Bathsheba (28 page)

A
S
A
FATHER
, I
KNEW
D
AVID
WOULD
GRIEVE
over his son Absalom, but all of us who were with him were surprised that he mourned so publicly, so loudly, and for so long. Like blood out of a wound, word of the king’s distress flowed out of Mahanaim, and returning warriors crept back to the city as though they had committed some unforgivable sin. From his room over the fortified gate, David wept and cried and wailed, refusing to be silent until Joab climbed the stairs to confront his kinsman and king.

All of us waiting in the area heard his rebuke through the open window. Sparing nothing, Joab raised his voice and rebuked David as few men would dare.

“We saved your life today,” he began, his voice brimming with contempt, “and the lives of your sons, your daughters, and your wives and concubines. Yet you act like this, making us feel ashamed of ourselves. You seem to love those who hate you and hate those who
love you. Today you have made it clear that your commanders and troops mean nothing to you. It seems that if Absalom had lived and all of us had died, you would be more pleased. Overjoyed, in fact.”

Below the gatehouse we listened in silence. If David made a response, we didn’t hear it.

“Go out there and congratulate your troops,” Joab shouted. “If you don’t, not a single one of them will remain here tonight. Then you will be worse off than before.”

A few moments later, our pale king came down the staircase, trailed by Joab and Bathsheba. Someone produced a makeshift throne and set it on a raised platform near the city gate. David seated himself, and word went out that he was waiting to congratulate his people. Knowing that the king sat in the traditional place for judges and priests to exercise the powers of their office assured the populace that order had been restored. The brief and bloody civil war was over.

Ahimaaz, the young man who had not found the courage to tell the king about Absalom, elbowed me as we stood at the periphery and listened to the king answer his petitioners. “Are we able to go back to Jerusalem?” he asked, his forehead creased with worry. “After all, Absalom was anointed king in Hebron. Even though David is from Judah, the people of that tribe may not be willing to accept him so soon after crowning his son. They might send men—”

“The king has already sent a message to the elders of Judah,” I answered. “He said that until his own tribe recognizes his right to reign, he will stay away from Jerusalem.”

Judah capitulated a few days later, and David gave us leave to plan our return to the capital city.

On the journey, we encountered the same people we had met on the way to Mahanaim, only this time they greeted us with far different tidings. Ziba, the servant who had claimed that Jonathan’s son Mephibosheth wanted the throne for himself, met us at the
Jordan River. He was in such a hurry to greet David that he waded into the water to meet the king’s boat.

Shimei, who had cursed and thrown rocks at David, met us on the road. He prostrated himself before the king and begged for his life with his face pressed to the sand. Abishai, one of David’s captains, spoke before the king could answer, saying that Shimei was guilty of cursing the Lord’s anointed and should die for his sin. Showing mercy, David replied that the day was not made for execution but celebration. Shimei was spared.

Mephibosheth, Jonathan’s crippled son, arrived on his donkey to greet the king. The man explained his disheveled appearance by saying he was so upset by the news of David’s exile that he had not washed his feet, trimmed his beard, or changed his clothing since the day the king left Jerusalem. He further reported that Ziba had slandered him by giving a false report, for he had never intended to claim the throne.

“I know my lord the king is like an angel of God, so do what you think is best,” Mephibosheth told the king, bowing to the ground. “All my relatives and I could expect only death from you, my lord, but instead you have honored me by allowing me to eat at your own table. What more can I ask?”

Rather than choosing between one man and the other, David decided that Mephibosheth and Ziba should divide the family property equally. But Mephibosheth, his features relaxing in visible relief, declared, “Give Ziba all of it. I am content just to have you safely back again, my lord the king.”

Those who had been kind to the king reappeared as well, and the king rewarded them for their kindness. He invited Barzillai, one of the men who had provided food for the king’s household, to live in Jerusalem. Barzillai declined, saying he was too old to relocate. “But here is my son Kimham,” he said. “Let him go with my lord the king and receive whatever you want to give him.”

David agreed. “Kimham will go with me, and I will help him in any way you would like.”

The journey home was not without difficulties. After we crossed the Jordan, rivalry sprang up between Judah, David’s tribe, and Israel, men from the other tribes. The men from Israel claimed that men from Judah had stolen the king and not given the men of Israel the honor of helping the king cross the Jordan. The men of Judah argued that the king was one of their own, so why should the men of Israel be offended? The men of Israel declared that since Israel consisted of ten tribes, they had ten times as much right to the king as Judah did, and hadn’t they been the first to speak of bringing him back to his throne in Jerusalem?

