Samson

by Eric Wilson

  “You sound like my father.”

  “The Hebrew almost took your life once, Rallah. I know you don’t agree with your father’s truce, but at least we’ve been free for years of any real violence.”

  “As long as Samson breathes, we are not free of those things. Not completely.”

  “I just don’t want to lose you.” Her hand slid around his waist, and she drew closer. “And if you were gone, what treatment do you imagine I’d get from the king? He’d toss me aside. Or assign me to his private chambers.”

  “He wouldn’t dare.”

  “He’s never made mention of it,” Delilah said, “but I’ve felt his eyes upon me. My point is that we are stronger, you and I, together.”

  “Together we’ve waited so long.”

  “Together,” she countered, “we’ve ridden these seas and enjoyed the finest things of the kingdom. We’re not as young, nor as impatient, as we once were. We will have our day.”

  The harbor opened before them, and smaller vessels moved aside for the boat bearing the king’s emblem. Fishermen bowed at the sight of the prince, and Rallah thought of the stroll he and his father once made through the streets, drawing the citizen’s awe and adulation. His father had threatened him then, and those words still hung between them. It was no father-son relationship they shared, but a simmering rivalry for the throne. Rallah knew better than to test his father’s will without a plan. King Balek would respond to any treachery with swift and deadly force.

  “We will have our day,” he agreed. “Perhaps Samson’s arrival tomorrow will bring that day quicker than we hoped.”

  “Be careful, darling—that’s all I ask.”

  “And you be available.”

  “For what?”

  “Whatever your prince has need of,” he said.

  The moment their boat drew alongside the wharf and the plank went down, the prince rushed across, letting the sailors assist Delilah as she disembarked. She was a grown woman, able to take care of herself. She enjoyed the benefits of his position, and yes, she provided benefits as well, but she was not his driving force, nor the one who consumed his thoughts.

  That dubious honor went to his nemesis.

  And the long-haired Hebrew was drawing closer even now.

  City of Gaza

  Word of Samson’s arrival came before noon the next day. Rallah was at the royal stables, brushing his mount, when a messenger explained that the Hebrew and his caravan of ox carts were being delayed at the city gates.

  So he’s finally returned, the prince thought.

  “I’ll ride there now,” he told the messenger. “Run ahead and tell the watchman to let them in.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Rallah drew a nondescript cloak over his princely garb, fastened it with a tattered sash, and pulled the hood low. Within minutes he was at the entryway. He watched the miserly Israelites lead their oxen into the city, bringing modest offerings for the tribute. This, alone, was a common occurrence and of little interest.

  Samson was with them, though. For the first time in many years.

  What was this Hebrew up to?

  Rallah rode past, head down, then circled back and followed. Samson was a well-built man, and the years had done little to diminish him. His hair was still long, now supplemented by a full dark beard, and he carried himself with greater gravity. He and his brother were side by side, guiding one of the carts, laughing as they went. Always laughing, those two. It was a continual mystery to the prince how such mirth could still bubble up from the souls of the enslaved.

  He followed them along the road to the storehouses. Reins in hand, he edged his horse under a shop’s canopy and observed them as they offloaded their carts. The dozen or so men wore shabby clothing, all very similar, and in their milling and moving about, one of them managed to disappear.

  One moment the strongman was there, a load over his shoulder.

  The next, he was gone.

  Rallah’s black mood returned. Barely an hour in the capital, and Samson was already making a fool of him. He best go straight to the king before word of this reached his ears by other means.

  He stabled his horse, wrestled out of the tied sash and cloak, and climbed the wide steps to the palace two at a time. He dashed into his bedchamber to pull on a more presentable outfit for the throne room, only to find Delilah on the bed. She was reclined on her side, an arm draped over her hip, her eyes smoldering.

  “Did you forget?” she said. “You promised a bit of romance.”

  “Not now, Delilah. I must see the king.”

