The Philistine Warrior (37 page)

We were closing in now. “Regiment, at the gallop—CHARGE!” My order was conveyed by hand and flag signals, because the rattle of our advance and the length of our line made voice command impossible. The squadron commanders echoed my call: “For Askelon! For Dagon! CHARGE!”

The enemy’s handful of rear formations turned to meet us. If they couldn’t break up our charge, they knew, the front-line body of Danites would be caught between us and Warati, their backs to our arrows. But we didn’t give them time to form a line of spears to impale our horses. At my signal, a shower of Philistine arrows swept their formations. Then we crashed into them, through them, keeping our line straight, not even stopping to do battle, leaving them to our infantry runners, who kept up—as best they could—with our vehicles until engaged; our infantry against the enemy foot.

“That’s it!” I shouted. “Not as individuals, but as units!” (I’d finally taught my men that lesson.) Our javelins, iron-tipped and shining, sheared through the leather and wooden shields of the Danites, while flying hooves and scythe-like attachments to our wheels cut down whatever enemy ventured too close to our vehicles. The Danites screamed in confusion and dismay.

“I don’t know how Warati likes being rescued by Phicol of Askelon,” my driver shouted in glee, “but his
soldiers
are happy enough!” Indeed, Warati’s men—the men of
Gaza
,
Gath
, and
Ashdod
—cheered us on, pressed forward to join us. Yet the going was still rough for them, even though our appearance had, indeed, shaken the morale of the Danite battle line.

The Danite rear formations—which meant all of their reserve, such as it was—had now been entirely scattered. We pulled rein long enough to sort ourselves out. Our casualties had been extremely light, even in horses. As we reformed, I could see through the dust that the

Danite front-line leaders were trying to rally their men for an orderly retreat, but Warati’s soldiers pressed them hard, making retreat difficult; so the enemy couldn’t spare anyone—even if they’d been

free to maneuver—to meet my chariots. My boys let loose another shower of arrows into the backs of the main body of the foe.

“Head for their banners!” I shouted. “For Dagon, CHARGE!” I could hear the Danites calling on Yahweh and Ba’al for help. But the impact of over 400 chariots soon shattered them beyong help from anybody—or any god! Danites, crushed by hooves and wheels, cut in two by scythes, struck down by swords, pinned by our javelins! My companions and I charged toward their leaders. For the first time, I was myself in the middle of the fray, hurling javelins, then wielding my long sword. Dirty, maddened Danites and their Canaanite allies pressed around my chariot, more in confusion than in attack. I hacked at them, trying to clear a path to the enemy banners. All along the line, our chariots came to a halt in the closely packed mass of disorganized Danites.

We weren’t doing enough good that way; my sword arm tired simply from shoving people out of the way. If the enemy hadn’t been so panic-stricken, he could have inflicted heavy casualties on us, at least on our horses. But we had trained for this sort of thing. I backed my chariot out of the turmoil. Riding behind my line, I found one troop way over on our left flank, not hopelessly (however delightfully) entangled in the enemy.

I rode up to its captain. “Raise the banner,” I ordered. “Fall back and re-group!” Hand signals and horns carried my orders to the troop. Its line of chariots pulled away from the Danites. “Dress right,” I shouted. The line reformed, about fifty yards from the Danites—and then we closed in again. At point blank range, we began to pour wave after wave of arrows into the milling crowd—it could hardly be called an army any more. The Danites now had room to spread out on their right flank, room to dodge and run; so, panic-stricken, their milling now turned into headlong flight. Some of them, dazed and wild-eyed, ran right into our line, and we killed them with swords and spears. Others darted left or right, dropping their weapons and shields.

When the enemy had thinned out some in this fashion, I signaled for a fresh charge on their left rear—which had become, of

course—for many of them—their new right front, after they had more or less turned to face us! This time we cut right through them. Again, I and my immediate companions headed for the Danite banners, while the rest of my charioteers, all along the line, sought to link up with Warati’s soldiers. His people now put on a furious push, but got held up by the same milling crush of humanity which we had just confronted—but which had now dispersed on our side of the battle.

I leapt from my chariot and, with Major Jaita and a few others, appeoached the main enemy banner. Beset by confusion, the Danite commanders still tried to rally their men around their golden-bull image of Yahweh. But the enemy soldiers scattered as we ran toward them.

Then a big, black-haired Danite stood in my path with upraised spear; I believe he was one of their captains, guarding their standard. “Death to Philistines!” he roared; but the fight was too frenzied for one of those boasting and blustering matches which we admire so much in the stories of the Trojan War. I didn’t have time to reply even if I’d wanted to: he hurled his spear—it missed me, but hit Jaita on his armored shoulder, spinning him around and down!

Angry and hot, I thrust the edge of my sword over the Danite’s arm, slicing his skin, and he dropped the blade he was trying to draw. Instinctively, he raised his shield, but my sword’s point found his neck first. Gasping, he reeled back, and I pushed him aside. Dropping my own shield, I grabbed the bull-standard of Yahweh with my free hand, wresting it from its runty Canannite bearer. The man grit his teech and held on with both hands—until I brought the butt of my sword handle down on his face!

