She had managed to summon words to answer him, and kept her voice smooth as well-water. No one watching would have suspected that her blood beat so hard her skin shuddered, that her thoughts swirled swift and uncatchable as storm clouds. No, all those watching would have seen was the High Priestess calmly welcoming Samson, coolly questioning him, cleverly binding him to do as she bade him.
Perhaps Bright Atargatis really did answer desperate prayers.
Of course Samson would not gain Delilah—for one of his conditions would never be met. Even if Delilah were told of his desire for her, the girl would never abandon her brilliant career as Atargatis’s priestess merely to become a man’s wife.
But Derceto had no intention of telling Delilah. No, Samson would be told that Delilah agreed, accepted him as her husband. And if he asks why she is so willing, I shall tell him that Our Lady ordered her to go to him. But I doubt he will ask. Men always preferred to believe that what they wished was the gods’ will.
So he will gladly accept my word that she whom he desires truly wishes to become his wife. And then he shall learn that to wed one of Our Lady’s Doves is not a thing easily done. No, he must earn his bride.
If he can. For Derceto had no intention of letting Samson succeed. The man so greatly feared by those who ruled the Five Cities had delivered himself into her hands.
She could hardly believe her good fortune—once he failed her tests, and fail he would, Samson would belong to the Temple. Then Atargatis would be seen as greater than this Hebrew hero’s strange god; more important, Derceto’s power as High Priestess would be seen as greater than that of the Prince of the City. To Derceto, Samson was no hero. He was a playing-piece in a game, important only in his value to her opponent. The Temple must always triumph.
And half Ascalon saw Samson come willingly into Our Lady’s Court, saw him petition me, saw him bow before me. Or at least saw the Hebrews’ champion, the harper’s favorite, the hero of a dozen songs, bend his head and leave at Derceto’s bidding. No one need know what he had asked, and what she had answered—not until she had decided precisely how best to wield this weapon that had given itself into her unyielding hands.
You wish to wed Delilah Moondancer, Samson? Let us see how hot your passion truly burns. There was a song, an ancient tale, that told of a man who performed a dozen tasks to win his prize. No need for a dozen. Three, I think, should suffice. While the tasks must be worthy of so glorious a prize as Delilah, the goddess’s stipulations must at least appear possible of achievement.
Samson
Just before sunset, Samson and Orev returned to the Great House of Atargatis. Orev expected long delay and much ritual before Samson could stand before the High Priestess and hear her answer; he prepared to wait—or to be taken and chained by soldiers.
But Temple servants, unarmed and meek, met them at the Outer Gate, and bowed before them, and led Samson and Orev through the Great Outer Court, up the stairway into the Second Court, and then through a maze of corridors and courtyards that Orev knew he could never retrace without a guide. We are trapped here.
Before a gate painted deep blue and inlaid with pearls and iridescent shells that formed patterns of waves, they stopped. The Temple servants bowed again and silently withdrew. Samson regarded the barrier and then glanced at Orev. “Should I open it?”
“If you don’t, we might as well not have come here. Unless you’re going to see reason and come away again, you might as well open the gate.”
“Orev, you worry far too much.” Samson lifted the bar and pushed the blue gate open.
To the harper’s surprise, only High Priestess Derceto awaited them in the private garden beyond the gate. No attendants, no guards—Orev sensed something wrong in this secretive meeting. But what was amiss he did not know.
Perhaps I worry too much. Orev studied Derceto’s masklike face. But I doubt it.
The High Priestess remained silent, waiting, and so Samson spoke first. “The sun sets on the first day of the Sun Partridge Festival. And I have come for the answer you promised me.”
And now she will say no, and Samson and I will leave this city before another sunset—
“The priestess agrees to wed you,” Derceto said, “and the omens are favorable.”
Samson smiled; Orev stared. I don’t believe it. What is she plotting?
“But . . .” Derceto added, and then paused, as if awaiting a reply from Samson.
I knew it. Of course there is a condition that must be met before Samson may claim his bride. And it will be neither easy nor safe.
