The Chronicles of the Kings Collection

  Joshua gritted his teeth as she pressed her hands on his back to hold the wound closed. “Is it very deep?” he asked.

  “About an inch. But it’s a clean wound, not ragged. It should heal well. Abba, do you have anything I can use for a bandage?”

  Sara unwound her sash. “Here. Take this.”

  “Just hurry,” Joshua said. “We have to get to my sister’s house before Manasseh’s soldiers do.”

  “Praise God, everything else went well,” Jerimoth said, exhaling. “Mattan, you’ve done a splendid job with your new sister. Come, let me introduce you properly.” The little boy beamed as he edged closer to where Jerimoth sat beside his wife. The baby had finally stopped crying, but the occasional sob still shuddered through her.

  “Sara, my love, we have a new son,” Jerimoth said. “His name is Mattan. He . . . Sara, why on earth do you feel so . . . so lumpy?”

  “It’s your silver and gold, Jerimoth. When the guards weren’t looking I sewed every piece I could find into my dress.”

  “It’s much too dangerous,” Jerimoth said. “I can’t let you put Nathan at risk. That’s final.”

  Joshua grabbed his brother’s arm as he started to turn away. “You know what happened in the marketplace. The whole plan almost fell through because the guards wouldn’t chase an imaginary thief. But if they see Maki being robbed, it’ll be different.”

  “And what if one of the soldiers catches Nathan? What then?”

  Joshua didn’t want to think about that possibility. He glanced over to where Nathan and Mattan sat with Miriam, near the cart.

  “Why don’t we ask him, Jerimoth. Let him be the one to decide.”

  Maki joined them as Joshua explained the plan to Nathan. The boy sneered with contempt at Jerimoth’s concern. “I’m not afraid of any soldiers. They haven’t caught me yet, and they’re not about to.”

  “But you know your way around the back alleys of Jerusalem,” Maki said. “This is different. This is a strange city, and—”

  “They’ll never catch us. Right, Mattan?”

  “Don’t involve Mattan,” Jerimoth said. “He’s too young to—”

  “Who gave you the right to tell us what to do?” Nathan shouted. “We don’t need you. You need us! My brother and I can take care of ourselves.”

  “We’re wasting time,” Joshua said. “If Nathan’s willing to do it, then it’s settled.”

  They left Miriam, Sara, and the baby hidden among the bushes with the cart and made their way to their sister’s home in Anathoth, a half mile down the road. The wound in Joshua’s shoulder throbbed dully, and he tried not to use his left arm, keeping it pressed against his chest so it wouldn’t start bleeding again.

  They soon reached the crooked street where Tirza and Joel lived. Their house was jammed into a modest neighborhood beside a dozen homes just like it. Two guards stood in a meager patch of shade out front, talking. Joshua had planned this rescue for the noon hour, when the sun was hot, so the street would be deserted.

  “Everyone ready?” he asked. “Do you remember what to do?”

  “Let Mattan stay here,” Jerimoth begged. “Please, he’s just a child. Why involve him in our family’s mess?”

  “We have no choice,” Joshua said angrily. “I don’t see anyone else racing to our family’s defense, do you?”

  Nathan folded his arms across his chest as if squaring for a fight. “Mattan and I aren’t afraid.”

  Joshua wasn’t fooled by Nathan’s bravado. Fear raced through his own veins, colliding with the heavy stone in his stomach. The others must be trembling, as well. “Just be careful,” he told Nathan.

  Jerimoth rested his hand briefly on Mattan’s head. “Yahweh go with you, son.” While Maki and the boys left to stage the robbery on the street in front of the house, Joshua and Jerimoth ducked down the alley toward the rear of the house.

  The simple four-room home was all that Joel and Tirza could afford until Joel entered the priesthood at age thirty. That was still four years away. Until then, Joel’s job was to study the Torah with the other scholars, memorizing the multitude of priestly laws and regulations. Joshua knew that his father had been supporting them financially. But the young couple’s life was about to change forever. He wondered how much help Joel would be in a fight.

