Bathsheba (19 page)

W
HEN
I
ROUNDED
THE
HILL
and recognized the silvery sheen of the lake known as the King’s Pool, my eyes misted with relief. I had been walking for days, returning from a settlement where a false prophet had stirred up trouble and led the people to worship an idol. After correcting their error and destroying the false image, I reminded the people that any prophet who spoke falsely could not be from Adonai, for the Lord did not—could not—lie.

Now the sight of water refreshed my weary body and soul. I lengthened my stride and planned to linger by the lake for a while. I would drink my fill and wash the desert grit from my hands, feet, and face. Once I had rested, I would pick up my pack and staff and continue on my journey, happy to be heading home.

I fell to my knees when I reached the lake, ignoring the young shepherd who watered his flock nearby. The mild wind cooled my body as it flapped the folds of my tunic, and for one wild instant I
wanted to fall into the lake and float, motionless, until my weariness eased.

But I was not alone, and a prophet should show some dignity. So I drank and washed and splashed like a child in the shallows, then picked up my sandals and retired to the shade beneath a terebinth tree. The young boy cast a curious glance in my direction, then waved a greeting and led his flock away. I sat in a happy daze, staring at the lake’s glassy surface until a sharp pain shot through my temple.

The pain was a warning, for it eased as the familiar darkness rolled in, quickly replaced by a scene of great revelry. I saw two banquet tables in a field, the first lined on each side by working men in sweat-stained tunics. Some of the workers raised their cups and offered toasts while others passed dishes of venison and succulent roast lamb. At the second table, another group of men wore the colorful robes of high-ranking dignitaries. Absalom, the king’s son, stood at the head of the second table, his cup raised. The other men lifted their cups, as well.

I peered more closely at the scene. The man standing closest to Absalom was none other than Amnon, the king’s firstborn.

Sheer fright raced through me when I realized exactly who and what I beheld.

Absalom looked at the king’s firstborn. “Is your heart merry, brother?”

Amnon grinned the wide, sloppy grin of a man who had tarried too long in his cup. “It is. You set a—” he patted his chest and burped—“bountiful table.”

“Good.” Absalom tossed his thick hair as he lifted his glass again. “To our father the king, may he live forever. And to our beautiful sister, Tamar, who baked you heart-shaped cakes before you despoiled her!”

Amnon staggered slightly and blinked, continuing to hold his
cup aloft, but his glassy eyes narrowed as he met Absalom’s accusing glare.

“Now!” Absalom commanded, still staring at his half brother. “Take him down!”

At this, the working men at the first table pulled daggers from their belts and rushed at Amnon, catching and stabbing him before he could gather his wits. At the hired murderers’ approach, the king’s other sons rose from their places and fled, calling for their servants and running for their mules in a confused melee.

I watched, my heart in my throat, as Absalom stood over his bleeding brother. “Thus shall it ever be with lecherous fools.” Smiling at his dying brother’s gasps, he overturned his cup and poured the dregs of his wine onto Amnon’s face.

The scene faded from my consciousness. Paralyzed by astonishment and sorrow, I did not move for quite some time.

Adonai’s words to David, spoken through me, returned on a flood of memory.
“
Here is what Adonai says: ‘I will generate evil against
you out of your own household.’”

Sadness pooled in my heart as I recounted David’s losses. One infant son. One daughter. One firstborn prince.

Adonai had given me the dire task of telling the king about the consequences of his sin, yet He had given me no words to comfort the king when the sword over David’s house struck once again.

I
DID
NOT
WANT
S
HLOMO
TO
ATTEND
Absalom’s feast, but when David heard that Solomon would not be making the trip, he sent a message that my oldest son should join the travelers at once. I had no time to convince the king that Shlomo should remain behind, so when the caravan departed, Solomon went with them.

I watched them go with a lump in my throat, telling myself everything would be fine. Of course, the king would expect Solomon to travel with his brothers. I didn’t want David to think I was being overprotective, did I? Nor did I want to insult him by implying I didn’t trust the king’s favorite son.

And I had faith in the prophecy. My son would greatly influence Israel. I could only pray that influence would not be the result of an untimely and undeserved death.

The next day I attended the king’s court and sat with Michal behind the throne. I had just leaned over to tell her the great hall
seemed unnaturally quiet without David’s older sons when a great hubbub from the courtyard interrupted my thoughts. Distracted from a merchant who had asked him to judge a property case, David pointed to a guard at the door and commanded him to determine the reason for the disturbance.

