I Shall Slay the Dragon! Read online

Climbing up to the rama, he encountered several sons of the Gad tribe, vassals to King Tobiah, and when they recognized him by his fiery hair, they did not bother him. Good. He had expected his reputation would keep strangers meek—and at a distance. He was not in the mood to fight. He was preoccupied with the beggar's words.

  The town ahead was the chief border outpost of the Menashe tribe. These Israelites had an uneasy alliance with the King of Aram. There was no way of knowing how long it would last. Shimshon saw men of both nations as he approached the huts and the barley terraces. For now, there was peace in Menashe.

  He wasn't pleased to be there. The Menashe folk were fickle. They had changed allegiances three times in the past two years and now they favored the ruler in Haleb, even though he prayed to different gods than theirs. But the piece of cloth and its black stitching guided him. North and east.

  Melek, give me a sign, he pleaded, but his god was silent.

  The pale men of Haleb and the Israelites both spared him curious, suspicious glances as he rode into the town. The low wall was manned by spearmen, and they held their weapons in nervous hands, but they did not—dare—stop him. Shimshon knew he invoked fear. He was tall, his shoulders two cubits wide, his curly hair like a lion's mane. He had unveiled himself, so they could see him.

  The town was busy. Ample trade, busy hands everywhere. Peace agreed with the Menashe.

  There was a pleasant sound of goatskin drums and singing coming from a low house ahead, just after a crossroads. It was a tavern of sort, Shimshon thought, but it wasn't marked in any way.

  He decided he must go there. Something in his blood told him it was crucial.

  Shimshon tied the horse and the donkey to a post, checked the straps on the pack, ducked under the mud lintel, and stepped down into the cool building. There was a brief pause in the merriment as the patrons turned to regard him. He was used to that. He simply walked in and found himself a quiet place behind an empty table, his back to the wall. He was parched and quite hungry. He wanted to slake his thirst and fill his belly before the dusk prayer. The stone shelf was cool under his buttocks.

  Shimshon waited patiently until the owner came forward.

  “Greetings,” the man said, shuffling over. If he had an opinion about Shimshon's presence, he kept it to himself. “Peace of this house be on you.”

  “And you, too,” Shimshon said. “Goat and wine.”

  “Half a shekel, my lord,” the owner stated.

  Shimshon laid down two silvers on the rough wood. Then, he slid a third. “And peace.”

  Soon, he was eating, but peace wasn't quite what he got. It wasn't the singing that bothered him. There was a drunk man in the opposite corner of the tavern, talking loudly, drawing unnecessary attention. He looked like a Menashe tribesman. Shimshon tried to ignore him, but the words slithered into his ears like flies.

  “...but if you didn't have the ox, you'd have lost nothing,” the drunkard said, then laughed. His crowd nodded appreciatively. Some were seated on slabs of rough stone pushed against the pocked mudbrick wall. Others lounged on mats of reeds, smoking or chewing on gat leaves.

  Shimshon just couldn't take it any longer. “Following your logic, the poorest are the wealthiest of all. It does not make sense, Israelite,” he rumbled. The singing stopped again. Then resumed.

  The drunk raised his head. A bald, egg-like head. “But it does.” Then, he frowned. “Who speaks there? Ah, a stranger with magnificent hair.” The crowd chuckled softly, but they minded their manners. They could see who the hair belonged to. “Yes, when you have nothing, you are pure.”

  “What fills your belly, then?”

  The drunk waved his hand. “That's not important.”

  Shimshon snorted and focused on his meat. It had more logic than the Israelite.

  “Where do you hail from?” the drunk persisted.

  Shimshon ignored him. Tried to ignore him. Well, he was to blame, too. He had spoken to the drunkard first.

  “You haven't told me!”

  “Enough,” Shimshon snapped. Almost immediately, some of the wiser guests moved away from the drunk.

  “So much fury. There's no need. I have a proposal, stranger. You buy me another cup of wine, and I will tell you another story.”

  “I will buy you wine if you promise to be quiet,” Shimshon said.

  “A deal.”

