The Philistine Warrior (49 page)

At this, I saw Ibbi smiling. A man of secrets.

Amphimachus continued: “The great nobility of
Philistia
gathered in assembly to decide the future of the throne. Ittai might have put himself forward as a candidate, but he knew he wasn’t very popular in
Ashdod
or Askelon; and he could see that the nobles wanted someone from the House of Nomion. Yet they couldn’t agree on a regency for Zaggi’s elder son. They weren’t very happy about either of Zaggi’s sons inheriting the throne, any way. Then I spoke to them all. I told them that somewhere—I didn’t say where, of course—but that somewhere, you, Phicol, lived in exile. I also told them what I’d learned from Ibbi—since we’d kept in touch all this time, as you know, communicating through religious channels. Anyway, I told the nobles that you and Delai were married, and that you have a son. The result was like magic: you’re remembered fondly in
Philistia
, Phicol—and admired, for a long….”

I interrupted: “Funny, that wasn’t the impression I got when I left
Philistia
—in a
rowboat
!”

Amphimachus shrugged his shoulders. “Such are the ways of politics,” he advised. Then he resumed his story: “Not only you, but Delai is also remembered with affection—heightened, I suspect, by the feeling that both of you suffered unjustly at Zaggi’s hands, while they did nothing to help you—even to the contrary! Even your erstwhile enemy, Pai, declared his intention to—in effect, without admitting any mistakes—to make right his behavior.”

“He sees which way the wind is blowing,” I commented.

“Perhaps. But he’s just retired from public life—realizing that he’ll soon be unwelcome in governmental circles; so he won’t annoy you in the future. He has a large mansion overlooking his precious docks, and he’s playing the aristocrat with all of the money he earned under Zaggi’s administration. Well, anyway, the nobility was especially pleased to hear that a new heir to the House of Nomion has been born. I explained to them Ibbi’s prophecy concerning the descendants of Delai….”

“I see what this is leading up to,” I interjected. “Somebody wants a regency set up for our baby, with me as regent, or co-regent; am I right? Maybe with me as Sheren of Askelon again, even.” Then it struck me: “Or do you mean they want
me
to run for the office of Melek?!”

“Not
run
, Phicol: You’ve already been elected! You were proclaimed by the nobles in an exalting, unanimous voice vote! And

I promised to get in touch with you through Ibbi. As of now, only I know of your location—in case you should decide to remain here. But I earnestly pray that you’ll accept this call, Phicol. I came personally, despite my age, to spring this on you—and to convince you. I knew that you might prefer
Assyria
to the trials of our troubled country; but I hope you’ll say yes….”

“It sounds,” Ibbi said to Amphimachus with a smile, “as if you really did a remarkable selling job for Lord Phicol!”

Not to mention
on
Lord Phicol, I thought.

But Delai showed distress: “Oh, Darling, we’ll have to give up our life here, where we’ve been at peace….”

“I renounced politics long ago,” I reminded the High Priest.

Ibbi then broke into the conversation again: “Under the circumstances, my Lord, I’m sure that Tiglath-Pileser won’t feel that you’ve broken your vow not to play politics while in exile here. After all, you had nothing to do with your election.”

“That doesn’t concern me,” I answered. “It’s that—as Delai just said—we’ve found peace here….”

“But in exile,” Amphimachus argued. “Don’t you miss
Philistia
? Your homeland, your people, your ocean….”

I looked into Delai’s eyes, and saw tears at those words. “Yes,” I confessed. “Life is good here; but it’s not home.”

Amphimachus spoke again: “I could, I suppose, tell you that it’s your
duty
to return—your duty to your country and to your dynasty, since you’re the only surviving adult male of the House of Nomion. And it’s your duty to bring peace to our land…to your land…to end the struggle with Warati….”

“I’d sure like a chance to even the score with
him
,” I said, with a grim smile.

But Delai then re-entered the discussion, emotion, even anger, in her voice: “Then it will never end! One blood feud after another, cousins killing cousins, and some day
my
children will be fighting with Zaggi’s children for office, or for the throne—and meanwhile, we’ll either be killed by the Danites or the Canaanites, unless we kill them first!” She stopped for a breathless sob. We all looked at her. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I know we weren’t meant to lead such quiet little lives as we’ve found here. The gods have destined us to rule and to bear rulers—in troubled times or not; I know that. Holy Inanna dedicated me to that long ago….” She clung to me. “Years ago, I left my home to go to Ekosh. Then I followed him out of
Egypt
. He didn’t want to leave, but he did…and so I’ll follow my new husband now, if that’s his decision.”

I squeezed her hand and spoke directly to her: “My Darling, you and I were brought up under a cloud: our fathers were political outcasts. We must try hard to give Zaggi’s children a pleasanter kind of childhood. And as for the Canaanites, we shall learn, somehow, to live in peace with them, even if we can’t do so with the Danites….”

“Even with the Danites, we must try,” she answered, and I agreed.

