DELILAH
Parisa shook me, knocking me onto the floor.
“You tried to tempt Marcos?”
I landed on my bottom, startled awake. She kicked at me. “You think you can steal him? Because you’re younger? Or do you think you’re more beautiful?”
“Parisa!” Tanis had her by the arm, dragging her off me.
“Because you are neither one, Delilah! You’re dirty and used. Your face will catch up soon enough.”
No woman moved. Each had been dressing for the prayers and first meal. They stared at me with varying degrees of interest. Interest or satisfaction. I was too shocked to absorb it all yet. I stood and raised my hands out to Tanis, who was still holding Parisa, threatening her if she moved against me again.
“It is all right, Tanis. It is my fault,” I said.
Tanis pursed her lips as one eyebrow lifted, questioning me.
“I am guilty,” I said.
Tanis released Parisa, who crossed her arms, waiting for my confession. I began to dress for the meal, having nothing else to say.
Education was a struggle between student and teacher, and Parisa was going to learn her lesson.
I was sweet to Parisa during the next week, doting even, and each time, she reacted with anger, as expected. Her anger slowly burned down, revealing her fear. I could see the shadows under her eyes when she woke, and the way she clutched at Marcos with white knuckles, her eyes darting around, looking for me, while he spoke of his concerns. I wanted her to hurt. I did not want to be the only one who suffered.
She did not see Marcos sigh in vexation or tap his foot as she complained yet again about her life within these walls. She brought up his wife, and her own desire for children, and how she would love to do more for him, in every way. She grew bold in her words. Their sweetness had an edge.
I stayed hidden, moving between the stone columns only when I knew she would not see me, careful to let Marcos catch only a glimpse of my flowing tunic, or an arm reaching for more wine. He knew I was there. He knew I watched him. And yet I did not allow him to look on me again, not fully. It was as much for his temptation as my relief. I did not want to look into the eyes of the one I tried to entrap.
No matter, though. By the end of the second week, I knew I had failed. Marcos had done nothing. He did not pursue me or make a spectacle of Parisa, seeking me out over her. If I wanted to hurt Parisa, I needed to find another way. But with such a cold woman, it was hard to know where she felt pain. It wasn’t fair that I was the only one who suffered here.
On the first morning of the following week, I laid awake in bed while the other women began to rise. There was no point in getting up. Defeat had nauseated me; I could not imagine eating anything. Parisa, too, stayed in her bed. She had slept well.
Marcos had not come for Parisa last night, but she had been elated. Rumor had come to the temple that Lord Marcos had given his wife a certificate of divorce. Parisa had waited for me to return to the sleeping chambers after serving the wine. When I climbed on to the couch at last, she came over and spat at my feet, then laughed.
“When I am his wife, perhaps I will send along a nice offering to you, and you won’t have to take many men upstairs.”
In the darkness, sweat dotted my forehead. It was hard to breathe, and my stomach began to tingle. I pressed my palm against my mouth to silence the whimpers that rose up, thinking on her words again.
Every day in these courts brought me closer to the day I had to serve as a real priestess. I would have no control. Any man might reach for me, his hand extended in the evening shadows, and where would I run? Who would save me? I knew this one truth: No one saved a girl except herself. But I had no power to save myself. I never had. I had no power at all, not even to cause someone else the slightest pain.
My hand slid under the bedding, searching for the cold blade. I didn’t want to. A force inside me wanted it, would not rest until I let it free. I ran the blade along the sole of my foot, wincing without sound, relieved for the piercing pain, the cold shiver of relief. The pain had a spot I could touch, a place I could name. My pain, all the pain of the world, was reduced to this small red line that bled in the dark.
Akbar placed five smooth stones in my palm. We sat together in the courtyard, just under the roof. The sun was dotted all around with white clouds. The rains had begun for the season, but this afternoon was dry. I was grateful to be outside; the rains could keep us inside for days at a time.
“Show me.” He placed a clay tablet in my lap, and I squirmed to settle it into a steady position with one hand.
I swept the dust from the tablet and put down the stones, one by one, in their order, just as they lie along the sea.
“Now name them.”
“Gaza, Gath, Ekron, Ashkelon, Ashdod.”
“And who governs the Philistines?”
“Lord Marcos governs the city of Ashdod, Lord Karan the city of Gaza, Lord Adon the city of Gath, Lord Baltsar the city of Ashkelon, Lord Kanat the city of Ekron.”
“Interesting that you put Lord Marcos first.”
I kept my face impassive, so he would know nothing.
“Even an old man hears rumors. He has sent his wife away,” Akbar said.
He made his face impassive, so I learned nothing more. He swept the stones into a pile at the edge of the tablet with one hand, then clapped his hands together, freeing them of dust.
“Tutor, I have a question.”
He cocked his head to the side. It was how he waited for my questions.
“Once, a girl was brought into this temple, and Hannibal cut a lock of her hair off. Why did he do this?”
“You have other things to learn.” He lifted his chin, looking away.
“I want to learn this.”
“No.”
“Please. Please.” I laid a hand on his cold thigh. His hollow old bone was just under the surface of his skin. I tried not to shudder.
It worked. The corner of his mouth twitched and he scowled, removing my hand and placing it back on my own leg. I scooted closer to him. He did need the warmth. I was not tricking him now.
“Please.”
“All right. But only because I am tired. I don’t want to fight with you about it.”
“You said education was a struggle to be fought.”
“When I said that, I had just had breakfast. I was feeling quite strong. Now, the hour is late and I am tired.”
Though it was not late and the sun had only now begun to grow warm, I smiled wide and brought my hands together.
He cleared his throat, a terrible sound for an old man to make and a young girl to hear. “Hair is the essence of a person. Hair holds all their secrets, all their powers, all their history. If you take a lock of hair from someone, you can cast much magic on them. You can change their fate. Or even your own.”
“How? How could I change my fate?”
He recoiled, shocked.
“You are to become a priestess of Dagon. Your power will come from Dagon. Not magic.”
I knew very well the power of Dagon, that god with blind stone eyes. Ask the dead ones lying in the gutter about the power of this god. I had no hope in him.
“‘All greatness comes from learning.’ You said this yourself.”
He groaned, vexed at my nagging. But he told.
And I began to see what I could try next. A new plan began to form, though it had only a small sting. Parisa had won Marcos and would leave us. She would be the most honored woman in the city. She would want to bear many children for him. Children, sons especially, those would be her security. Even if Marcos divorced her, too, someday, a son would take care of her. A son would be the one man who could never send her away. Sons were security.
Though she would be leaving us, I could still find a way to make her feel pain, just as she had done to me.
All I needed was a little magic, which could be made from a lock of her hair.
I had to wait for Tanis to be alone. She was always busy, attending the women, helping them prepare for the next night’s work, or consulting with Hannibal, reviewing money and discussing patrons. Once the temple doors were closed, worship became a business. Tanis made sure her wares, the women, were ready for the services, and Hannibal made sure the services were profitable. I watched them from behind the pillar as they sat in the main hall. Hannibal sat in his chair, Tanis leaned over, standing at his side, observing as he counted coins from a bag. A servant sat on the steps below them both, holding a clay jar in his lap.
As Hannibal counted off the coins, he dropped them one by one into the jar. Tanis commented in his ear. I heard only the rough edges of whispers, but they looked comfortable with each other. I wondered if Tanis had ever loved Hannibal. The way she rested her hand on his shoulder made me uncomfortable.
