The Philistine Warrior (52 page)

Then he turned to Delai: “And for you, Queen Delai, the honorary title of High Priestess of Ishtar.”

She curtsied. “May the Goddess bless Your Majesty for his kindness,” she wished. “And I thank Your Majesty with all of my heart.”

“I hope there’ll be more trade between our two countries,” the Emperor went on. “And if
Tyre
ever gives you—or me—trouble, perhaps we can work out some sort of alliance….”

“Sire,” I replied, “although we Philistines must remain loyal to Pharaoh, we do want closer ties with
Assyria
, in terms of both trade and diplomacy. Our affairs are already linked more to the
Tigris
and
Euphrates
than to the
Nile
.”

“Excellent,” he said. “And so, farewell, warrior King—and lovely Queen. I shall provide you with a rich caravan and an honor guard to your border.”

“Thank you for everything, Sire,” Delai said, and curtsied low again. I bowed and saluted, and we left his presence.

We traveled as a royal couple. Gone were the days of sweet simplicity and smallish cares. Ibbi came with us in our caravan, of course. Along the way, he happily explained the results of his latest study of the omens.

“There will be a glorious and a peaceful reign for Your Majesties,” he informed us.

“I’m sure,” I commented, chuckling at his “omens.” “How can there be any trouble? Almost everyone in
Philistia
who might give us problems is either retired, exhausted—or dead!”

“Phicol, don’t laugh at religious prophecies, to our peril,” my wife scolded. “Besides, there’s still Warati to worry about.”

That was true enough—or so we thought. Yet when we reached
Damascus
, we learned that Warati had come to terms with his nobles in
Gaza
, granting them immense powers in their assembly—almost reducing himself to a figurehead, except in purely military matters. In return, the nobles allowed him to remain as Sheren of Gaza; they even agreed to give him paramount influence over external policy. The nobles did, however, successfully demand

complete control over internal affairs—especially in the areas of taxation and appropriations.

It seemed that Warati—no longer a young man, after all, and now deprived of Zaggi’s advice and support—had taken up with a young and handsome aristocratic officer, an exceedingly clever fellow, with connections among Warati’s noble enemies; hence the compromise solution to the struggle—a compromise which Warati himself could never have arranged, without such an advisor by his side; or under him…wherever. Another example of the rise of a “new generation.”

Thus I had to reconcile myself to giving up even the slightest revenge on Warati—I had to abandon the idea of forcing him into retirement. Instead, I’d have to learn how to get along with him…or at least…with his new, young friend….

In any case, this news from
Gaza
meant that all of our nation’s troubles had been settled—at least for the moment—and my reign could begin on a peaceful note. The occasional feeling of gloom which had haunted us on our journey out of
Assyria
had now been dispelled, and we enjoyed the rest of our caravan’s progress in thanksgiving.

When we reached the Philistine border, we bade farewell to our Assyrian honor guard—good friends they had been—and greeted our new escort, a large force of Philistine charioteers. The danger of a Danite ambush could not be entirely discounted, although we didn’t really expect any trouble. The commander of the chariots was my old companion, Jaita. We had a fine reunion.

“Jaita, it’s good to see you!” I exclaimed.

He saluted, grinning in his usual sardonic way. “Sire, welcome home!”

Home. Three years and now home. I rejoiced. Then—from his insignia—I realized that he’d been promoted. “So, you’re a lieutenant colonel now,” I commented. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied. “For all that Sheren Pai was a double-dealer, he got me promoted in Askelon’s service. And he protected me when Zaggi was searching out old enemies. Pai’s retired now, perhaps you know. I advised him to step down. And the

nobility of Askelon is waiting to hear Your Majesty’s views before electing a new Sheren.”

It was the first time I’d been called “Your Majesty” within my new realm.

Amphimachus and Delai then appeared, and Jaita bowed to them. “Greetings, Queen Delai and Lord Amphimachus. And belated congratulations on Your Majesties’ blessed event!”

Delai blushed and showed him the baby. “Hold him,” she told Jaita. A young buck of a bachelor, Jaita was all thumbs when confronted by an infant.

“Jaita’s a lieutenant colonel now,” I pointed out to my wife. “And, if he accepts, I’d like to give him a full coloncy in our national chariot service.”

“I think that’s a grand idea,” Delai commented.

Jaita must have himself blushed in his turn—but his dark tan concealed it. I could even see in Jaita a possible candidate for the office of Sheren of Askelon someday, though not immediately.

In the midst of our reunion, we made some more glorious plans for the
Philistia
of the future. The greatest news, however, and the most joyous, came on the next day, as our caravan bounced along. Delai sat next to me in our wagon. I looked at her closely. Only twenty years old, she’d changed a lot over the five years since her engagement to Ekosh. Her girlish looks had faded a bit…and sometimes, though ever less often, her eyes betrayed a haunted past. But if she no longer looked the little girl, yet she’d matured into a beautiful woman; and she could still, sometimes, be a child at heart—and at play.

