The Negev south of Judah, 1020 BC

    Omri’s only hope was to surpass thousands of men with a mighty deed, not just survive the battle to return to Deborah and his new son. He leaned on his spear shaft atop a low, rocky hill, the wood smooth in his palms, the scent of dust tickling his nose. He had fought in battle before, but tomorrow he must take greater risks if he planned to gain the king’s favor. Could he outfight all his fellow warriors?

     A vast blanket of men and donkeys covered the desert, stretching toward a sunset that colored the sky brighter than blood. The men below him prepared for the night, eating cold bread, tending animals, or wrapping themselves in cloaks for the night. He had heard that more than two hundred thousand had answered the king’s call to war, representing each of Israel’s twelve tribes. Some had traveled a week to join the host gathered to destroy the Amaleki.

     Omri’s stomach squirmed, but not from hunger. With so many men in the battle, the king could overlook him like a grain of sand on the desert floor. He must do something that would astonish others, an act that would reach the ears of the king. An act the king would honor and reward.

     A squat man ambled up the grade toward him, muscular arms hanging from his tan, sleeveless tunic, and a spear in hand. Omri had met him before. Baruch. The brute surveyed the men on his right and left, like one studying sheep to spot a flock’s strong among the weak. The smooth skin around his eyes declared him a young man, not a seasoned leader.

     Baruch stopped, planted his spear butt in the grit, and stared, a hand on his hip and chest thrust forward. “You are a son of Zethan, are you not? The man from Beth Aven with many sons?”

     So much for a polite greeting. He nodded. “I am Omri.”

     “What number are you?” Baruch’s dark beard didn’t hide his sneer.

     “Number?”

     “Which son, the sixth? Last?”

     A sour taste flooded Omri’s mouth. Baruch was as unpleasant as he remembered.

     He smiled. “I am the eighth son. My abba begat twelve.”

     “Eighth of twelve,” Baruch used a honeyed tone like a woman talking to a baby.

     “Are you well? Have you seen battle before?”

He chuckled, but Baruch didn’t smile. “Of course I have. I fought against Ammon and the Philistines.” Would Baruch ease his scrutiny once he knew he had experienced war?

     “Where are your brothers?” Baruch studied him with narrowed eyes.

     “We camped over there.” He waved his hand. They had left three of their number at home with their old and frail abba since they were too young to fight, but Baruch didn’t need to know that.

     Baruch took two steps uphill and turned, stopping slightly higher than Omri, and looked down at him. Baruch gestured at the army spread below. “We have a mighty force. King Saul will lead us to a great victory tomorrow. We will give our brothers in Judah peace from Amalekite raids.”

     “Yes. Adonai will bless us.” Omri drew a deep breath and turned toward Baruch.

     “I’ve heard the king added valiant men to his guard after we defeated Ammon. Have you heard the same?”

     “Yes, he did. I hear he will honor one after this battle as well.”

     So, the rumors were true. He would have a chance to serve in Gibeah if he performed a valiant and mighty act in battle. The battle would not bring him any spoils since the prophet, Samuel, had decreed that everything the Amaleki owned must be destroyed. But the king could reward him with a better life for his family rather than wait for his meager share of Abba’s small, rocky vineyard. 

     Baruch lifted an eyebrow. “I should worry about you, shouldn’t I?”

     “What do you mean?”

     “You think the king will honor you.”

     He shrugged. “Perhaps, if I fight well.”

     A snort exploded from Baruch. “Saul will only honor the mightiest warrior.” His frowning gaze swept over Omri, then he stared down at the camp.

     “Brave like you?” Omri smiled. 

     Baruch cocked his head, chin jutting, and rocked back on his heels. “Yes. Tomorrow I will distinguish myself in battle. The king will add me to his guard. I’ll move to Gibeah and get the best weapons and eat the best food. I will share the spoils from every battle.”

     Omri’s grip tightened on his spear. His family needed the honors that Baruch assumed would be his. “I know you will do well, my friend. I see your fierce spirit. But the king can honor more than one of his men.”

     “Only one will be honored after this battle?”

     “Who told you this?”

     “I heard it from Jonathon, the king’s son. The one who single-handedly slaughtered twenty Philistines in the pass at Michmash.”

     Omri had heard how Jonathon crawled up the pass with his armor-bearer and fought alone. His skill had thrown the Philistines into confusion. Adonai had provided a great victory through the courage of one man. “You know Jonathon?”

     “He is my kin. I heard him discuss this as we traveled here.” Baruch’s chest swelled even more. 

      Kin? Jonathan was probably only a cousin from three generations past through Barach’s ima. “Are you sure the king will only honor one?”

     “Oh, Jonathan thinks it possible that more than one will receive honor since the king gathers every mighty man he finds, but the king already has six hundred who serve in his guard. How many more mighty men can there be? He will select one, at most two. You needn’t concern yourself. Fight well, but know I will be the one honored.” Baruch flicked something off his spear point with his fingernail.

     “I will pray you fight well and win the reward you seek.” Omri squared his shoulders. He would also ask for Adonai’s blessing so the king would reward him as well.

     “I will kill more Amaleki than you will.” Baruch glowered at him.

    Pressure squeezed Omri’s gut. The man was even more arrogant than he had remembered, but he was not the enemy.

     A voice drifted through the dusk calling Baruch’s name. A man in the distance waved.

     “Ah,” Baruch said, “the king and his leaders have finished their battle plans. I must learn where my village will fight.” He strode down the hill without another word.

     “God’s blessing,” Omri called.

     He shook his head. Baruch was wrong. King Saul wouldn’t honor the man who killed the most Amaleki. He would honor an act of extraordinary bravery and success like the one Jonathan had accomplished at Michmash.

     Angling across the hill, Omri plodded toward the place he had left his brothers. A long night of seeking sleep on hard ground awaited him, like the nights before his other battles. A night filled with thoughts of possible injury and death. But he knew how to keep doubts and fear at bay. He would pray and think of his family.

     His heart stirred, picturing his new son’s tiny fingers entwined in Deborah’s long black hair as he suckled. He must win a better future for them and any more children Adonai would give him.

     Perhaps he could sneak away from the host tonight and attack the Amalekites. Jonathan had fought the Philistines alone at Michmash, his act of valor confusing the enemy. If he attacked alone and caused a similar panic, his deed wouldn’t be lost in the clash of thousands of men.

     Omri’s stomach sank as he wove through groups of murmuring men. He couldn’t attack alone. When the Philistines invaded the land of Benjamin and fortified the pass, Jonathan knew the place to find the enemy. But the Amalekites lived as nomads beyond the borders of Israel, a place where he had never walked. The spy’s report said the Amalekites were camped at the mouth of a ravine with steep cliffs. How could he find them in the dark in this desert? He could wander all night only to miss the Amaleki and the battle.

     His only hope was to fight valiantly tomorrow.

Chapter 2