“This is not education. You are making a fool of me.”
The tutor advanced, shuffling along, pulling a reed from his robes, lashing me on the legs. I jumped back, the surprise greater than the pain.
“Walk!” he screeched.
I walked. One more lap, two more, then on the third, again, I found my voice.
“No.”
“What?” the tutor shrieked.
“Explain to me the benefit. Show me why this must be done, and I will do it.”
He grinned and faced Hannibal. “Six laps! Not so bad. Tanis stopped at four, but then, Tanis was always my favorite.”
He sat back on the bench and patted the seat beside him. Tanis and Hannibal bowed and departed, Tanis grinning at me as she left.
I sat, my heart returning to a slower rhythm.
“My child, education must never be one man telling another what to do. Education is a great struggle between two minds. Both teacher and student must make demands on each other. Do you understand?”
“But I stopped the first time and you whipped me.”
“You were whining. When you asked a proper question, I did not whip you, did I?”
“No.”
“Then this is your second lesson: Beware of teachers who whip their students for asking the right questions. Beware of teachers who are afraid of the struggle.”
“Yes.”
“Now, fetch me some lunch, and we will talk more. The temple always has such good food.”
And this is how it began. Akbar struggled with me many hours through the lessons of the Greek minds, and the Egyptians. I learned of the Philistines around me, of the five cities that comprised the heart of the Philistine empire. I learned that there were five Philistine lords but no king. And I heard tales of the enemy of the Philistines, a Hebrew religious zealot who was prone to savagery.
I was not allowed to serve men at night alone in the upper chambers anymore, but Tanis did allow me to serve wine and circulate among the couples, as long as I said nothing and kept my eyes on the ground.
I almost obeyed her. When Lord Marcos was sitting with Parisa, I looked at him. Sometimes I would lean against the stone pillars and watch him, and he knew that I watched. He was not displeased. I was careful not to draw attention to myself, though, and careful never to look at him when Parisa could see me.
Tanis waited for me one night, after I refilled the bowl of Marcos while Parisa had excused herself to attend to her needs. Parisa had drunk a lot of wine, and it showed in her heavy, awkward steps and slurred speech. I had not stopped pouring, and I had offered her my arm to lead her back into the sleeping chambers where she could relieve herself.
She fell asleep on the stone toilet in the corner.
I returned and was making my way to Marcos. He sat up straighter, his mouth pursed in a smile. He was much older than I was. He smelled as men do, of salt and sweat and heavy spices. He rose, taking a step toward me, extending his hand. His palm was smooth, his fingers straight. He had never worked in a field or worked for his bread. Not with his hands. How did he eat, then? Did he steal?
Right then, I saw another man in the moonlight instead—the one who had changed the course of my life. I saw that awful night again, but Tanis appeared suddenly, saving me for the second time from him, wrapping an arm around my waist and leading me away. I glanced back, returning to my senses.
Lord Marcos was still standing, waiting for me, but a strange new look was in his eyes, one that made my stomach roll.
He looked upon me with compassion. I saw it in his eyes, the way his eyes narrowed without anger, and in the way his face softened when he looked at me. He wanted me, the way men do, but I did not know why he also offered me compassion. I had to run.
“What are you doing?” Tanis whispered to me, pulling against me. She led me to the edge of the portico, closer to the main doors of the temple, where we had the privacy afforded by many people coming in and out.
“Serving wine.”
“Liar. Whatever you’re doing with Lord Marcos, stop. Nothing good can come from provoking Parisa.”
“What is it to you? She is not your friend.”
“But you are. Nothing good will come from this.”
“I don’t understand why you are loyal to someone who hates you.”
“I am trying to protect you, not her. Do you know what you have become?”
I hesitated. What did she see in me? I had hidden everything as best I could. I turned my face away. I didn’t want her to see what I had become. I was an open, screaming wound.
“You have become beautiful, Delilah. The most beautiful among us, and younger, too. Someday you will have any patron you desire. But now is not the time to test your beauty on other men, especially Lord Marcos. What will Parisa do if she catches you?”
“She will know that stealing someone’s innocence always has a price.”
Lord Marcos approached us. I held my breath, having no plan for this moment. He was a big man, standing this close to me. He stood at three hands’ length over me. He had tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and they softened his sharp gaze. I did not know how to manipulate him, not with this softness he had.
Tanis slid her hand out, and he took it in his, embracing it with both hands.
“Must you leave?” Tanis asked. Her voice was smooth and passionless.
“Parisa is not feeling well. I do not know if she will return, and I have business to attend to very early tomorrow.”
“I am sorry. May we make an offering to Dagon on your behalf?”
He shook his head no. “Good night, Delilah.”
I raised my eyes and looked at him. I did not see the phantom from my memory. I saw a kind face, which made me feel a hundred times more afraid, because I did not know it. I knew evil. I knew harshness and anger and violence. But I did not know this kindness, and it seemed an unpredictable force, one that broke open deep wounds with its careless attention.
I did not say anything to Lord Marcos. He reached out and touched my cheek, one finger resting lightly on it, then turned and left.
“Delilah?”
I shook myself back to attention. Tanis was stroking my arm.