“You are not a wealthy man, Samson. You offer nothing as a bride-price to repay the Temple for so great a loss. You will receive a beautiful wife who brings with her a dowry from the Temple and all the blessings of Our Lady Atargatis. And what do you offer in return?”
“Whatever you ask,” Samson said, and the High Priestess answered smoothly, “It is not what I ask, but what She asks. In exchange for the priestess we have promised you, you must perform three tasks. When those three tasks have been completed, then the wedding will take place.”
“What are these tasks?” Samson asked, and the High Priestess smiled.
“You must plow a field. You must sow a field. And you must reap a field.”
That sounds simple enough. So there must be a snare hidden somewhere. Orev knew better than to speak at the moment; he waited.
“Must I wait for the crop I sow to grow?” Samson asked, and the High Priestess smiled—a pure, practiced curve of her painted lips.
“Are you so impatient? What is one season?”
“Nothing, to a goddess.” Samson’s voice remained cheerful, as if he merely bargained for a trinket with a bazaar merchant. “But to a man in love, a season is forever. And besides, once the Sun Partridge Festival ends, I will no longer be safe within Ascalon’s walls. So I must complete the three tasks and wed my bride before sundown on the day of the Last Dance.”
This sensible comment made both the High Priestess and Orev stare at Samson in surprise. For the space of three breaths, Orev thought the High Priestess had been struck mute. Samson merely waited, patient as stone, for her answer.
“Very well—we shall find a crop that may be reaped as it is sown.” High Priestess Derceto sounded amused now—but neither the amusement in her voice nor the smile upon her lips went further. The rest of her face remained a polished mask. And her eyes revealed nothing.
Her bare gilded breasts rose and fell as she drew in a deep breath; light glinted from gold-painted skin. “Now hear all the terms of the bargain, Son of the Sun, before you bow your head to it. We would not have you say the Temple of Atargatis tricked a mere mortal man. Listen well, and be sure you agree to all I offer. Once the covenant is made between us, there can be no turning back. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Samson’s steady good humor did not alter. “I understand, High Priestess of Atargatis. Now tell me what I must do—all of it—to gain my heart’s desire.”
Oh, Samson, I fear you have just delivered yourself into her claws. No woman—especially a harlot priestess of Ascalon—can be worth surrendering yourself to a demon’s bargain.
Derceto lifted her hands, held them out so that the hennaed palms flashed crimson. “Hear, then, the laws that rule this bargain between the Great House of Atargatis in Ascalon and Samson the Hebrew. Samson must plow a field of our choice, using the beasts and tools we shall give him. And he must sow that field with the seed we shall give him. Last, he must reap what he can from that field.”
She paused, giving all there time to think on what she had said before continuing in her strong clear voice. “If he completes these tasks, the Great House of Atargatis will bestow upon him the priestess he claims as his bride, and will dower her with a fine farm on rich land. If he does not—
“If Samson does not complete these three tasks and wed his bride before the Sun Partridge ceases dancing, he surrenders himself to the Great House of Atargatis, for Our Lady to do with him
as She deems fit.”
Derceto lowered her hands and gazed upon Samson. “You have heard. Do you agree to this bargain freely and of your own will?”
No, Orev thought. No, Samson; this is a trick, a trap. If the Temple took Samson as a slave, his life would be measured out in minutes. But Orev knew he could say nothing that would deter Samson from this mad enterprise. He could only wait as Samson smiled and said, “I have heard, High Priestess, and I agree to this bargain freely and of my own will. Shall the first test be tomorrow?”
For a moment, Orev thought the High Priestess was surprised by Samson’s cheerful urgency. Then she smiled. “So impatient—well, perhaps that is a good omen. But I must consult the oracles, ask a propitious hour to begin. You will be told when we have an answer from the Seven Fish.”
“When are you going to ask?” Samson said, and the High Priestess stared at him, clearly unaccustomed to such a frank response to her pronouncements.
