by D. S.
V
Josef stared out over the battlements, stared at the camp fires, the funeral pyres. It was my fault, all my fault.
He’d been just a boy when they’d taken her, not twelve or thirteen years. If I was never born she’d still be alive. He looked to his father, cold and hard and strong as stone, watched him turn, nod, smile. But Josef felt it still, that ever present accusation. He’d never said it of course, but it was always there, something in his father’s eyes. Better if I was never born … does he think it of me too?
Josef turned from that piercing gaze. No, it was not my fault, not my fault, I was just a boy. He remembered how it had happened, in his dreams, in his nightmares. He saw himself taking his mother by the hand. She was beautiful. He’d tugged at her, pulled her half laughing from their cottage. “Horses Mama! They have horses!”
He remembered how she’d taken his head in her hands, kissed his forehead and agreed they’d look for just a moment. And look they did, gazing in awe as the soldiers passed in chariots pulled by mighty steeds. Josef could still smell the horses; still recall the splendour of their flags and banners fluttering in the morning breeze. She’d tugged at his arm, “That’s enough,” she’d said. But he’d refused to go and held her tight as the Gypto governor’s litter drew near, all silver, gold and strangely coloured curtains, a dozen slaves carrying it on their shoulders.
He remembered how they’d heard a voice from behind those curtains, remembered the litter coming to a sudden stop. The curtains parted ever so slightly, an arm extended, a finger beckoning them closer. Josef’s eyes fixed on the ring, yellow gold and blue stones coiled together in a twisting serpent form. And then he heard that voice address his mother, “Beautiful One,” it had called her, a soft, evil chuckle, and then the fateful words that sealed her fate, “A creature such as this is wasted in the fields.”
A click of the fingers was all it took. A brace of soldiers came and grabbed her, hauled her towards the governor’s litter. Josef remembered her screaming, fighting, telling him to run. But he hadn’t run. A stick sword in his hand he’d fought them. They’d laughed and shoved him to the ground. And then the procession was marching again, his mother’s screams fading into the distance.
That was when it started. His father’s rage had known no bounds. No more than a shepherd, yet somehow he’d raised the men of their village; dozens came to offer him their swords. And soon more villages came, more clans, first in hundreds and then in thousands. Somehow his father rallied them all and marched an army to the governor’s palace; somehow he battered down its walls and took the demon’s head. Too late, all too late, her lifeless body was already growing cold when his father … when the Shepherd King found her. All my fault.
Josef looked at him again and saw it in his hand, one lock, even redder than he remembered. All that was left of her, he stretched a finger towards it. Their Beautiful One was dead, yet still her war raged on, Pharaoh himself was on the march, thousands slain and more to come. Josef met his father’s gaze, “Ten thousand and what do they fight for?”
The King’s fist snapped shut, he showed Josef his back. “Land they say, land and bread.” He shook his head, “A fist full of dirt and a promise.” He turned back to his son, his great black beard flecked by grey, his towering shoulders seeming to sag just a little. “I promised them bread and land, Josef, what have I brought but blood and death?”
“You’ve brought hope,” Josef tried, “You’ve brought freedom.”
The King opened his palm again, rubbed the lock with his finger. “Do men eat hope? Do they drink freedom?”
Josef heard a footfall behind him, saw his father’s face grow dark. The Prince was quick to realise the cause, Yuya, son of the man who’d slain her. “Your chariot is ready, master.” Yuya spoke softly, nervously. He was ever thus when in the King’s presence.
A year before, while the Shepherd King fought the governor’s guards, Josef had cornered Yuya in his bedchamber. He’d stood above him sword in hand as Yuya begged for mercy, swearing he’d serve him if only Josef spared his life. Yuya was of an age with himself, he’d committed no crime, had wanted none of their war. Josef couldn’t bring himself to kill him and so had done the only thing he could to save his life. He’d taken him as his slave.
His father’s voice was suddenly harsh. “I still say you shorten this one by a head.”
