A Revolution- Warrior's Blood II

The gates creak loudly as they are slowly raised, letting bright sunlight blind the gladiator and his two soldier escorts. Blinking desperately to gain vision, Spartacus is shoved roughly into the arena. The white sand sends heat waves shimmering through the air and the dull roar of a huge crowd fills the ears of the gladiator. Spread throughout the arena are the weaponless slaves or condemned prisoners who are quickly being slaughtered by the trained gladiators. From the left of the now closed entrance a voice growls out, "Spartacus!" Spartacus quickly turns toward his easily recognized allies voice, just as a heavily armored but slim man charges him. Cursing under his breath, Spartacus ducks under the swinging long sword and catches the man under the arm, knocking him to the ground as the sword is flung across the sand. The two grapple about, sand flying, neither able to gain the upper hand. Winding up to elbow Spartacus in the face, the smaller gladiator leaves his side exposed long enough for Spartacus to slam his knee down, breaking multiple ribs. The injured man goes limp as he coughs up blood on the white sand. Still pinning the prone man, Spartacus yells out,"Crixus, weapon!" A few moments pass as the wounded man begins squirming and thrashing against Spartacus, gaining attention from others. Glancing around, Spartacus can see two men slowly making their way behind him, preparing to attack while he is distracted. Crixus is nowhere to be seen. Making a quick decision, Spartacus grabs the man's neck and jerks it violently to the side, then rising procures the fallen's long thin sword. Going on the offensive, he attacks a lurking man he vaguely recognizes from his sword training lessons. The unfortunate man apparently did not learn anything from his lessons and is soon decapitated, leaving only a slice across Spartcus's left bicep to his memory. Running to Spartacus, Crixus grimaces at the body, then raises an eyebrow at the long but flimsy sword his friend clutches. Spartacus shrugs. "Lucius thought the fight would be more interesting if I began without my own weapon. I had to make do." Shaking his head, Crixus chuckles sourly, "Yes, this is far more entertaining for the mob." The pair are quickly distracted as a new dispatch of gladiators are released into the somewhat settled arena, as only the finest of warriors are left. "Apparently not entertaining enough though..."

Back in a large room occupied with around fifty gladiators eating and arguing noisily, Oenomaus, Castus, and Crixus speak in hushed tones around a rough wood table. "And Spartacus' sure?" The heavily tattooed Crixus nods at the doubting Castus and attempts to reassure him. "As sure as he can be from here. We must wait until-"
"But if we are 'trayed?" interjects Castus, glaring at the slightly larger man. Almost growling, Oenomaus takes a swig of his drink and slams it onto the table, causing others to glance at the group nervously. "If we are betrayed we will hunt down the scoundrel and slit his throat in his sleep." His deep voice commands the attention of others. The room becomes hushed. Rolling his eyes at the inquisitive glances from other gladiators, Crixus smiles his gap-toothed smile at his loud and very solid friend. "Right, there is always tha'. So'long we ain't dead yet..." Castus's voice drips with sarcasm. Crixus interjects before the two truly begin to argue, "We have already sworn our oaths, thus whatever happens is now in Spartacus' hands. Castus, you understood that when this began."
"That doesn't mean imma just sit here and take my death. Tha's all." Castus leans back in his rickety chair and shrugs nonchalantly. Curving his mouth ironically which makes his facial tattoos distort, Crixus nods. "So, we proceed."

A group of ten men crouch behind a wall having just slipped out of their cells silently. At the first flash of a light one man in front waves for the others to proceed around the courtyard. Shadows move across the courtyard as about fifty men slip around the empty training grounds. The men continue to glance nervously at where the guards should be posted on the parapet, but there is no movement. Not five minutes earlier Spartacus and a few hand-picked gladiators known for their stealth had ensured a safe and covert passage for the others. The first group of men begins to climb the rough wall, a few slipping, but most making it to the top. As the first dozen make the jump outside the wall, a sigh of relief can be felt rather than heard. Then the piercing sound of a warning horn rings clear, shattering the still air. Cursing at their bad luck, the men begin to panic. Arrows bring down those left on the wall, screaming in pain and crawling back toward their comrades. Crixus and Oenomaus attempt to shout above the din, "To me! Rally toward the kitchen!" Some follow and begin to form up lines out of instinct rather than true defense. Racing back toward the shelter of the inner walls as was the back-up plan, a large gladiator breaks down the door to the kitchen and rushes in. The women inside squeal and flee in terror, the whites of their dark brown eyes betraying their lack of courage. Oenomaus, spotting Castus grasps the man's arm pulling him away from the stream of men seeking shelter. "Where is he?" he hisses out. Frowning at the rough treatment Castus shoves his arm off and sputters, "He said he would be here by now. Just wait." And with that he disappears into the crowd.

Someone begins handing out kitchen knives and utensils to the desperate men who understand that time is of the essence for their survival. The previously assigned leaders begin to work out a plan to fight their way to the roof and meet with the escapees. As the first group begins climbing the closest stairs, three others choose alternate routes for once the soldiers are distracted. Crixus, leading the men up the stairs, gasps in surprise as he opens the door to see Spartacus fighting desperately against a formation of Roman soldiers with only three gladiators beside him. Seeing his opening, Crixus, armed only with a butcher's knife, ferociously  joins the fight slowly pushing the guards along to the outer wall. Many men fall, filling the walkway with piles of bodies. But, neither side will relent. After what feels like hours to Spartacus but is in reality only minutes, he sees the first couple of men drop safely outside of the compound walls. The men whoop in victory as they take the jump and he quickly follows after making sure only a few are left. Landing on the rough ground he gathers his bearings and begins running toward the meeting place eleven miles south of the compound. Oenomaus runs up beside him trying to duck to avoid the few arrows being shot after them. "I know of fourteen dead so far and at least sixty alive. And Castus was able grab quite a bit of weapons, maybe even a wagon or two." Spartacus nods sharply. "Good. We continue as planned." 
"Any idea of the traitor?" Glancing up at the taller man Spartacus frowns. "No and I don't suppose we ever will know. They were extremely ill prepared though so it couldn't have been anyone who knew too much. Probably just rumors finding the right ears." They continue on in silence for a while, each listening to his own racing thoughts for company. "How bad is your leg?" Oenomaus rumbles, pointing to Spartacus' thigh. "My leg-" His retort is cut short as he notices the wound for the first time. The flesh above his knee is peeled back and a steady stream of blood runs down his leg. Cursing, he sits down immediately and taking a long strip of cloth offered by Oenomaus, begins binding the cut which now throbs excruciatingly. Then he rises waving off any assistance and begins running again as fast as his leg will allow him. 

Not far from the site the pair pause and look at the steady flow of men who upon reaching their destination, begin handing out proper weapons and binding wounds. The small valley is already aflutter with activity and noise. The sun is just beginning to light up the sky. Clearing his throat, Oenomaus questions, "What now, my friend?" Spartacus grabs the other man's forearm tightly. "Now," He says through gritted teeth, "we begin our revolution." and smiling broadly he finishes, "Let's give Rome hell."

