Samson

by Eric Wilson

  “Oh, for Dagon’s sake, Samson. I thought that you Hebrews fled from there.” When he fell silent, she looked back over her shoulder. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Dagon. Is that the god you think will lead us?”

  “It’s an expression, that’s all. But yes, I do honor and fear our gods.”

  “The Lord our God is one God. You should fear Him only.”

  “Yet you want to go back to Egypt. Please, spare me your religious babble.”

  She turned again toward the window, her mind made up. With her finger she stirred white powder into red wine, and she watched it dissolve in streaks of fading pink. Goblet in hand, she glided over to the bed and pretended to take a sip, then offered it to him.

  He took the cup and drank.

  She said, “I’m sorry, darling. Wherever we go, you can instruct me in the ways of your God. I’ll be a very good student, I promise.”

  “I’d love to be your teacher.”

  “I’m sure you would.” She dragged a fingertip along her lip, wiping away the wine’s residue while holding his gaze. He was a man in a trance, already showing the effects of her concoction. She added, “Nothing would trouble me as long as I’m with you.”

  He took her arm, pulled her fingertip to his mouth, and sucked the last of the juice from it. He said, “I love you, Delilah. I hope you know that.”

  She slid onto the bed beside him, eased his head onto her lap, and combed his long hair with her hands until his eyelids closed and his body went limp.

  “And I you,” she cooed.

  His snores were her assurance that he was at her command. By lamplight she stretched across the bed to the small stand and drew out her shears from the drawer. Years ago, as a small girl, she had imagined reaching for these same implements and using them to defend herself against the nighttime advances of her two siblings.

  Now, in some horrible irony, she would use them for the first time . . .

  On the one man she loved more than all else.

  She cradled his head and started cutting, handful after handful, watching long, thick hair coil to the floor, falling lock by lock, until only straggles remained. Her work was done. Rallah, you better spare him as promised, she thought bitterly as she lifted the oil lamp and set it in the window.

  Prince Rallah and his men came not long after. This time there was no telltale sound of clinking metal. They had learned from their first attempt. They came quiet as the night, their footsteps covered by the sound of residual rain still dripping from the wall and rooftop outside.

  Delilah stood over Samson at the bed. He didn’t move.

  She quivered with fear and with guilt. “What have I done?” she whispered. “Forgive me, Samson. Forgive me.”

  He didn’t stir.

  The latch lifted, signaling the men were ready to storm into the room.

  She opened her mouth, and at first nothing came out but a dry squeak. Then she embraced her raw fear and shouted, “Samson, Samson! The Philistines are upon you!”

  The soldiers exploded through the door, wearing armor and brandishing weapons.

  “Samson,” she screamed again.

  He lifted a drowsy eyelid, tried to pull himself upright.

  “Don’t hurt him,” she begged the men. “Please, no.”

  Her Hebrew strongman, finding a burst of energy, rose to his feet and clenched his fists. Delilah entertained the faint hope that he had lied to her yet again, that he was strong as ever, even with his hair in patches, and would decimate these men where they stood.

  A few of the soldiers stepped back, clearly sharing her thoughts.

  Samson’s first blow, however, brought only a dull thud from the shield that blocked it. He jerked his hand back, holding his knuckles in pain. The soldiers glanced at their captive, then at each other, and smiled. As one man, they hefted her half-naked lover through the door and tossed him onto the mud and stone in front of the house. He scrambled back to his feet, still wobbly from her concoction, swinging at empty air.

  Delilah stood in the doorway, her night robes pulled tight around her waist, her hand at her throat. A sheared strand of long hair hung from her lip, and she swiped it away, along with the tears now rolling down her cheek.

  A soldier kicked Samson to his knees. They all felt emboldened.

  “Where’s your God now?” one taunted.

  “Who hit you?” said another, spinning him round with a hard blow.

  “No! That’s my brother,” a new voice broke in. “Leave him alone.”

