Signs and Wonders (34 page)

The beauty of Israel is slain upon its high places;

How the mighty are fallen!

Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Ashkelon,

Lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice,

Lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph.

Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew,

Neither let there be rain upon you, nor fields of offering.

For there the shield of the mighty

Is vilely cast away.

Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives.

And in their death they are not divided.

They were swifter than eagles;

They were stronger than lions.

Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul who clothed you in scarlet.

O Jonathan, you were slain in your high place.

I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan.

Very pleasant have you been to me.

Your love to me was wonderful,

Passing the love of women.

Now all the men about David within the sound of his voice were sobbing. David dashed the tears from his eyes, leaped upon a rock, and cried: “Now must I go and gather up the scattered remnants of Israel, and knit them to a whole again. Our king has been taken from us, and our beautiful prince, and now it falls upon us to refire the hearts of our people and drive the heathen from our holy places.”

It happened so. The scattered soldiers of Saul’s army made their way to where David was and arrayed themselves under his banner. The elders of Judah came and anointed him king. He sent messages to all parts of Israel where the people had fled the conqueror, calling every man who could bear arms to him. They came. He trained them in his own way, and spoke to them daily, reviving the word of God in their parched and fearful hearts. And out of the broken pieces of a defeated nation he forged a mighty army. They marched against the enemy. The spirit of God walked with David into battle and he prevailed. The Philistines were driven out of Israel, back to their coastal cities.

Israel was whole again and David was king. But he never forgot Jonathan, and he never forgot Saul.

David and Bathsheba

Saul was dead and David was king. The spirit of God, which had departed from Saul and bereft him of victories, returned now tenfold to David, and his armies swept the foe from the field. David was a war chief such as had never been seen before. Young, joyous, with a smile always for his men, and a personal word, he saved his wrath for the enemy, and in his own troops punished only cowardice. It was said that his men would march after him off the edge of a cliff.

Now, Saul’s defeats had left Israel weak; its enemies occupied most of the strong places. And David had to drive them out of the land. But he never fought until God gave him the word, and when he went into battle God went before him. A cloud or eagle by day, a torch by night, God went before him with a sound like the wind in the mulberry trees. And David was everywhere victorious.

“May I get you a city, Lord?” he asked. “A high and beautiful city in which to build your house?”

“Get me a city,” said the Lord.

David led his men into the hills of Judea toward the City of the Hill, the beautiful walled city of Jerusalem. This city stood so high, its walls were so thick and its Jebusite defenders so fierce, that it had never been taken. Egyptians had marched against it, Hittites, Hivites, and Assyrians, but its walls had never been breached.

David stormed the heights of Zion and took Jerusalem from the Jebusites. There he made his home and planned a house for God. Now, the ark of the covenant, that holy of holies, had been built in the wilderness according to the instructions given Moses on the mountain. It was made of acacia wood inlaid with gold. In it reposed the tables of the law, a pot that had held manna, and Aaron’s rod. It was set with brass rings; through them staves were placed so that the ark could be carried by two strong priests. It had been kept by the children of Israel as they wandered in the desert, and had been taken from place to place, according to the fortunes of battle. It was the holy of holies, the most sacred object that had ever been—not because of the richness of its wood or metals or the skill of its design, but because this ark and its furred tent held God’s words to Moses and the rod of power he had given to Aaron. The ark rested now in a small village in Judah, attended by its priests. David ordered it brought to Jerusalem.

With thirty thousand men, the cream of his army, he went to escort the ark on its journey. They set the ark on a new cart. Musicians walked before it, playing joyful music. They played the harp, the psaltery, timbrel, cornet, and cymbals. The sun was bright and the people rejoiced.

With shouting and the sound of the trumpet, David carried the ark into Jerusalem. “Make a joyful music unto God, all ye righteous!” David cried. And the players played and the people shouted.

