I Shall Slay the Dragon! Page 5

  Shimshon stoppered the second-to-last skin. Once he had filled the remaining one, he poured a good measure of water back, whispering a prayer to Melek. He felt empty saying the words. His god had burdened him with omens, and now he was left alone, trying to figure out the answers.

  “Stories, huh?” So, what do you know of triv? What does that mean to you? But he did not dare ask them. Was this another omen? Was this Melek testing his faith again?

  Dlila was back, carrying lentils, chickpeas, dried figs, and olive oil. It wasn’t much, but the gesture would promise them peace—and death to whoever broke it. She set the dishes down on the ground, around the small fire.

  “My lord,” the goatherd hailed. The dog scampered over, quickly sniffed Shimshon’s leg and dashed back to its master. “May you find refuge and protection in the shade of King Hadadezer. All travelers are free to drink the water from his wells and ponds, but you must pay the toll for the king’s road. And the use of his shelter.” The man pointed at the black tent.

  Shimshon reached for a small pouch of silver. “You serve the king, then?”

  “I do, my lord.”

  “Then you tell the king the roads are not safe. There are brigands preying on innocent travelers, and cheaters in his trade posts.” Shimshon tossed the pouch over.

  The goatherd snatched it expertly, obviously battling his curiosity and the need to indignantly defend his ruler. But a careful look from Shimshon persuaded him otherwise. He stepped back and waved. The archer on the other knoll waved back.

  “Blessings, my lord. Enjoy your meal and fire.”

  “There’s a story,” Madai said, sitting down cross-legged by his friends.

  Shimshon wondered if he should share any more details on the Ashuri and Warda, but he decided against it. He was more interested in what they had to say. “I’ll make you a deal, Madai. I will listen to your stories instead. In return, we give you some fine silks from Arpad. What do you say?” Dlila did not look too pleased.

  “Take Arpadi silk back to Arpad? Well, a trade is a trade. Fair, Shimshon. We shall tell you our own stories, then. But let’s pray and eat first.”

  Shimshon’s words to Melek rang hollow. He didn’t know why, and it bothered him.

  Done with prayer, they all sat around the fire, and soon enough, even Shimshon was able to relax a little. His shoulders were stiff from riding, but the smell of burnt aromatic twigs, Dlila’s food, and the taste of wine mellowed his tension. He almost forgot about why he was here, watching the sky darken purple to the east.

  One of Madai’s men raised his head. “There’s a storm brewing.”

  Shimshon could not smell anything. He frowned.

  “Not now,” the traveler insisted, as if it were obvious. “Soon. Soon. A big storm, coming from the north.”

  Shimshon felt his skin tingle, and it wasn’t the chilly breath of the desert. “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “The roads are busy and the trade is good. There is no war anywhere in the land,” Madai said, puffing on rolled camel dung. “But it does not feel like peace. It feels like the quiet before a storm.”

  Rami’s eyes had a distant glaze, but he just might have been drunk. “Out of the north, the evil shall break forth upon all the inhabitants of the land,” the prophet whispered.

  Riddles and damn omens, Shimshon swore. He tried to keep poison off his tongue. “What does that mean?”

  Madai shrugged. “You need to be prepared.”

  Shimshon touched the hilt of his sword. “I am always prepared.”

  “Some foes cannot be fought with bronze,” Madai’s man mumbled.

  This shall be a tiring journey if I keep on meeting lunatics at every crossroad, Shimshon thought, portent wearing on his fragile good mood. He looked at Dlila and cheered up. She was beautiful and quiet yet fierce; and so far, she had not opened up to his charm or wit or power. Yet, she still trusted him to keep leading her away from home. A strange woman.

  He did not want to think of his wife. He did not want to, but the parity was inevitable.

  Madai started telling innocent stories, taking the edge off the tension around the camp fire. He told them of the strange people they had met on the roads, the delights of Hazor and Edrei, and the fierce cats of Ierboa. Then he spoke of his past travels, way beyond known lands, where he had acquired his wisdom and knowledge of languages, and the symbols on his fingers. He might have been embellishing a little when he said the stars of the sky looked different far to the north, but out of courtesy, Shimshon kept quiet.

