The Anointed

by Michael Arditti

  ‘Act your age!’ I say bluntly. ‘You know very well that your father is negotiating her marriage to the prince of Hamath.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To seal the alliance.’

  ‘We have an army. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘So she can’t come and go as she pleases, visiting unmarried men.’

  ‘I’m her brother!’

  ‘Half-brother.’

  ‘Yes, rub it in, why don’t you! Absalom is loved by two sisters, whereas I have no one. No one.’ He turns to his mother. ‘You couldn’t even do that for me.’

  ‘You’re loved by many women,’ I say, as Ahinoam tries vainly to hide her tears. ‘You’re notorious for it.’

  ‘Is that all you’ll allow me, Aunt? Bedchamber love? Can I never hope for the sweet companionship of a sister?’

  ‘You’ll marry and have the companionship of a wife.’

  ‘When? Father hasn’t found me one and I’m not permitted to choose for myself. Without my sister's voice, my sister's face, my sister's gentle presence, I shall lose my wits. Didn’t Father lose his when he went to Philistia?’

  ‘That was a cloak to protect himself.’

  ‘I have no cloak. See!’ He throws off his bedsheet to reveal the eruption of spots on his chest.

  ‘My son, let me look.’ Amnon pointedly turns his back on his mother. ‘At least let me rub a salve on it.’

  ‘No, the only salve I need you won’t bring. Forget about me. Go away and leave me to die in peace.’

  Jonadab, as ever lurking in the shadows, calls to us. ‘It's wisest to do as he asks, my ladies.’ With Amnon remaining intransigent, I lead Ahinoam out of the chamber.

  ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. Shall we take an offering to the tabernacle for his recovery?’ I ask, back in the fresher air of the courtyard.

  ‘An excellent idea, my lady,’ Jonadab says, ‘but, in my view, the only thing that will cure him is a visit from Tamar.’

  ‘Why?’ Ahinoam asks, both pained and perplexed. ‘What can she do for him that I can’t?’

  ‘Nothing of course... and not as well,’ Jonadab says. ‘But a sick mind conceives strange fancies. And he has it fixed in his that she is what he needs.’

  ‘Then I’ll speak to the king,’ I say. Although loath to subject Tamar to such a foetid atmosphere, I am worried by the rash on Amnon's chest. Besides, twenty-five years of marriage to Nabal accustomed me to placating petulant men.

  We return to the palace, where I’m granted an audience with David. Crossing courtyards lined with idling guards, I try not to think of the time when I walked this way every day. Now, as well as a council of advisers, he has Bathsheba who, at the tender age of twenty-one, has secured an unrivalled place in his affections. Although the cause of his sin, she alone keeps him from dwelling on its consequences. The death of their son was just the first, for Nathan has prophesied that the Lord will take away his wives and concubines and give them to his kinsman. The only question is which of those kinsmen it will be: one of the brothers whom he has neglected; one of the nephews whom he has domineered; one of the sons whom he has allowed to run wild. I picture Bathsheba, undoubtedly a great beauty but no more so than most of the women in the harem, and wonder what it is that she does in the darkness to ease the pricking of his conscience. Maybe it's better not to know?

  When I enter the chamber, she is sitting beside David, with Solomon at her breast. David, who previously evinced disgust at a woman's secretions, is happy to watch him suckling for hours on the gnawed, distended nipples she displays like battle scars. Solomon was born with teeth, yet she was determined to feed him herself. After Eliada's death I understood her vigilance, but that was the Lord's will and, besides, unlike his brother, Solomon was strong. But it became a point of honour with her to suffer the pain as if she were nourishing him not just on her milk but on her blood. Even when Nathan was born, barely ten months after his brother, prompting conjecture that he had been conceived on the very day of her purification, she continued to favour Solomon, handing the newborn to a nurse. Listening to her relentless praise of her son's every babbling word and doddering step, I fear that he will grow up as conceited as Amnon. Then I stop and remind myself that my judgement is coloured by my loss.

  ‘That young man thinks of no one but himself,’ David says, when I put Amnon's request to him. ‘Today it's Tamar; tomorrow he’ll want to see Nechama or Eglah or you, Bathsheba. Should I allow her to go? What do you advise?’ I swallow my resentment as he appeals to her.

