Covenant of War (6 page)

The tent of meeting was in a desolate place.

Benaiah, noticing from the look on his closest friend’s face that he felt the same, rolled his head in a circle to loosen the muscles in his neck. They had been traveling for several days and were feeling the effects of marching again. But they loved it. In recent years they had been spending less time on the march and more days in Hebron. They trained hard and frequently, but life in cities softened their backs and legs. Both wished for campfires and sleeping among stones, exposed to the frigid night wind of the desert and the comforting depths of the stars. This mission met that need.

Moving in obscurity was impossible in the towns. Everyone knew who Benaiah was by reputation, and although very few of the Israelite people had seen his face, it would not have taken them long to deduce who he was: Benaiah the Lion Killer, son of Jehoiada, chief of the guard that protected the King of Judah. His neck, the top of his head, and his hairline were covered with old scar tissue from
when claws had torn through much of his scalp. Though leather greaves covered up most of his arms, scars were visible there as well.

Benaiah did not revel in such notoriety. He had a quiet manner, and although he was not averse to laughing hard when the occasion merited it, he preferred to keep to himself and his closest friends. He knew people trod cautiously around him, and while he did not wish to be avoided out of fear, he had to admit he liked the peace of being left alone. There were only a handful of people he felt comfortable around — the warriors he lived and fought with, including the man walking next to him.

Keth, or Uriah, as he had come to be known since David had bestowed the name, was a mercenary from the Hittite lands of the north. He had come to their camp seven years previously, just in time for them to discover that their town had been raided and destroyed by Amalekite soldiers.

Keth had proven himself during the resulting battle to reclaim their families from the raiders, working furiously to keep their brittle weapons replaced and their water resupplied. In a successful new strategy, they had designated special armorers to run new weapons to the lines as warriors lost them or they shattered. It had demonstrated to David that he had commanders who could think on their feet, and Keth was foremost among them.

Hittites knew how to forge iron, and Keth had been appointed to lead the new company of armorers. David’s goal was for all of his weapons to be produced in his own ranks, using the new iron-forging methods. David no longer wanted to rely upon the weapons captured from Philistines, and with Keth’s help, most of his troops now had the coveted weapons.

David had given his bodyguard and chief armorer this mission: to meet secretly in the eastern and northern lands with tribal elders to see where they stood. The nomadic groups were a mixture of the tribes of Manasseh, Zebulun, Asher, and Naphtali. Despite the
ancient allegiances, times were different than when the land had first been settled. Many clans were breaking off and living in the best manner they could, away from the wars in the heart of the country.

These missions had occurred often since the beginning of the tribal war. The information provided by these tribes was almost as reliable as the Issachar tribal scouts in David’s army. Any shifting of political alliances or invasions of their lands would first be known by the nomadic warlords on the frontier. Benaiah believed that was a legitimate reason for meeting with them, but he also suspected that David simply liked them. He had been one of them, after all.

It was important to send envoys to the tribal warlords to offer them payment for military commitments and service. It would benefit them all in the long view, since the land they would be conscripted to defend would be given to them as payment for their efforts, and any man fighting on his own land is a fearsome opponent.

Benaiah and Keth had set out on this mission after Abner had arrived to inform David that he was turning over the northern army. The tribal war was finally over. Benaiah thought it would finally give him time to devote to his wife, Sherizah, as he had been promising. There was talk of a unity banquet to heal old wounds. He imagined that he could be with Sherizah there.

But it was not to be. David had pulled him and Keth aside and dispatched them to the northern borderlands with the news. The warlords would be needed to keep Abner honest about his commitment. And so once more, Benaiah had held his wife close their last night together, whispered more hollow promises that this would be the last time he would need to leave for a long while, and slipped out into the darkness.

As they approached the ragged goatskin-tent camp, Benaiah’s eyes flicked back and forth continuously. This was the last desert
warlord they would visit on this mission. Benaiah and Keth were alone, demonstrating the purity of their intent, assuming that any treachery that might befall them would come from a rogue.

