The Philistine Warrior (4 page)

Naturally, she’d long been taught that one day she’d be married off in a way important to the dynastic or diplomatic interests of Askelon, or of
Philistia
in general—and better to a great Philistine chieftain than to some grimy Canaanite kinglet whose alliance we might be seeking…yet….

“Um, yes, delighted,” Zaggi muttered, breaking into my thoughts. “Although I did have in mind another husband for Delai….”

“Not that Canaanite pipsqueak!” I exclaimed, my worst fear coming mind.

“No, no. Rather, I had planned on the son of
Ashdod
’s Sheren….”

I thought of Delai, my playmate of years before, shut up in dusty
Ashdod
. “He’s a thirteen year old child,” I rejoined, acidly. “And the pimply, obnoxious son of an Assyrian whore!”

“A marriage into
Ashdod
would be advantageous,” he noted.

True enough, I admitted—to myself. And especially advantageous to Uncle Zaggi, who had his own young sons to consider, and for whom a family tie to
Ashdod
might one day be quite important. “But, Great God, Uncle! This offer from the Melek is a windfall! How could we pass it up? I daresay, in fact, that the Melek would be offended by a refusal…and I also imagine that our own Sheren would be displeased to be so advised….”

That did it. Zaggi clasped his hands; he looked for all the world like one of those innumerable Babylonian scribes whose images decorate the pottery sold in our bazaars. My Uncle didn’t like to give in to an argument, even if his initial judgment had been hasty and ill-considered—as it doubtless had been in this case. So, when finally convinced of an error, he liked to give the impression that he was an overworked executive, throwing out seminal ideas, picking the brains of his (well-chosen, by him) advisers, testing them with counter-arguments.

“Yes,” he intoned, studying the papyrus. “The Melek’s idea pleases me. Delai shall marry Prince Ekosh.” His eyes shut, fingers interlocked, Zaggi seemed to be putting together the many pieces of a large puzzle in his mind. I could not have guessed at that time what kind of puzzle it might be. “Very good, then, Phicol. If you have no objection, we shall recommend the marriage with one voice to the Sheren….”

The words fell on me like an axe. I had—or so I supposed—helped to convince this man to send my little cousin 500 miles away to a foreign court, to marriage with a middle-aged man whom she’d never seen before. I reached for another olive as Zaggi stood up; the interview was over.

Later that day, my chariot rocked along the narrow streets of Askelon; we rounded a corner and entered another crooked road; soon we reached the bazaar again, where all sorts of marketers were engaged in their respective callings. My driver stopped the chariot in front of Seren Maoch’s palace; the chariots or sedans of the other

councilors were just then arriving. Commoners, both Philistine and Canaanite, along with a sprinkling of foreigners (Egyptians, Phoenicians, Assyrians), gaped at all of this activity from a respectful distance; but there was none of the bowing and scraping and ceremony which attend such gatherings in
Egypt
or
Assyria
.

Maoch’s residence, I’ve already said, was a truly fine palace such as one might see on
Crete
; only the foundation is Canaanite, the rest in our own style. The original building got destroyed long ago in war—not during Nomion and Rusa’s invasion, I should add, but just a bit earlier. Indeed, when King Nomion and Prince Rusa conquered

Askelon, they found the city already in some disrepair. It had been overrun somewhat before by those highland Canaanites who call themselves Judaeans, a type of Hebrew. Hebrews: they’re all rather primitive tribesmen, with little appreciation for fine palaces—unlike the more urbane Canaanites of the flatlands, like those who had built Askelon in the first place; nor did they have the skills needed to maintain a great city.

With the great palace thus in ruins, Lord Rusa found himself obliged to take over the defunct Canaanite king’s seaside residence, and he passed it on to his eldest son, Maoch. It was Maoch who had this new palace constructed, on the ruins of the old—to which he then moved; and so, Uncle Zaggi next came into possession of that ocean-front property, the palace where he and Delai now lived.

When I entered the Sheren’s conference room, Uncle Zaggi was already seated at the right hand of Maoch’s chair; the Sheren had not yet arrived. Chancellor Zaggi still wore his handsome blue tunic of the morning, but he’d also put on a long white robe, fastened with a bronze pin; his short sleeves revealed strong, hairy arms, each with a bracelet. Zaggi’s protégé, Major Warati, sat by him; he carried the tapering, leaf-shaped broadsword which our soldiers use in close combat—and which also serves as a symbol of office, when decorated with emblems and the like.

Only two other councilors were there that day: one was the High Priest of Dagon; his name was Amphimachus, an ancient and honorable appellation among the Philistines. In fact, his grandfather of the same name served as King Nomion’s High Priest, he who helped convince our reluctant chiefs to undertake the great migration

from Karia, in
Western Asia Minor
, to
Egypt
—hence on to
Canaan
. Amphimachus had on the same sort of white robe that Zaggi wore. The Chief of the Port, Councilor Pai, was also present, and in a similar robe—but its coloring was in rich purple. The merchants of the Zakkala shore, farther north, wear such robes, and Pai also affected the conical cap so popular up there.

Some other councilors were absent; it was seldom that everyone had to attend meetings, unless there was some extraordinary business at hand. I took my seat at the end of the table farthest from where the Sheren would preside. I was the junior man and, as such, had to act as secretary; so I prepared my pen and papyrus sheets.

