Legacy

Chapter 1

Northern Samaria 721BC

It was a time of hope, and a time of desolation.
The reddish orb of the setting sun hung low over the western hills of Samaria, the red brown weathered heights where the Jordan river rose and flowed down towards the sea of Galilee.
Jachob ben Zohar of the tribe of Dan of the house of Israel sat on the dusty ground outside their mud brick house in the small farming village that was his home. A fair lad of twelve years, light brownish hair and slim built with the tanned brown skin given him by the bright Samarian sun and hard days in the fields of his village with just a loincloth for covering. The village sat on the eastern side of one of several shallow valleys filled with vineyards in the far north of the Kingdom of Israel, near the border with Syria. The forty two houses were scattered widely around a central well with no real layout or defined streets, simple open spaces between homes and storehouses. The slope continued rising to the ridgeline, a bow shot to the west of the last house, from which it swept away into the next shallow valley with its farms and villages. Siting the village just down from the ridge gave protection from the strong westerlies which blew in from the sea towards the hot deserts of Syria beyond the Jordan.
Jachob’s house sat almost due east of the village well with the front door facing west where they could sit in the evening watching the setting sun. Jachob was idly scooping up the reddish dust and grit that made the surface of the street outside his home as he looked with adoring eyes at the figure of the old man seated before him on the rough wooden bench. His grandfather, Zechariah of the name of the prophet, stared through squinting eyes at the falling sun but a hand’s-breadth above the hills. His old face of more than seventy summers was wrinkled and weathered, his thin lips pursed as he gazed into the still bright light, as if he was trying to discern something in the suns huge red orb. His thin wiry body was tense, more skin and ligament than muscle.
Jachob wondered what the old man was doing. He had stopped his narrative some moments before and stared into the sun. Jachob thought he was gathering his thoughts before continuing his tale. These were good stories, of David and Solomon, of priests and prophets of old, mighty men of battle, who carried the nation of Israel into the land promised them by Yahweh, and struck fear into the hearts of the nations around them. Jachob loved these stories, and the ones about the mighty God who led Israel in a pillar of fire and smoke through the wilderness, the God whose name was too revered to be spoken. Though most of his friends scorned him for his belief in the stories and his families’ refusal to join them at the Ashera poles and dance and sacrifice to the idols of wood and stone. Jachob’s family was almost alone in their village in their adherence to the old ways, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Moses. But at Passover they would often travel down to Jerusalem and there they would know there were others who had not yet forgotten the one and only God, Yahweh, and therein lay their hope. But the heady days of his grandfathers stories were long gone now and the whole land cavorted to the tune of Bel and Chemosh.
Jachob let the dust fall from his hand and frowned at the delay in the story, “Grandfather?”.
A thin wiry hand quickly lifted to still him as Zechariah said “Hush boy”.
Jachob fell silent, and a little afraid, his grandfather only called him boy when he was angry with him or in a bad mood himself. He now noticed that the old man was tense and his right hand, the one holding the staff, was gripping it so tightly that the knuckles were white. Then Jachob heard the sound.
His grandfather may be old but his hearing was acute. A rumbling sound could now be heard mixed with a rattle and jingle of metal on metal coming from behind Jachob. The old man leapt to his feet “Run boy, quickly run”.
Jachob looked over his shoulder, eyes wide, mouth open in fear towards the increasing pounding and saw that sharp black shapes etched into the reddening sky had risen over the brow of the rise that bordered the western side of his village. Fear held him frozen, half crouching as he had started to rise in obedience to his grandfathers command. Startled out of his immobility by a none too soft cuff across his head by Zechariah and the abrupt command “Go! Now!” he rose and ran around the side of the house towards the back calling for his mother as he went. The rumbling noise was louder now and shook the earth beneath his feet. His father ran from the storehouse at the back and his mother, dropping the basket of corn she was carrying to the house, looked at her husband with a look of agony and bewilderment.
“Grandfather says we must run.” Jachob cried, tears starting in his eyes at the sight of his mothers anguished looks and fathers naked fear. Everyone had heard the rumours. But they wouldn’t come here, would they?
Then they heard a shriek and all looked back through the entrance to the yard down between the widely spaced houses that were scattered across the rise towards the setting sun. Though still only dark outlines Jachob could now see that the back shapes that rose out of the reddening evening sky were horses, chariots and men. The ground shaking thunder was the beat of the horses hooves and the metal on metal the clashing of armour plate. Running before them was the dark shape of someone and he saw the high raised arm of the charioteer with sword poised sweep down behind the running shadow, a man, who threw up his arms, then crumpled backwards as though snapped in half and sprawled across the dusty ground.
