As the numbers increased, the road became choked with men crying out in terror. The congestion was worse at the curve, where overturned chariots created a bottleneck. Hundreds made their way past by jumping over shrubs and rocks bordering the road. But the majority were struggling insanely, trying to force their way through.
David had to battle an irrational impulse to join the shrieking men running into the hills. His only recourse was to bite down hard and press his fists over his ears to deaden the noise that pulled at him. But this was not enough to drown out a high-pitched cry that sliced through the babble of voices like an axe. It raised goose bumps on the back of his neck. He peered through the dead fronds and saw the roiling mass of competing bodies contract and expand like a living organism. Then suddenly came the glitter of raised weapons. Knives and spears were raining down death. Archers grabbed arrows from their quivers and drove them into the faces of those swinging swords at them. Many fell dead, stabbed from behind, clutching the neck of the soldier they had just battered to death.
Then, as if responding to a signal, the writhing mass fragmented. Small groups of soldiers broke free and veered off the road. The massacre had taken only a few minutes, and just as fast, the mob dispersed. Eventually the screams died down, and the quiet was broken only by the occasional oath of a runner sliding away into the hills.
It had taken all of David’s strength to restrain himself from rushing into the orgy of killing. It was horrible yet somehow irresistible. When he was sure that the enemies had fled, he sat up. Jahra seemed unwilling to get up. David was pulling branches off his friend’s inert form when loud cries interrupted him. The soldiers were heading in their direction.
Jahra let out a groan.
David’s terror lessened when he realized that a squad of Hebrews was approaching. He wanted to jump to his feet, wave his arms, and race toward the men. But some part of him resisted. And his right arm was snagged on something. Looking down, he saw Jahra’s hand on his wrist. David let himself be pulled back down. He felt the cool dirt on his face again as Jahra quickly covered his back with palm leaves.
The oncoming men were gripped by their own kind of insanity. Some were shrieking and brandishing Philistine weapons. Their faces bore the dangerous expression of famished beasts. Jahra’s grip tightened and his eyes burned into David’s. They were wild with apprehension.
“There’s one!” the fleetest of foot shouted hoarsely, running toward the site of the massacre. David sucked in his breath. “And there’s another!” the man cried. He jumped over a chariot, its driver twisted grotesquely underneath, and kicked at a stack of bodies. Swinging his sword over his head, he screamed, “Let’s have some sport!” The response was a gleeful roar.
A band of at least thirty Hebrews flew past their hideout. Several clusters peeled away, slowing only to thrust their weapons into the bodies in their path. “We’ll teach these filthy dogs a lesson!” yelled the soldier in the lead.
The mob swarmed toward the pile at the curve of the road, howling with anticipation. David sucked in his breath. The men’s giddy excitement both sickened and frightened him. Peering through the foliage, he could make out a huddle of Hebrews hacking with swords. Another group was striking with javelin and spears. They were pummeling, thrusting, and slashing, in the grip of some wild frenzy.
“This one’s alive!” a voice cried out. His excitement made him sound like a girl playing hide-and-seek.
“Move aside!” roared one of the men, pushing past the Israelites in his path. In his hand was a bronze sword stained red to the handle. His face and chest were streaked with blood, as was the border of his tunic.
Shoving the last Hebrew out of the way, he took a position over the wounded Philistine. He spread his legs wide and lifted the weapon above his head. There was a pleading cry, rising with intensity, then silence as the sword slashed down. The mob screamed in delight as their leader brought up the head, swinging it around. Those splattered with the blood laughed uproariously.
While this was taking place, several soldiers were slicing strips of meat from a fallen horse. The soldier waving the severed head yelled at them, “Men, remember the king’s oath. Whoever eats before evening will be killed.”
“Curse that old woman,” one yelled back. “We’re famished.”
“Why should we bother obeying that crazy fool?” another said, laughing. “Come tomorrow, he’ll forget all about it.”
