Delilah: A Novel (19 page)

“Oh, yes, we are that. As for what to ask for as our reward for leading the First Dance and the Last—I think it wisest to wait, and see what Fate sets in our path.” Aylah regarded me steadily, her pale eyes cool as winter dawn. “Someday we may be glad to own the right to ask for whatsoever we desire. I do not think we should wield that weapon lightly, on mere gems and garments.”

“But no man is without fault or flaw, no man is without a fatal weakness. Great Samson could resist any lure, overpower any foe, save one
.

“Strange women, strange women drew his eye and snared his heart. And when he looked upon such women, Samson forgot what he owed to his people and his god
.

“Yes, a woman beguiled him . . .”

Ascalon was the Pearl of the Sea and its women adorned it like living gemstones. Old ways still held sway in this ancient city; women walked the streets bold as men, dressed in bright garments that drew the eye. Many of the merchants in the bazaar were women, as were the artisans who shaped Ascalon’s famous pottery and the perfumers who blended fragrances in demand across half the world.

Nor did Ascalon’s women guard their eyes; they stared upon men as openly as men gazed upon women they desired. Samson drew women’s eyes in a blatant fashion unheard of in the Hebrew villages.

At least there women had the sense to disguise their lusts behind their veils
. Orev hadn’t realized Ascalon would be quite so enticing; he could only be thankful that Samson seemed to notice nothing untoward—but then, Samson was the least vain of men. He ascribed much of the interest
they attracted to Ari’s presence, and Orev agreed that the lion did draw people’s eyes.

Samson was more interested in Ascalon itself—women he could meet anywhere. The city’s massive walls fascinated him, as did the system for drawing water from the spring beneath the city. He examined the huge gateway and its arch, questioning the guards about the composition and structure of the tunnel leading from the tower gate into the city streets. Orev could only hope the guards, all of whom seemed happy to converse with this inquisitive foreigner, didn’t think Samson a spy.

Then there was the fascination of the forbidden: the temples of Ascalon. Dozens of small temples adorned the city, homes to as many gods and goddesses. But the chief ornament of Ascalon, and the most enticing, was the Great House of Atargatis. That temple dominated the western portion of the city, its painted walls reflecting the sea beyond it. Larger than most villages, the House of Atargatis ruled over far more than the mere worship of its goddess. Vineyards, farms, trade—the Temple controlled all those.

But what most saw was the Temple’s pious ceremonies of worship—and its priestesses, women flaunting the gaudy, decadent costume of a time fast fading from memory. Bare gilded breasts, slender corseted waists; seven-tiered skirts heavy with spangles and bells—supple, dazzling women whose painted beauty ensnared all who gazed upon them.

That such women might be claimed for an hour, or for a night, by mere mortal men only seemed to add to their aura of enchantment.

Orev had been dazzled himself when he first set eyes upon a priestess walking the smooth-cobbled streets of Ascalon. The priestess had seen him staring and had smiled; clearly Orev was not the first stranger to the city who had lost the power of speech upon beholding her. Samson, too, had stared—and at him, the priestess had gazed with a clear unabashed delight.

“I think she likes you,” Orev had said, and Samson had only shrugged.

“I think it is her duty to like everyone,” Samson had answered, smiling at the priestess, “and I think she would be easy to like.”

But when the priestess had beckoned, Samson shook his head, and she had merely shrugged and walked on. Orev had stared after her, watching the sway of tiny silver and shell charms sewn upon her flounced skirt. “She would have liked you to follow her,” he’d said, and Samson answered,

“Yes. But she is not the one for me.” Samson had stroked Ari’s head. “The Sun Partridge Festival begins tomorrow, you said?”

“At sunrise.” The merchant in the nearest market-stall offered up this information as he held out a garland woven of strange yellow flowers that turned out, when Orev touched them, to be made of cloth. “A garland for the Dance?” the man had asked, and Orev shook his head. “A garland for your beast, then?” the merchant had added hopefully, and Samson laughed and cheerfully handed over a lump of copper for a garland of cloth poppies.

“Next time, at least let me do the bargaining,” Orev said, after Samson had hung the garland about Ari’s neck and they had wandered on down the bazaar. “If you can even call it bargaining when you hand over whatever the merchant asks without saying a word.”

