by D. J. Niko
Basemath collapsed onto the first step and caught her breath. Thoughts galloped through her mind like stallions: visions of Megiddo under attack, its walls crumbling beneath the fist of the heathen king.
Solomon’s fortified chariot city was built high on the tell to protect the Israelites in times of conflict. It was to be a gathering point for people from as far as the western harbor and the northern capital, Shechem. Within its sturdy stone walls and in the chambers of the magnificent bit-hilani palaces, the Israelites would hunker down as their cities and villages burned. But Solomon’s vision quickly unraveled, for even Megiddo was not strong enough to hold back the onslaught of the insatiable colonists from the western banks of the Yam Suph.
Basemath was convinced the women and children were safe in the tunnel . . . but what of their men, including her own beloved Ahimaaz? With a shudder she expelled any dark notions of bloodshed and loss. The Egyptians were brutal, but her own countrymen were cunning and clever. They would not easily concede the lands they’d fought so hard to make their own, the lands the Lord himself bestowed upon their ancestors. She sighed deeply and told herself,There is hope yet.
She descended the twoscore steps in the dark. The cold, rough-cut stone felt like petrified sand against her hands. The slow drip of distant water filled her ears, and she thought of her father. It must have been divine guidance that gave him the foresight to engineer a network so complex that it could provide water to thousands of people. A vertical shaft reached deep into the earth and was connected to a spring outside the city walls by the very tunnel in which she stood, allowing Megiddo inhabitants access to water even in times of siege.
Solomon began the project toward the end of his life and never saw it finished. He had left specific instructions to his son Rehoboam on how to complete it, but the great king’s heir had proven himself unworthy of the task, and of so many others. Though Basemath loved her half-brother, she could see he was weak, indecisive, and unable to lead the people in the way their father had. Under his reign, the united monarchy of Israel and Judah that had been established three kings ago and reached its zenith during Solomon’s time was now crumbling like limestone in an earthquake.
But perhaps Rehoboam wasn’t all to blame. The collapse had begun in her father’s lifetime. Though Solomon’s forty-year reign was one of peace, he sat on a cauldron that was brewing unbeknownst to him. Anger seethed among the taxed masses like a toxic cocktail. Fattened by prosperity, they had grown accustomed to plenty and did not wish to be parted with their gold and comfort so that the state’s power and influence could reach beyond Jerusalem. Solomon’s vision to build chariot cities in the north, such as Megiddo, and to fortify the holy city against the intruders he knew would one day come was met with resistance. Without any regard for the future of their children, or for the divine wisdom that guided King Solomon since the crown was passed to him from his father, David, they sought to protect their own treasuries. The prevailing ideal had shifted from serving God and working toward Israel’s greater good to cultivating self-interest. It was, she thought, an abomination.
At the base of the stairway, the women huddled beneath the meager light of a single torch, shivering in the damp cold of the subterranean passage. They stared at Basemath with wide eyes, like frightened rabbits, as the ground above them quaked with the footfall of countless soldiers.
She stood on the last step, her shadow a black giant dancing on the limestone wall. “Women of Israel, the time has come for courage. We are the Lord’s chosen people. As long as we have faith, we will be protected.” She stepped down and stood among them. “Now we pray.”
She dropped to her knees and waited for the others to follow. She lowered her head. “Almighty ruler of the heavens, Lord of our forefathers, who has bestowed your commandments upon us, hear the entreaty of your humble servants. Bless, O Lord, the house of the righteous and let it prevail over wickedness and violence. Let wisdom and understanding reign among your people. Let their hearts know peace in the face of injustice, and let them accept your will and judgment without protest. To the slain, give everlasting life. To the living, grant the prudence to walk on the narrow path of virtue and faithfulness. May your word be nourishment in the time of hunger, your way a beacon in darkness. Amen.”
Silence fell upon the chamber for many moments. The energy of the group was sedate—not a deliberate calm that came with strength of heart but rather a numbness, a forlorn resignation to whatever would be.
