The Anointed

by Michael Arditti

  ‘Did he hurt you, Mother? Please tell me he was gentle!’

  ‘His every touch was like the stone that he flung at the Philistine, but I couldn’t die.’

  ‘Tell me it was just the once: that he lay with you to assert his claim to the throne.’

  ‘Is a man who paid double your bride-price a man who’d stop at once?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I am the scroll on which he sought to rewrite your father's reign.’

  ‘Stand up, Mother. You must stand up!’ I hauled her to her feet. ‘It's I who should kneel to you. I should have let Father kill him instead of aiding his escape. I should have killed him myself. But I’ll make up for it now. It's not too late. If he calls for me at night, I’ll slip a knife under my robe. I’ve changed, Mother. The little girl who retched at the blood on the altar has slaughtered chickens and ducks and even sheep and goats. And David is an animal... nothing more.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Deaf to my sobs and pleas, she was roused by my outrage, scolding me as if I were ten. ‘It was just such a foolish notion that made you want to marry him in the first place. What can mere women do?’

  ‘If that's what other mothers tell their daughters, we’ll always be mere women. Who can we look to if not ourselves? There's no man coming to rescue us. Ishbaal? The brother who handed me over to David without a second thought; the son who abandoned you when Joab's armies approached Gibeah and fled with Rizpah?’ I was again alerted to the alien presence. ‘What exactly are you doing here?’ I asked her, before turning back to my mother. ‘What is she doing here?’

  ‘Be gentle, Michal,’ she replied. ‘As she has been to me. After six years alone, I have a friend.’

  ‘Forgive me, my lady.’ Rizpah sank back on her knees. ‘I never meant to harm you or your house.’

  ‘But you did.’

  ‘She had no more choice than I did,’ Mother interjected.

  ‘Not with David, perhaps. But with Father? She could have carved ugliness into her cheeks.’

  ‘I was young. Flattered by the king's favour.’

  ‘Well, you’ve paid for it now.’

  ‘Yes. I was led up to the palace roof like a heifer into the sanctuary. The king – ’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘No, David.’

  ‘Then give him his rightful name: the usurper... the tyrant.’

  ‘He’d had a canopy erected. All around it stood men. Soldiers? Elders? It was too dark to tell. Flaming torches lit up a bed where the... David lay naked. He didn’t stand or acknowledge me in any way but, with a flick of his fingers, he ordered his servants to remove my robe and my tunic and... and everything.’

  ‘There's no need to go on,’ Mother said.

  ‘Is this what happened to you?’ I turned to her in horror.

  ‘No, I was wrong. Go on,’ she said grimly to Rizpah, giving me my answer.

  ‘The servants threw me on the bed and the king – David – took me with equal ferocity.’

  ‘You must be used to that.’

  ‘Michal!’

  ‘No. Your father was a kind man; he treated me with respect. Even Ishbaal, for all his coarseness, showed me some consideration. But David was brutal. He attacked me like a boy who’d cornered a rat. Stabbing it again and again and again long after it was dead.’ I sneaked a glance at Mother and prayed that she was trembling from sympathy for Rizpah and not anguish at her own recollections. ‘When it was over, he walked out to a chorus of cheers not just from the rooftop but from the street below. As if he were returning home after a great victory – except that the voices were all male. That was when I realised that the torches had thrown our shadows on to the ramparts for everyone to see.’

  ‘And tonight – or whenever he returns from Hormah – that will be me.’

  ‘No, my lady – ’

  ‘No, Michal. You’re his wife. You are his by law not conquest. He won’t dishonour you.’

  The mention of the Law, broken first by my father and now by David himself, brought little comfort, but I kept silent since, whatever the pain and humiliation in store for me, it was nothing to what my mother had suffered. I longed to be alone with her, to mend her spirit, but Rizpah, ever the interloper, remained.

  ‘I beg you to help me, my lady,’ she said. ‘Not for my sake but for your father's... your brothers’.’

  ‘They’re dead.’

  ‘Your half-brothers,’ Mother said. ‘Rizpah's sons.’

  ‘David demanded that Abner bring them with us,’ Rizpah said softly. ‘But, as soon as we arrived, he imprisoned them in the gatehouse. I haven’t seen them since.’