Then, mounting a tree stump, I cried out in exaltation: “Philistines! Rally to me! See, their standard is ours! Yahweh has lost! Dagon is supreme!” I smashed the golden image on the ground and waved the broken standard in the air. My men answered with a roar of victory—echoed by Warati’s soldiers—while the Danites gave up all pretence at organization and began running down the road to
Lachish
. The two Philistine forces met in wild jubilation.

At that moment, Warati himself appeared before me, grim, bloodstained, and not at all pleased that the enemy’s broken symbol was in
my
hands! “Greetings, Sheren of Gaza,” I grinned through the salty dust on my lips.

“Hail, Mighty Phicol,” Warati replied, automatically, failing to see the humor in the situation. Off to one side, I could see that Jaita was on his feet, dressing his own minor wound. Warati then offered me some free advice: “You’d best reform your chariots and pursue the enemy,” he remarked, hoping to catch me in a professional error.

“There’s no hurry,” I answered. “Long before they reach
Lachish
, they’ll find my reserve body of infantry blocking the road, and occupying their campsite!”

Warati’s pleasure at the utter destruction of his enemies momentarily overcame his jealousy: “Well done, Sheren of Askelon,” he growled.

That night we feasted and sang:

From the hillside, Nomion then charged upon the Danite

Clan, while chariots sprang forth from our

Prince Bene’s ring; the axe of Rusa cut a path which

Ran with blood, and…brother princes joined their hands

At last and closed the gap in hard-won victory!

Danites scattered to the winds….

And all seemed well again, after the
Battle
—the Victory—
my
Victory—of Mareshah!

Human Sacrifice

Nomion tore at his hair. “My son has died; we never came Together at the feast,

Or watched brave games, not since that day in far-off Karia!

Then burn his sacrifice and take up arms against the

Ephramite; spear and axe—revenge is sweet; the shade of

Bene cannot rest, it needs to drink Hebrew blood which we

Shall spill, on his grave to sink!”

--the
Nomiad
, Stanza XLVII

My coup near Mareshah broke the back of Danite power. There were no pitched battles after that, and I retired into Askelon with most of my charioteers. What was left to be done had little to do with chariot warfare. With infantry and siege engines, Sheren Warati picked up the remaining glory in his campaign to regain our lost cities. It was grueling enough for our men, but the outcome was never in doubt. One by one, the cities fell to Philistine arms, in reverse order to their previous capture; our major reconquests were

Libnah, Azekah, and finally Timnath—where we found the
Temple
of
Ishtar-Astarte
(that is, really, of Inanna) undamaged, much to Ibbi’s delight. The Danites hadn’t dared to desecrate holy ground, even

though their Mighty Samson had been captured there. Ibbi went about, busily cleansing the place with ceremony and ritual; many lambs got sacrificed to Dagon and Inanna for that!

Our liberation of Timnath broke the siege of Ekron. Then the Danites dribbled back to their hills, and the fighting dwindled away, without formal end. It had been (after Mareshah) a plodding, competent, but uninspired campaign, exactly what one would expect from Warati. Yet he—and Chancellor Zaggi—played it up so that Warati, not I, became the idol of all Philistia—excepting in Askelon, of course, where my exploit was known and appreciated in full detail. Elsewhere, Warati managed to portray himself as the hero—even of
my
Battle of Mareshah! He and Zaggi both minimized my role there as much as they could.

But Warati had yet another means to self-glorification: namely, the sacrifice of Samson. It was now Spring, and Warati’s
Gaza
prepared for a grand celebration of the season—and of the recent victories. The climax of the celebration, naturally, would be the sacrifice itself, all in the name of Dagon, God of Philistia. The countryside was safe for travel by that time, and tourists—both Philistine and friendly Canaanites, along with some foreigners—began to gather by the thousands in
Gaza
, along with a flood of merchants.

Delai was almost five months pregnant by then, but that fact was easily hidden under her loose traveling clothes. What we might do with her when her condition became more obvious we had yet to decide—although Ibbi suggested a sea voyage to
Tyre
for religious ceremonies, concerning all the gods of Canaan/Philistia. A good idea—as we found out later on.

I was easily convinced that we could not assert the baby to be by Ekosh. For one thing, Delai opposed deception; and she believed that Inanna would also disapprove, as I’ve already noted. For another thing, the date of birth would be one month too late if she went to full term; that would certainly cause suspicion, especially if the child

resembled its father. So far as protecting the baby from Zaggi was concerned, we wouldn’t gain perfect security that way—not even if we
could
successfully portray the child as that of Ekosh…if Priest Ibbi was correct in suspecting Zaggi of killing Akashou. That is, because Zaggi might try to kill another (supposed) son of our late King, too. On the other hand, he would certainly seek to murder any child of Samson—and with public approval, at that!

Secretly, I almost hoped that Delai would consent to have the child killed immediately after birth; but neither she nor Ibbi would hear of such an idea, so much did they respect what they believed was Inanna’s will. And somehow the knowledge that she was bearing life within her had helped her recover from the shock of losing Akashou.