A moment later, a red-faced, perspiring servant rushed into the room, pushed the merchant aside, and fell on the carpet before David. “My lord and king,” the man said, not lifting his head, “forgive the bearer of this news, but Absalom has killed all the king’s sons, and not one of them remains.”

The throne room swelled with silence as every person present tried to make sense of the messenger’s words. A loud wail then shattered the silence, which ended only after the king stood, ripped his robe, and fell facedown on the floor.

Horrified, I looked from the king to the messenger and back again, unable to believe what I’d heard. More wailing and shrieks of grief echoed through the throne room, piercing my heart. Only then did I realize that “all the king’s sons” meant
my
son, too.

My first thought was that Michal had been blessed. Her five sons were not David’s, so they had not attended the deadly feast. I thought then of Solomon lying on the ground with a knife in his chest, and a suffocating sensation tightened my throat.

Unable to speak, I looked for Grandfather and spotted him slumped in his chair, horror plainly visible in his wide eyes and waxy skin. My hands were damp and trembling, though my mind had sharpened like the blade of a knife. Where was Adonai? HaShem had promised David an eternal dynasty, yet in one afternoon all his sons—and my precious Solomon—had been wiped out. How could this be? Did Adonai speak truth or was Nathan a false prophet? Was Samuel a false prophet, too? Did—could—anyone really speak for Adonai?

Had I been wrong about Samuel’s prophecy yet again?

Another messenger ran into the throne room. My pounding heart stuttered when I recognized Jonadab, David’s nephew, a young man I had never trusted. He went immediately to the prostrate king and, falling on his knees, shouted in David’s face, “No! Do not believe that all the king’s sons have been killed! It was only Amnon! Absalom has been plotting this ever since Amnon raped his sister, Tamar. No, my lord the king, your sons are not all dead! Only Amnon is dead.”

Tension filled the air as David lifted his head and stared at his nephew. I clutched the neckline of my garment, ready to rend it in sorrow. Did I dare hope Jonadab was telling the truth? Did any of us?

Then we heard a distant cry from the lookout, and a guard hurried into the chamber. “It is true!” he said, gesturing out the door as if we could all see from the lookout’s perspective. “A great crowd is coming around the side of the mountain from the road behind it.”

“My lord,” begged Jonadab, still on his knees, “there they are now! Rise, look and see that the king’s sons are coming, just as I said.”

I dropped into my chair, and only when the tension ran out of my body did I realize that every muscle had been stretched as tight as a bowstring. Solomon was safe, and in a few moments he and his manservant would come running in to assure me that he had not been harmed. Solomon was alive, and the king’s other sons, too.

A smile of pure relief curved my lips, and when I looked across the room I saw that though Grandfather had tilted in his chair like a listing ship, he appeared to be at peace.

My smile vanished when I glanced at David. He knelt on the floor, one arm draped over his head, the other pounding his chest as grief tore at him.

Amnon, his beloved firstborn, was dead.

I lie in the dust;

revive me by your word.

I told you my plans, and you answered.

Now teach me your decrees.

Help me understand the meaning of your commandments,

and I will meditate on your wonderful deeds.

I weep with sorrow;

encourage me by your word.

Psalm of David

D
AVID
HAD
LOST
ANOTHER
SON
,
but his reaction to this death was far different from his reaction to the loss of our baby. This death had come swiftly and unexpectedly, so the king had no opportunity to fast and beg Adonai to save his son’s life. Amnon was gone, and by giving Absalom permission to invite his brother
to the feast, David had practically placed a sword in his other son’s hand.

Just as he had placed Tamar in Amnon’s house.

Knowing that my husband felt himself morally unqualified to rebuke his oldest son, at times I wondered if he had allowed Absalom to enact the justice he could not bring himself to impose on his unrepentant firstborn. David was not foolish, nor could he have believed that Absalom had forgotten the crime inflicted upon his sister.

Regardless of David’s reasons, I realized that another prophecy was being fulfilled before my eyes: Nathan prophesied that the sword would not leave David’s house, and it had not. When would it strike again? Whatever happened, I could not let it strike Solomon.

I walked through the palace hallways and felt death bearing down on us with a slow and stately tread. Our baby boy was dead, Amnon was dead, and Absalom and his family had fled to Geshur, where they would be protected by their maternal grandfather. The chorus of youthful voices that always enlivened the king’s banquets had been greatly diminished.

The king spent more and more time in his chamber writing, playing the harp, and struggling to put words to the emotions and troubling thoughts that assaulted him. He did not speak openly about his feelings, but his poetry and music revealed them as plainly as if he’d given us a knife and let us open his heart for examination.

