I Shall Slay the Dragon!

by Igor Ljubuncic

  She had everything she needed, yet she couldn’t do anything to allay her terror.

  Why had they taken her captive? What did they want from her?

  She suspected she knew the answer.

  The chamber was barred with a solid door that was locked from the outside. Her freedom extended to whatever there was in the room. They had left her alone, and she had spent her time sleeping and crying, wondering what had befallen Shimshon. Was he still alive?

  Now, she had company.

  “I am Prince Gog,” a small man said, but he obviously wasn’t the ruler. The other man was. He was arrogant, tall, clad in spun gold, and smiling with the grace of someone who didn’t know what mercy was. Dlila had seen that cruel look in men’s eyes before. She had seen it in the eyes of the men who had murdered her father, the day Shimshon had saved her life.

  She swallowed hard, trying to quiet the flutter in the pit of her stomach.

  “And you are the lover of one called Shimshon of Ammon.”

  What should she do? Deny it? Tell a lie? She didn’t know what to say. If she angered her captor, he might lash out in violence. If she told the truth, would she endanger herself? Or Shimshon?

  The prince sucked his teeth and muttered in his foreign language.

  “Speak,” the translator said.

  Am I his lover? “Yes,” she stammered.

  Gog smiled even more merrily. Even in her panic, Dlila could see it was a brittle smile. The man’s pale eyes didn’t look happy. “Shimshon of Ammon is a great warrior. I hear the Hebrew god has bestowed him with powers. I need you to tell me his secrets, so I can defeat him.”

  Shimshon lives, her heart cheered. She swallowed. “I don’t know any secrets.”

  A third man in the room coughed. He wore blue robes and looked like a priest. Gog talked to him for a few moments. “You surely must know something.”

  Dlila kept her mouth shut, lips pressed tightly together. It was hard breathing through the nose, but she didn’t trust her tongue right now. When the prince stepped closer, she could smell his foreign scent, spices and food she had never tasted. He revolted her.

  “Shimshon has a Hebrew mother, does he not?”

  Dlila remembered her fury when she had learned about Rukhama. At first, she had felt betrayed, but now, her mistrust of Israelites paled compared to this killer, the man who had murdered Prince Zabul and taken over his palace. The man who had subjugated Gat to his will. The Plishtim were no longer a free people.

  And then, there was that flying serpent…

  “You have consorted with the enemy against your own people.” Gog stroked her hair. She suppressed another shiver. “You have let an Israelite take you to his bed. Have you no shame?”

  Dlila wanted to blurt out the truth, hoping the questioning would end. Maybe, if they knew, they would leave her alone. But she did not. She didn’t know why. She tried to look the prince in his sky-colored eyes, tried to be brave for Shimshon.

  The robed man spoke again.

  “Shimshon is a Nizri, is he not?”

  Dlila frowned. She wasn’t sure what Gog meant by that.

  “He does not drink wine, then?”

  She said nothing.

  “And his hair, he does not cut his hair?” Her expression must have cracked, because the prince clucked his tongue and turned away. “You have seen my power. You know that I will destroy all the tribes of Israel sooner or later. The City of David shall fall, and the serpent will reign over the world. I will be its emissary in Kna’n. My desires will be the law of the land.”

  But you ask me about Shimshon! She rallied, hopeful despite all the dread she felt.

  The prince lay his hand on her bowl of fruit, brushing the apples with his long, yellowed fingernails. “If you help me, I will reward you.”

  Speak out, save yourself, her soul whispered. Shimshon was an Israelite. She could never be his wife, she could never live among his people and suffer the scorn of their glances. That was just a bittersweet dream. Only...she wanted it to be true.

  “I will give you eleven hundred pieces of silver, but you must help me.”

  Dlila imagined the promised wealth. With so much coin, she could live like a princess herself.

  Gog inclined his head. “No? Then I will give you seven-thousand seven hundred pieces!”

  Dlila realized she was in grave danger. This man was not going to relent.

  Shimshon is an Israelite. He is the enemy of Pleshet. He does not love you, her doubt hissed.

