by Cliff Graham
“Yes.”
“Which of the tribes . . . ?”
“It is obvious, is it not? Just say it.”
Othniel hesitated. “You are . . . not a Hebrew.”
“I was not born of the tribal bloodlines. But I am a Hebrew.”
“But how is that possible?”
Caleb smiled. “How I became a Hebrew is part of my story. Do you wish to hear it or not?”
“Of course, Uncle. But you have not even mentioned my father yet.”
“Your father will come into the story. Be patient.”
Caleb waited for what he knew was the next question. The young man’s eyes squinted, then cleared.
“If you are not a Hebrew by birth, and my father was your brother—”
Caleb interrupted him. “A man’s bloodline does not matter. Only his heart. Yahweh gives his own bloodline to those who worship him.”
Othniel nodded. But he was stunned.
Caleb chuckled. “Do not worry about solving it now. Just go find my food.”
Othniel walked out of the tent. Caleb could hear him calling out to the cooks.
“Cooks,” Caleb grunted to himself. “No cooks in the army in those days. A man made his own meal in the field.”
He was thinking about complaining some more when he remembered he was talking only to himself. The rain fell steadily on, and he grew steadily colder. The other old generals had young women lie in their blankets to warm them. Nothing offensive to Yahweh happened between them, but a woman in your bed was a woman in your bed. Always a good thing. He nodded to himself. That was surely one benefit of old age.
He listened to the rain for a while. Steady and heavy. Crops would come from it. Cisterns would fill. Ever since his days in the desert, he never took the rain for granted.
He could not help himself and stood up, making his way to the flap. Stepping outside, Caleb rejoiced in the cold splatters on his face, the streams flowing into his beard. Cold, merciless, beautiful rain.
He walked through the camp, keeping his cloak pulled low over his face to disguise himself from the men. He moved past cook fires, past mud-covered troops, past the food stores and to the perimeter.
It loomed in the distance. Hidden in the storm, but it was there. The walls of Hebron. The last holdout of the Anakim, the remnant of giants that had terrorized his people for a generation.
“Your enemies reside there, God of Moses,” Caleb said. “I will kill them tomorrow.”
As if in answer, lightning flared. Caleb saw the walls and the watchtower, the huddled figures of the sentries as they paced the wall. He smiled. Their commander had them out on a morning like this? Good. That means they fear us.
He glanced around and saw the boughs of a sycamore nearby. Sitting underneath it, he settled in and watched the gray light slowly enter the sky. Othniel would be looking for him. Some might worry that he was missing. But others would know where to find him. Nearest the enemy.
The sun was there, somewhere behind the clouds in the east. In this country he rarely saw it anymore. Winter hid its light.
But not in Egypt. There was no winter in Egypt. Only eternal summer.
He had not thought of Egypt in many years. Too much to concentrate on, too many challenges in building their home out of this land. The decades had buried it.
But now he was there again. The cool ripples of the Nile at his feet as he stood on a muddy bank. The stiff reeds as they bent in the breeze, their tips scratching against the stone pillars of Pharaoh’s palace. The street vendors with roasted cobra on spits and luscious fruits grown from seeds gathered at the ends of the earth. The smell of perfume on the women, lavender and rose.
Caleb shuddered in the cold and wrapped his cloak tighter, stared at the gray sky and walls of the enemy, and thought of Egypt.
It was not long before Othniel found him curled up under the tree. He knew to search for him on the perimeter whenever he was missing, and this was the place that most afforded views of their target. It was simply a matter of trying to spot the huddled figure under a drab cloak, a cloak much cheaper than the one that such a great man could have afforded if he wished.
He saw the old man slouched forward with his chin on his chest, snoring so loudly that he could hear him even through the slashing rain and wind. He grinned to himself.
4
From Statues to Swords
I made my way through the masses of people in the streets of Memphis, searching for the man I was told to find: Akan the Stone Broker.
Mathea the Assyrian said he was a powerful official in the court of Pharaoh the god-king. Through him came the hiring of all workers who wished to create the carvings and paintings that made the nation great, that captured their ancient history and promised to advance the kingdom into the next thousand years with edifices that could never be destroyed.
But I had no way of speaking with the man even when I found him. The language was clattered and confusing to my ear. I could only hope to show him my work and let it speak for itself.
After a day of searching in vain, getting hungry and weary from my journey, I decided to try again the next morning and found the sign for an inn. I paid the innkeeper enough copper rings for a month’s stay and was shown my way to a room at the top of the building that overlooked the Nile and the plateau of the pyramids.
As I ate my bread-and-oil dinner, I could not look away from the shining white mountains that towered over all. Their perfect symmetry, their golden caps. Thousands of workers moved up and down their steps, polishing and scraping away any imperfections on the limestone. Children slid down the smooth faces for play. It was apparent that they were the place of recreation for the entire city; the benevolent god-king’s tomb where he could provide all for his people, even their enjoyment.
They were pagans, yes. An abomination to Yahweh. But you must remember that I did not know Yahweh in those days, so as I tell this tale to you, do not recoil with scorn when I express the admirations and feelings I had as a foolish young man.
