Samson

by Eric Wilson

  “You’re certain it’s Samson in there?” she whispered.

  “He sent word from there before sunset, a message to the throne room.”

  “What about the men from his village? You said he was coming with an entourage.”

  “If you call ox carts an entourage. No,” Rallah said, “he’s on his own as part of an agreement he made with my father. If he leaves his people behind and doesn’t go back, my father promises to stop collecting tribute throughout the towns and villages.”

  “And if he stays?”

  “Full-scale war.”

  Delilah looked up at him. “From the way you’ve described it, Samson might win such a confrontation.”

  “He might. Then again, he’s older now, and they say he’s mellowed.”

  “Then what’s he doing up there?”

  She was well aware, as was most of the city, of the reputation of the woman who lived at this spot, and she wondered what would draw Samson here. Perhaps he was lonely, plain and simple. As far as she knew, he had never married after the events in Timnah. Even so, he wasn’t the sort of man to beg for the ladies’ affections, and visiting here seemed an act of lustful desperation.

  She knew all about men and their shortcomings. A small part of her hated him for it.

  She also knew the desire to be loved and wanted, to be truly heard.

  In her own relationship with Rallah, she had not found those things, and hadn’t this afternoon’s attempt at romantic interlude been her own form of desperation? She had wanted to believe, if for only a few moments in their bedchamber, that her beauty meant something and went deeper than the curve of her hip, the wink of her eye. Instead, Rallah was off scheming, chasing his Hebrew enemy.

  “What are your thoughts?” Rallah asked, as though sensing her annoyance.

  “I, uh . . . ”

  “Do you want to stay for the ambush? Or be escorted back to the palace?”

  “What? Oh, the ambush. Yes. So,” she said, “you think your men can actually seize him?”

  The prince gestured at the window. “I know this woman’s methods. A little wine, a little fun, a little sleep. He’ll be weak at the knees and groggy in the head. My father says we should let Samson just slip away, a ghost that is gone in the morning. I say we end this now. My men are stationed inside and outside the gates, armed with clubs and swords. Are you staying with us?”

  She had only seen Samson once up close, at the wedding festivities, and that moment had teased her imagination for months. She’d never seen him in physical action, and the thought of it now sent a chill through her of both fear and desire.

  Slipping an arm through the crook of Rallah’s elbow, she said, “You and me, my prince.”

  He dropped his arm and peeked around the corner again. “It could be only moments or could be all night. Now we simply wait.”

  The city slumbered. A soft breeze whispered in the fronds of a date tree. Far beyond the walls a jackal cried.

  It was around midnight when they saw movement atop the stairs.

  Samson descended into the alley across the way and scanned his surroundings before moving down the street. Rallah motioned to his men to be ready. The others outside the wall would be alerted by the opening of the gates.

  It all happened quickly . . .

  Raised voices, Samson prying up the gates at their posts, the rush of men from behind, the slash of swords, clubs coming down, and Samson knocking men aside with the slabs of iron-banded wood on his back. Men were left bleeding, moaning, as Samson stumbled, then marched away.

  Delilah was breathless. She and the prince had rushed to the scene of the action, and the man was every bit as impressive as she had heard. If he was slowed by wine or weakened by his time with the woman upstairs, he showed no signs of it.

  He was a beast. A specimen. His very odor lingered in the air at the gate, a concoction of fear and excitement and sweat and lust.

  The smell of a man.

  She wrinkled her nose at it, though it intrigued her deeply. Rallah’s chambers were scented with Egyptian perfumes and Sidonian incense. He wore freshly washed linens, painted on his eye charcoal, and trimmed his facial hair in thin, precise lines. If he was the groomed royal show horse, Samson was the mane-tossing stallion.

  “There he goes,” she said, with a hint of sadness.

  Beside her, Prince Rallah stared after him with a different sort of desire. He wanted at all costs the defeat and humiliation of this Hebrew strongman.

