Delilah: A Novel (14 page)

The Prince of the City glared at his brother and then unclasped a heavy gold bracelet from his wrist. “Very well danced, as if they were the Goddess Herself.” Sandarin shoved the wide band of lapis-inlaid gold over to Derceto.

Although I should have kept my face smooth, a painted mask, I smiled—I could not help it. Aylah and I had danced well; so well we had gained rich gifts for Our Lady. I do not think either the High Priestess or the Prince of the City noticed my lapse; they seemed intent only on each other. Lord Aulykaran smiled back, and winked at me.

Now the other feasters called out praise, and many promised fine gifts to the Temple. I hardly noticed, for Aylah gently pinched my hand, and I remembered to bow again before retracing the path across the courtyard to the room where the Dance Priestess awaited us.

“Well,” Sharissit said when Aylah and I stood before her, awaiting her judgment on our performance, “I see you did not trip on your skirts after all, Night-Hair.” Then she smiled. “Your dancing honored Our Lady. You did well. Now it is time for you to come home and bathe and rest.”

I had hoped to remain to savor both the feast and the praise, but even as Sharissit spoke, weariness swept through me like a wave. I could barely stand, and fell asleep in the litter as we were carried home to the Temple.

“Are you mad, Brother? Do you think our family’s made of gems?” Sandarin glared at Aulykaran, who merely smiled and shrugged.

“The little priestesses danced very well—so well they caused even drunken men to be silent. Surely they deserved their reward?”

Clearly Aulykaran intended to act even more obtuse than usual. Sandarin sighed and pressed his fingers to the pain throbbing between his eyes. “I suppose you thought your gesture a grand jest—”

“I thought to persuade you to make your peace with Our Lady,” Aulykaran said and yawned. “By Her bright eyes, I’m weary. Almost dawn, Brother; past time to be in bed.”

“I am perfectly at peace with Our Lady.” Sandarin struggled to keep from losing his temper completely; shouting would do no good, and Aulykaran would merely laugh at him. “It’s Her High Priestess who causes discord. And if you think giving Derceto gems for the Temple will sweeten her, you aren’t nearly as clever as you fancy yourself.”

Aulykaran’s bestowal of the pearl-and-turquoise necklace had forced Sandarin to display equal generosity. The Prince of the City could not be seen to slight the Temple—especially when his brother had just presented so extravagant a gift. From the glint in Derceto’s eyes, she had known exactly how to value Sandarin’s offering.

Aulykaran yawned again. “Brother, both you and the High Priestess waste far too much time in fighting that could be put to far pleasanter use. I don’t even want to contemplate what your nights as Consort with Atargatis-on-Earth are like.”

“I do my duty as Prince of the City,” Sandarin said, “and Derceto does hers as High Priestess.”

His brother sighed. “Duty, always duty. Oh, and deception too, of course. Never mind, Sandarin; I’m certain you and Derceto will somehow resolve your differences. Or perhaps the next High Priestess will be less—”

“Ambitious?” Sandarin suggested, as for once his brother seemed at a loss for the perfect word.

“An unambitious High Priestess? And I thought you didn’t know what a jest was!” Aulykaran stretched, supple as a panther.

And about as much use as a panther, too
. Sandarin contemplated explaining how difficult it was dealing with High Priestess Derceto, who lived for power. That Ascalon the Beautiful might have needs other than those of the Temple never seemed to occur to her—or if it did, she didn’t care. Sometimes Sandarin wished he’d never become Prince of the City. High rank and great power were his, but as the years wore on, he enjoyed those favors less and less.

“Go to bed, Brother,” Aulykaran advised. “Go to bed, and dream of dancers bright and dark. That’s what I intend to do. And I think I shall hold another feast soon—or perhaps you should. Yes, I think you should hold a great feast and offer the Temple whatever it asks to have the Sun and Moon dance before you.”

Since there seemed nothing else to say, Sandarin decided to take his brother’s advice, and go home to bed. In sleep, he could forget about Derceto’s schemes, and about the bandits in the hills and the robbers on the highways. Let his brother dream of pretty dancers; Sandarin prayed only that he would indeed sleep—and not dream of anything at all.

“Now Samson grew strong and bold, and he went forth into the world, went to try his strength against his enemies.”
So Orev sang, for those were the words his listeners wished to hear. What great man lacked enemies, after all? Orev chose his words carefully, that each man or woman who listened might believe his or her enemies had been Samson’s.

