Free Day of War by Cliff Graham

curtlyand continued to the rug spread out on the floor near him. Putting the pot down, she averted her eyes and hurried out the door. Wisps of steam rose from the pot.
    The smell of the meat made his belly ache for food. There was a dull throb on his head and arm, but when he sat up too quickly, it flared up and he felt like he had thrown himself into the cooking fire.
    “Careful, my friend, you aren’t well yet.”
    Benaiah turned to see who was speaking. Jairas stooped over him, a smile showing through his thick black beard. A gray robe and girdle hung loosely from him, and a square of thin wool was wrapped around his head with several cords. He wiped his brow with a wet rag.
    “You have been asleep for two days. Disease nearly killed you.”
    Benaiah thought about this a moment, then became frustrated that his mind seemed to be working slow. Everything was a haze — his thoughts, his memories, the sights in the dwelling around him.
    “Two days?”
    “Yes, two days. My wife and I have been up with you. So have our children.”
    Benaiah rubbed his slashed arm.
    “You did not have to …”
    Jairas made a dismissive gesture and dipped the rag in water.
    “After what you did? We should be giving you the whole village and all of our daughters as a war prize.”
    Benaiah looked at the other people who were suddenly in the room sitting on the floor next to him. Two girls and a boy, along with a woman he assumed was their mother, the one who had brought in the pot of food.
    “You have a knack for living, my friend. First we lost you to the lion in the pit, then I thought the infection would take you. Yet here you are.” He touched a sensitive part of the scalp wound and Benaiah winced.
    “I confess I believed the lion had you. But our physician is quite skilled. Irritating man, though, always whining. You must tell us about the lion when you can, or my son will drive you to the point of madness with his questions.”
    Benaiah glanced at the boy sitting next to the bed, staring wide-eyed at him.
    “The entire town knows about your fight with the Amalekites. They wish to show you their gratitude,” Jairas continued.
    “What about the boy? Does he live?”
    “Haratha lives. The physician, as I said, is very skilled.”
    Then Benaiah remembered all of it. The storm, the lion, the warriors in the forest with blazing weapons … the man who had escaped, and the prisoner who had told him about the raiding party.
    He grabbed hold of Jairas’s wrist. “I need to leave. I need to warn my men.”
    Jairas looked puzzled. “Warn them of what? All but one of the Amalekites was killed.”
    “Not them, the larger raiding force in the lowlands. The wounded man told me.”
    “You would trust the word of an Amalekite?”
    “Amalekites live in small settlements scattered across the desert. They seldom join together, and they certainly wouldn’t send one group of ten men alone into our territory. They must have been part of a larger force moving into Philistia.”
    “But you only just awoke! Those wounds are far from healed. Too much movement and they’ll reopen. You’ll bleed out on the trail.”
    “They will hold long enough for me to get back to my men.” Benaiah pushed himself upright, ignoring the burning on his head and shoulder. The wounds were painful but not threatening. He should be able to function now.
    “At least stay for the afternoon meal.”
    Benaiah looked at the eager faces of Jairas’s children and nodded. He rocked himself forward and slowly stood. The creaking in his stiff joints led him to stretch his arms over his head and move his fingers. He had on a fresh tunic, apparently donated by Jairas. In one corner of the room, his spear, his sword, and his tunic were hanging from wall pegs. His dagger was propped against his shield near a doorway that probably led to a bedroom. The blades were clean and gleaming. The men must have rubbed them with olive oil and wiped them with coarse wool for him.
    Benaiah