Then a troublemaker named Sheba, from the tribe of Benjamin, blew a shofar and began to shout, “We have no share in David, no inheritance in the son of Jesse. Come on, you men of Israel, back to your homes!”

So the men of Israel who had been with David since his departure from Jerusalem went home while the men of Judah escorted the king from the Jordan River to Jerusalem.

I listened to these arguments with rising dismay. Had we learned nothing from the tragic episode we had just survived? Were we still so intent on our tribal differences and loyalties that we could not work together as a nation? How long would Adonai tolerate our jealousies and stubborn pride?

I watched silently as Bathsheba wept, hugged her sister, Amaris, and said farewell to her brother-in-law. The couple departed outside Jerusalem, for Bethlehem lay farther south. Though Bathsheba wept until the pair disappeared on the dusty road, I knew that her heart had been greatly cheered by her sister’s visit. Visiting with Amaris, she told me in a fleeting encounter, reminded her of her former life, when she did not have to worry about plots or schemes designed to destroy everything she held dear.

With a glad heart I spied my own home as we approached the city. Ornah must have seen the dust from our approach, for she and my daughters and their husbands stood by the side of the road, waving colorful veils in celebration. I threaded my way to the front of the procession and ran forward to meet them, embracing my wife and each of my daughters and sons-in-law. David smiled at my growing family as he rode by, and I gave Ornah a grateful kiss as the last soldier passed our house.

“I am going forward with the king,” I told her, taking pleasure in the familiar scent of her hair, “but I will return tonight. Since I began this journey with David, I want to see it through.”

She nodded, tears shining in her eyes, and I kissed my daughters again before jogging forward to catch the king’s caravan.

So many emotions assailed me as we covered the familiar road. Indignation flooded my heart when we approached the spot where Absalom had erected his canopy to flatter and cajole those who entered Jerusalem. But my indignation faded to compassion when I saw the path that led to the valley where the king’s son had heaped stones over the graves of his children.

If Absalom had realized how deeply his father loved him, perhaps he would not have hungered so for the approval of other men. I prayed the other fathers of Israel would hear the tale of Absalom and David and heed its message.

Men and women lined the top of the city wall and cheered as David approached. Children waved palm branches and shouted “Hosanna” as the king returned to his rightful place, and women fluttered colorful flags above the wide stone gate. I lifted my face to the heavens and felt the caress of the sun like a kiss. Adonai had restored His ordained king to Jerusalem, and I hoped the kingdom of Israel would be stronger for the trial we had endured. I didn’t know what, if anything, this war had accomplished, but I prayed it would help the people of Israel learn to place their faith in God’s
sovereign king. I also hoped the struggle had convinced David to shake off his grief and behave like the king he had been called to be.

By the time I stepped through the palace gates and stood in the courtyard, most of the animals were on their way to the stables and the warriors were returning to their barracks. I knew Bathsheba would be safely tucked into her suite with Elisheba. And David would be . . . where?

On a whim I stepped through the open doors of the throne room. The place had been thoroughly ransacked—hangings ripped from the walls, chairs broken into splinters, scrolls tossed into the center of the room and burned. David’s throne was intact, however, probably because Absalom had coveted it—and David sat on it now, surrounded by several of the chamberlains whose job it was to care for the king’s household. They were reporting on the condition of the palace, since only a handful of concubines had been left behind to care for it.

“The kitchen supplies are a mess, yet food remains,” one man said, bowing before the king. “I will have a meal ready soon.”

“Your personal chamber is ruined,” another servant said, flinching as though he expected to be punished for a bad report. “Someone rifled through the trunk with the king’s robes, and few are intact.”

“The stables are fine,” the stable master reported. “We took most of the animals with us, and they will be put away with fresh hay. Nothing was burned.”

“The Tabernacle?” David looked through the crowd. “Has Zadok arrived?”

“Yes, my king.” The venerable priest stepped out of the crowd. “As you commanded, we returned the Ark to its place and it is safe. Neither Absalom nor his men ventured near the Tabernacle.”

The king lifted a brow, then called on the eunuch who oversaw his harem. “And the women? The concubines who stayed behind?”

The eunuch stepped forward, his hands locked together behind
his back. “My lord the king, your servant is sorry to report that the concubines, all ten of the women . . .” His voice broke as he faltered. He took a deep breath and began again. “My lord, not long after his arrival to the palace, your son Absalom erected a tent on the rooftop, and there, within full view of anyone who cared to look, he ravished the ten concubines you left behind. I am sorry, my lord. The women are deeply grieved by what happened.”

