The Curse of God's Treasure

[sicarii]

Hi There,
I am a novice writer (I feel like at AA), never studied English formally (English isn't my mother's tongue) aside from high school in my homeland.
I read a lot, and it helped me with my vocabulary, (my grammar though is atrocious) . I had that burning desire to write a thriller, so three years ago I started and just finished it, I even managed to interest a literary agent who think it has a commercial value if written right. I am still polishing it, but would like to have some criticism from people I don't know (Those I do, called it a very good read, but I fear their opinion is not exactly honest).
I will start with the prologue and hope to hear from you.
Thanks


Prologue
Holy City of Jerusalem – Eve of Destruction - 70 AD

Guarding the Temple of Solomon was the most important of jobs. The men posted to each of the eight gates understood this was more than a monument, more than a symbol; it was the holiest place on earth. The place where God spoke to man. Yet, on this moonless night, pacing in the harsh glow of torches, they thought of other things. They thought of the things all men think of when the tedium of their job creeps over them: their family, their woman, their next meal, and perhaps that small sound from the deep darkness beyond the torchlight...
The black-clad assassins were on them before they could draw their swords. The Sicarii warriors were brutal. Swift. The last thing the temple guards saw were the dark eyes of their killers, and the gleam of a short blade drawn from their Galabiyas. Their black garments shielded all but their eyes from the blood of their victims. And there was blood; throats slashed, arteries laid bare. To the guards, in their last moments on earth, the attackers looked like demons from hell. And for the people of the Second Temple, they were.
The Second Temple of Jerusalem was a magnificent structure. Rebuilt by King Herod in an attempt to pacify the Jewish population living under his brutal reign, it took 10,000 masons eight years to renovate. The temple grounds, atop Mt. Moriah, covered thirty-four acres. Giant gates adorned with gold and silver studded the thick, high walls. These walls were built to protect God's house and were believed to be impenetrable.
Inside, 160 marble pillars, each 36 feet high, held up a roof of polished cedar trees. The Royal Stoa was part of an outer court where any individual, Jewish or not, could enter. Only Jews were allowed into the inner court, and it was from there that the commander of the Sicarii directed the carnage and plunder.
At 6'6" this bear-like figure towered over his troops. He ordered the beasts of burden, a long caravan of hundreds of camels and horses, to be queued up, each driven by a Sicarii warrior. Other men ran down the steps to the Temple's vaults and carried out crates which were loaded upon the waiting animals. As each animal was loaded, another took its place. The undertaking was perfectly orchestrated.
For seven days and nights they loaded treasure from the temple's vaults. Curious citizens who risked coming close to the shrine were killed and thrown outside the Temple walls as a warning for others not to approach.
By the time they ran out of animals to carry it, almost all the gold and silver had been taken. Only the huge Menorah, a ceremonial seven-branched candelabrum, and a few tons of precious metals were left. The towering figure called on one of his men to release the high priest and bring him over.
The priest, Phennias son of Samuel, walked to the inner court shielding his eyes from the morning sun. When he became accustomed to the light, he saw animal excrement and filth covering the marble floor of this holy place. A sudden jolt of pain moved through his body, as if God himself hit him with his fist.
Then he saw the raiders, their black Galabiyas drenched in blood. Fear crept into his heart. Near the entry to the holy of holies, where the Ark of the Covenant was kept, stood a giant of a man. Although his face was covered except for the eyes, the priest recognized the man. He was Elazar Ben Yair, the new leader of a sect called Sicarii, named after the small curved daggers they carried. The priest walked to the Sicarii leader, raised his fist, and said, “Elazar Ben Yair, you filthy murderer, may the wrath of God bring death and destruction upon you, your household, your men, and anyone who had, or shall ever have, a hand in this sacrilege. May your seed be vanquished from the face of the Earth. Amen, may this be His will.”
Elazar Ben Yair ignored the priest’s curse, but noticed the gleam of the Hoshen Stones upon his chest. What an oversight, he was still wearing the Breastplate of Judgment. The stones represented the twelve tribes of Israel and had been worn by each high priest for the last 1500 years, since Aaron, the brother of Moses, the first high priest. It was the symbol of unchallenged religious authority.
Staring into the priest's eyes, Elazar asked, “Where is the ark of the covenant?”
“I would rather die than tell you were it is.”
“Then die.” The Sicarii's huge hand drew the dagger from his belt and with a swift move slashed the priest’s throat. The priest grabbed his throat trying to stop the blood, opened his mouth as if to speak, then dropped dead on the ground. Elazar bent over and wiped his blade on the priest's robe. With a snake-like hiss he said, "I was the one to bestow this post upon you, and you repaid me by calling on the Romans to aid you against me. Phennias, this is the fate of all who deceive God, the land of Israel and me.”
The Sicarii leader rested his foot on the dead man’s chest, grabbed the Breastplate and yanked, tearing the golden chain from the priest’s neck. With a quick step, Elazar jumped onto his horse and galloped out of the Temple.
It was only when he reached the top of Mount Scopus that he halted and looked back. A menacing cloud of dust rose out of the southwest, sunrays bouncing off the shields of the Legions of Rome. The Roman soldiers were coming from Egypt, led by Titus, the son of Caesar Vespasian, to lay siege to the holy city of Jerusalem. He allowed himself a sigh of relief. He had done it. God's treasure was safe, but the city of Jerusalem and its holy temple were doomed. He knew it would be the treasure that would someday fund a third temple at the site that King David himself had once chosen—the place of the first and second Temples—the holiest place on earth. One day, when the people of Israel again put their faith in the one true God, the Temple will rise again. Purity will come from destruction. It was better that way. Turning his back on the city, he rode into the Judean desert.

