The two hosts neared, neared, and in a mighty clash of wood, bronze and flesh, the two hordes crashed against each other. It was an amazing sight and horrific sound. Dust swirled as men thrust their spears or shoved shield against enemy shield. Spear points clattered against shields or bronze armor links. In places, a man stabbed an enemy in the foot or snaked through the shields and thrust into a man’s throat. Screams of pain and agony erupted everywhere amid grunts of effort.

  It was an awful thing. Masses of men shouted, grunted, pushed and thrust at each other. The thuds, screams and clatters seemed endless. The two masses struggled against each other, shoving, pushing and stabbing.

  The Sacred Band was doing better than anyone else was, surging into the phalanx. The rest of the spearmen of the Cities of the Plain trembled as if in shock.

  The Sacred Band—hard-fighting, valiant heroes without regard for pain or wounds—battled their way toward a short man in a black cloak who waved a silver baton topped with a ball of gold.

  That one shouted and pointed. He had to be Chedorlaomer the Conqueror.

  The soldiers of the Sacred Band strained to reach him while the elite guard of the East sought to protect the conqueror.

  From where I stood, I sensed fear in the general throng of the spearmen of Siddim. They faced the dreadful phalanx, the jabbing spears, the valor and training of the East-men. They had little luck hurting anyone behind those giant shields.

  With every second, it became more evident. Like a snake, fear entered the hearts of the men of the Plain. They no longer fought as hard or pushed as eagerly—except for the Sacred Band. They were majestic in valor and effort, fighting like berserk warriors and fantastic bravado and spirit. They surged against the enemy, seeking Chedorlaomer.

  Would they have reached him in the end? It might have been possible. I’d never seen men fight like that, with such little regard for their own lives.

  Elsewhere, starting with one, two and sometimes three, those at the back or far flank turned from the fight and began to slink away. That hurt the entire mass.

  The nature of war means that spearmen need each other to hold their place to protect their rear and sides. Once some cease to try as hard, hold back or flee, the others begin to sense it. Once the feeling becomes too strong, courage evaporates everywhere.

  More spearmen of the Vale of Siddim took a step back. Perhaps those of the East sensed the shaken morale. They pressed even harder. Spearmen looked over their shoulders and no doubt saw men running away. Worse, perhaps, they spied enemy javelin men on both flanks circling them. The javelins arched and pierced flesh from those standing nearest the flank. Men cried out in agony, crumpling.

  Our line shivered, shook and then broke. Men cried out, many throwing down their spears and shields. They turned, and fled. Most were blocked by others in the way. It seemed an instant where our side turned from fighting soldiers into a mob of men screaming to get away from death and dismemberment behind them. They clawed and shoved with terror at their heels.

  Those of the East stabbed and howled with bloodlust, realizing they’d won the battle.

  The Sacred Band remained like a stone in a stream, unmovable. They fought as men of the East swirled around them, stabbing, hacking and thrusting. The Sacred Band had no hope, but died where they stood, refusing to flee and likely perishing to a man.

  It was sick defeat.

  The great host of the East surged forward. And as the last soldier of the Sacred Band fell, every semblance of manhood departed the army of the Cities of the Plain. Men scrambled and screamed, running for all they were worth if they could, or clawing others, trying to climb over them before spears thrust into their backs, ending their lives forever.

  Bera’s chariot rattled near me as the king fled.

  Fear now filled me as well. Panic is horribly contagious. I jumped onto the back of the chariot as the donkeys fled. They pulled huge King Bera from the lost battle.

  I hung on, looking back.

  I suppose Bera must have looked back as well. “You!” he yelled. “You’re a croak of doom.” Once more, his fist lashed out.

  I tried to dodge, but the fist clipped me on the side of the head. I lost my hold, cruelly falling onto dust.

  The donkeys brayed, pulling Bera of Sodom. In another chariot, the king of Gomorrah sped past, following Bera. They headed for the hills. Others raced for the slime pits, which seemed like a poor place to go.

