As she broke bread, she tried not to worry. Samson told them the other day that his Nazirite vows remained unbroken, and she believed through and through that he was chosen by God. How would that be lived out though? What would be the cost? A calling always came at a cost.
CHAPTER 10
OF GODS AND MEN
South of Gath
A PLUME OF DUST trailed the priest’s chariot as it descended the dry riverbed toward the valley floor. The wadi was a shortcut to distant Gaza, with its lighted palaces and bustling streets. In stark contrast, the shadows here were turning black, giving Prince Rallah the element of surprise.
“Hold,” Ashdod yelled. “Hold for the prince.”
Rallah and a pair of soldiers from Gath’s barracks stepped into the wadi’s narrow mouth, blocking the path.
Chariot wheels rattled and skidded as Bolcom brought the contraption to a halt. He was flanked by Jodel in his priestly robes and Jodel’s almond-eyed female attendant.
“Well, well,” Rallah said. “If it isn’t the greatest fighter riches can buy.”
“I am Bolcom, and I take insults from no man. Not even you, Prince.”
“You don’t have to take them. I give them out freely.”
The Egyptian kicked a thick leg over the chariot rail, prepared to step down and fight.
Rallah laughed. He knew his wasn’t the carefree laughter of Samson and Caleb, nothing so real as that, but rather a cold, cutting sound that further enraged the Egyptian. Before Bolcom could exit the chariot, Rallah lifted a hand, and his soldiers drew their bows with practiced ease. They wore distinctive feathered headgear and light armor. Ashdod, also in armor, stood taller than both, his arms crossed and his face impassive.
Jodel rested a hand on Bolcom’s arm. He said to Rallah, “It’s true, my prince, things did not go as expected. Nevertheless, and I’m sure you’ll agree, we were hired to draw Samson out, and draw him out we did.”
“And Samson bested our champion for all to see. He made a spectacle of us.”
“We never promised victory.”
The prince stepped closer. In the light of the half moon he turned his attention to the girl and her fine features. “What’s your name?”
She dropped her eyes.
“I wouldn’t hurt such a creature. Come on, let’s hear what you are called.”
She eased toward the priest.
“Don’t turn to him,” Rallah said. “Your master cost us quite a bit today.”
Jodel objected, his jowls wobbling. “My prince, that’s hardly fair. I—”
“Hold your tongue, or I shall have it cut from your mouth. That would be fair.”
The priest nodded and stepped back, hunkering behind the giant.
Rallah took the girl’s hand and helped her down. “Your name, please. No more games.”
“Taren,” she replied.
“Does it bother you, Taren, the riches that your master has squandered? It should bother you. It bothers me. He owes me a debt, and you shall enter my service until his debt is paid. Other debts,” he added, raising his hand, “shall be paid in other ways.”
The soldiers fired their bows, strung new arrows, and fired again.
The arrows riddled Bolcom’s body in successive thumps. As Rallah knew, this champion who had defeated numerous foes with bare hands was no match for the speed and precision of modern weaponry. He slumped over the chariot rail, then thudded to the earth in an awkward mound of limbs and bloodied feathers and shafts.
Still alive and standing, the priest in the iron chariot had seen enough . . .
He fainted.
Prince Rallah, for the first time in months, perhaps years, gave a genuine laugh. It started deep in his belly and rumbled through his chest, shaking him until his cheek muscles ached and his eyes moistened. Just as he thought it was over, the laughter bubbled up again, even louder.
Taren wore a half smile. Ashdod and the soldiers said nothing.
The prince wiped his tears and gathered himself. If he kept this up, he’d soon draw the cackles of nearby jackals and hyenas. He would sound like an unhinged fool, and that was the last thing he wanted Taren to think of him. As clueless as she was, he needed her for the task ahead.
In the chariot, there was movement. Jodel pulled himself up and peeked over the rail with glassy eyes. “Am I dead?” he asked. “What is this place?”
This time they all laughed until even the jackals joined in.
City of Gaza
“What did you learn about the hope of the Hebrews?” Attended by female servants, King Balek was at his wardrobe bench being adorned for a new day. His chambers were opulent, furnished with exotic woods and fabrics and scented with expensive perfumes. Wine flagons and gold chalices stood on a nearby serving tray. The king looked up. “Was this Samson as strong as they say?”
“The rumors are true,” Rallah answered, his eyes still swollen from the dust of last night’s ride. “He lifted a boulder the size of an ox and showed no strain in doing so.”
“Hmm. What does that prove?”
“He has the Hebrew God within him.”
“Within him? You believe that?”
“You were right to be afraid,” Rallah said. “He’s no ordinary man.”
“You accuse your king of cowardice? No, don’t you ever mistake my caution for fear.”
“I meant nothing by it, my king.” Rallah knew his father was growing paranoid with age. He’d complained before of difficulty sleeping, saying that his thoughts swirled all night with designs for armaments and fortifications. “We can discuss this later, if you like.”
“Go on.” The king rose, his jeweled necklace heavy on his chest. “Amuse me. Tell me more about this Samson of Zorah. If he’s no ordinary man, what is he? Half god?”
