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“Why did you not kill him?” Xyla screamed at her husband. The two stood in his bedchamber, the fire burning low. “Chemosh ordered you!”
Solomon felt his shoulders sink. For two nights an unseen hand of fire gripped his throat and stomach. He knew Chemosh even now punished him for his rebellion. He felt so weak. So tired. So confused.
“I could not kill him,” Solomon barely spoke.
“You could not or you would not?” Xyla screamed, circling her husband. “You made an oath to serve Chemosh, to obey him! You think the pain you suffer now is even a taste of what is in store for you?”
“Benaiah is a good man! He does not deserve to die!” Solomon hissed. The hand of fire tightened its grip. Solomon staggered, leaning against a chair.
And then, for a brief moment, Solomon thought he saw the barest glimpse of pity flash through Xyla’s eyes. It disappeared in a moment.
“My dear,” Xyla said, approaching him. “Chemosh can be cruel. He is very powerful. You are under his authority now. He does not tolerate disobedience. It pains me to see you in such agony.”
She held him close and kissed his cheek. “You have a fever.”
Solomon swallowed, falling into her embrace, and yet hating her all the more. I’m so trapped! So lost! So tired!
“I cannot serve Chemosh if he continues to inflict such pain,” Solomon gasped.
Then, in an instant, the pain stopped. It was such a relief Solomon felt as if all the pleasure in the world suddenly flooded his soul. He straightened, his eyes wide.
“It has stopped,” Xyla said, searching his eyes.
Solomon nodded, leaning against her. “Yes.”
“Do not forget,” Xyla warned. Her breath felt warm against his face. “You must kill Benaiah. Summon him again.”
Solomon shut his eyes, “I need to rest first. We will discuss this in the morning.”
“Very well. But the longer you delay, the longer it shall be before you win this war.”
Solomon nodded again. He felt too tired, too weak to think. His body felt filled with strength, but his mind and spirit felt like heavy irons weighing him down. “I know. I know. Let Benaiah wage this battle tomorrow. And then I will deal with him.”
Xyla smiled, satisfied. “Should I summon some concubines? To ease your mind tonight?”
“Yes, thank you. Goodnight.”
Xyla lightly kissed him and left the bedchamber. Solomon collapsed into his bed. The evil presence had left. For now. And with it, Solomon felt the power gone. Are you gone from me, Chemosh? Have you forsaken me like my Creator has?
A terrible loneliness filled his heart. Forsaken by God and the devil.
Solomon rose to his feet and stumbled toward the balcony. The cool, evening air did little to comfort him. He looked down at the tiny, flickering lights below, the lights of Jerusalem. I have so many advisors, so many friends. So many concubines and wives. And yet, I am so alone. He shook his head, leaning into the stone railing.
So alone.
Three hundred men stood in the king’s courtyard, farmers, peasants, workers, some bearing torches, some pitchforks, some swords. It was evening, a pleasant one, except for the yells and shouts from the crowd of men. They gathered in the courtyard before the towering doors leading into Solomon’s banquet hall.
The king stood on his porch, looking down at them, two rows of heavily armed guards before him. His councilors had urged him not to speak with the mob. They told him he should disperse them at once and not give it a second thought. But Solomon had heard of these mobs in different places before. He had heard of crowds, some far bigger than this one, staging protests against the high taxes and continued war. He was tired of hearing about this constant rebellion but never seeing it. He was tired of plenty of things. He wanted, at least, to confront this problem.
As he stared into the angered faces of the mob, he felt his invisible burden grow even heavier. He raised his hands and the mob quieted.
“Who is your leader?” Solomon asked.
A tall, gray bearded farmer stepped forward. He lifted his sword.
“What is your name, Israelite?” Solomon asked.
“I am Benjamin, son of Saul, the Asherite.”
“Very well, Benjamin, son of Saul. What is your grievance?”
“I am a farmer near the coasts,” Benjamin said. “The taxes you levy against us are destroying our profits. We barely have enough to keep our farms running. All our strong hands are busy fighting. We cannot continue in this way.”
“I see. And you would have me lower your taxes?” Solomon raised his hands in frustration. “Perhaps disband the army?”
Benjamin hesitated. He had not expected the question. He shook his head. “My king and lord, we know the need for an army. We know the need for the war. But the taxes are too much. You must lift them.”
“And if I lift them, what then?” Solomon’s eyes flashed. “Do you think money grows on trees? How will we support the army? How will we feed them? What do you propose, son of Saul?”
Benjamin cowered back. Another man, short and stocky, stepped forward. He had a long black beard and dark, angry eyes. “If you do not lift the taxes, we will be unable to continue our farms. Then where will you get food to feed your army?”
