The Philistine Warrior (3 page)

Canaanite king of Askelon attempted to burn the city down rather than see it fall into Rusa’s hands.

As I passed by the frescoes, I met an officer coming from the opposite direction; apparently he was the “important visitor” whose formal breakfast with the family had been aborted by Aunt’s indisposition. I didn’t have the slightest idea who he was, but by his uniform I took him to be a senior officer of
Gaza
; he wore the insignia of that city, a broken cross.

“Good morning, sir,” I greeted him.

“G’day,” he grunted, and walked on by. In contrast to my red kilt and blue girdle—and my charioteer’s cape—he wore the brown cloak of the infantry; a big man, he had a square face and looked like the kind of officer who’s worked his way up from the ranks. Not the sort to appreciate dolphin frescoes, I imagined, as he disappeared from view.

Wooden columns, tapered downwards in Minoan style, framed the door to my Uncle’s ante-chamber; these, too, had been installed by Sheren Rusa for his beloved concubine. That woman was a scandal to the entire family, because Rusa insisted that they must treat her as if she were a legal, albeit second, wife! His first wife, still living at the time of the concubine, was my own father’s mother, as well as mother to my uncles, Maoch and Zaggi; but she retired, or rather
got
retired, after fifteen years of child-bearing, to be regarded henceforth as a kind of honored sister, replaced in her husband’s bed by that lively Minoan youngster who’d so successfully bewitched the Old Man.

The result of their union was my half-uncle, Pinaruta, the child of Rusa’s old age, his favorite. But poor Uncle Pinaruta had to pay a high price for it all in the end. After Rusa died, my dear uncles, Maoch and Zaggi, managed to squeeze their half-brother out of his rightful inheritance—on the grounds that he’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket, as Zaggi so frequently put it. Never mind that Rusa had ordered, in his dying words, that Pinaruta must be treated as if legitimate. Pinaruta died at last, in action while commanding the escort of a caravan, set upon by Judaeans—a lowly office for the favorite son of a Sheren, indeed, but that’s the way it

was after Rusa passed away; and then Zaggi claimed Pinaruta’s orphaned child, my cousin Delai, as his ward.

And now here I was, almost in The Presence, and I recalled Uncle Zaggi’s distinct lack of affection for my own father: Adinai, third son of Rusa the Great. Adinai of the Light Heart, he was, always poking fun at everything, even at the gods—and even (a far graver offense) at his stuffy brothers, Maoch and Zaggi. Maoch had been elected Sheren of Askelon after Rusa’s death because he was the eldest son, not for his native abilities, which were few; and Adinai loved to annoy him by standing up for the hated half-brother, Pinaruta.

Needless to say, Maoch and Zaggi made sure that Adinai had little to do with the governing of Askelon. Well, that’s politics, even among brothers; at least they couldn’t call Adinai a bastard—but they did manage to play upon my father’s lack of popularity among the pious…and that held back his career until the day that he died, fighting bravely at the front in the same war which claimed Delai’s father—the Judaean war of thirteen years earlier, when I was twelve years old and Delai only two.

I hasten to add that Uncle Zaggi always acted friendly enough toward me—whatever he really felt inside—considering that I was the son of his second least favorite brother. And as for Uncle Maoch: well, he was basically an amiable man, but Zaggi had a great deal of influence over him. Therefore, if Zaggi turned against you, the best thing you could do was to get out of Askelon’s service, and seek promotion elsewhere in
Philistia
—unless you liked the prospect of low rank all your life. As you can well imagine, I never really enjoyed my interviews with the Chancellor of Askelon—or the Sheren, for that matter. Yet I didn’t want to leave Askelon for service in some other Philistine city; Askelon was my home.

Zaggi’s butler greeted me at the door and brought me into my Uncle’s official chamber. “M’Lord Chancellor, Captain Phicol is here,” the man announced.

“Come in, Phicol, come in,” Zaggi called out. “Welcome. How’ve things been up in the hills?” He shook my hand and led me to a couch. His table was covered with papyrus scrolls, but there was also a beautiful bowl of olives and some bread; evidently he and that unknown officer had enjoyed a working breakfast, in place of the family affair for which Delai had prepared in vain.

“The hills are quiet, Uncle, quiet. The Judaeans slank away when our chariots appeared.” He smiled. Like most of the male descendants of King Nomion, he was rather striking in appearance, indeed still quite handsome, despite his somewhat gaunt physique and his forty-five or so years. I could tell that he’d dressed for that canceled formal breakfast, too, as had Delai: he wore a costly blue tunic, and his beard had been newly trimmed. His hair was all black; rumor had it in the officers’ mess that our Chancellor always plucked out his gray hairs before every important audience.

“I’m glad everything’s going well on the Judaean front,” he replied. “We’ve more important things to think about, especially Ekron’s request—”

“Uncle, do you mind if I take off my cape?” I asked. He looked a bit startled at being interrupted. “It’s warm today, and I’ve been exercising,” I explained, and flung it off before he could answer. Uncle was always one for formality, but the air felt good on my shoulders; and I loosened my girdle as well.

“Hmm, no, I suppose not,” he conceded, after the fact, and I poured myself some water. “The point is, Phicol,” he continued, “since the Judaeans are quiet, we can well afford to lend Ekron a troop of volunteer chariot soldiers.”

“Our strength in the guard is quite adequate,” I told him. “We could spare a troop or so—I’d like to command them myself….”

“Give the Danites a thrashing, eh?” His eyes lit up at the thought.

