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      Daughter of Lachish

      A Novel

      Tim Frank

      Daughter of Lachish

      A Novel

      Copyright © 2011 Tim Frank. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      isbn 13: 978-1-61097-029-7

      eisbn 13: 978-1-4982-7127-1

      Manufactured in the U.S.A.

      Scripture quotations marked AT are the author’s translation.

      All other scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®.

      Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™

      Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.

      www.zondervan.com

      To Dr Alice Sinnott

      who opened my eyes to the stories of loss and joy

      in the words of the Prophets

      Chapter 1

      No! It could not happen to him! Not now! Not so close to victory. He’d thought he would live, would see the fall of the enemy, would experience the triumph over the rebellious city. He had hoped for the spoils of battle, the rewards of war. And now? Now he was dying. He was sure of it. An arrow had pierced his skin and opened a gaping wound in his forearm. It was not only his arm that hurt. The pain surged through his whole body. He lay on the wooden deck of the siege machine, unable to move, close to death. He couldn’t even protect the siege machine. Would it make it through the battle? Would it survive if he did not?

      “Ishtar! Oh, Ishtar!” Itur-Ea called out to the goddess. “Draw me from the claws of death,” he breathed. The pain lessened, the clamor of battle receded. But Itur-Ea felt no peace. Panic seized him as he seemed to rush along a tunnel of darkness, as he fell into the regions below the earth. He tried to call out, tried to remain among the living. Times when he had visited the temple of Ishtar flashed before his eyes. Was he going there? Into her embrace? Itur-Ea let go. Only fear met him in the darkness.

      A cold wave hit him. He shivered. Itur-Ea opened his eyes. The archer poured more water over his face.

      “Get up!” the archer yelled, then slapped Itur-Ea’s face.

      Itur-Ea moaned. “I can’t.”

      “It’s only your arm,” the archer insisted. He cut strips off Itur-Ea’s bloodied sash and wound them round the injured arm. Itur-Ea gasped in pain. But the archer seemed to hardly notice. He propped Itur-Ea up and slapped him on the shoulder, the one that was not injured. “We need you. The machine won’t last long under this fire if you don’t do your job. So do it!” Turning away, the man took his bow, stretched the string and released the arrow that would surely find its mark.

      Itur-Ea got up. He didn’t think he could lift the ladle. Gritting his teeth he plunged it into the caldron of the siege machine. He poured the water over the side, methodically keeping the siege machine wet, dousing the flames that threatened it. He had seldom seen such tenacious defenders. The men of Lachish threw fire and torches at the attackers without pause. They threw everything else they could as well: boulders, grindstones, wagon wheels and jars. And of course their archers fired arrows and their slingers shot stones at the Assyrian army.

      But they could not succeed. Lachish would fall. Itur-Ea was sure of it. Had the city not rebelled against the god Ashur? Had it not broken the treaty of the god? The people of Judah might put faith in their god, the god of Jerusalem, but their god could not help them. For the Assyrian army would crush Judah, the arm of Ashur would utterly destroy the land. Itur-Ea looked back across to the hill where the king of Assyria sat enthroned. King Sennacherib, the lord of the empire, king of all, directed the battle from above.

      Itur-Ea could hear the heavy breathing of the soldiers below operating the battering ram. With a thud its iron tip crashed into the city wall. Again and again it was rammed into the same spot so that the wall would slowly begin to crack. Each time it struck, the siege machine shuddered slightly. Whenever they found a crack between stones, the crew would lever the ram with all their strength, trying to dislodge stones in the wall.

      “Cover!” one of the archers yelled as he dove to the front of the machine. A heavy rock struck the machine. Itur-Ea could feel the impact as the timber framing shook. No real damage. The siege machines were built to withstand such bombardment. Stepping back, the archer had already released his next arrow. By the glint in his eye Itur-Ea could tell that it had found its target.

      Despite his weary arms, Itur-Ea continued to pour water over the hides that covered the siege machine. He looked back over the Assyrian troops fighting their way up the siege ramp. “By Ishtar!” Instead of continuous rows of advancing soldiers, he saw a large gap in the attacking ranks. An intense barrage of arrows and sling stones held back the Assyrian fighters. How could they allow their vanguard to become separated? They could never hope to weaken the city’s defenses without the cover provided by the archers and the steady stream of reinforcements.

      A glimpse along the city wall through the windows of the siege machine was no more encouraging. The attempt to scale the wall with ladders had been repelled. Attackers lay fallen beside remains of siege ladders.

      The siege machine lurched. Instead of the full thud, the ram just scraped the wall. The crew on the lower level was caught by surprise and a few fell over as the ram swung out. “Chains!” The defenders had managed to put a chain around the ram and were hauling it up. The three soldiers sent forward to free the ram were immediately felled by lances and rocks thrown from the wall. “Cut the rope!” the captain of the siege machine shouted from below. Itur-Ea fumbled the dagger out of his belt and began sawing the rope from which the ram was suspended. “Now! Cut the rope!” The voice of the captain sounded desperate. Itur-Ea worked feverishly. Finally the last strand snapped. The ram fell down. In one movement the crew thrust it forward and tilted it back. The chain around the ram became loose and the soldiers were able to haul it back into the machine. Not that the machine was much use now! It provided some cover for the archers, but could no longer damage the wall.

      The captain clearly must have seen the difficulty and decided to use the ram unsuspended. What little effect that had!

      Theirs was not the only siege machine in trouble. No water was splashed over the side of the closest machine. Had they run out? Or had the pourer been wounded? Frustration and despair surged through Itur-Ea. The attack was not going well.

      The king saw the situation. And he acted. The signal for retreat was given. Feelings of relief and disappointment overcame Itur-Ea. But he could not think of their failure now. Retreat was always a dangerous phase of battle. The rear of the Assyrian army pressed forward and sent a cloud of arrows and sling stones onto the defenders on the walls. The brake blocks were removed and the siege machines descended the ramp slowly. The captains shouted orders to keep the machines in line. The maneuver surprised the defenders. They had fought the attackers at close range; their weapons were not aimed to cover the distance. But no soldier could drop his guard, even for one moment. The archer next to Itur-Ea suddenly gasped as an arrow struck him under the arm. Here the body armor was no protection. Wounded, he fell onto the deck.

      * * *

      “Do

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