“I don’t know, nor can I explain what I saw. If gods were mortal, he would be one.”
“Careful, lest you forget whose kingdom you inhabit and which god you serve.”
Rallah thought of Jodel pitting Dagon against the Hebrew God, and Samson mocking Ra without repercussion. In short order both the Philistine and Egyptian gods had been put to shame.
“Dagon, he is mighty,” he breathed at last.
“He is indeed.” The king gestured to his servants to leave, letting them kiss his signet ring as they passed. He cast a glance around the chamber to be sure they were alone. “Listen now, let me make one thing clear. This is not Dagon’s kingdom. It is mine.”
“I . . . don’t understand.”
“I am Dagon,” said King Balek.
The prince took a step back. He’d always known his father’s religious efforts to be halfhearted, but this blasphemy was shocking.
“What’s wrong?” The king lifted an eyebrow. “You expect a bolt of lightning from Baal? Or perhaps the trumpets of war from Ashtoreth? You must see the gods for what they are, Rallah. They are symbols with no real power. For the common man, they provide something larger than his daily struggles, something to strive for and believe in. For us, they provide a means of control.”
“And how do we control Samson? You should’ve heard the way they praised him, not just the slaves, but the peasants and masons, the noblemen too. He bested our champion.”
“Our champion?” The king shook his head. “Jodel told me this fighter was not a Philistine but an Egyptian, and the outcome would’ve been different if he hadn’t faced a half dozen others first. He was exhausted; isn’t that so?”
Rallah knew, of course, that Jodel had wagered with silver from King Balek’s own vaults and surrendered it all to a lowly Israelite. No surprise, then, that the priest offered up excuses.
“Yes,” he replied. “That is so.”
“So how do you think this Samson should be dealt with?”
“It would be unwise to assume that he’s no threat.” Rallah picked his words carefully. “But if we overreact to his heroics, his people might think we fear him and rally around him even more.”
King Balek pointed a
t his son. “No assumptions. Good. You took note of my advice, and I commend you for it.”
“Thank you.”
His tone went flat. “Remember, though, he’s no god. Say it.”
“He’s no god.”
“I am the god here. I am Dagon. And if you want to be Dagon, you’ll keep an eye on this spark and stomp it out before it becomes a blaze.”
“Yes, my king.” Rallah bent low. “I already have a plan. He’ll serve the crown, or he will die.”
“Come,” Balek called back his servants, dismissing his son with a flick of the wrist.
As he departed the royal chambers, the prince shot a glance through the archway at his father, glorious King Balek, lazing beneath the giggles and caresses of servant girls. It turned his stomach to see powerful men became doormats for every lowly female who paid them notice.
And this made him think of Samson and Taren.
Yes, his trap should work. He’d make sure that the Hebrew and his God did not prevail.
CHAPTER 11
THE OTHER DIRECTION
Valley of Sorek
I’VE BEEN UP all night. Only a few coins remain in my bag. Already I can imagine what Mother and Father will think, but they don’t know what’s in my mind.
I’m not always so sure myself.
In the Valley of Sorek, which meanders from Jerusalem all the way to the Great Sea, I kneel by a rippling brook. In the morning shade of a lime tree I cup cool water to my face, and it numbs the large welt on my cheek. The bruise on my hip, though sensitive to the touch, only stiffens if I stop moving. These aches are temporary, and I can handle much more. The most important thing is that our God and our people were not put to shame yesterday. To hear that monster mock us was too much. I couldn’t hide behind that rock and just watch.
“Samson?” The voice startles me. “I didn’t expect to see you on this side of Mahaneh-dan.”
“Good morning, Orum.” I rise and clasp his hand. “You’re off to the camp this early?”
“We all are. You’re coming too, aren’t you?”
“What’s the occasion?”
His mouth twists. “You, of course. The way you manhandled that Philistine.”
“He was Egyptian.”
“You saved Wadesh’s life—that’s what he says—then tossed aside the giant like a pebble. The word’s spread like wildfire, and men are coming from all around, various villages and towns. See for yourself.” He calls me to a stony outlook, points out scattered movement below. “They’re rallying to the camp, where we’ll train up an army. Hundreds of us. Thousands even.”
“You won’t go undetected for long.”
“Give us a few months, and we’ll be ready.” Orum pulls back a flap of his robe, revealing a wrapped dagger. “Let the Philistines come. We saw your power for ourselves the other day at the camp, and now the whole region knows of it. At last we have a champion of our own.”
His enthusiasm leaves me speechless.
“I admit, Samson, I doubted the prophecies. They sounded like old wives’ tales, and I tired of hearing them, you know?”
Yes, I do know. More than he realizes.
“But not anymore,” he rushes on. “You are chosen; I believe it. Treus is jealous of that fact, but he faced the giant and lost, didn’t he? And in his two years of training us, we’ve accomplished nothing. We hide away, playing with sticks and stones. You heard what Prince Rallah did to Tobias? That was coldblooded murder, and we can’t just sit by while Balek and Rallah enslave us.”
My father’s recriminations ring in my ears. He all but blamed me for Tobias’s death.
“You’re speaking of war, Orum.”
“Whatever it takes.”
