Джеймс Миченер - The Source

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.