  ‘If Abigail thinks it's for the best, it must be,’ she replies artfully.

  ‘Then I agree. Arrange for Tamar to go there in the morning,’ he says to me. ‘Make sure she discovers what's troubling him. If it's serious, we’ll bring him back to the palace. If, as I suspect, he simply craves attention, we must impress on him that it's high time he faced up to his responsibilities.’

  Ahinoam is waiting for me at the gate of the harem. After informing her of David's decision, I seek out Tamar in her chamber, where she sits with her mother and sister, embroidering the collar of a robe. I relay David's instructions and am amused by her excitement at a rare escape from the palace. Maacah scowls. Her rivalry with Ahinoam, although more discreet, is just as intense as that of their sons, and I discern her reluctance for any of her children to wait on the ‘maidservant's boy’.

  ‘Believe me, it's out of the utmost respect for Tamar that Amnon asks for her,’ I say, in my most conciliatory tone.

  ‘See, Mother,’ Tamar says, her eyes welling with tears. ‘If I don’t go, he’ll die.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Maacah says. ‘If your father wishes you to go, you have no choice. But you must take Nechama with you.’

  ‘Oh no, Mother, please!’ interjects Nechama, as reserved as Tamar is effusive. ‘It's so hot. And I’d have to wear one of those hateful robes. Everyone will look at me.’

  I share her unease. To protect his daughters from any charge of impropriety, David has ordered that they wear a long-sleeved, bright-coloured robe whenever they leave the palace.

  ‘She's too sensitive,’ Maacah says to me, before issuing Nechama with what I suspect is a daily reminder: ‘You’re the daughter and granddaughter of kings. Of course, common people will look at you. But I shan’t force you. You must go on your own, Tamar. But don’t linger. I want you back here in good time.’

  The following morning Tamar puts on the designated robe as eagerly as if it were for her wedding. As she quits the harem, Ahinoam, who wisely left me to speak to Maacah alone, clasps her arm. ‘Be kind to my boy. Find out what it is that's ailing him and what any of us can do. Make sure at least that he eats some of your cakes.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Tamar says warmly, ‘I promise I’ll have him up and well in no time.’ She plants a quick kiss on Ahinoam's cheek and hurries out.

  ‘Most mothers have to defer to their sons’ wives. I have to defer to his sister,’ Ahinoam says to me sadly.

  ‘She’ll do everything she can. She's a good girl.’

  ‘I know. It must be all that royal blood!’ she replies, with a pointed glance at Maacah's chamber.

  The day passes slowly, like most days in the harem, and it's not until sundown that the slowness starts to feel sinister. While Maacah frets about her daughter's absence and Abital, who has only sons, seeks to reassure her by condemning their timekeeping, I am summoned to David's chamber, where Bathsheba's absence, ordinarily a cause for relief, is now one for alarm. Jonadab, more flustered than I have ever seen him, is conversing with David, whose face is as grey as a pillar.

  ‘Tell Lady Abigail what you’ve just told me,’ he says grimly.

  ‘All of it?’ Jonadab asks, with a show of reluctance.

  ‘All of it’

  ‘Princess Tamar came to visit Prince Amnon,’ Jonadab says, the titles adding to the gravity of his account. ‘She’d brought a dish of dough and honey.’

  ‘We thought he’d like to watch her make the cakes,’ I say.


  ‘Of course, of course. Nothing more natural. Amnon sent the servants away. I was surprised – ’

  ‘But you didn’t think to question him?’

  ‘It wasn’t my place,’ he replies, looking meekly at David. ‘The smell of frying cakes was delicious. The sizzling oil. The bubbling honey. I can still smell it now. Though I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat one again without thinking – ’

  ‘Enough!’ David says.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Amnon ordered me to leave too. I protested that it wasn’t seemly. Brother and sister, yes, but with different mothers. So he leapt out of bed and pushed – ’

  ‘He leapt?’ I interject. ‘Yesterday, he could scarcely move. His chest was inflamed.’

  ‘Nettles.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean... I think...’ He shuffles and stammers. ‘I was as astounded as you. I couldn’t believe that the sight of his sister... the smell of her cakes had revived him so fast. Then, as he was throwing me out of the chamber, I glimpsed a bunch of nettles beneath the bed.’

