The Philistine Warrior (9 page)

Delai suffered from the heat, but otherwise enjoyed the trip, for she’d seldom traveled outside of Askelon before. During halts, she and Rachel played at an elaborate backgammon game, invented in
Crete
a long time ago (I’m told).

In the afternoon of the first day out, we reached Eglon and stopped there; if we’d gone any farther, we would’ve been forced to make camp in the middle of nowhere when night fell. The heat was worse than ever, but once camp got set up I could relax.

I went over to my cousin’s tent. “Hail, my Lady,” I called in a teasing sort of way.

Delai beckoned to me: “Cousin, come into the shade and have some of this water!” She held up a goblet. “I got it from a merchant here in Eglon; he has a deep cellar where he keeps mountain water cool all year. And please call me ‘Delai,’ as you always did.”

“As you wish, m’Lady Delai,” I answered, entering the tent. Rachel bowed to me and fetched some water and a bowl of grapes. She served the water in a Philistine-style jug, decorated with swan-like birds, their heads and necks turned backwards over their wings.

“Oh, Cousin, if the heat is like this in
Egypt
, I shall perish,” Delai sighed. “Rachel can stand it, but I can’t!” Rachel said nothing, but only smiled.

“In that case,” I jested, “you should stay in Askelon and Rachel should become concubine to Prince Ekosh!” Neither of them acted amused by that remark, but Delai became more cheerful as we chatted. Then I heard a commotion outside.

A soldier came into our tent: “Captain Phicol,” he sputtered, “come quickly!”

I jumped up and ran outside. Across the campsite, I could see Colonel Warati donning his great crested helmet. “What is it?” I demanded of the soldier who’d summoned me.

“Scouts report a band of hill people approaching Eglon,” he replied.

I looked around and saw that the infantry had already begun to form a defensive perimeter around the camp, far enough out to safeguard our wagons and tents from any arrows the enemy might fire at us. I ran up to Warati. “How many of them?” I asked as he mounted his chariot.

“I don’t know yet,” he answered. “I’ve sent a section of your company to reconnoiter. Now that the camp defense’s almost set up, I’m going out to see for myself.”

I jumped into the chariot beside him and we started off with a platoon of my charioteers, leaving only one section of mounted men, under Lieutenant Jaita, in the camp area, with our infantry. We followed the dust trail left by the first detachment of chariots.

Swinging around a line of hillocks, we met with a curious sight. Seven Philistine chariots—meaning fourteen warriors and seven drivers—had drawn themselves up in line, the men now dismounted. Across the field I saw a Canaanite band—Judaeans, apparently—perhaps fifty warriors, also lined up, leaning on their bronze-tipped spears. Round, gaudy shields of wood, bossed with bronze, rested on their backs.

Between the lines, two men faced each other, one Philistine, one Canaanite, about equally matched in size and armament—the Canaanite carried iron weapons, doubtless captured from us in some past campaign. Both of them held spears and shields. They began circling around, looking for an opportunity to jab of hurl their spears into each other.

“What the hell’s going on?” I wondered out loud.

“I’ve seen this before,” Warati growled, his eyes dark with rage. He told his driver to head for the combatants. We pulled up beside the Philistine warrior. “What does this mean?” the Colonel snapped, though he obviously had already guessed.

Our warrior turned, ignoring his Canaanite foe. “Ah, Colonel Warati and Captain Phicol! Greetings. I challenged these Judaean Canaanites to send forth their best warrior to fight me hand to hand, one on one. If I win, they all go back to their hills. If he wins, we let them pass—but not to Eglon, of course….”

Warati was beside himself with fury: “So, war’s your sport, is it? And I suppose the villagers they’ll plunder will applaud your gallant death!”

“But, sir, I fully intend to win!” the warrior announced splendidly, as the sun glinted off his greaves and bronze breastplate.

“So do I,” Warati snorted. “But not by such hare-brained methods. Save your bravado for the games, when ladies are watching. This is war and business, and you’re part of a military formation. I suppose you sacrificed surprise to arrange this little show. Now get back to your chariot!”

“But, sir, my honor—”

“Back!” Warati bellowed. The charioteer turned to his

puzzled enemy, shrugged his shoulders, and went back to his unit. Warati then faced the Canaanite: “And you! I’ll give you to the count of five to get back to your people. After that, you’re like any other Canaanite murderer. Tell your chief that we’ll destroy you all unless you lay down your arms and surrender. Now go! One. Two. Three….” The Canaanite scurried back to his line. By this time, his comrades were yelling and cursing us Philistines for having broken off the duel.

“I apologize for my men,” I grunted, with disgust. “They’re high-born chaps, and I’m afraid each one sees himself as another Hector, or some such hero!”

“To hell with that!” Warati sneered, and I realized that I’d blundered by referring to my troopers’ social standing…far above the Colonel’s. “There’ll be more discipline here,” he went on. “What we need are fewer dandies and more commoners in the chariot corps—men who’re more afraid of their officers than they are of the enemy. How can we have discipline with each glory-hunting aristocrat fighting his own private battle? Even in pitched battle they break ranks for heroics and stripping of the slain!”

“Sir, I protest!” I interrupted. “My men may arrange games like this when I’m not around, but in battle they’ll keep formation and obey orders.”

