Asher rubbed his eyes, then tapped his son on the shoulder. “We must pray to the Lord.”
“Morning, brothers. Let’s join the others,” Iermiah said, stirring, stretching.
“The wife stays,” Shimshon warned them, buckling a gray sword onto his hip.
“You would rob her of her supplication?” the prophet asked.
Shimshon inclined his head. “She can do it here. And then, she will help prepare breakfast.”
The two Israelites glared at him, but only briefly. There was fear in their eyes. With a backward glance, Asher and his son followed Rami down the ravine, toward the other group.
Shimshon wondered what he should do next. He didn’t want to stay with all these people. They would just slow him down. They would need food and protection, and he could not—and did not want—to be the one providing them.
Dlila was awake, watching him with those beautiful eyes. Watching, judging. “I must pray, too.” Her terror from last night was gone, or she was hiding it successfully. She did glance in the direction of the three Israelites, though. Probably thinking about the prophet, and what it meant for her.
She is as fierce as any warrior.
After everything that had happened, Shimshon felt he should also pray, ask Melek for strength and wit, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was preoccupied. Worried. And deep down, he simply knew that his words would be in vain, now that Rabba and its temples lay in ruins.
“You do not worship any gods, Ammonite?” Naama asked him.
“Mind your own affairs, woman,” he growled.
Later, Ittai and the other Israelites mustered enough courage to cross to the other side of the canyon. Shimshon waited for them, sharpening his new swords. Flint was just as good for this strange metal as it was for bronze, he noted with satisfaction.
Their feet splashed in the water. They were a huddle of frightened beasts, and he despised them. Not because of who they were, but because of what they were. Resolved to be hunted. Frightened and defeated. He could not let them follow him.
Rami seemed to guess his intentions. He approached, looking worried.
Shimshon sheathed his first sword, then reached for the spare piece. It was still raining, and in the space of an hour, it had turned cooler. Chill air lapped against his muscles. “You want to tell me something, Prophet?”
“The City of David, we must go there,” Iermiah said, just as Shimshon expected he would.
“What if the city is in ruins, just like Rabba?”
Iermiah did not hesitate when he replied. “The city stands safe and whole.”
How do you know that, Prophet? “What am I going to find there?”
“Wisdom,” Iermiah spoke.
“Will I?”
“I had a vision earlier,” Rami admitted in a low voice.
Shimshon froze. “Malakhim?”
“Maybe. I think so.”
I haven’t heard anything. The horses were quiet. I slept through it, as if nothing happened. Shimshon felt alarm skitter up and down his strong back, like a lizard hopping over a hot rock, fleeing a hawk. “And what did the messenger tell you?” Do not go to Iabesh. Go to the City of David?
Iermiah shrugged.
He hides things from me, but then, I never told him what I learned in the Tower of Bavel. “If we let these people stay with us, we will all be killed,” Shimshon said.
“You would leave them?” The prophet did not betray his emotions.
Shimshon nodded. “Yes. We do not need them.”
“I assume you have a plan?”
Did he? Carefully, he nodded again, checking all his gear: the saddle, the tack, his bow, the supplies taken from the dead soldiers. “Yes. Find whoever is responsible for all this death and destruction and pay them back. Slay them and leave their corpses to the vultures.”
“There aren’t any vultures, Shimshon. You saw it yourself.”
That gave him a check. Yes. No birds. How was he going to fight a dragon anyway? Pierce its heart with a well-placed arrow? Cut its head—heads, if he were going to trust Hanokh or the wise men—off?
He knew what he wanted to do.
He didn’t know where to go.
Tariav did not explain the human invaders. The wise men had only mentioned a great beast. There was more happening and he wouldn’t learn it hiding like a field mouse.
“All right, Prophet, we will do it your way. We will go to the City of David. On our own.”
Iermiah glanced at Dlila. She was washing dishes in the little stream. “What about her? She can stay with these people—”
“She comes with us. Do not argue.”
