I Shall Slay the Dragon!

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Dlila stretched, stealing his attention. The Plishtit sat with her right knee bared, the folds of her soft linen robe slipping with the jolting of the cart over rough rock. Shimshon felt his gaze drawn to her smooth, creamy skin.

  Dlila noticed his gaze and looked at him. He averted it, but not before she smiled. A warm expression on her face, but not inviting. Not quite that.

  There were still many parsas until Ammon. Time enough for him to win her heart. He had asked her to follow him and follow she had. But come the end of the journey, what would she do? Ride back to Sorek with a fresh load of silk and oils?

  He didn’t dare ask just yet. So, he sat there, frightened of a beautiful girl.

  “Tell me more of your king’s city,” she said suddenly.

  Shimshon looked at her again. He let the fingers of his left hand brush against her leg. She did not resist, nor move it away. His blood quickened. “Rabba is a majestic town. It is surrounded by thick walls, tall as four men, made of hard red stone that will withstand the wind of Kedem for a thousand years. It has four gates, each facing a corner of the world. The strongest gate looks to the east, into the steppe, and it defends against Aram. The statue of Melek rises above the walls, gazing toward the sunrise, and it guards the people from war and disease.”

  Her face went dreamy as she imagined it. “And you are the...minister of war?”

  Shimshon nodded. “I lead armies to conquest and fight the enemies of my people.”

  “Like the Israelites?”

  He nodded again, casting a quick glance at Rami. “Sometimes.”

  “But Iermiah is your friend?” Those carob eyes judged him.

  Shimshon hesitated. “Yes. He is a friend.” Can I call him that?

  Dlila squirmed in her seat. Her sandaled foot touched his. Warmth seeped into his skin, arousing him. He looked down, at the chipped paint on her toes, the needle tattoos on her ankle. “My family fought against the Shimon tribe a lot.”

  “What will you do once we reach Rabba?” he blurted. For weeks now, he hadn’t had to worry about her answer. Now that they were returning to lands she knew, his worry was fresh. She would soon no longer need his protection, and she could seek her fortune away from him.

  The notion worried him.

  “Seek passage to my town. Try to rebuild my life,” she replied, her voice faltering, old pain resurfacing.

  He had hoped her answer would be different. But he should not have been surprised. Why would she speak otherwise? What does she see in me? Or the Israelite? “There is nothing for you there. Stay with me.”

  She looked at him. “At your king’s palace?”

  Shimshon squeezed her leg gently. “Yes. King Tobiah will arrange that you have servants and jewelry.”

  Dlila laid her hand over his. She didn’t seem impressed by the notion of lavish gifts. “But Rabba is not my home.”

  “You can make it your home. What do you have in Sorek?”

  She shrugged to her left.

  “I will protect you.”

  “What about my gods? Can I worship them in Ammon?”

  Shimshon moved his hand up her thigh. She stopped him this time. “Yes, you can.”

  “But, will Melek be angry?”

  “Then I will ask our builders to erect a temple to your god outside the city walls, and you can visit there any time you desire.”

  She smiled. “I am grateful for all you have done. But—”

  Shimshon felt encouraged. “I will not let anyone harm you. Ever.”

  Dlila seemed to be on a verge of decision. He hoped it was in his favor.

  “Are you the king’s favorite?”

  Shimshon tried not to let his confusion show. What do I say now? “I am his nephew.”

  Rather than looking pleased, Dlila seemed alarmed by his reply. “I have no royal blood. I am nobody.”

  His spirit fell. “That does not bother me.”

  “You must have had many suitors. Many concubines.”

  Oh, she hasn’t forgotten Iftach’s daughters. She knew nothing of his former wife, either. “All of them meant nothing to me.”

  “And what will I be, then?”

  “Whatever you choose to be.”

  Dlila was considering his proposal, he knew.

  Iermiah chose that moment to interfere, curse him. “Shimshon, look at that!”

  Annoyed, Shimshon looked up. A lone, stunted pomegranate tree rose from the scree, but its branches were laden with ripe fruit. Rami ambled toward it, cheerful. It was a welcome sight after days of craggy emptiness and bitter dust.

