“You don’t know if you’ll merit that power again.”

“No, I don’t. But even if I don’t, I won’t be fighting alone.”

“There’s not much Uriel or I could do against all these soldiers.”

“It’s not just the three of us. It’s easy to scare the people one at a time, but in their arrogance, they’ve become reckless. The crowd is moving through too slowly. There are fifty men waiting and more coming up behind us. If we resist, we will draw much support—especially if it’s known that we are led by a prophet.”

I wanted to believe him, but recalled the fear on the faces of farmers just like these at the wedding. “But these men aren’t armed. They’ll run at the first sight of blood.”

Uriel shook his head. “It matters not if they are armed. Izevel is seeking to strengthen her support, not to spark a rebellion. Her soldiers will not fight so many, even if they could.”

My mind raced. The Queen ordered her soldiers to hunt down every prophet in the land. Perhaps Uriel could lead the crowd through the roadblock without bloodshed, but the soldiers were sure to notice that no ordinary man was at their head. They were sure to follow him and call others to their aid. Any violence would mean abandoning the plan, and I’d sworn to deliver my master safely to Dotan.

We were close enough now to see the statue, a larger version of the one now resting in my uncle’s house. Cast in bronze, its long helmet ascending toward the sky, a jagged sword raised, ready to strike, it stood perched on a wooden pedestal beneath the tree. Another farmer stepped forward, and he too bowed before the Baal. A thought occurred to me. “Master, if Izevel is afraid of a rebellion, then her soldiers cannot be killing all those who refuse to bow, can they?”

Uriel shook his head. “No, Lev, you must be correct. There are still too many in Israel, even in Shomron, that would refuse.”

“So what happens to them? Are they allowed to pass?”

“Let us watch. There are fifty or more who still stand before us—I would expect at least ten to refuse.”

One after another the soldiers waved the men forward. Some bowed quickly, falling to their knees and touching their foreheads to the ground, others hesitated, then bent at the waist, like the men in Jericho bowing before the King. Yet, each and every one of them humbled himself in some way before passing through the shade of the carob tree. The soldiers on the sides of the road barely watched as the travelers passed through.

Hardly ten men now stood between us and the tree, though the newcomers behind us continued to maintain the crowd’s size. Shimon’s eyes darted back and forth between Uriel and the soldiers. “If we’re going to fight, we need to warn the men. Are we agreed?”

Shimon was right. If we were going to act, it must be now. My throat constricted and sweat ran down my forehead. I trusted Uriel’s instincts—there was no sign that the soldiers were killing those who refused to bow. If they were, where were the bodies? But no one refused, so I couldn’t know for sure. My vow to Ovadia rang in my mind. There was only one chance to prevent the violence that would ruin our plan.

“I’ll go.”

“What?” Shimon started.

“I’ll go to the head of the line. I’ll refuse to bow. If they let me through, you follow with Uriel. If they…if not, then fight.”

“Wait, Lev, I don’t think—”

But I didn’t wait to hear what Shimon thought. My small size allowed me to slip easily through the crowd. A few men peered at me in annoyance—probably impatient to get through the roadblock and make it home—but perhaps because of my youth, no one stopped me.

The soldier at the front put out his arm, blocking me from advancing until the man under the tree passed. Like all the others, he too bowed down before the Baal.

The soldier’s arm dropped, and I stepped forward.

My eyes were on the priest, but my thoughts were on the soldiers.

The priest approached. “Bow. Then go on.”

I stood silent and still, holding my arms tight so they wouldn’t tremble.

The priest insisted, “You bow. Do it now, then go.”

I held my breath steady, stared back at the priest, but didn’t move.

The priest moved closer. “You not bow? Baal angry. Curse the rain.”

My mouth filled with a metallic tang. One knee trembled, and I dug my toe into the dirt to still it. One of the soldiers turned to watch me now. But still I didn’t move.

The priest leaned in and spoke in a whisper. “Don’t bow. Just pick up and go.” He rotated his body, positioning himself between me and the waiting crowd. He dropped a copper piece on the ground before the statue.

A laugh bubbled up from my belly—I swallowed it back with effort. Uriel was right; not all the men ahead of us were willing to bow. That’s why they were only allowed through one at a time. Most men, seeing those ahead of them bow, would bow as well. Those who refused just had to pick a piece of copper off the ground. Those behind—who were not watching closely enough to see the precious metal—would think they were bowing from the waist, just enough to humble themselves.

