“We are not seeking service here,” I said. “We are traveling to Egypt.”
“You will serve the God of Israel,” Ben-Jameen insisted. Then, softening slightly, he said, “At least come and spend the night in our camp and meet our great leader Joshua.”
I hesitated, sensing a trap.
The youngster smiled shyly. “He would never forgive me if I allowed you to leave without bringing you to him. I would be disgraced before my father’s eyes.”
It was difficult to argue with him.
“Besides,” he added, the smile brightening slightly, “it will be impossible for you to go farther south without running into other groups of our people. We are a multitude.”
I bowed to the inevitable and accepted his offer of hospitality as graciously as I could.
The Israelites were indeed a multitude, hundreds of families camped on a wide plain between the river they called Jordan and the worn, bare, baked-brown mountains. Their tents dotted the green plain, and their flocks stirred clouds of dust when they were driven from pasture to the rough fences of their nightly fold.
With the setting sun turning the western sky blood red, and the hot wind blowing down off those scorched mountains, the smell of those flocks was almost overpowering. No one seemed to notice it except us newcomers. Families were gathering before each tent, starting the evening cooking fires, chattering in their guttural language, children running, boys shouting at each other as they played with wooden swords and shields, girls screeching with high-pitched laughter.
But what caught my eyes, and Lukka’s, was the walled city sitting atop a low hill in the middle of the plain. It dominated the region, just as Troy had dominated the plain of Ilios.
“That is Jericho,” I told Lukka.
“It is known as the oldest city in the world,” he said.
“Is it? The walls certainly seem high and thick.”
“Stronger than Troy’s.”
“They want us to help them take it.”
He made a coughing grunt.
“Can it be done?”
Lukka scratched at his beard. “My lord Orion, any city can be taken. It’s only a question of time, and how many lives you can afford to lose.”
We made our camp as far from the animal pens as possible. As the men pitched their tents, I brought Helen out from the covered cart. There was no sense trying to keep her hidden here.
“The men will want to mingle with the women here,” Lukka told me.
I nodded, but warned, “Tell them to be careful and mind their manners. I doubt that these women are the kind who take to strangers.”
He made a tiny smile. “They all seem to be well protected by family males,” he agreed. “Still — no harm in being friendly.”
“Just make certain that they’re not so friendly they get their throats cut.”
Ben-Jameen came back to us as the sun dipped below the western mountains and the long violet shadows crept across the plain.
“Joshua invites you to have supper with him in his tent.” He seemed excited and pleased.
Just then Helen came out of my tent, freshly washed in water brought up from the distant river, clothed in a long pleated gown of crimson, a golden necklace and bracelet her only jewelry.
Ben-Jameen gaped at her.
“This is Helen, princess of the lost city of Troy,” I said, deciding not to mention that she was Queen of Sparta. “She will accompany me at supper.”
It took the youth several moments to get his mouth closed and his eyes off Helen. Finally he turned to me and said, “Among us, women do not eat with men.”
“Your leader will have to make an exception in this case.”
Ben-Jameen nodded dumbly and scrambled off to inform Joshua of this startling turn of events.
Helen stepped close to me. “I can stay here, Orion. It’s not wise to cause trouble over me.”
I disagreed. “It’s necessary for you to come with me. I want this Joshua, whoever he is, to realize that he can’t command me as if I were his servant.”
“Ah, I understand,” she said. Then, with a smile, “And I thought you couldn’t bear the thought of taking a meal without me by your side.”
I smiled back. “That, too.”
Ben-Jameen returned with a guard of honor, six men in clean robes, armed only with short swords scabbarded at their sides, who escorted us to a wide, low tent of goat skins. I had to duck to get through the entrance flap.
Inside, the tent was spacious. Worn carpets covered the ground. A low table was spread with steaming bowls of meat and platters of olives, onions, and greens I could not identify. A dozen old men sat around the table, on brightly decorated cushions and pillows. At the center of the table sat a younger man, his long hair and beard still dark, his eyes bright with an inner fire.
It was Joshua’s eyes that sent a warning alarm tingling along my nerves. They blazed with the light of a zeal that knew no bounds, as if he were so certain that what he was doing was the right thing that he never questioned any action that popped into his thoughts. He was an intense, dedicated man in his late thirties or early forties, I guessed, lean as a sword and as straight, unbent even by the burdens of leading his people as they struggled to find a homeland for themselves.
Ben-Jameen performed the introductions. None of the Israelites stood, but Joshua invited us to sit at the empty places around the table once we had been properly introduced to everyone. I sat directly across the table from Joshua, Helen on my left, Ben-Jameen on my right. The men ignored Helen so thoroughly that I knew her presence disturbed them no end.
There was no wine at the table, only a thin fermented goat’s milk that tasted so sour I preferred the water. The food was plentiful, though. For a nomadic tribe on the march through a hostile land, they had plenty to eat. At least, these leaders did.
Joshua remained silent as we ate, but he watched me carefully, his eyes never leaving me. The old men asked me hundreds of questions about who I was, where I came from, were my men truly Hittite soldiers, had the God of Israel really destroyed the Hittite empire? I answered as truthfully as I could, and as we finished the meal with dates and melons, I complimented Joshua on the food.
“Yes,” he said, “this is truly a land of milk and honey, just as the Lord our God promised it would be.”
“Tell me of your god,” I said. “What does he look like? What do you call him?”
A gasp went around the table. Several of the old men actually pushed away, as if afraid I would infect them. Even Ben-Jameen edged slightly away from me.
“His name is never spoken,” said Joshua, his voice reedy, nasal, his words coming fast, as if he were angry. “He is the Lord God of Israel, the God of our fathers.”
“The most powerful God of all,” said one of the old men.
“The only God,” Joshua insisted firmly. “All other gods are false.”
“He is a golden, radiant figure?” I asked.
“No one has ever seen Him,” said Joshua, “and it is forbidden to make images of Him.”
“How does he communicate with you?”
“He spoke directly to Moses,” said the elder on Joshua’s right. “He led us through the wilderness and gave Moses the tablets of the law.”
“He has led us here,” said Joshua, tapping a blunt forefinger on the table. “To Jericho. We crossed the River Jordan dry shod, just as He led Moses and our people across the Sea of Reeds. He has promised us this land of Canaan for our own. But if we can’t conquer Jericho we will be nothing but wandering beggars, strangers in our own land, outcasts forever.”