Daughter of Lachish. Tim Frank
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and ornate furniture with ivory inlay, jewelry and musical instruments. The city must have had a sanctuary after all, even if there was no grand temple. Soldiers carried past shields and spears, swords and bows, which had been taken from the defenders. Now they would be added to the weaponry of the Assyrian army. But the war chariots received the most attention as they were wheeled past. Their workmanship was admirable. They looked sturdy and yet maneuverable—a most welcome addition to the military inventory.
The Tartan also appeared pleased at the less notable, but more practical, loot of jugs of oil and jars of barley carried from the city. Clearly, Lachish could have held out longer. Now the food would be used to sustain Assyrian soldiers and to give the prisoners provisions on their long journey into exile.
The parade concluded with an offering to the gods. Two rams and a bull were killed in honor of the great god Ashur, the chief army priest conducting the rites. The king watched in solemn silence as priests burned the entrails of the animals. He raised his voice and dedicated the victory to Ashur. Ishtar of Nineveh also received a bull. Itur-Ea’s heart beat faster as the animal expired with an angry bellow. He joined fervently in the prayers to Ishtar. She had protected him in this campaign. She had given victory. And he had encountered her on the battlefield on the night that Lachish fell.
Sennacherib, king of all, king of Assyria, stood. The celebration was over. Soldiers cheered as the great king came down from his throne and went into the royal tent.
* * *
The pace was just crazy. Rivkah could hardly keep up with the man’s strides. She followed several cubits behind him, but always seemed to be dropping back, so that she frequently had to break into a quick run to keep up with him. They hadn’t been walking that long, but to Rivkah it seemed like hours. The man hadn’t spoken since he’d made that offer of food and drink.
Rivkah had to stop and catch her breath again. She fell even further behind. The man suddenly seemed to notice and turned around. “Sorry, I totally forgot that you must be tired. I’ll slow down. Are you all right?”
Rivkah tried to replicate his smile. “Just a bit tired and hungry.”
“It’s not far now,” he promised.
Whatever did “not far” mean? She couldn’t see any houses anywhere. Not a sign of a village. It must still be miles away.
The man kept his promise and slowed his pace. Rivkah was closer behind him now, following his steps. He made his way through the low bushes and thorns covering the landscape. She watched him place his feet carefully on the dry ground as they walked uphill. Suddenly he seemed to remember something and stopped. He turned to Rivkah, “What’s your name, girl?”
“Rivkah.”
“And your family?”
“Amzi, the smith, is my father.”
“Oho, he was a good tradesman, your father. One of our neighbors once went to Lachish to get his plow repaired.”
Rivkah nodded.
The man continued, “I am Amnon from Shechar. Our village was in the valley across there. See, just over that ridge? I was a farmer there, working the land of my fathers. We fled before the might of the Assyrian army. But come on. I’ll show you where we are living now.”
Now that he mentioned it, Rivkah could faintly smell human waste. It wasn’t quite as strong as in the back alleys of Lachish, but it was unmistakable. And then she noticed the fireplace: a simple circle of stones on the ground. Somebody must have used it today. A few pots and bowls lay beside it. Next she saw the cave towards which Amnon walked. He stopped in front of the entrance. “Welcome to our home.” He didn’t get any further. From inside the cave came a voice, “Son, who have you brought here?” An old woman crawled out of the entrance. Her weathered face was framed by long, flowing hair that once must have been shining black, but was now streaked with grey. When she was out in the open, she stood erect, her hair nearly touching her waist.
“I found her in the hills south of here. She’s fleeing from the Assyrians, mother. They have captured Lachish! The city has fallen! May the LORD have mercy on us! Will the Assyrians really rule this land? We all know their cruelty.
The mighty one has broken the gates of the city,
he has plundered the villages round about,
he has felled the people by the sword
and destroyed their children with fire,
so that they will be remembered no more
and their inheritance has been laid to waste.”
Amnon was silent again, deeply troubled.
“So you have brought her here,” the woman brought him back to the present.
“Yes, she is hungry and needs rest. She was wandering aimlessly through the hills. And mother, she looks as if she could do her share of work.”
The old woman inspected Rivkah. “And who is she?”
Amnon leaned over to Rivkah and whispered, “It’s Rivkah isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Mother, this is Rivkah, daughter of the blacksmith of Lachish.”
“Shalom Rivkah, daughter of Lachish. Come in.” The old woman turned to the cave again.
“This is my mother, Ayalah,” Amnon explained as Rivkah followed.
Rivkah climbed down the steps into the cave. At first she could hardly see in the dim light. But then her eyes adjusted to the dark. She was in a rectangular room with a low ceiling. It was about four by six cubits wide. Opposite the entrance there was a door to another chamber. To the left, too, another room went off the main chamber she was now standing in. Rivkah knew immediately: this was a grave! What were they doing among the dead?
* * *
The wind had turned. The westerly breeze now blew the smoke of the smoldering ruins of Lachish away from the camp. The stench had hung over the valley throughout the night and day. Itur-Ea hardly noticed the change of wind. He stood among the other soldiers watching the leaders of Lachish being tortured. Their pleas for mercy to the king had gone unanswered and he had handed them over to the wrath of his officers. The anger of the officers knew no bounds. One of the Judahites had been hurled to the ground. An officer hauled him up by his hair and at the same time thrust a dagger into his side. The man tried to wriggle out of the way, but a soldier kicked him in the belly, causing the man to double over. Silent tears welled in his eyes. The officer drew him up again and began to hack the skin from the flesh. The man’s screams of agony were met by the laughter of the soldiers. He did not last long. The screams died away as the man sank into a lifeless form, the blood draining red into the dust.
The Assyrian fury was not spent yet. Several archers grabbed two Judahites and stripped them naked. The two stood motionless, giving no resistance as derisive shouts pelted them like stones. The sport had only begun. Four archers stepped forward and each took a leg of the men, pulling them off their feet. Like a cat swung by its tail, so the men were used as living slings and swung through the air. Their heads smashed together before being bashed onto the ground. As one soldier became tired, another took his place and grabbed a leg. The spectators howled in delight. They participated in the sport by dealing an occasional blow to the victims lying on the ground or as they swung through the air. Where was the courage of the Judahites now, where their defense?
Itur-Ea laughed out loud. Just watching them suffer released his anger. He shoved his way to the front of the group. One of the Judahites lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, a shattered body fighting for breath. There was still a spark of life in him. In rage Itur-Ea kicked the man’s head. Other soldiers joined in and stomped on the limp body. Its life was snuffed out and when the horde moved on, it left only a dismembered mess of blood and cracked bones in the dust.
Itur-Ea watched at least a dozen men being tortured and killed that afternoon. It was part of the sweet victory over such determined a foe.