“I will eat my own rations.”
Futile. “Suit yourself.” It was almost a ritual between the two of them. Almost as funny as the first time.
The prophet sat down and ate his own flat bread and hard cheese, looking at the sun climb the sky, bleeding yellow into the pink heavens. Then, he took some salted ostrich from a leather pouch and nibbled on it. Pure or not, he didn’t seem to mind Shimshon’s game meat.
Chewing, Shimshon wondered just how much Rami didn’t want Dlila around, and how he kept his animosity at bay. Most of all, Shimshon longed to be on their way, to cover a few more parsas before nightfall, to get that much closer to the wise men of Bavel. He needed to know the truth of this whole thing.
As he ate, his thoughts briefly drifted back home. He’d left his king and his army with no explanation. They would trust him, and forgive him, but time bled fond memories like the wind ate at rocks. In the end, there was only sand left, molded into whatever shape the forces chose. No, he had to worry about his journey. He had to rely on his instincts. Even if he could not rely on Melek to help him right now.
But first, Mara.
“What will we find in the town?” Shimshon asked.
Rami unfolded his legs from beneath him, then folded them the other way around. “Supplies.”
Dlila raised her hand from her meal, lentils sticking to her fingers. “We visited the town on our way home. This is where the caravan from Arpad stopped, and our leader Zahiel tricked us. He...gave our money to Warda and told us to leave Mara before dusk.” Her voice faltered.
Shimshon filled his empty bowl with sand and jiggled it. With its marvelous power, the grains swept the grease and few remaining squished pulses away, leaving a clean dish. “Do you remember where I can find Zahiel—or Warda?”
She nodded. “At Beit Warda. It’s a house of spices. Warda Tahmani runs the trade, and Zahiel is his chief teamster. But Zahiel is gone to Sidon. He said he didn’t want to go to Pleshet.”
Shimshon pondered for a moment. “Thank you. That was delicious.” He made sure to tell her that every morning.
Dlila almost blushed, and a ghost of a smile crossed her lips. Then, she was serious again, as somber as the torn black clothes she wore in the honor of her dead father. “I don’t want to go to Mara,” she whispered.
“But I do,” Shimshon said.
He stood up and slapped his scabbard. The journey to Bavel sang in his bones, but that did not mean he couldn’t stop at Beit Warda and have a brief talk with the owner of the caravan trade. They had a few matters to discuss, even if the other man didn’t know it yet.
CHAPTER VAV
AS A THIEF, YOU OWE HER SEVEN TIMES THAT
“You do realize we will be outnumbered?” Iermiah explained in a low voice, staring suspiciously at the town ahead.
“Most certainly.”
“You are aware we are both far from home. This is no longer your king’s land.”
“No, it is not.”
“And that there will be all kinds of people in Mara. Many soldiers.”
Shimshon rubbed his nose. “That is a certainty.”
Iermiah pursed his lips. “You still want to go to that place?”
Shimshon glanced at Dlila. He couldn’t see her face. She was riding with her cowl pulled down. “Yes. Like you said, we need supplies.” And justice.
The prophet sighed. “Some things must be.”
Mara was a trade town on a route between Bavel and Amalek, limestone houses eroded by desert winds clustered around a crossroads and a small spring gurgling from under an outcrop of blistered, broken rocks, only to vanish a hundred cubits south into a hole in the ground. But that little stream was enough to bring life to the town, to make trees grow and cast a shade onto the marketplace.
A pocket of life in the middle of a harsh desert.
Camels rested in the shade on one side of the main square, horses on the other, with barrels and bushels of goods lying beneath wagons and wooden stalls; great swaths of silk and bags of spices everywhere else. Shimshon saw Akkadians and people of Cush among the Ashuri merchants, all shouting, all busy, all noisy.
A lone spearman sat swathed in brown robes, watching the road. Shimshon could not tell his tribe, nor did he care. There weren’t too many carts coming and going through Mara, but the streets looked and felt packed with silver and opportunity.
Iermiah cleared his throat. “We’d best just buy supplies and go.”
“Oh, we will buy them,” Shimshon assured him. “We aren’t thieves.”
