Delilah: A Novel (12 page)

Samson ran over and knelt beside the mass of flesh that only moments before had been a living man. “No,” he said, and rolled the body onto its back; Kimmer’s head fell sideways, the bones of his neck smashed by his own weight. The giant’s body seemed to shrink as the soul departed; that, more than any other sign, proclaimed death.

The silence lasted only a few heartbeats. Then Orev heard men’s voices raised, shouting, a chant that chilled his blood.

“Samson! Samson! Samson!”
The young men who had urged Samson to wrestle pushed forward, reaching for him, eager to lift him up, to praise him.

Samson did not move; he remained kneeling beside the man he had killed. “Be silent. Can you not see this man is dead, and at my hand?”

“So should all Philistines be.” The man who spoke glared hot-eyed at the dead wrestler. “I am Enoch, Samson. Only speak one word and I will follow you until Canaan is ours and we can walk as free men.”

Samson looked up at Enoch. “I need no followers. And I walk a free man now.”

Enoch spat at the dead man lying at his feet. “You won’t if this dog’s fellows call up the Philistine guards against you.” Enoch turned to face the rest of those who had shouted Samson’s name in triumph. “Are we going to let Philistines take Samson, the first man to strike a blow against the Five Cities?”

Shouts of
“No!”
rose loud and fast; Enoch smiled, a predator’s flash of teeth. “Come then—let us drive off the guards. Stones will set them running. For Samson!”

Behind Enoch, Samson set his hand on the dead man’s face, gently closed the sightless eyes. Then he stood and touched Enoch’s shoulder. When Enoch turned, Samson said, “Leave the guards alone. Leave the marketplace alone. Leave this town in peace, Enoch.”

For a moment Orev thought Samson’s quiet words might prevail. Enoch’s gaze slid away; he could not meet Samson’s calm eyes. Then, between one breath and the next, Enoch spun around and raised his arms. “Come, friends! Let us hunt down the guards, purify this marketplace with the blood of those whose deeds corrupt it!”

“For Samson! Samson!”
Chanting this battle-cry, the crowd wheeled around, started off towards the market-stalls. Some paused to catch up small rocks, others waved staves.

A cry of alarm cut the air; someone had seen the mob and fled. The hunters began to run, chasing the fleeing man.

“You damned ignorant fools,” Orev whispered.

“I have to stop them,” Samson said, and Orev shook his head.

“You can’t stop them. No one can stop them, Samson. They lust after blood, and if you don’t lead them in the chase, they’ll turn upon you and claim yours. And if you stay here, the Philistines will seize you for slaying their Champion of Gath in the wrestling ring.”

“He didn’t deserve to die,” Samson said, and Orev grabbed his friend’s arm.

“Well, I don’t deserve to die either, and I cannot escape on my own.” For the first time in years, Orev called upon his lameness as an excuse. Nothing but the need to save another would move Samson from doing
what he thought was right—and Orev had no intention of allowing his friend to surrender himself to the Philistines in a vain attempt to cloak the folly of others. The only thing that mattered now was taking himself and Samson far away from the circle of sand outside the market of Beltorath.

They walked, heading east to the hills, and did not look back.

The day had seemed longer, the road dustier, and the stones in the road harder than Orev had thought possible. At last he grew weary of either trying to keep pace with Samson or watching Samson try to shorten his strides to stay by him. He stopped, and almost wished he hadn’t; pain that movement had nearly numbed flared up his lame leg, keen as a heated blade. “We should rest soon—as soon as we can find some shade,” he said.

Samson glanced at him, and then concurred. “Yes, it’s time to stop. You look—”

“I’m not tired,” Orev snapped, only to hear Samson finish, “Too red. The sun burns hotter here.”

Glad of the excuse, and gladder still that the sun’s fire hid the rush of blood to his face, Orev nodded.
I should have known better than to think he would fling my lameness at me
.

“Where can we find shelter in this deserted land? No trees, no springs—nothing.”

“Remind me again why you decided we should travel this road,” Samson said, and then, “Look. Lion.”

Orev looked and saw nothing, save bare earth and barer rock. Samson laughed. “Not stalking among the rocks. Look at the stones themselves.”

