Delilah: A Novel (11 page)

Samson grew into a young man who looked very little like anyone else in any village Orev knew, and he remained Orev’s friend. Orev truly appreciated that, for to be Samson’s companion only added to Orev’s importance. Being Zorah’s harper had gained Orev a certain standing in the village; its people took pride, now, in having their own singer of songs and tales.

But Orev knew that being a harper and Samson’s friend granted even greater status.

For Samson, in addition to being taller and stronger than any other young man in Dan, also possessed an odd ability to draw others to him. Perhaps that was an inevitable result of his exceptional strength and his handsome face. Tall, strong, handsome; if Yahweh had bestowed these attributes upon Samson, surely Samson must also have been blessed with wisdom and good judgment. So men admired him, women desired him—and Samson remained oblivious to his own worth in the minds of others. And as the Five Cities pushed harder against Hebrew attempts to move west, towards the fertile plains, an increasing number of Hebrew young men grew impatient with caution. They demanded action, longing to take the land by force from the Philistines. Now Samson’s unconscious lure, his very appearance an implicit promise of greatness, turned into an unexpected problem.

For years, Orev had heard the men of the village complain, bitterly, that the Five Cities ruled too harshly. But now the precarious balance of opposing peoples and gods that had been known as peace in the land of Canaan seemed to have tipped too far. The new generation of Hebrews intended to do more than complain. They intended to strike, and to conquer. Just as the Hebrews had conquered long ago, when the war-leader Joshua destroyed the city of Jericho. The restless young men saw no reason that heady victory should not be repeated in their lifetimes. They lacked only two things to set Canaan ablaze, or so they thought.

Weapons—weapons stronger than the deadly iron of the Five Cities.

But even stones could kill, and bronze blades had slain men for twice a thousand years before iron had been dreamed of. Orev had heard enough careless talk to know that lack of iron weapons would not deter those who hated the Five Cities, if only they possessed the one thing they fiercely clamored for, the one thing they must have in the inevitable conflict.

A leader.

A war-leader was more precious, and harder to find, than iron swords. So Orev didn’t worry overmuch about rumors of rash men training for war and laying up stores of stones for slings and straight wood for spears—until the day he journeyed to Eshtaol, to sing at a wedding feast, and four men took him aside and asked if he was the harper who was Samson’s friend.

Unease pricked Orev’s skin, but there was no point in lying. “If you mean Samson who dwells in the village of Zorah, the son of Manoah, then yes, I know him.”

The four exchanged glances, and smiled. Their spokesman said, “I am Jehu, and these are Netan, Achbor, and Eli. We wish you to take a message to Samson for us.”

“Why not walk over to Zorah and speak to him yourself?” Orev asked.

Again they looked from one to another, this time apparently silently consulting. Jehu shook his head. “No. It will be safer if you carry our words to him.”

“Why? I know Samson well; his nature is sweet as honey and he does not anger easily. You may speak to him without danger.”

“The danger would be to him,” Jehu said. “Until all is prepared, it must not be known.”

What must not be known, you fool? You’ve already told me all your names
. It would be the work of a few words with the nearest Eshtaol housewife to learn more about the four than they knew about themselves. But since Jehu, Netan, Achbor, and Eli doubtless were not as sweet-natured as Samson, Orev did not wish to anger them.

“Very well. Tell me what you wish me to say to Samson, and I will tell it to him.”

Jehu drew in his breath, and then spoke low and swiftly. “Tell him we will follow him. Tell him we are not the only ones who but await his signal. Tell him there is a meeting place prepared in the hills, where the three streams meet. Tell him someone waits there each new moon.”

Is that all?
Orev let no sign of his irritated amusement touch his face. “When I see Samson, I will tell him.”

“You will remember all I said?” Jehu asked urgently, and Orev allowed himself to laugh.

“Brave Jehu, I am a harper. I remember hundreds of words and have them ready to tell perfectly at any time. I can remember forty words easily enough.”

Orev set the incident aside until the wedding feast was over and he returned to Zorah. But once home, he set out in search of Samson without wasting any time in rest. It was never very hard to track Samson down—he was always helping someone build something, helping someone carry something, or lying under the ancient oak on the hillside above Zorah.