A third soldier responded, chewing as he spoke. “We need our strength to chase these dogs back to their kennels.” He drew his sleeve across his mouth and lifted a wet slice. “Captain, come join us. The meat is excellent.”
Hesitating for only a moment, the officer strode over and grabbed the meat. “Who ever heard of a king refusing to let his fighting men eat?” he said, taking a mouthful. “Ahhh. That is good.” He smacked his lips and gave them a wink. “The freshest meat we’ve had in weeks.” He looked down at the soldiers gorging themselves on the raw flesh. “Give me another,” he commanded. “But this stays between us, understood? You tell nobody.”
After a while, he wiped his mouth and barked, “You’ve had enough. Let’s find us more Philistines, hopefully some with a bit more fight in them.” Laughing, the men cleaned off their hands on the horse’s hide and began loping toward enemy territory.
David and Jahra did not move for a long while. David’s hands and knees were trembling. He let out several shaky breaths, trying to expel the images from his mind. He heard Jahra let out a shuddering moan of his own. David reached out and patted his friend’s shoulder. Jahra’s eyes were red and watery.
Shaking off his disgust and tired of their inactivity, David whispered, “Let’s make camp. It’s going to be dark soon. I have my doubts that Captain Eli will be coming tonight. And anyway, I need to find a tree so I can do my business.”
His friend gave a weak grin but nodded emphatically.
Dusk had come by the time they cleaned up, organized their campsite, and made a small fire. Only a ribbon of rose remained to light the horizon.
“You hungry?” David asked as he settled in front of the flames, resting his back against a low ledge. Jahra responded by rubbing his stomach.
“Should I go and cut some nice, juicy strips off that horse?” David asked.
Jahra looked at him, aghast. Lifting his hand, he moved his fingers to imitate the prancing legs of a horse. Then he pointed at his fingertips.
“I know. I know.” David laughed. “Don’t get your loincloth tied into a knot. I know perfectly well that they don’t have cloven feet. I’m the Hebrew, after all.”
Jahra bent his head slightly, touched his chest, and moved his hand in elegant little circles in front of him, making a sign of exaggerated respect. Then he opened the food bag.
When their meal of goat cheese, pickled olives, and bread was done, David took a long drink from the water bag, laid it down, and leaned on his elbow, facing the fire. “Fresh meat would have been better.”
Jahra, on his back, did not look at him. He simply lifted his hand and pranced his fingers in David’s direction.
“Yes. Unclean. Not to mention raw.” He threw a stone at the reclining figure. “It may surprise you to know that I’m aware of the kosher laws. Still, a nicely roasted flank would have been much more satisfying.”
Jahra shook his head and reached for the leather pouch lying between them. Jahra untied the knot and drew out his harp. David threw a few more sticks onto the fire and lay back against the ledge. Jahra plucked the strings, adjusted the tension, and ran his hand over them. The sound reverberated in their mini amphitheater.
He was composing a new song and began cautiously, feeling his way toward a refrain. Experimenting with different notes, he quickly found a tune he liked. Oddly, despite what they had witnessed, the song was filled with a subdued joy. It was a song to dance to.
David’s legs were drawn up agains
t his chest. Impulsively he grabbed two chunks of wood and began striking them against each other in time with the music. Dissatisfied, he tossed them into the fire. Sparks leaped up into the dark night like a host of twirling fireflies. What was needed was the percussive sound of cymbals. Reaching down, he yanked two of the largest stones out of his pouch. The crisp clacking was perfect. His right hand held steady as with his left he struck the rat-a-tat-tat of a drumbeat that provided a jaunty counterpoint to the song’s martial rhythm.
As he rapped out the beat he began hearing the music of other instruments in his head. There was the trill of a flute, like a darting swallow, and a shofar trumpeting three shattering notes, followed by a group of harps, lyres, and other stringed instruments. There was also a wind instrument with a low, breathy timbre he could not identify.
