One turn left, another turn, right. He used the walls to slow down, then bounced in the desired direction, wasting no time, coming closer, closer still. Under sagging cloth lines, past crones with sagging breasts, around chance beggars, past cracked slaves’ soles stomping on carpets covered in drying seeds, ignoring the surly women and their dismay. Gat wasn’t a big town, but now it felt endless. Long, with streets that were too narrow and too many. His breath burned in his throat. He was winded and his head drummed to the rhythm of his heart, a red haze under his eyes. He was disoriented, rough squares of the clouded sky and worn, chipped roof ledges making him dizzy.
He took another turn and met enemy spears.
The patrol probably wasn’t looking for him. They wouldn’t have had time to be informed of a renegade pit fighter running loose in the town. But they were armed men, and he was big and covered in blood, and he didn’t expect compassion from nervous Pleshet warriors. With the death of their prince and the dragon in the sky, mercy was a rare commodity.
After so long, he craved violence.
Shimshon barreled into the surprised watchmen. They yelped, cursed, and one of them dropped his spear. Shimshon grabbed his face and slammed it into a wall with a loud, wet crack. A second man was trying to angle his weapon toward Shimshon, but he was slow and unbalanced. Shimshon rammed a fist in his throat, and the man went down, gurgling weakly. The third soldier stabbed with his bronze-leaf shaft, once, twice. Shimshon ducked under the cuts and reached out with his left hand, his fingers closing on a tunic. He yanked hard. The smaller man tripped, and Shimshon readied his knee to welcome the man’s nose. Blood and screams.
The fourth and the last watchman had trailed his team by about a dozen paces—he must have spoken to someone farther down the alley—and was holding a drawn bow, aiming. The narrow street gave Shimshon little room for maneuvering against an arrow. He paused for an instant, thinking.
He braced himself for a cold length of wood through his ribs.
Then the soldier collapsed.
On the rooftop behind him, Mndnau crouched, a sling in hand. He waved. Shimshon waved back. Then, with uncanny grace, the wiry Cushi vanished from view.
Thank you, friend.
Shimshon did not wait for other people to notice the fight. Blood was never a good sign, especially not when spattered on sand-colored walls, where it stood out in stark detail. Shimshon quickly disrobed the largest watchman and pulled his clothes over his head. The tunic smelled of cheap wine, sweat, and kurkum, and it draped tightly over Shimshon’s muscles, but it would do. He would draw less attention than if he were naked and bloody.
Leaving the ruined men behind, he finally reached the lodge where Dlila was supposed to be. He circled the house, checking for danger. The wagon was there, the mule in the small, shaded shed just nearby. He ran back to the front. The rough, planked door was closed, no sign of forced entry or combat. He pushed it open, heart hammering. Down the street, people were converging on the dead soldiers; curious bystanders, citizens, greedy merchants. Too many eyes and ears. Shimshon ducked inside.
The inn was silent and empty.
Shimshon frowned.
“We must go,” Mndnau said, suddenly at his side.
Shimshon hadn’t heard the Cushi enter. “I must find Dlila,” he growled, panting, wheezing.
“They have taken her. She is the captive of Prince Gog. They know about you.”
Shimshon spun about, angry. How did they know? It didn’t matter. What now? “Then I will rescue her.”
The dark man shook his head, a fluid, pure motion. “You cannot. They are too many.”
Shimshon breathed out through his nostrils, hard. “No.”
But the Cushi was right. Staying here was risky. He could not fight the entire army of Gomer and Pleshet on his own. And the longer he remained among the enemy, the more he risked Dlila’s life. He had to save her, but he could not do that right now.
Iermiah’s warning echoed through his mind.
Shimshon cursed silently.
His plan to end this war quickly was falling apart. First Prince Zabul, then his brief captivity as a lion fighter, now Dlila. It was maddening.
It goes back to what I’ve been trying to ignore all this time.
“Do you know how to get us out of this town without bloodshed?” Shimshon rasped.
