These men await war, he knew.
An older, thin warrior saw them coming and descended the wall, spreading his arms in greeting. He was dressed like everyone else, with simple clothes and sharp weapons, and there was nothing to distinguish him from the rest except his calm, dominating presence. “Iermiah.”
“Hananiel Ben Ezra.”
“You come back to us in trying times, Prophet.”
“I wish everyone shared your sentiment toward me,” Rami said.
The aluf shrugged. “I remember your good prophecies as well as your bad ones.” His eyes finally turned. “Who are your companions?”
Shimshon carefully evaluated his former foe. He saw nothing but strength and wisdom. Carefully, he removed the veil completely, spilling his rusty locks. Aluf Hananiel tensed but recovered quickly; being hostile toward guests was a grave dishonor—to the guest as well as oneself.
“Greetings, Shimshon of Ammon,” Hananiel said before Shimshon could say anything. “Your courage and reputation precede you.”
Shimshon nodded in respect. “Well met, Aluf. I remember your cunning at the Battle of Heshbon. It is a humbling experience to meet the man who forced my troops into retreat. That does not happen often.”
“I am sorry for the loss of your kingdom,” Hananiel said with deep honesty.
Shimshon had not expected those words. “Thank you.”
The aluf quickly glanced at Dlila. When no one introduced her, he trained his eyes back to Shimshon. “Difficult times are upon us, but it is misfortune that binds us together. Is it the menace from the north that brings you to the City of David?”
The north? So many questions. “It is Iermiah.”
They stopped at the entrance to a low house. “Of course. This is my home,” the aluf said, kissing the mezuzah. “You will be my honored guests. Please, come inside.”
The prophet frowned. It was obvious what he felt. He did not want Dlila there.
Shimshon held the silk curtain open for her, then followed her in. The dwelling was warm and well-furnished. It also had a pleasant smell and, for some odd reason, it reminded him of his childhood. “Blessings be on this house,” Shimshon intoned with respect, feeling somewhat confused and overwhelmed by his memories.
“Thank you, Shimshon.” Hananiel clapped his hands at unseen servants. Men rushed forward from the shadows of the nearby rooms. “Food and drinks, now,” the aluf ordered.
They all had nicked ears. Slaves, Shimshon noted. Probably Plishtim. He did not look at Dlila.
“We have brought pomegranates with us,” Rami said, pointing back toward the city gate.
The aluf kissed his own fingers as a sign of gratitude. “I will send my men to bring your gear.”
A few moments later, a servant brought out a bronze platter with four bowls on it—chickpea spread, crushed olives, dates, and dried figs—and a heap of flat breads. Next, the boy brought wine. Iermiah whipped off a quick blessing, tore off a chunk of bread, and dipped it in the spread.
Hananiel sat on the ground next to Shimshon, adjusting his wrist guards. He gazed at Shimshon’s gray blades. “May I see?”
Shimshon hesitated for a moment, but then he removed the one jutting above his shoulder. He handed it to the aluf with a sure hand, and a grudging bond of trust passed between the two of them.
The aluf ran his hand along the sharp, smooth edge. “Beautiful craftsmanship, unlike anything you will find here, from Merom to Kadesh. How—where—did you acquire these?”
What does the aluf know? “I slew the men who carried them.”
Hananiel frowned. “Can you describe them?”
Shimshon recalled the brief battle. “They ride great war horses, much bigger than anything we have. Their hair and faces are pale. They ride with masks on their heads, and their blades are made of this gray bronze that is much stronger than ours. They must come from afar, because their tongue is very different to anything spoken in the known lands.”
Hananiel was silent for a while. “Lord be merciful, so you have met them.”
Shimshon felt his heartbeat quicken. “You know this foe?” And the serpent?
“There is a great war in Israel.”
Shimshon swallowed. He had a thousand questions, the foremost: how come Biniamin survived when Ammon had been destroyed? But he let the aluf speak.
