Delilah: A Novel

by Edghill, India

  His friend smiled. “Now I rid this road of vermin. Of your goodness, go down and warn the merchant to halt and wait. Take Ari; I do not wish him hurt.”

  “Or me either, I trust. Put the tether on your lion, or he will not stay with me.”

  Samson looped a length of leather about Ari’s neck, handed the end of the lead to Orev. “Come along,” Orev told the reluctant lion. “Your master needs no help from a lame harper and a lion too lazy to hunt his own meat.”

  Orev made his way to the road and walked down the rise to the merchant’s caravan. He held up his arm, a silent order to halt, only to realize the train of donkeys had already stopped.

  The man who led the caravan stared. “Come no closer,” he said, and Orev paused, pulling Ari to his side.

  “I come to warn you,” Orev said. “I am Orev, a harper, and I walk with Samson, who guards this road. He tells you to await him here, for thieves have set a trap for you where the road passes by those rocks.” Orev gestured, and the merchant stared at the rockfall where the road curved.

  “Why should I believe this tale?” the man demanded, and Orev shrugged.

  “I could say ‘because it is truth,’ but that, too, could be a lie. You can forge onward and chance meeting thieves, or wait and move on again when it is safe to do so.”

  The merchant hesitated, glanced from Orev to Ari. Orev said nothing, merely scratched Ari behind the ears. At last the merchant said, “I will wait. But do not come any closer.”

  “The odor of asses is no joy to me,” Orev said. “I will wait here, with Samson’s lion.”

  They all waited, tense, stretching their ears for the sound of battle ahead. Only silence for long minutes, then a faint clattering, the sound muted by the rocks between them and danger. The merchant’s men stood tense, daggers drawn.

  “Look, someone comes!” The warning rose shrill into the bright air; Orev turned and looked, and smiled.

  He unbound the leather leash, freeing Ari. “Go to your master,” Orev said, and the lion padded off to Samson.

  Samson greeted Ari, stroking the beast’s broad forehead, then strode up to Orev and the staring merchant. “I greet you, men of the Five Cities. The road ahead is safe now.”

  The merchant regarded Samson skeptically. “So you say. I saw no thieves, and doubt I shall see any now.”

  “If you doubt, come past the bend, to the rocks, and you will see those who awaited you lying dead.”

  To Orev’s surprise, the merchant agreed—although he ordered the caravan he commanded to turn back if he did not return within a quarter hour.

  Past the curve around the outcrop of rock lay a small hollow; that the thieves had waited there was clear from the swords upon the ground, and the three men lying dead among the rocks.

  As the merchant stared, Orev asked, soft-voiced, “Three men, Samson? How?” Samson smiled grimly and said, “I hurled rocks down upon them, crushed their skulls. That one, wearing the fox pelt, was the leader. With him dead, the others panicked and fled.”

  “They carried swords, and still you triumphed over them?” The merchant looked upon the dead men, made his decision. “I thank you, Samson, and will offer dogs to Dagon in your name. What do you ask, Samson, slayer of the Champion of Gath, for keeping my men and beasts and trade goods safe?”

  “I need no dogs slain on my behalf, and I ask no payment for doing what any man should do,” Samson said, and the merchant stared as if doubting the evidence of his own senses.

  Then he rallied, and bowed to Samson. “Perhaps you need no payment, but I would anger my gods did I not honor your service to me. Choose whatsoever you wish that is in my power to grant you, and it is yours.”

  Samson glanced over at Orev, who nodded. The favor Samson had given must be balanced by a favor taken; Orev only hoped Samson would choose wisely among the merchant’s wares.

  But Samson did not ask to go and look upon the goods the merchant carried. Instead, he walked over to the sword the leader of the bandits had carried. The weapon lay where it had fallen when stealth had proven more powerful than armed men, and stone stronger than bone. Samson caught up the weapon, gazed upon the dark glint of the iron blade, the flash of wild asses’ teeth set into the hilt.

  “I claim this,” he said, and Orev smiled as the merchant tried to hide his relief that Samson’s choice cost him nothing.