  Delilah remembered Caleb from the wedding feast years ago. He was older now, bearded, with light hair and a smaller frame than his sibling. As he advanced with a sword, a trio of soldiers backed him away with their own sword points tickling his ribs. They commanded him to drop the weapon, and he did so with a huff.

  “Caleb, the little brother.” Prince Rallah stepped into view. “And what’s this? You carry a Philistine blade? You’ve been up to no good, it seems. You know, I’ve seen you two brothers over the years, the bond you share, the way you laugh together. Now I’ll let you watch what I do to your beloved Samson.”

  “Don’t you dare touch him.”

  Caleb’s words only encouraged the guards as they beat Samson with fists and the edges of their shields. The prince stepped up and delivered a vicious kick to Samson’s gut that lifted and toppled him onto his side. A soldier lifted the fallen man, holding him in place, and the prince followed the kick with a succession of hard blows.

  “You were a man to be feared once,” Rallah said. “Look at you now. You’re nothing.”

  Delilah wanted to fall in the mud at her lover’s feet and plead for his mercy, but she had allowed all this so that his life would be spared, at the sake of her own happiness.

  “I had no choice,” she said to no one in particular.

  “That’s a lie,” Caleb growled from nearby. “Your choice brought this consequence.”

  “Shut your mouth, Hebrew.” The closest guard rammed the hilt of his sword into Caleb’s face, staggering him and bringing forth a geyser of blood.

  Caleb wiped at his nose, then stood defiant again.

  What Delilah witnessed next would revisit her in nightmares. She knew that it would, even as she watched Prince Rallah stroll to the nearby fire pit and stir the coals and ash with his sword, finding embers that still glowed underneath.

  “Samson,” he said, pulling the blade from the heat to reveal its red-hot glow. “I will now prove to your God that I am worthy of His power.”

  “No,” Delilah cried out. “Rallah, you promised.”

  The prince paid her no mind. He towered over Samson, sword in hand, then leaned close so that glowing tip illuminated the scar on his own face. “An eye for an eye, isn’t that what they say, Hebrew?”

  Samson blinked, still trying to gather his senses.

  Rallah’s dirty work was done with two slow thrusts, each time allowing hot metal to pierce and scald an eyeball. Blackened skin puckered around Samson’s sockets, and he groaned through gritted teeth before releasing one long bellow.

  Caleb yelled too, unable to fight his way through the guards.

  Prince Rallah strutted with his chest out, circling his downed foe, and lifted his eyes to the heavens. “Give me the power,” he demanded. “Am I not now worthy of the gift?”

  The soldiers cheered their new champion. “Rallah, Rallah, Rallah . . . ”

  One by one, as Delilah stood by, the men came to her at the door and dropped small bags of coinage at her feet. They praised her wisdom and courage. A few, with lingering glances, offered their beds should she grow restless.

  Rallah came last. He kicked at the bags piled before her.

  “Leave me,” she muttered. “I don’t ever want to set eyes on you again.”

  “I can arrange that,” he said with a nod at Samson’s whimpering form. “Would you like to join him in everlasting darkness?”

  She glared at the man who once claimed to love her, to want
her as queen.

  “What?” he said. “For once you have nothing to say? Enjoy your riches, Delilah. As you live here in your solitude, you’ll know at least you were well rewarded for the whore that you are.”

  She awoke hours later in the middle of the floor. Her place had been ransacked. All that remained were the bags of silver stacked around her, these tokens from soldiers who once lived in fear of the mighty Hebrew. Now they could brag of the day they hauled him off in fetters.

  She crawled over the bags to the edge of the bed. She gathered Samson’s hair from the floor and let it slip through her fingers.

  “I’m so sorry, darling.”

  Her shame swelled into self-loathing. She grabbed at one of the bags, clawed a handful of coins from within, and hurled them against the wall. She grabbed another handful. And another. With the final throw, it seemed she had emptied herself of everything. Blessings and curses. All of it.

  There was nothing. No emotion. Only this house and its cold stone walls.

