Bathsheba (21 page)

Afterward, Rizpah, Saul’s concubine and mother of two of the men, spread sackcloth on a rock near the corpses and remained outdoors for nearly six months, intent on preventing the vultures and wild animals from tearing at their bodies and scattering their bones. She stayed at her post throughout the harvest season.

When I heard what Rizpah was doing, I carried the news with me into the king’s bedchamber. As the king and I shared a meal, I tried to behave as though everything was fine, but not even for David’s sake could I pretend that nothing troubled my thoughts. When he asked why my countenance was downcast, I told him what Saul’s devoted concubine was doing for Saul’s sons and grandsons.

David did not respond immediately, but later I learned that he went to the people of Jabesh-gilead, who had the skeletons of Saul and Jonathan, and retrieved their bones, as well as the bones of the seven men who had died at the hands of the Gibeonites. He ordered that the bones be buried in the tomb of Saul’s father, Kish, in the territory of Benjamin.

After David’s wishes had been fulfilled, Rizpah left her lonely post, and Adonai blessed the land with autumn rains. So ended the famine in Israel.

And I began to think that perhaps Abigail had spoken the truth.

Because David had been kind enough to honor my concern and see to a proper burial for the bones of Saul’s relatives, I wanted to do something for him. The years after Amnon’s death had been hard on him, and though he seemed resigned to Amnon’s loss, he still fretted over Absalom. That young man had taken his family,
including Tamar, into exile with him, cutting himself off not only from David but also his grandchildren. At every meal, every court appearance, and even on the occasions when the king invited me to his bedchamber, Absalom remained the most frequent topic of David’s conversation.

Unable to bear my husband’s discontent for another month, I took Elisheba as an escort and went in search of Joab, David’s nephew and the commander of the king’s army. I found him at the royal stables and suggested that he employ a bit of artifice in order to influence the king and persuade him to end his fixation with Absalom. Nathan had done something similar when he confronted David with the sin of murdering Uriah, so why shouldn’t Joab use the same approach?

“Find someone who is skilled in speech,” I said, “someone who can move others with dramatic words. Weave a story, plan a play, and use it to motivate the king. But whatever you choose, you must not breathe a word of my involvement.”

Joab considered this, then pinned me with a piercing look. “And what would you have the king do?”

“Consider the Gibeonites. Adonai sent a famine because a grave injustice was never addressed. Now consider Absalom, who murdered his brother. Perhaps the king has agonized so long because justice was never served. The king should either go to Geshur and confront his son, or he should have Absalom brought back to Jerusalem to face the king’s judgment. Though it would be painful in the short term, confronting Absalom might bring an end to David’s mourning.”

Joab listened attentively—a rare thing for a warrior—then tugged on his beard. “I will think on it,” he said, nodding. “And I appreciate the suggestion, for the king’s grief has affected the entire nation. It is time David behaved like a king again.”

H
AVING
COME
TO
THE
KING
’
S
COURT
for no other reason than a prompting from the
Ruach HaKodesh
, I sat on a bench against the wall and studied the men around me
.
The Spirit of God had given me no message, no truth to tell or future to reveal. Sometimes, I had learned, Adonai simply wanted me to use my eyes to see and ears to hear.

So I mingled with other onlookers as petitioners stepped forward to praise, petition, or placate the king. One man complained of a foul odor coming from his neighbor’s home. David told the offending neighbor to clean his house and move his chickens to the communal pen down the hill. “Your problem,” the king told the malodorous offender, “is that you do not trust your neighbors with your livestock. Become more trusting, so you and your neighbors can live in peace.”

A woman from Tekoa stood next in line. When the king granted
her permission to approach, she crept forward, gray tendrils escaping the scarf tied around her head. Falling to the floor, she said, “Help me, O King.”

The king leaned back in his chair. “Rise and tell me what troubles you.”

The woman lifted her head but remained on her knees. “Alas, I am a widow, O King. Your servant had two sons, and they quarreled in the field. Because no one was around to part them when they fought, one struck the other and caused his death.”

The king straightened and gave the woman a look of chilling intentness. “Go on.”

