Delilah: A Novel

by Edghill, India

  Samson rubbed Ari’s plump belly; smiled as the half-grown beast wrapped its paws about his arm and began licking his hand. “But how will my leaving make them any safer?”

  Grateful that Samson did not remind him that the Lion’s Path had been Orev’s clever notion in the first place, the harper drew a deep breath and spoke as persuasively as if he sang a new tale to a doubtful audience. “If you leave this road now, while all know it lies under your protection, it will remain safe. No one will know you have left, and it will be as if your hand still holds back the evil. If you remain, more and more will demand you not only protect them but judge between them. And you have seen how that leads only to new quarrels.”

  Now may Yahweh let my words sway Samson. Let him for once do what is sensible, rather than what he somehow thinks is right and honorable.

  Samson stood quiet for a time before saying, “Perhaps you are right, Orev. I have no desire to sow strife. Where shall we go?”

  The ease with which his friend agreed to abandon the Lion’s Path left Orev feeling not only truly grateful to Yahweh but disinclined to question this good fortune. The harper smiled and said, “The road runs east to the sun and west to the sea. East would be better, I think.”

  To the east lay rugged hills, and desert beyond, hard traveling for any man, especially one with a crippled foot. But to the west lay the Five Cities, and peril for Samson. Since Orev had already settled in his mind that they would turn eastward, towards the hills, Samson’s next words hit hard as an unexpected blow.

  “West. We can visit the Jewel of the Five Cities. We shall journey to Ascalon.”

  For a breath, Orev could not summon words to his aid. And when he spoke, for once it was swift and plain. “Samson, are you truly mad? You can’t enter Ascalon’s gates!”

  “Why not?” Samson said, and rose to his feet, ignoring Ari’s playful swipe at the sword hanging from his master’s belt. “A jewel merchant told me Ascalon prepares for a great festival, to honor a god called Hadad-Rimmon. The Sun Partridge Dances go on for seven days, he said, and there is new wine and much song and merriment. All the city rejoices, and all are welcome. I’ve never seen such a festival. Let it be Ascalon.”

  “Let it not be Ascalon! Samson, they will kill you there.”

  “Not during the Sun Partridge Festival. During those seven days, all within Ascalon’s walls are sacred. Lady Ascalon’s greatest foe may safely walk Her streets—”

  “Did the jewel merchant tell you that, too? Perhaps he lied. Have you thought of that?”

  “Why should he lie?”

  “Why should he tell the truth? The Five Cities would pay your weight in silver a dozen times over to capture you, Samson, and you know it.” The Five Cities still blamed Samson for every crime committed by the Foxes—or by any other thief or murderer who wasn’t known and captured.

  Samson’s face took on the patiently stubborn expression that always meant he was about to be even more unworldly and unreasonable than usual. “The jewel merchant was no Philistine, but a man from a land far to the south. And besides, I wish to see Ascalon.”

  Long practice permitted Orev to reveal everything or nothing with his voice. Now he chose to speak in a calm, quiet tone. “Why Ascalon, Samson? Is there a reason you will not reveal to me?”

  A pause; Orev waited.

  “I have dreamed, Orev. Dreamed of a black flame hotter than the sun.”

  “And this flame burned in Ascalon?”

  “Yes,” Samson said. “It burned in Ascalon. It danced Ascalon’s streets, and when I followed after it, the stones beneath my feet shone like gold.”

  “That is why you wish to go to Ascalon? This dream of a dancing flame and golden streets?” Orev looked at Samson’s face and judged that nothing would turn his friend from this path now. But Orev knew he must try one last time. “And when did you dream this dream, Samson? You have not spoken of it before.”

  “What matter when I dreamed this dream? And I did not speak of it before because I was bound to the Lion’s Path. Now I have been freed, and I will go to Ascalon. If you will not come with me, I will go alone.”

  Orev sighed. “Of course I will come with you, Samson. Very well, let us go west, to Ascalon. I’ve never seen the Sun Partridge Dance either.”

  That was how they decided to journey down the ancient roadway to the sea, leaving the unforgiving hills and traveling across the verdant plain to the coast.

  To the oldest of the Five Cities, to the Pearl of the Sea.

