It was there, sitting silent and merely watching, that I learned two things of great importance. The first was that, after a time, the maidservants seemed to forget I was even in the garden. They laughed easily and spoke freely—and loudly. I could hear most of their chatter clearly.
The second was that the quarrelsome Hebrews claimed a new hero had risen, a man who would gain them victory over us and our gods.
A man named Samson.
Long moons later, when we lay in each other’s arms, I told Samson how I had first heard his name, his exploits, expecting him to laugh. But he looked at me gravely and said, “To listen in secret is ill done, Delilah.”
I had never before heard such folly; to listen in secret was to obtain knowledge. There was much no one would say before the New Moons and the Rising Moons; we were supposedly kept in sweet ignorance of the schemes, the alliances and feuds, that lay behind the serene façade of the Temple’s rituals.
But it is hard to keep secrets in a large household, or to keep its children ignorant of truth—and the Temple was a larger household than most palaces. I was not the only girl who learned to remain still and gain knowledge in secret.
So I sat quiet and listened as the maidservants giggled and chattered. Some may think that servants and slaves pay no heed to battles and to politics, but they are wrong. A battle lost or won, a law passed or revoked, can change a slave’s life as greatly as that of a prince. Troubled borders engender troubled minds.
“They say he is taller and stronger than any mortal man should be. Did he not slay Kimmer, the giant of Gath?” “Perhaps he is not mortal.” “I heard from my sister, who had it from her cousin, that his mother lay with a god to beget him.” “A Hebrew god?” “The Hebrews have only one god. They’re too poor to have another.” “No, they boast of it. As if one god were enough . . .”
I had to listen hard to hear all this, but then the maids began arguing over whether any people could survive with only one god to aid them. After that, I could hear easily enough.
“Well, one god or forty, I heard that this Samson is their new leader.” “And I heard even the Hebrews think him half-mad. Who ever heard of someone driving thieves away from a caravan and not asking one silver piece in payment?” “He is strong, this Samson; the Hebrews will follow him against us.” “When have the Hebrews followed any man for long? Samson will be no different—king for a moon, then gone.”
I thought the woman who said that last spoke too fiercely, as if by saying no one would raise Samson up against us, she could make it truth.
Samson. Son of the Sun. An odd name for a Hebrew. I did not know, then, that Samson was unlike most other Hebrews—unlike most other men.
“They say that Samson calls down fire from heaven to slay his enemies, and that he takes any woman he wishes as his prize. They say—”
I must have made some motion, because Nurshali, eldest of the maidservants, snapped out, “And I say I hear too much chatter and do not see enough work! Do you want the priestess to say you cannot even lay out the washing without taking all the day about it?”
As easily as that, Nurshali reminded the maidservants of my presence. The careless talk ceased, but I had heard enough to intrigue me. I did not think I would hear any more truths from the maidservants—but there were others I could ask.
But before I found my quarry—Lolarsa, a handmaiden who always knew all the gossip between the Salt Sea and the Cilician Hills—a wide-eyed New Moon stopped me on the path between one court and the next and blurted out that Dance Priestess Sharissit wished to see me at once. That summons promptly drove all else from my mind; I forgot Samson and his powers and his strange jealous god. I asked the New Moon—she could not have been older than eight or nine, and seemed very young to me—why I had been summoned, and the little girl ducked her head and said that she did not know.
“I know only that Dance Priestess Sharissit said I was to find you at once and you were to come to her at once. You will go at once, won’t you?” She stared at me, anxious, and I smiled.
“Of course I will. And I will tell her how dutifully you carried out her orders. What is your name, little goddess?” I tried to act as I thought Nikkal would in such a case. Nikkal would smile upon the nervous child, would ease her worries, would praise her—
“My name is Ruaz, Priestess Delilah,” the child said, and I smiled again, and bent and hugged her, and kissed her upon her soft cheek.
“Thank you, sister. Would you like to lead me to Dance Priestess Sharissit, that I may swiftly obey her summons?”
