The Philistine Warrior (38 page)

I think that she even felt just a little
unclean
because of the way in which she’d entrapped the Danite giant. Inanna, after all, had promised him a child…and so a live birth must indeed be Her Holy Will. Or so Delai apparently thought.

She said to me: “Phicol, I know that Samson must die, and should. But can’t we hope that someday we can all live in peace: Philistines, Canaanites, even Danites? I’ve prayed that this child of mine, though conceived in war and rape, is somehow a sign from Divine Inanna that peace is Her desire, and plan.” Delai’s voice hovered between uncertainty and serenity, and I loved her more and more each day; yet, I continued to feel that I couldn’t tell her how I much I loved her…it seemed too soon for that…with Samson’s child, Inanna’s mysterious Plan, in her womb…. In any event, the concept that the unborn child might be a symbol, or even a cause, or peace…well, we’d discussed that off and on for many, many weeks.

“Dear Cousin,” I answered, in words she already knew well enough: “I can’t really
believe
that we’ll ever live in peace with our oldest enemies, the Danites—maybe not even with the Judaeans, or any other hill tribe. But I can
hope
that you’re right. Yes, and I don’t see how we can live forever like this—like an armed camp among these hostile tribes, our borders constantly aflame.”

“Samson’s our enemy,” Delai went on—in words I could almost recite by heart: “And he murdered my husband…he attacked me and my Goddess…but he’s suffered enough. I pray that death will

be his release, and I want him to know that his seed hasn’t been cut off by Warati’s knife…that there’s hope for peace….”

“Then you’re determined to go with me to
Gaza
?” I asked, knowing the reply in advance.

“Yes.”

And thus it was that she, Ibbi, and I set out for Warati’s festival in that beautiful spring of the year. We rode in a comfortable wagon, but with a chariot escort of some size. This was probably an unnecessary precaution, to be sure—because after my victory (and Warati’s), the Danites had disappeared from our plains like chaff before the wind—and our Canaanites were now remarkably obliging, especially when charioteers were around. But never again would I take the slightest chance with Delai’s safety.

When we arrived in
Gaza
, a holiday spirit was upon the town; it was the day before Samson was to die in sacrifice to God. Merchants called their wares, old friends met again, little children sold souvenirs, running back and forth with much excitement; it was a time to remember for them—and for all of us, as it turned out.

That night, we went to the
Temple
of
Dagon
, where Warati had ordered a great thanksgiving service to be sung. Zaggi was there, too, as was Sheren Ittai of Ekron; but neither
Gath
nor
Ashdod
was represented by its lord. Melek Maoch wasn’t present because of his (by now chronic) illness, beyond mere fatigue—indeed, sick enough to cause us some concern.

As darkness fell on
Gaza
, the ceremony began. A gigantic statue of our God rested at the end of His Temple—a seated figure, glowing dimly reddish-brown in the light of a line of torches at His feet. The priests ranged themselves in chorus fashion and stood facing Dagon’s image as they sang. The face of God was faintly illuminated by the torch-line, but His features—His eyes—could not be seen very well because of the shadows cast upwards from the floor. Softly the music began, and slowly it built to a climax as Dagon’s stern face looked down upon us, His worshipers. Delai took hold of my hand. Smoke and incense filled the room, rising up around the image of God; in the flickering torch-light, the statue of Great Dagon almost seemed to sway, to be moving ever so little

before us, as we all joined our voices in singing out our praises and prayers to the Lord of Sea and Grain.

Then the lights dimmed, and the massed voices quieted down again, as we all stood in awe, gazing up at the statue. The worshipers stopped their singing, and our priests took up the soft refrain…their voices could hardly be heard now…and the whole
Temple
hushed itself in reverence and prayer. Next, the priests touched their dying fire-brands to a fresh line of torches underneath the statue’s gaze, and their voices began to rise again: “Oh, Greatest God of Gods!” they sang, and lifted their brands on high.

Suddenly the newly-lit line of torches blazed up—and we could at last see clearly the awesome face of Dagon and His giant eyes, staring into every one of our souls! The priests stretched forth their arms in passionate adoration, and the entire body of worshipers joined them, bursting out in mighty song: “GREAT DAGON, GOD OF GODS!” And I thrilled at the sight and sound of it all, clutching Delai’s hand as we sang our hymn of praise and prayer.

Then, just as suddenly, the room fell silent again and all the lights went out. The doors opened and we walked out onto the lighted portico, unable to see the darkened, smoke-covered image of Dagon behind us, as we left His presence. The stars were out, and Venus, Inanna’s own, shone above a crescent moon. Still in reverent silence, we all went our separate ways, Delai and Ibbi and I back to our guest quarters near the
palace
of
Sheren Warati
.

“In
Chaldea
,” Priest Ibbi remarked, “we have a similar ceremony, but it’s a sunrise service. When the Sun comes up at the climax of the ceremony, its rays come through a special window—and this happens only once a year, when the Sun is reborn after the shortest day—so then the Sun lights up the statue of Marduk, the God of the Sun, as everyone sings out in thanksgiving. It’s very impressive.”

“I can imagine,” I replied.

“And there’s a sort of explosion of chemicals at that precise moment, to signal the rebirth of the Sun as we sing,” he went on.

