“Melek is dead!” the prince taunted.
Shimshon shrugged again. “Be it as it may.”
Gog pointed. “You will do very nicely. What is your name?”
No point lying. “Shimshon.”
But his name did not invoke any reaction with the prince. “They tell me you are a trader. You do not look like a trader. You look like a soldier.”
“I used to be a soldier,” Shimshon confessed, almost too gently.
“You fought in battles? You killed men before?”
Shimshon did not reply.
“Great. Great.” The prince waved. “Take him away.”
One of the spears slammed into his chest. Shimshon put his hand on the wooden shaft. The owner tried to yank it back, but all he managed was a grunt of dismay when the spear failed to budge from Shimshon’s almost casual grip. There was another face to remember.
“Move or die,” a Plishti warned. A nameless mouth in a thick, grim crowd.
Not a good time to fight, Shimshon felt, carefully weighing the odds, his desire for revenge rising again. Too many soldiers stood between him and the prince. He could probably kill them all, but not without a sword, not easily or quickly, and that would give the enemy enough time to flee from the hall. No. Gog’s death had to be swift and brutal. And that still wouldn’t solve the dragon riddle.
Iermiah’s omens reverberated in his head.
Too many omens.
He relented, letting the nervous throng lead him out back into a world painted gray with a light, chilly drizzle. There was no sign of the dragon. Behind him, he heard the prince’s translator questioning the other men. He didn’t care for those sorry fools, but he wanted to know what his foe had in mind.
“Well done, Ammonite,” one of the soldiers said with genuine sympathy. “You bought yourself a few more hours of life.”
“And what happens then?” Shimshon inquired flatly.
The man rubbed his upper lip furiously. “You didn’t hear? The prince stages battles between fierce animals and strong, powerful men like yourself. Whoever dies, the beast or you, the dragon gets to feast on the bloody remains. It’s a great tribute to Tariav.”
“What kind of animals?”
“Didn’t you see?” The soldier pointed back at the hall. “In those cages, behind the prince.”
“No.”
“Lions,” the man said, almost fearfully.
Shimshon pursed his lips. Why did everyone want him to fight lions? Well, no matter, he had fought lions before. He could do it again.
CHAPTER KAF-ZAIN
I AM MOST PLEASED
Shimshon watched the Pleshet warriors as they checked the perimeter of the battle ground. Wooden spikes, facing inwards, were designed to keep the men and animals from fleeing the circle. This was the palace court, the same ground where the Pleshet prince and his concubine had bled. The rain and the wind had finally erased the red marks of their shameful death. The beaten dirt was ripe for a fresh offering.
The notion of Zabul’s demise was a temporary distraction, though.
Shimshon focused.
Outside the circle, a huge crowd had gathered, with the Magog at the forefront. Carpenters had erected a seating to allow row upon row of spectators to watch the combat. The broken statues of the Pleshet pantheon watched from behind, their ruined, blinded faces a testament to the killing that was about to take place.
At his side, the hairy fellow from the cart trip was breathing hard, grating on Shimshon’s nerves. The other man, scarred, bald and with splotchy skin—one of the other big fighters the prince had chosen for the spectacle today—was more stoic, but he still couldn’t hide his terror. They wouldn’t be useful in the fight to come. Shimshon could not rely on them to help, but they might keep the lion busy long enough for him to move in and slay the cat.
Ragged breaths, in and out, raspy, monotonous, annoying. Why couldn’t men face danger bravely? Being afraid surely did not help. Alert, concerned, yes; but choked by fear? What good did that do?
Cowards.
“You want oil for your skin, Ammonite?” one of the animal keepers asked, pointing to a bucket at his feet. “Makes you slick, easier to dodge the claws.” He chuckled.
“By Melek, I am not going to cuddle with that lion,” Shimshon replied.
The Plishti chortled, amused by Shimshon’s invocation of a foreign god. Then, with bored precision, he directed his question at the other two. The scarred man just shook his head mutely, and the other did not respond, staring blankly at some inner nightmare, wheezing.
