Shadows The Road That Destroys What Remains Book II

By Nickolas J. Spradlin

This series tells the story of two families reaching for high station in First Century Judea. In their quest for power and influence, they are bitterly opposed by the most determined resistance fighters, who seek the ouster of the Roman Empire from Judaea. One family, the Nildarpas, are Romans. The family’s youngest male member, Tuscan, is charged by the Roman emperor with the task of gathering information to keep the Empire ahead of its enemies in Judea and the surrounding regions. The esteemed title granted to him is that of Chief Information Gatherer (CIG), and with this title he will oversee the newly established Information Gathering Department (IGD) that is headquartered in Jerusalem. The second family, a group of mercenaries known as the Shadows, become as brothers to each other and eventually grow into a special operations unit for the Roman IGD. What the Shadows don’t know is that their services to the CIG have begun at the start of Judea’s Messianic Age, where Messiah after Messiah deifies himself, each believing he can end Rome’s occupation and usher in the theocratic rule of old. This story focuses on a new clandestine agency placed in Judea to help keep Rome one step ahead of those whose lands they occupy during the expansion of their empire. Such a task leaves the CIG and the Shadows immeasurably challenged by the various religious factions of Judea and other mysterious and violent elements of resistance from its surrounding regions. Shadows is a novel about the proud and arrogant Roman Empire, and of the citizens of the territory they have conquered and who seek to vanquish them from their land. It is told from the perspective of the Romans and their Shadow Warriors, as well as from the perspective of those who seek the end of Roman rule where it does not belong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nickolas J. Spradlin
• Release date: Jun 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311977311

Nickolas J. Spradlin

Nickolas J. Spradlin is an American writer, who divides his living time between Florida, Texas and New York while dedicating himself to reading, writing and researching. He is the author of the historical Roman fantasy SHADOWS Beer-Sheva to Negev.Mr. Spradlin is an attorney by training. He was born in Englewood, Colorado and grew up in Arizona and Kansas. After graduating from Manhattan Christian College with a degree in Religious studies he completed his Juris Doctorate at Michigan State University.His travels include Spain, Morocco, Portugal, UK, Italy, Israel, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Haiti, Mexico and Canada.His fascination with history begin with his humanitarian travels to Haiti and Mexico. While helping build a School, hospital and homes abroad he became intrigued with the culture, religions and politics of other countries and especially their history.While in Law School he traveled to Europe to learn European Union Law. While living in Spain he spent as much time studying the countries rich history he did law. When his studies were over and before he took the Florida, Texas and New York bar he traveled to Portugal the UK and then to Morocco.The common them of Roman influence was everywhere. Eventually a burning interest in Roman history combined with that of the religious history of ancient Judea caused the idea for the first book in the Shadow Series.The Shadow series includes everything he has an interest in. Religious history, military history, historical fiction, clandestine activities, philosophy, poetry, and yes...romance.His fascination with military history, weapons, armor, martial arts and leadership stem greatly from his grandfather's influence. He was a soldier in Edson's raiders who fight in most brutal combat in US history in Guadalcanal. His religious fever comes from his mother and father who are people of faith. His interest in philosophy and psychology come from his brother who is a brilliant thinker and practicing psychologist specializing in the difficult field of DBT. His love for poetry and romance come from the heart. All these interests are reflected in his novels creating a rich environment and well developed characters.More biographical information is found on his website WWW.PrimeEmergence.com

Book preview

JUDEA

THE NEGEV DESERT, SUMMER 6 BC

In the desert, a swirling sandstorm gives the appearance that Nature wishes to suppress time as it blots the sun and gives a continual battering of dirt-filled wind to all in its path. After producing enough punishment for all in the Negev to render unto nature the respect that is its due, it appears to celebrate as the winds rescind and the clouds part, unveiling a masterpiece of blue sky. Blue begins to harmonize with more blue, and as the storm continues to dissipate, the beauty of the clear sky brings a new appreciation for a bright, hot summer day.

Enjoying the easing winds and return of sunlight are two Roman soldiers manning a chariot that plods along the desert floor; each takes a turn at the reins as the other shakes the remnants of the storm from his armor.

After they make themselves more comfortable for their brief voyage to the city of Be’er Sheva, the shorter of the two soldiers inspects the knots of five ropes tied to back of their chariot. The thick knots are in fine form, and strongly secures the ropes to the vessel.

