Samson

by Eric Wilson

  “She’ll be taken care of,” the king said. “I’ll personally see to it.”

  Prince Rallah knew he could not back down now. He aimed for the ribcage, piercing heart and lung, silencing the man forever. He stepped on the fallen body and tugged the blade free.

  Ashdod accepted the sword back with a nod.

  “The prince and I will walk,” King Balek told the soldier. “You may go.”

  Side by side the royals strolled toward the palace. Citizens gathered to watch their passing, bowing in respect, and Rallah felt like a little boy again, his father proudly displaying him for all to see. This was the relationship he used to wish for. Perhaps it was still possible.

  His father halted him at the palace steps. “My son, you have a scheming mind, which I admire. The watchman, he was up in age. No loss. Next time, though, don’t you lie to me. If you do, the sword will be in my hand as I pull it from your chest. Do not assume that my anger will fade.”

  CHAPTER 23

  DECLARED TRUCE

  Town of Timnah

  I ARRIVE IN TOWN with my brother at my side. It seems a much smaller place now that I’ve been to Gaza. Then again, the world is mine in this moment. It’s been weeks since I heard Taren’s voice or felt the softness of her face, and I long to go to her. Soon enough the week of feasting and frivolities will begin, culminating with our betrothal and its consummation. I am giddy. I have much to celebrate.

  Only one small matter nags at my mind.

  It was wrong, I know, to reach into the lion for the honey. My hands touched a dead creature in violation of my Nazirite vows. According to those vows, I should spend a length of time in purification, but my wedding cannot wait. And, more practically, no one knows what I did.

  It will pass.

  “There are more soldiers here than the last time we came,” Caleb notes.

  “They’ve come for the wedding too.”

  “With armor and weapons. And you have no problem with that?”

  “Prince Rallah and his lady, they’re personally covering all expenses. They want this to be a celebration of unity, a declared truce for all involved. Soldiers, servants, merchants . . . Everyone’s welcome. I only wish Mother and Father were here.”

  “I can’t blame them for their decision.” Caleb’s voice has an edge to it.

  “But you came,” I point out.

  “Not without my blade.” He pats his tunic, making clear what he carries beneath.

  “You’re asking for trouble where there is none. Please, don’t spoil things for Taren and me.”

  “It’s merely a decorative weapon,” he explains. “A tribal custom at our weddings.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “The feasting begins tomorrow,” my brother says. “So where are we staying tonight?”

  “Just around the corner there. Pyzor has room for both of us.”

  Pyzor greets us with back thumps and solid claps on the arms. He’s shorter and wider than I am, a man chiseled from quarry stone. His hair is dark and cropped short, his ears adorned with earrings, and his cheeks scarred by adolescent acne. Just as I warned, he favors onions with his meat.

  “Come, my friends. Enjoy the show.”

  We follow him up stone stairs to his rooftop and watch as the Great Sea swallows the sun in a fiery gulp. In the gathering darkness my Philistine friend sets out bed mats and furs, then offers sesame-seed treats from a copper platter. He’s never been one to sleep the moment darkness falls, and with Caleb as captive audience he decides we should exchange tales of our various hunts. While he exaggerates certain portions, the furs prove he’s not far off the mark, providing a list of local wildlife, from hare and vulture to fox and deer. Some provided us with sustenance. Others benefited us with bone needles and tools.

  “Nothing wasted,” Pyzor tells Caleb. “The fun of the hunt is never without purpose.”

  This is Caleb’s first time in a Philistine home, and he seems uneasy.

  “We’re taking Caleb along next time,” I tell Pyzor. “He’s a skilled hunter.”

  “Better than his brother, I hope.”

  “Well, who caught that hawk?” I say. “And without a weapon.”

  “A weighted net, ha. That’s for slaves who can’t master a good spear throw.”

  Caleb bristles.

  I give him a slight shake of the head before responding to the gibe. “Say what you will, Philistine. You remember the time, or do you deny throwing your good spear to hit a leopard in a tree, only to bring down a ripe piece of fruit.”

