 
# Chapter One

### A Sampler of Six Books

## Carole Towriss

Copyright © 2019 by Carole Towriss

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®, unless otherwise marked. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.

Scripture quotations marked JUB are taken from the Jubilee Bible, copyright © 2000, 2001, 2010, 2013 by Life Sentence Publishing, Inc. Used by permission of Life Sentence Publishing, Inc., Abbotsford, Wisconsin. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked TPT are taken from The Passion Translation®. Copyright © 2018 by Passion & Fire Ministries, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved. ThePassionTranslation.com.

Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible® (NASB), Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. www.Lockman.org All rights reserved. Any emphasis to scripture quotations is added by the author. 

### Contents

Introduction

1. Sold into Freedom

2. Chapter One

3. Deep Calling Deep

4. Chapter One

5. Prize of War

6. Chapter One

7. In the Shadow of Sinai

8. Chapter One

9. By the Waters of Kadesh

10. Chapter One

11. The Walls of Arad

12. Chapter One

About the Author

# Introduction

I've written six Biblical Fiction books so far. I'm delighted to share with you the first chapter of each of these.

### Enjoy!

# Sold into Freedom

_Sold Into Freedom_ is book 1 of "The Planting Faith Series." This series follows the Apostle Paul through his second missionary journey. Each book will focus on two or more little-known biblical characters who came to faith through his ministry.

_Sold into Freedom_ is based on the stories in Acts 16.

_She will kill to escape._

_He has killed for the Empire._

_What will they give for a freedom like no other?_

Elantia, a seer, is kidnapped from her home on the coast of Britannia and sold as a slave in Ephesus. Her new owners take her to Philippi, where they put her to work each day in the marketplace telling fortunes. When they take from her the only good thing left in her life, she vows she will take her revenge and find her way home, even if she has to kill to do it.

After a devastating injury and vicious rumors, Tribune Quintus Valerius is dismissed from the army he loves. Given land in lieu of a cash pension, he settles in Philippi, but a betrayal forces him to become the city's Keeper of the Prison. At least until the truth comes out.

Everything changes when a simple Jewish preacher visits Philippi. Tia and Quin are both intrigued by Paulos's message of peace, but it seems too good to be true. Are they willing to leave behind everything they know to experience a freedom like no other?

# Chapter One

_"There are . . . things which the Lord hates,_ _. . ._

_that are detestable to him: . . ._

_a heart that devises wicked schemes,_

_[and]_ _feet that are quick to rush into evil."_

_—_ Proverbs 6:16, 18—

### Southwestern coast of Britannia, 49 a.d.

It was the screaming that woke her up.

Elantia rubbed the sleep from her eyes and scrambled from her straw-covered cottage in the tiny village by the sea. In the grim light of early morning, nail-studded leather pounded the ground as soldiers dragged horrified families out of their roundhouses. Blood-red cloaks whipped in the ocean breeze as the invaders set fire to anything they could burn, tearing apart what they could not.

Screeches and wails intertwined with the clang of metal against metal, the crackle of flames eating up thatch, and the soldiers' horrible, dreadful words. Thank the gods their chieftain father had insisted they learn Latin when the _Roumani_ defeated their neighbors years ago, but she hated the sound of it.

Muscles tightened, ready to fight, Elantia fought through the throng of townspeople surrounding her father.

The Roumani leader, a centurion judging by his uniform, stood face-to-face with him. "Give us your best quietly or we will take them by force."

Shoulders back, _Tatos_ stood his ground. "You have no right. We are at peace with Rome. After months of bloody battles with our neighbors, Commander Vespasian decided conquering us was not worth the losses to his legion. He vowed the Roumani would never attack us."

"What makes you think we answer to Vespasian?" He leaned nearer. "Now stand aside."

"I will not." Tatos pulled himself as tall as his aging body allowed. "We've done nothing to you to warrant such violence. I must protect my people."

Her heart swelled at her tatos's vow, even in the face of almost certain defeat.

The centurion shoved him aside. "Rome needs strong backs. When we're done, you'll have nothing left to protect."

In the six years since the Roumani had invaded their land, they had brought nothing but pain.

He beckoned to another, whispered to him. The younger man grabbed Tatos and _Mamma_ and dragged them away.

"Mamma!" Elantia rushed to follow her parents, but a rough hand jerked her by the arm and shoved her into a sheep pen, where most of the other young adults of the tribe already waited. She ran to Tancorix.

Her brother wrapped his arms around her, held her close.

The second soldier grabbed Tancorix and pulled him from Elantia, lining them up in a loose row.

The centurion strode over. Eyeing each of them from head to toe, he hesitated when he came to their cousin. He grabbed her thin arm and turned it over once, twice.

Elantia's breath caught. The girl was weak. She'd been sick most of the winter. What would he do to her?

He yanked her out of line, thrust her toward his second in command, and then continued his inspection, nodding in satisfaction. Stopping before Elantia's brother, he fingered the thick, braided gold torque around Tancorix's neck. He yanked at it, but the opening at the neck was but a finger's breadth wide. He pulled harder, twisting.

Tancorix put his hands to his neck, wincing in pain as the stiff metal cut into his skin and cut off his air. He grasped the man's forearms, sinking to the ground, his breath coming fast.

Tia's heart pounded as she tried to pull the Roumanos's hands away. "This is the chief's son! That torque was put around his neck as a child, and he grew into it. It's not coming off!"

Tancorix struggled for air, his face turning as red as the centurion's cloak.

The Roumanos let go of the necklace to backhand her.

She stumbled but managed to stay upright. Stinging pain radiated from her cheek to her whole head. The metallic taste of blood lingered on her lip.

With a smile that sent a shiver down her back, he neared her. He ran his fingers down her face, her neck, then along the front of the sleeveless cloak she wore, the one Mamma had spent the winter months making for her. He moved behind her and wrenched it off her arms. His hot breath on her neck sent her stomach roiling. "It's a shame we are in such a hurry."

He tossed the garment to his aide, and the younger man left.

Tia's hands trembled as she reached for Tancorix. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple.

The soldier returned with a long rope. Her skin burned as he wrapped it around her wrists and knotted it, far too tightly. It went from her to Tancorix to all the others in turn.

She searched for Tatos and Mamma. What had the soldiers done to them? She'd never trusted the Roumani, and today had proved her instinct right. Her father had made sure they'd been loyal, kept every provision of the truce, and then today . . .

The centurion yanked the end of the rope. Her knees hit the ground. Her face smashed against her fists. He tugged again, pulling her up, shouting some command at her. Tancorix's gentle hands steadied her as she stood.

They followed the chief soldier. At the edge of the seaside village, all that remained of her people—the old ones and the youngest—huddled together. She quickly searched for familiar clothing. Her eyes rested on the colorful tunic Mamma wore. And Tatos? He waited behind her mother, his cheek swollen, his lip cut and bleeding.

Then she saw the bodies at their feet.

Her heart sank as realization dawned. The Roumani intended to make her father watch as they slaughtered what was left of his village.

One by one the legionaries dragged a villager from the crowd, rammed a sword through, and let the body drop.

Her father still stood, battered. Bound. Silent.

Elantia's legs gave way, but Tancorix held her up. A moan escaped.

The villagers gone, the centurion neared Tatos.

Her father looked at her and mouthed the familiar command, "No tears." His moist eyes reflected the raging flames. _"Carami te."_

_I love you too._ Her blood pounded. Her breath came fast and shallow.

Another legionary blocked her view. His elbow shot back, and a body crumbled to the ground. The bloody sword came to rest at his side.

Elantia turned and buried her face in Tancorix's chest. She longed to grab him, wrap his arms around her, feel safe, but since they were bound, he could only whisper in her ear.

"Don't look," her brother whispered. "You don't want to remember them that way."

After a few moments, a crimson-cloaked soldier grabbed at her again, pulling her away. She glanced toward the dwindling crowd.

Tancorix shook his head. "Don't." He placed his body between her and the pile of executed villagers.

The group stumbled forward as the legionary pulled on the rope.

"Keep looking ahead," Tancorix whispered from behind.

She focused her gaze on the cloak of the man leading them. It took everything she had to put one foot in front of the other, to keep from looking back.

The best her village had to offer marched, and marched, and marched. More soldiers added young people from other villages at various points along the way, the train of captives growing longer.

Tancorix was right. She needed to cherish the memory of her mother and father in her heart, a memory of them as wonderful parents and strong leaders.

She'd need their toughness, their love to face what was to come.

Because warriors don't cry.

### Battlefield, western coast of Britannia

The darkness evaporated, but the agony remained.

Quintus Valerius stretched his left hand across his chest, biting back a groan as he pressed his fingers against his shoulder. He brought his hand away dipped in blood. Any attempt at movement brought excruciating pain, and he let his arm fall against the damp grass. He tried to sit up but his body screamed in protest. The iron scent of blood filled his nostrils.

Wolves hovered at the edges of the battlefield, eager to attack the decaying flesh of fallen legionaries. Slaves tended fires, keeping the animals at bay as well as bringing light to the battlefield while the Romans buried their dead.

The _Britanni_ would have to wait to take care of their bodies.

How did he end up flat on his back, on this field, blood running down his arm? And where was his horse? He closed his eyes, tried to make sense of the images swirling in his mind. What was the last thing he could remember? Flashes of careening chariots and braying horses. Men shouting orders. Ground rushing toward him, slamming into him.

And pain. Overwhelming, all-encompassing anguish.

But why?

Because Flavius, that childish, arrogant tribune, had issued an order so ridiculously deadly it sent a quarter of a legion into the path of Britanni chariots. Or under them.

Rolling to his left side, he drew his left knee to his chest. Fighting through the pain, he pushed up onto his elbow. He breathed deeply, scanning the field, until the nausea subsided. So many bodies.

How many battles had he fought in his six years in Britannia as a tribune? Almost every day, during campaigning season at least. But this had to be the worst. These Britanni warriors were like none they had ever fought. Never had so many Roman lives been lost.

Noise and chatter sounded behind him. Groaning, he twisted to look over his shoulder at slaves digging out an enormous hole—yet another mass grave.

He struggled to stand, or even sit up, but his right leg refused to obey him. He tried again. His leg would bear no weight.

"Tribune." A _medicus_ hurried to him. "Do you need help?"

"I-I can't stand. My leg won't move."

The young orderly, a mop of dark, curly hair falling in his eyes, glanced at Quin's leg, and his face paled.

Quin straightened his arm to push himself higher. At first, he saw no open wounds, no cuts from a blade nor punctures from a spear. Then he realized the damage, the reason he couldn't stand. His right leg was bent inward at a grotesquely unnatural angle.

Something was drastically wrong.

The youth beckoned to another, who appeared with a litter. One knelt to slip his arm under Quin's shoulders. The other lifted his legs.

He clenched his jaw until he could no longer contain a cry. They placed him on the stretcher and rushed him to the medical tent.

The chief medicus __ approached him, reaching for his leg. He shook his head. "You've made quite a mess of this, Tribune."

Quin winced. "How badly am I injured, Davos?" He sucked in a breath as the Greek physician drew his fingers over Quin's skin, poking and prodding.

"Your arm or your leg?"

"Either. Both."

"I'll start with your arm." The medic held out his hand and another assistant placed a knife in it. Davos cut a slit in Quin's tunic from elbow to neck and let the fabric fall away. He gently pressed one finger after another in different places, making faces as he did so.

"Well? What?"

"Your arm seems fine. A few stitches. Now for your leg . . ." He gently touched the deformity in Quin's leg.

Quin released a loud groan.

"I'm sorry. I know that must hurt." The medic poked again closer to the knee. "And that?"

"Actually, I can't feel it."

"You can't?" Davos frowned.

"No. I can't feel anything from just above my knee down." He shrugged, but the look on Davos's face stopped him. "That's bad?"

"Yes. You've broken a bone, and that must have injured a nerve."

"And that means . . . ?" He searched the older man's weathered face for a clue as to how bad his situation really was. Davos had been the legion's physician for as long as Quin had served the Second Augusta, and Quin trusted him with his life.

"I'm not sure. I'll need to perform surgery to reset the bone. Hopefully I can see what happened then."

"Will I get the feeling back?"

He frowned and shook his gray head. "I don't know."

"Will I walk again?"

"Yes, but you may still have problems with your leg."

"Problems?"

"It may . . . end up slightly shorter than the other."

The physician's words slammed into him harder than the chariot. That couldn't be true. "Can't you do something?"

"Not when it's damaged this badly. I'm going to get you something for the pain, and one of my assistants will get you ready for surgery." Davos grasped his left shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of you. As always."

A slave—Greek by the look of him—entered with a bowl of liquid and offered it to Quin.

"What's this?"

"Opium. For the pain and for the surgery." The slave held the bowl to his lips while Quin downed the painkiller. He mumbled his thanks and lay back on the wooden bench.

The pain wasn't nearly as devastating as the physician's words. If he couldn't walk properly, he couldn't be a soldier. And if he couldn't be a soldier . . .

