I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 14

  Shimshon scanned the long ranks of the enemy army, searching for their leaders, men with shoulders trimmed in furs and gold or men with capes spun of silk. But there were none to be found. Either they masked their leaders—which was a wise thing to do—or Shimshon failed to notice the markings of power and command.

  His instincts kicked in, hard and true. Dragons, wise men, prophets: he could not trust those. But he knew the art of war as well as any craftsman knew his pots, idols, or yokes. War was simple. War was loyal. It always gave what you expected.

  He decided to follow the enemy.

  Later in the day, his patience was rewarded.

  The procession of captives and their massive guard reached a small camp. Shimshon saw low hide tents, with their flaps pulled down to keep the wind away. Spitted goat roasting over small fires. Soft music and drums. Laughter, singing, and the vices of ordinary men pressed into war. Not unlike the people of Ammon.

  It didn’t matter. He would slay them all.

  Finally, a familiar clue. One of the tents was more majestic than the rest. It was covered in colorful materials, silk, goldcloth and thick furs, and there was some kind of honor guard around it. Dogs sat or lazed among the humans. This meant he would have to disguise his scent if he intended to sneak behind their lines. He tried to guess the sentry rotation, the habits of those standing watch. It was difficult keeping track, but he focused. This was fodder for his fury, his need for vengeance.

  After a while, a burly man stepped out of the large tent. He had all the trimmings of a chieftain or a notable warlord, just as Shimshon had expected. War never disappointed.

  The people of Gomer, Meshekh, and Tubal, and that was one of their leaders.

  “They call themselves Cimmerians,” a rough voice whispered to his right.

  Startled, Shimshon spun around, lashing out with his sword, but the tip only bit cold, rainy air.

  A scrawny man was kneeling a safe distance from his blade. His skin was the color of ripe dates, with lots of tiny, bumpy scars on his face and arms. Shimshon knew of a Pul tribe who cut their flesh and inserted little stones into the wounds, so they healed as hard boils. It was a sign of bravery.

  What was a Puli doing here? If he was a Puli.

  The stranger didn’t seem concerned by Shimshon’s attack and he remained squatting, resting with his backside on his heels, staring at the camp. “I am Mndnau.”

  Telling someone your name usually meant killing them wasn’t your chief concern. Shimshon let himself relax a little, but only a fraction. “Shimshon.” His own voice sounded strange and too loud after three days of poignant silence.

  “I have heard of you. They say you strangled a lion once, with your bare hands.”

  Shimshon still gripped the sword ready. His eyes darted over the bushes and trees behind him, seeking the man’s accomplices, but no one came forth. There was no danger. “It isn’t true. I had a small knife. I stabbed the beast to death.”

  Mndnau nodded. “I see.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I have come to witness destruction.”

  Shimshon bristled, looking around. “Speak plainly.”

  For the first time, the scrawny man glanced at him. He had a thin, gaunt face with prominent cheekbones, curly hair that barely covered his scalp, and shrewd eyes devoid of fear but full of intelligence. “The destruction will not end here, Shimshon. After they destroy your land, they will come for us. They will never stop.”

  Shimshon swallowed, spit and omen mixed into a hard lump. “Are you a messenger from God?” Which god? his conscience protested.

  “If we follow His word, aren’t we all?”

  “How do you know about these...Cimmerians?”

  Mndnau was looking at the enemy again. “The sons of Cush remember the ancient times. We remember the first battle against the beast. We count time, and we await its return. In this war, the fates of all nations will be remembered.” He glanced sideways again. “I have traveled the four corners of the world, searching.”

  Shimshon was fascinated by the man’s words. His Aramaic was clipped and hurried, but he spoke with eloquence and precision. The rapid beat of Shimshon’s heart subsided. The hollow pressure behind his ears and in his throat eased. He breathed in deeply, slowly. “Searching?”

  “For the one who will defeat the dragon.”

  Shimshon’s blood chilled, his body going taut. The sword was a heavy presence in his right hand.