The soldiers return to their squabble regarding authentic facts of Roman antiquity, each believing himself to be the vastly superior historian. During their conversation they ignore the moans, groans and pleadings from the captives who are secured by ropes attached to the back of the chariot.

Bah, you think yourself a historian? says the short, powerfully built Roman soldier, holding a spear while steadying himself with his free hand on the wobbling chariot.

Yes, answers the taller, leaner charioteer, who holds on to the reins and guides the horses, all the while standing tall with his chest inflated and pressed outward, as if he were the grandest character in a Greek drama.

The tall charioteer continues speaking, describing the details of a legendary Roman war.

The citizens of Alba were far from perfect people. However, they were not known for rousing trouble. Even so, war was eventually brought to their door by Rome. Not wanting to clash with an army equal to their own, Alba’s leaders showed excellent diplomatic skills, delaying war for many weeks. Eventually, after much politicking, their uncanny skills of negotiation appeared to render peace.

The charioteer pauses as he steers the horses through a tricky patch of terrain in the form of a modest crater, then resumes.

However, before Rome left the lands of Alba, they sought the face of their Gods, and after much prayer believed the divinely revealed actions of peace would be judged by other nations to be the result of cowardice. Thus, instead of acting as rational creatures, Rome allows violence and ambition to manifest itself, and they attack. Yet, the people of Alba were not taken off guard and were ready to fight to the death.

The charioteer begins to squint and his face grows animated.

The battle was not one that should have been of this world, as both sides hammered one another almost to pieces. Eventually, with blood deep enough to swim in and no clear victor amidst the carnage, the leaders of both armies agreed that mutual annihilation was not an option. After much conciliation, it was settled that the champion of this war should be decided by the combat of three twin brothers—triplets—chosen from each army: The Romans chose three Curiatii.

You mean Horatii, interrupts the stocky comrade of the charioteer.

No, the earliest accounts of this conflict state that three Curiatii from the Roman side fought three Horatii from the Albans army. After a quick roll of his eyes, the charioteer continues: What is important here is that two of the Curiatii were promptly killed by the Horatii; yet, the remaining Curiatii was a clever soldier and gave show of a cowardly retreat. Thus, the Horatii followed to make sport of him with a slow death. But as they gave chase, they let their guard down and the Curiatii made the most of this opportunity and moved against them with great skill, and thus the Horatii were quickly destroyed and our Rome remained victorious. However, it was victory at a great cost.

The shorter soldier finally understands what type of war the charioteer speaks of and replies.

Was this a civil war?

Yes, yes it was a civil war.

Even so you have the family names backward.

Horatii, Curiatii, who cares, with so many years removed? What is important is the first point you just made, that it was a civil war…one of the worst kinds.

The stocky soldier shakes his head in disgust.

The tall charioteer continues the story while stretching one arm at a time so that he can properly guide the vessel.

The last but victorious Curiatii returned to Rome adorned with the plunder from his victim. However, the severity of this sight left the victor’s only sibling, a sister, mortified, as she was familiar with an item found amidst the plunder. It was a cloak belonging to her beloved, future husband, now dead. Unable to conceal her grief, she lifts the cloak she had beautifully woven for him, and soaks it with her tears.

The stocky soldier replies, while removing his helmet to swipe at his sweat, I can take no more, by the love of the gods. I can take no more of this.

Wait, but there is more to this story.

The stocky soldier places his helmet back upon his head. I would hope it ends with the brother acting as judiciously as he could while picking up the pieces of his sister’s heart.

No, quite to the contrary, explains the charioteer, attempting to stand taller as he brings his story to a final conclusion. The brother feels no remorse at all for his actions. In fact, he becomes enraged by her grief for his slain foe. And, like a shining monster, he immediately murders his sister where she stands. It is only upon looking at his sister’s corpse and her dead hands clutching her beloved’s cloak that his reason returns, and he finally recalls that it was her future husband that she was weeping for. A man he himself introduced her to.

The muscular foot soldier, finding himself bested by the charioteer on the subject of antiquity with this telling tale, attempts to check the taller soldier’s momentum with an attempt to play the poetical and philosophical genius.