[Ravendust]

Wow! This looks like it'll be a fantastic story. I absolutely love it so far. It's interesting that Elazar seemed to be the villain in the beginning and turned out to be the complete opposite. I can't wait to read more.

Also, welcome to the site, I hope that you'll have more stories put up before too long, you're a talented writer!

[sicarii]

Thanks so much for your comments, Ravendust. Aside for the story part, any comments on the technical part of the writing?

Here is the First Chapter:

Chapter One
The West Bank, Israel - Late August 2005


The Jeep driver glanced at the camp-like settlement of fifteen mobile homes scattered in no particular order around the mountain summit. He was supposed to be patrolling the electronic fence that marked the defensible boundary of his village, but his heart wasn't in it. He knew that his comrades were glued to the satellite TV set, watching the announcement of what their government termed “the disengagement plan,” the forceful removal of settlements like this from the Gaza Strip.
It was early, the sun barely up, as the Jeep snaked around the top of the mountain. To the Christians this place was known as the Mountain of Temptations, or Quarantena, which means forty in Latin. It was where Jesus spent 40 days and 40 nights resisting the temptations of Satan. The Greek orthodox built a church halfway up the peak on the ruins of a Herodian fortress. To the Muslims it was known as Jabal Al Qarantal, a mispronunciation of the Latin word. To the world, and most of the Israeli public, it just was one of those “illegal settlements” that kept popping up despite the Israeli Government's best efforts. To the Jewish settlers it was their land given to them by God. Neither man nor government had the right to it.
Stopping frequently, the Jeep driver raised his binoculars toward the Jordan valley below. He saw nothing and continued on his guard’s duties. On any other day there would have been at least three guards—one in each of the two guard towers and one who would do the rounds with the Jeep. However, the televised event had left him alone that morning. Maybe it was the fact that his attention was more focused on what was going on in the dining hall, maybe it was because of his annoyance at being the only one not watching that cursed event. Whatever the reason, he missed the figure that had just settled onto the hill across from the settlement.
He was a 20-year-old Palestinian, and this first kill would be his rite of passage. He must succeed to become a member of Hamas. It was his skillful handling of the M1 during training that brought him to his handler's attention. His handler had suggested him for the mission. The young man would not disappoint; it was an easy shot from this distance—barely 200 yards.
Armed with the World War II vintage, US made, M1 Garand scope-mounted rifle, he saw the small saddle-shaped rock and began a slow crawl towards it. Perfect to rest the rifle on. A couple of minutes later the rifle was poised on the rock, ready. Taking his time, he scanned the village for targets. Only the Jeep driver was visible.
Last night, when he and his handler were planning this ambush, he was warned about the settlers. "Do not underestimate those sons of dogs. If you are found they will kill you with no mercy. Watch your moves, choose your position and remain concealed until the moment you shoot."
Bothered somewhat that, except for the Jeep driver, there were no other targets, he told himself that once the first shot dropped the Jeep driver, the others would run out of their mobile homes. It would provide him ample time to drop four or five more and disappear back to his village, just beyond the ridge behind him.
The young sniper cocked his semi-automatic rifle and loaded the eight-bullet-strip into the magazine, pushing it in with his thumb. The clicking sound of the bullets being loaded into the rifle filled him with power. The lives of those hated settlers were now in his hands. He would extinguish them with the power of his finger. Adrenaline streamed through his body. He felt invincible. With a fluid motion he raised the rifle to his shoulder and aimed at the Jeep driver’s chest. His finger caressed the trigger.
