The second Ashuri aimed low, but again, Shimshon was faster. Most men had to brace spears, to avoid falling when they hit someone. Shimshon was stronger than most men, much stronger, and he didn’t need to hug the shaft to his armpit. He stabbed the rider in the face. The man lurched backwards, his head a mush of wails and blood.
The remaining three were wary now. They spread out. Shimshon glanced at the chief, bruised and dusty, coming to his senses.
In unison, they shouted and attacked. Shimshon let them come near. Then, he leaped from the saddle, his own roar matching theirs. They did not expect him to jump. The three raiders waved their spears awkwardly, trying to swivel the points toward him. But the spears were a bad choice for close combat.
He drove his sword through the neck of the Ashuri on the right and slammed his body into the second stranger, throwing him off the saddle, his surprise rushing out in a strained wail. The man hit the ground with a noisy thud. Shimshon bounced himself off the panicked horse’s flank, landed on his feet, and whirled the spear in a wide, deadly arc. The tip raked the third animal and cut neatly through the remaining Ashuri’s leg. The brigand howled like a coyote and the horse bucked. The rider lost balance and fell hard, breath and screams fleeing his chest.
Shimshon did not wait. He stepped to the second rider, down on his knees, and killed him with a neat blow across his ribs. There was only the chief standing now, and fear danced in his eyes.
“I yield. Let me be,” Hanodeen said, holding his short riding blade up in a wavering grip.
Shimshon smiled. “You cursed my king. You die for that.”
Hanodeen stepped back. “Have mercy, Ammonite.”
“No mercy.” Shimshon stepped in and swung. The Ashuri tried to parry, but Shimshon’s savage blow cut through his short blade and into the man’s shoulder. Shrieking, Hanodeen collapsed, blubbering blood and pleas to whatever gods he worshiped. Shimshon kicked him over and ran him through, silencing his womanly wailing.
The man without the leg was crawling away, weeping, face red with mute agony, trying to gulp air like a fish.
Shimshon let him be for the moment. He lowered his reddened weapons and approached the wagon.
Seated on the little bench in the front was a woman.
She watched him with big, carob-brown eyes, terrified. She gripped the side of the cart with her fingers. Surprisingly, she hadn’t wept yet. Brave.
And pretty, very pretty, Shimshon noted. He had a weakness for pretty women.
Shimshon felt his wrath dripping away before her. She was vulnerable, beautiful, with smooth, unblemished skin, shiny curls of dark hair, clean lines to her jaw and cheeks, full, trembling lips. She was staring, surely mesmerized and confused by what he knew was blissful wonder with a touch of serenity creasing his face. Seeing her made his skin tingle. His stomach started to rumble.
I begged Melek for answers. Now what?
Was this another omen?
“Are you hurt?” he mumbled.
She shook her head.
Slowly, as not to alarm her, Shimshon bent down. The fallen man by the cart wheel did not move. His robe was soaked through with blood. Lots of it. Gently, he turned the body over. His chest was a red ruin.
When the girl saw the gore, she let out a small sob. Her lip quivered.
“Your man?” Shimshon asked, turning the corpse back face down. She didn’t need to see the wound.
“My father,” the girl admitted weakly. There were tears coursing from those beautiful brown eyes now.
Beautiful face or no, Shimshon realized he had not slaked his thirst for blood fully just yet. Brushing dust off his knees, he approached the last surviving horseman, trailing red life across the valley, sword in one hand, spear in the other. The Ashuri had snailed a fair distance away, Shimshon noted with admiration. Not that it would do him any good.
Shimshon stepped on the brigand’s left hand until his raspy breathing turned into a holler. “So, you would attack innocent travelers now, would you.”
“Please, I beg you,” the man gasped in between screams.
Shimshon tossed the dripping spear away. “Now you beg.” He looked over at the girl. “What happened?”