  Why did he save my life then? Why did he protect me so often?

  Because men are vain and they will say and do anything to spill their seed inside you.

  He loves me…

  If he loves you, why did he abandon you in Gat?

  He did not abandon me. He will come back for me.

  Do you love him, you foolish girl?

  Do I love him?

  “What must I do?” she blurted, her voice sounding harsh, frightened.

  The prince clapped his hands in exultation. The priest was chatting now, and Gog listened, nodding now and then. “It is obvious that Shimshon derives his strength from the Hebrew god. It must be his fiery hair. In my land, children with hair the color of dried leaves are known to suck out the souls of people they scorn, and in that way, they take their power.” He listened to the priest some more. “If you shear it off, he will be weak, and I can defeat him.”

  Dlila’s hands were shaking now. She felt feeble.

  Gog flicked his fingers and a servant woman stepped forward with a wooden cup of wine in her hand. “Drink,” the prince commanded.

  Dlila touched the polished rim to her dried lips, sipped the warm, fragrant cider, and felt her muscles relax a little. The prince promised her wealth. He promised her safety. Just like Shimshon had. But while she had reason to hate him for subjugating Gat, he had not harmed Pleshet. He was their ruler now, but not their foe. On the other hand, if the Israelites won a war against her people, her entire nation would be killed or exiled.

  Shimshon had lied to her twice. He hadn’t told her about the prophet, nor his mother. He hadn’t told her that he had Hebrew blood in his veins. He may have felt like an Ammonite, but he had come to fight at the side of Iehuda and Biniamin. She couldn’t trust his words nor his judgment.

  If he truly loves me, he must prove it.

  “I will do it,” she said, putting the cup down.

  Prince Gog brushed her raven locks again. “Then you are free.”

  CHAPTER LAMED-GIMMEL

  YOU SAVED US

  Shimshon loved battles, but he hated what happened after battles.

  Men whining and crying like women.

  He walked through the Biniamin camp, sounds of agony, whimpering and moans all around him. Priests were walking through the thick crowds of wounded, giving last blessings to those too gravely injured to live until the next prayer. The women of the city were carrying buckets of water, trying to slake the thirst of men without limbs lying on the cold gravel, waiting their turn to be saved or mourned. On their knees, those skilled in healing were washing bodies with olive oil and balm, setting bones, and trying to knit gashes closed with fine thread.

  There was a shortage of linen and the vat of hyssop oil kept at the city’s infirmary had dried up. The soldiers would have to wait until the morrow before another urn was brought from Shilo. The camp smelled of incense and gath as men chewed leaves to try to dull their mind to pain. The underlying stench of death made the air sickening.

  Shimshon saw it all as he trod through mud and over broken gear, following a narrow path between wagons and penned animals. His own skin was coated in blood, but it didn’t belong to him. His muscles hurt from exertion, not from enemy blows. He was hot, and there was steam rising off his filthy tunic. He wanted to drink wine with a touch of mur and have painted women massage his calves and shoulders. He lusted for release, and this begging and weeping did nothing to soothe his mood.

  It had been only a few hours
since the battle and the moon was already climbing into the heavens, grinning at the misery of men. He should feel elated. He should be happy. The Israelites had won today. The City of David had survived the enemy attack, despite their superior numbers and weapons. With his leadership, he had exacted the tiniest revenge against Gomer.

  Not good enough. Not by far.

  Shimshon wanted to go back into the city, but something held him back. A sense of duty, perhaps. Fighting alongside other men instilled you with a measure of intimacy. Even when Shimshon did not like another man in his army, if that warrior stayed at his side in combat, then he was worthy of Shimshon’s company. He owed that much to the fighters of Iehuda and Biniamin.

  Thoughts swirling, he must have backtracked, because he swore he had passed the same man twice. A young fellow with bright, shivering eyes, leaning against a rock and singing quietly. Both his legs were gone, wrapped in brown rags that were soaked through, and yet he managed to keep his spirits up, to remain unafraid. Shimshon wondered what had given the man his strength.