In the hours when I read his poetry and listened to his music, I saw a side of David I had not seen before. So many of us thought of HaShem as exalted and holy, which He certainly was. But David cried out to God as a man who had an actual
friendship
with the Lord Most High. As a man opens his heart to an intimate friend, he agonized before Adonai, confessed his feelings, shared his heartbreak, admitted his failures. Then he turned to the Lord for comfort
and correction even as he praised the God of heaven and earth for His glory and majesty.

My father had been devout, but he had never spoken to Adonai that way. I had watched dozens of priests go about their duties in the Tabernacle, and I had never seen any of them approach the Lord as anything like a friend. Among all the men I knew, only David loved Adonai in such a down-to-earth way.

During those dark days, I rarely saw my husband, for he spent many of his evenings alone. When he did send for me, instead of asking about Solomon or inquiring after my thoughts, he tended to vent his grief over Amnon and Absalom.

Though I understood his grief for his sons, I could not forget that Solomon was his heir by promise and prophecy. The king had not lost Shlomo, but he spent little time with him. Now that the older princes lived outside the palace, I had hoped that David would call for Solomon and begin to appreciate what an intelligent and virtuous boy he was. But the king preferred to spend his time in his chamber, writing or staring out at the site he had selected for Adonai’s Temple.

Remembering Elisheba’s advice about storing up good memories for bad days, when summoned to the king’s chamber I did everything within my power to cheer him. I talked about Amnon, glossing over his glaring failures, in the hope that David would celebrate the young man’s charms and put his memory to rest. When that approach failed, I reminded David that Amnon had been the cause of much strife among his brothers, and that he had purposefully intimidated the younger ones.

I attempted to distract David with music and dancing; he turned away as though the merry tunes rubbed salt into a wound. I dared to speak of Absalom and praise his attractiveness, and the mention of that son brought tears to the king’s eyes. After a while I surrendered the care of my husband to his other wives and concubines.

I hated to admit it, but I slept better with Amnon gone. If David had died and Amnon tried to seize the throne, I suspected that his first act would have been the execution of his half brothers. I had never cared for the spoiled boy, and my distrust had increased as the king’s firstborn developed into a young man. While he honored HaShem with sacrifices and pretty words when called upon, I never saw any evidence of genuine reverence in his heart. He had spent hours by his father’s side in worship, and yet I never saw any trace of humility on his face. How could a child of David remain cold to the things of the Lord?

Yet David had always taken great pleasure in his firstborn, and to hear him talk one would think Amnon gilded every morning and sprinkled the nighttime with stars.

When I could no longer bear my frustration over David’s inattention to Solomon, I spoke to Grandfather about my feelings. He listened, nodded gravely, and tugged on his beard as I vented my exasperation. Since I knew Grandfather held no great love for my husband, I was surprised when he answered my emotional outburst with a story.

“When Adonai sent Samuel to Bethlehem to anoint one of the sons of Jesse as the next king,” he began, “Jesse assembled his seven sons to stand before the prophet. Each one passed before him, and each time Adonai told Samuel that the lad before him was not the one He had chosen. Then Samuel said to Jesse, ‘Are these all your sons?’ And Jesse said, ‘There is another, the youngest, who watches the sheep and goats out in the field.’”

I had heard the story before and frowned as Grandfather looked at me as if waiting for a reply. “The eighth son was David,” I said, shrugging. “So Samuel anointed him.”

Grandfather shook his head. “Bathsheba, do you not see? David was easily overlooked, a child whose name barely entered his father’s thoughts. Jesse didn’t summon him to stand before the prophet, and
he certainly didn’t esteem him highly, if at all. The child who lives unseen by his father will perform outlandish feats, anything to be noticed. And the man who matures outside his father’s attention will not know how to be a father to his own children.”

Understanding crashed into my consciousness. David wasn’t a good father because he never
had
a good father. A wave of pity for my husband threatened to engulf me, but I held it at bay. While David might not have had a worthy example to follow, he still needed to teach his sons.

A mother could only do so much.

A servant told me that Elisheba waited to see me. I sent the servant to escort her to my apartment, where I embraced my old friend. “I saw Solomon riding his mule in the courtyard,” she said, smiling. “He has grown so tall!”

“He has a house of his own now,” I said. “I miss him, but I am pleased with him, and so is the king.”

“I wish I had been able to come sooner.” Elisheba held my forearms as her chin trembled. “But everything happened so quickly.” She halted, her eyes filling. “Please do not be angry, but your sister, Amaris, has married.”

