1 Abram

Abram looked up at a morning sky that was bright and clear and blue, save for a few errant clouds that danced around the sun. He rode his onager[1] through the rolling hills where his sheep and goats grazed. These were his family’s hills, their grazing lands leased to them by the king. His herders had divided his animals into three groups grazing just out of sight of one another.

He was nearly a league northeast of Harran with two spearmen of his household guard, the soldiers that lived with him, took his wages and were sworn to defend his house. They were armed with bronze short swords and bows. His spearmen wore hardened leather cuirasses[2] but Abram bore no armor, not on a day such as this. He had donned a wool tunic dyed a cool blue. The hems at the short sleeves and thigh-length bottom were adorned with intricate silver embroidery, the sort of flourish that only nobles and wealthy merchants could afford. His sandals were open-toed, made of goat and ox leather with thongs that wrapped around his ankles

Abram had visited his first two flocks and was on his way to inspect the third, located just two hills over. But when they crested the last hill and looked out across the shallow valley, he caught his breath. In the distance, beyond his flock, he could see a faint dust plume churned up by a mass of mounted men. He turned to one of his soldiers. “Guri, your eyes are still sharp, what do you see there?”

The young man squinted for a moment. “Riders Lord, moving at a canter I think.”

Abram exchanged a solemn glance with his second man, Jacen, one of his veteran scouts. “What sort of riders?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

“I see the glint of weapons. I think they are a raiding party, Lord.”

Amorites, Abram thought. They should not be this close to Harran. There were Amorites in Harran, as well as most of the riverlands, but these were wild Amorites, the sort who hadn’t adopted the life of the cities. They still lived in the hills and mountains in small tribes, killing and raiding each other, and sometimes the flocks and crops of the cities. “Guri, ride back to my other herders and bring them here! Full speed!” I will not lose my flocks today.

“Yes Lord!” Abram could smell the young man’s fear and excitement. He turned his mount’s head to go but Abram stopped him with a hand. “Leave your bow and quiver with me.” Guri was new to his household guard and had yet to blood himself in a fight. But that will change today.

Abram wished he had tied his hair back as he and Jacen rode down to his flock at gallop. Both his hair and beard were grown long in the old Sumerian style, its natural curl creating a thick, wavy pattern. Only the nobles grew their hair in this fashion that announced their elite position. The commonborn avoided it, long hair got in the way of working.

Roen, his steward of flocks, had already spotted the raiders. He used his dogs to drive a score of sheep toward them while the rest were pushed into a nearby wadi,[3] sacrificing a few to save the many. When he saw Abram, he ran to meet him. “I’m relieved to see you, Lord. What do you want us to do?” he asked with a broken voice

Abram stared down the field, unable to see much from such a distance. “Jacen, how many do you see?”

Jacen gazed out for a few moments. He had the lean and weathered face of a scout. “I’d say twenty, Lord, maybe five minutes away at their speed. I’d guess Mazal tribe.”

He stifled a curse. This will be a hard fight. “Get the women and children into the wadi with the sheep! Send any man who can sling here, with me!”

Abram and Jacen found cover behind a tumble of rocks that had once been a boulder. The veteran scout nocked an arrow to his bowstring. “Did I say five minutes, Lord? More like two.”

Abram stifled another curse and nocked his own arrow.

Roen returned with five men and two of their wives, slings in one hand and a pouch of stones at their waist. Abram gave him a quizzical expression. “Some of the wives sling as well as their husbands, Lord.”

Abram nodded. “On my command give them a volley.” He stared at the sheep they had left wandering in the field, hoping the raiders would take them and leave. And then I will track you down with all of my soldiers and get my sheep back. But if you do not take my offering… Abram glanced back toward the hill he had sent Guri over. Then I hope we can hold them off until my reinforcements arrive. But even then, slingers against cavalry… The raiders rode past the twenty sheep and kept coming. “Looks like these pigsons want to die today!” Abram shouted, trying to bolster the morale of his people. “We are going to give them what they want!” There were no cheers like he would expect from his spearmen, just frightened eyes.