  Javelin men of the East raced toward me. If I tried to run, they’d likely spear me in the back. My luck had run out. I didn’t think I could escape this time.

  Despite the panic hammering in my heart, I took my dagger, thrusting it under loose dirt, putting stones over it. Maybe I could escape someday and retrieve it.

  As long as they didn’t castrate me—

  Three runners reached me.

  “I surrender.” I held up my hands. “I’m an emissary of Crete, of the Minotaur. I surrender. I surrender.”

  Perhaps the oddity of what I said stayed their hands, for I’d seen murder in their eyes.

  “The Minotaur will ransom you?” one asked thickly.

  “Yes, yes,” I said.

  The three propelled me, one tying my hands behind my back. Afterward, they led me proudly, a rich captive worth ransom.

  They must have seen me fall from Bera’s chariot. They might have assumed I was a rich noble. Perhaps that was why they’d zeroed in on me.

  All around me, regular soldiers of Siddim died to those of the East. The enemy hacked and slashed in a frenzy. They were victorious soldiers, having defeated the foe. In drunken joy, they took out their former fear on the now helpless.

  I thus entered captivity, spoils from the failed Battle of the Vale of Siddim.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The next day, the three young javelin men brought me before a noble of Elam. He was an older man with silver hair, a hawk-like nose and piercing eyes. They conferred and looked at me.

  “Do you understand us?” the elder asked in the language of the Amorites.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You claim to come from an island in the Great Sea?”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “How can you prove this?”

  “I give you my word. Uh—my red hair is different from those around me.”

  He looked at my red hair.

  I was in a bedraggled state, feeling sorry for myself. Should I have kept my dagger and shown it to him as proof? No. The javelin men would have stolen it.

  The three javelin men shifted uncomfortably. Did they think I’d tricked and thus cheated them?

  “You’ll come with me,” the elder said. “Guard him,” he told the three.

  As the runners followed, the noble took me to a short young man dressed in black. He had piercing eyes and a quality like an eagle searching for prey. He struck me as restless. Despite his thinness and short height, he exuded charisma, and personality.

  The noble bowed low. “King Chedorlaomer, this red-haired fool claims to be from an important isle in the Great Sea. These three young men captured him, hoping for ransom. Now, they fear he isn’t really important.”

  Chedorlaomer looked at me with interest.

  Fear filled me. Here was the great conqueror. My knees would have knocked, but I decided to play the part of a man and stood straight. What did I have to lose?

  I bowed. “I’m from Crete, Lord. I come from the city of Knossos, from the court of the Sea King.”

  “And the Minotaur?” he asked, speaking with a commanding voice.

  “Yes, Lord. I’ve spoken to the Minotaur.”

  His eyes lit up. He studied me further and then turned to the noble. “He speaks the truth. He’s a man of Knossos or one of their servants in any case. I don’t know them to be red-haired but rather dark-haired like the rest of humanity. That is a mystery to me.”

  Chedorlaomer looked at me again. “Will the Minotaur ransom you?”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “How will he discover you’re my captive?”

  I bowed my head. “Sire, someone will have to go to Knossos by ship or speak with a shipmaster of Crete to bear the news for him.”

  “Are you willing to be a captive until such time?”

  “As you wish, O King,” I said, “I am willing.”

  “You speak well. You were also seen with the king of Sodom as he fled. Do you know where he hides?”

  “I do not, Lord.”

  Chedorlaomer glanced at the noble and snapped his fingers. That was the end of my interview with him.

  The three escorted me to area where they held other captives. The three spoke with the main slave master and gave him instructions regarding me, which were rather lenient given the circumstances.

  I joined the mighty throng as a captive, as the army of the East headed for Gomorrah, Sodom and the other cities of Siddim, no doubt to loot and perhaps raze them to the ground.

  It would appear that Chedorlaomer and his allied kings had won the entire Vale of Siddim through the last battle.

  The vast majority of the soldiers of the cities had perished in the battle, been captured, drowned in the slime pits or fled to the hills. I’d heard that the kings of Sodom and Gomorrah had made their escape, leaving the others far behind.