“Do you think there are other Philistines around besides the troop the boy mentioned?” Keth asked.

“I haven’t seen any sign. But possible.”

“Hope they haven’t been here before us.”

The desert warlords and their tent camps were a small part of the Israelite population, but they were important. They rigorously trained their young men in combat discipline to fend off nomadic raiders like the Amalekites in the south or Syrian bandits in the north.

What was most important to them was their livestock and their water; anything that threatened either was violently resisted. Unlike other warlords, they did not care about hoarding vast wealth or obtaining tracts of land. Such wealth would have been meaningless to them. Better to have a hundred head of cattle, fertile women, and a deep well than a bag of gold. They would have been a useful ally to the dead king Saul if he had stopped hunting David long enough to cultivate a relationship with them.

They passed a line of tents and corrals, forming a small village. There were few people around — mostly women and children. Just before they reached the tattered flap that served as the entrance to the largest tent, which they assumed would be the council tent, Keth stopped. Benaiah turned to ask what was wrong, but Keth held up his hand.

“They would have come out to us before now.”

Benaiah felt his heart flutter, a sign of danger. Keth was right. Their fatigue from the long march had dulled their judgment.

Keth stared at the tent flap hard. Benaiah, sharply alert now, searched the desolate surroundings nearby. The other tents of the warlord’s clan were a short distance away. Camels bayed their guttural noises, dogs yapped occasionally.

Visitors to these camps were normally a great event worthy of everyone’s attention, for good or ill. The desert breeze stirred up swirls of dust and sand. Nothing seemed terribly amiss. All looked normal. Yet Keth did not move.

“We should go,” he said quietly.

Benaiah nodded. If Keth said it was not right, then it was not right. Benaiah started to turn away, reaching over his back to secure the strap he had begun to shrug off his shoulder in anticipation of dropping his weapons outside the tent. As he did, an arrow whistled through the air and slammed into his chest. He pitched backward from the force and thudded into the sand.

Keth did not hesitate. He threw the javelin he had been carrying. It sailed through the opening of the tent.

Benaiah gasped for breath, convinced that he had only moments to live. He snapped the shaft protruding from his chest. Pain finally registered, severe enough that he yelped like a wounded animal.

“Philistines,” Keth grunted, grabbing Benaiah by the collar and dragging him across the sand. Benaiah lurched to his side and shoved Keth’s hand away. He prodded the arrow a moment; it had not gone deep into his flesh, slowed by the leather armor before striking his collar bone, but the hooked barbs were excruciating.

“I’m good,” Benaiah coughed. The two warriors crouched behind a boulder just as another flurry of arrows thumped around them. Benaiah counted the number of arrow strikes as Keth readied his own bow.

“Three archers. From the tent. They’re shooting together,” Keth said.

“Why are they attacking us? They’re supposed to be our allies!”

“I don’t know!”

“Can you tell how many?”

“No.”

“Flank?”

Benaiah glanced to his right, then his left, then watched as a helmet emerged from the narrow ravine between the tents that served as a waste dump. Another helmet popped up next to it, and two soldiers rushed across the sand toward them.

“Left flank! Two!”

Keth fixed the arrow, spun, and fired it in the same motion. The iron head pierced the leg of the closest man, who tripped and fell, screaming. His partner in the ambush, not expecting the warriors to be carrying a bow as well as heavy weaponry, leaped back into the ditch.

Benaiah, angry about the arrow in his chest and angry at himself for missing the warning signs of the ambush, frantically searched for other assaults. Keth shot another arrow into the tent and at the waste ditch to hold whoever else was in there at bay.

Benaiah sat up, looked quickly at the tent and the hillside beyond it, saw no other attackers, and finally pulled out the weapon he preferred for these types of fights — in his right hand, a hardwood war club with a stone fixed at the tip, and in his left, a small iron-studded shield. It was light and could be wielded by his powerful arm for a lengthy amount of time, and in close quarters he did not risk cutting himself. It also made death very agonizing for his opponent.