We have time for four shots before they are on us, then we are in trouble. He could see the raiders more clearly now, filthy men in mismatched bits of armor, if they had any. But he noticed one starkly different from the rest. He wore a fine cuirass with matching pauldrons[4] and greaves[5], all dyed crimson with black tracing. His mount was nearly black and much stouter than the shaggy onagers the hill tribes rode. Who are you? You are not an Amorite. “Draw!” he shouted, then picked a rock in the distance that looked to be at the edge of his bow’s range. He held the nock of the arrow at his chest and pushed the bow up and out until it was fully extended. Abram could hear slings begin to whir behind him. He set the nock at the corner of his mouth and looked down the arrow then placed the tip three fingers above the head of an Amorite. He waited until the man was seven strides from his marker then- “Loose!”

Abram heard the swish of arrows and stones. He nocked another while he followed the path of the first and watched it just miss. It was a long shot anyway, he thought as he drew and loosed another. That one took a man low in the shoulder, he jerked backward and fell from his mount to be trampled by the onager behind him. Another fell to Jacen’s arrow and two more jerked at the impact of stones, but managed to stay in their saddles. Abram loosed a third arrow and missed. When he nocked a fourth arrow, he could see the ragged hair and thickly bearded faces of the Amorites. But as he drew, they peeled away, their courage had broken and they took cover in a swale. Abram loosed the fourth arrow that took a short man in the back. He fell to the ground crying and pawing at the arrow.

Two Amorites lay in the field unmoving, another was crawling away and three more limped toward cover. His herders faces were beaming with pride “Is it over, Lord?” one of them asked.

Abram looked across the field to the swale where the raiders had taken cover.  The twenty sheep Roen had sacrificed were milling around aimlessly. One had been hit with a stone and lay bleating, another was nosing one of the men Jacen had put an arrow into. No, now they will pin us down with archers and send flankers to attack our rear. “Not quite.”

“What do we do, Lord?” Roen asked.

He looked at the hill behind them. “We pray for our reinforcements to arrive.” Or we run and lose the whole flock. Abram closed his eyes. God of all things who guides and protect us, grant us victory. Abram opened his eyes when he heard an arrow bounce off a piece of the broken boulder in front of him. Another sailed over his head and just missed his onager. Then a slow rain of arrows began to drop around them. He looked through a gap in the rocks and could see archers moving to their left and right, loosing arrows. Then the rest of the Amorites charged out of the swale on their mounts. “Loose at will!” He shouted. He and Jacen began popping up from behind their cover and loosing arrows but most of his herders were too afraid to expose themselves. Who can blame them? It takes longer to sling a stone than loose an arrow. But all we can do is fight on.

As Abram dropped to nock another arrow he heard dogs barking and sheep bleating behind him. He followed the noise to see his sheep streaming out of the wadi followed by Guri on his onager, pushing the sheep onto the field. The animals ran into the path of the charging raiders and the field became a mass of confusion as onagers tripped over sheep, sheep tried to run from onagers and riders tumbled to the ground.

It was almost easy, picking off the raiders trapped among the sheep or running for their mounts. Five more Amorites went down and their charge broke apart. He could hear them cursing as they tried to get control of their mounts. Abram was certain they would reform and swing around one side, but the raiders retreated back into the hills, leaving their dead and wounded behind. His people cheered and shouted insults at them.

The man in the crimson armor stopped and turned to stare at Abram. The bottom half of his face was hidden by a black scarf. He was still within bow range, his nervous mount danced sideways. Abram stepped out in the open and stared back until the man turned and galloped away.

Guri rode back and dropped down in front of Abram who clasped a hand on his shoulder. “That was brilliant, Guri.” The young man’s grin reached almost to his ears. “You will be well rewarded. All of you will,” Abram said, looking at his people. “You have saved our flock and our lives.”

