Samson

by Eric Wilson

“If it was the Egyptians,” one said after the first cartload was half full, “why are they not among the dead? I see only Philistine helmets and shields. Not one weapon other than our own.”

  “Could’ve been a surprise attack. A quick strike from the hillsides.”

  “With what? Bows and arrows?”

  “What else?”

  “Have you seen one arrow yet through our men? Even if they came to retrieve their arrows, we would see some broken shafts or fallen arrowheads. I’ve seen nothing of the kind.” He reached for the breastplate of a body on the rocks, ready to heft it. “This one here, for example, just a gaping hole through the chest and over his eye. What could do such damage? It’s almost like . . . ” He stumbled back. “This man, he’s . . . he’s alive, he’s alive.”

  The man who was presumed dead opened his mouth and took a huge gasp of air.

  The other soldier joined in the astonishment. “It’s . . . Why, it’s Prince Rallah.”

  The prince’s eyes burst open. “I heard you two talking. About time you found me.”

  CHAPTER 40

  FOR SACRED USE

  Village of Zorah

  ZEALPHONIS MARVELED AT the extremes of emotion that could abide in a woman’s heart. She and Manoah had shared nearly twenty-five years together, and she would never forget his scruffy beard against her cheek, or the intensity of his gaze, or the bend of his back at the plow. As man and wife they had experienced their joys, private and public, and endured their share of hardships. This particular hardship would be the worst of all for the simple reason that he wasn’t here to shoulder it with her.

  She had her boys, though. Two fine young men.

  And now Samson was ready to take on that mantle in a whole new way.

  “I’m so proud of you, Son.” She pinched at his clean-shaven cheek, played with his combed locks of hair. “I sometimes worried this day would never come.”

  “I always knew it would,” he kidded. “Keeping you in suspense just seemed more fun.”

  “You rascal. I only wish that . . . “

  “What?”

  As always, Caleb knew her heart and filled in the words for her. “I wish Father could be here to see this. The amount of grief you caused him, Brother? He, as much as anyone, deserved to see it with his very own eyes.”

  Samson turned solemn. “I believe that he’s watching.”

  The Levitical priest stepped forward in his tasseled robes, a horn of oil in his hand. The oil was mixed with aromatic ingredients, a blend for sacred use only, but he had accepted Zealphonis’s offer of homegrown, home-pressed olives as the base for his blend. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

  Those gathered offered prayers and blessings over her son. Samson closed his eyes and lifted his head, accepting the generous pour from the priest’s curved horn. The oil, rich and golden, oozed through his hair, over his forehead and face, and to Zealphonis he seemed to glow with a light unlike any she had seen since the day the angel came to her.

  CHAPTER 41

  DEEPEST DESIRE

  City of Gaza

  FROM THE SHADOW of a scarlet wall hanging, Delilah could see candle flames reflecting off copper vases and silver pitchers. She had gained increasing access to the palace throne room and royal chambers, and she took it as a sign of King Balek’s approval. She was still careful, though, not to overstep her bounds.

  Now, for example, seemed a good time to remain circumspect.

  She stood at such an angle that she could just glimpse father and son in the king’s private chamber. The king wore a soft linen covering. His head was bare, as were his feet, which were on a pedestal being attended to by a scantily clad servant girl. Rallah had only recently returned from the battlefield and still wore his dark cape, attached to rings on his breastplate. A head wrap held a patch of cloth over his eye, protecting the ragged wound inflicted upon him by Samson.

  The moods in the room were volatile. Delilah quieted her beating heart with a hand over her breast and listened to the exchange between her king and her prince.

  “How many?” King Balek wanted to know.

  “You’ve heard already from the troops.”

  “I want to hear it from you, Rallah. Tell me.”

  “One thousand.”

  The king shook his head. “Hmm, so it’s true.”

  “Ashdod was one of the first to succumb. He fought nobly.”

  “Fighting nobly does us no good, does it? Have you any idea how long it’ll take to replace and train a thousand men?”

