Samson: Chosen. Betrayed. Redeemed.

By Eric Wilson and Pure Flix

The original superhero movie based on the story of Samson and Delilah
He has many names. Lion tamer. Fox catcher. Man killer. Each with its measure of glory and shame. But for this young Hebrew with a supernatural gift of strength, there is more to the story. Samson has a God-given destiny to defend his people from the oppressive Philistine empire. After experiencing tragedy at the hands of a cruel Philistine prince, he strives to fulfill his calling only to fall victim to his own desires. 

As Samson draws close to a Philistine temptress with a secret, this man of unbeatable strength drifts away form his destiny. Then an act of betrayal costs him everything. At his weakest Samson must rely on God in one last effort to avenge his people.

In this novelization of the major motion picture Samson draws you deeper into one of the most famous biblical stories of the Old Testament. Experience the legacy of Samson and Delilah in a way you never have before.    

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charisma House
• Release date: Jan 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781629995168

Eric Wilson

ERIC WILSON grew up dreaming he’d become a mystery writer. He’s done just that with his numerous books, using real Canadian locations and creating compelling and resourceful young heroes who find themselves living exciting adventures. Since Murder on The Canadian was published in 1976, the Tom and Liz Austen series has sold over 1.5 million copies in Canada. Wilson lives in Victoria, British Columbia, with his wife, Flo.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

FOUR HUNDRED YEARS after Moses led the Hebrews out of slavery in Egypt, Israel’s twelve tribes had settled throughout Canaan. They had no king to unify them, and judges ruled over various tribes. Many Hebrews forgot their God, and a new power rose to enslave them—a sea people with advanced weaponry and coastal strongholds . . . the Philistines.

During this age of oppression, the Angel of the Lord proclaimed that a male child would be born to set the Israelites free.

CHAPTER 1

GUARDIAN OF THE GATES

Eleventh Century BC—City of Gaza

THE MOON FINDS me at the window. I cinch my tunic's sash and pass a hand over my long hair and beard, but the scents of lavender and perfume refuse to let me go. This is no place for a Hebrew male, in this room at the top of the stairs, in this city that belongs to our enemies.

The Philistines have oppressed us for generations, making slaves of my people, enjoying the fruits of our labor. King Balek and his prince know me well, and my names here in Gaza are many.

Lion tamer.

Fox catcher.

Man killer.

Each has a story with its measure of glory and shame.

I am also called Son of Manoah, but this dishonors my father’s memory. He and my mother, even more than my tribesmen, heaped their expectations upon me. They believed through and through that I was called of God, and to what end? Death and destruction, that’s what. Loss and sorrow and pain. Despite what some may have heard, I am only human. I too carry scars. This life cuts me to the bone the same as it does anyone.

Samson?

A breeze parts the curtains, ruffling my beard, and I ignore the husky female voice from the shadows. My gaze is fixed just beyond the city gates, where cloaked shapes crouch and wait. I recognize a few faces. It was men such as these who murdered my fiancée before we had even one night together as husband and wife, and all these years later they still want to finish me off.

No, not now. Not with this perfume still clinging to my robes.

What’s bothering you? asks the woman at my back.

Did you tell anyone I was here?

I’m no fool. My business is my business, and I keep it that way.

There are men outside.

The watchmen probably, making their rounds.

It’s an ambush, I tell her. That’s what it is. You swear you told no one?

No one. But your comings and goings, they are hard to miss.

Her words send a shiver through me, and for a moment I consider giving myself over to the Philistine horde. My sins are here in the stink of this room, in the bottom of the wine glass. Let them wash it all away in the scent and splash of my blood.

Outside the gates two men chuckle about something until the others quiet them with harsh whispers. If Balek sent them, he should be ashamed. They’re a ragtag group, disorganized.

I turn. Do they think I’ll just wander into their trap come morning?

Go, Samson. Please. Don’t involve me in your troubles.

Her request is reasonable enough. I pull on my sandals and descend the stairs into the alley. No one seems to see me. Shaking off the effects of this evening’s frivolities, I make my way to the gates. They are locked of course. No one in or out.

Open up, I command the guard.

He snaps awake, fumbles his spear, and peers at me. Samson?

Let me pass.

I can’t do that. Surely you know this.

You aren’t the only one who recognizes me. Those men outside, they wait to attack me.

What men? It’s the middle of the night.

From deep within I feel it, and my hands begin to tremble. Enough with you. Let me through. And here it comes, the familiar rush of power, thunder raging in the clouds from the western seas, waters flooding through the wadis in the desert. It’s in my control, born from my own sinew and limbs, but it courses through me in unexpected ways. It’s a rushing, mighty wind that catches me in its vortex and unleashes me like a tempest.

