“What happened in Rabba?”
Rukhama didn’t respond immediately. She flicked a quick glance at the prophet. He did not miss that. “I do not know what happened. I left shortly before the city was destroyed. But I know that no one else fled the city after me. Not the king, not his retinue nor his soldiers, not a single soul. There was nothing behind me but the thick smoke rising above Rabba, a giant pillar that could be seen as far as Kumran.” It almost sounded like an accusation.
Shimshon swallowed. “How did you know what was going to happen?”
“An old man came to me. He warned me. I listened to him.”
An old man... A messenger? Shimshon hated not knowing. He turned toward the prophet. “Iermiah, tell me everything.”
Rami scratched his short, silvery beard. “Everything, Shimshon? No, but I can tell you what matters. Our meeting was not a coincidence. None of it was. I went to Bavel to learn how to stop the end of the world. This is the end of the world, Shimshon.”
This is the end of the world.
As simple as that.
Shimshon tried to keep his anger under control. No, it was a different kind of emotion. Fear. No! It was anger. He didn’t know what fear was. But he knew that Iermiah’s words were true, even if he did not want to believe them. “What are you talking about?”
Rami hesitated. “When the god’s messenger came to me, just before I met you, he told me many things. He told the world’s end was coming and that there would be four signs. First, great armies would swoop down upon our land. Armies from Gomer, Meshekh, and Tubal, led by the vile Prince Gog and his ruthless chieftains, the Magog.”
The prophet pointed at Shimshon’s trophy sword. “This has already happened.”
Shimshon wanted to gaze at his mother, to see what she was thinking, but he didn’t dare look away.
Iermiah continued. “Then, there will be a great beast, the color of blood and fire, and it will sow destruction upon the tribes like rain. That is the second omen, and it, too, has come to be.”
“The third?” Shimshon whispered.
“Rivers of brimstone,” Iermiah said.
Shimshon wanted to snort, but he stopped himself. “And the fourth?”
“Malakhim will come to fight among us, to try to defend us from evil. Because, if we fail, all will be lost, and the land will fall under the rule of Gog, and there will be no hope and no faith left. Your god is already dead.”
“Don’t say that!” Shimshon bristled.
“You saw Rabba yourself,” Iermiah countered calmly.
“You knew about the serpent,” Shimshon accused, thinking of all their time together.
“I suspected, but I wasn’t sure. Forgive me, Shimshon, but these are not matters that one can take lightly. Before Rabba, if I had told you, would you have believed me?”
Most likely not, even moments after I had stepped out of the Tower of Bavel. “So, what now?”
“We need to muster the people to fight. We need a leader.”
Shimshon shrugged. “You have Hananiel Ben Ezra. He is a great warrior.”
Iermiah shook his head. “Not as great as you.”
This time, Shimshon did look at his mother. “You expect me to fight for these people?”
“Your people, Son,” she emphasized.
“Do not insult me, Mother!” he growled.
“Mind your language,” she warned him. “You have chosen your father’s god. I can accept that. But now that Melek is dead, you must join us. Embrace the lord and fight for him. Help us defeat the enemy army. Help save the world.”
“I will not fight to save the Hebrews,” he hissed.
“Then do it for yourself,” Iermiah goaded. “You saw what happened to your city.”
Shimshon remembered his pledge. “I will slay that beast, all right. But I won’t have anything to do with the Israelites.”
“Yet, you are here, among us.” Rukhama reached and put her small, wrinkled hand on his own. “Son, please. Put your shame and chagrin aside.”
Shimshon grumbled wordlessly. He was frustrated. He had abandoned his ruler because of an omen. He should have stayed by King Tobiah and defended him against the enemy, protected him. Because of him, the leader of Ammon and his whole nation was dead. Melek was dead.
If you’d stayed, you’d be dead, too, his conscience whispered. You followed your instincts, you let omens guide you. Trust your soul, it rambled on, spitting its poison.
He had nothing but omens now.
