by Angela Hunt
I covered the shaped loaf with a piece of linen, then stepped outside to study the beautiful horses that had returned with our men. Though night had fallen, they continued to stir in the corral, bobbing their heads in the moonlight and browsing the feeding trough, hoping for some leftover grain.
The Seleucids had good taste in horseflesh. Judah had ridden home on a white stallion, and the animal held himself aloof from the others as if he realized his superlative beauty. Even if no one rode him again, he would definitely improve the quality of our stock. We had not been able to afford good horses before the war, but the situation would change if Mattathias’s sons kept winning battles.
I leaned on the fence railing, resting my chin on my hand. None of the other brothers was around—no doubt they were inside their homes, enjoying their wives and preparing for bed. I had hoped to do the same, after Judah promised to let Johanan command the army. I had imagined us spending the next day together, laughing and celebrating our love . . . but no chance of that remained.
How could I live with a fighter? I had finally summoned the courage to tell Judah what my family was like, yet the truth did not seem to affect him. I unrolled the nightmare of my childhood, put it on full display, and yet he remained as stubborn as ever. A man who truly loved me would have been moved to take me in his arms and comfort me, but not even heartfelt tears had swayed his resolve.
I sniffed as tears began to flow again, then swiped them from my lashes. I would not have anyone see me crying. I did not need pity. What I needed was . . . a man who would do what I asked.
I turned away from the horses and began to walk, head down, arms crossed. What could I do now? I could ask Judah to grant me a get, a written notice of divorce. Then Mother and I could travel to some other village. We would be like Naomi and Ruth, living on the kindness of strangers.
Yet when Judah was not covered in blood and wide-eyed with ferocity, he was a gentle man. He had ever only shown me kindness, doing more for me than most men would. He had risked his life to go into Jerusalem and find my mother. He had built me a fine house and welcomed my mother into his family.
He had placed wildflowers on my pillow.
What woman would not love such a man?
But whenever I saw him arrayed for battle, images of my wild-eyed father flooded back. I saw Mother’s bruised face, Father’s swollen red knuckles, his shiny fingers wet with mother’s blood and tears. I heard the slap of flesh and the snap of breaking ribs.
I pressed my fist to my mouth to stifle a sob. I could not do it. I could not be a commander’s wife. The anger that fueled him as a soldier would remain buried inside him, and one day, at some provocation, it would erupt against me or one of our children. He would strike out, and though he might apologize later, the violence would continue to simmer.
Judah kept insisting that Adonai had called him to be a warrior, but perhaps Adonai had called me to be another man’s wife. He could not have designed me for the commander of Israel’s army.
By the time I returned to our home, solid darkness had filled the spaces between the trees and the alleys between our houses. I entered quietly and allowed my eyes to adjust to the light of the lamp. Judah snored on his back, one hand pillowing his head, the other across his chest.
I knew what I had to do.
Swallowing the sob that rose in my throat, I stepped out of my tunic and lay beside him, then turned and kissed him.
Waking, he took me in his arms. He must have thought I had accepted his decision, that I had acquiesced to his will. I would allow him to think so . . . for a while.
We lay together as silence sifted down like a snowfall.
“Was it horrible?” I finally asked, looking up at him. “The battle, I mean.”
Oddly enough, he smiled. “No . . . not for me, at least. It must have been so for the enemy, for they had no chance of victory. They came at us with overweening confidence, as if we were peasants they could pick off at leisure. I doubt the Seleucids will ever make that mistake again.”
I stroked the tendrils of his beard as I waited.
“That governor, though—to him, it was a game. Sport. We both knew the risks, but neither of us cared. We only wanted to win.”
I rested my hand on his damp chest. “I saw the sword. Is it his?”
“Not anymore.” He grinned at my shocked expression, then shifted his gaze to the sword in the corner. “Apollonius must have paid a fortune for such fine work, and I intend to enjoy it. Adonai will see that blade used for His glory.”
Is that how Judah saw himself? As a tool in Adonai’s hand?
“I am glad you survived.” I patted his chest. “Yet I fear for you. This battle might have been easy, but surely next time the king will send more men, better men.”
“I’m counting on it.” He caught my hand and held it tight. “And the Lord God will strengthen and guide me just as He has in the past. I don’t know how to explain it, Leah, but when I’m in the midst of the fight, I feel . . . as though I have been fashioned for it.”
“So you’ve said.” I remained silent for a moment, then tilted my face toward his. “Neta says you want to be king. That you insist on being commander so you can win a crown for yourself and our children.”
His lips parted, then he filled the house with unrestrained laughter. “A king? I am not from the house of David.”
“Your people are Levites—”
“The Levites are priests, not kings. No, only a man from the house of David can righteously sit on the throne of Israel, and I would never place myself in that seat. You tell Neta to mind her own business and take care of her husband. All our men have returned to their villages. We did not lose a single soul in the battle.”