“The other herders are not far behind me, Lord,” Guri explained. “But I thought it best to return as fast as I could.”

Abram nodded then gestured to the dead and wounded Amorites. “The spoils of war belong to you all.” He counted the sheep lying dead on the field. “Tonight we will feast.”.

**********

In the morning Abram took his two spearmen and rode back to the city, promising to send more men to help protect the flocks. He would need to report the incident to his king, who would send out an expeditionary force to determine or if this was an isolated raid or if the wild Amorites were moving closer to Harran. And who was the man in crimson armor? He was certainly no Amorite.

He stopped at his fields just outside the city walls where his servants were busy irrigating the sprouting wheat and barley. The rains were due soon but until then they would irrigate. A network of canals tapped into the Balikh River and laced out between the fields, looking like thick lines of gold shimmering in the sun. The city was ringed by crops of grains and vegetables. On the north side orchards of fruit and olive trees sprouted buds and blossoms. All of it belonged to the king and the temples and the noble families of Harran.

Abram spent the morning with Ikar, his steward of crops, before continuing into the city. As they rode down the dusty road small flocks of noisy cowbirds flew past him then dove at a group of ducks floating in one of the ditches before swerving away at the last moment. The ducks ignored the birds and continued searching for morsels at the edge of the water.

The days were growing long as the sun waxed toward its highest point of the year. Most cities would have a festival to celebrate that day, dancing and offering sacrifices to Shamash god of the sun. In Harran the greatest festival would be for Ashimbabbar, god of the moon and Harran’s resident deity.[6] Gods were an integral part of life. People worshiped at least three or four gods from the pantheon they imagined ruled over the earth and heavens. But Abram thought differently, he had come to believe there was a single God that created and ruled over everything.

People couldn’t fathom that the many aspects of the world could be controlled by a single god, but Abram had reached that conclusion long ago. Perhaps the idea had come from his scholarly grandfather, or from his own extensive studies, or maybe it had been planted deep in his soul when he was formed. Abram wasn’t sure, but the more he studied the nature of the world, the more he was convinced that he was right and everyone else was deluded.

As Abram approached Harran’s main gate he could see caravans of donkeys and ox drawn wagons queued up to enter the city, while the soldiers of the city guard inspected their cargo. Some were local farmers or herders bringing their early harvests to market, but most were raw materials or manufactures. Harran was a gateway for trade. People brought their goods from hundreds of leagues around where it was purchased then boated down the Euphrates River to the riverland cities of Mesopotamia. Harran had been established many years ago as a trading post but it has grown into a critical junction in the world’s trade network.

The city guards recognized Abram and dipped their heads. They wore hardened leather jerkins dyed with the blue and silver livery of the king. Bronze short swords hung from their hips and they carried tall spears that glimmered in the sun.

Harran’s huge gate was built from thick timber purchased at great cost from the Silver Mountain forests to the northwest. They were hewn smooth, fitted and reinforced with bronze bands and thick nails. Images of the city’s resident god, Ashimbabbar were carved into the surface to ward off evil and convince enemies that the city was under divine protection.

The gate opened onto a wide plaza paved with stones worn smooth over the years. The gate plaza was an important community space where people gathered for public events and traveling merchants pitched their tents to spend the night inside the safety of the city walls. It was also the place where the city’s elders liked to gather; wealthy merchants, prosperous artisans, and noblemen with nothing better to do. When he passed through the gate portal, Abram recognized a group of men seated near one of the walls. Their servants hovered behind them with pitchers of barley beer, dried meats, fruits and other refreshments. Their clothes were much finer than Abram’s. Gold, silver and jewels adorned their necks and wrists. One man had his war cape draped over his shoulders, a thick length of goat hide with bronze plates sewn across the surface, announcing to all what a mighty warrior he had once been.