Warati didn’t reply because, at that moment, the Canaanite answer to his ultimatum came in a shower of arrows; then they began to flee to the cover of the scrub and rocks on a nearby hill. Luckily,

none of their missiles hit us or our horses. Warati turned to our charioteers: “After them! First section to the right. Cut them off!” One section of chariots thus broke into a gallop and strung itself out on the Canaanites’ flank, trying to get between them and the high ground. The enemy scattered as the remainder of our chariots swept over them from behind.

It was a hopeless position for the ragged Judaean soldiery. Some turned to spear our chariot horses, but they were soon cut down by arrows or javelins. As the dust cleared, it could be seen that most of the Canaanites had perished, or were surrendering. Some, however, had made it to the hillock and hid in the scrub, shooting arrows at the charioteers. A horse fell and its chariot turned over.

“Dismount,” Warati commanded. Then he turned to the few chariots which he’d held in reserve. “Go around the hill; surround it!” We then accompanied our dismounted soldiers as they combed the scrub. Here and there a scream of pain signified that another Canaanite had been killed. Some surrendered and were led away.

“That just about does it,” I commented, and a second later an arrow hit my shoulder, spinning me around and down! Warati hardly seemed to notice; he merely pointed to the bush which hid my attacker—and, in another moment, our soldiers had killed the wretched fellow.

A sergeant came up to Warati. “Sir, two horses dead and four men wounded, none seriously.”

“Make that five,” I interrupted, trying to be light-hearted, despite the pain in my arm. The sergeant turned to assist me.

“And the enemy?” Warati demanded.

“Some twenty-five slain, about fifteen wounded, and ten unwounded prisoners,” the sergeant replied as he pulled the arrow from my shoulder. That smarted worse than the penetration.

“We’ll carry the prisoners back to Eglon,” Warati ordained, “except for those too maimed to be sold as slaves. Kill those. Strip the dead.”

“Their leader is wounded,” the sergeant told Warati.

“We’ll take him with us,” the Colonel replied.

Within a few minutes, our chariots, loaded with captured weapons, began the short journey back to camp, prisoners trotting behind, led by ropes.

When we arrived at camp, I got deposited with Delai, since Rachel was reputed to have had experience with wounds. While she scurried around with water, balm, and bandages, Delai knelt by my side, anxious. “Cousin….”

“Don’t be too upset, m’Lady; I’ve been wounded before….”

She took her golden fish amulet and laid it on my wound, not flinching from the sight of blood. “It’s said to ward off disease,” she explained, and patted my arm.

“Thank you. It was a silly battle. They didn’t have a chance. They’d no idea Eglon was guarded by charioteers—and almost none of them possessed iron weapons.” She put some water to my lips.

“Mistress!” Rachel cried from the tent flap. “It’s horrible!” she screamed, turning away.

I struggled to my feet and stepped out of the tent. I saw Warati in the process of conducting two ceremonies: on one side of the camp, his men prepared to execute the wounded Canaanite leader; the townspeople, many of them Canaanites, had gathered around to witness this death by torture—and quartering—which Warati had arranged. On the other side of camp, I saw my charioteer—the one involved in the aborted duel—tied to a post. Warati had ordered him whipped!

I staggered up to the Colonel: “Sir, this is unheard of. Release that man!”

“Nonsense! Soldiers are flogged daily in our battalions,” he replied—as his sergeant began to apply the whip.

“But this man is a charioteer; never have charioteers been disciplined this way!”

“He’s a soldier,” the Colonel spat out—and signaled for another blow to be struck.

“He’s a free gentleman of
Philistia
, not one of your
infantry
!” My words came out as hot as the pain in my shoulder.

Warati turned purple: “‘Gentleman,’ shit! They’re soldiers and will be disciplined!”

“You can’t punish him without my permission!” I retorted, as the lash fell again.

“Silence!” Warati roared. “So long as your charioteers are under my command, I may discipline them as I choose—and you, too,

Captain…but in view of your wound, I’ll excuse your impertinence…this time…. Now, return to your tent.”

It was a stalemate. I couldn’t countermand his orders, but neither would he dare to impose whipping on the Sheren’s nephew. In any case, he then ordered the flogging ended, and he turned to the scene of execution. The wretched bandit chief had already been tormented in a variety of painful ways, and now each of his limbs got fastened to a horse….

Feeling sick and faint from my wound, and from the thought of my warrior’s disgraceful whipping, I started back to Delai’s tent. There were unpleasant mutterings among the charioteers: one of their fellows had been doubly dishonored, their captain humiliated. “Thanks for trying, sir,” one of my men said to me.

“We’ll see what Sheren Maoch says about this atrocity,” I replied, darkly. For that matter, I doubted that even Zaggi, with his sense of class superiority, would approve of the Colonel’s behavior toward an aristocrat.

Then, off to my right, I heard horse whips cracking; the Canaanite’s screams abruptly stopped, and four maddened horses bolted away from the scene, each dragging part of the bloody mass. In a moment, Warati’s infantrymen had stuck the slain man’s head on a pole—a warning to future raiders and rebels. I entered Delai’s tent and fell on her couch, my wound bleeding again. Delai and a girl slave applied fresh bandages and gave me water.

“Did you watch…the execution?” I asked.

Delai turned pale. “No, I hid and shut my ears. But Rachel watched….”

“Where’s she now?”