The Anointed

by Michael Arditti

  THE ANOINTED

  THE ANOINTED

  Michael Arditti

  A

  Arcadia Books Ltd

  139 Highlever Road

  London W10 6PH

  www.arcadiabooks.co.uk

  First published in the United Kingdom 2020

  Copyright © Michael Arditti 2020

  Michael Arditti has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-911350-72-9

  Typeset in Minion by MacGuru Ltd

  Printed and bound by TJ International, Padstow PL28 8RW

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  For Selina Hastings and Ginny Macbeth

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  In rewriting the story of King David and placing the three women closest to him at its forefront, I have adhered strictly to the sequence of events in the Books of Samuel. I have, however, felt free to add and amplify characters, to reinterpret incidents and resolve inconsistencies, making a contemporary fiction out of an ancient myth.

  THE HOUSE OF SAUL

  THE HOUSE OF DAVID

  And when he had removed him, he raised up unto them David to be their king; to whom also he gave testimony, and said, I have found David the son of Jesse, a man after mine own heart, which shall fulfil all my will.

  Acts 13:22

  ONE

  Michal

  I heard him before I saw him, strumming his lyre, the notes flowing through his fingers as smoothly as sand. Merab and I listened from the safety of the courtyard. Mother had forbidden us to enter Father's chamber when he was possessed by the evil spirit. Unsure what an evil spirit was, I pictured a Philistine god with a long, scaly tail, who could be caught as easily as a carp in the Sea of Chinnereth. So I waited until Mother's back was turned and crept up to the chamber, to find Father cowering in the corner, gnawing his hand, his eyes fixed on the empty air as if he could see something more dreadful than anyone had seen before. I was fourteen years old and terrified.

  I ran downstairs, where Mother shook me as if I were the one possessed, before pressing me to her breast and assuring me that in time such spirits grew restless and moved on. But whereas ordinary men could afford to wait, a king had to resume his responsibilities. She did all that she could to hasten the process, wrapping bandages soaked in rose water round his brow and brewing him potions of hyssop, aloes and myrrh. She even sought out one of the sorceresses whom Father had outlawed, promising that, if she restored him to health, she would be free once again to practise her magic, but whether through incompetence or malice she failed. Then, as if to prove that he hadn’t deserted him, the Lord showed a way forward. One morning while he was pacing his chamber, Father heard two Ammonite bondwomen singing a song of home. My brother Jonathan, who was with him, described him standing stock-still, his face relaxing as if he’d taken off a helmet. Jonathan immediately summoned the women and ordered them to repeat their song. At first Father listened calmly, but all at once his mood changed. He leapt up, throwing a footstool at one woman and taking a bite out of her companion's leg. They fled screaming. Jonathan forced them to return, but their agitation was transmitted to Father, and any virtue of their singing was lost.

  With the tale of the bondwomen widely reported, Joab, my cousin Abner's armour-bearer, proposed to send for his uncle David, a shepherd of rare musical talent. No sheep-shearing, grape-gathering or New Moon festival in their home town of Bethlehem was complete without his songs. No one, Joab insisted, was better equipped to restore the balance of the king's mind. Abner was dubious that a simple shepherd could succeed where wiser men had failed. Merab and I were dubious of any claim made by such a boorish braggart as Joab. My mother and Jonathan, however, were ready to try anything and, to my relief, their faith was rewarded. David arrived and, according to Jonathan, showed no fear when Father bared his teeth at him. The moment he began to play, the colour returned to Father's cheeks like a sunburst after a storm. This time, moreover, the recovery lasted. After three days, he was deemed to be well enough to greet the household. Abner trimmed his beard, since he was not yet trusted with a razor. Jonathan and the twins bathed him. Mother brought him sweet fragrances and fresh linen. With Merab and our youngest brother, Ishbaal, I was one of the first to be allowed to see him. Sitting straight-backed on his couch and wearing his crown, he beckoned us forward. Merab and I moved to kiss him, but Ishbaal, who at ten was too old for such silliness, shrank back at the door. Jonathan took his hand and led him to Father, who patted his head as if he had returned from routing the Philistines rather than grappling with an evil spirit in a world known only to himself.

