He closed the front gate behind the frightened villagers, and turned back into his courtyard. The women had returned to their quarters, and Machir sat listlessly on the roof cutting holes in some dried gourds, which would be used for storing honey. Bathsheba stood, with large, questioning eyes, watching her grandfather. When he sat back down by the fire, she came and cuddled up close to him laying her head against his arm.
Ahithophel looked down and saw that she was fighting back tears. She’s not one to weep like her mother, he thought. Feeling a sudden flow of tenderness for the little girl, he picked her up and put her on his lap.
“Now, now, don’t be afraid,” he said, patting her on the back, gently but rather awkwardly. “Everything is going to be all right.” When Bathsheba buried her head on his shoulder sobbing, Ahithophel felt undone. He stroked her dark hair and noticed how the tendrils curled around his fingers. Somehow this was more touching than her tears.
At Ahithophel’s call, a servant girl hurried out to the dimly lit courtyard, took Bathsheba’s hand and led her to the sleeping quarters. Ahithophel waited until they were gone, then with a sigh he joined his young grandson on the roof.
“Grandfather,” whispered Machir, “someone is coming down the road to the city gate.”
“Where?” Ahithophel anxiously peered out over the dark houses to the moon-bright space before the city gate.
There was the sound of running feet and excited voices, followed by a frantic pounding on the barred gate. Several men were working to unlatch the bolts when Ahithophel and Machir reached them.
The big gate swung back, and three young men entered, breathing hard. Their clothes were torn and their bodies so covered with blood and dust that only their voices were recognizable. “Quickly tell us what has happened,” Ahithophel urged.
“All is lost … all is lost …” One young man spoke the words through great, wracking sobs.
“What is lost?” Ahithophel demanded. The people of the village had gathered behind him in the shadows.
“Israel has lost to the Philistines. It was a massacre. Wave upon wave of chariots and spears and arrows.”
“Impossible!” gasped Ahithophel.
“Saul was killed,” said a second man from the shadows.
“His sons, too, all but one,” said the third.
“There are only three of you. Where are all the other men of Giloh?” asked Ahithophel.
“The men of Giloh,” one young man said sadly, “may all be dead. If any are alive they have fled with Saul’s son, Ishbosheth, to the city of refuge at Mahanaim.”
Ahithophel’s voice throbbed with emotion. “My son: did you see Emmiel—my son?”
The men struggled for words to answer the agonized plea, for Emmiel had also been their friend. “We don’t know for sure. We were all scattered like leaves before a mighty wind,” the older man said.
“I thought I saw him with one of Saul’s sons,” answered another.
“Then there is hope. They may have escaped to Mahanaim in Gilead,” Ahithophel insisted.
Before the men could answer, a scream pierced the night, and then one by one the women of Giloh joined in the terrible lament for the dead. The men at first stood stunned and silent. Then they, too, began to weep unashamedly for the gallant men whom they now feared would never come home to the pleasant hillside to till their fields again.
“Don’t give up your hope!” Ahithophel shouted. “Some of our sons are alive and well in Mahanaim.” But his voice was drowned by the wailing of the women.
Then a call came from a villager standing on the town wall. “Bethlehem is in flames!”
Before the people could climb the wall to see for themselves, there was another loud, insistent pounding on the town gate. The refugees from Bethlehem poured through the opening gate screaming, “The Philistines have ridden up the valley from the Jordan! They are looting and burning Bethlehem!”
Some of the fleeing people carried goatskin packs of wine and cheeses, and others struggled with coarse, cloth-wrapped bundles of flour and seed wheat. All were terrified and eager to hurry on.
“You will be next,” they cried. “The Philistines are going to march up and take the whole ridge.” With that they hurried off, leaving the villagers of Giloh in a state of panic.
Ahithophel moved among the people. “You can go if you like, but I am not moving. I will not be driven off my land as long as I have a strong right arm and a good sword. We can lock the gate and shoot our arrows from the walls.”
