Bathsheba (10 page)

The next day I presented myself at the king’s court to witness events as they unfolded. For Uriah’s sake, I wanted to watch the king’s scheme play out to its bloody conclusion. I also wanted to study David’s countenance when he learned that his loyal servant was dead.

My walk into Jerusalem had not been pleasant. A stinging wind had come up, riding the edge of an approaching storm, and sharp sand had invaded every crevice of my clothing by the time I reached the palace. I could not close my mouth without feeling grit between my teeth, and I knew I was leaving a trail of sand in my wake as I entered the king’s throne room.

The court bustled with the usual couriers, attendants, royal children, and guards. Content to watch and wait, I stood against the
back wall and listened to various proposals, reports, and disputes that had been brought before the king.

The day was about half spent when a pair of couriers, dusty and perspiring, entered the king’s chamber, shouldered their way through the throng, and bowed before the man on the throne.

In a gesture that seemed overly theatrical, David gripped the gilded armrests of his royal seat. “Do you bring word from Rabbah? How goes the battle?”

I lifted a brow. He should have asked about the siege, but the king had slipped. Would anyone else catch his mistake?

One of the couriers stood and pressed his hand to his chest. “My lord and king.”

My vision misted over, and the scene shifted before my eyes. Leaning against the wall for balance, I saw Uriah hand the king’s letter to Joab. I saw the commander’s face twist with consternation as he read it. The king’s clumsy plan to leave Uriah alone at the front would leave no doubt that the man’s death had been arranged, so Joab would have to improvise. In order to successfully carry off the charade, more than one man would have to die—not only Uriah but other innocents, as well.

Though a vision of a field outside Rabbah filled my eyes, I heard the army courier’s voice echo in the throne room: “My king, the enemy came out against us in the open fields.”

I saw Uriah striding across a sunlit field, where a corps of valiant men waited. They welcomed him, slapping him on the back, then they crouched behind a stand of scrubby brush. Behind them, Joab stood with other soldiers, who faced the city and watched for any movement of the gates or along the stone walls.

The gates of Rabbah opened, and a group of defenders rode out on mules, spears and swords at the ready. Uriah and his companions sprang forward and attacked, unseating the men from their mounts and driving the city’s defenders back toward the walls.

A sour taste rose in my mouth. Every man in Israel’s army knew the danger of fighting next to a fortified wall, for during the time of the judges a tribal ruler had been killed when a woman leaned over a tower wall and dropped a millstone on his head. Joab knew of that danger, and he knew he ought to sound a retreat when the fighting drew near a city’s fortifications.

I watched, transfixed, as the previous day’s events continued to play before my eyes. I saw Uriah and his men strike at the Ammonites, who steadily retreated toward their stronghold. Step by step, blow by blow, Uriah fought his way forward, sweat streaming into his eyes, blood running down his arms, his sword flashing in the sunlight. Every ounce of his energy went into the fight; he was not looking for landmarks or keeping track of his position.

I saw one of Joab’s captains pick up a ram’s horn, ready to sound retreat and call the warriors back. He lifted the horn, but Joab put out his hand, stopping him.

A line of archers appeared on the top of the wall. I watched them knock their barbed arrows and pull their bowstrings, and then a rain of deadly missiles fell on the men of Israel. Undaunted, Uriah and his four companions continued to cut and slash and parry the enemies’ blows, until one by one they dropped outside the thick stone walls. Uriah, roaring with every effort, struck a death blow to the commander of the Amorite army. As he pulled his sword from his enemy’s corpse, an arrow sailed straight and true and struck the center of his forehead.

Uriah fell, wide-eyed, to the earth and lay silent, his hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, his gaze blankly regarding the heavens.

I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, unwilling to stare disrespectfully at a hero of Israel.

And in the king’s throne room, lifting his voice in a dramatic crescendo, the courier finished his accounting: “As we chased them
back to the city gate, the archers on the wall shot arrows at us. Some of the king’s men were killed, including Uriah the Hittite.”

My vision cleared, the city of Rabbah fading as my eyes focused on David’s face. The lines of tension that had marked his mouth and eyes melted away, and the faint suggestion of a smile twisted his lips. “I am sorry to hear this report,” he said, leaning back on the cushions of his throne. “Tell Joab not to be discouraged, for the sword devours this one today and that one tomorrow. Tell him to fight harder next time and conquer the city.”

Almost as an afterthought, David lifted his hand in a fist, a weak attempt at a call to arms, but I did not think the retreating couriers even noticed. They had turned to leave, their faces masks of relief. They had delivered a tragic report of their commander’s foolishness and hadn’t had to endure the royal tongue-lashing their report deserved.

I sank to the floor, overwhelmed by this brutal evidence of our king’s treachery. Was this why Adonai did not send me to upbraid the king for taking another man’s wife? HaShem had not been content to expose a mere thread of David’s sinful nature; He wanted to uncover the entire tapestry.

I
HAD
JUST
HELPED
A
MARIS
TO
BED
when I heard the squeak of our courtyard gate. Alarmed by the thought of a guest at this hour, I hurried to the door and found my grandfather pacing in the courtyard. He walked with trepidation, his hands behind his back, his head lowered and his brows tight with fury.