  “What? When you could see me instead?” Her blue lapis earrings dangled over shoulders bared by downturned sleeves. “Just because we’re older doesn’t mean we’re too old, darling.”

  “It’s Samson. He’s here.”

  “You knew he was coming. You told me last night.”

  “He escaped somehow. I had him under watch at the loading area, and then he was gone in a blink of an eye.”

  “Perhaps,” she teased, “he is a god.”

  “Don’t start with me. I never meant he was an actual god. Or maybe I did. I don’t know. If you saw what I saw him do at the encampment . . . Forget all that. He’s here, and we will see this through. Don’t ask me how, as I’m still working on the details. I know this, though; we may not get this close to him again. Be ready.”

  “I was.” She sniffed, drew up her sleeves, and rolled into a sitting position at the foot of the bed. “I warned you long ago that he would haunt you. You created your own worst enemy.”

  “And I’m asking you to help me be rid of him once and for all. Not just for me,” the prince pointed out. “For both of us. For all that we’ve worked for and waited for. King and queen.”

  “King and queen,” she said.

  “How do I look? I want my father’s ear without distraction.”

  “Go. You look suitable enough. Should I change too?”

  “Don’t do anything until I return. Once I’ve discussed this with him, I’ll know better how to set our trap.” Rallah rolled his neck, adjusted his tunic, and said, “You know, I feel invigorated by all this, facing my foe again. No more waiting around, being miserable. This time, let’s make our own destiny.”

  “Is it really so miserable being with me?”

  “For Dagon’s sake, woman, you know what I mean.”

  He ignored the empty look that stole into her eyes and strode from his chamber toward the throne room.

  Prince Rallah stood in the receiving room, where wall-mounted torches lit limestone, latticework, and velvet wall hangings. The throne room was of much greater import. It was beyond the grand double doors across the way, and it’s where the king met the capitals’ lords, foreign emissaries, and others of note.

  The receiving room, he knew, was a clear message from his father.

  The worries of the prince were of minor concern.

  King Balek swept into the room, crown on his head, jewels and stones about his neck. He settled into his chair atop a small platform.

  “He’s here,” Rallah said.

  “Of course he is.”

  “Samson, I mean.”

  “You assume that I don’t know who passes through my gates?”

  “Father . . . My king, do you also know that he disappeared from the loading area while working with his fellow Hebrews? I came here directly. I can only suspect that he means to do you harm. Why else would he sneak off in such a manner? If you remember from the histories, an Israelite once lied his way into King Ehud’s chambers and murdered him while he was engaged in private and not-so-glorious business. It’s your safety I’m thinking of first and foremost.”

  “Is it?” Balek lifted an eyebrow. “Or is it your hope that we put the man in chains?”

  “He’s a threat to you and to your kingdom. I’ve seen this threat with my own eyes, and—”

  “Yes. A donkey’s jawbone, was it?”

  “We must post sentries here and throughout the city or
risk the might of his God.”

  “I am Dagon,” the king said. “Or have you forgotten? And once again, even now into your middle years you assume and you make demands, still the child that you’ve always been.”

  “I am your son.”

  “Actually,” King Balek said, “I have some doubts about that, but how can we know the truth of what went on in the harem of my early reign.”

  The prince’s mouth dropped. “Father? What’re you suggesting?”

  “An issue for another day.” The king gathered his robes and stood. “Today let it be known that Samson has come here to negotiate, and he will leave in peace. He sent word requesting a secret meeting, and I accepted. I shall go to see him now. In my throne room.”

  CHAPTER 44

  STAY OR GO

  THE CORRIDOR LEADING to the throne room is lit by torches, the smell of pitch and flame shoving my mind to places it does not want to go. These stark memories of heartache and loss, I must set them aside and focus on the greater good for my people. I’ve come to negotiate peace.

  As I reach the closed entry to the throne room, I hear arguing from a side chamber.

  “This is an outrage, my king. Samson cannot leave Gaza alive.”