  “Best fruit I ever tasted, Samson.”

  “The rare and elusive leopard fruit.”

  Pyzor flips a fringed pillow at me.

  I catch it and tuck it behind my head. “Tomorrow will be here soon enough,” I say. “Let’s get some rest, or my bride-to-be might take one look at me and change her mind.”

  “I doubt it,” Pyzor says, slapping at my leg. “She’s clearly blind, or she would’ve never agreed to your proposal in the first place.”

  That, at least, gets Caleb to chuckle, and we lay our heads down beneath the stars.

  CHAPTER 24

  PREMONITIONS

  DELILAH ACCEPTED THE invitation into the stone house belonging to Taren’s aunt and uncle. While its ma-terials awoke memories of her own family’s home at the vineyard, this place was small and humble. High windows kept out the night predators, and threadbare rugs covered dirt-packed floors.

  “Thank you for having me,” Delilah said to her hosts.

  They bowed in acknowledgment.

  “Your niece is a friend of the crown, and this wedding celebration will ensure that her husband remains one as well. That should give you some peace of mind.”

  The couple nodded but said nothing. The aunt presented Delilah a cup of their household wine. It was mediocre at best but a passable effort from these poor townsfolk. Everyone who knew of her relationship with the prince understood she would be queen one day, and they were wise to show honor and hospitality accordingly. Those who didn’t? Well, she’d learned as a child to never forget a wrong, and she had a growing tally of wrongdoers in her head.

  “How is Taren?” she asked.

  The girl swept into the room, adorned in shimmering bridal robes and a headpiece with a circlet of coins. The coins were a gift from Rallah and Delilah. “I love it,” she gushed.

  “It couldn’t be worn by a more stunning bride,” Delilah said.

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “And now let the seven days of feasting begin. Come, and I’ll show you to the bridal tent, where we’ll prepare you and your bed for your groom. “

  Taren blushed at that, hiding her face from her aunt and uncle.

  “Your aunt can join us, of course. There will be food and drink like she’s never seen. Music and dancing in the streets. A display of exotic animals. Performers, minstrels, and storytellers. I promise you, it’s not to be missed. Prince Rallah will be along shortly for your uncle since, of course, your family are special guests of the throne.”

  “He . . . I’m sure my uncle will be able to make his own way to the feast.”

  “Nonsense, Taren. In fact,” Delilah said, “here’s the prince now.”

  Rallah was at the threshold, his eyes outlined in charcoal, his goatee trimmed. Despite wearing none of his military garb, he presented a fierce aspect in the semi-darkness of the hut, and Delilah saw the uncle bow and take a step back.

  “They have nothing to fear,” she said to Taren. “Let them know that.”

  “Are we all ready to proceed?” Rallah asked.

  Delilah touched his cheek. “Go, darling. The ladies and I will be along shortly.”

  Taren’s uncle slipped into his sandals and followed Rallah outside. To Delilah, the uncle looked oddly like a man walking toward his execution, and then Taren was tugging at her arm and whispering an explanation.

  “Forgive my aunt and uncle their reservations, my lady. Ten years ago, outside this very door, they watched
the prince take my mother’s life.”

  “Your mother?”

  “The most beautiful lady in the world to me as a little girl. When King Balek came to collect the tribute, he decided he wanted her for his own, but she wouldn’t move from my father’s side.”

  “Taren, I did not know of this, I swear.”

  “The prince was following his father’s orders.”

  “I deeply regret the pain your family suffered.” Delilah thought of quiet Ahar, whom they had carted up to Timnah for the wedding preparations. “I guess that I . . . I never considered how it was your father was widowed. The heartache he must’ve endured. No one said a word of it to me.”

  “What can be said?”

  Delilah considered that. There were certain memories that could never be soothed by words, and even time did not always do its job correctly, leaving wounds that festered in the soul. A sudden premonition of more death chilled her. She cleared her throat. “The only thing we can do, Taren, is help your family make many happy new memories. Will you let us do that for you?”