Orev looked again, and saw that what he had taken for an odd gap in the massive stones was instead a gateway—or the remains of one. Two upright stones, crowned by lions carved into ancient rock, were all that remained of what once had been a gateway into a fortress. Time had smoothed the lions to sleek ruddy images facing one another above
the narrow opening. One of the stone beasts had been carved with a heavy mane spreading over its neck and shoulders. The other lacked that embellishment; a lioness.

“A mated pair, guardians of the gate until time ends.” Orev moved to lay his hand upon the lioness’s stone flank. The sun’s heat had soaked the rock; the carved muscles felt warm as life. “I have heard a man sing of such a gate. The Song of Helen—a woman for whom a thousand ships sailed to far-off war—”

“Why?”

“Because she was so beautiful all men desired her, and one prince stole her from another. When will you stop asking why?”

“When I know everything, and so never will I cease asking.”

“A wise answer.” Orev traced the outline of a huge stone paw. “A lion gate guarded one of the cities in that song.”

“This city-that-was?” Samson spread his arms, indicating the barren heaps of stone beyond the lion gate.

“No, a city far away, across the sea to the west.”

“What was it called, that city?” Samson asked, and Orev smiled.

“At least you now ask what, and not why. Mykenae was its name, and through its Lion Gate the High King drove in his chariot, down to the black ships that waited—” Orev stopped, shook his head. “No. I will not be tricked into singing the whole Song of Helen when we should find shade, and drink and rest.” He looked at Samson and added, “Very well, one question only. Then we rest.”

“What happened to the High King?”

“He went to war, and when he returned long years later, his queen slew him.” Orev added, before Samson could ask, “Because the king had sacrificed the queen’s daughter to a goddess so that the black ships might sail, that’s why. Now we rest.”

Orev unfolded his cloak and spread it in the shade cast by the stones of the ancient gate. He opened his goatskin pouch and drew out hard bread and a lump of harder cheese. “We must earn more food soon. This is all we have.”

Samson didn’t answer; his eyes seemed to look into the past, see the city as it once had been.

“The city is gone, yet the gate remains, guarding . . . what?” Samson stared at tumbled stones and rock-bound weeds, at wild poppies scattered like splashes of fresh blood among the ruins. “Perhaps those bees?”

Orev’s gaze followed Samson’s pointing hand. It was true; bees flew towards the lion’s head, disappeared in shadow behind it.

“Bees mean honey,” Samson said, and despite the lure of honey for the stale bread, Orev shook his head.

“Bees mean stings.” Orev felt obliged to point this out, although he knew that if Samson had decided to gain the honey, he had little chance of dissuading him.

“They won’t sting me.” Samson’s serene conviction might be true, but Orev still pushed himself to his feet and moved away from the lion gate. Even if bees wouldn’t sting Samson, they would feel no such reluctance to attack Orev.

As he watched Samson reach into the crevice behind the lion’s head, Orev noted his friend’s slow, careful movements; unangered by this human intruder, the bees swirled around Samson, landed upon his skin and hair, paying him as little attention as they did the stone lions guarding their hive.

“Come on. The bees won’t harm us.” As bees crawled over his face, Samson whispered something Orev couldn’t hear, then pulled out a handful of honeycomb, its rich sweet liquid clinging to his fingers, slipping down his wrist. “Have some honey. It’s good.”

“Come away from the hive before the bees sting your eyes out.” Orev’s fear transmuted to anger. “Are you
trying
to get yourself killed?”

Samson only laughed, and licked honey from his wrist. “Bees like me. They’ll not wound me.”

“Someday, Samson, you’ll encounter a creature that doesn’t like you—then what will you do?”

“I don’t know,” Samson said, and brought the honeycomb over to
Orev. “Make the creature like me, I suppose. Here, eat this. There’s plenty for us both.”

Orev took the honeycomb and had to agree that it made their humble meal infinitely more palatable. The two of them remained still, eating quietly, as the bees hummed their endless song, intent upon their eternal labor. A peaceful sound; Orev closed his eyes to listen and wonder how he could re-create such bee-song with voice and harp. Surely it could be done . . .

The steady hum changed, turned harsh and angry. Orev looked up at bees that seemed to boil in and out of the hive behind the stone lion’s head. “Time to leave this place to the bees,” he said, and Samson put a hand on Orev’s shoulder.