It seems her humanity remained during the war, and I am sure her funeral resulted in her being planted as a tree in the ground so that branches of her humanity could spread through all of Rome, causing it to rise vigorously as a Republic with citizens filled to the rim with sympathy and compassion for one another.

The charioteer again squints his eyes, then furrows his brows as he responds, surprisingly, Well said, comrade.

Without cloud cover, the day begins to burn strongly with its now unfiltered rays beaming downward. Color is all but absent from this desert, and the clear dry day gives their thirsty surroundings an appearance of one desiccating in anguish. For a moment, life in the desert was not so bad, but now with the return of the oppressive heat their conversation regresses to the more mundane.

What I would give for the fragrance of lush trees and green grass, comments the stocky soldier.

Ha ha… I believe this land thinks such fragrance would be poison to its soul, says the charioteer. After a pause, he asks, When is your next leave?

Wiping at the damp, disgusted look about his face, the stocky soldier answers, As you know, we still have to pay from our own purse for our furlough. I have five children, and a wife that saps all I have. So how by Jupiter am I supposed to pay for the damned furlough to go and see them? And another thing, if I pay for my own furlough, then why in all the hells do I only get water for breakfast?

The charioteer tips his helmet low to give shade to his eyes. Comrade, one day a Caesar with a just mind will end the idea of a paid furlough, and will budget for a soldier’s breakfast.

The soldiers carry on with their conversation as the chariot continues on its path. Their chariot stands out from the others escorting them to Be’er Sheva, as it is a longer and broader vessel being carried by an additional two more horses than the other chariots found about them. It is also the only one with five lengthy ropes knotted to the back of it; these same ropes are tied to the hands of Reffij, his fellow Shadow Operatives, and the small-statured bandit who made it into their cargo wagon during the their desert battle with Delvic’s clan.

They are being dragged along, face up, at a pitifully slow pace. While they continue to be towed, Reffij’s anger begins to boil as he expected their transport to be a more sophisticated arrangement. However, he understands what is most important now is to keep his men alive during this voyage. He continues to bellow out instructions to his comrades with his tiring voice.

Let only the soles of your thick footwear drag on the ground; and arch your backs, so as not to let your legs be torn to shreds.

Nahtan and Mija heed Reffij’s instruction, and so does the tiny warrior. Only Accab disregards Reffij’s command. Not out of insubordination, but because his wounds have left him empty of strength.

While Accab’s fatigued body drags against the sunbaked earth, Mija, Reffij and Nahtan find their bodies tormented by the agony of holding on to their arched position; but the tiny warrior found with them holds on to the same form with ease, as if it enjoys the situation.

Reffij eyes Accab’s wretched situation. Accab appears drained of all he has within, expending it to destroy the Nephilim. The backside of Accab’s legs drag against the ground, peeling not like a vegetable but rather grinding slowly, like a piece of meat being shredded for a dinner.

*

Nahtan, feels his shoulders ready to separate while holding the difficult position ordered by Reffij to preserve their legs. Along with the physical pain he is also filled with emotional anguish as he watches the cloak on his brother Accab slowly tear away from his lower back, exposing more of his flesh to the ground.

Using the Greek dialect, Nahtan pleads to the Romans for mercy. Receiving no response, he then pleads to his brother Accab in Aramaic.

Brother, to the soles of your feet! Please brother, to the soles of your feet!

Accab does not respond. Reffij begins to chime in, yelling with what voice he has left.

Shadow…I order you to the soles of your feet!

As Reffij continues to repeat his command, Nahtan reaches over his left leg to place it under his brother’s to bring relief to him; yet his own skin now is being sanded off as it rubs against the unforgiving earth.

*

This dreadful suffering taints even the faith of the gods’ most faithful follower, Mija. Mija, located immediately to the other side of Accab, hears Accab mumbling to himself and notices he cannot keep his eyes open. Thus Mija too begins to place his leg under Accab’s. Mija lets out a horrific shriek when his calf catches the ground beneath his fellow Shadow.

*

Reffij, their leader, values the minds of his comrades who earnestly attempt to help protect Accab’s body from being stripped to the bone by the road, so he continues to do his part and bark orders at Accab to awake and save himself.

They continue to act with a collective purpose to save Accab’s skin, but cannot.

While straining to watch his comrades’ fruitless endeavor to save Accab, Reffij remembers Tuscan’s grand words regarding the Shadows’ prospective ascension to greatness; and with this memory of oversimplification on Tuscan’s part, Reffij mumbles through his grinding teeth.