  CHAPTER 57

  THE PAIN OF SILENCE

  North of Gaza

  THE BURNT HOLES in my skull are excruciating. Even so, the fear of this blackness, this shuffling helplessness, is almost as tortuous as the physical agony.

  “Caleb?” I call.

  “I’m here,” he says. “In bronze fetters, just as you.”

  We marched along for hours. It’s nighttime, judging by the chill, though I cannot confirm this with my own eyes. There is nothing. No hazy shapes or shadows. Nothing.

  “Thank you for coming for me,” I mutter.

  Caleb doesn’t respond, and that silence is another type of pain. I know he must have run the entire distance from our village to the vineyard in hopes of saving me before it was too late. Instead, he is here with me in chains. He doesn’t deserve this.

  I plod through the cold, weighted by the shackles on my wrists and feet. They dig into my ankles, drawing blisters that burst and ooze pus and blood. Dust fills my nostrils.

  “Gaza lies ahead,” Prince Rallah calls out.

  He must be the one on horseback. Though I heard the clop of hooves, I didn’t realize it was the prince providing personal escort into the city. It’s obvious, as I think about it. This is his great moment of triumph, and he wants all of the capital to bow in adoration.

  “Over that direction,” he says as though I know which way he points, “you’ll find the city gates you stole from us, Samson. No one has the strength to single-handedly bring them back, and now even you are useless in that regard. Our gates have been replaced, but no one can replace you. Have we ever seen a greater warrior? Have we, men?”

  Soldiers chortle and snort. I suspect I am the focus of Rallah’s pointing finger.

  “We’re all trembling, aren’t we? My, what a waste.”

  And still not a word from my brother.

  City of Gaza

  By the time we reach the city walls, the streets are astir with the activities of the day. The heat of the sun bears down at an angle on my back, and I guess that it’s late morning already. The watchman and the prince carry on a short discussion, most of it centered on my presence here.

  “Right away, my lord,” the watchman agrees. “We’ll send riders to announce your passing.”

  “Consider it a blessing,” Prince Rallah calls to my brother and me. “You’ll have a short wait so that our citizens may gather along the way to the palace.”

  The palace? Does he intend to take me before the king, a trophy for his father?

  “May we sit and rest?” I ask.

  “You may,” he answers. “Though by the look of it your brother will stay on his feet.”

  “Then so shall I.”

  And I do.

  Momentarily the procession begins. Horse hooves tell me that I am just behind the prince, and I shuffle as quickly as my fettered feet will allow, tugged by the chains that link me to his mount and to my brother at my back. I can hear Caleb’s breathing. I hear occasional whispers of prayer.

  Still not a word to me.

  Many cheer the prince. Others taunt me in my chains. The road angles upward, more than I realized when sight was at my disposal. We climb, step by step. A piece of fruit hits my chest, its juice spilling down to my undergarments. Prince Rallah puts a halt to this humiliation, instructing his soldiers to handle any who wish to harm his prized captive.

  It’s a small mercy, but I am thankful for it.

  From ahead issue the odors of the royal stables. I know this area. We make a turn before the storehouses at the base of the palace; then the sounds of the crowd diminish, and coolness indicates we are in shadow or under an awning. Keys turn. A metallic screech of hinges tells me we are entering a space I’ve never been in or even knew existed.

  Mildew and stench rush at me, the smell of raw sewage.

  Moans echo off stone walls. Water trickles.

  “Welcome,” the prince says, “to the dungeons of Gaza. Whether your stay here lasts a week, a month, or ten years, it will be the last place you ever call home.”

  A deep, throaty laugh comes from just ahead.

  “And our jailer here will be your best friend,” Rallah adds. “For your benefit, Samson, I’ll tell you he’s not much to look at. Bands of muscle, a lumpy bald head, and a face like a vulture. You ought to thank me for sparing you the sight of him.”

  The laughter comes even harder this time, reaching me on a wave of stale garlic and cheap wine. Maybe a bit of tooth rot as well.

  I almost wish my senses would take a rest.

  The deep voice says, “You can call me . . . Jailer.”