  It must be his love for his god.

  A pure soul among so many cowards.

  “You should clean yourself.”

  Shimshon slowed down and glanced at Iermiah, coming from his right. The prophet looked worn, his face sagging, blood smeared on his robes and bald head. Like the priests, he had spent the entire battle helping the injured.

  “Why?”

  Rami grimaced. “To give these men courage and hope.” He tossed a torn but clean rag over.

  Shimshon grabbed the cloth and began rubbing his cheeks and neck. Flakes of dried gore fell off him like flower seeds. It was useless. He needed a proper bath. And a whore.

  “It was a great victory today,” the prophet continued.

  “Yes, it was.”

  “You saved us.”

  “Maybe.” Shimshon suddenly felt humble and uncomfortable with the flattery. He remembered the serpent, and he knew the victory was just a temporary lull in a greater war.

  In the waxing gloom, Rami’s eyes glinted like polished gems. Soon enough, the night swallowed details and turned the sound of suffering into a wind of a thousand haggard, coarse voices and screams. The shofarim exploded across Biniamin. Maybe the Hebrews were gloating. Or lamenting their wounded. Or calling the city folk to prayer.

  After witnessing the encounter with the dragon, he understood.

  The City of David needed every handful of faith it could get.

  Shimshon envied their conviction.

  “You will have to fight the serpent,” Iermiah said.

  “I know. Tell me how, prophet.”

  Rami shrugged, a weak, fatigued gestured. “I don’t know.”

  A gust of cold wind picked up. Fresh stench assailed him. “What are you not telling me?”

  Iermiah sighed. “This time, nothing. I have not had any visitations recently. And if God’s messengers walk among us, they haven’t bothered to talk to me.”

  Shimshon looked around, into the darkness, as if seeking the malakhim among the wounded, exhausted warriors. “So, what am I going to do?” He let doubt creep into his voice. He wouldn’t show any weakness before the alufs or their men, but he felt vulnerable, exposed before the prophet.

  Iermiah rubbed his forehead. “Let us retire. Come with me back into the city. Our work for tonight is done. The enemy might decide to attack again on the morrow, and you must be fresh and clearheaded. We rely on you to save us, Shimshon. Your god relies on you.”

  Yes, he was tired, Shimshon figured. He didn’t even have the strength to get angry at Rami’s words. “I should talk to Alufs Hananiel and Nissim.”

  “At dawn,” Rami insisted. “Please.”

  Shimshon relented. His back slumped. The weight of his responsibility and the thousand swings with the sword finally seeped into his muscles. He had already done enough for the Israelites. With a heavy step through blood-soaked mud and gravel, he walked toward the walls.

  The next day was overcast and quiet, save for the weeping of mothers for their lost husbands and sons, the cries of injured men crowding the narrow passages of the city, the vibrant talk of drunk soldiers retelling stories of their prowess and sacrifice, some true, some outright lies and empty boasts.

  Shimshon found himself devoid of the lust and rage that had gripped him the day before. His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the dragon. He barely listened to the alufs and nodded absentmindedly at their suggestions. He deigned to visit the battlements, checking on the defense work. The locals were shoring up the walls, digging in, setting traps, strengthening their positions, lugging fresh arrows and stones for the archers and slingers. Men were busy clearing the brush where they needed quick passage and trying to assemble large, rock-hurling siege engines to counter those of the Cimmerians. One of the exiled Gad tribesmen claimed to be an expert in these weapons and the men of Biniamin deferred to him. Their brotherhood with the people of Iehuda also held, and a sense of kinship and danger tied everyone together.

  The day slowly oozed away. The Gomer did not return. The scouts reported them entrenched on the far side of Hurvat Eked, licking their wounds.

  There was no sign of the dragon.

  Darkness fell.

  Shimshon spent the night tossing in bed, restless. Sleep finally caught him right before dawn, and he heard the horns of prayer through his flitting dreams. He knew that if the enemy attacked, he would be woken in earnest.

  Around midday, they did wake him up. A frightened soldier stood at the foot of his bed.

