Donkey Caravan

(please note that this story contains examples of physical and sexual violence. Reader discretion is advised.)

What could be said for a donkey? A donkey is a much-maligned creature. If you want to call someone an idiot, you say they are “Kama Ḥimari’’ like a donkey. You could say they were “Binu Ḥimari’’, son of a donkey. But donkeys, despite their purported stupidity and stubbornness, are remarkably hard-working creatures. They will carry a fat man on their back, despite their small size. They can carry about five hundred deben’s weight in goods for miles with little rest. Despite their utility, they endure nothing but abuse and whipping. By the standards of asses, Gubu was a fortunate one. He was the property of a rich and magnanimous king. With Kings like Milkilu, donkeys can earn the name locust. He was like a wrestler, plump but strong. And Upuzu was not a big burden for him.

“Whenever you haggle, request twice the price you’re willing to sell for”, Abi Rashpu said, kicking his donkey ahead to catch up with his boy and Gubu, a good thirty paces up ahead of the caravan and the carriages. His donkey grunted. More kicks for his trouble.

“As if there was someone who’d fall for that old trap.” Upuzu snarked. Despite his sharp words, he took pride in the voracious vivacity of his father’s vocation.

“One may think so…” Abi Rashpu chuckled hoarsely, coughing a little from the dust, “But Egypt is a backwards land. Your mother, bless her heart must have told you as much. Up is down, bad is good, and — wine will sell for a pretty penny. Even if it’s donkey pi… inferior draught.”

“You were going to say donkey piss.” Upuzu said. He chuckled sophmorically.

“Ya’ani… I got a boy who is snotty and unmannered. Now about the trade… Did I tell you about the haggling? You should always tell them you bought the product at the price you’re willing to sell for. And — that you only do it for them. Also, you can add some worthless garbage as a free gift… make them think they are getting a good deal. ”

“I know, father. Tell me something about Egypt.” That was their destination; the ancient and mythical land of Egypt. Not only that, but it was for Upuzu his first journey away from home and his mother in Qaṭna. His eyes widened when he thought of the tales of his uncle, who spoke of the stupendous palaces, imposing temples to queer animal-headed gods, and golden tipped pyramids that seemed to almost kiss the clouds. That is, if a cloud was ever to be seen in the land of Egypt. It was a land alien to the Canaanites; where rain never fell and the Nile alone provided great bounty. It too was the land they bowed to in supplication, seven times and seven times was the formula. It expressed complete obedience to the mighty rule of Pharaoh; for there was only complete obedience or the fires of revolt. And the God-Kings of Egypt looked down on their Canaanite subjects in the best of times. When they revolted, Pharaoh’s armies would be merciless.

Upuzu grabbed his father’s brilliant multi-colored tunic to get his attention. Dyes were big business in Canaan, so Merchants that dealt in it wore colors so bright it would dazzle a peacock. It was a sort of advertising, and in those days, also the peak of fashion. Abi Rashpu scratched his itchy beard, thinking of something to say. He was not a learned man. Finally, after thinking for what seemed like an age and a half, he decided to just say the first thought that came to his mind.

“Ah. It is very green beside the rivers, oh, and there are many fine products! A few cubits of cedar wood will get you…”

“No, something interesting! Like the pyramids of the Pharaohs. I’ve heard that inside them the ancient kings live for eternity, feasting on offerings brought by the living.”

“Pu! That’s foolish nonsense and womanly talk. You should know, my dear boy, that dead is dead is dead is dead. Once you pass the eternal threshold, there is no return.” He playfully gestured with his hands his own decapitation, much to his beloved boy’s amusement.

Upuzu was thrilled by the speech of his father, his heart racing and beating like the war drums of Pharaoh’s Kushite Soldiers. He imagined his death, not with fear but with awe. Would he pass into the Field of Reeds, to face monsters and demons with magic spells, as his Uncle told him? Would it be a gray and dark abyss, where he would eat dust and drink muddy water, as his mother warned him of? Or would he rest, eternally, in a deep dreamless sleep? That thought both comforted him and disturbed him. But not knowing, with his youthful curiosity, that was gnawing at him like the ticks that were feasting on his young supple flesh.

There was a rustle in the bush by the road. The donkey caravan was kicking up a lot of dust, so the merchants could hardly see their hands in front of them. Furthermore, the clatter of donkey’s hooves, their braying along with the idle chatter of merchants drowned out the faint footsteps, just out of sight, just inaudible, just approaching; running with the speed and agility of a caracal.

But, children seem to have a third eye. Something was wrong, and with the force of a small calf, Upuzu jumped off his donkey, catapulting directly into his father’s ample paunch. This knocked Abi Rashpu in turn right off his donkey and sent them both careening. They wound up piled on the dusty ground. Just before the father could raise his fist to severely chastise his child, an arrow whizzed by sounding like the hum of a bee. Its trajectory was such that it would have hit him had he been seated on the donkey, likely piercing his liver, dooming him to a miserable death. Before his mood could change from anger to gratitude, more arrows flew. Merchants, who had been his dear companions and drinking buddies for most of his adult life, started falling like hunted deer. Their cries of anguish drowned the air in fear and sorrow.

Into the dust cloud emerged figures, in white, blue, and orange kilts. There was one thing they could be. Ḥabiru: the terror of the countryside, the scourge of cities, bandits and mercenaries devoted to a life of pillage and worse. The south of Canaan was lousy with them. Brutally, they started slaughtering the whole caravan, sparing neither man nor beast. Abi Rashpu told his son, in a hushed whisper, “Take this arrow and cover yourself in the blood of asses. If you play dead, then you can escape when they turn away from us.”

