and the wheels of the chariots.

I can’t even begin to describe to you the sound that rose out of Dathan’s throat, the sound of a father’s worst nightmare, of his deepest anguish.

The charioteers didn’t even stop. The one who ran over her was crying foul to the other racer, protesting that the Hebrew brat had slowed him down.

…but your right hand, your arm, O Lord,

Did drive the nations out.

Dathan was beside us, his hand braced against the wall, gasping for breath.

The sentry appeared from behind the guardhouse.

That left Jahleel.

I glanced across the road to make eye contact with him.

Jahleel had seen his mother and father murdered by Philistines while working in their wheat field. It was a random killing. He never knew why the Philistines attacked.

Omar had been forced to watch his sister raped by a couple of drunken Philistine soldiers.

On the far side of the road, Jahleel’s head was turned. He was looking up the road. West. In the direction where we’d last seen Omar.

The sentry made another complete circuit and Jahleel still wasn’t looking at me.

Muttering a few phrases that I’m not proud of, I searched the ground and selected three stones. I handed them to Achar.

Get his attention, I said.

With eight brothers, Achar didn’t need any further instruction, and it didn’t take him three attempts. With the first rock he hit Jahleel in the cheek, drawing blood.

Good aim, Dathan said.

Wiping the blood from his cheek, Jahleel glared at me. I glared back with even greater intensity. He prepared himself to cross the road.

When the sentry turned his back on us, I gave Jahleel the signal to run.

We have heard, O God,

Our fathers have told us…

Jahleel’s first step slipped. He fell to his knees. Got up, and continued running—more like lumbering—across the road.

At times he infuriated me. But he was family. Brother-in-law. He was also my closest friend.

It hadn’t always been so. When we were boys, Jahleel was my greatest nightmare. There was something about me—to this day Jahleel can’t tell me what it was—that made him want to torment me. For years I lived in fear of him, every day trying to avoid him. But when you live in a small village, you can’t hide for long.

After more bloodied noses than I could count, along with scraped elbows and knees, I’d had enough. Somewhere I’d heard that if you stand up to a bully, he’ll back down. So I stood up to Jahleel.

I’m lucky to be alive. He thrashed me. He thrashed me good.

Then, as we grew older, to my horror, Jesca, my sister, had eyes for him. Jahleel! My greatest enemy.

After a while, he noticed her too, and while the thought of the two of them together made me want to smack a goat upside the head, out of respect for my sister, Jahleel stopped beating me.

The transformation didn’t occur overnight, but somehow Jesca managed to turn an angry giant into a gentle, loving man. They married. And over time Jahleel became the brother I never had.

He’s not going to make it, Dathan said.

…but your right hand, your arm, O Lord,

Did drive the nations out.

The song ended.

Jahleel was only three-fourths of the way across the road.

I looked up at the guardhouse.

The sentry appeared. He had a clear view down the road.

Jahleel’s large feet pounded the dust. His arms and legs pumped with all his might. Though the night was still, it looked like he was running against a stiff wind.

The sentry gave no indication he saw Jahleel.

Two more strides.

He took one and leaped.

Achar let out a small cry and jumped out of the way as a bear-sized man fell with a heavy thud into the dust at his feet.

I checked the sentry. He’d stopped and was peering over the wall. Something had caught his eye, but from the way he angled his head from side to side, he didn’t know what to make of it.

He looked for a while and then continued on his circuit.

We’re behind schedule, I said. Let’s go.

Dathan and Achar fell in behind me. It took a while for Jahleel to catch up.

I’m fine, he said, gasping for breath. In case anyone wants to know. Really, I’m fine.

Chapter 3

WE WORKED OUR WAY along the edges of High Town where the wealthy residents of Ashdod dwelt. Tradesmen. Textile manufacturers. Merchants. Ship captains. All those who figure prominently in one of the world’s leading trade centers.

We walked openly but silently through deserted streets, through pockets of lingering aromas of roasted pork.

Every now and then we’d hear sounds—a stumbling drunk talking to himself, the hacking of a congested man, the soft clinking of clay jars—and we’d duck into the shadows. But for the most part, our transit through High Town went without incident.

When the road became a sloping descent, smaller and shabbier dwellings reflected the status of the city’s poorer residents. Odors of roasted meat gave way to the stench of garbage and human waste pooling in the streets.

In High Town we caught occasional glimpses of the city wall through gaps between the houses; now, the mud brick outer wall rose in front of us, towering over dwellings and businesses that were wedged up against it. Foot traffic in the lower city was more frequent and we had to be cautious.

The street that brought us here emptied into a larger avenue that ran parallel to the wall. I raised a hand to signal that we were stopping. Achar, Dathan, and Jahleel bunched up behind me.

For several moments I observed the traffic on the street—infrequent, but enough to cause concern—and the entrance to a two-story structure against the wall. It was the source of most of the traffic, and our destination.