He burned to saddle up for battle and meet these warriors of Gomer and Tubal and whatever four corners of the world they came from. He craved putting his sword in their hearts, sending their severed heads tumbling, watching them run away screeching and weeping.
“I hear you have a new concubine. A Plishtit,” his mother stabbed.
“Dlila is not my concubine,” Shimshon blurted.
“I want to meet her.”
“Why?” Shimshon felt his hackles rise.
“I want to see if she’s worthy of you, Son.”
“She is a good woman,” he mumbled almost apologetically. She is a beautiful woman.
“Beauty and kindness often go apart,” she intoned, reading his mind. “I want to meet her, Shimi.”
“Don’t call me that!”
He thought he heard a chuckle escaping Iermiah’s lips. He whipped his head around, but the prophet’s face was serious.
“This Prince Gog, has he been seen?” Shimshon asked. War was easy. War was simple.
“The rumors aren’t credible enough. But the scouts of Iehuda and Biniamin put his main host near Ekron.”
Close to the Plishtim, Shimshon thought. “Then, on the morrow, I shall go there.”
Iermiah narrowed his eyes. “Alone?”
“Much easier to slip past enemy patrols.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Find this prince and cut his head off. But first, I will scout.” He rose. He did not want to stay here any longer. He was angry. Angry with Iermiah for hiding secrets from him, angry with his mother for making him question his beliefs. Just before stepping out, he turned around. “I’m glad you’re alive, Mother.”
“Sleep well, Son.”
During the night, there was a thunderstorm. As the sky rumbled, Shimshon wondered if the dragon was there, flitting through the boiling rumble of clouds. Could lightning hurt that beast? Or did it make it stronger, more resistant to enemy blows, like a sudden black fire hardened bronze in the forge? The windows flickered with brilliant silver, and the deafening sound followed soon thereafter. Shimshon was restless, and sleep eluded him.
Dlila slept on a separate cot at his side. Not quite what he’d had in mind. Luckily, no one had objected, least of all the girl herself, who was loathe to part with him and sleep among her foes, rules of hospitality and solemn promises notwithstanding. She did not stir as the night belched its fury. Maybe her gods protected her, no matter what she thought.
I have no god left, so I am exposed.
He woke with a sense of alarm in his chest. He opened his eyes and realized that it wasn’t just his fitful dreaming. He could hear soft but urgent lamenting from outside the house. The kind of noise that always meant trouble.
Dlila was still sleeping. Strange.
Quickly, he dressed, donned leather guards on his knees and arms, and stepped out into a morose, bleak, rainy world. The streets were packed with Israelites, whose happy, almost exuberant behavior from only yesterday was gone.
Grim faces.
Tightly pursed lips.
People were milling, moving about, feet stomping without aim or purpose, going from point to point simply because their bodies took them there, and they sought strength and courage from those around them, following the few who seemed to know what they were doing—or pretended to. The women moaned, calling upon their god.
Shimshon searched for armed enemies. There were none. Just this senseless confusion.
“What is happening?”
he asked one of the guards standing outside the house.
The man was running a sweaty palm up and down the length of his spear, pasty-faced with the fear of unknown. “Master, I don’t know.”
Shimshon pushed through the crowd, his tall stature and russet locks helping to clear a path for him. The confusion was radiating from the west, so he went there. Slowly but persistently, he crossed the city and left through the gates, following directions from soldiers. The press of folk was thick here, the stench of deep, white fear veiling them almost like a fog.
Warriors stood with hands slack by their sides, swords forgotten in their sheathes, spear tips pointed down. Men were muttering words of prayer, women asking God for mercy and forgiveness. Shimshon’s blood quickened with anticipation of combat, yet he wasn’t quite sure what to expect. There was no clear danger, no death. This was something else. Despair? Terror?
Aluf Hananiel Ben Ezra and his subordinates were standing on a small hill west of the city, looking toward Iehuda. A wall of soldiers cordoned them off from the chatter of citizens and their hopeless expressions. When the warriors saw Shimshon, they let him slip through.
