Warrior Poet by Timothy J. Stoner Page B

languorous glances of an Egyptian prostitute. The feel of it was almost erotic. He had come to recognize that constant, ruthless vigilance was the price for preserving the crown for himself and for his firstborn son, Jonathan.
    A trickle of sweat ran down his spine. The footsteps were gaining on him. Light glinted off unsheathed swords. Maybe it wasn’t swords. It could be eyes: wolves chasing him down for the kill. His chest was heaving. It had been too long since he’d needed to exert himself. Royal food and indolence had joined the conspiracy, rendering him defenseless.
    I … am … the … king! his mind screamed through ragged breaths. I will fight and die like one! He halted in the middle of the road.
    The sounds of laughter stung him, engulfing him like a flock of crows. He spun, trying to locate his attackers. He was lying on his back, moaning. Tears running down his cheeks drenched his beard. A grotesque human face was peering hungrily at him, its lower jaw disjointed and protruding. The muscles in the lower part of its face were contracting. Like living clay, its mouth was shifting and sliding, assuming a reptilian shape. Its eyes were now red and hooded, and from the impossibly distended jaw a red tongue darted and wrapped around his crown. He thrust his arms over his head so it could not tear away the golden circlet.
    The reptile had incredible strength. It was prying his fingers loose with inexorable force. He thrashed against it, wanting to scream, but his mouth felt glued shut. Saul was mesmerized by the amber eyes boring into his, eyes filled with loathing and a poisonous cunning. Though the man’s face was twisted and swollen, Saul recognized it immediately.
    It was Jonathan! He had orchestrated this ambush. Saul wanted to vomit, but he began to tremble violently instead. He stared around uncomprehendingly. He was in a room. A broidered cloth spanned the posts above his head. It was familiar. The pillow beneath his head was wet, and a water jug was overturned on the bedcovers. His wife was huddled on the floor, crying, welts on the side of her face. His own hands were around someone’s throat.
    Finally completely conscious, he dropped his hands from Jonathan’s neck. Then, with a shuddering breath, he screamed, “Leave my room, all of you! Curse you! Leave me alone! I will not let you have it!”

Chapter Six
    Samuel had not slept at all. He was inside his house, trudging stiffly from one side to the other. The floor was hard-packed earth. Thanks to Ginath’s dedication, it was clean and as smooth as polished wood. He took in a painful breath and rested his hand on the rounded stones that made up the walls of his compact home.
    He was listening.
    The dialogues had begun when he was a homesick little boy serving Eli the high priest in the tabernacle at Shiloh. It was before the Philistine attack that had forced the move to Bethel.
    His favorite chore was to walk the perimeter of the rectangular inner court and locate any tears in the linen curtains that hung between the twenty posts on the north and south sides and the ten posts on the east and west sides. He counted his steps each morning: seventy-five paces for each of the long ends and thirty-seven for the short ends. Two hundred and twenty-four paces. When he did find any tears, he was to report them to the embroidery women.
    When Eli had begun to lose his sight, Samuel had been given the task of helping the high priest count the money. He had not been told why he had not asked his own sons.
    He could remember it as if it had happened last night. It was on his eighth birthday. He and Eli were asleep on their mats in the tent outside the front entrance to the tabernacle court that served as their eating and sleeping quarters. A veil intersected the tent into two separate chambers.
    “Samuel,” a Voice had whispered. He’d gotten up immediately to see what Eli wanted. The priest was not one to be kept waiting, and there was a note of urgency that