  But, as a clearly honorable man, the merchant asked, “Is that all? You may claim anything that is mine to give.”

  “This suffices.” Samson swung the sword, testing its weight and balance. “A worthy gift, and one that will aid in keeping the road safe for men of goodwill.”

  The merchant stared, then bowed. “If that is all you ask, then take it with my goodwill and my thanks.”

  “It is all I ask.”

  Orev sighed inwardly, but said nothing. Standing beside Samson, he watched as the merchant and his servants and pack animals took to the road again. They moved hastily, with many looks back over their shoulders. Clearly they could not believe their good fortune. When the small caravan passed from sight around the next hill, Orev turned to Samson.

  “ ‘Choose whatsoever you wish,’ ” Orev mimicked the merchant’s fervent offer. “Samson, you might at least have asked for a skin of wine and some bread and cheese as well as that sword—which was not even the merchant’s to give. Since you slew its owner, it was yours by right.”

  Samson smoothed his hand down the iron blade, frowned. “He didn’t care for it well. The blade needs polishing and the edge whetting.”

  “You could have asked for a whetstone, too. Samson, you’re a fool sometimes.”

  “All men are fools sometimes.”

  “Well, you are more of a fool than most.”

  “Perhaps I am.” Samson ran his thumb along the edge of the sword. “But not such a fool as to ask for what will not be freely given.”

  Orev had to agree. Easy enough for a merchant to offer all he had as a reward, an offer the man undoubtedly meant at that grateful moment. Later, however, when the threat and fear faded, a too-greedy request might be resented. The bandit’s sword had cost the merchant nothing. “That’s all very well—but remember we can’t live on stones and air.”

  “I won’t ask payment for guarding the road against those who use my name as their war-cry when they attack peaceful travelers.” Samson looked as stubborn as he had when he was five years old and had refused to let the older boys throw rocks at an injured dog.

  Orev knew arguing with his friend in this mood was pointless. Time now for persuasion. “Admirable, Samson. But you should consider the feelings of those you protect. If you will take nothing, you leave them forever in debt. That is not kind.”

  Samson considered the matter as he wrapped the sword in the cloak of its previous owner. At last he said, “I would have no one indebted to me. If a man wishes to reward me, he can tell us a new tale. Then you will have fresh fodder for your songs.”

  Samson seemed so pleased at this decision that Orev lacked the will to point out that they could not live on songs, any more than they could on stones or air. At least not while we roam the high roads. Still, new tales will be of value when we find a place where I may sing for our suppers. So Orev simply nodded and said, “A wise decision, Samson.”

  Let Samson ask only a story told as his reward. There was nothing to stop Orev from requesting a more tangible expression of thanks, after all.

  Soon word began to spread that if a man would send precious trade goods, the safest road by which to send them was called the Lion’s Path. Samson could not enforce his will everywhere, but that road lay under the protection of his sword. He guarded all who traveled peacefully upon that highway. And he asked for nothing, save new tales from those who passed by.

  Orev, less high-minded and more concerned than Samson with where their next meal might await them, graciously accepted gifts on Samson’s behalf. He was careful to confine the offerings to food: a few loaves of travel-bread, a basket of figs,
half a dozen dried salt fish. He knew Samson must know—but so long as neither of them mentioned the matter, no harm was done and they ate as well as many and better than some. For Samson, that was enough. Orev hoped, eventually, for better things.

  But matters grew worse, not better. To Samson’s anger and Orev’s dismay, the group that called itself Samson’s Foxes began to travel farther and farther seeking prey. No traveler, however humble, felt safe upon the roads, and the caravans of the wealthy doubled their guards, at great cost not only to themselves but to those who bought their goods.

  Worse yet was the sudden increase in the number of groups claiming to be “Samson’s Foxes.” Sometimes it seemed to Orev that every brigand in Canaan boasted of pillaging in Samson’s name.

  Worst of all, groups of warriors from the Five Cities began to harass travelers in the guise of Samson’s Foxes. What better way to vilify the Hebrew hero Samson than to claim robbery and rape were done on his order?

