Chapter 16

They lived on the plain of Mamre, near Hebron. The town had stood empty for many years, but it was one of the first villages to come back to life as the rains returned. Most of the old houses were still empty, since the new villagers, not wanting to live in a house that had been unlucky for the previous owners, simply took stones from the old dwellings and built new ones.

Sarai did not envy them the dwellings of stone. Once she had thought of a tent as flimsy and impermanent, but now her tent was home. In a dust storm, the tent could be sealed much more tightly than any house of stone, yet it could also be opened to catch every breath of a breeze. When they moved from place to place, she gloried in the new scenery, regretting nothing about the move because she knew that she would sleep each night in her familiar chamber. Now she looked at the builders of stone houses and wondered why they would want to be so rooted to one piece of ground.

A piece of ground—that’s what the villagers settled for. But to Abram, God had given the whole land of Canaan. It would have been absurd for God to give a whole land to a town dweller. Only a wandering herdkeeper would know how to use the grassy hills and valleys in this land between the Jordan and the sea.

The people who had lived here before the drought were all Canaanites, speaking one language. But the people who moved here now were of every nation—Amorites, of course, those perpetual wanderers who sneaked like dust through every crevice, and also Hittites, Perizzites, Jebusites, and even a few Hebrews who called Abram kinsman, though none of them knew his genealogy back to Abram’s ancestor Heber. There were a few whose families had dwelt in Hebron before, but their memories of the old city were distant at best, and second- or third-hand in most cases. It was a new people they were making here, a new nation in an old land, like the new city being built out of the stones of the old.

And on the hills, Abram’s flocks and herds looked over all. He sold wools and cheeses, beef and mutton, and bought tools and pots from smiths and potters, wines and oils from vintners and orcharders up and down the land, making contact with each new village that sprang up in the ruins of old cities. The name of Abram the Hebrew was known everywhere in Canaan. But except for the people of Salem, who still remembered the true religion, not one soul knew that God had made him keeper of this land. He watched over his kingdom with a sharp eye, but ruled it so lightly that no one noticed the touch of his authority. Yet he was the link between villages, and his language became the common tongue that strangers adopted so they could live together in peace. Ma’at prevailed in northern Canaan in those days.

Not so in Egypt. Word reached them that Neb-Towi-Re was dead, his name expunged from the monument. Sehtepibre now ruled as Pharaoh Amenemhet, and he waged war against the Hsy, driving them out of every enclave in Egypt where they still lingered. The history, as Sehtepibre was now writing it, told of the Hsy usurpers who almost succeeded in ruling Egypt, defiling the holy places and worshiping strange gods in abominable ceremonies, burying their dead in the ground, wrapped only in sheepskin. It was Amenemhet who saved Egypt from these invaders.

The Hsy who could, fled from Egypt, back across Sinai. Those with connections in Arabia went south, but many tried to find a living in Sodom or one of the other cities of the Valley of Siddim southeast of the Dead Sea, or else wandered up into the southern part of Canaan.

And many made their way east to Mesopotamia, to Akkad and Babylon, Ur and Sumer, and even as far as Elam. The men who made such a long trek were not the settled or settling kind. They had heard that the Amorite kings who now ruled the ancient cities of Mesopotamia would pay for soldiers. Many of these men had fought for Neb-Towi-Re. There was no one now to hire their swords in Egypt, but swordskill was all they had to sell.

The most ambitious of the Amorite warrior kings was Chedorlaomer, who ruled in Elam. During the worst of the drought, when Abram and Sarai were in Egypt, he had brought an army and raided Sodom and the other cities of Siddim—Gomorrah, Admah, Zebolim, and Zoar. Surprised and unprepared, the five kings of the cities of Siddim were easily defeated and agreed to pay tribute to Chedorlaomer.

Now, in these more prosperous times, with refugees returning from Egypt to swell the population of Sodom and the other cities, the people of Siddim became complacent. A raiding party like the one Chedorlaomer had brought in his surprise attack would never defeat them now. Their armies were strong and well-trained. They needed no longer pay tribute to the king of such a far-off city as Elam.

Lot and Abram talked about these matters many times, often when Sarai was part of the conversation. Lot and Abram were sure this was a foolish mistake. Chedorlaomer was of Amorite origin, and he clung to the old ways. To him it was nothing to bring an army across hundreds of miles of grassland—the desert was no more a barrier to him than was the sea to a sailor. “They’ve provoked him,” said Abram, “when they could have paid his tribute out of what falls from the king’s table.”