Mndnau nodded. Shimshon swore the man’s bumpy face bore a smug expression. “Most certainly. Which way do you want to go?” the Cushi asked, casually glancing out of the lodge. If he saw anything alarming, he did not show it.
Shimshon sighed. “Out back, to gather my weapons, then to the City of David.”
CHAPTER KAF-TET
I DON'T KNOW
Back among the Israelites, Shimshon thought, approaching the City of David.
Today, it was snowing.
The hills around the Gilo rarely saw the white flakes, he knew; as seldom as Rabba had. The flurry would come and go in a quick, cruel storm, leaving behind ruined orchards, caved-in rooftops, and dead animals in rickety pens.
Shimshon rode with his shoulders covered in a sheep’s hide, a solid pelt of gray that hid the flakes that rested there briefly before melting. His ears were shrouded under a simple black veil, his hair hanging out in the back, locks wet—and once again, their true color.
Snow had a redeeming quality, Shimshon thought, marveling, watching city children play in the open, tossing crude balls at each other. The ugliness went away under that pristine cover. You could not see the pocked city walls, the crumbling masonry, the old rotten wood. Even human wounds went away. The spirit calmed. People walked with a quiet reverence, almost too shy to break the white crust of innocence.
The Gilo river was still smoking noisome fumes and its banks were layered in old vomit, a sign that not everything was pristine and innocent. Then, the increased presence of the Biniamin warriors, the siege machines, and the fortified battlements all spoke of an impending war. The enemy had not yet attacked, it seemed, but a great clash was imminent.
The priests still forbade the tribes from marching forth. They were waiting.
My timing is impeccable, Shimshon thought, guiding a small brown horse toward the south gate, watching the sentries watch him, each man a bundle of furs, head covers, and thick woolen foot wraps. Mndnau had left him a parsa back, claiming he was not comfortable entering big, seething settlements unless he had to. He preferred to stay in the open, where he could do and go as he pleased.
Shimshon gazed northwest. A large host camped just outside the city facing Dan, standards rippling in the wind. On the left flank, Iehuda myriads were slowly, messily converging, forming up into a defensive half-circle, trudging through mud and fresh, wet snow. Shimshon wondered if the alufs had decided who would lead their combined armies in this war, or if they intended to fight apart. To some people, a matter of pride was more important than the safety of their city, or even their entire nation. Such were people.
The poison in the Gilo made the crossing more difficult, but there were a few new makeshift bridges to help lug supplies across, even though animals refused to cross and had to be taken all the way north, around the stream, then led back to the south bank. Soldiers walked past, heads bent down, slipping in the slush. The hills and valleys all looked different with snow dappling them. The distances felt wrong, the bogs and ravines and outcrops of rock vanished, the thickets of thorny scrub seemed smaller, easier to pass. No one was quite used to it.
Maybe it was another omen.
The cold did not bother Shimshon. He was used to fierce, chilly weather and the harsh winds of the plains above Rabba and the east desert, hunting renegades, brigands, and enemy soldiers on frosty nights. But snow would make life more difficult in the city, lull people into a false sense of safety, make them hunker down around their fires and forget about the grave threat just half a day away. Rumors told by bored soldiers spoke of a slow, steady encroachment by the Plishtim and their new masters. Farther south in Iehuda, near
Hebron and Dvir, roads were no longer safe. Traders avoided going there altogether, until this war was won—or lost.
Regardless, most of the Israelites still did not seem to care about the dragon.
They were complacent, ignorant—or they knew something he still did not.
Well, he would learn, wouldn’t he?
“Greetings, Shimshon of Rabba,” one of the watchmen hailed him.
Shimshon dismounted. The little brown seemed spooked by the massive tower of stone ahead and the narrow passage underneath.
“Greetings,” he said in return. He waved at one of the guards to take the animal. “Where can I find Prophet Iermiah?”
The bundled men exchanged glances, eyes squinted against the bite of the wind and snow. The flakes weren’t so pristine when you had to endure them for long hours, standing in one spot, glaring at the whiteness. “He is...at Beit Ha Shita.”
