Bathsheba (18 page)

“Still,” I said, knowing that I risked earning his displeasure, “as Amnon’s father—”

“Bathsheba.” His tone underlined my name with reproach. “I am the last man on earth who could speak to Amnon about forcing his sister. Did I not commit the same sin with you?”

What could I say to that? Nothing.

I lowered my head onto my folded arms, and after a moment a warm hand caressed my back. “If you did not come here because of mad love for me, at least keep me warm. The room grows cold.”

Any other night I would have smiled and returned to David’s embrace, but at that moment I had no smile for my king.

“Bathsheba?” Fingers tiptoed up my spine. “Has your affection grown cold, as well?”

“No, my lord.” I sighed and turned to him. “As always, I am yours to command.”

Walking in the shadow of a palace guard, I brought my veil up to cover most of my face and carefully stepped over the uneven stones. I kept my chin lowered, not wanting to see or be recognized by anyone who had known me as the wife of Uriah. A royal wife should not be walking the streets of Jerusalem without a full escort, but I did not want to create a spectacle.

Finally the guard paused at a courtyard gate. “This is the house,” he said, disapproval in his voice. “If you insist on this folly of an errand—”

“Please wait in the courtyard,” I told him, moving through the gate. “I will not tarry long.”

I knocked on the door and, like a shy turtle, drew my arm back into the shelter of my robe and veil. After a moment, a servant opened the door and peered at me with narrowed eyes.

“I have come to see Tamar,” I said.

The servant practically growled. “The king’s daughter isn’t seeing anyone.”

“Please . . .” I reached out in entreaty. “Please ask if she will speak to Bathsheba.”

The servant closed the door, leaving me outside, but after a few moments she returned and stepped aside so that I could enter.

Absalom’s house was large and well furnished. The front room contained a couch and chairs, while the servants’ area stood off to one side. Two doors opened off the main room, one to the right and one to the left. The servant gestured to the closest door. “Go on in.”

I did. Shadows cloaked the room, and only after my eyes adjusted could I see a table, a carpet, and a couch piled with pillows. A woman lay curled up on that couch. She wore a dark tunic and veil, so all I could see was the faint shine of her eyes.

“Tamar.” I moved to the couch and knelt on the floor. “How I have prayed for you over these past few days.”

Dark lashes lifted, and the wide eyes fastened on me. “You have wasted your time. My life is over.”

“Dear one.” I searched for her hand amid the folds of her robe, found it and held it tight. “I know what happened to you, and I know it was horrible. When the same thing happened to me, I thought my life was over too, especially when I found myself with child. I cursed my beauty and faulted Adonai for making me a
tob
woman. I blamed myself, I blamed HaShem, and I blamed my parents for encouraging me to believe my beauty would result in a happy, productive life.”

I studied her face, visible now in the shadows. Though she had to be hearing me, I couldn’t tell if she was listening.

“I had been prideful,” I went on, my voice breaking at the memory of my own foolishness. “I had trusted in my beauty instead of Adonai. And when my beauty led to the destruction of my pride, I could find no reason to live. When my husband died”—I did not elaborate because I wished to spare her more pain—“I wanted to end my life. But Adonai answered my prayers, and your father, David, redeemed me. Adonai will hear your prayers too, Tamar. You must give Him time to redeem your life and make it new.”

She laughed—a bitter, broken sound that seemed to come from a much older woman.

“I have heard your story,” she said. “Absalom told me everything, so I know that my father is as much a monster as my brother. My father will not redeem me; he has not even sent escorts to take me back to the palace. I have become an object of loathing in Israel.”

“It’s not so, Tamar!”

“Isn’t it?” Her eyes searched mine, and I couldn’t deny her truth.

“I am not completely without hope,” she said, tears glistening in the dark wells of her eyes. “Absalom has spoken of sending me to my grandfather in Geshur. There I will be an old, unmarried princess, but perhaps I can find a new reason to live.”

I nodded, then squeezed her hand again. “You may be right. But whatever you do, Tamar, do not lose faith in the God of our fathers. He is ever faithful, all-seeing, and all-knowing. And He loves you.”

She nodded, too, then reached out to me. I opened my arms, and she buried her face in my shoulder and quietly sobbed her heart out.

