The Anointed

by Michael Arditti

  ‘And delivered to David.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do I want with her? David has to show himself your father's undisputed successor.’

  ‘By abducting – by violating – a woman as old as his mother, a woman who has borne six children, including Jonathan, whose household he’d sworn to defend?’ I tried to black out the image of my mother, a woman so devoted to my father as to seem remote even from her children. How had David treated her? Had he coupled with her once to prove his kingship to his people or many times to prove it to himself? ‘Did you see her while you were in Hebron?’

  ‘No, the women don’t come and go as freely as in your father's house. They appear for foreign embassies, feasts and sacrifices, but otherwise remain apart.’

  However much the prospect of such seclusion appalled me, it would at least ensure that my mother's ignominy was concealed. For the first time I saw a virtue in my summons to Hebron: not to unite the country, let alone to resume relations with David but, rather, to take my revenge. I pictured myself as Jael, the brave Kenite woman who had killed the Canaanite commander, Sisera, when he sheltered in her tent. Like her, I would seize a mallet and drive a peg into my enemy's head. Both repelled and exhilarated by the image, I turned back to Abner.

  ‘So David wants to lie with me after lying with my mother? What sort of man is he?’

  ‘He's a king.’

  I begged Abner to give me a week – or even two or three days – in which to prepare for the journey. As I spoke, I weighed the possibility of fleeing into the wilderness. If David could hide for four years from my father, why shouldn’t I do the same from him? Or else I could cross the border, seeking refuge with the Ammonites. Would they welcome me as a fugitive from David or rebuff me as Saul's daughter? And what if David, jealous of his honour, marched against them? Would they harbour me or surrender me to him? I was given no chance to find out, since Abner insisted that we leave within the hour, threatening to strap me to the donkey himself if I refused.

  I summoned all the women of the house and any men at work in the nearby fields and announced that my brother Ishbaal was sending me on an embassy to David, in the hope that, as his former wife, I could convince him to disband his troops and make peace between the two kingdoms. I feared that a word – or worse, a laugh – from Abner would expose my subterfuge, but he kept silent, not, I felt sure, from respect for me and still less from concern for the others but to avoid any display of emotion. A greater peril came from Paltiel, who watched from the top of the stairs, his torrent of tears not those of a man about to wave his wife off on an official mission but of one who feared that she would never return.

  He made no move to descend and I made none to comfort him. Instead, I called for the children, whom I had sent out of sight during Abner's visit.

  ‘You’ve been busy, my lady,’ Abner said. ‘Five sons!’

  ‘They’re not mine. They’re the grandsons of my husband's sister, Hodesh,’ I replied, trembling.

  ‘I know whose children they are,’ Abner said with a sigh. ‘Be quick and say your farewells,’ he added, stepping outside.

  ‘Why did you say we were Aunt Hodesh's grandsons?’ Penuel asked.

  ‘Then I’d be Jeriah's brother and Ithai's brother,’ Shealtiel said, frowning.

  ‘It was just a precaution... more of a game, but one that I’d like you to play when I’m not here. If anyone asks, you must say that you’re Uncle Teman's sons. What's wrong with being Jeriah's and Ithai's brothers? You’re all friends.’ Life, even in the far north, no longer seemed safe for Saul's fatherless grandsons. Ishbaal, who’d handed over his sister to his more powerful rival, would have no compunction in handing over his nephews if David perceived them to be a threat.

  ‘No,’ Penuel said, ‘I’m King Saul's grandson and I shan’t ever deny it.’

  ‘It's who you are, not who your grandfather was, that counts,’ I said, fearful that the newly sprouted hair on his upper lip and chin would embolden him. ‘I’m relying on you to take care of the others.’

  ‘I can take care of myself,’ Hillel said.

  ‘Of course you can. You all can,’ I said, floundering as I gazed at five-year-old Adriel. ‘But you don’t have to; you have each other. I’ve told you before: brothers look after brothers.’ I kissed them casually, to preserve the pretence of my imminent return, and hurried upstairs before despair overtook me. Paltiel stood by the rail as if he were melting. I hugged him and he crumpled like a child. His whole body shook as if each tear were a convulsion. Tightening my grip, I urged him to be strong, not just for the children's sake but for mine, since all that would sustain me in Hebron was the knowledge that he and the boys were going about their daily pursuits, missing but not mourning me.

