Eighty-one Challenges

It’s never great being number two.
     Well, I didn’t like it much.
     Second place is defeat. And I had been trained to assume I’d be the winner, which is how our army had motivated itself all along. We were fiercely competitive and thoroughly aggressive.
      It was great to be one of the Bronze Helmets, an elite force within the Philistine Army. But I so wanted to be the best, to be the first choice, to be preferred over all others, to be the chief among all-comers, to be selected in the prime spot, to be head honcho, top dog, champion. Just once would have been nice.
      Or so I thought until my name went into the frame.
      At that moment, I was content to be the one in the shadow, to be the assistant, the sub, the follower, on the bench, in the wings, deputy, stand-in, surrogate, and to take the reserve position.

I was born in Gath and my parents were metalworkers. I grew up fit and strong, and was often the victor in fistfights and, later, in sword challenges with schoolmates and at the semi-pro gym where I would take on anyone who dared to challenge me. They usually went away with headaches or flesh wounds (split lip, an eye out or something). I might have been a slightly difficult child, but my parents were proud that I could look after myself, and they spent a lot of time and money crafting a special sword for me to use. The blade was one-and-a-bit cubits long with a very sharp edge; the handle was carved from ivory. It could do some serious damage, and so could I. As a combination, we were pretty much unstoppable.
       I grew up to be four cubits tall, broad in the shoulders, with strong arms and legs and long, flowing brown hair, and became a soldier in the army, just as everyone does.
       As expected – and richly deserved, may I say – I was quickly promoted to the elite squad, and given special training in warfare techniques such as close combat, hand-to-hand fighting, slitting the gizzard of an Edomite, cut, thrust, parry and dodge and all those sorts of things, as well as fearless aggression and how to be a winner.
       The squad had the best of everything: excellent food and fine wines; no squarebashing; no cookhouse duties; our own mess and bar staff; great training equipment; and hand-made customised armour. It’s become a tradition for the lads to have family crests designed and embroidered onto their tunics, painted onto their helmet or shield. One of them even went so far as to have it tattooed onto his bicep!
        My main rival for the top position was a very big guy called Goliath. He was seriously tall (some said nearly six cubits), with hands like ham hocks and he carried a great thick spear – honestly, it could double as a beam for a loom or even the axle for a cart. Every time we had that contest to see who’s the greatest among the Bronze Helmets, he managed to beat off all the opposition.
         Last time, though, I had him licked in the sprinting, jumping and swordfighting. I admit he scored more points than me in the hurdles, the spear-throwing and in the ‘ripping a tree out by its roots with your bare hands’ event. But all that was left was the swatting, where the participants have to defend themselves against sharp stones flung at them with great force by beating them away with a plank. I had always been a lot better than Big G, as his ability to hit small objects wasn’t as finely tuned. I knew it would be close, but I had a feeling in my water that I’d win.
     It’s annoying when something as simple as a visor can make the difference between success and failure. For some reason, my new helmet, complete with family crest, had slightly too much facemask, and seeing out of the slit at the front was awkward. Big G had a bronze helmet as well, of course (the distinctive for our elite force), but no face-guard to obscure his view. True, there was a slight danger in this design, and it demonstrated an arrogant attitude, but he was very fast when it came to dodging and avoiding any blows to his face.
      But my hefty faceguard spoiled my performance in the competition, and he won by a whisker – neither of us scored highly, but he scored slightly more than me.
      So he was named King’s Champion once again. That made it three years’ running, which was deeply annoying, and motivated me to pension off my helmet maker, with the edge of my sword providing severance pay.
      And all this explains why – when we went down to the Valley of Elah to face off with the army of Saul & the Israelites – Big G was sent out as our champion.
      Our senior officers had a scheme. We could, of course, have done the usual thing and engaged the army of the Israelites in a mass bundle with lots of bloodshed and injuries. Of course we could and indeed, usually did.
       But it was going to be a lot more fun (and there was a much greater chance of the officers having an easy life…) to send a champion from each side, let them fight to the death and then declare the winner accordingly. Makes sense, right? Especially when your champion is an odds-on sure-fire stone-cold no-brainer dead-cert winner!
       So on the first morning, Big G steps up and starts bellowing to the army camped on the other hill, across the valley. ‘Choose a man and let him come down and fight me. If he wins, we will become your subjects; if I win, you will serve us!’ His voice echoed slightly, but answer came there none. ‘I defy the armies of the Israelites! Send out a man, and I will kill him!’
        It was pretty terrifying, and I can understand why they didn’t respond straightaway. The stakes were too high to send out a loser, but there was clearly a problem in getting a volunteer who stood a chance.
        Big G turned on his heel and came back into the camp, letting someone of less importance keep watch in case an Israelite Champion (the very phrase seems to be an oxymoron) should happen to be volunteered.
        All day we stood there, letting the sun glint menacingly off our metalwork, but no-one stepped up. Towards the end of the afternoon, Big G went out again and repeated his challenge. ‘Let your champion fight me, and let the peoples of the winner rule over the peoples of the vanquished!’ or something similar. But the Israelites remained quiet and not a little shy.
         The next morning, Big G went out to make another challenge. No-one came forward from the ranks of the Israelites.
        That evening, he tried again, and there was a continued distinct lack of action.
       The following day, he had further attempts in the morning and in the evening, to no avail.
       On the fourth day there was no response, and the same was true of the fifth and sixth days.
       On the seventh day we were ready for the Israelites to send out their champion, as we had heard enough about their religion to know that they thought seven was a magic number or something. But they didn’t.
       So after a whole week of nothing, we were openly laughing at the Israelites. True, there had been a bit of activity, but we reckoned it was mostly the arrival and departure of supplies, not the intensive training of a fighting man.
      By the end of ten days or so, I was getting a bit bored. The Valley of Elah isn’t what I’d call a holiday resort, and it’s always more comfortable to be in the barracks than camping on some faraway hilltop, waiting for a fight that may never happen. There were plenty of big old oak trees (from which the valley gets its name, actually) that gave shade, which was nice. We were frustrated at the lack of action, and wondered why we had trained so diligently.
       Another fortnight went by, with Big G restating his challenge each morning and evening, but still there were no takers from the Israelites. Our ballista operators grew weary with the waiting, and decided to restart their training routines, keeping their technique honed to perfection.

