Esau: The Bible's Mightiest Villain: A Historical Novel

Great characterization of Esau and very good writing.

Donna E. Pudick, author, educator.

Mr. Newman is a capable wordsmith.

Ellen Traylor, best-selling author of biblical fiction.

Mr. Newman is a serious student of the Bible and the commentaries. An entertaining historical novel about an enigmatic Biblical character.

Rabbi Mendel Krinsky.

Esau:

The Bible’s Mightiest Villain

A Historical Novel by

Alexander Newman

Published by

Joshua Tree Publishing

• Chicago •

JoshuaTreePublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

13-Digit ISBN: 978-1-941049-30-3

Copyright © 2018 Alexander Newman. All Rights Reserved.

Front Cover Image Credit: Bliznetsov

Back Cover Image Credit: Jag_cz

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To Margarita, with love.

Table of Contents

Esau: The Bible’s Mightiest Villain A Historical Novel by Alexander Newman

Preface

Some Characters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Main Sources

About the Author

Preface

Most people familiar with the Bible remember the story of Esau, who sold his birthright to his brother Jacob for a mess of pottage. However, that story does not capture the whole essence of Esau. Peel away his brutish mask, and a fascinating, nuanced, and ultimately tragic portrait emerges. Far from being a simple evil savage, Esau was endowed with enormous spiritual power, which he wasted in the pursuit of violent and sensual vices. How did he become the mightiest villain of all time, a synonym for both evil and martial prowess, instead of the greatest beacon of light? This novel will lead you to the answer through his life of adventure, battle, love, and betrayal. This is a work of fiction, but fiction grounded in the respected biblical commentaries such as Midrashim and in historical research. Despite being told from a fresh vantage point, the story is faithful to the original, including names and events from the Bible; the rest is an amalgam of legends and fiction. If the conflicts in this book seem familiar, it is because the struggle of Esau and his descendants against the sons of Jacob is everlasting. It has shaped much of human history for more than 3,000 years, and it continues to unfold today.

Alexander Newman

Some Characters

Notes:

1) Wives of Jacob: Leah, Rachel, Bilhah, and Zilpah.

2) Sons of Jacob: Reuben, Simon, Levi, Judah, Zebulun, Naphtali, Issachar, Dan, Gad, Asher, Joseph, and Benjamin.

3) Third wife of Esau; original name Basemath.

4) Second wife of Esau; nicknamed Basemath for a time.

5) First wife of Esau; nicknamed Judith for a time. A product of an illicit union of Zibeon and his son Anah’s wife.

6) Other sons of Seir: Shoval, Anah, Dishon, and Etzer.

7) Korach is an illegitimate son of Eliphaz and Oholivamah.

8) Timna is an illegitimate daughter of Eliphaz and Seir’s wife Nureen.

9) May his wicked name be erased from memory.

Chapter 1

The arrow found its target: the deer’s brown eye. The buck staggered for a few moments, bobbing his antlers and kicking the sand, and toppled over. Esau smiled: not bad for a fifteen-year-old whom nobody had taught archery. As he went through sparse pine forest to retrieve his trophy, looking around for a place to build a fire, some distant voices brought him to a halt.

He scanned the woods, but all he saw was trees, dry needles, and white stones. A few scattered patches of red anemones, which sprouted for a couple of months in the spring, enlivened the desolation a bit.

Esau crept toward the sounds, bypassing fallen tree branches, until he detected something gleaming at a distance. There! A multitude of soldiers in battle attire stood in a field behind the forest, about five bowshots away, their brass helmets glittering in the midday sun. He wrinkled his forehead. Where did they come from? How did he miss their arrival?

Esau edged closer, tiptoeing from tree to tree, trying not to brush against the sap, sinking his sandals into a soft carpet of needles. He gasped when he made out the red banner and realized that it belonged to King Nimrod of Babylon, the first and the most famous of all the kings in the world.

Esau stopped to think this over. What is the king doing so far away from home in my wilderness? Hunting? After all, people call him the Mighty Hunter before the Lord. But if Nimrod is indeed here, it would be too good to be true. This would spare me a three-week journey to his kingdom!

He squinted again and rubbed his neck. If I could kill the king and take his prize, I would become the new Mighty Hunter. But I want a different title. The Mighty Warrior? No, there are plenty of those. I want to be called . . . The Mightiest.

The Mightiest.

I can defeat the king, no doubt. All these guards around him, all their shiny weapons and helmets—they don’t matter here. He is not going to hunt with his clanging entourage.