Hannibal dropped the bag next to the servant and rose. Tanis bowed her head and departed. Hannibal and the servant now stood, talking together, Hannibal gesturing, making clear his plans for the temple and the money. As Tanis passed me, I stepped out from behind the column, taking her arm in mine.
I glanced back at Hannibal and smiled.
“What is it, Delilah?” She drew her head back as if alarmed by my sudden appearance.
“I wanted to ask a favor. Will you walk with me?”
“Is the sun out?”
I paused and listened. I heard the hiss of rain against the stone roof. Tanis smiled and nodded toward the main door at the end of the hall. “We’ll sit on the steps outside, under the roof. We can talk there.”
I would be glad when the rains were done. Those who depended on crops did not mind huddling under roofs all day and all night, because the rains brought them wealth. For me, rains were a soft, cold prison that made me sleepy just when I needed to be alert.
Outside, the steps were cold. I tucked my tunic between my legs and my hands under each arm.
“Cold?” Tanis asked.
“No.” I smiled and shook my head.
She frowned at me and turned her face to look out over the city. Ashdod was beautiful in the rain. The temple stood higher than the city, and we looked out at the buildings in muted shades of sand and shell. The heavy white mist of earliest day had evaporated by this hour, leaving only a soft veil over the city. In the center of the city was the market, with a few customers moving between stalls. The largest building was there, the home of Lord Marcos. From here he made his ruling and heard cases. To the west was the great sea. Today, the rains had left it shrouded in white and gray clouds. If I closed my eyes, though, I could hear it, the sounds of the waves carried here on the wind.
“I have wanted to talk to you, too, Delilah.” Tanis stared ahead, looking down on the city. She drew a long breath, then looked down at her hands before releasing it.
Marcos would come soon, tonight even, for Parisa. I shook my head to stop her.
“Tanis, I need your help.”
“Is something wrong?” Her body tensed as she looked at me, leaning toward me.
“Where does Hannibal keep the locks of hair?”
She pulled back, her brow knotting. “Who have you been listening to? Surely not Akbar.”
“It does not matter—”
“Yes! Yes, it does matter. If you do not understand our plans for you by now, then let me be clear. You are becoming a priestess, not a witch. You have no need of magic.”
“Please—”
“No!”
She stood, her face red and mouth set in a hard, straight line.
“I am afraid!” I sounded shrill. I could still find the voice of a child inside, even if I did not remember her.
Tanis did not move but judged me, her head tilted, her face open.
I spoke slowly, as if every word came from a painful place. “When I first came here, Hannibal took a lock of my hair. When he raised the knife, I thought he was going to kill me.” I smiled, looking up at her through my lashes. “But he took a lock of hair, and I always wondered why, but I did not ask anyone. I trusted, in you especially.”
Tanis’s face drained of color. “You do not trust me now?”
“I do! It’s Parisa I do not trust. She said she was going to steal my lock of hair and burn it. She said when she did, pains would come upon me, and I would die. I would never have a chance to serve in the temple.” I lowered my voice and looked out in the distance. “I would never become like you.”
Tanis hesitated, putting her arm around me, drawing me in. I held my breath so I would not smell her perfume, so I would not weaken and cling to her.
“Parisa is lying. Only Hannibal and I know where the locks are kept. And even if she found them, burning your lock would not cause you pains.”
“What would it do?”
“Nothing. Only a witch could use it to cast a spell. Not even I know the incantations.”
“But there is no witch here. Where do you find a witch?”
Tanis pressed her lips together, then ran her teeth over her lower lip, pulling it in, pushing it out. She wanted to say something to me, so I waited.
“Delilah, I want to talk to you about your baby.”
I lurched up, catching the hem of my tunic under my heel. Struggling for balance, I backed away, tearing my tunic to get free.
“Thank you, Tanis.” I ran from the steps, back into the cold darkness of the main hall.
But I couldn’t run far. Though my heart was stung, and I fought to hold back any thoughts of that day, of that room of birth and death, I hid behind a column once more, and waited. I waited until my feet turned cold, and the cold rose through my legs and into my belly. I trembled, pulling my tunic tighter in around me.
The door opened to the main hall, and Tanis entered, her face red and blotched. I covered my mouth with my hand so that not even the sound of my breath would betray me. I knew Tanis had been crying for me. I held out the thoughts, far from me, not letting them hurt me. Tanis loved me too much.
She wiped at her nose delicately and walked to Hannibal’s chair. The main hall was silent, except for her footsteps. Looking around, she seemed satisfied that she was alone and then lifted the gold seat from the chair. My eyebrows raised in surprise. I had not known his chair had a secret too. Inside the flat square chamber, she ran her hand back and forth, then picked up a lock of hair and held it closer to her face. She returned it, and as she set the lid back into place, Hannibal opened the main doors. A cold wind snaked round my ankles. I could only see him in profile, and the robes of a man standing behind him. If I moved for a better view, Tanis might see me.
Hannibal called to her, and she turned, unafraid. “Tanis, Lord Marcos has arrived.”
“I am ready.”
She came down the steps, smiling at the men. Whatever they would be discussing, it was clearly not the first time. Tanis moved with ease, perhaps even joy. She took Lord Marcos’s arm, and the three went out the main doors. Lord Marcos’s home was in that direction, the seat of the city government, and the empty bed. A cattish laugh caught my ear; Parisa was awake too, dressing for her evening, perhaps her last one among us.
I had no choice. I had to do it now, before the services began, before Parisa collected her things and left.
I crept from my hiding place and ran across the cold floor to Hannibal’s chair. Lifting the lid, I saw dozens of locks of hair, all tied with cords that were looped in the center, each marked with a clay seal. I did not read the language of Ashdod. Turning the locks over, I looked closely at each in frustration. One had an image that I knew at once: a young girl with a swollen belly. I held the lock up to my own hair. It was mine. Placing it inside my belt, pulling it tight against my waist, I again turned over the locks, one by one. Each seal had an image of the girl or woman. They must have been images of the woman as she was when she first came here, as mine was. I turned them over, frantic now. The women in the next room did not need much more time to be ready.
Then I found it. An image of a thin woman, ragged hair, in chains. It had to be Parisa. Her expression, even in a clay seal, was one of defiance. She would wear another expression after today, one of bewilderment, wondering why she could not conceive, why she could never have the one thing she needed when her beauty faded and Marcos had moved on: a son.
“What are you doing?”
A hand caught me by the back of the neck. I jumped, frightened, trying to turn and see who had caught me. As if I didn’t know. Parisa’s grip grew tighter, her fingernails digging into my neck.
“I asked you a question.”
“I’m sorry! I was only trying to help!”
“By stealing my hair?”
“I have heard rumors! Someone is going to put a curse on you, so you can never bear Marcos a son!”
Parisa dropped her grip on my neck and wrenched my arm toward her, prying the lock of hair from my hand.
“You’re nothing but a liar. And a thief.” She smiled, her lips pressed together, gloating. “Now, if you want to keep your hands, give me your own lock of hair. Perhaps I will keep your secret.”
I removed it from my belt and handed it to her. Thieves get their hands cut off.
She grinned. “Or perhaps I won’t. Girls like you deserve everything they get.”
She turned to take a step down from the chair, and I threw myself on her. We fell down the steps, and I landed on top of her as she screamed and tried to throw me off.