       By the time a month had passed, the Philistine Siege Engineers crews had created a challenge of their own, and called it Mister Ballista ‘cross the Vista.
       First, they lined up their siege engines on one side of a nearby deep ravine. On the word of command, they raced to set up a post on this side, sling a line across and get a man onto the other side. Then he raised up another post and strung the line between the two so more men can get across to the other side. Meanwhile, the entire ballista, has been dismantled, and then is transported in stages, using block and tackle, lots of effort and a breeches buoy. Once the bits of weapon are all across, the PSE reassembled it. The first team to get all their men across and fire their ballista is the winner.
       It’s brilliant fun to watch, and the eight teams of PSE were enjoying the competitiveness. The rest of us were gambling on the outcome, but as two of the crews are so much better than the others, it’s usually just a case of which of them will have the edge.
       Meanwhile, we were late into the sixth week of waiting, waiting, waiting for nothing to happen.
       Once again, as he had done so many times before, Big G stood up and addressed the Israelites. This was the eighty-first time. That’s not a significant number in anyone’s religion, unless there’s something called Octogintamonoism. And I don’t think Nonosquarology is an essential tenet of any faith...
        Anyway, Goliath of Gath shouted something wearily about ‘Is there anybody there?’ and came straight back to enjoy today’s PSE contests.
       But today (you won’t believe this) someone came forward from the ranks of the Israelites. The front row slowly parted, and from the middle of the crowd came a young lad – yes, a young lad!
      Those of us who were watching (not very many, it has to be admitted) fell about at the sight of this puny kid with dark skin, a flimsy tunic, a staff in one hand, a limp bit of leather in the other – no beard, no muscles, no sword, no helmet, no shield, no armour, no battle-cry – no war-like qualities at all.
       One of our soldiers called out to Big G. ‘It looks like someone has finally responded to your challenge. Cut him down, Goliath of Gath, and then we can all go home, taking these slaves with us.’
     There was laughter, jeering and undisguised scorn.
     Big G went forward again, his armour glinting in the morning sunshine, and his sword in hand. His shield bearer went ahead of him, and they approached the lad. Big G laughed and spat on the ground.
     ‘Am I a dog?’ he cried. ‘Why do you come at me with a stick? Shall I fetch it for you?’ He spat again, and cursed the lad. ‘What the Dagon’s-den do you think you can do to me? Stand still, and I’ll make wolf breakfast and vulture lunch out of you!’
      The ladboy, who was braver than he looked, stood his ground and gave his answer. His voice was high-pitched and thin, like that of a worried child, but his words were those of a confident man. ‘You may come against me with sword and javelin and a shield, but I stand before you in the name of the Lord God Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied. Today I will strike you down. Today I shall cut off your head. Today the vultures and the wolves shall feast on the carcasses of your army and the world will know that there is a God in Israel. It is not by sword or spear that the Lord saves. The battle is the Lord’s and he will give you into our hands.’
       It was quite a speech, and Goliath only stopped laughing long enough to grab his shield, take a proper grip on his spear and stand ready for any attack the boy might try to launch.
      The lad ran forward, and got something out of his shoulder bag. He fiddled with the bit of leather briefly and began to swing it around, above his head.
       Suddenly, something flew through the air with great speed and hit Big G before he could bat it away (I told you he wasn’t much cop at that, didn’t I?) The missile struck him on the forehead (no faceguard on his helmet, you see, didn’t I say…?) and sank into his head.