Esau soon grinned with content, as a man dressed in different clothes than the rest strode into the woods accompanied by two others. Esau slunk toward the three men, dashing and halting, caressing the needles away from his face. He stopped at the edge of a large clearing, with the Babylonians on the other side of it.

The group paused and changed the course back into the forest. The field ahead, of low grass and occasional thorn bush, offered little cover. No, let them come here.

Esau stepped on a dry tree branch, and the sound echoed among the midday calmness. He stepped on it again, dropped on the hard-packed sand and peeked, swiping the dust off his face.

The soldiers stalled, exchanged gestures, and headed toward him through the clearing, observing every bush, every rock, and every anthill ahead, almost gliding above the ground. Nimrod, if it was indeed him, was leading the way, bow and arrow at the ready, treading with poise and confidence, yet not making a sound. His companions kept their fancy composite bows on their backs and their swords in the scabbards, ready to grab whichever weapon they needed in an instant.

Esau ducked behind a massive rock and held his breath, feeling fortunate that the king and his men faced the sun. But when he saw Nimrod and his two guards spread out, his heart sank.

If they continued on this course, they would soon surround me, he realized. Instead of killing Nimrod, I’d be killed myself before getting anywhere near the king. I’m trapped. And why is it so hot all of a sudden?

The rustle of footsteps was getting louder, but after a pause Esau heard whispers and spied the Babylonians changing their course yet again. They were so close that he could see every worn leather strap on the sides of their muscular legs and the dust on their short red battle tunics. Someday I’ll wear a red uniform of my own design, he resolved in passing.

Esau wavered for a little while, wondering if it was indeed Nimrod in front of him. The king was supposed to be dark-skinned, and so was this large strapping man in a shiny brown long-sleeved leather tunic decorated with the figures of wild animals—and no body armor. That’s good enough.

He tossed a flat stone close to the ground, aiming to avoid the bushes. As expected, the stone did not tumble but hit the ground and slid.

The men turned toward the sound, with their backs now facing Esau and bent like the bows they were carrying. The two guards set out to investigate, while the leader remained in place, erect, with an arrow notched on his bow.

Esau tried to calm his heart, remembering how he had wrestled a bear cub to the ground last month. He aimed an arrow at the back of the king’s head and released it.

Nimrod started to turn around, and the arrow only nicked him. The king shrieked and loosed his own arrow without aiming. He missed.

Esau grabbed the sword and ran toward the king, flitting between the thorn bushes and ignoring their stinging. Nothing else mattered until he covered the dusty distance.

He noticed Nimrod loading another arrow with his stubby bejeweled fingers and skipped sideways; the arrow smacked a tree behind the clearing. The king reloaded but did not have a chance to aim: a thrust of the sword sliced his neck. The arrow flew past Esau, and the king froze in place without making a sound, his mouth open, his head stiff, his widened dark eyes staring at the attacker.

Esau knocked off Nimrod’s golden helmet incrusted with precious stones and grabbed his long braided hair. Protecting himself with the king’s body, Esau lumbered toward the guards. Seeing them up close, he felt insignificant in comparison, but he kept going, his eyes narrowed, his lips flattened.

Kill him, kill him! screeched the king. His soldiers—the older man on the left and the younger on the right—wavered.

Esau pushed Nimrod with all the force he could muster toward the older guard. He then rolled on the ground toward the younger one and stung the soldier’s leg with his short bronze sword, cutting through the sandal straps.

The soldier sprung back and looked down in horror, as if ten hissing vipers were coiled in front of him. Backing away, he stumbled upon a rock and spread his arms.

Esau leaped from the ground and thrust his sword into the man’s now-exposed abdomen, just below the short scale armor, twisting the blade to prevent it from being trapped within the wound. The soldier screamed, swaying on his feet, and slumped to the ground. His pointed bronze helmet rolled away, but Esau did not linger to watch.

The older and more confident guard put down Nimrod’s body and unsheathed his well-polished sword. His curly silver beard glinted in the sun like a coat of chain mail; his elaborate uniform and the heavy leather armor on his shoulders were decorated with gold insignia. He must be a general, Esau figured.

The general waited to attack, and the two combatants stood still, watching each other. The vile-smelling Babylonian wiped away the sweat from his brow and touched his large bulbous nose with his free hand.

Esau scowled, thinking about what that meant. Was the man afraid to fight? This old warrior with a scar-crossed cheek? Did he think he could run away? Where? Back to the soldiers to inform them that he failed to protect his king?

The guard stepped over Nimrod’s body, yelled something, and made a forehand swing. Esau swiveled out of the way and deflected the strike, which only slit his white woolen simlah cloak. The guard followed with a backhand swing that was also parried. After the combat continued for several minutes, the men paused to catch their breath, and the general allowed his bloodshot eyes to meet Esau’s.