She was fierce, much stronger than I had expected. I fell to the side, and as I scrambled to get up, she lunged at me, knocking me back down, pinning me flat to the ground. She sat on me as her hands went round my neck, shaking my head up and down as she choked me. I did not want to die this way.
I tried to scream, but everything stopped under her hands—my screams, my voice, my breath. My face was swelling with trapped air as black spots swam in my vision. Through this swirling haze, I did not see clearly what happened next.
Parisa was knocked off of me. There were grunts and a dull, wet drumbeat.
I tried to raise my head but fell back into darkness as I heard shouting and running footsteps. I do not know how much time passed before I was on my bottom with my legs spread out before me, as I retched into my lap, coughing, trying to breathe again as a woman stroked my hair.
“Did she hurt you? Are you all right?”
Blinking, forcing myself to see and to think, I looked up. Tanis lay on the ground, her expressionless face turned to me, her eyes open wide. A dark pool spread out from under her head, moving toward me. Above me, Hannibal stood with Parisa, who was in chains. Two guards from the city flanked her.
Lord Marcos parted the women clustered all around, searching for someone. When he saw me, his expression changed to one of relief, and he rushed to me, helping me to stand, one hand around my waist.
“Get her a chair!” he commanded. A chair was brought, and he helped me sit, then kneeled before me, reaching up to stroke my hair. His hand came away clean. My skull had not split as I thought, though that was a miracle.
“Better now?”
I nodded, trying to peer around him. My head hurt too much to move it far, but he moved to block my view of Tanis.
“I should have come sooner,” he said. “This is not your fault, Delilah.”
“What happened?” I did not know how Tanis had died. What had I done?
“Hannibal said you caught Parisa stealing your hair and she attacked you. Tanis tried to stop her, and Parisa killed her. Hit her head on the floor. Tanis died to protect you. She must have truly loved you.”
“She brought me here.” I meant it as an argument, but he only nodded in agreement.
“She saved you twice, then. I have heard stories of your family.”
My mind cleared more with every passing moment. I looked around, my breathing coming fast. I tried to stand, but Marcos caught me by the shoulders. “Shh,” he whispered. “Wait until she is gone.”
Parisa was glaring at me, one cheek red and inflamed, the mark of a handprint visible. She spat on the floor, leaving a red spot. The guards dragged her backward, and she went limp, her mouth set in a snarl, her eyes never leaving mine.
“But what is happening? Where are they taking her?”
Marcos watched her go, disgust evident on his face. “All that beauty wasted.”
I heard a guard giving directions to the others. Parisa was to be jailed. A former priestess, imprisoned with men awaiting punishment or execution … condemned men would relish the distraction. Marcos saw her fate as well as I, but he did not see the truth, not all of it. She had acted for herself, always. She loved no one more than herself. All people were like this, I knew. Just as there were no real gods, there was no real love.
Hannibal turned his attention to me. I shrunk in my chair, drawing my shoulders up, cringing away from certain punishment. Marcos stood and faced Hannibal, nodding. Hannibal held something out to me in his hand. I glanced at it.
It was my own lock of hair. I stood.
“I requested it be given to you,” Marcos said. “I do not want you to serve me in fear.”
“What?”
Hannibal tried to force a smile. But something was broken inside of his spirit. I could see that in his eyes. I looked down at his hands. They were shaking. “Lord Marcos came here today to request that you be made his permanent consort. You will serve no other man.”
I froze, aware that Marcos was watching, that everyone was watching. No one laughed. It was not a joke. The irony made my blood cold. If I had known the truth, Tanis would still be alive. I had been made a fool, again. My hope was in one man now, one man I did not want or love. He had only been a means to hurt Parisa. And now, he was all mine.
I smiled weakly and felt his arms slip around my body as my knees went soft and I fell.
Two days later, my hands trembled. I could not tie the sash around my waist. Rose rushed to my side, crooning my name, helping me sit back on the couch.
“I know how you are grieving. We all miss Tanis.”
I clutched her hand to my chest, nodding. I wasn’t grieving. I had no time, no will for that. I was terrified.
Tonight, Marcos would come for me.
“You look beautiful, Delilah. Do not be afraid.”
I looked at Rose as if she spoke a new language. What hope did beauty offer anyone, especially me? Anyone who thought me beautiful had hurt me or hated me. Beauty was no blessing.
Because of this curse, I would attend Marcos, and when he desired, he would take me to one of those curtained rooms upstairs. I did not want to go. I did not want this man! I had two long nights to consider what I had done. I thought hurting Parisa would sate my thirst, that justice would give me peace, but it did nothing. Justice was a dead thing, perhaps, and no use to the living. And vengeance was not a perfect art.
Now I had a dead friend, a man I did not want, and a night ahead of me that made me sick to think about. My tutor had taught me of governments and gods, not of all the necessary deceptions that had to take place when the curtains were drawn. No woman could want to do those things with a man. I did not know how I would disguise my feelings when he reached for me.
None of the other women would even look at me, and certainly they would not welcome me into their secrets. Whatever tricks they used to hold down their meals when a man touched them, they would keep those secrets from me for one more night at least.
I was alone in my ironic little disaster.
I tilted my head, letting my hair fall to one side. Running my hands through it, my fingers remembered what to do, braiding it into one long, strong rope. I remembered the wool I had hoped to weave, to make something beautiful and earn my place. I had been unhappy, but in those days I had understood what must be done.
I knew the cold was there but did not feel it. I had already exhausted myself in my preparations, which never seemed enough. How could I have allowed this to sneak up on me?
By the fourth hour of the afternoon, the sun had begun to fade and night encroached, with purple shadows and cold winds from the sea. I had just released my braid and was preparing to redo it when Hannibal entered our sleeping chambers.
“Lord Marcos has arrived.”
Everyone stopped their grooming and watched me as I stood, bowing slightly to Hannibal. As my eyes swept downward, I saw my tunic shaking violently over my knees. I had to open my mouth and draw the deepest breath I could before I straightened up. It didn’t work.
“Are you all right?” Rose asked.
“I will do what I have to do.”
Hannibal helped me walk to the door leading to the portico, and with one hand on the door to push it open, he leaned to my ear.
“Please Marcos, or do not return to these chambers.” He pulled away and smiled, nodding for me to smile as well.
I did, drawing one last breath before I entered Marcos’s life and became his consort.
Marcos stood when I entered, pleasure in his eyes, as if he did not know what this night had cost me. Perhaps he didn’t. I did not yet know him. Hannibal presented me with a silent flourish and then backed away, leaving me alone with my lord.
He sat and motioned for me to join him. I clasped my hands together in my lap so he would not see them shaking.
The temple was going to be busy tonight; I knew beyond these walls that the wheat had been planted and the barley was coming near to harvest. Men would be coming from nearby villages to plead their case to Dagon, to make love—and life—with a priestess.
I flinched as I thought of the couples soon to drift up the stairs. Lord Marcos noticed and put an arm around me. Perhaps he thought I was cold.
The high winter rains had made the air cold, that was true. A fire burned in the center of the portico, and a few couples stood over it for warmth. Men pleaded in soft tones for blessing and wealth. My womb was empty. I knew what it was to be given blessing and wealth. I knew what it was to lose it all.
