Kami left Shamrith to her sifting and climbed the four stairs to the second level of the house. She wanted to make sure that his bedroom had been cleaned, the shades pulled back from the windows for air, and the water jug by his padded sleeping mat filled with fresh water from the well.

​

She found their new girl, Zathra in the room, standing at the window, peering out dreamily at the mighty structure rising above them at the hilltop’s edge. Kami cleared her throat, and the girl spun around, startled. She muttered something in her own tongue, those stunning eyes averted, and glided out of the room in the fluid way she did.

​

Kami had told her earlier in the week—more with waving and pointing hands than her tongue, as the Jebusite could not understand a thing she said—that she was not to enter her husband’s bedroom. Ever. Kami herself tended to it, as per his instructions. He kept some valuables in there, she knew, as he frequently carried in small bundles jingling with what she assumed must be gold and silver. She did not know exactly where he kept the horde—and did not want to know. The room held a few chests of clothing, some simple ceremonial weapons, and a clutter of other objects piled in the corners. Several layers of thin rugs kept the floor’s chill from his feet.

​

Kami never touched his things. In a way, she was glad the room was off-limits to the slave girls; the last thing Kami wanted was for him to have a reason to accuse her of tampering, or worse, stealing something. She merely straightened up, never moving too much, never exploring. She would fetch the water herself—or allow one of the shepherd boys to draw it for her. 

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-

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Slightly stooped and silver-haired, Elishav sat in the corridor of the gatehouse of Shechem. The youngest of the revered Levite elders who met here, he drank from a water skin, his fingers absently caressing the goat hair bag that enveloped it. When he had quenched his thirst, he passed it on to his neighbor and leaned back against the cool stone wall. He had not slept well during the night and did not have the strength to raise his voice in a plea to the other Levites to stop their bickering. As the youngest, it would not have been his place in any event; age dictated hierarchy here, and his fifty summers left him at the bottom of their ranks.

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Mor’s long, thin, yellow-ivory beard danced as he spoke. His brittle voice of eighty-one years cackled with energy. Elishav had never known a man this old who was still in control of his senses.

​

“When even I support such a drastic change,” rasped Mor, “You know it must be taken seriously. We can easily trade outside the walls.” He gestured to the wide, empty expanse and the single road that led to the city, beyond their gatehouse chambers. “We have plenty of space between these gates and our fields. It will be a means to attract passers-by.”

​

He waved limply at the compartments on each side of the gatehouse’s corridor, where the elders sat to establish rule, judge, and, increasingly often these days, to interview men who sought refuge. “We sit here all day. We watch the caravans riding south without stopping to enter the city to trade. There isn’t a busier road in all the land, and yet we ignore the incredible value we can reap from it. I think we need to call the others into this discussion.”

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-

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No, Taga had never been taught to run away. It was an impulse he learned on one battlefield – in a single instant. A Philistine found glory in blood and rage; the skilled, swift cuts of the sword and the axe were reward enough. But fighting a smaller, inexperienced army and watching his comrades nonetheless fall in bloody piles at his feet had introduced Taga to true fear for the first time. It had been an empty, sad feeling that he did not immediately recognize. He had never felt it as a boy, not on his first hunt, nor the first time a knife slashed his flesh in a scuffle. Not even when his older brother, Drik’ad, had not returned from battle one spring. It was so much sadder than watching a worthy army match yours and drive it back. There was something else here, and it had completely changed him between one moment and the next.

Taga had recognized the appearance of this peculiar horror quickly enough to run, fleeing the inexplicable death that waited there, and to set out due east into the hilly expanse that was now their land. He left everything behind.

 

He would survive now, living each day in an attempt to maintain happier memories while struggling to simply endure. He needed only to stay clear of the Israelite soldiers who haunted his dreams – and then became very real when the sun shone.

All he needed, in truth, was food. His final, miserable hold on dignity had been to surround himself with men to supply him with it. It meant he was still a man, not diminished to a mere animal reduced to sniffing out carrion.
The ancient traditions that his ancestors brought across the sea many years ago taught that a true man would have fought in battle until he fell. Now, looking over the ridge, it struck him that he was deeply envious of the valley men below. Though they were not men of war, they fought each day to tame the earth and clearly had learned to bend it to their will. They bore a pride that had been stripped away from him. They were the victors and would live long, contented lives down there. While he faded, they would blossom.