“What happened next was even worse,” the woman said, “for my whole clan rose against me and said, ‘Give over the one who struck down his brother, so we may put him to death for taking his brother’s life. It matters not that he is your dead husband’s sole heir.’ They want to take my last son from me, quench my last remaining ember, and leave my husband no name or remnant on the face of the earth.”

Every eye in the court shifted from the impassioned woman’s face to the countenance of the king. He closed his eyes, his face rippling with anguish, then a hoarse cry burst from his lips: “Leave it to me. Go home, and I’ll see to it that no one touches him.”

The woman lowered herself to the floor in gratitude. “Thank you, my lord the king. If you are criticized for helping me, let the blame fall on me and on my father’s house, and let the king and his throne be guiltless.”

“If anyone objects,” David responded, “bring him to me, and he will never complain again.”

“Please,” the widow continued, apparently not willing to leave, “swear to me by Adonai your God that you won’t let anyone take vengeance against my son. I want no more bloodshed.”

“As the Lord lives,” the king declared, his face flushing, “not one of your son’s hairs shall be disturbed. No one shall touch him.”

I expected the woman to rise and slink away at this, but apparently she had not finished.

She lifted her head. “May I add one more word, O King?”

David sighed. “Speak.”

The woman from Tekoa rose and stood before the king. “Why don’t you do as much for the people of God as you have promised to do for me? You have convicted yourself in making this decision, because you have refused to bring home your own banished son. All of us must die eventually. Our lives are like water spilled out on the ground, which cannot be gathered up again. But God does not just sweep life away; instead, He devises ways to bring us back when we have been separated from Him.

“I have come to plead with my lord the king because people have threatened me. I said to myself, ‘Perhaps the king will listen to me and rescue us from those who would cut us off from the inheritance God has given us. Yes, my lord the king will give us peace of mind again.’ I know that you are like an angel of God in discerning good from evil. May the Lord your God be with you.”

After this audacious and prolonged statement, silence filled the throne room, a silence like the hush after a storm when nature seems to call for a Sabbath rest. I gaped in pleased surprise. Whoever this woman was, she had more courage than most men of my acquaintance. Someone had surely sent her, either Adonai or—

“Is the hand of Joab behind you in this?” David shouted, his voice splintering the silence.

I snapped my mouth shut. Of course. The king’s cousin was one of few men with the confidence to attempt such a brazen manipulation.

“My lord the king, how can I deny it?” the woman answered. “No one can hide anything from you. Yes, your servant Joab had me do this, and he put in my mouth every word you have heard me say. Your servant Joab did this in order to bring about some change in the situation. But my lord is wise; he has the wisdom of
an angel of God when it comes to understanding anything going on in the land.”

The king turned toward Joab, who stood near the throne, ostensibly on guard. “All right, Joab,” David said, staring at his army’s commander. “I am granting your request. Go to Geshur and bring back young Absalom.”

Joab prostrated himself and blessed the king. “Today,” he said when the king bade him rise, “your servant knows I have won your favor, my lord and king, because you have granted me this request.”

I leaned forward, eager to study the king’s countenance. The marks of grief were apparent, etched in the lines beside David’s mouth and eyes, highlighted by a ribbon of sunlight that poured from a window high on the wall. The corners of his mouth were tight with distress, his eyes shiny with unshed tears.

David had not publicly mentioned Absalom’s name in over three years, but through this clever ruse, Joab had ripped the scab off the king’s grief-stricken heart and made us all see that the wound had not healed.

“You may go,” David added in a trembling voice, “and you may bring young Absalom back to Jerusalem. Let him return to his own house, but he is not to appear in my presence. He is not to come to court.”

Joab bowed again, then took the woman of Tekoa by the arm and led her away from the throne.

I leaned back and considered the scene with mixed feelings. Everyone who frequented the king’s court knew the king had not been himself since Absalom’s bloody feast, but most of us thought David mourned for Amnon. Yet Absalom had always been a favorite, no matter his misdeeds, so was the king actually pining for his murderous son?