Abram nodded courteously without stopping. “May Ashimbabbar bless you, Lord Abram,” one of the men called out. Abram frowned but didn’t respond. You know very well that I do not believe in your ridiculous moon god. He had grown accustomed to being scorned for his belief. Some disliked him for it, a few even hated him. It was a crime to blaspheme the city’s resident god, and if Abram had not been a nobleman he would have suffered for it.

He made his way down the main thoroughfare that passed through the market and led to the palace and temple complex. It bustled with activity. Merchants sold everything from grains, olive oil and pottery to intricate jewelry of copper, silver and gold. There were weapons and armor, tall jars of beer, vegetables, spices and cloth. Some of the products came from Abram’s own fields and flocks, others from the vast number of traders that brought goods to the city.

Abram turned down a side street to avoid the bustle of the market, winding his way through the maze of closely packed storehouses and workshops where goods and materials were stockpiled and craftsman wrought them into finished products. He neared an intersection with a community well and turned again to avoid the houses of the commonborn, then continued toward the center of the city where the noble families lived.

He passed by Lot’s house and paused. I had better let him know about the raid. Lot was the son of his older brother, Haran, who had died tragically when Lot was still young. Now Lot was a grown man with his own house, servants, soldiers, fields and flocks, as well as a wife, one son and two daughters.

Abram left his spearmen outside holding their onagers and knocked on the gate to Lot’s private courtyard, but it was unlocked. Inside he found Lot’s three children playing under the eye of a maidservant while she absentmindedly worked a distaff.[7] Lot’s youngest daughter, Dabri, jumped up. “Uncle Abram!” She rushed over and wrapped her arms around him. At eight years old she had long dark hair that grew in ringlets down her shoulders to offset her light olive skin. Her younger brother Marc followed but the eldest sibling, Keren stayed where she was and eyed Abram warily, then she stepped in front of what they were playing with.

“Is your father in?” Abram asked. And why are there no spearmen in the courtyard?

Dabri shook her head. “Father and Mother left an hour ago. Are you staying for dinner?”

“No child, I only stopped in to speak to your father.” He looked at the maidservant who had stood as soon as Abram walked in. “The gate was unlocked.”

“The soldiers are getting lazy,” she replied and smiled to show a mouth full of crooked and yellow teeth.

“What are you playing with?” he asked Marc, noticing something odd in his hand.

Mark was the image of his father and looked like he might grow to be a head taller. He had curly black hair that was so thick his mother could barely get a brush through it. “Some little men,” Marc held up a human figure about the size of Abram’s hand. Made from fired clay it had once been brightly painted but was worn from use. Its big eyes seemed to stare at him.

An idol. Abram took the clay figure and turned it over in his hand. “Where did you get this?” he asked in a stern voice.

“Grandfather gave them to us,” Dabri answered cheerfully, holding up another.

Abram scowled. “These are idols of false gods.”  He resisted the urge to smash them against a wall and instead held them out to the maidservant. “These are not toys for children. Certainly not my family,” he chided.

“Yes Lord,” she replied timidly, taking the figures and pushing them behind her back.

“I am sorry, Uncle Abram, we did not know,” Dabri said, taking a step back.

Abram tried to soften his voice. “It is not your fault, children.” He looked at Keren who hadn’t moved or handed over whatever she was hiding. But your parents should know better. “Keren, tell your father that I wish to see him.” Lot’s eldest child looked at him with a firm expression then nodded slightly. “And lock this gate,” he added, as he left.

He released his spearmen from duty once they entered his own busy courtyard where half a dozen servants looked up from their tasks. “Three days rest for your bravery,” he told Jacen and Guri, loud enough for everyone to hear. “And tell Captain Stevon to report to me.”