Then the door opened and a chamberlain appeared. “My Lords, Councilor Pai, Major Warati: our honorable Chief Lord, Sheren Maoch, son of Rusa the Great.”

Maoch came through the door and we all rose to our feet. He was shorter than most Philistines and, though trim in appearance, looked even older than his sixty some years. His legs appeared skinny below the kilt he wore, with its ornamental leather straps; and his hair was thin. But what always struck me about Maoch were his eyes, which seemed so lifeless and sometimes watery, as on that afternoon. Nevertheless, his voice was clear and firm enough as he gave us his greeting and motioned for us to sit down. “Good day, my Lords,” the Sheren said, as he took his seat. “Councilor,” he added, nodding to Pai.

Uncle Zaggi proceeded to introduce Major Warati to the Sheren, and we got down to business.

Maoch spoke first: “I have one announcement, gentlemen. I’ve just gotten word that our caravan from
Assyria
suffered ambush by hill tribesmen near Beth-Shemesh, and sustained considerable losses. It will arrive here day after tomorrow.” He directed this last remark to Pai, who would have to inform all the merchants whose ships were now docked at Askelon, waiting to take on that caravan’s wares.

“Was it the people of Dan, m’Lord?” Warati asked, his dark eyes glowering. He was, I soon learned, an old enemy of the Danites from years back—back in the days when we were driving them away from the choicest parts of the Mediterranean coast. He was also fond of recalling that there’d been bad blood between Philistine and

Danite, even in the days of King Nomion—when the Danites, like the Philistines, sailed out of the Aegean in search of new homes. Nomion then received our fief in Canaan from Pharaoh, although we had to convince the Canaanites to accept our legal title by force of arms; but the Danites landed north of us without anyone’s permission, and we’ve been fighting them over this land ever since. And the more they interbreed with the Hebrews, the more bitter our quarrel becomes.

Warati, for example, seemed to live only to kill Danites. “Goddamned stinking Danite shit,” was the way he put it, I believe, much to Sheren Maoch’s surprise—not liking strong language. For my part, I tried, at least for a while, to make allowances for Warati’s lack of gentility and breeding. After all, he was a shopkeeper’s son—and, besides, as I was later told, his whole family, wife, children, and all, had been wiped out in the Danite wars of many years ago.

“Evidently it was Danites,” Maoch acknowledged, concerning the caravan he’d just mentioned. “From the Zorah district.”

Warati clenched his fists.

Zaggi addressed his brother: “My Lord, this latest outrage gives me a good opportunity to bring up our first piece of business….” Maoch nodded. “The Sheren of Ekron, as you know, is planning a punitive campaign into the hills this fall—because the Danites have been particularly troublesome in his lands. And he requests assistance from us, preferably in the form of a troop—a company—or so of charioteers.”

“Can we spare that?” the High Priest asked. Maoch looked my way.

“We can easily afford a troop of chariots, m’Lord,” I told the Sheren. “At least in terms of men and chariots. And I’m pretty sure we can afford it in terms of funds for supplies. It would be good experience for the troopers, since there’s little hostile activity in southern
Philistia
for them to practice on.
Gath
has no need of assistance. My only concern is that the chariots must not be sent deep into the hill country where they’d be useless—and vulnerable.”

“From the viewpoint of relations with Ekron, I certainly recommend it,” Zaggi put in, and Warati nodded agreement. The High Priest made no objection, but Pai’s attention had been captured

by my reference to funding the expeditionary force. Yet he didn’t speak up at that moment.

“Then, Zaggi,” Maoch asked, “will you and Captain Phicol attend to the letter of reply?”

Zaggi agreed, and I made a note on my papyrus record. “I’d be happy to lead a volunteer chariot troop in Ekron’s campaign,” I suggested.

“So would I,” Warati broke in—but then stopped short, doubtless recalling that Zaggi was about to nominate him for a higher post; quite apart from the fact that he probably had no experience with leading charioteers.

Maoch appeared pleased to accept my offer, and he asked me to prepare an estimate of the cost of sending a troop to Ekron. He then turned to Uncle Zaggi: “Chancellor, if it’s agreeable to you, our reply to the Sheren of Ekron will be consent in principle, with a suggestion that the details be worked out in conference between you,

Captain Phicol, and Ekron’s Chancellor and military staff. As I recall, we have something of a backlog of business to take up with them anyway.”

“Agreed, my Lord,” Zaggi answered.

But Councilor Pai—always worried about anything that might siphon funds away from his oceanic commerce—appeared reluctant to let the matter of finances for the campaign slip past him. “Might I reserve a place for myself at such a conference? I do have some increased expenditures, and I’d like to have a hand in arranging supplies for the expedition.”

Zaggi sounded annoyed: “It seems to me,” he growled, “that it’s more important to push inland and rough up the Danites than it is to build more dock facilities for a declining trade.”

“Perhaps it wouldn’t decline if we paid more attention to it—and to our Navy,” Pai retorted with some heat, for this was an old argument between the two.

“I agree with the Chancellor,” Warati snapped—although he was no more than a guest at our Council meeting.

The Sheren then spoke: “Gentlemen, let’s not quarrel over an issue that is mostly academic at this point. Certainly Pai will have a chance to state his case. Essentially, it’s a matter of sharing the