“We need to assault our way out of this,” Benaiah said, wiping sweat out of his eyes. “If we just escape they’ll run us down. They’ll have fresh water and we don’t.”

“Hit the tent first. We need to conserve arrows, so give me clear shots,” Keth said, his arms a blur as he fixed another arrow. “They can’t be very experienced or they would have waited until we entered the tent. One of them got anxious.”

Benaiah nodded. He allowed himself a few seconds to think about it. They wouldn’t be able to see him if he came at them from the side, buried as they were inside the dark interior and unwilling
to step outside in the face of Keth’s arrows. But they would probably try to escape and attack out of the side openings.

“I’m going to wait for them to slip out the side of the tent. When I draw them out and you have a shot, hit them.”

“Why can’t I attack the other side?”

“If we’re both fighting we won’t be able to see if more of them arrive. I need your eyes here.”

Keth nodded. “Yahweh be with you, my friend.”

Benaiah rolled to his side and sprinted forward while Keth shot another arrow toward the ravine. Benaiah felt a Philistine arrow whistle past his head from the tent opening. After a few more strides he knew he was out of the angle of fire for the archers in the tent. Crouching behind his shield as he ran, searching for any sign of other assaults, Benaiah reached the edge of the main tent.

He hurdled a rope fastened to a tent stake and crouched on the side of the tent, waiting, his shield in his left hand, club in his right.

As expected, a tent flap was briskly pushed open. Benaiah swung the club toward the arm holding the flap open. Bone snapped, and as the Philistine screamed in agony, Benaiah’s club crushed the man’s throat.

Benaiah darted along the side of the tent toward the rear, the pain from the arrowhead in his chest agonizing. He decided not to rush inside because his eyesight would not adjust to the dark interior fast enough.

Keth called out “Shot!” — a warning to him that an arrow was in flight and to watch out for it. Reaching the backside of the tent, Benaiah saw just in time another man peering through another flap.

He swung the club and it crashed against an unseen helmet. The man cried out. Benaiah swung another hard strike.

He spun on his heels, running back the way he had come. As he turned the corner, the first flap was opening again.

Benaiah lowered his shoulder and ran into the body on the other
side of it. They fell through the flap together into the dark interior of the tent. Benaiah drove his elbow into the throat of the man.

Something smacked against his leg. Benaiah whirled. Darkness. He had to get back outside where he could see. A shout. The arrow tip in his chest burned like a coal.

There!

A Philistine was swinging at him. Benaiah avoided the swing and dove back outside the tent. The Philistine chased him outside. Benaiah was just about to turn and face him when he heard an arrow thump into flesh. He stopped running and spun.

The Philistine chasing him, now on his knees, groped at the arrow shaft protruding from his torso. He glared at Benaiah, cursing in the Philistine tongue. Keth came running. “Have you seen any more?” Benaiah asked.

“No, these were all I saw.”

Benaiah knelt next to the Philistine and locked eyes with him.

“How many of you are there?”

“Many. We are coming to put our seed in your women and kill all of your men.”

“Invasion?”

The Philistine spat out blood and looked back and forth between Keth and Benaiah. “Your wives will become screaming whores, and Baal will rub your god’s face in his —”

Benaiah punched him as hard as he could, relishing the crunch of several bones. The man fell onto his back.

“Once more, then I break the other side of your face.”

The Philistine was holding the arrow shaft with one hand and pawing at his face with the other. Benaiah let him curse a moment, then nudged him again.

The Philistine lowered his hand and glared at him … then, unexpectedly, a grin.

“More are coming than the waves of the sea, more than the sand
of the Negeb. Your new king has become lazy, his army is scattered, we will —” He suddenly reached into his waist belt, withdrew a dagger, and slashed at Benaiah. Benaiah, reacting from instinct, caught his wrist and drove the dagger back into the Philistine’s neck.

Benaiah watched him bleed until he was dead. Then he stood up.

“Are you all right?” Keth asked.

“Sore, nothing bad. Not very deep. We need to move.”