“Many will die,” I tell him. “Not just one man during the tribute.”
“We’re not afraid, not with you as commander.”
His indignation toward our oppressors is laudable, and his confidence in me flattering, but I never asked to be commander. I never asked for any of this. It’s beyond my imagining. I’m a man of the moment, and the quarry confrontation was a moment that came and went. It wasn’t meant as some grand proclamation. Let the Lord and His angels handle that.
Orum tilts his head. “Come on, walk with me. The men will roar at the sight of you.”
“I don’t think that I . . . You go, join the others. My hip’s sore from yesterday, and I’ll only slow you down.”
He watches me bend at the waist and stretch my legs before accepting my response. He raises a hand in parting and bounds down the path toward the camp. Once he vanishes below the tree line, I turn the other direction and move as fast as I can.
Let them play their war games. I have other things on my mind.
Village of Eshtaol
In the shadow of a sycamore tree by a village wall, I sit with my hood drawn, my hair tucked out of sight, and my legs pulled close to my chest. Even so, my brother knows where to find me.
“Your favorite spot,” he says. “Figured you might be here.”
“Keep your voice down, Caleb.”
“Who’ll hear me? All the men are in the fields with their winnowing forks or at the camp with their wooden spears. It’s just you and me.”
“And the women,” I add. “The best view in all of Israel from right here.”
Young ladies pass by in flowing robes and delicate headdresses. Some carry water buckets on their heads; others tuck baskets of bread and fresh fruit under their arms. They don’t see our crouched forms, and in the apparent absence of any menfolk they show greater freedom in their laughter and discussion. Why is this? I wonder. If anything, their freedom makes them lovelier. How and why do we men stifle them?
“What’re you doing?” Caleb says.
“What does it look like?”
“This isn’t right, Brother. You need to turn your eyes toward things that matter.”
I wink at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed a soft ankle or blushing cheek. Anyway, what could matter more than appreciating God’s creation?”
“Fulfilling your destiny.”
“Not this again.”
“You’ve been chosen,” Caleb says. “Your people need you as judge.”
“Forget it.” I slap my hand against the tree. “There is no judge.”
An elderly villager shakes her head at us and wags a finger. Our concealment in the shade is compromised, but neither of us cares at this point.
“You know that’s not true,” my brother continues. “We’ve had judges before, and even though you think they’ve led us nowhere, they were part of God’s plan. You know the stories, passed down from our fathers’ fathers. Ehud pretended to pay tribute to the enemy king, sneaked into his private chambers, and killed him. Shamgar struck down hundreds with an oxgoad and saved Israel. Gideon, he beat the Midianites with an army of only three hundred men. Each judge breaks another chain of our bondage.”
“It all seems so futile.” I extend my hands and weigh each word. “Egypt. Exodus. Slavery. Freedom. Promised Land and tribute. Over and over, the pattern repeats itself. What’s the point?”
“Why’d you fight Bolcom?”
“I didn’t like his haircut.”
“I’m serious, Samson.”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do. It’s part of the prophecy, that you’ll deliver us from the Philistines.”
“But he was Egyptian. Am I the only one who noticed?”
“Make jokes all you want,” Caleb says. “You were responding to God’s call.”
He’s right, of course. The trembling in my hands was beyond anything of my own design. I was on my back, my senses addled, and then the Spirit of the Lord swept me back to my feet and stirred me to acts of retribution. I called, and He answered. I took a step, and His power took over, rippling through me. This much I cannot deny.
“I’m not ready, Caleb. I’m sorry. Orum met me on the path this morning, and the way he describes it, hundreds of men are rising to follow me in
to battle. Well, I just want to live in peace. I want a woman. I’m not ready for the weight of the world.”
“No one is,” he answers softly. “We’re never ready.”
We fold our arms behind our heads, stretch out our legs, and watch Eshtaol go about its morning business. I smell herbs and cattle and sheep dung and grain. I hear the grind of a millstone and the cries of a baby. This is life. These are people of my tribe.
“Samson?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“Whenever you are ready, I’ll be right at your side, and I am more than willing to fight. I’m not afraid.” He stands. “Until then there’s something you might want to know.”
I sit up. “What?”
He cracks a smile and strolls southward.
“Wait, don’t leave me here. Hold on.” My hip has stiffened, forcing me to hobble after him.
“I found her,” he explains. “She’s from Timnah, like you thought.”
“Oh, little brother, that is much-needed good news.”
“The bad news is she’s been working in Gaza, an assistant to the priest. Even worse, she’s now a servant to Rallah.”
“Then I must go to the capital and relieve her of that.”
“No,” he says, “you must not.”
I catch his arm and spin him around. “Listen, Caleb, not a word of this to Mother. Not one word. I need to see her again, that’s all. I won’t do anything reckless. You know me better than that.”
“I know you all too well, Brother.”
CHAPTER 12
SMITTEN
City of Gaza
SHE’S LED ME here, from the Timnah marketplace to the Sorek quarry to the outskirts of Gaza. My hair is matted to my forehead, and the grime of the journey coats my sandals and feet. The sea breeze refreshes me after hours of walking. For long stretches I even ran.