Another thought niggled at the back of his mind. What did the kohanim want him to do?
“We let them attack. We will observe their battle tactics. After that, we will know better how to retaliate. But it is critical that they do not surround us. We must hold our positions.”
Aluf Nissim nodded as if he knew that would be Shimshon’s suggestion.
Hananiel quickly glanced toward Moriah.
Shimshon raised his hand to give an order. He wanted to—
A surge of noise came from the camp behind him. All heads turned to see the reason for the commotion. And then each pair of eyes went wide.
The kohanim.
A procession of them, moving toward the lookout point.
I shall have my answers.
Shimshon watched them. They had bright, scarlet robes—not unlike the serpent’s color—and majestic bearing, like that of kings. Calm confidence governed their stern, silent, wise faces. Their robes and arms were not adorned with the prayer straps. The priests did not need those. But they carried rods made of some pale wood, with ball-like appendages at the top.
Soldiers moved aside reverently, gazing with awe at the clergy. In that moment, Shimshon envied then. He could not recall ever seeing the priests of Melek receive this kind of attention from the people of Rabba. It made him sad for the loss of his king, his people, for the emptiness in his soul.
The priests were coming closer.
Shimshon fidgeted. What if they wanted to bless him? Should he let them? For an instant, he almost believed his mother had sent them to ignite the spark of doubt in his heart that she hoped must be there. But no, the kohanim had come to bless the soldiers before war, to inspire them, to remind them of their divine providence.
Prayer reached his ears. It was in Hebrew, not Arameic, but the words were similar. He did not catch their full meaning, but he caught the essence of it, like a breath of hot wind in his face. It washed him, infused him. His spine tingled. Like when he had spoken to the old man in the army camp, like when he had stepped into the Tower of Bavel.
I am not an Israelite. I’m an Ammonite. I worship...I worship... Who? His thoughts faltered.
The priests had seen him. Oh, he was certain of that. They were coming his way. Not to bless the alufs. Him. Shimshon.
He needed a diversion. He did not want to talk to them. They represented something he did not believe, something he did not like. He wanted no part in the Israelite religion. He did not want to be associated with the kohanim and their schemes.
There was no escaping it. The holy men reached him.
Being around the servants of another god made him nervous, but he tried to bear it stoically, with a solemn expression on his face.
“Shimshon,” the man in the lead said, his skin oily, dusky.
“Yes.” Did his voice sound thin, reedy, unbecoming of his prowess and stature?
“You were born in Nazrat, were you not?”
Shimshon swallowed, feeling confused. “Yes.”
The kohen smiled. “Your mother must have borne great love for your father, to leave with him for Rabba, to leave behind her people and her faith.”
Shimshon did not like this sermon, if that was what it was. “She never left her faith behind. She was always observant and never missed a prayer, even among the Ammonites. My mother also never missed an opportunity to try to make of me a follower of her god.” That sounded petulant, Shimshon realized with chagrin.
The priest made a tiny shrug in his splendid red robes. “That never works. One believes with all their heart, or one does not. Otherwise, they are only lying to themselves. God knows.”
Shimshon found himself agreeing with the man. The priest had presence, a calm, quiet manner, soft words. Shimshon almost liked him. But there must be a trap. The kohen was trying to ensnare him with his charm, make him an Israelite.
“You are a brave man, Shimshon,” the priest went on. “You have chosen to help us in this war, and that is a sign from God.”
Shimshon nodded gruffly. He was starting to feel annoyed. The Israelites were not supposed to favor him. They were not supposed to coddle him with nice words or regard him as some kind of savior. He understood they respected his combat prowess, but this was too much.
Luckily for him, right then, the enemy attacked.
Drums. That was the first thing. Then the vast host stirred, like some huge animal waking from sleep, shaking its powerful limbs. The nearby hills and valleys were suddenly alive, seething, crawling with men and horses that looked like insects from a distance.
A new kind of noise erupted among the defenders. Dismay, outrage, expectation. The noise of impeding combat. Shimshon flexed his fists, making blood course through them. The enemy was moving to attack, just as he wanted.