Wait here, I said.

I shrugged off the goatskin bag and handed it to Jahleel. When I could see no one in either direction—which was a short distance both ways given the curve of the wall and the street—I stepped out of the shadow and made my way to the door.

The entrance to the establishment was made of thick branches woven with heavy cloth to keep out the night air. When I opened it, a young woman emerged from the dimly lit interior and met me.

Startled by my appearance, she placed a hand on my chest, preventing me from crossing the threshold. Her hand was small, but forceful. Raven black hair fell past her shoulders, over a full-length linen tunic embroidered with stunning red and blue colors. Her feet were bare.

The strength of her perfume met me with as much, if not stronger, force than her hand, stinging my eyes. Being from a small village where women don’t condone such adornments, the odor can be daunting.

She eyed me with suspicion, her forehead a tangle of disapproving lines as she took in my dark complexion, beard, rustic woolen tunic, and muddy sandals.

Standing like this—half in, half out of the doorway—I felt exposed and vulnerable.

Tell Korinsia, Eri has arrived.

The hand on my chest did not let up. Nor did she step aside. Nor did the frown on her brow disappear.

Had she understood me? I’d spoken to her in Philistine.

Is there a problem, Naia?

A mature woman emerged from the darkness, a woman of striking appearance—pale, flawless complexion, her eyes dark and intelligent, her lips full and painted red. A colorful embroidered tunic swished as she walked.

When she recognized me, her expression turned to alarm.

What are you doing just standing there? she whispered.

Pushing past the girl, she grabbed the front of my tunic and pulled me inside, shoving me through a curtain that led to a side room.

Korinsia was as forceful as she was beautiful.

I stumbled backward.

Are you trying to get us all killed? she hissed. We have a unit of charioteers tonight.

This is the night we agreed upon, I said.

Quicker than a heartbeat, she remembered. Of course, of course, she said. Then, more to herself than to me, Of all nights. But it’s not as though the officers keep me informed of their schedule.

We’ve lost a member of our team, I told her. And we may have soldiers looking for us.

In all fairness, I had to tell her. I watched her reaction with fascination. If the news startled her, she didn’t show it. If anything, the woman became calmer. She looked at me with concern; for me, not herself.

Then we must move quickly, she said. Get your men. I’ll inform my girls to keep our guests occupied.

There’s one more thing I need to tell you, I said. You may not like it.

Again, my comment didn’t unsettle her.

Remarkable.

I MADE MY WAY across the street to where the others were waiting for me.

Move quickly and silently, I instructed them. Whatever you’re told to do, do it without question.

Is that a tavern with prostitutes? Achar said, his mouth twisting into a silly grin.

We can smell the perfume from here, Jahleel said.

Our contact inside is Korinsia, I told them. She can be trusted.

A Philistine prostitute? Dathan snapped, clearly less than pleased with this development.

This was the reason I hadn’t informed them of this part of the plan ahead of time.

We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust her with all of our lives.

A tavern with prostitutes, Achar mused. We’re going into a tavern with prostitutes. What’ll I tell my father?

Tell him we did what the spies at Jericho did, Jahleel said.

Jericho?

Joshua at Jericho…Rahab…the spies….

Achar was shaking his head.

Jahleel shook his head. How can you not know the stories of our people?

Listen to me, I said. There is a unit of charioteers in there.

Charioteers! Dathan cried. It’s not enough that there are soldiers in there, but the elite?

When putting the team together, it never occurred to me that I’d have trouble with Dathan. He was the most stable, most level-headed and mature man I knew. More than anyone, he knew the reasons and the risks of our plan.

The presence of charioteers is unfortunate, but it doesn’t alter the plan. I looked at Dathan, but I was talking to all of them. Yes, Korinsia is a Philistine prostitute. She is putting herself and her girls in peril in order to help us. And the moment we step foot in her establishment—

A tavern with prostitutes…I can’t believe we’re going into a tavern with prostitutes, Achar muttered.

—Korinsia is in command. When she speaks, the words that come out of her mouth are mine. I want that understood.

Feeling the need to press home this point, I challenged each one of them:

Dathan?

At first, he wouldn’t look me in the eyes. But then, he seemed to come to some sort of resolve.

Understood, he said.

Jahleel?

Understood.

Achar?

A tavern with prostitutes! I can’t wait to see the looks on my brothers’ faces when I tell them—

Achar!

Yes! I heard you. Understood. Achar said.

Jahleel handed my bag to me.

I didn’t take it.

Get those to the cave, I told him. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I—

You’re going after Omar, Jahleel said. I knew you couldn’t leave him behind. That’s what I’ve been telling myself. ‘Eri won’t leave Omar behind. I know he won’t.’ And you’re not. I knew you wouldn’t.

Take the lead, I said to him.

By the way Jahleel shouldered my bag you would have thought it was