“It’s a festival” was all Samson had had to say in his own defense. “And the garland looks well on Ari.”

Orev had given up, and contented himself with the knowledge that Samson gained wealth as easily and cheerfully as he lost it again. And there was too much to gaze upon to spend time arguing. All Ascalon was prepared for the Sun Partridge Festival. Flowers and fruit and banners bedecked buildings; at each corner men and women set in place huge jars of wine and dozens upon dozens of small clay cups.

Samson had aided in this endeavor, his strength making a hard task simpler at half a dozen corners. In return, one of the women had invited Samson and Orev—and, perforce, Ari—to lodge with her family for the night.

“You’ll want a good meal and a good night’s rest, for the Dance
begins with the dawn,” she’d said, regarding Ari rather doubtfully. “You’d better leave that beast of yours in my back shed. We run peaceful festivals here in Ascalon, you know. No lions chasing people through the streets. We leave that sort of nonsense to places like Gaza.”

By which Orev had inferred that while the Five Cities might be allies, they were rivals as well. Apparently when not standing united against outsiders, Ascalon and Gaza fought like sister and brother. He doubted that Gaza really permitted lions to run free in its streets—although the woman’s complaints that Gaza thought itself better than Ascalon, and spent far too much on such frivolities as new bronze city gates, rang truer.

“Lord Gaza is jealous of Lady Ascalon,” she had announced. “The Great House in Gaza that Dagon has dwelt in time out of mind is no longer fine enough—oh, no, Gaza must tear the old temple down and built a finer one. They think to outshine Our Lady’s Great House here. Well, they won’t. Everyone knows that builders these days cannot equal those who created the ancient temples.”

“Why not?” Samson had asked, and the woman said, “Oh, you know how it is. In the old days, builders took more care, more pride in their work. But what can you expect when all places like Gaza care about is what something costs? We’re wiser than that here in Ascalon.”

At the next dawn, the Sun Partridge danced—and so did all the city. Even Orev found himself hauled along, lame foot or no, until he could wrest himself free and steady himself with his walking-stick. And Samson—well, Samson danced happily, not caring that this festival, this Dance, honored a strange god, that such dancing might anger his own god.

Of course, the warm spiced wine the dancers swallowed at each pause in the labyrinthine Dance might have been the cause of Samson’s unmarred enjoyment. Orev managed to stop draining the unglazed cups of wine after the first three, taking a sip only and flinging the rest
to splash on the ground like dark blood among the broken cups. But he was older and more wary than Samson.

Even the few cups of festival wine Orev had drunk seemed to kindle his blood. By now wine-fire must flow thick and hot through Samson’s body. Orev only hoped that the woman who had given them lodging was right, that Ascalon enjoyed peace, even during drunken festivals. He had no idea where the endless Dance had carried Samson—who had no malice and no sense.
I suppose I must seek him, and hope to find him before he gets into trouble again
.

To Orev’s great relief, he encountered Samson only two corners away. Samson had freed himself from the Sun Partridge Dance and stood beside a booth laden with wine cups and heavy with garlands. He stared down the long street as if dazzled as men and women danced past. In one hand he held a tangle of blue ribbon and red roses. In the other, he held his long knife, its polished blade a flash of light.

“Is all well?” Orev asked, and Samson smiled.

“Yes, all is well. I have seen my future, Orev.”

“If all’s well, sheathe the knife before it makes someone nervous.”

Samson glanced at the knife as if wondering how it came to be in his hand. He slid the blade back into its sheath and gestured towards the line of joyous dancers that had circled back, heading for the next street. “Look, Orev—see the dancer there? The one leading the Dance? She is the woman I have waited for, whom my heart has hoped to find. She is the woman who will be my wife.”

A flash of midnight and silver, a chime of bells—

“Samson, she’s a priestess of Atargatis. You might as well wish to wed the moon!”

“I don’t care. I must have her.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Orev said, and Samson turned and grasped the arm of the nearest man.

“The priestess leading the dance—the girl like a black flame—who is she?” he asked, and the man stared at him as if astounded—or very drunk.