“Do you think I haven’t told them, again and again?” said Lot. “But no one listens to me. They call me ‘the shepherd’ and claim that wandering herdsmen know nothing of the strength of cities.”

“It was wandering herdsmen called Amorites who conquered Ur-of-Sumeria and drove my father into exile,” said Sarai. “Have they forgotten that?”

“People have short memories,” said Abram. “This year’s prosperity is all they remember. There has been no war in a few years, so they will always have peace. There has been no drought for a few years, so they will always have rain.”

“But you remember,” said Lot.

“I have the books,” said Abram. “It has all happened before, over and over again. A city begins to think that it is great. But to a rival king or to a tribe of hungry strangers, that great city looks like a prize to be taken, not a trap to be feared. And suddenly those proud citizens who boasted of their greatness are sold into slavery.”

“Those that aren’t put to the sword,” said Lot.

“But when they came before, all they demanded was tribute,” said Sarai.

“Tribute is a tax without the trouble of governing the taxpayers,” said Abram. “They regard these cities as conquered, and to them the decision to withhold the tribute is a revolt. Treason. When they come back, someone will pay for the crime.”

“Well, I hope you’re planning to move out of Sodom before they come!” said Sarai to Lot.

The silence that greeted her outburst made her feel like a fool.

Lot smiled and patted her hand. “Don’t think the subject hasn’t come up,” he said. “I think the most common answer in my house is, ‘I don’t see any soldiers. Where are these armies you fear so much? Do you run from every shadow?’ Much of the reason I’m scoffed at in the council and the market is because my wife is mocking my warnings in the homes of all the leading citizens of Sodom.”

“Ah, Qira,” sighed Sarai.

So it was that when Chedorlaomer came again, everyone was surprised, despite the warnings.

Chedorlaomer came with allies, King Amraphel of Shinar, King Arioch of Eliasar, and Tidal, a tribal leader who styled himself King of Nations. They brought such a large host that their supplies had failed them—they struck first at some of the small new villages, slaughtering everyone who had not had the sense to run away and taking all their food and animals to feed their soldiers. Replenished, they turned to Siddim and the great cities that gleamed like precious stones amid the orchards and grasslands east of the Dead Sea. There were traitors to punish and overdue tribute to collect.

The first word of the coming of these armies came from Abram’s shepherds in the southern hills. Obeying a standing instruction, a messenger had headed for Lot at the same time to give him warning. Abram gave orders for all his herds to be driven up to the high valleys, where they would be invisible to armies coming up the Jordan Valley. And beyond the minimum number needed to keep the herds together, all his men were to gather to Abram in the plain of Mamre.

Even before they had all assembled, another messenger arrived, this time one of Lot’s men. The armies of the five kings of Siddim were outnumbered and undertrained. They fled almost before the first attack had begun, and the kings of Sodom and Gomorrah fell in the slimepits that blocked their retreat. But the worst was yet to come.

Sodom and Gomorrah had been taken, but not sacked. Chedorlaomer meant for these cities to continue paying him tribute for many years to come. But they would not rebel again. He took all five kings as captives, to be displayed back in Elam before they were executed. He also took the richest citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah with him as hostages, to make sure the heavy tribute was paid. Whether they would return alive was doubtful. The other three cities were relatively untouched, but the warning was clear. Obey or pay dearly.

“Lot is taken,” said the messenger. “All the wealth of his house. His herds and flocks are safe, but to get him back will take more gold than we can ever get for selling them all. Master Abram, I beg you to help pay the tribute so we can free my master before he is taken all the way to Elam!”

The news filled Sarai with fury. If the fools in Sodom and Gomorrah had listened to Lot and Abram instead of mocking them, they would still be paying a negligible tribute and prospering in peace. And now, because of their stupidity, not only had they lost everything, but Lot, too, would be impoverished, and Abram too, to save him.

Abram said nothing, as they all waited to hear what he would say. He raised his eyes to heaven, as if calling upon God, but he said nothing with his lips. Then he looked at the messenger and smiled. “I’ll pay a tribute to Chedorlaomer that is beyond his wildest dreams.”