“There are better ways to settle this, Shimshon. We could petition the city leader, or seek the magistrate, if they have one. We could ask the king to intervene. The Lord has given us the law so we can learn and grow wise and govern ourselves.”
“He has also given us tools and courage and taught us how to fashion swords from bronze.”
A child with one eye missing stepped up to his horse, holding two melons like offerings to the gods. “A silver, master. A silver.”
“Be gone.” Shimshon flailed his leg at the child. He looked at Dlila. “Where is Beit Warda?”
The Plishtit pointed. Shimshon followed her finger. There was a large two-story building knuckling above the low houses, its front painted merry brown and orange colors. Shimshon could not read the sign, but he heard Aramaic all around him. That was good enough. They would get the message.
And, if they were smart enough, without too much blood spilled.
Outside Beit Warda, a Partaki slave stepped up to tend to their animals. Shimshon showed him a handful of coins and his eyes lit up. Then, Shimshon tapped the hilt of his sword. The young man got the message. Good, it seemed people’s sense of communication was fair in Mara. Better than that of the Ashuri bandits.
“Shimshon,” Dlila said, stepping close to him, her cowl still hiding her face. “I’m worried.”
“Rightly so,” the prophet added.
Ignoring Rami, Shimshon stroked her cheek. “Don’t be.”
She nodded. “Be careful.”
That is how everyone calls me in Ammon. Shimshon the Careful. “It will be all right. Stay close to me. But, under any circumstances, do not try to stop me or interfere.” He softened his voice. “Please.”
“You are doing this for me?” Dlila asked in a thin tone.
Absolutely. “Justice must be served.” Maybe he could not impress Dlila with his muscled form, his fiery hair, and his great fighting skills, but she might be stirred by his courage and generosity. Especially since he meant it with all his heart.
Mother says a nokhrit will be my bane. Perhaps she is right.
He appraised the building. It had a small pen of goats next to it, which spoke of wealth. There were several wagons, all empty, neatly lined against the northern wall, shielded from the sun. Carpets were lined in front of the house, and an old woman was banging a stone against some dried herbs. On the rooftop, a thin boy sat, legs hanging over the edge, resting against the cracked paint.
The trough was almost empty, but it would have to do. Shimshon waved his hand at the rooftop boy, and like a nimble little goat himself, he clambered down, using cracks in the wall to slow down his descent.
“Fresh water and hops. Be quick.” Silver, snatched away in a glitter of greed.
No visible threats. Good. Shimshon patted his scabbard.
“Wait for my word to come in.”
As always, Shimshon had to bend down to avoid banging his forehead against the door post. Inside, it was cool and murky. Bones of various animals hung from the rafters, a morbid decoration for a trade house.
“Here to buy what?” a bearded man asked from his seat in the corner, barely lifting his eyes.
“Peace be on you and this house,” Shimshon said patiently.
“You, too,” the man said with little conviction.
“Are you Warda?” Shimshon asked. There were a dozen men in the common room, lounging, doing little fruitful work. The smell of sweat, spices, and balms was diz
zying.
“I’ve got spices from all the corners of the world. Kadamia, zaafran, nutmeg.” The man reached into a bag at his side, scooped a handful of sand-like substance, and let it winnow between his fingers back into the sack. All without looking, without any passion in his voice.
Shimshon saw that an entire wall of the room was lined with shelves, and small bags rested at identical intervals on each one. “I need to travel to Bavel. I want to join the next caravan leaving Mara. I heard you could help. Can you arrange it?”
With a groan, the proprietor pushed himself off his seat. It was a bundle of half-empty sacks, Shimshon noted. He stood up, brushing his robe, permanently stained with spice dust. He paused when he saw Shimshon. “You alone?”
Shimshon pointed behind him, cuing the prophet and Dlila to enter. “My father, my wife, myself. The three of us.”
“You’ve got silver?” the man asked, looking wary.
“Are you Warda?”
The tradesman hesitated. “Yes. This is my home, my trade.”
Shimshon nodded. “And I have witnesses that can vouch you just said that.”
The owner frowned, and a string of doubt made his brows connect. “What do you mean, stranger?”
