as a sure defense.
Now you are no more;
you have been erased from the face of the earth,
your warriors have lost the battle,
your chariots will drive out to war no more.
Oh Lachish!”
The man proclaimed his lament over the fallen city. His eyelids were pressed together and with pain etched across his features he lifted his face heavenward. Then he opened his eyes again and looked at Rivkah. “So you fled the city? All alone?”
She nodded.
“Poor girl. When did it happen? It’s the first I heard of it.”
“Just yesterday,” Rivkah said.
“Have you had had anything to eat or drink?”
Rivkah shook her head.
“Oh my, you must be starving then. Come on, I’ll show you where we’re staying. I suppose we can always share our meager provisions with another fugitive.”
* * *
Sennacherib, king of all, king of Assyria, sat on his royal throne while the spoil of Lachish passed before him. In his left hand he held the royal bow, in his right he clasped two golden arrows. Truly, here was the leader of the mighty army that through its weapons, its skill and fighting prowess had carried out the will of the great god Ashur. The king’s feet rested on an ornate footstool, his left arm inclined on the armrest of the magnificent throne. Eunuchs stood behind the throne waving richly-adorned fans, moving the air that was still heavy with the smoke of the smoldering city. Robed in precious garments, the figure of the king on his high throne commanded the attention of all. His head erect, crowned with the ornate, peaked cap of Assyrian kings, Sennacherib surveyed the procession before him. The Tartan, the commander-in-chief, led the train followed by commanders of divisions, the strategists and the Musarkisu officers. Among them was Ashur-bel-amati, the commander of the archers. It was said he could split a hair from a distance of two hundred paces, so accurate was his mark with the arrow.
The Tartan then remained at the king’s side while the other officers moved on past him. Next, the leaders of the vanquished city appeared before the king. They had their hands held in supplication to the king, silently beseeching him for mercy. As they came closer, they shuffled forward on their knees, repeatedly bending down low, kissing the dust. There was no dignity left in them. They looked like dogs that slink through the city streets. Their clothes were tattered and torn, their feet bare; they wore no jewelry and carried no weapons.
As he watched the pitiful display, Itur-Ea could not imagine that these were the leaders of the men that had determinedly held the mighty Assyrian army at bay for months. His rage and anger against them turned into disgust. Now these wretched fools would pay for their obstinacy. Their weakness and stupidity was now plain to see.
While the leaders of Lachish were still groveling in the dust before the throne, a crowd of prisoners was herded past the back ranks amongst which Itur-Ea was standing. Women, children, and old men were now brought before the king, who gave them scant attention as they filed past. The great king showed renewed interest as Assyrian soldiers came forward carrying past the most valuable booty taken from the city. There were intricately carved incense stands 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