I reach for the gates. My callused hands pry them loose from their posts as the watchman scrambles away. Wood and metal shriek, bolts clang onto the stone beneath my sandals, and I heft the entire load on my shoulders. Motionless, my enemies huddle in the moonlight outside the walls.

The jackal, I say, is breaking free. What’re you waiting for?

Their eyes are wide, their weapons raised. I growl, hoping to scare them off for good, and only then do I hear movement behind me. I twist around, caught off balance by a rush of men with clubs and swords. They come at me from all sides now. Was the watchman part of this ruse? Is the king or his prince behind this?

I’m dropped to one knee by Philistine steel, some of the finest in all of Canaan. I reposition the huge slabs of wood on my back, then stand and spin. The gates snap the ribs of the nearest ambusher, catch the head of the next. They come at me again. A second blade catches my thigh, a club connects with my forearm, but my whirlwind of wood is unstoppable, and in short order my work is done. I ignore my victims’ moans, take a deep breath, and angle eastward. Tonight this enemy capital lies exposed. Tonight I am the guardian of their gates.

Chosen by God?

Forgive me, Mother, I can only hope it is so.

But feared by men?

Of that there is no doubt. Behind me a dozen foes have been vanquished, and the only figure that dares follow me is small in stature and concealed by a blue hood. Am I surprised? No, I’ve seen it time and again. These women who shrink from my violence are drawn by my physical prowess.

I march beneath the stars, hour after hour, the gates growing heavy on my back. Slivers bite at my skin, blood seeps from the wound on my leg, and sweat drips down my brow. I am reminded of the priest who years ago poured oil over my head, consecrating me as a judge. Was it a mistake? Have I shown myself worthy? Even a judge is not immune to choices and consequence.

Dawn is on the horizon when I crest the hill opposite Hebron, a natural divide between my Hebrew brothers and our oppressors. I drop onto hard sand, and the gates land with a thud beside me. Here they shall remain as a warning. Do you dare cross this line? If so, I, Samson, of the town of Zorah and the tribe of Dan, will stand against you. In these last twenty years I’ve spilled more than my share of blood, and I won’t hesitate to do so again.

In the first glimmer of daylight my head meets the earth. I catch a swish of blue fabric and bejeweled fingers, and the voice purring my name is far warmer than that woman’s back in Gaza.

Samson? Oh, dear Samson.

I look up, my vision clouded by pain and exhaustion.

Here, she says, let me help you. I am Delilah.

CHAPTER 2

INFATUATIONS

Twenty Years Earlier—Village of Zorah

SAMSON’S MOTHER AND younger brother struck the gnarled olive tree with sticks. Underfoot, a spread cloth caught the falling fruit. This was the family’s tree, its olives a source of oil for their lamps and their cooking, and that which they did not need was left on the branches, per the Law of Moses, for the needs of the poor. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Watch your step, Zealphonis told her son.

You ready to gather up the cloth?

A few minutes more.

Caleb set about his task with greater zeal, his lanky arms bringing down the olives in bunches. This was only the first step in the process. Next they would collect the olives, bruise them with their hands to remove the pits, then press them for the precious oil within.

Careful, Zealphonis said. We can’t let any go to waste.

If Samson were here, he’d shake the tree once, and we’d have all that we need.

You know, Caleb, the work didn’t come any easier for him at your age. Most people think you’re older than you are, and you’ve almost outdone him today. It’ll take both of us to gather it all.

Where is he? Do you think he’s gone to Timnah again?

Zealphonis straightened her back and gazed westward over the craggy hillsides. Caleb always knew when she was troubled. Samson, on the other hand? His heart and his sense of mischief led him from one town to the next, often putting him in harm’s way. Samson was the untamed stallion kicking up his heels, while Caleb, even at a young age, was the faithful workhorse.

Lord knows what your brother is up to, she murmured.

He’s got a new friend there.

In Timnah? What sort of friend?

Caleb dropped his stick and took hold of the cloth. Groaning, he tried to pick it up.

A girl, Caleb? Don’t you keep such a thing from me.

He laughed. No, he and Pyzor, one of the Philistine men, they go hunting together. They hunt for jackals, foxes, whatever they can get their hands on.

The Philistines are not our friends.

Samson doesn’t care. He’s not afraid of anyone.

Well, she said, it’s not a girl, anyway. That’s some relief.

Samson’s nineteen, Mother.

Yes, and he’s my son. She reached for the opposite end of the cloth. He and his youthful infatuations. If he wants to seriously look—

He looks, all right. Who knows if any of it’s serious, though.

Together mother and son hefted their load down the slope to the olive press. They sat in the shade of their mud-brick hut, pitting the fruit one by one, dropping the pits into a basin between them and the olives into the press. The stone contraption was best operated by a harnessed donkey or by well-muscled Samson. Caleb’s limbs would be tested in this late-summer sun.

