Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Yael followed her husband to the edge of the oasis. She was tired to the depths of her bones. The trip to Hazor had been profitable, but tiring. She preferred their tents in the open wind-swept spaces to the tight jumble and noise of the city. Especially Jabin’s city. The Canaanites were fine merchants and artisans, good designers and engineers, too. But, Yael wondered, to what end? She shuddered, closed her eyes yet could not escape the mental images of the Festival. The smell of burning human flesh, then, only hours later, the scent of sensual abandon from the writhing sexuality of Astarte’s worship.
Her flesh crawled, yet tingled, too. Yael couldn’t help comparing herself to the lithe temple maidens who danced so seductively and dared to make love out in the open, in public. Her body was as good as theirs. She too could dance and sway hypnotically. Her face too, was as attractive, yet without the kohl and rouge and other tricks they used, not nearly as wanton and seductive. She pursed her lips and slid her tongue out to moisten them, to make them shine.
Oh, but what was all this about? Yael wondered. She had no need of such things here with her husband. Haber, though eight years older than her twenty-two, was still vigorous and a fine figure of a man, who knew how to make love to her. But it was plain, unadorned procreation without much allure or passion that left Yael with a sense of lack. Haber was a righteous Kenite artisan, a tinsmith, a trade much in demand; passed down in his clan from the time of his forebear, Jethro, and from even as far back as the exodus. I have no need of kohl, rouge and passion, she thought. But something in me burns for it. I am still young and without children. She shuddered at the thought of children, the pain of childbirth, the drudgery of caring for them. The elegant, regal ladies of the Canaanites if they bore children, had slaves to care for them. Ah, to be as they were….
Haber released the pack mule’s lead and the animal wandered a few feet, then bent its head to nibble the succulent grass. As he loosened the carefully arranged packs, Arak came and asked about the cooking pot Haber was making for him. They wandered off and it fell to Yael to finish unpacking. The last and longest bundle was the tent. She unrolled the stitched-together skins and removed the mallet and the sharp tent pegs stored at its center. Yael’s movements were deft and rapid. She enjoyed this work and was good at it.
She paused and starred at the mallet, as if seeing it for the first time. She picked up a wooden spike, touched its sharp point with her thumb. The tent pegs started out much longer, but after each use, Yael sharpened them. Her eyes clouded over and her heart beat more rapidly. She felt frozen in time, tense, waiting. An image of a handsome man in armor, Canaanite armor, drifted before her. She looked down; he was lying at her feet in a fetal position. Yael felt a thrill and her nipples grew taught. She felt out of control yet guided by an inexorable power. It was hard to breath. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. She gripped the tent peg, pointed it down and reached for the mallet.
“Yael,” Haber was calling her. She shook her head to clear it. The vision lingered, then was gone. Her body returned to normal and she sighed.
“Yes, husband,” she answered.
“Arak tells me of another Canaanite raid.” Haber gestured to the older man and he came nearer smiling at Yael. She nodded, acknowledging his presence.
“It has been the second time in two weeks,” Arak said. The older man had been a Haibru soldier and had a long, white scar from his left ear to his chin. Yael always cringed when she saw it. “We do not give our traders enough protection,” he said.
“And our weapons are inferior,” Haber added. “We need the iron of the Canaanites.”
Yael’s mind wandered to the sensation in her hand as she’d held the tent peg. She’d heard this talk of protection and weapons her whole life. The palm of her hand seemed to tingle.
“Your cousin, Jereboam, was taken prisoner,” Arak said.
Yael’s heart stopped. She looked to Haber to be sure she’d heard correctly. He nodded then wrapped her in his arms. She sobbed. Jereboam was her mother’s sister’s first born and her favorite cousin. “Did he resist?” Her voice was hoarse and strangled. It was well known what the Canaanites did to Haibru soldiers who resisted them.
Arak nodded.
“Was he wounded?” Haber asked.
Arak nodded.
