Hey, prime members, you can listen to Tides of History add free on Amazon Music. Download the app today.

The boy was out of breath by the time he was halfway up the slope.

He was used to climb. It was impossible not to be used to it living in the hills of Judea.

But why these stubborn goats had chosen this hill with its steep rocky sides and a parent lack of a good path

the boy couldn't say. All he knew was that his legs were on fire and his lungs were burned.

He could hear his father shouting at him from below, telling him to hurry up.

It would start getting dark soon and they needed to return home before nightfall.

The hills were full of dangers.

Philistine raiding parties coming up from the lowlands and mollabites from the south were the worst, but there were other enemies too.

Hill folk from another chevitt tribe or a neighboring Mishprachah, a lineage group were every bit as dangerous

even if they spoke the same tongue and worshiped the same deities like Yahweh, God of war and storms and much else besides.

Those feuds were even worse because they were closer to home, raw, bloodier, with more at stake.

The boy and his family were no fools, better safe and sorry.

The goats eventually heated his calls and started picking their way back down the slope, much sure footed in the boy.

The sun was only a short distance above the line of modelled brown ridges that rose to the west.

Much of the rocky ground was already striped with shadows.

You could hear his father's voice but couldn't make out the words.

Their meaning was lost as they echoed off the surrounding hills and the boy couldn't figure out precisely where his father's voice was coming from.

He felt panic rising in his chest as heart thudding.

He had only a staff that of stale bread and dried meat and barely any water.

He had his cloak but it was a threadbare thing not enough to stay warm overnight.

He told himself, you know the way home from here? You'll be a man in a couple of years?

...