  “Did you really think this would work, Rallah? They were no match for him.”

  “He still has it, the power from his God. I saw it in his trembling.” The prince drew his fingers over his chin. “I thought maybe after all these years it had left him or diminished. Why, then, with this strength still simmering in his hands, has he held off from the mauling and destruction?”

  “He said he wanted peace, after all.”

  “Don’t be fooled, Delilah. After what I’ve done to him and what he’s done to me, no, there will be no peace. We must discover the source of his strength. No man’s strength is without its weakness.”

  “Let him go, darling. He’s leaving as he promised he would.”

  “He’s stolen our gates. He’s mocked us and Dagon. And should we live in fear of the day he returns?” The prince scowled after the fading shadow. “He’s weakened. He’s bleeding.”

  “He’s marching away.”

  “Delilah.”

  His urgent tone snapped her head up. “What is it?”

  “Go after him.”

  “What?”

  “The thrill of the fight will leave him, and he will fade. Follow him. Be there to nurse his wounds. Do what you can to find the source of his great power. There is a way to bring him low, and we will find it yet. With that power, we will toss my father aside and have the throne for ourselves.”

  “And how am I to do this? Why should I succeed where you’ve failed?” She saw the flash in his eyes, and she added, “Not to sound harsh. You know I want this to work as much as you do.”

  “Then do whatever you must,” he said. “Win him over, and he will spill his secret.”

  A coldness seeped through her. “Are you suggesting that I . . . ?”

  “I’m not suggesting. I’m telling you, Delilah.” His hand pushed at the curve of her lower back. “Go. Find it. Use any means at your disposal, and don’t come back to me without it.”

  West of Hebron

  Beneath the stars it was just the two of them. Samson marched ahead, those ridiculous gates on his back, and she trailed at a distance. His steps were heavy in the dirt, and his wounds left red droplets every two or three steps.

  In this silent dance between them, they carried on for hours.

  How long could he go? Did he ever tire?

  At last he dropped to a knee to catch his breath. Later he stopped to rest the gates against a boulder, then shouldered them again and pressed on. He was headed east toward Hebron, though she wasn’t sure of his actual destination.

  Her thoughts drifted. Her eyes smarted. Her jeweled fingers toyed with a silver coin in her pocket. After all these years the prince was still more than willing to use her as he saw fit. In a heartbeat he would sacrifice her and her beauty for a selfish end.

  She flipped the coin over, end over end.

  Blessing . . . and curse . . .

  Blessing . . . curse . . .

  The sunrise brought color to the wilderness, and the first chirps of a bird carried through the valley. Ahead, Samson ended his trek on a hilltop. He fell to the earth, the gates thudding beside him.

  She bridged the gap slowly, cautiously, until she stood within reach of his large hands. He was expended, bloodied, bruised. She gazed upon him and knew then that she would do this. She would take him to her family home and nurse him.

  Yes, she would do whatever she must.

  “Samson? Oh, dear Samson.” She crouched near, and his eyes flickered. “Here, let me help you. I am Delilah.”


  CHAPTER 46

  DREAMS AND VISIONS

  Valley of Sorek

  I AM LOST IN a dream. I am aware on some level that it is not reality, but I don’t want to find my way back. There is no pain here. There’s no sorrow, no rush of time, no expectation. I surrender myself to this hazy state, content to drift this way forever.

  My hand encompasses a smaller, softer hand, and we walk through wheat fields as the sun turns the world warm and golden.

  My lips touch lips, and we move together.

  My hair lies in cords down my back, seven strands, braided and wrapped.

  There is feasting, laughter, the sounds of song and dance.

  Oh, the dancing . . .

  And then I see her in her bridal attire, her face hovering close to mine, and I know where I am. This is where it all started, and where it all ended. This is where I always wanted to be.

  “Taren . . . ” I reach for her, caressing her cheek. “My love.”