There was something in his tone that sent a chill through Sarai’s heart. It was the voice of a man making ready for war. She had never heard it before, but she recognized it at once. Ever since the human race had existed on the earth, that voice had echoes in the deepest places in the soul. Sarai was afraid, yes, but she was also filled with a strange exaltation. The arm of her husband and his men would fall upon their enemies.

By the next morning, Abram’s men had assembled. He inspected them all, and while Bethuel and Eliezer took them through the battle exercises they practiced every month, to make sure their fighting skills were honed, Abram and Sarai rode on horseback to a vantage point from which they could look down over the valley of Jordan.

They got there almost at noon, and Sarai could see at once the great cloud of dust that rose from the huge host coming up the valley from the south. It took only a glance for all the exaltation of war to vanish and rank fear to take its place.

“Abram,” she said. “Even with our friends Mamre and Eshcol and Aner joining us with their servants, you have only three hundred and eighteen men. There are tens of thousands in that army.”

He smiled, a slight and menacing smile. “I have three hundred and eighteen men strengthened by the hand of God, coming upon an army that is burdened with treasure and drunk with wine every night. They think no enemy will dare to attack them. Triumph has made them careless and stupid. God has delivered them into our hands. God will bring Lot back to us, and restore the kings of the five cities of Siddim, and their treasures.”

“God will give them back their treasure?”

“What else would he do with them? Such things have no value to God. It’s the life of Lot that I asked for. But if God wants also to give these foolish kings a chance to learn from their mistakes, who am I to be a sterner judge than the Lord? It’s Chedorlaomer who is marked for destruction today.”

Then he turned his horse and started back down to Mamre. Sarai lingered only a moment, trying hard to find a way to believe that any of Abram’s little host could come home alive from a battle with such an army. Abram waited for her without a hint of impatience, and it annoyed her a little that he seemed to feel no urgency as their horses walked slowly down the path back to Mamre.

“Abram,” she said, “why aren’t you hurrying?”

“God may be on our side,” said Abram, “but that doesn’t mean I can act foolishly. Chedorlaomer may be overconfident, but he’s not blind. I can’t bring my men down out of the hills while the enemy is marching up the Jordan Valley—they’d have hours to prepare to meet us when we reached the valley. We have to come on them unaware, which means we’ll pursue them but keep our distance, so they never know we’re there. In the mountains of the north, they’ll camp in a place where their army is divided among several small valleys. The hostages and prisoners will all be kept close to Chedorlaomer. We’ll have the victory almost before they know the battle has begun.”

“How can you be so sure of this? Has God shown it to you in a vision?”

“Did God have to show you in a vision that Sehtepibre was maneuvering to usurp the crown of Egypt?”

“No, of course not, I was trained in statecraft all my life,” said Sarai. “But you and your men have never fought a war; you’ve only skirmished with raiding parties and driven away robbers.”

“What do you think is written in those books I study?” asked Abram. “Prophecies and revelations, yes, but also the stories of the lives of my ancestors, including the wars of the righteous and the wars of the wicked. Just because I’ve never fought a war against kings doesn’t mean I don’t know how. After all, you never saw your father ruling over a city, either.”

“Abram, I have faith in God’s power to bring you victory,” said Sarai. “But I also know that God does not think of the deaths of men as a terrible calamity.”

“Sarai, I know we’ll have a victory, but I don’t know which of my men will return home alive, only that God wants me to take them into battle. One man, though, will have to return alive.”

“And who is that?”

“Me,” said Abram. “Because I don’t have any children yet, and the Lord promised me that my descendants would fill this land like dust—every corner of it.”

“Oh, so now I’m supposed to take my barrenness as a sign that God can’t let you die? What if I take it as a sign that God doesn’t always keep his promises?”

Abram’s face darkened. Sarai hadn’t seen him angry very often, but she remembered it all the more because of that. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that,” said Abram. “God keeps his word, Sarai. Heaven and earth can pass away, but his word will still stand.”

“It’s easier for you to be sure of that,” said Sarai. “You’ve heard his word.”

“And so have you. When you spoke to Neb-Towi-Re and the words came to you with such certainty that you couldn’t doubt them. Have you already forgotten?”

“No, but . . . this doesn’t feel like that.”

“It doesn’t have to feel that way to you,” said Abram. “You’re not leading these men into battle. It only has to feel that way to me.”