  Trees meant fresh water nearby, and safety from the great desert. They had escaped its scalding caress.

  The sweetness of that thought should have made Shimshon smile, but all he did was bite his dry lips. The moment was gone. Dlila looked serious again.

  “You seem troubled,” she said.

  “I am not,” he lied.

  “You never told me what you sought in Bavel.”

  Nor did I tell you my mother is an Israelite. Or that I once loved a Plishtit. “Knowledge.”

  “About what?”

  “Ancient times.” Ancient foes.

  “Is this a mission for your king?”

  “Yes,” he lied again. He hated lying, but the truth would serve nothing now.

  “Do you have a wife waiting for you at the palace?” She surprised him once more.

  Shimshon leaned against the hard bench, alarmed, wondering what she might be thinking. Did she know? Did Iermiah, in one of his drunken sprees, tell her? If he had, he’d make the old man regret his blunder. “No.”

  Rami was giggling annoyingly, piling fruit into the fold of his robe and stuffing more into his saddle bag.

  Shimshon almost blessed the distraction, feeling vulnerable under Dlila’s penetrating gaze. “Leave something for the birds,” he teased the prophet, trying to keep his face from betraying him to Dlila. I can face myriads of warriors, but not a lone girl!

  “I see no birds,” the prophet said. The way Iermiah said it made Shimshon tense.

  No birds.

  Strange.

  There should be birds in the sky. Shimshon’s knowledge of the land was strong and true. They had skirted the north edge of the great desert, left its danger behind them. The land was becoming hillier again, with patches of green on the creases of rock that broke the skyline. Green that spoke of water, of life.

  The town of Shubat-Enlil should be less than two days away.

  And yet, no birds.

  Something is wrong, Shimshon realized, swallowing a lump of dread.

  Two days later, they rode into a quiet, pensive town, full of sullen people casting dark glances west. They were all looking at the road, waiting for caravans and travelers from Aram, Iehuda, and Gilad.

  “The rains must be early this year, Innana be praised,” someone said.

  “There is war in Argov,” someone else said, expecting a coin for their words.

  “King Hadadezer has ridden forth to smite his enemies,” many agreed.

  “Where are the spice traders from Darmeshek?” a fat merchant lamented. “They always come before the rains.”

  Shimshon stood there and listened to their gossip, becoming amused and annoyed by their wild tales and lies in equal measure; becoming more worried by the hour. The sun set, but the road remained empty. Shimshon had traveled the breadth of Ammon and Ashur many times. Even when storms lashed the land and dark floods churned through canyons and valleys, there were always travelers heading east to Bavel, the heart of the world.

  Whatever the people of Shubat-Enlil thought, there were no people coming.

  In Mara, they found the same picture all over again. Shimshon had bared his sword, expecting Warda to seek revenge if he saw them returning, but there was no word from the trader. That thief must have run away, Shimshon mused. Or like everyone else, he was watching the road, waiting.

  There was no dust on the western trail, nothing to announce the arrival of me
rchants and pilgrims.

  “Have you sent your warriors to secure the roads?” Shimshon asked the tense, quiet crowd.

  They were all silent, eyes glazed like beads. Terrified.

  Cowards.

  A woman with a skin like cracked mud and black spots on her face that could have been tattoos or sores from some foul disease was squatting in the center of the town, rolling bone dice on the dusty ground, cackling to herself every time. People gave her a wide birth, and Iermiah glowered at her. Shimshon had never seen such intensity of violence in the prophet’s eyes. Against his better judgment, he dismounted and approached.

  “Crone, what do you find so funny?” Shimshon asked her.

  “The end is near. The end is near,” she chanted, laughing.

  “What happened here? Where are the people?”

  “The end is near. The end is near.”

  “A zuz for you, crone.” He tossed a coin. It hit her in the face. She blinked, but didn’t look up at him. Her cackle was grating on his nerves.

  “The end is near. The end is near.”