  ‘Why bother us with trifles?’ David says.

  ‘Do you need me to tell you what happened next or can you guess?’ Jonadab asks me.

  ‘Tell me anyway,’ I say, setting aside thoughts of the nettles. There will be time to consider his complicity later.

  ‘As soon as I was outside, the prince bolted the door. I banged on it, frightened for the princess... frightened for him. Look!’ He holds up his grazed knuckles like a child hoping for sympathy after falling from a tree he had been forbidden to climb. ‘I pleaded, but he was deaf to my pleas. And to hers. I heard steps and scuffles, ripping and panting and screaming. And then moans – deep, contented moans.’

  ‘Stop!’ I shout, as he speaks words that no father should have to hear. David buries his face in his hands and I wonder whether the carnal detail is Jonadab's revenge for the years he spent pandering to his uncle's desires.

  ‘Then everything went silent. I lay on the floor, trying to see under the door.’

  ‘What on earth for?’ I ask, extending my revulsion from the perpetrator to the witness.

  ‘I was afraid that he’d murdered her, of course,’ he says, affronted. ‘I barely had time to scramble up when the door swung open and he flung her out, as if she were no better than a concubine.’ David groans. ‘She was naked. I looked away, from respect for her modesty – her lost modesty.’

  ‘No, no, no!’

  I watch helplessly as David punches himself in the chest.

  ‘Forgetting my own safety, I pushed past him and fetched her robe and mantle (the tunic was too torn to be of use). I handed them to Tamar, who stared as though she had never seen them before. So I draped the mantle around her shoulders. She instantly shrugged it off, snatched the robe from my hands and scurried to the end of the passage, where she somehow managed to put it on. Struggling to make sense of what had occurred, I stared at Amnon. But his face was blank. No hint of tenderness or sorrow or contentment or disgust – with himself, I mean. All I saw was cruelty, but an inhuman cruelty like the idol of Dagon you brought back from Gath. Meanwhile, the princess had dressed and, wrapped in her mantle however tattered, she seemed to recollect who she was... where she was... perhaps both. “Do you mean to throw me out, brother?” she asked. The pain, the bewilderment, the quiet dignity of her voice would have melted any heart – even Dagon's – but Amnon was unyielding. He stared at her as at an insect he refused to swat in case it sullied his hand. “Where can I go? Who will have me? Don’t leave me with this burden of shame. Marry me!” Yes, she was so desperate that she begged to marry her defiler. Can you credit it?’ As he knew full well, the question was redundant, for we had the example of David's own marriage to Bathsheba. Notwithstanding the horror of his story, I had to acknowledge – even admire – the way he had expanded the circle of guilt to include David and that of perversity to include Bathsheba, his mortal enemy ever since the loss of his stewardship. ‘A deaf man would have pitied her entreaties; a blind man would have pitied her tears. But Amnon walked back into the chamber and bolted the door. I asked Tamar if she wanted me to bring her back here. “You’re very kind, Jonadab,” she said, “I’ll never forget how you’ve helped me.’”

  I cough to show that I see through what is at best an embellishment, but the grief-stricken king is grateful for any service to his ruined daughter. ‘I thank you, Jonadab, for everything you did for her – everything you tried to do.’

  ‘I only wish that it could have been more. She insisted on going to her brother's house.’

  ‘Absalom's?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, my lady. She gathered her mantle around her and dragged herself into the street, where she knelt and rubbed dust and filth into her tangled hair. She pulled on the rips in her robe – remember, she wore no tunic – so that streaks of her pallid flesh and the soft curve of her breasts could be clearly seen. And lower – ’

  ‘Enough!’ David says. ‘Were there people nearby?’

  ‘Crowds,’ Jonadab replies with unseemly relish. ‘But, to my relief, they all looked away. Some faced the walls as she passed; others fixed their gaze on the ground. Only a few young children giggled and pointed until slapped into silence by their mothers. I followed her of course, to ensure her safety.’ Too late, I think and for a moment fear that I have spoken out loud, but Jonadab continues unruffled. ‘Others joined me, like a burial procession in which Tamar was both the chief mourner and the corpse. The news spread fast and Absalom ran out to meet us when we were still some distance from his house. The instant she saw him, Tamar fell to the ground and began to keen: a long, low wail ending with a screech, as if all the pain in her body had turned to sound. Absalom scooped her up and carried her home. I hurried after them and tried to explain. “Later,” he shouted. “Later.” But I’m sure that he already knew. So I came here, leaving the princess in the hands of her protector.’