David snatched a psaltery from a player, and played as he danced, and sang:

I will also praise you with the psaltery,

I will sing your truth, O my God.

Unto you I will sing with the harp

O ye haven of Israel.

He was flooded with gladness before the ark in the city that he had taken, and danced with all his might. In front of all the people, the king cast off his garments and danced before the ark. Clad only in a linen shirt, he leaped with joy before the tabernacle, leaped high over all the people, the sun flashing on his legs and on his bronzed wet shoulders.

Michal, his wife, Saul’s daughter, looked out the window of the king’s house and saw David leaping and dancing before the ark. And she despised him in her heart.

When David returned, glowing with pleasure, to bless his household, Michal came out to meet him and said: “How glorious the king who uncovers himself before the multitude, before his servants and his handmaidens like a drunken lout.”

“I danced before the Lord,” said David. “Before Him who chose me out of all the people and anointed me king over Israel. You may chide me all you wish, but I will play before the Lord.”

“Vile,” she said. “Shameless.”

“If I am vile in your eyes,” said David, “then I shall act out my baseness among those handmaidens you speak of—who are beautiful and who honor me.”

From that time on David never went to Michal’s bed, and she was childless.

As David led his armies from victory to victory, he trained his men in the art of war, and chose the best warriors as his captains. The greatest of these captains, a man named Joab, went to him and said: “Forgive me, O King, for presuming to advise you.”

“Speak,” said David.

“I have conferred with your other captains, and they are with me in this. We do not wish you to lead your troops into battle. You place yourself always in the hottest part of the fighting. And you are the first to scale the walls of a beleaguered city.”

“I am king,” said David. “My privilege resides in my duty. I must be first in battle.”

“Not so,” said Joab. “You have led us in battle where no other could. You have inspired our hearts with courage. You have trained us in the art of war. You, O King, are our heart and our mind. Without you we are simply men, some good, some bad. And since we are fewer than the enemy, we must be vanquished without the special virtue that you inspire. You are worth ten thousand troops to us. If you are killed, as you must be one day with your headlong rush into the thick of battle, then Israel dies with you. For the host will fall on us and will prevail.”

“I thank you,” said David, “and shall weigh your words carefully. I shall pray to God for guidance.”

David asked God what to do. The Lord answered: “I wish you to live and reign. Guide your captains from Jerusalem.”

When Joab returned the next day; David embraced him and said: “Thank you for your wisdom. We shall plan the campaigns together, brave Joab. You will lead the armies and I shall send you messages.”

Shortly afterward Joab marched against the Ammonites and laid siege to Rabbah, their city. David tarried in Jerusalem: He was very restless away from his army. After one sleepless night, he sought the shade on his terrace during the heat of the day. The terrace of his palace was high over the roof tops and he could see into nearby courtyards. He saw a woman bathing. She raised a silver ewer over her head and let the water fall upon her, and stood there naked, being sponged by a handmaiden. She was tall and very beautiful. He did not know whether she was wife, widow, or virgin, and he did not care. He sent for her and she came to the palace.

She was taken to him on the same terrace from which he had seen her bathing: It was night, but the heat had lingered and there were no stars. She knelt to him and said: “You have sent for me, O King, and I am here.”

“What is your name?”

“Bathsheba, daughter of Eliam, wife to Uriah.”

“Is your husband at home?”

“My husband is with your army, my lord, on the field before Rabbah.”

“Do you know why I sent for you?”

“No, my lord.”

“I saw you bathing today. You are very beautiful.”

“You are kind to your servant.”

“Servant? You are my mistress. Your beauty reigns over my heart. Will you lie with me?”

“What of my husband?”

“Do you love him?”

“He is my husband. He stood with me before God’s altar, and we exchanged vows.”

“Do you love him?”