The benches were almost full, and there was a buzz coming off the audience, which meant they expected the show to start soon, to see and taste the blood. Shimshon had a hard time pinpointing the prince among them. No matter. He should concentrate on surviving this battle, first.
“Where is my sword?” he asked.
The animal trainer grunted. “Sword? That would be unfair toward the lion. You get no sword, Ammonite.”
A bare-handed fight, then. He had not tried that yet against these big cats. Mndnau would have his story, after all. Where was that man, anyway?
The crowd started cheering, then the noise subsided. Someone was speaking, loudly, in the language of Gomer. Shimshon did not need to understand the words. He knew what would come.
“You go in. Best of luck,” the animal handler said with something approaching honesty.
Not all the faces around here deserved merciless death, Shimshon realized.
He waited for the battleground servants to remove a section of the fence, to let him and his two—allies, he supposed—step into the dust circle. Behind him, more terrified men waited their turn in the circle. The pale-haired fool was still smiling.
Overcast day, good. That would mean no sunlight in his eyes, no chance of being blinded. The footing was solid, maybe just a little slippery for his worn sandals, but with good enough purchase to dodge and leap, if he had to. The circle was wide, which meant he had room to maneuver, but it also gave the lion time to gather speed and pounce. The spikes were aimed inwards at chest height. He could roll under them if need be, even though that did not sound like a good option against a wild cat. The wooden shafts were spaced too close together for him to slip through or quickly climb out.
At his side, the hairy man was half-crouching, frozen, a trickle of piss running down his muscled leg, slicking his dark curls. The cheering had turned to snarls and hoots. The other lion pit fighter was more lucid. He was terrified to the bone, but he looked at Shimshon. That was his one chance to live through this thing, and he was going to use it.
The last few times Shimshon had fought lions, he was armed and his movement wasn’t restricted. But lions weren’t used to narrow hunting ground or large crowds either, and that had to account for something.
The servants closed the perimeter. On the opposite side, a section of the spiked fence moved sideways, and from a large cage with thick bronze bars, a lion leapt into the circle. The audience went mad.
The cat started pacing in small circles, deeply agitated. It had a short mane. A young beast, Shimshon noted, carefully watching the cat’s movements. He had seen lions hunt before, and he waited for the telltale sign of an imminent attack.
Something splashed him from behind, hot and sticky. He reached over his shoulder and wiped away blood. Cow blood. The servants also dashed gore on his two companions. The handler from before gave him a stiff, toothy smile from between the spikes.
If he were armored and armed, he’d ask the other two to bunch together, and point their weapons outward, so they would not be exposed on their flanks. But his companions did not bear like experienced fighters, especially not the one with his leg all wet with piss. Shimshon could not—would not—rely on them. In fact, he decided to use them as bait, to let the lion devour them, if need be. He was loath to see unarmed men die for no good cause, but their sacrifice would not be in vain.
Prince Gog will pay for your deaths.
The lio
n was still trying to assess its prey, looking for weaknesses. Three tall, standing targets confused it, so it was waiting for the first sign of flight.
A young beast might want to toy with the prey, Shimshon knew. But without a sword, he had no luxury of hesitation. He would only get one or two chances to defeat this lion.
The crowd was hollering, waving red-and-gold flags.
As Shimshon expected, the lion went for the crouching, frightened man. The second fighter backed away, terrified, awkward, but intent on trying to survive somehow.
The lion lunged.
Shimshon lunged.
He went after the lion, even as it pounced on its petrified victim. The scream was lost in the great cheer, men standing up to see better above the rows of sharpened stakes. Shimshon dug his heels in the ground and pounced. He grappled the lion round its neck, and slammed his knees into its side, breaking his fall. He buried his face in the musky stench of the lion’s mane, and reached as low as he could, locking his grip round its throat. He closed his right fist over his left wrist, tightening the hold.