Marcos seemed to be content to sit and watch the flames with me. I considered things to say, gracious or learned things. I knew I should entertain him, or impress him. I edged my body at an angle to look at him, removing his arm and setting it in his lap as I cleared my throat.
“I have conditions.”
“Conditions?” He seemed amused. I bit my cheek to keep from crying.
“First, no one may serve you wine but me. I don’t want to be surprised by another woman taking my place someday. And I will not go upstairs like the others. You must take me from here when you want to do those things.”
“I did not agree to these conditions when I asked for you.”
“I did not ask for you.”
He laughed, not taking his eyes off me.
“I will agree to your conditions if you will agree to mine.”
I narrowed my eyes, searching his face for a clue to what he wanted.
“First, no more conditions.”
I nodded. “Agreed.”
He leaned over and grabbed my leg. I squealed without meaning to, and turned my face down when another woman glared at me, as if I was delighting in my stolen fortune.
He ran his hands down my calf and then kneeled at my feet. My heart began thundering, fast and loud. I froze, praying for some quick clue as to what I must do in response. He paid me no attention and removed my sandal, running his hands over my feet. His fingers rested on the cuts and scars, tracing them as he looked up into my eyes.
He replaced my sandals and tied them before sitting again.
My whole body began to recoil. There was no way to conceal my shock. He held me there with one heavy palm now resting on my thigh.
“That is my second condition. Do not harm yourself anymore. Whatever troubles you, come to me with it.”
I stared at the fire. “How did you know?”
“You flinch when you walk. But not every night. And I know that you have suffered.”
I did the strangest thing, without meaning to. I lifted one arm and placed my hand on his. He smiled, putting his other hand on top of mine. He was warm and strong. Relief flooded my body, making my knees weak.
“As long as I live, I promise, Delilah, you will be loved.”
Lord Marcos kept his word. He did not take me upstairs on that night, or any night after. He visited nightly, after his business had finished for the day. He told me of the cases he had tried, of the decisions rendered, of the fortunes won and lost in the city. He told me stories from his childhood and legends from the people.
These were the tender years of my life, when stories were told for amusement and instruction and their lessons learned at a distance. Suffering was no longer my teacher.
When the night came that he took me outside the walls of the temple, I cannot say I was ready. That would be a lie. But I had less fear. He placed one arm around my waist and led me out of the portico, down the steps into the city street.
“Welcome to Ashdod, Delilah.”
He led me through flame-lit streets, and above us, the sun had descended in pink and yellow bands across the deep purple horizon. We walked without speaking, spying on families eating around low tables with flickering oil lamps, past quiet shops with tools resting on tables and mice scampering through straw on the floor and great fat cats leaping after them. Dogs trotted through the streets, whining when they saw us, hoping for a treat. A boy leaned out of a window, whistling, and his dog bounded past us. The boy’s mother stood at the door to let the dog in, then shut the door behind him, closing her home for the night.
These were wonders I had never seen.
“It is a peaceful city,” I said, sighing. Lord Marcos kissed me on the top of my head, and we walked on.
“This is my home.”
I had seen it from a great distance; now I stood in its shadow, dwarfed by its size, sand-brown bricks rising up before me, windows set in the walls higher up than three men stacked head to feet. Above the door, nothing. For almost two years now I had lived in a temple, where the main door bore an inscription that welcomed all men in. “Enter and enjoy,” it read, or that is what the other women told me, but I had hoped they were wrong. That would have made us harlots, not priestesses.
His door had no inscription. He was a free man.
He pushed open the double wooden doors and bade me to enter.
Crossing the threshold, I saw a mosaic tile floor of blue and white, images of women and gazelles, and three whitewashed columns along each side of the home. On the back wall was a staircase to the upper chambers, and low tables stood behind the columns.
“Citizens wait here for me to attend them,” Marcos said.
“Where is your throne?”
He laughed at me.
I frowned. “You are the ruler of the city.”
“The five lords rule with intellect, not force or fear.” He walked to the stairs. I hesitated. “Come.”
I had never been allowed upstairs as a girl, and at the temple, I had never wanted to go up the stairs. Everyone else lived above me, and things happened above me that I did not like or could not be a part of. I was not a girl who climbed stairs with men, even men like Marcos.
“Delilah. It’s all right. Come and join me.”
I took a step forward.
At the bottom of the stairs, he held one hand out to me.
He was a gentle man.
Always, he held out his hand for me. I climbed those stairs many times. My life settled into a comfortable routine—a life without fear, a strange delight. I returned to the temple before dawn and returned to Marcos’s home before the sun drifted away completely. Hannibal did not mind that I no longer entertained Marcos at the temple. Marcos made generous offerings to Dagon every week, even better offerings than in the past. Hannibal was pleased enough to say nothing.
Marcos was busy with men who had urgent business. Tonight he saw to it that I was comfortable in his chambers, then went below to attend them. I looked around me, a foreigner in this room without him. His bed was empty, the pallet resting on the floor, draperies around it to keep the pests out in the summer. The windows brought in the strong salty summer breezes from the sea.
A dressing table stood against the wall, with a stool, and a table by the bed with lion heads on each corner, for trays of refreshment. A lovely, perfect room that no woman could find fault with. Marcos had even purchased a jar of exquisite perfume for me. It was a luxury I had never known. With Marcos, life itself had become a wonderful luxury.
When Marcos returned, I had a question. I had always had this question, but until tonight, I did not have the courage to ask. His love was making me bold.
“Why do men divorce their wives?”
Marcos shrugged and began removing his sash. “Do you mean, ‘Why did you divorce your wife?’”
“Was she no longer attractive?”
He draped his sash across the foot of the bed. “She was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known.”
His answer did not make me feel good.
“Was she barren?”
He was removing his robe. I should have stood to help him, but I was afraid he would stop talking if I came near.
“I don’t know. I stopped lying with her years before the divorce.”
“But you said she was beautiful!”
“Delilah, whatever you may think of men, we are a bit more complex than you realize. A beautiful woman is just as likely to displease a man as an ugly woman. Maybe even more so.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t. Whatever has happened to you in the past, whatever behavior in themselves men have excused on account of your beauty, they were wrong. If a man claims he was compelled to hurt you, he is either lying or no man at all.”
He was in his linen robe now and nothing else. I stood to help him remove it. He shook his head no and got into bed with a sigh.
I wanted to say many things to him just then. I did not want him to be mad at me, but I was not sure this was anger.
Without deceit, I had nothing to say, so I disrobed and lay beside him. An hour or more passed as I waited for him to touch me. When he did, I turned my body into his and did not resist him. That was all the truth I was capable of.
We passed most all our evenings in this chamber or on the beach, watching the waves break and little crabs scurrying for their dinner. In the distance, birds flew straight at the water, diving below, then surfacing to float effortlessly. There were dancers, acrobats even, in the market on warm nights, but these birds were the performers I preferred. Marcos, too, I think, was glad to be away from the city, away from the problems and accusations and pleadings of the citizens.
Tonight was such a night. We sat on the sand, the day’s heat keeping it warm though the sun was setting in a blaze of yellow and orange. Brilliant white clouds reflected the last of its rays. I had served as Marcos’s consort for a full year now.
He watched the birds at the horizon. “Do you ever wonder if all of this”—and here he gestured to the world around him—“is all there is?”
“But my love, you have everything! Wealth. Passion. Even power. How could that not be enough? How could you wonder if there is anything else? What else could there be?” I was breathing rapidly, my nostrils stinging from the effort. I wanted to know what he would say.
