by Eric Wilson
“Stop,” Caleb cried. “Please, I will tell you. Just leave him be.”
The prince rushed to Caleb’s cell, sniffing success even here in this rancid place. He gripped the bars at the window and snarled in his face. “Tell me, what must I do?”
“You must fear the living God, and Him only. Humble yourself before Him, or He will humble you.” Caleb tilted his head toward Samson’s cell. “Can’t you see that for yourself?”
Prince Rallah began to quiver. His ploys, his plans, they were futile. This God of the Hebrews was unlike any other he had encountered. It seemed this God could not be bought with bribes or threats or good behavior. Rallah would never possess Samson’s strength for his own because it was clearly not a talisman to be passed around.
He tossed his iron rod down the corridor, where it bounced and rattled into the darkness. Let the dungeon rats have it. Let them lick off Samson’s blood.
Scowling, he climbed the steps from the dungeon to the palace.
His king awaited, and the prince had nothing to offer.
“Where is it?” King Balek demanded from his throne. “Why have you not brought me Samson’s head?”
Chin down, Rallah stood a few paces from this man he once knew as his father.
“Answer me. I am your king, and you delay in that which I have asked.”
“He’s my trophy,” Rallah said.
“Your trophy. Why? Because you used my resources, my men, my silver to capture him?”
“I put the plans into place. I surrendered my own woman for it.”
“You’re a fool,” the king said. “Even I, as ruler, know that you can never own a woman, not truly. Her body perhaps. But a woman’s heart always wants to be free, and you thought that you could keep hers caged.”
“Delilah loves me.”
“Oh, is that so? And where is she now? Is she there in the hall, just out of sight? Is she waiting in your bedchamber? I don’t hear her, Rallah.”
The prince clenched his jaw, kept his arms at his sides.
“You’ve done well in capturing the Hebrews’ beloved leader. I applaud you.” King Balek clapped his hands twice, barely hard enough to hear. “Now their strongman, their judge, he rots in our dungeons, but how long before they come for him? We know already they are gathering weapons, and they only seek a good reason to form a rabble.”
“They are peasants and farmers. Nothing more.”
“They’re a threat to the crown, and you must kill their hero before they rally round.”
Rallah lifted his head. “My king, his death would be a waste. Word of Samson’s power has spread from Persia to Thebes, he is widely renowned, and when our enemies hear that we have conquered him, they will shake. I will hold him up for all to see that those who challenge us will face similar defeat. No one is greater than the Philistines and our gods. I will be feared everywhere.”
“You?”
“Year after year we will celebrate Samson’s humiliation and my triumph over his God.”
“Triumph?” King Balek kicked aside his footstool and leaped from his throne. His hand bearing the signet ring pulled the prince close, and he growled in his face. “You imbecile. You have learned nothing. You know nothing. You prance about as though you are ruler, but—”
The king’s eye muscles twitched.
“But what?” Prince Rallah said. “Did you have something more to tell me?”
Stepping back, the king stared down in disbelief at the blade being withdrawn slowly from his stomach. He staggered. Scarlet spread through the fabric of his royal garments.
“Father.” Rallah uttered the word with disdain. “You no longer rule over me or this kingdom.”
Balek’s face was white. He caught his fall with one hand, tried to pedal backward to his throne, but slipped on the steps.
The prince tore the crown from his head.
Balek’s voice was weak. “Guards . . . ”
“They won’t come,” he said. “They fear the man who conquered Samson. You see, my glorious king, I may not have your wisdom, your experience, or even your love, but I do have this. I have your crown.”
Eyes fluttering, Balek groaned.
“And,” he added, “I do not wish to share its glory with you.”
“My son . . . ”
“No.” Rallah flinched. “Don’t you call me that.”
“My son . . . King Rallah.”
Balek collapsed at the foot of the throne, his robes stained and his eyes staring up with unblinking allegiance at his new king.