  This time when he laughs, I lower my head and hold my breath. He takes that as his cue and wraps a thin cloth around my forehead, covering my worthless eye sockets. It’s another mercy for which I am thankful, considering the irritation of road dirt in the wounds.

  “We’ll chat more later,” Rallah says. “I’ll leave you two for now.”

  Caleb is here, his shoulder jostling against mine as we curve down flights of stone stairs. We are somewhere, I imagine, in the deepest bowels of the palace. The odor of human waste is overpowering. My nostrils find some refuge in the smoke of the crackling wall torches.

  Keys rattle on a ring.

  Locks tumble. Doors creak open.

  The chains linking us clatter to the floor.

  “There you go, Samson.” With one shove, I skid over slimy rock. “Your cell.”

  “And yours, Caleb.” His body thuds to the floor in a cell across from me.

  With the slamming of two doors and clicking of locks, we are prisoners of the throne. For what purpose? I do not know.

  “Caleb?” I venture after our jailer is gone.

  No response.

  “Brother,” I try again. “Forgive me. Once again I have failed you. I did what was right in my own eyes, following my heart. Father used to warn us of that, and I am proof of his wisdom. A cautionary tale. I deserve this, every bit of it. I know that, Caleb. But you shouldn’t be here. I love you, little brother. I beg your forgiveness for all the heartache I’ve caused.”

  His quiet weeping tells me more than his words ever could.

  I should’ve listened when he wanted to talk.

  CHAPTER 58

  TROPHIES AND TALISMANS

  PRINCE RALLAH STOOD in the prison corridor, eyes moving between the two brothers. For over a week now he had visited them in the wretchedness of this place, and still he was no closer to putting his hands on what he desired.

  “Who is that?” Samson asked from the dank shadows of his cell.

  “It’s the prince again,” Caleb muttered.

  “Do what you’ve come here for,” Samson said. “Why do you delay, Rallah?”

  “I’m not here to kill you. I could’ve done that already, and through a variety of interesting methods. It’s what your jailer would prefer, I’m sure. No, I’ve come to free you and your brother.”

  “Ignore him.” Caleb spat through the small barred
window of his door. “Every word from the prince’s mouth is a lie.”

  Rallah sidestepped the spittle. Above ground, such defiance would earn a beating, whereas down here he had no need to defend his pride to these scum. Best to maintain focus. “You know, Samson, all you have to do is tell me how I can receive your power. Must I offer a sacrifice? Is there a required time of purification? I don’t know the stipulations of your God. Tell me.”

  Samson said nothing.

  Rallah sighed. “Jailer, stand him up.”

  Samson was secured to the wall by chains fed through large iron loops. The jailer yanked, drawing the chains up through the loops and hoisting his prisoner in the process. The once mighty Hebrew stood on weakened legs with his arms overhead. Sweat dripped down his brow and through his beard. His hair was nothing but a patch of uneven bristles.

  Stepping into the cell, Rallah said, “Your secret, Samson. Share it with me.”

  “There is no secret. My power comes from God.”

  “Dagon is the god of the harvest. Is yours the God of secrets? Petition this God for me, and tell Him that I have conquered you, that I’m worthy and I deserve this strength.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You can and you will. If you do not, I’ll rend your very flesh and feed it to these rats.”

  “A just punishment for my sins.”

  The prince lifted his rod, a heavy ornamental stick designed for palace functions, and said, “One more chance, Samson . . . Very well, then, if you won’t divulge your secret, let it be noted that you brought this upon yourself.”

  His prisoner remained motionless, though not for long.

  Swack. . .

  Samson arched from the blow, gritting his teeth.

  “Tell me,” Rallah demanded.

  Swaack. . .

  Samson jerked, and his body contorted.

  “Tell me how it’s done, Hebrew. How do I take hold of your power?”

  Swaaack. . .

  Samson twisted, his mouth agape in a silent scream. When at last he caught his breath, his moans carried throughout the corridor, and it was his brother who succumbed.