A boy with a round face and golden curls tumbling into his eyes separated himself from the bosom of his mother and spoke. “Who are the men who have come here? What do they want with us?”
Basemath gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I will tell you a story, Elo’ah.”
The boy put his thumb in his mouth and leaned back into his mother. His big, eager eyes told her to continue.
She spoke softly. “Many years ago, in the time of our ancestors, there was a terrible drought in Canaan and the people were dying of hunger. The old patriarch Israel, who was the son of Isaac and the grandson of Abraham, led his house to more fertile lands that were rich in grain and water. With his sons and their families, who numbered threescore and ten, he traveled south in a journey that took many moons and claimed the lives of their newborn lambs. At last they came to the Yam Suph, and they rejoiced. They crossed over to the west, to a kingdom called Egypt, and there they found pastures and water for their livestock, and they tended the land with care, taking only enough to survive.
“For seventeen years, Israel and his clan prospered and multiplied. They had the favor of the pharaoh and lived in harmony with the Egyptians. But Israel, who was quite old, died, and his son Joseph took him back to Canaan to be buried with his forefathers. Israel’s house mourned for him together with the Egyptians, who were like their kin. Israel’s clan continued to live in Egypt and now numbered many thousands.
“When the pharaoh died, a new king came to power who did not know Israel or his son Joseph or any of his offspring. He regarded the sons of Israel as foreigners in Egyptian lands and loathed their multitudes and their vigor. Afraid they might rise up and fight Egypt, the new pharaoh subjected them to bondage. The Israelites, who were always a free and proud people, now slaved under the burden of a foreign king. They were made to build cities and carry heavy loads and do the work of oxen, all for a crust of bread.
“But Israel’s people were mighty and clever, and they continued to multiply in the face of hardship. And the more they did so, the more the pharaoh hated them, until one day he commanded their sons be cast into the Nile lest they spread the seed of Israel.”
She paused and smiled at the young boy, who was clutching his mother’s gown to his lips.
“But hatred and oppression never last, Elo’ah. Even if many years pass, the righteous always win. By the grace of Yahweh, Israel’s tribe was delivered from the yoke of Egypt and led by a man named Moses back to Canaan land, where they lived and prospered as free men once again. The pharaoh never forgave them for reclaiming their freedom, and that hatred was passed down through the generations, and the people of Egypt and Israel who once were brothers became lifelong enemies.”
She shifted her gaze to the group and raised her voice a notch. “Just as Israel’s tribes prevailed then, their descendants will do so again. Even if the blood on the ground rises to the horses’ bridles and the sea is littered with corpses, the sons of Israel will stand on the mountains of their forefathers and claim victory over their enemies. They may have terrible armies and bronze chariots and catapults that hurl great stones, but we have something they do not: the favor of the Lord, our God. Do not abandon your faith, even in such trying times, and you shall live to see the glory of Israel restored.”
In the silent space, Basemath could hear the rise and fall of her people’s breath. The fire of kinship warmed her. One of the elders sitting at the rear of the circle began a familiar song. Her clear words, tragic utterances of suffering delivered with the cadence of
a war march, echoed in the stone womb and amplified as the other women joined in, one by one. Soon every mouth sang in unison, each note honeyed with hope and deliverance.
Basemath thought she heard something and withdrew from the impromptu chorus. Without alarming the others, she listened.
A shuffling sound came from the staircase.
She felt the icy grip of dread on her veins as the sound crept closer. The women continued singing, oblivious to the fact that someone had breached the chamber. Her heart thrashing like a caged wild animal, she turned her gaze to the dark staircase.
A man emerged from the shadow, then another. And another, each wearing against his bare chest the golden breastplate of the Egyptian warrior. She gasped. The singing stopped, and all heads turned toward the commotion.
Basemath slowly rose and regarded them with head held high. Ana ran to her side.