  Taren nodded. “Samson, he’s all the joy I need. You must feel the same about the prince.”

  “Love is a mysterious thing. Let’s go, shall we?”

  They were still a number of blocks from the town square when they heard drums and tambourines announcing the start of the feast.

  Delilah’s second premonition came early that evening.

  The warmth of the day had collected under the canopy, and she slipped between dancers and revelers in search of cooler, less crowded space. To her surprise, three camels and their handlers were lined up in the square, engaged in some impromptu contest, with the prize going to the owner whose camel spit the farthest. She wasn’t sure if this was a typical game among nomads, but the handlers took it seriously enough, barking insults and making accusations.

  Sidestepping a pool of camel drool, she spotted Samson a few paces away.

  So this was the Hebrew.

  He was easy to recognize from the myriad descriptions of him. His shoulders were broad, and his chest angled down to strong thighs and muscular calves. His hair was long, gathered in strands down his back, and his eyes were shadowed, dark, and intense. He looked to be younger than her by a few years, which made him younger than any of her brothers.

  He pushed back a lock of his hair, and his eyes swept past her. And then back. They lingered on her, then swept away again.

  The heat of his gaze clung to her.

  It stirred something within.

  This time the premonition shook her physically, and she pivoted back into the throng of gyrating bodies and limbs. She adjusted her hair under her gold-leaf laurel, smoothed her dress, and found the prince at a table of fresh loaves and piled fruit. She pulled him out among the dancers, where she moved and flowed with him, lifting her arms overhead and swaying. Each movement was designed to shake off the hold of those deep-set eyes, and she told herself again that she was in love with Prince Rallah. They were destined for great things, rulers side by side, once King Balek made way for it.

  “What’s on your mind?” Rallah asked.

  “I don’t feel so well, darling. We have a week of revelry ahead, so I’ll go now and rest and make certain I don’t miss anything else.”

  “You look flushed. Was it too much wine?”

  She brushed her lips across his cheek. “I’m fine.”

  Death and desire, two premonitions . . . They haunted her steps as she departed.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE CHALLENGE

  I AWAKE BENEATH THE main feasting canopy, my head on a plush pillow, one leg propped on the chest of a fallen Philistine soldier. His tunic and arm bear scarlet stains, and I wonder if I struck him dead in the midst of some late-night squabble. Or maybe Caleb and Pyzor jumped in. I don’t know.

  My worries are interrupted by a sudden snort from the soldier. He rolls over, mumbles what sounds like a woman’s name, and starts to snore. The stains, I realize, are only spilled wine.

  That’s a relief. One wrong word, one drunken act, and these hopes of peace could come tumbling like Jericho’s walls. I must not let the mood or moment spoil a lifetime of peace with my Timnah-born bride.

  Where is Taren?

  I drag myself to my feet. Partygoers are sprawled about the tables in the street, and I see Pyzor among them, just waking up. His eyes are glazed, his hair matted. Last night’s festivities carried into the early morn, with drinks flowing and women dancing. I’ve never seen anything quite so eye-opening, certainly not at any of our village celebrations. Our enemies do know how to party.

  Whether that’s a skill to be envied, I have yet to decide.

  Beside me a man about Caleb’s age loses the contents of his stomach. Instead of staying to clean up after himself, he stumbles out into the early gloom and is gone.

  “Taren?” I call. “Taren, can you hear me?”

  She looked radiant last night, more desirable than ever. These remaining days of the feast will go fast for most, but for me they’ll move as slowly as the honey I harvested with my own two hands. Sweetness delayed. Oh, to be alone with my bride. To look into her eyes, to share our dreams as we did on the beach and beneath the terebinth. To live, raise children, watch grandchildren, grow old together . . . These are my wishes.

  “Taren, please answer.”

  “Shush,” someone tells me. “Trying to sleep here.”

  “It’s my wedding,” I snap. “You’ve got a bed at home, don’t you?”