He did not know at what point he began to sing, but on their own, words began to flow. It was as if another singer had taken over his body and was moving his tongue and mouth. Lyrics poured effortlessly out of him. He sang without giving his vow a thought.
Sing to Yahweh a new song
for He has performed marvels,
His own right hand, His holy arm,
gives Him the power to save.
Yahweh has displayed His power;
has revealed His righteousness to the nations.12
David grew quiet, listening to the military cadence of a score of drums in unison. There was the thunder of thousands of feet—an army on the march, but in perfect coordination. They drove the song and lyrics forward exultantly.
Sing to Yahweh, sing to the music of harps,
and to the sound of many instruments;
to the sound of trumpet and horn
acclaim Yahweh the King!
Let the sea thunder and all that it holds,
and the world, with all who live in it;
let all the rivers clap their hands
and the mountains shout for joy,
at the presence of Yahweh, for He comes
to judge the earth,
to judge the world with righteousness
and all the nations with strictest justice.
Acclaim Yahweh, all the earth;
burst into shouts of joy!
Acclaim Yahweh, all the earth,
acclaim Yahweh the King!13
On the last phrase, a clapping sound joined the other instruments he was hearing. Jahra’s fingers froze. It continued, slowly, methodically as if in derision. With a rush of shame that was instantly transformed into terror, David realized that it was coming from the trees behind them.
He jerked around and raised his head to peer over the ledge. Less than thirty paces away, firelight glinted off the bronze of a Philistine helmet and the hilt of a sword. The soldier was huge, easily twice as tall as a normal-sized man. David gasped as if ice water had been poured on his head. They had been ambushed by one of the Gittites! All David knew of them was that they were noted for extraordinary height and were rumored to enjoy human flesh.
As dread tightened its hold on him, David heard a quiet nicker and the swish of a long tail. The Philistine was not a giant after all, but a soldier mounted on a horse so dark as to be nearly invisible in the dim light. Behind the bronze nosepiece, David could just make out a swarthy face. The man must be an African mercenary. According to David’s brothers, they were even more brutal than the Philistines.
As the soldier nudged his horse forward, David saw that the African’s lips were set in a fierce, angry line.
12 Psalm 98:1–2
13 Psalm 98:5–9, author’s paraphrase
Chapter Twelve
David’s left hand moved toward the sling at his side. He did not need to open the pouch, since he already had two flat stones ready in his palm. The braided leather thong caught against his tunic bunched around his belt. He gave two quick tugs, and it slid out. He located the supple leather cradle and fitted the stone into it with fingers slick with sweat. His breathing grew more rapid as he prepared to launch himself to his feet.
“Hands out in front,” barked the soldier in perfect Hebrew, walking toward them on his horse. Each step caused him to weave slightly. David was stunned by the man’s speech. He sounded like he could have been raised in Bethlehem.
David felt fingers on his calf. Jahra tapped him three times. David indicated that he understood. On the count of three, they leaped to their feet. Jahra had a stick in one hand and his harp in the other. He gave the strings a violent swipe. At the same moment David began twirling the sling. Startled by the noise, the horse threw his head up and skittered backward. David sent the stone flying at the mercenary. Oddly, before it struck him, he had already begun sliding off his mount.
He landed on the ground with a thud, and the animal reared and bolted into the darkness. When the Philistine made no move to get up, David hurdled the low ledge and ran toward the figure, yanking the sword from its oversized sheath. The mercenary’s face was half hidden by the bronze helmet that sat at a crooked angle. Holding the weapon overhead, David kicked the helmeted head. The lips moved, but no sound came. Jahra had hobbled up next to David. Keeping his distance from the body, he gestured to the dent on the right side of the helmet. David slid the point of the sword under its nosepiece and gave a sharp twist.
The helmet spun off.