Solomon remained silent. He measured his words carefully. “Are you suggesting that you will stop providing food for the army?”
“I am suggesting we will ne unable to provide food for any Israelite if these taxes continue!”
Solomon smiled with as much confidence as he could muster. “The war will be over soon. You must believe me. When it does, the taxes will be lifted.”
Benjamin pulled the short man back and stepped forward. “When, my lord? When will the war end?”
Solomon, three days ago, received news from Joshua of the battle Benaiah led into Edom. They had struck hard and fast, destroying several villages. The success had encouraged the king. Still, he knew as long as his captain lived, Chemosh would not give him the quick victory. He desperately needed a quick victory.
“Soon, Benjamin. Soon. Trust me,” the king turned around and disappeared into his palace.
Ahazael stood in the council chamber with two dozen other leaders, magistrates and advisors. They had met long into the night with no end in sight for their deliberations. The chief scribe sighed, rising to his feet.
“It appears we all, at least, agree on one thing. The king is becoming dangerous once more. Our armies have no clear victory in sight, and several tribes are speaking of open rebellion if the taxes are not removed. We must do something. And quickly.”
Gideon, leader of the tribe of Rueben, rose to his feet. He had long, dark hair, a darker beard, and eyes like a hawk. His long, hooked nose overshadowed his thin mustache.
“There are rumors that the king wants Captain Benaiah dead. Is this true?”
Ahazael had heard many rumors, a great deal of them about Solomon and a great deal of them untrue. However, this rumor he knew to be true as he had overheard the king speaking of this with Xyla.
He nodded reluctantly. “It is true. However, as yet, the king is delaying any plans to carry it out.”
“Why would he do this?” Phineas, a Levite Priest, asked in horror. “Benaiah is our best leader! And a brave soldier.”
“They say Xyla wants him dead,” Gideon said.
“Israel’s run by women who care nothing for our customs and laws!” Phineas spat in bitterness.
“No, he despises Xyla,” Ahazael corrected. “It is not because of her. I fear the king is under the influence of devils. I do not pretend to know what he is doing late at night in the caverns beneath the altars of Molech and Chemosh, but I know it is not innocent. He is losing his mind.”
“And it is for that reason he must be removed,” Gideon said, pounding his fist to the table. A general murmur of agreement arose.
Ahazael sighed. “It is not that simple. There are still many in this court who loyally support the king. And his one thousand women have many friends and spies. Also, many people still love him. Even Benaiah is still loyal though he sees the king’s treachery.”
“Have you spoken with the captain?” Phineas asked.
“Yes,” Ahazael nodded. “But he is convinced Solomon will soon repent. He says he saw the king reach rock bottom and it is only a matter of time before he will turn for the good.”
Gideon shook his head, his face grim. “Captain Benaiah does not see him every day as we do. What little hope there was of his repentance is lost because of his wives. His heart is wrapped up in his women.”
“And wine,” Phineas added.
Ahazael lifted his hands in surrender. “And so again we agree on the problem. But what is the solution? Do we wait for open rebellion amongst the tribes before we challenge the king? Or do we attempt another coup?”
All faces frowned at the choice. Gideon took his seat. “We cannot launch a coup. We will all find ourselves at the end of a rope.”
“Nor are many of us willing to do so,” Phineas agreed.
“Then our decision is to wait?” Ahazael asked.
All faces looked glum. They knew waiting could plunge Israel into a civil war.
“There are rumors,” Phineas said. “of ten tribes splitting away from Judea and Benjamin. They intend to make a kingdom to the north.”
“We cannot allow that to happen!” Gideon thundered.
“We cannot stop it as long as Solomon is king!” Phineas shouted back. Several voices began speaking at once. Ahazael banged the gavel to restore order.
“For now, Israel holds. As long as Syria and Edom continue to attack, our people will stand together. For this, at least, we can be grateful to our enemies. What we must fear is if Solomon wins this war. Or the Syrians and Edomites simply stop. Our enemies must have spies in our lands. Perhaps they will see the advantage if they were to draw back. A civil war would help them greatly.”
All stared at the table in silence.
“We are trapped, my friends. Trapped as much as Benaiah is in a war he is not winning, and perhaps as trapped as our king is in his confusion. We are all trapped. I do not know what more there is left for us to do.”
“Pray,” Azariah, the High Priest and eldest son of Zadok said as he rose to his feet. His blue eyes shone from his thick, dark eyebrows. “We must pray as never before. For too many years have we spoken behind our king’s back and tried to solve this on our own. We must seek the face of Him who can restore Solomon.”
Ahazael rose to his feet and rested his hand on the High Priest's shoulder. “Yes, and we are grateful for your wise words, Azariah. Perhaps, then, that is all we can do. All we should do. Prayer cannot hurt.”