“Where?” Yael asked. “Where, was he wounded?” Arak didn’t seem to understand. “On what part of his body? How badly was he wounded?”
“I was not there, Yael,” Arak said, his voice soft with sympathy and grief. “They say it was Sisera’s men, not bandits. They wore uniforms. Perhaps they will make a prisoner exchange….”
Haber laughed. “Exchange? Who have we to exchange?”
Arak looked down and shook his head.
Yael stepped from her husband’s embrace, bent and retrieved a tent peg. She stabbed downwards and brandished it. “Maybe we will capture one of them to exchange for my cousin.” Her voice was matter of fact, as if she were talking about a trade of wheat for barely. But her eyes blazed fiercely and her voice was tinged with anger.
“We will talk with Devorah,” Haber said. Arak, nodded.
Yael looked sharply at him. “She has done nothing yet. Nor has our brave general, Barak,” she said this last sarcastically. “Why would you think now would be any different? We - you, me, and Arak here, are the ones who must act.” Her voice shook and she sobbed. “You can at least learn the secret of iron, Haber. Then at least our weapons will be a match for theirs.” Yael threw the tent peg to the ground and stepped into her husband’s open arms; her body convulsed with sobs and despair.
“I have begun, Yael,” Haber said, stroking her flowing black hair. “I know some of it. I will learn the rest. For you, Yael.” She leaned back and looked into his face. “And for our people.”
Yael kissed him on the mouth. He pulled her close and she felt him stiffen. “Help me with the tent, husband,” she said, voice full of promise. We can tell Devorah later.”

Chapter Three, Part 3

Vermin, Bethena, isn’t that a bit strong?
Lately, whenever she worked herself into a frenzy of hate, another voice, softer, deeply serene and gentle, came to her. It was something from her life before the initiation in the Temple of Astarte, a voice that sounded the way she remembered feeling when she was eleven wandering bare foot in the lush fields and playing with the lambs. Bethena stopped pacing and stood still, listening.
Aren’t they human, as you are? Do they not long for love, as you do; and worry for their sons and daughters? She nodded and felt suddenly drained. Walking back to the chair, she sat heavily.
“But are we – Jabin, Sisera and myself closer to the gods? Are we not the special and divine children of Baal and Astarte, with a mission ordained by them?’
Do you really believe Baal and Astarte are gods? Do you feel their presence?
“In the Temple, when I bow down before them. When we have the services to them, the rituals music, dancing; when I inhale the sacred incense…” Her eyes closed and she touched a hand to her genitals. “Yes. I feel them, then.”
But outside the temple, when you see a sunrise, taste the warmth of fresh bread, inhale the fragrance of the breeze from the sea; look at your child – do you feel Astarte’s presence then?
“I feel something, but it is not what I feel in the Temple. Perhaps what I feel is just the life force itself.”
Which is greater?
“The life force.”
And Baal? Is he a god of life or of death.
Clearly, he was a god of death. Bethena shuddered, remembering the sacrifice of her first born son. Because she had conceived as a temple maiden and was unmarried, there was no question that her son would be sacrificed to Baal-Malek at the next harvest festival.
Bethena had gone back to the country after her month in the temple. Amah and Melka had accompanied her. As her belly grew full, she ate and relaxed and gave herself over to life growing within her. The days passed in a gentle haze of sleeping, chatting and long slow walks beneath the dry blue skies. Then, a month before the baby came, Atrim, her Sire and her son’s Sire, the great over-king sent for her. Melka went back to Hazor with the messenger and explained Bethena’s condition to the king and begged his leave to attend him after the child was born. Atrim agreed.
The baby was a marvelous red-headed boy! A lucky child. Bethena nursed him herself. He was a sweet, good natured child, with big solemn black eyes. As they prepared to bring him to the city, the dread that she had been feeling throughout her pregnancy, threatened to overwhelm Bethena. She could no longer deny that he was to be sacrificed to Baal. That she had borne this sweet child to honor the god was one thing, but to have him be murdered before her eyes?