The prophet sighed deeply. “You just won’t listen.”
The other campers stood idly about, gawking uselessly. A flock of sheep.
“Let’s go. Shimshon intended to try riding one of the large horses. But he would do it once they had left their shelter, so that if it kicked and bucked, it wouldn’t maul anyone or destroy the wagon in the narrow space.
Asher looked dumbfounded, staring as if Shimshon had left them with no water or weapons. Ittai looked deeply afraid. “Where are you going, Master?”
“To repel these attackers and send them to their graves.” Shimshon extended the second gray blade toward the man.
Ittai averted his gaze. The man was broken, Shimshon knew. A useless soldier, now. “But the serpent—”
“Dies by my sword like anyone else,” Shimshon cut him off.
“Praised be God,” one of the Israelites whispered. “May God give you strength, stranger.”
“Fare well,” Shimshon told them, knowing it was probably the last time he would see them. He ignored their stares, those full of hope and those brimmed with shiny despair. Some of them had questions and others would beg for his help, if only they dared muster enough courage. If they had, he might even reconsider taking some of them along. But as it was, they deserved no mercy.
Once they left the gully, rain and wind assailed them. Shimshon led the black-coated horse some distance away, and then wondered how he should get up. It was too tall to try jumping up into the saddle. But those leg straps... He placed one foot in the folded loop and hitched himself up and over the beast’s muscled back. The animal backtracked a little, but it did not fight him. Shimshon laid a gentle but commanding hand on its muscled neck. The horse calmed.
He sat higher than ever before, imbued with a strange sense of power.
The rain followed them as they circled Hor from its southern side. Shimshon gazed into the distance, on a lookout for those riders. The rain prevented any telltale trails of dust, so he had to be extra vigilant. After a while, he relaxed. There was no sign of the men and their magnificent masks and swords. He had obscured his tracks well.
“What do you think of all this, Prophet?” Shimshon asked at length. “What do you make of the flying serpent story?”
Iermiah looked reluctant to answer. “You will not like my words.”
Shimshon snorted. “Try me.”
“Some things must not be spoken of, not here.”
“That is not very helpful.”
“Which is why we must make haste to the City of David. The sooner the better. There, you will learn all you need to know.”
The truth about the dragon?
The truth about my mother’s fate?
He wondered what other sinister truths the prophet might know, but he wasn’t going to press him. He had to concentrate on keeping his senses sharp. Back in his mind, the promise of revenge churned, darkening with each passing moment. For now, he kept it at bay. He needed answers first, before he was going to unleash it.
Shimshon glanced at Dlila. She nodded. Brave girl. And she followed him.
Maybe because she knew that anywhere else, with anyone else, there was nothing but certain death. Maybe because she trusted him. Maybe Dagon told her things. He wished he had Melek’s guidance, but it was an empty, bitter wish.
Shimshon wanted to talk to Dlila,
but now wasn’t the time. As soon as he slew the dragon, he could declare his passion to her.
To the City of David, then.
CHAPTER YOD-TET
COME, COME, BALD ONE!
The City of David.
After days of quiet wasteland, coming upon habitation once again was a great shock.
So, much, life, Shimshon thought, awed.
They had crested the hilly grove of ancient olives west of the city, and Shimshon found himself staring: into the sunset, toward the sea and the Shfela, the foothills of Bet-Horon, the Aialon Valley. On the other side of the rolling, pine-clad ridges lay Ekron, Dlila’s home, so near and yet so far.
Closer, much closer, across the Kidron valley, on the two hills before him, was the City of David, shimmering white.
The southern hill was enclosed by a thick, steep wall of the famous Ievusi stone, with a thick growth of houses upon its green and brown terraces. The northern hill was bare except for a single large, stone structure on its gentle, flat top. Further away, the fires and lights of the Biniamin tribe could be seen.
It was untouched by stories of a flying serpent.
Or the passage of an army of soldiers with golden hair.