King Rallah ascended the steps and took his rightful place. He held the crown in one hand and his dripping blade in the other. The throne room was eerily silent. He was alone in victory, with no one left to share its glory with him.
But he was king, was he not?
What was to stop him?
Yes, he decided, he would plan his own party, a great day of celebration. Let it be known far and wide that the Philistine ruler was not only to be feared but also adored for his festive moods and his revelries.
CHAPTER 59
THE VISITOR
TIME PASSES SLOWLY in these chains. I cannot distinguish between sun and moon, darkness and light, and it seems I am trapped here in one unending night. Our jailer descends the steps, only to deliver gruel in wooden bowls and to empty our waste buckets. Creatures chatter and scurry along the edges of my cell, and I awaken at times to find them nipping at my feet.
My blisters have turned to calluses. My wounds are slowly healing.
Even so, I can’t get comfortable in any position, and I wonder if my back will ever be the same. My ribs are tender, my muscles atrophying from disuse.
“Lord, have mercy on me.”
Aside from the prayers that my mother taught me, the one solace in this place is the sound of my brother’s voice. Though he doesn’t speak often, he does at least acknowledge me. I even earned a chuckle from him yesterday with my attempt at a stupid rhyme.
Today we’re greeted by a sound unlike any we’ve heard in this dungeon.
“Samson? Are you here?”
I sit up straight, the chains clanking beside me. “Delilah?”
“Hebrew,” the jailer mutters, “you have a visitor.”
The lock turns, hinges groan, and I smell her before her hand reaches my face. I forgot that cinnamon even existed, that vanilla could be so sweet. The feel of her soft skin on my cheek is a torture worse than any other inflicted on me here. It is memory and hope and dreams. It is everything I cannot think upon, and I pull away from her.
“Don’t,” I tell her.
“It’s me, darling. You’re upset at me. I understand, but if you’ll—”
“I’m dirty. I stink. Leave me.” I turn my blindfolded face. “Jailer, we are done here.”
“Don’t be this way, please.” Her fingers slip into mine. “I am here to pay for your release.”
“You betrayed me.”
Her free hand passes softly over my blindfold. She exhales, and I imagine her look of pity. What can that accomplish? Pity does nothing but rob me of the only pride I have left.
“Rallah misled me,” she tries to explain. “I thought I was saving your life and buying our freedom. He never told me he would do this to you.”
“Your lover. You thought he would just gladly send us on our way?”
“I . . . I was blind. No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say that.”
I soften. “We were both blind. Even with my eyes, I could not see.”
“Samson, what we had was real. Please believe that. I’ll pay every piece of silver the soldiers gave me to buy your release.”
“You don’t want me like this.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re reacting out of guilt, Delilah, nothing more. You don’t want to spend your best days nursing a fool without his sight. Look around. Smell the air in here. Is this really what you want?”
“I want you to be free.”
“Free Caleb instead,” I
tell her. “That is how you can show me your love.”
“And leave you here, darling? I can’t do that.”
“Free him, Delilah. He doesn’t deserve to be here. Then you can have my forgiveness.”
“I’m so sorry, Samson, for everything.”
“You will free him?”
“Yes.”
She lifts my shackled hand to her lips, and I cling to this thought of her for when my brother is no longer here. I steel myself. If I show her the things I feel, she might vacillate. I stiffen my neck and clench my teeth. There is no sun and no moon, only darkness, and I rest in it.
“I will always love you,” she says.
“Let me speak to Caleb before he goes.”
“Of course, darling.”
With my head pressed back against damp dungeon rock, I listen to footsteps, soft and heavy. I hear coins. And chains uncoiling onto stone. More footsteps. And then my brother’s beard is against my neck and his arms wrapped around my chest. He embraces me, and my walls come down.
The jailer gives us a few moments before Caleb is led back up the steps to the streets of the capital city. Down here he has been forgotten, a nocturnal creature rarely seen.