  “Men are arrogant. Men easily forget the lessons of the past,” Mndnau preached in a low, meaningful voice. “People think they can subdue the beast. But by its nature, the beast cannot be controlled. It cannot be subdued. It must be destroyed, or it will destroy men. Those who follow it are just slaves.”

  Shimshon rubbed his temples. His head was beginning to hurt. “What does it mean?”

  Mndnau shrugged. It seemed as if his bones rattled. “I have walked among the people of Gomer. I know their hearts. They are the same as yours and mine. They dream of the same things we do. But they worship the dragon, and it demands their souls.”

  They can worship whatever they want. I will have their souls and their hearts. “They are men. They bleed. They die.”

  “There is always one man who thinks he can master the dragon,” Mndnau continued. “And he must be stopped, before it is too late. He plots in the name of his god, but he will bring ruin upon us all, and in the end, upon himself.”

  Shimshon was watching the Cushi carefully. “Is that the one with gold on his armor?”

  Mndnau pointed. “Him? No. That is no one. A meaningless soul.”

  “Prince Gog?”

  The scrawny man smiled, his teeth perfect white. “So, you are the promised one.”

  Shimshon waved his hand nervously. First, his mother and Iermiah. Now, this stranger. He didn’t want anything to do with their promises and expectations. He had a serpent to slay. He would avenge Ammon. He was tired of stories and legends.

  “Where do I find Prince Gog?”

  Mndnau pointed again. South. “In Gat, at the palace of Prince Zabul of Pleshet.”

  Can I trust this dark man? Shimshon wondered. Of course not. He couldn’t really trust anyone. It was impossible to know what the truth was. But if Iermiah’s story was right, great chaos was coming, and he would need every scrap of help. For the time being, if Mndnau wasn’t wielding a sword against him, he might as well be a friend.

  War, a simple, honest affair. “Then, that is where I will go.” His scouting was done. He flexed his wielding hand, fingers twitching with anticipation. Off to Gat to slay the dragon and its master, and if this wiry Cushi was lying, he’d meet his own death all too soon. Slowly, Shimshon began crawling away.

  “No. If you go there now, on your own, you will fail,” Mndnau warned him.

  Shimshon froze, a chill running down his neck. “What do you mean? Why?”

  The scarred stranger squirmed, shifting his balance ever so slightly. “You must not travel to Gat alone. If you do, you will die. We will all lose. The world will end. You must find another way.”

  You must not go to Iabesh… Different places, same threat. “How?”

  “You must find it yourself.”

  Shimshon breathed hard through his nostrils, thinking. “And you?”

  Mndnau nodded thoughtfully. “I will shadow you and protect you where I can.”

  More omens. But now, he believed the dark man. The image of Dlila crossed his mind. Suddenly, he had a plan.

  CHAPTER KAF-GIMEL

  CAN A CUSHI CHANGE HIS SKIN,

  OR THE LEOPARD HIS SPOTS?

  “We need you,” Aluf Hananiel Ben Ezra said. Such a simple admission, from the best warrior of the Biniamin tribe. Shimshon should have felt honored, but he mostly felt annoyed.

  Don’t lash out at this man. It’s not his fault. “You have a great army,” he said instead, wiping his face and arms with a wet towel. The linen came off grimed with road dust.

  “Not great enough,�
�� Hananiel countered. At his side stood the aluf of Iehuda, Nissim Bar Iohai, normally a rival and now a close ally. He was a man with a shrewd face and narrow eyes; a quiet man who mostly listened and judged, and then used other people’s words to his advantage. A warrior with a scholar’s patience.

  The two Israelites had their great, unresolved differences, and each vied to put a king in the City of David. It was a matter of pride and deep honor as to which of the two largest and mightiest tribes would rule over Israel.

  However, ever since the Gilo had started reeking of rotten eggs, they had set their bickering aside and found common ground. Survival quelled even the greatest pride.

  “Three myriads in Biniamin. Four myriads in Iehuda,” Shimshon recalled. They should have been fighting the foe already. Shimshon glanced toward Moriah. There were several priests outside the temple, and he had a distinct feeling that they were watching him.