  His unconvincing nod was the most I could expect. I entered my chamber where my bondwoman was packing my chest. At the bottom, reeking of cedar oil, were the robes I’d brought from Gibeah. I preferred to take the ones I’d woven here, even if they were only woollen. But, for my journey, I knew that I must wear the sackcloth I had last worn at Merab's death. I sent the woman to the courtyard to gather ashes, which I smeared on my face and hands. Then, casting a final glance at the chamber where I had been so happy, I made my way downstairs. With my head already halfway to Hebron, I was less concerned with the impression I made on those I left behind than on the man I was soon to re-encounter. Malkiel's scream alerted me to my mistake. Of all the boys, he had been the most affected by his parents’ death: old enough to recognise his loss but too young to understand it. Now, as he clung to his eldest brother's waist, tears and mucus streaming down his face, I berated myself for evoking his bitterest memories.

  I was afraid that Abner would force me to change, ripping off the robe that made a mockery of his charge; instead, he smiled, as if there were a part of him that rebelled against yielding to David and was grateful that I’d embodied it. But, when I moved to console Malkiel, the smile faded and, with a snarl of contempt, he upbraided me for keeping the donkeys waiting. Enjoining the boys to remain in the courtyard, I walked to the gate to say my most painful, most private farewell. For all my resolve, I couldn’t look Paltiel in the eye. I had seen his expression of anguish and incredulity once before, on a labourer who’d chopped off his hand on a woodpile.

  ‘Take me with you,’ he said. ‘I’ll petition the king to make me his lowliest servant – anything, so long as we can be together.’

  ‘He’d never agree,’ I replied, knowing that, while some men might enjoy the sight of a rival's self-abasement, David would regard Paltiel's passion as a rebuke to his own indifference. ‘You’re needed here. You must raise our children. You must teach them to grow up like you.’

  ‘A man who stands idly by while his wife is snatched away?’

  ‘No more, Paltiel, please!’

  ‘I can’t live without you.’

  ‘Die then!’ He stared at me, aghast. ‘Do you think I want you there? A feeble old man who reminds me of my disgrace. I’m going back to my true husband: the first... the only man I’ve ever loved. I’m going back to be a queen.’

  ‘In sackcloth and ashes?’ he asked, and my attempt to make him hate me was over before it began.

  ‘If you love me, you’ll do as I say. If you love me, you’ll promise me that everything will go on here as before, a good life led by good people, a life I can dream of even if I can no longer share it.’

  ‘Enough!’ Abner interjected, reminding us that we weren’t alone. ‘That's slave talk. It's time to leave.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you,’ Paltiel said.

  ‘No!’ I begged him. ‘It’ll be easier for us both to part here.’

  ‘Am I allowed to accompany you?’ he asked Abner, who stared at him as if he’d lost his wits.

  ‘The way is open for all,’ he replied. Then he led me to the donkey, heaving me on to the saddle so roughly that I almost slid off. We set out: Abner and myself riding; the soldiers marching at our side; Paltiel doggedly t
rying to keep up. I fixed my gaze ahead, horrified by the spectacle of my sweating, sobbing, stumbling husband. The men's laughter forced me to look down. ‘Go home. Please go home,’ I pleaded, but Paltiel either could not or would not hear. I was humiliated for him and also, to my shame, for myself. As he struggled on, slipping behind and staggering forward, I felt my love for him falter in turn. I knew then that, even if by some miracle, he were to persuade Abner to betray both his kings, we would never be the same to one another again.

  Having laughed along with the rest, Abner lost patience, ordering the men to double their pace and goading the donkeys to trot. The soldiers jeered as Paltiel, his face red as a pomegranate, lurched on. All at once, the taunts ceased. I swung round, tugging the reins so hard that the donkey brayed in protest. Blinking away an ash, I watched Paltiel, his limp more pronounced than ever, lagging further and further behind yet refusing to give up. As he receded into both the distance and the past, I turned away, vowing never to look back again.