As I held her, I prayed that Adonai would send someone to redeem her life . . . and realized anew just how much the Lord had done for me.

W
ITH
MINGLED
PLEASURE
AND
SADNESS
I watched my firstborn take his first steps toward manhood. At eleven, Solomon stood nearly as tall as my shoulder, and his interests shifted from bugs and plants to people and nations. Since he read every scroll and parchment his tutors could procure for him, my living quarters overflowed with baskets of reading material.

His brothers weren’t far behind him. Shammua, Shobab, and Nathan were beautiful little boys, and I loved them dearly, but I had to admit that Solomon was uniquely gifted. As the prophet had said, Shlomo appeared to be “greatly loved” by Adonai.

David continued to indulge Shlomo, praising his growth, his quick mind, and his knowledge of nature. In order to provide a bit of balance, I did not approve of everything my son did, but was quick to correct him for disobedience, thoughtlessness, and ingratitude. “You may have been born a king’s son,” I frequently reminded him,
“but your mother is a soldier’s daughter and your father was once a shepherd. Adonai promotes some people, while He keeps others humble, and we have little choice in the matter. Never forget that everything you have, even the breath in your body, comes from the Almighty One, so be grateful for all you are given.”

Solomon had many reasons to be proud of himself, but given my history, I was especially quick to correct even the mention of the word
pride
. “Pride is evil,” I told him repeatedly, “for it compares one man to another, and both men are Adonai’s creations. If you are happy with the work of your hands or the lesson you have learned, do not say you are proud. Say you are
pleased
with the result or you take
pleasure
in what you’ve studied. But never, my son, never say you are proud.”

While David and I often talked about Solomon, Shammua, Shobab, and Nathan, I no longer felt free to mention my husband’s other children. Since Amnon’s attack on Tamar, the king behaved as though Amnon had never done anything worthy of discipline or censure. Because I worried that Absalom might do something to avenge his sister’s ruined innocence, I fixed a watchful eye on him when he came to the palace. He kept to his usual routines, yet on several occasions I caught Absalom staring through Amnon as if the firstborn did not exist.

As her brothers lounged around the palace with nary a change in their lives, Tamar remained secluded in Absalom’s house. Her life as the king’s daughter had ended. The beautiful girl who had once enlivened the king’s court disappeared and not even her mother dared ask about her. Like a hand leaves no imprint when it is removed from a basin of water, every trace of Tamar vanished from the palace.

One day my boys and I were invited to a wedding—that of Nathan’s daughter, Yael, to a farmer who lived near Nathan’s family. With David’s permission, my sons and I mounted donkeys and
rode to the newlyweds’ small house outside the city walls. The feast had already begun by the time we arrived. Nathan’s wife, Ornah, welcomed us warmly and offered us sweet wine. “The bride and groom are inside the house,” she said, arching a brow, “but we will eat when they step outside.”

The simple celebration, complete with farmers and plowmen and shepherds, felt as familiar as my precious sons’ faces. I lifted my cup and drank as a memory, a safe one, brushed past me like a gentle breeze. My wedding had been like this—happy and relaxed and brimming with the congratulations of friends and neighbors.

“Bathsheba?”

I looked over and saw Nathan, his hair now veined with white, threading his way through the crowd. “You came?”

“We were invited, weren’t we?” I smiled at him over the rim of my cup, then nodded at my youngest son. “Your namesake and I were pleased to accept.”

“My house is honored by your presence.” Nathan bowed, then turned his dark eyes on Solomon. “You have certainly grown, young prince. I was present at your naming ceremony. You let out quite a scream when the knife did its work.”

Color flushed Shlomo’s cheeks. “I . . .” He glanced at me. “I don’t know what to say.”

Nathan and I both laughed. “You don’t have to say anything.” The prophet clapped Solomon on the shoulder. “It happens to every son in Israel, so you are in good company.”

“We met your wife,” I offered. “She seems a wonderful woman. And that girl—is she your youngest daughter?”

Nathan followed my gaze and nodded at a pretty girl who appeared to be fourteen or fifteen. “Ah yes, that’s Nira, my youngest. I expect to be arranging her betrothal soon.”