I drew a breath, knowing that this might be the time. If he was content and happy, he might, in a gesture of good will, give me a note of divorcement—
But in that moment he pressed a kiss to my head, pulled me closer, and locked his arms around me. Before I could summon my courage, he had fallen asleep and I could not bring myself to wake him.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Judah
Out in the harvested fields, several village youths and I were training for the coming counterattack when I saw Johanan approaching. I left the young ones and strode toward my elder brother, curious about what would bring him out in the middle of the day.
“A word with you, Judah,” he said, motioning for me to come with him.
We walked down to the brook, where Johanan knelt and refilled his waterskin, then held it up to me. “Thirsty?”
“Thanks.” I lifted the container and let water splash over my sweaty neck and face, then took a long, deep drink. I knelt to refill the vessel, but Johanan took it and submerged it in the stream.
“You know the Seleucids will come again,” he said, not looking at me. “And this time they will not bring local recruits and a handful of Samaritans. The king will send one of his generals.”
“Let them come. We will be ready.”
“Will you?” Johanan stood and took a drink himself, but he kept his gaze on me until he wiped his mouth on his arm. “I would urge you to seriously consider what I am about to say. You were fortunate in the last skirmish. You overflowed with enthusiasm and your zeal influenced the others, so you won the battle easily. We came home, all of us alive and well, not because you are a great military leader, but because you are bold and brash.”
His eyes narrowed as if he could peer into my mind and read a list of my capabilities. “Next time, little brother, you may begin the battle with boldness, but you will be facing war machines that fling boulders coated in burning oil. You will face men who were practically born with a bow in their hands, and slingers who can bring down a sparrow at fifty paces. When our men run forward and realize they are standing against professional soldiers . . . I’m afraid the outcome of our next battle will not be as glorious as our first.”
I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. “What are you say
ing? If you think you are the better leader, say so plainly.”
Johanan looked away, then wiped dust from the breastplate of his training armor. “I am the firstborn,” he said, propping his foot on a boulder. “I should lead the men. I would not run to the next battle, but I would send emissaries to meet with the king. Perhaps some sort of settlement can be arranged. Perhaps we can negotiate a peace.”
I released a guffaw. “You think Antiochus Epiphanes will negotiate after only one loss? He has not yet sent his generals against us, so why should he negotiate?”
Johanan exhaled in a rush. “It is not right that the middle son should be leading the entire camp. They all look to you, even the wives and children. They wait for you to instruct them, encourage them—tell me, if they wait for you to feed them, how will you manage that? You have never been able to organize your thoughts, much less thousands of people.”
I frowned, upset by Johanan’s opposition but unable to argue. I was a good fighter, but I had never developed skills in managing crowds. I had never been required to keep vast numbers of people fed and clothed and content, and I did not possess a silver tongue like my older brothers.
“Perhaps that is why Father said Simon should be the counselor,” I finally mumbled, looking away. “Father knew my weaknesses as well as my strengths. I know my shortcomings and I know I am not all-powerful. So if we are to defeat the enemy, I will command the army, but I freely admit I cannot do this alone. I need you and Simon and Eleazar and Jonathan to help me.”
Johanan looked at me as if he would argue further, then he squeezed my shoulder. “I was beginning to think you would exalt yourself as king before all those who have come to support us, but now I see the situation more clearly. You have never been a man of great ambition.”
“I am,” I insisted. “My ambition is to defeat anyone who would prevent us from worshiping as HaShem commanded.”
John’s thin lips spread into a wry smile. “Forgive me,” he said, turning to go. “For not giving you enough credit.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Leah
Seeing no easy way out of my marriage, I decided to wait. To follow the example of countless women and hide my deepest feelings. To find another answer to my problem, a solution that would not scandalize the community or shame the family.
What, I asked myself, might convince Judah to stop commanding the army?
I had already been given one answer.
Every time I ventured outside the house, I felt my mother’s eyes on me. She spent most of her time sitting in the shade with Rosana, either doing needlework or grinding grain. I knew she was waiting for me to persuade Judah to love his wife more than his war.
I found Morit down by the creek, where she was washing clothes. Young Johanan, her oldest boy, scampered over the rocks along the creek bed, and her baby, Judas, lay in a basket she had set in the shade. She kept a wary eye on the older child as she pounded wet tunics on a rock.
“There you are.” I forced a smile. “I thought I’d never find you.”
She shaded her eyes and smiled. “I thought I’d take the boys out for some fresh air. Rosana can bear only so much of wee Johanan’s antics, then she needs to rest.”
I smiled, understanding completely. Four-year-old Johanan would try the patience of Job.
Morit bent over her wet clothes, then gave me a sidelong glance. “Something on your mind, sister?”
I sat on a rock and propped my chin in my hand. “I have been married now for several months, yet my womb remains empty.”
“Ah.” Morit lifted a dripping tunic from the water and twisted it. “And you think I can tell you how to fill it?”
“You’re the one with babies.” I gave her a wry smile. “I was thinking . . . hoping that Judah would surrender his position with the army if he had a baby at home. Surely a man who finds himself responsible for a young child is not as willing to risk his life in battle.”
Morit squinted at me. “Or maybe a man with sons and daughters is even more determined to fight the enemy who would imprison or enslave his children. Men do not go to war on a whim. They have good reasons for risking their lives or they would not do it.”