  ‘Why? Because they were Ishbaal's advisers?’

  ‘No,’ Mother said. ‘Because they’re your father's sons.’

  ‘I’ll deny it,’ Rizpah said. ‘I’ll swear that I lay with half the army – that I’m no cleaner than the ground we lay on – if it helps my sons. I’ll send them far away, to be slaves in Moab or Amnon. I don’t care if I never see them again so long as I know that they’re safe.’

  For all my resolve to hate her, I was moved by her misery, not least because it reflected my own. ‘David never took intercession kindly, but I’ll do whatever I can.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She kissed my hand, wetting it with her tears as well as her lips.

  ‘Stop that!’ I said, pulling away. ‘I’m not a man, to be so easily won.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I – ’

  ‘Enough!’ I said, shrinking from my own rectitude as much as her servility. I turned back to Mother. ‘What of Father's grandsons? Will David feel equally threatened by them?’

  ‘He's threatened by everything. He who was once so fearless now sees danger in every shadow.’

  ‘He knows what it's like to be Father.’

  ‘He knows what it's like to be king.’ For the first time she held my gaze, as if there were more at issue than her own remorse. ‘You’ve brought up Merab's children.’

  ‘They call me Mother.’

  ‘It's seven years since I saw them, and then only Penuel, Hillel and Malkiel. A lifetime... two lifetimes for Malkiel. I think of them every day, wondering if they take after their uncles – whether my dead sons live on in them – or if they’re more like Adriel's clan.’

  ‘They’re themselves.’

  ‘Do they know about me?’

  ‘As little as possible. No, don’t look hurt! They know as little as possible about all of this: Father, Samuel, David, the crown. I want them to grow up to be men of peace, working the land. Whenever I caught them whittling swords, I snatched them away. Yet they always contrived to make more.’

  ‘They’re boys.’

  ‘So it seems.’ I wondered whether Paltiel would be equally vigilant. His indulgence, so pleasing in the past, now worried me. How would the boys fare without me? Would they adjust to my disappearance as easily as they had to Merab's? I reminded myself that they still had Paltiel. But he was crushed by grief. How else could he have followed me along the way, an act as irresponsible as it was demeaning when the boys needed him at home? I trusted that he had waited until nightfall to return, sparing them the horror of his limping, wheezing weariness, swollen eyes and soiled robe. Yet, even as I tried to resent him, I knew that it was a ploy to protect myself. Whatever transpired, he would be a loving father. My one fear was his age. For the first time in years, I wished him other than he was, a younger man who would live until Adriel, the last of his sons, was full-grown. And they were his sons, no matter who had sired them: Penuel ben Paltiel, Hillel ben Paltiel, Malkiel ben Paltiel, Shealtiel ben Paltiel, Adriel ben Paltiel. I repeated the names like a prayer: names that would preserve both the memory of the best man I had ever known and, by obscuring their royal lineage, the lives of the boys who bore them.

  I would convince David to allow me to go to the sanctuary, flattering his vanity by professing to take a thanksgiving offering for our reconciliation, instead offering the Lord one of the beasts for which he displayed such insatiable hunger, in suppli
cation for Paltiel's health and our sons’ protection.

  ‘You have a sixth nephew,’ Mother said, puncturing the vision. ‘Meribaal.’

  ‘He's alive?’

  ‘Of course.’ Her surprise turned to alarm. ‘Why? Have you heard otherwise?’

  ‘No... yes... I’m confused. Wasn’t Hodiah captured by Amorites?’

  ‘Yes. Your father and brothers had marched against the Philistines. Hodiah left for Asher to visit her ailing father. He recovered, but she was seized by raiders on the way home. Then we heard the news from Mount Gilboa. Menucha panicked and, with no word to anyone, fled with the boy to her brother in Lodebar.’

  ‘So he's safe?’

  ‘He's alive. You must remember how clumsy Menucha was?’

  ‘She was old.’ I also remembered Mother's jealousy of the nurse who rivalled her in her children's affections.

  ‘She fell and dropped him, breaking both his legs. Too terrified to return for help, she bound his legs to sticks and carried on to Lodebar.’

  ‘He must have been in agony!’