I was consumed with thirst to know more about these people and their history of thousands of years. The first chance I got, I would go to the pyramids and climb their steps to watch the sunset. I would read every papyrus scroll in the libraries, not worried that I would make enough gold to pay the scroll keepers for access to the libraries, because how could a man not make his fortune here, the wealthiest kingdom on earth?
As I was sitting on the roof of the inn with the other travelers in the cool of the evening, finishing my meal, a man approached me. He was an Egyptian, clothed in a white linen gown, and I noticed that his eyes were painted with what I had learned was the black liner of the upper class. He was in his fourth decade then, still young and passionate about conquering his private empire.
“Are you the one named Caleb?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“I am Akan the Stone Broker.”
I was shocked. This important official had walked on his own feet into a common inn and sought me out? And more, he spoke my tongue?
“I am privileged, my lord, that you would come here, but I am afraid I am not worthy of it.”
“That is true,” the man replied. “But I was nearby and was told by Mathea that you would be of interest to me.”
“My lord, a hundred pardons, but how do you know my language?”
“Men of Canaan have shown considerable skill here. Especially Kenazzites. Mathea has never led me astray when I have searched for talent, and he has brought me many of my best workers. I learned your barbaric language in order to teach you the proper language—the Egyptian language.”
“Respectfully, my lord, I am not to be here as a slave.”
His temper flared at me. “You will be a slave if the god-king wishes you to be so! You are here at his pleasure, and mine! If you do not mind your words when speaking with me, I will have you sent to Pithon to cut brick with the Hebrews. Then we will see what happens with your skill.”
I said nothing, assum
ing he would calm down, which he did after a while.
“What you say is correct. You are not a slave . . . yet. If you want to earn your wages, though, you will do precisely what I require of you when it is required. If you produce, you will have more gold and women than you can imagine. If you fail, you will be sent to Pithon. Be outside my house in the third quarter, the Way of the Falcon, by the end of the first watch tomorrow morning.”
Then he turned and left. I leaned over the roof and watched him depart into the crowded street to his waiting sledge. Four slaves hoisted him up on their shoulders, and a crier shouted, “Make way for the Stone Broker, servant of the god-king!” People shuffled away quickly as he approached until he was out of my sight.
As I grew to know him, I would discover that Akan was the smartest man in any room he walked into. Shrewd, calculating, arrogant, brilliant. I loved him in a way. Certainly respected him. I owe much to that pagan; may he burn forever in the fires of Sheol’s depths.
And so my first year passed.
I carved and I drew for anyone who would pay me, in addition to whatever work I could get from Akan. I chiseled monuments to jackal gods, created maps for commanders, drew portraits for wealthy families. My name spread, and I was given gold.
But one day I learned that my destiny was warfare and not the arts. Some moments occur and a man knows that his life is forever changed. That no matter what he convinces himself about his destiny, it has been written for him and he cannot escape it, any more than he can allow his heart to escape from his body.
As I was walking through the streets of Memphis during a break at a site where I was carving stone animals to decorate a corridor of a wealthy man’s home, I came upon an arena near a temple that I had never noticed before. It had short walls and seating for a crowd of only about one hundred, so one could easily see what was happening in the sand-covered pit.
A man was standing in the pit, challenging any from the crowd who would come and fight him. He was enormous, heavily muscled, deadly looking. Several bodies were lying near him. He was at least two cubits taller than any man I had ever seen.
I was confused, but many things had confused me since my arrival, so I simply waited to see what would happen. The crowd jeered and taunted someone, I could not tell who, until I saw a man stumble out of it and hold a sword up to the giant.
I leaned in and asked someone nearby what was happening, but I could not make out the answer.
The challenger approached the giant with the sword held warily. He had no confidence, no sense of bearing, no footwork, no training of any kind. The weapon may as well have been a cattle-prodding stick for all he knew what to do with it.
The giant laughed at him.
A woman was screaming above the clamor of the crowd. I tried to see who it was, but the people crammed in the streets had heard a challenger had come out and were closing in around me to see what happened. I was jostled around by food vendors, shoved by merchants, tripped over street children, but I finally caught a glimpse of the screaming woman.
She was poor, her rags of clothing filthy. She was screaming in a tongue I had not heard before, and even though I learned the language well enough over time, I cannot recall what she said. But they were words of torment and anguish. She was reaching out for the man who was challenging the giant, begging and pleading with him. Her husband?
With a mocking laugh, the giant brushed aside the man’s feeble attempt at an attack and lopped his head off with a single hard cut from his scimitar. Blood sprayed. The sand became soaked with it.
The woman screamed even louder. She bent down, picked up the head, and tried to shove it back onto the stump of the neck. The crowd laughed at her.
My temper flared hotter than I had ever known it to. I pulled my dagger out and shoved my way through the crowd until I stood in front of the giant. The woman’s sobs next to me were pathetic.
The giant turned away from the crowd where he was receiving his adulation and spotted me crouched in front of the woman and the headless corpse of her husband.