  Shimshon snapped his fingers, and the owner moved with the wine skin to refill the drunk's wooden cup. But as soon as he'd slurped it, his beard dripping, the drunkard resumed his silly tirade. “There was a time when the Lord—”

  Shimshon was aware he was among the Israelites. Insulting their god wouldn't do. “You are not keeping your promise.”

  “Maybe I need another drink.”

  Shimshon wiped his chin and rose. More of the patrons dispersed. One or two brave souls remained. Slowly, Shimshon moved over and took a place at the bench by the drunkard. The fool was watching him with droopy eyes, totally unconcerned.

  Another old man staring at me without fear in his eyes. That must be an omen, too.

  “What is your name?” Shimshon asked.

  “Iermiah,” the drunk said.

  “Good. Now, try to be quiet and let me savor my meal.”

  The bald man gestured with a wobbly hand. “Plenty of empty tables for everyone. At this table, we share stories.”

  Shimshon rolled his eyes. “And are you a bard?”

  Iermiah grinned and raised a finger. “No. I am a prophet.”

  Shimshon felt his blood turn to ice. A prophet? Now, that was an omen. “Really?”

  Iermiah nodded. “You can call me Rami. My friends call me that. Now, I don't have many friends—”

  “Yes, yes. Now, Rami, may I have a private word?”

  The would-be prophet scowled. Then, his face brightened. “Of course.”

  Shimshon glared at the few remaining patrons. They quickly found themselves busy at other tables. “I want to ask you something, Prophet.”

  Rami looked down at his empty cup meaningfully.

  “Later.”

  “All right, ask.”

  Shimshon could hear his heart thud. “What does ‘triv’ mean to you?”

  Iermiah blinked slowly. He actually paused to think. “Nothing at all.”

  Shimshon felt his hope deflate. But maybe Israelite prophets couldn't help those who prayed to other gods.

  No, not omens, just madmen and drunkards, spitting their poison and insanity.

  “But I think I know someone to whom it might mean something,” Iermiah said suddenly.

  Shimshon looked at the other guests. A few were trying to eavesdrop on their conversation, but no one seemed really concerned. They didn't like him, but there was nothing in their stares he hadn't seen a thousand times before. Envy, fear, wonder. “Where?”

  Iermiah smiled. “You're lucky. We will go together.”

  “Where?” Melek, give me a sign.

  The prophet raised his finger again. “To Bavel.”

  CHAPTER GIMEL

  MELEK GIVES ME STRENGTH

  Shimshon had to admit, he liked the prophet’s company. He was chatty and that made the time pass faster. Only, his gift came with a price: he asked too many questions.

  “So, what did you do before you met me?” Iermiah pressed him, warming Shimshon’s cheek with a pointed look. The bald man was relentless.

  Shimshon brushed the edge of his veil. It was a pleasant morning, so he had not wound it around his face yet, but now he had Rami’s curiosity rather than the sun to sting his skin. “I was the Minister of War for King Tobiah. I still am.”

  Iermiah gave the blanket on the donkey’s back—Shimshon’s donkey—a light slap. “Oh, so you are the famous Shimshon.”

  “I might be.”

  “So, what were you doing, then, before coming to Mahanaim?”

  Shimshon sighed. “There was a rebellion against the king, in Iabesh. I was going to quell the uprising. Then...” He still could not
tell the prophet about the encounter with the old beggar.

  “Iabesh Gilad?” Iermiah emphasized.

  Shimshon spared him a weary look. “Yes. The Apharsim.”

  Iermiah sucked his lips. “Troubling, indeed. I heard King Ezra was also displeased with them. He wants them removed, too. But I told him, if they embrace the Lord, they become like us. We must learn to live in harmony, the sons of Israel and the nations around us. We must not war among ourselves. We are all children of Lot.”

  Samson frowned. “You believe that?”

  Iermiah shrugged. “There are bigger threats.”

  “Like what?”

  Rami spared the arid landscape a quick glance. “All sorts.”

  Shimshon didn’t quite believe the prophet’s words. “I am not convinced.”

  The prophet looked surprised. “Well, you know what they say about the Ammonites.”

  It took a moment for Shimshon to realize Iermiah was trying to be funny. “What do they say?”

  The prophet smiled. “All sorts.”

  Shimshon couldn’t keep a straight face. He grinned. “All right, I’ll grant you that one.”

