Delilah

A young man dressed in a wine-stained robe stumbles up the temple steps, his beverage sloshing over the lip of his silver goblet. Blotches covering his cheeks are not doing his already sanguine complexion any favors. Despite his vile visage, the women eye him with coy interest, probably because he is the ex-governor’s brother. Wealth can buy more than property and provender.

But to me, he looks like a newborn on the verge of a temper tantrum despite the offerings of rice-rattles being shoved into his grubby hands. Power greets him with outspread arms thanks to lucky blood relations.

As soon as the man-child spots the prisoner on display near the far pillars, he bursts into a fit of girlish giggles, clutching his rotund stomach with his free hand. Then he belches.

A drunkard.

Alcohol is prohibited in the House of Dagon, not to mention this mindless partying. But even the priest is wasted, feeling up the carpenter’s daughter.

The man-child’s glazed gaze sweep across my figure splayed on the guest-of-honor couch, and he breaks into the wide, dopey grin of a hyena that knows it has cornered its prey. He starts towards me.

I suppose I am the prey, then.

My spine straightens and I tighten my grip on the blade I nicked from the butcher’s shop. One can never be too safe with a tipsy man-child.

I eye a little pouch he clutches. To my surprise, he flips it upside down over pile of coins at my feet, and out spill the contents. The silver discs make their signature clinks, and the corner of my mouth lifts.

He thinks me an entertainer. My grasp loosens.

“Sir, you are very gracious, but I am not—”

A wad of spit flies out of his mouth. “That man killed my brother,” he slurs, then brings the goblet to his thick lips.

He made many others suffer as well. Including myself.

The man he speaks of stands naked, save for a loincloth, before the alter’s platform. Both fresh and dried blood crust on his legs and torso, and chunks of burnt flesh frame his sallow cheeks.

“That swine deserves what he got,” he rambles on. “In fact, all them Israelites be damned to hell, even their filthy ankle-biters.” His grin widens. “Drop ’em to the crocodiles like that Pharaoh did in the stories. Maybe they’ll make the sea red again.”

If he was sober, he would think twice about speaking foul in front of me. Men should not stir up trouble in the presence of a young lady, even if she has defeated the strongest man in the world.

Rapid fire insults come to mind faster than gophers can pop out of their burrows, but I must bury their holes with dirt. Though my act with Samson is over, I must still play the part of a charming Philistine woman.

Any other person would sing a song for a small sum. After all, this is a celebration for capturing the pariah who loved his teeth more than blissful concord. Many of the people present have loved ones who were slaughtered by him, revenge fueling their cruel taunts and thrown stones.

To me, the capture of the shamed man promises an endless supply of coins. But each silver piece is weighed down by my guilt. The one thing I coveted no longer matters now. I have too much of it to spend in this lifetime.

But I will never get him back.

Samson, this is my apology to you.

An olive pleads to be tasted,

But the tongue never forgets,

And never again trusts blindly.

But soaring by Noah’s dove,

Dodging arrows of adversity,

And stones of shame,

The branch lands at your feet.

Take it, I beg of you,

The olive has learned sweet,

But kept its bitter,

As love now tastes.

Samson opens his mouth. I turn away before he says anything.

“Delilah!” His shout rings across the marble floors, and everyone celebrating hushes, thirsting for a reaction from me. My eyes fill, but I pray for the unshed tears to remain in place.

“How could you?” His voice breaks. My ears strain to hear the words.

Tufts of hair sprout from Samson’s bald head, and his shoulders, once proud and upright, droop with my betrayal. Samson’s charred cheeks turn. The naked man is searching for me, although the hot pokers that were forced on his face deprive him of vision.

My stomach drops. Dread spreads through my body and invades my lungs. It melds around my heart and tightens, but I refuse to let it show. My chin lifts in defiance.

One by one, they return to their celebration. Chatter resumes and feet tap to the clatter of tambourines, though few still cast suspicious glances.

When the dread finally leaves me, I can hardly draw a breath.

The man-child, realizing who I am, presses his lips into sneer. Without warning, he splashes the goblet’s contents onto me. Dear Dagon!

“Bastard!” I utter in shock. Is the drunkard out of his mind? I suppose that is a drunkard’s nature, but for Dagon’s sake, I had avenged his brother’s death!

Disgusted, he stumbles away from me, barreling into the gossipers. They judge him with disdain, but his bloodshot eyes do not notice.

I wipe the wine off my face with the sleeve of my gown and adjust the gold ringlet atop my head.

Samson’s whole body trembles with the effort of breathing and his eyebrows cinch. Fury mingled with disappointment reek from him, and that scent is all I can inhale.

Even weeks after the rulers came to me asking for my assistance in capturing Samson, I cannot recall what had made me accept. Maybe it was the opportunity of being showered with gold and silver. Maybe it was to stop the killing of innocent men. Maybe the alcohol had meddled with my judgement that night.

But all I can do now is count my coins.