As Zealphonis worked, her thoughts returned to the foretelling of Samson’s birth. By any measure it was a miracle. For years she had been unable to give Manoah a son, and she’d seen the emptiness in his eyes as they ate their meals. She wore that shame daily. When she told him he deserved better, he told her she was his wife, and that was all that mattered, but he went to his work in the fields with eyes down and shoulders hunched.

And then, unexpectedly, the Angel of the Lord came to them.

Not just once, but twice.

Mother, what’s wrong?

Caleb’s voice shifted her focus to the task at hand. Olive meat clung to her fingernails as she dropped another pit into the basin.

Still worried about Samson? he asked.

What’s he thinking, that son of mine? He should be looking for a respectable girl from among our people, or even better, from within the tribe of Dan. The council is watching him, evaluating. It’s more than just a marriage at stake.

Because of the prophecy, Caleb said.

He . . . Yes, because he was chosen. He was entrusted to us, to your father and me.

By God?

She nodded.

What’s the problem? Aren’t you the one who told me about Balaam, how God spoke to him through a donkey? If God can work through a beast of the field, He can work through anyone.

Listen to you. Why, you’ve grown into a wise young man. Sometimes I wonder if the Lord chose the wrong . . .

Caleb glanced up.

She stopped there. How dare she even think such things or question the wisdom of the Lord? How dare she doubt His power after what she and her husband had seen in the flames?

Mother!

This time it was Samson’s rumbling voice that snapped her to attention. He rushed down the slope, dust flying, long locks waving in the breeze whipped up by his own passing. He was a force of nature, a presence that could not be ignored. Try as she might, she could not stay angry with him, even in the face of his brutishness.

Mercy, Samson, it’s nearly time for our evening meal.

A twinkle flashed in his deep-set eyes. He grabbed a handful of pits and stuffed them down the back of his brother’s tunic. Caleb gasped, gave him a shove, and threw the pits back at him.

You rascals, Zealphonis said, we need this oil. Now put your energy to good use.

I can’t sit still. Samson picked an object from his hair, then flung his arms wide. Not today, not until you’ve heard my news.

You can share your news while you apply yourself to the press.

I’ll give you a hint then.

Please, not another one of your riddles and rhymes.

A grin split his clean-shaven face. Thin as a twig, but this news is big.

And so is your brother’s appetite, especially with supplies as scarce as they are. She pointed at the stone wheel. To work, Samson.

Is Father here?

He’s meeting with the council, and I suspect you are the topic of discussion.

"Then they shall hear of it too. Everyone needs to know. Mother, I’ve fallen in love."

Her heart jumped despite the rashness of his announcement. Could it be? Was this part of God’s destiny for him?

I saw her in Timnah, he declared. She’s thin, she’s beautiful, and she’s a Philistine.

CHAPTER 3

THE PRICE OF PEACE

A PHILISTINE? IS THIS what he told you?"

Zealphonis nodded.

What is he thinking? Manoah said. He shows no concern for his own people.

In the moonlight seeping through the hut’s thatched roof, she could see the wrinkles that gathered on her husband’s forehead, the darkness that clouded his eyes. He turned on his side, his back to her, and she noticed his ribs pressed against his undergarment. He was no longer a tireless youth, and his labor in the fields was taking a toll, especially with much of their harvest going to King Balek’s men.

He’s your son, Manoah. Talk to him.

Talk to him, you say. Talk to him. Does Samson listen to my words or those of the council? Does he heed his own mother? Where is he now, in the still of the night? Is he on his bed mat where he belongs? No, he’s taken his brother, and he’s out following his own eyes and his heart.

What else should he follow?

The heart cannot be trusted. A man’s wandering eyes will lead his heart astray. His faith, his convictions, only they can rightly guide his steps.

As his father, you know of such things. He needs to hear it from you.

Manoah rolled onto his back and ran a hand down his gray-streaked beard.

Zealphonis hoped it was not too late. For all she knew, Samson was cavorting even now with some woman. She had no evidence that such a thing had happened, but thoughts of it often robbed her of sleep and deepened her cries to the Almighty.

He needs to hear it, yes, her husband said. But does he have ears to hear?

We know what the angel told us.

That was long ago now. God’s been known to change His mind.

He gave us a promise, and I . . . Her voice caught in her throat. I believe He will keep it.

I want to believe that too.

You must. I need to know we are joined together in this. Tell me you remember the flame.

With jaw clenched, Manoah closed his eyes.

She also closed hers and recalled the figure that appeared to her years ago in the midst of her household duties. He was the Angel of the Lord, he said, come to tell her that she would bear a son, chosen by God to deliver the Israelites from the hand of the Philistines. After years of barrenness and disappointment it was too much to hope for. She worried she would somehow fail. Her husband, mustering his faith, prayed that the angel would appear again, and indeed the angel did return. The angel insisted that the prophecy was true, so long as their child adhered to Nazirite vows by never drinking strong drink, touching a dead body, or cutting his hair. Yes, they agreed, yes, of course they would raise their son according to these vows. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

And then the unbelievable.

