I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 21

  “After the king returned to Rabba, I led the sally instead. We chased the enemy for almost a week through the desert and south of the Dead Sea, until we finally caught up with them close to Enged. We slew them all and learned they had prisoners.” He looked at Dlila. “They had one man and two women in chains.”

  She brushed a lock of hair from his face. “Go on.”

  Shimshon looked up at the bare walls, the calm, clear murk of the shaded chamber. “The man was an Israelite named Manoah, and he had his wife with him, Hazlelponi. The other woman was a young Plishtit named Timnah, from Moladah.”

  “Why were they taken prisoner?”

  “I never learned. I didn’t care back then.”

  Dlila frowned. “What did you do?”

  Shimshon hesitated for a moment. “I was stricken by the girl. She was beautiful, like you, and vulnerable. But she was also brave, because she looked me in the eye when I approached with a gory sword in my hand. Just like you did when I saved you.”

  Gently, he pushed Dlila off him and rose, standing naked in the late morning chill. “Against my better judgment, I let Manoah leave unharmed, not caring about his motives, or why he’d been taken prisoner by the Plishtim. It made sense, as he was their foe. I offered to escort Timnah safely to the borders of her city, but she decided to stay with me.”

  Dlila waited.

  “I wanted to marry her, but my father objected. My mother did, too. And the king. He wouldn’t give his blessing. So, I traveled to Moladah and married Timnah in her town, in secret. Her kin weren’t happy about me and harassed me for many months.” He recalled the bickering after the wedding night, the ambushes, the bloody fights. “In the end, we were left alone.”

  Shimshon took a deep breath, to keep himself calm. Even after all these years, the memory was raw and painful. “A year into our marriage, Timnah was with child. King Tobiah sent me to fight the Menashe tribe. I returned victorious, having secured the fealty of the tribe’s elders, and brought back great tributes to Ammon. Then I learned Timnah had been murdered. Manoah had stolen into the palace in Rabba and drove a knife through her heart. He was captured and held for me to be his judge. Before I killed him, he told me that she was meant to be his concubine and that his wife was barren. The day I rescued her, I had ruined him.”

  Dlila kicked the sheets off her legs, stood up and came close. She touched a trembling finger to his cheek. Was it wet? It could not be. She murmured something that might be a prayer. Then, loudly, “So, you must hate the Israelites.”

  “I hate that I was weak that day. I let mercy cloud my thoughts. I swore I would never let it happen again. There’s darkness in my heart whenever I think of my mother’s kin, yes; but it wasn’t the blood of the Hebrews that made Manoah kill Timnah. It was simple malice, and that does not come from his god, or mine, or any. That is a crop that we harvest as we walk this land, every day.”

  Dlila squirmed. “But Melek must—”

  “If he still lives, Melek does not care about me anymore.” He sighed, trying to smother his fury. “I promised I’d never be weak again. I would never let love stay my hand. Except I broke that promise again, when I met you. Time and again.”

  She smiled weakly, sad and elated at the same time. He never had talent for deciphering people’s thoughts or faces, except he was good at seeing fear in the eyes of other men. He was good at anticipating the next blow of their swords. But not this.

  Her fingers reached into his curls. “Do you love me?”

  “I do,” he croaked, feeling ashamed.

  “If I ask you a favor, will you oblige me?”

  Shimshon frowned. “What is it?”

  “Will you ever cut your hair?”

  Shimshon had not expected that. He cocked his head, feeling wary and baffled, his head swimming with swirling emotions. “I cannot do that.”

  “To prove that you love me?”

  I promised my mother… He hesitated. He did love this woman, and he would do anything for her. It was that simple.

  He moved away from Dlila, toward the pile in the corner of the chamber where his clothes, leathers, and weapons were. He reached into a small sheath and pulled a long bronze knife out of it. The edge was sharp. He placed it against his scalp, above his ears. With the other hand, he tugged on his locks, waiting for Dlila’s nod.

  She watched him, carob eyes as mysterious as ever.