  “Melek curse you. Go to Third Heaven!” Shimshon kicked dust at her and went back to the wagon.

  “Shall we stay for the night?” Dlila asked in a small voice. She looked afraid.

  Shimshon knew they needed fresh supplies. They had purchased some fruit at the outermost post of the Bavel Empire, from a slave with the king’s solid gold imprint on his cheek, but their stores were running low. His stomach rumbled with anticipation.

  “No.” He did not trust the people of this city. He did not want to be surrounded by them. “We will sleep under the stars. Far from Mara.” Why are there no people coming from the west? Melek, talk to me!

  The scrap of cloth in his pouch suddenly weighed heavy. Shimshon glanced at the sky, searching. “Let us leave. Now.”

  Iermiah watched him with a frown. “For once, Shimshon, I will not argue with you.” He spat on the ground and led the way.

  CHAPTER YOD-GIMEL

  I DO NOT NEED ANY SWORDS

  Deserted villages. Abandoned carts. Broken wheels with shattered spokes. Tattered, torn clothes. Pieces of gold and silver left glittering on the ground, claimed by no greedy hand. Shards of pottery, cracked urns, yokes and reins and straps of expensive leather, just lying there, a thieves’ wildest dream.

  But no people.

  It was here, not far from where he stood now, he had first met Dlila and saved her from death. This was a land known for its abundance of life. Trade caravans traveled the land north and south, east and west, and there should be patrols of soldiers protecting the roads and roving mobs of bandits contesting the rule of King Hadadezer. Someone.

  No one.

  With unease, Shimshon peeled his eyes off the horizon—off the sky—and stared at the ground. He stood in the middle of the main thoroughfare of an empty trading community. This used to be a rich, beating artery of commerce, one where silk merchants from the east could stop and rest and spend a coin on food or women, and merchants from the south and west could buy fresh supplies before wandering into the arid plains of Ashur.

  Thousands of old footprints and hoofprints, already fading away. A great chaos of people used to pass here, and it was impossible to tell what they had done. He moved in a circle away from the square, searching for clues. The clutter became snake trails of soles and animal tracks, leading in a star pattern away from the trading post.

  Most just stopped, disappeared. Others traced back toward the village.

  “This does not make sense,” Shimshon muttered.

  But then, after Bavel, little did.

  Even in great wars, there was always a migration of people. There were always survivors and cowards and those who ran away from death—and those who ran toward it. There were always those quick to profit from misery and bloodshed. The roads were never empty, not even when storms and locusts swarmed the land.

  The quiet unnerved him.

  I will not let fear touch my heart, Shimshon swore, standing there, helpless.

  He searched the area for a good hour, but he learned nothing new. The destruction was the same as the last town. There were just too many old trails, used by goatherds and guards and children and soldiers. Strangely, most of the houses still stood, but some, especially on the outskirts of the village, had been heavily damaged. Sturdy stone buildings were crushed and flattened, broken down as if by a giant hammer. He had seen the same thing before.

  Going back to where Iermiah and Dlila waited, he started drawing in the dirt with the tip of his sword, trying to put his doubts and questions onto a map. The prophet stood at his side, watching intensely, prayer straps wound tightly around his arms. Dlila huddled on the cart, staring at the silent village with deep apprehension in her carob eyes.

  Shimshon knelt down, using his fingers for finer detail.

  “This is where we met Madai, about a week east of Shubat-Enlil. And that is almost the same place where we stopped seeing birds.” Another omen? Another sign from his god?

  Melek, where are you?

  “And then, this is where we stopped seeing people.” He jabbed his thumb in the dirt.

  But why there?

  It was roughly where he had first met Dlila. It went back to that. The moment he knew meant life and death.

  Have I chosen wrongly?

  Iermiah glanced north. “Madai did warn us of a storm.”

  Shimshon stood up, dusting his knees off. “Dlila, search the houses and take what food we need, and let us ride. We will not stay here.”

  There had always been birds near Rabba.