  “Far too few to fight this enemy. Their weapons are superior. They have great horses...” Aluf Hananiel trailed.

  And the serpent. Shimshon touched the hilt of his new sword. “Well, if all goes well, you will not need to fight them.”

  Hananiel stared at him as if he had lost his mind. “You really intend to do this?”

  “I never make idle boasts. I said I was going to slay Prince Gog.” And Prince Zabul. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “May God protect you,” Hananiel blessed him.

  He doesn’t mean it as an insult, Shimshon reasoned. “You, too.”

  The two leaders knew there was nothing else to say. Shimshon nodded and walked toward the house where his mother and Dlila waited. He approached the front yard with trepidation unlike any he had felt before a battle. For almost a week, the Plishtit had been alone with his mother. Who knew what the two women had discussed.

  Probably my weaknesses, my past life. Judgment passed by those who understand nothing of a warrior’s creed.

  Shimshon sighed with relief when he saw Iermiah inside the house. The prophet’s presence meant his mother hadn’t had the opportunity to scheme entirely on her own. It was just that she never gave up trying to make him love her God, to make him an Israelite. But then, Iermiah meant a whole lot of other problems and schemes.

  “Greetings, Iermiah.”

  The look on Rami’s face was clear. “You will be going on your own?”

  “No. Dlila will be coming with me.”

  Iermiah grimaced. “Do not take her with you. Please.”

  Shimshon frowned. “If you’ve had a vision or a warning from a malakhim, tell me. If this is your distaste, then keep it to yourself.”

  The prophet was silent for a while. “Just a feeling. God has nothing to do with this.”

  “Then she comes. I will need a disguise. I cannot rush into Gat on my own. I will be seen and discovered. But she can pretend to be my wife, and she is familiar with the customs and habits of the Plishtim.”

  “And you think she will aid you? Betray her own people?”

  Shimshon did not miss the implied accusation. The way you think I betrayed mine? “She will not betray me. I saved her life.” She likes me.

  “You mistake gratitude for loyalty. Out here, among her sworn foes, she has no one to trust but you. You are, as far as she is concerned, a foreigner. But in Gat, she will be among her own folk, her own gods. Her need to belong will return. The question is, will her fondness for you be stronger than for what she’d known and trusted all her life?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “Son! You have returned!” his mother cheered as she walked in from a side chamber, Dlila at her heels. His eyes settled on the girl, watching her carefully. She just offered a tiny smile.

  His mother approached and touched his cheeks, pulling him closer. He could probably stop an ox dead in its tracks by holding on to its harness, but he could not resist those hands. She kissed his forehead.

  “I was worried,” his mother said in a hushed tone.

  Shimshon sighed. “I must go again.”

  Rukhama looked displeased. “Son?”

  He ignored the whiff of guilt that filled his nostrils. “Later, Mother. Dlila?”

  The girl’s smile vanished. “Shimshon?”

  “Come with me.”

  Both Iermiah and his mother scowled, but he ignored them. Wordlessly, he led Dlila out and onto a side street, then toward the battlements. They climbed to the top of the wall. Shimshon paid no heed to the looks from the Biniamin warriors, who scrutinized the nokhrit among their ranks with suspicion.

  He took a deep breath, ignoring the burnt stench emanating from the Gilo.

  “I must go to Gat. I want you to come with me.” He let it out all in one quick, short breath.

  Dlila’s face was unreadable. “Shimshon.”

  He swallowed. “Yes?”

  “You keep secrets from me. Time and again.”

  Shimshon frowned, suddenly uncertain about his intentions.

  “You never told me your mother was an Israelite.”

  He wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or troubled by her words. I guess I never mustered the courage. “There wasn’t time.”

  “Can I trust you, Shimshon?”

  He squeezed her hand. “Yes. Yes! You can. I swear.”

  She did not try to pull away. “Why did you not tell me? About Iermiah? About your mother?”

  “I wanted to protect you.” Coward. Liar. “It...who they are makes no difference to how I feel about you. If you had known, you would never have agreed to come here, and...I would have lost you.”