Shimshon nodded his thanks and continued on foot. The hard-packed, dirt-and-gravel roads had turned mushy from the stomping of too many sandals and hoofs. Shimshon walked closer to the houses where the ground was harder, trying to keep his woolen leggings from getting too wet. He carried his weapons in a leather sack on his back so the rain and snow would not touch them. He had noticed the gray alloy rusted unless oiled and scraped regularly. It probably didn’t make it soft, but it was ugly.
Just a few weeks had passed and yet, the City of David had changed. It held less mirth, less bravado. Its people were more reserved, more timid, more humble. They did not smile as much, though they did not stare at him like before. There were also troops everywhere, and he saw that the differences between Iehuda and Biniamin had been set aside, for now. Armed tribesmen walked past their neighbors with no bad blood among them. That was good. It made Shimshon’s plan easier.
He asked twice for directions. It turned out the lavish house where he had met his mother was Beit Ha Shita. Shimshon frowned. He didn’t want to talk to his mother right now. He did not want to bear her accusations when he mentioned that Dlila had been taken captive, or the fact that he had risked his life because of the girl.
But there was no escaping it.
Two guards stood outside, but if they were the same ones he’d met all those weeks ago, he could not say. They nodded at him. Feeling strangely coy, Shimshon walked into the house. Warmth and pleasant smells met him. Heated stones had been placed all around the main chamber where his mother was, surrounded by several women and slaves. They all sat on the ground wrapped in blankets, talking in hushed tones. A pair of candles created light and scented rushes laid on a bed of white coals inside a small bronze basket gave off pleasant tendrils of smoke.
The women all looked up, going silent. Some stared hard. Were they angry that a man had intruded their place, uninvited? His mother’s gaze lingered the longest. “Son. Where is the Plishtit?”
Shimshon tensed. He did not want to interpret the cavalry of looks storming him. “No time now, Mother. I must see the prophet.”
Rukhama pointed toward the inner chambers. “Inside.”
He left his guilt behind and found the bald man cross-legged, reading some scrolls in a mix of candlelight and weak daylight. He was squinting and looking uncomfortable, but Shimshon bet there was a good reason for that. This was an omen as good as any, though not the deflated sack of wine at his side.
“Prophet.”
“Oh, Ammonite, you have returned.” Rami showed no surprise that Dlila was not with him.
“It seems I must fight this war,” Shimshon said after a while.
“Yes, you must.” Iermiah put the scrolls away. His eyes were lucid, his speech clear.
“Tell me everything,” Shimshon said, crouching, one of his knees clicking.
Iermiah smiled. “I can’t possibly tell you everything. I am not sure about most things myself. But I do know it is a great thing that you have come back among us, to lead us in this war.”
Shimshon was not pleased that his intentions were so obvious. “How do you know that?”
“Why else would you be here?”
“I need to learn how to defeat the dragon.”
The prophet nodded slowly. “God has not revealed that to me.”
Shimshon pursed his lips. “Will it die to an arrow? Must I cut its heads off? How?”
Rami re-crossed his legs. “There will be a sign. There must be. The malakhim still do not walk among us. There’s still time.”
Meanwhile, I must shed blood and Dlila’s life is in grave danger.
“What happened to the Plishtit girl?” Iermiah asked, as if reading his thoughts.
“Prince Gog took her hostage.”
The prophet sighed. “He will use her against you. What are you going to do?”
Warnings from his mother, from the prophet, and the bitter experience of his past all whispered their poison in his mind. I will save her and I will kill the prince. It is quite simple.
But he remembered making that promise a few times before, and the Cimmerian ruler still lived.
“I don’t know.”
CHAPTER LAMED
THERE WAS NO MISTAKING THAT SOUND
It takes a great leader to yield leadership to someone else, Shimshon thought, watching the alufs of Iehuda and Biniamin defer to him. Proud men, stubborn men, heroes, proven warriors, sworn enemies of Pleshet, and occasional foes of his own homeland. And yet, they let him command their myriads. Shimshon was not sure if he’d have the same measure of humility in their places.