“Now you’ll get another chance,” I whisper to him.
“What’re you saying, Brother?”
“You were right. We should fight.”
“And risk all of our tribesmen being locked away in this place?”
“Gather the men, Caleb. Get them ready; sharpen your weapons. When the time comes, be prepared to take the city.”
“Without you? It cannot succeed.”
“With the power God has placed in you,” I tell him. “Even within this dungeon I know He has not abandoned us. These chains, they haven’t stopped me from hearing His call. If anything, I might be hearing His desires now instead of only my own.”
“I want to fight beside you, Samson. That’s what I’ve always wanted.”
“You’ve stood by me when no others would.”
“And for what?”
“If for nothing else than to let me know that I am not forgotten, that I am still alive in the hearts and prayers of the ones I love.”
Caleb embraces me again, but the jailer tears him away.
I am with him, if only in my thoughts, as he climbs the stone steps, as his light hair and beard catch the light of the mounted torches.
His footfalls fade to silence.
He is out the door, into the streets.
He is free.
Alone in my cell, I clamber to my knees and lift soiled palms to the heavens. “I am Yours,” I say aloud. “My strength is now Your strength. My eyes are Your eyes. These hands, Your hands. You called me from birth, and I wandered. Here I am now, and I am listening. What would You have me do, O Lord? I know You’re not finished with me yet.”
In the silence the pain is even stronger. But it sharpens my ears.
And I listen.
CHAPTER 60
DELIRIUM
THIS WAS THE moment King Rallah had planned since he took the throne. Here, in the great temple of Gaza, second only to the palace in grandeur and loftiness, he would make it known that he was a ruler to be reckoned with. He would be feared, naturally. But also adulated, elevated by his subjects to the heights of the gods.
The festivities were only now getting under way, with rows of soldiers blowing ram’s horns in a call to worship at the temple.
“Come one, come all,” Rallah beckoned from his throne in the center court.
Philistine worship was altogether different from the prosaic stiffness that passed as worship in a Hebrew temple. Here in Gaza the worshippers drank till the ceiling swam and ate till their bellies bulged. Here they celebrated the harvest by practicing the fruitfulness between a man and woman. Nothing was off-limits, certainly not on this day.
Let the party begin.
The king marveled at the number of citizens who streamed through the temple doors. They climbed through the windows, pressed between the pillars. On the rooftop overhead, revelers gathered at the rails and peered down into the center court. Coins were tossed. Kisses blown. Robes swirled and tunics came off as the dancing began in earnest.
Oh yes, Rallah thought, there would be dancing in the streets tonight. No one would forget this event. Why, it would mark a new epoch in the Philistine histories.
He spread his hands, felt the weight of the crown on his brow, and cried out, “Welcome to the reign of King Rallah!”
“Long live King Rallah,” the crowd called back. “Long live the king.”
“Praise be to Dagon,” others cheered.
Presiding over the entire affair, Dagon’s statue loomed large and grim.
Delilah could not resist the call to celebrate. She made the long ride from her vineyard and shuffled along with the hundreds of others lined outside the city gates. She was a commoner now, no one special. Just another Philistine, hoping for a glimpse of the new king upon his throne.
“Long live King Rallah . . . ”
The words stirred old dreams and ambitions, and for a moment Delilah wished that she was there beside the king. A queen to her people, praised for her beauty.
“Hail, Queen Delilah . . . ”
No, she decided. That was a curse she wouldn’t wish on anyone. “Long live King Rallah,” she muttered as she was herded with the other thrill seekers into the vast courts of Gaza’s temple.
An elbow poked at her side, and she turned. Beside her Caleb was also walking through the doors with a hood over his light hair. She caught his eye; then they shifted their gazes forward. His presence here worried her. She had paid the price to free him, so why would he return to this enemy stronghold? Was he here to cause a disturbance?
“Have you heard?” he mumbled. “They’re bringing Samson out later.”