  “Does ‘triv’ mean anything to you? In any language?”

  Iermiah raised his head, frowned, then went back to staring at the fire.

  No recognition in Madai’s midnight eyes. He shook his head. “Apologies, Shimshon, but that word does not ring true of any culture or nation that I have seen.”

  Madai continued. His stories were wild, and against the backdrop of a crystal-clear desert night, they filled Shimshon with longing and dread. He was never one to fear anything, and the sense of foreboding made him wish the traveler would stop. He had bargained his share more than enough.

  Almost as if reading his mind, Madai stopped talking. He let the silence stretch for a little longer, then bid them good night and went to sleep in the black tent, his men rising as one. They left the embers burning. Shimshon got up, stretched his muscles, and moved back to Dlila’s cart. The girl followed him. The prophet remained seated, still staring at the red coals.

  Shimshon drew his sword and checked the blade. He would stay awake for the first watch; he could see the outline of the archer on the hillock. That man might not be alert enough to see anyone sneaking up on the camp, man or animal.

  “Have you been promised to any?” he asked her suddenly.

  Dlila shot him a furtive glance, then lowered her head, busy with the blankets. “No.”

  “Your father found no man suitable?” Shimshon insisted. It was hard to read her features in the dark.

  “I...there was a man. He passed away from consumption.”

  “And now that your father is dead, what will you do?” Shimshon plowed on.

  Dlila shrugged. “As Dagon wills.”

  “And...have you sought the comfort of another? Do you—”

  “I am mourning my father,” she cut him off. Fierce and brave.

  Shimshon retreated. “Sleep well.” He went back to get the prophet. Rami seemed to have fallen asleep.

  “Shimshon?” Dlila whispered.

  He turned around, maybe too quickly. “Yes?”

  “You look troubled. What is it that you are seeking?”

  I don’t know. An answer to a silly warning from a mad beggar? And yet, why do I find it so gravely, mortally important? “I will know when I find it.” Without being able to put his feelings into words, he just knew she was crucial to whatever he sought.

  “I hope you find it,” she said, kneeling, wrapping herself with a shawl and a thick blanket.

  Shimshon stood there for a moment, waited until she was cozy and her breathing settled. He checked the small nave, the half-tent, the travelers gently snoring close to their camels. There was no danger here. But he could smell it too, like that Madai’s man. There was danger in the air. Unexplained, vague, like mist. You could not grasp it, but you could almost taste it.

  He wanted to be on his way to Bavel. But it would still be a few weeks before they reached the great city. Until then, he had to do his best to keep Rami sober and focused, and win Dlila’s heart. He wasn’t sure which was going to be more difficult.

  “Iermiah, come here.” He touched the prophet’s shoulder. Like a boneless rag, the Israelite slumped sideways. His eyes were open, and only the white showed, like pearls, gleaming under the stars and the desert moon.

  What do prophets dream of?

  Shimshon didn’t dare contemplate the answer. He scooped the prophet in his arms, carried him off to the cart, bundled him with wool covers, and then started a quiet, lonely, co
ld watch, staring at the desert shadows as if each one hid an asp, or perhaps something much, much worse.

  CHAPTER HET

  WILL TWO SUFFICE?

  Shimshon was not prone to awe. He was not easily moved by sights and stories. As a king’s nephew and a great warrior, he had enjoyed wealth and luxury his whole life. He had seen and tasted greatness. But as he, Iermiah, and Dlila approached the great city astride the Efrat river, the scene stole Shimshon’s breath away.

  Bavel. The city, the empire, the center of the world.

  It was nothing like the tales and rumors. It was so much grander, more majestic than he could have imagined. Ripe fields led toward its hundred spires and domes, shining like marble in the sun. The weather was fair and the breeze pleasant, even though it was the month of Elul. Bugs fluttered above the whispering wheat, and Shimshon had to bat at them with his hand to keep their sting away.

