Delilah: A Novel (29 page)

The first time but not, Orev trusted, the last. The graven image Samson had carried off from Ascalon had softened with each step they took towards the farm, and a new life.
She becomes more woman and less priestess as each moment passes. Perhaps this mad marriage of Samson’s will bring him joy after all. Perhaps he will forget the dark one, Delilah—and let this one make him happy
.

The day was hot, and Aulykaran already half-bored when his brother strode onto the rooftop garden. Aulykaran was proud of that garden, a paradise upon his own roof. Usually, of course, the garden was a quiet paradise . . .

“I don’t remember inviting you,” Aulykaran said, setting aside the roll of papyrus. Fresh from Egypt, and supposedly a catalog of earthly delights that would make Atargatis Herself blush, the book was far tamer than most of the scribblings on the city walls.

“I’m the Prince of the City,” Sandarin pointed out.

“Yes, Brother, I know. I also know you never come to me unless you want something. Do tell me; it’s far too hot for riddles.”

Sandarin frowned, and Aulykaran smiled, knowing he’d reminded his brother of the total failure of the competing plots against Samson at the hero’s wedding to the priestess. Not even Derceto’s admirably persistent attempts to poison Samson’s lion—symbol, some said, of his powerful god, Yahweh—had succeeded. Aulykaran’s favorite eunuch at the Temple had kindly sat with the great beast during the wedding and fed it with meat Aulykaran had provided.
I wonder if Derceto believes the power of Samson’s god prevailed, saving both him and his ridiculous pet?

“I ask only the simplest, most pleasant of favors,” Sandarin began,
and Aulykaran raised his eyebrows. “Delilah Moondancer’s Maiden Night falls soon, and you will be the man who claims it.”

“I will, will I? I assume you’re paying?” For all that a priestess’s Maiden Night supposedly belonged to any man Bright Atargatis led to her, the truth was that the Temple selected a Rising Moon’s first man very carefully. Among the requirements was a substantial offering to the Temple. “And why? Do you think the dancer will babble all Derceto’s secrets? Or even that she knows any of them?”

Sandarin’s face took on the pious expression that warned Aulykaran his brother was about to lie to him—which was only what Aulykaran expected. “Of course not,” Sandarin said. “But for so important a Rising Moon, and on so momentous an occasion, I wish to honor Our Lady by—”

“Bribing me to be her first,” Aulykaran finished. “Not that I object, you understand—especially as you’ll make the very generous offering to the Temple—but unless I know what you hope to gain by this, I won’t do it.”

“You will.” Sandarin already sounded querulous; knew he had lost the argument.

“No, Brother, I will not. It’s your quarrel with the Temple, not mine.” Aulykaran regarded his brother through lowered lashes and yawned. “That’s one reason. Another is that you ask me to labor, and you know I never work. And for a third—”

Sandarin glared at him. “I am the Prince of the City—” he began again, and Aulykaran sighed.

“Yes, Brother, I know.” Clearly his brother intended to be difficult today. Sandarin was Prince of the City of Ascalon, held in his hands both riches and power—and yet this prize did not satisfy him . . .

“You aren’t listening! Have you heard a word I’ve said to you? You’d think being offered the chance to claim the Maiden Night of Ascalon’s finest dancer would at least interest you.”

“Well, of course it interests me.” Aulykaran loved beauty almost more than he loved his own indolent way, and when Delilah danced, she
became Beauty Incarnate. “But what interests me more, at the moment, my dear brother, is how you intend to persuade the Temple that I am Our Lady’s Choice for Delilah’s Maiden Night. The last time Derceto gazed upon you, she did not seem overpleased with you. That, by the way, is my third objection to this scheme.”

“You will persuade her,” Sandarin announced.

“Oh, I will, will I? I doubt mere words will serve here—how much are you willing to pay, Brother, for this favor? And why, by the way, do you care who is granted the gift of Delilah’s initiation into the Lady’s sweetest Dance?”

“Women like you. You’ll please even a virgin priestess.”