Abram entered his house and started down the hallway. Servants dipped their heads and greeted him warmly as he passed. Abram did his best to respond cordially but below the surface he was simmering over the idols his father had given the children. He went straight to his wife’s dayroom, expecting to find her with her handmaidens, but when he opened the door he found the room empty. He stepped into the room and stared, not sure what he was looking for. He felt a presence behind him and turned to see his wife, Sarai, the love of his life. Tall, shapely, and still beautiful, her dark curls tumbled across the pale olive skin of her still smooth neck and shoulders. He looked at her for a few heartbeats and his anger cooled.

“How were the flocks?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him tenderly.

“We were attacked by Amorites.”

Sarai pulled back, startled. “What happened? Was anyone hurt?”

Abram shook his head. “We fought them off. Our herders were valiant; even two of the wives stepped up to fight. We left several raiders on the field.”

“Why would they attack so close to the city?”

“I do not know, but something drove them down this far. The king may need to muster the army and push them back.”

Sarai looked into his eyes. “What else is bothering you, my love?”

I cannot hide anything from her. “I stopped at Lot’s house and found his children playing with idols,” his voice began to rise, “idols that Father gave them!”

Sarai sighed. “Yes, he sent a few here as well.”

Abram’s anger flashed. “He brought idols into my house? He knows that– I will set him straight right now!” He stormed out of the room and down the hall.

“Abram wait!” Sarai called, but he paid no attention. He strode through his courtyard and into the street waving off his spearmen who called after him.

His father’s house was only a short distance away. The family home where Abram had spent much of his life was larger than both his and Lot’s combined. Based around a courtyard, like all those of the wealthy, it was two stories tall and topped with roof gardens. Its walls were plastered white, its doors made from a fine ash wood, and the windows were covered with patterned wood shutters. It was a beautiful home but it held all the memories of Abram’s struggles with his father.

The gate was unlocked and unguarded. Where are my father’s household guard? Does no one in my family protect their home any longer? Instead of using the front door he turned and entered his father’s workshop. The afternoon sun streamed through high windows illuminating the dust that danced in the air. One side of the room was filled with rows of clay idols stacked neatly on a wooden table. The little figures were in different forms and stages, from rough blobs of clay to intricately detailed and painted statuettes.

Why does one of the wealthiest lords in Harran spend his time making and selling idols? Abram was angry. Angry that his flocks had been attacked, angry that the old men had mocked his belief, angry at his father for putting idols in his house and into the hands of his grandchildren. He felt a heavy voice inside him say, Abominations, destroy them all. Abram found a thick wooden paddle that was used to mix clay and slammed it into the little figures, knocking them all to the ground with a few swipes. Once they lay on the floor he beat them mercilessly. He smashed them with the wooden paddle, he hurled them against the walls and he crushed them under his sandals, using a strength and ferocity he didn’t recognize.

When the job was done he bent over with his hands on this knees, breathing heavily. The wooden paddle lay discarded on the floor. He stared at the shattered and crushed bodies of the idols and suddenly felt guilty. “Was that your will?” he asked with a whisper. “Was this your will?” he asked again but louder. “Can you hear me, God of all things? I do not even know your name.” He wiped tears away. “I do not even know if you are truly there. How can I know? How-“

But the voice of his father startled him, “Abram what have you done to my idols!”

Abram looked up to see his father fill the doorway and suddenly he was a young boy again. Terah was as tall as Abram, his hair and beard grown long in the same style though peppered with grey. His clothing was as fine as the elders at the city gate and his figure still stood straight despite his years. Abram looked down at the shattered remnants littering the floor and it all seemed so utterly ridiculous. “Perhaps they fought each other.”

Terah scowled at him. “They’re made of clay!”

Abram’s anger flared, “Then why do you worship them!”

Terah glared at him for a few heartbeats. His voice was stern. “I do not worship them, I only make them, for other people.”

“How is that any better!” Abram nearly shouted, “Did you bring us all the way from Ur just to become an idolmaker!” He spat the word out like it had a bad taste.

