Delilah: A Novel (18 page)

From the hilltop, Orev and Samson could see the city within the vast walls. Houses painted red and black and yellow; long streets gay with canopies of brilliant cloth. The bazaars, Orev supposed. At the
center of the city a rooftop burned red-gold under the westering sun. The flaring brightness nearly blinded him, veiled the building’s surroundings in reflected brilliance.

Orev closed his eyes, waited for the sun-spangled blindness to pass. Beside him, he heard Samson inhale sharply. “Orev, do you see that? There, in the center? It seems almost a city within a city.”

“A palace.” Orev opened his eyes, cautious. The blazing blindness had cleared; he looked again at the city, taking care to slide his eyes away from the golden heart of Ascalon. “Or a temple. There is a great temple to a goddess there in Ascalon. She’s half-fish, or so men say.”

“I’d like to see this goddess,” Samson said. “Which half is fish, do you suppose?”

“Which half do you think? Now we’d better find a resting place for the night. The festival doesn’t begin until tomorrow’s sunrise. You won’t be safe within Ascalon’s walls until then.”

“Oh, I’ll be safe enough. How would those who dwell in Ascalon even know what I look like? Come on, we want to get there well before they close the gates for the night. We’ll have time to explore the city.”

Orev glanced at Samson, who was eyeing the towers and gates with as much interest as if they were a beautiful woman, and then at the lion reclining at Samson’s feet. “Then let whatever happens be upon your own head, not mine. And you’d better put a rope around Ari’s neck. Festival or no festival, I doubt the Philistines will like having a pet lion loose in their streets.”

To Orev’s surprise, the guards at the Eastern Gate let them pass with no more than a casual glance and a warning from the oldest—a man whose gray hair and scarred face told his history as a warrior more plainly than words—that “If that beast claws anything, be prepared to pay well for damages.”

But as the old warrior also scratched Ari behind the ears, and sent them on their way down the long tunnel into the city streets with a recommendation that they try Lalage’s inn if they planned to stay for
all the days and nights of the festival, apparently the warning was kindly meant. Nor did the guards seem surprised to see a lion padding along on a rope leash.

Orev’s chief worry was that Samson would draw too much attention to himself, or that Ari would panic in the crowded streets. But it quickly became clear that the only eyes watching Samson were those of idle women. The golden lion pacing beside Samson drew only fleeting glances.

Clearly stranger things had walked Ascalon’s ancient streets than a leashed lion.

The guardian in charge of the Eastern Gate had brought the news himself—news brought too late, and news Sandarin still found nearly impossible to believe. Was the man Samson mad, that he put himself in Ascalon’s power? Sandarin had promptly ordered Samson seized and imprisoned, only to have the gatekeeper remind him that the Sun Partridge Festival had begun, and that no man might lay a hand upon another in anger. Sandarin demanded to know why the gatekeeper had waited almost a full day to bring this vital information to him, only to be told, “My lord prince, I did not know myself until I drank to the honor of the Sun Partridge with a merchant who asked me how it was I permitted Samson to enter Ascalon.”

Furious, and knowing he could not berate the man for telling him what was only law and truth, Sandarin had hastened to the Great Temple of Atargatis and laid the news before the High Priestess, who stared at him until the Prince of the City feared she had lost her senses, refusing to heed what she did not wish to hear.

“Samson?” she said at last. “Samson has come to Ascalon?”

“Yes, as I have said thrice already, my lady Derceto—the man has entered through the Eastern Gate. He walks Ascalon’s streets, unscathed
and untouched! With a lion and a harper, too; the man must be mad. What are we to do? He must be taken, rendered harmless to us.”

Her astonishment vanished as he spoke; when he ceased, awaiting her response, the High Priestess regarded him with irritated indulgence, as if he were a particularly foolish child. “The Sun Partridge spreads His wings over all within the city walls. You know that, my prince.”

“Of course I know that! I am not a fool! But we cannot let Samson roam Ascalon, doing whatever he wills, until festival’s end.”

“We can, and we must. I am not a fool either.” Derceto frowned, then, slowly, smiled. “We must watch, and wait. If the gods have delivered Samson into our hands, we must not offend them by violating a sacred festival.”