That day, she was bubbling with life and fun—and it was catching! Hugging her gently, I asked her if our new traveling companions—or Ibbi’s latest prophecies—had produced her playful mood.

She looked up at me. “Ah, Sweetheart, why wait ‘till lunch to tell you all, when I can tell
you
now, alone?” She squeezed my arm. “Darling…I’m pregnant again! Oh, I hope this time it’ll be a girl! Ibbi’s promised that it will be a girl—he’s read the omens!”

Those omniscient, omnipresent omens! “This time,” I commented, “we’ll catch Ibbi for sure—if it turns out to be a boy!” She punched my arm, and we kissed each other.

We passed through the Philistine border country, and before long approached the town of
Zorah
. There, on Delai’s orders, the caravan halted, and she and I went alone (though with a small guard close behind) to find the grave of Samson. When we got there, she knelt to pray, while I stood nearby.

“Holy Inanna,” she implored, “bring peace to our land, and to our peoples…to Samson’s peoples, and to ours….”

I thought (to myself), well, Inanna is a goddess of war, too…but I added my silent bit to my wife’s prayer.

“Enough blood has been shed,” she went on. “Let not the Hebrews, or the Danites, kill us anymore…or we, them. Let my son Achish, and his sons, rule with wisdom and kindness. Please, Holy Goddess, let not the deaths of so many be in vain…do not torment the shade of Samson, in that underworld which will be the home of us all some day. He suffered enough in this life…we’ve all suffered enough. So be it, Gracious Queen of Heaven, Inanna….”

She stared at Samson’s grave for a while; then we rejoined our caravan.

“I’ve wanted for a long time to pray by his grave,” she told me. “Poor deluded man…he really was insane, I think…and yet he died believing that he was serving his god, just as we serve ours. We must pray at Uncle Zaggi’s grave as well, Phicol. We must all forgive one another….”

Surely she, of all of us, had done nothing requiring forgiveness, I thought, though perhaps her “betrayal” of Samson haunted her still. I nodded to her and hoped—and even expected to pray at Zaggi’s grave; I hoped for peace. Hope comes hard sometimes. Yet we must hope, and carry on….

We’re leaving our last campsite now. Soon we’ll be in
Gath
, and the frantic business of putting together our new government, and policy, will begin. Already, we know some of our potential problems: Ittai’s jealousy, the religious questions raised by Ibbi and Amphimachus, the quarrel between our nobility and the commercial interests…and the knowledge that someday, someone will try to form an opposition party around Zaggi’s sons, in opposition to my son, if not to me; beginning with little Achish. We can ony hope that such rivalry does not come to bloodshed. And then there are the Danites, and the Canaanites (including the Hebrews), who will continue to hate us, I’m afraid, just as our frontier Philistines will hate them, no matter how much Delai might pray.

Warati himself doesn’t worry me much. He’s held in check now, and is past his prime. But the fears, the hatreds, and the greed which produced him and his policies are with us still, most especially in
Gaza
…and
Gaza
, with her increasing commercial strength, may easily emerge one day as the most powerful of our cities.

If we don’t learn, somehow, to live in peace with our neighbors, our subjects—and ourselves—then, someday, the spirit of Zaggi and Warati will rise again and take over our land once and for all…and in that event, whether we survive or perish as a race, we shall have lost what we thought we were fighting to preserve: our

freedom, and our honor…and we shall all bow down, perhaps willingly, to the flag of Gaza, Warati’s flag and symbol, the broken cross…from Beer-Sheba to Dan….

Yet the “omens” are good; and there’s more unity in our land now, more a sense of nationhood than ever before…and honor dictates that we must struggle on for what is right, even while knowing that we may fail. With trusted friends, and with my beloved wife, we shall do what we can. Inanna of the Evening Star, Delai has said, will watch over us and our nation for all our days, and far beyond as well.

The
Nomiad

I.

Singer, sing again the ancient
Nomiad
: the song of Nomion, our

King,

When Philistines in plenty dwelled, and Dagon smiled on us in

Peace.

His grain was ripe in Karia; Astarte, too, the fish-tailed Queen,

Neptune
’s Realm once blessed: the wine-dark sea,
Aegean Sea
,

By
Anatolia
’s shore;

Karia: our home now lost; Philistine no more.

II.

Bard, recall those brighter days before the Lydians feasted on our

Fattened flocks

And fur-clad Phrygians burnt our fields; before the Danite corsair Flew

Upon our fishermen, and savage Hellenes ate our substance there. Nomion, the Hawk-eyes King, the Black-haired Man, then kept us

With his brandished spear—

Karian
Philistia
, safe for one last year.