I awoke illumined by rays of glorious sunshine penetrating the lattice window I had left uncovered the previous night. The morning was bright with promise. The muted sounds of the city infiltrated my bedchamber, providing a soothing antidote to my still troubled spirit. Surely the very normalcy of the day forecast a good outcome for the afternoon's planned festivities. I had no reason to permit Samson's warning to ruin this day, the day when I would be honored and respected by all, the day when the power I sought would be made complete as I demonstrated my domination of the feared Israelite strongman. Yet, I could not shake the feeling of foreboding that had held me captive ever since my visit to Samson. Despite the sun's warm rays, I shivered and pulled up my covering. As I sat in my bed shivering in the sunlight wondering what calamity this feeling portended, a knock came at my door. Jabin's voice cried, "Mistress Delilah, I have your breakfast."

I bid Jabin enter. He brought in a tray with fruit, bread, and wine. In a vase on the tray was a single rosebud.

Staring at the flower, I asked in an unsteady voice, "Why have you brought me a rose, Jabin?"

"I hope you do not mind, mistress. When I came by on my way to fetch your morning repast, a young boy slept outside your door. He had the flower in his hand. He said he had a message for you and would I deliver it. He handed me the flower and then spoke this riddle: 'Something sweet and something sharp bring both pleasure and pain. Joy may only come after tears fall like rain.' After speaking those carefully memorized words, he fled."

As Jabin spoke I know my skin paled, my eyes widened, and my hands began to shake. Reaching out in anger, I grabbed the vase and slung it across the room. 

Poor Jabin cowered, saying in a high apologetic voice, "I am sorry, mistress, if I did wrong to deliver the message. I thought it was the harmless gesture of a besotted man who sought to win your favor."

Focusing on the eunuch, I laughed derisively. "Do not worry, Jabin. A truly besotted man sent this. His infatuation is pathetic and his love warped. Do not fret. You did nothing wrong. I simply overreacted to such blatant impudence."

Smiling in relief, the servant asked, "Do you know the answer to the riddle, mistress?"

"Yes, but that does not concern you. Now leave me alone. I have to eat, dress, and prepare myself mentally for the ritual to come. If I need you before time to depart, I will rap twice on my chamber door."

After Jabin left, I walked across the room and picked up the delicate flower. I knew the message had come from Samson, though I could not fathom how he had managed to get a child to deliver it. Somehow he had reached out from his prison cell with one last attempt to touch the girl who had been banished to the hidden place in my heart. He wanted me to face my past and allow healing tears to nourish the seed of hope he thought was still alive inside my hardened heart. He still foolishly believed in the Delilah he had loved. He had risked everything to placate her need for power over the one she cherished. He had thought he could win her by sharing his secret and placing his future in her hands. He had been wrong then.

"He is still wrong," I hissed, dropping the rosebud to the floor and grinding it under my heel. The delicate pedals were destroyed by this vicious act, but I had forgotten the thorns. One thorn penetrated my heel. When I sat and tried to find it to pull it free, it was too deep. I would have to leave it for now. I was not about to get Jabin to come try to dig it out and perhaps spread rumors of my actions.

Clad only in the short thin undergarment I had worn to bed, I walked to the latticed window and peered out over Gaza. My room was on the second floor of the compound reserved for priestesses to the goddess Asherah. From this vantage point, I could see much of the city. The streets teemed with merchants, women going for water or to the market, street urchins playing games among the crowds, and even soldiers on mighty steeds. But my eyes skipped quickly over the menagerie without taking notice. I could not see the building I sought from the angle where I stood, so I opened the lattice shutters and leaned over the windowsill peering west toward the prison that housed Samson.

As I gazed intently at the prison, trying to ascertain whether Samson was the prisoner shackled to the yoke attached to the grinding stone, I vaguely heard giggles coming from below. A stage whisper penetrated my reverie, and I heard a young, high-pitched voice say, "I wonder if she's a priestess or just a maid? If she's a priestess, I can't wait until I'm old enough to go to the temple and bury my face in that bosom." 

"If she's a maid, I think I'll have a fling with the hired help," a deeper voice answered.