The poppy's juice began to cloud his thinking. As soon as he closed his eyes, images of screaming Britanni filled his head. Barefoot, half-naked, spear-wielding warriors charging across the terrain. Iron chariots rolling over Roman bodies.

He opened his eyes and shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories.

His thoughts became jumbled and his breathing slowed. His eyes drifted closed again.

As he slipped into welcome unconsciousness, he prayed to Jupiter he would wake up to a world without war.

Pushed hard by the Roumani, the captives had marched for five days. Tia's feet bled where sharp rocks sliced into her bare soles. Her back ached from sleeping on the hard ground. Dirt and sweat stained her tunic, and rope cut into her wrists.

She looked north. Less than a half-day's walk would bring them to the fort Vespasian and his men had built on their rampage along the southern coast. It loomed large, sitting high atop a knoll, controlling everything—and everyone—in its field of vision. The burned remains of a Britanni hillfort lay nearby.

The Roumani destroyed everything they touched.

A shouted command from the centurion interrupted her thoughts, and she turned again to the sea. A colossal ship, as wide as her roundhouse and ten times longer, pulled into the natural harbor before them. Huge cloth sails drooped from towering masts. Only a few pairs of oars dangled from the rear, not the hundreds as on a Roumani warship.

A wide wooden plank was laid against the side of the ship. Shoulders and elbows jammed into her back and sides as the soldiers shoved and pushed the crowd onto the deck and then down a rickety set of wooden steps. As soon as her feet hit the floor, she was propelled toward the wall while the hold filled with the captured Britanni.

The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut. Her breath stuck in her throat. Her vision blurred. She dug her nails into her brother's arm. The closed space and utter blackness recalled memories of the time she nearly drowned as a child. She'd hated the dark ever since.

"Just breathe. Slowly." The soft, even tone of his voice calmed her fears.

They began to sit, most with their backs to the long walls.

The door above them opened again and a throng of Roumani darted down the stairs. Working in pairs, one added an iron ring to the right foot of each captive. The other untied the ropes.

Tia studied her wrists. A raw crimson ring encircled each one, too tender to touch. She tried to lift her foot, now connected to Tancorix on one side and a young girl on the other.

Just as the last manacles were connected with thick iron bolts, oars dipped and pushed against the water. The ship jerked forward in spurts until it achieved a slow but steady pace. The sailors tramped back up the stairs, and again the door crashed closed.

After a few moments, the sails could be heard snapping tight as wind surged into them. The ship lunged forward and picked up speed.

The journey had begun. Where would it end?

Will life get any better for Quin and Tia? Find out!

# Deep Calling Deep

_Deep Calling Deep_ is book 3 of "The Psalm Series." Each book in this series is a fictional story by a different author inspired by a different Psalm. Included with the books are detailed Bible studies of the psalms covered, and an in-depth explanation of the author's approach to the Scriptural text.

_Deep Calling Deep_ is based on Psalm 42, the real life of Sextus Afranius Burrus, and the story in Acts 28.30-31.

**Experience the psalms like never before -- through heart-pounding fiction!**

_When the gods of Rome fail him, Praetorian Prefect Sextus Burrus is drawn to the seemingly inexhaustible peace of his Jewish prisoner, the Apostle Paul._

Praetorian Prefect Sextus Burrus has spent his life fighting for the glory of Rome, but that glory has lost its shine. As both his health and his career crumble, he is drawn toward the seemingly inexhaustible peace of one of his Jewish prisoners, the Apostle Paul.

The moment Timothy hears his mentor and surrogate father Paul has been arrested, he rushes to Rome. Under the looming threat of execution, Timothy struggles to make sense of what is happening.

Finally, an unexpected crisis requires him to reexamine everything, and places their hope for Paul's freedom on the shoulders of Praetorian Prefect Sextus Burrus.

# Chapter One

### Rome, September - 61 AD

_"And when we came to Rome, the centurion delivered the prisoners to the praetorian prefect, but Paul was allowed to dwell by himself with a soldier that kept him."_

—Acts 28:16, JUB

Praetorian Prefect Sextus Afranius Burrus had imagined the scene spread out before him, but his worst nightmares weren't even close.

Lucius Secundus, the former city prefect, had been murdered by one of his slaves. Following an ancient law, the senators had called for the execution of all four hundred of the slaves who had worked for him.

The Praetorian Guards had been called out to quell the resulting riot.

The new city prefect and his _cohortes urbanae_ were an astounding picture of Roman efficiency. All three cohorts, five hundred men each, gleefully took part in the bloody vengeance. Some of the urban guards pounded stakes into the ground along the Appian Way just outside the city's walls. Others guarded the remaining slaves, and still others confiscated wood from anywhere they could find it.

Sextus had seen teams of soldiers leaving the Secundus estate. Apparently, they'd razed the slaves' quarters, tearing down doorways and roof supports.

The all too familiar metallic scent of blood permeated the air. Sextus wiped sweat from his brow as he walked along the oldest of Rome's wide stone and cement roads. Crosses of all shapes lined the highway on his right and left—crossbars at the top, the middle, wherever. The victims' feet hung only a cubit or so above the ground, their anguished faces easier to see, their tormented cries easier to hear.

The Guards had started with the men. Obviously wanting to eliminate as much resistance as possible, the youngest and strongest were first to be nailed to the posts, staked at regular intervals along the _Via Appia_. Most of those had already been crucified by the time Sextus arrived.

The clanging of hammer against nail clashed with the screams of women watching husbands and sons writhe in agony. The noise grew so loud, Sextus's ears hurt. He rolled his shoulders, trying to dull the pain as he trudged south.

The condemned waited in a loose grouping on the east side of the Via surrounded by armed and angry guards.

At the end of the seemingly endless line of limp bodies, Sextus halted. With his good hand, he shaded his eyes against the brutal midsummer sun, gazing south toward the nearby Alban Hills. The _via_ continued all the way to Capua, rarely veering to left or right. Even when hills, rivers, or cities stood in the proposed path, Rome's engineers barreled straight through.

Ancient pine trees lining the highway stretched toward the few wispy clouds above him, as if trying to rise above the slaughter. In the distance, family vineyards and peaceful villages dotted the landscape. If he kept walking, maybe he could reach one and forget this nightmare had ever happened.

But he had responsibilities.

He clenched his fists and spun around to trudge back toward the city's center, trying to shut out the detestable images, only to have them replaced with pictures even more gruesome.

A boy not old enough to shave trying to stop the guards from dragging his little sister away.

A mother desperately clinging to her newborn as one of Secundus's avengers ripped him from her arms.

A toddler squirming so violently, the soldier trying to pin him to the wood gave up and unsheathed his dagger. Sextus tried to avert his eyes, but the horror compelled him to watch as the soldier nailed the lifeless body to the upright.

He was already dead, so what was the point?

To incite fear. Abject dread. To remind any who dared to go against the world dominating power that was Rome, that she would always win.

Back inside the walls, Sextus ensured his men had the desperate crowd firmly under control. Held back by Praetorians, both citizens and slaves lined the street leading from the Capena Arch to the city center; he avoided meeting their accusing eyes. His stomach roiled. His heart pounded. If he stayed inside the walls, maybe the angry cries from the crowd would drown out the shrieks from beyond them.

He'd seen more death than all the senators combined. So why was he the only one who seemed to be bothered by today's slaughter? He'd served in the army since he was seventeen years old. More than forty years had passed since he'd first tasted combat. He'd been part of the deadliest battles, left entire villages bloody and burned, all in the name of the glory of Rome.

But no matter how hard he tried, today he found no glory in the death of innocents.

The sun sank low in the west, as if trying to escape from a day that had been long, gory, and gruesome. Perhaps some good food and his wife's beautiful smile would improve his mood, although until Sextus could rid himself of the scent of death and the sound of screams, he likely wouldn't feel any better.

Near the top of Esquiline Hill, in one of the wealthiest sections of Rome, he opened his front door to the atrium and glanced around. He strode down the hall to the open-air peristyle at the other end of their _domus_. Empty. Where was Gaia? She'd been gone a lot lately and would only tell him she'd been visiting friends.

Their only son Afranius had been killed in Britannia the spring before last in the uprising by Boudicca, the warrior queen. The pain of that loss had almost destroyed their marriage. For over a year, other than to go to the baths, Gaia had rarely left their _domus_. She talked to no one but him. And of course, Tiberia, their only female house slave. Recently, however, things had been much improved. She almost seemed peaceful. If these "visits" of hers had made the difference, he should be happy about it.

Maybe her calm would rub off on him.

He stepped into their _cubiculum_ off the atrium, where he unhooked the pin at his shoulder that held his crimson cloak in place and hung it neatly on its peg on the far wall. The leather cross-body strap that held his sword followed, along with the belt and its attached dagger sheath.

Maybe a bath would relax him. Sextus left their modest home and headed for the bathhouse reserved for the guards near the barracks. He was already sweating when he entered the large facility.

There was no admission fee here, but he paid a slave to watch his clothes. He allowed another to apply oil to his skin. It slid down his chest in rivulets, collecting into bigger blobs along the way. The room's warm air made it easy for the attendant to scrape it off along with the sweat and dirt.

Once clean, he slipped into the large heated pool and sat on the stone bench that ran along the edge. The water came to his neck, and he allowed the heat and softly rippling water to wash away the stress.

But not the horror that refused to leave his mind.

He gave up trying to relax. After drying off and dressing, he stepped outside. He had taken only a few steps toward home when the prefect of the night watch blocked his path.

Tigellinus.

The man had made it clear he wanted to rise in the ranks of Rome's protective services and would do anything to make it to the top. So far, he'd reached the level of prefect, but only of the _vigiles_ , the universally hated night watchmen.

"I saw you on the _via_ earlier today." Tigellinus sneered.

"And?"

"Couldn't handle Roman justice? Had to retreat within the walls?"

"It was not my job to oversee the executions." Sextus stepped around the man.

Tigellinus fell into step beside him. "I understand. You needed to supervise your men." He sneered.

"My men perform quite well without my direct supervision. That's why they are Praetorians and not merely _vigiles_." An unnecessary barb, even if true.

Tigellinus growled. "Your men are no better than any other soldiers."

Sextus chuckled as he thought about the quadruple pay, the shorter length of service, the pristine weapons they bore, and the fact that every single Guard was a citizen from Italia, not merely freedmen like the _vigiles_. He couldn't resist answering back, even though he knew it would only lead to more rancor. "If you truly believe that, you are more foolish than I thought."

Linus raised his chin. "I still say you should have been visibly supporting the retribution."

Sextus clenched his jaw. "My Guards were called out for riot control. That's their job. We took care of the people, and the City Guards were handling the executions. You were unneeded to begin with, and I most certainly will not endure a reprimand from a lower officer."

Linus glared, his face reddening. "I am the prefect of the _vigiles_. You are the prefect of the Praetorian Guard. I am not a lower officer."

Sextus halted and stared down at the much shorter man. He leaned near, using every tactic he knew to control his anger. "And yet you report to the prefect of the City Cohorts, while I answer to Nero himself." Sextus had had enough of this worm who had schemed and clawed his way to his position. "The only reason you have your position, Linus, is because the emperor shares your enjoyment of horses. Every man in Rome has seen you out at night with him, going to the houses of seduction, getting him drunk, and pouring lies into his ears."

An evil smile slid across his face. "I am closer to Nero than you will ever be. You are losing influence to me daily, and I will soon have your job, your house, and your prestige."

The modicum of relaxation he had gained in the bathhouse evaporated like steam. "Perhaps. But for now, I am your superior, and you will not address me in such a manner again." Sextus turned and left the officer standing in the street.

Linus was probably right. He would be Praetorian Prefect sooner or later. His deceit and maneuverings would pay off, and Sextus would be dismissed. But until then, he would seek justice and not acclaim, live his life with integrity, and protect the city and the emperor with honor.

Though if Rome continued in the direction it had taken today, there may not be much left worth protecting.

Sextus had been in countless battles. He'd seen bodies in worse condition. Uglier deaths, even crucifixions. The images, the smells, the sounds—these were nothing he hadn't experienced thousands of times over, but today's spectacle would not leave him, and it made him sick to his stomach. Why must this one incident bother him so fiercely?

Maybe because it was _four hundred_ "incidents." Three hundred and ninety-nine innocent people slaughtered for the sins of one man.

His throat burned. He'd say it was a result of all the dust kicked up by the Urban Cohorts as they took their vengeance along the Appian Way, but it had been bothering him for a couple months now. His ears had begun to ache recently as well.

Back in his bedroom, he reached for an amphora of honeyed wine and filled a goblet. He'd been drinking too much of it lately, but the honey was one of the few things that soothed his throat. He'd lost weight from undereating, and if he wasn't careful, he would lose strength as well. The drink felt cool and smooth on the irritated flesh as it slid toward his stomach.

After unlacing his boots, he perched on the side of his bed, and whistled for Fidus. He downed one more goblet before jamming the stopper into the neck of the pottery and setting the jug on the low table next to the bed.

His enormous Molossian hound bounded in from his spot in the atrium, sitting patiently before his master.

"Good dog." Sextus scratched behind the dog's ears. The faithful animal had to worry about pleasing only one person. No scheming, no lies, no theatrics.

