by Jon Saboe
He had found most of his men, and they slowly began to herd the screaming, disorganized men, who were helpless without their officers, in a northerly direction—towards Aner and his men waiting for them in the rocks beyond.
King Chedor-lao'mer’s tent was empty when Mamre approached it, and, although he was disappointed, he still torched it quickly and headed for the nearest officer’s tent. Silhouettes of his other men emerged from the swamps, each intent on their own mayhem.
Mamre hadn’t found any weapons like Eschol had, but he had his dagger—and his personal braided horsehair garrote attached to his left arm. He was particularly proud of his skill with this simple weapon.
With the tent in flames, he waited in the shadows of the blaze as desperate men passed him, coughing and screaming. He quickly quieted some of the disoriented men with his dagger, and then moved on to another tent.
An officer suddenly appeared in front of him, shouting orders, but when Mamre lunged at him, the officer sidestepped, striking Mamre’s knife hand with his arm, sending his dagger flying. Mamre spun from the impact, almost falling, but managed to spin to the right. The officer charged Mamre from behind, but as Mamre quickly ducked, the officer lost his balance and tripped over the nearly prone Mamre, who was already preparing his garrote.
Before the officer started to stand, Mamre was already on top of him. One end of the garrote was always attached to Mamre’s left wrist, and he quickly grabbed the braid in the middle where it tugged at the other end, hidden up his left sleeve, and pulled it free, burning his shoulder. Wrapping the free end once around his right wrist, he grasped it firmly and reached for the officer’s head as it began to rise slowly from the ground.
Here was his special technique! Most men would have dropped the cord over their adversary’s head and neck, and then pulled hard, crossing their arms and heaving with the strength of their triceps and chest muscles. But not Mamre. Instead, he crossed his arms first! Then, when he dropped his horsehair cord over the man’s neck, he was able to use his much more powerful biceps, along with his back muscles and even his own body weight as he uncrossed his arms, pulling them apart, rendering the officer helpless within seconds.
The added benefit was that he was able to drag the man into the nearby shadows without losing his grip so he could finish his job. Another tent went up in flames, and as he looked around, he saw the glint of his dagger in a small mud-puddle, and retrieved it before joining the rest of his men.
Panicked fragments of the leaderless enemy were scattering in all directions, and soon the pattern of fires slowly began to force them towards the north.
Suddenly, a loud trumpet clarion cut through the night, slicing through the yelling and the roar of the flames. The captives had been found!
Mamre, Eschol, and their men headed towards the sound where the next stage of the battle would be fought. Much of the enemy was fleeing, now, into the hills where Aner and his men had no intention of stopping them. They would provide just enough resistance to keep them running in the correct direction and maintain their terror. However, if the enemy made any attempt to try and escape with either the captives or the loot, they would be ready to provide the ambush needed to complete the rescue.
But they needed reinforcements soon. Some of the remaining soldiers were beginning to regroup—and when that happened, Mamre and his men would be no match for them.
At that moment, bright-red Nergal reappeared from behind the crescent moon.
It was time for phase two.
The entire line of over three hundred men rose and lit their torches. They had heard the trumpet sound earlier, and were excited that the captives had been found. They ran, led by Abram, into the battle, crossing the several hundred meters of swampland between them and the enemy camp within minutes. Although the torches were meant to intimidate the enemy, they also provided the necessary light which prevented them from tripping and falling into any of the numerous mud holes and slime pits which dotted the region.
A company of dedicated enemy soldiers, which was still trying to hold its position, saw the lights approaching and assumed a large army was drawing near. Certainly each torch, since it was so far from its neighbor, must represent at least sixty men, and their resolve to hold the front lines evaporated.
But they had heard the trumpet call too, and knew that it was not one of their own. It must signal the focal point of the invading soldiers, and they decided that, if they must fall back, they would join their fellow defenders in a brave final stand.
The trumpet sounded again, refining the path of Abram and his men. They were now running past the smoldering tents and charred bodies, intent on finding Lot and his family. Each one of these men had been raised in Abram’s household, and felt a personal commitment to rescue their longtime friend.
The trumpeter was one of Eschol’s men, but as the rest of the men closed in on his location, they found they had arrived to late. An arrow was sticking through his left side, and he was on the ground, dying. A quick survey of the area showed them that any captives that had been there were now gone, taken by one of the bands of fleeing men. However, thanks to the efforts of Aner and his men, they could not have gone far—and the direction they had fled would be determined for them.
As they neared the area, Abram and his men heard a third trumpet call, but they were dismayed when they realized it was sounding from much further away. This meant that their target was moving. It also meant that the captives had now become hostages. Their fighting may have been delayed, but their long run had now been greatly extended.
Since their torches now served only to provide the enemy with targets, they quickly discarded them into the nearby swamp waters and pools of sinking sand where they smoldered and sputtered into smoke before extinguishing.
They soon caught up with Mamre and his men, who were moving slower, simply because they were caring for wounded. But with the influx of three hundred new men, those who were still healthy joined in the pursuit, confident that the enemy, encumbered by hostages and the spoils of their battle, was within easy reach.