“It has been more than a month now. Since Rosh Hashana, the enemy have been ravaging Israel. From Menashe to Dan and Efraim. Reuven and Gad are gone. We believe the northern tribes are also completely lost. But the men with the shiny masks are only one of the many foes in our lands. There are others, with stranger tongues and weapons still. These nations come from the far corners of the world, pillaging the land, burning everything. Few survivors have fled their reach.”
Shimshon thought of the great host hiding in the Kidron Valley. “Why don’t you fight them back?” He felt his ire rise. It made no sense that the strongest of the Israelite tribes would cower behind the safety of their walls while the rest of the land burned.
“The priests commanded us to stay here.” Hananiel’s right hand flexed once. “I am eager to engage the foe, but the kohanim demand that we protect the nahala and the city.” He closed his fist, and his knuckles turned white. “I am gathering refugees from the other tribes and mustering the army for battle. But when and how, only the priests know. So far, the enemy is content to leave us in peace. They haven’t crossed into Biniamin.”
The aluf did not mention Tariav. Why?
“They cannot cross,” Iermiah said with cold certainty.
Shimshon did not ask the obvious question. He knew it wasn’t something either the aluf or the prophet could answer.
The priests, Shimshon thought sourly. The Hebrew priests were always brewing something. He wondered if Iermiah was in league with them, despite his claim that he wasn’t well-liked by the clergy.
“I want to talk to the kohanim,” Shimshon said.
Rami almost spat his food. “What? No. It is not allowed.”
The aluf looked nervous. “Shimshon, you cannot.”
I want the truth. I want to know everything. He wanted to mention the dragon, but the look on the aluf’s face stayed him. “I must.”
“Be patient,” Iermiah wiped his mouth.
My greatest virtue, Shimshon mused. Keeping his burning curiosity at bay, he reached for the bread and wine.
CHAPTER KAF
SO, YOU WOULD MARRY ME?
Shimshon had never been around so many Israelites before. Not during peacetime. The sound of goat horns calling people to prayer sounded remarkably like a battle cry.
He was leaning on the parapet, ignoring the sting of needle rain coming from the southwest and the itch of pocked mortar beneath his elbows. He watched the masses of people march out of the city gates and climb toward the temple. The hill bobbed with the white and blue of their robes, men and women together. There was no dust coming off the wet trail, so he could see every detail with clarity.
The people looked like serpents—was that not a strange image that filled my mind?—slithering over the ground, converging on the large hall. His skin chafed, this time due to neither rain nor wind. It was that invisible, inner power that imbued the city.
The sight of the Hebrews going to their service sent a strong, undeniable message.
They walked proud, backs straight, unconcerned. Safe.
How could they, with the dragon out there?
It worried him, this blind courage—or foolishness, whichever it was.
He wondered what to do next. He knew there was a great serpent in the skies somewhere, prowling, ready to attack and destroy entire villages and cities. But the aluf had not mentioned it, and no one in Biniamin seemed to have seen it, or even glimpsed its shadow through the clouds. He had a feeling they were hiding things from him. For a moment, he doubted the tales told by the fleeing men in the foothills of Hor. Then he remembered the charred remains of Rabba, the utter desolation. And his role amidst it al
l.
What did it all mean?
Shimshon feared Iermiah knew far more than he was telling, but he wasn’t sure how to make the bald man disclose his hidden truths. Worse, maybe Rami didn’t know, and the prophet was looking for answers, just like himself.
If he does know, do I really want to hear his secrets?
An old Moavi slave woman was walking through the narrow city streets, lighting bowls of oil and grass with her twig. Unlike her Hebrew masters, she wasn’t bound by the evening prayer. The sight of her made Shimshon remember he had left Dlila in the aluf’s home.
She was alone. The Israelites were all busy with the prayer.
No one would bother him now.
He stepped off the wall and walked hurriedly toward the house, heart hammering.
Shimshon found Dlila sitting under a small window, staring at its thin hide cover.
“This city feels strange,” she said, without turning. “I know my gods aren’t here.”
