Delilah: A Novel (24 page)

Beside me, Aylah knelt silent. I saw the High Priestess stare at her, and then look back to me.

“This is a great and hard thing you ask, Delilah. And we cannot be sure it is Atargatis who sends this command to you. You know we have consulted the fish once.” Derceto leaned forward and cradled my chin in her smooth hand. “Will you trust that I wish only good for you?”

I nodded, and she smiled.

“Then—since you are young, and perhaps have misunderstood your waking dream—I will consult the Seven once more. You may be there, if you wish, as may your heart-sister. But remember, Delilah, that Our Lady knows better than we who are mortal what should and what
should not come to pass. If I order this done for you, child, will you grant me a boon in return?”

“Yes, High Priestess. Of course.” I could hardly speak the words swiftly enough. “What must I do?”

“This time, will you accept what the Seven Fish reveal as truth?” Derceto gazed at me for so long, with such compassion in her jade-dark eyes, that I felt tears begin to burn.
She is so good, so kind. She truly acts as our mother
.

Just before I disgraced myself by weeping before her, Derceto said, “Very well. Let it be written that the Priestess Delilah and the Priestess Aylah will question the Seven once more, that the Sacred Fish may unveil Our Lady’s will for them both.”

“The Priestess Aylah is destined to wed the Son of the Sun—if he proves himself worthy.”

Once this newest oracle of the Seven Fish had been pressed into clay and set out with the other tablets to dry in the sun, I knew I had lost the struggle. My efforts, my pleadings, had achieved nothing. For the first time, I doubted Our Lady’s wisdom, and told Aylah so. Then I flung my arms around her and wept upon her shoulder; she stroked my hair, and I felt her draw a deep breath.

“You don’t mean that, Delilah. You speak so only because for once Her will and yours differ.”

“That’s not fair! It’s not true, either. The Seer-Priestess must have misread the omens. You cannot marry this man. You are Atargatis’s priestess.”

“If Atargatis wishes to bestow me upon Samson in marriage, who am I to defy Her will? Remember the Seer-Priestess consulted the fish twice—the second time only because you asked it, Delilah. Yet the answer remained the same.”

That silenced me, and for a moment I stared, for from Aylah, I had expected a tart answer casting doubt upon the Seven’s wisdom and the Temple’s honor. Then my blood chilled, and I heard myself saying, “You wish to marry this man. That is why you sound so strange.”

Aylah will have him, and I—I will have nothing
. No, that was not my thought; it had been sent by a night-demon who had lost her way, wandered through this bright day to torment me. No again; Our Lady would not permit demons to trouble us in her own House. Tears burned my eyes, and I pressed my hands over my lips so that I could not utter words I did not even wish to think.

Aylah put her arms around me, pressed her cheek against mine. “Heart-sister, what I wish does not matter. What troubles me is that, in this, it seems that what you wish does not matter either. Don’t stare so; we all know you are the Temple’s jewel past price. But even you must do as the High Priestess bids. You know I have no choice but to obey.”

The hours before the Last Dance fled like shadows from the sun. Counting those hours—so few, so swiftly passing—I did nothing but pace and pray. I could not imagine how I was to lead the Last Dance, knowing it would also be the last time I ever danced with Aylah beside me. I did not wish to eat, nor to sleep. Worst of all, I found I could not endure Aylah’s docile acceptance of her fate; I could barely speak to her without anger, my words bitter, meant to hurt. Only my heart-sister’s refusal to quarrel kept peace between us as she prepared to leave me forever.

All her mind seemed given to deciding what she might take away with her and what she must leave behind. I watched as she ignored the small jars of paint for eyes and cheeks and lips, the scarlet ribbons for her hair, the delicate glass vials that held scented oil. She gazed upon her jewels, and in the end left them lying in the Egyptian box that had been a gift from an admiring patron.

“Will you take nothing?” I demanded at last, and Aylah glanced sidelong at me before she answered. “I will take nothing I do not own and that I do not need.”

“You will not take your own garments, your own bracelets and earrings?” Slow and heavy with resentment, my words fell like stones between us. “You will not take your dancing bells or your—”

“Delilah, stop. You tear yourself to pieces over nothing. These things”—Aylah waved her hand towards the small treasures she had rejected—“these do not belong to me, they belong to a priestess. After tomorrow, I shall no longer be a priestess. And Derceto has promised to send me to my husband with all that I shall need, so you need not worry.”