Within minutes they encountered Aner and his men, and, without slowing, thanked them for their help in reducing the enemy’s flight options. Aner was also able to confirm that the hostages were safe, but his small number of men would have been no match for the enemy—which Aner estimated was still at least two hundred men.
The pursuit lasted much longer than they expected, partially because the enemy knew the terrain better than they did, but also because their quarry was propelled with the fear that they were being pursued by an army of thousands.
Abram’s men encountered a few skirmishes from enemies waiting in ambush, but eventually, just before morning, they were able to close in on the remaining soldiers whom, they discovered, were virtually unarmed, having left or lost their weapons during the initial assault.
The final battle was over quickly and ended in a hastily constructed surrender. The one attempt at threatening the hostages was foiled by the prisoners themselves, who physically overcame the severely diminished number of unarmed captors. And everyone was glad to discover that Lot and his family were safely among the hostages.
As they finished rounding up the enemy, Mamre finally discovered King Chedor-lao'mer cowering in the uniform of a common foot soldier—one who had probably died defending his King. As Mamre approached him, Chedor-lao'mer called out for mercy, but Mamre gripped the ends of his garrote, twisted them between his hands, and moved slowly and deliberately towards him. Mamre smiled, in a very relaxed manner, as he anticipated one final—and public—display of his technique. But before he reached Chedor-lao'mer, a knife flashed through the air and struck the king directly in the throat, where a soft foam of aerated blood soon began to bubble and spread.
Mamre whirled in anger to find Abram’s arm still extended from the throw.
“This is the one that betrayed my people,” he yelled at Abram, who was still staring at the crumpling King. “It was my right!”
Chedor-lao'mer’s bulging eyes began to sag as he hit the ground, soundless coughs hissing through his severed cords. But no one was watching him. All eyes were on Abram.
Finally Abram turned away and looked at Mamre.
“This was my battle,” he said softly. “And my family.”
Abram’s reunion with his nephew was bittersweet. He tried desperately to avoid saying, “I told you so” but it was clear that Lot would soon be separating from him again and returning to his leased land near Sodom.
They clasped hands and Lot mumbled his thanks while his wife and daughters rushed to Abram with hugs and kisses of gratitude.
Eventually Abram turned away sadly, his heart heavy as he envisioned the society to which his nephew’s family would soon return. However, he ached more for Lot’s daughters as he contemplated the life they would be exposed to—and the harm they were sure to endure as they were raised in King Bera’s city.
The lone traveler recoiled when he spotted the band of mercenaries who suddenly appeared on the horizon, and retreated behind a collection of large boulders. He considered running back up the low mountainside behind him, but was sure that he would be spotted—and he certainly did not want to take his chances with renegade militia in this unknown land.
Two weeks earlier, Shem had sent him out on this assignment, just before leaving on another of his long absences.
His name was Melchiz'edek, and as near as anyone could estimate, he was the oldest individual in the Community of Peace (with the obvious exception of Shem). At the time of the Great Confusion, Melchiz'edek found himself leading the large group of “orphans” during their flight from the collapsing city of Babel to their new region at the head of the Descending River. He had done his best to help the newly freed—but very dependent—children survive, striving daily to conjure up new ways to clothe and feed them. It had been very difficult, and sometimes harsh, as he tried to organize them in ways that protected everyone, while at the same time staving off the anarchy that more aggressive individuals attempted to foist on them from time to time.
Melchiz'edek had welcomed Shem’s arrival, and had, in fact, encouraged his leadership. Shem had caused their squalid, destitute community to thrive, creating a standard of living that none of them had dared imagine. But more importantly, Shem had brought them the message of the Creator—and his coming Seed. As a result, the name of their community took on a new and special meaning as the inhabitants enjoyed both their prosperity and the inner peace that can only come from the knowledge of the Zeh-ra.
During these last few decades, however, Shem had been away more and more, traveling to different places, and was often gone for many years at a time. Just prior to one of his more recent trips, he had restored Melchiz'edek to his former place of authority, but this time had conferred upon him the title of ‘High Priest of Yahweh’. Shem had explained to him that, contrary to other priesthoods, the High Priest of Yahweh must demonstrate complete and total servant-hood.
Just three weeks ago, Shem had returned, given Melchiz'edek his new assignment, and then left two days later, saying he had urgent business in Kemet. He had collected many of his belongings and rushed off, and Melchiz’edek wondered if he would ever see Shem again.
Melchiz'edek’s assignment had been simple. Travel to the plains of Moreh, find the young man named Abram, and share with him the message of the Coming Seed. Shem had spoken often of Abram—saying how he desired to meet him again someday. But the Founder now said that the Creator had chosen Melchiz'edek to finish the task that he had initiated over seventy years earlier. For some reason, the Creator wanted one of the original orphans, with no knowledge of their parentage, to convey the continuing message of the Coming Seed.
The people of the Community of Peace were accustomed to mixing commerce with the message of the Zeh-ra, but they seldom left home for the sole purpose of proselytizing. And they certainly never went out alone.
Or at Melchiz'edek’s age.
