The battle was over. At a word from Commanding General Naaman, his chariot driver reined the horses to a standstill. The day was over, too, with the blood-colored disk of the sun sinking into the haze above the town gates.
Naaman had known some time ago that the battle was as good as won. He had known it the moment he heard the swordsman’s news. This man, fighting hand to hand with an Israelite, had gotten drawn into the enemy army without realizing it. Killing his foe after a fierce struggle, he had glanced around to get his bearings. Nearby stood a chariot, and there was something odd — the driver held the reins tight, although the horses shook their heads and pawed.
A man leaned against the inside of the chariot. He stood upright, but only because he was tied to the rail. Blood seeped onto his kilt from a wound just beneath his breastplate. Under his helmet with iron horns, his face was as pale as death.
The Aramean swordsman realized at once that this must be Ahab, king of Israel. Hacking his way back to the Aramean lines, he found General Naaman. “No purple robe, but I swear I saw the iron horns, sir! It is King Ahab, badly wounded.”
Naaman nodded. “He propped himself up in the chariot so his men would not lose heart.” Naaman would have done the same thing, if he had been wounded.
The news about King Ahab spread through the Aramean army, and the troops surged forward. The Israelite troops also heard that their king was dying, and they began to fall back. Finally they fled from the gates of Ramoth-Gilead and scattered for the western hills.
Letting his officers direct the care of the wounded and the counting of the dead, Naaman paused for one of his rare quiet moments. After the frenzy of battle, he felt solemn. It was a serious thing, to act as the wrath of Hadad the Mighty. King Ahab must have feared that wrath, for he had not worn his kingly purple robe into battle. He had tried to hide from the Storm-god, but Hadad’s arrow had found him just the same.
Now Ahab was dead, after ruling Israel for more than twenty years. King Ben-Hadad of Aram would be well pleased with Commanding General Naaman, for Israel would not be so quick to pick a fight with Aram again. King Ahab had two sons, but neither of them had the strength of Ahab. Queen Jezebel did, of course, but she would have to share power with her son, the new King.
Naaman beckoned to his aide in a nearby chariot. “Let the waiting messenger be sent to Damascus.” There was no need for the general’s scribe to write a letter for the messenger to take to King Ben-hadad, because the message was only one word: “Victory.”
“And let every soldier be given extra wine tonight,” Naaman told the aide. The army deserved to celebrate. They had fought well and bravely for the glory of Aram. There would not be much loot for them, since Aram was defending Ramoth-Gilead, not attacking it.
The next morning, while the Aramean army prepared to return to Damascus, Naaman and his officers rode their chariots into Ramoth-Gilead. The townspeople cheered from the walls as Naaman entered the gates. Beyond the gates, though, the procession was disappointing. The lanes of Ramoth-Gilead were too narrow for two horses to walk abreast. Naaman had to step down from his golden war chariot and walk the rest of the way to the governor’s mansion.
Naaman was not much impressed with the Governor and his so-called mansion, or with the chair that the governor offered him. But he knew that the ceremonies after a victory are important. First the governor and his councilors had to greet and thank General Naaman with elaborate courtesy.
Then each landowner had to step forward and announce what he would send to Damascus, in gratitude that the town had been saved from the Israelite army. The governor spoke first, promising some fine pieces of brass from his personal stores. Most of the tribute was wool and wine, although some landowners also gave sheep, goats, or oxen.
The listing of the tribute went on and on. Each landowner went into detail about exactly what he was giving: not simply “six sheep,” but “three ewes, a yearling ram, and two lambs.” Not only “fifteen jugs of wine,” but “six jugs of the wine of two years ago, together with one hundred bunches of raisins.” And the landowners had to speak slowly, and sometimes repeat themselves, so that the Aramean scribe could write down each item. Naaman yawned.
One of the last landowners to speak listed his tribute, finishing with “… and 500 measures of barley, together with 267 measures of threshed wheat.” Then he bowed again to Naaman. “Lord General, please accept the apologies of my neighbor, Calev ben Oved. He greatly desired to greet you today and thank you for saving his fields and vineyards from the evil Israelites (may Hadad curse their land and their generations to come). It is Calev’s pleasure to send to Damascus ten great jugs of the best wine of his vineyards and forty fleeces of his finest white wool. But he could not be here, for a sorrow has fallen upon his family. A child, a daughter, died yesterday.”
“My condolences to Calev ben Oved and his family,” said Naaman. “But how could it happen that the child of a landowner was killed in the battle?”
“Her death had nothing to do with the battle, my Lord General,” said the governor. “It was an accident in the town.” He added, “Yes, her death is a sorrow for Calev ben Oved. But at least it was not a son that he lost.”
The men in the hall, both townspeople and Arameans, murmured agreement. Naaman himself had two sons, and he knew it would be an unbearable grief to lose either one of them.