The roads bustled with traffic, families, trade caravans, lone peddlers, men of the many Israelite tribes on and about their business, heads turned down to their purses and feet. No one was staring up, no one seemed concerned about what they might see against the dappled blue canopy. This was a different world.
It was a strange experience for Shimshon, standing there on the Mount of Olives. Were these people his enemies? His allies? What should he feel, now that Rabba was gone? He thought of his mother, feeling unease claw at his back.
“Behold the City of David,” Iermiah said with deep respect in his voice.
Shimshon grunted, displeased with the piety in the man’s voice, trying to hide his own emotions. His eyes were drawn to the large building on the northern hill. “What is there? The king’s palace?”
“King Ezra and the elders of Biniamin reside in Shilo. The judges had decreed there will be no king in the City of David until such time God decrees that the nahalot are united, and that we should have a king of all Israel once again. That, my Ammonite friend, is Mount Moriah, and that is Mishkan Elohim, the Temple of God.”
More important than the king…
The piece of cloth pressed against his thigh, folded inside his tunic, tingled.
Shimshon kept staring at the thick, smooth pillars of white rock, the straight-angled walls. It was a majestic construction. Not as majestic as Melek’s temples—but then, it still remained, whereas his god’s houses of worship had been reduced to black ashes.
Shimshon blinked involuntarily.
This is where it will all be laid bare. But do I want the answers?
A horn sounded. He reached for his sword.
Iermiah raised his arms. “No! There is no reason for worry. It’s just the warriors of the Biniamin tribe, coming to greet us.”
Shimshon did not remove his hand from the hilt. “Let them show their hands, and I will show them mine.”
Coming up a beaten track was a squad of soldiers in white and blue tunics. Men of Biniamin. They had spears and slings, but they walked in a relaxed way, their motions peaceful.
“Shimshon,” Dlila called.
He turned and saw her dread. Despite his best judgment, he dismounted and went to her. “I will protect you, I promise.”
She nodded, lips pressed tight. She reached out, gripping his hand fiercely.
Shimshon gently stroked her dark locks and pushed her behind him. She let go off him, but he could still hear her terse breathing.
“Hail there!” one of the soldiers called. The man shielded his eyes, perhaps in a placating, humorous gesture. “Is that you, Prophet Iermiah?”
“None other, Barak Ben Yehoshua,” Rami replied, a grin on his face.
Shimshon watched the troops. They did not look very concerned for men just a day’s travel from total ruin. Either they did not know, or they did not care for the destruction only a few parsas away. He wasn’t sure which option worried him more.
Shimshon began noticing more details as his awe subsided and alertness took its place. Warriors were everywhere, as well as battle carts, road posts, patrols on the hills, and dust trails. They had bared weapons, tense postures. He could sense this wasn’t just peacetime in the City of David.
Except... there was no fear in their eyes. Nowhere.
What did they know?
As the soldiers came closer and saw him, their attitude hardened, their peaceful manner melting away. The change was directed toward him, not the sky, and that pleased him. But they showed no thirst for blood. They did not challenge him.
Shimshon kept a hand close to the hilt of the gray sword, prepared. Barak spoke again. “It’s a great honor to have you come to us, Prophet. We will take you to see the aluf.”
“These are my friends,” Rami said. His face showed no ill emotions when he glanced at Dlila.
“Of course.” There was uncertainty in the man’s voice as he stared at Shimshon’s flame-colored hair.
Iermiah walked over, standing between them. “May we go into the city, my Ammonite friend?” he teased in a low voice. Shimshon said nothing. “These men mean you no harm,” the prophet insisted, his voice quiet. “You will not be harmed. Nor Dlila.”
Taking silence as consent, Iermiah joined the troops, who led the way. Shimshon followed on foot at a safe distance from their spears, trailing the reins behind him. Dlila drove the cart and the haul beasts down the hill. Shimshon turned around and smiled encouragingly a few times. She tried to mimic his expression, but failed.