This time he was under the oak. When he saw his friend, Samson lifted his hand. “What troubles you, Orev? Why have you hastened up here when you’ve just returned from Eshtaol? Sit down.”

“What makes you think I’ve hastened?”

“I watched you walk up the road, and then go to your house, and come straight here. And you look troubled. What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong is men assuming your common sense means you’re a great warrior
. Orev sat beside Samson. “Samson, do you know four young men named Jehu, Netan, Achbor, and Eli?”

Samson shook his head. “Why? Should I know them?”

“Probably not, if you are wise,” Orev said, and then repeated, perfectly, the message Jehu had sent.

When Orev fell silent, Samson frowned. “I wish they’d stop sending me messages. Orev, do I look like the leader of warriors to you?”

Orev considered the matter carefully; his friend deserved an honest answer. “Samson, many now seek a man to follow, to lead them to war with the Five Cities. And you look like no other man in all of Israel and Judah. You are taller, and stronger, and very fair to look upon.”

“That’s not a very good reason to think I can lead them to war.”

“Sometimes, Samson, it is all the reason men need.”

If he could have had only one prayer granted, Orev would have begged for the ability to strike men mute. As far as he could tell, most of the world’s troubles began because someone couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
And see what harm befalls? No matter what Samson does, he will be at fault
.

The trouble began when someone boasted of Samson’s prowess—something Samson himself never did. Orev had traveled to Beltorath, knowing harpers were much prized there, and Samson had chosen to accompany him. Fate turns on trifles; Orev never did have an opportunity to claim a space in the marketplace and offer songs for sale that day. And Samson’s life was forever changed.

Beltorath lay just to the east of the Way of the Sea, in a pleasant valley that permitted easy access to the town from the trade routes; a position that granted it an importance greater than its size alone justified. As a result, Beltorath had become home to an endless market, where merchants offered the treasures of the wide world to any who passed by.

The market lured others to Beltorath as well. Men seeking amusement gathered there, as did those who plotted mischief. What better place to meet than an open marketplace? Who would think that men talking where any might see them plotted secrets? Or, if they were foolish enough to do so openly, that those secrets could be of any great import?

Samson and Orev had wandered idly through Beltorath’s bazaar, Samson staring in amazement at the vast array of merchandise spread out so that men’s and women’s eyes might gaze upon it, and desire it, luring them to purchase what they saw. Everything the world produced
seemed available here: useful tools and pottery, beautiful fabrics and exotic gems, extravagant spices and rare woods, rich gold and silver jewelry, and useless trinkets proclaiming that their purchaser had once visited Beltorath’s famed marketplace.

Past the marketplace and its booths lay the sheepfolds and the pens for goats and for bullocks, the lines where fine horses were tethered until a potential buyer wished to examine them. Orev subtly guided Samson’s steps in that direction, rather than to the street where slave traders offered their living wares. Samson could neither buy nor free them, and Orev thought it better to avoid the area than to embark on an endless and pointless argument.

For if I hear one more time that among our own people slaves have rights and are granted freedom after seven years, I shall run as mad as they say most harpers are by nature
.

Afterward, he wished he had led Samson to the slave-market. It would have been easier to smooth over any trouble there than to mend what happened when they passed through the beast-market.

As Samson admired the horses, and began a long discussion with one of the traders about whether a horse or an ass was of greater use, Orev glanced back the way they had come.

I was right; we are being stalked
. The harper recognized the angry longing on half a dozen faces; young hotheads who hungered to strike out against the Five Cities. Orev had a keen memory; he remembered Jehu’s face, and Achbor’s. If those two were there, the others slowly approaching must also be eager to rise up in violence. Orev touched Samson’s arm. “Since you are not buying a horse, let us go on. Others will wish to see this fine animal.”

Ignoring the protests of the trader that merely discussing the beast with so knowledgeable a man as Samson brought pleasure, Orev drew him away from the horse lines. Trying to avoid encountering Jehu and his friends, Orev led Samson around the animal pens, heading back into the maze of the marketplace, only to find their way blocked by a broad circle of sand surrounded by men yelling encouragement to two wrestlers.