The leaders began to leave the room. Yet, as Ahazael watched the men file out, he felt his heart turn cold. He had stopped believing in prayer long ago.
Queen Rebecca walked the marbled halls of her emerald palace, a long, silver gown fluttering about her feet. The soft moonlight of early summer filled the many-windowed hall. She continued on in sadness, her head bowed.
News of victories from the Israelite front did little to cheer her. Just yesterday Solomon had burst into her room, filled with joy at a crushing blow to the enemy. He had brought her a red rose. She had taken the gift but began to cry. For every victory she saw Solomon grow more proud, more hard, more arrogant in his sin. For every victory she saw less of a chance for her husband to repent.
Her tears had angered her husband. Solomon had said many unkind words to her before leaving in a rage. She had tried to go to him and ask forgiveness, but Solomon barred her from the court. So, now, she walked her palace, praying, singing, hoping for an answer.
What now, oh Lord? You have spoken to my husband. You have dealt with him many times. But he still does not change. He continues deeper into sorcery. He continues with his wine and his strange wives. What now, oh Lord? Have you finally given up on him? Is he truly lost? Beyond all hope? Is this how things will go until I die of grief?
Nothing. No answer. No Voice. She continued on, offering up her prayers, hoping for that still, soft Voice to comfort her.
Nothing. Just silence. She shut her eyes and leaned against one wall, weeping long into the night.
Solomon sat at his desk in the “room of the heavens”, blank parchment spread before him, a quill in his hands. He had not written proverbs or poetry for so long. Years, in fact. And today, on this beautiful summer day, with another victory in sight for his men, he felt like writing.
As his pen touched the paper, Xyla walked into the room. He looked up with a frown. She frowned back.
“What are you doing?”
“I am composing for my Lord,” Solomon said softly.
“Your Lord? Your Lord is Chemosh!” Xyla hissed.
Solomon slammed down his pen. “Do not raise your voice at me, again! I am not in the mood to contend with you!”
Xyla’s face softened. She smiled. “I’m sorry, my lord. I spoke out of turn. However, have you forgotten your promise to Chemosh?”
Solomon shrugged. “Benaiah has been delivering one victory after another. Joshua tells me the tide is turning. Soon we will be able to launch into Edom directly. Perhaps even Syria. I do not need Chemosh.”
Xyla’s eyes narrowed. “Yet you still practice sorcery. I saw you with a witch last night, summoning the dead spirit of your mother. I heard you invoke the name of Chemosh then.”
Solomon swallowed. “I cannot murder my closest friend. Not even Chemosh can ask me to do this.”
“Then you cannot win,” Xyla said. “You may have victory now. But it will be short lived. You will begin losing again. And it will be worse than before. Chemosh needs the blood of a sacrifice to continue. He needs the blood of Benaiah.”
Solomon shook his head. “I cannot do it.”
Suddenly a dark form appeared over Xyla, wings extended, red eyes glowing. Solomon felt terror fill him. Xyla fell to her knees, crying in pain as the shadow arched over her.
“Kill the captain or before the sun sets this day, you will lose half your army. I require his blood,” the spirit hissed.
Solomon fell to his own knees. The spirit flashed with a red light and then disappeared. Xyla slumped to her face, as if dead. The king sat hunched on his knees, trembling, unwilling to even rise to his feet for several hours.
Benaiah, atop his war horse, looked out from the ridge. Half of the armies now stood just inside Edom, near the border of its western most forests, ready to launch a full scale invasion toward the capitol. He scanned the men and the forests beyond for any sign of warning.
None.
He felt renewed in his heart and mind. For four months now, victories had marked the war. They had even begun to protect their villages. Although he had not spoken to Solomon in all that time, he felt sure the turn for the better meant the king had begun on his road to repentance.
He drew his sword even as Commander Joshua galloped toward him. The dark bearded, middle aged commander smiled. “The men are ready and eager, captain!”
Benaiah smiled back. They had long waited for this day. He would personally deliver the news to the king when they had crushed the Edomites. Today, Hadad would taste the hard edge of Israel’s might.
“Very good, commander. Signal the advance.”
Joshua slid free his sword. The autumn sun hung low in the sky, but the weather was unusually warm for this late in the year. Perfect conditions for an invasion. Most of the Edomite raiding parties had fled back into their hills. The way was finally clear.
Commander Joshua lifted his sword high and several shofars began to blow. With a cheer, the massive army began to move forward toward the Edomite trees. Joshua galloped down the ridge to lead the front lines. Benaiah remained behind so that he could keep watch on everything. The most dangerous part of their invasion lay in the forest. For most of the day they would march into the woods. By evening, they would emerge into the plains about the Edomite capitol. If they could manage to free themselves of the woods and hills, they would have the danger behind them.