  Joshua’s mother, Jerusha, was inside, too. Did she know about Abba? Or about Dinah and Grandpa? He dreaded the moment when they would have to tell her. For now, he pushed all distracting thoughts from his mind, concentrating on what he had to do next.

  He peered over the wall at the tiny paved courtyard behind the house. He expected to find another guard by the rear door, but the yard was deserted. The rear window was shuttered against the sun’s heat, but the door stood open. He watched it for as long as he dared, scanning the bushes and neighboring yards. He saw no guards anywhere. Time was short. He pulled Miriam’s kitchen knife out of his belt. It was more suited to chopping vegetables than attacking armed soldiers, but it was their only weapon. He doubted if Maki or his brother could use a sword, even if they had one. They were cloth merchants, not warriors.

  “Stay here,” he whispered to Jerimoth. “I’ll signal when it’s safe.”

  Joshua climbed over the wall and ran toward the house, crouching low. No soldier appeared out of ambush. He listened for a moment by the open door. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. He had the terrible feeling he was walking into a trap.

  He signaled to his brother and watched him clamber over the wall. Jerimoth’s face was very pale and beaded with sweat. His breath came in quick gasps. Jerimoth must be even more terrified than Joshua was, with a wife and daughter to worry about.

  “Count to twenty, then follow me inside,” Joshua told him. “You find Tirza and Joel. I’ll look for Mama. Ready?” Jerimoth nodded, wringing his hands.

  Joshua slipped through the open door into a storage area, his knife poised in front of him, expecting a guard to jump him from the shadows. He saw earthenware jars stacked along the walls but no guard. The room smelled of grain and olive oil. He heard a newborn baby crying inside the house.

  A moment later, Jerimoth ducked through the door behind him, his eyes wide, expectant. Joshua nodded to reassure him, then made his way down the narrow passage toward the living area.

  Move quickly. Find the women. Get out, he told himself.

  Joshua found the entire family seated on the floor around the table, eating their noon meal: Mama, Joel, and Tirza, rocking a fussy newborn in her arms. The soldier who should have been guarding the back door sat eating with them. He tried to scramble to his feet, but Joshua moved faster, forcing the guard to sit down again, pressing the kitchen knife against his throat.

  “Sit down. Don’t move. Lay your hands flat on the table,” Joshua commanded. The soldier was very young, only seventeen or eighteen years old. That explained why he had foolishly left his post and allowed himself to befriend his hostages. Joshua was grateful when he surrendered without a struggle.

  Mama, Tirza, and Joel didn’t move either. They stared at Joshua in stunned surprise. “Can you travel?” he asked Tirza. She nodded. “Then get your things. Hurry!”

  They all followed Jerimoth, leaving Joshua alone with the guard. He could hear his family hastily gathering their belongings in the other rooms. He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out another potsherd inscribed with an ox. He had to use his left hand to do it, and the movement sent waves of pain down his back and shoulder. But the agony was well worth the triumph he felt. He shoved the plates aside and laid the emblem in the middle of the table where the soldiers were certain to find it. Then he looked around for something he could use to tie up his prisoner.

  “They’ll kill me for letting you get away,” the young guard said, his voice shaking.

  “I doubt that. But if you had been at your post, I might have had to kill you.”

  “If I had been at my post, you never would have gotten this far.”

  “Listen, I don’t know what
they told you, but we aren’t traitors. We haven’t committed any crime. The king’s charges against my family are completely false.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” the guard asked.

  “I’m not a murderer. I’ll find something to tie you with and—”

  “Not in here. Please. Don’t let the others know I left my post.”

  “All right. I have no quarrel with you. Get up.” Joshua lowered the knife and took a step back to give the guard room to stand. He glanced toward the door to see if Jerimoth was ready, taking his eye off his prisoner, and in that brief moment the guard reached for his sword.

  “No, don’t!” Joshua shouted.

  The boy didn’t listen. He continued to pull his weapon from its sheath. In an act of pure instinct, Joshua thrust his knife into the boy’s stomach, twisting it in and up, as he had been trained to do, in order to pierce his heart. He had practiced the maneuver on a sack of straw countless times, but living flesh felt horribly different.