  Gray-winged falcons would enjoy the strong winds round the year, when they would circle above the city and then pounce on mice in the fields. Sometimes, to prove their prowess, some of the more eager warriors in the king’s service would seek their nests and steal younglings, then raise them for battle. A risky task that would leave men with scarred cheeks, or worse, a missing eye as their reward.

  But now, the sky was empty, save for long, wispy clouds stretching toward the Salt Sea.

  Shimshon leaned over backwards and reached into the wagon. He kept his horse and donkey as lightly burdened as possible. In the back of the cart, he had his hunting bow and a quiver of ostrich-fletched arrows. The sword on his hip had not yet left his side, and the skin of his callused palms tingled.

  A name rolled through his mind, keeping him distracted.

  Dlila’s saw his expression, and her face sank. “What is it?” Her eyes darted across the quiet, empty land.

  “I don’t know.” Shimshon nocked an arrow. The experience at the Tower of Bavel haunted him. If there was something in the sky that didn’t belong there, he would put a few shafts through it first, then when it thrashed and flailed wounded in the bloody dust, he’d strike it down with his bronze.

  Iermiah ambled closer. “Trouble?”

  “Maybe.”

  The expression on the prophet’s face was clear. He knew.

  Somehow, this had to do with their visit to the tower.

  Shimshon hopped off the cart and unhitched his horse. He climbed into his elaborate saddle and laid the bow over the pommel. He tied the quiver to his left thigh, so it would not impede the drawing of his sword, and made sure his right palm was dry.

  “Can you use a weapon, Rami?”

  The Israelite hesitated. “I do not need swords. I have Elohim to protect me.”

  Shimshon did not like the answer. “Dlila, you stay in the wagon. Follow a hundred paces after us. If you see anything bad, turn around and drive the mule as hard as you can. Go east. Iermiah and I will find you.”

  The Plishtit girl nodded, eyes big as coins.

  The prophet looked troubled but resolute. “Where are we going? Into danger?”

  “Our route has not changed.”

  The two of them rode side by side, a good distance between them, climbing the short hill that eventually became the plains of Rabba.

  There was a thunderstorm gathering to
the west, the color of an old fig. It would rain soon, and the parched earth would drink after months of searing heat and dryness. The brown and dead landscape would turn bright with fresh life.

  Shimshon recalled his myriad campaigns, coming back at the head of the column of his troops, greeting goatherds, hunters, and excited children, and chasing dogs away. He recalled the fields of hardy crops and the pale scarring of roads. It was the time for the grape and olive harvests, days of prayer, bounty, and joy.

  He saw instead broken tools, plows and sickles, threshing grounds full of rotten crops, and dried water troughs. No animals or people.

  An hour later, they reached the plains.

  Shimshon realized the livid cloud wasn’t a cloud at all.

  It was a column of old smoke, rising from Rabba.

  His stomach roiled.

  They passed into a village full of houses, all eerily intact, the mill full of barley sacks, but not a bird or rat to eat the grains, not a cat or a dog to chase them away, and not a single living soul. The rings of fire were sooty and cold. There were no animals in the pens. The silence was oppressive, morbid.

  “Keep riding. Do not stop,” Shimshon warned them in a low voice, yet it sounded harsh and loud. He glanced back. Dlila was following, gently guiding her mule between desolate houses. The beast had its ears flattened. His own donkey was braying nervously, picking up the mood.

  Another hour passed, and the city of Rabba came into view.

  Shimshon knew the city like his own palms. There was no mistaking its silhouette against the western sun, the layout of its flat-roofed buildings, the orchards that hugged the walls like carpets. But now, even from a distance, it all looked wrong.

  The devastation intensified.

  The next village was a heap of scattered stone and cinders. The ripe fields gave way to stretches of scorched earth. Low orchard walls lay in ruins. Ancient trees had been uprooted and hacked into pieces. Irrigation ditches had all been trampled, and the ground was muddy. The stench of wet ashes was overpowering. It felt like an oily, acrid finger pushing up his nose.

  Shimshon tried to pull on the reins to calm his horse, to no avail. The animal would not go any further.