One of the other kohanim was holding a goat’s horn in his hand. He pressed it to his lips and blew a deep, long note. It rose above the battlefield and was answered by a dozen cries from the army units, all around the City of David. There was no mistaking that sound. The war against the beast had started.
CHAPTER LAMED-ALEF
BEHOLD THE SIEGE ENGINES
War was simple. War was easy.
Shimshon forgot all his other worries as the forces of Gomer swept toward Biniamin. He watched their battle formations. He watched how quickly they reacted to changes, to the contours of the terrain and the orders from their commanders. He watched how well they rode, how they bore and carried their weapons.
The enemy was skilled and well-drilled. They had better armor and stronger blades. Their horses were bigger. The men of Iehuda and Biniamin would not stand long in a direct confrontation.
Not that long ago, Shimshon would have squared his shoulders and fought. To the death, if necessary. But after the destruction of Rabba, things had changed. He wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps it was the humbling knowledge he had gained in the past months. Maybe the encounter with his mother. Or the unmistakable power of the City of David and its priests. The confusion that gripped his soul, the storm of emotions, the feelings he had for Dlila. His guilt at having left her in Gat.
Whatever it was, it made his response...softer.
Shimshon knew cowardice was his best tactic.
There will be time for my revenge.
“Archers, aim for the horses. Not the riders. Thin their ranks, pick out leaders,” he relayed to a lithe, eager messenger at his side. The boy scampered away, as surefooted as a goat.
“I will join my men,” Aluf Hananiel said, moving away.
“No, wait,” Shimshon countered, gripping his wrist.
The aluf looked displeased.
Shimshon drew the sword on his left hip and presented it to the Binamin warrior, hilt first.
Hananiel stared at the gray bronze with fascination, then slowly closed his callused hand over the long grip. “Thank you, Shimshon.”
Shimshon glanced at the surging tide of Gomer troops. “You do not want your fighters to engage the foe just yet.”
The aluf frowned. “Why is that, Shimshon?”
Shimshon pointed at the sweeping horde moving toward the right flank, intent on crushing the light horse of the Biniamin first. It seemed the Cimmerians relied heavily on the mounted units in their fighting, so they probably saw the enemy cavalry as the biggest threat. “You won’t stand a chance. No. Move the spearmen to the front. They will break the enemy charge, and the archers and slingers will protect them from the rear. Once they are repelled and their footmen move in, then you can let your men fight.”
“What about the left flank?” Nissim asked.
Shimshon was not worried about the Plishtim there. Not yet. “They don’t seem so eager to join the battle just yet.”
The shofarim kept on blaring.
As always in combat, time slowed for Shimshon. He saw and breathed in every detail.
The opposing forces met in a cloud of dust and screams. The noise of hot death drowned the valley.
The battle was fiercest to the no
rth. Forming in tightly, the Biniamin spearmen stood the attack, then began their retreat, and soon enough they had slithered into the Gilo forest, making the enemy break off their charge, bloodied and exhausted.
With Gomer distracted, the cavalry had retreated uphill, toward the Zion Fortress, an outcrop of the wall surrounding the southern hill. A large reserve was waiting there, watching the plight of their brothers in frustration.
Battle horns were sounding everywhere, priests in red standing out starkly against the backdrop of gray and ocher robes.
Shimshon stared through the haze raised by thousands of feet. Luckily, the rain had dampened the ground, made it soft and heavy. If the fight had taken place in the summer months, it would have been impossible to see anything.
Almost involuntarily, his eyes were drawn to Mishkan Elohim. Outside its smooth white walls, a crowd of kohanim had gathered. A team of ten men were holding the Aron Ha’brit on their shoulders, the glint of expensive oiled wood, gold, and wings of God’s messengers unmistakable even from a distance.
The Hebrews were praying for their lord to help them.
Shimshon glanced at the sky.
It was empty.
The invaders were slower than the defenders but were learning their tactics. The northern forces had regrouped, and now, were moving forward through the valley slowly, persistently, marching toward Mount Moriah.