An old man pushed through the crowd and came to where Ahithophel was standing. “It’s no use,” he shouted over the din. “There are thousands of Philistines. They will climb our walls, rape our women, dash our young ones against the wall and take our land. Pack up, Ahithophel, and lead your people to safety in Gilead.”
“I’ll not leave my good land for those fiends of Dagon. I’ll not have them drinking my wine and using my good oil.” Ahithophel suddenly noticed Reba was standing beside him.
Ahithophel was astonished. “What makes you think I am leaving?”
Reba looked at him firmly. “If our son is alive he will be in Mahanaim with the family of Saul, and we must get to him as soon as possible. Here we are helpless.”
Ahithophel considered her logic, then looked around and saw that it was indeed true; there were no young men to defend the city. But the journey to Mahanaim, located in the Gilead Mountains east of the Jordan, would also be perilous. Since the Philistines were pouring down from the north and would soon be coming along the ridge road, the people of Giloh would have to follow the wild goat trails used by the shepherds.
Ahithophel stepped back into his home for one last look around. He saw the gourds lying where Machir had left them; the cook room still gave off the faint odor of warm bread; in the corner was his old, broken yoke. He went to the steps and mounted slowly to the roof.
The loom sat silent and motionless, the half-finished piece of work still in place. He looked to the south, toward the burning city of Bethlehem, and saw that it no longer darted with flames but glowed like a hot, red coal. Reba is right, he thought, we have no choice but to leave.
He hurried back down the steps across the courtyard, pausing by the well to run his hand over the smooth, chiseled stones. They were worn smooth with age and still gave off heat from the afternoon sun. They almost seemed to have warm blood running beneath their surface. His land and his home and all of Giloh were like a woman to him: his woman. How could he just walk out and leave her to strangers?
Faint and far away he could hear the people beginning to leave from the village gate. He looked frantically around for something he could save at this final moment. “Water,” he told himself out loud. “We will need water.” He grabbed the goatskin wine pouch from the wall and was filling it from one of the clay jars when he heard running feet on the cobblestone path outside. The door of the courtyard was pushed open, and Bathsheba stood there outlined by the moonlight.
“Grandfather, we must not leave the snowy doves. They would be so frightened.” She ran to the corner where they sat perched on the old yoke and tenderly coaxed them into her arms.
The water jar slipped from Ahithophel’s grasp and fell with such force that it broke on the stones at the base of the well. He ignored it. With a strong push he plugged the opening to the wine pouch with a twisted cloth. “We must go,” he said, hurrying over to Bathsheba.
She stood holding the doves in the folds of her skirt and looked at her grandfather. “What will happen to my father if he comes and finds us gone?”
Ahithophel did not answer her. With one quick movement he flung the wine pouch over his shoulder, swept Bathsheba with the two doves into his other arm and rushed from his house.
A small group waited for them at the gate. Reba and Noha were on the gray donkey and Machir was on the dappled mule holding the reins of a donkey for his grandfather. The others from his house were riding out, leaving only a big cart filled with wheat standing under th
e rounded portico of the gate. Quickly he placed Bathsheba in the cart, mounted his donkey and motioned for the little group to go before him.
When they had all passed, Ahithophel drew himself up, squaring his jaw and raising his eyebrow until his face assumed a stern fierceness. He flicked the donkey’s hindquarters with his whip and rode behind them out the gate and down the road to the north without looking back.
Bathsheba sat in the cart, holding tight to the sides as it bounced and bumped along in the darkness on the narrow goat trail that wound through tall fir trees past the rounded dome of Moriah. The route to Mahanaim led close by Saul’s fortress at Gibeah, and Ahithophel twice called a halt to discuss with the other village elders whether the Philistines might already have occupied the defeated king’s stronghold. Now, however, the only sound was the thudding of the mule’s feet and the noise of the cart as it scraped through the bushes on either side.
They had traveled only a short distance when Ahithophel again signaled them to halt. “Giloh is burning,” he cried, pointing to a faint glow on the horizon behind them.
