Free Take This Cup by Brock Thoene, Bodie Page B

patriots spill their blood. You who are well off must share the load in some way.”
    Holding the now-empty wineskin, I witnessed Zimri stretch his left arm high above his head. It was an awkward, unnatural movement, as if the Jewish horseman were reaching toward the waxing moon that hung in the sky to the south.
    Then Zimri dropped his hand abruptly, and pandemonium broke loose. All of Zimri’s rebels drew their swords. The shepherds, wary men at all times, jumped up, staffs in hand, and the battle was on.
    Rabbi Kagba was too old to fight and, besides, was unarmed. There were twelve bandits against Father and four shepherds.
    “Grab the boy!” Zimri yelled as he slashed with his blade and Father parried with his six-foot-long staff. “Grab him! Then they’ll throw down their weapons.”
    The greasy ruffian lunged toward me but missed when I tripped and fell backward over a heap of firewood.
    “No!” Mother shouted, crashing the serving platter against the bandit’s head. He warded off a second blow with his upraised arm, then struck my mother across the face, knocking her down.
    “Run!” Father yelled. “Run and hide! Kagba! Help him!”
    The same bandit who had felled my mother reached across the heap of sticks and seized my ankle. Then Beni, dashing in from outside the firelight, sunk his teeth into the cutthroat’swrist. The man howled and released his hold on me and dropped his sword as well. Beni kept his jaws clamped tight, even when the rebel swung around in a circle, bellowing with pain. He hammered on Beni’s skull with his other fist. “Get him off me!” the bandit shrieked. “Help!”
    “Run, Nehi!” Father yelled again. “Go!”
    My father stabbed with the point of his staff and hit Zimri in the forehead with it, opening a gash. The bandit chief staggered backward, blood smeared across his eyes, and lashed out with his sword.
    I fled.
    All I could think to do was to run toward the boulder from which I had first seen the bandit troop. It was on a steep slope above the camp. Once there I would be outside the firelight and could even throw rocks down on the rebels.
    As I ran, the sounds of battle continued behind me: the clatter of staff against sword, muttered oaths, sharp exclamations of pain. Over it all came shrieking and ferocious growling from the combat between the bandit and Beni.
    I had just reached the base of the boulder when there was a single high-pitched yelp and the growling stopped. I almost turned back at that. How could I fly when my father, mother, and best friend were in danger?
    I was climbing the rock for a better view when a hand seized the hem of my robe and dragged me downward.
    “Down from there. Come here, boy!”
    It was Rabbi Kagba. “No time for second thoughts. Your father and the men are giving you every chance to get away. We must not squander it. Up this canyon. All the way up. Hurry! No time to waste.”
    Into the darkness we ran. Beads of the sweat of fear dottedmy face and trickled into my eyes. I did not know if my mother or Beni still lived, or how much longer my father could hold out with a wooden staff against an iron sword in the hands of a much younger man.
    Halfway up the canyon the footing turned to loose gravel, and I fell. My chin collided with a rock, opening a painful gash. I was dazed.
    Panting, Rabbi Kagba lifted me. “Come on, Nehemiah. We can’t stop yet. Listen!”
    Sandaled feet scrabbled up the same path we had recently climbed, echoing from below. How many bandits were in pursuit I could not tell.
    Hand in hand, the elderly rabbi and I continued upward into the night.

Part Two
Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. . . .
You will tread on the lion and the cobra;
you will trample the great lion and the serpent.
P SALM 91:1,13 1

Chapter 9
    R abbi Kagba and I traveled all night, climbing steadily upward. Our path into the mountains was illuminated by moonlight. The trees cast wavering