The animal reared, loosening its hold on the pinned victim, and started shaking its big head violently, trying to throw Shimshon off. His body flailed, legs flying, slamming painfully into the ground, but he pressed his right shoulder against the animal’s back as hard and deep as he could, and made sure not to let go. If he did, he’d be in trouble.
Under his feet, the hairy fighter was a red, wailing ruin, ripped apart by fangs and claws. The lion had sunk its teeth into his neck and almost severed his head. There was blood everywhere, some from a cow, some from a man. The lion tried bucking again, but then it sagged under Shimshon’s weight. Very few people knew that lions had small, weak hearts. No stamina. They wasted it all in the few moments of hunt. With each attempt to throw the nuisance off its hide, the animal was getting weaker.
The shredded man was crawling away, bleeding his life into the dust. Distracted again, the lion swiped at him with its paws, even as it tried to dislodge the thing round its neck. Shimshon grunted as his legs hit the ground again, grunted as breath fled his thick chest. Hard, jarring pain rushed up through his knees and into his thighs and hips. The lion was flailing, shaking with wild force, from side to side, but Shimshon would not slacken his grip. His muscles burned with exertion, but he kept on choking the lion. That was the one thing he had to do.
He could feel the animal’s powerful muscles rippling like hard rope under his grip. His arms trembled and his fingers threatened to slip, sweat and blood making his task even trickier.
The lion sagged some more and Shimshon touched the ground again. He squeezed harder, harder, waiting for the sound of broken cartilage and bones. Harder still, until he feared his own ribs would shatter.
He pushed, grinding his teeth, blinking red wetness from his lashes, jumping off the ground so the animal’s rear legs couldn’t gut him accidentally, so there was even more pressure, more urgency in his lethal grip. More.
Harder.
Tighter.
The crowd was growling madly, incessantly. Their roar overpowered the sound of battle, the animal’s death throes. The lion was on its belly now, its movements lethargic, random. It was no longer trying to shake him off. The big head was barely moving, tongue lolling. Shimshon never released his killing hug. Harder, tighter. He could feel warm death under his arms and it pleased him.
They wanted a story, he’d give them a story.
The lion was dead. Its lungs had stopped moving.
Slowly, carefully, Shimshon released his grip, and pushed himself off the animal’s hide. His whole body hurt, but despite the grime on his skin and the pain in his legs, he was unhurt.
The hooting in the audience had died, replaced by terrified silence.
People were watching him with a curious mix of awe, fear, and disgust on their faces. Disappointment, too. But mostly, Shimshon saw healthy wonder that a man could strangle a lion. The arrogance he had seen among the Gomer was gone, replaced by sour expressions: doubt, envy, and still more fear.
The half-torn victim was still trying to crawl away, leaving stains of his waning life in the red mud. He was the only one making any kind of noise, a whispery wail that weakened with every heartbeat. The bald one was standing by the sharpened wall, watching, mouth agape.
“Amazing,” the prince’s translator spoke, shattering the silence. “I am most pleased.”
Trying to calm his breath, Shimshon scanned the crowd and finally trained his eyes on the enemy ruler. Prince Gog was grinning and talking to some of his cronies, who wore tiny, confident smiles that worried him. After all, he was still unarmed, and in a death pit.
“Anything to say, brave warrior?” the slave asked.
There was nothing Shimshon wanted to say to this man. He only wanted his death, as payment.
Prince Gog clapped when he received no answer. He leaned toward the slave.
“Impressive fight. But I want to see what you are capable of, Ammonite. So, I will let you fight two lions now!”
The crowd woke from its stupor, yelling its bloodthirst.
This will only end after they run out of lions, or I die, Shimshon realized, hardly surprised.
He might be able to defeat one lion barehanded, but not two. Not easily anyway. No. He had come to Gat to destroy Prince Zabul and his allies. He had hoped for an opportunity to slip into the palace and slay them. He had remained behind enemy lines, even after things had gone horribly wrong. And he had done all that to protect Dlila. But he could not help her if he ended up as lion food.
Iermiah had warned me Dlila would make me hesitate. He warned she would be trouble.