“Why are you crying?”
I fled to the sleeping chambers. I could not serve any more wine tonight or overhear flattering words or watch couples go up those stone stairs. Tanis came for Parisa and together with eunuchs got her in bed, where she snored loudly and moaned in her dreams. I drew my knees up to my chest and pulled the little blade I kept hidden under the bedding. I was careful, always, to wait for everyone to be asleep, but tonight it was just Parisa snoring loudly, and myself, alone in this room. I slid the blade’s edge along the bottom of one foot, feeling the skin break, gasping from the pain. Sweat beaded along my upper lip. All the pain became real, and in one spot that I could feel and touch and see. I closed my eyes, knowing I would not sleep. But at least I knew the pain was all in one spot, one spot that did not spread.
I had wanted to provoke Parisa, to hurt her even, but trying to lure Marcos away, if only for one night, was too much for me. I hurt deep inside, where I was not beautiful or alluring, but hungry and unloved, sneaking through the darkness alone.
The knife let that girl out, just for a little while.
MOTHER
Kaleb helped me bring Samson home. Liam saw us from a distance and joined, each boy under one of Samson’s arms, supporting him. I was grateful for their strength, that they could use it to carry a weak brother.
One evening, many weeks later, Samson took Kaleb and Liam out spider hunting. This made my heart glad. I did not know how to comfort them. They refused to call me Mother, and I was awkward with them, still.
It was early enough in the winter; a few spiders should have been out. Samson promised to teach them how to dig a pit and trap them in the fields. I made Samson promise not to kill any.
He gave me an odd look.
“Because spiders eat the insects that damage our c
rops,” I reminded him. “We need spiders.” It was not a snub. We had been getting along so much better as long as I did not mention death, dying, slaying, slaughtering, blood, jawbones, or anything else related to the things he had done. We stepped back to a happier time in our lives, before he came of age, before he killed his first man. Before I became his enemy, and not the Philistines. Before he realized he would never be able to marry, or love, or have children. His strange gift, this strength, left anyone who loved him exposed and weak, like rabbits under the shadow of the hawk.
He helped more around the house and insisted Manoah sit at night and rest. Samson hunted for us, saying he preferred that to the market. He dressed our meat and roasted it, and we ate with greasy fingers, laughing at each other’s remarks. Kaleb and Liam had been silent at night for so long. Samson taught them how to begin again, how to try to live without making sense of it all. He had a gift for that, a very good gift, and it served Syvah’s sons well. Samson, too, seemed to heal, and though he called out for his wife in his nightmares, he sometimes slept through the night without weeping.
Tonight, I had to announce it was time for bed, because the boys and Samson showed no signs of exhaustion yet, and Manoah was not feeling strong. Samson and the boys wanted to go up on the roof to tell stories. Samson promised that he had the best of all imaginable stories to tell them tonight. I shooed them all upstairs so Manoah at least could get to sleep early. He had been so pale today, stopping sometimes to try and catch his breath. I had held his arm, rubbing his back, standing there until his pride return and he ordered me back to my dishes. I liked that very much. When we were young, we had fought. I missed it now.
I did not mean to eavesdrop. But what I heard, this fantastical story that Samson told, was so dreadful and so wonderful I did not know whether to celebrate or kick him out.
“Come closer,” Samson said quietly to the boys. “So Mother won’t hear.”
I was only at the bottom of the stairs. And it was night. I could hear everything if I just eased myself across the floor to the bottom step. It was not difficult.
“How strong do you think I am?”
The boys made thinking noises and then took their guesses. “Strong enough to tear a tree from the ground!” “Strong enough to push this house over!”
Samson laughed. “Would you believe I am strong enough to tear the gates of Gaza off the hinges and carry the gates all the way to the top of Mount Hebron?”
The boys gasped. This was unbelievable. Truly. The gates took twenty horses each to pull to the wall when they were built, and the horses used wheeled carts, too. The hinges were each thicker than my body. No man, no army, could wrench them off.
“No, I did! I will tell you why. I was spending the night with a lovely young girl.…”
My heart stopped. I thought he decided never to marry, never to love?
“Wait!” Kaleb interrupted. “Was this girl the kind of girl you had to pay?”
“What do you know of that?” Samson asked, unhappy.
“I’m old enough to know that if a woman isn’t married by a certain age, and she likes to entertain, chances are good she’ll entertain me if I have money.” It sounded like Kaleb’s voice.
“Ow!” It was definitely Kaleb. I knew his howl. Samson must have smacked him on the head. Good.
“That’s none of your concern, anyway. I was spending the night with a lovely girl in Gaza when I heard noises outside her window. I wrapped myself in her veil and crept to the window, peering out, and what do you think I saw?”
“Her husband?” Kaleb spoke again.
“Ow!” And Samson corrected the boy again. Kaleb had a man’s imagination already.
