The First King Chapter 6

Darkness. Nothing but darkness. That was his life now. He shifted his arms and felt the manacles bite into his wrists, chains rattling as they slid across each other. He tilted his head back against the wall, feeling the matted hair scratching against the skin of his neck. He remembered when that hair represented something special, when it showed a difference between him and the others. His empty eye sockets wept as remembrance flooded back again. Of a time when he was free and strong. A time when no one could restrain him. A time when YHWH used him. But for one weakness.

"Delilah."

Samson spoke her name with loathing. How she had tricked him. She had used her wiles, wiles that he was so susceptible to, to destroy him. Now here he was, in this cell. Forced to grind away chained to a mill until he died. Why did he not listen? Why did he not keep his oath?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of men moving down the hall towards his cell. He heard the rattling of keys, then the click of a lock. The sound of the gate rattling open, then footsteps coming towards him. He obstinately remained on the floor. There was no way he would rise until he was made to. Rough hands grabbed him, then he felt his arms yanked by the chains. These Philistines were still cautious, even after all these years of captivity. They did not get too close for too long.

As he was pulled to his feet he remembered a time when he could break what bound him like a child breaks a twig. But those days were past. In his mind he cried out again to YHWH to give him one more chance, but there was no reply. He used to feel that power surge through him, carrying away all doubt or fear. Now he just felt pain and weariness as he was dragged from his cell.

This former judge of Israel shuffled his feet as he was pulled down the rough stone hallway. The ankle irons would not allow him full steps. Recalling when he had first tried to attack his guards after being imprisoned only to fall and lose several teeth and break his nose, he ruefully chuckled. O how the mighty have fallen.

Then he noticed something strange. The floor was sloping upwards. They were not taking him to his usual place at the mill stone. Where were they going? Fear raised its ugly head then. Were they taking him to execution? He stamped this thought down, but the fear lingered faintly at the edge of his consciousness. Was this his final punishment from YHWH? To helplessly struggle while his enemies scornfully snuffed out his life?

"I pray it is not so," he muttered.

A blow on his side staggered him. He hit the wall and leaned there briefly, but was roughly jerked forward.

"Shut your mouth, Hebrew," one of his captors sneered. "Or there will be worse."

Samson knew that these men were frightened and their fear made them more vicious than they would normally be, so he stood and began to shuffle along after them. No sense in inviting more punishment than necessary.

After what seemed like hours of shuffling along, he felt the air change. He felt warmth touch his skin. He heard people and animals. Children's voices. How long had it been since he had been outside? He took a deep breath and tears began to fall again. Why had he not obeyed YHWH's commands? Why had he been so selfish?

Samson was led into what felt like a dirt street. He dug his toes into the ground, grateful to feel something besides rough stone under him. His guards stopped long enough to tie his chains to an ass, which they then led. Then the shouting began. The voices around him began to scream obscenities and mock him. They cursed YHWH. They cursed the Israelites. they cursed him. He began to be pelted with numerous objects. Something struck his face and he smelt dung. Rocks pelted him as he was dragged down the street. Something struck his legs and he fell. His captors did not stop. Samson was pulled by his chained arms. The manacles cut into his wrists and he felt blood begin to flow. He tried vainly to get his feet under him, but was unsuccessful.

Finally, the pulling stopped and he was able to stand. He heard the guards untie the chains and then they began to drag him up a flight of stairs. He heard someone running towards him and then someone kicked him in his groin. He staggered and fell. He heard laughter as he was yanked to his feet. Samson leaned over and vomited from the pain, then staggered up the steps as best he could with legs irons on. He fell several times, but finally reached the top.

Voices and sounds of revelry greeted his ears now. Where was he? Almost as if they read his thoughts his guards informed him that they were at the temple of Daagon. The army of Philistia was marching into Israel even now and as a celebration of their assured victory, the rulers were having a feast. And what better representation of their superiority, and the superiority of their god, than to have this champion of the Israelites paraded before them? And so he was.

The shrieks grew in volume as Samson was led through the crowd. One man, with an effeminate tone and smelling of perfume, kissed his cheek and stroked his chest. He lisped to his friends, "Is it possible for me to buy this magnificent specimen? I think he would make a fine bed slave." His friends laughed and egged him on, but Samson was soon led out of their reach. He seethed inwardly at this violation, wanting nothing more than to lash out, but in his current state he knew it was hopeless.

Eventually he was stopped and his chains were snapped into clamps on the floor, forcing him to be unable to stand fully upright. A young boy was left to give him sips of water if he needed some, and to clean the floor if Samson had to relieve himself. The boy was silent for awhile, but then he spoke.

"One day I'm going to be a soldier."

Samson turned his head and looked towards the boy. "What makes you want to be a soldier?"

Silence, then, "Because I want to defeat our enemies like you did. I've heard stories of what you did, and even though it was against my people, I would like those stories to be told of me."

"What is your name, boy?"

"Goliath. I'm from Gath and my father is a priest of this temple. I don't want to be a soft priest. I want to be a man. But my father says I must follow in his footsteps." With this statement, the boy sighed.

Samson couldn't help but like this boy. He sounded like himself at that age, full of grand plans and not wanting to be restrained by "civilization." He smiled and said, "Maybe one day there will be an opportunity for you to fight, but I pray it is not against my people. Fighting us never turns out very well."

Before Goliath could respond, that lilting voice of the man who had mocked Samson broke in.

"My, my, my. Look at you. So vulnerable, yet so masculine. It makes my heart flutter I tell you. And not just my heart."

Those soft hands ran over Samson's back.

"I think I will try out this slave before I buy him. I don't think these people would mind."

Cold washed over Samson. Cold that then transformed into white heat. He felt that old strength flowing then.

"Goliath, where are the pillars of the temple?" Samson asked.

"Right in front of you. Why?"

Samson shouted, "Don't mind that. Run, boy. Run as far as you can as fast can. Now!!" Then he stood up.