“Ah, and you think Delilah will be so enthralled by my touch that she will become your spy in the enemy’s camp? Or to be more accurate, in the enemy’s Temple?” Aulykaran laughed softly and shook his head. “You’re wrong, Sandarin. Delilah Moondancer loves Bright Atargatis more than she will ever love any man.” He considered the matter, weighed the potential for becoming ensnared in his brother’s schemes against the undoubted pleasure of doing as his brother asked. “Still, as you shall pay for it, I’m certainly willing to wait for her in the pleasure booth.”

“That’s all I ask,” Sandarin assured him.

“All you ask at the moment, anyway,” Aulykaran said. “Still, for me to own the Moondancer’s Maiden Night will be amusing—for me and for her—and I’m sure you’ll get around to demanding repayment in some form or other in your own good time.”

“So you’ll do it?” Sandarin said, and Aulykaran sighed.

“I know I’ll regret this—eventually—but yes, Brother, I will do it. Now go away and let me think how best to approach the Temple on this delicate matter.”

After his brother had, most reluctantly, left—for Sandarin wished to argue until Aulykaran agreed with him—Aulykaran picked up the Egyptian scroll once more. Slowly unrolling the scroll, he contemplated his brother’s latest scheme.
Now what advantage can Sandarin possibly gain by
purchasing Delilah’s Maiden Night for me? Not even for himself, which might make some sense—no, he wishes the Temple to squander such a treasure on his useless younger brother . . 
.

Ah, I see
.

Sandarin could hardly believe so pious a priestess would act as informer, no matter how much she might favor Aulykaran after a night spent with him. But Delilah was one of the Temple’s treasures, her Maiden Night a great prize. Squandering that prize upon Aulykaran would ensure that Derceto could not use it in any scheme she might cherish. To thwart Derceto, Sandarin would pay almost any price.

For once, Aulykaran thought his brother had been almost clever.

I did not see Aylah again for half a year, and then it was none of my doing that brought about our meeting. Looking back upon that half-year after my heart-sister had been reft from me, I see that Derceto made certain I had not even a heartbeat of time to miss Aylah or think of the man who had won her, or to grieve, or to think for myself. Derceto charged Nikkal with my care, and also ordered that I study under each teaching priestess who had even half an hour to spare for me. Every moment of my day was filled, from Dawn Singing to the Sunset Prayers; my teachers worked me hard, and I fell into my bed each night so weary I could not lie awake and brood.

Then, as suddenly as the extra lessons had begun, they ceased. When I asked Nikkal why, she smiled and laid her hand upon my cheek. “Because, Delilah, it is time to prepare you to become a Full Moon.” Nikkal smiled again. “Don’t stare so—you must have known it would soon be time.”

Yes, someday, of course. Some far-off day, long seasons away. My blood suddenly beat swift and hot beneath my skin, with delight or with fear I could not tell. I closed my eyes, to summon serenity, and the image of a sun-gold man dazzled against the darkness. I refused to acknowledge the image, swiftly opened my eyes again to banish it.

“Now?” I said, and Nikkal laughed. “Yes, now. You are more than ready for this honor, Delilah.”

I did not feel ready; I felt awkward and alone. I had always thought to ascend the steps of Our Lady’s service with Aylah, attaining each new rank together. And although I had been trained well in all the arts a Rising Moon might be called upon to perform, and thought myself mistress of the skills that would be demanded of me, I still felt unprepared, not good enough. Fire danced light-footed across my skin; bees seemed to murmur in my ears, dizzying me. Between one breath and the next, I summoned and then discarded half a dozen different responses, none of them worthy.

I managed to keep my voice steady as I asked, “When will I be called?”

“At the next full moon, you and the others who are to rise with it.”

The next full moon was only seven days away. “I cannot,” I said. “I am not ready. I will disgrace myself and our House. I—”

“Softly, Delilah. Do not torment yourself with such thoughts. You will be ready, I promise you. The full moon rises in seven nights, and by the time it does, you will be perfect.” Nikkal put her arms around me and held me close. I laid my head on her shoulder, listening as she said, “I know you wish Aylah here to walk beside you, but we each follow the path marked for us by Our Lady. Aylah’s road lies before her, and yours before you, and they are not the same. You have courage and skill, Delilah. Do not deny yourself or your strength.”