  With the touch of skin on skin I watch the vision sharpen. It is not the face of my bride-to-be but a familiar and attractive one all the same. Disappointment grips me, clenches my heart in its cold fist, then loosens and gives way to curiosity.

  “Delilah?” I say.

  “You know my name? You were listening after all.”

  I blink. Though I don’t recall ever hearing her name, I know she was the prince’s lover, the one who aided my Taren in her preparations. She was . . . Yes, I remember. One night she was there at the feast, and my eyes passed over her. I do remember that.

  I try to sit up.

  “Here, have a drink.” She offers me a cup.

  My throat is dry. I take the cup and drink from it, then spit it out. “What is this?”

  “Our family wine,” she tells me. “Made in our vineyards.”

  I’ve heard this sort of thing before, given in to its romance. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’ll dull your pain, Samson.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Let me help you.”

  “Please,” I say. “I must go.”

  As I prop myself on weak arms, the bed coverings slide down my chest. My tunic is gone, and I realize I wear nothing but undergarments and some wraps about my thigh and torso. How long have I been here? Did she dress my wounds?

  Delilah gently pushes me back down, and my tired body relents. The bedding is soft, softer than any I have owned. If this is her dwelling, her family vineyards must do a good business.

  “Where am I?” I ask.

  “In the Valley of Sorek,” she answers. “Not so far, actually, from your home village.”

  “Why here? What happened?”

  “You don’t remember? The ambush at the gates?”

  Shouts and curses.

  Wood heavy on my back.

  Metal slicing at my leg, drawing blood.

  “You’re the prince’s . . . lady. What do you want from me?”

  She brushes my hair past my ear, touches a finger to my lips. “Shh, Samson. So many questions. I brought you here on my own in a cart that I purchased near Hebron. What do I want? I want you to heal and get well.”

  “I shouldn’t be anywhere near my village. I made a promise to King Balek, and—”

  “No one knows,” she assures me. “Just you. And me.”

  I close my eyes, calm my breathing.

  “I want what Taren wanted,” she adds. “What you wanted too.”

  My eyes snap open. “And what would you know of that?”

  “I adored Taren. She was a sweet girl, and I detest all that was inflicted on both of you. It was none of my doing, I assure you. I believed in what you believed. When Taren told me of the love between you, of your hopes of bringing Philistine and Hebrew together, I knew I wanted that too.”

  “That dream died,” I snarl at her. “Twenty years ago.”

  “Yet here we are now,” she says softly. “Philistine and Hebrew, under one roof.”

  CHAPTER 47

  THE THRONE ROOM

  City of Gaza

  PRINCE RALLAH STOOD before his father at the throne. King Balek’s face was contorted with rage, his eyes dark and brooding. He cupped one hand in the other, spinning the signet ring on his finger.

  “I came,” Rallah said. “As you requested.”

  Turned at an angle, Balek studied him the way he would some inferior artwork.

  Rallah wondered again, was this even his father by blood? Why would the king throw that doubt in his face now, after all these years, if not to spite him? Was it possible he’d been conceived by the king’s concubine though not by the king’s own doing? Who knew what went on in the harem’s curtained alcoves. Rallah would probably never know the truth.

  There was some grim satisfaction, at least, in knowing that his disobedience had forced a meeting in the throne room. If the king wouldn’t grant his prince such an honor for tasks well done, then he could do so for tasks done in defiance.

  “Your incompetence knows no bounds,” the king said at last. “You wonder why I waited a full week to speak to you of it? Because I couldn’t bear to look at you the morning I found out.”

  “My king, he was going to escape.”

  “Escape? No. He and I had an agreement. It was no escape. It was a pathetic act of surrender and cowardice. He would’ve forever looked weak to his people for leaving, even if it bought them some favors. Instead,” the king said, settling onto his throne, “you almost made a martyr of him.”