“Then don’t get angry with me for not having the same certainty you have.”

“I wasn’t angry,” said Abram.

“You were something,” said Sarai. “Disappointed in me? That’s worse. Worried that I might be falling into unbelief? Ashamed of me?”

“Not disappointed, not worried, not ashamed.”

“What then.”

“All right, I was angry, but I see now that I was being unfair to expect you to have the same confidence I feel when you haven’t received the same assurance God gave me. I can’t help how I feel, anyway.”

“I just don’t want you to go away from me into battle with anger in your heart.”

“The only thing I’ll be feeling is dread.”

“But you said that God had assured you of victory!”

“Many men will die,” said Abram. “Some of them at my hand. Only an evil man could head joyfully into battle, even when the cause is just. And God does not fight the battles of evil men.”

“Except for the kings of Sodom and Gomorrah,” said Sarai.

“They’ll just be spectators. In their battle, God did nothing for them.”

“Send me word, Abram, that’s all I ask. Send me word of your victory.”

“I’ll ride home to you myself, faster than any messenger could come.”

“No you won’t,” said Sarai. “That’s very sweet of you to say and it made my heart jump when you said it, but you’ll have a thousand decisions to make and tasks to do and it will take you days to get home and I want to know as fast as possible. So will all the wives and children of the other men. Send us word.”

“I will send a messenger,” Abram promised. “With a list of all the men who have been killed or injured. You’re right that no one should worry for a moment longer than necessary.”

They rode in silence for a while. Then they talked of other things—plans for weddings of several of the young men of the household who had found wives, supplies that were running short and would need replenishing, the need to acquire a servant who knew metal-working at a higher level than any of the men now in the household, the need for a new loom. Only as they came in sight of the camp did they speak again of the battle to come.

“I used to think,” said Sarai, “that it was good that I didn’t marry a king, because kings have to lead soldiers into war, to defend the city or drive off enemies. Kings have to bloody their hands with the judging of criminals. I was glad that I was married to a man who had no such painful memories, none of the wounds that such things can cause to a man with a gentle heart. But now, Abram, now I see that I did marry a king after all.”

“Only the servant of a king,” said Abram.

“No, Abram. All kings are servants of God and servants of their people, or they’re not worthy to be kings at all.”

“Melchizedek in Salem, he’s a king. A whole city of people who live in holiness, whose every possession is consecrated to the service of God. I’m just a shepherd.”

“You are king over the land God has given you, Abram. Don’t argue with me on this. I’m right, and it’s only because you take such pride in your humility that you’re even arguing with me.”

Abram laughed at that, laughed loud and long. “Pride in my humility,” he said, and laughed again.

But he didn’t argue with her anymore.

They rode off that morning, Abram at their head, quite a formidable looking army to anyone who hadn’t seen the horde in the Jordan Valley. At least they didn’t leave with jesting and boasting, as Sarai had seen soldiers do back in Ur-of-the-North. Abram offered sacrifice on the altar at dawn, and the soldiers left with solemnity, knowing that if they succeeded, they would be sending many of the enemy back to God, and probably some of their own number would make that journey, too. It was with grim determination to be a fit weapon in the hands of God that they went, and not with any pride in their own strength. They well knew that they were armed shepherds, not soldiers who also tended sheep.

And when they were gone, the camp was Sarai’s to command. There were boys to send as runners to the various flocks and herds scattered throughout Canaan, making sure that all was well with them. There were women to keep busy in the work of the camp and in the spinning and weaving that occupied them always. And through it all, Sarai could not show her own fears and doubts, for she had to set an example of cheerful confidence and faith.

Faith. She felt hypocritical, pretending to a confidence she did not feel. Of course, she could hear Abram’s voice in her head, saying that to give the appearance of confidence was an attribute of faith, for to behave as if you were certain when you had no certainty was to throw yourself into the hands of God, and encourage others to make the same leap. But if she could not be certain in the first place, it was hard to then be certain of the rightness of her pretense of certainty. It was like the way four-legged creatures moved across ragged ground. Having three legs to stand on while the fourth found a new step, their bodies remained steady and their forward progress smooth. But Sarai was a two-legged creature, and so when she walked the same ragged ground, she lurched back and forth like a drunk. She just didn’t have as many legs to balance on, when it came to faith.

And yet she did what needed doing, day after day, until a girl started shouting, “A rider! A rider!”