  In the long years that followed his time with Samson, Orev would think back to those now-famous days and see how each small word spoken by each chance-met man led inexorably to the hero’s end. Only when all events had befallen could the pattern be seen.

  Who would think that a brief encounter with a master of stone would hold any import to Samson’s life? If only Samson had not spoken with the man . . .

  But Samson would happily talk with any man or woman he met. “I like to learn new things,” he told Orev often. And to walk and talk with a master builder, one who created city walls and temples, had been a great joy to Samson.

  The mason had been traveling north, leaving Canaan and the rule of the Five Cities. Like any sensible man, he chose the Lion’s Path for his journey, and was pleased to have the company of Samson himself on the road. “It is better that I work elsewhere for a time,” he’d told Samson and, when asked why, had simply said, “Because I told those who rule Gaza the truth.”

  Samson had thought that over. “Men do not seem to like hearing truth, from anyone.”

  “No, they do not—and twice not when they have set their minds on building quickly and cheaply. You would think men would not wish to offend their god by offering up a shoddily built temple!” The man had brooded on this for a few strides. “And so I told them, after I had explained that to build a great temple in such a style was folly. Stone too soft, and pillars that will give way the moment the Earthshaker clenches His fist—”

  And then, encouraged by Samson’s sympathetic interest, the man had spent an hour sitting beside the road, drawing lines in the earth, showing Samson precisely how and why the Great Temple of Dagon that Gaza now erected must fall.

  “Unless, of course, their god protects them.” The master builder’s tone left little doubt that were he Dagon, he would not bother to exert himself for such worshippers. “If not, then—see, Samson, here and here—weakness.”

  Samson had observed this with grave attention, while setting small flat stones one atop the other. A push of his fingers and the mock temple fell, became only a heap of pebbles. “Perhaps the earth will not tremble beneath Gaza.”

  “Perhaps not. Who can say what the gods will do?” The master builder wiped his hands on his tunic and rose to his feet. “I only know I would not let my wife or my daughter worship in that temple, and not simply because Dagon is no god of mine.”

  “Now Samson was as wise as he was strong, and as strong as he was wise. And men came from the ends of the land—yes, even from Dan to Beersheba, to ask him to judge among them . . .”

  But the Lion’s Path, too, proved a kind of trap. As time passed, those who traveled the protected road began not only to press more offerings upon Samson, but to ask him to settle new arguments and longstanding quarrels.

  A merchant had overloaded the pack donkeys he had borrowed, and one of the donkeys had pulled a tendon—see, here was the donkey, limping. What did Samson think the owner of the donkey should do?

  A man who had traveled down to Ashdod to sell his daughter as a house slave came to Samson complaining bitterly that the ungrateful girl had bitten his hand—see, there were the marks of her teeth—and run away. Would Samson hunt her down and bring her back?

  The Lion’s Path was too far for those from the eastern hills to travel upon it—did he expect old men to journey forty leagues out of their way? Why did Samson not protect the hill roads as well?

  Sometimes Orev thought that being companion to a man who wished to see only good in life was a tricky and thankless task. Orev considered what words would best serve to persuade Samson to do the sensible thing and leave this high road he had claimed for his own.

  Fortunately, the travelers themselves provided the excuse.

  Reluctantly, Samson had striven to answer the pleas and complaints, to judge what was best when problems were laid before him. When the quarrels were petty and the questions simple, Samson’s answers usually satisfied everyone. But as if Samson summoned trouble by merely living quietly, the peace of the road he guarded ended abruptly when two rich merchants decided that their quarrel could be settled only by Samson, Lord of the Lion’s Path.

  To find him, the merchants ordered their slaves to shout out his name every dozen strides. Samson, off hunting with Ari, did not hear them. Orev, sitting upon a rock by the roadside as he tuned his harp, both heard and saw them.

  “You there—with the harp. Come down here,” the fatter merchant demanded.

  Orev looked into the merchant’s round, greedy face, then turned his eyes upon the second merchant, a man thin as a gazehound and clutched by the same hunger that lurked in the fat man’s eyes.