As he remembered, the Valley of Hinnom separated the two tribes and there was an orchard of apples covering the slopes of the hills rolling south and west.
There: something bad, something evil.
Shimshon tugged his robes close to keep the wind away. He could smell fear, but something else, too. The foul stench of rot.
“God help us, God help us,” one of the captains of the hosts was repeating in a low tone.
“O Lord, save us,” another added, his voice thin, reedy, airy with dread.
Babbling like old women, Shimshon thought with disgust, approaching. His body was tense, his limbs light. “Hananiel.”
The aluf turned, his face a grave mask. “Shimshon.”
“What is the reason for all this tumult?”
Hananiel pointed. “See for yourself.”
Shimshon stepped to the top of the ridge and looked down.
The orchard was gone, the trees burnt to a crisp. A lightning fire? Maybe. But that did not explain why the Gilo stream, running through the valley, was boiling and smoking, its banks covered in the yellow slime of brimstone.
CHAPTER KAF-BET
I HAVE COME TO WITNESS DESTRUCTION
“How long will you be gone?” Dlila asked, her face creased with worry.
“I do not know.” Shimshon hated himself for saying that, but he was a warrior first, lover second.
“I’m afraid.”
He touched her shoulder, trying to ignore his lust. “You should not be. No one will harm you.”
She glanced around. “This is not my home. I cannot feel Dagon inside this city. I do not belong here.”
Shimshon brushed her dark locks, and she smiled. “I know. Once I have slain the serpent, I will build you a home anywhere you want.”
“And I will never be able to go back to Pleshet again,” she said in a soft voice. Her conviction from the day before was gone. She sounded distraught. The magic was gone. Shimshon wished he had never let that soldier intrude upon them. But then, he had willingly followed a prophet to the City of David, seeking answers. That knowledge had a price.
Warrior first, lover second.
Do not fight your nature, Shimshon. You relish combat. You live for combat.
“You should not worry about that,” he said in a voice equally soft. Deep down, he did not have the conviction he needed to reassure Dlila. But he knew that once she became his...lover, they would find a way to make it all true.
Before all, I must save the world. Cursed omens. Damn prophets.
He must destroy the dragon. He had sworn to, and he would make it happen.
She stroked his hair, sending fire into his skull, then leaned forward and hesitated. “Stay safe.”
“I will.” He stepped out.
Shimshon didn’t feel happy leaving Dlila behind. Despite trying to assuage her fear, he was worried what she might do in his absence. Or worse, what his mother might decide to do. The last thing he wanted was for the two women to meet and talk behind his back. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable.
Before he’d gone, he met with Iermiah and insisted on seeing the kohanim. The prophet only gravely shook his head. Next, he spoke with the aluf.
“I will return,” he said, expecting an argument.
Hananiel nodded. “God willing.”
“You will give me your word that no harm with come to Dlila.”
The Israelite smiled. “No harm will come to my guests—even if one may be a Plishit.”
What did Rami tell him? What did they talk about behind his back? It did not matter. The aluf was an honorable man, no matter what god he worshiped. “I have many questions for you, Aluf.”
“And I have many for you, Shimshon.”
Why did the priests not let you fight the Magog? Not knowing the answer irked him.
“Before you go...” The aluf reached into his tunic. He handed Shimshon a short piece of red thread. “For luck.”
Shimshon tied the string round his wrist. “Thank you.” He almost felt a sense of friendship toward this stranger, and it bothered him. The Israelites were not his people. He did not belong here, in this city, wrapped in this false sense of safety.
Wielding a sword was easier. So he’d hurried forward, toward danger.
He had walked out of the City of David alone, followed by worried glances from the aluf and his warriors on top of the wall, their silent shapes draped in the blue tunics of Biniamin. He was their hope, and with each step, he got farther away, closer to the heart of enemy territory where a huge host, unlike any the land had seen, gathered.