Sarai arose from her place at the door of her tent and walked toward where she could see what the girl saw. Hagar trotted after her, and soon all the other women and children and old men of the camp had left their work to watch the rider approach. He did not have his horse at a gallop—he was not giving a warning, and it was not worth the life of a horse just to deliver news, good or bad. Still, it was maddening to watch as the horse varied from canter to trot to walk, depending on the path. Finally, as the horse came nearer, the rider himself became impatient. He leapt from the back of the beast and ran on light feet toward the camp, leaving the horse to follow at its own leisurely pace. That was when Sarai knew that the news was good, for no man would have run on his own feet to deliver news of grief.

“Victory!” cried the man. “And not one of ours is dead!”

“Bring him food and drink before he says another word,” said Sarai. “And make sure all the runners are here to listen to his tale, so they can carry the same word to all the herdsmen. You may tell the rest of the tale without me.” Then she returned to her tent.

She could hear them murmuring behind her. Why didn’t she want to hear the tale herself?

Hagar reluctantly followed her toward her tent, but Sarai sent her back. “I can do this work for myself, and you’ll want to hear the whole story.”

“But don’t you want to hear it?”

“In due time,” said Sarai.

Hagar went back to the group gathered around the messenger, who was gratefully drinking from a carafe and gobbling bread. Sarai went inside her tent and quickly packed some extra clothing into a bag for herself and for Hagar. Then she made her way to the tent by the cookfires where food was kept and put traveling food into another bag. Only when she started loading these things onto the back of a horse did anyone come to help her. And then they understood why she hadn’t bothered to listen to the details of the story—she was going to have the messenger lead her back to Abram.

Soon she, Hagar, and the messenger were mounted and, leading a single pack horse, set off across the same country the messenger had just traveled. Then at last she heard the tale. Abram’s little army had remained out of sight in the hills as Chedorlaomer’s host journeyed up the broad valley of the Jordan. The invaders were not in a hurry now, and so instead of hurrying across the desert they were taking the great circling route through the well-watered lands, to join the Euphrates somewhere in Syria and then use the river to carry their spoils down to the cities that they ruled. Knowing their plan, Abram did not have to remain close enough to be detected.

Even when the enemy began to make their way up the narrow roads into the hills on the road to Damascus, Abram kept his men back, and the messenger was candid about how some of them began to wonder if Abram was afraid of the battle to come. But no, he simply knew that the right opportunity had not yet presented itself. It was not until the enemy camped near Hoban, not far from Damascus, that the circumstances were right. The enemy camp was divided among several small valleys, and steep-walled hills made them complacent. The mercenary soldiers drank and ate copiously, and Abram waited until the camp was still.

Then he led his men quietly on foot down the steep slope. The plan was simple—to move swiftly and quietly toward the tents of the four kings, and Abram divided his men into five groups—four to attack the kings where they slept, and the other group to free the prisoners and keep them safe in the ensuing battle. Abram’s men did not stop to kill drunken soldiers in their sleep, but rather passed them by—passed by the sleeping sentinels supposedly on watch, passed by even the guards at the doors of the kings’ tents. Only inside the tents did the shouting—and the killing—begin.

The shouts of those who were wakened by swords, the clash of weapons, and the screams of the dying finally roused the camp, but by the time the soldiers had found their weapons and staggered out in search of an enemy, they saw the tents of the four kings already burning and their erstwhile prisoners now free and armed, joining in the battle against them. Since most of these soldiers had entered this army for the pay and the spoils of war, they had no reason to stand and fight once their paymasters were defeated. Their only hope was to try to run away with as much of their booty as they could carry.

So the actual fighting did not last long. Three of the kings died in their tents. Chedorlaomer himself managed to get out and, with a few of his retainers, fled on horseback. Abram was not content, however, to let them or any of the soldiers get away. The men he had left with his horses brought the herd down to the valley and his soldiers were soon mounted. Leaving the former captives to guard the camp with all the treasure that had been abandoned there, Abram led some of his men in pursuit of Chedorlaomer and rode him down in the valley of Shaveh, where he and all his men were killed from horseback. Meanwhile, other parties of Abram’s soldiers gave chase to the escaping soldiers, killing or capturing any who stood to fight—though there were few of those. Most of the soldiers understood what was happening, and dropped their heavy spoils and stripped off their outer clothing so they could run faster—and so Abram’s men could see that they had abandoned what had been stolen from Sodom.