The man’s face was dark—but with dried blood. The soldier was no African; neither was he a Canaanite. They were looking at an Israelite, his long, curly hair matted with sweat and blood. A braid was draped across his lower jaw. It was tipped with a golden clasp that looked like an eagle in flight. David was sure he’d seen it before. Again using the sword, he carefully flicked the braid aside. That was when his knees almost gave out.
Lying at their feet was Jonathan, the king’s son and his brothers’ senior commander. He had seen him from a distance on several occasions when he’d brought them food.
“Lord, have mercy on us!” The prayer burst from David’s mouth. Turning to Jahra, David hissed, “This is the prince!” Jahra gasped and took a step back. Kneeling, David placed his fingers on the prince’s wrist, then stood and grabbed one of his arms. “Hurry! We need to drag him to the fire.”
Like his father, Jonathan was tall and strongly built. They could barely move him.
“Harder!” David urged.
They pulled again, and Jahra moaned as his leg buckled. He stumbled and fell to a sitting position. Motioning for Jahra to wait, David unbuckled the Philistine armor, taking off the chest piece, the greaves, and the heavy leather belt. They were now just able to drag the prince down to their camp. They quickly folded their cloaks and laid Jonathan’s head on the makeshift pillow. By the time they were done, Jahra was gasping, and sweat was running down his cheeks.
David unplugged the water bottle, wet a cloth, and began cleaning away the blood, but Jahra nudged him aside. He took the cloth from David and began wiping the prince’s face and beard, then poured water carefully over Jonathan’s forehead, letting it run back into his hair. With gentle fingers, Jahra pulled back the strands of hair to see where the blow had landed. The prince had been struck over his right ear, leaving a vicious gash and a dark welt. Jahra dabbed it with the damp cloth. As he did, Jonathan groaned and twisted his neck, but he did not open his eyes.
“How serious is it?” David whispered.
Jahra shook his head tentatively, but his eyes were hopeful. Jahra had inherited his mother’s ability to treat wounds and intuit their seriousness. Apparently the prince’s injury was not life threatening.
“Good. Good,” David murmured, beginning to breathe a little easier. “May Yahweh be praised!”
Jahra gestured to the sound of nickering behind them. Apparently the skittish horse had returned. David looked over his shoulder and noticed a leather wine bag slung over the saddle. He ran to grab it. Jahra tore a length from t
he Philistine cloak Jonathan had been wearing and had David drench it with wine. He patted the wound with the wet cloth. At this, Jonathan grimaced, his nostrils flaring. David helped lift the prince’s head as Jahra wrapped the wet bandage around it. When they finished, the prince let out a groan and opened his eyes.
“Who are you?’ he rasped. Before they had time to answer, he whispered again. “Do you have any water?”
There was a glint of humor in his dark eyes. “I know you have more than enough wine.” His lips cracked in a weak smile as he caught his breath. “You may have caused me to swear it off forever.” He had a crooked grin that made David think that were Jonathan not the heir to the throne, they might have become friends.
David clambered to his feet, grabbed the water bag, and unplugged it. He held it up so the prince could drink from it. Jonathan pushed himself into a sitting position and waved the bag closer. “Give it to me,” he croaked. Lifting it over his head, Jonathan let the stream flow into his mouth. It splattered over his neck and chest. After several deep draughts, he handed it back.
“That’s better,” he said. “I may have been foolish enough to get knocked over the head—and fall off my horse—but I am still capable of giving myself a drink.”
He looked pointedly at David and then at Jahra. “So, do you plan on answering my question, or is your intent to keep your identities secret?”
David’s tongue felt like a slab of dried mutton. The question hung in the air. Jonathan’s eyes narrowed. “You are not deserters, are you?” he asked, his hand feeling for his weapon. His tone was cool but as sharp as a dagger.
“No. No, my prince,” David responded, finally finding his voice. It quavered like that of a girl. It was mortifying.
“Here, take a drink,” the prince said, holding out the bag with a half smile. “Sounds like you need it.”
Jonathan looked at Jahra. “How about you? What name do you go by?”
Warrior Poet Page 11