“Ah, my lord, I am dazzled by you. How could it not be? I am a simple woman; you are a glorious king. Your name is golden to us, your fame like music in the air. When I behold you now, it is like looking at the sun with unshaded eyes; you are clothed in fire. And when I think that you, who can have any woman in the world, have chosen me, then I am suffocated with pride and joy. Is this love?”

“It can become love.”

“What of my husband?”

“He shall be honored in other ways.”

They burned for each other in the darkness of the terrace. He could feel her heat from where he stood. He felt his bones fusing as she came to meet him, and he entered her embrace.

He kept her with him for two days and nights, and kept himself private, and allowed no one to come to him. He had their meals brought into his chamber. They were together all the time and glutted themselves upon each other, and delighted in each other. And his lust grew with fulfillment.

The campaign against the Ammonites dragged on, and Uriah was in the field with the troops. Bathsheba came to the palace every night but went home before dawn, because David wished to keep the affair secret. He did not want it said that he had stolen the wife of one of his officers while the man was away, fighting.

Then Bathsheba informed him that she was pregnant. David sent a message to Joab, asking that Uriah be sent home on leave, the pretext being that David wanted a firsthand report of battle conditions. Uriah reported to David, who questioned him at length about the progress of the siege, the spirit of the men, and the fighting quality of the Ammonites. Uriah answered with intelligence and precision; David saw that he was a very good officer. He thanked him and said; “You have been in the field for months, and deserve a few days’ rest. Go home and embrace your wife, and refresh yourself.”

But Uriah did not go home that night. He slept in the courtyard of the palace. David sent for him, and said: “You have a beautiful, loving wife at home, and you sleep on cold stones. Are you mad?”

Uriah replied, “I am grateful for your concern, O King, but it is impossible for me to enjoy the comforts of home, knowing that my comrades are in the field, hourly risking their lives against the fierce Ammonites. I pray you, let me depart from Jerusalem, and return to the siege.”

When David heard this, he was sickened with shame. He had always led his men against the enemy, sharing every hardship, thrusting himself into the most dangerous places. Now every word of this brave man, whose wife he had stolen, pierced him like a poisoned arrow. And David, unaccustomed to shame, began to hate this man.

“Very well,” he said. “Return to Rabbah. Go now.”

Thereupon he wrote a letter and sealed it with the royal seal. He sent for a messenger and said: “Take this to Joab.”

The letter read: “Uriah has impressed me. He is a man of valor. Put him where he may prove his worth.”

In three days the messenger returned. He bore a letter from Joab that said: “We have had a battle. The enemy made a sortie from the city, surrounded our forward troops, and killed five men before they were beaten off. Among those who fell was Uriah—who fought very bravely. Do not think me rash for pressing so close to the walls. We have cut off their food and water. The city must fall within three days. And we will cast down their stone idols and raise an altar to the living God. I know that you itch for action, O King, but you reside in the hearts of your men, and inspire us to victory.”

David went to Bathsheba and said: “You are a widow. Your husband has fallen in battle.”

She did not want David to see her face. She bowed her head and thought: Thank God he died in ignorance of my guilt.

She was shaken by a gust of bitter grief, which became more bitter still as she realized that she was mourning not the loss of her husband but the loss of her honor; that, in fact, she had killed Uriah in her heart before the swords of the Ammonites had touched him.

She raised her head and said: “I cannot weep.”

“You must leave me now,” said David, “and mourn for a time. You shall not be a widow long. I will find you a husband.”

“Another husband?” she said.

“Myself,” he said. “You will be my wife and my queen.”

Joab took the city and the troops returned. There was a victory celebration, and another feast for David’s marriage to Bathsheba. And when the feasting was done, when the music had stilled and the guests had departed, there came a man whose name was Nathan.

He was a wise man, a prophet of the Lord, and David had consulted him about the building of God’s house. He reminded David of Samuel who had visited him in the wilderness. He was also pared down to the shape of the bone, and his eyes burned in their sockets, and his voice held the authority of natural things. He said to David: “I come for justice, O King.”