Seven Rising Moons would become Full Moons once we had offered ourselves in Our Lady’s name, and for the short days before the next full moon, we prepared for the ritual. Our days were spent in the baths, where keen-eyed handmaidens watched over us as we soaked in warm asses’ milk to soften our skin. They then poured cool water over us before they scrubbed our skin with crushed almonds mixed with honey. After, we sat with cups of tart pomegranate wine and watched as the
Full Moons most skilled in the arts of the Lady of Love revealed their secrets.

The Day of Choosing began with another bath in water sweet with rose and cassia. The bath servants washed our hair, too, drying it over incense burners so the heady fragrance of nard and myrrh clung to it. Scent was stroked over our throats, the curves of our elbows, the creases between hip and thigh, the backs of our knees, the soles of our feet.

Then began the intricate process of painting our eyes with malachite and lapis, of gilding the nails on our hands and feet, adorning our cheeks and the tips of our breasts with carmine. Our feet and hands had been tinted with henna the day before; now the patterns of spirals and stars glowed red as sunset.

After the painting and gilding, handmaidens skilled in dressing hair took command of the preparations. Our hair was divided: some gathered and bound with scarlet ribbon at the nape of the neck in the Goddess’s Knot, the rest spiraled down our backs in long curls. Then we were garbed as Rising Moons for the last time.

And then Nikkal came to lead us to the Court of Peace, for the High Priestess’s blessing. I hung back, reaching for Nikkal, seeking comfort against the wild fears that rushed through my blood.

I cannot do this. I am not ready. What if the man does not please me?

What if I do not please him? I will offend Our Lady Atargatis. Why must it be this full moon?

“There is no need to trouble yourself over this, Delilah.” Nikkal gently kissed my forehead. “Do you think you are the first girl to make this offering? The first to submit to the Goddess’s Choice?”

“But—”

Nikkal put her fingers over my lips. “Be silent. All will be well. Trust me. “ She waited, watching my face, until I slowly nodded. Then she smiled. “Good. Now breathe slowly and deeply; summon calm, let
peace flow through your body. Come, for the others are as fearful as you, and all need the comfort of the High Priestess’s blessing.”

We stood upon the steps facing the Great Outer Court, seven Rising Moons still as graven images. In our hands, each of us held the end of a scarlet cord. The seven cords led down the steps, into the court. There the cords had been so laid down that they seemed tangled, an impossible sealed knot. Then the cords separated again, leading out into the street beyond the Temple Gate. We who stood upon the steps could not see where the ends of the cords rested—nor would it matter if we could. The carefully laid labyrinth of cord in the center of the courtyard ensured that no one could tell which priestess held which cord until the man who picked up the other end in the street coiled it back to the priestess who held it in her hands.

Only then would she look upon the lover Our Lady had ordained for her.

Using every trick I had been taught to remain calm, accepting, I waited upon the smooth tiled steps. I tried to think of nothing, not even to wonder what man would follow the thread to my feet. But my mind and heart were willful; I dreamed of a man strong as a lion, sweet as honey—

No
, I ordered myself.
No, I will not dream of Samson
.

We waited, all seven of us, as the minutes stretched long. Waited, and hoped the man who had paid to catch up the scarlet cord that led to each of us would be pleasing. But we knew that the choice was Our Lady’s, not ours. I glanced down at the serpents beneath my skin; after this night, the black lines would be shaded in with blue. Someday, if I proved worthy, the sea-dark blue would be adorned with red and gold. I tried to think of that, and of nothing else.

At last a man walked through the Outer Gate, gathering up his cord as he came forward. I could sense the other Rising Moons doing as I did—vainly attempting not to stare, slanting our eyes to see who had been first chosen.

Tall, slender, and moving with the languorous grace of a weary panther, he coiled up the scarlet cord with a careful grace that seemed almost mockery. He made no pretense of confusion when he reached the mass of overlaid cords, merely rolling up the one that was his as easily as if it were the only one in the courtyard.

With elegant deliberation, he finished his task, stopping before me. For a heartbeat, all I could think was that I was first to be chosen. A good omen.

Lord Aulykaran held the ball of scarlet cord that led to me. He smiled, and winked at me, and I could almost hear Aylah’s drily amused voice saying, “But Delilah, did you think the Temple would not find you the proper man for your Maiden Night? With the offering he must make to be given
you
?”