“Be still. Something troubles them; don’t add to their worries.” Samson seemed to listen, as if he could understand the frantic buzzing. After a moment, he rose to his feet and, moving with slow care, walked through the standing stones of the lion gate.

Curious, Orev waited as the bees seemed to settle once more into a calm industry. Ignored by the diligent insects, Samson walked back through the gateway. In his arms, he cradled a golden-brown beast. He set his burden down beside Orev, who found himself gazing at a lion cub. The cub stared back and hissed.

“Samson, are you mad? Its mother will rend us both like butchered goats!”

Samson shook his head. “Its mother lies dead in the rocks beyond the gate. Half a dozen arrows are buried in her flesh, but she dragged herself back here for her cub. Hunters should finish off their prey, not leave a wounded beast to die slowly.” Samson frowned and ran his fingers down the cub’s back; it arched like a kitten against the caress. “I think it’s hungry,” Samson added. “Give it some of the cheese.”

Sighing, Orev cut off some of the dry cheese and dropped it in front of the animal. As the lion cub pawed and licked at the unfamiliar food, Orev said, “I suppose it’s no good saying you should cut this little beast’s throat now. It would be kinder than letting it starve.”

“It’s past needing its mother’s milk,” Samson pointed out. The cub’s coat had lost its infant spots, was losing its soft fuzzy texture, smoothing into what would become a sleek tawny pelt; clearly it had been weaned already. “And it’s old enough to run along with us, if it chooses. We’ll need to find it some meat soon.”

Orev didn’t bother to enumerate the myriad ways in which adopting an orphaned lion was a bad idea. “Well, in that case, we’d better move on. There’s nothing here but honey and lion meat, and only jackals and vultures will eat that.”

Samson agreed and, before Orev could object, reached down and lifted him easily to his feet. They gathered up their few belongings and started off down the hill to the strip of hard-packed earth that passed for a road.

The lion cub skittered after them until it reached the edge of the road. There it sat and mewled, piteous as a starving babe. Samson turned back and scooped the cub up, settled it into a fold of his cloak.

“Samson—” Orev began, and stopped as his friend looked at him with eyes as round and innocent as those of the lion cub nestled in his arms.

“He must be weary from hunger, if he wishes to be carried.” Samson scratched the cub under its chin; it leaned into his hand. “What were you going to say, Orev?”

“Nothing important,” Orev said. “And since no one’s going to carry
us
, I suggest we start walking.”

So the two of them—three, if one counted the lion cub—continued their random journey. Despite the hard road and hot sun, Orev enjoyed the serenity the wilderness offered. He refused to think of what lay behind them, or ahead. He knew it was already too late to hope for peace when they reached the lands of men once more.

When I am weary or foolish enough to look back upon that long-ago time, it seems to me that all changed between one day and the next; that suddenly the only gossip I overheard concerned the newly risen Hebrews and their faceless god. I know it cannot truly have been so; it seems so only because that god and I warred over those I loved, and so I think too often on what might have been.

It was true that the Hebrews had moved against the Five Cities, and that these wanderers were fierce fighters. They coveted the land ruled by the Five Cities, its fertility, its access to the sea. The Lords and Ladies of the Five Cities sought to control this threat, and for a time, the Hebrews were beaten back to their hills.

But the peace that had been our greatest blessing from the gods had been shattered. The borders were no longer firm as stone walls, nor the roads safe. The first raid upon a merchant caravan by bandits from the hills caused an uproar that must have woken the sleeping stars. The Lords and Ladies of the Five Cities met and sent half their armies to capture those who had committed this outrage.

By the time a dozen full moons had risen, wise merchants hired their own guards when they traveled. Soldiers patrolled the border between the Hebrews’ lands and our own. Things had changed so that no
one thought a skirmish worth more than a passing word, unless one of the men who died in it belonged to the speaker’s family. A troubled time; an uneasy, precarious compromise between true peace and outright war.

In Ascalon, in the Great House of Atargatis, we seemed untouched by the strife in the world beyond our walls. Illusion again, for the Temple’s farms lay at risk, as did the Temple servants who tilled the soil and gathered in the harvest.

“At least the Groves are untouched.” Priestess Iliat, a Full Moon, said to her friend Gildori as they walked across the Garden Court, and Gildori answered, “Untouched this moon. But next moon, and the next?”