“It was not the son but the father that committed the crime,” Josef said. He glanced briefly at the slave. Yuya bowed low, a friendly, submissive smile on his face. “Perhaps I am too soft, Father, but … but Yuya is innocent in all that happened and if we murder without thought, then how are we any better than the Gyptos?”
The King grunted. “Aye, well, just remember where this dog’s loyalties lie. You treat him as a brother, but he’s a Gypto and as likely to spear you as serve you.” He looked passed the slave, a hundred men strong and true stood there waiting, he stepped towards his son. “Are you ready then?”
Josef nodded. My time has come. If he succeeded in his mission and the Legions of Mitanni joined their ranks, he’d prove his worth, not only to his father, but to the ten thousand. “Old King Aratama’s messengers tell it true, he brings his army to the Kishon River, not three hours ride from here. He offers us five thousand spears and an outstretched hand of friendship.”
His father smiled at that. “Whatever his promises I’d wager Aratama will be last in and on the winning side.”
Josef spun and mounted his chariot. Yuya jumped up beside him. For half a year Josef had journeyed from clan to clan, town to town, raising soldiers for the cause, even the smallest village had not escaped him. A moment he recalled one such village, a tiny secluded village high in the mountains, recalled a girl and smiled. Perhaps I will go there again when the war is over. But Mitanni was different, not a village but an empire, the fate of the rebellion in the balance. Without Mitanni they could not hope to defeat Pharaoh. “I will bring you Mitanni, Father. I will bring you Mitanni.”
VI
Shiri stumbled on while Pharaoh’s armies rested. Throughout the night she struggled and climbed ever further. In darkness she fell and gashed her hands and knees several times. But she did not stop. I have to get there before them.
Under a pale moon and star filled sky, she trudged without pause. In the depths of the mountains the cliffs grew even steeper and she was forced closer to the thin valley floor. As black skies slowly turned grey, and birdsong welcoming the coming dawn filled her ears, she found herself standing on the thin sheep trail at the bottom of the pass. She looked back and could see no sign of the Gypto host. I’m outpacing them.
Her water satchel was empty, her lips cracked, her mouth and throat ached, but somehow she kept moving. The sun had already fallen from noon when she found the stream. She collapsed beside it and drank deep of its waters. No drink ever tasted so sweet. A little stronger now, she refilled her satchel and rose again. For a moment she thought she could hear the beat of Gypto drums echoing against the sheer cliffs behind her. A short burst of speed was the result, but soon enough she’d slowed to the same dogged trudge.
As the shadows lengthened and darkness descended for a second time, she knew she couldn’t be far from the great plain that lay at the far side of the pass. The cliffs to either side were becoming less severe and even the trail itself had grown a little wider. The worst of Aruna is behind me. She tried to force her legs to keep moving, but at last they refused to obey. She stumbled to her hands and knees, struggled to rise and failed. That was it. She was defeated. She could go no further without rest. Without permission her eyes slowly closed.
Sleep took her quickly and with it came dreams, dreams and nightmares that for all their horror were little worse than the waking world she’d left behind. She saw her father slain by laughing Gypto soldiers, saw her mother crying, begging for mercy. Shiri called to her, but she didn’t hear.
Shiri heard other cries too, more distant but growing ever louder. A great fortress in
flames! Fire and smoke, thunder and lightning, huge armies coming together, endless thousands of men fighting and dying, “Armegiddo!” she heard Old Dathan shout the name. It carried a terrible menace she had not noticed before.
She saw ravenous Gypto warriors surging through the streets of the city on the hill. She saw the face of the monster and she saw the Shepherd King. He was a giant, invincible, and yet he was kneeling, kneeling at the monster’s feet. The monster looked at her. He smiled and played with his bracelets. Slowly he began to walk towards her. Shiri awoke with a start.
It was still night, but the stars were fading, only three were still visible. The Shepherd of Anu points the way. Everything was quiet, so quiet. She shivered in the cold before struggling to all fours and then slumping into a sitting position. Dawn was all but upon her. I slept too long.