Looking down, I realized that in my impetuosity I had managed to pull my garment askew so that the shirt had fallen off one shoulder, exposing my voluptuous cleavage to the world. Without bothering to cover myself, I tossed my loose hair, gave the boys a sultry look and blew them a kiss, saying, "Come to Dagon's temple this afternoon and find out the answer to your question. I will either be dancing for your entertainment or in attendance to the one who does." Then with a deep-throated, bewitching laugh, I withdrew into my chamber, pulling the solid outer shutters behind me.

Standing in the gloom created by the closure, I dropped my tunic to the floor and stood naked. I ran both hands from my shoulders, down across my firm breasts, past my flat, taut belly and between my supple thighs, stopping there where I could feel the heat from my loins. I willed myself to imagine the lustful youths outside my chamber consummating their desire in a temple orgy. But my mind fled from such a possibility. While I wanted the power that came from being priestess, I was repulsed physically and emotionally by the thought of bedding man after man, even in the name of the goddess Asherah. Only one man had breached the abhorrence I felt at the thought of the sex act and that man would never grace my bed again.

Walking back over to the damaged rosebud, I picked up a crushed and bruised petal. Raising it to my nostrils, I breathed in the lingering fragrance. Even though it was broken and beyond redemption, the tiny bud still smelled like a rose. My anger and abuse had not been able to destroy its essence.

Now as I stood holding the damaged petal of the rosebud Samson had sent, I wondered why I had not listened to the child inside that really did love the gentle giant.  Then padding across the floor in my bare feet, I pulled out my treasures. Deep in the packet, I found the small velvet bag that held the dried petals from the roses Samson had left on my bed. Loosening the strings, I leaned down to sniff the fragrant smell of the potpourri I had made from his offering. Always before when I had opened the pouch, the faint smell of roses had assaulted my senses. Today there was nothing. In disbelief I shook the contents of the pouch into my trembling hand and pressed the broken petals to my nose. But the actions were for naught; the lingering fragrance of the flower had dissipated. What I held in my hand were colorless, odorless fragments of what had once been a luscious flower. Staring at the remnants of Samson's love offering, one lone tear rolled down my cheek and dropped onto the debris in my hand. As my bruised heart began to close over the corner where the child Delilah cowered, a faint odor wafted from the petal. The drop of water had freed a bit of fragrance dormant in the dehydrated bud.

As the faint odor penetrated my grief, a plan formed in my mind. For years I had worn the same perfume, one I had invented. It had been my signature, my snare for unsuspecting men. For the dance today with Samson, I would change my fragrance. Rather than the familiar smell, a new aroma would envelop Samson – the smell of the rose. When I seduced the blind man with my sensuous dance, the sweet smell of the rose would embrace us. Then he would know his final gesture had been spurned, just as his love had been scorned. He would know that the Delilah he loved was dead. The delicate rosebud would be no more; the resplendent blossom with the offensive thorns would have won. Samson would be completely defeated knowing he had betrayed his god for naught. Even Samson would know that Dagon had won, and his belief in a god of second and third chances was misguided. Words would not be necessary. My subjugation of the strongman of Israel would be complete when he smelled the scent of the rose. All hope would leave Samson and his degradation would be final. He would no longer believe Yahweh would restore his strength and vindicate him. Then, I would be free of the nagging disquiet that had plagued me since my meeting with Samson. I would be free to bury the whimpering child hidden inside and become the ruthless priestess.

My resolve thus renewed, I took out a small, hollowed stone that acted as a crushing bowl. A rectangular implement with a smooth rounded end allowed me to press leaves, flowers or roots into a mush that could be mixed with oil. Gathering the bruised petals of the rosebud where I had ground them with my heel, I put the remnants in the bowl. Venting my anger at my own weakness on the fragments, I pulverized the petals. I then carefully mixed the resultant pulp into an unscented vial of oil. Thus I captured the heady scent of the rose so I could anoint myself with its fragrance for my final confrontation with Samson.

Dipping my fingers in the aromatic oil, I traced my still bare cleavage. Closing my eyes and throwing back my head, I languidly ran my fingers through my now long locks as I began slowly to gyrate my hips. In an almost hypnotic trance I began to twirl and sway, keeping pace with the measured cadence in my head. As the sensuous ritual unfolded, in my mind I danced once again a private exhibition for Samson.