“If Sheren Maoch can spare me during the autumn, that is,” I remarked. I’d just been made chariot commander that past winter, and promoted to captain; so I liked to think that Maoch, at least, thought highly of me. He often asked me to attend Council meetings, because I was now the highest ranking charioteer in Askelon’s service—but really because I’m a member of the dynasty. “By the

way,” I resumed, “that officer I just passed—is he from Ekron? Because he seemed to be wearing Gazan insignia….”

“You must mean Major Warati,” he replied. “He is indeed from
Gaza
, but he’s transferring to our service. I intend to put him in command at Ziklag—with
Gath
’s approval, of course; Sheren Maoch’s already agreed. I’ve just had breakfast with him, and a long talk. He’s not of good family, and a bit rough-cut, but a strong soldier, with a good record as a disciplinarian; and in combat, too. Would you believe that his father was a
shopkeeper
?”

I believed it. “But will he be in charge of the city as well as the troops in Ziklag?” It was unusual to put a commoner in a high civil position.

“Yes,” the Chancellor answered. “The frontier needs good soldiers in government, no matter what class they come from.” He frowned a little, and I wondered if I’d offended by questioning his decision. “You’ll see Warati this afternoon,” Zaggi went on. “I’ve invited him to the Council to meet Sheren Maoch.” He was well satisfied with that piece of business. “But that’s not why I called you here,” he began again, and his expression changed completely—he’d turned quite somber. “Take a look at this,” he concluded, offering me a document from his stack of papyrus rolls.

“From the Melek,” I noted, spying the seal of our High Lord, the Melek (King) of all Philistia—Melek Nasuy, Sheren of Gath, eldest son of Mighty Piram, the first of the sons of Great King Nomion.

“From Melek Nasuy himself,” Zaggi pointed out. “Not from his Gathian Chancellor!”

I began to read the letter: “Ah…Cousin Ekosh wants a bride, does he?” I noted aloud. I knew that Zaggi didn’t like to hear Ekosh—the brother of Melek Nasuy—referred to merely as “cousin.” He should more properly have been called “Prince Ekosh,” or “The Prince of Gath.” Indeed, Zaggi himself preferred to be addressed as “Lord,” or “Chancellor”; but I always called him “Uncle,” and sometimes I even called the Melek “Cousin Nasuy,” much to Zaggi’s horror—although I did so only in private conversation, whenever I felt like ruffling Uncle Zaggi’s sensibilities. But Zaggi didn’t seem

alert to such niceties at the moment; in fact, he was very agitated over something.

“Wait’ll you see whom Melek Nasuy suggests as the Prince’s bride!” he exclaimed.

I leaned back, popped an olive into my mouth, and read on. “My God,” I swore, almost strangling on that damned olive. “He says
Delai
!” My heart leapt at the name, and I became just as excited as Zaggi. “This is wonderful!” I nearly shouted. “What a break for

Delai!
And
for Askelon. Imagine, our Delai—wife to the Prince of Gath!”

Yet Zaggi didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm; excited he was, but not happy. Can it be, I wondered, that he resents this elevation of his bastard brother’s child? After all these years, do old struggles mean so much to him? No, not even Zaggi could be that petty, I told myself; nevertheless, he certainly acted displeased by the proposal. He had his hands buried in papyrus rolls, a sure sign that he wished to appear overburdened by the affairs of state.

“She is no doubt rather fair and charming,” he said at last.

“Extremely fair, I should say!”

“Yes, quite so,” the Chancellor conceded. “But, even so, since her father was the son of a concubine…and died without high position…Delai isn’t anywhere near the rank of Prince Ekosh….”

Oh, you bastard, I thought. Then, aloud: “Well, since you’re her guardian, I should think you’d want a good marriage for her….”

“But, my dear Phicol,” Zaggi replied, “remember that the Egyptians are very status minded, and so, as long as Prince Ekosh is in Pharaoh’s service and court, his bride must be very high-born…and it must be remembered that the Prince might some day be elected Melek of Philistia, our highest lord—indeed, a real king in the eyes of the world. Is Delai suitable for that kind of role?”

“But, Uncle,” I answered in exasperation, “the Melek has
himself
suggested Delai—and she’s the only lady of our dynasty available. Would you rather see someone not of our family, like the daughter of the Sheren of Gaza, made wife to Prince Ekosh?” That got him where it counted.

“No…no….” Zaggi knitted his brows to show that he was a reasonable—though overworked—government official. “I grant

that…yes, the Melek wants his brother to marry within our family, and so do we…and they seem satisfied with Delai….”

“Delighted is more the word!” I broke in, flourishing the letter from Nasuy. Zaggi could hardly brush aside such a request. Nasuy couldn’t command the marriage, because no Melek—not even the great Nomion—had ever enjoyed that kind of power over a sovereign Philistine city; yet it would be stupid to turn down his suggestion. Nasuy was, after all, Sheren of mighty
Gath
, as well as Philistine Melek, and he had much to offer Askelon. Besides, his brother,

Ekosh, was rich and famous, a mighty warrior, and high up in the service of Nasuy’s overlord, the Pharaoh himself, ultimate suzerain of

Philistia
, Philistine Canaan, and
Syria
to boot. At that very moment, in fact, Ekosh was leading one of Pharaoh’s armies against rebel Nubians far up the Nile; and he’d asked his brother the Melek to send him a bride from his own people; indeed, from his own dynasty.

But then I thought of Delai, fifteen years old, sent off to a far-away land to be the wife of a widower three times her age, and I discovered that I, too, had qualms over the match. Such a consideration, however, hardly seemed like the kind of thing that would worry Zaggi. He must have something else in mind, I guessed. Yet how could he see anything but splendor in Delai’s marriage to Ekosh? Only her own happiness was in question….