The violence of that scene broke Jachob’s father out of his shock and calling for his wife and son to hide, for they could not run from horses, he ran inside. Then, just before his mothers grip on his arm almost pulled him from his feet as she turned to flee, he saw grandfather. Letting out a loud cry he had raised his staff and ran at the leading chariot. He saw an arrow pierce his grandfathers breast and looking back as he stumbled along behind his mother he saw his body kicked and rolled over by the horses which had been turned to run him over.
Screaming and crying mother dragged him into the storehouse. Slapping his face to quieten him she roughly pushed him under the empty bags they used at harvest to gather the grapes from the vineyard. He felt her wriggling under the bags herself and her arms grasp him tightly and hug him to her breast.
Screams and shouts and the sound of running feet could now be heard. The dust and fibres from the bags irritated Jachob’s nose and threatened to make him sneeze, but he held back. They waited. Barely daring to breathe. Footsteps. Several. He could not tell how many, but oh, more ominous, the clanking of armour. The door to the storehouse crashed open, strange voices in a harsh tongue he could not understand. He could feel the movement of the sacks above them. Mother screamed. His back felt warm and wet. Then the bags were roughly thrown aside to much excited incomprehensible speech. Mother was heavy and still against his back, her arms around him now limp. A hairy arm reached down, a rough hand grasped her arm and pulled her away. Jachob looked up in whimpering fear and through tear distorted vision saw a huge muscular brute of a man in leather armour sewn with metal plates, staring at him out of a strange metal face that only showed his eyes and mouth. His mouth broke into a triumphant smile made hideous by blackened and broken teeth and letting go of his mothers arm he grabbed Jachob’s and wrenched him to his feet. Carried, feet barely touching the floor he was hauled away from his mother and saw her robe stained red across her right shoulder. One of the other soldiers stooped and wiped mother’s blood from the blade of his long sword, using the hem of her robe. She moaned and stirred, wounded but alive. Jachob’s last ever memory of his mother would be of her cries of agony as she was roughly rolled over onto her back and her skirts lifted covering her face, and the blood, but exposing her nakedness. She did not survive the night.
Stumbling, feet dragging through the rough dusty ground of their yard, Jachob was hauled away by the huge beast of a man with hairy arms and rotten teeth. He whimpered and moaned, too shocked and frightened to struggle, out through the open entrance to his home. Others were being herded out of houses and yards by shouting men in shining armour, coloured blood red by the last rays of the sun now half swallowed by the western hills and casting long dark shadows. Past the crumpled battered body of his grandfather lying twisted and bloody, the sand of the street blackened by his blood, with the buzz of flies which lifted from his wounds, disturbed at their passing. Incongruously his mouth held a small smile and his face a peaceful countenance, absurd in the circumstances of his death. Jachob’s foot struck heavily on a stone and blood welled around his toenail. He did not cry out at the pain, all sound was lost to him and he recorded images and noise in a state of numb disbelief. Not far from his grandfathers body lay a man’s corpse, face down cruelly hacked so his head was severed from his body and gashes across his back and legs. Jachob recognised him even though he could not see his face. He wore his fathers robe and prayer scarf around his neck. In his hand was the old sword his grandfathers father had carried in the days when he fought for Azariah King of Judah. It had no blood on it.
Jachob was roughly thrown down in the middle of the square amongst the rest of the frightened huddled mass of the villagers herded together. Friends and enemies cringed together, low moans and soft sobs from women and children. No taunts now. Even their gods had abandoned them.
He was only a few feet from his fathers body and he stared at it with unseeing eyes. The sandalled dusty feet and the end of the spear of the guard near his fathers body were all that he could see out of his downcast eyes. The sharp shadows softened as the sun finally slid below the hills. A second pair of sandalled feet strode into view and the pointed end of a sword dark with blood was placed in the ground. The tangy coppery smell of fresh blood again assailed his nostrils and he was reminded of the wetness on his back now drying and stiff. The sandalled feet turned as the two discussed something he could not understand. They now had their backs to him. Slowly, without really thinking, Jachob slid forward, his fingers grasped the end of the scarf that his father always wore over his head when prayed to Yahweh. Slowly he pulled it towards him and gathered it up tucking it away under the loose cover of his sleeveless jerkin. He felt something hard inside the cut and bloody scarf and looked down into the folds of his robe. There, with the image of the seven branched lamp stand which was in the temple of the Lord, was the golden medallion that his father always wore.
Darkness fell. The soldiers lit torches. Jachob wept in desolation.