  “I define what is outrage. Not you. Not your lady in waiting.”

  I know the first voice belongs to Prince Rallah. I still hear it in my nightmares. The second is stern and dismissive, flush with the authority that comes from decades as ruler. Surely it belongs to King Balek, though I’ve never met the man.

  “Why do you insist on this?” the prince asks. “I tried this with him before, and peace is not what he’s after, I assure you.”

  “Much time has passed. People change, and I—”

  “He hasn’t changed, believe me.”

  “I will not discuss this with you any further, Rallah.” There’s the sound of swishing robes and footsteps. “It is my wish, thus my command. My authority, thus my decree. You see, don’t you, where I’m going with this? Out the door with you. My appointment awaits.”

  The door flies open, and Prince Rallah storms through.

  “Rallah,” I say.

  He reels back. His mouth opens as though to say something, and then his wide eyes narrow to slits. I notice the jagged scar from our last encounter and almost pity him in the moment. He says nothing and rushes by, the edge of his cape slithering over my arm.

  The doors to the throne room swing open, and I am ushered into the presence of the king. He sits at an angle on his throne, comfortable in his older years. As judge, I too try to administer from a place of ease, though it still rubs against my grain on many levels. Some days, in truth, I want to draw blood and smash heads. I’ve not yet grown accustomed to the weight of being wise.

  “The mighty Samson,” King Balek proclaims. “At last we meet.”

  “My king, thank you for admitting me. May I approach?”

  “Did you make your way to my courts unseen? We don’t want word of this spreading on the streets. It’s always best that rulers reach decisions before the people form opinions of their own.”

  “I was not seen,” I tell him.

  “Come, then, let us speak. We’re both men of position. No need for formalities.”

  Aside from the two guards at the doors, we are alone. There’s no doubt he’s heard tales of me, and yet he shows no fear. He’s reigned since early in my childhood, and clearly he’s no man to be trifled with.

  “There,” he says, gesturing to a low table adorned with fine cutlery and platters of food. “Some wine to drink, some food after your journey . . . or a jawbone from a donkey perhaps?”

  I bristle at this. I will not sit at his table.

  “I’m here,” I tell him, “to negotiate for the people I serve. The same people you starve.”

  “Ah, right to it. Good.”

  “Years ago, through our messengers, you and I agreed to a basic truce.”

  “Mm-hmm. And have I not upheld my end of that truce?”

  “You, King Balek, still collect the tribute from our men and women, making it difficult for them to put food in their children’s mouths. As agreed, I have ceased all warring and let you be at peace, but my tribesmen still suffer. Our elders, our council, they’ve let it be known that this is no longer acceptable.”

  “Representing your people. Very good.” The king shifts forward on his throne. “Well, Samson, in order to negotiate, one must have something to negotiate with. What could you possibly have to offer my kingdom?”

  “Peace. True peace between Hebrew and Philistine. It’s what I wanted years ago, when I made my proposal to Taren. We wanted to show a new way.”

  “And how did that turn out?”

  My patience grows thin. “You know the answer. Now, remove the tribute and give back the harvest that we plow and plant with our own hands. It is rightfully ours.”

  “Or else what?”

  “You will face the wrath of God.”

  King Balek rises and smooths his robes. He looks amused. “So you threaten me with some vague notions of what—natural phenomena, earthquakes, a flood?”

  Behind me the guards snicker.

  “Mock me, if you will, but He is not a mere statue crafted by human hands.”

  “Tell me, then, about this God,” he says. “Is this the God who sits by while your people claim to suffer? Is that the One you speak of? Where was He when my prince pushed your bride into the flames? Did He catch her and deliver her safely into your arms?”

  The king’s questions are ones I’ve asked myself. He pinpoints my weaknesses and hopes to gain an advantage, but there is more to this than my own dashed dreams. This is about the deliverance of Israel and Judah and Israelites throughout all of Canaan. It’s about taking back the land that was promised us, even if we must take it back one field and farm at a time.

