The Philistine Warrior (46 page)

But there were more important—and far more pleasant—things to think about. In the second week of our stay in
Tyre
, Delai and I were married by Priest Ibbi, in the ancient rite of Inanna’s cult. I can still recall Ibbi’s prayer for us, as we knelt before the statue of Inanna—a small statue this time, unlike the huge one I’d seen in

Timnath, with a more congenial smile on Her face: Inanna as the Goddess of Love.

Yet as Ibbi prayed, our sacred moment turned almost sinister and sad…because we’d heard that prayer before: “Holy Goddess,” he intoned, “protect Thy Priestess…and to Phicol…a son….” The past, you see, continued to haunt us; Ibbi’s words were almost the same as those spoken that day when we captured Samson—in the middle of what
he
thought would be
his
wedding to Delai. As I listened to Ibbi’s prayer, my mind dwelt on his words: “…and to Phicol…a son….” That should have produced a warm and loving feeling; yet the prophecy of “greatness” from Delai’s womb, a future ruler of our land…that prediction troubled me, although I couldn’t say exactly why. Surely the prophecy must have meant—all along—that
my
son, or his seed, would one day rule in
Philistia
, even if I did not ever rule there myself. Still, I couldn’t help but think: Ibbi’s prophecy had seemingly been frustrated twice by death; what guarantee did we have
now
that we could interpret that prediction correctly?

And so, for one of the few times in my life, I prayed to the Goddess for the sake of our unborn—as yet even unconceived, of course—for our children…and somehow I felt that She was there, listening…and that, this time, all would turn out well.

Our exile in
Tyre
became, by default, our honeymoon site. The disturbing words of the wedding prayer, our fears, all faded into the back of our minds then; and what peace we enjoyed! How far away the troubles of
Philistia
seemed to be—and we were glad to be done with them. That was why I decided at last to return the insignia of Sheren of Askelon to its proper place. I sent the insignia through an extraordinary and secret channel, arranged—again, he came to our help—by Priest Ibbi. In this way, Melek Zaggi still had no knowledge of our location…or so we hoped and believed. By that act, I renounced
Philistia
and its affairs. I washed my hands of it all. My insignia had been a symbol of my pride, overbearing pride—and only by keeping it had I been able to convince myself that I wasn’t fleeing in dishonor, but merely beating a tactical retreat.

But all of that was in the past now.

Indeed, my feelings and attitudes had changed a lot since arriving in
Tyre
. I decided that there was, after all, no dishonor involved in walking away from a dung heap—because that was what our homeland had become: nothing but tyranny, treachery, and murder, even among our own people, our own dynasty; not to mention the reign of terror Zaggi had encouraged against the Canaanites, even those loyal to us. Yes, when I left Askelon, I had truly believed that I would return some day. But the desire, the sense of obligation to do so, slowly had come to mean less and less to me the longer I stayed in
Tyre
. So I began to look forward to a new home in
Assyria
. I was happy with Delai as my wife; I needed little more than that, so long as I could find honorable employment in the service of Tiglath-Pileser, the Emperor of Assyria, whom I hoped would soon be my sovereign King.

Our honeymoon ended—its formal ending, I should say, because we remained lovers still—and we were called back to reality by word from the Emperor. He would grant us asylum in his empire and give us his protection, in recognition of our devotion to Ishtar. But we had to swear not to use
Assyria
as a base for playing Philistine politics—or anything else that might embarrass
Assyria
’s foreign policy. We were ready—and happy—to swear all that; and we further agreed, in fact we wanted, to remain
incognito
in Assyria, as added protection from possible assassination attempts on Zaggi’s part, especially in case we produced a male heir.

And so, you see, if I hadn’t already returned the Sheren’s insignia, my oath to Tiglath would have obliged me to do so, anyway. All that I asked in return from the Emperor was honorable employment—and a promise that I would never be asked to fight, or otherwise harm, our Philistine homeland. With those understandings, we left
Tyre
and began our journey into exile in
Assyria
.

We went by caravan, Delai, Ibbi, and I, traveling simply as man and wife, private citizens, disguised at merchants; no more trappings of royalty for us. It was a very long trip. We went through

ancient
Damascus
to Tadmoi, and thence to
Haran
, another old city. From there, we entered the heart of
Assyria
, the
Tigris
River
Valley
near the great mountains—and then down that river to Ashur. Ashur is the religious center of
Assyria
, and it serves as the political capital as well, whenever the Emperor is in that vicinity.

Ibbi felt more or less at home in
Assyria
, though he actually comes from
Babylonia
, to the south. Delai and I, on the other hand, were very much strangers in a strange land—but curious about our new country, eager to learn. Happy to be our guide, Ibbi remarked upon all the sights which we viewed during the journey. One of the most vivid memories I have of our trip is of traveling in the early night—having underestimated the distance to our next lodging—and coming upon a crossroads.

The Priest told us something about Assyrian beliefs concerning crossroads: “Notice, if you will, that there are magical incantations written on that post by the road. Assyrians believe that vampires infest all crossroads. The creatures have huge teeth and look somewhat like wild dogs….”