  “You’re the one who would’ve looked weak,” Rallah shot back. “Our glorious king lets the Hebrew go? And how long until he tired of his exile and came back to kill more Philistines?”

  “So you tried to stop him. And failed. By only injuring him, you’ve stirred the monster and created an even more dangerous situation. Which leaves me no choice. You will find and kill the Hebrew, thus stomping out this threat once and for all. Bring me his head. I want it here in these hands.” King Balek weighed the air in his palms. “And if you do not, I will have yours instead.”

  CHAPTER 48

  LAST MEAL

  Valley of Sorek

  FOR DAYS I wake with cold sweats and fever. Delirium spins the room around me, and the heat radiating from my forehead causes sparks and colors to flicker before me in nauseating fashion. I can’t get comfortable. Each position in the bed provides short relief before my aching bones force me to shift again.

  A figure enters the room. She carries a bucket.

  “Water,” I mutter. Speaking that one word saps my strength and leaves my throat dry.

  A wet cloth squeezes moisture over my lips and tongue, and some of it spills through my beard. I swallow and open my mouth for more. I feel its coolness through my chest and torso. When I am satiated, the cloth dabs at my forehead and neck.

  Then the figure floats away.

  And I sink into sleep once more.

  It’s the cool of the night, with the scent of musty grapes on the breeze through the window. Moonlight reveals a sheet doubled over on the floor. Someone has been resting at my bedside.

  My fever has broken. The thorns behind my eyes have dissolved. My hands reach for the bandages on my thigh, and I flinch at the touch. Groaning, I pull myself to a sitting position, back against the wall, and wonder if I can stand.

  A woman’s form takes shape, moving through the doorway to the center of the room, and the moon puts her in silhouette.

  Slim. Shapely.

  “Taren?”

  I know better—of course I do—but I can’t help but ask. Just in case. On the slight chance I’ve woken from a nightmare that involved soldiers and flames, only to find my beloved still breathing.

  “You’re awake,” Delilah says. She hands me a cup of water and watches me drink. “Your eyes are open. For two days straight you’ve tossed and turned, never quite asleep or awake.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

  “I’m happy to help you. I feel I owe it to you.”

  “I meant, I’m s
orry that I mistook you for her.”

  “Darling, you have no reason to apologize. You truly loved her, and if anyone doubts it, they should’ve heard how many times you mumbled her name these past few days.” She smiles. “No, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

  She kneels within my reach, angled now, so that the moonbeams play over her long wavy hair and shaped eyebrows. Her eyes are a blend of aquamarine and turquoise, the color of the waves as they curl toward the shore.

  “You take a risk helping a Hebrew,” I tell her.

  “I found you injured and alone, and I know that feeling.”

  “What is it you want in return?”

  Her brow furrows, and I notice the first hint of wrinkles there. Despite her looking much younger, I realize we must be close in age. If she grew up in the Valley of Sorek, we were not so far apart in our childhood years. Did we ever pass on the road or in a field? Did our parents ever meet?

  “Do you think, Samson, that I’ve been caring for you with some ulterior motive? We are human, you and I. We can’t turn our backs on those in need. My father taught me that.”

  “Mine too. Before Prince Rallah had him killed.”

  She flinches, and the emotion is real. She touches my cheek. “I did not know of that. When?”

  “On the heights of Lehi. Before I slaughtered the entire camp.”

  “I’m sorry, Samson. I’m so sorry. All the loss you’ve gone through, the heartache. You must fear ever loving again.” She looks into my eyes, and neither of us glances away.

  I sit up. “Where are my clothes? I must go.”

  “What? You aren’t fully healed yet. Please.”

  The ache that takes hold of me tells me she is right. The room tilts, and I hang onto her for balance. She is warm and steady. I feel her pressed against me, her breath against my bare chest. She smells of vanilla and cinnamon.

  “You’re not ready,” she says. “Honestly, you’re no imposition. Let me prepare you a meal.”