She hadn’t heard. Her heart jumped at the thought.
“They’ll make a mockery of him,” Caleb added.
“I hope not.”
“You know Rallah better than that. Thank you again for what you did for me.”
She nodded.
“But it’s best that we aren’t seen together. Not tonight.”
With that Samson’s younger brother disappeared into the throng, and Delilah was left with uneasy expectations. Her stomach turned as she remembered the awful conditions in which Samson was being held, and she spun around to leave this place before things got out of hand. She would never forget the heat of Rallah’s blade and the smell of burnt flesh as he blinded her Hebrew. She certainly couldn’t handle seeing Samson suffer any more abuse tonight.
She pushed to get back to the temple doors, but it was a losing effort. The crowd was too dense, the majority of bodies much larger than hers. She was swept up by the tide of humanity and carried into the center court.
She clung to a pillar and watched the king preen at the foot of his throne.
King Rallah lifted his face and found one of the sun’s last rays as it splashed through a window in the temple’s western wall. This massive building was already heated by the press of bodies inside, but he relished the swash of heat upon his cheek. Closing his eyes, he ran a hand over his thin goatee and told himself it was a sign.
The gods had spotlighted him. He was chosen.
“I am your king,” he declared, lowering his gaze and catching the attention of his audience. “I, mighty Rallah, have taken my place upon the throne. King Balek ruled without care for his people, but I shall rule with an ear to your concerns and a heavy hand upon those who resist the crown.”
This brought an eruption of applause, which he allowed for a brief time before raising his arm. “Some of you may doubt me. Well, think upon this. I alone, with the power of Dagon, subjugated even the strongest of men. Perhaps the strongest man our world has ever known. Many of you know of him. Dignitaries and lords have come from distant lands to gaze upon him these past months. This Hebrew who once slayed a thousand men in one afternoon, who killed a lion with his bare hand
s, so the rumor goes, who caught foxes by their tails and set the world on fire, this man we hold here in our very own dungeons . . . He is my prisoner. And I am the god to whom he now bows.”
“Long live King Rallah . . . Long live the king!”
He lifted his hand again. This time he waited until even the mumbles and whispers quieted and all ears were attuned to him alone.
“Are you ready,” he yelled, “for our special guest?”
There was delirium in the temple. All along the walls and pillars, on the rooftop overhead, the Philistines pressed in to witness the arrival of the man most had only heard about. He was a rumor, a myth, a legend, but now he would appear among them as a living, breathing man.
Some of the women swooned.
King Rallah knew already that he had won the hearts of those present. They would tell their children of this day. They would sing his praises. He rested a hand on the hilt of his ornamental sword, swept his cape aside with an arm, and directed everyone’s attention to the doors at the back of the temple.
The jailer stepped through, his bald head and vulture nose eliciting a few howls.
Then in the archway Samson of Zorah appeared.
CHAPTER 61
NOWHERE TO RUN
A WEAK GRIN SPREAD across Delilah’s lips. With Samson now on display, she saw that his luxurious mane of hair had grown back during his months in a prison cell. The treacherous work of her own hands was no longer evident, and she took some comfort in that.
Otherwise, he looked woeful.
He was paraded through the crowd like an animal, a blindfold about his gouged eyes, bronze fetters about his wrists and ankles. He wore a wrap around his waist, leaving his scarred and muscled upper body for men to envy and women to desire.
Delilah knew that desire. It had once stirred her as well. Now she felt only sorrow for the manner in which he was treated.
The jailer managed to escort his prisoner through the mob to the center court. As they neared the king’s raised throne, he kicked Samson so that he nearly stumbled face-first into the steps. Those nearby took their cue and joined in, throwing punches, aiming kicks, slapping, and even stabbing at the defenseless Hebrew. Taunts and jeers rang out through the temple. A drunken Philistine lurched forward and bashed his empty goblet over Samson’s head. King Rallah smiled in approval, spurring others to inflict further abuse.
