“The abominations shall be destroyed,” El-Shaddai assured him.
“And the walls, will we penetrate them?”
“Did I not promise you in the desert, ‘The walls shall open to receive you’?”
“According to the plan of Epher?”
“Have I not said, ‘The sons are wiser than the fathers’? Even according to the plan of Epher.”
“Then my headstrong son was correct in destroying Baal?”
“He was hasty, for the time has not yet come when I shall command people to have no other god before me.”
“Will you forgive my son his arrogance?”
“He is to lead my people in battle, and such men require arrogance.”
“And me? Always I have sought peace, El-Shaddai. When the town has surrendered, what must I do?”
“Destroy the abominations.”
“And the Canaanites?”
“The men you shall kill, every man of the town. The children you shall take as your own. And the women you shall divide among you, each man according to his losses.”
This terrible judgment, not delivered as a parable permitting choice of interpretation but as a firm, hard command from the god himself, appalled the patriarch. He was being ordered to repeat the massacre of Timri, and this he could not do. It was an act too grisly for him to perform, even though El-Shaddai himself commanded it.
“All the men of this town I cannot slay.” Again he had opposed the word of his god and was willing to accept the consequences.
El-Shaddai was in a position to carry out the executions himself but he always preferred to reason with his Hebrews, and now he said to Zadok, “Do you think it is from cruelty that I order you to slay the Canaanites? Is it not because you Hebrews are a foolish and a stubborn people, apt to fall captive to other gods and other laws? I do not command this thing because I hate the Canaanites, but because I love you.”
“But among the men of Canaan must be many willing to worship you. If these accept circumcision may I spare them?”
From the olive trees no voice replied. Zadok had posed a difficult question, even for omniscient El-Shaddai. He had raised the question of salvation, and even a god required time to weigh the proposal. Great risk was involved in what the patriarch proposed: surely some Canaanites would swear falsely and accept circumcision while in their hearts they were determined to resume worship of Astarte. But the relationship between El-Shaddai and his Hebrews was not an absolute thing; not even a god could order Zadok to obey blindly a dictate that was wholly repugnant to him or one that contradicted his moral judgment. El-Shaddai understood why the old man was wrong in his estimate of the Canaanites and the error would entangle El-Shaddai in many future difficulties, but apparently he could not make Zadok understand. So for the moment it was the god who surrendered.
“If among the Canaanites you find just men,” he agreed, “they may be spared.”
“What sign will you give me that they are just?”
“In the moment of victory you must rely upon your own signs.”
The old man was reluctant to bring up the next point, but he could not avoid it. “El-Shaddai, today I have lost five sons. I need the help of wise men. When we capture the town, may I spare the lives of Governor Uriel, who is a man of wisdom, and of my daughter and her husband?”
To this question El-Shaddai did not reply, for he knew that when the battle was over, Zadok would no longer be the leader of his clan and the decisions which tormented him tonight would not be his to make. But more important, there were some matters which a man must decide for himself, outside the reference to any external agency, even his god; and the killing of one’s own daughter and her husband was such a matter. In this hallowed silence El-Shaddai departed, never again to speak to his trusted, his timorous, his obstinate servant, Zadok son of Zebul.
Captain Epher’s plan of battle required daring from all the Hebrews and soul-testing courage from a few. Men and women alike were divided into four groups—mob, gate, waterwell, stables—and success required a day when the wind swept down from the north. For such a day they waited, and in the interval each morning the mob-group massed in apparent stupidity before the walls so that Governor Uriel would grow accustomed to unleashing his chariots at them. On each calm day one or two Hebrews were killed and all feigned terror as the scythe-wheeled engines of the Hittites coursed among them. But in an unseen part of the olive grove the other three groups practiced their plan of battle and waited for the wind.
Late in the month of vintage the days of desert heat arrived—those searing days when there was no wind but only a superheated air from the southern desert hanging over the land and suffocating even the beasts. These days were called “the fifty,” for fifty were expected each year, and in later centuries it would be a law that any husband who murdered his wife after three days of “the fifty” could go free, for under such circumstances no man should be held accountable for his behavior toward a nagging woman. In the stifling heat Epher sent his mob-group before the wall once or twice, but Governor Uriel was wise enough not to dispatch his chariots; the horses could not have galloped long. So a kind of truce settled over the town, a blazing desuetude, while all waited for “the fifty” to pass.
At dusk on the eighth day a Hebrew watchman came sweating into camp to tell Zadok, “A slight breeze is moving down the wadi.” Zadok called for Epher and the two circled the town and found the watchman to be correct. A tantalizing breeze had begun to move from the north, not yet strong enough to stir the branches but enough to make leaves quiver on the olive trees. The strategists returned to camp and prayed.
By the next day there were clear signs that “the fifty” was passing. Birds that had lain dormant began chasing bees through the olive grove and donkeys grew restive where before they had been content to hide in shade, not caring whether they ate or not. On the Damascus road a spiral of dust formed, hurrying along like an old woman with a basket of eggs, and from the town came sounds of activity. “Tomorrow morning,” Epher predicted, “the Canaanites will be willing to use their chariots again.” At sunset Zadok predicted, “Tomorrow, a strong wind.”