  Soon enough, Chedorlaomer reached Gomorrah, allowing the army to camp before the walls. Negotiations began. Some was talk. Some was brutal butchery of Gomorrah soldiers, impaled before the city walls, left to wail in misery as they slowly and most painfully died. The city elders quickly surrendered, opening the city gates. The few defenders straggled out. Those of the East then looted the town, burning parts, taking captives and then heading for Sodom.

  The same thing happened at Sodom.

  Lot, his wife and daughters entered captivity. Chedorlaomer allowed his soldiers to loot the city, taking anything they desired.

  A few days later, the mighty throng of slaves, booty and soldiers left the smoldering ruins of Sodom.

  I managed that day to maneuver near Lot. His wife and daughters rode in a wagon. Lot looked defeated and bedraggled with his hands tied behind his back.

  When the slave masters weren’t looking, I gave Lot water and slipped him bread. He nodded his thanks. I stayed with him even as night fell.

  As the moon rose, Lot turned to me. I suspect he’d been deep in thought. “Damon, did I not aid thee in thy time of peril? Did I not restore your health when those of Sodom would have done otherwise?”

  “You did.”

  Lot nodded. “I did you a deed. Now, I ask you to do me a deed in return. Are you not a warrior of Knossos? Are you not the ears of your Sea King?”

  “I am.”

  “One favor alone I ask you.”

  I waited.

  “You must slip away and run to the Great Trees of Mamre. There, you must tell my Uncle Abram what has happened.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “Abram is a man of God, Him Most High. If anyone can free us, if anyone can bring doom to Chedorlaomer, it’s Abram.”

  I was more than dubious. “Abram has an army to match those of the East?”

  “He has something more. He’s a friend of God.”

  I shivered in dread hearing that, and I wasn’t sure why. There was something in me that also curled in revulsion. Yet, I wondered. Abram was the acolyte of the strange god. Of this, I had no doubt. How powerful could this strange god be? Lot was a captive, Abram was a liar, although he’d gained wealth from it in Egypt.

  “Abram has Amorite allies,” Lot said, perhaps sensing my hesitation.

  “What you ask will get me killed.”

  “You’re a warrior. You’re cunning. You must escape and tell Abram. I beg you.”

  “And take you with me,” I asked.

  “No. I’ll stay with my wife and girls. I must protect them.”

  “How will you, a slave, protect them?”

  “I’ll stay,” Lot said stubbornly, “but I implore you to escape tonight and run to Hebron and the Great Trees of Mamre. Tell Abram what has happened.”

  I looked away, thinking, until looked at Lot again. “You do know I’ve expressly come to Canaan to slay your uncle?”

  “I know. I heard you in your delirium. Your Minotaur sounds like a child of a fallen angel just as the giants are demon-inspired men, having gained the great stature because those from above lay with human women.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked outraged. “The Minotaur is a demon?”

  “Demon-inspired if nothing else. Is he great in stature like a giant?”

  “To a degree,” I said.

  “Does he have magical powers as some Nephilim, those sons of Anak, have?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then the Minotaur is demon-inspired. That’s why you were ordered to slay Abram. But you won’t be able to slay him, not even with your dagger. I beg you, tell Abram what happened. I saved your life. Now you must save mine.”

  “You have great faith in Abram.”

  “No. I have faith in Abram’s God.”

  I rose from Lot and left him, trying to decide how I could escape from the camp of the kings of the East.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I feigned sleep. In the middle of the night, I rose to the light of the half moon.

  Fear more than anything else kept the captives within the company of Chedorlaomer. I say this because of the vast number of captives and the drunken state of the soldiers, now that all the hard fighting was past them.

  I crawled, slipping past sleeping guards. There weren’t enough dogs because the encampment was so huge. The dogs there were I avoided.

  By the light of the moon, I raced away, after stealing dried figs and water to sustain me.