Terah sighed. “Harran is a great city, we have prospered here. The idols are just a hobby, something to occupy me in my old age.” His face hardened, “Is this how you show respect to your father, to destroy his pleasure? Most of these were made to order and others were to be donated to the poor. It will take me months to replace them.”

Abram felt frustrated. “How can you perpetuate this ridiculous belief in many gods?” he pleaded, “A god for the moon, the sun, the river, the rain, even the reeds. You know there is only one God.”

Terah’s voice hardened, “I do not know that. No one truly knows except the dead and they are not talking.”

Abram suddenly felt tired. This is useless. “I am going home,” he said, then walked out of the workshop without apology. He pushed his father aside slightly as he passed through the doorway.” Abram!” he heard his father call, but he ignored him.

The narrow street to his house was in deep shadow.  I should have brought at least one of my household guard, but he had left in such a hurry that he hadn’t cared. The smells of food filled the air as families throughout the city prepared dinner and his stomach grumbled, but he was too upset to eat. He stubbed his foot on a loose cobble and cursed the stone. Most of the streets in the wealthier areas of the city were paved but maintenance was a problem. Despite the city’s many bureaucrats there was no official in charge of maintaining streets. In the residential districts each person maintained the area adjacent to his home, but this stretch suffered the laziness of whatever noble lived there.

When Abram reached his gate he found it barred. But once he knocked and announced himself, the spearman on duty opened and welcomed him home. He recognized the man as Luca, a recent addition who had come to him from a tin trader. He had guarded the trader’s caravan but didn’t wish to continue a life of traveling from city to city and had offered his sword to Abram.

One inside his house Abram’s chief steward, Emun greeted him, “Good evening, Lord. Lady Sarai awaits you for dinner.”

Abram gave him a curt nod and walked down the hall to his dining room. It was the largest space in the house, where they ate most of their meals, entertained guests, met with his stewards, and Sarai sometimes set up her loom. The walls were plastered and decorated. Some had scenes of landscapes and animals painted on them by artists that Sarai had hired. Others were painted solid or with geometric patterns. Abram preferred paintings of battles and hunts but he let his wife have what she liked so long as the work didn’t depict gods.

Sarai reclined sideways on a thick wool rug with a small mound of pillows behind her but she rose up to her knees when Abram entered. He kneeled and embraced her, holding her for several heartbeats. A bowl of figs sat between them and they took turns eating the sweet fruit with their fingers while they waited for dinner to be served.

“You visited Father?” she asked, her gaze had been directed at the fruit bowl but she raised her eyes to his.

“Yes,” Abram answered, not wishing to discuss what had happened.

They ate quietly for a few minutes until a servant brought in a plate piled with warm wheat bread and two bowls filled with a thick mutton stew.

They ripped pieces from the flat rounds of bread to scoop up the stew, enjoying the savory dish for a few minutes before Sarai finally spoke. “What happened, Abram?”

Abram sighed and stared at the wall. Then he related the full story, leaving out no detail except the flood of emotions he had experienced while destroying his father’s workshop.

Abram’s hand was trembling and Sarai placed hers over it. “I am sorry, my love.”

“Sorry that I destroyed all of Father’s idols?” Abram asked. He could see a hint of fear in her eyes. Anyone would be afraid of angering the gods, and Sarai’s was a polytheist like her mother; like everyone else in the world. [8] She stroked his forearm. “No, just sorry to see you upset.”

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[1] An equide, larger than a donkey but similar in appearance. Onagers are believed to have pulled war wagons before horses were introduced to the near east.

[2] Armor that covers the chest and back.

[3] A dry riverbed that channels water during the rainy seasons.

[4] Armor that protects the shoulder.

[5] Armor that protects the lower leg.

[6] Bronze Age peoples in the east believed that gods literally lived in their temples, often in a holy area where only the high priest was allowed, similar to the holy of holies described in Exodus.

[7] Tool used for spinning wool.

[8] Genesis states that Sarai was Abraham’s half-sister. The historian, Josephus says that she was Abram’s niece.