Suddenly his head was pulled backward with an incredible force. Someone had him by the hair and he could not resist. He felt the man’s knee on his back pushing his body into the soil. The rush of power was replaced with horror and fear. The stench of his own urine rose into his nostrils. The touch of the cold end of a blade to his neck made him scream, but only a gurgling sound came from his mouth as excruciating pain seared through him. Before he drowned in his own blood, a last thought raced through his mind: where did he come from?
The towering figure that rose from the grassy hillside was covered in a Ghillie suit. It was the ultimate in camouflage gear; Special Forces around the world used it for concealment and it served its function well. The dead sniper had crawled to his position just six feet from him without seeing or sensing him. He removed his head cover, leaned and wiped the Sicarii dagger on the sniper's clothes.
He grabbed the body and with one powerful motion, placed it over his wide shoulders and said, "Yekutiel, you grass-eating goat, you can come out of your hole now, you lazy no good for nothing. Come give me a hand with this piece of sh*t.”
A second figure dressed in the same manner, but much smaller, about 5'7", with a barrel chest like the first man, emerged from the ground. His name, Yekutiel Ben Yair, and he was the other man's second cousin. His concealment was so perfect that unless one walked on top of him there was no way to detect his presence. He got to his feet and said, “Don’t make so much noise, Yehoshafat. You sent him to visit the 72 virgins, you carry him.” He began walking towards the settlement, “And please move your butt, I don't want to miss the dawn Prayer!"
“Sure, Yekutiel.” Yehoshafat was cheerful as he picked up his pace, carrying the dead body as if it were a sack of rice.
The driver halted the Jeep at the gate, raising a cloud of dust around him. “I see you got the bugger.”
“Yep, just before he was about to send one into that shiny, balding head of yours,” Yekutiel laughed.
“You laugh,” barked Moshe with visible anger. “But, you didn't have to be the target on the wrong side of a sniper's rifle, dumb *ss.”
“Right, because you're the only jackass that volunteers for those easy assignments.” He walked through the gate and into the dining hall.
A few months before, the Government of Israel headed by its new Prime Minister made the decision to unilaterally withdraw from the Gaza Strip. The bold political move was aimed at winning a more favorable status with the US Government and offsetting some of the domestic pressures thereby, causing a significant rift between political parties and the people. At first, it looked as if the radical right might turn to violent actions in response. Those threats soon dissipated, although no one knew how or why. But the opposition was silenced for a reason; a much more sinister plot was brewing.
Elazar Ben Yair, the old man in the small settlement of Sica knew why. He was the sentinel of God’s Treasure, the holy guardian of a 2000-year-old secret passed from father to son. Returning the West Bank to the Palestinians, which he knew was the PM’s next step, would result in the treasure falling into the hands of the enemy. He could not allow that to happen. The only way he could stop it was by the removal of the Prime Minister of Israel, and he was willing to accomplish it by any means necessary.
Stepping into the dining room, Yehoshafat threw the dead body off his shoulders. It hit the ground with an ugly thud, at the feet of men standing at attention, watching him. He looked at the menacing figures staring back at him. An outsider would have thought they’d stepped into a bygone era; the men were dressed in black Galabiyas, their slightly-curved daggers in their belts. They waited in silence.
He shut his eyes; he could feel the spirits of 2000-year-old warriors racing through his veins, their zeal embodied in the dark figures standing in front of him, awaiting his command.
“It is time. It is time. The moment has come for the Kingdom of Judea to rise again and I will be the one to lead it.” He bowed his head slightly and whispered, “Oh, Lord God, you are the God of our armies.”
“Oh, Lord God, you are the God of our armies,” echoed the dark figures in one thunderous voice.