  ‘I can’t bear to think of it! By the time she arrived, the bones had started to mend but badly, with his feet turned inwards. He can’t walk any more but crawls like a sea creature.’

  Tears welled in my eyes, less for Meribaal, whom I scarcely recalled, than for Jonathan, his straight-limbed father. ‘Have you seen him?’ I asked.

  ‘How? That villain Joab dragged me here. But there's a former servant of your father's, Ziba – do you remember him?’ I shook my head. ‘You will when you meet him. Menucha is long dead, as is her brother, but her nephew has charge of Meribaal.’

  ‘And David knows nothing of it?’

  ‘It seems not. Ziba has the occasional word from Lodebar and brings it to me when he can. But it's hard. Men are forbidden the harem.’

  As if to belie her words, or rather to assert his privilege, Jonadab entered the chamber to inform me of David's return. Proclaiming his excitement at being the one person to attend both our wedding and our reunion, he led me back into the courtyard where my mother's namesake was sitting with two of her fellow wives and their children, although the focus of everyone's attention was Amnon, who stomped up and down, squashing ants.

  ‘Do you wish to prepare? Shall I call for water?’ asked Jonadab, who appeared to have given up hope that I might change my clothes.

  ‘No. All I need is here.’ I walked to the hearth, raked up a handful of ash and rubbed it on my face, repairing the ravages of the journey. While the three women watched in silence, Amnon, furious at being ignored, picked up an ant and pressed it into his younger brother's mouth.

  Jonadab studied me with a mixture of fascination and disquiet, before leading me back into the first courtyard and through an archway into a third. Dazzled by the building's immensity, I walked up the stairs and entered a long, sombre chamber. A cluster of lamps at the far end lit up a golden throne on which David sat, as rigid as the wood. I was shocked by the contrast with my father who, even in the council of elders, had occupied an ordinary chair. The only throne in his kingdom had been the Ark in faraway Kiriath-Jearim, set apart for the Lord. Despite his grievance, Father had been careful to maintain the distinction that David blurred.

  As we approached the throne, Jonadab fell to his knees. Brushing his hand from my sleeve, I remained standing while lowering my eyes, not in homage but in dread of what I might see – what I might feel – when I looked up at him. My heart was stone, but I feared its treacherous quiver. I wanted to ease myself into his presence: first, hearing his voice; next, seeing his face; and finally, touching his hand or his lips. I recalled the hold he had once exerted over me. His was the evil spirit that had possessed me and, unlike my father, I couldn’t look to his music to set me free.

  ‘I’ve brought the Princess Michal, my lord,’ Jonadab said, breaking the silence.

  ‘I see that the way was dusty,’ David said, after a brief appraisal of my appearance.

  I baulked. Was this all he could find to say to his wife – his beloved's sister... his predecessor's daughter... or whatever I was to him – after thirteen years. ‘I’m in mourning,’ I replied.

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘My husband.’

  ‘I am your husband,’ he said, and the muffled fury in his voice, once so familiar, emboldened me to look up. He had changed. His neck had thickened until only his bushy beard, a deeper russet than his hair, distinguished it from his jaw. His hair remained luxuriant but his hairline appeared to have edged up his forehead like a cover that had slid down a bed. His right cheek was badly scarred, which surprised me since it was widely believed that none of his enemies came close enough to strike a blow. His chest and shoulders looked broader than ever, which might have owed something to his richly embroidered mantle; but he was no taller – a thought that would not have occurred to me had I not been living in a house of growing boys. Having feared that I might feel a tinge of desire – however slight, however residual – on seeing him, I was dismayed to feel a twinge of regret at its absence. He was my youth and, while it would be as futile to weep over the passing of time as over the sun's setting in the evening, a part of me hoped that seeing him would restore the hope, the joy, the innocence, the excitement and whatever else I had felt back then. I wondered if he were hoping for as much from me.

  ‘He was my husband,’ I insisted. ‘Paltiel ben Laish.’

  ‘I knew that he was a weak old man. I didn’t know that he’d died.’

  ‘He hasn’t. Not yet. But I’m afraid that his heart will break at our parting.’

  ‘A man who breaks his heart over a woman is no better than a woman himself.’

  ‘So speaks a man who plucks a woman from her family like a wolf snatching a ewe from her lambs.’