And it was true that Samson had enemies, although he himself had been no man’s foe—not willingly. Always Samson had been softhearted and kind. Too kind.

Until the day Samson first lost his temper, Orev hadn’t believed anger to be a part of his friend’s sunlight nature. In all the years Orev had known Samson—as infant, as child, as boy, as young man—never had he been ruled by strong passions. Witnessing Samson angered was as startling as watching a jar of honey kindle into a pillar of fire.

And just as unexpected.

The day dawned cool and fair, with a sweet sea-wind blowing from the west. Needing no words, Samson and Orev bundled their few possessions into the carry-basket and set off down the long road that wound through the hills separating the highlands from the sea-plain. They did not hurry, permitting chance or luck or their god’s will to set their path
for them. The lion cub—which Samson had named Ari—followed, happily pouncing upon shadows until he tired and Samson scooped the cub up and carried him.

Yes, a fair day. Even Orev’s lame foot pained him less than it usually did, as if in some way the softness of the air and the warmth rising from the hard-packed dirt of the road acted as balm; he barely needed his walking-stick. And had he and Samson remained upon the main road, perhaps that day would have ended as softly as it had begun.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps the path Samson must walk had been set before he was born, and nothing would have changed a step of it.

All Orev knew was that had they continued on the main road, rather than turning aside because Samson’s keen ears detected a noise, the events of that day, at least, would have flowed more smoothly than they did. He knew also that, in a sense, it did not matter, as soon or late Samson would have learned about the Foxes. For one thing, not one of the Foxes owned an ounce of common sense or caution.

But Samson’s anger might not have burned so fiercely if he had not first met them over the bodies of men struck down in his name.

It was the yipping of foxes that first drew their interest and made them pause upon the road. The noise came from beyond the ancient, twisted oaks that sheltered the rough road from the westering sun. Samson stopped, listened, and frowned.

“Foxes?” Orev said, taking advantage of the moment’s rest to set down his harp and stretch his arms.

“At this hour, and in such numbers?” Samson shook his head. “Not unless all the foxes in Canaan have run mad. We’d better go look.”

Orev walked behind Samson through the shrub oaks and down into the streambed that paralleled the road. At this season, the streambed was dry, an apparently safe pathway of water-smoothed pebbles, with only a few puddles easily covered by a man’s hand to show that water flowed here during the winter rains.

Glad to see the stream’s pathway, an easier route for a lame man than
the surrounding rocky land, Orev caught up to Samson and laid a hand on his friend’s arm. “Slowly, Samson. From the sounds of revelry, we need not hasten.”

For the vulpine yips had continued, rising to exultant triumph, as he and Samson pressed through the bushes and down to the streambed. Whatever rejoiced beyond the outcrop of rock had no intention of fleeing.

“No, we need not hasten now.” Samson’s words fell heavy into the hot summer air. “I fear we are too late, Orev.”

Orev glanced at Samson’s face as the noise that had begun as the quick sharp yelps of foxes changed. Still a predator’s clamor proclaiming conquest, the noises now also clearly told that the predators walked upon two legs, rather than running upon four.

Not foxes. Men
.

Half a dozen donkeys lay dead, dark blood from their slashed throats dyeing the white pebbles of the streambed crimson. Two men had been flung down like broken dolls beside the dead animals. Blood covered the men as well; whether it was their own blood or that of the slain beasts, Orev could not tell.

Standing in a circle about the bodies were almost a dozen men—young and filled with the exultation killing roused. Not Philistine, not Bedu, not Moabite; Hebrews, perhaps, although Orev had never seen Hebrews so strangely garbed before. Each man wore a rough reddish brown tunic and a fox-skin, the head over the man’s left shoulder. From a braided rope belt hung fur plumes tipped with white. After a moment, Orev realized that the men had tied fox tails to their belts.

He stopped beside Samson, who said nothing. But Samson’s silence seemed to reach out, flow from Samson to the circle of rejoicing men. Slowly, the men fell silent and turned to gaze upon Samson as he stood, waiting. At last, when the only sound in the streambed was the buzzing of flies drawn by the spilled blood, Samson spoke.

“Who killed these men and their beasts?” he asked, and the men
shook off the silence. Smiling, the one wearing the most fox tails in his belt came forward.

“We did, Samson. A great victory!”

“A great victory? A band of strong men against two merchants and six donkeys? Are you madmen?”

