Free The Philistine Warrior by Karl Larew Page B

struck.
    “He’s a free gentleman of Philistia , not one of your infantry !” My words came out as hot as the pain in my shoulder.
     
    Warati turned purple: “‘Gentleman,’ shit! They’re soldiers and will be disciplined!”
    “You can’t punish him without my permission!” I retorted, as the lash fell again.
    “Silence!” Warati roared. “So long as your charioteers are under my command, I may discipline them as I choose—and you, too,
    Captain…but in view of your wound, I’ll excuse your impertinence…this time…. Now, return to your tent.”
    It was a stalemate. I couldn’t countermand his orders, but neither would he dare to impose whipping on the Sheren’s nephew. In any case, he then ordered the flogging ended, and he turned to the scene of execution. The wretched bandit chief had already been tormented in a variety of painful ways, and now each of his limbs got fastened to a horse….
    Feeling sick and faint from my wound, and from the thought of my warrior’s disgraceful whipping, I started back to Delai’s tent. There were unpleasant mutterings among the charioteers: one of their fellows had been doubly dishonored, their captain humiliated. “Thanks for trying, sir,” one of my men said to me.
    “We’ll see what Sheren Maoch says about this atrocity,” I replied, darkly. For that matter, I doubted that even Zaggi, with his sense of class superiority, would approve of the Colonel’s behavior toward an aristocrat.
    Then, off to my right, I heard horse whips cracking; the Canaanite’s screams abruptly stopped, and four maddened horses bolted away from the scene, each dragging part of the bloody mass. In a moment, Warati’s infantrymen had stuck the slain man’s head on a pole—a warning to future raiders and rebels. I entered Delai’s tent and fell on her couch, my wound bleeding again. Delai and a girl slave applied fresh bandages and gave me water.
    “Did you watch…the execution?” I asked.
    Delai turned pale. “No, I hid and shut my ears. But Rachel watched….”
    “Where’s she now?”
    “She just left to get a priest from town—one with healing charms for you,” Delai answered.
     
    “Charms, indeed,” I managed a weak laugh, and propped myself up on my good arm. “Don’t tell me you believe in such nonsense.”
    Delai’s eyes opened wide. “Of course!” she exclaimed. “Do you mean you don’t believe in charms?”
    “Forgive my impiety, Priestess,” I answered wryly, and sank back down on the couch. There was a long pause.
    “Phicol,” she whispered, “are you asleep?”
    “I was, almost.”
    “Phicol, was it really necessary to kill that man—in that way?”
    “It impresses the Canaanites, I suppose.”
    “But Cousin, won’t it simply make them regard us as brutes? They already hate our taxes. Rachel was telling me about that. We want to rule justly, don’t we?”
    “That bandit got what he deserved,” I answered wearily. “Although I would’ve contented myself with hanging him. But
    Warati regards all Canaanites as slaves; he thinks they have to be cowed. Maybe he’s right.” I closed my eyes as the pain welled up again.
    “I set Rachel free,” Delai reminded me. “And she’s loyal. I’ve never punished her….”
    “War is different,” I countered.
    “Rachel was so upset—more than I was, because she watched.”
    “But, Delai,” I protested, “those raiders would’ve murdered the Canaanites here in Eglon with just as much glee as they’d have gotten out of killing us—if they could have! And if that man had been captured by a rival Canaanite clan, his final tortures would’ve been much worse, and lasted longer. I’ve seen some really jolly executions, and I’ve seen our people murdered by them in far more gruesome ways.” Then I laughed—because the joke was on me: “How odd,” I noted. “Here I am defending Warati, when a moment ago I was about to write the Sheren, protesting his flogging of my man. Maybe I will