If only Sextus's life could be so simple.

Read on to see what happens to Sextus and Timothy.

# Prize of War

Prize of War is set in the same time period as the "Journey to Canaan" series, but is a stand-alone novel.

Prize of War is based on the stories in Joshua 15:16-19, repeated almost word for word in Judges 1:9-15.

_Her father promised her to a warrior._

_Warriors can't be trusted._

_Warriors are never home._

Acsah is the only daughter of the mighty Caleb, Israel's most famous spy. When Acsah can't seem to choose a husband, Caleb feels he must step in, and she soon finds herself betrothed to a warrior. That's the last thing she wants, however. Soldiers are never home....

Othniel has loved Acsah for as long as he can remember. When Caleb makes his unbelievable promise of picking a trusted warrior for her husband, he fights not only for Israel but for her hand in marriage.

Once safely settled in Debir, Acsah relaxes, believing Othniel can stay home and never fight again ... until the giants come back and threaten nearby Anab. Can Acsah deny the people of Anab her husband's skill and leave them to the giants... or can she trust God if her husband goes to fight once again?

# Chapter One

_...and the daughter of Caleb was Acsah._

—1 Chronicles 2.49—

"I'm a _prize_? What do you mean I'm a prize?" Acsah's throat burned as she fought to keep the tears from spilling. How had this day turned upside down so quickly? The sky closed in on her as she stood on the open roof of her home. She struggled to breathe, couldn't pull in enough air.

Her _abba_ folded his arms across his broad chest and clenched his jaw. "You are my only daughter. I intend to see you are protected. And since you can't seem to make this decision yourself, I felt I had to step in."

"My _imma_ never would have allowed this."

Pain clouded his eyes. "Your imma would have seen you married by now. Perhaps I have been too indulgent."

"How do you know...? But what if...?" Thoughts swirled, too many and too fast for her to complete one. "Abba, why?"

He uncrossed his arms. "Acsah, you know I love you dearly, more than life itself. I have talked to Yahweh about this. I have talked to Leah..."

Acsah's gaze shot to the woman standing next to him. Why would her aunt betray her like this? "You agree with him? How could you?"

Leah neared. "Because I love you like a daughter. This way, Yahweh Himself will choose your husband. And he will be brave, strong, a true warrior." She stretched out her hand, but Acsah backed away.

"I don't _want_ a warrior! That's the last thing I want!" Her traitorous hot tears finally had their way, coursing down her cheeks. She raced from the roof, down the stairs, and through the house. Outside, she ran past the wide gates of Hebron and into the countryside beyond. Was there no way out of this deal her abba had made for her?

Breaking into a sweat, she passed Abba's golden wheat fields and sprinted up the rise leading to the enormous threshing floor beyond. Reaching the flat, packed ground at the apex of the hill, she stopped, chest heaving. She bent at the waist, her hands on her knees until she caught her breath, then collapsed on the hard ground.

What kind of old, scarred monster would she end up with? How ugly would he be? Would he be cruel? Demanding? She buried her head in her arms on her knees, sobbing until her tears were spent.

Drying her wet cheeks on her headcloth, she scanned the verdant hills of Hebron, resplendent with the fragrant flowers of early summer. The fertile land mocked the emptiness in her heart.

She surveyed the abundant grain waving in the seemingly endless fields. Being the daughter of Israel's mightiest warrior Caleb may have locked her into a marriage she did not want, but it also brought her innumerable advantages. She rose and adjusted her clothing. The time for despair had passed. There was work to be done. People depended on her.

She strode back to her house and filled a small bag with grain. As she walked along the main road that fronted the outside circle of houses, she tucked the pouch into her sash. She crossed one of the many smaller streets leading from the ring road into the center of the city. Judith's house sat on the corner.

Acsah opened the courtyard gate and let herself in. "Judith? I've come to help with the bread."

Three older women sat in the common room of their modest home near a small oven. Each sat before a large, flat-topped, stationary stone called a quern, with a smaller handstone they moved back and forth over the grain to turn it into flour. "We were beginning to think we wouldn't see you today," said Judith.

"I'm so sorry. Just a talk with my abba. Nothing to worry about." She joined their circle, sitting before an empty quern.

"How is Caleb? Such a good man." Naomi patted her arm.

Acsah ignored the comment. She removed a handful of wheat from the bowl in their midst and began crushing the kernels. As flour was produced, she added it to another container and then began again.

Their chatter drowned out the scratching, crunching sounds of turning wheat berries to flour, and the flour into bread. Hours had gone by before the task was accomplished.

"I'll take the bowls back for you. You rest for now. If you'll pass me that, Miriam?"

Acsah balanced the bowl the widow handed her on top of the first one, leaving the stack of flat, round loaves that would feed the women for the rest of the day. She carried them to the storage room at the back of the house and set them on the table. Before she left, she emptied the contents of the small bag of grain she'd brought into the widows' larger jar to replenish what they had just ground, and returned with a small bowl of dates and raisins.

"Time for me to go, _savtot_. I'll be back tomorrow." They weren't truly her grandmothers, but since she had none by blood, and they had no relatives nearby, they all enjoyed the special relationship Acsah nurtured among them.

On the way home, she thought more about Abba's pronouncement. She simply had to persuade him to change his mind. As soon as the idea formed, she knew it would never happen. She'd never known him to change course. He made decisions slowly, deliberately, after examining all the facts. After much counsel and prayer. Then he did everything possible to see his decision was carried out.

The epitome of a warrior. A commander.

She had no more chance of avoiding this marriage than the walls of Jericho had against Joshua seven years ago.

Othniel's head was so full of competing thoughts he barely noticed the lush green fields he walked through. The road from Hebron to Bethlehem was usually calming and enjoyable, but so far he'd missed most of it.

Caleb's report after his scouting mission to the nearby city of Kiriath-Sepher echoed—especially that one unbelievable statement: "I offer my daughter Acsah as a bride."

Uncle Caleb was wealthy. He had land and silver. He had influence. He could offer anything, make anyone's life easier, better. He could set a man up for life. Why in the world would he offer his only daughter?

Not that Othni objected. To the contrary. He would do almost anything to make her his. His heart beat faster at the idea. He thought back to their life on the other side of the Jordan River, back to when they'd been children. Acsah had been not only his cousin, but also his best friend. Days of chasing rabbits and building fortresses blended into picking berries and sitting under trees, dreaming of what life would be like in Canaan.

Then they crossed the River. Her tenth summer, his fifteenth. After that, things got complicated.

He hadn't seen her in four years. What did she look like now? Surely she'd grown even more beautiful. She was a woman now—more than of age. Why hadn't she married yet?

Why hadn't he?

Because every woman he'd thought about marrying, he'd compared to her. And none of them measured up. None had her flashing eyes. Her pink cheeks. Her wavy, dark brown hair, which was so dark it was almost black...

That would all be over as soon as he conquered Kiriath-Sepher.

But first, he needed to talk to Salmah. Salmah had been with Caleb nearly every day of the wars until they came home. He hadn't run like Othni had. He'd had no need to.

Would Caleb even talk to Othni now?

Winning Acsah's hand was the only thing in this world that would make him risk disappointing Caleb again.

Acsah paced in the courtyard in front of their home, the sweet fragrance of pomegranate blossoms drifting on the air. Bright red flowers, the shape of ram's-horn trumpets, dotted the trees. The colors and scents, which normally invigorated her, crowded her space.

Maybe she could talk to Aunt Leah first, enlist her help in persuading Abba to change his mind. Acsah moved to the side of the house where Leah and Uncle Jonah's rooms were attached. She peeked through the door into their central room, but Leah wasn't there.

After rehearsing a number of things she might say to attempt to change Abba's mind, Acsah finally settled on two or three. She had to try, though it was probably useless. She spun on her heel and returned to the wide, open room that occupied the right two-thirds of the lower floor of their home. The stone pillars that held up the roof loomed larger than usual this morning.

She leaned over the low stone barrier to her left and rested her head on Donkey's nose, rubbing his neck for a long moment. "You don't have to worry about getting married, do you?" She scooped out some grain from the feedbag in the corner and held it out to him. His lips tickled her palm as he nuzzled her hand. "Not that you could have any babies if you did." Too bad her life couldn't be so simple.

Acsah headed for the stone stairs in front of the storage room that ran across the back of the house. Reaching the top, she inhaled a deep breath. If only she could suck in courage as easily as air. Maybe she could duck into one of the two sleeping rooms that took up the back part of the roof.

No, she might as well face him now.

Abba and Aunt Leah sat on a round leather mat, and Acsah lowered herself to the floor next to him. "Abba, may I talk with you about what you said this morning?"

"Yes, _motek_." He grinned. "But I won't change my mind." He could call her _my sweet_ , but underneath his smile, his will was as hard and sharp as the bronze in his sword.

She glanced at Leah, then back to her father. "Why must I marry a soldier? Can't I marry someone else? Maybe one of the others?"

"You've already turned down five men." He frowned at her and held up a hand, fingers spread wide. "Five."

She squirmed. "I know, but..."

Aunt Leah touched her arm. "Tell me what was wrong with them. Why did you always say no?"

Acsah shrugged. "I don't know. Baruch was too old. Aviel wanted to move to Lachish. So far away—I'd never see you. Gershom... Gershom... he ..." She sighed deeply. "But Abba, I can't marry _anyone_."

"Why ever not?" He widened his dark eyes, his bushy brows disappearing under his crop of gray hair.

"Because... because..." She chewed on her bottom lip.

"Why?" His voice was firm, his eyes narrowed.

This was not how the conversation was supposed to go. She folded her hands in front of her, squeezed them together until her fingers ached. "Because then you will be alone. And no one should be alone." She pulled her knees to her chest and dropped her head onto her arms.

Her father's strong hand rested on her head. He waited, smoothing her hair until she stilled. "Acsah?" His gentle voice soothed her raging nerves.

She raised her face to his, drew in a shuddering breath.

"Why are you afraid to leave? What do you think will happen?"

"I- I don't know. I just know I can't."

He reached for her and took one of her hands between his rough ones. "But motek, you must. It is the way things have always been, the way Yahweh intended. Daughters grow up and leave to marry. I assure you, I will be fine."

He didn't understand. How could he? He hadn't been there that day. A thought occurred to her, and she tilted her head. "Why did you never marry again?"

He shrugged. "At the time, I only wanted to care for you. And there were wars to be fought, and then time went by, and here we are." He aimed his penetrating gaze at her. "Would you feel better if I were married? If I had someone here with me?"

It would.

But it didn't change the fact that she would never wed a warrior.

Othni winced. Rahab had worked hard to prepare an abundance of delicious-looking food, and he couldn't remember having tasted any of it. Had he even spoken to her, or to Salmah, during the entire meal? He put on a smile and swallowed the last of his bread, then drained his drinking bowl.

Rahab reached to fill it again then set the pitcher on the mat spread in the courtyard of their Bethlehem home. She scooped a toddler off Salmah's lap, set him on the brushed dirt floor, and stood. "Come, Simeon. Let's let Abba talk to his friend."

Instead Simeon settled onto Othni's lap and tugged on his beard. "You are Abba's friend?"

"He is a very good friend."

"Then why have I only seen you a few times?"

Rahab gasped. "Simeon!"

Othni chuckled, dislodging the child's fat fingers. "I have been fighting in other places."

"My friends don't go far away." Simeon frowned.

"Your friends are little boys, not soldiers."

"Oh." The boy shrugged and clambered off Othni's lap.

"Simeon, we are going inside. Now." Rahab shook her head and picked him up.

"He doesn't live up to his name very well, does he? He who hears and obeys?" Othni laughed as Rahab carried the four-year-old inside.

"We keep hoping he'll grow into it. The _hearing_ part he gets. It's the _obeying_ part he still needs to work on." Salmah's hearty laugh rumbled deep in his chest. "Just wait—you'll see someday. Anyone you have your eye on?"

"That's why I'm here."

Salmah leaned forward, grinning. "What can I do? I have no daughters for you. Only one tiny, disobedient son."

"You know Caleb is planning to attack Kiriath-Sepher."

Salmah picked a ripe fig from the bowl and peeled it. "It's one of the only cities left."

"He wants help."

"No surprise. He was injured so badly, I'm amazed he wants to take part at all."

Othni winced at the mention of Caleb's injury, then shoved it from his mind. "Amazed?"

"I guess not. I'd be more shocked if he were willing to stay behind."

"He's looking for a commander. He's offered an... incentive."

The older man raised a brow. "Silver?"

"No. He has offered Acsah as a bride to whomever conquers the city."

Salmah let out a low whistle.

"He did what?" Rahab's sharp voice came from the doorway. She'd been listening?

Othni spoke over his shoulder, repeating what he'd told her husband. "I'm not sure why he would do that."

Rahab returned and sat next to Salmah. She rested her chin on her hand and pursed her lips, but said nothing. Next to Salmah's husky build, her tall, slender frame was even more striking.

"Well?" Salmah eyed his wife.

"I know she has refused others."