She hesitated for a moment, then gathered her resolve and spoke. “My father and I were part of a trade caravan, returning home from Arpad. The caravan leader promised to take us safely back, but then three days ago, when he reached the town of Mara, he tricked us. Took our money and left us. He led the caravan to Sidon, and my father and I had to continue on our own, riding into the sunset. These riders found us and shadowed us for a day before they attacked. Right then.”
“Where is your home?”
“Sorek,” she said.
Shimshon’s heart skipped a beat. A Plishtit. Just like his former wife. An enemy of Israel, he noted, looking at Rami. My mother’s enemy, he realized with a new sense of introspection. Luckily, I follow Melek, and it has nothing to do with me.
“Have you any family there?”
“Three brothers, but they are slobs and prone to drink and laziness, and they are never of any help. My father had to take me on this journey. I have no one but my father,” the girl said. “Had...” Another sob escaped her lips.
The wounded brigand was still wailing, his voice turning hoarse.
“Keep quiet,” Shimshon warned him.
Iermiah had dismounted and was leading the donkey towards him. “What a spectacle.”
Shimshon nodded. He would kill the fifth man soon enough, but he wanted the Ashuri to suffer a while longer.
Rami stepped around the blood, until he stood really close. Shimshon could smell his breath. “This woman, bad idea.” He motioned with his bald head.
Shimshon frowned. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling.”
Shimshon glanced at the Plishtit. “I have a different feeling.”
Iermiah muttered something that might have been a prayer. “Obviously.”
The wounded soldier rolled over; tears, spit and blood making the dust stick to his face. “You are Israelites? And you’d save a woman from Pleshet? You would kill me instead? Melek curse you!”
Shimshon put his sandal on the man’s throat. “I told you to keep quiet.” Rami looked utterly serious. “We can’t take her with us.”
“Yes, we can,” Shimshon said, stepping hard. The neck snapped, and the wails ceased. He walked back to the wagon. The woman’s relief was gone. She looked just as terrified as before.
The girl’s eyes shot wide. “You are sons of Israel...”
She must have been too scared to listen to his banter with Hanodeen earlier. “Do not be alarmed.” Shimshon tried to calm her. Then he realized he was still holding his sword. He wiped it on a dead man’s tunic and sheathed it. “I am not an Israelite. I am Shimshon of Ammon, son of Menok, Minister of War to King Tobiah. I am going to help you.”
She swallowed audibly. “And him?”
Shimshon glanced at the prophet. “He will not harm you. I swear.”
She looked unconvinced.
Shimshon glowered and Iermiah raised his hands.
“What’s your name?” Shimshon asked, trying to mellow his tone. He knew he looked intimidating. There was no reason to add to her fear and agony.
“Dlila,” she replied after a brief pause.
Dlila.
The omen wasn’t just a vague sensation anymore. It was a physical presence in his belly.
“What do you have in that wagon?” Shimshon asked.
She looked, as if she couldn’t remember. “Sacrificial oils, for our temples. Silk.”
Nothing worth dying for.
The moment of silence stretched for too long.
“I must go back to Sorek. And...I cannot travel alone,” Dlila said.
Shimshon’s gut tightened. Melek is speaking to me, Shimshon realized.
Through Dlila.
He realized what he must do. The thought elated him, frightened him.
“Come
with us, then. We ride east. It may not be the way you intended to go, but it is better than an empty home. We have food and we can protect you.”
More silence.
Iermiah recovered first. He looked gravely serious. “Shimshon, no.”
“Come with us,” Shimshon repeated.
Dlila pointed behind her. “But the temple goods—”
“You can always sell them later.” Her gods might not be pleased, but Shimshon could not ignore the growing wad of searing anxiety in his stomach. Deep, deep in his bones, he knew it was imperative that Dlila join him on his travel to Bavel.
But he must not force her. He had to convince her.
“The temple goods are not mine to sell,” she countered in a reverential voice, a smidgen of courage in her words.
“Goods are sold and goods are bought,” Shimshon said, the knot tightening. I cannot ride west. I must go east. I must. “Dlila, our encounter was not chance. It was an omen. Melek wanted me to intervene, to save you from the brigands. Had I not shown up, you would—”
She lowered her beautiful eyes. “I will repay you. I do not have—”
“No!” He had not meant it like that. “Please. You owe me nothing. But I cannot protect you if you go west. I must travel east.”