Warrior's Blood I

The rusted shackles rub on the bound man's wrists and ankles, clinking loudly enough to make the guards stir nervously outside. Stretching as far as the chains allow, Spartacus begins his ritual for preparing for yet another game. His calm mind flashes back to scenes from years ago, yesterday, and that morning in random order. Breathing deeply he reminds himself of the past injuries both physical and psychological that he has faced and can feel his heart begin to pump his hot blood faster. Why do I fight? His homeland of Thrace seems almost to replace the dark cell hole with a forest of evergreens. Whom do I fight? As he stretches out his body, faces flash across his consciousness-traitors, cowards. What is freedom? He looks up at the stone wall before him where five letters have been etched. Death. Spartacus shakes his head as if to clear it from morbid thoughts and finishing his stretches, sits cross-legged on the ground. Then glancing through the bars into the dank hallway, Spartacus inspects the occupants of the cell across from his. Rome has not been kind in its selection of victims, for the damp cell holds an older man and a child. Almost hidden in the dark corner and trying futilely to get into a painless position, the aged man shifts on the rough, blood-stained stones. Opposite him sits a small child curled into a fetal position and rocking against the ground, causing a constant irritating scraping noise. With his long oily hair covering his face, the child's only distinguishing features are his long skinny legs and loose dirty clothing. A guard outside taps on the wall with his sword, roughly grunting with a thick foreign accent, "Five minutes, all prisoners." The whimper of the starving boy greets this news as the child begins rocking more violently. The old man spits vehemently in the direction of the door, his spittle catching in his scraggly beard which only adds to his demented look. Ravaged with sores and whip lashes, his body has seen the limits of cruelty. Spartacus looks on him with only pity, thinking of his own nourished, strong body that taunts others as it shows the favor he has received from the emperor already. He whispers, "You will end well, fighting. A noble death." The man's eyes go wide at the sound of Spartacus's voice and he begins screaming incoherently, throwing his face into his hands and clawing at his hair. "Silence!" A guard yells back, then glancing at a candle in the hall shrugs. "It's time anyway." He pulls out his keys and begins unlocking Spartacus's door first, pointing his sword threateningly toward him. Raising his shackled hands to show cooperation, Spartacus rises. He is soon joined in the hall by many others, some whom he recognizes from his training and others unfortunately condemned by an unjust government. The scrawny bodies providing a glaring contrast to the well-muscled bodies of the gladiators, the guards quickly separate the two groups and prod the condemned down a branching corridor. Noting the unusually large number of guards left to only a handful of men, Spartacus mumbles to himself, "A guard of ten?" Near him a burly soldier who appears to be second-in-command responds bitterly, "It would seem your reputation precedes you, Spartacus." Spartacus glares at the man challenging him to continue, but says nothing. After being ordered to move, the group travels down the corridor in silence until the leader barks out for the prisoners to be taken to their separate gates. A large man covered in dark exotic markings across his body catches Spartacus's eye and winks at him before smirking. Nodding and pausing to watch the man being led away, Spartacus is shoved roughly from behind, causing him to stumble on the uneven ground. A young soldier from the back grumbles to his friend, "Dunno why we gotta have so many of us around for this one, I mean he seems-" The boy is suddenly cut off by an elbow to the ribs from another man who watches his commander with wide eyes. But, it's too late, the general has heard. "Bardus, is it?" The commander sharply asks. The youth stands taller while his countenance seems to weaken. Stumbling over his words, he barely coughs out, "Y-Yes, General."
"Bardus, I can only hope that you will not live up to your unfortunate name. Another word from you, and you will be taking the place of our charge." and turning away, the commander yells out, "Onward." As he is marched further under the Colosseum, Spartacus almost smiles at the hidden joke, a piece of humanity in the belly of the beast. Finally the group reaches a door which leads to a dark room with two more soldiers posted at a gate on the far side. The commander motions for Spartacus to enter and follows him in, nodding for the others to leave the room. The door softly closes on Spartacus and the commander, the former sitting with his back against a wall. "Spartacus, you will not enter with a weapon today." Suddenly looking weary in the dim torch light, the rough general sighs. Spartacus glances up, his fierce features made more prominent from his intensity, but pressing his lips tightly together says nothing. The commander resumes, "I tried to convince the Emperor otherwise, but no matter, you have trained well enough. Just remember, your duties must come before your loyalties, even if-" At this, the inert gladiator rises quickly and silently, facing the general. "Do not speak to me of loyalties," he whispers, "Lucius." The name is spat out into the gloom, echoing and dragging out past memories. Lucius flinches, understanding what he has done to ruin  his own former commander. The man who was once worshiped as a genius in battle is now fought over like an exotic animal, an animal that could make one rich beyond all belief. Spartacus's eyes gleam with fury and his hands shake with uncontrollable emotion. "You are what I fight against in this arena. You, and all that you stand for." The declaration is made softly, but bitterly.  Spartacus remains standing as moments drag by with only the muted rumble of the crowd keeping complete silence at bay. And as a fist pounds on the door, the spell is broken. Lucius pushes open the door, not bothering to glance back as he calls over his shoulder, "Today you die, gladiator." Left in the darkness, Spartacus whispers to himself, "Yes, today I will be free."

Sly Cats

    "This is an outrage! How dare he request such a thing! Cambyses is a fool if he thinks I would even consider..." the pharaoh continues, muttering to himself.  A young woman walks into the room and kneels between the guards on either side of the throne. "Rise, my child." The woman stands, her white gown flowing around her and smiles beautifully. "You sent for me, father?" Suddenly remembering his rage, the pharaoh stands and thrusts the worn letter at his daughter. She quickly skims the paper, translating the language mentally. Her copper skin pales as she understands the request of Cambyses. Swallowing, she carefully folds the letter and hands it back to her father. "So, we will do as he asks. We must if we wish to avoid a war."
    "No! I will not give my daughter over to become a concubine of a Persian!" Pharaoh Amasis screams, pounding a fist on the arm of his throne. In an attempt to soothe her father, Princess Aseneth reasons, "He asks for marriage, not..." His face contorted with anger, the pharaoh spits out, "I do not care what he asks for! This son of Cyrus knows nothing. I will not bend my knee to him." Reaching out a hand Aseneth begs, "But, father the people..."
    "Enough. I do this out of love for you! You are dismissed!" Aseneth bows stiffly, containing her temper and quickly exits. In the hall she is passed by her father's chief adviser, a cruel and greedy man who holds her eye contact too long for comfort. Aseneth is sure he will influence the pharaoh negatively and encourage his foolish ideas even more. Shaking her head with disappointment in her father, the princess sets off to make plans of her own, plans to escape.

    Nitetis stands quietly, awaiting the king of Persia's entrance into the reception hall. At the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, a guard motions for her to bow. Scowling, she kneels, barely containing her anger at the whole situation. A hearty voices commands, "Stand, Princess of Egypt." Nitetis stands and is offered the hand of a handsome young king, causing her determination to waver. The king smiles and begins, "Your father was so good to offer his only daughter. I could not be more honored."