Shimshon knew the temple was their goal.
He also knew, deep inside, it was the only thing stopping the serpent from devouring the city.
He saw battering rams lumbering through the mass of enemy fighters. Soldiers inside pushed, making the engines slowly roll forward, with chieftains in squad towers on top of the rams giving commands, shaking their bows. The sides of the rams were covered in wet hide, to prevent fires.
“Behold the siege engines. They come to take the city,” Iermiah said, suddenly at Shimshon’s shoulder. The prophet looked grim. His arms were wrapped in prayer strips, wound so tightly his arms were almost bloodless.
Aluf Nissim exhaled loudly. “I heard the Ashuri used rams like those against Nobah.”
Shimshon wasn’t interested in tales of war. He was thinking hard about how the troops—his troops—might destroy those weapons. “Hananiel, send in your cavalry now.”
On the left flank, things were getting worse. The filthy, steaming stream of the Gilo was making enemy movement more difficult, but the units from Tubal—and Pleshet—were gaining ground. The men of Iehuda were bleeding on the rocks below the walls and the air was thick with arrows and wails.
Shimshon looked up again. Nothing moved in the heavens.
As he watched the fight unravel, he was getting more and more agitated. He burned to join the battle, to wield his sword and slay the enemy. But he knew he must remain behind and watch from the hills. This wasn’t just war against a small tribe defying the king. This enemy was too big to leave to chance.
His agitation quickly turned into worry.
If he did not join the battle, it might be lost.
The rams will bring the walls down and destroy the temple, then Tariav will destroy everything.
“Shimshon,” Iermiah pleaded, guessing his intentions.
“Keep the city safe.” Shimshon paused. “Keep my mother safe.”
The two alufs watched him with consternation and adoration mixed on their hard faces.
“It is time to join the war,” he said, smiling at Hananiel.
Then, swallowing air, he moved down the gravelly path, pushing past dazed, frightened spearmen waiting their turn in the bloodshed. He marched past slingers and archers lobbing shafts and rocks high into the sky, pelting the enemy formations. The cold day was becoming unpleasantly warm. The air stank.
The warriors of Biniamin flocked to him, forming at his flanks. Maybe they felt his strength, maybe they felt they would live longer around him, or maybe he was the only one marching, and they desperately needed someone—anyone—to follow.
His muscles twitched. Months of old rage coursed through his veins. He didn’t care about the danger, he didn’t care about the odds. All he could see were the pale faces of foreign warriors with their hair like spun gold, their ugly helmets, and their furs and leathers that were too hot for the foothills of Moriah.
I shall slay you all.
Hair flaming behind him, he lunged into the enemy ranks. They balked and fell back, but the gray sword in his hand cut through their blades, their armor, their flesh. Blood splattered the beaten ground, drenched his tunic. His sandals slurped and squelched with each step and red, sticky wetness itched between his toes.
“Today, you die,” he growled, not caring they did not understand Arameic.
Arrows were falling all around, clattering like hail. Men screamed, gurgled, panted, wailed, and begged. Shimshon plowed on, fast and deadly. No one could stop him.
A gang of Meshekh fighters rushed toward him, blades lowered. He waited, spun away from their sharp, glinting spears, and yanked at one of their helmets. The man stumbled and fell under the feet of his brothers. Shimshon swung the helmet like a hammer, ramming the edge into another man’s face, just below the eye. Pearls of blood exploded from the gash, bone, eye, everything. He didn’t wait for the man to collapse. He was already swinging again, the gray alloy ripping through someone’s chest and arm. Then, he buried it in someone’s gut.
“Today, you die. You all die,” he roared.
They cursed and hissed and stabbed at him, but they were slow, ungainly, tired from their sprint uphill, their footholds slippery, their resolve weakened. They dreaded him and that made their swords waver. No one could match his power. He used his shoulders to ram men away and they fell like urns. When they raised their shields or blades to parry his strikes, he made them stagger to their knees with mighty swings, cutting through wood and horn and bronze.