“No, we are the Foxes—Samson’s Foxes! We shall make the high roads safe—”

“From what? From yourselves?” Samson walked forward until he stood beside one of the dead merchants. “This was an old man.” He stooped and straightened the slight body, drew the dead man’s cloak over his face. Then he did the same for the other, saying as he rose, “And this was an unbearded boy. What harm did they do you, that you should murder them?”

“They were Philistines! That is harm enough. It is time we claimed the land Yahweh bestowed upon us. It is time we followed a leader to victory.” The man straightened his shoulders, regarded Samson intently. “You are that leader, Samson. You have done great deeds. You are favored by Yahweh, and we will follow you against armies. You have but to command and we will obey.”

“And the six donkeys? Were they oppressors too?” Samson spoke slowly, his voice oddly flat.

As the Foxes stared at Samson, clearly unable to comprehend that their chosen leader had no interest in commanding them, Orev tried to neither laugh nor weep. No one who knew Samson would even dream that he would lead anything but a horse to water—and even then, he’d be more likely to carry water to the horse.

“One can’t create a fire without burning sticks,” one of the men offered, and Samson turned to stare at him. Under Samson’s steady gaze, the man stepped back a pace.

“Not only are you murderers, you are fools as well. Alive, the donkeys might have some use. Dead, they are nothing but a feast for crows. Now help me carry these men to the nearest village. They must be mourned and buried.” All this spoken in the same flat, unyielding tone,
so unlike Samson’s true voice that only now did Orev realize what he heard: Samson angered.

The Foxes stared at Samson, plainly baffled—and displeased. At last one stepped forward, slender and edgy as a gazehound. “Enoch said we should leave the bodies as a warning to others.”

“So Enoch leads you,” Samson said. “Then why ask me what I wish you to do? Tell me, what names do you call yourselves? And does your mother know you roam the roads slaying travelers, maiden?”

The slender one flushed scarlet. “I am Beriah, and I go where I please. Not only men are warriors. Deborah led an army.”

Now that Samson had rent the veil of illusion, Orev could not imagine how he had taken Beriah for a boy. Even shorn hair and fox pelts could not hide a slender throat or deepen a voice. As only Beriah spoke her name, Orev said, “So there is a vixen among the Foxes, and I know her name, that I may weave it into a song someday. But you others”—Orev swept his hand through the air, indicating the rest sullenly waiting—“you have no names as yet. So. Enoch, and Beriah. And there was a man named Jehu, and his friends Netan, Achbor, and Eli—”

“Jehu is dead, slain by Philistines. As are Netan and Eli.” A pallid young man whose face already bore lines of worry etched beside his mouth stepped forward. “I am Achbor, and I fight for Samson and for Yahweh, and for the rights of our people to live where and how they please, to travel where they wish and to be free of false gods.”

Anything else?
Orev wondered just how Achbor thought the slaying of donkeys would achieve these goals. He glanced at Samson, still as stone beside the slain men.

“I need no one to fight for me, Achbor. And surely Yahweh comes before any man?” Samson gazed steadily at Achbor, whose face turned a dull crimson.

“Of course. I misspoke, that is all.” Achbor looked as if he longed to continue speaking, but another of the Foxes caught him by the arm.

“Be silent, Achbor; you know nothing of warriors’ ways.” This Fox
looked what the others clearly wished to be: a warrior. Orev wondered where he had learned his war-craft. “I am Ichavod, and in Enoch’s absence, I lead this pack.”

Swiftly, Ichavod counted off the names: Terach, Irad, Jobab, Hirah, Dawi, and Golyat. All bore an odd, elusive resemblance, as if they were all sons of one father. Even Dawi and Golyat, clearly twins, seemed brothers to the rest as well. “Achbor, Beriah, and I, of course. And you know Enoch.” Ichavod’s eyes seemed to glow hot, like dark coals.

“Yes.” Samson’s hands had closed into fists. “I know of Enoch.”

“Then you know he is truly dedicated to our cause—as are we all.” Ichavod might have said more, but Terach blurted out, “I can tell you all our stories, how it is we came to become Samson’s Foxes, to fight in his cause.” He gazed longingly at Orev—or rather, thought Orev, at the harp slung over his shoulder. “I cannot carry a harp with me, but I can sing our tales well enough. Listen and I will tell of how Samson slew the evil giant of Gath, the first of Samson’s great feats—”