  “A royal burial for the commander might inspire others to serve, my king.”

  To Delilah’s ears, this made good sense.

  “A royal burial?” King Balek scoffed. “What inspiration is there in that? We’d do better to toss his body onto the city garbage heaps. That might snap the men from their cowardice. If they fear this enemy more than us, they’ll run yelping beneath our robes like dogs. No, let them fear us more.”

  Rallah winced, clutching at his chest.

  His father poured himself another chalice of wine from the pitcher.

  “It would be difficult,” the prince said at last, “to fear anything more.”

  “Than this Samson? Nonsense. Your lack of swordsmanship does not make him special. Your wounds will heal, won’t they? Stop speaking of him as though he’s a leviathan, some mythical monster that cannot be killed.”

  “He has the strength of a god,” Rallah snapped.

  “We have other ears in this room,” the king cautioned, his eyes darting to the girl at his feet. “Do not exaggerate the exploits of one battle.”

  “You refuse to believe,” Rallah pressed on, “but I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Your eyes deceive you. Did you see him bleed?”

  “Yes, and—”

  “Then he is not a god!” King Balek swept his hand across the nearest table, scattering utensils and pieces of fruit across the room. “You fear this man, and you’ve let that fear creep into the hearts of your men. You want to lead? You must grow a backbone first, Rallah. Enough. Leave me.”

  “Father, I—”

  “I am your king.”

  “My king, I vow that I will end this matter. I swear it on the graves of my fallen brothers.”

  “Do not speak of your brothers, most of whom you barely knew. Why, you’ll join them shortly in their graves if you continue cowering in the presence of every Hebrew with a sword.”

  “He had nothing but a jawbone.”

  Delilah herself had doubted this part of her lover’s story, but the puckered gouge in his ribcage convinced her otherwise. It took great effort for him to even walk into this room.

  “Get out of my sight,” the king said. “Enough of this nonsense, you child. You want to do the throne some good, go tell the Hebrews that we will only refrain from retaliating if their strongman vows to end his violence. That is all.”

  Prince Rallah bowed, then turned to leave. Delilah saw him clench his fists even as he shuffled from the chamber in agony.

  She heard his rampage before entering the room. She slipped through the door, pressed herself close to the bedchamber’s window. In the streets beyond the palace, stories circulated about the great slaughter on the heights of Lehi, and the king had already issued an edict prohibiting such tales.

  Delilah, like Rallah, had seen Samson with her own eyes. His strength was impressive.

  And that was not all.

  Breaking her from her thoughts, Rallah snatched a statue of Dagon from its candlelit alcove and slammed it into tables, benches, the very chamber walls, until the image was defaced. Next, he dropped to his knees and beat the object against the floor.

  All of it was sacrilege, of course, but to touch a god to the floor, that was egregious.

  “What’re you doing, Rallah?” she cried. “Think of the consequences.”

  He brought down the statue again and again, grunting in pain from his wounds, but unrelenting as he punctuated his words.

  “You . . . �
��

  Crack.

  “Are . . . ”

  Craack.

  “Not . . . ”

  Craaack.

  “A god!”

  Craaaack!

  Dagon’s statue shattered, the pieces careening about the room, and the head rolled to a stop next to Delilah’s sandal. She didn’t dare touch it for fear of taking part in this desecration.

  “You risk Dagon’s wrath?” she asked.

  Rallah looked up. “I do not fear Dagon or my father.”

  “You fear another then.”

  “I’ve seen a real God, yes. In a real man. That is true power, and I will have Samson’s power. When the time is right, I will take it from him. This I swear.” He rose to his feet, adjusted the cloth patch over his eye, and moved in front of her. “You, Delilah, you’re going to help me. We will bide our time, we’ll be patient, but mark my words, we will rule one day.”

  She gave him a light kiss. “That,” she agreed, “is my deepest desire.”