"A Prime Emergence, you said."

Now isolated from Tuscan, Reffij continues to listen to Mija and Nahtan struggle to aid Accab. Eventually Reffij begins to feel ill from the strain in his stomach, brought on by holding his arched position.

Reffij, who has always detested the gods, can take no more of his proud fellow operative being dragged to his death. The suffering of his comrade taints his impenetrable pride; and while in this state of dread, he humbles himself and cries out to the Gods in the Egyptian dialect.

Mercy!

Within a few moments of seeking mercy, hope appears to Reffij’s eyes as they enter the gates of Be’er Sheva.

With this entrance the chariot slows to the very short steps of the horses that become inundated by the masses of people engaging in commerce, whose many spice wagons and excess of fruit carts make negotiating the path a challenge.

*

A mounted soldier, with his sharply distinct crimson centurion sash, arrives behind the stalled chariot. The chariot’s lack of movement inflames the Centurion, who is a revered man of war. He begins to boil with a spirit of contempt for the civilians that dare not show deference to his soldiers. Mad barks begin to spew from his mouth.

All of you…make way for a prisoner transport!

All non-military personal immediately begin to scatter, with their wagons moved and carts carted to help correct the congestion and free the chariot from its locked position.

While the people still continue to clear, Reffij hears the somewhat delicate but shrill voice of the young tax collector, Levi, and wastes not a moment as he immediately attempts to summon him to their position before the chariot can budge free.

Levi! Publican Levi!

Reffij’s eyes are filled with sweat that he cannot wipe at, so, instead, he gives his head a shake to flick away the moisture. With clearer vision, he notices Levi ignoring his calls and remaining a statuesque boy pretending to be a man of the highest distinction. Reffij continues his public breach of the peace with yells that leave his throat hoarse.

The outburst irritates the short, muscular soldier in the back of the chariot. Quiet your mouth before I give you a bash about your head!

As the chariot begins to make its way free of the jam, Reffij clambers to his feet, and in desperation, recovers his voice. Though he is not able to yell as he was before, his words still carries his frantic message in Aramaic:

I will not pay my taxes owed to Caesar! Rome and its emperor can go stroke themselves! I would not pay taxes to this empire even if Venus stripped ass naked and spread her legs for me. I say no to taxes of any sort! May all the publicans go bankrupt and take it in the ass with a million cocks. They will not collect from me one coin.

*

These insulting remarks strike the pride of Levi right in the face. While the yelling insults of Reffij continue, the publican snaps his fingers at his guards and they begin to follow the tax collector at a sprint toward the chariot. Levi closes in on the vessel as it gains momentum, and like a dog following a scent, he wolfs a command to the charioteer.

Stop in the name of Caesar’s publican!

The charioteer, hearing the command of one who has given his heart to the creature known as tax revenue, heeds his order by bringing the vessel to an abrupt halt.

Levi races up to the chariot and stands as strong and sound as his frail young stature will allow. His gaze fixes on the ground populated by the secured Shadow Operatives. The images of their bloodied bodies rush upon the tax collector’s eyes unexpectedly, confusing him as he regards what appears to be five bodies, four of which seem to be worthless wretches clinging on for dear life.

Reffij’s tired arms shake and his dried swollen lips quiver. But at once, he raises his eyes to meet Levi’s. Reffij continues to look straight into Levi’s pupils, penetrating them with a lethal gaze. Then, with terrible weariness, he opens his dried mouth and forces words from his throat.

Relay a message to Tuscan… His Shadows are in imminent danger within the city of Be’er Sheva!

Levi shakes his young head as it takes a moment to recreate the vision of these seemingly perfidious wretches. Levi, who is blessed with a precise memory, recognizes the thick darkened fabrics that clothe these wounded men, but still struggles to believe these are the same figures his memory painted with the sturdiest of instruments only this morning.

Levi’s fine memory becomes removed from the deepest of deep recollections by the command of the Centurion.

Make way to the Field of Skulls!

Levi attempts to intervene with his ringing pitch and dry throat.

Centurion…surely there has been some misunderstanding, as these men are of great value to Tuscan Nildarpa, the new High Officer of Rome, a legate sent to Jerusalem.