“Is it enough for you?” he asked, with a steady gaze that made me doubt myself. This must be how he ruled the citizens.
“Nothing is truly my own. I cannot say it is enough, because nothing is mine. I was made your consort, not your wife.”
I stood without grace, my chest still rising and falling.
“It will not always be like this, Delilah.”
I turned to him with a shudder. “Please do not send me away for speaking like that. I am sorry. I don’t deserve you.”
“You deserve much more.”
That summer passed without any more frightening words. We drank of love, and I grew to know his body, and his heart, so much better than my own. Slowly, this man I had once claimed no desire for, now claimed all my desire. In him, I knew my place, my home, my purpose. I did not fail him. Even when I was weak, he showed me how to be strong. When I was sad and could not explain why, he comforted me with walks, and love, and tenderness that left me breathless. He kissed me on the forehead when I was unlovely and angry.
That is why I did it.
I opened myself to a great pain, thinking I was stronger now. But always, always, life has its surprises. Unguarded hearts always lead to disaster.
I was such a fool.
We lay in his bed, and he told me of the day’s business. A man and his wife had found a child in the fields and made claim to it. He had blessed them and given them a silver coin for luck. I asked their names, but I did not recognize them. I had met most everyone of any importance in the city, and even the other four Philistine lords, but none seemed to see anything unusual in my face. No one saw their daughter’s features in mine.
“Do you know of anyone who adopted a baby from the temple?” I did not want to reclaim her. I would not even know her in the streets. I just wanted to know if they were good people. I wanted to think she was as happy as I, that the gods had been just as kind to her.
“Of course not.”
“No one?” I felt cold. His tone was not right.
“Who would take a baby that had been birthed at the temple? That would be like stealing from the gods. A curse would follow the baby.”
“But I do know of a child that was given to a nobleman’s family.”
In the darkness, I heard him catch his breath. He understood why I asked and what lies had been told to me.
I tried very hard to make no noise, but he held me as I cried.
That is, truly, where my story ends at the temple. I knew Tanis as she had truly been, a tender liar who served only herself. Or her god, not knowing that they were one and the same. Perhaps she had wanted to tell me the truth the night she was killed, but whether she wanted that for herself or for my own sake, I would never know.
I lay awake, thinking of who else might hurt me, who else might hide. I must have fallen into a deep asleep, because I awoke alone, shivering, though the room was not cold.
And here was the greatest irony of all: One last secret was being played out upon me as I slept. One last secret, one that would change my fate forever.
Stretching, lazy in the late afternoon sun, I was the last to rise. The other women were already dressed and at work on their hair. I sat up, crossing my legs on the bed, waiting for sleep to clear from my eyes. Spring was here. We all felt it, even locked away in this room. I smiled to myself, thinking of the flowers already in bloom and all the treasures of freedom Marcos would show me.
Hannibal entered the room, a dark look on his face.
“I would like to be alone with Delilah. Everyone, please go and eat now.”
A few glanced at me. Rose did, a fearful look on her face. I smiled at her. I had nothing to fear from Hannibal.
When the room cleared, Hannibal did not move. He stood at the door and did not look at me. I rose, my stomach beginning to tighten into a cold knot.
“Have I done something?”
He did not reply. He was pressing his lips together, rubbing them back and forth. Hannibal was always sure of himself. Nothing had ever made him nervous in my presence.
“What is it?” I rested a hand on his arm, hoping he would look at me.
“Marcos died this morning. He was listening to cases at his home, and he slumped over at a table. No one could wake him,” Hannibal said.
I fell to the floor. My breathing sounded clotted, rasping. I willed myself to die too, before the heartbreak took me. I think I was moaning. I do not remember much after this.
What is there to say of such grief? My heart was torn from my body, and I was weak, and pale, and grew thin. For months, I had no appetite, no desire for food or wine or words. I lay on my couch, my body aching from a grief that numbed every sensation except crushing black sorrow.
Rose tried to sit on my bed once in the early morning when she returned from her service, to comfort me. I smelled men on her and turned away. She did not try again. Hannibal gave up reasoning with me and ordered servants to hold my head back as he poured a thin soup into my mouth, shutting it after each pour, blowing in my face, tricking my body into swallowing.
One morning he lost his patience. He had something to tell me that would not wait any longer.
“Delilah, you must listen to me. Lord Marcos loved you.”
I moaned and thrashed against Hannibal. I couldn’t bear to hear the name. I couldn’t bear to lie here anymore, cold and alone. I had had everything, and everything I had lost. It had been enough, I wanted to scream in sorrow. It had been so much more than enough, a wealth beyond imagining, and I had lost it all again. I wanted to die, and I did not even have the strength to find my blade and lift it. If only I had known I would need this last strength, maybe I would have saved it.
“Lord Marcos bought your freedom. Before he died, he came to me early one morning. It was the middle of the night, really.” Hannibal was smiling softly as he told it, remembering. “I could not imagine what had gotten him out of bed at that hour, especially when you were in it with him. He banged on the main doors, refusing to enter through the portico, demanding to see me. He said he would buy your freedom at any price. I asked him if he was going to marry you, if that is why he demanded your freedom, and do you know what that man did? He hit me. In the face. He said he would buy your freedom for your sake, not his. What you chose to do with it was your own business, or it was not really freedom.”
Hannibal placed his hand on my cheek. “Your color is better. You need to eat again. Lord Marcos bought your freedom, Delilah. It is a thing that is unheard of. But he did it, for you. Regain your strength, and you can go.”
A new lord lived in Marcos’s house now, a man chosen by the people, who voted with stones dropped into clay pots. I knew Galenos to be a moderate man, moderate in drink and food, which would have pleased Marcos, and moderate in judgments. He did not move too fast to punish, or sweep away offenses as if they meant nothing to him.
I wanted to get away from this city and this temple. I took the money Lord Marcos had set aside for my freedom and bought a little home in the Valley of Sorek. I could walk to a market in Ashdod if I chose to, but on the streets near my home, I was granted the blessing of indifference.
I was nothing more here than an oddity, an unmarried woman who controlled her own fate. I had a past that gave them a little meat for their gossip, and a former love that still afforded me respect among the noblemen. Even if, in their hearts, they honored Marcos and not me. It did not matter. They could talk as they pleased. They did not care about me, and I found great relief in this.
I could not bear to remain indoors. I had never lived alone, and I had never known how terrible silence could be, how it suffocated and made the mind race, desperate for escape. I had chosen a small brick home in the center of the city, safe within her walls, where the noise and cries of the streets would reach me at all hours. Hannibal had been of great assistance in securing it and had even introduced me to the new lord, Galenos. Galenos was married with no interest in me, which was a relief. I had heard his wife was quite lovely. I wished them many children and much happiness, everything I had been denied.
Wandering in the market became my favorite pastime. If a dead heart can claim to be amused by anything, it was looking at the wares, watching the shoppers bargain and argue and rejoice over little victories. The market was life, and I walked through it, remembering.
A loom stood in one of the stalls, its wood beams clean and polished. The loom was old, the merchant had said. One eye wandered without control as he spoke, and gaps in his brown teeth showed themselves as he smiled without mercy on me. He clutched my hand in his, pushing his face closer.
“Why do you want an old loom? You should have the best. Go to Cornelius. He sells new ones.”