  Rami reached into a deep pocket of his robe and came out with some olives. “So, you’re the king’s nephew, are you not?”

  Shimshon didn’t like discussing his family. “Yes.”

  “And your mother?”

  There. “She is one of...yours.”

  The prophet raised a brow. “Your mother is an Israelite?”

  Shimshon hesitated. “Yes.”

  “And yet, you worship Melek?”

  “Melek gives me strength,” Shimshon bristled, perhaps too harshly. Only recently, he gives me no answers. Just omens and riddles.

  The prophet eyed him carefully, then withdrew his gaze. “Interesting.”

  Shimshon sniffed. This family talk was souring his mood. He diverted his annoyance at the bald man. “Do you have a wife, Prophet?”

  Rami frowned. “I guess I do. I just can’t remember where I last left her.” He laughed.

  Shimshon wanted to relax, but upsetting thoughts nagged at his soul, and had ever since he met the old man at his army camp. “So, what does your god say about...me?”

  Rami made a blank face. “What does the Lord say about you? Ha!”

  Shimshon tried to suppress his fear and curiosity. “Tell me.”

  “In due time. When we reach Bavel.”

  Shimshon kept quiet for a brief while. He thought about the last years of skirmishes, bad trade, and mistrust between Ammon and the tribes of Israel. He wasn’t quite sure he understood his neighbors. Some paid tributes to his king and yet others to Haleb, but they mostly bickered among themselves about who would rule from Shomron to Iehuda. But they must have their motives, to be sure.

  “Any wife yourself, Ammonite?” Iermiah was chewing noisily on an olive.

  Shimshon gazed into the distance. “Had a wife once. A Plishtit.”

  Rami slapped his thigh. “Oh, this gets better and better. A Hebrew mother, a father from Ammon and a wife from Pleshet? You are an intricate soul, Shimshon.”

  Shimshon grunted. He knew the prophet was teasing him. If Iermiah was any other man, Shimshon would have cuffed him long ago, but he sensed this Israelite was important. It couldn’t be mere chance that he’d met him. First the old man, then Iermiah, and now they were going to Bavel, where the wise men would help him unravel the secret of the little scrap of cloth and its mysterious writing.

  “Why aren’t you serving any king?” Shimshon asked, trying to turn the subject back to the prophet.

  Rami spat an olive pit over the donkey’s head. “People rarely listen to my advice.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because people only listen to what they want to hear. They don’t like bad news.”

  Shimshon smiled. “For some reason, I feel you like to deliver them.”

  Rami didn’t smile back, turning serious. “I only tell what the Lord tells me.”

  Shimshon felt the fine hairs on his neck stand on end. He wished Melek would guide him. But with every hoofbeat, he was getting farther away from the familiar and friendly. And now he had a drunk Israelite prophet for company. “Do you think the wise men of Bavel will help me?”

  Iermiah waved his hand. “They have books and scrolls in every language of the world. They will surely know something.” The prophet scowled. “You didn’t tell me why it’s important.”

  Shimshon couldn’t admit it was just a bad feeling he had. He feared the Israelite would mock him. “Never mind. What are your reasons for going to Bavel, Prophet?”

  Rami rubbed his bald, suntanned head. Shimshon wondered how the man could ride in the open sun without a veil, but the prophet didn’t seem bothered in the least. “Never mind that.”

  Shimshon snorted.

  Iermiah smiled, nudging the donkey up a small dirt trail that circled a flat-topped hill covered in ocher scree and thorns. “This will be an interesting journey.”

  Shimshon wondered how long it would take the two of them to travel to Bavel. They would have to cross the lands of many Aram tribes. Some might be friendly toward him, but he would not bet on their hospitality, especially the farther away they got from his king’s land. The people of Ashur were also not likely to show them any favors. Finally, Shimshon had no idea what to expect of the Bavelim.

  He only hoped time would not be his enemy. He could handle all others.

  They had ridden for two days now. Well, ridden was a loose term. Rami had sort of leaned on the donkey’s neck until he sobered, then spent another day in sullen silence, and finally let his tongue loose the third morning. They had traveled perhaps a dozen parsas. Hundreds more awaited them.

