Джеймс Миченер - The Source

Amram was the typical military leader of the Hebrew empire, nearing fifty, hard and spare, with a close-clipped beard and stubby red hair. He had blue eyes, deep wrinkles across his brow and a short scar along his left cheek; he was relaxed and thoughtful, attentive to the life about him and able to judge it with a detached shrewdness. In these first minutes he saw that Kerith was a beautiful woman of the age he preferred, not entirely happy in Makor, who wanted to impress him with her husband’s accomplishments, and he suspected that if he responded he might have an enjoyable time in this provincial town. So when Kerith handed him a cloth he took it slowly and smiled, showing between his hairy lips white teeth that were widely spaced.

“Your name is?”

“Kerith,” she replied, adding hastily, “wife of Jabaal, who built these fortifications,”

“From the approaches they looked strong.”

Before she could assure him that they were, the governor interrupted to announce that the visitors were invited to his quarters for the speeches of welcome, but after two were offered General Amram said, “I’ve come to inspect the new walls and I wish to do so.” Brusquely he left the ceremony and entered upon the walls, pleased to see that Kerith was staying at his side.

“These are strong walls that we have built,” the governor said unctuously, and Hoopoe, following at the rear, thought: For a whole year I had to fight him for permission to build them, and now they’re his walls. Condescendingly the governor added, “They were built by this man, whom we call Hoopoe,” and he bobbed his head up and down like a hoopoe bird. General Amram’s men laughed, but the general thought: They call him Hoopoe, which infuriates his pretty wife, but he does look fairly stupid.

In his various inspection tours General Amram had often been involved in similar situations and he now saw what he must do in this one: Flatter the husband before his superiors, get him out of the way, and then see what his lovely wife wished to do. Accordingly, he said, “Jabaal, since you’re the one who built the walls, let’s climb that hill in back of town and see how good they are.”

“I’ll bring the wine,” the governor volunteered, but Amram cut him off.

“We’ll go alone,” he snapped, striding off with such vigor that Hoopoe’s fat legs had difficulty keeping up.

For more than an hour the two men circled the town, checking various points, then climbed halfway up the mountain to study the fortifications methodically. “Those slopes of earth leading to the wall,” Amram asked. “Have you thought of protecting them in some way?”

“We’ve considered two possibilities. We could pave the present slopes, which would take much rock. Or we could cut away two cubits of earth all around, which would lay bare the old Hyksos glacis which is paved and in good condition. Which would the general suggest?”

“Neither,” Amram said. “Take too many slaves. And in the end you wouldn’t be a lot better off than you are now. But one thing I would do.” He pointed to a section of wail where private houses were encroaching upon the battlements, using the town wall for one side of the house and continuing it upward, with windows cut into the upper wall. “I’d get rid of those windows right away. Remember how Rahab let down the ropes for our spies at Jericho?”

“What would the general suggest?”

“Brick them up, today. While you still have some slaves.”

Twice General Amram had referred to Hoopoe’s slaves. “Are you going to take away my slaves?” the little man asked.

“When the work’s finished here we can use trained builders in Jerusalem. And it looks as if you were about finished.” He was a gruff man, long in the field, and although he had begun by feeling contempt for Hoopoe, an inspection of the man’s work forced him to recognize it as a superior job. Placing his arm about the little engineer he said, “And I shall tell the king that it was work well done.”

Hoopoe mumbled his thanks, then muttered a silent prayer to Baal and tackled the bigger problem. “General Amram, the new fortifications mean nothing so long as the water supply is vulnerable.”

“From here that waterwall looks strong.”

“It’s been patched. It’s stronger than it was. But we both know that even one of your lesser armies could knock it down.”

The general had to like this honest builder. In Amram’s first minutes on the mountainside he had spotted the fatal weakness of Makor, but he had said nothing, realizing that the town was a frontier settlement which might have to be sacrificed. If the Phoenicians ever decided to assault it, he knew they could puncture the waterwall and strangle the town, but the loss need not be crucial to the empire. Nevertheless, he was impressed that Hoopoe understood the tactical situation.

“But there is a way that Makor could be made so strong that no enemy could capture it,” Hoopoe said, trying to make himself sound convincing.

“How?”

In a few crisp sentences Hoopoe explained that a shaft could be dug in the middle of town and connected by a tunnel to the well. Glancing nervously, he was pleased to see that General Amram understood. “Then we tear down the waterwall, erase all marks that it had ever been there, roof over the well with large stones and bury it in thirty feet of earth. No one would ever see our well again except from the inside of the tunnel.” He became inspired by the concept, and suddenly words spouted from his mouth. He was a poet, a general, compelling in his logic and command of detail. He spoke of the security that Makor would know, a security which the empire would share for centuries to come. “Against this town,” he cried, “the Phoenicians could thunder for fifteen months on end, while your garrison, General, would rest secure inside. Jerusalem would be safe.”

Against his will—for he was not a man prone to enthusiasm—Amram became infected by Hoopoe’s excitement and he was seduced into visualizing Makor as a permanent bulwark of the western frontier. As Hoopoe continued, the little town began to look different: the ramparts became stronger, the fatal waterwall vanished and he saw Phoenician mercenaries beating against the town in futility. Hoopoe stopped speaking and waited.

“What would it require?” Amram asked bluntly.

“The slaves I have. Plus fifty more.”

“Have you plans?” He was sure the enthusiastic little man did.

“Come to my house,” Hoopoe said quietly, afraid lest he appear too eager, and as they re-entered the main gate he called to one of the guards, “Fetch me Meshab the Moabite.”

“Who?” Amram asked.

“My foreman. He has the clay tablets.”

Waiting in the governor’s house Kerith heard that General Amram and her husband had gone directly to her home, and she ran through minor alleys hoping to reach there first so as to receive them properly, but when she ran up, out of breath, the men were already there, lying flat on the floor, studying Jabaal’s leather roll of the water system. “Oh no!” she whispered to herself. “My foolish husband is bothering that great man with such nonsense,” She brought them cool drinks, but they took no notice of her, so she sat where she could watch the general and where finally he found time to watch her while Hoopoe continued to draw imaginary tunnels with his finger.

The three remained thus for some time, when the big Moabite appeared, led by one of the guards. The tall southerner had barely entered the room with his clay tablets when General Amram saw him, leaped to his feet and cried, “What is this one doing here?”

“He is Meshab, my foreman,” Hoopoe explained. “Show General Amram …”

But before the Moabite could lay out the detailed drawings Amram turned his back and said, “Take him away.”