And when I accused her of caring nothing for me, Aylah said only “You know that is not true, Delilah. Now you should eat, and rest, and ready yourself for the Last Dance.”

“I cannot do it. I cannot lead the Last Dance. I won’t.” Even to my own ears, I sounded like a sulky child.

“You can and you will.” Aylah hesitated, as if weighing her next words with great care. At last she said, “If tomorrow is to be the last time we two dance for Ascalon and for Atargatis, I wish us to dance well, and with joy. Promise me we will have this, Delilah. Please.”

“A wedding gift?” As soon as the words were said, shame burned my blood.
Who now is the better priestess? I, who have fought and protested Our Lady’s will in this? Or Aylah, who bows her head and does what Our Lady asks of her?
The answer was humiliatingly clear: I, who prided myself on my devotion to Atargatis and Her Temple, had proven less worthy than Aylah, who so often spoke so mockingly of both.

I bowed my head. “We will dance the Last Dance well, and with joy, heart-sister.”

At least we will have that to remember. At least we will have that
.

I was told, by some who watched us that day, that never before had Night and Day danced so well—as if we truly were goddesses ourselves. Perhaps it is true, for never before had I given myself so completely to the Dance. I saw nothing but sun dazzling my eyes, felt nothing but pure unthinking delight. For the span of time we danced the Sun Partridge home, guiding the god through the streets of Ascalon, I was truly happy.

After the Last Dance’s last steps, my dance-engendered joy drained
away. Now Aylah would be given to Samson, and I would lose them both—no, I would lose Aylah. I knew Aylah was right; it seemed that she had no choice. Goddess, oracles, and High Priestess all ordained this marriage. But that did not mean I must watch as my heart-sister gave herself to our enemy.

The Last Dance over, Aylah was taken away to be prepared for her marriage to Samson, for the wedding must take place with unseemly haste. If Samson remained within Ascalon’s walls beyond tomorrow’s dawn, he would be fair quarry.

I remained behind in our room when the New Moons came to lead Aylah to the ritual bath. Nor did I prepare myself for the ceremony and the feast that would follow. I ordered my maid away, ripped my garments from my body, flung my earrings and necklace and bracelets to the floor. Clad only in my hair, I threw myself onto the bed and buried my face in the pillow. Stuffed with sweet herbs and dream spice, soothing to the mind, today the pillow gave no ease.

Several times during that long afternoon girls came to the doorway and asked that I attend the bride. I ignored them all, refusing to acknowledge I even heard their words.

Then, for a time, I was left alone. The last person who attempted to free me of my selfish grief was Nikkal. She came to me and touched my shoulder. “Delilah? Look at me, that I may speak and know you hear my words.”

I could not hold firm against Nikkal’s soft concern. I looked up, half-hoping she had come to tell me that I had only dreamed Aylah was being torn away, that all that had passed since the Sun Partridge Festival had never happened.

“Delilah, your heart-sister asks that you help prepare her for her wedding. Will you come and stand her friend in this?”

It was my last chance, and once again I spurned the gift held out to me. “I am ill,” I said and turned my head away, so that I stared into the deep blue tiles set into the wall.

For a few moments that I counted out in heartbeats, Nikkal stood
there, waiting. Then, at last, I heard the rustle of linen and the chime of ankle-bells, and knew she had walked away.

As Nikkal left, Mottara, favored handmaiden of the High Priestess, entered my room, swift as a weasel. She carried a wine cup; she held it out to me and said, “Drink this; it will ease your heart, at least for a time.”

Nor would Mottara listen to my sullen refusal, pressing the clay cup at me until I must clasp it or be anointed with the liquid it held.

“I don’t want it,” I repeated, and Mottara merely shrugged. “The High Priestess Derceto herself sent it, telling me to give the cup into your hands. I care not whether you drink or pour the Lady’s gift onto the floor!”