The silver beard quickly shifted his glance, but it was too late. The sword of Esau cut through his right arm, and the Babylonian dropped his weapon. The second thrust sliced through the general’s neck; his legs wobbled and gave way.

The victor turned away from the crumpled mess and tottered back to the younger guard. He was still alive, struggling to breathe, trying to stop the bleeding by pressing his blood-soaked hands on his stomach. His eyes filled with tears were pleading for mercy, and he was mumbling something.

Why are you here? Esau demanded in a harsh voice, gasping for air, too. The man did not answer, and Esau pounded on the wound, spraying himself with blood.

We were . . . looking for you. We knew you hunted here, the guard stammered and coughed, his short black beard becoming brown.

You traveled all this distance—for me? Why? Esau took another deep breath, swatting away flies.

He was . . . jealous . . . of you. He dreamed that you would . . . mumbled the soldier through the bloody bubbles.

Dreamed what? That I would kill him? Was he a prophet or something? demanded Esau.

The soldier did not answer. His body arched up and then slackened; his eyes stared at the sun without flinching.

Esau returned to the king’s body. Nimrod was lying face down, one of his sandals dug deep into the ground as if trying to find a refuge there. The older guard was also dead. Esau frowned: no answers today.

A pair of black vultures descended on the king’s body and tried to peck at it but stopped in their tracks and backed down. Instead, they flapped their wings and waddled toward the general. Esau shooed them away. The bodies were his.

He felt an unfamiliar smell of death that he could not describe. It was not just a smell of human blood and feces, but that of finality, hopelessness. Esau wasn’t sure whether he was elated or sad; he was smothered by the exhaustion. But there was no time to sort it all out. One last task remained.

He picked up Nimrod’s shining helmet, admired the rubies and sapphires glimmering in the sun, sighed, and threw it back. He turned to the prostrate body and labored to strip off Nimrod’s tunic, trying to protect the leather by lifting the king’s torso upside down and letting the blood drain away. Done! He ran his fingers over the tunic and buried his face into it, expecting the smell of a sweaty hide, but the aroma of an apple orchard greeted him instead. He grinned.

His hands and legs still trembling, Esau was unable to take another step. He stood at the clearing, devouring the sweet desert air. A beetle landed on his ruddy face, but Esau did not stir. A thought crossed his mind that were the rest of the soldiers to appear then, they could have overpowered him without any difficulty.

He looked at Nimrod’s listless head again. Not a single gray hair. Hmm.

A chittering ground squirrel ran in front of Esau and startled him—just in time. Through the stifling stillness of the day, he detected the unmistakable sounds of heavy footsteps. Moving toward him.

Chapter 2

Carrying Nimrod’s garments on his shoulder, Esau wobbled back to Hebron for days, or so it seemed. Scorching afternoon sun or not, he trudged through lifeless, blistering wasteland. Trying to strengthen himself, he recalled two great things that happened on that day: an adventure with a betrothed girl in the morning and this improbable victory in the afternoon.

He stopped to take the last sip from his leather pouch. A glance at the king’s tunic brought him back to his thoughts.

How was I able to kill the great Nimrod, who could convince his entire generation to rebel against the Lord? Who started building the Tower extending into the sky? Whom his subjects idolized as a deity? The Mighty Hunter, who never missed a shot? Until now. It’s funny that the only person on the face of the earth who had opposed building the Tower was my own grandfather Abraham. And now I’ve completed his struggle with the king.

A pair of old toothless leathery shepherds with a drove of bedraggled sheep gave him a puzzled look and followed his dusty steps. Esau felt too tired to even think about killing them; all he could do was stagger along.

With water gone, the road got blurrier and blurrier. A headache replaced his musings, and he felt ready to faint. Wishing that the night would arrive already, he closed his eyes to feel a brief respite of shade. A pair of huge stones ahead offered some cover, and he hastened his steps. That’s when he lost his footing and fell into something.

***

Esau cracked his eyes open to the sight of three giggling young men with knives in their hands staring down at him. Something sharp was poking at his back. He felt his arms and legs: nothing broken. He closed his eyes, exhaled, and let his limp head drop on the muddy bottom of the pit. If there were snakes and scorpions here, they would have attacked already, he thought. At least it’s cooler down here.

The youngsters exchanged whispers, elbowed one another, and threw some pebbles at Esau, but he did not twitch. When one of them finally descended and started poking at his body, Esau grabbed his foot and toppled him. With a sword against his throat, the lad pleaded for mercy.

Esau looked up and screeched, Get away from here or he’s dead! The two young men did not stir, still peering down.

