“The gods will not bind and imprison Samson,” Sandarin pointed out, and Derceto laughed, a sound that made the Prince’s palm itch with the urge to slap her painted cheek.
“Of course not,” Derceto replied. “That is for Ascalon’s soldiers to do. Unless you wish the Temple to take charge of the matter?”
Sandarin did not. The capture of Samson belonged to the City, not the Temple. When he pointed out that Samson had entered the City’s walls, not the Temple’s, Derceto nodded, as if in complete agreement. But Sandarin did not trust her; given the slightest chance, the High Priestess would eagerly claim the prize for her own.
Still, unless the man placed himself into Derceto’s claws, there was no law that permitted the High Priestess to demand Samson. This thought comforted Sandarin only until he reached the Temple Gate.
For there it occurred to him that a man capable of blithely striding into the stronghold of his greatest enemies was capable of any action, however mad. Samson might do anything, even try to join forces with the High Priestess. Sandarin only hoped, as he was borne back to his palace in his gilded cedarwood litter, that Ascalon’s greatest goddess would favor his prayers over those of Her own High Priestess. And that the Sun Partridge Dances would dazzle the barbarian lout Samson so greatly that the man went nowhere but the nearest wineshop. Wine-drugged, Samson would be easily taken.
By the City. Not by the Temple.
As Our Lady wills it, of course. And not, Sandarin thought, remembering Derceto’s mock-meek smile, as our High Priestess wills it!
Delilah
“Then there came the day that mighty Samson laid his eyes upon Delilah. Delilah the Dark, Delilah of the night-black hair. Delilah, who desired Samson’s heart, and Samson’s soul, and would stop at nothing to claim them as her prizes. She was beautiful as night and cunning as a fennec, and she filled his eyes until he could see no other. He vowed he must have her for his own, or die of love . . .”
When I look back upon that last summer Aylah and I spent together in the House of Atargatis, I see two girls, each foolish in her own way. And I see a span of unalloyed happiness that I never again knew. I thought Aylah as happy and content as I; nor did she reveal by word or deed that she was not.
We both were ordained priestesses now, Rising Moons, and much sought after for our skill in the Dance. I knew our talent pleased the Temple, and brought it much profit, too. Merchants and princes freely gave rich offerings to have the Sun and Moon dance for them.
Although we were not yet Full Moons, Aylah and I were tended as if we were images of Our Lady Herself—or as if we were prized mares from the southern desert. I laughed when Aylah called us that, one day in the baths as slaves smoothed oil of amber into our skin. Aylah did not even smile to acknowledge her own jest.
But jest it must have been; were Aylah and Delilah not the most cherished of the Rising Moons? We each now had a handmaiden whose only duty was tending to our clothing and dressing us for the Dance, and another whose task was to ensure that our faces were painted and our hair knotted and curled so that we might dance with perfection of appearance as well as of movement.
There was one more honor we were being prepared for: that of acting as the Goddess Herself in the rites of love. There were many ways to serve and to honor Our Lady Atargatis, but love was the most worthy.
Each priestess acted as the goddess at least once in her life; some were called only that one sacred time. Others found the joy in honoring Our Lady with love that I found in the Dance. Sometimes I dreamed that I might be called to love as I was called to dance, but this desire I spoke of only to Aylah.
Aylah claimed she did not care, but I believed her calm, cool demeanor veiled an inner fire. I still dreamed of the highest honor for Aylah—that someday she would stand before us in the blue and gold of the High Priestess.
I knew better than to speak of this vision to Aylah, but nothing could keep me from wishing such a future for her. Why should Aylah not be High Priestess? Was she not beautiful, fair and graceful, proficient in all the skills we had been so carefully taught? To see Aylah garbed for the Dance, glittering as the sun whose rays had been stitched in gold thread upon the tiers of her skirt, was to look upon perfection.
Although I knew I was no longer the plain, awkward-looking child I had once thought myself to be, I still saw myself as shadow to Aylah’s bright beauty. She tried to argue that I had become at least as beautiful as she, but I could not yet look upon myself and judge fairly.