The men stood at attention in two rows, their spears dug into the earth by their sides. Their leader made his way down the stairs and stood in front of his soldiers. Against his hips he wore a swath of white cotton gathered at the groin and covered by a golden shield that hung between his legs. A thick plate of bronze extended from his throat across his shoulders and to the base of his sternum. A bronze helmet in the shape of a wig crowned by a serpent protected his head. His wrists were bound by gold cuffs. He trained his kohl-ringed eyes on Basemath, then turned to Ana with a greedy glare.
“Leave us be,” Basemath said, shielding her daughter’s body with her own. “We are only women . . . children. We are no threat to your people.”
He tossed his head back and laughed in short, baleful bursts. He spoke in a language she understood: the language of her mother. “Your fate is not yours to defend. You are the property of the pharaoh now.” He turned to his men. “Seize them.”
The men pointed their spears toward the bewildered Israelites. Children clung to their mothers, their hysterical cries filling every dark corner of the chamber.
Four soldiers went to work binding their prisoners with jute. The women sobbed softly as the men tied the rope around their waists and bound their wrists to their backs, passing the length to bind the next woman until they were all connected in a chain, immobilized by their shackles.
One of the men was charged with penning the children in one area. Some went quietly, others not so. Eliezer, son of Sarai, kicked one of the soldiers in the shin, then slipped out of the man’s grip like a live fish as he clawed toward him. The boy, who had just entered his tenth year, was a maddening foe for the Egyptian, cleverly eluding his advances and taunting him.
“Eliezer, go quietly, my son,” his mother called.
The boy did not listen, this time slipping under the soldier’s legs and bolting toward the stairs. Two others grabbed him and threw him to the ground with no regard for his tender age. As he lay on his back, Eliezer drove his foot between the nearest soldier’s legs, sending him to the ground with a howl.
Another Egyptian lifted his spear. “This boy is filled with the evil spirit. He must die.” He thrust his spear into Eliezer’s throat, bearing down with all his might as the boy gasped and spat blood.
Basemath fell to her knees and clutched her mouth with both hands. She shook as she witnessed the beastly crime against her people. Taking prisoners was a reality of war; taking a life, and that of a child, was unforgivable. Young Eliezer’s blood seeped into the limestone as he flailed in a desperate attempt to cling to life. Three women held back his wailing mother from rushing to his side.
As the boy’s movements grew weak and his body pale, the Egyptian yanked the spear out of his throat with a movement so coarse it almost split Eliezer’s neck in two. “Challenge us and you shall suffer the same fate.”
Bitterness rose to Basemath’s mouth. What had been quiet resignation to the Israelites’ fate turned to hot rage. She stood and spoke to him in his own language. “Coward. Is this your notion of conquest and victory in the name of your king? Killing children and torturing women?”
He snarled and pointed his bloody spear at her. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his downturned mouth.
The leader stepped between them. “Lower your spear. She must be taken alive.” He called over his shoulder to another of his men, “Bind her.” Then he turned to Ana and let his gaze travel down her body. “This one is coming with me.”
Basemath’s eyes widened. “No . . . you cannot. My daughter belongs with me.”
He ignored her plea and took Ana by the elbow.
The girl gritted her teeth as she struggled against his grip. She turned to her mother with the look of a frightened gazelle.
A rush of blood seared Basemath’s face. She lunged at the Egyptian like a rabid cat, digging her nails into the flesh of his forearm. “Let her go!”
He flung his arm, breaking her grip and tossing her onto the ground. Her strength was no match for his, but that did not stop her. She scrambled to her feet and clutched Ana’s other elbow with her fiercest grip. “You cannot take my daughter.” She said it over and over, growing more hysterical with each utterance.
She tugged against the Egyptian’s grip even as Ana’s face twisted with pain. Basemath’s arms shook from the effort. She could feel her grasp slipping.
Other soldiers came to the leader’s aid, but he waved them away. With a swift movement he ripped the girl out of her mother’s arms. A sinister laugh left his throat and echoed against the stone of the subterranean chamber. He grabbed Ana by the hair and led her up the staircase.