Somehow I remained upright, though I couldn’t seem to stop blinking. “Married?”

“She met a shepherd from Bethlehem,” Elisheba went on, her words running together. “He was taken with her and presented me with a betrothal contract. I didn’t know what to do, so I sent him to your grandfather at Giloh.” A tear rolled down Elisheba’s lined cheek. “I am so sorry, child. I knew you would want to come to the wedding, but Amaris didn’t want to wait, and your grandfather couldn’t believe that someone wanted to marry her. So he gave his
permission, the groom came for the bride, and they left yesterday for Bethlehem. Forgive me for not letting you know before today.”

I sank to a bench and felt my heart contract. Amaris was my only sibling. I had loved her deeply, and I’d always imagined she’d remain in my house with Elisheba. Now she was gone to Bethlehem to be a shepherd’s wife. I pressed my hand to the spot where my chest ached. Is this what David felt when they told him Absalom had fled?

I bowed my head. “She is happy?”

“She is overjoyed. Her new husband has two children from his late wife, so Amaris will have her hands full.”

“Do you think she will manage? She’s always had your help.”

“She will manage very well. Amaris has always been able to cope with whatever came her way.”

“I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“Don’t fret, child. She and her husband will be coming to Jerusalem for the festivals. You’ll see her then.”

I pressed my lips together and quietly adjusted my perspective. For so many years Amaris had been the baby of the family, the helpless one, but now she was twenty-eight and quite capable of being a wife and mother. Which meant that Elisheba was fifty-five and living alone—

My thoughts came to an abrupt halt. “I’m so glad you came.” I gripped her worn hands. “You have seen both of us girls safely married, and now you must come live with me. You shouldn’t live alone. I need you—I still have Shammua, Shobab, and Nathan to care for.”

Elisheba’s forehead crinkled. “How are the dear boys?”

“As fine as young boys can be. They miss Shlomo, of course. He keeps to himself these days, as Absalom remains away and his older brothers stay busy with their own affairs.”

“And his father?”

The question grated against my nerves, reminding me of the
unhappy reality I kept trying to forget. “The king is . . . often preoccupied.” I forced a smile. “He does not hunt or go out as much as he used to. He is no longer a young man, and lately . . . well, he tends to dwell on memories, and not all of them are pleasant.”

Elisheba smiled, then waved my offer away. “Thank you, child, but I can’t live in the palace. I am a common woman.”

“So am I.” I caught her hand again and pressed it to my cheek. “Elisheba, I need you. My boys need you. We will sell the house, and you will be welcome to spend the rest of your life with me.”

A smile gathered up the wrinkles of Elisheba’s weathered cheeks, and her eyes filled with tears again as she nodded.

After she departed, I sent a servant to help her pack her possessions. I would move her into my suite, where she could indulge herself in the pretense of looking after me and the boys, but I would assign servants to look after her. After a lifetime of faithful service to my family, she deserved a time of rest.

And I needed a friend.

The earth itself seemed to mourn in those days. The seasonal rains did not refresh the ground that year, and everyone casually remarked that we’d had a dry season. When the rains did not fall the next year, the king’s advisors said the situation was certain to improve. During the third year, when the seasonal rains did not fall and the crops did not grow, the king’s seer reminded David that Adonai had promised to send rain at the proper time only if the people followed the Lord’s commands and walked in His ways.

From my conversations with David, I knew he feared that he had done something to displease the Lord. So as the people of Israel struggled and starved, he went to the Tabernacle to ask Adonai the reason for the famine.

The high priest, wearing the ephod with the Urim and Thummim, went into the holy place and prayed. Within a few moments, the engraved stones on the breastplate flashed, spelling out the Lord’s answer. “Famine has come upon the land,” Zadok the priest told the king, “because Saul put the people of Gibeon to death.”

Swamped by a wave of relief that
he
wasn’t the guilty party, David carried Adonai’s answer to his counsel room and consulted his advisors. One of the counselors reacquainted David with the history of Israel’s relationship with the people of Gibeon. When Israel began to conquer the Promised Land, the people of Gibeon heard about the destruction of Jericho and Ai. Fearing for their safety, a group of men from Gibeon pretended to come from a great distance and went to meet with the leaders of Israel. Joshua, speaking for the Israelites, met with the wily Gibeonites and entered into a treaty with them, promising that they would not be destroyed as the Israelites entered the Promised Land. In return, the Gibeonites would live safely within the territory and serve the Israelites as woodcutters and water carriers.