Free Word Fulfilled, The by Bruce Judisch Page B

vantage point, Jonah could see the ancient trade route pull away from the mountain, then veer into the desert on its course toward Damascus. Tonight there would be no cool place to rest if he did not reach the city gates before they closed. That worrisome thought prompted his decision to munch breakfast while he walked.
    Jonah hobbled off on cramped leg muscles toward the main road. When he reached the beaten path, he looked back toward the south. He hunched his shoulders against one more urge to return to the comfort and familiarity of Israel, drew a deep breath, and turned his face north. Then he took the first steps into the hostile wasteland that would become his home for the next—well, who knew how long?
     
    Lll
    “The prophet leaves his homeland, Mistress.”
    “It is to his destruction.”
    “Your wish, my Mistress?”
    “Watch and wait.”

 
     
     
     
    Twelve
     
     
    Damascus
    Twenty-seventh Day of Ajaru
     
    J
    onah slipped through Damascus’s southern gate just as the night watch began preparations to secure the city. Jeroboam’s raid, although several weeks past, still loomed fresh in the minds of the Arameans, and they went about their tasks in a terse mood. Elihu ben Barak, Jeroboam’s senior commander and Jonah’s lifelong friend, had gloated over how the Damascenes had been forced to watch camel loads and oxcarts of booty exit by this same gate. He believed, though, that the sting of defeat at the hands of a people Aram had oppressed not so long ago was worse than the loss of their treasure. He said Jeroboam accented the sting when he chose not to leave a contingent of soldiers behind. The surrounding nations would know for certain of Israel’s resurgent power, and Jeroboam’s decision to leave no military presence in the city enhanced the impression of Israel’s confidence.
    Elihu was certain the people of Damascus actually wished Jeroboam had left an encampment. Then there would at least have been someone to harass in retaliation. Jeroboam denied Israel’s former tormentors even that small measure of revenge. The tense mood of the city was palpable from the moment Jonah walked through the gate, and it left him in a quandary.
    He dithered whether to lodge at an inn. His speech would surely identify him as an Israelite, and he didn’t want to invite another brawl like the one in Megiddo’s backstreet tavern those weeks ago—especially since this time he would be involved rather than observing. He paused at the entrance of the marketplace to ponder his next move.
    “You journey alone.” The gruff voice came from his left.
    He spun toward the voice.
    “You travel beyond Damascus.” The voice grew coarser.
    Jonah stepped back and squinted into the deepening shadows. The voice addressed him in excellent Hebrew, but that accent . . . where had he heard that accent?
    “Who . . . where are you?”
    A shadow shifted and stepped away from the wall. In the dim light, it formed a massive figure easily a head and a half taller than Jonah and twice as wide. The stranger’s face was all but lost behind a bushy salt-and-pepper beard. His brow supported a keffiyeh that was once probably white but now wore a crust of grime, as did the striped brown robe that swept the ground around his feet. A wide cloth sash girded his waist, from which hung a curved sword free of any scabbard.
    “I say you travel beyond the city.”
    “I’m . . . not sure,” Jonah stammered, his eyes glued to the weapon.
    “Not sure? You do not know where you go?” The behemoth’s guttural tone suddenly reminded the prophet of his friend, Moshe ben Gideon, who had died saving the lives of Jonah and his friends only a few short weeks back. It summoned a wave of sorrow, but the emotion broke over his sudden recognition at the stranger’s accent. It was the accent of the young foreigner who had killed Moshe in his attempt to kidnap the young Leah. Jonah narrowed his eyes and took another step back. He glanced into the market