Naaman moved his arms out from beneath his blanket. Folding them across his chest, he looked out at the black night sky through the flaps in the tent. He had no notion of what time it was, but ever since lying down, he had watched the sliver of a moon slowly march across the sky. The time for war was near.
A brilliant light streaked across the sky directly above him, and he wasn’t sure whether to take the falling star as an omen for good or ill. Neither, he finally decided. It was just what it was—the star had outlived its usefulness, and the gods had hurled it from the heavens.
The uneven, hard ground combined with the throbbing in his hands and feet to make sleep impossible. He was feeling old, old and tired, or at least tired of battle. The nights when he’d lain awake before a battle in eager anticipation were gone, long gone. His thoughts were now of Karinah, his home, and more and more often, his leprosy.
Naaman placed his hands behind his head and loosely intertwined his fingers, but he immediately separated his hands and returned them to his chest. A stab of pain from his damaged fingers reminded him that even simple tasks were becoming difficult. His chest rose as he sucked in a lungful of air and let it whistle slowly out his nose. This would be his last campaign. He was finished. A younger man could step into his position. There would be no disgrace in quitting now. He had risen to the top; no man stood between him and the king. He would stay on as a commander, but it would be an advisory role. No more bloody battles, no more screams from dying men, no more looking into the sad eyes of grieving widows and fatherless children. When the leprosy got too bad, he would simply quit altogether and quietly slip into an obscure life, out of sight of everyone but Karinah and those closest to him.
King Ben-Hadad would probably object, but Naaman could deal with that as well. He was certain Ben-Hadad knew of the leprosy, but he hadn’t ever said anything. At the appropriate moment, Naaman would tell—no, show—the king his hands and feet. Then he would be willing, maybe even happy, to let Naaman relinquish his command.
“Commander,” a voice said softly from outside the tent, “it’s time to awake.”
“Thank you, Adad,” Naaman said as he tossed his blanket aside. His back ached, and his joints rebelled as he gingerly worked himself to a sitting position. He slowly began moving his fingers back and forth and wiggling his toes. They hurt, all of them, and he had to force himself to get the blood moving more freely. He could hear the crackle of campfires coming to life and the hushed voices of men all around him, preparing for a day of agony and death.
With his feet wrapped in linen and gently slipped into his odd sandals, Naaman put on his gloves and walked out of his tent to find Adad and several lesser commanders huddled around a small fire.
Greetings were exchanged, and Naaman turned to Adad. “Have the spies returned from Edrei?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“What is their report?”
“The village is totally unprepared for an attack of any kind.”
“No guards, no lookouts, nothing to warn of our advance?”
Adad grinned and shook his head. “Nothing! We’ll be able to slaughter them without any effort.”
Naaman shot a disapproving look at Adad and said, “Slaughter isn’t why we’re here. The king wants slaves.”
Adad shrugged his shoulders and replied, “They’re Israelites—not much better than cattle. The world will be better if we kill some in the process.”
Naaman considered issuing a stinging rebuke but thought better of it. He didn’t want to correct his second-in-command in front of lesser officers; he would save that for a private moment. Looking at each of the men surrounding the fire, Naaman said with an authoritative voice, “Our orders from our king are to overrun the village. We kill those who offer resistance and take as many captives as we can.” Looking at Adad, he said, “The king wants slaves, not corpses.” Then looking at each man, Naaman added, “Is that clear?”
Mumbled responses of “Yes, Commander,” and “Yes, sir,” came from each of them.
“Make certain your men understand these orders very clearly,” Naaman said sternly.
“What about women or children who put up a fight?” Adad asked. “How shall we treat them? I don’t want to get an arrow in my back because I let some youth or woman live.”
Naaman sighed and gave his head a slight shake. “A child isn’t going to shoot you with an arrow, nor is an old woman. Use your best judgment.”
“Nits make lice,” Adad said defiantly.