“You should show more humility,” Shimshon warned, trying to keep his voice devoid of emotion.
Warda was still frowning stupidly. “Apologies, my lord. In Mara, we have no time for pleasantries.”
Shimshon cleared his nostrils. “I am not looking for pleasantries. You know a man by the name of Zahiel? You sent him to Sidon recently, did you not?”
Warda hesitated again. “I might have.”
Shimshon pointed at Dlila, who did her best to look small. “Only, you told this woman and her father they’d go to Sorek. You took her money, threatened her, and forced her to leave town.”
“I never saw her,” the owner said quickly.
“Take your cowl off,” Shimshon instructed. Reluctantly, Dlila obeyed. “Do you know this man?”
She was silent for a while. But she was still brave and fierce. “That is Warda Tahmani, and he and Zahiel took my father’s coin,” she condemned them.
Shimshon worked his shoulders in a circle, warming up his muscles. “Good enough for me. How much did you pay?”
“Forty-five pieces of silver,” the girl said.
“Then, by law of the land, and with these patrons as my witnesses, you, Warda, as a thief, owe her seven times that. For her father’s death, seventy-seven. That is the decree of the law, under Melek or any other god you may worship. That, or your life. You choose.”
The lazing guests were suddenly alert. Warda looked very uncomfortable. “You bring strife, stranger. Be gone from my home.”
Shimshon forced a smile to his lips. “I will give you one more chance.”
Warda nodded at one of his patrons – friends, hirelings, it made no difference. The man lunged, a club in his hand.
Shimshon reached above him, snapped a large horse leg bone off its rope, and swung it like a mace. The big, bleached thing connected with a crack. Iermiah gasped. Dlila yelped and winced, cowering near the doorstep.
The man with half his face mashed in just collapsed without a sound.
The other patrons rushed him all at once. Shimshon did not waste time. He whirled the bone like it was a hammer, cracking skulls. He grunted with satisfaction as he saw a man’s teeth fly out of his bloodied mouth and hit the wall like a soothsayer’s trinkets. He ducked under a club blow and drove his weapon into someone’s throat. Gurgling, Warda’s man dropped, trying to suck in a breath that would never come.
Something brushed against his shoulder. Shimshon spun, grabbed another attacker by his tunic, and tossed him across the room. His head slammed into the wall and made a sound like an egg breaking, sick and wet. Shimshon swung the bone club and another man landed on a heap of sacks, spilling their precious content. He did his best not to get up again, nursing his bloodied face.
Moments later, the fight was over.
Shimshon hadn’t drawn his sword yet. He didn’t want to, and there was no need. He could defeat these men with the bone of a dead animal in his hand.
Warda was still standing, sweating, frozen with terror. He hadn’t joined his patrons, and now he realized there was no one else to protect him.
Dlila was staring, her big eyes glazed with...what? Adoration? Fear? Relief? A mix of both?
“That’s a hundred more silvers,” Shimshon warned him. “Or your life.”
“Who are you?” the owner hissed.
“Shimshon, son of Menok. Remember that name. Now: silver, or you die.”
Warda swallowed. “Yes. Yes.” Slowly, he walked behind an improvised counter, a plank laid like a bridge between two large sacks. He bent low and Shimshon stepped close, so Warda did not come out with a hidden weapon or some other trick. The owner displaced a small, innocent looking bag, and beneath it, there was a hole in the hard ground, full of purses.
He counted.
Shimshon waited until all the silver was handed over. Warda had more, but Shimshon was no thief. Then, he grabbed one of the satchels and tossed it back. Stunned, the proprietor hardly moved his trembling hands and the purse him in the chest, falling to the ground, coins spilling with a loud clatter. “We will also be buying some supplies from you. Rami, tell him. Warda, you will load our cart.”
The owner bobbed his sweaty head.
Dlila still looked terrified. Iermiah was grinning nervously.
Shimshon put a gentle hand on Dlila’s shoulder, guiding her out of Beit Warda. “It is settled. Justice for your father.”
She nodded dumbly. Her lips were moving quickly, a set of tiny, silent motions. Was that a prayer?