  “Are you any good with bow or sling?” Shimshon asked, thinking of their food rations.

  “Not really. But my words will charm alms on any doorstep.”

  “All right then. You will make sure we are lodged in the towns we go through, and I will hunt ostriches in the fields.”

  Rami nodded, seeming to miss the jest. “Sure. One more thing, Shimshon. Until we reach the sacred temples, let’s not announce my identity before all. Some might not like housing Iermiah the Prophet under their roof.”

  Shimshon smiled. “Oh. Is it because you are an Israelite?”

  The bald man frowned. “What? No. Not that. Other...problems.”

  Shimshon rolled the thought in his head. Women or monies. There could be no other reasons. If—

  Screams from behind the hill’s curve stopped his thoughts short.

  CHAPTER DALET

  THIS WOMAN, BAD IDEA

  Shimshon drew his sword. “Come with me, Prophet.” Iermiah held his reins still. “Human screams are never a good thing.” “No, that’s why we should investigate.”

  “Go the other way, you mean?”

  Shimshon snarled and urged his hob forward. The sturdy animal covered the ground quickly, kicking up scree and tiny, sharp rocks. Soon enough, he came around the hill’s bend and saw a single wagon in the middle of the dirt track surrounded by a handful of riders, puffs of dirt settling round their horses’ legs. They had tasseled spears and tasseled saddles, a design similar to his own, if poorer and less elaborate, and Shimshon knew they were from Ashur. Far from home.

  But so were their victims, it seemed.

  Nothing told him the identity of the lone woman, cowering on the wagon, or of the fallen figure lying in the dust by a wooden wheel.

  Five warriors, he noted, all well-armed, experienced horsemen.

  They were toying with the woman, Shimshon noted. Laughing, taunting, taking their time.

  Then, they saw him and stopped their game.

  A moment of silence stretched on. Shimshon gazed at the land, the creased hills dappled in gorse and thicket. He saw no other men there, no hidden archers or slingers waiting in ambush.

  He looked farther down the dirt road. The woman and the other pilgrim must have come from somewhere to the east, app
arently traveling on their own, without armed escort. Bad choice. The land was dangerous and if human predators didn’t attack, the animals might.

  “Who goes there?” one of the riders finally asked in broken Aramaic.

  Shimshon reined in his hob and spent a long breath appraising the riders. They looked like brigands. Or raiders. “Shimshon of Ammon, son of Menok. Who are you?” He pulled on the knot of his veil and his hair spilled loose.

  “Hanodeen,” the speaker announced, toting his spear high. A greeting? A challenge?

  “You have come a long way, Ashuri,” Shimshon warned him, having noticed his fiery hair wasn’t enough. The fools might choose to fight, he realized.

  The rider spat. “Brave words, Ammonite. Ride along and we shall spare your life.”

  So, they had not heard of him, or they chose to ignore the danger. Shimshon carefully studied the five strangers. They looked confident. Bad judgment on their part. In their midst, the woman was staring, petrified.

  Shimshon wiped the sweat on his palms against his tunic. “This isn’t your land. You haven’t got any right to harry travelers. If they paid tribute to King Tobiah, then you leave them be. Go back east.”

  “I piss on your king,” the chief raider swore.

  “I will give you one chance to apologize and flee back east,” Shimshon said calmly.

  “Melek take you,” the leader cursed.

  Shimshon heard a crunch behind him. He turned and saw Iermiah approaching reluctantly, the donkey’s ears flattened against its head. “You aren’t a hunter, but how about fighting with a sword, Prophet?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  Shimshon sighed. “All right, then watch.” Without another word, he urged his horse to a canter and charged the five men.

  The Ashuri were surprised. It took them a few moments to rally, but by then, Shimshon was among them, slashing. He didn’t like killing horses, but his enemies had longer reach. With a powerful swing, he almost beheaded the chief’s beast. The man jabbed with his spear, but was already falling off his dead animal and, on instinct, released his grip on the weapon as he extended his arms to block his fall. Rocky ground greeted his flesh.

  Shimshon ducked to the right, the loose spear cutting the other way. Deftly, he grabbed the shaft from the air, turned it around in his palm, and rushed onward.