Naaman glared at him. “I’ll only say this one more time: we are here for slaves. Keep as many alive as you can.”
Each of the men in the circle shifted his weight, kicking at imaginary objects or staring blankly into the dark sky, clearly uneasy at the censure Adad had received. Adad was unaffected; it was as if nothing happened. Those in the circle who knew him best knew he would mostly follow orders, but they also knew that things could become confused in the heat of a battle, and Adad was not above intentionally adding to the confusion when it suited his purposes.
Naaman turned to Adad and asked, “How long will it be before we can break camp and begin our march?”
“One hour, no longer.”
“And how long do the spies estimate it will take us to march to Edrei from here?”
Adad hesitated and looked at one of his subordinates. The man shifted his breastplate and cleared his throat. “Five hours,” he said.
Naaman pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “That will put us there late in the morning, perhaps even more toward midday. Can we move faster?”
“I don’t believe so, commander, unless you want to sacrifice the element of surprise. If we were only going to Ramoth-gilead, it would be easy, but the terrain from here to Edrei is more difficult.”
“So be it,” Naaman sighed. “Pass the word that we leave in one hour.”
Each of the men saluted Naaman and walked off into the darkness. “Adad,” Naaman called, “I want to speak with you.”
Adad turned around and walked back to where Naaman stood with the orange glow of the fire reflecting from his skin. “Yes, Commander?” he said.
“Is there any question in your mind about our orders?” Naaman asked sternly.
“No, sir.”
“Are you very certain?”
Adad clenched his jaw and looked Naaman in the eyes. “I’m certain. You can be assured I will follow the king’s order as closely as possible.”
“See that you do, Adad,” Naaman said slowly and warningly. “That is all. You may leave.”
Adad gave a quick salute and walked off without saying anything.
Naaman turned from the fire, limped back into his tent, and eased himself down on a small chest resting in the corner. Reaching down beside him, he lifted the ornate scabbard with his sword tucked firmly inside. Drawing the sword, he ran his fingers over the intricately carved designs that decorated the blade. It was time for him to quit this business. Later today, husbands, fathers, and sons would die in battle, and the thought saddened him.
What should have been a five-hour march stretched into six, and the hot sun had taken its toll on the soldiers. Now standing and sitting in the hills above Edrei, the men were tired and hungry, not rested and eager for the fight. The last few miles had been the most difficult. The trees on the hillside that hid their advance also prevented them from walking in an orderly column. They’d had to weave their way between live trees, step over dead and rotting ones, and bypass large clearings.
Naaman’s leprosy-eaten toes screamed in pain each time the wheels of his chariot bounced over a downed tree or slammed into a protruding rock. His team of horses had bolted once, when one of them was stung by a wasp. Even with his glove-covered hands, yanking back on the leather lines caused his fingers to bleed and ache. When he finally inched his way up to the crest of the hill overlooking Edrei, he was grateful for the chance to rest for a few minutes. Reining his horses to a stop, he tied off the lines and stepped down from his chariot. Limping a few steps to a small rock, he sat down to survey the sight in front of him.
The waves of heat coming off the ground danced in the air and made it difficult to see details of the village of Edrei in the narrow valley below. He could see little flashes of motion and assumed it was soon-to-be slaves going about their midday activities. In a few hours, these poor people’s lives would change forever. The freedom they knew would be yanked from them, and their lives would become a miserable day-to-day struggle. They would be beaten, starved, and worked until they dropped dead from exhaustion. Naaman smiled to himself. Perhaps the lucky ones would be those who died this day.
Adad rode up beside him and reined his horse to a stop. “Commander,” he said breathlessly, “our spies report the village is quiet. The soldiers are in line and ready to attack on your command.”
Naaman rose from the rock, stepped into his chariot, and grasped the lines to his team. He had never entered a battle when his heart didn’t race and his stomach didn’t churn in knots. This time was no different. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Have the trumpeters sound the order to charge.”