       Rather abruptly Big G stopped laughing, stopped waving his spear, stopped holding his shield, and stopped standing up. He fell backwards onto the ground. He lay very still.
       Now, I know about fighting and about weak spots and the key vulnerable places on the human body, and to be honest, I didn’t think that the forehead was particularly high up the list – especially when the weapon of choice was a smooth stone, taken from a brook, flung from a distance.
       By the time it arrived, surely the major part of its energy would have been spent on travelling, and its impact would be fairly inconsequential? If a sharp stone hits a man in the eye, I guess a lucky shot might blind him, but even then it probably wouldn’t penetrate the eye socket and enter his brain, would it? And this was a smooth stone.
       Okay, it just might cut the skin on someone’s forehead, but that’s all. Yet this pebble sank deep into Big G’s skull, as if it was not only something with a sharp edge, but something that was moving very rapidly indeed. Goliath was dead before he fell. There must have been, I think, some mysterious additional force that was not only guiding the shot, but also adding extra impetus to it…
       As Big G hit the ground, the massed ranks of both armies fell silent. We were appalled that our champ was so easily struck down; the Israelites were obviously surprised, and were probably about to cheer and celebrate that they’d somehow, mysteriously, unexpectedly won.
       Anyway, the lad rushed toward Big G’s motionless form, and, using both hands, pulled Goliath’s mighty sword from its scabbard. Then he turned, and with a fierce blow, cut off his head! Actually, it took three great hacks – the heavy sword was sharp, but Goliath’s neck was a particularly tough piece of meat with a collection of large bones inside.
       It was standard practice in those days, in those parts, for a victor to stand up, holding the head of the vanquished by the hair, letting the blood drip down. Grisly, yes, but in its way, glorious! But I can’t say if the lad (whose name, we later learned, was David) did this, as we had already turned around and were running as though our lives depended on it, since they did.
       So much for the ‘…and we will become your slaves’ part of the contract! We never had any intention of honouring that offer. We didn’t really ever consider the possibility that we would have to face that outcome.
       The army of the Israelites cheer became a roar and then they surged down the valley towards us.
       Luckily for me, no-one pointed out that I was now the next in line to be declared Champion and that I should stand and fight or anything silly like that. All of a sudden, I didn’t want to hold that exulted position… I wasn’t sure I wanted to be one of the Bronze Helmets anymore. I was glad I was good at sprinting. I threw my bronze helmet into the undergrowth, since there was a serious danger of it slowing me down or obscuring my view as I tried to get away.
       Many of our men were killed as we retreated back to our homes along the Shaaraim road, in Ekron and in Gath itself. Vultures and wolves gathered for a feast, as predicted.
      There could be no doubt that this boy’s God was mighty, as David defeated the mighty Philistine army with just one small stone, a sling, some brass neck (no brass helmet!), good aiming, and a very bold prophecy, backed up by an impressively powerful display of superiority.
      We won’t be so cheeky next time.

Didn’t meet David                           1 Samuel 17:1-52

A Philistine soldier observing Goliath’s defeat

• Was Goliath of Gath a national hero? Or was he a wicked victim? Or an arrogant fool?

• What really defeated Big G? A pebble? A shepherd boy? His attitude? His helmet? An inability to swat? Something else?

• What can we learn about the dangers of cheekiness?