  The young soldier cried out and jerked away from Joshua, dropping his sword. Joshua’s knife snapped in half, leaving the blade inside the boy. Joshua held the bone handle with the stump of blade in his hand. He threw it on the floor, then looked up at the guard in horror.

  Blood. So much blood, everywhere. It poured from the boy.

  The soldier sank to his knees. He tried to talk, but his words came out in a strangled gurgle. His eyes pleaded with Joshua to help him, not to let him die. He held both hands over his stomach, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to hold everything inside.

  “No, wait . . .” Joshua begged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  If only he could stop all the blood, take the knife blade out of the gaping wound, help this boy somehow. Joshua eased him to the floor. The guard was only a kid. He was weeping, afraid to die, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Oh, God, forgive me . . .” Joshua begged. “I . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”

  The boy twitched in his arms, gasping, dying.

  Jerimoth rushed in the room, then stopped. “Joshua . . . what happened?”

  “He went for his sword . . . I should have disarmed him first. Oh, God . . . Oh, God!” Joshua remembered the horror of pushing his knife into a living person and shuddered.

  “Never mind, Joshua. We need to go.”

  “But I can’t leave him. He’s still alive . . . he’s—”

  Jerimoth grabbed Joshua under his arms and dragged him to his feet. “Joshua, get moving! Now! Before it’s too late!”

  Joshua felt dizzy as his brother pushed him toward the passageway. His hands were sticky with blood. He was going to be sick.

  Jerimoth paused for a moment to peer out the front window. “I wonder if Maki . . . No!” he cried out. “They caught Mattan!”

  The terrible words penetrated Joshua’s paralysis. He shoved Jerimoth aside to look. A soldier stood in the middle of the street with little Mattan struggling in his arms.

  Joshua knew it was his fault. He should have listened to Jerimoth. He never should have involved the boys. A rush of angry strength surged through Joshua’s veins like strong wine. He picked up the dying soldier’s sword and ran out of the front door, his only thought to save Mattan.

  “Help me!” Mattan screamed.

  Maki was pleading with the guard. “Let him go. He’s only a boy. It’s all right, let him go.”

  The guard looked up as Joshua rushed toward him, sword in hand. “Joshua! It’s you!”

  Mattan wriggled free from the stunned guard’s grasp and fell to the ground. Maki reached to help him up.

  “Run! Both of you, run!” Joshua shouted, then realized his mistake. The guard needed only a fraction of a second to comprehend that they were all working together.

  Joshua’s legs weren’t moving quickly enough. He tried to get to Maki in time, but before he could, the soldier drew his sword and ran it through Maki’s body.

  “No! Maki!”

  Joshua turned into a madman then. Ignoring all his caution and training, he leaped at the guard, slashing wildly, his only thought to kill this man for what he had done to Maki. He felt nothing, saw nothing, blinded by fury and grief.

  When he became aware of his surroundings again, Joshua found himself standing in the middle of the street, his hand fused to a sword. Blood dripped from it. The dead guard lay at his feet, stabbed dozens of times.

  At the edges of his vision, Joshua saw people emerging from their houses. Mattan had disappeared, but Maki lay curled in the dirt, moaning. Joshua threw his weapon down and lifted Maki in his arms. Pain knifed through Joshua’s shoulder as his wound ripped open again, but he didn’t care. He began to run, carrying the servant in his arms.

  Joshua ducked between the houses, ran down back streets, cut through alleyways, running on and on. He felt the warmth of Maki’s blood soaking him and ran faster. He couldn’t let Maki die. He had to find Miriam. She would know how to stop the blood.

  Joshua ran until he reached the outskirts of the city; then his legs buckled beneath him and he crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. Maki cried out in pain as they fell together.

  “Hang on, Maki,” Joshua begged. “Hang on . . .” Joshua tried to stand, tried to lift him again, but his legs wouldn’t hold him.

  “No . . .” Maki moaned. “Leave me here.”

  “I can’t let you die! Please, God. Please!”