“No, I saw many men gathering around the house. They gave me a sign, and that’s when I knew: This harlot had set a trap for me. The Philistines of Gaza were lying in wait, growing in number as I waited inside. So I waited and watched. They made no move to attack, and I began to see that they were going to wait for dawn. They needed the light if they were going to face the strongest, fiercest warrior in history. And so, at midnight, still wearing the veil, I sneaked out of her house and made it all the way to the gates. Then I threw off the veil and, right there, wrenched the gates off their hinges and carried them away. If you could have seen the look on the guards’ faces, the guards in the towers that flank either side of the gates! They saw those gates pop right off and walk away!”
Kaleb and Liam howled in laughter, and Samson joined them.
My head was spinning. Which was more outrageous to me? That he tore gates off a city wall, or that he was sleeping with harlots in Gaza?
“Then what did you do?”
“Took them up to Mount Hebron and left them there. They’ll have a hard time getting them back to the city, never mind getting them hung again.” Samson sounded so proud.
“But Samson?”
“Yes?”
“Why did you do it?”
Samson was silent for a long while then said, “Go to bed.”
“Why don’t you just find another wife? Your mother said it was your own fault, what happened to Amara.”
“Go to bed!”
The boys stomped down the stairs, and I caught them before they woke Manoah, shushing them, patting them on their backs, steering them in the dark toward their pallet. They did not know our house in the darkness, not as well as we did.
Samson never came down that night.
The next morning, he was gone.
I had betrayed him, too.
DELILAH
Parisa shook me, knocking me onto the floor.
“You tried to tempt Marcos?”
I landed on my bottom, startled awake. She kicked at me. “You think you can steal him? Because you’re younger? Or do you think you’re more beautiful?”
“Parisa!” Tanis had her by the arm, dragging her off me.
“Because you are neither one, Delilah! You’re dirty and used. Your face will catch up soon enough.”
No woman moved. Each had been dressing for the prayers and first meal. They stared at me with varying degrees of interest. Interest or satisfaction. I was too shocked to absorb it all yet. I stood and raised my hands out to Tanis, who was still holding Parisa, threatening her if she moved against me again.
“It is all right, Tanis. It is my fault,” I said.
Tanis pursed her lips as one eyebrow lifted, questioning me.
“I am guilty,” I said.
Tanis released Parisa, who crossed her arms, waiting for my confession. I began to dress for the meal, having nothing else to say.
Education was a struggle between student and teacher, and Parisa was going to learn her lesson.
I was sweet to Parisa during the next week, doting even, and each time, she reacted with anger, as expected. Her anger slowly burned down, revealing her fear. I could see the shadows under her eyes when she woke, and the way she clutched at Marcos with white knuckles, her eyes darting around, looking for me, while he spoke of his concerns. I wanted her to hurt. I did not want to be the only one who suffered.
She did not see Marcos sigh in vexation or tap his foot as she complained yet again about her life within these walls. She brought up his wife, and her own desire for children, and how she would love to do more for him, in every way. She grew bold in her words. Their sweetness had an edge.
I stayed hidden, moving between the stone columns only when I knew she would not see me, careful to let Marcos catch only a glimpse of my flowing tunic, or an arm reaching for more wine. He knew I was there. He knew I watched him. And yet I did not allow him to look on me again, not fully. It was as much for his temptation as my relief. I did not want to look into the eyes of the one I tried to entrap.
No matter, though. By the end of the second week, I knew I had failed. Marcos had done nothing. He did not pursue me or make a spectacle of Parisa, seeking me out over her. If I wanted to hurt Parisa, I needed to find another way. But with such a cold woman, it was hard to know where she felt
pain. It wasn’t fair that I was the only one who suffered here.
On the first morning of the following week, I laid awake in bed while the other women began to rise. There was no point in getting up. Defeat had nauseated me; I could not imagine eating anything. Parisa, too, stayed in her bed. She had slept well.
Marcos had not come for Parisa last night, but she had been elated. Rumor had come to the temple that Lord Marcos had given his wife a certificate of divorce. Parisa had waited for me to return to the sleeping chambers after serving the wine. When I climbed on to the couch at last, she came over and spat at my feet, then laughed.
“When I am his wife, perhaps I will send along a nice offering to you, and you won’t have to take many men upstairs.”
In the darkness, sweat dotted my forehead. It was hard to breathe, and my stomach began to tingle. I pressed my palm against my mouth to silence the whimpers that rose up, thinking on her words again.
Every day in these courts brought me closer to the day I had to serve as a real priestess. I would have no control. Any man might reach for me, his hand extended in the evening shadows, and where would I run? Who would save me? I knew this one truth: No one saved a girl except herself. But I had no power to save myself. I never had. I had no power at all, not even to cause someone else the slightest pain.
My hand slid under the bedding, searching for the cold blade. I didn’t want to. A force inside me wanted it, would not rest until I let it free. I ran the blade along the sole of my foot, wincing without sound, relieved for the piercing pain, the cold shiver of relief. The pain had a spot I could touch, a place I could name. My pain, all the pain of the world, was reduced to this small red line that bled in the dark.
Akbar placed five smooth stones in my palm. We sat together in the courtyard, just under the roof. The sun was dotted all around with white clouds. The rains had begun for the season, but this afternoon was dry. I was grateful to be outside; the rains could keep us inside for days at a time.
Desired: The Untold Story of Samson and Delilah (Lost Loves of the Bible) Page 19