“No, but I thank you. This one will do.”
He dropped my hand with a sigh. “I will not argue with a woman.”
I tried a smile, though I felt nothing. “You don’t have the heart for it?”
He grunted. “I don’t have the strength. Take it. One piece of copper.”
I paid him and took up the loom in my arms, cradling it like a child. The thought struck me coldly, and I shifted it at once, carrying it in front of me. It was an older loom, true, but one that rested easily in my lap. One I would have wanted many years ago. So much had been abandoned in the years since.
Weeks passed, and I stared at the loom, setting by my bed. Another woman should have bought it, not me. I once knew how to weave, once had dreams of the fine things I could create. Maybe I had hoped the loom would stir something in me.
It didn’t. One night I poured myself a bowl of wine filled to the brim, determined to numb the pain for an hour, and climbed the steps to my roof, where I could sit and look at the stars. In the far distance stood the temple. I sat with my back to it.
The horizon was black, as was the sky above me. This was my life, the temple behind me, nothing before me. Just darkness.
I drank, emptying the bowl in one long draught, and waited to feel the warmth spread into my cold, dead limbs.
I didn’t know what to do with my freedom any more than I knew what to do with my past. Everything hurt.
The orange sun was setting in the west, leaving the sky a turquoise blue. White clouds dotted the sky above, rolling on to some distant adventure. I wished them gone. I was eager for the relief of night and of darkness, when the heat would soften and shadows covered my home.
Moving through the market, I needed to buy one last thing before returning home. Pits along the street hissed, with white smoke rising from them, dry bones scattered at their edges. The smoke stung my nose. I held out my coin, and the cook rose from his stool, pulling a skewer from the fire pot of blackened pork. He scraped it into a straw basket and handed it to me with his familiar nod of thanks.
I had never learned to cook. I appreciated his lack of interest in my problem.
A young girl stood watching me in the shadow of a doorway. One bare foot lifted to rub the top of the other. She tucked her chin down but still watched me, her foot rubbing faster.
Turning back to the cook, I held out another coin. He stood and filled a basket, with the same solemn expression that he had worn for me not even a minute ago. Taking the steaming meat from him, I turned and held it out to the girl.
She did not move, but her nostrils flared. I held the basket farther out to her. She glanced in either direction and scurried across the lane, scooping out the pork with one hand, eating like an animal, unaware of anything but the food and her hunger. With one hand I stroked her head as she ate. My chest tightened with the memory of this hunger, of any hunger. I envied her that she felt anything at all, and I said a silent word of thanks, that money could make someone happy.
I knew no one would hear the words spoken in my heart. There was no one left for that now, and no god, either. All had proven so fragile.
A man charged from the doorway of a wine shop, bursting upon the two of us, slapping the basket from my hands. Bits of meat scattered on the ground at my feet and the girl jumped behind me, hiding behind my tunic.
“What are you doing?” he screamed at me. “If I wanted her fed, wouldn’t I do it myself?”
He raised a hand to strike me in the face, and it was the last movement he made that night of his own free will. Another man, a strange and powerful creature, turned down our lane and attacked the man while his hand was still lifting through the air. The stranger leaped with the power of a lion, felling the man and toppling down after him. I turned, pushing the girl’s face into my tunic so she would not see. The stranger beat the man, screaming profanities, showering him with curses and fists.
When the noise stopped, I tilted my head to look at the stranger. He stood over the body, his chest heaving, his fists bloody.
“Did you kill him?” I whispered. I did not want the girl to hear.
“Should I?” He had the voice of an innocent. I looked in his eyes to be sure he didn’t mock me, but his eyes were pure and questioning.
“No. She needs him. Perhaps he will be kinder in the future.”
He craned his neck, spying the girl hidden in my tunic. Squatting down, he held out a hand to her. “Did he hurt you?”
Her body stiffened. I stroked her hair. “It’s all right, my pet. Go home and tell your mother what has happened.”
She crept to the edge of my body and stole a glance at the stranger, who still squatted, one hand extended. He did not see the blood on his hand, did not understand what it meant to her.
She broke free and ran.
He stood, wiping his hands on his own tunic with a shrug. “I thought she was your daughter.”
“No. I have no daughter.” I wasn’t sure if that was a lie. I wasn’t sure it mattered, not anymore.
He held out his hand to me.
“I’m Samson.”
If only Marcos could have seen it! The troubler of the Philistines, making peace in our streets, saving a young Philistine girl from her father.
“Don’t you have some crops to burn?”
He did not react. “What is your name? Why was he going to beat you?”
I picked up my tunic, moving quickly through the market.
He followed me through the narrow stalls, weaving his way around people who stopped and stared, struck stupid by his appearance. He looked like a monster from a tale of the Greeks, with that bushy brown hair hanging past his hips, and that beard, and his size. Gath had the giants, but we had a few in Ashdod, too, and Samson almost came up to their height.
Marcos would have driven him from the city.
I realized, too late, my error. At my door, I turned to face him.
“If you do not leave, I will have you chained and beaten.”
“By your own hand? I might stay for that.”
I spat on the ground and went inside, shutting the door hard in his face.
Tomorrow I would find Lord Galenos. Samson did not belong in our valley. He would be forced to leave.
But that plan, like so many of mine, failed. Samson, indeed, did not return.
He never left.
When I rose the next day, I knew I must first open my door to look out into the street, to make sure he did not watch for me. Like a fool, I had run straight here yesterday. He knew where I lived, and perhaps, if he was an observant man, he knew I lived alone.
I did not know what a Hebrew man would think of such a woman. They had once been slaves, Marcos said, who had revolted against their masters. They were not to be trusted. How could such a man like that Hebrew understand a woman with freedom?
I rested my hand on the door handle and pulled gently to open it.
The door flew toward me, and Samson landed on his back, opening his eyes, staring up at me. He stank of drink.
“Good morning.”
“Get up, or I will have you stripped and beaten.” Immediately, I wished I hadn’t said that. He giggled like a boy. He was still drunk, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, as if he was being bad.
No one here cared.
“You’re filthy.” I pushed him with my foot, holding my nose with my fingers. “If you go and wash, I will wait for you at the market.”
“You will?”
“Yes. Now go wash.”
He lifted his torso up, swaying even as he sat. I helped him stand and gave him a push out the door, pointing him in the direction of the gates. He held out one hand, bracing himself against the wall of my home.
I motioned for the neighbor’s boy to come near. He was watching from his own doorway, fascinated by the Hebrew.
“Go and find Lord Galenos. Tell him Samson of the Hebrews is in the valley and drunk. He will know what to do.”
I stepped back inside my house and closed the door, wishing for a way to brace it, to make it stronger, so I would be assured the Hebrew could do no harm if he came back.
For two days I remained in my house, not going to market even when I ran out of food and wine. But I could not last like this forever. The more life returned to my heart, the more life my body wanted. Hunger was again my enemy.
Samson was not outside my door. He was not in the streets and not in the market. Lord Galenos had expelled him. My thoughts turned to the day ahead, the expanse of empty hours I would have to fill before night came again. In the market, I bought a salted fish, its dead white eyes staring at nothing; and a loaf of bread, flat and brown; and a skin of wine. All this I carried in my arms, trying to hold it away from my body, at my sides.