Nathan and I talked a few moments more about the weather and the king’s health. While we talked, I couldn’t help noticing that
Shlomo’s gaze never left young Nira. Apparently he had inherited more than reddish hair from his father. From all appearances, he had also inherited David’s appreciation for a lovely face.

“Bathsheba!”

A familiar cry interrupted my musings. I turned to see Elisheba and Amaris at the edge of the crowd, their faces wreathed in smiles. I thanked Nathan once again for his hospitality and moved toward Elisheba, halting when I realized Shlomo had not come with me.

He remained rooted to his spot, his face lit with a grin, his eyes fastened to Nathan’s youngest daughter. I frowned. Nira was at least four years older than Shlomo and would probably be betrothed before the year was up. But if he wanted to indulge his fancy, what would be the harm . . .

I closed my eyes, wondering if David’s mother had ever shared those thoughts. I turned again and called my son’s name in a sharp voice: “Shlomo! Come greet your aunt Amaris!”

He obeyed reluctantly, but at least he obeyed.

One day not long after Passover, I was among those in the king’s hall when Absalom entered and approached the throne. The whispering crowd grew silent as the king’s handsome son knelt before his father. When David bade him rise, Absalom smiled and extended an invitation for the royal household to join him at Baal-hazor near Ephraim. “The sheepshearers are now at work on my flock,” he explained, speaking of the transient workers who celebrated the completion of each shearing job with a feast. “Would the king and his servants please come celebrate with me?”

The king gave his favorite son an affectionate smile. “Thank you, Absalom, but we don’t want to be a burden to you.”

“Won’t you please reconsider?” Absalom propped a foot on the
edge of the king’s elevated throne, then leaned forward on his knee and grinned. “The herd is especially large this year, and I want to honor you. Come see the magnificent beasts I’ve bred. Their fleece is exceptional.”

David chuckled. “You honor me with your invitation, but I really shouldn’t go. However, I will give you my blessing. Invite someone else to help you celebrate.”

A frown flitted across Absalom’s features. “If you won’t come, will you at least send my brother Amnon?”

“Amnon?” David lifted a brow. “Why him?”

Absalom shrugged and casually scanned the assembly. “Why not? We’re brothers. If the king will not honor my feast with his presence, let the firstborn come in your stead.”

David sighed and looked at me as if searching for a sign of reassurance. Startled by this wordless appeal, I looked again at Absalom’s guileless face, then glanced at my grandfather. He watched the king’s son with a tight mouth and narrow eyes, and instinctively I knew he sensed something peculiar about Absalom’s invitation. But what?

I sat motionless as Grandfather’s prediction about David’s children rose in my memory. In his insistence that David’s sons would be his undoing, Grandfather had been as certain as a prophet, but he had never claimed to speak for Adonai. He could be wrong. And the awful business with Tamar lay two years in the past.

But Grandfather unreservedly believed in Samuel’s prophecy about
my
son, and he had to be thinking about Solomon. He would want to protect him because he didn’t trust or approve of Absalom.

Yet what could I do? To speak against my husband’s favorite would only cause David to distrust
me
.

My gaze moved back to my husband, and I lifted one shoulder in a barely perceptible shrug.

“All right.” Laughing, David leaned forward to wrap his hands around his handsome son’s head. “Go with my blessing. Amnon
shall go with you, and so shall the others. Take all your brothers, eat, drink, and celebrate. And may your yield be even more bountiful next year.”

Absalom grinned and turned away as David settled back in his chair, smiling, no doubt, at the thought of his sons gathering to celebrate their brother’s success.

I slipped out of the chamber to search for Solomon and spotted my grandfather in the hallway outside the throne room. I tugged on his sleeve and pulled him into an alcove for a private word.

“I saw your expression as Absalom made his request,” I said, looking up into his eyes. “You don’t often reveal your emotions on your face, but at that moment you seemed worried. Why?”

My grandfather inhaled deeply and then closed his eyes. “Do not let Shlomo attend that feast.”

“Surely he’s too young,” I answered, grateful for my boy’s tender age. “But why shouldn’t he go with his brothers?”

“Because, child”—his words rode on a tide of exhaled breath—“revenge is a dish best served cold.”