New Moon Ruaz nodded, and I took her hand and let her guide me to the Dancing Court. Dance Priestess Sharissit awaited me there; she sat upon an alabaster bench, and Aylah sat quietly upon the ground before her. “I am here,” I said, and as the Dance Priestess glanced at my guide, I added, “New Moon Ruaz is quick as a cat and clever as a fox. She did your bidding swiftly and well.”
“I expected no less of her.” Dance Priestess Sharissit smiled at Ruaz. “Thank you, child. You may return to your friends now.”
New Moon Ruaz bowed and backed away, as protocol demanded. Then, as she turned, the careful dignity vanished; she fled down the path and disappeared into the cool shadows beyond the gate. Her silver anklets chimed swift and hard, echoed in the heavy air and then faded. Only then did Sharissit laugh.
“I suppose I grow older than I like to think, for the New Moons now seem little more than babes to my eyes. No, do not draw breath to contradict me; I did not summon you both here to talk of the New Moons, or of my faded glory.” Sharissit pointed at the ground beside Aylah. “Sit, Night-Hair, and listen.”
Taking care to move with grace, I lowered myself to sit beside Aylah. I slanted a glance towards her; Aylah moved her shoulders in the slightest of shrugs. My heart-sister did not know why we had been ordered to wait upon the Dance Priestess’s pleasure. I suppose she thought I looked worried, for she reached out and took my hand, twined her warm fingers through my cool ones.
Sharissit smiled down at us. “I have glad news for you, my Sun and my Moon. You have been asked for, and will dance at a feast Lord Aulykaran gives to celebrate.”
“To celebrate what?” Aylah asked, as I stared wide-eyed at the Dance Priestess.
Sharissit laughed. “Why, to celebrate the fact that it is the second day of the month, or that the moon is not yet full, or that he has a new tunic. It does not matter. What matters is that you will dance before him and his guests.”
I could not believe it; surely Aylah and I were not ready! Most dancers trained three years before being trusted to dance for the Temple. Aylah and I had studied with Sharissit for barely half a year. As I stared, Aylah asked, “When are we to perform for Lord Aulykaran, Dance Priestess?” Aylah’s voice held nothing but serene questioning. I was glad she had spoken, for my skin seemed to burn even as my blood beat cold as melted snow. For once I could not summon my voice—nor did Sharissit fail to note this.
“Seven days from now, so we will have much work to do to make you ready.” The Dance Priestess turned her calm gaze upon me. “You have no words you wish to say, Delilah?” She smiled, to show me she half-jested. “Nothing at all?”
I tried to answer, and realized I had been holding my breath. “I—But how can we be ready? For such an honor, for such an occasion, for such an audience—”
“You will be ready because I say you will be ready. Now breathe easy, as you have been taught. And do not mouth falsely modest objections, Delilah. You know very well that you are the finest dancer the Temple has trained in two lifetimes. Unless you fall flat at Lord Aulykaran’s feet, your dancing cannot fail to please.” Dance Priestess Sharissit said all this with such calm assurance my blood ceased its fierce beat, slowed and gentled.
Aylah slid her arm around my waist. “And from all I have heard, if you do fall upon your back at Lord Aulykaran’s feet, that too will please him well.”
Dance Priestess Sharissit laughed softly, and I put my hand over Aylah
’s and stroked it in silent thanks. Aylah, who seldom jested, had done so to ease my needless panic—for the Dance Priestess would never consent to send us to perform if she did not think us ready to bring honor to the Temple.
“Seven days?” I said, and Sharissit understood all I did not say. She reached out and touched my cheek, and then Aylah’s. “Seven days,” she answered. “You will be ready, never fear. And until the day of Lord Aulykaran’s feast, your time belongs to me alone. Now I command you both to rest today, and amuse yourselves as you wish. Tomorrow we begin.”
For seven days, Aylah and I practiced—danced until even I fell asleep exhausted each night. We were excused from all other duties, including prayers; our time belonged only to Sharissit, as she had told us. It was she who chose the dance we would perform—an old-fashioned but intricate pattern called Night and Day. The ancient dance might have been designed for us, the Temple’s Moon and Sun.
By the time we stood waiting behind the sky-blue curtain that veiled us from the open courtyard in which Lord Aulykaran had chosen to hold his feast, Aylah and I could dance Night and Day blindfolded—we had done so half a dozen times in those seven days before the feast.