  “Shimshon,” a voice called from behind him, beyond the goatskin veil hanging over the entrance.

  Rami.

  “What do you want, prophet?” Shimshon growled, angry. How dare the bald drunk intrude here?

  “The kohanim must see you,” Iermiah said in a tone that sounded almost reverent, frightful. “Right now.”

  “What do they want?”

  Iermiah cleared his throat. “Come. It is of utmost importance. Please.”

  Dlila bobbed her chin, a tiny motion. “Go.”

  Shimshon put the knife on the bed. “I do love you.”

  Her eyes teared. “I know.”

  He grabbed his clothes and left.

  CHAPTER LAMED-HE

  USE IT WISELY, SHIMSHON

  What was that feeling?

  Fear.

  It could not be.

  But apprehension it was, in his bones, in his muscles, deep in his soul as gravel crunched under the worn soles of his sandals, and each step took him closer to Mishkan Elohim. A small crowd of levis was gathered outside the temple, watching, waiting for him. The entrance to the hall gaped black and menacing.

  I cannot go in there. Crunch. Another step.

  Iermiah was silent and grim. Shimshon suspected he knew more than he was telling.

  “Shimshon of Rabba,” one of the lesser priests announced, voice clear in the chilly morning. He inclined his head ever so slightly in greeting.

  Shimshon desperately watched the man’s face, trying to spot any danger, any ridicule, any sign, anything. But it was impossible to learn the reason for their urgency, or the fact they had invited him to the temple. Why would the kohanim want that? Would they allow someone who worshiped other gods inside? And what if they did, what would happen? Would Elohim consider that a slight against Him?

  “I will wait here,” Rami whispered.

  Shimshon moved forward reluctantly, trying to hide his hesitation. He wouldn’t let them see him fret or worry. His eyes jumped from one man to another, his nostrils flared at the scent of burnt oils and herbs. He tried to guess what waited inside the temple.

  One of the levis lifted his arm, holding a small wooden bowl. Shimshon stepped back.

  “To cleanse your skin,” the priest said in a calm tone.

  I could just turn back. Grab my sword and fight the Cimmerians until they are all dead.

  But that would not help him slay the dragon.

  This was an omen.

  He nodded and let the priest smear oil on his face, neck, and arms.

  “Enter.”

  As his eyes adjusted to the murk of the temple, he started to noticed details. Staring at him were two large statues of divine messengers made from olive wood, side by side, wings spread, touching in the center and brushing against the temple walls. Each had four wings and four faces. They reminded him somehow of the serpent. It was an unsettling thought.

  He saw no one, so he walked on, alone, undisturbed in the quiet of the temple. In front of him was a large door made from two separate pieces of cedar inlaid with gold, with veils hanging from the ceiling in purple and bright red.

  Like the Tower in Bavel, he thought, pushing the doors open.

  The other chamber had bowls of oil burning in the corners smelling of olibanum. In the center, there was a stepped pedestal of stone with a gold-plated chest on top. Two miniature versions of the messengers had been cast in pure gold on the chest cover, wings touching.

  Shimshon’s heart beat faster.

  He could feel divine power in this place.

  He could feel the Hebrew god, suffering his pre
sence.

  “You have seen what few sons of Israel have glimpsed across generations,” a voice said, startling him.

  Shimshon spun to see a tall man standing at his side robed in pure crimson. He was bald and had his eyes closed. “Why is that?”

  “It is forbidden to step in here. Even I must purify myself and fast before I may enter, on a single day of the year. But God has allowed you in here, Shimshon, because you have a holy goal.”

  Shimshon swallowed, looking back at the gold chest. “To kill the beast.”

  The kohen smirked softly. “Yes.”

  “Why would the...God choose me?” Shimshon hissed, feeling bitter, confused, honored.

  “We do not know all His ways. We do not question them. But you must fulfill the task. No one else can.”

  Shimshon glanced around the chamber.

  The high priest pointed his chin toward the pedestal. “Open the Ark, Shimshon.”

  Aron Ha’brit, he realized with cold dread. The Hebrews had used it against the serpent only days earlier.