  “You will not be laughing,” I tell him, “when you have another thousand soldiers to bury. My God was in these hands then, and He is with me now.”

  “A slaughter that occurred twenty years ago?” The king waves that away. “My guards here weren’t even alive at the time. I’ve rebuilt my army three times over since.”

  “You’d have no need of such an army if you would simply relieve the burden from our shoulders.”

  “Listen, Hebrew, the only reason you still draw breath is because I haven’t given the order to take it. To your people, sure, you may be a hero. The mighty Samson. To me, you’re nothing more than a slave with an attitude. I reject your offer.”

  My jaw muscles clench, and I spit out the words. “Then you choose war.”

  “War,” he responds, “is in neither of our best interests. It would demand the lives of the few loved ones you have left. Do you wish to see your mother perish?” He selects a bite of food from the table and approaches me. “This is my offer to you. I will give your people their harvest, all of it, but only on one condition.”

  He is fixed in my unblinking glare. “And what is that?”

  “You disappear.”

  “What?” His words confuse me. “You mean, leave my people?”

  “Stay, and you’ll watch them suffer and die. Or go, and you’ll let them flourish. It’s your choice, Samson. I’ll wait until nightfall for your answer.”

  The sun grows weaker along the rooftops and city walls. I walk through the streets of Gaza with daylight dwindling and my answer still expected by the king.

  But there is no answer. It’s an impossible situation.

  As it stands, if I reject King Balek’s offer, I will have failed to remove the tribute. I promised the council that I wouldn’t return to Zorah in such a case, and I must uphold my word. Inevitably war would ensue, and I would not be there to protect those I love most.

  For me, the other option leads to the same result. If I accept the king’s offer, the tribute will be lifted, but I must also never return.

  I think of Mother.

  Caleb, I know, will watch over her. She’s a resolute woman even in
her old age, and she’s spoken to me of the cost of my calling. She will accept what comes her way, but I will miss her more than words can say. She stood by her belief in me even when I gave her reason to doubt.

  An ox cart in the road ahead causes me to duck into a doorway. I don’t want to be seen by my brother or the other men, not tonight. They will only cloud my vision. I got myself in this situation, and I can get myself out.

  The king’s spiteful words still stir images in my head.

  I shake them off.

  The aroma of the king’s wine still lingers in my nostrils, and I remember that first taste from Taren’s cup. Oh, so sweet. Her lips brushing mine.

  I walk through side streets and alleyways, moving aimlessly. Perhaps it’s only by chance that I end up near the city gates, my eyes drawn to a stairway that leads to a harlot’s door. It’s been twenty years. What are the odds that she is still there? It won’t hurt to check.

  My feet are heavy as I make the climb. I knock twice on the door.

  As a young man, my eyes were set on Taren, and even on those nights I paid to stay in this place, I did not waver. Now, though, I feel the loneliness of all the years. I miss a woman’s touch. I want the dizzying effects of a good wine. First and foremost I want to forget all the death and hurt and shame that I’ve caused. I’m no wise man. I don’t think I ever was.

  “Well, hello, handsome.” She’s still here, her voice still husky, her eyelids still painted. “Look at you. You look awful. Come in, come in. I’m sure there’s something I have that might help.”

  CHAPTER 45

  A GHOST

  DARKNESS HAD FALLEN over the capital. Delilah and Rallah moved through narrow alleyways, hugging the walls as they negotiated the city’s maze toward the gates. A dozen soldiers, disguised as regular city dwellers, followed along. She had forgone her usual palace attire and wore a simple robe with a blue hood. It was all quite exciting, and Delilah thought of the childhood nights in her family’s vineyard, working by the light of the moon.

  The prince halted her at the mouth of an alley and pointed at the second-story room across the way. Candlelit shadows moved against sheer curtains, hinting at the sensuous activities within.