  “Listen.” Maki clutched Joshua’s wrist with amazing strength. “Miriam,” he whispered. “Take care of my Miriam.”

  “I will! I promise. I swear!”

  Maki’s grip went slack again.

  Joshua held him in his arms and wept as he watched his servant die.

  Joshua hid Maki’s body beneath a clump of bushes beside the road. He had no time, no way to bury him. He needed to get back to the others. They must get out of the country. He stumbled through the underbrush, afraid to take the road that was slowly filling with afternoon traffic.

  Joshua cursed himself for all the mistakes he had made. He should have listened to Jerimoth and not involved the boys. He should have disarmed the young guard right away. He should have waited before rushing outside to save Mattan. Maki might have persuaded the soldier to release the boy. It was his fault that Maki was dead. The servant had risked his own life to save Joshua and his family, and this is how he had repaid him.

  Joshua allowed tears of guilt and regret to fall as he pushed on, jogging as fast as he dared. One more obstacle to their freedom remained. They had to cross into Moab before word of their escape reached the border outpost.

  As Joshua stumbled into their hiding place, his mother rushed toward him. “Joshua! Dear God—look at you! Are you all right?” She ran her hands over his body, his face.

  “It’s not my blood, Mama.”

  When she was convinced that he was all right, she clasped him tightly in her arms, weeping. “I was so worried! Thank God, thank God!”

  Joshua glanced quickly around the little grove. Everyone was there, even Nathan and Mattan. Then his eyes met Miriam’s.

  “Where’s my father?” she asked.

  He couldn’t look at her. “I’m sorry, Miriam. . . . He’s dead.”

  “No! He isn’t dead! He isn’t!” She rushed at Joshua, beating him with her fists. “It isn’t true!”

  Joshua didn’t try to defend himself. He allowed her to beat him, welcoming the blows. Her father was dead because of him. So were the two soldiers—one killed brutally and the other one dead because of Joshua’s foolish mistake. He had never witnessed death up close before, but today he had seen it, felt it, caused it. Death was so final. So irreversible. He understood, now, about Abba. About Dinah and Grandpa. He grieved for all of them and for himself.

  Jerimoth pulled Miriam away and tried to take her in his arms. “Miriam, we must go. We must cross the border before the soldiers catch up with us.”

  She twisted free from him. “Come on, Nathan,” she said. “We’re going home.”

  Joshua grabb
ed her arm. “Miriam, you can’t—”

  “Don’t tell me what I can do. I curse the day Abba ever dragged you through our door. He would still be alive if it weren’t for all of you.”

  “Let her go, Joshua,” Jerimoth said. “She’s right, this isn’t her battle.”

  “You can’t go back there,” Joshua said. “How will you live?”

  “We’ll manage. We got along fine before you came.”

  “You’ll end up making a living like your mother.”

  “What do you care?” she asked bitterly.

  Joshua grabbed her hand and pressed it against the front of his robe, which was soaked with Maki’s blood. “The last words your father spoke before he died were about you. I held him in my arms, and I swore to him that I would take care of you. I owe him my life, Miriam. If you want to go back to Jerusalem, then I have to go with you.”

  Miriam’s legs gave way, and she sank to the ground in a heap. “Abba . . .” she wept. “I want my abba.” She was too young to be facing such tragedy. Joshua felt a wave of pity for this sad little urchin. He crouched beside her.

  “Please come with us, Miriam,” he said gently. “Your father wanted you to have a better life. That’s why he agreed to help us.”

  “Yes, please, Miriam,” Jerimoth said. “Think of your brothers.”

  She dried her tears with dusty hands, leaving streaks of dirt on her face. “All right,” she said at last.

  “Get in the cart, Joshua,” Jerimoth said. “I’ll divide everyone into three traveling groups, like you planned.”

  All at once, the shock and trauma of the day caught up with Joshua. He felt so shaky and weak-kneed that Jerimoth had to help him into the cart. He lay alone in the cramped darkness, covered with all the worldly goods they possessed, wondering why life no longer made any sense.