“The gods will not bind and imprison Samson,” Sandarin pointed out, and Derceto laughed, a sound that made the Prince’s palm itch with the urge to slap her painted cheek.

“Of course not,” Derceto replied. “That is for Ascalon’s soldiers to do. Unless you wish the Temple to take charge of the matter?”

Sandarin did not. The capture of Samson belonged to the City, not the Temple. When he pointed out that Samson had entered the City’s walls, not the Temple’s, Derceto nodded, as if in complete agreement. But Sandarin did not trust her; given the slightest chance, the High Priestess would eagerly claim the prize for her own.

Still, unless the man placed himself into Derceto’s claws, there was no law that permitted the High Priestess to demand Samson. This thought comforted Sandarin only until he reached the Temple Gate.

For there it occurred to him that a man capable of blithely striding into the stronghold of his greatest enemies was capable of any action, however mad. Samson might do anything, even try to join forces with the High Priestess. Sandarin only hoped, as he was borne back to his palace in his gilded cedarwood litter, that Ascalon’s greatest goddess would favor his prayers over those of Her own High Priestess. And that the Sun Partridge Dances would dazzle the barbarian lout Samson so
greatly that the man went nowhere but the nearest wineshop. Wine-drugged, Samson would be easily taken.

By the City. Not by the Temple.

As Our Lady wills it, of course. And not
, Sandarin thought, remembering Derceto’s mock-meek smile,
as our High Priestess wills it!

“Then there came the day that mighty Samson laid his eyes upon Delilah. Delilah the Dark, Delilah of the night-black hair. Delilah, who desired Samson’s heart, and Samson’s soul, and would stop at nothing to claim them as her prizes. She was beautiful as night and cunning as a fennec, and she filled his eyes until he could see no other. He vowed he must have her for his own, or die of love . . .”

When I look back upon that last summer Aylah and I spent together in the House of Atargatis, I see two girls, each foolish in her own way. And I see a span of unalloyed happiness that I never again knew. I thought Aylah as happy and content as I; nor did she reveal by word or deed that she was not.

We both were ordained priestesses now, Rising Moons, and much sought after for our skill in the Dance. I knew our talent pleased the Temple, and brought it much profit, too. Merchants and princes freely gave rich offerings to have the Sun and Moon dance for them.

Although we were not yet Full Moons, Aylah and I were tended as if we were images of Our Lady Herself—or as if we were prized mares from the southern desert. I laughed when Aylah called us that, one day in the baths as slaves smoothed oil of amber into our skin. Aylah did not even smile to acknowledge her own jest.

But jest it must have been; were Aylah and Delilah not the most cherished of the Rising Moons? We each now had a handmaiden whose only duty was tending to our clothing and dressing us for the Dance, and another whose task was to ensure that our faces were painted and our hair knotted and curled so that we might dance with perfection of appearance as well as of movement.

There was one more honor we were being prepared for: that of acting as the Goddess Herself in the rites of love. There were many ways to serve and to honor Our Lady Atargatis, but love was the most worthy.

Each priestess acted as the goddess at least once in her life; some were called only that one sacred time. Others found the joy in honoring Our Lady with love that I found in the Dance. Sometimes I dreamed that I might be called to love as I was called to dance, but this desire I spoke of only to Aylah.

Aylah claimed she did not care, but I believed her calm, cool demeanor veiled an inner fire. I still dreamed of the highest honor for Aylah—that someday she would stand before us in the blue and gold of the High Priestess.

I knew better than to speak of this vision to Aylah, but nothing could keep me from wishing such a future for her. Why should Aylah not be High Priestess? Was she not beautiful, fair and graceful, proficient in all the skills we had been so carefully taught? To see Aylah garbed for the Dance, glittering as the sun whose rays had been stitched in gold thread upon the tiers of her skirt, was to look upon perfection.

Although I knew I was no longer the plain, awkward-looking child I had once thought myself to be, I still saw myself as shadow to Aylah’s bright beauty. She tried to argue that I had become at least as beautiful as she, but I could not yet look upon myself and judge fairly.