Bathsheba saw the small fingers of light in the distance and felt tears sting her eyes. She clutched the doves to her cheek and looked up at the shadowy forms of neighbors and friends crowded around the cart. Some moaned as though in physical pain. At last they started slowly on again, their eyes drawn back to the distant glow for as long as it could be seen.
As they approached the narrow path that forked just below the fortress of Gibeah, they heard sentries on the walls of Saul’s palace calling back and forth among themselves. Immediately Ahithophel guided the entire group into an acacia brake. Then he assembled a band of men to creep forward and determine if the guards were Israelites or Philistines and whether it would be safe for the refugees to pass along the rocky path below the fortress.
Ahithophel insisted on leading the men. Bathsheba listened anxiously as they stole out of the brake. The moon had long since set, and there was not a gleam of light. She was uncomfortable in the cart; the grain scratched and her feet were numb, but she dared not move.
Suddenly the night outside the thicket came alive with the sound of shouting. There was a whir of arrows cutting the air, and Bathsheba instinctively ducked down.
“Philistines! Philistines!” Around her people shrieked as they urged their donkeys and mules forward out of the brake and down the steep mountain path. In the confusion Bathsheba was forgotten.
Quickly she jumped from the cart and tugged at the leather thong that bound the mule. It would not loosen. Already she could hear a guttural, strange language as the Philistines warily approached the thicket. They would discover the wagon any minute now.
Frantically she reached down into the grain and drew out the doves. The mule brayed suddenly in fright. Bathsheba turned and ran wildly down the hill, pushing through the tangle of vines and undergrowth. There was a shout behind her, and the child knew that the Philistines had found the cart full of grain. That would stop them for a moment. At last she came to a stop beneath a huge, overhanging rock.
From the opposite direction there came the sound of a mule being ridden at full speed. Bathsheba flattened herself against the rock. She heard her own name called and recognized the voice of her father’s friend, Judah.
“I’m here!” she cried.
“Thanks be to God you are safe,” he whispered, as he lifted her onto the mule in front of him. There was a sound of snapping twigs and guttural voices from the thicket. Bathsheba felt Judah’s strong arms tighten around her as he dug his heels into the mule’s flanks. Soon they were moving down the path so swiftly that pebbles flew in showers from the mule’s hooves.
Once out of danger, Judah steadied the mule to a slower pace. “Don’t worry about your grandfather,” he said gently. “I’m sure he got away. We’ll no doubt meet him at the Vale of Farah where we turn down to the Jordan.” They continued down the steep rocky trail, the mule finding his way in the darkness.
They did not meet Ahithophel at the Vale of Farah, but Judah reassured her: “Your grandfather will no doubt meet us at the Jabbok before daylight.”
She leaned back against Judah’s strong left arm and felt the steady beat of his heart through the woven material of his cloak. In this same way her father had once taken her to ride with him. She tried to remember Emmiel’s face and voice. Although she loved her reckless, impulsive father, he had been gone from home so much she hardly knew him.
It was a long and tedious ride down to the Jordan and then across to the Jabbok where Ahithophel was indeed waiting. Her grandfather came to where Bathsheba sat sleepily cradled in Judah’s arms and gently carried her back to ride before him on his donkey.
Bathsheba smiled drowsily as Judah followed with the doves and placed them in her arms. As the sun burst over the eastern hills she heard Ahithophel give the command, and the caravan began to move in single file up the path that led into the mountains of the Gilead.
It was evening as they approached the ancient, walled city of Mahanaim. The name meant “two camps” and was said to be the place where Jacob met his brother, Esau. It had been declared a city of refuge for Israel. Anyone seeking asylum within its walls was safe from his pursuers.
* * *
Now it was past the curfew hour and the large, wooden gates, covered with beaten brass, were closed. There was a brief exchange, and the gates were unlocked for Ahithophel and his villagers. They moved silently up the narrow street between the houses. People were everywhere: in the shadowy doorways, looking down from the rooftops, leaning out the narrow windows. No one spoke or called a greeting. An air of gloom pervaded the ancient city.