Shimshon did not fault the men of Biniamin for doubting him. He harbored the same feeling himself, if for different reasons.
I am going to Pleshet. Again.
But it was better than the city and its oppressive mood, talk of the world ending, and the repulsive smell of rotten eggs coming off the boiling river. This was a simple mission, with death as the reward for success as well as failure. The only thing that would change was who died at the end of it.
My goal is to scout first, kill later. He had to remember that.
He traveled light with nothing but a small pack of food and water, enough to see him safely to Ekron and back. If the weather held, he could make the trip in less than a week. Like the previous time, he went on foot, with the memory of that past journey resonating in his bones. Horses were good animals for covering distance and charging lines of enemy troops, but they were loud and noisy, and needed fodder.
Shimshon needed subterfuge.
His mind swirled with thoughts and doubts. Words from his mother, from Iermiah and Dlila, words from the wise men in Bavel, mixing, clashing, creating a painful, dangerous din. Sometimes the rush of words drowned the sounds of nature, made him forget that with each step he was walking closer to the enemy position.
For a king and his kin, life could never be simple. As King Tobiah’s nephew, he was bound by responsibilities and duties that did not concern ordinary people. But all of this was happening all too suddenly, all too fast. Not that long ago, his biggest worry had been deflecting the blade of an enemy too foolish to challenge him, defending his king’s honor, quelling uprisings, leaving weeping widows in rioting villages behind.
That life is gone, Shimshon. It’s no more, his conscience mocked him.
My king is dead, and I will avenge him. I will not rest before then, he snarled back.
Now, he was battling uncertainty and doubt, and his instinct was slow to respond. How did one fight stories of mythical beasts? How did one fight tales of ancient yet foretold war, tales of the end of the world?
The same way you always have, Shimshon. You kill them all.
There was only one thing he could do. Face the enemy, no matter who or what it was.
The roads were empty. There were no animals in the wild. Whatever Tariav did, it had
scared away all life. A valuable lesson, Shimshon thought. Maybe the deer and wolves knew something that he did not.
But he had never balked before combat and he wasn’t going to now, no matter what.
On the third day of quiet, solemn travel, he found his foe.
He heard them first, the unmistakable rustle of thousands of feet and hoofs, the jangle of suits of armor, the talk of bored soldiers, the hum that a large mass of men created, silent and trained as they might be. No matter how hard they tried to keep quiet, if they even bothered, they couldn’t hide their presence.
Crawling through the rough, thorny grass, his elbows and knees swathed in cloth, he snugged himself between two rocks and stared at the procession of men streaming south from Beit Horon toward Ekron. It was an impressive sight, he had to admit.
Men on horses, much like the two warriors he had killed some time ago now, rode through the fields, toting swords and spears, gray alloys agleam, serpent motifs ominous and threatening. In between the two columns of riders, people walked. Some soldiers, dusty and grubby, but mostly prisoners, in fetters, chained to one another; stumbling along the gravel, exhausted, wounded, cold, and hungry. He recognized the tribal colors on their filthy, stained robes.
Men of Menashe and Efraim.
Shimshon stared at the standards of the enemy cavalry. He saw many devices, but he did not recognize any of them. Thousands of them, and they all looked different.
Some of the enemy had their helmets on, others rode with their hair free. Some had black hair and brown hair, like the people of Ammon or Biniamin, but his eyes were drawn to the pale men. Hair the color of wheat.
He saw the likes of the two he had slain, but they had different armor, their saddles were shaped differently, and not all had those loops for the legs. Several just carried short bows with preserved rabbit legs hanging from the ends, others yet bore those magnificent gray swords.
This was a well-oiled war machine. Confident in its numbers and skills, boosted by its early success in the foreign land, giddy with greed and bloodshed, basking in its might over the imprisoned tribesmen.
They had one thing in common with the people of Biniamin, Shimshon saw. They didn’t glance skyward. For them, there was no danger lurking there. That was an important sign.
I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 13