By dawn, the fighting was done. Abram’s men directed the few captives in gathering up the abandoned treasures. Beyond that, the messenger knew nothing, for Abram had paused only to be sure none of his men had been lost before sending him to give word to Sarai.

On the way to Hobah, they met another messenger, this time bearing the news that Lot and all the other hostages and captives from Sodom and Gomorrah and the other towns of Siddim were unharmed and free. Sarai shared food and water with him and sent him on his way, first to the camp and then on to Sodom itself, where rejoicing would immediately take the place of mourning.

When Sarai reached Hobah, where the cookfires of the camp were a beacon that drew her through the gathering darkness of the evening, she was surprised that it was not Abram or Abram’s men who greeted her, nor Lot, nor any of the kings or citizens of the cities of Siddim, but rather Melchizedek, the king of Salem, who recognized her and welcomed her. Sarai was bewildered to find him there—had he been captured, too?—but Melchizedek cheerfully explained: “The Lord sent Abram to do the fighting, but I and some of my people came also, not to fight, but to provide supplies and beasts of burden for the return. We’re not fighters in Salem, you see—our protection is God alone. But we have been blessed with plenty of food and drink to share, and beasts to bear, and strong arms to labor and legs to travel. And so we journeyed in the path of destruction left by Chedorlaomer’s army, feeding people who were returning to their ruined and despoiled homes, sending them to Salem and the other hill towns for succor.” It was just what Sarai should have expected, and she embraced the young king of Salem and let him lead her to where the former captives now feasted on the supplies left by Chedorlaomer’s vanquished army.

Lot greeted her with a shout and an embrace, and told them all that this was Sarai, the wife of Abram, who had delivered them. She was made welcome, and listened to each of the five kings of the cities of Siddim as they told their own account, in which, not surprisingly, they turned out to have been heroic, too—at least in the awfulness of the suffering which they endured during their captivity.

But Abram was not there. He had not yet returned from Shaveh, where the labor of gathering up the abandoned treasure was still not finished. Already his men had made several trips back to Hobah with fully laden animals, only to return for another load.

So it was that Sarai was there in Hobah when Abram himself returned at last. The place of honor was given to him at the feast, and Melchizedek gave him the formal hero’s greeting: “Blessed be Abram of the most high God, possessor of heaven and earth!” cried Melchizedek, and even though few of the former captives cared much for Abram’s God, they joined in the shout of acclamation that came from Abram’s and Melchizedek’s men. “And blessed be the most high God,” Melchizedek went on, “who has delivered your enemies into your hand!”

Abram arose then, and everyone fell silent to hear him speak. “The victory truly did come from God, at whose word I came and by whose strength we conquered. Melchizedek was also sent by God to help us, and to comfort all who suffered from the passing of Chedorlaomer’s army. Therefore of all this great treasure that God has delivered from the hands of our enemies, let us give a tithe to God’s high priest Melchizedek, and the people of Salem, so they can use it to do God’s work and help the many poor and innocent villagers who have lost all their goods and cattle.”

At once the kings agreed, and the former hostages as well, but Sarai well knew how the generous promises made in the moment of deliverance could shrink day by day as memories faded and treasure grew more precious. So she was not surprised to hear Abram say, “I was sure that you would agree, so I have already caused my men to divide out one-tenth of all the treasure we have recovered. It is ready to load onto the beasts of burden at dawn, and Melchizedek will take it with him to do God’s work with it.”

Sarai could see that there was noticeably less rejoicing at this news—it was always disappointing to the makers of empty promises when they were compelled to keep them. Still, no one was angry or even displeased. They had thought they had lost everything, including their freedom, and to give up a tenth of what had been recovered seemed trivial by comparison to what had been returned to them. By taking care of this business at once, Abram had brought it off. There would be no disputing it in the morning.

Then Bera, the king of Sodom, rose to his feet. Since generous gestures were the order of the evening, he spoke in praise of Abram’s courage and the bravery of his soldiers, and then said, “I ask of Abram only that he return my captive people to me. All the gold and treasure he may keep as my gift to him!”