From personal experience, David knew that murder was a serious crime against Adonai. David had repented of his sin, but to my
knowledge, Absalom had not repented of his wrongdoing. In bringing his son back to Jerusalem, David would be ignoring Adonai’s requirement of blood for blood: “Whoever sheds human blood, by a human being will his own blood be shed; for God made human beings in his image.”

If David did not administer justice to Absalom, Adonai would.

With the eerie sense of detachment that precedes an impending disaster, I watched Joab leave. Absalom’s return could mean trouble, for the other sons, perhaps, but especially for Bathsheba and Solomon if Absalom ever learned that both Adonai and the king had already promised the throne to Bathsheba’s son. A man who had not hesitated to kill the king’s firstborn might not hesitate to kill again.

Adonai had decreed that the sword would never depart from David’s household. For the king’s sake, I hoped the decision to bring Absalom back to Jerusalem would not put the sword in enemy hands.

W
ITH
JOY
SHINING
FROM
HIS
EYES
,
the king had me sit on the edge of the bed while he explained that Joab had gone to Geshur to bring Absalom home. He told me about the woman from Tekoa, her fearlessness in artifice, and her insistence that Absalom not be harmed.

“When she told the story, she said
her
son’s life was at risk,” David said, pacing before me. “But I recognized her story as a ruse almost immediately. She was referring to Amnon and Absalom, and she was begging for Absalom’s life, pleading that no one harm him no matter how many people insisted he pay for Amnon’s death. So I have given the order. Absalom and his family are to be brought home, and my son is not to be harmed in any way.”

I clung to the edge of the bed and closed my eyes, unwilling to look at the king for fear he’d see the guilt in my countenance. Thoughts of Absalom living near Solomon sent a tremor of terror and dread
through me. At fourteen, Shlomo was much younger than Absalom, but among the king’s sons, Shlomo sparkled like a ruby among rocks. What would happen if Absalom began to view Solomon as a rival? What would happen if he learned of David’s promise to me, and Adonai’s assurance that Solomon inherit the king’s throne?

I clenched my jaw, silently ruing the day I pulled Joab aside to express my concerns. I had wanted to end David’s sorrow, but I had not expected
this
outcome.

“When?” I managed to whisper. “When will Absalom return?”

“As soon as possible.” David stepped forward, clasped my shoulders, and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Bathsheba, it does my heart good to know my son will be home in Israel, where he belongs. I cannot have him at court, of course. People would think I was somehow condoning murder, and I could never do that. But it does my heart good to know he will be nearby. How I have missed seeing that boy!”

I stared at him, wondering if he realized what he had said. He’d missed
seeing
Absalom, missed taking pride in his handsome appearance and manly form. But he hadn’t missed
being with
Absalom, for if he had spent any real time with the young man, he might have realized how ambitious Absalom was.

The king sat beside me, looped an arm around my shoulders, and turned my face to his. Though I tried to disguise my apprehension, apparently I wasn’t successful.

“What’s this?” His mercurial brown eyes sharpened. “Are you not happy about Absalom?”

“May it please the king”—I forced a smile—“I am always pleased when you are happy. But I cannot help thinking of my boys . . .”

“Do not worry, wife.” He tapped my nose, then kissed me again, this time on the lips. “I’m sure Absalom has matured in his time away. Didn’t you hear me say that he won’t be allowed at court? Your sons will be safe, as will all my sons. And Absalom will be
home
.”

He leaned back on the mattress, searching my face as he waited for my reply. I nodded, reminding myself that I was only a woman, only one of many wives. “May Adonai prosper and protect my lord and his sons, wherever they are.”

He gave me an indulgent smile and ran his finger down my neck until it tugged my garment from my shoulder. “Now—” he pressed his lips to my bare arm—“let us celebrate this good news. I have been melancholy far too long, and I have missed you, my love.”

“I have missed you,” I replied truthfully. But as I caressed his face with gentle fingertips, I couldn’t help remembering the prophet’s curse. A sword hung over the house of David, and rather than let Absalom harm my sons, I would throw myself in front of that sword. I would do anything to preserve my sons’ lives, even if it meant conspiring against the husband I was trying to honor and obey.