Free The Philistine Warrior by Karl Larew Page A

Canaanite answer to his ultimatum came in a shower of arrows; then they began to flee to the cover of the scrub and rocks on a nearby hill. Luckily,
     
    none of their missiles hit us or our horses. Warati turned to our charioteers: “After them! First section to the right. Cut them off!” One section of chariots thus broke into a gallop and strung itself out on the Canaanites’ flank, trying to get between them and the high ground. The enemy scattered as the remainder of our chariots swept over them from behind.
    It was a hopeless position for the ragged Judaean soldiery. Some turned to spear our chariot horses, but they were soon cut down by arrows or javelins. As the dust cleared, it could be seen that most of the Canaanites had perished, or were surrendering. Some, however, had made it to the hillock and hid in the scrub, shooting arrows at the charioteers. A horse fell and its chariot turned over.
    “Dismount,” Warati commanded. Then he turned to the few chariots which he’d held in reserve. “Go around the hill; surround it!” We then accompanied our dismounted soldiers as they combed the scrub. Here and there a scream of pain signified that another Canaanite had been killed. Some surrendered and were led away.
    “That just about does it,” I commented, and a second later an arrow hit my shoulder, spinning me around and down! Warati hardly seemed to notice; he merely pointed to the bush which hid my attacker—and, in another moment, our soldiers had killed the wretched fellow.
    A sergeant came up to Warati. “Sir, two horses dead and four men wounded, none seriously.”
    “Make that five,” I interrupted, trying to be light-hearted, despite the pain in my arm. The sergeant turned to assist me.
    “And the enemy?” Warati demanded.
    “Some twenty-five slain, about fifteen wounded, and ten unwounded prisoners,” the sergeant replied as he pulled the arrow from my shoulder. That smarted worse than the penetration.
    “We’ll carry the prisoners back to Eglon,” Warati ordained, “except for those too maimed to be sold as slaves. Kill those. Strip the dead.”
    “Their leader is wounded,” the sergeant told Warati.
    “We’ll take him with us,” the Colonel replied.
     
    Within a few minutes, our chariots, loaded with captured weapons, began the short journey back to camp, prisoners trotting behind, led by ropes.
     

     
    When we arrived at camp, I got deposited with Delai, since Rachel was reputed to have had experience with wounds. While she scurried around with water, balm, and bandages, Delai knelt by my side, anxious. “Cousin….”
    “Don’t be too upset, m’Lady; I’ve been wounded before….”
    She took her golden fish amulet and laid it on my wound, not flinching from the sight of blood. “It’s said to ward off disease,” she explained, and patted my arm.
    “Thank you. It was a silly battle. They didn’t have a chance. They’d no idea Eglon was guarded by charioteers—and almost none of them possessed iron weapons.” She put some water to my lips.
    “Mistress!” Rachel cried from the tent flap. “It’s horrible!” she screamed, turning away.
    I struggled to my feet and stepped out of the tent. I saw Warati in the process of conducting two ceremonies: on one side of the camp, his men prepared to execute the wounded Canaanite leader; the townspeople, many of them Canaanites, had gathered around to witness this death by torture—and quartering—which Warati had arranged. On the other side of camp, I saw my charioteer—the one involved in the aborted duel—tied to a post. Warati had ordered him whipped!
    I staggered up to the Colonel: “Sir, this is unheard of. Release that man!”
    “Nonsense! Soldiers are flogged daily in our battalions,” he replied—as his sergeant began to apply the whip.
    “But this man is a charioteer; never have charioteers been disciplined this way!”
    “He’s a soldier,” the Colonel spat out—and signaled for another blow to be