Amnon returned to the palace to attend the council and, according to Bathsheba who heard it from Ahitophel (such is the roundabout way that information reaches the harem), he prostrated himself and kissed his father's feet in an obeisance that David disdained. As he took his seat, everyone present waited for David to pronounce his sentence, but he said nothing, any more than he has done since. I realise how hard it is for him to punish his son and, what's more, for a crime that he himself has committed, but it has to be done or else the injury will fester. Just as he or, rather, the baby Eliada paid the price for Bathsheba's rape, so Amnon must for Tamar's. The king's first duty is to uphold the Law.
Absalom comes to the council, sitting alongside Amnon but refusing to acknowledge him with so much as a glance. This time I receive an account not from Bathsheba but from David himself who, wilfully obtuse, sees it as the first sign of forgiveness. When I suggest otherwise, he retorts that he has spoken to Absalom and persuaded him not to seek retribution. His priority is to find Tamar a husband and, with their kingdom ravaged, his thoughts turn to one of the Moabite princes. When the prospect is raised, Maacah protests at her daughter living on a mountaintop and, incited by Michal, insists that David's sole concern is to send her away so that he no longer has to contemplate her shame. In the event, Tamar is in no state to marry anyone. When at last she is allowed to visit her, Maacah reports that it's as if she has been possessed by an evil spirit in the shape of a wild beast. She doesn’t speak but merely yelps and howls, wallows in her own filth, and lashes out at anyone who approaches – even her mother. When Absalom can no longer bear to have her in the house, he dispatches her to the farm that David has given him in Baal Hazor.
After the collapse of his son's betrothal, King Toi offers his daughter, Danatiya, to one of the royal princes and, in a show of gratitude for his support and his only public rebuke to Amnon, David bestows her on Absalom, permitting his second-born son to marry before his first. The wedding goes some way towards healing the divisions in the harem. Ahinoam congratulates Maacah and embroiders the bride's veil, its intricacy all the more remarkable given her stumpy fingers. Bathsheba gives Absalom a pearl the size of a plum that I first saw on the girdle of Achish's boy in Gath. I give Danatiya a comb of gold and bone that belonged to Shirah and which she immediately passes to Absalom, declaring – with reason – that he has the finer head of hair. I am relieved to see Amnon sitting beside Absalom at the first evening's feast, even though it's Adonijah and Shephatiah who escort him to his gate to await his bride. As they leave, Maacah draws her son aside for a private word. I am too far away to hear what is said, but his expression suggests that she isn’t wishing him joy. Nevertheless, his reply appears to mollify her and she returns to the table with a broad smile.
Absalom's first child is born the following year. He names her Tamar, which I fear that David will take amiss but, on the contrary, he expresses delight at hearing the name again, spoken with love. Two months later, Bathsheba's fourth child – a son, of course – is born and named Shobab. She finally gives up nursing Solomon, although not in favour of the newborn, since she says, with calculated immodesty, that at twenty-three, she needs to preserve her breasts for the king. To mark both his daughter's birth and the annual sheep-shearing, Absalom invites his father and the entire household to a feast at Baal Hazor. I am excited. As the occasion for my first encounter with David, the festival holds a special place in my heart, but I haven’t had a chance to celebrate it since we left Hebron. To my dismay, David declines to attend, claiming that such a large gathering will strain Absalom's resources and license his extravagance. I suspect that a more urgent consideration is his increasing discomfort in the saddle.
Disappointed by his father's refusal, Absalom urges him to send Amnon in his stead. David agrees. Amnon, still struggling to regain his favour, is loath to disobey but equally loath to journey to Baal Hazor. He offers several unconvincing excuses, when the obvious one is his fear of meeting Tamar. David, who has banished the thought of his ruined daughter, along with everything else beyond his control, asks him if he is deliberately trying to offend Absalom and perpetuate their feud.
‘Not at all,’ Amnon replies, ‘but I hate the way that he seeks to impress you with his magnanimity.’
‘That's perverse,’ David says angrily, or so he relates it to me later. Yet, while I share his hopes for the visit, I also share Amnon's misgivings. I refuse to believe that marriage and fatherhood have so changed Absalom that he will renounce their lifelong rivalry, let alone his outrage over Tamar. I propose that David send his other sons as a safeguard and, despite his concerns about Absalom's purse, he agrees. Enjoining Ibhar and Eliphelet to watch over him, Bathsheba even permits Solomon to go, her desire for him to associate with his brothers outweighing her fear of letting him out of her sight.
Jonadab arranges everything. Somehow he has convinced Absalom of his attempts to rescue Tamar and wormed his way into his favour. Meanwhile, he still serves Amnon. I suspect that he has promised each of the brothers to report on the other: reports carefully framed to his own advantage. He has even convinced David that his overriding ambition is to reconcile his two cousins, whereas I have no doubt – based, I admit, purely on instinct – that his true objective is to destroy them, if for no other reason than that they were born the king's sons and he his nephew. But I say nothing since, while David once respected my instincts, he now disparages them.