I know nothing of an officer by the name of Tuscan, replies the Centurion, who continues to wave the chariot onward.

Levi again attempts to intervene, but his words are cut short through the gritty teeth of the Centurion.

I warn you, the only reason I will order the charioteer to remain still is to add a tax collector to his haul. And I’m sure all of Be’er Sheva would double their taxes for a day to get a view of you being dragged down the streets. What do you think, publican?

Levi, with a look of timidity in his eyes, believes himself to be a man of honor but sees no current strategy to slow the vile centurion’s intentions, and thus for the moment abstains from interfering. He watches the chariot carry on its way, but then musters his courage and brings himself to face the moment as he inquires of his guards, Where is Tuscan stationed?

They quickly answer, while giving an insulting stare at Levi for his ignorance. Where all the high officers are quartered.

Levi ignores the snide tone of their reply and commands one of them to relay Reffij’s message of doom to Tuscan and summon him to the Field of Skulls, with no time to be wasted.

Levi then makes his way near the city’s entrance gate and finds the Chief Port Authority Guard.

A centurion is making his way to the Field of Skulls to perform an unlawful execution.

The chief guard answers through thick lips that barely move as he speaks. So?

So, he is acting above his authority!

Publican, if you knew what was best for you, you would return to your table.

What about law and order?!

This is not Jerusalem, this is Be’er Sheva, a city on the fringe that only continues to exist because of the Centurion’s brave actions against the encroaching Nabateans.

Then I will make a complaint to the high official of Be’er Sheva himself.

Do so and the Centurion will have you buried in the desert the next day.

These words educate Levi as to what kind of man he is dealing with in the Centurion.

While Levi contemplates his next action, the Shadows are dragged another nine hundred paces to a crucifixion site known as the Field of Skulls.

*

As the prisoners are pulled along, all but Accab again place themselves into arched fixed positions so that only their thick footwear grinds across the ground, literally saving their skin.

The friction of the ground against Accab’s dragging footwear causes the leather thong on one of his sandals to break. His bare foot drags about the ground until the skin on his heel melts away from the friction of the baked dirt. The pain causes him to lift his bare foot up and rest it on his other leg. His remaining leg begins to shake terribly as it holds his arching position to keep from scraping on the ground.

Reffij is at his wit’s end, and feels that there remains no cunning element left within himself. Instead, he clings on to his dim hope that Levi will honor his request to summon Tuscan to rescue them.

The Centurion gallops his horse close behind them to get a better view of their misery.

Reffij, who struggles to maintain his awkward position, is skating on one foot to keep his body above the baked dirt and can make out a smile playing about Centurion’s lips. Saturated with suffering and bitterness, Reffij turns his eyes from the Centurion’s merciless silhouette and looks upon Accab.

Accab, the great warrior once honored by all the Syrian underworld, and who even faced down a monstrous Nephilim, now seems lifeless as his dragging legs become disfigured by their friction with dirt.

For Reffij this is an unfitting and horrid sight to perceive: the flesh of Accab’s buttocks, and the undersides of his legs and calves, have been shredded near to the bone.

Eventually, the chariot comes to a halt at the solitary Field of Skulls, and the Shadows immediately release themselves from their gymnastic positions to relieve the agony of their fatigued muscles, strained ligaments, and tendons.

As their bodies lay on the ground, their arms remain held upward by their bindings to the chariot, conjuring agony in their shoulders.

Reffij’s shoulders feel as if they are going to separate, and his ears fill with a metallic ringing. His struggle to remain focused continues as they are cut free from their bindings.

Lying on the ground, Reffij’s muscles burn with exhaustion and his incoherent mumblings are filled with dull misery. He hoped they would be shuffled to detention and await a hearing in front of a court which would lead to Tuscan surreptitiously asking for their release. However, his thoughts are brought low, for as he lies on the ground he has a cross dropped onto his chest.

Get to your feet and carry yourself to your end! commands the Centurion from atop his horse.

When Reffij finally stirs up enough strength to stand, he finds a welcoming party of Roman soldiers that had ridden well ahead of them in preparation for their demise. It was as if the soldiers had gathered together to reaffirm their solidarity by watching their prisoners die a terrible death.

Reffij stands trembling, not in fear, but in fatigue. His mind fumbles about. The clever Shadow Leader can now find no answer as to how to remove his friends from this deep pit of darkness.