Thirty-six year-old Yehoshafat Ben Yair was a giant. He stood 6 foot 6 inches tall, with deep black hair, fierce black eyes, and a handsome clean-shaven face. Although the Sicarii adhered to the strictest of the Jewish religious codes, they had long chosen to avoid the traditional look of religious Jews with the long beards and long side curls. Realizing that they would need to move in the secular world in order to accomplish their objectives, they determined it was better to appear as those around them.
He had a powerful frame, looking a bit like wrestlers on TV. Yehoshafat had been groomed for this role from childhood. Even his name had a powerful meaning; translated from Hebrew it meant, “God Judged.” His father, Elazar, taught him all there was to know about survival. He taught him how to use their ancestral weapon, the Sica dagger, which he'd just used to kill the Palestinian sniper. He’d taught him the ancient form of Jewish martial art known as ABIR, or knight. He taught him about their Sicarii warriors’ history, the Bible, and the Land of Israel. When Yehoshafat entered the army at age eighteen for his mandatory service, it was but a very short time until his skills were recognized and he was sent to Officer Candidate School. It was the army that made him the expert assassin he was. Yehoshafat liked the army and made it his home, and the army repaid him. To the army he was the son of a fallen hero killed during the Six Day War—a soldier from Unit 101, the most famous commando unit of that time. So they made him the commander of the most clandestine unit in the modern Israeli army, SAYERET MATKAL, the commando reconnaissance unit. Many of this unit's commanders became Chiefs of Staff, and some, like Ehud Barak, became Prime Minister.
None of that interested Yehoshafat. His path had been carved 2000 years ago by one of his ancestors, Elazar Ben Yair, the leader of the men from Masada. He was the bearer of their great secret. Like his father before him, he would become the custodian of God's Treasure.
There were only a few that knew of Yehoshafat’s other role as the commanding officer of KIDON, or Lance, the Israeli Mossad’s assassination unit. There had never been anyone better at that role than him.
He glanced at his father who was watching him from behind the podium at the end of the room, nodding at him. It was hard to ignore the great love in the eyes of the old man for his son. The old man turned to the group of the black-clad men and said, “Brothers, it is time for me to step down, and for Yehoshafat to take over the reigns of leadership. It is all happening at the right time.” The men cheered.
“Today we embark on a new path, a course that will bring back the Kingdom of Judea, the way God intended. It is said in Ezekiel, A sword sharpened and burnished to be put in the hand of a slayer. Cry out and wail, son of man, for it is destined for my people; It is for all the princes of Israel. The traitors in the government are giving up the land, which is not theirs to give, giving it to our worst enemy, the Amalek. It is time to destroy that government and to destroy the Amalekians.” Fists shot into the air with the howls of agreement.
“It is time for Judea to rise again!” He finished with a thundering voice and stepped from behind the podium, calling to his son, “Yehoshafat, it is your time now."
Walking out of the dining hall and looking to the east, the old man could see the town of Jericho. An oasis amidst the Judean desert, it lay at the foot of the Judean Mountains. Surrounded by groves of palm trees, it stretched almost to the banks of the Jordan River. As serene as it looked now, he was aware of its bloody history. It was Joshua Ben Nun, the famous military leader of the Israelites, who'd started it all. This was the spot from which the conquering of the Holy Land by the twelve Israelite tribes began more than 3500 years ago. This is where the conquering of Judea would begin again, and it will be his son leading the fearless new Sicarii.
He felt his body relaxing, a feeling of calmness took over, and the burden of leadership was off his shoulders.
This Holy Land is ours, given to us by God and drenched with the blood of many heroes. Yes, this man must go; he is a traitor to God for wanting to give this Holy Land to the Amalek.
He knelt down, his hand grabbing a fist full of sand, as if he wanted to hold the land that was so close to his heart. More than 50 years had passed since he first met the man he now wanted to kill. They were both young soldiers on a mission of vengeance.