That night Epher’s four groups of Hebrews gathered before the tabernacle, where the patriarch blessed them: “Our fate is in the hands of El-Shaddai, the god of hosts, and from old he has led us into battle. You men of unusual courage who go to the gate, El-Shaddai goes with you. When you run to the battle, he runs with you, clearing the way.” The god of the Hebrews was not an indifferent deity who remained above the contest; he sweated with his warriors, determined to bring them victory. “As you go to sleep this night,” Zadok added, “remember that in the past we have known worse days. When we struggled through the desert east of Damascus, perishing of thirst, El-Shaddai saved us. Tonight let us think upon those days and take courage.” And at the command of El-Shaddai the wind rose, and inside the walls of Makor the Canaanites felt refreshed and grew eager to throw their chariots once more against the stupid Hebrews, who did not understand that they must not gather in masses before the gate.
In the long history of the Hebrews there would come many crises when only a miracle could save them, times when the ordinary courage of men would not suffice, and the unprejudiced observer, looking back upon a series of such moments culled from three dozen centuries, would find it difficult to explain what had supported these miracles. Was it destiny or accident or the intervention of a god like El-Shaddai? No event would be more difficult to explain than the one which took place on a windy morning during the summer of 1419 B.C.E. Inside a town that had withstood mighty sieges, protected by a wall and a glacis that had thrown back even Egyptians and Amorites, waited fourteen hundred well-fed, well-armed Canaanites fortified by five hundred farmers called in from the surrounding countryside. At their disposal they had metal instruments of war, horses and chariots against which the Hebrews were practically powerless. Opposed to them were less than seven hundred ill-armed Hebrews led by a long-bearded old man who was af
raid of war, and who on his arrival had signified his willingness to accept peace on almost any terms.
When the wind was strong the four groups of Hebrews moved into action. The largest mass of people gathered in front of the city walls, making futile attempts to scale the glacis, but among them were hidden the second group, forty determined young men prepared to die, knowing that if only five of their number broke into the town their sacrifice would have been justified. In the segment of the waterwall controlled by the Hebrews waited the third group, twenty men aware that they faced heavy odds when they tried to force the postern gate. And crouched in the steep wadi north of the town hid the fourth group, composed of Epher and thirty hypnotized young men prepared to scale the glacis and climb the wall while bearing lighted fire pots. The plan was insane, and only a miracle could bring it success.
Govenor Uriel, looking down upon the part that he was intended to see, realized that the Hebrews were doing precisely what he had wanted. “They still mass before the gate,” he commented in disbelief. “Summon the Hittites!” The chariots were wheeled into position and armed men climbed aboard bearing swords and maces. The gates were swung open and the dreadful chariots thundered down the ramp, the Hittites flailing at the disorganized enemy, but as the last chariot left the gate the second group of Hebrews leaped onto the ramp and dashed into the zigzag gateway, where they were trapped by the chains and subjected to arrows from the towers.
“To the main gate!” the Canaanite captains shouted through the streets, as they saw the trapped Hebrews start to throw lighted brands into the town. The fighting was desperate. From the doorway leading to the governor’s house young Zibeon appeared, slashing with a sword and killing a brother of his wife. From the towers other Canaanites put new arrows into their bows and fired with shuddering force. It looked as if this second part of the operation would fail, for no Hebrew had yet broken into the town and many fell at the gate to be consumed by their own burning torches.
However, their diversion accomplished its main purpose, for guards were drawn away from other parts of town, so that when the third Hebrew unit started forcing its way through the tunnel it met a weaker opposition than expected, and these Hebrews edged forward, two abreast, with others crawling over them as they fell, and in the end nine men reached the postern gate, which they tore from its hinges, placing four men with ropes inside the town before the startled Canaanites could summon helpers from the fight at the main gate. By this time three additional Hebrews were dashing from the postern to the stables, where horses too old for chariots began to whinny.
From the walls the invaders signaled to Epher, waiting in the wadi, and the red-headed captain was first to climb up the ropes, lugging a fire pot with him. He was joined by others, and at this moment three heroic Hebrews who had survived the spears at the main gate forced their way into the town, also bearing fire, which they spread upon the rush roofs in that part of town. Into the stables filled with hay Epher advanced, killing a one-legged Hittite guard and setting fire to the horses’ bedding. Other Hebrews threw their pots along the stable walls, and soon the wind whipped them into a tall blaze that fanned out over the town into which Governor Uriel had crowded as many horses as possible. Old horses left in the stalls whinnied pitifully, and townsmen ran to the cisterns, prepared to throw drinking water on the soaring flames.