    "My King Cambyses, I need to speak to you immediately," she glances at the many servants and guards pretending not to listen intently, "and alone." Frowning, Cambyses nods and waves for all to quickly leave. The room empty, Nitetis is slightly intimidated by the king's stature and radiant arrogance. "What is it?" he snaps, all graciousness gone. Looking him in the eye, she explains, "I am not the princess of Egypt. My name is Nitetis, daughter of Apries the late pharaoh. I was sent in the stead of Aseneth daughter of Amasis for he could not bear to part with his offspring. I will not stand the dishonor of-" With each word, the king's face grows more and more red until he roars, spittle flying out of his mouth, "What?!" He backhands her, sending her flying into a vase which crashes onto the floor and breaks. The shattering and sobs of the girl cause the guards to rush back into the room. The King towers over Nitetis shouting, "You speak to me of dishonor? You dare?" Nitetis trembles in his shadow, merely whimpering. "Arrest this woman! I want her in the dungeon! And send for my messengers!" The guards roughly grab Nitetis's arms as she calls out, "But my Lord! I told you the truth! I exposed the trickery and this is how you repay me?" Tears stream down her swelling face, "Let me stay and help you plan your revenge!" Cambyses raises a finger, halting the guards' progress and turns slowly around. "Do you know anything of value?" Practically begging, Nitetis nods. "I was very close with the king's daughter and she with one of his leading generals, the legendary Phanes of Halicarnassus. I know many things." The king smiles, his mood changing yet again. "Excellent, show this young lady to a chamber near mine. We have much discussing to do, Nitetis. And please," he pauses before stepping out the door, "do not disappoint me again. We have a war to begin."

    The King and Nitetis stand over a table where a letter from a Persian spy is spread. "This is excellent news! Amasis is dead and with his inexperienced son Psamtik as heir, this leans even more in our favor!" The king exclaims when he is finished reading. Nitetis nods absentmindedly and begins taking notes. Ignoring her lukewarm response, Cambyses begins chatting in earnest with one of the other advisers in the room, sharing the good news. A servant quietly approaches the king and hands him a crisp note. Quickly he scans it and whispers in the servant's ear before she dashes out the door. A few glance up at the unusual behavior but no one questions the king. Moments tick by before a rugged, tired man is escorted into the room by an entourage of guards. At the head of the table, Nitetis tenses as she recognizes the man. The traveler kneels until Cambyses commands him otherwise. "Phanes of Halicarnassuss, rise and state your business." The man stands and huffs out, "King Cambyses, I have come to offer you my aid and what little information I can supply." The king steeples his fingers and taps them against his mouth, considering, "Why is it that Pharaoh Amasis has surrounded himself with so many traitors? It seems as if Egypt has already lost the war." Phanes sways with weakness from his long journey and at a nod from the king is led to a chair and given water. Knowing that he will have to wait before getting any answers, the king returns to his previous conversation with one of his generals. Quietly sitting, Phanes' glossy eyes roam about the room until he sees Nitetis. He calls out loudly, "Nitetis! I thought you would be dead!" He rises and stumbles to the girl, grasping her arms. "Aseneth will weep with joy upon your reunion!" Nitetis pulls away roughly and hisses out, "Aseneth will weep with anger that I was not killed." She rushes from the room, leaving Phanes standing confused and everyone else in the room very curious.

    Princess Aseneth darts through the darkened palace halls, a cloak dramatically fluttering behind her. Pulling her hood lower, she slips behind a curtain to wait for a patrol to pass. Her heart pounds so loudly she fears it will reveal her. But, the soldier walks on, oblivious to her presence. Momentarily relieved, Aseneth continues her mission until she reaches the balcony that overlooks the largest courtyard in the palace. The princess carefully looks upon the scene beneath her. Despite the late hour, the whole area is flooded with torches' light, casting dark shadows. In the center four figures kneel on the ground, their wrists and ankles tightly bound with a chain holding their feet to the floor. Behind them holding long daggers are four priests wearing hooded robes in the color black. The whole courtyard is lined with many alert guards, their armor glinting in the harsh light and beside them many of the Pharaoh's closest advisers. Standing before the inert men is Psamtik the Third, son of Amasis. Aseneth glares at her brother, wondering what trouble he is creating now. As if hearing his sister's question, Psamtik raises his arms and addresses the four priests, "We shall begin with the youngest." The preist nods and pulls the boy before him to his feet. The twelve year old struggles to stand with his ankles bound and stumbles forward. The priest roughly grabs his hair and yanks him upright, causing the boy to cry out in pain. Turning his tear-streaked face defiantly toward the pharoah the boy spits at him. Rolling his eyes, Psamtik grins eerily, "You will have to do better than that, child." Then to the priest, "Go on." The hooded man raises his dagger and quickly slits the child's throat, letting him fall to the ground. The nearest chained man lunges toward the boy screaming incoherently, but cannot do anything. The other captives remain silent as tears stream down their contorted faces. "Jabari!" The man screams, clawing toward the now still boy. Above Princess Aseneth shakes uncontrollably, trying to conceal her sobs. The priest kneels by the boy, placing a cup under the blood flow. The pharaoh says nothing, but merely nods at the next priest who calls a guard over to help him with the flailing, screaming man. It ends quickly and the sudden silence fills the room. Aseneth forces her eyes up to the night sky, wanting to drown in the inky darkness. Below, her brother calls out, "Do the next one, quickly!" She stands to run and falls across the floor, throwing up all over herself. A guard comes running, but Aseneth does not care anymore. He yells out to someone else, "It is the princess, she is sick! Hurry!" To Aseneth the world seems to crack open and blood pours out, drowning her. So she screams. Men and women swarm her, carrying her to the infirmary and trying to diagnose the illness. But, there is nothing to cure a sick heart, for Aseneth's heart aches inconsolably for the dead sons of Phanes of Halicarnassuss.

    It was nearly noonday when the army received their command from King Cambyses. Without question, the order was fulfilled: the image of cats painted on every Persian shield and helmet as well as all stray cats captured and turned in to each commanding officer. In the main tent Phanes stands before the war counsel, once again answering questions for them. He looks starved and dying in spite of the abundance of food and medicines he has been offered. After the news of his sons' gruesome deaths, Phanes has seemed to fade into nothing. Exasperated, he explains once again, "Yes, I told you. The cats will not stop them, but they will make a huge difference. The Egyptians hold them sacred above all else, and would not risk infuriating their own gods." Each Persian nods, not listening very well. The King speaks up, "Very well, we continue with the original plan. Dismissed." All counsel members leave the tent except for Phanes who is summoned to sit with the King. Pouring himself a glass of wine, the King questions Phanes, "Why is it that Nitetis was so upset with you when you arrived?" Phanes rubs his weary face with a thin hand, shaking his head, "I think because I did not step in soon enough to keep her from being sent away. She and Aseneth, defying all odds, were very close friends, but I do not think that Nitetis will ever forgive her friend for being the cause of her exile." The King nods in agreement. "If I granted her freedom, would that make her happy?" Phanes looks up, startled. "Why, yes! I think that would please her greatly! But, why, King Cambyses?" The King pauses a moment to swirl his wine goblet. "She has helped me a great deal and I think that I owe her quite a bit.That is all." The worn man nods, satisfied, and rises to leave the tent. Before he exits the king calls after him, "Oh, and Phanes," he smiles grimly, "do try and get some rest."
    "I will try my best." Phanes says graciously, bowing before leaving. "But, I never sleep anymore." He mumbles to himself outside the tent.