  Four days later, we arrived in Hebron, a city that had never favoured the house of Saul. I had been there once before, accompanying my father to make a thanksgiving offering in the sanctuary. Not even victory over the Moabites had endeared him to the inhabitants and we had walked through the streets in silence, broken only by a few lonely cheers and muttered curses. I stifled a shudder lest any onlooker should attribute it to anxiety about my second visit rather than remembrance of my first.

  Abner had sent two of his men ahead to announce our arrival, but the figure waiting at the gate was not the one I was expecting.

  ‘Greetings, my lady’ With a brisk bow, Ahitophel, my father's former counsellor, helped me to dismount. He frowned at my appearance before wiping his hands on his robe.

  ‘You serve David now?’ I asked sharply.

  ‘I serve the kingdom.’

  ‘Aren’t they one and the same? It's been many years.’

  ‘They haven’t changed you.’

  ‘Oh but they have,’ I replied. ‘I hope they have... I know they have. Far more than you can ever imagine.’

  With an uneasy smile, he turned to Abner. ‘Judah welcomes you, General.’ Abner grunted.

  ‘Where is David?’ I asked. ‘Why isn’t he here?’

  ‘The king has been called away. He apologises for his absence and promises to return directly.’

  ‘He does me too much honour.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied, wincing. ‘But you must want to wash and change after your journey.’ Now it was my turn to ignore the barb. ‘I’ll take you to the palace.’

  ‘What palace?’ I asked, startled by a word I knew only from stories. Abraham and Joseph and Moses attended Pharaoh in his palace, but I had never heard of one in Judah.

  ‘The king built it soon after he arrived. Come!’

  We made our way through the crowded streets, the sackcloth saving me from scrutiny. We arrived at a heavy gate, crowned with a lion's head and guarded by two armed soldiers, that was in sharp contrast to the modest house from which my father had ruled. Ahitophel escorted us into a large courtyard. Asking Abner to wait, he then led me through a side gate into a second courtyard, adjacent to the first.

  ‘These are the women's quarters,’ Ahitophel said, as I marvelled at the unique construction. ‘Here you can be free among yourselves.’

  ‘Why can’t we be free among the whole household?’

  ‘You’ll find that you prefer it.’

  A gangling young man, his cheeks shaved and chin bearded, scurried out to greet me. With a flicker of unease, he bent to kiss my hand.

  ‘A pleasure to see you again, my lady... Jonadab,’ he added, sensing my bemusement. ‘I was at your wedding to my uncle.’ Unearthing a long-buried memory, I found an unctuous boy, desperate to be noticed. That at least explained the singular beard. ‘Exactly,’ he said, misreading my expression. ‘Such a glorious day.’

  ‘Now I remember you. You were great friends with my brother Ishbaal.’

  He blanched, as though I had accused him of treason sixteen years on. ‘I was very young,’ he said coldly.

  ‘The princess is tired,’ Ahitophel interposed. ‘We must acquaint her with her new companions.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jonadab said, beckoning a bondwoman. Although my overwhelming desire was to see my mother, I was obliged to wait as six women, accompanied by children and servants, processed into the courtyard. Gazing at the sumptuous robes, I wished that I had found a more graceful way to convey my grief. For four days, I had endured the chafing cloth on my back and thighs, while my face and hands itched with grime, but the man whom I had planned to confront wasn’t here. Instead, I was subject to the ill-concealed dismay of five of the women and the open disgust of the sixth, whose dark skin marked her out as a foreigner. Ignorant of our ways, she must have assumed that sackcloth was all I possessed.

  Jonadab introduced the first woman: Abigail of Carmel, whom David had married while in hiding from my father. She was tall and slender with a long nose, deep-set eyes and freckles. Her tightly combed hair was strewn with jewels as if to distract from its streaks of grey. She had a kindly face, but looks could be deceptive and it was rumoured that she had poisoned her first husband to gain both her freedom and his wealth. Given her age, she must have employed exceptional wiles to attract such a vain man as David. Apart from myself, she was the only woman here not to be clutching a child. With gratifying deference, she stepped forward, pressed her forehead to my hand, and fell back.