Through the gathering darkness I peered at his face. “Is there some trouble, Grandfather?”

He stopped pacing and spun to face me, then took a breath and lowered his voice. “Your king,” he said, his words clipped, “has murdered your husband.”

The words struck like a slap. I stepped back and felt the rough plaster of the house against my arms. “That can’t be true.”

“I only wish it weren’t.” With a glance to the left and right, Grandfather inched closer and shook his finger in my face. “I
know
, Bathsheba! I saw you leave the king’s palace that night, and I know
David brought Uriah back from Rabbah in an attempt to cover his sin. I talked to your husband myself.”

“And you told him . . . what?” A thread of hysteria entered my voice as thoughts tumbled in my head. Uriah couldn’t be dead. As far as I knew, he was still in Jerusalem. The king was probably trying to find the right time to tell him what had happened, and then he would send Uriah to me.

A gleam of resentment entered my grandfather’s eyes. “I told him everything. He had to know that the Judean upstart we call
king
had stolen his wife. You should have seen his face when he heard. I’ve seen dying men look happier.”

Faced with the confirmation of my worst fear, I brought my hand to my mouth and choked off a scream. Pressure bloomed in my chest, tightening my throat and cutting off my breath.

“I told him, but my words didn’t have the effect I intended,” Grandfather snapped, his gaze falling on my still-flat belly. “It wasn’t difficult to understand why David kept insisting your husband return home. You are carrying the king’s child, and for that your honorable husband had to return to Jerusalem. I told Uriah to kill the king before he was killed himself, but instead he went off to war as if nothing had happened.” Grandfather shook his head. “Apparently he is less a warrior than I thought, and today’s news proved it. He is dead, killed at Rabbah. How convenient for your lover.”

Each pointed word felt like a stab in the heart. I released a strangled cry as my knees gave way. I sank to the ground, buried my face in my hands, and wailed for my murdered husband and my nonexistent future. As a pregnant woman with no husband in sight, I had no hope of survival. People would whisper as soon as my belly began to show. They would count months on their fingers, and I would be cast out for being an adulteress or a harlot. I had shamed my sister, my dead husband, and my esteemed grandfather.

Worst of all, I was to blame. If Uriah had not married a
tob
woman, he might have lived a long and happy life.

“Bathsheba.” Grandfather’s voice held a note of impatience. He bent and gently helped me to my feet. “Shh, do not carry on so. You are not to blame for any of this.”

I tried to control myself, but my eyes overflowed despite my efforts. “Uriah did not deserve to die.”

“You are right to weep and mourn him, for he was a good man, even a better one than the shepherd who sits on the throne. Weep for your husband, observe the full mourning period, but do not say anything to anyone about the child.”

With much effort I looked up at Grandfather’s face. His stern expression was enough to silence my sobs, but what could he do to preserve my reputation?

“The king has committed a great evil, but I’m sure he does not wish to harm you,” Grandfather said. “If he cared nothing about you, he would not have bothered to have Uriah killed. Since David is responsible for your condition, I will make certain he protects you. And if it takes the rest of my life, I will make him pay for what he has done to this family.”

I stared in confusion as Grandfather’s words piled atop each other. I had no idea what he meant or what he would do, yet I understood his anger. In that moment I would have shared it had my heart not been so heavy with grief.

As always, I had no control over the powerful current that was dragging me away from the life I loved. I had to trust my grandfather or leave Jerusalem.

But for the next seven days, I had to mourn the husband I had unwillingly betrayed.

We grieved for Uriah throughout the next week. Grandfather hired professional mourners who sat cross-legged in the courtyard and filled the air with keening. We had no funeral, for my husband had been buried in the blood-soaked earth outside Rabbah. Our parting five months ago had been our last kiss, our last embrace, our last exchange of words. Uriah walked out of my life to serve our king, and our king had deliberately taken his life.

I moved like a woman in a trance, nodding to those who came to comfort me, weeping with those who wept, thanking those who brought food or gifts to honor my husband’s memory. Elisheba and Amaris were nearly as inconsolable as I, but they were better able to converse with guests and smile at happy memories.

My lips had turned traitorous; I could not smile. Knowledge of the king’s treachery and his child within my belly overshadowed every thought, and when I wasn’t grieving for Uriah I trembled in fear of my own future. Grandfather said the king would take care of me, but what if the sight of my face reminded him of the horrible evil he’d committed? What if I were nothing more than an entertainment that ceased to amuse once it had been explored and vanquished?

In our crowded community, where homes adjoined their neighbors and words carried easily from one household to another, my pregnancy would not remain a secret for long. In another month, maybe two, my belly would begin to grow and everyone would know. The women first, followed by their men. The priests . . . and Nathan the prophet. Since Adonai often revealed things to him, perhaps he knew already.

I bowed my head as fresh tears began to flow. I did not know the prophet well enough to speak to him, but he had been a fixture in my youth, the boy who visited the Tabernacle with Samuel and often stopped to share a meal with my father and grandfather. As a child, I had admired Nathan’s open countenance and dedication
to his teacher, and even as a woman I would rather walk across burning sand than do anything that might cause him to think less of me. I had always wanted him to like me, but he would be shocked and disappointed if he learned I was pregnant by a man who was not my husband.