    Chaos. Complete utter chaos. And yet, within the chaos a definitive upper hand. The battle was almost pathetic. After the Persians lined up and began the charge across the plain, they released the cats. And that's why the battle was pathetic. The Egyptians panicked just as Phanes had predicted and could not strike against the Persians, leaving the Persians no choice but to slaughter them. The flock of carrion could be seen for miles across the wide expanse. The dead bodies produced a smell that tasted toxic in the air. But, still the Persians rejoiced for they had lost only seven thousand to the Egyptians' fifty thousand. The entire country praised the son of Cyrus for his great victory and the capture of the Pharaoh. But, few knew that the king had not planned the battle. He had not understood the gravity of taking so many lives without true reason. He had not trained or fought with his warriors. In truth, King Cambyses was only a pale shadow in comparison to his father, a fact that would later lead to his fall and eventually to the fall of the great empire of Persia.

    This story was difficult to write because there was no real hero. Each character had major flaws and I did my best to not excuse them, but to tell the story as it was. Aside from the name of Amasis' daughter (no name is mentioned historically) this account is completely true. Psamtik the Third was cruel where his father was foolish. He sought out Phanes' sons as an disgusting act of revenge and forced his counsel members to drink the dead men's blood as a warning to any who would betray him. While Phanes was foolish for leaving his family behind, I do majorly admire the ingenuity of using the Egyptian's religion against them in the releasing of the cats. In this major Battle of Pelusium Persia came to be an even greater power through the death of thousands. If you enjoyed please follow! I post every two weeks! And major shoutout to my amazing sister Abi who edits each of these posts and does an awesome job at it! Thank you so much! Love you!

The Death of a Great

    King Astyages wakes in the middle of the night in a feverish sweat, crying out for fear. His man servant rushes in quickly, speaking softly to his master, "Your Highness, what is it?" The older man's glassy eyes stare blankly toward the door. He coughs roughly before rasping out, "Bring me the Magi. I have had another dream."

    Still in bed the king grasps Harpagus's hand tightly. "Harpagus, I am trusting you to this task. Do not disappoint me." Harpagus bows and exits the King's chambers, shutting the door behind him. He hangs his head, sighing at the burden his king has so easily placed on him. The moon is just a sliver, barely seen out the large window at the end of the hall. A gentle breeze urges the man to make haste. Harpagus's footsteps are muffled by the soft leather shoes he wears as he strides down the cool hall. Soon he reaches his destination and waves away the guard, quietly entering the royal nursery. The pleasant, distinct smell of babies invades his nostrils, bringing back memories of his own children's early months. A large wooden crib is pushed against the far wall, directly in the moonlight. Harpagus crosses to the crib and gazes down at the sleeping little boy. The child is curled up in his blankets, sighing every once in a while as he stirs. "Hush, child." Harpagus soothes as he scoops the boy into his rough arms. Pulling his cloak to veil the child from sight, he quickly leaves the room, raising the guards eyebrows at his haste. Harpagus silently makes his way through the palace, avoiding any halls that may have people too willing to ask questions. A horse awaits him outside the gate and he rides smoothly for the outside of the city as the baby sleeps on, oblivious to the danger.
    Soon all of the buildings are replaced with miles of corn, wheat, and barley. A lonely mountain looms before Haragus and his passenger. Deciding that he has ridden far enough, Harpagus dismounts near a apple orchard and ties his horse's reigns to a tree branch. The child begins to fuss and wakes up when he is placed onto a cool stone. Harpagus stands back and draws his sword as the boy begins crying in earnest. "I must do my duty. I must." The man grunts out through clenched teeth. In the distance, farm dogs begin barking at the child's wails. Raising his sword with shaking hands Harpagus swings down towards the child, each second seeming infinite. The sword strikes the rock beside the baby's head, bouncing off and jarring the man's arms. Panting, he turns and runs to his horse, never looking back. The child's scream for his mother pierces the still air, marking a change in history.

    A young woman stands alone in the kitchen of a farmhouse, furiously kneading bread. her strong muscles strain as her loose braid comes undone from the labor. She sighs and wipes her forehead, leaving a streak of flour. "Cyrus," she calls out, "Do you really think that now is the best time to tell them?" Cyrus enters the room, hooking his sword onto his belt without paying attention, obviously practiced with fighting. He places his strong hands on the thick wooden table, leaning across it. He smiles crookedly at her. "Frenay, you worry too much. Why should I not?" Chewing on her bottom lip, Frenay frowns at her little brother. With his strong jaw, dazzling smile, and pale blue eyes there is no denying his royal birth. Even more so, his pride, arrogance, and natural talent for anything under the sun are excellent factors. But, people are fickle and perhaps the king and queen do not wish for their long lost son to return.  "You are sure I cannot come?" she asks him quietly. He crosses the room and hugs her tightly then pulls her back to see her face. "I will be fine." He absentmindedly wipes the flour off her face and continues, "And soon we will both be dinning in the palace on the richest foods on the continent, lacking nothing we desire!" Frenay laughs at his whimsical ideas and turns to the neglected bread, shaping it into a loaf. "I will return soon, sister dear." Cyrus calls as he snatches up an apple from a bowl on the table. "Do not worry." Frenay is soon left to the stillness of the house and the worries of her own mind while her brother walks closer and closer to a new beginning.

   "Your Majesty, a Miss Frenay is here to see you."
"By all means let her in!" The king calls, rising from his seat at the head of the table. Freyna enters the room glancing nervously around at the guards placed around the doors. "Sister! I am glad you have come! I am in need of your counsel, there are a couple problems with our borders at the moment..." Freyna steps forward, interrupting him, "Cyrus, are there not many here who would give better advice? I do not think that you need me." Cyrus glances up from a map he had spread over the cluttered table, a frown contorting his features. He shrugs. "Perhaps there are some who know more of battle and law, but none who know the people so well as you. Freyna, I need people that I can trust to surround me. I intend to build a new kingdom, one that has respect and freedom. I honestly believe that you can help me to achieve that." Freyna says nothing, thinking over his claims. She clears her throat, the sound echoing through the marble room. "Then what are we waiting for? Fill me in."