As they placed a goat and grain on the altar for a burnt offering, the angel ascended toward heaven in the flames. A flash of yellow heat, and he was gone. They’d never seen anything like it, and they fell facedown, giving glory to God. Her husband said they would surely die, for they had seen the Lord, but she assured him they would not. Just as the angel promised, they would have a son to raise. They and their people would have a deliverer.

Zealphonis rested a hand on her husband’s chest. It was nineteen years ago, but we both heard it. We saw it. I still have to believe.

Forgive me. Manoah took hold of her hand. I do remember. Yes, we are in this together.

That was all she needed. Tomorrow would have troubles of its own as soldiers came through the villages to collect the king’s tribute. Tonight, however, she had the warmth of her husband’s touch. With moisture still clinging to her eyelashes, she fell asleep.

The soldiers came earlier than usual, their swords flashing in the morning sun. Zealphonis tensed as shouts rang out over huts and households where men and women loaded carts with wheat and produce. Someone screamed. The price of peace in this and the neighboring tribes was obedience to the king. He hoarded food for his storerooms and fuel for his forges and smelters.

Do you have our payment ready, Manoah? Zealphonis asked.

We’ll muster a bit more if we can. Let’s hope it’s enough for these brutes.

They wheeled their cart into view, joining their neighbors along the dirt road that ran through Zorah. Their load was smaller than some, but at least it covered the bed of the wagon.

This is of our own doing, Manoah said.

What?

This commotion. He added a cluster of grapes to their offering. If only we’d driven out our enemies while we had the chance, we’d be living in peace. Moses delivered us from Pharaoh, Joshua defeated our foes at Jericho, and still we suffer the blows of these Philistines.

Our weapons cannot match theirs.

They’re masters of metalwork, it’s true.

Confirming this, a row of Philistines rounded the corner with swords drawn. The feathers on their helmets stood at attention, their armor gleamed, and blades and spear tips glistened.

Hebrews, hear me, their herald cried out. Line up to present this month’s tribute. King Balek is a fair king, and if you come with what is expected, you’ll have no need to fear. But if your tribute falls short, hear this . . . Next month’s tribute will double.

The very thought made Zealphonis weary.

In the midst of the soldiers walked Prince Rallah, the king’s son. Rallah wore a dark cape from rings on his breastplate. His beard was trimmed to a thin line and goatee, and his stark eye makeup was meant for intimidation. He carried royalty and privilege like a whip, she thought, using them to demean his own cohorts and frighten townspeople throughout the region. Hadn’t the Lord God said to walk humbly and uprightly? Why, then, did men such as this reap all the riches?

Manoah caught her eye. Where is Samson?

He’ll be here.

Rallah took a step forward, joined by Ashdod. Lumbering, broad-chested, and bald-headed, Ashdod was known throughout the region for his unquestioning obedience to the prince.

Present yourselves, each of you, the herald said. As the prince passes by, you will show him your tribute. He is the king’s flesh and blood, his sole representative, and he alone determines the worthiness of your offering.

Zealphonis fanned the wheat to give it a fuller appearance, then straightened her back and lowered her eyes. Beside her, Manoah had his chin down. At the edge of her vision a sickly figure staggered into the road, and she realized it was Tobias. This was not good.

Oh, Samson, she whispered, why aren’t you here yet?

Tobias fell to his knees in the dirt. My lord, he said, please, show us mercy.

Rallah’s attention was on the offering of another, and he sifted the grain through his fingers before turning to assess the creature at his feet.

Please, my lord.

And what form should my mercy take?

The tribute is too much. My wife is getting up in age, and my daughter’s but a child. We can barely survive.

What is your name, Hebrew?

It’s Tobias, my lord.

And where is this family you hold so dear?

They . . . they’re in that cart there. Please, I know the king is fair and just, but he doesn’t see how we struggle. We starve even as the wheat we’ve planted with our own hands molds away in his storehouses. Can you not spare us more, my lord? Just enough for my wife and my daughter to eat?

Zealphonis felt her pulse throb in her temples. She knew Tobias could barely walk behind the plow these days, crippled by stiff knees and bad shoulders. Despite his limitations he was a good man, a faithful man, doing his best to provide. She watched the prince’s gaze pass from the two women in the cart to the frail form before him. His eyes were unblinking, leopard-like, highlighted by the streaks of charcoal.

His decision came in measured tones. "I, Prince Rallah, have heard this man’s cry. As commander of the Philistine army, I make this declaration: from this day on this