  I headed for the battle site for a reason, running often. While it was still dark, I reached the place. There was a feeling of evil all around: of slain men, spilled blood and vile intentions. I feared bumping into ghosts, and I started at any eerie noise. Fortunately, I did not see any ghosts or haunts, eventually finding my dagger of the fallen star, still in its hiding spot.

  I took that as a good omen, setting out for Hebron afterward.

  The next few days, it was clear that Chedorlaomer’s host was swinging around the other side of the Salt Sea. In other words, they headed west in the very direction I was going. I saw the clouds of dust they raised behind me.

  For the next few nights, I slept during the day and fled in the dark, a fugitive in a war-torn land. I stayed ahead of the Eastern runners. I’d had practice doing that, and this time I was in better shape, having merely been captured and not wounded.

  I stayed away from any people, following the directions Lot had given me in exacting detail.

  What would I tell the Minotaur if I didn’t bring back Abram’s head? Lot believed Abram a great man, and the god he served some powerful deity indeed. Imagine calling the Minotaur and giants demon-inspired.

  That was too much.

  Why was Lot so certain Abram could rescue him and his family? Abram wasn’t a great warlord or leader.

  Still, there had been something unique about Lot. Even in defeat, he’d refused to slip away and save himself. Lot had remained with his wife and daughters. Why? He could always find a new woman to replace the old.

  I continued even as Chedorlaomer marched along the roads behind me, moving more swiftly than I would have imagined such a mighty host of captives to go.

  That was due no doubt to Chedorlaomer, the young conquering king of Elam. I’d sensed greatness in him. I’d understood just a little why his army was invincible. He was a master, nay, a wizard of war. He outmatched and outthought every one of his opponents. He’d shown that repeatedly. Even Bera’s chariots and Sacred Band of fanatical warriors had proven useless against Chedorlaomer.

  I must tell Abram, Lot said. I’d given him my word to do so. Yet, I’d also given my word to the Minotaur. I wanted riches back in Crete. I wanted to be royalty, perhaps in the town of my birth. Still…Lot had saved me from degradation and brought me back to health, perhaps even life. Telling Abram would pay my debt to Lot.

  This became my guiding light.

  I hid in woods at night. I hid in caves during the day. Sometimes, I dug a pit and slept there during the day, covering myself with leaves. Every stratagem, everything I could think of from the tales of my father to the cunning Spartan that had trained me in the court of Knossos and the Sea King I used.

  Once I told Abram Lot’s news, I could kill him. I wondered how I’d cross this war-torn land with Abram’s head in a sack. Where could I find a Crete-bound ship?

  Many days after I’d slipped away from the slave corrals of Chedorlaomer, I spied in the moonlight great trees. Were those the Great Trees of Mamre? Would Abram be there?

  I set out, believing I’d soon discover the answer.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  In the moonlight, I began up the slope toward what I believed were the Great Trees of Mamre. It seemed as if my vision wavered and I struggled to put my thoughts into a coherent whole. All at once, I stumbled and collapsed onto my knees.

  Damon, I asked myself, are you here to slay Abram or fulfill the debt you owe Lot? Lot saved your life. You can save his or at least do him a good turn by telling Abram. Will you then slay Abram? How does that aid Lot?

  As I wrestled with these thoughts, I shivered and a cold feeling crept over me. I moaned. It seemed as if something in me reached across the land and over the sea until it sped to Knossos. There, it took stairs going down into the subterranean Maze of the Minotaur. My spirit, or part of it, threaded through the Maze. I heard men chanting. I saw them. They wore cowls and stood before a glowing brazier red with evil. The Minotaur approached. He wore a dark garment and a bull headdress with horns. He held a double-bladed axe of Crete and a wavy-bladed knife.

  In a sunken pit, a naked man struggled against his bonds. The Minotaur approached and the chanting grew louder.

  The Minotaur bent on one knee and plunged the wavy-bladed dagger into the man’s breast. With the axe, he hacked once, twice, and cut off the head. It was a gruesome spectacle.

  Worse, everything together was an evil incantation. I heard the Minotaur chant in his strong voice. He turned and looked upon my watching spirit. The eyes beneath the mask glowed with demonic malice.