David’s lips thinned with anger, but what could he say? Absalom had done what any conquering king would do. To prove that the kingship had passed to him, Absalom had taken possession of everything that belonged to his father. And he had done it publicly, in plain sight, so no one would refute his right to rule. He had raped the king’s women, worn the king’s robes, and occupied the king’s throne. He had not only committed treason with his actions, he had also violated the Law of HaShem.

I stood silently in the crowd of onlookers as my heart twisted with regret. Years before, I had stood in this very spot and told David that Adonai would generate evil out of his own household. The Lord of Israel would give his women to someone who would possess them publicly so that everyone would know of it. He would do it before all of Israel in broad daylight.

David rubbed his hand hard over his face, then nodded at the eunuch. “Let the women be set apart in housing of their own, and let them live in peace and safety from this day forward. They will be as widows; I will never sleep with them again.”

With a heavy heart, I turned and left the great hall. Outside, servants had begun to clean the courtyard, repair the broken furnishings, and remove damaged objects from the palace. Weary warriors were bedding down in quiet corners, and I knew the king’s house would be restored within a matter of days.

I was about to leave the palace and go home when I spotted Bathsheba approaching, her head veiled and her eyes downcast. I
hesitated, wondering if she meant to speak to me, and felt my heart constrict when she caught my gaze and motioned for me to wait.

She gave me a fleeting smile. “Is there anything else?” she whispered, her voice pitched for my ear alone. “You have seen and foretold so much, Nathan. Is there anything else I should know in order to help the king and protect my son?”

I closed my eyes and listened for the voice of Adonai, but heard nothing.

“Adonai does not tell me everything.” I opened my eyes and met her gaze. “In my experience, no prophet hears from God every day.”

She gave me a smile I would accept as my last glimpse of earth. “But the sayings of the prophets,” she said, “have guided my thoughts and actions in every hour.” She stepped back and lifted her hand. “Thank you, Nathan. For your service to the king, and to me.”

On the road home, I walked as if the blood of a younger man filled my veins.

A
BIGAIL
—
WHO
,
LIKE
ME
,
HAD
COME
TO
D
AVID
as a widow—died shortly after our return to Jerusalem. David mourned her, as did I. Remembering her advice, I opened my heart to the brokenhearted king, determined to do anything in my power to make him happy. In doing so, I hoped I might learn to better serve him . . . and love him.

Nine years passed—years in which David, my lord and king and husband, grew old. From his wives and concubines he no longer sought pleasure but warmth, yet we were growing old with him. To better care for the aging king, one of his servants suggested that the palace seek out a young woman, a virgin, who would become his handmaid. She would care for him, feed him, and keep him warm at night.

The king’s counselors searched throughout all the territory of Israel and settled on Abishag, a Shunammite, and brought her to
the king’s house. Lovely and gentle, with childlike innocence and an infectious laugh, she cared for the king and slept with him, but she remained a virgin.

I never felt one spark of jealousy regarding Abishag. The girl who slept with my husband knew little about life or love or suffering, but David and I had experienced all those things over the years. Our relationship had been forged by sorrow and grief, and pain had brought us together and kept us dependent upon Adonai.

I smiled gratefully at Abishag whenever I happened to see her in the palace and frequently asked her to let me know if I could do anything to help her.

During the passing years, Solomon took a wife, a lovely Ammonite girl called Naamah. David was able to hold Solomon’s firstborn son, a handsome boy they named Rehoboam.

I smiled at my little grandson and whispered my secret in his tiny ear: his father would one day be king, so little Rehoboam might well wear a crown himself. “But you are not to fret,” I told him, “because these things are not accomplished by men but by the will of the Lord.”

Life was pleasant for me and my precious sons, but as the days passed and David grew weak and forgetful, I began to hear rumors about Adonijah.

According to servants who lived in the city, Adonijah had followed Absalom’s example and hired chariots, horsemen, and men to run before him to announce his approach. A quick trip to the palace rooftop allowed me to witness this spectacle for myself, so I sent a message to Joab and urged him to warn the king of his fourth son’s preening ambition. I thought Joab would not hesitate to speak to the king, for no one in David’s household wanted to endure another princely rebellion.

Day after day passed, and Adonijah continued to extol himself throughout Israel. I didn’t know what to do next. Since his decline,
the king rarely summoned me to his chamber, and even if he did, experience had taught me that he didn’t like to discuss his sons.