A young man with a torch led them through a narrow doorway into an open court where groups of people were huddled around small fires. Babies were crying and animals wandered about. Bathsheba noticed that no servant came to wash their feet.
The boy with the torch stopped and began to curse a young woman with two children who had fallen asleep on some wineskins. “Move, move,” he shouted. “There are many more still coming.”
Finally the people of Giloh found an open area close to a wall. Bathsheba and Machir climbed up on some bales of straw, their eyes anxiously following Ahithophel as he left to find his son. They were given pieces of half-naked bread with curds, but Bathsheba could not eat. The choking smell of smoke; the stench of scorched olive oil, smoked cheese, pita bread; odors of thyme and cumin, all mixed with a terrible fear in the pit of her stomach.
Ahithophel forced his way through the crowded streets to the court where Abner, his onetime friend and general, was viewing the wounded and dying men stretched out in rows. “Don’t touch these men,” Abner warned as he pulled Ahithophel away from the stretchers. “Some are dead. You could become defiled.”
“What is defilement to me if my son is here among these men?” Ahithophel countered.
When Abner did not answer, Ahithophel seized him by the shoulders: “Abner, in the name of God where is my son?”
Abner put his arm around Ahithophel and spoke gently. “I can assure you he is not here among these wounded.”
* * *
Ahithophel drew back. “If my son is not here, where is he?”
“Come with me to the king’s court where we can talk.”
Woodenly Ahithophel followed the general past the grimy, bloodstained men, some groaning with pain.
Inside the courtyard of the king, Ahithophel found himself surrounded by the men of Benjamin. They were waiting for Saul’s only surviving son, Ishbosheth, to come out into the courtyard to be crowned with his father’s crown. Seeing Abner, the king’s general, they crowded around and plied him with questions
“Why is Ishbosheth delaying?”
“It is important he be crowned at once.”
“Patience,” Abner admonished the men. “Please be patient with the young prince. He has just received word that the headless bodies of Saul and his sons have been hung for all to see from the walls of Bet Shean.”
A moan swept over the men. They began to cry out their frustrations to the God of Israel, who had deserted them in their hour of need. “This is not the worst,” Abner shouted, motioning for silence. “Word has also come to the young prince that the heads of his father and brothers are being sent around to all the Philistine cities so their people might mock the men of Israel.”
With that the men of Benjamin began to wail and weep, tearing their cloaks and beating their breasts. Some even dropped to the ground and wept with their foreheads touching the rough-packed dirt of the courtyard.
Ahithophel was caught up in the general grief, but he did not forget his purpose. He clutched the cloak of Abner and shouted over the din, “My son. What of my son?”
Abner turned to him with bloodshot eyes. “Ahithophel, your son died nobly on Gilboa with the king.”
Ahithophel staggered and fell back as though wounded himself. “No, no, not my son. You are mistaken. It could not have been my son.”
Abner put his arm around him, drawing him away from the rest of the men. “Ahithophel, I would not lie to you. As I live before God, your son died a hero.”
Ahithophel began to tremble. His teeth chattered as with great cold so that he could say nothing. Although his whole body shook with sobs, tears would not come.
Now Ishbosheth was led into the courtyard by priests bearing incense and holy water. Though the young prince appeared overcome with grief, the ceremony of crowning him king proceeded as though it were taking place back in the palace of Saul, and soon Ishbosheth stood awkwardly in the center of the court with great robes of state, that had been rescued from Gibeah, hanging large and loose on his slender frame.
At last Ahithophel found his voice. He looked wildly around at Ishbosheth and the others. “Why did they die? Where was the God of Israel when the roebucks of His people were being cut down by the chariots of the Philistines? Is our God not strong enough to deliver us from men who ride in chariots of iron?”
The Sons of Isaac Page 32