Melka tried to console Bethena, reminding her that this was the sacrifice of her first born male, for the good of the community and after this, all her sons would live; and surely, she would have many sons. Atrim would see to that. The festival and sacrifice were ten weeks hence, why not enjoy the child ‘till that time?
Atrim, though married, had taken Bethena as a concubine and came often to her suite of rooms in the palace. He too, tried to sooth her, and Bethena, though deeply troubled and oblivious to the royal attention and lavish surroundings, had done her best to do what was expected of her.
Now was the moment of truth, the day of the Festival. Bethena had barely slept and when Amah awakened her, she had cramps in her calves and an ache in her head she thought would split her skull open. She could not keep any food down, but rushed to be with her son. She held him and cooed and rocked him in her arms, sobbing and would not be comforted. Melka tried to apply make-up, but Bethena laughed at the absurd idea.
“You are royalty. Your sacrifice carries more weight. You must look the part,” Melka said.
Again the absurdity of the idea of her sacrifice being any more important or meaningful than any mother’s, twisted Bethena’s mouth into a humorless smile. Surely if this god she was giving her first born to was truly all powerful, he would only give life, not take it. He is a god of death, not of life! She knew it and the insight settled her.
“You have a position to maintain,” Melka said.
Bethena’s eyes burned into Melka’s. “You know all about that, of course, don’t you, Melka?”
“I have had only girl children,” Melka said, softly and looked away.
“I know that. But you know all about making other sacrifices to maintain your position. Love and friendship – mine, for example.”
“I have always been loyal to you, Bethena!”
“A strange loyalty, Melka. Strange, indeed.” Bethena’s eyes were moist from her tears but she stared haughtily ahead, her heart cold and steady. “Apply the kohl and rouge, then. I shall maintain our position.”
Silent crowds lined the twisting streets, hung from the balconies and craned dangerously from the roofs as Bethena walked, cradling her son, beneath a royal indigo canopy borne by four male slaves. Melka and Amah walked a few paces behind her. Bethena walked the two hundred cubits from the palace to the Festival alter, looking straight ahead, feeling nothing. The smell of burning human flesh already adrift on the air. It was a distinctive, sweetish aroma, quite different from lamb or fish. Other women had gone before her. Later she found that thirty-seven women had given their sons to the god that day. She was to be the last.
As she entered the square, a sigh rose from the multitude. Atrim sat on a raised dais made of grey stone slabs with eyes that saw, but looked through her. How many of his children had he already sacrificed in this way? Indeed, she herself had been to the Festival sacrifices every year of her life in the city, and until this day, never experienced the pain of the mothers and the empty futility of the deed.
Sharing the platform with Atrim, was the god. He stood fifteen feet tall, wide mouth gaping, fire roaring in his wide belly; out-stretched arms tilting down to receive his beloveds and propel them into the flames. Four priests stood, naked, but for white linen loin cloths and gleaming gold bejeweled wrist and head bands, two on either side of the idol.
As Bethena reached the base of the platform, the two, to her right descended the ramp to meet her. One was carrying a chalice of drugged wine, the other took the child from her and held him up. The multitude cheered enthusiastically. They gave Bethena’s son a drink, rocked him, gently, then ascended the ramp. Bethena followed. The two priests already on the platform led her to a place near the King where she stood and watched. They gave the boy another drink, lifted him again for the crowd and took their places before the great god Baal. The one holding the child aloft maintained his position while the others prostrated themselves at the god’s massive feet.
Then, it was done. The priest lowered the child, took a step forward, laid the baby on the outstretched downward tilting arms and the child rolled into Baal’s flaming belly. Bethena never once looked away but did choke a moment later when the wind wafted the scent of her son’s burning flesh in her direction.
Two years later, Bethena had borne Atrim her second son, Sisera.