I thought only of the coming dance, and how I must perform to please Our Lady, and Her Temple, and Lord Aulykaran, who had given a rich offering to the Temple to gain our presence here. The more I thought upon what I must do, the more nervous I became. To my horror, I began to tremble; the tiny bells sewn upon my skirt chimed faintly, betraying my fear.
Aylah caught my hands. “Stop thinking, Delilah,” she said. “You are Dance itself, and will forget all else when the music calls you.”
“I can’t.” I could not imagine what had made me believe myself a dancer. My body seemed a burden, as if it had been turned to stone.
“You can, and you will. Aylah is right, Delilah.” Sharissit nodded approvingly at Aylah and then said, “For all dancers there is a first dance, and this is yours. I will not force you to endure a long lecture on what I expect of you, and how you must behave. If you do not know these things by now, you are beyond help. Now stand properly; it is time.”
Then, as I tried to explain that I could not, that I had forgotten all I thought I knew, I realized it was too late. The rise and fall of voices beyond the curtain ceased, and the music began, a slow, steady drumbeat. Servants drew aside the blue curtain, revealing us to the waiting audience. Aylah and I paced a careful path out into the center of the courtyard, bowed before the high table at which Lord Aulykaran and his most important guests were placed. Both the High Priestess and the Prince of the City sat there, watched us with cool judging eyes, and I knew this dance would determine my future.
I forced myself to forget the flaring lamplight and the heavy scent of roses and that the smooth inlaid stone floor was unfamiliar to my feet. I must forget that many strangers watched, eager to see the Temple’s newest dancers, must forget everything except the pattern of the dance. The even drumbeat ceased, and the true music began. And Aylah was right.
I opened myself to the music, and I danced.
Aylah and I wove the pattern of Night and Day across the cool jeweled floor; the only sound was that of the music, and the sweet ringing of the tiny bells upon our skirts and about our ankles. When the music stopped, and the dance ended, Aylah and I stood once more before the high table. In the silence, we bowed; I glanced up through my lashes and saw that even the High Priestess and the Prince of the City stared at us as if amazed.
Lord Aulykaran smiled. “Most beautifully done. You must be very proud of them, my lady Derceto. The Temple’s dancers are marvels, are they not, Brother?” He did not wait for either to answer, but beckoned Aylah and me to come forward. When we stood before him, Aulykaran lifted a necklace of Persian turquoise and creamy sea-pearls from his neck. “This is scarcely enough reward for such devout priestesses as your new dancers, Lady Derceto. Yet mere gems are all I have to offer.”
His gesture pleased me because it told me Aylah and I had succeeded, not because I expected ever to wear the lavish ornament about my throat. Any such reward belonged to the Temple, just as did the offering he had made to have us dance at his feast. Aulykaran knew this, of course; he let the strand of precious stones slide from his hand to coil on the table before Derceto. The High Priestess smiled, accepting the beautiful necklace on behalf of Bright Atargatis.
The Prince of the City glared at his brother and then unclasped a heavy gold bracelet from his wrist. “Very well danced, as if they were the Goddess Herself.” Sandarin shoved the wide band of lapis-inlaid gold over to Derceto.
Although I should have kept my face smooth, a painted mask, I smiled—I could not help it. Aylah and I had danced well; so well we had gained rich gifts for Our Lady. I do not think either the High Priestess or the Prince of the City noticed my lapse; they seemed intent only on each other. Lord Aulykaran smiled back, and winked at me.
Now the other feasters called out praise, and many promised fine gifts to the Temple. I hardly noticed, for Aylah gently pinched my hand, and I remembered to bow again before retracing the path across the courtyard to the room where the Dance Priestess awaited us.
“Well,” Sharissit said when Aylah and I stood before her, awaiting her judgment on our performance, “I see you did not trip on your skirts after all, Night-Hair.” Then she smiled. “Your dancing honored Our Lady. You did well. Now it is time for you to come home and bathe and rest.”
I had hoped to remain to savor both the feast and the praise, but even as Sharissit spoke, weariness swept through me like a wave. I could barely stand, and fell asleep in the litter as we were carried home to the Temple.