  Next in line was Ahinoam of Jezreel. I started at the name and, for one blessed moment, I wondered if Abner might have been confused and the Ahinoam Joab had abducted – the Ahinoam David had defiled – was her. Then she spoke, explaining that her father had served under mine and she had been named for my mother, and the moment vanished. She was young (no more than twenty-five), notably pretty, with lips that appeared to be permanently smiling, which, however provoking to most husbands, must have been reassuring to a king. She was not as bejewelled as Abigail, although, as she thrust her son forwards, it was clear that she needed no ornament to affirm her status. ‘This is Amnon, the king's firstborn,’ she said with pride. I studied the boy but, apart from the russet tinge to his hair, saw nothing in him of David. Instead, I felt my heart tear at the thought of Adriel, my own five-year-old, left behind in Manasseh. I smiled tentatively at Amnon, who stuck out his tongue. Abigail rebuked him, while his doting mother laughed.

  The third wife was Maacah, daughter of Talmai, king of Geshur. Jonadab pronounced her full title as though to emphasize that I wasn’t the only princess present. It was Maacah who had sneered at my clothes. Either from a sense of her own dignity or repugnance at the ash, she didn’t defer to me like the others but simply inclined her head. She was the only woman to have brought two children: the first, a girl asleep in her arms, Tamar; the second, a boy of three or four, Absalom. Lighter-skinned than his mother and with a strong suggestion of David in his high forehead and square jaw, he seemed precociously aware of his good looks, sauntering towards me and tossing his curls, like Merab when she’d played at being a bride. In contrast to his truculent half-brother, he hugged my legs, resting his head on my thigh, until summoned back by Maacah, evidently a stricter disciplinarian than Ahinoam. Even on first meeting, I discerned an enmity between the two women that I was keen to exploit.

  The remaining three wives were Haggith, Abital and Eglah, each with an infant son. I’d understood that David had six sons but the tally must have included Tamar. Nonetheless, I felt sure that he prided himself on the preponderance of boys. I tried to memorize the last three children's names but my brain was tired and I yearned to see my mother. Her absence from the conjugal muster was both a comfort and a concern. Did she rank above the others as a former queen or below them as a captive? Determined to find out, I ordered Jonadab to take me to her without delay. Grimacing at my tone, he obeyed, leading me into a cool, dark chamber at the back of the courtyard. After a moment I distinguished two women who, w
ith eyes more accustomed to the shadows than mine, had knelt as soon as we entered. One, Rizpah, had every reason to do so: indeed, she would have done well to stoop lower, crawling in the dust like the condemned serpent in Eden. The other should not have knelt to anyone, least of all her own daughter, and I ran forward to raise her up.

  ‘No, leave me!’ she said, pushing away my hands.

  ‘It's Michal, Mother,’ I said, squatting beside her.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Be kind. Go now! I can’t bear you to see me.’

  I flung my arms around her wizened shoulders. ‘Be still, Mother!’ I said, as she squirmed from my grasp.

  ‘Close your eyes! Please close your eyes and let me look at you. Then I won’t ever look at anyone again.’ I did as she asked and felt her cup my face like Paltiel's blind aunt. ‘You’re in mourning,’ she said, as she stroked my grimy cheeks, now streaked with tears.

  ‘For me. For you. For us all.’

  She let out a low wail. ‘A11 I’ve wanted – all I’ve prayed for – since they brought me here was to see you again. “Then I can die at peace,” I told the Lord. But I was wrong. I can’t bear you to see me – not like this.’

  ‘I’m here now. We’ll never be parted.’

  ‘No! What sort of daughter are you? If you loved me, you’d go. If you honoured me, you’d gouge out your eyes rather than see me like this.’

  ‘You’re frightening me.’

  ‘The shame, the shame, the shame!’ She pounded her chest so hard that I feared for her ribs.

  ‘Not you! You have nothing to be ashamed of,’ I said, fighting for control of her hands.

  ‘No? A mother who takes her daughter's place in her husband's bed?’

  ‘Not by choice! You’re no willing concubine.’ Mindful of Rizpah, I looked up to find her hovering behind us. ‘All the blame... all the shame is David's. May he be cursed forever!’

  ‘I never trusted him. But your father and your brother brought him into our house. “Reward him for what he has done for us,” I said to Saul. “But not with your daughter.” Your wedding feast was wormwood in my mouth.’