  Shimshon rose from the hard pallet, brushing hair from his eyes. “What?”

  The warrior swallowed and scratched his soft, fluffy beard. “My lord, the prophet Iermiah asked me to inform you that the Pleshet woman Dlila has returned.”

  It took him a moment to understand what the man had just said. Dlila has returned.

  “My lord,” the soldier stammered, uncomfortable.

  Naked above the waist, Shimshon walked out of the building and went toward his mother’s house. It was a short walk. A small crowd had gathered in front of the entrance. Just inside, half shadowed, he saw the prophet, his bald head unmistakable; his mother, and there, at her shoulder, the woman with raven hair and carob eyes, looking dazed, frightened, and very much unhurt. A thousand suspicions bloomed in his head, but another emotion pushed them all away, squashed them like worms underfoot.

  She saw him and smiled weakly.

  Shimshon let himself smile back. He’d had doubts before, but not anymore.

  Dlila had come back to him.

  CHAPTER LAMED-DALET

  I PROMISED MY MOTHER

  Shimshon watched Dlila breathe. The slow, steady rise of her chest was calming. His right arm was numb, but he did not want to move, because he feared she would wake, and the fragile perfection of the moment would shatter.

  His mind recounted the events of the last day over and over in stark detail and frightening clarity. He had almost forgotten about the war against the foreign people, about the dragon. He was thinking about Dlila and her return.

  How?

  She hadn’t told him yet, and he didn’t dare ask her because he knew if he did that, she would shy away and he’d lose her again. He feared that more than the myriads of Cimmerians and their swords, more than the fall of Iehuda and Biniamin, more than the scarlet beast in the sky.

  For the remainder of yesterday, Dlila and he had remained in the company of his mother and the prophet. Their silent stares held venom like the Negev asp, and behind his back, he could almost hear their whispered warnings, their bitter accusations, their mistrust. The Pleshet woman could not have escaped Prince Gog. He must have let her go. She was his ally and she meant to betray Shimshon.

  He didn’t want to listen.

  He didn’t want to believe them.

  When night had fallen, he had retired to his own bed, but this time, Dlila followed him. Without a word, she had stepped right next to him, smelling of ash and spices, her eyes marke
d in kohl, her lips moist with hel. Her dress had slipped off her shoulders to the hard ground. Lust overtook him, and as he held her on the hard mat, their moans matched.

  Later, she had slept, but he remained awake, lurid lights of exhaustion firing in the corners of his eyes, his mind wrestling with ideas and emotions he never thought he’d experience. Real fear, except he couldn’t quite grasp the reason.

  A fear of losing Dlila…

  Just like Timnah?

  Now that he had spilled his seed in her, he ought to marry her. He could not disgrace her. She was no common whore. She was no stranger he’d used for coin, as in his travels or on his war campaigns. He cared for her. But deep down, he knew that men of blood like him must not bind their souls to another. It was a weakness, a distraction, a trap that his enemy would surely spring.

  She rolled over, dripping spit on his neck. Her beautiful carob eyes fluttered open.

  Shimshon swallowed. “I never told you about my wife.”

  Dlila blinked slowly. He could not guess her expression. “Tell me now,” she murmured.

  He licked his teeth. Old, suppressed sorrow clambered into his gullet, restricting his voice. He propped himself up in the bed, leaning against the coarse mortar wall with his wide, muscular shoulders.

  “My father was the king’s younger brother, and so it was his duty to carry the king’s banner in battle, to be his shield in combat. Almost ten years ago, there was great unrest in Gilead, and King Tobiah himself decided to lead a sortie against the bandits, a group of fierce raiders from Shittim. My uncle thought he was fighting the Israelite tribesmen, and he expected the victory to bring him pride and honor back at his court. But he soon learned his foes were actually your people, so he rode back and sent me instead.” Shimshon snorted. “He always used me for the hardest and bloodiest trials. With the Plishtim, he wanted me to give them a very hard lesson. He was sorely displeased that Prince Nasib would allow his men to raid so deeply into Ammon lands, and he decided not to stay his hand.”