“As soon as you leave Her courts, I shall be free to set all in motion.” She rose from her cedar chair, paused. “There is yet one more condition that you must agree to. Until you complete the Three Tasks and win your priestess, you must not reveal her name to any other. If you do, you will lose all.” Derceto did not wait for Samson’s reply, but turned away and left the audience chamber through the carved ivory gate behind the chair. The audience clearly had ended.
“Come on.” Orev touched Samson’s arm. “Let us leave before you agree to anything else.”
In silence, they walked out of the courtyard and through the great outer gates. Orev considered the terms of the bargain Samson had struck with the Temple; there must be trickery involved, no matter how straightforward the Three Tasks had been made to sound. I wonder if we can find out what the High Priestess has planned? Perhaps one of the Temple slaves can be bribed—
But what could they bribe anyone with? Samson’s sword? Orev’s harp? A tame lion?
“I wonder,” Samson began, and Orev regarded him hopefully; perhaps Samson had realized the folly of this undertaking. They could simply leave Ascalon, forget about the priestess . . .
“Do you think, Orev, that the High Priestess would let me attend when they ask the Temple oracles the best hour to begin the tests? I’ve never seen fish prophesy before.”
“No, I don’t,” Orev snapped, and even the thought of the High Priestess’s expression should Samson ask her such a thing failed to lighten his mood. Rich lands and fine cities lay beyond the sunrise; Orev wished he owned the power to transport Samson to the eastern shores of the Black Sea—the farthest place the harper could imagine.
There was such a thing as being too good-natured.
But when Orev tried to convince Samson the Temple dealt in deceit and trickery, and suggested leaving Ascalon at once, Samson only said cheerfully, “You think the bargain a trap for a fool—do you think I don’t know that? Have faith, Orev. Yahweh will give me the strength for what I must do.”
“It’s not your strength I’m worried about,” Orev replied, and Samson laughed.
“You’re clever enough for both of us,” he said. “Stop worrying, and trust in our god. Do you think Atargatis’s fish really talk?”
“I think Atargatis’s fish probably make more sense then you do.” Orev abandoned his efforts to persuade Samson to forsake this mad attempt to win his chosen bride. He supposed he must do as Samson had advised, and have faith. There really didn’t seem to be any other course open to him at the moment.
“Now Samson had set his eyes and his heart upon a woman of the Philistines, and wished to take her for his wife. And he asked for her, and she was given to him . . .”
But not freely, at a price so high that only Samson would consent to pay it. Later Orev often wondered if Samson’s priestess-bride thought the price she herself paid too high for the short span of freedom it bought her. Remembering her cool eyes and clear voice, and her sharp wit, Orev wished for her sake that she had remained in the Temple, safe.
Although that was not what she had wished for herself. As the years passed, Orev began to believe that she had known what marriage to Samson would cost her, and had paid willingly.
Even more willingly than Samson, who awaited the hour appointed for the Three Tasks with such impatience that Orev could hardly believe the time between Derceto’s decree and the beginning of the first task was only the time it took the sun to rise and to set, and to rise again.
“The man Samson is to come to the land between the sea and the city tomorrow as the full moon sets and the morning sun rises. There he is to plow a hide’s worth of land. If he succeeds in that, Our Lady will reveal the time and place of the next task.” The soft-faced boy who brought the High Priestess’s words at the next day’s sunset spoke them with slow care, as if fearing to forget even one. When Orev told him he had remembered them well, the boy smiled, and then bowed and ran off.
“Well, that doesn’t sound too hard,” Samson said, and then, “There’s no need to scowl at me like that, Orev. Do you think me such a fool I don’t know there must be a snare set for me?”
“I think you too besotted with your priestess—with whom you have yet to exchange even one word—to care what the tasks are. I just hope she’s worth it.”
“She is. And who can blame her Temple for wishing to keep her?”
“Then the High Priestess should have just said no, rather than giving you hope. I think—”
“You think this a plot to enslave me or slay me or both. Yes, Orev, I know. Now I am going to bed. I have a field to plow at dawn. The tide will be out then.”