Everything ached and nothing seemed to work properly. Her fingers, arms, legs; they felt light, numb, weak, almost as if they were detached from her body and belonged to someone else. They didn’t want to listen to her, they wanted to rest, wanted to lie back down and not get up. Shiri willed them to obey, willed herself to rise. It can’t be that much further, it just can’t be.
She took a step forward. The rocks beneath her foot crunched. It sounded loud. She could hear it echoing all the way back along the pass. She took a second step and looked ahead. The mountains in front of her seemed to be falling away and the pass was opening out ever wider, and there, under the golden light of a rising sun, she saw it; the great and fabled plain of Jezreel. And beyond that, standing like an island in a sea of grass, Megiddo, the city on the hill. He’s there … the Shepherd King. Another step followed and then another.
VII
Asher was a brave if unimaginative man whose mediocre ambitions fitted well with his mediocre ability. Nonetheless, through a combination of his luck and others misfortunes, he had grasped the rank of captain and had been given the task of scanning the Aruna Pass for Gypto raiding parties. Asher had concluded it was a pointless mission for one as valiant as he.
He knew with the certainty of one wise and well versed in tactics, that the Gyptos wouldn’t be fool enough to try to launch an attack from the pass. Little wonder then, that neither he, nor his men, went about their duties with a great deal of vigour or initiative. Their patrols consisted of little more than locating the next keg of wine. But wine was rare in these parts, and they were as successful at finding it as the non-existent Gypto raiding parties. The brown local ales which they’d discovered in great quantity would have to suffice.
He laughed as he observed his men suffering the after effects of their latest patrol and spent the small hours throwing scorn upon them. Resting his back against a keg, a fresh mug in hand, he loudly extorted the values of the latest beverage. “This upland brew is more than just an ale do ye hear? One sip makes the modest proud, two makes the coward bold, three makes the weak strong...”
“... And four makes the stomach turn,” one of his men groaned causing the captain to laugh all the harder. An additional glance around the bloodshot eyes of his suffering company did little to dissuade him from his argument. He could not be called an observant man. He raised the mug to his lips but stopped in mid-motion, as for once he had managed to observe something; a lone shepherd girl stumbling towards him. The girl materialised at the mouth of the pass, staggering towards them on legs that seemed fit to give way at any moment. And give way they did. She collapsed before she got to them.
Asher and his men rushed to her aid. Her face was battered and bruised, her arms and legs all cuts and scrapes. The captain raised her limp form in his arms, and lacking any other beverage, brought a mug of the one drink he had an abundance of to her lips. The frothy ale spilled down about her chin and for a moment he thought the pitiful creature had died in his arms.
But slowly, even as her body remained limp, he saw those lips part almost by a will of their own and accept the liquid. She coughed, and as if in confirmation of his earlier musings, her eyes briefly fluttered open. The captain turned to the nearest man. “Bread! Bring me bread!”
A single word escaped her lips, but it was too faint for him to hear.
“Hush now, you need rest.”
The girl’s eyes flickered closed before suddenly shooting open. “Gyptos!”
“What’s that?” He set her down on some pelts beside his keg and gave her the bread. She took it with a glow of gratitude and downed a mouthful. She hadn’t eaten in two days. And then, all at once, the flood gates broke and it all came out in a torrent. “Gyptos! Thousands of them! Hundreds of thousands! They are coming through the pass!” She pointed behind her. “Quick! We must tell the King!” She attempted to stand but her legs wouldn’t work.
For an instant, Asher’s face was a mask of panic. He was about to rise and sound the alarm when he realised the truth of it. “But of course they are! And they’re bringing the Giants of Giza with them no doubt!” His men laughed at that and Asher placed his hand on her forehead as if he knew his business, “I fear you may have a fever.”