  I stole a glance across the chamber at the musician, who stood, gaze lowered and clutching his lyre like a shield. To my astonishment, he was a young man, only two or three years older than me, although I brushed aside the comparison. For all the boyish purity of his voice, I had expected any uncle of Joab's to be middle-aged. As soon as we returned downstairs, I resolved to address the anomaly, seeking out Joab in the gatehouse, where he was regaling the guard with his role in David's triumph. He greeted me with a mockingly obsequious bow and asked how he might be of service in a tone that made the offer sound like a threat.

  ‘I’m here on behalf of my mother,’ I said, careful to conceal my interest. ‘She wants to know more about the man who healed the king.’

  ‘Ask anyone in Judah,’ he replied pompously. ‘We’re one of the leading clans. David's father, my grandfather Jesse, is the grandson of Boaz, whose father fought alongside Joshua at the battle of Jericho.’

  ‘Isn’t he too young to be your uncle?’ I asked, sounding as foolish as I felt.

  ‘We’re a large clan as well as a great one. Virile,’ he added with a grin. ‘David's one of ten. Eight boys and two girls. My mother was the eldest. She was twenty-three when he was born; I was three. As the youngest – and smallest – ‘ Joab said, drawing himself up to his full height, ‘he was baited ruthlessly by his brothers.’

  ‘And his nephew too, no doubt.’

  ‘We were children. At six, he was sent to tend the flocks, freeing the others to work in the fields. I could never have endured the long summer days with only sheep for company. We used to joke that he preferred them to people. Though as he grew up, of course, there were compensations.’ His leer lent his words a double meaning, although I couldn’t work out what it was. ‘I mean musical. He could play and sing to his heart's content without people shouting at him to stop.’

  How anyone could object to such sublime music baffled me! I felt as deep a loathing for the entire family as for Joab himself. Leaving the gatehouse, I longed to find David to assure him that he wasn’t alone: that there were kindred spirits in the world – in this very house. But although Father allowed me considerable licence to go about Gibeah, among men as well as women, he trusted me not to abuse it. It was one thing to have a private conversation with Joab, a soldier who was pledged to my protection, quite another to address a stranger, especi
ally one so handsome.

  It disturbed me to feel such an acute loss for someone I’d barely met. With Father's recovery, I had no chance even to eavesdrop on his playing, spinning fantasies as intricate as his songs. My sole ground for hope was that he hadn’t returned home. As a mark of gratitude, Jonathan had invited David to stay with him and Hodiah. Knowing that Mother would welcome my visit to the sister-in-law she charged me with neglecting, I offered to take her a basket of figs. Pulling my veil across my face, both to pass unnoticed and to escape the dust, I wound my way through the airless streets to the east side of the hill. I was greeted by Menucha, our old nurse, as bent as a willow, who, trusting no one else with her favourite, had accompanied him on his marriage last year. She led me up to the roof where the two men were lying in the sun, their robes removed and tunics loosened. My arrival startled them but, while Jonathan swiftly regained his composure, David continued to look abashed as he fumbled with his belt. He stammered replies to my questions and I was struck that one so eloquent in song should be so reticent in speech. When I praised his music, his face flushed red – although not as red as his hair, which glowed like fire, but a fire so gentle that I could plunge my fingers into it and not be burnt.

  Jonathan watched our halting exchange in silence, but when David addressed me as ‘My lady,’ a title that for the first time felt apt, he intervened.

  ‘My lady? Little Michal? She's not such a lady that she won’t scream for mercy when she's tickled.’ Without warning, he proceeded to prove it. I was outraged. If it had been the twins, who’d teased me since we were children, I might have understood, but Jonathan was the person I loved most in the world. Why should he wish to humiliate me in front of a stranger? Swallowing my tears, I joined in the game, but my pleas and protests were too brittle to fool my brother. Sensing my misery, he became all solicitude, smoothing my robe and calling to Menucha for mulberry juice. But with no sign of Hodiah and no explanation offered for her absence, I declared that I couldn’t stay.