  “The heart of civilization.” Iermiah spoke almost like a teacher. “Apart from the City of David, of course. In Bavel, many learned men sit and study the scrolls all their lives, unraveling the mysteries of creation.”

  A powerful nation, Shimshon knew. The empire had successfully resisted covetous attacks and raids from the Arameans, Ashurians, and tribes to the east for many decades. Its armies were not keen on conquest, but they fought ferociously to defend what was theirs. Knowledge had its strength, he realized. A lone town ruled by smart, shrewd scholars had quickly become a great kingdom. The name of the city and the empire had become one and the same.

  Shimshon gazed at the men and women of different nations, all converging toward the empire’s heart, drawn inexorably toward its magnificence, opulence, and wisdom. He spotted the women of Elam, their hands colored in henna up to their elbows. He glimpsed the men of Kasht, walking under the standard of their god Merduk. Chaldeans, Suteans, even people of Mizr. They had all traveled to this great place.

  “We will need rest,” Rami added.

  Shimshon nodded. Their animals were lean and tired from the exhausting passage through the desert. They were all weary, and would welcome fresh food and soft beds. Shimshon burned to learn more about his omens, but he knew he had to have his strength and senses about him when he went to see the wise men. After all, he had waited all this time.

  Which reminded him... “Where do I find these wise men?”

  Iermiah smiled. “In every temple and every school. Bavel has so much knowledge, if only you are willing to take it. But no, we will not go to just any place.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Soon.”

  Shimshon waved his hands. “You and your silly games, pro—” He caught himself in time.

  Fortunately, Dlila was too busy studying people. Not the city. She must mistrust strangers after what had befallen her and her father. He couldn’t blame her. Shimshon was inclined to observe the travelers around him too, to seek danger, but the city’s wondrous architecture simply drew his gaze.

  He marveled how the locals had built those spires. They rose too high to stand erect in the winds, and yet, they did not sway or collapse. Bavel was huge, and he could not see where the city ended. And all those domes. Some were colored like the land, brown, faded green and soft gray, but others blazed like the sun, with bronze scales and gold paint.

  He lowered his gaze, eyes watering.

  Then, just before the mud-colored walls, a sobering slap to his childish wonder: he saw several corpses, each spreadeagled and nailed to a pair of crossed timbers. Birds were pecking at their dead flesh, but the men and women of the city largely ignored the sight. It was the newcomers who gaped.

  “Thieves. Or murderers,” Iermiah explained. “Or maybe they have offended King Esar Haddon. He’s a crafty ruler, you know. He fought all his older brothers and defeated them in just one month of battles.”

  “A ruler with a liking for public lessons,” Shimshon noted.

  “The best kind,” Iermiah said.

  The closer they got, the more impressive the city became. The height and the thickness of its wall, built to withstand the desert itself. The incessant sound of ten thousand mouths and a hundred languages—and that was just the hundreds of caravans converging on Bavel.

  Ammon felt like the smallest of kerets in comparison.

  They passed through the Enlil Gate without being stopped by the dust-covered guards. Shimshon rode with his hair hidden under a cloth, so he was just a tall, large man in a saddle. As often was the case when there was unknown risk, he didn’t want anyone to know his identity until it was necessary. In battle, he would let his mane flutter in the wind, let his enemy clearly see him—and fear him. For now, he needed restraint and cunning. It wasn’t easy for him.

  He tried to concentrate, but the moment they exited the shaded vault of the great walls, his focus scattered in a hundred directions like a frightened flock of sheep.

  Sights, smells, noises, a thousand flavors of chaos. They assailed him like gnats, leeching onto his sweaty skin, drinking his blood and resolve. The alleys teemed with trade and wealth. Men and women alike proudly displayed rich jewelry. They walked robed in colors of blood and milk and bright green. Some had faces painted dark blue, some had them smeared in mud. Cages contained all kinds of animals, fowl and beasts and spotted cats and things that looked like hairy children. Beggars, soothsayers, and peddlers wormed through the crowds, shouting. Words mingled until they became a mindless buzz.