"You've talked to her about that?" Othni knew Rahab and Acsah had been close when the Canaanite woman first came from Jericho years ago. Before she'd married Salmah, she'd lived with Caleb's family. But they'd stayed that close? Then again, he'd been up north, so how would he know?

"I see her often. She's found no one she wishes to marry, although I saw nothing wrong with any of the young men." She drew circles in the dirt. "I'm not really sure what she's looking for. I'm not surprised Caleb finally stepped in. She's nearing an age when most men would no longer consider her."

"She's not as old as you were when I married you." Salmah winked at his wife.

She grinned. "Yes, but you're smarter than most men." She turned to Othni. "You still find her desirable?"

He nodded. "And beautiful." Her face drifted though his mind. "Salmah, will you help me plan an attack on Kiriath-Sepher? You went with him the first time, so you must know everything I need to know, yes?"

Salmah nodded.

"I _must_ take this city. Many heard Caleb's offer. Groups of men huddled up right away, starting on their plans. They have Caleb's ear." He didn't need to expound on Caleb's opinion of him. "I need all the help you can give me. I love her. I always have."

Salmah searched his face. "I'll help you. And I'll go with you."

Othni's gaze darted to Rahab. Her eyes closed for a moment, perhaps contemplating yet another battle for her husband. She opened them and smiled at Othni. "You will both be in my prayers, and in Yahweh's hands." She returned to her son.

Othni watched her leave. "Her faith is amazing. Especially considering she's a Canaanite."

"I think that's why it's so strong. She had to trust Him for her very life, before she even knew Him." Salmah played with the seed from the fig. "Here's what I learned about Kiriath-Sepher. For the Canaanites, it's a royal city. Bigger, and more important than Hebron was, at least to them. The walls are higher and thicker than Hebron's, and about as high as four or five men. They're made of enormous stones, perfectly shaped to fit together without mortar of any kind. There is an earthen revetment outside the walls, going up about two-thirds of the wall and not quite as wide. There are many towers, and there are gates on all four sides."

Othni blew out a long breath. "A direct attack would never work."

"I think the only way is by a protracted siege or by trickery."

"Like Joshua took Ai? Or Bethel?"

"Not Bethel." Salmah waved away the suggestion. "We'll certainly never find a traitor there."

He nodded. "True. Which leaves a siege or a ruse."

"Or someone, somehow, getting in and opening the gates."

Othni frowned. "If the giants built the walls and the gates, wouldn't the locks be much too high for one of us to open?"

"Also true. So that's probably not our best option."

Othni reached for a date. He ripped it in two and removed the stone, then put one half in his mouth. The fair-complexioned giants of Hebron invaded his memory. Twice as tall as Othniel, thighs as wide as his body. Joshua's armies had expelled them once, nearly six years ago after Israel first conquered Jericho. But as Joshua and his men moved on, the _Anakim_ moved back in, and Caleb was forced to defeat them again in order to claim the city Moses had promised him.

"Let's see." Othni tore the other piece in half again. And again. "A siege will deplete our resources as much as theirs, maybe more. But if we attack and then fake a surrender, we can send in a good number of men, perhaps with gifts, hide more men—armed men in baskets. It's been done before."

Salmah shrugged. "It has. And if we hadn't been at war with every other city around here, and if they weren't giants, that might work. But I think it's far too risky here."

"What if we attack, then retreat and draw them out..."

"That might work better. Or we could trap them between two forces."

He nodded. "We have to see how many of them there are. They can defend the city with very few as long as they're inside. Once we draw them out, we have the advantage."

Salmah grasped his shoulder. "You might make a good commander yet."

If Othni wanted to win Acsah, he would have to make certain Caleb finally could see that as well.

Othni had left Salmah's house as soon as the sun peeked over the eastern mountains in order to make the long walk back to Hebron before the evening meal. A hearty meal, a good night's sleep, and perhaps he'd have a decent chance to impress his uncle.

The next day, the would-be commanders gathered in Caleb's massive courtyard to present their plans one by one. Othni watched as man after man was sent away after failing to meet Caleb's expectations.

One young man—barely a man—flailed his arms like a baby bird trying to fly the first time. "But it worked before. We march around once a day for six days—"

Othni did his best to suppress a laugh. He glanced around and noticed several others hiding chuckles as well.

"We are not doing as we did at Jericho." Caleb's face reddened, his hands splayed at his sides. "Go." Eyes closed, he growled the word.

The young man slunk out through the courtyard.

An older, chubby man advanced. "If we gather men from all of Judah, we can attack them with full force. With Yahweh's help this will work. We can use battering rams—"

"Battering rams will never be successful," Caleb said, "against the stones in Kiriath-Sepher's walls."

The man looked baffled.

Caleb hadn't revealed much about Kiriath-Sepher in his speech to Hebron's men, but he undoubtedly would have told anyone who'd asked anything they wanted to know. That would be just like him, to see who would gather the information they needed before formulating a strategy.

The mighty warrior took a deep breath. "The stones in those walls are as wide as the height of two men. They are far too heavy to be dislodged by a battering ram."

"But we have Yahweh—"

"And we must also use common sense." Caleb pounded a fist into his palm. "Yahweh's power is not an excuse to be foolish. Next."

The portly man left, and a tall man Othni had seen talking to Caleb the day he made the announcement—obviously a favorite—sauntered over. Othni's chest burned. What made that man so special? He was tall, sure, but not that good-looking, at least not to Othni. Hair too straight. Nose too big. Laughed too loud.

Caleb's weathered face brightened. "Enosh. What is your plan? I'm sure you have thought it out well."

Enosh puffed out his chest. "I suggest a siege. It's the only reasonable option. We cut off their water supply. They get all their water from the two wells nearby—one north of the city and one south. Without water, they cannot survive."

"Won't they have supplies in the city? Water? Food?" Caleb arched a brow, accentuating the scar that ran from above his right eye to the corner of his lip.

"Cisterns full of water, I'm sure. But how long can that last?"

"Wait over there." Caleb pointed his chin toward the largest pomegranate tree in the courtyard.

Enosh's smirk as he passed fanned the fire in Othni's chest. Why was he so cocky? Did he know something the others didn't? He was the first Caleb had asked to wait, so maybe he did possess some secret information.

"Othniel."

Snapping to attention, Othni turned to the soft but firm voice. "Uncle."

"I'm surprised to see you here. A little young, aren't you?"

He fought a sigh. "I fought in Hebron, Gibeon—"

"That didn't work out so well, did it?"

Othni clenched his jaw. "I've fought for Benjamin the last four years, in Mizpah, Ramah, Beeroth, more. Did you speak to the commanders there?"

Caleb tilted his head. Was that a smile? Surely not. "What's your plan?"

Othni repeated everything he had discussed with Salmah.

After an almost imperceptible nod, Caleb gestured toward the tree. "All right, wait with Enosh."

Caleb dispatched the last two men quickly. His limp was slight as he joined the pair in his courtyard. "You two have the best plans. I shall need to consider them further."

Movement inside the house drew Othni's vision.

_Acsah_. His heart beat faster, and heat crawled up his neck. How beautiful she was—full lips, cheekbones set high against her dark eyes, a touch of pink on her cheeks. He hadn't seen her since... when? Since before they left Gilgal to defend Gibeon.

She accepted a platter from a young girl, probably a servant, and stepped into the courtyard with bread and cheese and a pitcher of juice. Locks of her long hair slipped out from under her scarf, and she tossed her head to get it out of her face. She neared them and set the food on a pedestal.

Caleb beamed at her. "Thank you, motek."

"Would you like anything else, Abba?"

"No, thank you."

"Thank you, Acsah. How very thoughtful of you." Enosh touched her arm and grinned.

Othni tensed, his teeth grinding together.

Not that he had any more right to her than Enosh. In fact, Enosh probably deserved her more. He lived here in Hebron, likely saw her every day, knew her.

But he hadn't loved her his whole life, like Othni had. Spent the last four years trying to earn the right to ask Caleb's permission to marry her.

Acsah smiled weakly at Enosh, glanced briefly at Othni, and retreated. She didn't recognize him—at least she didn't appear to. He'd grown a cubit or two, added a good bit of muscle and a beard. He was no longer a boy.

"Anything else either of you'd like to say?"

Neither Enosh or Othni spoke.

"I'll have my decision tomorrow morning. We'll leave the next day." He turned toward his house and Enosh strutted from the courtyard, as if he had the command in hand already.

Othni snatched a piece of bread and trudged toward the street.

Caleb's voice stopped him on his way out. "Othniel, may I speak with you a moment?"

"Yes, Uncle." He ripped the food into pieces as he stared south toward Kiriath-Sepher.

In the morning Caleb would decide who would lead the attack on the Canaanite city—which in turn would decide who would marry Acsah.

For Caleb, an important decision, of course.

For Othni, nothing less than his entire future was at stake.

What lies in store for Othni and Acsah? Find out!

# In the Shadow of Sinai

_In the Shadow of Sinai_ is book 1 of "The Journey to Canaan Series." This series follows the emerging nation of Israel from the arrival of Moses in Egypt through the wilderness wandering to the first movements toward Canaan. Each book will focus on little-known biblical characters who take this journey.

In the Shadow of Sinai is based on the stories in Exodus 31:1-6 and chapters 36 to 39.

_An artisan's world has been destroyed one too many times. Can he conquer his anger to see his ability for what is—a gift from El Shaddai? Or will he let his resentment rob him of his chance to build a masterpiece?_

Bezalel is a Hebrew slave to Ramses II. Though Bezalel an artisan of the highest order, Ramses has kept him in the palace even when all other Israelites have been banned. Bezalel blames El Shaddai for isolating him from his people.

When Moses and Aaron appear one summer, and El Shaddai shakes Egypt to its core, Bezalel must reexamine his anger. Over the course of the next year, Bezalel's life becomes intertwined with those of an Egyptian child-slave, the captain of the guard, and especially a beautiful, young concubine.

When spring arrives, all of them escape with the young nation of Israel. But that's only the beginning...

# Chapter One

### Pi-Ramses, Egypt, Late 13th Century BC, First month of Ahket, Season of Inundation

The crash of the drum echoed in Bezalel's ears as he slipped out from behind his pedestal on the portico and hastened to the throne room. He dared not risk the penalty for being late—again. His tunic still stuck to his wounds from the last beating and ripped them open whenever he moved the wrong way.

He dropped to the cold limestone floor on one knee and lowered his head, raising it justnenough to watch pair after pair of bare feet shuffle west toward the dais. The heavy scent of perfumed oil stung his nose.

The old king ascended his throne as the bare-chested attendants silently lined the walls on either side of the spacious hall then turned toward their sovereign and bowed low.

This daily routine was absurd, pretending that Ramses was a god. He was no more a god than Bezalel was, although Bezalel couldn't say that El Shaddai was doing him much good at thev moment either. In fact, he seemed utterly incompetent. Or callous.

Bezalel rose. From the tiled hall that led beyond the throne room to the private quarters beyond the dais, he heard the jingling of bracelets and anklets. He looked toward the entryway and saw a young girl emerge behind a number of women who had no doubt dressed her, perfumed her, painted her face, and adorned her with the excessive jewelry of a concubine.

She was perhaps twenty strides away. As she neared he saw she was Egyptian and quite young, several years younger than he—perhaps no more than fourteen. A vague scent of jasmine hung in the air.

She glanced at Bezalel as she passed and his mouth went as dry as the desert surrounding him. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

Even behind the heavy kohl he grasped the misery in her eyes. His chest constricted in a way he had never felt before and an inexplicable urge to grab her and pull her away from the group overwhelmed him. The king used to take consorts often. Why was she different?

Guards led her to the center of the room. The other girls retreated to the rear. She knelt and bowed low to the king, her head nearly touching the floor.

Bezalel's face grew hot and his breathing became shallow.

The girl—for though she was to be a consort, he could hardly call her a woman—stood. Ramses stepped off the dais and walked stiffly toward her. He circled her like a vulture, looking her up and down. He lifted her chin with his wrinkled hand and studied her face. Her shoulders tightened when he touched her.

Bezalel's hands curled into fists. The others had seemed more than willing to become part of his harem. Why take one by force?

"She is acceptable. Take her to my chambers."

A guard grasped the girl's arm and started toward the hallway. She stumbled along behind him.

"N—!" Bezalel rushed toward her, but a harsh yank on the neck of his tunic cut off the word as well as his progress. He spun around, putting his hands to his neck and choking.

An older man came toward him, scowling. "Bezalel!"

Forcing his breathing to slow, Bezalel glanced sideways at him then looked at the floor. He put his hand to his throat again and winced.

"Bezalel, you are under my protection here, but I cannot save you from your own foolishness."

"But Ammon, did you see her? She is but a child!"

"And he is Pharaoh! Her age is irrelevant. He can marry an infant if he wishes." The man's voice softened. "You are lucky I was here to stop you."

Bezalel sighed and turned back toward the private hallway. His stomach revolted as the guards led the girl into the elderly king's private rooms. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out his own imagination.

Ammon put a hand on Bezalel's shoulder and led him away. The man looked older than the last time Bezalel had seen him. His paunch had grown, and almost all of his hair had disappeared.