  To Ascalon.

  PART TWO

  Rising Moon

  Samson

  Even the straight road to Ascalon proved hard to walk in peace. Sometimes it seemed to Orev that Yahweh delighted in setting obstacles in Samson’s path.

  Still, the encounter with the prophet would not have troubled Orev, save for the warning the man gave of trouble to come. Not that the prophet Samuel realized what his words revealed to Orev—and to Samson as well. To Samuel, the words he spoke held only one meaning. But his stern rebuke betrayed more than the prophet himself could imagine.

  The prophet Samuel came upon them as they rested a few hours’ journey from Ascalon.

  Samson dozed beneath a wild olive tree, his head resting upon Ari, who slept as hard as he played. Orev sat leaning against the tree’s trunk, softly singing over the words of a new song. Only long repetitions could truly turn mere words into a song that would draw laughter or tears from those who listened to its singer.

  He fell silent as a man strode across the open land beyond the road, crossed the road, and approached them. Tall and lean, using a long wooden staff to aid his steps across uneven ground, the stranger looked both poor and dour, but not dangerous. Although Orev guessed the man to be only a few years older than Samson, his stiff dignity and thin face aged him. His clothing—if one could truly call a tattered tunic and a worn goatskin cloak clothing—also spoke, silent but eloquent, of a far older man, a poor one at that. A stern expression only added to the image of a joyless fellow, too serious for his true age.

  But Orev would listen to anyone, gleaning news and nuggets of gossip and information that might someday inspire new songs. And Samson would speak with anyone, however forbidding he might appear. Orev nudged Samson with his foot. “Wake, a visitor comes to join us.”

  “Peace and greetings, brother,” Samson called. “You look weary. Sit with us now and share our meal later. I am called Samson, and my friend is Orev the harper.”

  “I know who you are, betrayer of vows. And someday you will know me. I am Samuel, Yahweh’s servant and prophet, and I keep all the vows you so lightly cast aside.”

  Samson frowned. “What vows have I betrayed?”

  “What vows have you not betrayed? You consort with those who worship false gods. You raise up those whom Yahweh would strike down. You claim for your own that which belongs to Yahweh only. You, whose very birth vowed you to Yahweh’s service, break every law and commandment.”

  As Samuel recited his litany of offenses, Samson slowly rose to his feet. Ari rolled into a crouch, apparently ready to leap upon this irritating stranger if Samson gave the lion the slightest encouragement.

  “I have taken no vows, nor broken any.” Samson met Samuel’s gaze unflinching. “Nor have I offended against Yahweh’s commandments. Who are you to chide me? Look to your own honor, Samuel. If I offend Yahweh, He alone will chastise me for my transgressions.”

  Samuel stood nearly as tall as Samson, but Samson was not only tall but strongly muscled as a full-grown lion. Without even trying, Samson loomed over Samuel like a pagan god. Samuel glared at his rival, eyes burning hate. “Our people delude themselves that they need any more king than Yahweh Himself. Some talk of you as that king, Samson.” Samuel’s voice threatened; danger seemed to sting the nape of Orev’s neck like an angry bee.

  But Samson only laughed. “Let them talk. I’m no king, nor ever will be. You shouldn’t worry so much, Samuel. If ever a god could take care of His own affair
s, Yahweh is that god.”

  “You blaspheme, Samson.”

  “Well, if to tell truth is to blaspheme, then perhaps I do. Are you sure you will not eat? The bread is hard, but the honey sweet—”

  Samuel seemed turned to stone in the roadway. “I will not eat. And I tell you, Samson the fool, that you think to rise high, but you will fall lower than any man has ever done.” Samuel’s voice sounded hollow, as if he spoke from inside a cave. “Night will take you, night will destroy you . . .”

  Orev’s prickling sense of danger changed to chill certainty. Samuel is not just another man crazed by power-lust. He is a prophet. He speaks as Yahweh bids him. The fact that Orev had always doubted such a wonder as a true prophet existed only increased the fear Samuel’s uncanny voice kindled in him. Fear, cold fire in the belly.

  A low growl rasped the air; Ari rose to stand beside Samson. The lion’s fur bristled down his spine and his tail lashed, a quick, deadly warning.