“I take it, then,” Amphimachus asked, “that you both accept the election?”

My answer was a slight smile, weary, ironical: “Our fathers, Adinai and Pinaruta, have had a strange revenge,” I said to Delai, really to everyone—and no one in particular. “The fate of
Philistia
is not in human hands, but in those of the gods, it seems. Whatever occurs, we must do what we can—what we must. We shall go.” Delai nodded in agreement.

We conferred again after ordering some beer and a snack. We sat on the porch as before; a glorious sunset sank down below the mountains which we’d learned to love, but would now leave.

The High Priest raised the matter of Uncle Zaggi’s suicide note: “Phicol—my goodness, I should start calling you ‘Sire,’ shouldn’t I? Anyway, here’s the suicide letter. It brings up some issues which you’ll have to consider.” He handed it to me; we lit a lamp, and I read aloud to the little group:

The Political Testament of Melek Zaggi

Before I die, I intend to leave my subjects with some

notion of what I think of them. I, and
Philistia
, have been

ill-served over the recent few years. There was the self-righteous Amphimachus, always worrying over “justice” to the

Canaanites. In the same category, I put Delai of Askelon, a

starry-eyed, idealistic girl who let herself be used by the

traitor, Phicol, in his opposition to me. Traitors to me

abounded, and are now showing themselves in their true

colors—Sheren Pai, Sheren Ittai, and on and on. Only

Sheren Warati remains true; but he has always been such a thick-headed, clumsy peasant that I’ve had to do most of his

work for him, except for the purely military side of his duties.

Now I’m cursed merely because I accomplished what

Melek Ekosh wanted to do—and was admired for trying to do: making a true nation out of five so-called sovereign cities, and a truly national army, thus putting down the selfish

individualism of our nobles and our cities. Now my enemies

moralize over the rough treatment I gave the Canaanites. But

how many of these bleeding hearts will give back their lands

to those same Canaanites, lands I conquered or confiscated

for them? Hypocrites!

What it all comes down to is the matter of will power.

The Philistines have failed me—and themselves—because they

have not had enough will power, enough stomach to do what

has to be done. They cry about “injustice” when I run the Canaanites off the land—for their sake! Why don’t they ask

the
enemy
about “justice”? Our Canaanite subjects are no

problem now, of course—largely thanks to me; but there are others: the Danites, the Judaeans. What is
their
notion of

“justice”? When they kill Philistines, they don’t bother

themselves with such idiotic questions! They believe that their

war-god, Yahweh, has given this land to them, so they disregard the fact that the land was Pharaoh’s, and he gave it to

us. Instead, they say that anyone who stands in their way is by

definition bad, and therefore it’s good to kill us. Anyone who isn’t circumcised deserves to die—that’s their concept of “justice.” Look at
Canaan
before we Philistines arrived: the Judaeans and their brethren slaughtered whole cities, men, women, and children, without the slightest remorse, because

their god told them to do it. In this world, it’s kill or be killed, and they know it, and pay no attention to “justice.” But we’ll worry about “morality” until we’re all wiped out!

I leave a warnling: the future will bring a great contest.

Taken one by one, our enemies are nothing; but they are combining. The Danites, the Judaeans, the Ephraimites, plus half a dozen or more other tribes, are combining. They hate

each other, but enmity for us is driving them together. They have something else in common: they all worship the war-god, Yahweh, and they believe that Yahweh wants them to kill us. There will be a great war. We have iron, but they have
wills
of iron—and numbers. You cry out: “Dagon will save us!” But unless we help Dagon by being absolutely ruthless, He cannot win His war against Yahweh. And if we disappear, Dagon will disappear. He cannot die, of course, being a god—but if there’s no one to worship Him, to give Him sacrifes, He might just as well be dead.

One final word: Yes, I confess that I killed Nasuy’s grandson. His continued existence would have led only to division among us, to civil war. Ittai was going to use the child to destroy our unity. It was sad, but I had to kill the boy. Dagon came to me in a dream and directed me to sacrifice the child, so that
Philistia
might live in unity. Such is the fate of royalty from time to time; and I am now facing the same penalty for my high birth—and for my love for my people. It’s Dagon’s will. Somehow—I don’t know how—perhaps I wasn’t ruthless enough. Somehow I have failed Dagon. Perhaps I should have destroyed Ittai when I had the chance. But there are—there always have been—rumors that I killed Queen Delai’s son, Prlince Akashou. Here and now, as I prepare to join my glorious ancestors, I swear by Dagon and Astarte that there is no truth in that rumor. I didn’t kill Akashou; he died of fever, just as was said at the time. I don’t doubt but that this vicious rumor was invented by that scoundrel Phicol as a way to attack me. But while l’m on that subject,
Philistia
should know what Phicol and Delai and their detestable Babylonian doctor, Ibbi, did: they hid from you all the fact that Delai gave birth to a son, begotten in rape by the