Basemath howled as she watched her only child disappear into the dark catacombs. She felt a pair of hands wrap jute around her waist. She did not fight. She dropped her head to the ground and wept, her body quaking as her wrists succumbed to the enemy’s bindings.
2
Night came swiftly to the valley of Jezreel. Basemath sat on a worn carpet on the ground of her prison-tent, knees gathered to her chest. Even in spring, the night’s breath was frigid as it blew across the open valley. A chill traveled down her spine, as much a response to the cold as to the fate that awaited her.
Though it would have offered her comfort, she refused the blanket that had been placed in the tent for her use. She recognized the coarse weave of the wool, striped in faded blue and violet and fringed on the ends, as the work of her people. She wondered which house Shoshenq’s men had pillaged and from whose bed they had plucked it. She imagined the inhabitants, ordinary folk judging by the quality of their textiles, being driven from their house, if they survived at all, scattering from their towns like ants, frightened and stripped of everything. She viewed the stolen blanket as a symbol of their suffering and left it be, for accepting it would feel like a betrayal.
She was grateful for this: her bindings had been cut. She pushed the long trumpet sleeve of her gown back and regarded the bloodied skin of her wrists, scraped raw by the jute. It stung no more than the humiliation of being taken prisoner.
The tent of her captivity was barely big enough for four people to stand upright, shoulder to shoulder. It was made of woven goat hair strips that had been stitched together to make a broad cloth and secured to the ground with wooden pegs. A branch of olive wood held up the ceiling. A meager flame burning in a clay saucer lamp flickered against the tent walls, casting long shadows in the semidark.
Basemath heard a man clear his throat outside her tent and realized she was being guarded. Her face tightened. This was a foil to her plan to exit the tent in the thick of night and search for her daughter. Even if it cost her life, she was determined to save Ana’s. The thought of her precious child in that heathen’s hands ignited a fury she did not recognize in herself. Anger and violence were not her way. But if it came to that, she would disembowel the Egyptian before seeing him strip the girl of her purity.
She inhaled deeply to let the rage simmer down. She needed her wits about her. She stood and walked to the flap covering the tent door. She peered through a slit and gazed at the sky. The full moon hung low above the hori
zon; she was facing east. She parted the fabric ever so slightly, hoping her movements would go undetected.
It was a fool’s hope. The guard noticed right away and pointed his spear at her, barking something in a dialect she did not recognize. He was a tall man of great girth, whose eyes shone with a murderous glint.
She did not retreat. “My thirst is great. I want a cup of water.”
He jabbed the air with his spear, urging her back inside.
She stood her ground, staring into his eyes, two obsidian marbles that seemed devoid of intelligence. “Bring me water.”
The tip of his spear touched her ribs. He spat out more words. When again she did not move, he twisted the spear.
She heard the linen of her gown rip and felt a sting. She glanced down and saw blood seeping slowly from the flesh wound. “You are godless,” she hissed in Hebrew.
“He is merely carrying out orders.” A male voice came from the shadows.
Basemath was surprised to hear Hebrew spoken in the enemy camp. She watched the guard’s reaction to the invisible intruder. He didn’t flinch.
“Who are you?” she asked, uneasy. “Show your face.”
He stepped into view. In the blackness of night, she could make out the lines of his halug, the long tunic that identified him as an Israelite. The decorations on the garment—a metal belt cinching the waist and embroidered trim along the sleeves, hem, and neckline—betrayed his status. She could barely see his face.
“Hello, Princess.” He edged forward. “It has been long years since we last met.”
Basemath froze when she realized who stood before her. There had been rumblings about the traitor’s return to Israel after he had been driven out of the country for masterminding a rebellion against her father. She attempted to speak, but the words were trapped in the cage of shock.
“Aren’t you going to greet your future king?”
“Do not assume a fate that is not yours, Jeroboam. It is blasphemy.”