Outside, the world continued its lazy, sultry pace. No one seemed to have noticed the brawl. Iermiah stepped out a moment later and breathed deeply. “One day, I will write your story, Ammonite,” Rami swore.
Shimshon grimaced at the blood stains on his robes. He tried to rub off a red mark. “I shall need a fresh tunic, too. Make sure Warda pays for that. Now, let’s collect our things and leave this town.”
CHAPTER ZAYIN
SOME FOES CANNOT BE FOUGHT WITH BRONZE
The small camp site full of caravans wasn’t what Shimshon had in mind for overnight company, but any source of water was precious. Reluctantly, they brought their beasts under a long, half-open tent made from black fennel and kenaf. There were half a dozen camels resting there already, and Shimshon’s hob reacted nervously to their smell. It took a while for the animal to settle.
Rami, cheerful and smiling, approached the small group of robed travelers, greeting them from across the small pond. They did not seem pleased, but the laws of all kingdoms promised peace to those who sought shade and water.
Another week had gone by in a cloud of dust and heat. A week of mourning for Dlila, days of quiet travel and wild stories by Iermiah. Seven days spent thinking about the piece of cloth with the black stitching and the sense of grave importance that wore on Shimshon’s soul.
A goatherd sat on a knoll overlooking the nave, his flock more than happy to scamper about on hard, red rock, prising out the weeds growing through the cracks in the ground. When the man saw Dlila’s cart and the three newcomers, he rose and walked over.
Shimshon watched him and realized the man was no threat. Neither was the bowman who sat on a rock a hundred paces away, trying to look bored and vigilant at the same time. A caravan guard or a king’s soldier, protecting the water source. This could be still be Ashur, or maybe Aram.
Iermiah waved. One of the robed men gestured. Join us by the fire. An invitation.
“Are you happy to share the site with those pilgrims?” he asked Dlila.
She was staring at the prophet, not the robed men, he noticed. So much mistrust. Was it all because Iermiah was an Israelite? Or did she see something he had missed?
Don’t forget, he is a prophet of the Hebrew god, he reminded himself.
H
e had followed a drunk man—maybe a madman—to Bavel, where he hoped to put his worries to rest. And Dlila followed him, with the same blind trust he had invested in the prophet. They shared the same fate on this journey. They were both led, their destinies in the footsteps of strangers.
“Yes,” she said curtly.
The goatherd was armed, Shimshon saw, a sword hanging from his belt. A short, fat blade.
Shimshon checked his own weapon, collected the empty, shriveled goatskins from the back of the cart, and headed for the spring.
“Peace, stranger,” the man who must be the leader of the group called. Shimshon noted his knuckles were all tattooed, but he did not recognize the symbols.
Shimshon inclined his head. “And you, too.”
“You may share our fire tonight, if you share your stories and food.”
“It will be so,” Shimshon replied. Dlila’s cart carried enough to sustain them until at least Haram, and Shimshon had hunted down two ostriches and a dozen shrew mice in the last few days, but Iermiah simply refused to eat the little animals.
“I am Madai,” the caravan leader said, introducing himself.
“Shimshon, son of Menok.” He kept his title private.
He knelt by the pool and started filling the goatskins. The water looked clean enough. Dlila joined him.
“If anyone asks, you are my wife,” he whispered. “I don’t want any trouble.”
She did not look happy with the lie, but she still nodded, her reflection in the pond rippling in the late afternoon breeze.
“Where do you hail from?” Madai asked.
“Ammon,” Shimshon said, wiping wet dirt off his hands. Dlila carried the skins back to the wagon. “And you?”
“We told your friend Iermiah, we are travelers. We go from Ur to Mezer in the rainy season, and travel back before the days turn wet again. We trade in anything that we can carry on the backs of our camels and that the rulers of Aram and Ammon and Edom will let us trade, but we also buy and sell stories.”
A moment of dismay. What had Iermiah told them? But there was no malice or avarice in Madai’s eyes. His friends looked calm and amicable, not like men who sought violence. If these men had vile thoughts, they hid them all too well. The goatherd was coming closer. There was something scrawny following him. A dog.
I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 4
