Chapter Thirty

Judah

In a territory north of our camp, Apollonius, governor of Samaria, gathered Gentiles and a large force of Samaritans to fight against the army of Israel. When news of the approaching army reached us, we were dismayed but not surprised. The Samaritans were relatives—a people who claimed to be descended from Israelites who survived the Babylonian invasion and intermarried with native peoples—a practice forbidden by the Law of Moses. The Jews who returned to Judea after the exile never trusted the Samaritans, and nothing in our neighbors’ recent behavior had improved our opinions of them.

“I can’t believe he enlisted Samaritans,” Simon said, his brow furrowed. “I had hoped they would stay out of this fight. After all, the Seleucids defiled their Temple, too—”

“They’re on their way.” A breathless scout burst into the tent where Johanan, Simon, and I were discussing battle plans with my captains. “Hundreds of mounted men and at least a thousand foot soldiers.”

An undeniable feeling of purpose rose in my chest as I looked at my brothers and my captains. Purpose . . . and eagerness. “This,” I told them, a thrill shivering through my senses, “is why we have been training. This is why we have struggled, toiled, and gone hungry.”

I looked at those faces—long faces, round faces, young faces, old faces, pale faces, flushed faces—and to a man, I saw the light of determination in their eyes. Today these men would stand behind me, and we would need the strength of Adonai to face the challenge approaching us.

“Have the riders mount up,” I told the captains. “Archers should prepare their arrows. Tell the swordsmen to strap on their armor, and the slingers to fill their pouches.”

“Will we go north to meet them?” Eleazar asked.

“We will march only as far as Lebonah,” I answered, giving him a grim smile. “I know that area, and we will be able to hide ourselves on the hillside. They will ride straight into our welcoming arms.”

With quickened pulses and surging blood in our veins, we stalked out to meet the aggressors.

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The night before the battle, after my men had hidden themselves among the rocks and grasses of the hills near Lebonah, I rode my horse onto a ridge and looked down at the enemy camp. Apollonius, warned either by his scouts or his false gods, had stopped short of our ambush and camped for the night.

The governor’s tents were of far better quality than ours. Campfires, spaced at regular intervals, danced in the darkness, filling the plain. Several large tents glowed from the light of torches within, and even from where I stood I could see painted designs on the sprawling fabric domes. One of those tents belonged to Apollonius, whom I hoped to soon meet.

My men lay on the hillside where I had positioned them. They had no fires to keep them warm, no soft beds, no dinner, and no wives for comfort. In the darkness they might rise to stretch their limbs, but come morning they would be as still as the stones around them, waiting for the enemy to awaken and advance.

Like snakes we would lie poised to strike a lethal blow.

I let my horse pick his way down the ridge and positioned the beast out of sight behind a boulder, hobbled him, and stretched out on the hilltop. My men were obediently following orders—no one deserted his position, no one spoke. I could hear distant whinnies from the enemies’ horses and the occasional burst of laughter, but nothing else.

As the wind gently scissored the grass near my ear, I drifted into a light doze in which familiar stories mingled with odd images I did not understand. I saw the faces of my people—a mother with seven sons, a copper pan large enough to fry an entire cow, a young man bleeding before his weeping mother as his brothers lay burned and broken on the floor. The scene shifted and I saw women with somber expressions, children in odd garments, bearded men with dark hats on their heads. I saw crowds shuffling forward, carrying bundles and baskets toward large boxes with wide doors. Tears streaked the women’s faces and children screamed as uniformed men herded them into the boxes, then suddenly I stood in the room with them, breathing sour air, leaning against strangers as the box moved, jostling and vibrating in every corner, rattling even the floor beneath our feet . . .

Then we were walking, all of us pitifully naked and as thin as reeds. The women and children no longer had hair and the men had lost their beards. We walked toward a huge building with a chimney through which gray smoke rose to poison a pure blue sky. As we walked with mincing steps, I saw hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people piled in a ditch, men, women, and children lying atop each other like clay dolls, lifeless eyes staring at nothing, children with open mouths and pale, frozen limbs—

“Why?” I shouted, trying to wrest the others from their stupor. “Why are we walking into this place?”

The women in the slow-moving line answered with the tortured mother who had lost seven sons: Because we did not believe anyone could be so cruel. A murmur rose from the earth itself, trees and stones whispering words too terrible to be spoken. Because we did not see the danger until it was too late to resist.

We did not believe anyone could be so cruel.

We did not see the danger.

Too late.

I awakened as if slapped from sleep by an invisible hand. Gasping, I sat up and stared into the darkness, trying to make sense of where I was and what I had witnessed in the vision.

I was sitting on a hillside near Lebonah, waiting with the army of Israel. The sky above me was black, not blue. We were waiting for those who were determined to annihilate us. We might be resting with our eyes closed, but we were not blind.

I drew a deep breath, crossed my legs, and rested my arms on my bent knees, unwilling to close my eyes again.