  ‘I am the princess's protector!’ David says. ‘She is my daughter. Absalom must return her to me at once. True, I can no longer expect Toi of Hamath to marry his son to her. But there will be some tributary king or troubled chief who’ll be glad to gain my favour.’

  ‘No matter the cost?’ Jonadab asks.

  ‘No matter. I’ll send Ahitophel to Absalom. He knows him to be the wisest of my counsellors.’ I hardly think that Bathsheba's grandfather is the best choice for such a task, but now is not the time to say so. And you must return to Amnon,’ he says to Jonadab. At the very least, persuade him to adopt an air of penitence.’

  ‘Provided he’ll listen. He may resent my helping Tamar and coming to you.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way,’ I say, making it plain that, unlike his uncle, I harbour serious doubts about his sincerity. After all, you’re a practised schemer.’

  ‘Only in my lord's service,’ Jonadab says. He leaves, bowing to David and ignoring me.

  ‘You were too harsh with him,’ David says.

  ‘Perhaps. I hope so. But I trust that you’ll take the same tone when you summon Amnon.’

  ‘I can’t bear to set eyes on him.’

  ‘You have no choice. You can’t disregard what he's done. The Law is unequivocal about the penalty for the violation of a betrothed woman. And Tamar was all but betrothed.’

  ‘You want me to put him to death? I’m his father!’

  ‘You’re the king.’

  ‘Would that I were the meanest slave! Leave me. I need to think. Besides you must tell his mother – and hers – before rumours start to circulate.’

  ‘Not me, my lord. Let them hear it from someone more judicious: Ahitophel or Hushai.’

  ‘Who better than you? My rock for all these years. No other woman means more to me... no other woman has done more for me. No, not even Bathsheba.’

  ‘But I haven’t given you a son... not one who lived.’

  ‘After this you may count that a blessing.’

  I return to the harem, which, though still in a state of ign
orance, is filled with foreboding. I gather the women around me and give them a condensed version of Jonadab's account, omitting as many of the shrieks and howls as I can without rendering it meaningless. Maacah supplies them in my place. Nechama, her eyes streaming, clings to her, both offering and seeking comfort. Ahinoam, mindful that Maacah's is the greater hurt, moans quietly in a corner. Not even Eglah and Haggith, her two closest allies, approach, as though blaming her for her son, a thought to which Maacah, breaking away from her daughter, gives voice. ‘May the Lord's curse be on Amnon as it was on Cain. May the sons of David rise up and kill him as the sons of Jacob killed Shechem and all his people when he assaulted their sister, Dinah. Amnon is the dirt beneath my feet – no, a worm crawling in the dirt. But what can you expect from the son of such a baseborn mother?’

  Ahinoam bridles and I fear that she may accuse Tamar of provoking or, worse, encouraging Amnon, when Michal, whose presence I had barely registered, chimes in. ‘You mean father! After all David is no stranger to abduction and rape. Small wonder that his son follows suit.’

  The women look shocked, as much by Michal's rare intervention as by her incendiary charge. I glance at Bathsheba who dandles Solomon and listens impassively, as though the remark had no pertinence to her. I have never understood why she used her influence with David to have Michal, then a stranger to her, released from her chamber – unless it were to flaunt the extent of that influence. No doubt she regrets it now.

  Maacah, reassured to know that her daughter is in her son's care, is anxious to visit her but, when she asks permission, Ahitophel refuses. He explains that David has ordered Absalom to bring Tamar back to the palace but, in a direct rebuff to his father, he insists that she's safer with him. David could, of course, dispatch the guard to take her by force but he fears that it would be viewed as a second violation: a display of military might and moral weakness. For the moment he prefers to leave things as they are, basking in the sympathy of his people, as though he, rather than Tamar, were the true victim. Her body has been ravished but his honour is stained.