Sunlight bounced off the large jeweled ankh hanging around his neck. "Why don't you show me what you've been working on while I've been gone?"

They strolled toward the long, narrow portico that ran along the back of the throne room. Pillars separated the two areas, and the east side of the portico opened onto a large, airy courtyard that let in the sunlight for most of the day, making the portico an excellent place for the artisans to work. Beyond the courtyard, the Nile rushed toward the sea.

They neared a pedestal that stood on the north end of the long workspace.

"Used to people watching you work yet?" Ammon chuckled as he removed a cover from a sculpture nestled in a sandbag.

"That is why I am here, isn't it?" Bezalel turned up one side of his mouth.

"Ah, finally a smile! Or at least the start of one."

"Do you like it?" Bezalel searched his teacher's face for approval as the man scrutinized the work. He craved the old man's blessing, even after all these years.

Ammon nodded. "It's a lovely beginning. What a stunning piece of alabaster!" He drew his hand over the stone. "You've only roughed out the face, I see."

"I started the eyes yesterday. I love that part—they bring the life out." Bezalel rubbed his thumb over the beginnings of an eye.

"You always did. Come, Bezalel, let us go to your workroom."

Bezalel followed his teacher back across the portico toward a whitewashed hall. Opposite it, on the other side of the throne room, the corridor to the private areas extended west. This hallway ran east and contained workrooms and storerooms. Ammon opened a door and entered Bezalel's room. He pulled a high stool away from a large table and sat down with a sigh. A large, south-facing window set high up on the wall showered sunlight on the table. A bed hugged the wall under the window. Bezalel grabbed two cups from a shelf and filled them with pomegranate juice.

"I didn't know you were back from Memphis already." He handed Ammon a cup.

"I returned last night. I intended to see you this morning, after my visit with the king."

"You already saw him?"

"Yes. Bezalel, I am afraid I have some news you will not like." He looked down at his cup and traced the rim with his finger. "I am leaving here. I will no longer be a craftsman for the king.

Ramses has awarded me a plot of land... and I am going to live on it."

Bezalel furrowed his brow. Surely he didn't mean right now. "What about the Colossi?"

Ammon drained his cup. "They are far enough along to be finished without me. And the trips to Memphis are too hard on me anymore."

Bezalel sank to a stool. Air left him as if he'd been punched in the gut. "But why?"

"I am old, Bezalel. You can't see it because you love me. But I am old and tired." He stretched the fingers of one hand wide. "My hands ache all night after I carve for even a short time.

My back hurts constantly." He smiled. "But I have accomplished more than I ever dreamed I would. The Colossi are my greatest work, my legacy. There is nothing left for me to do."

Bezalel set his cup on the table, stood, and walked toward the door. He whirled around to face Ammon. "But there is always more to do! Ramses needs you. I need you! You can't leave."

He spread his arms out.

"You don't need me."

Bezalel's head spun. How could Ammon do this to him? "I do! You are all I have...

almost. I have lived in this palace since my eighth summer. You have always been here for me. I have been with you more than my own parents!"

Ammon put down his cup and twisted in his seat. "Yes, I know. And I have loved you like a son, even though you are a slave and a Hebrew. I have trained many artisans, but I have not loved any of them as I have loved you. None of them lived with me here as you have. But it has been twelve years and now you are grown. You are a man. I haven't even been around much for the last three years, and you have done very well. I heard about you even in Memphis."

"And Ramses is willing to let you go?"

"He has you. He knows of you and your work, which is the only reason you were not severely punished just now."

"But I cannot compare to you!"

Ammon stood and crossed the room. He put his hands on Bezalel's shoulders. "My boy, I have taught you—and you have mastered—everything I know. And before me, you exhausted the knowledge of three other teachers. You have surpassed us all."

Bezalel closed his eyes and sighed deeply. This could not happen. There must be a way to change Ammon's mind.

"I have always felt you had a special ability. There have only been a few who can work with so many materials. None had your creativity. Your work decorates many rooms in this very palace, even the king's own rooms. I believe Ptah has blessed you."

Ptah. Bezalel shifted his weight at the mention of the Egyptian god. Why did Ammon always have to bring him up? Bezalel might be angry with Shaddai, but that didn't mean he worshipped Egypt's false deities.

Ammon sighed. "I know you do not worship our gods. You have your own gods—"

Bezalel frowned.

"No matter." Ammon took a deep breath. "I have to leave you now. I doubt I will see you again. My new home is too far away to come here often."

Bezalel wrapped his arms around his teacher. He closed his eyes tightly against the tears.

After several moments Ammon pulled away gently, his eyes moist as well, and laid his hands on Bezalel's face. "Know that you will always be in my heart. And I look forward to hearing many good things about you." His voice was soft.

He opened the door and left.

Bezalel stared at the empty doorway. An emptiness filled his heart. Just knowing Ammon was there—even if "there" was far away in Memphis—had always been a comfort. Now he was on his own. Alone.

His ability had given him an easier life in the palace, but it had taken him away from home.

He knew precious few people in the village other than his family, whom he saw only once a week at most. Almost all of the Israelites thought of him as a traitor—as if he had a choice of where to work. Now his closest, perhaps only, ally was gone. How would the new chief craftsman treat him?

He walked to the table and reached for his cup. He held it for a few moments then sent it sailing. Red juice exploded onto the wall and trickled down in rivulets as it made its way to the shattered cup. Then he did the only thing he knew to do, the only thing that gave him pleasure. He left his room to return to his art.

He caressed the pale alabaster, his fingers hesitating on the spots where the ears, the nose, the mouth would be. To him, the face hid in the stone, waiting for him to find it. It was a game, a challenge to get to the final form concealed within, one that often surprised him as much as it did those who had commissioned it.

He picked up a bronze claw. The soft stone gave way easily to the short curved teeth of the long-handled tool. He drew it along in short, brusque strokes, tugging away at the unwanted parts. Bits of alabaster clinked on the floor as he continued to carve, each chunk bringing him closer to the revelation inside.

Bezalel paid little attention to what happened on the other side of the columns, trying to shut out everything but his craft. He looked up only occasionally, to assure himself he did not miss another summons.

After a while the noise of a particularly large delegation caught Bezalel's attention as its members stomped in from the entrance hall to the southeast of the courtyard. Their very dark skin and closely braided hair identified them as Nubians. That meant gold. Lots of gold.

Ten men, in pairs, carried enormous, open black-and-red pots filled with gold flakes and nuggets, tribute for the season. Bezalel's thoughts ran wild as he envisioned the jewelry he could fashion from it. In its present form it wasn't much good to anyone else.

A parade of women in multi-colored garments followed, carrying trays full of copper and gemstones from the Sinai mines, shut down before summer's fury took hold. Light green turquoise, deep blue lapis lazuli, pale purple amethyst, red carnelian, textured green malachite, and clear green emeralds. To most they looked like worthless rocks at this stage, but to him, even unpolished they held unbelievable beauty and possibility.

Before Bezalel could dream about what he could do with the gems, two young girls bolted in from the hall, screaming. He grimaced as an inhuman growl filled the air. Sailors strutted in, one with a golden cat that stood as high as a man's waist, with a long rope tied around its neck.

The animal looked from side to side constantly, as if searching for its next meal. The handler walked the cat up to the throne and stopped, then knelt. The cat, covered with what appeared to be black paw prints, lay down next to him, swishing its tail.

Ramses leaned forward and pointed at the animal with his scepter. "What is this? Is this the leopard I heard about as a child?"

The sailor stood and gestured grandly toward the cat. "Yes, my king. This is the famous leopard. There has not been one at court since Queen Hatshepsut, almost two hundred years ago.

But I, Menes"—he put his hand on his chest—"have brought Ramses II, the greatest king of all, the finest leopard in all the land of Punt." He bowed deeply.

Ramses raised his eyebrows. "Really? In all the land? You searched it all?"

The sailor stood. "Well, it-it is the finest that I found..."

"If I had wanted one, I would have sent for one." Ramses sat back in his throne. "Did you bring anything... useful?"

"Well, yes, there is a myrrh tree, frankincense, ebony, ivory—"

"Very good. You are dismissed." Ramses struck the floor with the heel of his scepter.

The sailor's shoulders fell, and he shuffled off, pulling the leopard behind him.

Bezalel shook his head. Ramses didn't care about the effort the man must have gone to as he captured, trained, and brought such a magnificent creature to him. If it didn't fill his treasury or his harem, he troubled himself little about it, no matter how much sweat or blood it cost.

Crewmen followed, carrying baskets of the promised white elephant tusks and black wood.

This afternoon the rare ivory and ebony would be in the storeroom. Bezalel could hardly wait.

The water clock said the day's work was finished, although the sun would not set for some time. Finally, Bezalel's week was over. He needed his family tonight. He packed up his tools and shut the door of his workroom behind him.

He left the palace and headed northwest along the river, and in less than half an hour reached his village. A day or so was hardly enough time. Thankfully, he lived close enough to come home midweek sometimes, if his workload permitted. Ammon had given him leave to choose his own time off as long as he accomplished his work. Would his new master do the same?

The evening sun cast long, misshapen shadows east over the river, and the cooler air beckoned people outside. River birds darted above the heads of the small children who hid among the papyrus reeds. Older children began arriving from the brickfields along with the adults. Several younger boys shouted as they played a game of chase near the river. Bezalel stopped and watched.

Their innocent joy refreshed him after days with the selfish king.

"Hey, palace rat, leave them alone! Stay away from them!"

Bezalel flinched, and looked around for the voice that yelled at him.

A group of mud-stained young men his age stood a short distance away, staring at him. The leader stood in front of the rest, arms crossed. His bushy beard made him look older than the others.

"I said, leave! We don't need your kind here."

Not tonight. His feelings were raw already. No matter how often he explained, some still couldn't believe he did not have a choice of whether or not to work in the palace. The lack of mud on his tunic and blisters on his hands provided the only provocation some needed to hate him. He had no energy to argue tonight. Still, if they wanted it ... He headed toward them.

"Bezalel!"

A familiar voice caught his attention. He turned to see his grandfather ambling towards him.

Bezalel stared a moment at the group then walked away.

"Sabba." Bezalel smiled and hugged his grandfather.

"Welcome home, habibi." His grandfather clapped him on the shoulder. "Problem?"

"Not anymore." They fell in step as they strolled through the narrow streets of houses made with adjoining walls. They passed a couple nuzzling near the door of a mud-brick home. A gaggle of boys kicked a ball. Girls huddled, pointed, and giggled as boys walked by. Everyone had someone. Everyone except him. Sometimes—often—he wished he made bricks like everyone else.

It would be so much easier. Why did he have to be different?

They reached their small home. They removed their sandals and walked through the large room into the open-air kitchen in the back.

"Bezalel, you're home!" His mother dropped the large spoon she was using into a pot, grabbed Bezalel, and held him close.

"Yes, Imma, I'm home." He smiled broadly and hugged her back then pulled away and kissed her on the cheek.

"Oh, a week is too long, habibi. Hungry, I hope? I roasted a duck since you are home for dinner tonight. Now, wash your hands."

The two men washed and dried their hands, stepped into the main room, and sat on the floor in front of the low table already set with plates and cups and a pitcher of juice.

Imma set out fresh dates and bread then disappeared again. She emerged with a platter of duck meat, which she placed on the table.

"Thank you, Rebekah." Sabba grabbed a date while she wasn't looking.

"So, what happened at the palace this week?" Imma sat beside Bezalel.

He watched her as she filled his plate with meat and fruit. She looked so tired lately. Gray now streaked her beautiful brown hair, and her bright eyes always had dark circles under them. She looked far older than her years. "The Nubians brought gold again, and the Sinai miners sent basket loads of gems. I can't wait to work with them. The water master came with the first report of the rise in the Nile. Sailors from Punt brought a leopard—"

"A leopard! I thought that was only a legend." Imma's eyes grew as wide as the dates she had served.

Bezalel swallowed his bread. "I guess not. An enormous cat. Gold with black spots. He was stunning, but he scared the servant girls." He took another bite and thought of the girl in the throne room. Her face filled his mind, and once more he wanted to go find her and take her away. What was her name? What was she doing right now? How frightened was she? He shoved the thoughts aside.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Her question pulled him back to the present. "What?"

"What are you thinking about?"

"Ramses took a new wife again. Well, a concubine, anyway."

Imma's mouth dropped open. "Again? But it's been years."

Bezalel nodded. "She's so young this time... the youngest one yet. And very pretty."

Imma studied his face. "Is that all? You're still leaving something out, I think." She touched the darkening bruise on his neck.

He pulled away. "Don't worry about it." He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I guess if he is a god he can do anything, even marry a child."

"God? He is no god," Sabba huffed.

"The people think so. He is as good a god as El Shaddai." Bezalel shoved his food away.

"Maybe better. Shaddai cannot stop Ramses from keeping us as slaves. He is not 'the Almighty,' and this proves it. No god would bring his people to a strange land and then leave them there to become slaves under these unbearable Egyptians."

"Oh, habibi." Imma reached over and stroked his cheek. "Such anger in one so young."

