Daughter of Lachish. Tim Frank

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      She stepped away from the loom she had been working on. “There’s still plenty of work to be done around here. Your sister and I have been working most of the afternoon and you were nowhere to be seen.” Rivkah’s older sister, Shomer, stood at the other loom and turned the back to her. Shomer always did what her parents wanted and her weaving was really exquisite. She looked after her little brothers and sisters and would never be late home.

      “I was just at Simchah’s,” Rivkah tried to defend herself.

      “Running around in the streets at this time,” her mother shook her head. “Can’t you see how dangerous it is?”

      Right now Rivkah could see that the best thing to do was to be quiet and somehow appease her mother. She moved over to the loom her mother had been working on. A simple linen cloth hung there half-finished. She could do that.

      “Shall I continue weaving this?” Rivkah asked her mother.

      “Please. But make sure the rows are tight. And take care to make it nice and even.”

      “Yes, mother.” Why did her mother always say that? After all, Rivkah wasn’t a beginner and had woven many garments over the years.

      Shomer turned to look at her. Her eyes seemed accusing and yet hurt and afraid. She always took it personally when Rivkah went outside the boundaries set by their parents. But what was wrong with going and talking to her friend? Mother was just overanxious.

      Weaving was tedious work. Rivkah wasn’t a bad weaver—there were just other things she’d rather do. Suddenly she felt something tickle her back. “Hey!” Rivkah lashed out and hit her youngest brother, Shallum. He had snuck up behind her and had managed to stick some stalks of straw into her dress. Nepheg, the older of the two, peeked around the doorway to see how his sister would react. “Leave it!” Rivkah yelled. Shallum ran away. Rivkah pulled the straw out of her clothes. Annoying little brothers!

      But they didn’t give up that easily. Soon Shallum was back and tried to stuff some feathers down Rivkah’s neck. She knew who was behind that. Just wait, Nepheg! When she saw him again at the door, Rivkah jumped up and ran to grab him. She nearly got him, but Nepheg saw her coming and fled to Mother. “Mother, Rivkah wants to hit me.” He clung to her dress.

      Mother turned round angrily, “Can’t you leave your brothers alone, Rivkah?”

      “But they started it,” Rivkah said.

      “I don’t care who started it. I’m trying to cook. And I thought you wanted to weave.”

      Nepheg smirked triumphantly at Rivkah. But Mother pulled his ear. “And you two stop annoying Rivkah. Go and find something useful to do.” With that she sent him away. Addressing Rivkah she continued, “The boys are bored. This war’s affecting them quite badly. Just be a bit considerate, please.”

      Of course they were bored, stuck in the house the whole day. Other boys still went out on the streets at times. Some boys, little older than Nepheg, even helped out along the walls, carrying ammunition and conveying messages. But mother was too worried to allow any of her children out except, maybe, for essential tasks like getting water.

      Rivkah returned to the loom. “You’re so easy to tease.” Now Shomer was giving her sisterly advice! “Just ignore them. Every time you snap and hit them they are even keener to try it again.”

      “They asked for it.”

      “Exactly. They want you to get upset.”

      Rivkah knew Shomer was right, but she wouldn’t admit that now. What else should she do? Just stand there and let them annoy her and ruin her dress?

      Concentrating on her work again, Rivkah passed the yarn through the warp suspended on the loom. After lifting the rod, the alternate threads of the warp came up, so that she could return the yarn to the right again. With one deft movement she pushed up the rows she had just completed, ensuring they were tight.

      * * *

      As darkness fell, a multitude of fires illuminated the Assyrian camp. While many shone dimly through tent covers, others glowed brightly under the starry sky. Soldiers gathered in their units to eat the evening meal. In the shadows, the stomping of horses could be heard. Near the palisades a squadron of bullish structures stood silently in formation. These were the siege machines, parked up after battle. In the tents nearby, the maintenance crews prepared for the night. Most of them had participated in the attack. Many nursed wounds, all had lost comrades. They discussed the performance of their machines, the effectiveness of each iron ram and the strength of the enemy walls. But nobody dared to voice their disappointment—they had failed to take the city. For weeks the army had been constructing a siege ramp. They had carried boulders from the valley and the hillsides. Under constant enemy fire they had heaped stones and boulders against the city mound and had constructed an incline. It was exhausting, dangerous work and had resulted in many casualties. Finally the ramp had been covered with lime plaster to ensure stability and give a smooth surface. The limestone had been quarried and processed at a site several leagues up the valley. All previous attempts to attack the gate or to scale the steep sides had been unsuccessful. And now they had mounted the first attack against the city with the siege machines. The siege machines did not always guarantee success. But they had all hoped that this would be the breakthrough, that the walls would be breached and the city of Lachish would be no more. Instead, a long, drawn-out siege seemed to loom. Yes, they had inflicted damage, but they had not dealt the fatal blow.

      Itur-Ea angrily kicked a stone. He was angry that their rear guard had not withstood the vigorous enemy bombardment, angry that the defenders fought so determinedly and had hurt the Assyrian forces, angry that those rebels dared to defy the great god Ashur. And it was his siege machine that had been disabled by that chain. The situation had been grim. He was sure it was only the protection of Ishtar, the goddess of war, that had finally saved him from further harm.

      The damage would mean more work on the siege machine tomorrow. He wasn’t sure whether he could repair it in one day. Nobody really knew when the king would order the next assault. Oh, there would be little skirmishes and the archers would do their best to prevent the strengthening of the defenses. They had to keep up the pressure. But siege machines would only be involved in large-scale offences.

      The arm was playing up again. Itur-Ea had washed it and his mate had applied storax balm and a bandage. It would have to do. Those with more serious injuries were treated by the diviners. After a battle there were always scores of wounded soldiers. In his case it was quite obvious what caused the pain. He hoped that no demonic fever would enter his body through the wound. Then it would be necessary to ward off the evil forces and appease the gods.

      “Does it still hurt?” Naid-Marduk looked at him.

      “What do you think?” Of course it hurt. At times Itur-Ea could get annoyed with his friend.

      “It’s a pretty nasty wound,” replied Naid-Marduk.

      “I’ll be alright. Certainly not dead yet. You’re lucky they didn’t get you!”

      “That’s true,” he acknowledged, “It didn’t look too good at one point. Of course down below you’re protected a bit better. The whole machine really needs to come down before they can get at us.” Naid-Marduk had been assigned to power the ram of a siege machine. “On the one hand I prefer to be down there,” he continued, “but when you see who they’ve put on top to splash the water around on my machine . . . he’s useless.”

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