The day after Elisheba and I put away our sackcloth and swept the courtyard, a pair of messengers arrived from the palace. “King David would have you be his wife,” the tallest messenger announced as he eyed me from head to toe. “And our lord the king will take care of your household from this day forward.”

I turned my back to them, surprised and more uncertain than ever. “But I don’t want to be his wife,” I whispered in Elisheba’s ear. “I hate him.”

“You must go.” Elisheba slipped her arm about my waist, then gave me a squeeze. “Don’t hesitate, and don’t worry. Surely the king knows what is best.”

“But how am I to do this?” I clenched my hands in frustration. “He might command my body, but he will never command my heart.”

“Shh.” Elisheba placed her fingers over my lips. “Be careful, child. Speak little. Look much. And plead your case before Adonai, who pays special attention to the prayers of widows and children.”

For the first time in my life, I doubted Elisheba’s wisdom, but what choice did I have? I turned and saw Amaris staring at me, her wide eyes about to overflow. I walked over to her, knelt to wrap her in my arms, and whispered a gentle farewell. “I’ll still see you,” I promised. “You’ll always be my little sister.”

I felt the sting of tears behind the smile I gave her. I stood, straightened my shoulders, and stepped forward as Elisheba looked on with approval. Though Amaris wept with confusion, Elisheba wore relief like a garment.

I wish I could say I found the courage to walk away from the home my beloved husband had built for me, but in truth, my walk to the palace was precipitated more by resignation than bravery. A walk to David’s house, difficult as it was, was infinitely preferable to a suicidal trek into the desert.

So between two unfamiliar messengers I climbed the path to the palace, preparing to live with a man I did not know and most assuredly did not love.

After entering the palace gate, my escorts led me through the large courtyard, where more than a few scorching glares followed us. Those who knew me must have wondered what business Uriah’s widow had with the king’s household. Those who did not know me must have considered me another concubine sought for the king’s pleasure. Such thoughts, I have since learned, are routinely ascribed to
tob
women.

The escorts did not linger in the open space but led me to another enclosure, a series of rooms belonging to the king’s wives and concubines. These royal rooms were less lavish and more crowded than I had expected, for David had many wives and even more concubines in his harem. Many children too, I noticed, as I glanced at the little ones scurrying to their mothers as we approached.

I steeled myself not to flinch beneath the gazes of the women, who seemed intent on evaluating my face, form, and even the cut of my tunic. Though I had little experience with female competition and only a little knowledge of royal protocol, intuitively I knew I was being judged according to some sort of comparative scale. I did not speak to anyone but followed my escorts to a small room that had been furnished with a narrow bed, a wooden table, a trunk, a chair, a basin and a pitcher of water.

A room with everything I needed, but as impersonal as a harlot’s roadside hut.

After seeing me safely inside, one of the escorts inclined his head and pressed his hand to his chest. “Be well, my lady. A servant will bring you dinner.”

“Wait.” I took a step toward him, not sure what was expected of me. “Is there some sort of . . . do I need to
do
something?”

The man’s brow lifted. “Everything has already been done. The king has proclaimed that you are his wife, so you will be granted the respect due a royal wife. Your family is now his responsibility, so he will care for those who remain in your household. This is your room; the harem is your domain. You may wander freely in it and you may go to the king when summoned. Otherwise, you are not to leave the palace without an escort, for now you belong to the king.”

Overcome by the swift efficiency of the royal household, I sank onto the bed and stared at the stone floor as my escorts closed the door and departed. In the space of an hour, the king had made me his wife, removed me from my family, and stolen my personal freedom. The procedure was altogether clean, quick, and loveless.

How different my marriage to Uriah had been! We had feasted with family and friends, we had lain together, we had laughed and loved and received congratulations and good wishes from everyone who knew us.

I might have married a king, but instead of congratulations from friends, I received cold looks from the king’s other wives. Instead of feasting, I would dine in solitude. And instead of lying next to a loving husband on a straw-stuffed mattress, I would lie in this cold and lonely bed.

Would I always sleep alone? I had no idea if the king had any intention of sleeping with me again. This effort might only be the result of a guilty conscience.

I ate lightly of the meal a servant delivered and then paced in my room with nothing to do. Then, as the sun lowered in the west, someone knocked on my door. I opened it to find a guard waiting. The king, he announced, had sent for me.

I swallowed hard. Should I go to him as I was or should I ask for a change of clothes? I didn’t know if he wanted to speak to me or sleep with me, and the thought of either caused a riot of panic in my chest.

Since I had no other clothing and no servant to help with my appearance, I smoothed my hair, girded up my courage, and followed the guard out of the harem, down a corridor, and into another chamber much larger than the small space reserved for a royal wife. There the king reclined on a couch, eating his dinner. At my approach he wiped his fingers, pushed his tray aside, and stood. He gave me an uncertain, crooked smile as he waved the guard away.