Shiri pushed him off. “Fools! They are coming as we speak! Pharaoh himself leads them. He wears a blue crown. They mean to surprise the Shepherd King by taking the route he least suspects. We must warn him before it is too late!” She glanced behind her at the mouth of the pass expecting to see them at any moment. Again she pointed vigorously as if it would add weight to her tale. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”
Asher’s smile had left him. “The Khepresh Crown of war, only Pharaoh himself…” He loosed a string of oaths. “Sweet Ba’al almighty! How do you know this?”
“They burned Yaham not two days ago! They killed my parents and many more and now they are coming to kill you!”
“You came from Yaham in but two days? Even through Aruna ‘tis a good three days march by my reckoning.” He spoke slowly as if pondering over the words, “Nay ... if you did come in two ... and that’s a fancy tale, like as not ... they’ll be a day behind yet.”
“No! They take but a few hours rest when the night is darkest. They’re right behind me!”
Asher stared from girl to pass and back again, his brow furrowing with the effort of surmounting his confusion. After an eternity of silence he finally spoke, “If … truly they were coming we could see the smoke from their signal fires. The way I hear it, the Gyptos never move a large force without a pillar of fire or smoke to lead the way.”
Shiri shook her head desperately. Why won’t he believe me? “You think they want to announce their approach to every lookout between here and Megiddo?”
“We should send a party into the valley,” he concluded at length, no longer looking at the girl. “There may be some truth to her stories; mayhap Pharaoh is sending a small raiding party by means of a diversion, a score of riders to divert men from the Pass of Gilboa…”
“NO!” Shiri had managed to find her feet now and spoke with a forcefulness she didn’t know she possessed. “It’s not a diversion, it’s the whole damn army! Thousands and thousands of them! They have more soldiers then there are stars in the heavens, and they’re coming! You must warn the King NOW!” She looked desperately from man to man, “It’s our only chance!”
“And what does a little shepherd girl know of war? Pharaoh is at least a week away, two more like.”
“She knows enough to recognise the Khepresh Crown.” One of Asher’s men stepped forward, his eyes concerned, “We should warn the King. If we attack while the Gyptos are trapped in the pass victory will be assured.” He was met with a several murmurs of agreement.
“And what do you propose we tell him?” Asher said. “That some youngling fresh from her mother’s teats thinks the entire Gypto army is marching down a pass that not even a horse and cart could negotiate? Nay, I’ll lead the troop into the valley to see what’s afoot. You, Simeon, can remain here with the girl. She’ll get the back of my hand and more besides if she’s been spinning me a yarn.”
With that, Asher ordered the
troop of fifty to march immediately for the Aruna Pass, to rout what he expected to be little more than a lightly armed Gypto scouting party. Shiri collapsed dejected on the bench. It seemed all her efforts had been for nothing. She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder and looked up at Simeon. He smiled, somewhat nervously, “You’re telling the truth aren’t you?”
She shrugged, she was so tired and nobody was listening to her. “They’re coming ... I ... we must warn the King.” Simeon couldn’t tell if it was the desperation in her plea, or the fortitude with which she held his stare, but something about her convinced him that she at least believed what she was saying.
He nodded. “We’ll take my horse to Megiddo and alert the King that something is afoot, but on your head be it if you play me for a fool.”
VIII
Old King Aratama could not die. His ancient bones had seen a dozen wives breathe their last, some through illness, some through intrigue, and some he knew not how. His eldest son had fallen on the fields of Aleppo and three more had walked the dark path in times more recent. A grandson had died the previous winter and Aratama felt certain he would soon hear of a great grandchild taken by the reaper. Such was the curse of immortality.
He’d settled into his throne at a time when Mitanni stretched from the rivers of Babylon to the very shores of the Great Green Sea. In the years to come, his record in battle had been at best, consistent – he’d never fought a war he hadn’t lost.
His biggest campaign and greatest defeat had come against the Lords of Hattusha; a growing power threatening his northern borders. Their armies had moved on Midas of Gordia, vassal of Mitanni. Aratama had hoisted his banners and marched to meet them.