Delai was still holding my hand, and didn’t seem to be listening to Ibbi’s dissertation. She walked close by my side, and I could feel

her warmth on my arm. When I looked into her eyes, I felt that perhaps she
could
love me, after all, as I now loved her—and I squeezed her hand in return. We didn’t say another word until I left her at her chamber door; and then she kissed me gently on my cheek—and went inside.

I stayed up for some hours, talking with Ibbi about this and that, before we, too, decided that it was time to go to sleep. The next day, we knew, would be a trying time for us all….

As we drove into the city bazaar, we could see that Samson had already been brought forth for the public’s amusement and scorn. He was bound with fetters of brass, the very chains which he’d worn while working the grindstone-wheel in Warati’s prison. Guards had now tied Samson to a pillar of the portico of Dagon’s
Temple
—the same portico we’d stepped out upon after the service of the night before—so that the mob in the bazaar could see him and make sport of him.

The overflow crowd had gathered in thousands, and large numbers of them climbed upon the roof of the portico itself, peering over the edge, down upon the future victim; others behind them were pushing and shoving, trying to get to the edge so they could see, too—because this was the best vantage point for those (the majority) who couldn’t manage to get close enough on ground level for a good look at Samson. Everyone in the crowd nibbled on food purchased from nearby vending stands, having a grand time.

I remarked to Ibbi: “This is more fun than they’ve had in a long time—since the late Sheren of Gaza’s wife and her lover got stoned to death.” He nodded. “But the police should clear those people off the portico roof,” I added. “It’s got only two lousy pillars for support, and they’re wooden at that!”

“The mob’s in high spirits,” Ibbi replied. “Warati won’t dampen their enthusiasm and blood-lust merely to protect that portico—or even the people on it!”

“Notice that Samson’s hair’s grown back,” I pointed out. “I should think that Warati—with all his superstitions—would’ve kept him shorn.”

Delai sat by my side, tense and nervous. “Take me to him,” she said—it was more like an order from the queen she was, than a request. “I want to bid him farewell.” I motioned to our wagon driver to turn toward the portico, and our guards cleared a path for us. “How dirty and worn he looks,” she went on—and, indeed, the eyeless man stood before us, dressed in rags, between Dagon’s twin pillars.

When we reached the portico, we saw Chancellor Zaggi and Sheren Warati standing there, enjoying themselves; Sheren Ittai was in the official box nearby. I helped Delai down from our wagon. She and I mounted the portico, with Ibbi right behind us.

“What is your pleasure, Majesty and Lord?” Uncle Zaggi asked us, as we approached the condemned man. Our Chancellor grinned in satisfaction, almost as happy as Warati himself.

“We’ve come to have a last look at Samson—and to speak to him,” I answered. “It’s our duty to the shade of King Ekosh to do so.”

“It’s good that Queen Delai should revile the monster in person—and to his face,” Zaggi approved.

We didn’t answer him, but went past, up to the pillar where the victim stood. Samson heard our footsteps and the jingle of my sword belt and scabbard. He raised his hairy, sightless head in our direction: “Who is it?” he asked.

“Delai of Askelon,” she told the blind man—and his muscles tensed against their bonds.

“You were the instrument of Yahweh’s punishment—of me,” Samson began, his voice weak from fatigue and pain. “I blasphemed by calling myself His biological son; I broke the laws of the Nazarites; and I offended the Goddess. It’s just that I’ve been so destroyed.” Delai trembled as the weary giant further spoke to her of his passion, thus: “And I did wrong to you, too, Queen Delai…so I don’t hate you for betraying me….”

Delai relaxed her grip on my hand. “Mighty Samson,” she began, “I don’t hate you any more, either. You’ve paid…for your wrongs. But Holy Inanna is just. She knew what your fate would be at Warati’s hands….” Samson hung his head; the rags around his loins had been torn off so that the crowd could deride his loss…. Delai continued: “You must—I want you to know—that the Divine Queen of Heaven—that Inanna is just, Samson, because…your seed has
not
been cut off.” She paused as he lifted his head again. “I’m with your child,” she said at last; and she took his hand in hers, guiding it to her abdomen so that he could feel its swell…her supreme gesture of forgiveness….

If Samson had still possessed sight, his eyes would have shone with fanaticism rather than with love—at that moment when he touched her. He lifted his head to the sky: “Yahweh has heard my

prayer!” he proclaimed. “His will be done!” Then his voice boomed out: “It’s a judgment! God will save Dan through my seed after all! My enemies will be destroyed!”

Delai dropped his hand and staggered back in horror and dismay. “Let there be peace between our two peoples!” she cried.

“Never!” the giant shouted. “Yahweh will destroy you all through my seed!” (Did he think we’d let the child live if we ever came to believe in…this—
his
prophecy? Samson was in delirium by then.) He lunged in our direction—but his chains pulled him up short. I can only guess that he was trying to hit someone—but not Delai herself—hit someone with his head and shoulders, and I was the nearest (though unseen) target; he wouldn’t want to harm Delai, would he? She was carrying his child! He yanked at his bonds, and then hurled himself against the pillar which held him fast.

The Philistine crowd, unaware of what had excited him, now roared with laughter; they must have imagined that he was trying to escape. Then I saw Warati approaching us, a gigantic knife in his hand, smiling viciously as he contemplated the coming sacrifice. He intended to kill Samson with his own hands—he, a lord of the Philistines, would play common executioner and cut the Danite’s throat, or worse…play with him some more before reaching his throat for the final kill….