Mottara stamped her foot, indicating she had lost all patience, and turned her back on me. Slowly, I raised the cup; beneath the tartness of wine lay another scent, a heavy sweetness.
Poppy
, I thought, recoiling a little, and reminded myself that sending me hours of oblivion was a kindness. High Priestess Derceto had not needed to extend such a favor; I must remember to thank her, later.

I even took a sip, but the thick poppy-laced wine sickened me. About to set the wine cup aside, I glanced up to see Mottara half-turned, watching me. So I took another swallow before I put the cup upon the floor beside my bed.

“Leave it there,” I said, as Mottara’s eyes followed the movement of my hand, studied the position of the wine cup. “I may wish to drink more later,” I added, and then flung myself facedown on my pillows. After a moment, I heard Mottara’s slow footsteps and the clink of her copper anklets, heard the painted leather curtain pushed aside. I listened hard, but only silence followed. Mottara had left my room, but she had not continued on across the small courtyard.

She waits outside my door. Why?
Even the small amount of poppy wine I had drunk slowed my thoughts. Had Derceto’s handmaiden been sent to ensure that I did not attempt to stop the wedding ceremony? As if I could—for the Temple had offered Aylah up to Samson as a prize.
As if she were a talent of silver or an iron sword—

No, not silver, not iron. Gold. They both shine golden as the sun
. I closed my eyes and saw twin pillars of fire flare up, flames dancing against darkness.

The image distressed me; even after I opened my eyes again, my blood beat hard beneath my skin, and my breath quickened as if I ran from danger. To calm myself, I picked up the cup from the floor and drank down a hasty mouthful of the soothing wine.

This time the wine and poppy juice comforted me—and it seemed to grant wisdom as well as peace. In my attempts to save Aylah from her fate, I had beseeched those who ruled my world, and been rebuffed. But there was one whose aid I had not sought with enough fervor, enough faith.

I had not truly asked Our Lady Atargatis. I had not offered enough. I understood that, now.

Now I could go before Her and beg Her aid. This time She might listen, and grant my petition.

I must form my words carefully, must truly offer Her myself. And perhaps—perhaps
. . . I found myself thinking again of silver, and of sword-blades, and of hot sun.
No, no. That is no way to plead for Her favor
. My petition to Atargatis must be as perfect as my dances before Her, and for the same reason: to honor Her.

So as Aylah stood in the ritual bath while maidservants and priestesses braided her hair and bound it with ribbons, painted her hands and feet with henna, stroked perfume into her skin, and garbed her for her wedding, I lay upon my bed, smoothing my thoughts so that no more false images rose to trouble me.

For what I would do, for what I would ask, I must be serene, and brave.
I will free you from this marriage, Aylah. I swear it
.

I kept my vow, no matter that its keeping brought misery to both Aylah and myself. When it was too late, and the man she married had led her away to the world beyond Ascalon, I regretted my harsh words, my cruel withdrawal. But that repentance came later.

As Aylah exchanged the scarlet girdle of a priestess for the sky-blue
veil of a married woman, I offered myself before the statue of the goddess in the Temple’s oldest and most holy shrine. There I held out my hands in supplication and prayed to the goddess I served—prayed in grief and anger, with a passion that burned through my bones like fire.

“O Bright Atargatis, Beloved of gods and men, hear me, I beg You. Let my heart-sister Aylah not be bound to this man. Let her not remain Samson’s wife. Hear me, Your daughter Delilah, who implores this of You.”

I fell silent and waited, gazing into the idol’s jeweled eyes. Nothing stirred within their depths, save flickering glints, reflections of the little flames of the lamps set in the wall-niches. Shadows cast by the lamp-flames caressed the idol’s ivory breasts, swirled over the coral scales below her waist. The scent of roses and of myrrh lay heavy in the air.

No answer. Perhaps I had not prayed hard enough, or given enough. I tried to think what more I could offer up to gain Her aid. I should have bowed to Her wisdom, accepted that Her answer to my plea was
“No, Delilah. This you may not have.”

But I was young, and heartsore, and believed I suffered the worst pain I would ever know. I pressed on when I should have turned back.

“O Atargatis, you who are the Morning and the Evening Star, the Moon of all delights, I, Your daughter, beg You to listen with favor to my plea. Star of the Sea, Lady of Love, grant my petition. Free my heart-sister from this impious marriage, and I will do whatsoever You require in return.”