  Legs weak, Shimshon climbed the steps to the top. His skin tingled. Expecting the gold to be scalding hot, he carefully put a single finger on the chest cover. The gold was cold, just like the air surrounding it. But there was something else: the briefest of tremors that you couldn’t quite feel. He remembered the sensation when he visited Melek’s temple, but this was different.

  The power that suffused his blood felt strange, thick, lively.

  What am I doing? He wondered. I am not an Israelite. This isn’t my god. I shouldn’t be here.

  His thoughts felt hollow. He was lying to himself. Ignoring the signs.

  I must defeat Tariav.

  He gave in. He let his mother’s god into his heart.

  The mix of cold rapture and fiery agony surged up his arm and almost made him stagger. He had never felt this close to a god before and the emotion was overwhelming. It took all his strength to remain standing. He knew he could end it just by taking his hand off the gold, but he wasn’t the one to surrender. Ever.

  Voices burgeoned in his head. Tiny whispers in a language he’d never heard before, and yet he understood it perfectly. He knew what those voices were. God’s messengers, haruvim, telling him secrets no other man had known.

  Shimshon put both his hands on the cover and pushed. It was very heavy and refused to budge. He squared his shoulders, sucked in smoky, scented air, and pushed hard again, straining until his whole body began to quiver, a coarse, breathless growl dancing on his lips.

  The cover slid open a fraction. He was sweating, his elbows and shoulders on fire. Finally, the heavy gold top gave way and he could see what was inside the Ark.

  Panting, he leaned against the chest, recovering his breath and strength. The bottom of the chest was covered in what looked like chunks of dried tree resin. Resting on the bed of hardened flakes was a pair of stone tablets, their inscriptions too faded to read in the weak light of the inner chamber. Placed diagonally across them was a fine, smooth wooden rod with a ball-like appendage. It looked like the staff the kohanim had.

  He took the rod out and realized the appendage was a living fruit, not just a wooden carving. A pomegranate.

  “That is Aaron’s Rod,” the high priest said. “Use it wisely, Shimshon.”

  Holding the staff in both hands, he stepped back from the Ark, feeling tired. He was drenched in sweat and stank of oil.

  When he walked back into the larger hall, it wasn’t empty anymore. It was lined with priests, old and young, dressed in their colorful robes and holding imitations of the rod he carried. They gazed at him with pure adoration and terror, witnessing something no one else had seen in a thousand years. He wasn’t sure why the Hebrew god would let him carry this holy implement, but it did not matter now.

  He was going to destroy the serpent.

  Outside the temple, the ram horns were blaring again. Iehuda was astir with the sounds of fighting and death. Shimshon didn’t know how long he’d spent in the temple. The morning looked as gray as before, but for one thing.

  The Gomer were attacking again.

  CHAPTER LAMED-VAV

  DESTROY THE BEAST

  Iehuda was a wounded animal; tired, bloody, and dangerous. With one last heave of stubborn spite and pride, it lurched back into battle, battered and exhausted but still fierce. The alufs were coordinating the defense, making the long ranks of worn, spent men form up and stagger forward against the myriads of Gomers and their allies.

  From the top of Moriah, Shimshon could immediately see the warriors of Israel were no longer shackled by fear of death. They no longer hesitated, their movements confident, almost arrogant. They had tasted combat and they understood this fight. They had to win or die.

  Shimshon liked simple fights.

  He wanted to toss Aaron’s Rod away and reach for his sword, but something within his soul stayed his hand. You are not here to slay men. You must accomplish a different task, it told him.

  It was torture.

  He watched the soldiers mill over hills and through gullies, like mud after the first torrents of Tishrei, gliding over drenched earth. Their tribal colors were muted, filthy, making the men of Iehuda and Biniamin look like an angry rabble. Opposing them were the thick, dark ranks of soldiers in dark bronze and thick leather, made for fighting in cold, far places.