And Aylah’s worth was easy for any to see. The pale thin girl from the north had ripened into a golden goddess. Her hair never darkened as she grew into womanhood; the silk-straight mane remained the color of spring sun, just as her eyes remained clear dawnlight blue, and her
skin pale as fresh milk. All the lines of her face and body curved smooth and womanly, in perfect harmony of form.

While I—Well, as I say, I had improved over the years, but my chiefest claim to beauty remained my hair, the color of moonless midnight, its soft darkness falling in heavy waves nearly to my knees. For the rest, my eyes were dark as my hair, my skin the deep honey red of dark amber, and my slender body strong and supple as a cat’s. A dancer’s body. If I owned any beauty, it was too subtle to be seen beside Aylah’s placid perfection.

To me, it was simple: Aylah was flawless, and I was not.

This makes it sound as if I spent hours studying my mirror, comparing myself to Aylah, but in truth, we had little enough time to brood. The Temple kept us too busy to waste the rare moments of leisure we were granted.

Although we belonged to Our Lady Atargatis, She was not the only deity worshipped in Ascalon. Atargatis held pride of place as Queen, but each season brought its own gods and goddesses, and the city celebrated their many feasts and festivals. The Great House of Atargatis watched over the lesser deities and their holy days and celebrations; our priestesses tended other gods, honored other festivals, that Our Lady might bless them with Her presence.

The most joyous of these other festivals came at the beginning of autumn, when the grapes were gathered in and the new wine was pressed. The god thanked then was Hadad-Rimmon, Lord of Wine, known as the Sun Partridge for both his own joyous lusts and the bright heady passions his gift and favor bestowed. Everyone loved the time of the Sun Partridge Dances, a full seven days of rejoicing marked by dances at every feast and every temple, dances in the city streets and along the wide road that led from the Sea Gate Tower down to the harbor.

During that intoxicating week, wine flowed more freely than water, and honey-cakes and sweetmeats were piled high at every merchant’s
shop and every Temple gateway for all to take freely and eat. All trade and all daily ritual was set aside, all feuds and quarrels forgotten, every stranger welcomed; the vilest criminal might walk Ascalon’s streets in perfect safety, immune from capture and punishment. For seven days it was a duty, as well as a pleasure, to honor Hadad-Rimmon by indulging in sweets and spices, dance and song, wine and love.

This year I looked forward to the Sun Partridge Festival with a new fervor. For this year Aylah and I were sixteen, and already the Temple’s most prized new dancers. This year there could be no doubt that Delilah Moondancer and Aylah Sundancer would be chosen to lead the First Dance and the Last Dance. To lead the First was honor enough, as it was to lead the Last. But to lead both First Dance and Last—only half a dozen dancers in the Temple’s history could claim that prize.

For once I waited to hear the names the Seven Fish had chosen for the places of honor with not only a mask-smooth face but a joyous heart. For this time I knew what the Seven would proclaim. Perhaps Our Lady had murmured into my ear as I lay sleeping; perhaps it was only the vanity of youth. But I heard my name and Aylah’s called, and our places in the First Dance and the Last given, without even the slightest tremor of surprise.

Beside me, Aylah drew in her breath sharply; clearly she had lacked my confident belief. Once the ceremony of choosing ended, and we all scattered to our various tasks, I caught Aylah in my arms and hugged her hard.

“First Dance and Last! Oh, Aylah—we may ask for whatsoever we desire now, you know that?”

She returned my embrace, and kissed my cheek. “It is a great honor, heart-sister. I am glad it gives you such joy.”

“And you? Don’t you care at all, Aylah?”

“Yes, but only because you do. And because it is a pleasure to watch you dance. For the rest . . .”

“Now do not say any of the other dancers would do as well! You know the steps perfectly, better than I myself sometimes. Tell me, what
shall we ask for?” I had not exaggerated when I said we could ask for whatsoever we desired. Those who led the First and the Last Dances could claim what they wished as prize, if their dancing pleased the gods. Since Aylah and I would lead both dances, we could demand a handful of stars and Lady Ascalon would be bound to obtain the heavenly gems for us. “Come, Aylah, is there nothing you desire?”

“Our freedom.” Aylah spoke so softly I could have pretended I had not heard those words.

But I had, and they sliced deep as a keen blade. “What do you mean? Are we not the Temple’s most cherished daughters?”