    The king's tent is filled with men and women pouring over elaborate maps and quietly discussing different methods of attack. Freyna is seated near the head of the table, arguing with an older man over the number of horses they still need for a new cavalry unit. The braziers burn low, giving the room a cozy, if not stuffy, feel. The King enters the tent and all turn to bow. Smiling at his friends, the King bows back, lifting the spirits in the room immediately. Removing his gloves he begins, "I think we should strike just before dawn from the north. Keep the element of surprise on our side." Pointing a jeweled hand towards a far point on the map, the king muses aloud, "Perhaps split our forces here and surround them." A few nod in agreement, but a general toward the front frowns. "Speak, General Janarra. What is on your mind?" Cyrus commands. The older man smooths his gray beard down before beginning, "Your Majesty, I think that we should indeed begin at dawn, but it would be much better to have the ranks remain closer together until we have a more specific knowledge of their numbers. If the entire army has not yet amassed, then General Isvant," he glances to a very scarred young man who stands in a corner alone. "can bring his unit around along with the cavalry and attempt to flank them. They would then be cornered with the rocky terrain to the east." General Janarra glances upward to the faces of his peers. Cyrus frowns thoughtfully. "And what do you say to this Isvant?" The young man nods shortly, not volunteering any more thoughts. "Very well, it seems like a sure enough plan for the little our scouts have been able to gather. Janarra, Isvant, and Uxshenti I place you three in charge of our three main units, you may assign the ranks as you see fit. Freyna, with me if you wish." The two men and women nod respectfully. Freyna rises from her seat to join her brother. "Report to me within an hour." A young woman dressed in armor calls after Cyrus as he leaves, "Where are you going, my King?" He turns halfway out the door and says cheerfully, "The men need their encouragement more so than you and I right now. I intend to address as many as I can, just to ease some fears." The woman smiles, as the brother and sister exit. She knows that her sister Cassandane would never have forgiven her if she let the king wander irresponsibly, for the late Queen Cassandane had been very fond of her dear husband. 

    The men silently prepare for battle, their faces serious and their muscles taught. A horse rears near the makeshift stables, pulling against its master and whinnying shrilly. The officers confide in one another, going over last-minute plans and double-checking everything that they can. The deep blue sky slowly becomes grayer until a few rays of dawn are seen from the east. Everything is prepared, every possibility accounted for. The king is seated upon a dapple gray steed, looking quite at ease. His highest ranking officers surround him, including his sister. He urges his horse forward at a nod from the grave man next to him. Cyrus smiles as he makes his way to the front, a picture of confidence. "My great men," he begins, yelling to be better heard,"today is a day of conquering. We fight the Massagetae to rid the earth of their corruption." A loud cheer erupts form the soldiers. "We fight to protect our families. Our land. Our honor." He draws his sword and raises it high, the blade gleaming as the sun peaks over the horizon. "Remember your duty!" The army responds as a whole, shaking the ground. "For Persia!"
    "Remember!"
    "For Persia!"
    "We fight!"
    "For Persia!"
    The adrenaline explodes in each man and woman as they begin their charge, screaming at the top of their lungs. Screaming for a cause. Screaming for Persia and their King.
     All of Persia screams for Cyrus the Great.

    The fighting is ferocious. Both sides are talented warriors and neither are accustomed to relenting. The plain, once bare, is covered with the bodies of Persians and Massagetae alike. For hours they slaughter one another, new ranks coming and filling the gap where their comrades fell. But, men grow weary and the sheer number of dead overwhelm. The Persians begin to fall back, not because they were ordered, but because they understand that despite every single victory under the name of King Cyrus of Persia there must eventually be a fall. No man can uphold all that he has without a loss. Near the front, the King, surrounded on every side by enemies, fights hard. He was practically born with a sword in his hand. His horse was killed near the beginning of the battle, thus he stands upon a small ridge alone. Man after man wearing a gold helmet and bronze breastplate fall before him. Blood is everywhere, running together with sweat. Cyrus himself is soaked and limps heavily, having been stabbed in the left leg. Time seems to slow. With each swing or parry he becomes slower to react. The enemy becomes stronger, encouraged by his weakness. The king lunges for a man to his right who backs away quickly, swinging his axe and knocking the king's sword from his hand. It falls to the ground, the impact muffled by a dead foot-soldiers cloak. Cyrus's eyes stare at his sword in shock as the enemy descends. He never flinches or screams, just quietly falls. Down, down, down.

    Two days later, after a hasty retreat that resulted in the death of thousands, a few Persians return. Four soldiers carry the kings remains on a stretcher, there is little left. The lady Freyna throws herself to the ground wailing in agony. None can console her grief. With the death of Cyrus the Great, all of Persia is plunged into darkness. Each man, woman, and child weeps for their king. They weep for Persia and the hope that died on that battlefield. 

    The story of Cyrus the Great is extremely fascinating. The story of his birth and attempted murder is all true, though his sister's character is false. He is recognized as one of the best world leaders in history and was looked upon with admiration from men such as Alexander the Great and Aristotle. He defeated the Median empire, the Lydian empire, and the Babylonian empire, making Persia a kingdom to be feared for the first time. One of the reasons that he was so successful was that he allowed a conquered people to continue with their own way of life. Instead of destroying great cities, he enriched them with order, peace, and law. After defeating the Babylonians he was prompted by God to allow the Jews to return to Jerusalem, which he did. Cyrus was loved by his people, and Persia, as well as other countries, mourned his passing greatly. 

The Rise and Fall

    The man's sobs echo through the temple room of Nisroch, the god of agriculture. His prone, shaking figure testifies to his distraught state of mind. Outside the ring of light that the candles throw, shadows stir with cruel intentions. The broken man's gold signet ring identifies him as the king of Assyria, the same king who led his army into a supernatural slaughter by the Israelites and their god. He shakes his head, trying to control his reeling emotions, praying to still his reason.

    His whispers of prayer cease as his two older sons Adrammelech and Sharezer enter the room, stepping into his view. "My sons," he whispers, wiping away his tears and holding out a shaking hand, "pray with me." Adrammelech clears his throat loudly—causing Sharezer to flinch—and begins, "We have not come to pray, Father." He smiles widely, his white teeth glinting in the dim light. The king looks to Sharezer, who casts his eyes downward quickly. King Sennacherib sighs, understanding immediately. "Ah, so it is to end like this? A defenseless old man killed by his own sons in the temple of his god." He rises and draws out a long curved knife from his robe.

    "You may not expect me go quietly."

    Adrammelech likewise reveals a sacrificial dagger that he grabbed on the way into the temple, showing the hastiness of their attack and lack of preparation. He taunts, "If you had given up so easily, I would have been very disappointed."

    Esarhaddon is interrupted from his late dinner by a servant bursting through the door and kneeling in obeisance and fatigue.

    "Rise!"

    Esarhaddon commands, standing and striding across the room to meet him. Panting, the servant begins, "My lord, your brothers entered the temple of Nisroch, going in after your father." Without pausing to respond, Esarhaddon dashes out the door, hurrying to his father's aid. The startled servants quickly scramble to summon a guard to follow their master and possibly save their king.

    The pale moon shines brightly on the marble stairs leading into the temple, adding to the eerie weight of the atmosphere. Metal clinks quietly as Esarhaddon and his guard ascend the stairs. They are stopped at the entrance by the gruesome sight of two dead patrol guards. Stepping through the blood, Esarhaddon kneels by the one of the men, listening carefully for a breath. His hands fumble around the guard's neck, trying to slow the blood flow, but the pulse is already gone. Closing the guard’s eyes gently, Esarhaddon sends a silent prayer up to his god for the soul of the lost young man. The captain of the guard places his hand on his master's shoulder, "My Lord-" Esarhaddon nods, waving the men on to fill their places as he rises, leaving dark prints of the guard’s blood as he walks.             Slowly he eases his sword out of his sheath while striding into the entrance hall. The loss of the moonlight makes the room feel even darker than it is, and lends to the countless shadows across the floor. With careful, precise movements, Esarhaddon's guards file in around him as he moves into the next chamber, this one leading to the altar. The room is lined with tall pillars which allow the guard to quickly separate and hide behind. Veiled by a curtain, two figures argue, their voices just faintly picked up by their brother.