After dinner, Bezalel wandered outside. He soon found himself at the river and sat on the wide bank. A gray heron stood on one leg, soundlessly hunting its dinner. The setting sun felt warm on his back.

He lay on the ground, arms under his head, and listened to the flow of the water. The flooding would reach this part of the river in several weeks and cover the very spot on which he lay. His thoughts went yet again to the girl and this time he did not avoid them. He remembered her eyes, the sorrow and hopelessness in them. Or was it fear?

He put one arm over his eyes. He knew what would happen tonight. And then Ramses would discard her, as he did all the others, like so much trash, and return to his beloved, to Nefertari.

And then, like him, the girl would be alone.

Somehow, he had to find her.

Follow Bezalel's journey as his life becomes intertwined with an Egyptian child-slave, the captain of the guard, and especially a beautiful, young concubine.

# By the Waters of Kadesh

_By the Waters of Kadesh_ is book 2 of "The Journey to Canaan Series." This series follows the emerging nation of Israel from the arrival of Moses in Egypt through the wilderness wandering to the first movements toward Canaan. Each book will focus on little-known biblical characters who take this journey.

_By the Waters of Kadesh_ is based on the stories in Numbers 13 and 14.

_A young widow knows nothing but yesterdays filled with abuse and neglect._

_A displaced soldier anticipates only empty tomorrows._

_A spy sees just a today he can manipulate to gain the power he craves._

_Will they allow Yahweh to give them what they need?_

Kamose, once Egypt's most trusted soldier, no longer has a country to serve or king to protect. Moses insists God has a plan for him, but Kamose is not so sure. Tirzah's cruel husband died shortly after they left Egypt. She escaped his brutality, but now she's alone, and once they reach their new land, how will she survive? Gaddiel, Tirzah's brother-in-law, is chosen as one of the twelve spies sent to scout out Canaan. He's supposed to go in, get information and come back, but all he really wants is to bring down Joshua.

# Chapter One

### 8th day of Ziv, Spring Wilderness of Zin

Tirzah slipped out of the tent, her bare feet sinking into the warm, coarse sand. She dragged the flaps down and tied them together to shut out the fading evening light, and tiptoed away. She cast a look at Gaddiel sitting on the other side of the campfire as she sank to the ground and reached for a cold manna cake from the stack on the plate. The sweet, honeyed taste filled her mouth as she bit into it.

She glanced past the rows of tents at the barren sand surrounding them as she chewed. Not a single sign of life broke through the gravelly sand; nothing could endure the blistering sun or evaporating winds of summer. Very little had survived the long, dry season of her life, either.

The setting summer sun cast long, twisted shadows of the flames onto her tent. The fire danced and skipped. When was the last time she had that much energy? She was tired... so tired. She could barely hold her head up to take another bite. How did she get to this point? Why did Yahweh let things get this bad?

She shoved the rest of the cake in her mouth. At least she liked the taste of manna, unlike most of those around her. One more and then a little goat's milk. Maybe she could get some sleep tonight. She closed her eyes and let her head fall onto her raised knees, her long hair tumbling about her shoulders.

A plaintive cry broke the stillness.

_Naomi_. Tears pooled in Tirzah's eyes. She delayed one more moment before putting her hand to the hot ground to push herself up.

Gaddiel glared at her, his dark eyes flashing from beneath bushy brows.

"I'm sorry. I'll quiet her."

Her brother-in-law rose and disappeared into his own tent, pitched next to hers.

She hustled into the tent. The child sat on her mat, eyes darting about, breathing raggedly, tears streaming down her face.

"Hush, habibti. Back to sleep."

"I'm scared." Naomi rubbed her fists into her eyes.

"I know. But it's all right. I'm here now. Back to sleep." Tirzah eased her back down and lay next to her. She pulled her close and rubbed circles on the little girl's tummy to comfort her until the child, not fully awake, rolled over and drifted off.

Her twin sister lay fast asleep on the other side of her, undisturbed by the noise and movement.

But Tirzah stared at the green stripe around the tent's roof for hours. Again.

Morning forced its way into the tent early. Tirzah peeked out and squinted as the sun bounced off the desert floor and into her eyes. A long-eared owl screeched as it returned to its nest after the night's hunt. She shaded her eyes and looked above her. #e glowing cloud of Yahweh's presence hovered protectively over the camp, and the scent of burning wood and hot manna surrounded her. Sighing, she crawled out.

She gathered a few twigs of dry brush and started a small fire, just enough to boil water. After quickly gathering the day's manna, she tossed it into the pot and stirred it into a thick dough. She deftly formed it into cakes and placed them on a pan.

Keren stumbled out of the tent.

Tirzah turned from the !re and stretched out her arms. "Up first as usual, I see." She pulled her daughter to her. The best part of her day. "Your sister still asleep?"

"Uh huh. Should I wake her up?" Keren ran her hands through her hair, leaving it sticking out in several places.

Tirzah chuckled and tried to smooth Keren's locks, but the long, brown waves refused to stay behind her ears. "Yes, please. We have to go soon." She flipped the cakes over.

"Again?" Keren scrunched up her face and threw her head back.

"Don't whine, _habibti_. It won't help. You know we have to follow the cloud." Tirzah jabbed a finger at the sky with one hand and shooed Keren into the tent with the other.

Keren disappeared inside and a few moments later reemerged with her sister.

Naomi draped herself around Tirzah. "Morning, _Imma_." She pulled back and kissed her mother.

"Good morning, habibti. Did you sleep well?" She already knew the answer to her question. Naomi had awakened crying twice more.

"No. Had bad dreams again."

Tirzah pushed Naomi's hair from her eyes. "I'm sorry. Have some manna. We have to walk soon." She gave each girl a cake, wrapping their little hands around them. "I made them big again so you only have to keep track of one. Hang on to them. Both hands."

She stood to strike the tent. First she tossed out the sleeping mats and their other meager possessions, then the willow poles. Sounds of collapsing tents, braying animals, and crying children filled the air.

Thank Yahweh for the army tents Moses had appropriated for them at their first campsite fourteen months ago the night of the escape. Succoth was a large training ground for the Egyptians, stocked with tents and other needed supplies. There were more than enough tents for the Israelites, and they were easy to put up and take down, which was especially nice when no one was around to help. When the tent collapsed, she folded it neatly into a square and placed it into its pouch.

She loaded everything onto their donkey. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Benjamin. I couldn't possibly carry everything. I can barely keep up as it is." She stroked his neck and offered him water. When he finished drinking, she tied the bowl to the last pack.

The rest of her tribe had started without her, including Gaddiel. She breathed evenly, resisting the anger rising within her. It didn't do any good. He demanded she cook for him three times a day, but never once had he lifted a finger to help her. When her husband was alive, he never had either. Since Gaddiel inherited all of Jediel's property upon his death, she had to do his bidding just to be able to live in the tent and keep the donkey and one sheep. And he made it clear he thought he was generous with that.

Tirzah slipped the girls' sandals on their tiny feet, then picked up Keren and set her on top of the gear she'd strapped to Benjamin. She placed Naomi in front of Keren and the packs. "Hold on tight, girls." After checking the ropes attaching the sheep to Benjamin, she picked up his lead rope and began the long, hot walk.

Kamose brushed the dust from his face, dust kicked up by hundreds of thousands of sandaled feet, hooves, and wooden wheels. He loosed the leather thong at the base of his neck and ran his hands through his thick hair; they came away covered in grime. Soldiers walked for hours without kicking up dust. Why couldn't these people learn to pick up their feet?

His stomach growled and his legs ached. Eleven months in a lush valley at the foot of Mt. Sinai had made his warrior's body soft, and now days of desert marching had taken their toll. He retied his hair and smiled as he recalled the place that had been his home for nearly a year.

Ahmose tugged on his hand. "Uncle Kamose, will you carry me? I haven't asked for two days. Just for a little while?"

He grinned at the boy. "How old are you now?" "Nine. Just for a little while? Please?"

Kamose swung the child onto his shoulders and grabbed his dirty feet.

"Can't we stop yet? It looks the same as where we camped last night." Ahmose rested his chin on his uncle's head.

"We stop where the cloud stops, you know that. Where's your pack?"

"Bezalel traded some of the jewelry he made for a donkey. He put all the packs and tents on it so he can help Meri carry baby Adi. You can put yours on it, too, if you want."

"Sounds like a good trade for him."

More and more brush appeared under their feet, and soon tiny, yellow desert flowers sprang up here and there. Tall treetops appeared in the distance.

"I think we're almost there, _habibi_. I see date palms, and it looks like the cloud has stopped." He gazed up at the glowing, puffy gift of Yahweh, thankful for its protection from the blazing late summer sun. "We should check with Joshua."

Up at the front of the group, Joshua's lean form was a stark contrast to Moses's shorter, stockier body. But even at eighty years old, Moses had no trouble keeping up with his young assistant.

Joshua dropped back from Moses and fell in step with Kamose. "Moses says we'll camp at Kadesh Barnea tonight. It's an abundant oasis with four springs. There will be plenty of water for everyone, and all the animals, too. From there we'll enter Canaan."

"I know it well. I headquartered there many times when I was in the army."

Kamose and Bezalel tossed packs from the donkey as they waited for the Levites to mark off the outer court of the tabernacle. Several of the Levites laid down silver sockets in an enormous rectangle, and others followed, attaching the silver-plated acacia wood pillars. Behind them came still more Levites, connecting fabric to the tops of the pillars and stretching it out to the ground at an angle, forming a wall around the moveable dwelling that housed the presence of Yahweh.

"Ever tire of watching them build it?" Kamose glanced at Bezalel as they stood on the edge of the activity.

Bezalel shifted five-month-old Adi higher on his chest, then shook his head. "No. I am still amazed I had anything to do with it at all. I think my grandfather was right, that Yahweh planned this to be my life from the start, and that's why I spent so much of it enslaved as an artisan in the palace. I hated it, but I learned everything I needed to know." He smiled. "And I found Meri. And Ahmose, and you."

Moses's tent was on the first row, facing the tabernacle with the rest of the Levites and priests. Leaving room for a walkway between Moses's tent and the courtyard wall, Kamose pitched the tent he shared with Joshua and Ahmose with its back to Moses's. Another row was setting up facing theirs with room for campfires in between. All around the tabernacle, in vast rectangles, the tribes set up their tents in neat rows. Judah was directly east, with Issachar and Zebulon on either side. Reuben, Simeon, and Gad were to the south. Benjamin, Ephraim, and Manassah camped to the west and Asher, Naphtali, and Dan settled north of the tabernacle.

Kamose snapped the willow poles into place and stretched the tent over them almost without thought. After doing it eleven days in a row, he could do it in his sleep.

He grabbed the corner of Bezalel's tent and helped him finish. "Are we putting up a tent for your mother this time?"

"Yes, but I'm not sure if she'll stay in it. She's been spending so much time with the midwives. I think she likes it there, likes being needed. She'll be around often enough, though. She can't stay away from her granddaughter very long." He laughed as he glanced at Meri, who sat nearby with baby Adi.

"Uncle Kamose!" Ahmose bounded up to him. His dark eyes sparkled, and some of his straight black hair had escaped its leather tie. "They said there's a spring! Can we go see?" The child bounced on his heels.

Kamose chuckled. Where did the young get their energy? "Yes, we can go see. Where is your pack?"

Ahmose looked from side to side. "I don't know. I put it down somewhere...."

Kamose folded his arms over his chest and waited. "When you find it and put it in the tent, we can go."

"Yes, Uncle."

Ahmose scurried away and returned almost instantly. He threw his bag in the tent. "Now can we go?"

Kamose chuckled and tousled the boy's hair. "Yes, habibi, we can go." They walked north through the neat rows of tents springing up, then out of camp northeast, toward the sound of rushing water. The terrain around them grew greener the nearer they drew to the water. A massive spring bubbled up through the desert floor. Date palms soared into the sky, bunches of round, brown fruit weighing down long branches toward the sand. Scruffy, gray-green broom bushes bordered the water on all sides. Brown babblers with curved bills and long tails bounced on tiny feet looking for insects, hopping around each other in an intricate dance. Petite scrub warblers hid in the brush, poking their streaked heads out for only a moment before pulling them back into the dull foliage.

Ahmose dropped to his knees at the edge of the spring and scooped handfuls of water into his mouth.

Bezalel grabbed him by the neck of his short tunic and pulled him back. "You'll make yourself sick. Slow down."

Kamose looked over his shoulder and pointed west. "There's another spring further west, then two springs south of here, to the east of camp. And several more on the south side of camp that are smaller and not as sweet that will serve the animals. Joshua says we'll be here only until we establish a camp inside Canaan."

"It's not as lush as Sinai, but it will be better than it has been the last two months." Bezalel wandered off toward the eastern end of the large pool. As he passed a broom bush, a group of babblers escaped from the shrub, and Ahmose chased them into the shallow edge of the water, their chirps mingling with his laughter.

Kamose smiled at his carefree nephew, then raised his gaze and scanned the horizon to the north. On the edge of the foreboding desert, slopes turned into hills, and those turned into mountains.