As Orev and Samson paused, the match ended—apparently in a draw—and both men bowed to each other, and all those who watched stopped yelling and either fell silent or muttered sullen curses. A draw meant no one who had gambled won—except the man who guarded the pledges.

As the two men walked out of the circle, another strode onto the sand of the wrestling ground. Silence honored him; he stood taller even than Samson, broad with hard muscle and so clearly a certain victor that no one would wager against him.

“What is he?” Samson asked, and Orev said, “A Rephaim, I think. A tribe of giants. I did not know any still lived.”

The moment’s pause proved disastrous; before Orev and his companion moved on, those who had tracked Samson through the market gathered around him. Before any of Samson’s would-be followers spoke, the giant standing in the center of the sand circle shouted out,

“I am Kimmer, Champion of Gath, and no man has yet beaten me on the sand. Who dares challenge me? Never have I been thrown, so any man who throws me even once shall be given a silver bracelet. Any man who defeats me shall have the gold band I wear about my throat and be proclaimed Champion in my stead.”

The giant’s voice rumbled, thunderous; only silence answered him.

Samson touched Orev’s arm and began to turn away from the circle of sand. But Jehu moved faster, stepping sideways to bar Samson’s retreat. “Well met, Samson, and at a fair hour. I am Jehu, whose name you have been told by your harper.”

I am not “Samson’s harper.”
For some reason, the words stung, but Orev refused to yield to unreasoned anger. And he could tell by Jehu’s face that the man’s nerves were strung bowstring tight. Such a man was a danger to himself and others, so Orev held his tongue as Jehu swiftly continued.

“Samson, you challenge the Philistine champion, of course? Trust us, he is no match for you—your victory will show the Five Cities they do not rule the world.”

“I challenge no one.” Samson’s calm refusal only spurred those who had followed him to anger.

“You must. Honor demands it.” This set off the pack of them; cries of “Samson challenges!” and “Yahweh commands it!” caught Kimmer of Gath’s attention.

The giant slowly turned and stared over the heads of those standing outside the circle of sand. His eyes met Samson’s. “So you challenge? Good. You—little men—make a path for Samson the brave.”

As the Hebrews cheered, the rest of the men surrounding the wrestling ground silently obeyed Kimmer’s command. The nearest backed up, jostling into those behind them, to open a pathway onto the sand for Samson.

Samson looked at Orev. “I see I must fight, whether I will or no. Have you any words of wisdom for me, Harper Orev?”

“Let him throw you swiftly and accept defeat gracefully,” Orev said, and heard a hiss of “Coward!” He did not recognize the voice.

Samson stared at Kimmer of Gath, who waited patiently. “Wise counsel, Orev. But I think the Champion of Gath will not be fooled by so easy a victory.”

“Then fight fairly, but be careful” was all Orev could think of to say. He tried not to imagine what he could possibly tell Manoah and Tsipporah if Kimmer of Gath harmed Samson.

Samson walked through the gap in the waiting men, onto the hot pale sand. He bowed to the giant; Kimmer bowed in return.

At first the match moved slowly, as both Samson and the giant from Gath tested each other, judging speed and strength. Then they closed, entering upon a long struggle that ended with Kimmer of Gath lifting Samson and tossing him to the sand. Samson rolled out of the fall and up again in one fluid motion, spun to face Kimmer again.

“Well done!” Kimmer called out, and Samson smiled, accepting the praise.

The watching men cheered both wrestlers; the sound made it impossible for Orev to call out advice to his friend. He could only hope
Samson would not make it necessary for Kimmer to win by injuring him. For all his height and strength and his uncommon good sense, Samson was young, and Orev knew precisely how cautious and sensible young men were—especially when roars of exultant approval urged them on.

Be wise, Samson. On the next fall, stay down; yield. Admit defeat and we can leave before anything worse occurs—

Even as Orev formed the thought, it was too late. Kimmer charged Samson, reaching out, and Samson grabbed the giant’s arm and fell backwards, using Kimmer’s massive bulk to send him flying across the sand. The Champion of Gath, who had never been thrown, did not know how to save himself. His head slammed into the sand with all the power of the throw and the weight of his body behind it. The crack of bones breaking echoed in the sudden silence. Kimmer, Champion of Gath, lay where he had fallen, his body limp and his head bent beneath his chest.