  CHAPTER 42

  MIGHTY STRONG WORDS

  Nearly Twenty Years Later—Village of Zorah

  I PULL AT MY beard, and I realize again that I am my father’s son. I was nearly twenty when he died, and nearly twenty years have passed since that horrible moment in the Philistine camp. Not one day goes by without me thinking of him, of what he would say, what he would have me do. Though my hair and my beard are still full and dark, not the gray scratchy stuff that he sported, I hope, as a judge, that I’ve exhibited even a portion of his wisdom.

  “Samson, we normally come asking for your advice,” says Orum. “We’ve done that for years, and what has really changed?”

  “The time for your advice is over,” Treus jumps in, always at odds with me.

  It’s no mistake that we are seated here, this small group of men. Once the rebel youth, the upstart warriors, we’re now the elders of the village, and it was here in Zorah’s square, beneath this canopy, that the priest poured his oil over my head. The scent of it clung to my hair for days, and I want to believe that its consecration rests on my shoulders even now.

  “What’s this?” I ask. “Caleb, do you already know the direction of this discussion?”

  My brother lifts his gaze to mine. “Something has to change, I agree.”

  “What’s the trouble? I don’t understand.”

  “We are still oppressed.”

  “We are at peace,” I say. “When I became judge, I held back my acts of revenge. I stopped killing Philistines, and they stopped killing us. Men, tell me, am I wrong on this? King Balek called a truce, and we haven’t seen anyone murdered in our streets in ages. You know it’s true. Some of you now have children of your own. You, Orum, do your sons even know about poor old Tobias, how he was run through on this very road? Wadesh, does your daughter know that you nearly died at the hands of the Philistines’ champion? Even if they’ve heard the stories, our young ones haven’t seen that sort of evil in their midst.”

  “As youth, we saw it,” Treus says. “And you fed it so that it would leave us alone.”

  “Explain that to me.”

  “I don’t have to. You just explained it yourself.”

  My gaze pans over the gathering, and most of the council won’t meet my eye. Caleb, at least, rises to stand by my side. “For years, men, I have said that our only hope is in peace.”

  “What is peace?” Wadesh ventures. “A lack of violence?”

  “Peace is food in our children’s bellies,” Treus says. “And our share of this coming harvest will not be enough to feed them, not once the tribute is collected.”

  “The tribute is less than it once was. The king was merciful in that.”

  “Merciful, Samson? Listen to yourself.”

  “Please, Treus,” my brother says from my side. “At least give him a chance to explain. Do we miss fighting so much that we resort to fighting amongst ourselves?”

  “I do miss it,” Treus declares. “I miss our days at Mahaneh-dan.”

  Orum and Wadesh nod their heads, and they’re not the only ones.

  “At least then we had a purpose,” he adds. “A direction. Not these wishy-washy notions that Samson calls diplomacy. You ask me, it’s time for war.”

  No one tells him to calm himself, to quiet his voice, to stop this foolish talk.

  Pulling on my beard again, I give a heavy sigh. “You are mistaken. War will only bring death and anguish to our people. Do we so easily forget? I’ve shed blood. I’ve killed more men than some foreign armies. Yes, it served a purpose. We have the measure of relief that was foretold, and I don’t want that to go to ruin. I don’t want to take another life in anger.”

  “What do you suggest?” Wadesh asks. “I ask it sincerely, Samson. We are simply thinking of our families, while you are a man without wife or children.”

  I bristle at that.

  It’s true, of course. I do not know in full measure the responsibilities these men bear. I do know love, though. I do know loss. I do care daily for my mother, seeing to it that she is fed and protected and loved.

  My mind is decided. “Men, I will leave this day to Gaza to negotiate peace.”

  “Peace again,” Caleb says. “What you’re calling peace, we call starvation.”

  The council murmurs in agreement.

  “The tribute is too much. It must end,” Treus says.

  “It’ll never happen,” Orum argues.