Bezalel returned. "There's a stream connecting this spring to the next one. It's not huge, but it's running water."

"Depending on the time of year, there's one running between all of them. This is a popular spot on several trade routes. It's been fought over for generations."

"Looks like the desert is coming to an end." Bezalel pointed toward the north.

Kamose nodded. "Yes, they'll have to choose wisely when they decide who will be first to go in." Disappointment pierced his heart like a dagger. One thing was certain. It wouldn't be him.

### 10 Ziv

The shrill blast of the trumpet awakened Gaddiel after a restless night. He shook his head to dislodge the fog. His sister-in-law's annoying little girl had cried most of the night. Even in his own tent he could hear her. Couldn't they have called for a meeting some other morning?

One sounding of the trumpet. That meant only the tribal leaders were called to the meeting, not the entire assembly. Gaddiel sat up, stretched, then reached for the water skin. He took a long draw, tossed the nearly empty skin to a corner, then kicked aside the long-sleeved _thawb_ he used for a light blanket, and crawled out.

Tirzah had already arisen and prepared manna. He grabbed a bowl and filled it with the warm meal. He stuffed it down, but the sweet flavor couldn't improve his sour mood.

On the way to the gate of the tabernacle he caught up with Eliab.

"Good morning, Gaddiel." Eliab's strong, deep voice belied his age.

Gaddiel looked down at the man. "Good morning, Elder. Do you have any idea what the meeting is about?"

"We are on the edge of Canaan. I assume we will discuss plans for entering the land Yahweh has promised us."

Couldn't Eliab walk any faster? Old age and short legs—not a good combination. Gaddiel wanted to get to the gate and find out why they had been summoned.

Palti of Benjamin and Shammua of Reuben joined them. From all directions, elders headed toward the tabernacle courtyard in the center of camp. Within moments, a crowd of seventy sat in front of the western gate. Moses and Aaron made seventy-two: six leaders from each tribe—a head elder and five others.

Gaddiel rubbed his beard as he surveyed the men. The head elders were generally at least as old as he was, except for Nahshon. When Nahshon's father, Amminidab, died, the eldership of Judah passed to him. Nahshon had proved to be a strong leader at the battle over the golden calf at Sinai, and even at the age of twenty-one, all of Judah was willing to follow him. Of course the fact that his half-sister had married Aaron didn't hurt. Gaddiel scoffed. In ten years Nahshon might be a good leader, but now?

The other leaders were a varied group, some younger, like Gaddiel, some older. Together they ruled their tribes, settled disputes, and offered wisdom. Gaddiel was an elder, but only because of his lineage. If he were going to make a name for himself, this would be the time to do it. He needed to stand out. He shoved his way to the front.

Moses stepped out from the courtyard. He faced his leaders and smiled. His weathered face evidenced the struggles of eighty years as both prince and shepherd. "Generations ago, Yahweh made promises to Abraham. He promised to bless him, to make him the father of a great nation, to make his descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sands of the seashore. He said He would give him the land of Canaan as an everlasting possession.

"Fourteen months ago, Yahweh kept the promises He made to Abraham. He heard our cries and redeemed us from slavery at the hands of Egypt. He made us His people at Mt. Sinai. And now Canaan awaits us just over those hills." Moses lifted his right arm, pointing his staff north beyond the tents of Dan, Asher, and Naphtali. "It has been a long journey, but it is nearly over. Yahweh has given us this land. All we must do is go in and take it. I have told Joshua to ready an army—"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Gaddiel stood and addressed the crowd, waving his arms.

Moses raised a brow at the interruption, but Gaddiel pressed on.

"We can't just go in there with an army. We have no idea what awaits us. We could be slaughtered. I insist we send in spies first."

Sethur jumped up. "I agree. I'll not let any Asherites attack without advance information."

Joshua rose, spreading his hands wide. "But Yahweh has already given us the land. There is nothing to fear. It doesn't matter what we find. Yahweh has promised us the victory. Remember what He has done for us already. Has He yet broken a promise?"

Murmurs of assent bubbled up around Gaddiel. "Joshua's right. We must trust. Yahweh parted the Yam Suph, killed the Egyptian army. He'll give us this land."

Gaddiel was not going to let Joshua—another child, like Nahshon—take over. Joshua had taken all the glory so far—at the battles at Rephidim and Sinai, going up Mt. Sinai with Moses, insinuating his way into prominence like a Nile viper. Even his tent was next to Moses's. Everyone in camp knew the name "Joshua," and Gaddiel had had enough.

"No!" He pounded his fist into his open hand. "We've been through two battles already. We all know what it's like to carry a weapon and use it on another man. We've all had blood on our swords, our hands, our clothes. If there is something we can do to minimize the fighting, the killing, the dying, why wouldn't we do it? Yahweh gave us the power to think and to reason. Surely He does not expect us to run in blindly and risk our lives, risk leaving our women and children widowed and fatherless. No, we must send in spies."

Eliab stood. "He makes sense. I stand with him. Zebulon will not attack without information from spies."

Nahshon took a spot near Joshua. "Judah stands with Joshua. We obey Yahweh."

Moses raised his hand. "That's enough. This will not be put to a vote. I must talk to Yahweh. Return to your tents until the trumpet sounds again."

The elders dispersed.

Gaddiel winced. Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut. He had taken a huge risk. But then again, without risk, nothing could be gained... and the gain he sought was status.

No matter what it took.

Keep reading to find out what happens to Kamose, Tirzah, and Gadddiel.

# The Walls of Arad

The Walls of Arad is book 3 of "The Journey to Canaan Series." This series follows the emerging nation of Israel from the arrival of Moses in Egypt through the wilderness wandering to the first movements toward Canaan. Each book will focus on little-known biblical characters who take this journey.

The Walls of Arad is based on the stories in Numbers 20 and 21.1-3.

_A young girl flees to save her life._

_A vizier hides his faith from his king._

_And a shepherd must become a warrior_

_to save everything he holds dear._

Everyone knows Joshua fought the battle of Jericho, but before Jericho, there was Arad. . . .

When Arisha flees Canaan, she finds herself in the Israelite camp. Under Miriam's care the young woman begins to heal, but Israel's matriarch is close to death. She wants to be assured this abused and abandoned young woman will have a good life, and she entreats Zadok to marry her.

Zadok is the grandson of Bezalel, architect of the Tabernacle, and great-grandson of Hur, advisor to Moses. Selected by Aaron to shepherd the Tabernacle flock, he has a gentle spirit Miriam believes can help heal Arisha's heart.

The Canaanite king of Arad has heard about the mighty deeds of Israel's God, and fears he will be destroyed as Egypt was. When Arad goes on the offensive, Zadok will have to make a choice. This time a shepherd's heart cannot save Arisha.

This time, she needs a warrior.

# Chapter One

### Oasis of Kadesh Barnea, Sinai Peninsula, Late 13th Century B.C., Late winter, 22nd day of Shevat

"You want me to what?" Zadok stared at the white-haired woman sitting beside him, her face as serene as if she had just asked him to pass her a cup of water.

"Marry her. I want you to marry Arisha."

He'd seen the girl around Miriam's tent. Not often. She tended to stay inside, away from the gazes of others. "Why me?" He wiped his sweaty hands on his tunic. Marriage was not a topic he enjoyed discussing. "I'm sure there are any number of young men who would be more than happy to take her as a wife. She's very pretty." Her wavy, light brown hair and sad eyes floated through his mind.

"She doesn't need those others. She needs you." Miriam's wide grin plumped the apples of her cheeks, giving her an endearing child-like look despite her age.

"Needs me? What do you mean she needs me?"

Her eyes twinkled. "Are you going to repeat everything I say?"

Zadok jumped to his feet. "Are you going to tell me what you are talking about?"

"Sit down." Miriam spoke without looking up or raising her voice.

Clenching his jaw, he pulled his cloak tighter against the cool morning breeze drifting through the long, orderly rows of canvas tents. "You know what happened the last time I wanted to marry someone."

She flipped the manna cakes in the pan over the fire in front of her tent. Apparently satisfied they were nicely browned on both sides, she put two next to a handful of dates on a plate and handed it to Zadok. "Marah was a selfish, spoiled child, and her father was no better. They couldn't see past tomorrow and had no faith in Yahweh's provision." She grinned. "But you will be perfect for Arisha."

"And why is that?"

"Arisha is from Arad. In Canaan."

"In Canaan?" He pointed north. "That Canaan?"

Miriam raised a brow. "You know of another?"

He bristled. "And I am perfect because like her, I am not a true Israelite."

Miriam's eyes—the same piercing eyes she shared with her brother Moses—held his. "I watched your _sabba_ lovingly build every piece of furniture in that Tabernacle." Her bony fingers pointed to the structure hidden behind the animal hide curtain on the other side of the sandy walkway in front of them. "Your grandfather crafted the Ark of the Covenant, over which the very presence of Yahweh rests. And I watched _his_ sabba Hur, along with my own brother Aaron, hold Moses's arms up to heaven all day so we would not be slaughtered by the Amalekites. That man gave his life for Israel. You could not be more Israelite if you were Jacob himself."

"But still, my mother is half Egyptian. And my father—"

Her gaze softened as she placed her hand on his cheek. "I know your father. And I have known you since you were a tiny being in your mother's belly." She put one manna cake on a plate for herself. "I don't care about your blood. I chose you for your shepherd's heart. Arisha is... she has been deeply wounded. I would like to give her more time, but I can't. She needs to marry. She needs the gentle nature Yahweh gave you, so her heart can fully mend."

He shook his head.

"I have talked to Yahweh about this."

He waited until a pair of priests passed by on the aisle between the first row of tents and the outer wall of the tabernacle. He didn't need anyone else hearing this bizarre conversation. "You've talked to Yahweh?" He finished his manna cake and picked up the second. "Have you talked to her? Wait—how do you talk to her? Does she speak Hebrew?"

"She doesn't need to. I can understand her quite well. Our languages are very similar. Not like Egyptian. And no, I haven't spoken to her because I wanted to speak to you first."

Zadok pondered her words as he savored the sweet manna. "I cannot marry someone I do not love."

"You will."

Zadok blinked. "I will what? Marry someone I don't love?" Could she possibly be ordering him to do that?

Miriam laughed. "No, no. You will love her."

"How can you say that?"

Miriam waved her hand. "I know these things. This isn't the first time I've done this. It's just the first time I've been so open about it. I usually just... nudge people toward one another. And I'm always right." She set her plate down.

"Why be different this time?" He ripped a date in two and removed the seed, then handed her the meat.

"I don't have much time left." She bit off a small piece of the fruit.

He studied her face, but he couldn't tell for certain what that meant. Was she... ?

"I'm failing. I can feel it. I want to know Arisha is in good hands before I go."

"Does she know?" Why did he care? He barely knew her.

A smile slowly crept over Miriam's face. "Why do you ask?"

"I-I just know how close to you she is. This will be hard for her."

Her smiled widened. "See? You care for her already. Besides, you should be married by now, as well, shouldn't you? How old are you now?"

"I was born twenty-three summers ago. And most people seem to share the opinion of Marah's father." Zadok dropped the plate on the sand at his feet. "You may have been thinking about this for some time, but this is the first I've heard about it, and I need to think." He slapped his hands against each other and stood. "I'll let you know."

As a Levite, Miriam lived on the inner row of tents around the Tabernacle. Preferring to avoid the busyness of the only entrance to the courtyard, she'd pitched her tent all the way at the north end of the row.

Zadok strolled south along the wide walkway, the Tabernacle on his right, and tents of the Levites on his left. Halfway down he reached Moses's tent. Moses lived exactly east of the tabernacle, across from the wide opening. Aaron, as high priest, lived next to him.

Zadok cut between the two tents and stepped into Judah's section. His tent was behind Aaron's. Sabba Hur had lived there many years ago, when he and Aaron were Moses's closest advisors. He'd shared that tent with Abba, and Kamose, the Egyptian captain of the guard who had escaped with the Israelites. Joshua's tent was behind Moses's so he could be close to the leader, though as an Ephraimite, his tent would normally have been exactly opposite Moses, on the west side of camp.

Zadok turned and strode south, continuing through the tents of Zebulon. As he walked, he tried to make sense of what he'd heard.

But he couldn't.

Why would Miriam pick him? She knew he wasn't suitable. She knew his... failings. It was an absurd request. He would just have to tell her _no_.

He walked beyond camp to the southern springs where the livestock were kept, and hopped over the rock wall. Now, where were his sheep?

There, near the smallest of the springs. His beautiful sheep. The only creatures he felt truly comfortable with. Sheep were so much simpler than people.

He scanned the group—all accounted for.

Well, actually, they weren't his. Most of them weren't, anyway. He was the shepherd for the priests. Three years ago, Aaron had come to him to ask him to take his small flock, the one he'd begun to build for his future, and turn it into a flock for the Tabernacle. Once they reached Canaan, the priests would need at least two lambs every day, more each Sabbath. Over one thousand lambs every year. Only the best lambs would do. Only the best shepherd.

"Zadok!" A young boy waved him over.