“Pick up. You keep copper.”

Questions flashed through my mind as I peered at the shiny metal. Hardly anyone among the men returning from the festival of the Golden Calf would refuse to pick up the copper. But what about those who refused to give even the impression of bowing? Was that the real point of the roadblock? The Queen’s soldiers had already attacked the gathering places of the prophets. Now that the faithful were scattered, there was no way to distinguish them from the rest of the people. Was the roadblock intended to weed out the most devout? To find the prophets and disciples hidden among the commoners?

What about Shimon and Uriel? Would they pick up the copper to save their lives?

One of the soldiers stepped in toward me—I had delayed for too long. I could pick up the metal and get past the Baal, but needed to do it in a way that Shimon and Uriel would realize I wasn’t bowing. I stepped to the side, then bent down and picked up the copper. Anyone watching closely would see that I wasn’t even facing the Baal, but it was enough—the priest waved me through.

Once out of the shade of the carob tree, I turned around to watch. Neither the soldiers nor the priest paid me any mind—to them, I was just a boy waiting for his father to pass through.

The next man scowled at me as he bowed, annoyed at me for jumping ahead of him and then passing so slowly.

Easy as it was to pass through the roadblock, would Shimon still refuse? Shimon objected to even walking among those returning from Beit El—would he be willing to give the impression that he’d bowed to the Baal? If it was just his life, I was certain that he would rather fight than pick up the copper. But would he do it to protect Uriel? I caught Shimon’s eye and gave him the slightest of nods, the most communication I could risk with the soldiers so close. But Shimon just glared back, his eyes resolute.

Three more men passed through the roadblock, two dropping quickly to the ground, the third bending to pick up the offered metal. Shimon drifted ahead of Uriel, placing several men between them. When he reached the front of the line, my hands clenched. A farmer under the carob tree pressed his head to the ground, begging loudly for Baal not to withhold the rains. When he rose, Shimon stepped forward.

The soldier on the far side of the road looked up as Shimon approached—his scars distinguished him from the crowd even without the fresh wounds. The Tzidonian’s nostrils flared as if smelling him for blood. Four of his comrades had failed to return from duty the week before. Was he on the lookout for their killer?

Shimon stepped up to the priest.

“You bow. Then go on.”

Shimon’s voice was calm, yet pitched to carry. “The people of Israel do not bow to the Baal.”

A murmur rose from the edge of the waiting pack. One of the soldiers left his post at the side of the road and stepped into the circle of shade under the tree. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and black dots marched in a tight pattern across his cheeks, becoming jagged lines at his throat before disappearing into his tunic. I’d heard rumors of the coastal people’s tattoos, but had never seen them before. The ink gave his face a bestial look.

Shimon met the soldier’s gaze.

With a rustle of violet robes, the priest waved the soldier back. He retreated, but kept his eyes on Shimon. The priest leaned close and whispered, dropping a piece of copper to the ground. Shimon peered at the metal, but didn’t move.

I wanted to scream at him to take it. I bit my lower lip until I tasted blood. How stupid I’d been. An old man and a boy would have passed through easily. Shimon had no desire to hide. He’d accompanied us only to help Uriel reach safety. And yet with his scarred face and unyielding nature, he was our greatest danger. Once Uriel had agreed to join the crowd returning from Beit El, the time had come to part ways. I should have confronted him, even without Yonaton. What would happen to my master if Shimon refused?

The soldier stepped forward once more, this time loosening his sword in its sheath. The priest again waved him away, but the soldier retreated just halfway. The priest pulled another piece of metal from his pocket, this time silver. He didn’t just drop the silver on the ground, but rolled it to where Shimon could pick it up without even bending in the Baal’s direction.

I tried to catch his eye, but Shimon glared at the idol. Don’t look at the statue Shimon. Just pick up the silver and move on.

Shimon turned from the Baal. For a moment, he locked eyes with the soldier, whose sword was now half drawn. Then he broke eye contact and bent down to pick up the silver.

As Shimon bent over, his cloak parted in front. The hilt of his sword peeked out between the fabric, revealing the cedar tree emblem engraved on the handle. The priest was no longer watching, but the tattooed soldier was.