As I reminisced, I had slowly ceased to dance and begun to prepare myself for the temple ritual. As I leaned toward the small mirror in my room to braid a lock of hair on either side of my face, the sight of my long locks broke the spell of my memory. When I had contended with Samson, my hair had been shorter. During the time Samson stayed at my home, I did not cut my hair. My shoulder length locks had begun to grow. Scissors had not touched my head since the day I met Samson months ago. Now as I absently prepared the decorative braids that were my talisman, I wished that scissors had never touched Samson's head either.

Shaking my head to clear it of the useless sentiment wasted on a condemned man, I said aloud, "He is only a mortal, just as I am a mortal. If I had not betrayed our love, he would have. I simply forestalled the inevitable."

Thus bolstering my resolve, I prepared myself for my introduction to Gaza. I wove a garland of purple flowers to put in my rose-perfumed hair. I slipped into the white silk garment made just for this occasion. The skirt was slit up each side so that my bare legs would be alternately seen and hidden as I danced. The skirt was gathered at the waist and sewn to a wide belt that was flat across my taut belly, but rose to a point following the contour of my breasts. Where the point entered my cleavage, the belt narrowed and became two narrow strands of silk embroidered with purple flowers. These strands ran between my breasts and up over my shoulders, crisscrossing my bare back until they were once again attached to the belt.

I rubbed color into my nipples, darkening them to a deep red that would be easily seen by the spectators. Then I carefully applied color to my face, enhancing my eyes and my cheekbones. I rubbed artificial coloring into my already dark eyebrows to complete the effect. Finally I picked up the purple mantle and veil I would wear for the short walk to the temple. These garments, unlike the ones I had worn to see Samson, were designed to conceal what I wore underneath. No man was to glimpse my visage until I removed the cloak and veil inside the temple and was presented to the court as the woman who had delivered Samson into the hands of the Philistines.

Rapping sharply twice on my door, I waited for Jabin to respond. When he entered my chamber, he caught his breath in an audible gasp. His mouth fell open as he stood speechless before me.

With a sharp laugh, I said, "Shut your mouth, Jabin. You look like the village idiot standing there drooling."

Snapping his jaws shut, Jabin stammered, "I-I-I'm sorry, Mistress Delilah. When you kn-kn-knocked, I thought you were dressed and ready to be escorted to the temple."

"And so I am," I said teasingly, holding out my mantle to the distraught man. "I only need you to help me on with my outer garments. I didn't want to risk smudging my makeup and destroying the effect I so carefully crafted."

"Yes, m-m-mistress," Jabin said stepping forward and gingerly taking the proffered garment. As he held the mantle, I deliberately rubbed bare flesh against him, reveling in the power I had over him. Once I was appropriately clad, I raised the veil, leaned forward and kissed a startled Jabin fully on the lips, murmuring, "Thank you," while I left a red imprint on his unsuspecting mouth. Having no experience with women, the hapless eunuch did not even know to wipe his lips.     

Jabin and I exited my room and descended the outer stairs leading to the courtyard. At the bottom we were met by four armed temple guards. Jabin was unceremoniously dismissed as two guards positioned themselves in front of me and two behind me. The five of us, staying in formation, set out for the nearby temple. When we were close enough to the temple to see and hear the crowds, but far enough away to remain unnoticed, the guards stopped. Turning to me, the leader said, "We are to remain here on this slight rise until we are summoned. A guard will raise a purple flag on a spear when it is time for you to be introduced and begin your entertainment."

While the two guards behind stayed some paces back, the two in front stepped slightly to the side, allowing me to view the spectacle at the temple. From this distance it was possible to make out movement, but the words were inaudible and the people unrecognizable.

I soon grew bored and looked elsewhere. It was then that I realized we were standing on a mound directly adjacent to the prison that served as a grinding house. Standing still and silent in the front courtyard was the large grinding apparatus where Samson had been daily yoked like an ox and forced to turn a large grinding stone in the hot sun while Philistine revelers taunted him. The apparatus had been brought to the prison only after Samson was captured. Most of the prisoners sat with small hand grinders in the dust, grinding grain for the elite society of Gaza. While sitting in the dust would be humbling, the city fathers felt Samson would be more humiliated if he were shackled like a beast of burden and forced to walk endlessly in a circle where the public could revile him. Today, though, Samson was nowhere to be seen and I presumed they were preparing him for the ultimate act of degradation in the temple.