I turned for home, and there he was again, his face unwashed and sunburned from living outside for three days. He was a madman. His eyes shone with a fat, fine pleasure when he saw me.
I turned away in disgust.
He trotted to my side, walking alongside me. I turned abruptly, changing directions, walking toward the sea.
“Your house is not in this direction.”
I walked.
“What have you heard of me?” He was eager to talk.
I stopped, setting down my dinner carefully, then dusting off my hands. I shoved him with both hands against his chest.
“What do you want from me? What is it?”
He would later say that he had already fallen in love, but I had no such feelings. My dead heart had not stirred, until I saw his expression when I asked that question.
His face went blank. He had no answer. He could think of nothing he wanted from me.
He just wanted me.
It was then, at that moment, that I remembered how often the living feel afraid. The cold sinking weights in my stomach, the numbness of my fingers and toes, the pinch of my lips pressed together. I wanted nothing to do with this man.
We sat under the stars on my roof, drinking the last of the wine. My face was flushed and warm; the wine had no obvious effect on him. The sky glowed lavender at the horizon, and the dusty brown stone buildings looked beautiful for just that one hour, when twilight softened the day.
“Your hair is beautiful in the light.”
I raised my eyes from my bowl to look at him. How odd that any man could find beauty in me. But I had my reason for bringing him up here, a reason that would only sound reasonable to a woman as exhausted and broken as I.
“Hebrews hate the Philistines,” I answered.
“I’ve attended the festivals at harvest. I’ve even been to the temple of Dagon.”
“In Ekron?” I had never seen him there.
“In Gaza.”
“You like to wander far from home.”
“Not much to keep me there.”
I smiled to myself. I understood the sentiment. Pouring out the last of the wine into his bowl, I settled back on the cushions, yawning.
Samson looked uncomfortable, glancing about as if he would find a reason to make more conversation. He frowned, as I shook the skin to make the point. It was empty. Our agreement was met. One skin, one hour, and then he would leave me in peace. I had a talent for negotiating with him. This pleased me, his acceptance of my offer.
But he had something new to say, some desperate, deep topic that was ready to surface. At last. He assumed I would care.
“No one wants to be delivered. Except children. And they’re all afraid of me.”
“Cut your hair.”
He recoiled. I leaned forward. He needed to leave.
“You look like an animal.”
“And your people live like one.”
I laughed. He pouted like a child when hurt. His lower lip trembled in anger.
“Then why are you here, Samson? We do not want to be delivered either. No one wants you here.”
He stood, knocking over the little table that separated us. I did not flinch. “Go home, Samson. Go home to your family.”
He stomped down the stairs, making the roof shake like thunder had struck close by. The door opened and slammed shut, and his footsteps faded into the night.
I lifted my bowl, letting one last drop roll across the lip and into my mouth, a last burst of sweetness before the dreams came.
I was not surprised by the knock at my door the following morning. Only the hour seemed unreasonable.
I rubbed my eyes as I moved across the cool earth floor. Opening the door, I saw Lord Galenos nodding in greeting. I knew he would be calling for me. I had made no attempt to hide Samson’s visit from my neighbors. And Lord Galenos had a family, and families did not sit up half the night drinking wine. He had, no doubt, slept for hours.
“Good morning, Delilah. May I enter?”
“No.” I grabbed a sash from the dressing table nearest the bed, then returned to the door. “We will walk in the market. I need to buy my food for today.”
Lord Galenos made no protest, and so we walked. I did not want him in my home, although Marcos had spoken well of him. Lord Galenos was a man of power. I did not want to be swept into that world again.
“So the Hebrew, Samson.” Lord Galenos sampled a bit of roasted grain proffered by a woman with young children grabbing her legs as she worked. He raised his eyebrows in praise and held up two fingers to buy us two loaves of her bread. The wheat harvest had just finished coming in all over the valley. Already, I could see dusty clouds billowing up from rooftops above us. The time had come for threshing. Those with smaller fields threshed on their roofs, letting the wind carry the chaff away.
“I do not know why he visited me. And he is not what I expected.”
“Go on.” Galenos handed me a small round loaf, no bigger than my palm, dotted with raisins. I held it to my nose out of habit, inhaling before the first bite that would crack the brown crust and send crumbs all down my tunic.
“He talks a lot.”
“About what?” Galenos tensed, nodding for me to continue. I had something of value to offer him. I saw it in his eyes.
I was slipping, just a little. When a woman has known powerful men, she is forever changed. She knows that power is always there; just a little push and it can be hers, too. She thinks she can fix what is so deeply wrong in her life. Until she discovers that power will only make her wounds worse. Power without goodness is an infection.
I wanted none of it. I was not good. When I had power, I used it to hurt others.
“Nothing at all. He just talks. If he said anything at all of importance, I would tell you.”
Galenos pointed to the sun overhead. “I have to go to Ekron today. The lords are meeting to discuss this problem.”
“All five lords?”
“Have you not heard what he did in Gaza? He tore the city gates off their hinges, carried them all the way to Mount Hebron.”
“I still do not believe it.” I was not a man, but I was educated.
He grasped my arm, frowning in earnest. “It happened. I saw the gates myself.”
“It’s impossible!” My stomach was cold and tight. Fear brought my body to life. I pressed a hand to my stomach to soothe it. “It would take twenty men or more just to set them on their hinges.”
“Took forty to bring them down from the mountain, and on carts at that. Samson is a dangerous man. Do not entertain him again. Have nothing to do with him. For my sake.”
I did not understand. He patted my arm with a sigh. “Marcos was my friend.”
I bit my lip to stop any sign of grief. I had not heard his name spoken in months. Had it been months? I did not know time anymore. I knew only emptiness. Inside there was absence, a lack, a dreary day where there is no movement in the clouds, no sun and no storm, just a low and heavy gray sky.
Lord Galenos kissed my hand and departed. I stared at the baker’s oven, the orange flames rising around the blackened base of the stones, the white ashes floating up and away. The wind was carrying all of it off, the ash and the chaff, all the evidence that we were alive on this day. I looked down at my own hands, trembling in the warming sun. They were cold, so cold. One hand moved toward the flame, stretching out toward the warmth, as if I did not control it. I wanted to burn my hand. I pushed it closer. I wanted to feel something again, something real, a pain I could see with my own eyes. I needed to see my pain, so I pushed my hand toward the flames, my tunic singeing at the edges where it touched the stones.
Samson was upon me, grabbing me, one arm sweeping under my ribs along my waist, pulling me along the lane.
“Why would you do that?” He forced me to walk fast, anger in his voice.
“How much did you hear?” I thought he was talking about Galenos.
“If you want to hurt me, then do. But I never want to see you do that again.” He stopped, grabbing me by the arm, forcing me around to look at him. “Whatever it is, I can help you.”
He picked up my hand, inspecting it. It was not truly burned, but it was red from the heat.
“You are said to be a dangerous man,” I said.
“Not to you. Never to you, Delilah.”
“Then leave me alone. Just talking to you brings trouble to me.”
“I cannot do that.”
“Why? Have we made slaves of the Hebrews now?”
“Because I’m going to marry you.”
I laughed until I bent over, until he turned red in the face and crossed his arms. He sounded angry, not petulant, as he spoke. “I’ve watched you in the streets. You have no one.”
“That does not mean I need you.”
“No. But, in time, you will desire me, just as I desire you. And you will want my God to be your God, and my people to be your people.”