Although he didn’t know his exact age, he knew that he was at least three hundred and thirty. And it showed. He walked at a much slower pace than he used to, and his hair and much of his beard was now a salty grey-white. But he set out on his mission, in obedience, trusting that the Creator, as always, would provide.
The mercenaries were coming closer. Melchiz'edek was suddenly thirsty, and he took a sip of wine from his skin as he watched the group approach. He estimated that there were more than three hundred men in all, but as they approached he saw that they were dressed unlike any mercenaries he had ever encountered before. Or at least, unlike how he imagined they would dress. He had actually never met real mercenaries.
The majority of them were wearing simple servant outfits, each one armed with a short sword. But there were no facemasks, no armored helmets, or anything else that could be construed as intimidating. In fact, there was nothing menacing about them at all, and as they drew even closer, he noticed that their attitude was very relaxed, even jovial, and that there were several women among them—and they, too, seemed to be happy.
They were also very dirty—as if they had spent a great deal of time traveling in the mud and bogs of the swamplands to the north.
The man who appeared to be leading them (although he was dressed as simply as the rest) stopped suddenly and raised his fist. The entire assemblage turned and looked to the east.
Melchiz'edek followed their gaze and saw a small caravan approaching the group. It was led by a small horse-drawn chariot driven by a man who was dressed in exquisite, flowing garments. He was wearing a crown of gold and spun tungsten, dangling earrings, and a thickly embroidered silk scarf which blew behind him as he traveled.
His garments appeared to be made from a variety of materials: a flaxen shirt, silk vest, large cotton pants, and a waist-length linen cape which appeared to have a detailed coat-of-arms embroidered upon it. Melchiz'edek certainly couldn’t tell, but he strongly suspected the undergarment were silk, too. However, it was the clash of colors (splashed by the evening sun) that took Melchiz'edek by surprise. It was difficult to tell which color went with which article of clothing, but the overall effect was a collage of sky-blues, peaches, chartreuses, and bright yellows. Only the cape, which was attached squarely to his shoulders, could be correctly ascertained as a dark fuchsia.
Obviously a King.
He had about forty men in his entourage, each on their own horse, and they seemed to be speeding towards the mercenaries as if they were expected.
The King began to slow, and as he approached the military group, he shouted out to them.
“Hail, Abram!”
Abram! Melchiz'edek shivered when he heard the name. Could he have found his man so quickly? The name was unlike those belonging to men from this region.
The leader of the mercenaries, obviously Abram, raised his arm in greeting. Melchiz'edek began to seriously doubt that these were professional warriors.
“Hail, King Bera,” Abram called back. Several of the soldiers nodded their heads in respect, but none of them knelt or bowed, as one would expect upon meeting a King.
The two groups came together, and Melchiz'edek was unable to make out the subsequent conversation.
Deciding that he had nothing to fear (and also consenting to the Creator’s voice within) he rose and began to walk slowly towards the two groups. A second, more nervous voice kept insisting that he had no right to interrupt this meeting—but he kept pressing forward until suddenly, several men in both groups saw him and began pointing and talking excitedly amongst themselves.
Abram and King Bera turned together to look at the lone individual moving slowly towards them.
He was tall, dressed in a simple off-white robe, and wore a very neat, slightly graying beard. His head was wrapped in a simple, off-white mitre, and he carried a moderate-sized traveling pack, slung from one shoulder.
As he approached, he gave King Bera a deferential glance, but soon it was clear that he was moving straight for Abram. The man
cast an elongated shadow from the setting sun, which reached Abram before he did.
Suddenly the man dropped on both knees and reached out his arms towards Abram.
“My name is Melchiz'edek, High Servant of the Community Of Peace, and your servant also. I bear a message for one named Abram, son of Terah, from my master, Shem, son of Noah. If you are the Abram whom I seek, I ask that you forgive my intrusion and grant me an audience.”
The man did not look up, but Abram’s heart jumped at the mention of Shem’s name. He had not heard that name in over seventy years, yet his memory of Shem’s voice and strange accent had never faded. He had imagined a moment such as this his entire life as he had fervently sought for any evidence of Shem—or for any revelation about the Creator.
Abram rushed to the man and grabbed him by the shoulders, startling him.
“I am he,” Abram said breathlessly. “Rise and speak with me.”
King Bera watched from his chariot, obviously irritated at this interruption—and also at this stranger’s indifference to his kingly presence.
The man rose to face Abram, obviously glad to have found his man, and also slightly relieved.
“I fear I have meager rations,” Melchiz'edek said, “But what I have, I give you freely.”
Melchiz'edek opened his sack and retrieved two small loaves of bread and handed them to Abram. He then lifted his wineskin by its strap and placed it over Abram’s shoulder.
Melchiz'edek looked directly into Abram’s eyes with a mixture of wonder and anticipation.
“You, Abram,” he began, “have been honored by the most high Creator of heaven and earth...”
King Bera’s patience came to an end.
“We have just waged a victorious campaign,” he said loudly, disrupting their communion. “I am here to honor Abram as well, for his assistance in defeating my enemies and recovering my possessions.” He nodded in self-congratulation, looking down from his chariot. He then added as an afterthought. “Also, to honor him for rescuing some of my dearest subjects.”