    "You know the law. Esarhaddon has been named the next king, there is no changing that! The people would riot!"

    The elder brother gestures wildly with his hands until his younger brother grabs his wrist tightly, forcing him to halt.

    "Then let them riot." Addremelech growls out through gritted teeth. "That will not keep me from the throne. I have the first blood right. Not you, not Esarhaddon. Me."

    Sharezar pulls his arm out of his younger brother's grasp, silently cursing that he had a concubine for a mother. He asks softly as he begins walking away, "When will this end Addremelech? Your thirst for power and blood is becoming uncontrollable."

    Addremelech follows after him, neither brother noticing their audience. "You swore me a blood oath, brother. Do not betray me or you will forever regret it."

    "I would not have forever to regret it." Sharezar snaps at him, his complacency gone. "You would never let me live that long."

    Adremmelech moves toward him threateningly just as Esarhaddon steps into clear view, pointing his sword at both men.

    "Enough!" he shouts, the echo carrying on.

    Addremelech’s aggressive behavior immediately evaporates as a smirk covers his handsome features.

    “A family reunion! How heart-warming. Come to punish your foolish father, Esarhaddon? I am afraid we have already beaten you to it...” He gestures toward the altar where the king’s body, stretched and drenched in blood is visible through the sheer curtain. Esarhaddon’s face pales at the sight and his sword wavers. He fights for a moment against the despair and rage that threaten to overwhelm him. Steeling himself, he faces his oldest blood brother.

    “You murdered him.” He states simply.

    Addremelech waves him off, “I only did what I thought best for you. You should be thanking me, child-king.”

    “You dare?” Esarhaddon roars, advancing on his brother. Sharezar quickly steps between the two, his hands raised. “Wait! Think of what you do-“

    “Move Sharezar! My fight is not with you.”

    Addremelech steps away from Sharezar’s protection, drawing his knife for the third time that night. “Do move, Sharezar. Let us see what our baby brother is capable of.” All three are suddenly distracted by the advancing of Esarhaddon’s guards.

    “Come to babysit, Captain?” Addremelech mocks. Esarhaddon raises his hand in warning, not taking his eyes off of his opponent. “You are not to interfere under any circumstances.” He orders. The captain interjects, “But, my king-“

    “None.”

    The guard fades into the background, not disobeying their new king, but prepared to interfere at a moment’s notice.

    “My, baby brother, exercising your authority so soon.”

    "Do you have anything but sharp words, Addremelech?"

    Sharezar steps aside, not willing to betray either brother’s trust, as the two circle each other carefully. The elder brother steps forward swinging in a wide arc. Esarhaddon blocks the blow easily and returns to a defensive stance. Coming closer for a quick series of strikes, Addremelech taunts, "Oh come on, even father fought better than this, and he was old and feeble as it was."

    With a burst of rage Esarhaddon charges him, dealing multiple powerful blows that cause Addremelech to stumble backwards in an attempt to block them. Lifting his arm too high against a well-aimed strike, the elder leaves his torso exposed. The blade slices clean through Addremelech's robe and deep into the muscle directly at the base of his shoulder.       The blood begins seeping through his robe as he stumbles forward, his knife clattering to the ground. Esarhaddon is snapped out of his anger by the sight of his brother's pain and steps back quickly. Sharezar rushes forward, trying to push away Addremelech's grasping hand from his wound. "Move!" he commands, hastily tearing cloth from his own robe and putting pressure on the cut.

    Esarhaddon’s hands tremble, but his voice portrays authority, "Leave! Now."

    "Brother," Sharezar begs, "he may not make it if I move him so soon!" Glaring at his older brothers, Esarhaddon clenches his fists. "I have shown you mercy in sparing you. Now leave." 

    Sharezar scrambles to his feet, gently pulling his moaning little brother after him. At a wave from Esarhaddon, some guards rush to help and slowly make their way out the door, leaving a yet another trail of blood behind them. 

    Lost in a reverie, Esarhaddon walks up to the altar, pulling the curtain back to see his father's lifeless form clearly. Clutching his father's cooling hand desperately, the king bows his head onto the corpse's chest. Esarhaddon whispers to himself, "It is in your name, father that I take my revenge. Your sons will pay for their crime. I will bring this kingdom back to prosperity." His voice gains strength, "We will have our war." 

    Esarhaddon raises his blood covered head, staring into the empty golden eyes of the idol above him. "And may your god Nisroch seal my blood oath."
This story is based on the account found in 2 Kings and is historically accurate. After the death of King Sennacherib the third brothers fought a desperate war for the throne which destroyed Assyria. The youngest brother Esarhaddon won the war and took his rightful place on the throne, banishing his brothers forever. All of the names are accurate as well as the murder in the temple of Nisroch which was the king's personal idol. Sorry this post was a little late, but I hope you learned something from reading! Thank you. 

                                        

Let the Games Begin

    The young girl pants with exhaustion as she runs up the stairs into her father’s council chambers, ignoring the glares of the slaves as she stumbles around them. As she slams open the door she is met by her father's and brothers' surprised faces. "What is it Reyna?" her father asks, worried. She leans against the door, catching her breath, "Father, Kyniska has volunteered for the games." Reyna's father glances nervously toward her oldest brother then back to Reyna. "She what?" he whispers at her, hardly believing his ears. Reyna clarifies, "The chariot races, she signed up for the chariot races."

"Father, can it be revoked?" the eldest brother Agis questions. The king shakes his head soberly, "No, it is too late." He rubs his stubble with his hands, sighing at his reckless daughter's decisions. "She really could not wait another four years? She would have been ready by then! The horses would have been ready!" Reyna shrugs and darts out of the room to leave the men to discuss her sister's chances. Heading toward the stables, Reyna intends to do the only thing she can at this point: watch.

*

    "Chariton, look at me!" the young woman chides. "You need to be careful around the left bend with Aithon, he tends to spook with his bad eye. Are you even listening?" Striding around the two jumpy steeds and stepping into the chariot, the woman grabs Chariton's wrist, stealing his attention away from the leather wraps he was tying on. "Kyniska," he begins, "you worry too much. Everything will be fine. We have trained so well, and the horses are ready." His mischievous green eyes plead with her serious brown eyes to believe him. She sighs, hanging her head and whispers, "I know, but-" He pecks her forehead with a light kiss. "No, but. We will win and become the reigning king and queen of Sparta!" He raises his voice loud enough for others in the barn to hear, "All will love and fear us!"

"Hush!" Kyniska giggles, slapping him lightly on the arm. "My father would have you strung up for speaking against him!" Chariton grins crookedly at her, "I don't mind." Rolling her eyes, Kyniska steps down from the chariot and places her hand on the larger of the horse's back. "Run fast, Phlegon." she says aloud, then placing her cheek on his neck, she whispers softly to him. "Keep him safe." From somewhere near the door of the barn a loud voice yells out, "Riders, into the arena!" Immediately, everything is abuzz with activity as everyone tries to safely get their horses into the correct lineup. Holding up a hand in farewell, Kyniska follows her own chariot's progress with her eyes as far as she can, until she is one of the few left in the barn. Then she waits.