He required a new plan, and he had to go back to the City of David. Everything led back there, in the end.
I still need to learn how to defeat Tariav.
Instead of feeling angry or betrayed, Shimshon was resolute. He had let the omens take him here. He had seen the face of the enemy. He knew his actions were no coincidence, and that a divine hand guided him, ever since the encounter with the beggar before Iabesh. He resented the meddling sometimes, hated knowing the priests on Mount Moriah held sway over his life.
But sometimes, even the gods looked the other way.
Almost too calmly, he stepped toward the perimeter wall close to the prince. He was utterly calm now, faced with the certainty of death. He felt no confusion, no doubt, no questions. Omens did not matter any longer. This was what he was born to do.
To fight.
The chieftains and warriors were watching him curiously, wondering what he would do next. Even the prince stopped his chatter to look at him.
Shimshon laid his hands on the thick stakes and lifted.
The barricade was heavy, but Shimshon was angry. The wooden frame rose into the air, followed by gasps and curses. The people nearby scrambled to get away. The Cimmerians were trying to draw their swords, but it was difficult in a thick, jostling crowd full of frightened men.
Shimshon screamed and tossed the wall section toward the prince.
It landed short of its mark, mashing a knot of Gomer fighters to a bloody pulp.
But he’d known that even before tossing the frame.
Shimshon was already running through the gap, furious and slimed with dust and blood. Most people fell back. Several chieftains moved to block him, shrieks from their brothers making their grip tremble. Shimshon ducked under their singing blades, rolled, and crashed into the soldiers, scattering them. He grabbed one of the simple bronze swords and pushed on, using his brute strength to plow a way out of the killing field.
There was hatred and death around him, but they couldn’t stop him. He was too fast, too strong, and too skilled for them, and their souls were shaken by what they had seen earlier. It did not matter where they hailed from. Tubal, Pleshet, Meshekh. They all died.
Shimshon wanted to stay behind and kill the enemy ruler. But he had a more pressing matter.
Find Dlila.
CHAPTER KAF-HET<
br />
THEY KNOW ABOUT YOU
He ran.
His feet slammed against the cobbles, dirt, and mud, leaving deep impressions in the wet roads through the shaded alleys of Gat’s narrow, crowded quarters. He dashed past frowning citizens, wondering what they made of his great, bloodied stature. Somewhere behind him, there was a pursuit. But it did not matter, as long as he got to Dlila first.
As he ran, blood pounding in his ears, Shimshon thought about his first wife. He remembered his emotions, the turmoil in his soul.
Not unlike what he felt now.
Why did he need that burden in his chest? Why did he want to entangle himself in the affairs of love and marriage? But he had no answer to the yearning of his spirit. Only cold, hard determination.
Dlila should be in the small travel lodge owned by the mute. It was in the northern part of town.
Shimshon leapt over a low, pocked wall and ran into another narrow passage between buildings, his shoulders scraping against the rough mortar. He left a trail of wet skin on the cracked paint.
The mute’s inn catered to chance traders, caravans, and visitors from far lands coming through the Shfela. With the war in the north, the low-roof houses now entertained fewer people, mostly drunk Mizrim, spice merchants from Bavel, and whores who lavished them with drinks and their painted bodies. It would be easy to blend in among them, join a merchant train and leave Gat.
Shimshon dashed through the narrow passage and into a small market that sold goods fresh off cart pallets and camel backs, their owners eager to sell as much as they could before the wares spoiled. A hail of colors assailed him: Mizrim, grinning, missing teeth replaced with gold, a thin Nubi hawking amber at twice its usual price, an Ashuri trying to sell a pair of slaves that looked well past their prime; scarred, poxed, losing hair. They all stopped their peddling and looked at him with a mix of fear, astonishment, and ever-lasting greed. Then, the chaos of commerce returned.
Past their stalls, their sacks, and smelly animals, Shimshon sprinted, leaving their cries and curses behind him. He dashed into the traders’ quarter, one lodge looking much like another. Dlila must be there, still waiting for him—he hoped.
I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 17