And Aylah’s worth was easy for any to see. The pale thin girl from the north had ripened into a golden goddess. Her hair never darkened as she grew into womanhood; the silk-straight mane remained the color of spring sun, just as her eyes remained clear dawnlight blue, and her skin pale as fresh milk. All the lines of her face and body curved smooth and womanly, in perfect harmony of form.
While I—Well, as I say, I had improved over the years, but my chiefest claim to beauty remained my hair, the color of moonless midnight, its soft darkness falling in heavy waves nearly to my knees. For the rest, my eyes were dark as my hair, my skin the deep honey red of dark amber, and my slender body strong and supple as a cat’s. A dancer’s body. If I owned any beauty, it was too subtle to be seen beside Aylah’s placid perfection.
To me, it was simple: Aylah was flawless, and I was not.
This makes it sound as if I spent hours studying my mirror, comparing myself to Aylah, but in truth, we had little enough time to brood. The Temple kept us too busy to waste the rare moments of leisure we were granted.
Although we belonged to Our Lady Atargatis, She was not the only deity worshipped in Ascalon. Atargatis held pride of place as Queen, but each season brought its own gods and goddesses, and the city celebrated their many feasts and festivals. The Great House of Atargatis watched over the lesser deities and their holy days and celebrations; our priestesses tended other gods, honored other festivals, that Our Lady might bless them with Her presence.
The most joyous of these other festivals came at the beginning of autumn, when the grapes were gathered in and the new wine was pressed. The god thanked then was Hadad-Rimmon, Lord of Wine, known as the Sun Partridge for both his own joyous lusts and the bright heady passions his gift and favor bestowed. Everyone loved the time of the Sun Partridge Dances, a full seven days of rejoicing marked by dances at every feast and every temple, dances in the city streets and along the wide road that led from the Sea Gate Tower down to the harbor.
During that intoxicating week, wine flowed more freely than water, and honey-cakes and sweetmeats were piled high at every merchant’s shop and every Temple gateway for all to take freely and eat. All trade and all daily ritual was set aside, all feuds and quarrels forgotten, every stranger welcomed; the vilest criminal might walk Ascalon’s streets in perfect safety, immune from capture and punishment. For seven days it was a duty, as well as a pleasure, to honor Hadad-Rimmon by indulging in sweets and spices, dance and song, wine and love.
This year I looked forward to the Sun Partridge Festival with a new fervor. For this year Aylah and I were sixteen, and already the Temple’s most prized new dancers. This year there could be no doubt that Delilah Moondancer and Aylah Sundancer would be chosen to lead the First Dance and the Last Dance. To lead the First was honor enough, as it was to lead the Last. But to lead both First Dance and Last—only half a dozen dancers in the Temple’s history could claim that prize.
For once I waited to hear the names the Seven Fish had chosen for the places of honor with not only a mask-smooth face but a joyous heart. For this time I knew what the Seven would proclaim. Perhaps Our Lady had murmured into my ear as I lay sleeping; perhaps it was only the vanity of youth. But I heard my name and Aylah’s called, and our places in the First Dance and the Last given, without even the slightest tremor of surprise.
Beside me, Aylah drew in her breath sharply; clearly she had lacked my confident belief. Once the ceremony of choosing ended, and we all scattered to our various tasks, I caugh
t Aylah in my arms and hugged her hard.
“First Dance and Last! Oh, Aylah—we may ask for whatsoever we desire now, you know that?”
She returned my embrace, and kissed my cheek. “It is a great honor, heart-sister. I am glad it gives you such joy.”
“And you? Don’t you care at all, Aylah?”
“Yes, but only because you do. And because it is a pleasure to watch you dance. For the rest . . .”
“Now do not say any of the other dancers would do as well! You know the steps perfectly, better than I myself sometimes. Tell me, what shall we ask for?” I had not exaggerated when I said we could ask for whatsoever we desired. Those who led the First and the Last Dances could claim what they wished as prize, if their dancing pleased the gods. Since Aylah and I would lead both dances, we could demand a handful of stars and Lady Ascalon would be bound to obtain the heavenly gems for us. “Come, Aylah, is there nothing you desire?”