“Yes, it is strange,” he admitted, distracted by her legs, her hair, the crease of her skirt.
She stabbed him with a hard look, one he had not expected. “You never told me Iermiah was a prophet.”
“Does it matter?” Shimshon asked, feeling strangely guilty.
“That prophet preaches against my gods. He tells the Israelites how my gods must be destroyed.”
The Israeli prophets say the same of Melek, he thought. But then, my mother’s god is their god. He realized there was another thing he hadn’t told her. It would upset her even more than Iermiah’s identity.
Courage, Shimshon, courage.
I would rather face a myriad spearmen than a lone woman.
“I was married once,” he said in a low voice.
Silence. Hesitation. Her right cheek twitched once. Finally, after an eternity, she spoke. “You were?”
“And my wife was a Plishtit, like you.”
Another long pause. “Where is she? What happened to her?”
Shimshon hesitated. “She...died.”
Dlila murmured something. It sounded like she had called upon Mot, but he wasn’t sure. He could not decipher her expression. “And she lived with you at the king’s palace in Rabba?”
No, not quite. “I was...younger back then. It lasted for a very short time.” It had also happened far from the scrutiny of his mother, far from the accusations of the court, far from anyone who might allow a curse to cross their lips and make Shimshon lash back in wrath.
It was a story he did not like to share, but he felt he had to tell her.
Dlila came over, reached up, and touched his shoulder. A quick, furtive gesture, like a sword stabbing him. “I am terrified.”
He tried to relax. “Stay with me.”
She reached with her other hand. Her fingers trailed his collarbone, the hem of his linen robe. Then, her fingers went up, touching his jaw line, his earlobe, and sunk in the locks of his fiery hair. “Your hair is magnificent.” She breathed against him.
“I never cut it,” he stammered, feeling like a child again.
“Why?”
“My...mother.” He would not follow her faith, and he often felt ashamed that she was an Israelite, but one thing remained with him: his promise never to shorten his hair. He hadn’t upheld his other promises to her: to abstain from killing men and drinking wine.
“So, you have no other loves?”
“No.”
“And you want me?”
Shimshon swallowed hard. After months of tension, months of waiting and fretting, he was beside himself with desire. But he kept his muscles taut and his hands to himself, because he knew one wrong move would shatter the fragile trust with Dlila forever. “Yes.”
“For your people, is it a sin to love outside marriage?”
Shimshon didn’t care what anyone thought. “No.”
She lowered her gaze. “What will become of me, then? How will my people judge me?”
“You need never go back. Stay with me, I will build you a home. I will protect you and make sure that you can worship your gods, day and night. And if anyone ever so much as raises their voice against you, I will crush their skulls in my bare hands.”
She smiled weakly. “You would make me your lover? Your wife? Or one of your concubines?”
Shimshon felt his courage fleeing him. Wife... Did he dare let himself get entangled in that again? “There will be no others, I swear. You will be my only woman.”
“So, you would marry me?” she teased, half-serious, half-frighteningly coy.
Shimshon felt like he was facing a great army of riders. No. Men with swords were easy. “I...my last—”
She placed a finger on his lips. “I understand.”
She did? He breathed heavily.
Footsteps.
Shimshon tensed. No! Not now! But they didn’t vanish. The hiss of sandals only grew louder. Someone was coming their way.
Trying to keep his face slack, he looked toward the entrance. There was a shadow outlined against the hide.
“Master Shimshon,” a servant said.
Shimshon looked at Dlila. She had withdrawn, fear taking over her curiosity. She must be so lonely. This place must be pressing on her soul. “What?” he growled.
“Aluf Hananiel begs your presence.”
Shimshon wanted to stay with Dlila. He wanted to make love to her. He knew that he could convince her to give herself to him tonight.
The image of Rabba in ruins sobered him.
This was important.
“Wait.”