  “What else have you kept hidden from me?” Her voice trembled.

  Shimshon paused. “Nothing. I promise. And from now on, there will be no more secrets.”

  The Plishit was silent for a while. “My nation has fought against your people for generations,” she said in a quiet, frightening tone.

  “Not my nation,” he snapped and regretted his tone instantly. “I am an Ammonite. I worship Melek. I follow my father’s footsteps.”

  “Yet, you are here, in the holy city of Elohim, and you are going to wage war, to help the Israelites. Against my people.”

  Shimshon swallowed. “Look. Please.” He pointed toward the yellow vomit caked round the banks of the Gilo stream. “There. That is a sign. If I do not fight now, the world will end. Everyone will die. Everyone. You saw what happened to Rabba. You saw what happened to my kingdom. My people are gone.” Melek is dead. “The omens are clear.”

  “That is what your god tells you. And the Hebrew god. But I don’t know what Dagon says. I cannot feel him inside this city.”

  “This is a battle between the good and the evil.”

  Her blank expression wavered. “So, what are you asking of me?”

  The wind was making her black locks flutter out from under the rim of her head cover. He grabbed one of them, twirled it between his fingers. Soft hair, fragrant, made smooth with palm oil. “I need your help.”

  She squirmed nervously. “What do you intend to do?”

  He wouldn’t lie to her. He would never lie again. “I must kill Prince Gog. And Prince Zabul.”

  Her lip quivered. “Prince Zabul leads my people!”

  Shimshon grabbed her shoulders. “He has made a pact with the beast. If I let him finish his plan, there will be nothing left in the whole world. The serpent will devour everything. Life will be destroyed.”

  “But Pleshet will be strong,” she whispered.

  Shimshon remembered Mndnau, waiting outside the city. “Can a Cushi change his skin, or the leopard his spots? A dragon is not a beast to be tamed. It cannot be tamed. It must be destroyed. Your prince has made a grave mistake, and we will pay with our lives unless he’s stopped.”

  Dlila looked like she was about to cry. “You ask me to abandon everything. Everything!”

  “I ask you to trust me.” He took a deep breath. God, give me strength. “To love me.”

  She blinked rapidly, her eyes turning moist. “Y
ou do not wish to kill my people?”

  Once I’ve destroyed the Magog, there will be nothing to stop Biniamin and Iehuda from attacking Pleshet. They will be strong and incensed. But he could not ask alufs Hananiel and Nissim to stay their troops. Prince Zabul made his choice, and after his demise, the Plishtim would have to fend for themselves.

  “These will be trying times for your people. They may be defeated in this war.”

  She was staring at him, listening to his words carefully.

  “I have no quarrel with your people.” He felt strange saying that. Not because he didn’t believe it. Simply because of where he was: among his mother’s kin. There was a sensation on his skin, like pricks from gnats. An itchiness, and it seeped through, into his soul.

  “I will slay the princes, and I will slay the beast, and any who raise their sword against me. Then, there will be peace among the tribes and nations of this land.” Even as he said it, he didn’t quite believe it. War was in people’s hearts.

  “If you succeed, then my nation will be gone,” she whispered. “I will have no one.”

  Shimshon remembered the day he’d met her, the death of her father, the mention of her worthless kin in Sorek. Dlila’s need to belong had not weighed on her soul that heavily back then. It must be the City of David. She had turned in on herself. “You will have me.”

  Half an eternity later, Dlila wiped her cheek. “I will come with you.”

  Shimshon closed his eyes and sighed with relief. “Do you know your way to Gat?”

  She nodded. “I have been there before, to sell goods with my father.”

  “Do you know the layout of the city?”

  Another nod.

  “Can you help me enter the prince’s palace?”

  Hesitation. “Yes.”

  “Then we must go now.”

  They were riding Dlila’s cart again, loaded with borrowed silk and wine. The men of Iehuda saw them safely to their tribe’s southern border, almost all the way to Bet-Pelet in Edom. Shimshon intended to approach Gat from Hurvat Eked so the Plishtim would not suspect anything. It also made more sense, with the war raging in the north.