“Our freedom.” Aylah spoke so softly I could have pretended I had not heard those words.
But I had, and they sliced deep as a keen blade. “What do you mean? Are we not the Temple’s most cherished daughters?”
“Oh, yes, we are that. As for what to ask for as our reward for leading the First Dance and the Last—I think it wisest to wait, and see what Fate sets in our path.” Aylah regarded me steadily, her pale eyes cool as winter dawn. “Someday we may be glad to own the right to ask for whatsoever we desire. I do not think we should wield that weapon lightly, on mere gems and garments.”
Samson
“But no man is without fault or flaw, no man is without a fatal weakness. Great Samson could resist any lure, overpower any foe, save one.
“Strange women, strange women drew his eye and snared his heart. And when he looked upon such women, Samson forgot what he owed to his people and his god.
“Yes, a woman beguiled him . . .”
Ascalon was the Pearl of the Sea and its women adorned it like living gemstones. Old ways still held sway in this ancient city; women walked the streets bold as men, dressed in bright garments that drew the eye. Many of the merchants in the bazaar were women, as were the artisans who shaped Ascalon’s famous pottery and the perfumers who blended fragrances in demand across half the world.
Nor did Ascalon’s women guard their eyes; they stared upon men as openly as men gazed upon women they desired. Samson drew women’s eyes in a blatant fashion unheard of in the Hebrew villages.
At least there women had the sense to disguise their lusts behind their veils. Orev hadn’t realized Ascalon would be quite so enticing; he could only be thankful that Samson seemed to notice nothing untoward—but then, Samson was the least vain of men. He ascribed much of the interest they attracted to Ari’s presence, and Orev agreed that the lion did draw people’s eyes.
Samson was more interested in Ascalon itself—women he could meet anywhere. The city’s massive walls fascinated him, as did the system for drawing water from the spring beneath the city. He examined the huge gateway and its arch, questioning the guards about the composition and structure of the tunnel leading from the tower gate into the city streets. Orev could only hope the guards, all of whom seemed happy to converse with this inquisitive foreigner, didn’t think Samson a spy.
Then there was the fascination of the forbidden: the temples of Ascalon. Dozens of small temples adorned the city, homes to as many gods and goddesses. But the chief ornament of Ascalon, and the most enticing, was the Great House of Atargatis. That temple dominated the western portion of the city, its painted walls reflecting the sea beyond it. Larger than most villages, the House of Atargatis ruled over far more than the mere worship of its goddess. Vineyards, farms, trade—the Temple controlled all those.
But what most saw was the Temple’s pious ceremonies of worship—and its priestesses, women flaunting the gaudy, decadent costume of a time fast fading from memory. Bare gilded breasts, slender corseted waists; seven-tiered skirts heavy with spangles and bells—supple, dazzling women whose painted beauty ensnared all who gazed upon them.
That such women might be claimed for an hour, or for a night, by mere mortal men only seemed to add to their aura of enchantment.
Orev had been dazzled himself when he first set eyes upon a priestess walking the smooth-cobbled streets of Ascalon. The priestess had seen him staring and had smiled; clearly Orev was not the first stranger to the city who had lost the power of speech upon beholding her. Samson, too, had stared—and at him, the priestess had gazed with a clear unabashed delight.
“I think she likes you,” Orev had said, and Samson had only shrugged.
“I think it is her duty to like everyone,” Samson had answered, smiling at the priestess, “and I think she would be easy to like.”
But when the priestess had beckoned, Samson shook his head, and she had merely shrugged and walked on. Orev had stared after her, watching the sway of tiny silver and shell charms sewn upon her flounced skirt. “She would have liked you to follow her,” he’d said, and Samson answered,
“Yes. But she is not the one for me.” Samson had stroked Ari’s head. “The Sun Partridge Festival begins tomorrow, you said?”
“At sunrise.” The merchant in the nearest market-stall offered up this information as he held out a garland woven of strange yellow flowers that turned out, when Orev touched them, to be made of cloth. “A garland for the Dance?” the man had asked, and Orev shook his head. “A garland for your beast, then?” the merchant had added hopefully, and Samson laughed and cheerfully handed over a lump of copper for a garland of cloth poppies.