I bit my lip, forced to consider another perspective. Did all men need a compelling reason to fight? Apparently not, for my father had no reason to strike my mother. Though he blamed her stupidity, slovenliness, lack of cooking skills, unattractiveness, and dozens of other qualities, even as a child I knew his accusations were only an excuse for violence. My father fought because he wanted to, therefore it seemed logical to me that good reason might persuade a man to choose peace.
“I cannot bear violence,” I confessed, crossing my arms. “The sight of blood makes me sick. I would rather Judah stay home to tend to the livestock and the fields.”
“Might as well tell a rooster to sleep through sunrise.” Morit slapped the wet tunic over a tree branch. “You can say whatever you want, but a man has to do what HaShem created him to do.”
“Is that why Simon joined the army?”
Her brow furrowed as she stopped working. “Simon fights . . . because he loves his brothers, his family, and the freedom to worship HaShem. Not fighting would put all three in danger.”
“But he could stay here while the others went to war.”
She shook her head. “Simon would never stand by while others did the hard work. He would never give them any reason to call him a coward.”
“My mother said I must make Judah love me more than anything, even more than his family. She said that is the only way he will ever do what I need him to do.”
Morit dropped another garment into the water, then turned to give me an incredulous look. “Your mother said that?”
I nodded.
“And how well did that advice work for her?”
I drew a breath to speak but found myself with nothing to say. My father never did anything Mother wanted him to do, and as for loving her, I had seen dogs demonstrate more love for their mates.
I sighed and wished Morit well, then left her by the creek. I had learned nothing, yet her practical answer did not dissuade me.
Though love for me could not convince Judah to surrender his fight, love for his child might.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Judah
The letter arrived on a cool day not long after the latter rains. From the window I saw Morit accept something from a man on horseback, then she came running into the house. She looked around the circle of my brothers and then handed the scroll to me.
I broke the seal, unfurled it, and stared at the unfamiliar writing. I had never been the best reader, so I gave the message to Johanan, who frowned at it for a moment, then gaped at me like a man who had just been knocked over by a charging sheep. “Do you know someone in Antioch?”
“What?”
He consulted the scroll again. “Someone called Philander?”
The name stirred vague memories of a dark night, a horse, and an inn. “Yes! He is a scribe in the king’s court. I met him on the road outside Jerusalem.”
Johanan chuffed. “Your friend the scribe has sent you a letter.”
“What does it say?”
Johanan read the document, then looked around the table. “In short, Antiochus has learned of Apollonius’s defeat. In retaliation, he has dispatched Seron, his chief general, with a contingent of soldiers. Antiochus gave the general a single charge: ‘Annihilate this party of resisters, then stamp out the Jewish religion. We will cleanse the land of Jehovah and his worshipers and put new people in their place, allowing them to colonize the land and divide it by lots.’”
I slammed my fist to the table. “Time to gather the men.”
Jonathan stood. “I’ll blow the shofar and light a signal fire.”
I leaned toward Simon and Johanan. “Let us beg HaShem to grant us victory, so we can send our own message to the king—a living God reigns in Isra’el, and He will defend His people!”
Simon met my eyes and
dipped his chin in a sober nod. “Let us hope the men have not grown soft while they were at home.”
Under Seron’s command, Antiochus’s army marched southward through Samaria, over the plain of Sharon, and began the ascent to Jerusalem, treading where millions of my people had walked before. They took the main road from Lydda and passed by Modein, then moved toward Beth-horon, a settlement that could only be approached by a long, narrow ridge flanked by deep ravines.
By the time Seron entered Judea, the army of Israel had reassembled at the wilderness camp. Not all of our men had made it back, but we would not have time to wait for them. As soon as our lookouts spotted Seron’s army, we would move out.
The women who came with us—Leah surprised me by coming along—sheltered in the caves while we men spent our time in prayer. Johanan insisted that our time would be better spent in drills, but I differed. Time spent in prayer was never wasted.
My captains and I had determined that although we could not stop Seron’s army from entering Judea, we could not allow them to reach Jerusalem where our people were still trying to rebuild. We would cut them off at Beth-horon, a barren area most of us knew as well as we knew our mothers’ faces. From Beth-horon’s high ridge we could look out and see Modein. Behind us we could see Gibeon, and to the southwest, the small town of Aijalon.
When scouts blasted into camp with their warning, I led the army of Israel—only a handful of men, it seemed to me—to Beth-horon. Standing on the ridge, I exulted in the kinship I felt with the forefathers who had stood in the same spot. Somewhere near here, Joshua had begged Adonai to grant him a miracle: “Sun, stand motionless over Gibeon! Moon, you too, over the Aijalon Valley!” So the sun stood still and the moon stayed put until Israel had taken vengeance on their enemies.
Now I was asking for a similar miracle: that HaShem would look down and give a handful of His people the strength to drive the enemy away. From the ridge we could see them approaching—row after row of marching warriors, a seemingly endless spectacle that stretched from Modein to the far horizon.