“Where is Prince Gog? Show me!”
Even in his rage, he knew he’d be busy killing all day long before he reached the chieftains and their leader. These were ordinary soldiers. He hadn’t seen any of the Magog yet. The Cimmerian cavalry was fighting farther to the right, where Hananiel’s line of spears was holding for now.
“Where is your prince? Where is the serpent?”
The attack was weakening. The enemy soldiers avoided him. He had cut deep into their flanks and the forward units were being forced to retreat, lest they ended up completely cut off. The middle section of the enemy charge had failed. To the south, Iehuda seemed evenly matched against the less-eager Plishtim, and near the walls, the ranks of Biniamin held thick and true. The survivors from the morning battle were walking back to their camps, Gomer and Hebrews alike.
There were still pockets of bitter fighting near the forest. Men crawled through the yellowed, thorny bushes hunting their enemies, veiled in smoke and stench from the stream. The Magog riders were keeping their distance, bloodied against the spears.
Shimshon’s orders had paid off.
The enemy ruler was too arrogant.
“Where is your prince!” Shimshon shouted. The soldiers behind him cheered.
In response, the sky exploded in shrieks.
Flying above Hurvat Eked was the serpent.
Around Shimshon, men started wailing like children. Some fell to the ground, covering their faces. Others began running back to the city. Others yet begged mercy or prayed to Elohim. Few remained standing, looking at the dragon. Tariav was a frightening sight, with its scarlet hide, its many heads and wings.
Shimshon tightened his grip on the sword. Then, he turned toward a cowering archer. “Give me your weapons.”
With a trembling hand, the soldier handed over his bow and arrows. Shimshon stabbed his gored sword into the hard ground, red pieces of human meat dripping down the blade. He lifted the bow, nocked a shaft, and aimed, but the dragon was too far away. It would have to come much closer. Disgusted, he tossed the bow away and picked his sword again.
I still don’t know how to kill this thing, but
I might as well try.
“Tariav!” Shimshon shouted in frustration, pointing the gray bronze at the dragon. “You foul beast. I am ready.”
If the serpent heard, it didn’t react to his taunt. Instead, it beat its wings, shattering the branches of the tiny, nude trees dappling the hilltop and began flying toward the city.
Toward the temple.
Men scattered, friends and foe. The battle forgotten, warriors of all tribes cowered, a storm of dust and pebbles pelting them. Tariav glided over their prostrate bodies, oblivious to their puny existence.
On Mount Moriah, the kohanim were still holding the Ark, chanting. The horns blared without cessation.
Then, suddenly, the dragon circled away, wailing in frustration. It tried again, but wheeled away once more, never coming close. With a shriek of anger, it turned and flew toward Gat, followed by ululations of victory and pride from the Israelites.
A chill ran down Shimshon’s spine and it felt like the blade of a knife piercing his flesh.
He realized there was divine power in that temple.
Not Melek’s.
The moment of dread dissipated.
There would be time to think about what had transpired above the City of David later. He had to focus on defeating the Gomer. He took a few breaths to focus his rage, and then moved on down the hill. The stench of eggs and death filled his nostrils, but it just gave him more strength, more determination. Behind him, the fighters of Biniamin followed, raising a great cry.
For a fleeting instant, he felt one of them.
CHAPTER LAMED-BET
WHAT MUST I DO?
Dlila sat at the edge of an expensive cedar chair, tight with fear. Each time she took a breath, her belly shivered. Days of waiting had not lessened her agony, even though she had not been harmed in any way.
On the contrary, her captors were lavish in their treatment. She had an entire chamber to herself furnished with wood, silk, and the hides of spotted animals, and she had the use of oils for her skin and hair. A servant woman would light candles at nightfall, and would always leave a platter of fruit, chickpeas, and flatbread for her. Through the window cut in the thick mudbrick walls, she had a view of the orchard to the west of the palace and could smell the fragrance of the sea when strong winds blew. The color of the sky was deepening. It would be night soon, and time to pray.
I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 19