To have pagan gods objecting to slavery seems to be the pot calling the kettle black, as according to the Enuma Elish, they created humanity to serve them and their worshippers are all slaveholding societies. I have done a fair bit of thinking about the cherem warfare in the Hebrew Bible, putting cities to the sword. In Canaan and Assyria, at least, it does not seem to have been a war crime.

Here’s Mesha, king of Moab from 830 BCE > I proceeded by night and I fought with it from the crack of dawn to midday and I took it and I slew all of them, 7,000 men and boys and women and girls and maidens because I had put it under ḥerem (in Moabite: החרמתה) to Ashtar-Chemosh.

and Ashurbanipal, king of Assyria > The people of Sais, Piṭiṭi (and) Ṣi’nu and the rest of the cities that had joined them (and) plotted evil, young and old, they struck down with the sword. No one among them was spared.

Naturally, the gods of these peoples would be incensed by that because they are their worshippers, but as an act of war it wasn’t uncommon. I still wanted to voice the objection, though.

I was initially a little puzzled by your remark that Baal came to the defense of the God of the Judeans, he doesn’t. You are quite correct that in the Hebrew Bible, El, God of Israel and Baal are rival gods, but the El Baal is talking about there is the Canaanite El, whose son he is and who was sometimes equated with Kronos in Hellenized sources. I wanted to make it clear that they were, at least in a sense, different gods, by saying that Israel’s god has a resemblance to Baal’s father.

You are correct that El or Assyrian Ilu could refer to a major deity in general, that’s why I specified El, God of Israel, a title used in the Hebrew Bible at Genesis 33:18-20

Thank you! I didn’t know about the Rokkr

Thank you for your critique. I was not satisfied with the ending, either. If I were to extend it, I would have the gods mention acts of kindness from El, God of Israel to their peoples

The Gods in Council, Once More

The rows of the assembly hall filled, Serapis took his seat next to Oghma. A few representatives of the Aesir arrived, Odin, Freya, Thor and Tyr, the ones who had been known by face and name longest, more had come with the mercenaries who served under the eagle standard, but they had not been selected for the delegation. It seemed the old man believed if he wanted something done right, he had to do it himself. Emperors and kings were in lower places, with heroes above them. Each being whispered to their neighbor.

Hermes gripped his herald’s staff and called for their attention, everyone hushed. “Gods in council, I offer you my humblest apologies, today I pose to you a question suited more to convivial drinking than solemn assembly, ‘Who is the God of the Judeans?’ To start us off, he claims to be God of Gods, the God of Earth and Sky, yet his worshippers insist he isn’t father, and dad denies it, too.

Zeus shook his gray head from his imperial box, his brows were gathering clouds.

Hermes turned back to the other deities, “Others say he’s Dionysus, with the vines and wine at his Skenopegia festival, and the thing where his son made water into wine that Tiberius said one his prefects told him about, but cousin’s far too fun.” He cupped his hands to his mouth, “You didn’t get pissed and talk to any Chaldeans, did you, cousin?”

A young man with bloodshot eyes, wearing a crown of grape leaves steadied himself on one arm, “No,” he hiccuped, “I don’t think I did.”

“Others say he’s Typhon of Egypt.” The copper man with a head neither man nor any animal anyone on Olympus knew stood up, his ossicones twitching in indignation, “I am not he, though his people crossed my desert, in the four hundredth year since my coming into Egypt. They left with fire, darkness, and death.” At the same time, two dark skinned men stood, one in an elaborately embroidered robe of many colors, the other in a high crown, a thunderbolt crackling in his hand. Hermes extended a hand, “Belus of Chaldea and Baal of Phoenicia, the floor is yours.”

Belus spoke first, “the man with whom he made a covenant of parts was called out of my city and my worship.”

“They made war on my people,” Baal said, “slaughtering the women and children. One man dragged a couple from their tent when they were making love, and drove his sword into their bellies. Their god advanced before them with terror and dread. I knew every god on Mount Zaphon in those days, but I did not know him. I recall I thought I saw my father in him, though.”

“Your father?” Hermes Logios asked.

“El, father of gods and men.”

Zeus glowered.

“He’s your father, too, boy” Baal spat, “and not just because your people call me by your name.”

A murmur washed over the gathering, “Kronos?”

“I have heard that Kronos demands human sacrifice, as he did when the world was young.”

“The God of the Judeans asked the Chaldean he called to sacrifice his son”

“We punished Tantalus for less!”

A peal of thunder, Zeus looked up, eyes wide in amazement. The canopy of stars split open, and out of it floated a gigantic olive-skinned man with lustrous black hair that fell to his shoulders. He wore no chiton or himation, but he was girded at the waist, wearing a cloth in Egyptian style, and there were six white wings sprouting from his back.

As an escort, there came Apollo, bright-eyed, light-haired and radiantly beautiful. “I bear an oracle from one of my Pythias, ‘This is a servant of the Most High God, who comes to heal us.”

The War-Father in his wide brimmed hat stood up, leaning on his staff,

“This is he, the Mighty, whose name is unknown even to me.”