  ‘Give me a kiss to show that I’m forgiven,’ Jonathan said and took it without waiting for permission. But the kiss that I longed for languished on David's lips.

  Jonathan insisted that he stay in Gibeah for the feast to celebrate Father's recovery. As ever, Father opposed any ostentation. This was the man who, on the day of his election as king, had watched in mounting horror as the lot fell first on the tribe of Benjamin and then on the clan of Matri, even hiding among the baggage carts when the choice was narrowed to the family of Kish and, finally, to him. But with rumours of his indisposition circulating widely, he accepted the need to dispel them, not least for fear that the tribes would fail to respond to any future call to arms. He sent invitations to the elders across the land, with one to Samuel, the prophet and judge who had anointed him. Samuel declined, maintaining that he was too old to leave his home in Ramah, which came as a relief to me since his grim features and grizzled beard had cast a pall over my childhood. Moreover, given Father's claim that it was the ever-vindictive prophet who had set the evil spirit on him, his presence would have been an affront. Mother undertook all the preparations, putting Merab and me to work, weaving garlands of rosemary and myrtle to adorn the house. Merab grumbled that there were servants and bondwomen enough for such drudgery, but I was glad of anything that kept me from thinking of David. I didn’t mind thinking of him – quite the reverse – but it hurt to know that he wouldn’t be thinking of me.

  As the day dawned, even Merab was excited to wear one of the new chequered robes that Father thought fitting for his virgin daughters (Mother preferred unmarried). At midday we processed to the sanctuary, where a goat, a ram and a bull were sacrificed to the Lord for releasing Father from his torment – I couldn’t help wondering why we didn’t inveigh against his subjecting Father to it in the first place, but I knew better than to say so. The Levites sang, accompanying themselves on cymbals, pipes and horns, but the music, which I’d previously welcomed (not least for drowning out the terrified beasts’ bleats and bellows), sounded crude after David's. If only he had been a Levite and allowed to join them, he could have remained in Gibeah forever. I revelled in the vision until, as if in rebuke, a billow of greasy smoke made me cough.

  We returned home to find the feast laid out. Happily, only the elders from Gad and Asher had brought their wives and none had brought their daughters, so I was spared the feigned deference of girls from more exalted tribes, who felt that I’d usurped their position. Now that Samuel had renounced Father, they professed amazement that he had ever endorsed him. At the Festival of Reaping, I even heard one blame the Lord, suggesting that he had been beguiled by Father's height. ‘Saul may look like a king,’ she said, ‘but isn’t the Lord supposed to judge us by what's in our hearts?’ I had promised Mother to ignore such provocation, but the effort was exhausting, so it was a relief to know that for now we were among our own clan, enjoying an easy intimacy that swiftly extended to our guests. Moreover, we shared an amused distaste for the roistering of the men, who sat across the courtyard, shouting, whistling, stamping and clattering bowls.

  Midway through the meal, David stood up and moved to the centre of the courtyard. ‘Like a hostage between opposing armies,’ Merab whispered and, while I didn’t care to think of the men as our enemies even in jest, I trembled for David as much as if the image were real. He, however, showed no fear as he sat and tightened the strings of his lyre before starting to play. He sang the old songs of Noah and the Flood, Enoch and the giants, and Jacob and his sons, making much of Benjamin in our honour. He sang new songs in praise of Father, likening his triumphs to those of Joshua and Gideon, and ending with a tribute to Jonathan's singlehanded raid on the Philistines at Micmash, during which Mother looked both distressed and proud and a shadow passed over Father's face – although it might have been the flickering of the fire. Then, when the cheers, from our side as well as the men's, died down, he sang a quiet song professing his faith in the Lord, which was unlike anything I had heard before. He showed no sign of tiring and I could have listened to him all night, but Mother caught my eye and, as if mistrusting its glow, dispatched me to bed.