  Samuel fell silent, although he glared at the lion as fiercely as if about to accuse the beast, too, of oath-breaking and blasphemy. For a moment Orev feared Samuel and the lion would leap upon each other, a clash of deadly enemies. Then Samson laid his hand on Ari’s broad heavy head, and the rage burning in the air about them cooled.

  “So you lead a king’s beast. Do you think to be king, Samson?” Samuel lifted the gnarled wood staff he carried, pointed it at Ari.

  The lion’s low growl sharpened; Ari’s paw slapped the staff aside. Samson knelt and wrapped his arms about Ari’s neck, urging the lion back.

  “I told you no, but you will not listen. Our people have only one king,” Samson said, “and we need no other king than Yahweh.”

  “Do not mock Yahweh or me.” Samuel struck the ground between them with his staff. “I have heard men speak of you as their leader. I have heard them say you should be king and lead Yahweh’s people against their enemies.”

  “I do not mock anyone—or any god. And I cannot stop men from speaking foolishly. But I am no man’s leader, and I say a third time, no man’s king. Nor do I wish to be.”

  Samuel spat upon the ground at Samson’s feet. “Do you think your lusts count for more than that dust at your feet? I have warned you, as Yahweh bade me do. I have done with you, Samson. But Yahweh has not. Perhaps if you heed my words—His words—you may still be saved.”

  Ari growled, a low promise of menace; Orev and Samson stood silent as the prophet turned and strode away. Soon he was lost to their sight, the only sign that Samuel had ever been there a veil of dust drifting above the road.

  When the dust no longer hung in the air, Samson drew in a deep breath. “He must be mad. Do I look like a king to you, Orev?”

  Yes, Orev thought. But he said only “Our people have never had a king, and they will not suffer one now.”

  “No, we have no kings.” Samson seemed to lay aside a troubling burden; he smiled. “Shall we eat now? I am hungry, and the honey is waiting.”

  “Why not?” said Orev. “If we leave soon, we can look upon the walls of the Pearl of the Sea before sunset. And I am no longer as pleased with this olive tree’s shade as I was an hour since. Yes, let us eat, and continue on to Ascalon the Beautiful.”

  At the crest of the last hill, Samson and Orev stopped and stared down the road to the plain, to the sea-city of Ascalon. The city gleamed pearl-rich under the summer sun and filled the eye even at this distance.

  “I’ve never seen so large a gathering of buildings.” Samson stared, amazed, at the sight before them.

  “You’ve never seen a city until now. Villages and towns, that’s all. Now this”—Orev waved his hand, indicating the massive walled city set between fertile plain and seacoast—“this is a city. I never thought to see Ascalon. I’m glad I have.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Samson said. “Look at that wall. I wonder how—”

  Orev held up his hand. “Stop. I don’t want to hear how the stones were moved or the tower erected. I merely wish to gaze upon the Pearl of the Sea in awed silence.”

  Samson flung his arm over Orev’s shoulders. “Very well, silence. But just look at the Western Gate. The road seems to lead from it into the sea itself.”

  “Samson, what about the word silence baffles you?” Orev shook his head, and Samson laughed. Orev stared down towards the waiting city. Although he had never before set eyes upon Ascalon the Beautiful, the city was far-famed; he had heard much of its importance, and its value to the Philistines.

  The oldest of the Five Cities, Ascalon served as seaport and bazaar. Its harbor welcomed ships from lands known and unknown; its merchants bought and sold everything from dried fruits to rare gems. Outside the walled city, farms spread over the plains, orchards and vineyards swept up the slopes of the eastern hills, adding to its wealth. Ascalon’s wine was famed from Troy to Thebes.

  Nor was trade Ascalon’s only claim to fame. The city itself was a marvel of strength and beauty. Ascalon’s walls had been built high and deep; the gates opened into tunnels sixty paces long through the guardian walls. Towers tall as a cedar stood watch by the city gates. Lime wash turned the walls white as sea foam. Gilded horns rose from the corners of the watchtowers, as if to gore the sky.