“Next time, at least let me do the bargaining,” Orev said, after Samson had hung the garland about Ari’s neck and they had wandered on down the bazaar. “If you can even call it bargaining when you hand over whatever the merchant asks without saying a word.”
“It’s a festival” was all Samson had had to say in his own defense. “And the garland looks well on Ari.”
Orev had given up, and contented himself with the knowledge that Samson gained wealth as easily and cheerfully as he lost it again. And there was too much to gaze upon to spend time arguing. All Ascalon was prepared for the Sun Partridge Festival. Flowers and fruit and banners bedecked buildings; at each corner men and women set in place huge jars of wine and dozens upon dozens of small clay cups.
Samson had aided in this endeavor, his strength making a hard task simpler at half a dozen corners. In return, one of the women had invited Samson and Orev—and, perforce, Ari—to lodge with her family for the night.
“You’ll want a good meal and a good night’s rest, for the Dance begins with the dawn,” she’d said, regarding Ari rather doubtfully. “You’d better leave that beast of yours in my back shed. We run peaceful festivals here in Ascalon, you know. No lions chasing people through the streets. We leave that sort of nonsense to places like Gaza.”
By which Orev had inferred that while the Five Cities might be allies, they were rivals as well. Apparently when not standing united against outsiders, Ascalon and Gaza fought like sister and brother. He doubted that Gaza really permitted lions to run free in its streets—although the woman’s complaints that Gaza thought itself better than Ascalon, and spent far too much on such frivolities as new bronze city gates, rang truer.
“Lord Gaza is jealous of Lady Ascalon,” she had announced. “The Great House in Gaza that Dagon has dwelt in time out of mind is no longer fine enough—oh, no, Gaza must tear the old temple down and built a finer one. They think to outshine Our Lady’s Great House here. Well, they won’t. Everyone knows that builders these days cannot equal those who created the ancient temples.”
“Why not?” Samson had asked, and the woman said, “Oh, you know how it is. In the old days, builders took more care, more pride in their work. But what can you expect when all places like Gaza care about is what something costs? We’re wiser than that here in Ascalon.”
At the next dawn, the Sun Partridge danced—and so did all the city. Even Orev found h
imself hauled along, lame foot or no, until he could wrest himself free and steady himself with his walking-stick. And Samson—well, Samson danced happily, not caring that this festival, this Dance, honored a strange god, that such dancing might anger his own god.
Of course, the warm spiced wine the dancers swallowed at each pause in the labyrinthine Dance might have been the cause of Samson’s unmarred enjoyment. Orev managed to stop draining the unglazed cups of wine after the first three, taking a sip only and flinging the rest to splash on the ground like dark blood among the broken cups. But he was older and more wary than Samson.
Even the few cups of festival wine Orev had drunk seemed to kindle his blood. By now wine-fire must flow thick and hot through Samson’s body. Orev only hoped that the woman who had given them lodging was right, that Ascalon enjoyed peace, even during drunken festivals. He had no idea where the endless Dance had carried Samson—who had no malice and no sense. I suppose I must seek him, and hope to find him before he gets into trouble again.
To Orev’s great relief, he encountered Samson only two corners away. Samson had freed himself from the Sun Partridge Dance and stood beside a booth laden with wine cups and heavy with garlands. He stared down the long street as if dazzled as men and women danced past. In one hand he held a tangle of blue ribbon and red roses. In the other, he held his long knife, its polished blade a flash of light.
“Is all well?” Orev asked, and Samson smiled.
“Yes, all is well. I have seen my future, Orev.”
“If all’s well, sheathe the knife before it makes someone nervous.”
Samson glanced at the knife as if wondering how it came to be in his hand. He slid the blade back into its sheath and gestured towards the line of joyous dancers that had circled back, heading for the next street. “Look, Orev—see the dancer there? The one leading the Dance? She is the woman I have waited for, whom my heart has hoped to find. She is the woman who will be my wife.”
Delilah: A Novel Page 14