  I couldn’t sleep, and not just because of the sounds that drifted up the stairs. It was more than a year since I had become a woman. But for all the monthly reminders that my body had changed, this was the first time that my heart had acknowledged it. Would I feel the same for every good-looking stranger? If so, how wonderful life was set to be! How enticing! How intense! Even after my restless night, I arose the next morning refreshed, alert and eager to find David. My plan was to congratulate him on his playing and then beg him to teach me. While I discovered music, he would discover Michal. Sitting by my side or, better still, directly behind me, scenting the cassia in my hair, sensing the softness of my fingers as together we plucked the strings, he would surely come to share my feelings. Despite my inexperience (so far I had scarcely even shaken a timbrel), I was confident that my deftness at the loom would translate to the lyre.

  So, with another gift of fruit for Hodiah, which, had she not been busy preserving the leftovers from the feast, might have aroused Mother's suspicions, I made my way to Jonathan's house. I found Hodiah in the courtyard kneading dough, and, after the usual empty courtesies, which made me want to scream, I asked after David. To my dismay, she revealed that he’d returned home, travelling through the night to avoid the heat. For once she looked almost happy, and I felt an overwhelming urge to slap the fatuous smile from her face. My rage was so fierce that I feared that the evil spirit, having abandoned Father, had taken hold of me. I felt lost and bereft and sick and helpless. What made it worse was that, although he had come to mean as much to me as anyone in my family (with all the guilt that entailed), I knew that I was nothing to him but a silly girl who’d giggled and screamed when her brother tickled her. And, while I hated him for that indignity, Jonathan was the only person I could talk to about David without sounding false. When he finally came downstairs, eyes puffed and cheeks
blotchy, dismissing Hodiah's proffered bowl of porridge with unwonted gruffness, I broached the subject, treading as carefully as a child on the edge of a well.

  ‘Why has the musician gone home?’

  ‘Father is himself again, thank the Lord.’

  ‘But it's too soon. What if he has another attack?’

  ‘We can send for David. Bethlehem's only a day's ride away. We gave him one of our best donkeys.’

  In desperation, I pictured myself as a sorceress with the power to conjure evil spirits and so require David's recall. Then I remembered Father gibbering in the corner and blushed for shame.

  Jonathan explained that, after his recovery, Father wanted no reminder of his affliction. As the first king of Israel, he felt a twofold obligation, to prove not only his own worth but that of the crown itself. The people's demand for a king had been contentious. Weary of warfare and the foreign armies garrisoned along their borders, they looked to other nations whose inhabitants tended their crops and their flocks and their children in peace. They wanted a ruler who would unite the factious tribes and drive out the invaders. Samuel, then the country's effective leader, objected. He denounced the call to be like other nations since, by a unique covenant, the Lord our God was also our king. He warned that he was a jealous God who would not brook an earthly rival. In the event, Samuel was the jealous one. Whereas the Lord acceded to the people's demand, he never accepted it. He presided over Father's election but lost no opportunity to take him to task, finally breaking with him on the slenderest pretext, which, even if he had not summoned the evil spirit, had left Father prone to its attack.

  News of that attack reached the Philistines. In the two years since their defeat at Micmash, they had kept to their coastal strongholds and, a few border raids apart, made no further incursions into our territory. Now, seeking to exploit Father's weakness, they marched into Judah, threatening to split the country in two. With his cousin Abner as his second-in-command, Father marshalled his troops and prepared to meet the enemy in the valley of Elah. This time he was accompanied by all three of my older brothers. Jonathan was already a seasoned soldier, but the twins, having just turned eighteen, were to fight their first campaign. Mother, too anxious even to watch them exercise, secured Abner's sacred oath to keep them from the thick of battle. Seeing them set off with faces as bright as their armour, I almost forgave them their taunts and prayed as ardently as Mother for their safe return. Ishbaal remained at home, puffed up by Father's parting words that he must be the man of the house, until his demand to take his meals separately from the ‘females’ earned him a rebuke from Mother and a ringing slap from Merab.