Why hadn’t Joab taken action?

I spent hours praying over the situation, then one day an old friend came to visit. “The prophet Nathan,” my servant told me, “waits for you in the palace garden.”

My blood seemed to flow faster. Had Adonai answered my anguished prayers? Had He sent another warning through the prophet?

I pulled my veil over my graying hair and hurried outside, then slipped up the stairs to the elevated garden. Nathan sat in a shady alcove, but he rose and bowed when he saw me.

“Friend.” I greeted him with an outstretched hand, which he held only a moment. “I hope you are well.”

“And you, my lady.” A smile showed briefly in the thicket of his beard. “I have come to you on a matter of some importance.”

“I am glad you are here.” I nodded, taking care lest desperation show on my face. “Solomon is to be king, yet from the rooftop I’ve seen Adonijah parading through the city like the heir apparent—”

“That, my lady, is why I am here.” Nathan gestured to a bench beneath a pergola. “Shall we talk?”

I glanced around. Nothing but gossip could come from a man and woman meeting alone without witnesses, but several gardeners were working in the vicinity, enough to bear witness that we were merely talking.

I sat, expecting Nathan to sit beside me, but he remained on his feet, standing before me with a concerned expression on his face. “You know about Adonijah’s princely parade through the streets, but do you also know that today he has planned a feast and a sacrifice by the stone of Zoheleth? He has invited his brothers, Abiathar the priest, Joab, and all the men of Judah.”

I stiffened. The stone of Zoheleth, commonly known as the
Serpent’s Stone, was a rocky plateau near the spring at En-rogel. The place was within walking distance of Jerusalem.

The mention of sacrifices and a feast made me shiver. Absalom had planned a similar venture, and that excursion had resulted in disaster.

“He did not invite Solomon to this feast,” I told Nathan. “But if he had, I would have urged Shlomo not to go. His life would be in danger.”

Nathan tugged on his beard. “A wise choice. But not only did Adonijah not invite Solomon, he also neglected to invite the king’s mighty men, Zadok the priest, or Benaiah. The court has divided, my lady, into two camps: one for Solomon and one for Adonijah. But Adonijah is not waiting for the king’s death. Like Absalom before him, he has already begun to live as a king. Some have whispered that today’s feast and sacrifices are part of a coronation.”

Rage rose within me, flushing my face and heating my skin. I had stood at David’s side when Absalom tried to take the throne, and I watched my husband’s heart break. Truth to tell, David had not been the same since. Though he had returned to power, he had never stopped grieving over Absalom’s brazen rebellion, and nothing I said seemed to comfort him.

I turned to the prophet. “Do you think Adonijah plans to attack the palace?”

Nathan shook his head. “He may emulate some of Absalom’s tactics, but he will not make the mistake of attacking the king. He will wait until David dies, and then he will seize what is nearly his already. My lady, if you will save your life and your son’s life, you must take action at once. You must go to the king and have him declare Solomon his heir. You cannot wait.”

I pressed my hand to my forehead as my thoughts swirled in a haze of questions. Absalom’s actions had been reprehensible, and so were Adonijah’s, but I did not want to talk to David
about the inevitability of his death. Even broaching the subject felt abhorrent.

What if my concern angered him? What if he had forgotten his long-ago promise and now favored Adonijah? I had not seen David in weeks, and I had no idea how he would receive my concerns.

“Are you sure we must take action before . . .” I allowed the thought to remain unspoken. “After all, if the king’s mighty men are for Solomon—”

“And therein lies the problem, my lady. Joab, commander of the army, is for Adonijah. The king must declare his choice, and he must do it today. He must do it in a way that leaves no room for doubt. Only then will your son be assured the throne. Only then will you both be safe.”

I clasped my hands and stared at the paving stones beneath my feet. What should I do? With my grandfather gone, I had few allies in the palace. Even after all these years, the powerful men who swayed the king could not speak my name without thinking of the shameful circumstances that brought me to the king’s household. They would not hear my plea.

I looked up at Nathan. “What do I do?”

Slowly, he knelt on the stones before me. “You go immediately to the king. You must ask why Adonijah has become king when he promised that your son would sit on the throne. Then, while you are still talking with David, I will come in and confirm your words.”

I considered the prophet’s idea, my heart racing, then reached out and gripped his hand. “I will do it,” I said, standing. “As soon as—”

“You need to do it now,” Nathan interrupted. “Adonijah and his allies are feasting at this hour. Do not delay, my lady. I am here to support you, so do it immediately.”