Abi-Rashpu and Upuzu held arrows upon their bodies and hid as best they could amidst the slain donkeys. This fooled many of the low-level Ḥabiru, getting drunk on stolen wine. But not Abneru. That bastard could hear any sound, it was said, no matter how faint. He often joked that he could hear a flea sneeze from a mile away. And the breath of Abi Rashpu did not escape him. Abneru was a funny man, it was said. He was captain of this group of Ḥabiru and was so accustomed to death that he made constant japes. Besides that, he was highly regarded as a warrior. He was rich, too, for a Ḥabiru. He wore bronze scale mail, and in his mouth, the gaps in his teeth from fights caused by his jokes were filled with golden surrogates. His beard was full and round, and the hairs of his head were long and curly. His nose was crooked from being broken so often, and he always smiled.

“Mutba‘alu, looky-looky, beneath these donkeys there are some more donkeys, some smart asses that think to fool us by playing dead.”

Abneru grabbed the arrows the father and son bore, and with arms as strong as a bear’s and at least as hairy, he pulled them to their feet.

“You merchants thought you were so clever hiding in the dust like insects. Don’t you know that insects get stomped?” Abneru threw a rough punch right into Abi Rashpu’s heavy paunch. The victim reeled, falling backward. A blow like that was hard to take, and he was not accustomed to being beaten. The last time he took a really good beating was when he sold a Hittite soldier some dye that he claimed was purple but was so adulterated it was almost brown. Then, justice, now, injustice. Abneru laughed at the wheezing noises his victim made as he attempted to catch his breath.

“Spare my life and that of my son and I will amply reward you! I am a very rich man!” said Abi-Rashpu, weeping.

“A good father I see! I’m in the mood for mercy now, see, I’m not such a monster! I’ll spare your life, rich man, or that of your kiddo, one or the other, you decide!”

“Take my life, so that my son might live! He is a good boy! He has no faults that demand you spill his blood! I’ve been greedy, I’ve cheated men before! Kill me and spare him!” Upuzu looked at his father, at once feeling grateful, sad, and guilty. His powerful father would sacrifice his own life for him? He wasn’t lying about cheating people, so might he be truthful about his sacrifice?

“A good father! You passed my test! I’ll spare both of you!” Abneru grabbed the fallen father by his arm, pulling him up. The relief was so palpable on the tearful faces of both father and son. Their joy was such that neither immediately noticed that Abneru had slipped a long, thin, straight akinakes sword right between the ribs of Abi Rashpu. The smile on the face of the father turned a mouth retching blood. The sword had pierced his lungs. That was a death sentence. Abneru pushed the dying man back onto the ground, fiercely cackling.

“Mutba‘alu, the boy has turned yellow!” said Abneru, wiping the blood off his sword with a handkerchief.

“Hahaha. And he’s pissed himself.” Mutba‘alu replied. Mutba‘alu was a prince. Not a traditional virtuous heir from the stories, but a more bellicose figure. He had a shadow of a beard, covering most of his head and neck, and two massive oversized front teeth like a rabbit’s. He was not like a rabbit. He was vicious and wicked of spirit, his heart as black as the charred remains of the houses he burned. The ghosts of the men he killed just five minutes prior could attest to that.

“Mutba‘alu, when are you going to get us a contract from your daddy?”, said Abneru. In fact, despite consorting with Ḥabiru bandits Mutba‘alu was the son of a local King; Lab‘ayu of Shechem. Shechem, the thorn in Pharaoh’s side.

“We’re mercenaries.” replied Mutba‘alu, “he’ll hire us when there’s a war.”

“We’d better start one then.” Glancing over at little Upuzu who was restrained, cowering in fear in the arms of two burly, hairy Ḥabiru mercenaries. “Run off little boy, go, run! Your mama is lactating just for you!”

Upuzu was released by those who had bound him, and he made haste to the north. He knew that the Ḥabiru men were skilled archers, so he ran by an exceedingly twisted path, such as a serpent makes. As he ran, the arrows flew true and swift, never too far from where he had once been. So far they had all missed him, but he couldn’t run forever. Men were chasing him, leaping over the carcasses of man and beast, splayed on the roadside. They were fast, but their life wasn’t in danger. Upuzu was well ahead of them, and certainly well out of bow’s range. He thought so at least. He stopped a moment to breathe, but a sudden pain in the back thrust him to the ground. An arrow had embedded itself in his spine. It was an arrow Mutba‘alu had loosed. The mercenaries were all joking about the boy’s pathetic fall and congratulating Mutba‘alu on his magnificent shot. Upuzu crawled on the ground, trying to get up, but he couldn’t move his legs. Finally, a plump Ḥabiru man with a stout bronze-headed mace kneeled over him, laughed a jolly cackle, and cracked open his skull like it was an earthen pot.

“Look at this!” said Abneru, holding up a cylinder of stone with engraved carvings. It was the seal of king Milkilu of Gezer. The man who carried it must have been one of that king’s most trusted men. Now he was dead, at the hands of the Ḥabiru.

“If this doesn’t start a war, I don’t know what will!” said Mutba‘alu, “My father hates that pimp Milkilu and his two filthy brothers. Let’s be honest, all of Canaan does. Let’s send this seal back to Milkilu, shoved up the ass of the man who bore it!”

“That” said Abneru, “Is true comedy. I can’t wait to see how Milkilu likes our little joke.”

“He’ll be beating his belly with laughter… and his wife!” Mutba‘alu inserted the seal into the dead man’s rectum. “A donkey! Bring me a donkey to carry this ass!”

Somehow, Gubu, the lucky donkey, had survived the massacre. Abneru grabbed the beast’s nose ring, leading him towards his friend. “Too bad you killed the boy. Could have led the donkey to Gezer.”

“No need! All donkeys know the way to Gezer!”