The road twisted right and the view expanded. Shimshon could see into the Kidron Valley. In the gorge separating the orchards and groves from the city, there was a military garrison. A sizable force within easy distance from all major roads and hilltops, well hidden from scouts and spies. The smell of its fires and cooking drifted up on the wind, and the familiar noises of a well-oiled army camp intensified.
The sounds he knew and understood and liked.
“What brings you here, Prophet?” Barak asked. Shimshon focused on listening to their conversation.
“Tidings of war,” Rami said.
Barak Ben Yehoshua nodded gravely. “Yes. Bad news. There is a great battle coming. But the priests assure us we need not worry, praised be the Lord.” To his credit, the warrior did not look back at Shimshon.
“What has happened in Iehuda and Biniamin while I was gone?” Iermiah asked.
“I will leave that story to the aluf,” Barak said, looking uncomfortable.
Have you seen the serpent, Shimshon wanted to ask, but he kept silent. He wanted to hear what the Israelites had to tell him first.
Coming through the gorse, they reached a group of grubby children playing at the outskirts of the camp, tossing apricot stones into a hole in the ground. One of them saw the newcomers, raised his head and hissed with laughter. A filthy finger pointed at the prophet. “Come, come, bald one!”
The rest of the children joined their insolent friend, oblivious to who they were deriding.
Shimshon saw Iermiah redden, and a curse slipped his lips. That was a surprise. He had not expected the prophet to lose his composure.
Soldiers on the wall hailed the squad, and their escort returned the greeting.
“Leave your beasts here.”
Shimshon noticed Dlila was waiting for his word. “I will protect you,” he whispered. He extended his hand to help her climb off the bench. She flashed him a weak smile. Then, he took the second blade from the back of the wagon and cinched it across his back. There was already a small crowd of men gathering, marveling at the two great horses, but Shimshon ignored their hushed questions.
“Those are magnificent weapons,” Barak commented.
Shimshon grunted.
The city gates opened and they walked into the City of David.
Shimshon felt a strange but pleasant itch on his skin as he passed through the thick walls. This time, the brown canvas scrap bearing the dragon’s name went cold inside his tunic.
He was now in the heart of the Israelite land.
His mother’s land.
Where is she?
Dead?
Shimshon took a deep breath. “Who leads those troops?” he finally asked, his curiosity bubbling. His fingers tightened the knot on the length of gold cloth twine that bound his hair.
“Hananiel Ben Ezra, Aluf of Biniamin,” Barak replied. He did look back this time.
Shimshon remembered the name. He had never met the aluf before, but the armies of their two nations had scuffled a few times in the past. Short, quick battles in the hills of Gilead. A respectable man, a good strategist. A man who did not waste the lives of his troops for pride.
I am not among his enemies anymore, Shimshon tried to remind himself, thinking of the charred ruins of Rabba, the death of his king, the death of...Melek.
Why did the dragon not attack here?
The City of David was a great, important place, a nest of trade, power, and culture, tightly packed, warmer than the land that surrounded it, and quivering with life, loud barter, broken promises, and chaos. If he ignored the signs on the doors, the tribal colors, and the lack of statues erected in honor of his god, he could have sworn this city was much like Rabba. One narrow lane followed into another at sharp, random angles, weaving between buildings pressed so thick that shadows reigned between their pocked, eaten faces. Streets went up and down, following the curve of the hill.
There was something else, too.
It was like the smell before the rain, the radiance in the air before the storm, the thrum of unknown peril in his stomach. Maybe it was just the danger of an unfamiliar place or the tension he felt oozing through people’s skin, even if their faces did not show it. Maybe it was something else, something deeper. He could not recall feeling this in his king’s capital.
An omen.
Finally, Barak led them to a low house flush with the northern section of the wall, facing the temple on the other hill. A rough block of steps grew from its back, climbing up onto the walkway, overlooking the valleys that surrounded the city. Several well-armed soldiers stood guard, their heads veiled against the brisk wind.
I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 11