“Bad idea, Shimshon,” Iermiah whispered.
Dlila glanced warily at the prophet. “Where are you going?”
Shimshon pointed east. “Bavel. It is a great city. A city of culture and knowledge and wonders. I will buy you silk and new oils for your temple, even finer and more expensive than what you have in your cart.” I’m asking a woman who has just seen her father die to follow me on a journey away from home, into danger and uncertainty. I’m asking her to trust a complete stranger whom she has just seen slaughter five men in gleeful anger. I am asking her to put faith in a man who worships a different god from hers.
It was madness, but the pain in his gut was almost unbearable. He had to cut his breaths short.
The world waited. Melek waited. Shimshon knew his life hinged on her answer. He did not know why, but he did not question the turmoil and panic that his god had put in his soul. All he knew was that Dlila had to join him.
Or his life—the world—would...end.
“You are meddling in God’s will,” Iermiah warned him, only for his ears.
Dlila waited.
“There’s nothing for you in Sorek,” Shimshon said, trying to make her believe those words as he uttered them. “Come with us. Come with me.” He extended his hand in supplication. “Please.”
The beautiful girl was silent for a long time. Then, she nodded.
The pain vanished.
CHAPTER HE
I HAVEN'T FALLEN IN LOVE
“A new month is upon us,” Iermiah said, pointing upward.
Shimshon glanced at the clear desert sky, bejeweled like a king’s cape. With just a tiny moon, there was nothing to mar the starshine.
The town of Mara lay just a few parsas away, but they would not be traveling any more today. The desert floor was full of bogs and treacherous crevices, and they could snag a hoof and lame a beast all too easily. They would go into town on the morrow. Another night spent under the stars would not harm them, even though urgency, burning low like peat, gnawed at his bones. It had subsided for a little while after Dlila agreed to join them, but then reemerged the next dawn.
He had to get to Bavel.
Dlila did not seem very fond of the dark. She was lighting cressets, wasting precious oil on the dried twigs.
The Plishtit had not spoken much for the last few days. She had recovered quickly from the attack, but then she had spent her time mourning her father, worrying that she could not give him the necessary offerings on his travel to Mot. She led her wagon and its scrawny mule in silence, preoccupied, still wary of her companions.
Shimshon could not blame her. She was far away from home, riding back toward treachery, in a land of foreign and unfriendly people, with him and an Israelite as her guides. Still, she never cried, never complained the way women often did. She was really brave, and Shimshon was impressed by her spirit. Dlila had a lot of courage, if very little to say.
That left Iermiah with his endless supply of words to fill the days. But even the prophet had been relatively silent the last few days. Sober and quiet, as if the same kind of foreboding that bothered him bothered Iermiah, too.
Shimshon had given Dlila the time and space she needed, but now felt he should reassure her. “You need not fear. I will protect you, whatever happens. I will settle the score in Mara.”
She looked at him, holding a smoldering sprig to a new basket. “I am not afraid of what happens in Mara. Look around you. Nothing grows here. Dagon has no power over this land. It never rains, and the land is not fertile.”
Shimshon snorted before he could stop himself. “Melek reigns over all land and people.”
Iermiah coughed, brushing the hair on the donkey’s back. “I would have to disagree.”
Shimshon swept wide with his arms, annoyed by Rami’s intrusion. “Clearly you would.”
The prophet stepped into a circle of pale orange light. “It is how it is.”
“So, your god is everywhere, you say. But why does he need a temple in the City of David, then?”
Iermiah did not answer right away, and Shimshon felt he’d won this argument. But then the bald man spoke, his teeth agleam in the glow of the torches. “The temple is for us, his followers.”
Dlila extinguished the twig in the hard, gritty sand. She averted her gaze. “I never thanked you for saving my life.”
“Not yet,” Shimshon said, trying not to sound brusque.