Sandarin
“Are you mad, Brother? Do you think our family’s made of gems?” Sandarin glared at Aulykaran, who merely smiled and shrugged.
“The little priestesses danced very well—so well they caused even drunken men to be silent. Surely they deserved their reward?”
Clearly Aulykaran intended to act even more obtuse than usual. Sandarin sighed and pressed his fingers to the pain throbbing between his eyes. “I suppose you thought your gesture a grand jest—”
“I thought to persuade you to make your peace with Our Lady,” Aulykaran said and yawned. “By Her bright eyes, I’m weary. Almost dawn, Brother; past time to be in bed.”
“I am perfectly at peace with Our Lady.” Sandarin struggled to keep from losing his temper completely; shouting would do no good, and Aulykaran would merely laugh at him. “It’s Her High Priestess who causes discord. And if you think giving Derceto gems for the Temple will sweeten her, you aren’t nearly as clever as you fancy yourself.”
Aulykaran’s bestowal of the pearl-and-turquoise necklace had forced Sandarin to display equal generosity. The Prince of the City could not be seen to slight the Temple—especially when his brother had just presented so extravagant a gift. From the glint in Derceto’s eyes, she had known exactly how to value Sandarin’s offering.
Aulykaran yawned again. “Brother, both you and the High Priestess waste far too much time in fighting that could be put to far pleasanter use. I don’t even want to contemplate what your nights as Consort with Atargatis-on-Earth are like.”
“I do my duty as Prince of the City,” Sandarin said, “and Derceto does hers as High Priestess.”
His brother sighed. “Duty, always duty. Oh, and deception too, of course. Never mind, Sandarin; I’m certain you and Derceto will somehow resolve your differences. Or perhaps the next High Priestess will be less—”
“Ambitious?” Sandarin suggested, as for once his brother seemed at a loss for the perfect word.
“An unambitious High Priestess? And I thought you didn’t know what a jest was!” Aulykaran stretched, supple as a panther.
And about as much use as a panther, too. Sandarin contemplated explaining how difficult it was dealing with High Priestess Derceto, who lived for power. That Ascalon the Beautiful might have needs other than those of the Temple never seemed to occur
to her—or if it did, she didn’t care. Sometimes Sandarin wished he’d never become Prince of the City. High rank and great power were his, but as the years wore on, he enjoyed those favors less and less.
“Go to bed, Brother,” Aulykaran advised. “Go to bed, and dream of dancers bright and dark. That’s what I intend to do. And I think I shall hold another feast soon—or perhaps you should. Yes, I think you should hold a great feast and offer the Temple whatever it asks to have the Sun and Moon dance before you.”
Since there seemed nothing else to say, Sandarin decided to take his brother’s advice, and go home to bed. In sleep, he could forget about Derceto’s schemes, and about the bandits in the hills and the robbers on the highways. Let his brother dream of pretty dancers; Sandarin prayed only that he would indeed sleep—and not dream of anything at all.
Samson
“Now Samson grew strong and bold, and he went forth into the world, went to try his strength against his enemies.” So Orev sang, for those were the words his listeners wished to hear. What great man lacked enemies, after all? Orev chose his words carefully, that each man or woman who listened might believe his or her enemies had been Samson’s.
And it was true that Samson had enemies, although he himself had been no man’s foe—not willingly. Always Samson had been softhearted and kind. Too kind.
Until the day Samson first lost his temper, Orev hadn’t believed anger to be a part of his friend’s sunlight nature. In all the years Orev had known Samson—as infant, as child, as boy, as young man—never had he been ruled by strong passions. Witnessing Samson angered was as startling as watching a jar of honey kindle into a pillar of fire.
And just as unexpected.
The day dawned cool and fair, with a sweet sea-wind blowing from the west. Needing no words, Samson and Orev bundled their few possessions into the carry-basket and set off down the long road that wound through the hills separating the highlands from the sea-plain. They did not hurry, permitting chance or luck or their god’s will to set their path for them. The lion cub—which Samson had named Ari—followed, happily pouncing upon shadows until he tired and Samson scooped the cub up and carried him.
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