[Ravendust]

There are very few gramatical and spelling errors, for English not being your native tongue, you write very well. It flows the way a story should^^.

[Meluivan Indil]

Sorry it took me so long to get to this. I forgot to check my email so I didn't get your message till this morning.

Okay, as far as the prologue, I couldn't find anything to correct.

First chapter:

"you lazy no good for nothing" should be "you lazy good for nothing" The way you have it is a double negative I think they call it and it doesn't sound right.

"looking a bit like wrestlers on TV" This phrase doesn't seem quite classy enough for a peice as serious as this is. Not putting down professional wrestling but the way it is here in the states alot of people ridicule it for it's fakeness at times. I wouldn't equate my characters with that conception if I was you.

As Raven said your grasp of the english language is very good. I would never have known it was a second language to you if you hadn't mentioned it.

As far as the overall story concept I think it would go over very well with people that enjoy this type of story. I have to admit I don't particularly like thrillers myself but I'm sure your story would be well recieved in the published world.

One other thing, formatting. I know that you will have to format it correctly for print before you submit it to be published. But on websites such as this with it scrunched together with no line breaks between chapters it makes it difficult to read. This of course will make no difference when you go to publish it since published work has no linebreaks, but I thought I'd mention it. At times it was difficult to decide who was speaking unless you said their name directly after the statement.

Well, you asked for a critique and that's about all I can give you for now. But I will say that it is very well written and on the caliber of a published writer, so you have no fears in that aspect.

[Jay]

Thanks much for taking the time and for pointing out the character issue..never thought about it that way.
I will change that.

[sicarii]

Hi ravendust, You mentioned you can't wait to read more, so I am throwing in another chapter


Chapter Two
Qibyah, West Bank – October 1953

It was midnight on a cool, starlit autumn night. A patrol of soldiers was making its way east across the boundary between the Jewish State of Israel and the Arab West Bank, under the control of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. There were no border guards to engage and no fences to cross. They moved as quickly as they could. It was obvious that they knew their way to the target.
The two point men, cousins Elazar and Menachem Ben Yair, both expert trackers, led the patrol along the wadi that ran from east to west between the villages of Qibyah and Nil'lin. Their orders had come four days earlier, directly from the old man himself, Ben Gurion, the austere idealist who'd guided the young State of Israel to independence. The gruesome murder of a Jewish mother, Suzan Kanias, and her two small children in the township of Yahud was the last straw.
Ben Gurion had called upon his newly formed Special Forces Unit, known as Unit 101, to launch a proper response to this ruthless act. Peulat Tagmul, he called it. An act of retaliation, pure and simple.
“Our intelligence followed the tracks of those Fedayeen.” Ben Gurion spoke with the leader of the mission, a young Lieutenant. “The tracks led to Qibyah, the village that two of our boys disguised as Bedouins spent some time observing. They identified all six Fedayeen.
“Those bastards couldn't stop boasting. One of them even showed the teddy bear he took from a slaughtered child." Turning away from the young Lieutenant, he paused, and then added, “I need you to find that teddy bear and bring it back so we can put it to rest with Shoshanna, the girl that died.” He inhaled. “Here are the names and the position of their houses.” He handed the Lieutenant a map and a typed note detailing the intelligence.
Ben Gurion began pacing back and forth, then with conviction in his voice, he said, “You will erase this village from the face of the Earth. You will allow all of the villagers to flee, but not before you execute the six Fedayeen in front of them. I wish the whole village to observe their execution, so the rest of them will know what to anticipate should they take part in such crimes or offer shelter to other murdering bastards. Remember, no harm shall come to the rest, is that understood?”
“Understood, sir, it shall be done.” The young Lieutenant saluted.
It took them about two hours to walk to the elevation west of Qibyah. From the top of the hill they could see to the west, the Israeli side, Sde Nehemya, its lights flickering in the distance. It was a sight which only reinforced their resolve. To the east, the village of Qibyah was situated on a roadway junction. About three kilometers northeast of their location was the village of Shaqba, which was used as a base for the Jordanian Legion, a company-size force with 2 armored cars. To the south, the village of Nil'lin, was another snake pit which they knew would require their attention in the near future.