  The two sides met with a crash of screams and bronze and gray. For a moment, the line dividing the warring factions held still, as if someone had frozen the tide of the sea against the pebbles on the shore, but then it shattered like old clay and death spilled over. The Cimmerians had learned their lesson, but so had alufs Hananiel and Nissim.

  Shimshon watched, powerless, guiding the troops through gritted teeth with his thoughts.

  Chanting broke the spell of his fascination. Turning around, he saw the kohanim, holding the golden ark on their shoulders, praying. Their song made his skin tingle. The rod felt warm in his callused palm.

  It took quite an effort to turn his back on the priests and focus on the battle. Time stretched out, filled with thin rain and thick screams.

  The enemy was too strong, too numerous to stop.

  Soon, there were stains of Tubal and Meshekh and mounted Magog burgeoning in the fabric of Iehuda, and the defense line wavered, then unraveled. The horns blared, and the Israelites began a steady retreat toward the city.

  I cannot step off this hill, he realized. But if I stay here, we will lose.

  “I will help you relay the messages you have,” a familiar voice whispered at his side.

  Shimshon wasn’t surprised to find Mndnau there. “You are a messenger,” he said with cold conviction.

  The wiry, scarred man shrugged. “We all do our duty. Tell me, Shimshon.”

  Shimshon took a deep breath. “Instruct Nissim to dispatch his archers to the front. He shouldn’t spare any. Let them take position to the northwest and loose all their arrows. We must stop the enemy’s left flank.”

  The Cushi ran away, the tireless trot of his bare feet against the coarse, hard ground, yet he wove past hunkering pockets of soldiers with a speed and grace that belied reason. It was like watching a desert cat hunt in the rushes.

  The sound of prayer intensified.

  Shimshon’s head began to hurt from concentration and worry. He forced himself to wait, counting under his breath, waiting for his commands to be relayed, for all units to take heed and respond. As he stared, his eyes watering, he thought of Dlila again.

  He’d left her... with a promise of his love.

  “Do you know what will happen when you face the serpent?” someone else said.

  Startled, Shimshon spun around. A stranger leaned against a boulder just below the crest of the hill, looking quite relaxed and unconcerned by the wails of war around him. He looked like any other man of the city, wearing plain white robes shot through with blue. There was nothing about him that would make Shimshon remember him, except that tiny, careless smile. Around them, pri
ests were too busy to notice and soldiers were dazed and staring west, toward the battlefield.

  “You will burn,” the stranger continued. “You will burn.”

  Shimshon didn’t move. The knowledge bestowed upon him by the voices when he’d touched the Ark kept him standing right there. He knew what he had to do.

  “You will die.”

  The words rankled him, terrified him. This time, he wasn’t afraid to admit fear.

  If I die... Dlila. She will be left alone. And our love... his confidence faltered.

  “But there is a way you can live through this.” The man tossed something at his feet. It was a pair of bronze scissors. “You must cut your hair. That is the only way to save yourself.”

  Shimshon shifted his grip on the rod. Was this another of God’s messengers? “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  He did.

  The promise to his mother. To his god. He’d broken it already. There was a price to pay.

  Feeling wooden, he bent down and picked the small tool, holding its cold metal fingers in his other hand. He just had to shear his fiery locks away, the bond that kept him shackled to Israel. Cut if off and save himself. No! If I do it, I’ll do it for Dlila. Not to save myself. But to save our love.

  It was a selfish, frightening thought.

  But it felt right.

  “Shimshon.” An urgent, desperate plea. Rami.

  A stone’s throw away, the prophet stood holding Dlila tightly round her neck, a knife pressed to her skin, facing the smiling man. Rami looked haggard, defeated and torn, but there was grim determination on his old drunkard’s face. Shimshon knew the prophet would pull the knife with a steady hand.

  “Shimshon,” Iermiah repeated. “Do not cut your hair.”

  Dlila was crying, eyes red and swollen, her face a tortured mask of beauty and pain.

  Shimshon felt his whole body go taut. “Iermiah, what are you doing?”

  “Do not listen to that serpent’s follower. You must not cut your hair.”