“Have you ever seen one?” Delai asked, a little bit in awe.

“No, Your Majesty, I’ve never actually seen a vampire. Of course, I always carry charms to ward off such things. But I
have
seen little statues of them.” He then produced his anti-vampire charms. “The Goddess will protect us,” he assured Delai.

Inanna’s done such a good job so far, I said to myself. I wasn’t worried about vampires, but the dark and lonely scene did make me feel a bit spooked. Although our caravan was large, with many armed men (including myself), one could never be sure of one’s safety, especially at night—from bandits, that is—albeit the Emperor’s soldiers had swept the area quite recently, we were told.

That crossroads was a symbol of our new life—haunted, like us, yet beyond it lay our lodgings, a warm fire, a friendly smile. I hoped that Delai could leave behind all of the bad memories of our beloved dead, behind us in
Philistia
.

Finally, we reached Ashur and met Ibbi’s contact man. He took us to see the Grand Vizier of Assyria, the official who’d given us permission to enter the country as exiles. The Vizier, in turn, arranged an interview for us with Tiglath-Pileser himself—the first emperor to bear that name, and a mighty warrior. We were assured that the interview would be informal and private—because we didn’t want to attract attention to ourselves. On the appointed day, we reached the Emperor’s palace at the first light of dawn; then we were ushered into the Grand Vizier’s chamber.

Nervously, we awaited His Imperial Majesty. “Will we need an interpreter?” I asked the Vizier.

“His Imperial Majesty speaks northern Canaanite—the dialect of
Tyre
—rather well,” the Vizier replied. “And since you speak southern Canaanite, there shouldn’t be any problem. If there is, your man Ibbi—or I—can translate, I’m sure.” The Vizier was a tall, slim man, with wavy black hair and a huge black beard. He had the large, hooked nose which is common among Hittites, Hurrians, and other northern peoples. (Indeed, wasn’t our own ancestor, Nomion, called “the Hawk-eyed King” partly because of his nose?) The Vizier’s robe was long, almost to his ankles, and it was decorated with richly colored stripes.

A moment later, the Emperor appeared. Tiglath-Pileser was also tall, but more heavily built than his Vizier. He wore a flowing robe of blue, with red fringes on its sleeves—and around its hem. Dark of complexion, his black beard was cut somewhat shorter than those of most Assyrians; he had no moustache. In his left hand, he held the rod and ring, symbols of his dynasty. Tiglath moved with easy grace, with no pretention, obviously secure in the knowledge that he was the greatest king on earth, the King of Kings, every inch the War Lord of
Assyria
.

When the Emperor entered the room, Ibbi fell on his knees and bowed until his head touched the floor. I wasn’t surprised: a century ago, you see, the then Assyrian Emperor, Tukulti-Ninurta, had conquered Ibbi’s native
Babylonia
; therefore our priest was accustomed to paying extraordinary respect to Assyrians. After all, Tukulti-Ninurta had said of the luckless Babylonian King: “I shall

make a footstool of my enemies.” But as a free nobleman from an independent country, I merely clicked my heels and bowed only from the waist. Delai curtsied low, bowing her head.

Tiglath acknowledged our salutations: “I’m happy to meet you,” he said, and his informal ways put us at ease immediately. “I don’t know your part of the world very well. You must tell me about it. Once I campaigned from my city of
Carchemish
toward
Tyre
—that was when I learned the language.”

He paused, and Ibbi spoke: “Divine Majesty, all the world remembers that campaign! The Earth trembles wherever Your Imperial Majesty’s overwhelming army sets its feet!”

Tiglath smiled slightly at the compliment. Actually, as we all knew, the Emperor had referred merely to a rather minor foray out of
Carchemish
. I was surprised at Ibbi’s obsequious speech—more than I’d expected, even from a Babylonian. But the longer I lived in Assyria, the more I came to realize that such eloquent exaggeration is no more than customary—and it doesn’t sound like slavish flattery to the peoples of Assyria and Babylonia. Great men expect it, and the humble expect to give it; the Great do not take it as sincere, nor do the humble
expect
to curry favor thereby (however much they might
hope
). It’s simply a more flowery way of expressing what we express when we say “My Lord,” or “Your Majesty,” or “Please pass the olives, sir.”

“When I was in the vicinity of
Damascus
,” Tiglath went on, “the King of your country was a man named Nasuy.”

“Yes, Sire—but he died over a year ago,” I noted—obviously, he already knew that.

“And my Grand Vizier tells me that your present King, Melek Zaggi, is not a very nice man,” the Emperor remarked. “And that’s why you seek asylum with me. You shall have it—but you are fully aware, I trust, of the conditions I laid down?”

“I informed them before they came to
Assyria
, Your Majesty,” the Grand Vizier said.

“And we promise to obey them, Your Majesty,” I added.

Tiglath smiled. “Good. Incidently, we’ve just recently re-opened diplomatic relations with your suzereain, the Pharaoh of