Did he not understand the way of the world? Expectations were always met, and never with goodness. Anger rose in my heart, stiffening my arms as I looked into his face. His face with the soft brown eyes, and a mouth that was soft and red under that hair. He was an appealing man, if one looked closely. I took a step back.
I had no pity for the poor wounded Hebrew. He needed none. What he needed was a man strong as himself, one who would throttle him until he stopped whining and started seeing the world as it was, a world indifferent to him and his god and his destiny.
But there was no such man. There was only me, and I knew that sometimes in this life, only a woman would dare to do what a man should.
“I have conditions.” Tension rushed from my shoulders, loosening my arms as I took a deep, satisfying breath.
Samson offered his arm, and together we walked toward my home. If he wanted to marry me, first he had to save me. No man could do that.
Again, we were drunk in the moonlight. Samson had bought me a beeswax candle in the market, a luxury I would not buy for myself. I went without light. It suited me. Samson, however, preferred light. I suspected that what he preferred was fire, the flame, but this I would not say. Not yet. I would wait to provoke him but was glad the thought had come to me.
“Will you let me kiss you?”
He leaned too close to my face. I pulled away, fanning at him with one hand, deciding to refill my bowl with the wine.
“What? Do I stink? Or is it because I am a Hebrew?”
“I don’t want to kiss you. That is a reason in itself.”
“How can I please you when you won’t talk to me?”
“Don’t bother trying to please me.” I felt no pleasure.
He grunted as he stood, and he walked to the edge of my roof.
“I should leave.” He sounded hurt, drawing a deep sigh, releasing it with great effort.
I said nothing.
“I stopped that man from hurting you because it was the right thing to do, the right way to use my strength. And when I looked at you, after he was lying on the ground, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I had not known I could feel that again.”
He said those last words with great emphasis. I knew I was supposed to ask him to tell me his tale.
I drank more wine, letting it sit on my tongue, breathing through my mouth, trying in vain to taste it, truly. It burned and gave me no satisfaction.
“I won’t come anymore. If you really want me to leave, I will.” He turned to face me as he said it, crossing his arms. He was testing me. He wanted to know what was in my heart.
I decided to show him.
I stood and walked to the edge of the roof, sweeping my arm out across the view. “In the distance, you can see the temple from here. And if you look across the valley, you will see tiny dots of light, little houses near the fields.” At this hour, the homes with light and the temple with its yellow orbs were like stars resting on the black earth. “They will be harvesting the grapes this month, and the figs, and the olives. There will be much rejoicing if the fields are fertile.”
“We will hope for a good harvest, then.” Samson looked hopeful. He was not thinking of a harvest. He was thinking I would soften if the news was good.
“But if there are worries, if the fields are bare and trees wither, they will return to the temple and teach Dagon what he must do. There will be lovemaking. And sacrifices. And next spring, babies thrown in gutters.”
Samson said nothing, made no response, no expression. I shoved him toward the roof’s edge. He caught himself, cursing.
I knew I was smiling. I didn’t care. “You’re afraid.”
“Afraid to die, yes!”
“There are worse things.”
I walked to the edge, resting my toes at the tip of the roof. The temple lay straight ahead. Its yellow light teased me. It was beautiful, from a distance. Everything was, until you knew the truth. Glancing at Samson, I took one last step off the roof, into the night air.
He caught me, strength coming upon him, pulling me to his chest. He pressed me close, my face just under his, warm against his neck.
Only one man had ever held me like this. And he had not saved me. He had only betrayed me, giving me my freedom before he made sure I wanted to live.
Samson’s heart beat fast, pounding through his tunic. Tears came to my eyes, running in cool rivers down my cheeks. Samson was afraid—and not just for himself. He was afraid for me. He was afraid I would die, as if that would mean something to him. I closed my eyes, letting him hold me like this. I fought with the sweet softness of memory before I composed myself and shoved him off of me, furious.
He grabbed my arm. “I’m not leaving you alone.”
“I am already alone!”
“Not anymore. Not if you will just talk to me.”
I paused, waiting for the tears to dry up, willing my heart to turn cold again.
“Do you want to stay the night?” I asked.
“With you?”
I laughed. He was so suspicious now.
“Yes, with me.”
“Then I do, yes.”
“Be quiet, and you can stay.” I don’t know why I did it, only that the memories were so near, so sweet, that I could not bear to be alone with them tonight.
He pressed one finger to his lips, in mockery of my command. I pulled two blankets from a basket near the wine table and laid them out on the roof. It was too hot to sleep below, and I planned to do nothing but sleep.
He was not pleased, I think, with the arrangement, but he said nothing. He should not have agreed to my conditions without knowing what they all were.
He breathed heavily at night, not like Marcos, who slept peacefully. Samson thrashed and snorted, like an ox with a blanket thrown over his face.
Poor Samson. Not even in sleep did he find peace. If he spoke the truth to me, then he was born to save others, and others did not want to be saved. If they had allowed him to fulfill his destiny, perhaps he would not have been keeping me awake, pestering me even while asleep. But I understood. His people didn’t want their freedom.
I didn’t want mine either.
“Are you awake?” Samson was sitting up, watching me. I wiped my cheeks in the darkness, angry. I had not realized he was watching me, and I had been crying.
He crossed his legs and settled back.
“I will tell you a story,” he said.
I said nothing. Stories were better than questions, I supposed, and this man was determined to talk.
“Many generations ago, a young boy had a great destiny but not much sense. His brothers hated him, and one day they betrayed him and sold him into slavery. The boy was taken to a foreign land, where he suffered again, until he found a kind master who gave him freedom and honor, but the boy, who was now a man, was sad, broken. He had everything he ever could desire, but he was dead in his heart. Then a famine came upon the land, and all suffered a great hunger. Now this man had been given a job, a job of counting grain and storing grain and rationing grain, and so during the famine he became the most powerful man in the world. All who hungered came to him for grain. One day, he saw his brothers in the line for grain. What did he do?”
“He had them killed.”
“He fed them.”
“What? They were his enemies, the beginning of all his pains!”
“But that was what he had been born for, why he had been given his power and strength, to feed those who had hurt him, to save many, even those who did not deserve it.”
I sat up, hoping he saw my eyes blazing in the dark. My teeth were on edge. “Why do you tell me this story?”
“My God uses the cruelty of others to push us into a position to save them. To save many. Whatever has been done to you, perhaps my God was at work in it, too.”
My heart was beating faster. How could he have known this story was for me? As if a god was speaking to me through him.
“I do not know your god. I know Dagon.”
“Dagon is no god. He has given you nothing. He will never be at work in your sorrow.”
“You have power, Samson. Why must you talk of gods? Surely you see that power is the only true god in this world. Yet here you are, on the roof with a Philistine woman, half drunk and a nuisance.” I wanted him gone.
“I have strength. Not power. I cannot heal. I cannot change a heart. I cannot even win your trust.”
“I feel such pity for you. Now go home.”
He was mad with god-talk. As if I would feed my brothers or father and mother, as if I would bless the man in shadows or any of the men who used their worship to serve themselves. Not that a woman, even in Philistine lands, could have such power over others. But should that moment come to me, I knew what I would choose.
“Delilah?”
“Yes?”
“Do I have to go home? I promise not to say anything else.”
I hid under the blanket, pressing my hand over my mouth so he wouldn’t hear me laughing.