“You must be a stranger from a far land, that you do not know Delilah Moondancer. Let me go now, for my wine cup is empty again.” The man waved the cup in proof of this, and Samson put his hands on the man’s shoulders and pushed him gently in the direction of the nearest wine booth.

Then Samson turned to Orev and smiled. “Her name is Delilah,” he said, and Orev fought down an urge to pour the contents of the nearest wine jug over Samson’s head.

“Very well, you know her name. But how are you even to ask for her, Samson? Walk up to the Temple Gate and demand to see the High Priestess?”

Samson smiled and flung his arm around Orev’s shoulders. “You see? I knew you would find the answer. You always do.”

“I but jested—” Orev began, then stopped as he realized Samson wasn’t listening. For a moment, as he watched his friend stride off in the direction of the Temple, Orev was tempted to let Samson face this particular peril alone.
Perhaps a harsh enough rebuke will drive this mad fancy from him
.

Or perhaps it would not. Sighing, Orev followed after Samson.
I wish we had never come to Ascalon. O Yahweh, I know not why You have set this snare before Samson. But if it seems good to You, give me the wit to save him from such a great folly
.

The Great House of Atargatis dominated the seaward quarter of Ascalon. Its gates faced a vast square crowded with men and women celebrating the Sun Partridge Festival. The Temple Gate stood open; any who chose could walk freely into the First Court and partake of the feast being set out upon long tables that, combined with booths and wine-bearers and dancers, turned the vast courtyard into a labyrinth.

By the time they made their way across the courtyard, past belled dancers and smiling wine bearers and garlanded booths offering everything from luck-tokens to kisses and other erotic delights, Orev had grown very tired of the Sun Partridge Festival. There just seemed to be too much of everything, too freely given.

When he told Samson this, his companion merely laughed. “You complain that a festival is lavish? That people are generous? There’s no pleasing you, Orev. Come, let us find the High Priestess.”

Always impatient of protocol, Samson caught the arm of the first person who passed by—one of the Temple eunuchs, to judge by the man’s soft painted face and the fringed skirt he wore—and said, “I wish to speak with the High Priestess of this temple. Where may I find her?”

“Are you blind? She who is Goddess-on-Earth stands there upon the steps.” The eunuch pointed, and Samson and Orev turned and looked upon what Orev at first thought to be a painted and jeweled idol. Then the idol vanished as the woman moved, spreading her arms wide and beckoning with both hands. Her palms were dyed crimson, the color of a setting sun.

As if he saw nothing save that dazzling image, Samson strode across the courtyard to the Temple steps. There he stopped, gazing up at the High Priestess. Orev, following more slowly, came up to Samson in time to see the High Priestess look down at Samson, and to hear her say, “So you are Samson. And yet you dare enter Ascalon, dare enter Our Lady’s House, you who are our enemy?”

So much for anonymity. I told Samson this was a bad idea
. It was clear to Orev that the High Priestess not only knew who Samson was but was unsurprised to see him here.
Almost as if she expected him to come to her . . 
.

“I am not your enemy. And is not the city, and this temple, freely open to all when the Sun Partridge dances?” Samson regarded the High Priestess steadily.

High Priestess Derceto smiled, a subtle curve of red lips. “That is true. Have you come, then, to feast upon Our Lady’s bounty?”

“No. I have another boon to ask.”

“Speak, then. What do you desire of the House of Atargatis?”

“I have seen a priestess whose touch kindles fire in my heart. She is called Delilah Moondancer. I ask that you give her to me.”

A flash of darkness in the long gallery above the court; a cry slicing blade-keen through the festive noises. Samson looked up and smiled. Orev tilted his head back and saw the two girls who had led the Dance. Midnight and midday; shadow and sunlight, their true selves masked by paint and gems. A heartbeat later the two young priestesses withdrew in a swift swirl of skirts, scarlet and ebony vanishing from sight of those in the courtyard below. Samson gazed at the spot where they had stood watching him. Orev looked again at the High Priestess.

She regarded Samson with cool eyes; eyes flat and opaque as a serpent’s. “You wish to claim one of Our Lady’s priestesses? You are bold indeed, to come here and demand such a prize.”