I have some gold, and I’ll give it to you—but move! offered Esau.

The young outlaws looked at one another, and one of them said, Throw it to us and let him go, then we’ll talk.

So you could take off and leave me here? No, thanks, replied Esau. "Let me out, and then we’ll talk."

Fine. Throw your sword to us, handle first, and push him out of there, said the same man. Your bow, too.

I’ll throw the weapons to you, but I must get out first, insisted Esau.

His captors agreed, and soon all four of them were above ground. The three ruffians surrounded Esau, one of them pointing an arrow at its owner.

Up close, the outlaws did not look that young—all of them were a bit older than Esau. Or did it only seem so because all of them were missing some teeth? They wore the same clothes as he did, only dirtier.

So where’s the money, redhead? demanded the man holding the bow.

"It’s either here, at the bottom of my simlah pocket, or down there in the mud. I cannot feel anything with my fingers, said Esau. He invited one outlaw to come closer to the edge and looked down into the hole with him. He then took off his cloak and handed it to another. Check it out yourself."

With the two robbers distracted, Esau skipped behind the man fumbling with the cloak. In the blink of an eye, he wrapped the simlah around the man’s arms and shoved him onto the man still staring down below.

Both outlaws yelped and dropped into the pit, while Esau snatched a knife from the ground and threw it into the third one. The knife only nicked the target, but the bowman lost his balance, which allowed Esau to rush forward and punch him on the chin. The man collapsed and dropped the bow. Esau kicked him a few times, picked him up, and tossed him to join his comrades.

See you later, morons.

***

After making it back home, Esau tried to wash the blood off the leather but could not. He smelled the aroma of the food being prepared in his brother Jacob’s room next door, stuffed the trophy under his unmade bed, and stumbled towards the food. The blood would have to wait.

Jacob was cooking something red. Whatever it was, it would do.

Give me some of that red, red stuff, Esau demanded, taking a whiff. I am ready to die of hunger.

Stirring the food, Jacob cast a long disapproving look at his brother. You don’t know what this ‘red stuff’ is all about, do you? Do you even have a clue about what happened today?

Hearing only silence, Jacob continued, Our grandfather died. And where were you? Hunting, I presume. He pointed to Esau’s torn and blood-covered clothes and straightened his own pristine white simlah.

Esau’s mouth slackened. So, the old patriarch is dead at last, he thought. I expected him to live longer that 175, if he was so righteous. But anyway, it means that my fifteen years of pretending are now over. I’m free from under the old man’s thumb! Maybe that’s why I felt so liberated today and accomplished these two great things.

Never mind where I was, just give me some of this red . . .

I cannot give it to you. This is a dish of red lentils, the traditional first meal of mourners. Cooking it for our father to comfort him, Jacob frowned, putting down the silver ladle.

Lentils? Esau’s eyebrows shot up. Why? There are so many things you could eat that do not require so much cooking.

Lentils are round, explained Jacob in a patient voice, and they represent the circle of mourning that comes around to everybody in the world. Lentils have no mouth, just as the mourners are silent. We’ve studied all this together, don’t you remember?

Well, we’ve studied a lot of things. All those religious commandments . . . I don’t know why we bothered, since we don’t even have to observe them. Good thing I’ve skipped some of that. He took another whiff.

Yes, the commandments will be given to our descendants centuries later, when they will become binding. And yes, we don’t have to observe them yet, but it’s the right thing to do.

Oh, forget the lectures. Just give it to me! I’m exhausted! I cannot even lift my arms to hold a spoon! Pour it in my mouth! Esau sat down on a bench and opened his mouth wide.

Jacob sprung back. Esau, you are my twin and older brother, he said, pushing his words through a locked jaw and tensed lips. But you are just a brute! Look at yourself sitting here with a mouth agape. And you and your progeny are supposed to become the heads of our clan when our father passes away? To offer sacrifices on behalf of all of us in the future, as we’ve studied with you? Oh, I forgot, you must have skipped that, too.

Esau closed his mouth and smiled. Jacob, what’s the problem? Am I too hungry for your taste?

Stop it! I’m talking about sacrifices—a serious business! That job will demand absolute perfection. As you should know, if the priest offers them while drunk or with his hair uncut for more than thirty days, he would incur a death penalty! And where is perfection in you?

Jacob stood silent for a minute, flaring his nostrils, and resumed in a soft voice, "Esau, we have two options. You could wait until I’m done cooking this dish for our father, and I’ll make you another one after that. Or, I could serve you this food right now—pour it down your throat, if you wish—but first you’d have to sell me your birthright! I’ll give you