Within moments the wind of El-Shaddai drove the various fires across the doomed town, producing a conflagration so powerful that it turned mud bricks to an angry red, as if a mightier Melak were consuming the whole city. Limestone lintels were transformed into powder and unfinished pottery was baked into those blistering shapes that would be recognized twenty-six hundred years later as the products of a holocaust. As the flames raced across the dried roofs of the town they formed at first a giant suction which absorbed all breathing air, and women perished unscarred as they ran to lift babies from their cradles. They died without anguish and with a certain beauty, as if some gentle god had halted them in a timeless moment, but soon fire followed and the dry empty space exploded into flame, and the beautiful women vanished. Cloth, water, stores of grain, food for that day’s hunger and all human life were burned away.
Some Canaanites managed to escape through the ruptured postern gate, their faces black and swollen, and a few fought their way past the pile of dead Hebrew bodies blocking the main gate, but as they stumbled chokingly from the flames they ran into the spears of Captain Epher’s men, who butchered them before they could rub their eyes clear of the smoke. By midday, when the wind-streaked sun stood over the ruins, the town of Makor and its people no longer existed. The wall remained and the towers at the gate. The tunnel to the well still stood, its roof burned away, its walls naked and humiliated, and the well itself continued to send forth sweet water to the conquerors. But over the silent mound rested a thick deposit of blackened ash, which as long as the earth existed men would be able to read as the death mark of Canaanite Makor.
One group survived intact. The Hittite charioteers had been ranging far outside the town when the fire started, and now they wheeled their horses homeward, returning in triumph to a town that no longer existed. They studied the desolation for a moment, made sharp calculations, and then like practical mercenaries turned their chariots around and galloped off to the east, down the Damascus road, their bloody scythes revolving in the sunlight. And they were seen no more.
For Zadok the Righteous, who had wanted peace, the hours of triumph brought only pain. His thinking life had started with the sack of Timri, fifty-seven years before, and it was ending in a repetition, with the hands of his clan smeared in blood. Those few Canaanites who escaped the holocaust by climbing over the wall were dragged before him, their faces half-burned away, and in vain he tried to save their lives. “This one says he will accept El-Shaddai,” he pleaded, but Epher had seen too many of his brothers killed that day, and now he commanded the clan. On this day of burning, his thirst for revenge was strong. His spear would flash past his father’s eyes and the charred prisoner would die.
“Stop this killing!” Zadok ordered. “El-Shaddai commands you.” Epher looked at his father with contempt, for he knew that El-Shaddai had ordered the Canaanites to be slain, so he killed them, man after man who might have helped rebuild the town.
Finally his brothers dragged forth Governor Uriel and his son Zibeon, who were forced to crawl on their knees to Zadok. “These must be saved,” the patriarch ordered, but Epher prepared to kill them. The patriarch threw himself across their bodies, crying, “These two El-Shaddai gave to me.”
For a moment Epher interpreted this to mean that his father wished the two prisoners set aside for special tortures, and he released the Canaanites, whereupon the old man in an act of humility kissed Governor Uriel’s hands and said, “I plead with you, accept El-Shaddai.”
The governor, whose indecision had brought this smoldering ruin upon the town, looked at Zadok and at last understood the fires he had seen in the old man’s eyes. “I live with Baal and Astarte,” he said, and Epher slew him.
Zadok, stunned by his son’s insolence, cried, “El-Shaddai wanted the life of that man!”
In the heat of the killing Epher dropped his tired arm, stared at his father and uttered the fearful, forbidden words: “You are a liar.” The old man gasped, and Epher said, “Last night when you were asleep El-Shaddai came to me. I know the truth.” And in accordance with El-Shaddai’s will he prepared to kill his brother-in-law, but Zadok protected the young man with his own body.
“Do you accept El-Shaddai?” the patriarch asked.
“I accept the one god,” Zibeon declared.
“Where is Leah?”
“Slain.” And the old man’s grief was so pitiful that Epher allowed him the life of Zibeon, through whose later children the great Family of Ur would survive.
Of the nearly nineteen hundred Canaanites only nine men escaped the slaughter, plus fifty women and some two dozen children. To each, old Zadok went as if he were stil
l leader of the clan, exacting promises that they would worship El-Shaddai, and after the women had been distributed among the Hebrew farmers he gathered the Canaanite males and personally circumcised all who had not undergone the rite. At the end of his labors he sat before the tabernacle and wept, a tired old man from whose eyes the fires of zealotry were fled; but he was not missed, for Epher was giving commands.
Unnoticed, Zadok betook his age-bent shoulders, his untrimmed beard and his staff up to the high place where the monoliths had stood, and there he looked back upon the town that his people had been forced to destroy, and he lamented:
“Gone are the granaries of yellow corn,
Emptied are the reservoirs.
The streets are ashes
And the homes are black with soot.”
He was ashamed of his part in this day’s sorrow and cried, “El-Shaddai, why was I chosen to author this destruction?” That day he had lost nine more of his cherished sons; his slave girl had been cut down by the chariots, and his daughter by her brothers; but at dusk he thought principally of the Canaanites slain needlessly, and since he could not accept what his people had done he openly defied his god: “You are without mercy, to kill so many.” And El-Shaddai grew impatient with his patriarch, and after enveloping the mountain in a cloud of light, appeared before him face-to-face. And the old man was dead.
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