"Micah." Zadok ambled toward the boy and tousled his hair. "How are my sheep?"

"Everybody's here and happy. Reuben is finishing the milking, and Jonah says a couple of the ewes are looking very uncomfortable." Micah laughed.

"All right. I'll go check on them. Thank you." He clapped Micah on the shoulder and headed for the ewes he knew were nearing time to deliver. It was early in the season, but not unheard of.

Jonah knelt by one of the expectant sheep. Jonah was Zadok's most recent but his best hire yet. He was eighteen—the oldest—and big, strong, and willing to work at night with Reuben to guard the flock. Zadok paid the boys in milk, a commodity he had plenty of.

"How is she?"

"I think she might drop this lamb tonight." Jonah rubbed his hand down the ewe's back.

"All right. I'll stay with her. You watch the flock."

"Can I help?" Jonah's eyes pleaded.

"I need you to watch over the sheep, but there will be plenty more ewes waiting to deliver. If you can find someone else willing to work for me and to stand guard, you can help next time."

Jonah's shoulders drooped, but he nodded and loped off.

As the ewe wandered away from the flock to find a quiet place, Zadok followed from a distance. It was unlikely she'd need help, but he wanted to be close by, just in case.

At least she wouldn't be asking him any uncomfortable questions about his life.

"No, I won't! Why can't I just stay here with you?" Arisha grasped Miriam's wrinkled hands and pulled them to her chest, fighting to control her voice. The tent she shared with the old woman closed in on her, shutting out everything but Miriam. Her blood pounded in her ears and her heart thumped against her chest. Her legs wobbled. How could Miriam do this to her? How could she throw her away like this?

"Arish—"

"Please, please let me stay here with you." She grasped Miriam's tunic.

Miriam withdrew her hands and placed them on Arisha's wet face. "You are a woman, and it is well past time for you to marry and create a life of your own. You cannot live in mine any longer."

"But I don't want to. I don't know how." Arisha buried her face in Miriam's shoulder and sobbed. "I'm afraid," she whispered.

Miriam embraced her and rubbed circles on her back. "No, no, my child, you mustn't be afraid. Yahweh has created marriage for us, and it is a good thing. It is not something to be feared."

Arisha pulled back and narrowed her eyes. "But you never married."

"I almost did."

"What happened?"

Miriam gestured to a cushion.

Arisha released her and sank to the floor, immediately missing the comfort of the woman. She swiped the tears from her cheeks and tried to slow her breathing.

Miriam stepped outside the tent. While she was gone, Arisha studied the tent that had been her only real home—at least, the only one she could remember. Soft cushions stuffed with wool, covered in sheepskin, were scattered over the floor. Their extra tunics were neatly folded in the corner. Skins of water occupied another corner. Sleeping mats lay rolled up along the back wall.

She was safe here. How could she leave?

Miriam returned with two cups full of hot water, then sat across from Arisha. She reached into a bag and withdrew mint and sage leaves and dropped a few into each cup. "It was long, long ago, back in Egypt. His name was Eliab. We were two months from marrying, and he was killed in the brickfields."

"Oh, Miriam!" Arisha's hand went to her mouth.

"Obviously I was devastated. I knew I would never love anyone else like I loved him. I thought... I thought my life was over. I wouldn't come out of my house for a month."

Miriam stirred the leaves in the cups. "Then a friend had a baby. Her _imma_ had died when she was very young, and I had always helped my imma with Aaron and Moses. She begged me to come help her, so I spent several weeks with her. And then another friend needed me, and another... and I realized I found it very fulfilling."

Arisha shook her head. "But you never married."

"Yahweh gave me something else. I could have sought marriage again; I _chose_ not to. But it wasn't because I was afraid. I chose another way instead." Miriam took her hand. "What would you be choosing?"

Arisha released a slow sigh. "Nothing, I suppose."

"Exactly." She fished the leaves from the tea, then offered a cup to Arisha. "I'm asking you to trust me, Arisha. I _know_ this is the best life for you."

Arisha's eyes filled with tears once again, but she blinked them back. "When do I have to do this?"

"Not until you are comfortable with him."

Arisha's eyes widened. "Truly?"

Miriam laughed. "Of course. I am not trying to get rid of you."

Arisha frowned. It certainly felt that way.

"You may not believe me, but I am doing what is best for you." She took a long sip of tea. "I'm happy living alone, helping other people. I am quite demanding, I love to be in control, and I hate taking orders. It would take a very special sort of man to live with me. I never found another one like Eliab." She shrugged. "But you, my sweet, would not be happy. We were not created to live alone."

"But I am not alone! We have each other. Why can't it stay that way?"

Miriam set her cup aside, then took Arisha's hand in both of hers. She waited until Arisha's gaze met her own. "I know you're afraid. But I have known this man since he was a baby. I know his father, and knew his grandfather and his great-uncle. He is an honorable, gentle man, and he will never abandon or mistreat you. You have trusted me so far. Trust me now."

Arisha sniffled and managed a nod as Miriam exited the tent. After a few moments, Arisha left as well. She wandered north along the walkway. The sun hid behind the Tabernacle but hadn't quite set, leaving her in the shadows.

A pair of Laughing Doves flew over her head, their snickering call lightening her heart. They were the most beautiful of the desert birds. She picked up her pace and followed them.

North of camp, two enormous springs were joined to two on the east by a small river. Miriam said they supplied enough water for everyone even in the hottest summers, but she hadn't been here long enough to know. The river fed broom bushes and date palms stretching toward the sky, standing like watchful sentinels all along the east and north sides of camp. Low hills protected them on the south and west.

She reached the largest spring, the one directly north of camp. A warm breeze blew in off the mountains far beyond the spring, tossing her hair over her shoulders. She gazed north, where the desert gave way to cliffs, then to the hills of Canaan. When she escaped months ago, she never would have imagined a place a lovely as this.

Women came and went, carrying skins full of clear water to their waiting families. Always the women, always alone. Miriam said marrying brought man and woman together, but from what she saw, women stayed with women and the men were still with the men.

Why should she marry anyone if she would still be alone?

Zadok swatted at the wetness on his cheek and rolled his head away. Too early to wake up. Wet pressure jabbed him in his neck, and after a moment, his nose. He opened his eyes to a year-old lamb nuzzling his face.

He reached up to rub the animal's head. "What's the matter? Can't find your imma, _Neshika_?"

Zadok's gaze wandered skyward. Yahweh's protective cloud hovered, the fire of night giving way to the puffy white of day. The cloud was not only a reminder of His pronouncement that Israel wait here, outside Canaan for forty years, but protection from the sun and heat while living in the desert. Zadok breathed a quick prayer of thanks.

The yearling baaaed at him, then nuzzled him again.

"Fine, I'll get up."

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, squinted against the sun at his flock lying around him. He stretched and groaned. How much sleep had he gotten? Not much. The first lambs of the season had been born. After the first ewe delivered, he discovered another in distress. Nearly ended up pulling the lamb out of its mother that time. And then of course he had to sit and watch as the mother licked the baby clean, and the lamb in turn began to suckle. There wasn't a more satisfying experience in the world than seeing a newborn stand and begin to walk.

"Zadok?"

He twisted toward the voice. "Jonah? You're still here?" He stuck out a hand and Jonah pulled him up.

"You looked like you could use the sleep, so I stayed a while longer than usual. Reuben isn't here yet, but Micah is. Are you up now?"

Shivering in the cool morning air of early spring, Zadok brushed off his sheepskin cloak he'd used as a blanket and shrugged into it. "Yes. Thank you for staying. You can go now. Get some sleep yourself."

Jonah nodded, then picked up several skins of milk he had gathered and jogged toward camp.

Zadok picked up the lamb at his feet, checked its ears, eyes, looked in its mouth. "Doing well today, Shika. Now run off." He moved to another lamb and did the same.

A third cowered near its ewe trembling. He knelt beside the lamb, ran his hand along its back, down its flanks. What was the problem? Gently taking hold of the head, he pulled the nose toward him. There it was—a nasty scratch on her face. He reached for the horn in the bag tied to his belt. "Hold on, girl. Hold on." He removed the skin cover, then dipped two fingers into the ram's horn full of olive oil and rubbed the cool liquid into the wound. The lamb jerked her head at first, but calmed as the oil soothed the sting. "Better now?" He drew his fingers over the rest of her head, checking the rest of her skin just in case.

He strolled through his flock, inspecting the youngest and the oldest. All present and doing well. He glanced at the low wall they had built soon after Yahweh's decree. Huge rocks dragged and rolled from the rugged hills south of camp sectioned off an enormous area for the remaining sheep and goats they had then. Three semi-sweet springs fed by an underground river nurtured a pasture, full of grass and safe from predators.

The majority of the animals they had brought from Egypt had been lost on the way to Mt Sinai. Expecting to be in Canaan in a matter of weeks, many had been slaughtered for food. Others had died for lack of water. The grassy area had been set up for those who wished to continue to keep their flocks, but most lost interest quickly. They kept a sheep or a goat or two, just for some milk, but no one wanted to start breeding animals here, thought it was too much trouble. They wanted to wait until they reached their new home.

Zadok wanted to have his flock ready when they got there. He loved the work, loved the animals. He had built up a small flock, and intended to have quite a good-sized one before they reached their permanent home in Canaan. Joshua had told him about the grassy hills in the south, perfect for raising sheep. Dotted with springs, there was enough water and food for any flock. It was all Zadok had dreamed of since the first time he held a newborn lamb.

And when Aaron asked him to give it up...

But he could still work with the sheep, and he was doing what Yahweh wanted.

Now the lush pasture of Kadesh was basically his. The low hills that surrounded them on three sides and the noise of the people kept the sheep safe from most predators, but Zadok took no chances and kept at least two people with the flock at all times.

With the springs, the hills, and the date palms, the oasis had been a perfect place to wait out Yahweh's judgment of forty years.

But it wasn't Canaan. Not the land they had left Egypt for. No one over twenty who escaped that day had been allowed to live to see it because of their unbelief when the scouts returned with their report. Zadok's parents were still alive, but all four of his grandparents had died. There were few left now.

His eyes darting back and forth, he scanned the hills, as he did several times every day, searching for anything that might harm his animals. He turned to see Moses coming toward him.

"Your flock is well cared for, Zadok." Moses smiled as he took stock of the sheep around him.

"Thank you. That means a lot coming from another shepherd."

"There are times I miss caring for one of Yahweh's simplest creations." Neshika loped near and nudged Moses's leg. The old man bent to pick her up, his staff hooked on his arm.

Zadok marveled at his agility. Even at one hundred twenty years old, Moses moved with the ease of a man a fraction of his age.

As Moses held her and stroked her nose, she nuzzled his chest. He laughed. "She's quite affectionate, isn't she?"

Zadok smiled as he rubbed her ears. "That's why I named her _kiss_."

Moses gently set the lamb on the grass. He leaned on his staff and was quiet for several moments. "I hear Miriam asked you to do something."

Zadok huffed, then leveled his gaze at Moses. "Do something? She asked me to marry someone I've never even met."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her I'd have to think about it."

Moses shrugged. "Could be quite an adventure."

A chill ran through Zadok. "I don't _like_ adventures. That's why I'm a shepherd. I like peace, calm, predictability. It's the same year after year, season to season. The rains come when they are supposed to. Lambs are born when they are ready. The sun rises every morning."

"A life like that can be tedious, my son."

Zadok crossed his arms and gazed at the far-off mountains. "Maybe. But it's safe."

"Safe from what?"

"Danger... risk..."

"Heartache?"

"Maybe."

Moses studied Zadok and stroked his white beard. "Are you going to hide in the pasture your entire life?"

"Maybe." Years of keeping his voice low around the sheep kept Zadok from raising it, but his chest tightened.

"Just because they didn't understand you, doesn't mean everyone won't."

"I won't go through that again."

Moses's eyes were gentle. "Miriam wouldn't let you."

Zadok rubbed his thumbnail on his lower lip. "I just can't," he whispered.

Moses pursed his lips. "Have you considered that this is what Yahweh, and not just Miriam, wants from you?"

Zadok breathed a heavy sigh. "Why would you think that?"

"For one, Miriam rarely makes decisions involving others, especially to this extent, without hearing from Yahweh. Second, she has known you since you were born. Do you really think she would do something so serious, on her own, if she had any inkling it would hurt you? And third, in my experience Yahweh seems to take a particular delight in turning our world end over end when we are at our most content."

Moses turned and left without waiting for a response.

_Most content._ Was Zadok content? He'd limited his world to a narrow, carefully controlled existence, designed to keep out pain and loss. It worked, as far as that went. He had been free of pain and loss since...

But content?

Probably not.

Follow Zadok and Arisha as Israel makes its next move toward the Promised Land.

# About the Author

An unapologetic Californian, Carole Towriss now lives just north of Washington, DC. She loves her husband, her four children, the beach, and tacos, though not always in that order. In addition to writing and picking up kids' shoes, she binge-watches British crime dramas.

Visit the website for discussion questions and other resources.

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_For more information:_

caroletowriss.com

carole@caroletowriss.com

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