That last comment baffled Orev; abandoning all hope of his friend coming to his senses, the harper sighed and went to bed. Samson was right in one thing, at least—they both needed rest.
Next dawn, Samson and Orev went out the Sea Gate and walked to the pen that had been erected upon the sands. Beside the pen stood the High Priestess and at least two dozen of Ascalon’s warriors, well-armored and armed with iron-tipped spears. When Orev drew closer to the pen, he saw why. It held two bulls.
And not just bulls, but the Great Bulls that roamed free over Canaan’s rich plains, descendants, some said, of the Sacred Bulls from Crete. Red and white, and twice the size of a farmer’s ox, with horns long as a man’s arm sweeping forward like sword-blades—
“There.” High Priestess Derceto held her arms out, as if offering empty air. “There are the beasts you must harness. And there”—she gestured at the damp sand between the pen and the little waves teasing the edge of the beach—“there is the field you must plow.”
Not only can they not plow a field, they can’t even be yoked. They’ll kill Samson before he can toss one of them. Orev didn’t even bother to consider the impossibility of plowing a strip of sea-strand that lay between low tide and high.
To Orev’s astonishment, Samson looked upon the huge bulls and laughed. “How many hours have I do accomplish this, Lady?”
“As many as you wish, Samson. But remember the Sun Partridge dances for only four days more. You must accomplish the tasks before that time, or forfeit your freedom.”
“A man does that when he marries,” Samson said. “A good omen, yes, Orev?” Samson clapped a hand to Orev’s shoulder, pressed hard.
Obeying the silent command, Orev nodded. “A good omen,” he echoed.
“A good omen indeed.” The High Priestess looked down upon Samson and smiled. Her eyes gleamed flat and cold, a serpent’s calculating gaze.
An omen—but a good omen for whom?
Samson smiled. “Then, since the omens are good, I will begin.” Without pause, he walked forward, towards the pen; the soldiers drew aside to let him pass. Apparently untroubled, Samson unbound the knotted rope that closed the gate and entered the bull pen. Orev closed his eyes and whispered the most fervent prayer to Yahweh he had ever uttered.
Even that sounded loud against the sudden silence. Orev opened his eyes, expecting to see Samson’s blood on the pale sand, blood on the gleam
ing horns.
But the scene before him was peaceful. As the circle of soldiers stared, the Great Bulls crowded each other, seeking closeness to Samson. They bent their massive heads to lick his hands, permitted him to stroke their thick-muscled necks.
Samson smoothed his hand over one of the great curving horns, turned to face the High Priestess. “They seem willing enough—another good omen. Where is the yoke and the plow?”
For all the long years of his life, Orev cherished the memory of Derceto’s painted face in that impossible moment. Has she even brought yoke and plow, being so certain that by now Samson would have bled his life out on the sands?
As Samson continued to cozen the great beasts, the warriors looked to the High Priestess. Orev smiled, thinking how well this tale would weave into song. “And even the beasts bowed before Samson, the Great Bulls that once belonged to gods. And so Samson triumphed over the evil plotted against him . . .”
“Take the man Samson the yokes for the bulls, and the plow to harness them to.” Derceto’s voice sounded as if she held shattered glass upon her tongue.
So there were yokes and plow after all—well, she would not wish her scheming too plainly seen. Orev watched as two of the men pulled the yokes close to the pen’s gate, and a third dragged the plow and let it fall beside the fence. Gravely, Samson thanked them and turned his back upon the bulls, opened the gate and picked up the heavy wooden yokes, set them down inside the pen. He spoke softly to the bulls again, and again they licked and nuzzled at his hands.
As Orev watched, marveling, Samson set the yokes upon the necks of the Great Bulls, led them out of the pen, and hooked their yokes to the plow. “Which hide of sea-strand must I plow?” Samson asked.
Silent, Derceto pointed at a stretch of sand close to the sea’s edge. As soon as the tide turned, it would be inundated, wavelet by wavelet. The field Samson must plow with the Great Bulls was set off by a length of leather cut from an ox hide in one long continuous strip.
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