*

    Out in the arena, the horses stomp and chew on their bits nervously as the crowd roars. The hot sun ensures that everyone is sweating, including the animals. Chariton can just barely see the royal box where Kyniska's father resides, along with her brothers and sister, silently judging him. The first race of his career is the most important as it makes or breaks his reputation as a rider. The mass chaos slowly gains some order as the starting time nears and everyone prepares to begin. "I should have tightened Phlegon's girth." Chariton whispers to himself.

"Riders to your mark!"

"Maybe Aithon should not have had any hay last night."

"Three!"

"What if I lose and Kyniska's father hates me because of it?"

"Two!"

"Are we even ready for this?"

"One!"

"Am I even ready for this?"

"Begin!"

"Oh gods!"

    The horses all leap forward, trying to get out into the open. Their previously restrained muscles, bound into action. The riders all try and wrestle their steeds into a rhythm, to find a comfortable position. The first bend comes up quickly, and just as Kyniska predicted, Aithon spooks when a grey dapple looms up on them, knocking the horses' shoulders together. Chariton allows for his horses to settle back down before pushing them harder. They fight for third place, Phlegon rubbing up against a bay who nips at him. "C'mon!" Chariton yells at the horses, throwing his reins against their backs and causing them to speed up just enough to come on the inside of second place. Chariton's eyes are darting around, trying to find a weak spot or a hesitancy to allow them to pass. He spots one just around the second bend when one of the lead horses stumbles, veering towards the outside of the track.

"Faster, boys."

Although it is just a whisper, the steeds seem to understand Chariton's wish and with foam dripping out of their mouths, cut around the chariot to the open stretch ahead.

    "Princess Kyniska, how unfair that you cannot even watch your own horses race!" the mocking voice of a woman taunts from outside the cavern. "Yes, Eupraxia. It is rather unfair, but even my father cannot change ancient rules." Kyniska replies sourly, not even bothering to turn around from her mucking out the stall.

"Oh, what are you doing?! That is repulsive. A lady should be nowhere near such a filthy place as this barn. My father taught me better."

"Then perhaps you should go."

"And leave you all alone? I would never be so cruel, darling! Now come out here and let me see you."

    Kyniska places the rake against the cavern wall and steps out into the hall where she said goodbye to Chariton. Eupraxia has really outdone herself this time with a beautiful emerald gown, heavy gold earrings, and her dark brown hair curled to perfection, which is cascading down her back. Kyniska feels rather plain in her simple white toga with dirt smudges on the hem and her long blond hair braided loosely. Eupraxia clucks her tongue while evaluating Kyniska's appearance and glances back at her two female servants sharing a knowing smirk. "My Dear," she drawls, walking in circles around her prey, "if you win, do you plan to go out like that in front of all of Sparta?" Kyniska scowls at her, "Of course not, the victor ceremony will not even take place until tomorrow. What does it matter to you anyway?" Shrugging nonchalantly, Eupraxia turns and calls for her servants to follow her out. "I would be more careful of what the people think, Kyniska! Who knows, darling, they might not approve of their dear princess falling in love with dirt and common chariot riders, which are basically the same thing..." Kyniska's face flushes deep red, but she manages to hold her tongue and temper until the hall is empty. "That little witch!" she screams at the walls. "I could tear her apart!"

"Who? Me?" A soft voice calls back from the entrance again. Looking up and sighing with relief, Kyniska smiles, "Timaea, you are a gift from the gods!" The two girls embrace then, arms locked, begin strolling out into the courtyard. "Why are you not watching with Reyna?" Kyniska inquires. "To be honest, I did not think I would be able to watch this race. Far too much pressure for me, and besides I wanted to make sure you were not alone." Timaea smiles at her best friend, her blue eyes sparkling. They sit together on a bench, enjoying the hot sunshine after the dark barn. "You chose me over my brother? I am honored!" Kyniska teases. Before Timaea can respond to the jest, the whole air seems to shake with the roar of the crowds. Both girls’ faces pale with nerves. Swallowing carefully Kyniska whispers, "I can only imagine what that means."

*

    Chariton can almost taste the victory, but the race is not over yet. The last stretch seems endless and slowly another rider creeps up on his tail. Soon he is boxed in on both sides, just barely keeping the lead when the rider on his left suddenly lunges at him with a dagger outstretched. Darting out of the way, Chariton narrowly avoids being cut. By doing so, he accidentally leaves enough room for the other rider to jump on, which he quickly does. Without a driver the other chariot bumps along wildly, frightening all of the horses, which begin screaming and slowing down. Struggling to keep the horses on track, Chariton holds the reins with one hand and pushes against the would-be-assassin with the other. The man manages to cut Chariton twice on the arm and across the chest before he loses hold of the dagger. The horses continue to veer wildly, confused by Chariton's jerking of the reins. The whole arena is screaming wildly and stamping their feet, some in encouragement of the fight and others in indignation of the unfairness. Grasping at Chariton's throat, the man pulls him backwards, causing them both to stumble. Aiming a hard elbow jab to the stomach, Chariton dislodges the man from around him and with a final kick shoves him off the chariot. Not bothering to turn around to see the carnage, he resumes the chase which his horses somehow managed to lead alone. There are only two chariots just barely in front of him, and the final bend is coming up fast, very fast. Urged on by the extra adrenaline the fight provided, he whips the reins up one last time and sends a prayer up to every god that he can recall. Please, let me win.

*

    Pacing back and forth around the cobblestones, Kyniska listens anxiously to the crowd for any hint of what is going on. Timaea reclines on the bench, her posture comfortable, but her face betraying her tense state of mind. Suddenly a page rushes in, panting.

 "Princess Kyniska," He bows.

"Yes, get on with it!" she yells, impatiently throwing her hands up.
"Your chariot won." he states.

Both girls scream and hug, the relief making them giddy.

"But," the page interrupts their celebration, "Chariton, your rider, is wounded badly." Kyniska freezes, her large brown eyes going blank and begins running toward where the injured athletes are treated.

But, it's already too late.

*

    Time slows, people hurry, news spreads, blood rushes, tears flow, and life goes on.

At the victor ceremony the following day, all of Sparta easily screams her name, but she can barely manage to smile and wave. The high priest of the temple of Zeus carefully places a crown of laurel on her perfectly curled hair, the highest of honors. But, Kyniska struggles to feel honored. She struggles to feel anything at all. Her father comes and stands by her, addressing his loyal subjects and holding her hand up for another cheer. Kyniska smiles beautifully, the perfect princess. An older man towards the front of the crowd calls out to her, "Princess, what will you do next?" Kyniska pauses a moment then replies, "What else is there to do?" Raising her arms she call out louder, "I begin training for the next Olympic Games, but this time I ride."

    Then the shouting begins.