I stared at the prophet for a long moment. I had told my little grandson that Adonai made kings, and yet it appeared that Adonai wanted me to take a hand in placing Solomon on the throne. Could
a mere woman play a role in bringing the will of HaShem to pass? My grandfather would have scoffed at the idea, and my father, as well. But I had been praying, begging Adonai to fulfill His word . . .

And the Lord sent Nathan, who told me what must be done.

“I am doing this only because I believe it is Adonai’s will,” I told the prophet. Then I lifted my chin and led the way out of the garden.

I found David in his bedchamber, propped on pillows as Abishag cleared away the bowl and tray she had used to feed him. I greeted the girl with a nod and knelt beside the bed. My husband’s cheekbones looked like tent poles under taut canvas, and his lips had thinned to pale blue lines in his beard. David appeared to be sleeping, but the fingers of his right hand twitched as if he were playing an invisible harp.

“My lord and king, live forever,” I said, my heart breaking at the sight of my frail husband. “Your wife, Bathsheba, begs to speak to you.”

David stirred, lifting his head to peer at me. His lined face brightened as he smiled. “My beautiful Bathsheba. Rise and speak freely.”

I sighed in relief, then placed a stool near the bed. “My lord, I have come on a matter of some urgency.”

“Speak, lady. I am listening.”

I sat and stretched my arms toward him, fighting tears. “My lord, you made a vow before the Lord your God when you said to me, ‘Your son Solomon will surely be the next king and will sit on my throne.’ But instead, Adonijah has made himself king, and my lord the king does not even know about it. Adonijah has sacrificed many cattle, fattened calves, and sheep, and he has invited all the king’s sons to attend the celebration. He also invited Abiathar the priest, and Joab, the commander of the army. But he did not invite your
servant Solomon. And now, my lord the king, all Israel is waiting for you to announce who will become king after you. If you do not act, my son Solomon and I will be treated as criminals as soon as my lord the king has died.”

“What’s this?” David stretched his gaunt arm toward me. “What are you saying?”

At that moment Nathan stepped into the room and prostrated himself on the carpet. Overcome with emotion, I stood and backed away, more than willing to let the prophet carry the conversation forward.

“Nathan?” David’s voice, though weak, held a note of surprise. “Come you to support Bathsheba?”

Nathan rose. “My lord the king, have you decided that Adonijah will be the next king and that he will sit on your throne? Today he has sacrificed many cattle, fattened calves, and sheep, and he has invited all the king’s sons to attend the celebration. He also invited the commanders of the army and Abiathar the priest. They are feasting and drinking with him and shouting, ‘Long live King Adonijah!’ But he did not invite me or Zadok the priest or Benaiah or your servant Solomon. Has my lord the king really done this without letting any of his officials know who should be the next king?”

David spoke again, his voice stronger than before: “Bring Bathsheba to me.”

I stepped out of the shadows and moved into his field of vision.

“As surely as the Lord who has rescued me from every danger lives”—David lifted his hand toward heaven—“your son Solomon will be the next king and will sit on my throne this very day, just as I vowed to you before the Lord, the God of Israel.”

Overcome with gratitude and relief, I knelt on the carpet and pressed my face to the floor. “Let my lord King David live forever!” Never had I spoken more heartfelt words.

Something in my voice must have struck the dying man.

“Bathsheba—” his voice broke—“are you still there?”

I sat on the stool by his bed. “Of course, my lord.”

He shook his head, then patted the blanket by his side. “Come closer.”

Never had I sat so close to him with other people in the room, but I set aside my self-consciousness and sat on the bed, then leaned forward so our faces were only a hand’s breadth apart.

“There you are.” His compelling brown eyes found and held mine. “Tell me, wife—in all our years together, have you ever been able to love me?”

The question caught me off guard. A king’s wife came when summoned, departed when dismissed, and freely bestowed false smiles and words of flattery. In all our years together, I had never once told David that I loved him. A king’s wife did not need to love; she only needed to obey.

Laughter bubbled up from my throat as I found his trembling hand and held it steady. “After so many years, why do you speak of such things? Is it not enough that we have both loved the son who will inherit your kingdom?”

“I know what people say,” David went on, ignoring my question. “They say that I do not easily open my heart to anyone but Adonai, and for the most part, they are right. But I have opened my heart to you, Bathsheba, and loved you more than the others.”