“Thank you,” Dlila blurted. She inspected her small fires. Satisfied, she retired to her wagon, climbing into the back and pulling a blanket over her body, closing herself to the world.
Shimshon sighed. He had intended to ask her to share his bedroll. But it would not happen tonight.
Iermiah was at his side, having stepped over as silent as a mouse. “There is no need for fire when your heart is ablaze like that.”
“You mock me, Prophet?” Shimshon snapped, perhaps too harshly.
“Not at all. It is nice to see young people fall in love.”
“I haven’t fallen in love.” Not yet.
“Despite their differences.”
“We do not have any differences.”
Iermiah clucked his tongue, but then lowered his voice. “So, you told her your mother is a daughter of Israel?”
Shimshon glared at the prophet. He swore, despite the night’s shadows, the man looked utterly smug. “That won’t help her in any way.” Or me.
“You know the best, king’s nephew.” Iermiah walked over to his own dusty bedroll, knelt down, and started undoing the knots.
Shimshon wished they would reach Bavel and be done with this journey. The last few days had done nothing for his sense of urgency, but they had dulled his tolerance for jokes.
“I will keep guard the first half of the night,” Shimshon said. “You will keep the second.”
Iermiah stood up. “I will?”
Shimshon tossed him a knife. “We are very close to a town. There could be all kinds of trouble on the road. Even at night.”
“What am I going to do with this blade?”
“It’s a reminder that you shouldn’t fall asleep after I wake you later on.”
Iermiah sighed. “You tell me that now? Why not after you wake me?”
Shimshon smiled into the gloom, not sure if the prophet could see. “So that you can sleep on it.”
“Very droll, Ammonite.”
Shimshon sat down on a rock. “You’re wasting your sleep hours.”
The prophet harrumphed, but then went quiet.
A lone beast of the desert howled into the black night.
Shimshon sat, a sword in one hand, the piece of cloth and its black stitching in the other, thinking.
He woke to the sound of murmurs. Blinking hi
s eyes open into a pink dawn, he saw Iermiah praying, his shoulders wrapped in a white shawl, the flesh on his arms roped in black straps. He was looking into the dark western sky, toward the City of David.
Dlila was cooking breakfast. Now and then, she would intone a prayer of her own, to her gods. Strange that the two enemies could share the same camp with no bad blood between them when a higher cause bound them. It must be really important to the prophet, if he tolerated the sworn foe of his people near him.
That notion made Shimshon almost scared.
What did Iermiah know? Or suspect? It had to do with Shimshon’s purpose. It must.
Shimshon remembered he ought to pray, too, but he hesitated. Somehow, in this arid land, it felt wrong. It had felt wrong ever since he had met that beggar, and now even more so, with the Israelite and the Plishtit for company. At first, he’d mutter his prayers in haste, then after just a handful of days, he repeated them in his head, and finally, he skipped them altogether, with only a tiny hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. Melek wasn’t giving him any answers—only more questions and doubts—and Shimshon hated the cold, naked frustration he now felt after worshiping his god. Nor did he want the guilt weighing down on his shoulders, nibbling on his conscience.
After Bavel, his mind would clear. He would have his answers, as Iermiah had promised.
“You might like to eat,” Dlila said, watching him with those beautiful eyes.
Shimshon stretched. He carefully checked his gear, to make sure no scorpions had crawled among the folds. Satisfied, he strapped his sword on, and threw his silk cloak and veil over his shoulders. He stepped close and took the warm bread and lentils from the woman.
“Food, Iermiah.” Shimshon still avoided using the word ‘prophet’ near the girl. Not until he knew more. These omens kept piling up. It was as if Melek wanted him to see something he was too proud or stupid to notice. But what? The god wouldn’t say. The only certainty in Shimshon’s life now was that he had to go to Bavel—with Dlila.
Rami finished his prayers, then took his time bristling, like every morning. “No. That food isn’t pure.”
Shimshon stared at the lentils. They stared back. “You are jesting.”
I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 3