Within an hour, the army passed under the thick canopy of the trees. They marched quickly and quietly, blades drawn and ready, scouts deployed to warn of any danger. Benaiah followed from behind. The forest cast thick, dark shadows upon them. He felt a chill but dismissed it. Even if ambushed in the woods, they were strong enough to win.
At mid afternoon, Benaiah heard the first shouts of surprise. A solider reported that Edomites had attacked near the front, shooting arrows from trees. Benaiah nodded. Nothing he had not expected. Certainly the Edomites would seek to take advantage of this terrain. Joshua would hold them off.
It was the second report he had not expected.
“They have begun setting the trees on fire!”
Benaiah shook his head. Was Hadad mad? The dry summer and lack of rain through most of autumn made the forest a tinder box. Only one who cared nothing for his country would set fire to his own forest.
“We must put out the flames at once!” Benaiah ordered.
The soldier tried to contain his panic before the captain. “We are trying, but they are burning everywhere. And the winds are causing the flames to spread!”
In an hour, the forest raged with flames ahead and to either side. Smoke choked the trees. Benaiah swore. He would have to retreat.
When the soldier returned the third time, a bloody gash crossed his chin and he looked on the verge of collapse.
“What has happened, soldier?”
He shook his head hopelessly. “The Edomites have penetrated our forward lines. They used the cover of smoke. We didn’t even see them coming until they were on top of us. They know these woods too well, even while they burn. It’s a slaughter, captain!”
Benaiah cooly climbed his horse. “How many dead?”
“At least a thousand,” he said. “They keep hiding in the smoke and then striking out when we least expect it. And we have lost several hundred more to falling trees and suffocating smoke.”
A haze began filling even this part of the forest, farthest removed from the flames. Benaiah began to feel everything drop away from beneath him. “Order a retreat. Tell Commander Joshua to bring his end back here at once. We must get out of the forest!”
By nightfall Benaiah returned to the same ridge on the eastern border of Israel overlooking the forests of Edom. Of the five thousand that had entered the forest, only four hundred remained. Of those, many were so burned or suffocated by smoke, that they would not live to see dawn.
Still Benaiah waited. The last of his soldiers continued to flee back into Israel. And yet Commander Joshua had not returned. Benaiah continued to send scouts forward despite the inferno of the forest. He had known Joshua for most of his life. He had met him as a young man, a guard of David’s bedchamber. He had proudly watched him grow, working hard, always loyal to Israel and her throne. Joshua, next to Solomon, had become his best friend. His most trusted companion.
And as the hours dragged on, he grew more anxious for word from Joshua.
Just as dawn arrived, he watched the last of the soldiers flee from the forest. With a sigh of relief he saw Joshua on his horse. He watched the black bearded commander ride up to meet his captain.
“Commander Joshua!” Benaiah called. “I had grown to wonder when you would return.”
As Joshua neared, Benaiah frowned. A deep gash cut through one side of his head. The bandage was soaked through with blood. Another deep gash covered his right side. He looked pale and near collapse. He nodded weakly and said nothing.
“Did you not hear the call to retreat?” Benaiah tried to joke. Joshua only nodded, breathing hard.
“Joshua, are you all right? Have you replaced your bandages recently?”
Suddenly he fell forward, toppling off his horse onto the ground.
Benaiah jumped off his horse and kneeled next to his friend. “Guards! Get the physicians! Now!”
Guards scrambled to find the nearest one.
Benaiah cradled Joshua in his hands. Blood poured across his face. His eyes fluttered.
“Stay with me, Joshua. Stay with me!” Benaiah whispered.
“I . . .” Joshua choked, blood spurting from his mouth. “I feel so tired, captain. I can’t stay awake . . .”
“You must, commander! You must! That is an order!” Benaiah barked. He looked up, searching in vain for a physician. Where are they?
Joshua smiled. “We fought well, Benaiah. We all did. And we killed many of the Edomites. Many . . .”
A white robed physician kneeled next to Solomon as Joshua moaned. He leaned over him. The physician shook his head. “We must replace his bandages immediately.”
Solomon tore off strips of his own tunic. As he did so the physician's hand fell on his arm. Solomon stared up into his eyes with confusion. “This is as good as anything.”
“No,” the physician said sadly. “They will not help him now.”
“What do you mean?” Benaiah shouted and stared down at his wounded friend. Joshua’s eyes were fixed on the morning sky The blood had stopped draining. His face looked a ghostly white.
“No . . . no!” Benaiah yelled as he cradled Joshua’s head close. “No, please, Lord. Please, no! No!”
The physicians rose as Benaiah cradled the dead commander in his lap, his weeping loud enough for all the men to hear.