    I wrote this post based on the historical figure of Princess Kyniska who was the first woman recorded to ever win the Olympic games. Her father and brothers were all real people, as well as Timaea who later married Agis. It is also accurate that women were not allowed to watch the games if they were married, but frankly any woman attending was frowned upon. The names Chariton, Reyna, and Eupraxia are all common Spartan names according to that time.
I hope you enjoyed!

The Walls Came Tumbling

    The thunder roars, shaking the house and sending dust into the air. "Papa!" cries a small frightened voice from the mat in the corner. "Hush Ayalah," the child's father soothes, sitting at the edge of her mat, "there is naught to be afraid of. It is only thunder. Now go back to sleep." With her father's steady hand stroking her hair, Ayalah's frail body still quivers, though she knows what he says is true. A few moments pass, but still Ayalah cannot seem to settle down. Propping herself up on her elbow she whispers, "Papa, will you tell me the story of Jericho again?" Her father sighs, but she can see his white teeth gleaming in the darkness--it is his favorite story to tell. "Very well, my dear." He leans back against the rough clay wall and closes his eyes, remembering.

    "Lior!" beckons a woman's voice from within the house. "How have you been?" Lior looks up into his Aunt's pleasant face, smiling politely. "Very well, Aunt Rahab. And you?" She smiles sweetly and beckons him inside the door. "Now, young man, I am always the same here. How are your mother and father? It has been some time since I have seen them..." she drifts off, leaving an awkward silence. Lior knows that his parents have purposely been avoiding Rahab after she came clean about her line of work. He understands why they have shunned her, but always thought it a bit extreme as Aunt Rahab is such a kind woman. He places a calloused hand on her arm and smiles sadly at her as she places her smooth hand on top of his. "Mum and Dad are well, or as well as can be expected, I suppose, with the Israelites on our doorstep." He chuckles bitterly at the truth of it. Aunt Rahab's eyes tighten at the mention of this and Lior immediately regrets bringing it up. "I'm sure there will be negotiations though, no need to be overly worried!" he chips out brightly, perhaps too brightly. Patting his hand Aunt Rahab murmurs, "Right, I suppose so. But, Lior," she stares at his face with such intensity he squirms uncomfortably. "If anything happens, you come to me. The whole family. Please, remember this." Lior pulls away quickly, stumbling in his rush to leave. "Yes, of course. Good day, Aunt Rahab!" He leaves her standing at the door looking worriedly after him. "I pray to God that you do remember, Lior." she whispers to no one.

    Seven days later, Lior remembers, not a moment too late.
Chaos. That is the only word to describe what Lior feels. Pure chaos. From the people screaming to the entire ground shaking, the whole city is in an uproar. That morning the Israelites had once again begun their marching and blaring of the trumpets just as they had for the past week. No one inside the walls of Jericho had dreamt that the Israelites’ threats would be fulfilled. Just after the people had shouted, the rumbling had begun. The ground shook, throwing people and structures to the ground. And that was when Lior had remembered his Aunt's warning.    "Mum!" Lior bursts into the door to see his family huddling together in the corner, praying to every god they can recall. His mother turns her face to her son, the soot covering it making the tear tracks even more obvious. His voice conveys the urgency he feels, "We need to go. Now!"

    "My son..." Lior's mother soothes. "It's okay, we will end together." Her arm is held out beckoning him to come join them. "No!" Lior takes a step backwards, "We must go to Aunt Rahab's now! She has offered us shelter!" His mother rises and stumbles as the earth quakes yet again, "Lior," she says sternly,"there is no hope. Our gods are not strong enough to save us. And Aunt Rahab cannot help us, enough of this nonsense." Her strong hands grip his arm pulling him further into the room and death as Lior sees it. Lior glances at his father beseechingly and begs, "Please, Father, what can it hurt? We have no more time!" As if agreeing with his words the far wall collapses, pelting the family with dust and rocks. Slowly Lior's father nods, "Yes, we will go. Come children."

    "Abrahem." snaps his wife. "We will do no such thing. We are to die with honor, not in the house of a...a harlot." She spits out the word like it is a curse. Abrahem turns to her and says softly, "Your pride will kill us, woman." And with that Abrahem rises, handing Lior the youngest child and guiding the other two out the door with him. They make their way slowly, crawling across rubble and narrowly avoiding being crushed by rocks. Finally they approach the house which stands tall, unharmed. Just before Lior knocks on the door it is opened by Rahab who pulls him inside where ten other people sit huddled in circles. Lior vaguely recognizes them as distant relatives. "Lior, thank God! Come in, come in!" she ushers them inside and passes the baby off to another woman's waiting arms. "Where is Ronia?" Rahab's voice is laced with worry. Abrahem hangs his head. "She refused to come." Rahab quickly nods, understanding. "I will go after her." Lior's voice is steady, though he feels ready to crumble. Just then a final quake rocks the home and the crashing begins in earnest. It is almost worse to simply hear the destruction of a whole people than to be a part in it. Aunt Rahab places a hand on Lior's shoulder her eyes gleaming with tears. "It is too late, my dear. I'm terribly sorry." She begins weeping silently and Lior pulls her into an embrace, his own tears joining in her grief.
    Soon the tremors of the city cease, leaving utter ruin. The once great city of Jericho has fallen to the God of Israel, but many have survived the destruction. The moans and screams of injured humans and animals alike echo through the city, but they are not alone for long. The Israelites enter the city and leave no survivors, slaughtering man, woman, and child as commanded by their God. Only one family is left behind. Only one standing house in the heap of rubble that was Jericho.    After waiting in the house for hours upon hours, a knock sounds on the hollow door. Everyone holds their breath, expecting their fate to be the same as the neighbors. Steeling herself, Rahab crosses the room and opens the door calmly. "May I help you?" she asks as if all were normal and a friend were merely asking to borrow some oil. A quiet voice responds gently, "Rahab, we have spared you as we promised. Your household is under our protection and I can guarantee-"
    "Caleb! Thank God!" Rahab interjects swinging the door open, "Are they all...dead?" Caleb nods solemnly. "I have come to take you back to the camp, there is food, tents, and supplies for you all." He turns his head, directly addressing all in the house. "But, I warn you, do not take any money or jewels or valuables with you. Any who take from this city from now on will be cursed by the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob." Each person, frightened, nods quickly in agreement. Caleb suddenly smiles, "Excellent! Let's be on our way!" 
    The group follows Caleb as he carefully picks his way through the rubble. Lior can tell that Caleb is purposefully avoiding any bodies and steering away from the heart of the city where a large cloud of smoke billows, polluting the air. Trying not to look at the lifeless forms, Lior is struck with the thought that somewhere is his own mother's crumpled body. A wave of grief hits him once again, causing his body to rack with silent sobs as he walks. His youngest sister reaches up and takes his hand, squeezing it lightly as if to say that she understands. And together they walk through their past home of heartbreak and into a new future of peace.
    "No, Papa you cannot end the story there! What happens next?" squeals out the very much awake Ayalah. Patting the pillow at the end of the rough mat he says, "Perhaps another time Ayalah, you must rest now." Ayalah sighs dramatically and flops her head onto the pillow, clearly displeased with the unsatisfactory ending. Her father leans down and kisses her temple whispering, "You are the rest of the story, love."