There is no God, just stories.

The King thought deeply for a moment, then arose from his throne to proudly inspect the idols displayed around his walls.

“You know I’m one to ramble on with stories of my youth. I've studied all religions, the tribes of the upper Nile, the Chaldeans, even beyond the mountains of Persia.”

He held up a golden figurine and waved it like a toy.

“There is no God, just stories.”

Elam threw the idol to the floor, smashing it to a thousand pieces.

“See, I knew it was clay underneath. Don’t worry, I have many more.”

Hashum took his Father’s arm and drew him close.

“What if you're wrong?”

Elam despised the look of fear in Hashum’s eyes. “Faith is the deceitful cloak of conquest, and Joshua's is no exception.”

“So what do we do with the spies?” Giddel asked impatiently.

Elam pulled away and slowly paced the floor, circling his sons and stroking his beard. He relished in the theatrics of weighing up the moral implications of this decision. The spies were like a dangerous species approaching extinction.

“The Hebrews are the only people on earth without a king. They have only one god, with no name and no idol to worship.”

“And no land,” said Giddel. “So shall we arrest them or kill them?”

“Wouldn't it be better to keep them alive?” asked Hashum, “to trade them later.”

“Why?” asked Elam, “What do the Hebrews have that I need? Nothing more for my collections. They’ll vanish into the scrolls of history soon enough.”

“As you wish,” said Giddel, grateful to finally get the answer he wanted.

“Good, and be sure to tie their heads to a post at the crossing,” the King coldly remarked.

“Their heads?” asked Hashum.

“Let me put it like this. I could imagine more crude and offensive things we could tie to a post, but vultures steal them easily and they don’t identify the bodies.”

Elam’s matter-of-fact reply got the desired response. His two sons turned to leave the throne room.

“Oh, and I almost forgot, the whore should be rewarded; perhaps after your mother retires for the evening.”

Giddel scowled and barged out the door, with Hashum in his wake.

Elam chuckled to himself. He knew Giddel always had eyes for Rahab. Like most accomplished dictators, his manners were like fine silver cutlery - reserved only for special occasions.

King Elam of Jericho

Elam, the King of Jericho, was an extremely wealthy man, which was hardly surprising considering he charged taxes like a wounded bull on the trade routes between Jerusalem, Damascus and Arabia (although some said he was more like a parasite fastened on the neck of a wounded bull).

His palace was made of the finest marble, and decorated with golden bird baths, polished cedar furniture, ivory door handles, and large statues of himself prominently displayed in every courtyard and fountain.

The walls and hallways were adorned with all sorts of treasures and tapestries from every corner of the globe. Ancient artifacts from Egypt, golden idols from Persia, tribal spears from Ethiopia and a stuffed tiger's head from India – all proudly catalogued the history of man and his notorious achievements.

In many respects, Elam was a collector of relics, particularly religious icons. He kept countless valuables on his middle aged body, like golden necklaces in his greying chest hair, and a belt studded with sacred Babylonian jewels that seemed a little too tight around his waist.

Some were even living, breathing treasures, like his tall African bodyguard who at the tender age of twenty had mastered the black arts of sorcery and knew a hundred ways to kill a man in ten seconds with his bare hands.

So Elam’s fascination with all things religious, however obsessive, made the arrival of his eldest son all the more distinguished given the contents of the scroll that he so proudly delivered.

“Hashum, my first born, you never fail to please me. Giddel take note, it takes a fine hunter to kill two wolves with one arrow.”

“He’s done well, no doubt about that,” Giddel replied, “but your jesting cannot provoke me to jealously. He deserves all the accolades.”

“Father, as always, it’s my pleasure to serve you,” said Hashum as handed over the scroll, “the spies are with Rahab as we speak.”

Elam unravelled it with the anticipation of a biologist discovering a new species. He would enjoy adding this to his collection. “How was the camel on your trip?”

“Not as fast or well mannered as my horse, though I can’t complain. It did the job.”

“Yes I can see,” replied the King as he read through the scroll. “Thou shalt not steal, ... kill, ... false witness, ...and so on.”

Elam looked up and smiled, “The usual diarrhea. Let me guess, they want my land, they'll murder my people, and then tell their little children stories about the evil King of Jericho.”

He handed the scroll to his African bodyguard and awaited Hashum's response. “Well? What do you think?”

“Father, With the Midianite's defeat, there's nothing in their way.”

“Mmm, tell me about this Joshua. You fear he'll replace Moses?”

“He already has,” said Hashum. “Moses is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Did Joshua murder him?” asked Giddel.

“No. Not that I know off,” replied Hashum, “but I'm more afraid of their god.”

Elam laughed, “What, the one who supposedly parted the Red Sea, then let his Prophet die in the wilderness? Now that’s your mother’s sense of humor.”

“No father,” replied Hashum. “If that’s how he judged his Prophet, how will he judge his enemies?”

A stranger in the night

Surprised at his own embarrassment, Salman smiled boyishly and returned to the window, “Thank you, we do feel welcome. I'm curious though, that field is completely bare. Your King leaves no crops around the edges for the poor?”

“Hunger makes slaves of us all,” Rahab answered.

Salman considered her reply while observing something else out the window. In the distance, a lone dark figure rode towards the city on a camel.

“Indeed it does. Some people are sold into slavery, but others sell themselves.”

“Either way, they’re both slaves,” said Rahab.

“True,” Salman chuckled, enjoying the game of cat and mouse.

“Still, you've done well for yourself,” Phinehas interrupted, “to live so close to the gate?”

“Nothing comes cheaply for a woman,” she replied.

Salman sensed Phinehas overstepped the mark, and his suspicions were confirmed as Rahab dutifully cleared the half eaten meal. Quick, change the subject, he thought.

“Is it common to open the gate after sunset?”

“Sometimes,” Rahab cautiously replied.

Salman turned again to the window and watched the camel rider approach the gate. He looked athletic but slender, about thirty years of age and carrying a long thin sword over his shoulder. Although a headpiece covered most of his face, a rope burn scar was clearly visible around his neck. Strange, Salman thought, that face looks familiar. The rider’s whispered conversation with the Gatekeeper aroused even more suspicion.

The sound of the gate opening put a wet blanket on the conversation. Everyone knew they should keep talking but nobody wanted to. The silence was all the more disturbing as they strained to hear what the guards were saying (without admitting they were eavesdropping).

“So you're from Egypt?” asked Rahab.

“We're tired, sorry,” Phinehas replied, in a manner that was really asking her to leave.

“Too tired to answer questions, but not to ask? I should leave you alone then.”

“Wait,” Salman interrupted, “how could you tell?”

“Your accent, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” Salman responded, strangely amused that for the first time in his life he was aware of this fact. How ironic.

Rahab politely bid the gentlemen good night and quietly moved to the other bedroom, by the window on the inner wall overlooking the city square. Through the wooden shutters, she watched the camel rider dismount and embrace Giddel like a brother returning from a long and dangerous journey. The two men walked off briskly into the palace, as the gate to the city shut with an ominous finality.