  Shimshon thought himself well-learned, a king’s nephew, a man of knowledge and possessions. And yet, he was humbled by the press of buildings, by the seething throng of people, by the colors and languages and sheer lavishness.

  He had just stepped into a different world.

  His sense of purpose evaporated. There was just marvel, thick on his lolling tongue.

  “Keep your purse to yourself and follow me,” Rami instructed him, his tone grave.

  Somehow, they meandered through the mob without an incident and reached a calmer part of the inner city. Buildings were spaced out here, with generous passages between them. Some had their own wells and little gardens. Fig trees cast pleasant shade above the walls and rooftops. Shimshon could breathe again. He released the tension from his lungs, relaxed his knotted muscles.

  He remembered why he was here.

  The roads were wider, and he stepped back to ride side by side with Dlila. The month of mourning was gone, and she bore bright colors once again. But all his best efforts to charm her had fallen flat so far. Even his great deed to restore honor to her father’s death wasn’t enough. She was amicable, even pleasant, but at nighttime, she kept to her wagon like a fortress.

  He wondered what stirred her passions. What made her desire another. He didn’t know. So, like her, he kept to himself, and waited.

  Only, after so many weeks of travel, Shimshon was feeling rather anxious to be with a woman. If not Dlila, then another would do. The kindness in his heart extended only that much. He was a man, after all. Bavel reminded him of his hunger—and the possibilities.

  “Where are you taking us, Iermiah?”

  “A respectable place. Owned by a friend.” At the head of their small procession, Rami turned and grinned.

  Their destination was a three-story tavern with small windows covered in dark-red cloth to keep the heat away. A statue of some foreign god guarded the front yard, the chiseled limestone eyes watching them smugly.

  “You are not worried about the idol?” Shimshon teased.

  The prophet shrugged. “Rocks don’t do much on their own. It is people who give them meaning.”

  Shimshon pointed with his head, to tell Dlila that she should follow the bald man inside. She seemed a little scared. It was understandable, after what she had been through. The press of people in this foreign city even made him quite anxious.

  “Tonight, we drink!” Iermiah announced cheerfully, and she startled, but then a tiny smile crept onto her lips.

  Drink and whore, Shimshon thought.

  The stable groom appeare
d from the back, speaking in Akkadian. Shimshon frowned, but there was no need for any great words between them. There was only so much one could do with a horse, a mule, and two donkeys. The Plishtit looked reluctant to leave her wagon, but after a second nod from him, she stepped off the worn bench.

  Shimshon moved toward the entrance. The lad yelled. Shimshon turned. The boy was urgently pointing at his feet.

  Shimshon unlaced his sandals and left them by the entrance where a whole heap of worn leather and rope footwear basked in the sun. Barefoot, he lumbered inside, the pocked stone cool under his skin. Dlila followed him.

  “My friend Shimshon the Irascible,” Iermiah introduced him.

  As Shimshon’s eyes adjusted, he noticed a short man at the prophet’s side. An Israelite, by the look of him. There was no mistaking it. He remembered the idol outside. “But the statue—”

  “Do not worry about it,” Iermiah cut him off. “Iftach has rooms for us.”

  “You got yourself a wife, Rami?” Iftach asked, looking at Dlila.

  Shimshon frowned, something approaching jealousy coloring his blood. That was an insult, but the prophet didn’t seem to mind, so Shimshon let it slide—barely. “She is with me,” he warned the man politely. He wondered who this Iftach might be.

  The short man raised his hands defensively. “I meant no disrespect. Forgive me.”

  Shimshon deflated.

  “He is a little hot-tempered. It’s all that hair,” Rami teased him. “Three of your finest rooms.”

  Shimshon just sighed. There was no point arguing with the prophet. A wild, raw idea nagged at his soul. He took Dlila by her upper arm and stepped aside, so that the two Israelites could not hear him. “Do you want to share a room with me?”

  She looked at him, those carob-colored eyes stealing his breath. Her lip curled up once. “No, I cannot.”

  He released her arm. “I understand.”

  Dlila readjusted the folds of her robe. She looked nervous. “Maybe one day.”