Suddenly my attention was drawn back to the temple as a chant of  "Samson! Samson! Samson!" echoed across the field between the temple and us, accompanied by stomping feet and clapping hands. A guard came running from the temple and stopped in front of my escort, saying, "The crowds are demanding to be entertained by the blind Israelite. Two of you are to come with me to fetch Samson. The other two are to remain here with the priestess."

I watched the guards hurry toward the prison while the chant of "Samson, Samson," continued in the background. Shortly the guards emerged from the prison with a shackled Samson between them. His feet were chained together, causing him to shuffle when he walked. Each wrist was chained to a guard so the three stepped in tandem. With each step the chains rattled, punctuating the chant with a strange cacophony.

The guards, perhaps purposefully to torture Samson with my smell, brought him very close as they escorted him to the temple. As he came abreast of us, Samson raised his head and sniffed the wind. When he abruptly halted, turning his head toward where I stood, he caused the guards to whom he was shackled to stumble and curse. But he ignored them, straining in my direction, his sightless eyes seeming to search the darkness for what he knew was there. As the guards yanked the chains binding Samson to them and demanded he move along, he pulled backward causing them once more to stumble. As they began to curse him and the third guard prodded him with a spear, Samson said, "Wait, watch, and then remember, little rose. Today is the seventh day."

With that cryptic remark, he began to move again toward the temple. I knew Samson had somehow recognized that I was there, despite the change in fragrance. Perhaps he knew no rose garden lay between his prison and the temple. Thus, the fragrant smell of the rose could only be a woman. Somehow, he knew I was the woman. His message had been meant for my understanding alone. I knew he spoke obliquely so the guards would not be able to interpret his words. Only later did I realize the significance of his terse message. He was telling me where to flee when his god gave him another chance to prove Yahweh's supremacy.

As Samson shuffled away, my eyes became bright with unshed tears. My eyes stung as I stared at Samson's muscular back moving away from me. Under my mantle, I clinched my fists to keep from reaching out to him. In my chest, my heart seemed to shatter into a thousand pieces. The child Delilah, thus left exposed, shouted in the priestess' mind, "You are despicable. Even as he is led to public humiliation, even as he is filled with unfounded optimism concerning the power of his god, his thoughts are for you. Even now he throws you a verbal rope that offers a solution if by some miracle he is right and you, in your arrogance, are wrong."

A grim smile lighted my countenance as the priestess warred with the child.

"You foolish imbecile," she countered. "Look at your hero shuffling by in chains, sniffing the wind like an animal. His strength is gone. He is brought low. He only reaches out to you because, thanks to me, you are the one with the power. He knows that a word from you could change his circumstance. He wants to fill you with desire so you will demand he be given to you as a plaything and thus escape the dungeon. He is no fool, Delilah. He looks out for Samson and Samson alone. He wants to scare you with the reference to the seventh day. He thinks you are superstitious enough to think there is some significance in the number seven, which his god seems to revere. It is fitting that Samson will be publicly humiliated on the day his people hold sacred, the seventh day, the day Yahweh rested from the labor of creation. If he is resting today, he will do Samson no good, just as he did him no good that day in Sorek."

Shortly the guards who had escorted Samson to the temple jogged back up to us. Laughing, they told my escorts, "He is certainly not the man of legend. He was so tired by the walk to the temple, he asked us to let him rest his hands on the temple pillars."

A loud crack and then panicked screams interrupted their mocking diatribe. As the roof of the temple which was crowded with thousands of spectators began to cave inward, one of the guards began to mumble, "Dagon, help us. I thought the words he was muttering as we left were the maniacal murmurings of a madman overcome by humiliation. Surely he must have been pleading with his god for the strength to topple the temple. See, it is caving in where the columns supported the roof. He was not tired at all. That was a ruse."

Then turning to the other guards, he raised his voice and shouted, "Come we must go and see if we can rescue anyone from the rubble."

As the men ran into the cloud of dust moving our way, I raised both of my hands to my face, pressing my veil tightly over my nostrils and my mouth. Forgotten I stood alone on the mound, straining to see through the gathering gloom as dust filled my dry eyes, making me momentarily blind. Turning from the scene, I stumbled back toward my quarters. My frozen heart told me it was time to go. There was nothing left for me here. I would take my riches and flee. I would change my name and become the widow Salome. Perhaps then I could find the peace the name implied.