  From the hilltop, Orev and Samson could see the city within the vast walls. Houses painted red and black and yellow; long streets gay with canopies of brilliant cloth. The bazaars, Orev supposed. At the center of the city a rooftop burned red-gold under the westering sun. The flaring brightness nearly blinded him, veiled the building’s surroundings in reflected brilliance.

  Orev closed his eyes, waited for the sun-spangled blindness to pass. Beside him, he heard Samson inhale sharply. “Orev, do you see that? There, in the center? It seems almost a city within a city.”

  “A palace.” Orev opened his eyes, cautious. The blazing blindness had cleared; he looked again at the city, taking care to slide his eyes away from the golden heart of Ascalon. “Or a temple. There is a great temple to a goddess there in Ascalon. She’s half-fish, or so men say.”

  “I’d like to see this goddess,” Samson said. “Which half is fish, do you suppose?”

  “Which half do you think? Now we’d better find a resting place for the night. The festival doesn’t begin until tomorrow’s sunrise. You won’t be safe within Ascalon’s walls until then.”

  “Oh, I’ll be safe enough. How would those who dwell in Ascalon even know what I look like? Come on, we want to get there well before they close the gates for the night. We’ll have time to explore the city.”

  Orev glanced at Samson, who was eyeing the towers and gates with as much interest as if they were a beautiful woman, and then at the lion reclining at Samson’s feet. “Then let whatever happens be upon your own head, not mine. And you’d better put a rope around Ari’s neck. Festival or no festival, I doubt the Philistines will like having a pet lion loose in their streets.”

  To Orev’s surprise, the guards at the Eastern Gate let them pass with no more than a casual glance and a warning from the oldest—a man whose gray hair and scarred face told his history as a warrior more plainly than words—that “If that beast claws anything, be prepared to pay well for damages.”

  But as the old warrior also scratched Ari behind the ears, and sent them on their way down the long tunnel into the city streets with a recommendation that they try Lalage’s inn if they planned to stay for all the days and nights of the festival, apparently the warning was kindly meant. Nor did the guards seem surprised to see a lion padding along on a rope leash.

  Orev’s chief worry was that Samson would draw too much attention to himself, or that Ari would panic in the crowded streets. But it quickly became clear that the only eyes watching Samson were those of idle women. The golden lion pacing beside Samson drew only fleeting glances.

  Clearly stranger things had walked Ascalon’s ancient streets than a leashed lion.

  Sandarin

  The guardian in charge of the Eastern Gate had brought the news himsel
f—news brought too late, and news Sandarin still found nearly impossible to believe. Was the man Samson mad, that he put himself in Ascalon’s power? Sandarin had promptly ordered Samson seized and imprisoned, only to have the gatekeeper remind him that the Sun Partridge Festival had begun, and that no man might lay a hand upon another in anger. Sandarin demanded to know why the gatekeeper had waited almost a full day to bring this vital information to him, only to be told, “My lord prince, I did not know myself until I drank to the honor of the Sun Partridge with a merchant who asked me how it was I permitted Samson to enter Ascalon.”

  Furious, and knowing he could not berate the man for telling him what was only law and truth, Sandarin had hastened to the Great Temple of Atargatis and laid the news before the High Priestess, who stared at him until the Prince of the City feared she had lost her senses, refusing to heed what she did not wish to hear.

  “Samson?” she said at last. “Samson has come to Ascalon?”

  “Yes, as I have said thrice already, my lady Derceto—the man has entered through the Eastern Gate. He walks Ascalon’s streets, unscathed and untouched! With a lion and a harper, too; the man must be mad. What are we to do? He must be taken, rendered harmless to us.”

  Her astonishment vanished as he spoke; when he ceased, awaiting her response, the High Priestess regarded him with irritated indulgence, as if he were a particularly foolish child. “The Sun Partridge spreads His wings over all within the city walls. You know that, my prince.”

  “Of course I know that! I am not a fool! But we cannot let Samson roam Ascalon, doing whatever he wills, until festival’s end.”

  “We can, and we must. I am not a fool either.” Derceto frowned, then, slowly, smiled. “We must watch, and wait. If the gods have delivered Samson into our hands, we must not offend them by violating a sacred festival.”