  “Our only hope,” Wadesh says, “is to rally the other tribes and prepare an attack. We’re not as disjointed as we once were. There’s the prophet Samuel, now sitting in the temple at Shiloh, and all of Israel and Judah heed his words. You could speak with him perhaps. If he gave the call to war, we could muster thousands upon thousands.”

  “It’s a good suggestion,” Caleb agrees, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “God did not choose you from the womb to be a diplomat, Samson. He gave you the power and strength to fight. To fight like no man ever has. These elders, these brothers of ours, they’re not asking you to neglect your strengths and forgo your wisdom as judge. They urge you, I urge you, to use the very gift God gave to you.”

  What these men want has been decided. I see no other way.

  Perhaps they are right.

  While caring for my mother and acting as judge, have I been blind to the insults and burdens my tribesmen still suffer? I sit on this wooden bench addressing the elders, passing down decisions, and telling myself what a wise old man I’ve become.

  Only foolish men believe they are wise.

  Rising from my bench, I allow Caleb to help me with my cloak. “I will make a trek to Gaza,” I tell them, “and any who want to come along may join me. I will return with freedom. No more tributes, no more suffering. If I cannot do that, I will not return at all.”

  This seems to placate them for the moment. Feeling their eyes on my back as I walk away, I square my shoulders and push back my hair.

  My strength is here with me. I still feel it now and then, tingling in my fingertips.

  We leave the village in a dusty caravan of ox-drawn carts. The carts carry stalks of wheat, a down payment on our coming tribute, an offering of peace. If all goes well, it will be the last payment for years to come.

  “Do you think this will work?” Caleb asks as we ride side by side.

  “Do you really think that being a diplomat is so wrong?”

  “Wrong?” He shakes his head. “You were chosen for something else, that’s all.”

  “What if King Balek refuses?” I want to know.

  “You promised the elders that you wouldn’t return. Mighty strong words from our strongman.”

  It’s a sobering reminder, and I wonder if my impulsive vow now leads me into trouble once again. We’ll find out tomorrow within the walls of Gaza. The route to the capital stretches ahead, down through the forests and wadis, down past the terebinth where I once gave my heart to a girl.

  CHAPTER 43

  NEMESIS

  Waters of the Great
Sea

  THE BOAT CUT through the waves, its sail taut in the brisk evening breeze. Dusk turned the waters a deep indigo, and in the fading light the prince drew Delilah to his side at the stern.

  “Do you see that?” he said, pointing off their starboard. “I believe it’s a Phoenician vessel.”

  She pressed closer. “Are they hostile?”

  “Don’t worry your pretty head.” He kissed her brow. “Just a merchant ship. Probably headed to Egypt with a load of cedar wood, based on how low she’s riding.”

  As he turned for a better look, she kissed him back, her lips catching the scar that ran from his forehead, over his eye, and down his cheek. He recoiled, and his mood blackened.

  Even all these years later he hated catching sight of his own reflection, and the warmth of her lips reminded him of the scar’s ugly presence. She told him that it lent him a rare masculinity, and in the quiet of their bedchamber such words eased the tension. Here, though, where others could see, the scar underscored his failure against Samson, his lifelong enemy.

  At least the scar near his heart was hidden. Far more hideous to look at, it still woke him in the night with phantom pains.

  “Back to the harbor,” he ordered the sailor at the rudder.

  “Now, darling?” Delilah gazed up with her sea-spray eyes. “In this romantic light?”

  Rallah snorted.

  Romance was not on his mind this night, not as the boat carved to port and gave a panoramic view of the capital and its lights winking in the distance. “Look at it,” he said. “It should be ours to rule. Honestly, how long till my father relinquishes his hold on this life?”

  “He’s not unaware of our ambitions,” she said. “I think he holds on as long as he can just to spite you.”

  The prince lowered his voice. “Earlier, before we cast off, I heard word from my spies that Samson is now headed to Gaza. We haven’t see him in ages. There might be a way for us to gain an advantage in this.”

  “Can’t you just let it go, this feud between the two of you?”