Sarai heard this and understood at once that Bera thought Abram was nothing more than an Amorite adventurer. It was an easy enough mistake to make. If Abram were nothing but a bold raider, then as far as Bera was concerned, Chedorlaomer’s captives and hostages would now be his captives and hostages, and all the treasure his as well. Indeed, by any law of any city, that was Abram’s right. From the moment they were captured, all these hostages had been transformed into slaves—or dead men, depending on the will of their captors. Abram had just disposed of a tenth of the booty by giving it to the king of a hilltop city who had apparently been following along to scavenge what he could—or so it would seem to Bera, who could only assume that others were motivated by the same desires that controlled his life.

Abram treated Bera’s insulting misjudgment of him with the contempt that it deserved. “I lift up my hand to the most high God, who owns all things in heaven and earth, in a solemn oath to you that I will not take so much as a thread or a shoelace from you, nor anything else that is yours or that belongs to any king or man of Siddim. None of you will be able to say, I made Abram rich. The only thing I’ll keep is what my young men have eaten here at this feast. And of the freemen who rode with me, my friends Aner and Eshcol and Mamre, they should keep their portion. But of the portion that by law belongs to me and my house, I return it all to you. What I already had before this war, God gave to me, and it is enough.”

Bera and the other kings were obviously surprised and relieved. They would not only be returning to their cities, they would still be rich. The devastating defeat that was caused by their own foolishness in ceasing to pay tribute had turned to victory, for Chedorlaomer would never again come back to demand payment of them. In the end, thanks to Abram, they were getting out of it without serious consequence. And, Sarai well knew, it would not take long for them to forget their gratitude to Abram; as for God, they clearly paid no attention to Abram’s and Melchizedek’s words attributing the victory to him. An experience that should have taught them the danger of pride and gratitude to God for his mercy was instead teaching them nothing, because they were men who were not disposed to learn.

Sarai understood, though, that Abram had acted wisely. For if he had kept the treasure that rightfully belonged to him and his men, the kings of the cities of Siddim would soon have come to resent him as a profiteer, and before long there would have been hostility between them, even bloodshed. And certainly it would have gone badly for Abram’s brother Lot if he stayed in Sodom. Abram’s generosity would instead make Lot one of the great men of Sodom, and would earn him a place in the highest councils. After all, hadn’t Lot’s warnings all been borne out? And hadn’t everyone been saved by Lot’s brother, Abram, a man so rich and powerful that he could defeat great armies and yet refuse the spoils of war?

You’ve done well today, my husband.

That night, though, as she embraced Abram in the opulence of a captured enemy tent, she felt him trembling. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Lot is free, and all your men are safe.”

“I don’t like killing,” said Abram. “So much blood was shed.”

“You killed as few as possible,” said Sarai. “They came to kill and rob and enslave—there was not one whose death was not well deserved by law.”

“Let justice come,” said Abram, “but not by my hand.”

“And yet it was by your hand.”

“Only because I have given my hand to God, to use as he sees fit.”

The idea of giving his hand to God made her think of what he had said at the banquet, about how he didn’t want anyone to think Bera had made him a rich man. Abram gave his hand to God, and yet it was still Abram’s hand. If Bera had given his treasure to Abram, it would still have been Bera’s treasure in everyone’s mind—even though Bera had already lost the treasure, and Abram had taken it from someone else.

If I could give a child to Abram, it would still be my child, because it would be my gift, even if the child came from someone else.

The thought frightened her, because it meant surrendering to the barrenness of her body, admitting that she would never have a child. Still, what mattered was that Abram have seed in order to fulfill the promises of God. And if Sarai gave him another body, a body that belonged to her also, the body of her handmaiden, to receive his seed and bear him a child, then that child would come to him from Sarai as surely as if her own body had borne it.

O God, is this the sacrifice that I must make? To forswear my own child-bearing as I give my husband his son? No, please, Lord. Let my own body bear the child of Abram’s promise. Don’t leave the gates of my womb locked forever. Let life grow within me!

But she knew even as she prayed this silent prayer that she already had the answer when God gave her the thought of giving her handmaid to her husband to bear him a child. Now everything made sense to her—why God had placed her in the House of Women in Egypt, so she could meet Hagar and take her out of Egypt and bring her here to be her husband’s concubine. I was sent there only to bring Hagar’s young body to my husband.

It was with a bitter heart that she made her vow to God, to obey him in this. For only despair could make her let another woman take this place within her husband’s arms.