Upon reaching the crest of the hill, the young Lieutenant ordered one of the soldiers to remove his poncho, and called two of the squad leaders, Avi and Aaron, to come over. While kneeling he asked one of the warriors to cover them with his poncho, took the chart from his bag, spread it on the ground and lit the flashlight.
“Avi, your squad takes a position at the entry to Shaqba. See this here?” he pointed to the chart. “When you see the Legion getting ready to move in our direction, you fire, shoot one ammunition box, lob a couple of grenades and run away, clear?”
“Yes, sir, clear!”
The same orders were conveyed to Aaron, the other machine gun squad leader, referring this time to the armed bands of Fedayeen that made Nil'lin their base.
“I’ll give you thirty minutes to reach your positions. Move!” he commanded.
While both men made their ways with their squads, the Lieutenant was considering the best way to assault the village with the four squads left.
“Yigal, bring Elazar and Menachem and get your asses over here!” he ordered. The fourth squad will be left in reserve, he thought to himself and turned to meet the arriving squad leaders. Kneeling under the cover of the poncho, the Lieutenant started to explain his plan of attack. Elazar asked permission to speak.
“Sir, no need to send all of us,” Elazar suggested. “You know Menachem and I with our squads can take care of the village. All we need is cover for any gunfire that may come from the houses if we are detected."
The Lieutenant looked at Elazar and Menachem Ben Yair. Elazar was a tall man, about 6'6”. His cousin Menachem was small and nimble. As far as he knew, they were completely fearless, specialists in small arms, hand to hand combat, and in the handling of explosives. He remembered querying them about the daggers they, and all the men in their units, bore under their belts.
Elazar had smiled and said, “When each of us arrives at the age of maturity, our fathers give these daggers to us, as charms to keep the evil eye away.”
“Elazar,” said the Lieutenant smiling, “It's hard to imagine any sort of eye hurting you. It’s the evil eye that needs a lucky charm, not you.”
Elazar grinned. “It is called a SICA, small dagger in Latin. Our ancestors carried it many, many years ago. It goes back over two thousand years.”
The Lieutenant recalled history lessons from high school about the Sicarii; their name was derived from that dagger. It was the other part of their dark history that he did not recall. Their murderous nature, their absolute devotion to God and to the Land of Israel, and what they did to those they regarded as their enemies.
There was a lot the young Lieutenant didn't know about the two cousins. In the Irgun they had been expert assassins. Both marked their first kills at the age of 17, when they executed two British sergeants in reprisal for the Brits hanging their comrades, an action that put an end to the practice of executions by the British authorities.
Both were also members of the Irgun unit that massacred the villagers of Dir Yassin, an act that motivated much of the Arab population of Israel to flee east to Jordan out of fear of more such massacres—and may have motivated Ben Gurion to disband the unit and meld the remaining members into the Israeli Defense Forces, or IDF.
Had he known, he might not have listened to Elazar. But he didn’t know, so he made the decision that he’d regret the rest of his life. Even after he became Prime Minister he could not forget what happened that night.
“You understand the orders,” said the Lieutenant. “Avert unnecessary bloodshed.”
“We understand. No unnecessary bloodshed, only the necessary,” responded Elazar with a cold smile.
“Ok, then go,” ordered the Lieutenant.
The two squads swooped down on the village, arriving undetected in front of the first line of houses. The intelligence showed that all six Fedayeen were living in these first houses, which made their job much easier.
Elazar signaled everyone to stop. He crouched and all followed. In a low and whispering voice he ordered, “No one is left alive, clear?”
There was no response, none was necessary. He understood that they would perform his orders with no hesitation. Each soldier took his position in front of a targeted house and waited.
From atop the elevation, about 75 yards from the village entrance, the Lieutenant aimed his Zeiss 7X35 Field Binoculars at the entry to the village, but couldn't see a thing. It was too dark. He settled himself for a wait, as his order was to commence the operation just before sunrise.
First came the sound of an angry dog barking. His body tensed. Then came the terrible howl of an animal dying. “La azazel,” he grumbled. d**n it. He knew that if he heard that terrible sound everybody else in the village heard it as well. There was a short moment of quiet. A shot rang. Then came what he dreaded most—the terrified cries of people begging for their lives.