  “No,” said Orev. “I’m quite comfortable as I am.”

  The fat man stared at him. “Do you know who I am?” he demanded.

  “No,” Orev repeated. “I know nothing of you, save that you are rude to harpers by the roadside. Why should I come down?”

  “Be silent,” the thin man ordered the other merchant. “I will handle this.” He then smiled at Orev—unconvincingly. He seemed out of practice; Orev decided the thin man didn’t smile much.

  “No, I will handle this.” Orev’s voice rang strong and clear. “Tell me why two merchants with a dozen armed men at their backs have been yelling for Samson this hour past.”

  Given free rein to air their grievances, the two merchants began a tale of woe and cheating that Orev thought could not be bettered by even village storytellers. He rubbed his hand over his brow, then sat, chin upon one hand, and regarded the two merchants intently, as if memorizing every twist and turn of their convoluted tale.

  “And not only that, but the goat died!” The fat man practically wept.

  “Well, if you’d keep your valuables in a storeroom instead of in a sheep, you would not only be able to find them but—”

  Large and strong Samson might be, but he moved with the silent grace of a hunting leopard. Now he strode forward as if out of the air itself, Ari at his side, startling the merchants to silence. “Here, Orev—fresh meat!” Samson tossed a brace of rabbits up to Orev. “Remember those are our dinner, not Ari’s.”

  Orev snatched the rabbits before the hopeful lion could maneuver into position to catch the rabbits as they fell. “Food is good, Samson. These men are here to ask you to judge between them.”

  Samson sighed. “Must it be now?”

  Before the merchants could speak, Orev said, “They are most insistent, Samson.”

  “Very well. What troubles you?”

  As Orev had already decided, the dispute was nothing—not compared to a girl sold into slavery, or a boy gelded to satisfy the demand for court and temple eunuchs. But he dutifully relayed the merchants’ story to Samson.

  The merchant routes that ran from the north to the south, the east to the west, were ardently desired by traders. A permit bearing the seal of one of the Five Cities granted a merchant access to the trade routes. The better the road, the safer and faster the journey, the more the permit cost. With enough gold, a merchant co
uld purchase the use of a road solely for his own caravans. Which was all very well, unless a greedy clerk sold the same road to two merchants, as had happened to the two men standing before Samson.

  At last Samson said, “I have heard you, and must think. Wait.” He stood for a long time, stroking Ari’s dark mane, staring at first the fat man and then the thin one. “I am ready to judge between you now,” he said endless minutes later. He looked intently into their eyes. “Are you willing to submit to my judgment and to carry it out, no matter how foolish it may seem?”

  Reluctantly, the two merchants managed to agree. “Very well.” Samson straightened and said, “The road was built for all to use. It is small-hearted to deny men the right to the roads their forefathers built. Share the road as two friends should. You will find your way both pleasanter and safer.”

  This sensible judgment did nothing to soothe the irate merchants. When they went off, they were still quarreling. At least they left. Orev thanked Yahweh for this small favor.

  “Why do they do this, Orev? I’m no Judge, to know the will of the Law and the Lord.” Samson frowned. “And I’m still not sure how the goat comes into the matter.”

  “Forget the goat, or you’ll go mad,” Orev advised. “As for why they seek you out—it’s because they think you know the answers they are too foolish to find. Perhaps it would be best if we ceded this road to the merchants, and let them work out their own quarrels. If you remain here, more men, and still more, will demand you judge between them, and no matter how you decide, there will be bitterness.”

  Orev hoped the argument would work. If merchants continued asking Samson to decide between one claim and the other, Orev knew it would only end in conflict. And for months, he had wished to free Samson of the invisible chains that bound him to the Lion’s Path.

  “Orev, I cannot leave this road now. It is trusted, safe, and only because I am here to guard it. I must stay.”

  “No, you must go. Samson, do you not see that the Lion’s Path grows perilous—not for you but for those you would protect?” Orev knew only an appeal to what was right and good would work.