Reffij watches as one soldier dons a whip with nine metal-laced straps; it is the dreaded Roman cat o’ nine tails. Only thirty paces stand between them and their place of execution, and it appears to Reffij the Romans are determined to make them suffer every step of the way.

This soldier snaps the whips in the air, giving the sound of a horror no one should endure; then follows by pointing at Reffij and giving an order of his own.

You…be a man, and carry the wood to your final destination.

Reffij wants no introduction to the nine tails of the cat. He summons his sweltering muscles to lift his cross to his shoulder. Face to face with thoughts of his death, Reffij demands of himself to stand proud and tall with his cross.

While standing, his eyes look across a field and find but a few pieces of feathery grass. Otherwise, the ground is as lifeless as those already crucified upon it.

*

The Centurion wipes puddles of sweat from atop his brow, and then trots his horse nearer to the scene of the impending execution. Eventually, he must bring his ride to a full halt as his trusted Decurion—his junior officer—impedes his path.

The Decurion stands in the shadow the Centurion’s mount with a stare that means business.

Not wanting to miss a close viewing of the sweet pleasure of his captives’ execution, the Centurion dismounts his horse and tries to slip around his Decurion, who he is sure brings no good news.

But the persistent Decurion, well versed in the laws of Rome, begins to careen into the Centurion’s ears with various statutes that disallow this kind of unilateral action. Upon receiving no answer, the Decurion pleads.

Sir, I thought we agreed that we will no longer take the law into our own hands. They must be held for trial. Another subversion of legal authority could greatly harm your status. Please…sir…you should reconsider your actions.

Duly noted, Decurion. However, you must understand when I lose men in battle, I bring their killers to the cross.

Sir, I know all the facts, as I too was there for the battle; and I find the circumstances unusual. These men appeared headed straight for Be’er Sheva with what you say to be perfectly minted coins. Moreover the city’s publican declared them to be important figures to a Legate. I believe that proper legal proceedings are in order to get to the truth of what these men were trying to accomplish.

As the Decurion speaks, a pungent wind filled with the stench of death breezes from the field onto the soldiers, ruffling the nose of the Centurion, who interrupts the Decurion’s words of caution.

For someone I have great confidence in, I really am beset with confusion by your failing to remember who I am. I am no mere centurion. I am Noiruta, the Shield of Rome. As for the prisoners, I considered handing them over for a trial. However, when my trusted shield-bearer succumbed to his wounds as we entered the gates of Be’er Sheva, I rightfully changed my mind. The prisoners caused the death of many good Roman soldiers this day. They will now pay with their lives as I see fit.

The soldiers listen to the continuous words of the Centurion and the Decurion while they pull dead bodies from four crosses for the remaining captives to repopulate.

The Centurion continues to listen angrily while the Decurion proceeds to give unwanted counsel.

When the Decurion finishes with his regurgitation of Rome’s laws, there follows a quiet that is soon filled with crowing crows, clucks of stray hens, and the snorts of many horses that begin to crowd about. All the while sweat pours from the bodies of the soldiers and prisoners alike, giving evidence of a sultry noontide.

The Centurion places a hand on his chatty officer’s mouth while he watches the feeble bodies of Nahtan and Mija lift their crosses.

He then chews at his dry lips as he ponders for a moment the counsel of his Decurion; but his bitterness overcomes any rational thought of future repercussions. He gives an order to his soldiers, and he points at the pitiful, torn body of Accab.

Find bystanders to carry that pathetic prisoner and his cross.

*

The Decurion understands that the Centurion has made his final decision; but the Decurion also understands that his own words could eventually lead to him being the next in line to carry a cross. So he takes it upon himself to prove he stands behind his leader’s final decision and proceeds to pull random citizens from the few groups of people walking about the dung filled roads that surround the Field of Skulls.

The four of you…get over here at once. The gods have placed you here to help Rome carry out justice.

*

Growing impatient, the Centurion fixes his gaze upon the Decurion and begins to yell, while pointing at Accab’s torn body.

Get on with it, and nail this scum born of the ignoble daughter of Jupiter! He then looks at his other prisoners. You are nothing but slime and dust. May Vitumnus and Sentinus have no mercy on you during your final moments.

*

Back at the east entrance of Be’er Sheva, Levi grows restless, wondering