Signaling the two reserve squads to follow him, he ran toward the village. Arriving at the entrance he heard the first grenade then rapid fire from a Thompson gun. The same sequence repeated again and again in the village.
“Hadal eish!” he shouted. Cease fire! But he knew the shooters could not hear him. There was only one way to stop them. He ordered his runner to shoot a red flare, a signal to cease fire. He understood there was a risk; it would pinpoint his units for the Jordanian Legionnaires. But at this moment he didn't care. He must stop the killings and this was the only way how. He knew the directives from the Old Man. He was very clear. “No killings but of the men responsible.”
The hills surrounding the village were painted in red. The weapons hushed. The Lieutenant arrived at the first house only to see Menachem, his face dripping blood.
“Are you wounded?”
“It is not my blood,” responded Menachem with an eerie smile on his face. The Lieutenant rushed into the dwelling. He stood there in disbelief. The family—each flung in grotesque postures. The head of the house, one of the targeted Fedayeens, was near the doorway, throat cut. His wife and kids died from the grenade and from Menachem's Thompson.
He went to each of the targeted houses, the same scene again and again. The men had their throat's cut and the remainder, the women, children and the old, were mangled and dead.
When he was leaving the last house, a glint of light from the rising sun crept into the main room. It drew his attention and made him turn his head. He saw a young girl’s dead body on the floor, clutching Shoshana’s teddy bear to her chest. It was soaked with the girl’s blood. He stood there for a minute, then bent and with great tenderness extracted it from her stiff hands, and left the house.
His fighters meanwhile ordered the villagers out of their houses. They all stood there trembling. He couldn't overcome the sensation of nausea. He had witnessed death many times, though never had he encountered such brutality, and from his own soldiers. He couldn't believe Israeli soldiers could be so cruel.
“How many?” he snapped with an angry voice.
“Sixty-nine.” Menachem wiped his blade with a piece of cloth he grabbed off one of the dead bodies. He used it to wipe the blood from his hands and face.
“How could you, women and children?”
The tenebrous voice that came from Elazar surprised even the Lieutenant. He’d never heard him speak in this manner. It was deep and daunting. “Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and *ss. They are our enemies, God's enemies. Remember, the Amalek? God ordered them all killed—none should be spared.” If hate had a tone this is how it sounded.
The Lieutenant shook his head. “They were not the Amalek, they were little girls and old men and you murdered them for no good reason. You have disobeyed my orders and worse, you disobeyed Ben Gurion's orders. You will stand trial before a military tribunal for this, if it is the last thing I do. I hope they execute you.” He looked at them with venom in his eyes. “Now complete your task. Haul the six targets out of their houses then blow up the houses. I want the villagers to view what will be done to those who raid and kill us. If you kill anyone else, I will personally shoot you in the head.”
A young child broke from the group of fearful villagers, and rushed at him. The boy seemed to be about ten or twelve years old, tears rolling down his face, and hatred in his young eyes. Looking at the Lieutenant without fear, he spoke in Arabic, which the Lieutenant understood.
“I am Omar Imad Hassan iben Husseini. Remember my name for I shall dedicate my life to killing you and all the Jews.”
The Lieutenant began to say something when he heard the sound of a Thompson being cocked behind him. He turned and saw Menachem raising his weapon in rage at the boy. The Lieutenant drew his .455 Webley MK VI, aimed it at Menachem's head and walked towards him. Menachem finally lowered the Thompson. The Lieutenant reached him with a couple of long steps and swung his sidearm hard, landing a vicious blow to Menachem’s face, splitting open his chin with the gun's large forward sight. Blood oozed from the cut. ”Now it is your blood."
A yellow flare exploded over their heads, signaling the retreat of the forces at the other villages and the movement of the Jordanian Legionnaires. It was time to depart.
“Do your thing,” the Lieutenant commanded. Elazar and Menachem Ben Yair and their squads removed their backpacks and, running from house to house, lit the short fuses and hurled the backpacks into them. It was their duty to inspect the houses for villagers. They didn’t bother. A serious of explosions ensued, each flattening a house.
While the houses were blowing up, the report of machine gun fire reached them from the east where the blocking force had commenced shooting at the Jordanian forces. The Lieutenant took a last glance at the massacre behind him, confirmed that all his soldiers were present and ran to the rendezvous point.
They dashed into the wadi; he knew the armored cars couldn't maneuver there. It was but a short while later that they met with the other two squads and moved toward the border. It took about 40 minutes to reach safety. Then they slowed and, catching their breaths, walked towards the awaiting trucks. In the distance they heard some gunfire. The Jordanian Legionnaires were shooting at shadows.
Four of the patrols boarded trucks for a short trip back to the barracks. Elazar and his squads went to their truck. They removed their prayer shawls from their packs and tied the phylacteries to their hands and foreheads. Facing east, they began Thephilat Shaharit, the Dawn Prayer. The other raiders looked at them for a moment, stunned.
Nobody could see Elazar's face covered by the prayer shawl. Had they, they would have surely noticed a strange aura about him. His eyes gazing into the rising sun that painted the Judean hills bright yellow, he felt the spirits of his ancestors streaming through his veins. He was elated. This night he had accomplished one of the two sacred oaths to God—the protection of the Nation of Israel and the extermination of their enemies, with no remorse and no mercy.
The second oath was a secret passed from father to son for over two millennia. A secret fire branded into his mind on his thirteenth birthday: the location of God's Treasure, to be passed to his own son when the time came.
It wasn't far from where he was standing and praying, just beyond those Judean hills. As he chanted the sacred words of timeless prayer, he could see into the past, into where it all had began.