Up close, the strength of the Israelite tribes was impressive. Solid ranks of spearmen, soldiers with bronze swords, slingers, a handful of charioteers, archers afoot and on horse. There were roughly five myriads of them, most of the able-bodied men from Shilo to Hebron.
But looking harder, Shimshon saw cracks in their facade. Not all their weapons were new or clean or polished. Armor pieces did not match. There was fear etched on their bearded faces, veterans and young fighters alike, those who knew the horrors of war and shunned it, and those who grew their own terror from the stories of their elders. Few boasted idly. The threat of great destruction went beyond their dreams of glory and youthful recklessness.
For Shimshon, it wasn’t the army who occupied his thoughts.
It was the serpent.
The soldiers shuffled their feet, to ward off the cold and boredom. The horsemen milled, waiting their turn to scout the hills. The air smelled of dung. Private words between worried men mingled with those of the others around them until they became a buzz, like the wind blowing from the west, damp with the salty smell of the sea and ripe with rain.
Hananiel Ben Ezra and Nissim Bar Iohai kept apart from their men, talking strategy with no hint of their past rivalry. Shimshon walked toward them, ignoring the looks, the whispers, the quick bows from the men who had only heard of his legend as his fiery locks fluttered behind him.
He had one of the gray swords strapped across his back and the other weighed his left hip. It was too long to draw from the right side. Something to get used to. The gravel crunched under his feet, making its own contribution to the idle talk. Shimshon thought he could hear words and hints of words in those noises, but he did not pay too much attention.
The alufs saw him and their stances tensed, though not in a hostile way. It was just their expectation of what he expected of them.
“Good morning, Shimshon,” Hananiel greeted him.
“Hananiel, Nissim.” He joined them at the lookout point and gazed toward the enemy lines, trying to see what they had been discussing.
The forces of Meshekh, Tubal, and Gomer were lined like a filthy brown tide over the foothills of Hurvat Eked, their formation broken only by the thickets of small trees and outcroppings of rock. The standards with the serpent emblem were so many, almost a forest itself. The enemy army was huge. It dwarfed the Israelite host.
Shimshon could imagine them moving forward in three prongs, deep into Biniamin, encircling the defenders, then converging on the City of David. Shimsh
on did not know why, but he felt it was imperative that he save the city at all costs. It was the key to this war. If the holy city fell, the enemy would win.
“Your thoughts, Shimshon?”
He waited with his reply, scanning the enemy units. It was hard to know how they fought. He had hoped for some sort of discord among the different nations, but their journey must have hardened them, pruned their rivalries, made them work together. They must have raided villages for food and fought off bandits and small groups of local resistance wherever they had passed. Their recent campaign against the northern tribes would have given them even more experience and a taste of how the Israelites waged war. All of it surely worked against Shimshon’s plans.
What would Prince Gog and his chieftains do? How would the Magog strike? Would they use their superior weapons in close combat? Send their bigger, more powerful horses in on strong, direct cavalry charges, hoping to break the Israelites early? Chase the survivors that they routed? Or maybe they would be more careful, biting at the flanks, using horse archers and skirmishers to weaken the defenders and their resolve?
The enemy ruler was arrogant, Shimshon knew. Confident in his victory. He had defied the Pleseht gods by slaying his host in his own court, in witness of all the deities. He had desolated Baal’s temples. And he had the dragon.
That would make any warrior feel invincible. Maybe rash.
Shimshon had glimpsed cunning in those pale eyes, too. Gog might be drunk on his success, but he was no fool. He had superior numbers, superior weapons, and quite likely more experience. He understood those strengths and would use them wisely.
Shimshon knew he had to make Gog lose patience and prudence. He would have to make him forsake his advantages and strike blindly. Make him forgo caution. Make him angry. That meant a personal war.
It’s already personal. They have taken Dlila. They did it to rankle me, to make me mad, so I would make the same kinds of mistakes I expect from my foes. It was the chief reason Shimshon kept quiet, and carefully considered his reply to the aluf.
I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 18