  ‘What lambs? Did the old man give you children?’

  ‘No.’ I blacked out the image of the five motherless boys for fear he should see it reflected in my eyes.

  ‘I have given my wives six sons. One died.’

  ‘And daughters?’

  ‘Two or three. Wouldn’t you want a child with me? You’re thirty-six years old,’ he said with habitual precision. ‘There's still time.’

  ‘Since when have you been so familiar with the ways of women?’

  ‘Since I built them a harem.’

  ‘Them or yourself?’

  ‘What's theirs is mine. I am their king.’ He rose from the throne and thrust his face a palm's breadth from mine. ‘Your voice has grown hard but your skin has stayed soft... as soft as the first time I touched it.’ He touched it again; I flinched; he smiled. ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful you are.’

  ‘As beautiful as my brother?’

  It was his turn to flinch. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The lament you wrote on his death. “Surpassing the love of women.”’

  ‘It was a different sort of love.’

  ‘Is there a scale? The Lord at the top. Next Jonathan. Then all the women you take to your bed: wives, concubines, slave girls.’

  ‘Wait and see. Tonight, it will be you.’ He drew back. ‘Don’t fight me, Michal; you’ll only lose. It may take a week... a month... a year, but you’ll lose. Everyone does. See how the Lord smiles on me.’ He gestured expansively at the chamber without taking his eyes off me. ‘The king of Gath himself has nothing finer. You can share it with me.’

  ‘Along with the rest of the ewes in your fold?’

  ‘I warn you; don’t fight me.’ He snapped his fingers and Jonadab emerged from the shadows. I was shocked to discover that he had been present all along. Were even a king's most private moments public, or did David require a witness for them to feel real? ‘Jonadab will take you to your chamber. You’ll find everything you want. Clean yourself and change your linen. Your husband lives.’

  As we walked out, I couldn’t stop shaking. Jonadab nodded approvingly as if it were the only appropriate response to meeting the king. In truth I was horrified by David's presumption. In the p
ast, his wanton self-confidence had been tempered by moments of self-doubt. Now, with the palace, the throne, even the harem, attesting to the Lord's favour, he had abandoned all vestige of modesty: ‘Don’t fight me, Michal; you’ll only lose... Everyone does.’ He had betrayed my father; he had violated my mother; he had torn me from my home: yet he was convinced that I would yield to his will, as eager for his calloused caresses as when I was a girl and knew no better. But he was wrong. I vowed to keep my hatred burning like a lamp at the bedside of a frightened child. I vowed to keep my body as cold and unyielding as a hidden blade.

  Jonadab led me to my chamber, which was perfumed with jasmine and henna. Either from the heavy smell of the herbs, the strain of seeing David or the exertion of the journey, no sooner had he left than I crawled on to the bed and fell fast asleep. I dreamt that I was on the seashore waiting for a ship to transport me to a distant land. Merab appeared at my side, although she was only seventeen while I was twenty years older. I had no time to ponder the incongruity, since the ship docked, with our five children on board. After a moment of relief, I was seized by terror that, in the joy of the reunion, they would set sail again without me. I waded into the water, but what I thought were waves lashing my legs was Abigail shaking me awake, announcing that she had come to help me prepare for my night with David.

  Ahinoam and Eglah followed her, the one carrying a fine white linen robe and the other a bowl of oil of aloes. Three bondwomen brought in basins of water, soap and towels. Much as I wished to prolong my defiance, I was grateful to wash off the ash that had inflamed my skin. Ahinoam soaped and sponged me with a tenderness that I felt moved to praise. ‘I learnt from the kindest of mistresses,’ she replied, and I discovered, to my amazement, that she had been Abigail's maidservant. David had lain with her within weeks of his marriage, but they hadn’t let it drive them apart. Abigail and Ahinoam were equally affectionate with Eglah. She was David's latest wife, the daughter of the Reubenite chief, and, of all her manifest attractions, I felt sure that the greatest for David had been her father's amity. She sang an ancient song of the Lord's sacred rainbow as she dried me and rubbed my body with oil. I was reminded of Mother and Hodiah dressing me for my wedding feast to David. Then I had gone to his bed full of love and hope and excitement, mixed with a touch of foreboding. My only emotions now were revulsion and contempt.