He buckled on a gray sword and went to the doorway, stepping over dried rushes that crunched and creaked. Dlila remained by the window, looking at him with those beautiful eyes. What was she thinking? What was she feeling? He could not penetrate her gaze. But he wanted to believe that she was warming up to him, that she was beginning to like him.
The moment you lose your taste for whores, you know you are in love, a friend had once told him. Tonight, he considered that to be true. But his whole body burned with lust, and that made him nervous.
“I will return,” he promised.
Dlila just nodded.
“Take me to the aluf,” he snapped at the intruder, who turned out to be a young soldier—not a slave—who barely reached his shoulders. Why the secrecy, Shimshon wondered. Or the urgency?
Maybe the aluf simply did not wish to intrude on his guests. Hananiel was a man of honor and he had let them have the reign of his entire household. Instead, he lodged with his troops. It was a good, wise gesture that instilled confidence and trust among the warriors.
The Israelite didn’t not lead them back to the army, but rather wound deeper into the city. Men and women glared at him with mistrustful eyes. Gossip traveled fast in the City of David, he realized. But when he glared back, they would always avert their gaze.
Their destination was an opulent building, almost a palace; a stark contrast from the aluf’s home. There was a mikveh in the front yard and a pair of fig trees cast shade over the carved wooden benches during the hot daylight hours—expensive Tizdon wood, lugged from the far north, coated in beeswax. The house stones were all carved and adorned with murals. The paintings and their symbolism did not tell him much.
A house for the rich, Shimshon thought.
Several armed soldiers stood guard outside in front of a solid door, again, made from that expensive beechwood. A sconced torch provided weak, eerie lighting. When the warriors noticed Shimshon and his escort, they pushed the door open without a word. The black interior gaped at him, teasing, inviting.
Go in, his soul goaded.
Shimshon bent down and stepped into the murk. Inside, it smelled like olibanum, and there were candles in little niches on the wall. The large chamber had gold and red cloth on the walls, and the floor was covered with an expensive carpet. Iermiah sat in a corner, cross-legged, talking to a slim robed figure. Shimshon could not see the person’s face. Hananiel Ben Ezra sat apart, seemingly lost in thoughts, another
soldier at his side, waiting for the aluf to respond.
The robed figure saw him enter and raised their head. The cowl slipped.
Shimshon caught his breath.
It was his mother.
CHAPTER KAF-ALEF
BRIMSTONE
“Mother,” was all he managed to say. His emotions came like hail: hard, erratic, banging loudly, and drowning all logic and sense.
“Shimi,” his mother said at some length.
He blushed, and cold, sharp surprise fled him, replaced by indignation. When he recovered, the room felt small, smelly, and full of people whose stares he avoided like enemy arrows. The stench of burning incense made his gut roil. He almost gagged from the sweetness, and his own frustration.
Courage, soldier. “Don’t call me that.”
To his great credit and sense of self-preservation, Iermiah did not laugh. No one did.
“Greetings, Shimshon,” the aluf said, coming forward, friendly but stern.
“You do not pray?” Shimshon asked them, suddenly suspicious. Why would they miss the Sabbath prayer? Especially the prophet?
“Sometimes, men go to the temple and listen to the kohanim,” his mother spoke. “And sometimes, they pray in their hearts. Like you, my son. Like we do this evening.”
Shimshon tried to ponder that. The sleet of confusion kept him silent.
“Come.” Hananiel waved his arm at the other soldier. “Let us take our leave. Iermiah. Rukhama.” He nodded. “Shimshon.”
Shimshon waited until the two warriors left and the door closed shut. He didn’t like talking to people under the cover of darkness. The night hid their emotions, their intentions. But for once, he was glad the deepening gloom would keep his own features obscured.
“Sit down, Son.” Rukhama patted the ground beside her.
Shimshon obeyed grudgingly. He lowered himself between the prophet and his mother; wary, nervous, troubled. “What are you doing here?”
“You are happy that I’m alive,” she said in a quiet voice.
“That is not—”
“I know what you meant, Son.”
I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 12