I did not know it yet, but this was to be my first encounter with Hebrews, and the first of many times I would fight a giant.
The dead man and his wife, along with the others forced to fight the giant in that arena, had been brought south from Goshen to be butchered in front of this crowd for their amusement and a few coins.
“You are a fool to stand before me,” he said.
I said nothing, my anger at the injustice of the killing still burning inside of me.
The crowd started chanting for him to attack, and finally he did.
I was too furious to realize that I was battling a vastly superior opponent. Rage can get a man killed or it can save his hide. Yahweh chose the latter for me that day.
If I had crossed him with a sword I know I would have been killed. But my dagger was sly and quick. I rushed forward to meet his assault, then was able to move just enough out of his way to make a strike on his thigh as he swung and missed me. My grip was immensely strong after all of the stone carving I had been doing and I was able to hold on to the hilt as he passed, carving a deep gash across the front of his leg.
He stumbled to his knees. He would never walk on that leg again, and I learned more in that moment about fighting giants than I would ever learn again. Boldness and speed in the strike. Giants believe their size is so terrifying that their opponents are not able to concentrate. They are not expecting you to attack them.
I am not sure why I acted so decisively in my next move. Perhaps Yahweh gave me a nudge even though I did not know him then.
The giant was on his knees, clutching the wound on his thigh. The crowd had swollen and was roaring with delight at the unexpected contest. I let it wash over me. Their praise. My anger.
I was on top of the giant’s back and driving the tip of my dagger into his ear. I shoved it until it could not go in further. He twitched and lurched forward with me on his back.
Dead.
The crowd screamed louder. I pulled my dagger out of his head and wiped the blood on his loincloth. It was exhilarating, but it did not last long.
I saw the woman bent over, completely oblivious to me, her savior, weeping into the headless torso of her husband. Grief and a sense of profound injustice hit me, and I lost all desire to hear the chants of victory the people were giving me.
I ignored the hands slapping on my shoulders and back as I walked through the crowd.
Akan was standing in the street next to his chariot. His arms were crossed as he listened to another wealthy-looking man gesture angrily while telling him something. I caught his eye, and he beckoned me over. As I approached, I heard the wealthy man saying, “. . . out of the street! Canaanites of that size are worth more money than you can imagine, Akan! I do not care if he is your man. I demand payment for my loss!”
“Why did you intervene?” Akan asked me coolly.
The wealthy man turned and thrust a finger in my face. “You have cost me a thousand pieces of gold, maybe two. You will pay it or I will have you thrown into the dungeons!”
“He killed a man without reason,” I answered, holding his gaze.
“That is not your concern! He is my property!”
“Those exhibitions have been outlawed, Thebet,” Akan said. “You would have lost him soon anyway.”
“They were only Hebrews! There are plenty more where they came from.”
We argued for a while longer before Akan said, “I will pay the fee if you will shut up and leave, Thebet.”
I was stunned. To this point, Akan had maintained a cold and distant attitude toward me. I made him a great deal of money in commissions, so he left me alone, but he had never demonstrated any kind of loyalty to me.
He handed over a sack of coins to Thebet and then motioned for me to follow him. I stood below the chariot as he mounted it.
“Where did you learn to fight?” he asked.
“My father.”
“Do you know the sword?”
“No, my lord.”
“You will. I am sending you to the armies.”
I was stunned. “But my lord, I am a carver and an artist. What use am I in the armies?”
“Plenty. If you succeed in the right regiment, your stature grows even more. According to the law of the new pharaoh, only those who have served in the ranks can build the new temple of Horus.”
And now we came to it.
Akan was a clever man. He would be my patron in the armies, ensuring I was placed well, and when I made it through the training he would be there to place me as the chief stonecutter on a temple, the highest paying of positions possible apart from working on Pharaoh’s burial tomb. The new temple of Horus the warrior god was to be the grandest yet constructed. It was the talk of the streets that it would be built in Memphis, and all were converging to get the best positions. Slaves would haul the stones, but men like myself would carve them. It would be a job that paid more gold than the imagination could conjure.
I knew by then that for all their command of slave labor, the Egyptians needed my gifts. They had laws and could not force me into slavery apart from the decree of Pharaoh himself. There was no war I had been captured in and no contract I had violated, but they could pressure me in other ways. Akan could sully my name in the markets and deny me work if I refused him. I would not be hired by anyone if he was my enemy.
“A man of skill is valuable to me. A man of skill and renown more so,” Akan continued. “In the crowd watching you was a member of the royal guard. I spoke to him after your victory but before Thebet accosted me. He was impressed and thought you might do well there. If you can join the Red Scorpions it will be a mark that guarantees a river of gold for us. Your skill as an artist is already there. If you apply for the chief designer position as a member of the Red Scorpions, it will be impossible for them to deny it to you, especially with my blessing.”
“But what use am I to you dead if I am killed in battle?” I had no idea who the Red Scorpions were but did not care in that moment.
He shrugged. “There is that risk. But I take risks. It is why I am a wealthy man.”