  Don’t let the moment undo you, I warn myself again. That is how fragile treaties are broken, and our wedding is a declaration of peace that I don’t want to mishandle. If we manage to see this through, if there is a touch of God’s hand in these events, it will change things for generations to come. Of that I am convinced.

  An hour later I find her.

  “Samson? Good morning.” Wiping sleepy eyes, Taren greets me beneath the canopy of a decorated tent. “I’ve been in our bridal chamber. You’re not allowed access, not for a few nights yet.”

  “Six.”

  “Less than a week.”

  “More than I can bear.” I kiss her lips.

  She’s quick to pull away. “Anticipation, my love. Don’t ruin it.”

  I throw my hair back and fold my arms over my chest. “I’m already ruined.”

  “It’ll be worth the wait, I promise. The prince’s lady is helping me prepare the sheets and my garments, and she’s shown me how to handle perfumes and oils and finery. She and the prince, they’ve been so good to us, don’t you think? Surely your God is on our side.”

  “What about Dagon?” I ask, trying to hide any sarcasm. “Does he get any credit?”

  “Dagon? He’s a statue,” she says. “I’ve never seen an image of your Hebrew God.”

  “It’s forbidden to make such a thing.”

  “Is He that awful to look upon?”

  “Taren,” I scold. “He’s the living God. He’s not an immovable stone in a temple. Who could sculpt such an image, considering no one has seen His face and lived to tell it?”

  “If no one’s seen Him, how do you know He’s alive?”

  Why does she ask these questions now, in the week of our feasting? We are of one heart and mind, I thought. One soul. I try to keep the edge from my tone. “He speaks to His people through the written commandments and the law in their hearts.”

  “Have you heard His voice yourself?”

  “My parents have. Before I was born. He spoke to them through His angel.”

  “That seems far-fetched.” She wrinkles her mouth. “You’re certain they told you the truth?”

  “What sort of question is that? You’ll meet them soon enough, and you can be the judge.”

  “I don’t mean to upset you. I just want to understand your Hebrew faith.”

  “Can we discuss these matters later? My belly’s growling, and I’ll be less irritable if I eat.”

  She smiles. “There it goes. I just heard it.”
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  “What about this beating of my heart? Can you hear that?”

  I draw her into my arms, and she rests her head on my chest. She feels small and warm and vulnerable, and I want nothing more than to protect her from all harm. My one fear is that my own words will inflict damage, my own strength will cause pain. I never once saw my father lift a hand against my mother, and I could not forgive myself if I did such a thing.

  Taren leans back, looking up at me. “Hearing your heart made me think. What will our baby’s heart sound like? Can you imagine it, my love? I want to raise a child with you.”

  “My mother will be glad about that.”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t know. Would I be a good father?”

  “You’d be a great one, Samson. My father raised me and my sister practically on his own, and you’ll have me by your side. It takes practice, as does anything. We can start practicing,” she adds, with a mischievous grin, “in a few days.”

  “Six.”

  “Less than that now.” She gestures to the sun peeking over the buildings. “Five and a half.”

  By evening the partying is at a frenzy again, with the music and wine leading both strangers and friends into flagrant debauchery. Torches cast flickering shadows. Jodel, the Philistine priest, is as guilty of improprieties as any of them. Pyzor too is in the midst of it, stout and strong, drinking to his heart’s content. Last night provided me some tantalizing crowd gazing, but tonight goes against my grain. This is not pleasing to God. This is not what I want of my wedding.

  Taren glides between the revelers, her robes flowing, coins jingling on her circlet. She finds me in the corner. “Come dance with your bride-to-be, won’t you? What’s wrong, Samson? Did you take a vow against having fun?”

  “You dance. I’ll watch.”

  I broke one Nazirite vow already. To go along with some of the things now happening in this town square would be to violate Mosaic Law and the commandments written in stone. Though my legs want to rush me away, I remain fixed in this spot. I’m a stallion tied to a post.