With the princes and their attendants in Baal Hazor, the palace feels as it did in the days when David was away on campaign. But the figure who flings open the harem door at dusk is no herald of victory. It is David himself and, though it may be a trick of the light, he appears to have aged twenty years. He tries to talk but the words stick in his throat and, after spluttering and choking, he disappears. No one speaks, but the questions in everyone's eyes are the same: has there been news from the feast? has some fresh quarrel erupted between Amnon and Absalom? have their younger brothers been forced to take sides? Beyond that is the most pressing question of all: has anyone been hurt? Ahinoam leans against the wall and slowly slides to the ground. Maacah stands stunned, not so much as blinking when Nechama clasps her hand. The rest of us look from one to the other, unsure whether to offer comfort and, if so, to whom. Only Bathsheba moves. Leaping up from the pond where she has been dangling her feet, she rushes to her chamber and returns, dragging Nathan so fast that he stumbles and clutching Shobab so tightly that he screams.
She is followed by Michal, her gaunt face more vulturish than ever. ‘Why are you all so quiet?’ she asks. ‘Has somebody died?’
One of the Jebusite concubines bursts into tears.
‘We think...’ Eglah says.
‘We think there's been news,’ Haggith elaborates.
‘There's always news,’ Michal says. ‘If the great king shouts at one of his advisers or summons one of my supplanters, it's news.’ She smiles in a bid to temper the insult. ‘So what is it?’
‘David was here a moment ago,’ I reply. ‘He didn’t speak, but he looked as though he had borne witness to every murder since Cain slew Abel.’
‘That's not news; it's justice,’ she says sourly. She paces the courtyard, adding to the general agitation, but no one dares challenge her. Even disgraced, she exudes an authority that none of us can match. Time passes, and Shobab's cries and Nathan's protests are no longer a distraction but a cruel reminder of the sons who may never return. Footsteps can be heard outside but no one approaches the harem until, finally, Ahitophel enters, his mission granting him access that, age and rank notwithstanding, he has hitherto been denied.
‘Ladies, I beg you to be strong,’ he says, dispensing with a preamble. ‘The king has had word from Baal Hazor. I can put this no other way; Absalom has killed all his brothers.’
There must be another way, since the one that he has chosen makes no sense.
‘Absalom has killed Amnon?’ Abital asks.
‘Yes,’ he replies gently. ‘And all his bro
thers. Adonijah and Shephatiah and Ithream and Jerimoth and Ibhar and...’
The list is drowned in an outburst of shrieks and wails. Maacah alone stands silent, shocked and shuddering, even as Nechama, still gripping her hand, bends double. Some of the women tear their hair and their robes, adopting the tested patterns of grief as if to contain it. Bathsheba, dropping Nathan's hand but still cradling Shobab, flies at Maacah and claws her face, leaving two deep furrows in her right cheek. Matred, her maidservant, drags her off as she repeats: ‘Solomon my king! Solomon my king!’, while Nathan, bemused, totters behind them. Amid the cacophony of anguish comes the jarring sound of laughter. At first I ascribe it to a mind so distraught that its responses have gone awry, only to find, to my horror, that the glee is genuine. With no child of my own to mourn, I strike a blow for us all as I slap Michal hard across the face. She falls silent, panting like a beast glutted on its prey.
Too weak to lift Ahinoam up, I sink beside her, stroking her soggy cheek. I rock her as if she were my daughter and realise that David was right: for the first time I’m grateful that Chileab is dead and I wept for him privately, rather than in the mayhem of mass slaughter. Ghostly faces take shape before me: other mothers’ sons whom I have watched grow, delighting in their accomplishments and commiserating on their sorrows, loving each for himself and them all for their kinship with David. So much youth... so much hope... so much life has been put to the sword. The Amalekites who murdered my family were strangers, but Absalom has bathed his hands in his own blood.
Ahitophel leaves the harem to its lamentations. Soon afterwards, Jonadab enters, as freely as if he had never been banished. ‘My lady,’ he says, walking towards Ahinoam and me. With his eyes respectfully lowered, I am at first uncertain which of us he's addressing, but his next remark makes it clear. ‘I mourn with you. Amnon was more than my kinsman; he was my friend.’
‘And Adonijah and Shephatiah,’ I say. And Solomon,’ I add, conscious of Bathsheba keening in the corner.
‘What of them?’ he asks, perplexed.
‘They were your kinsmen too.’
‘I would never deny it.’
‘And dead.’ I shriek at him, wishing that my words were blades.
‘Of course they’re not dead... Oh no! Has that rumour reached you too? Trust me, Amnon... Amnon alone is dead.’
Ahinoam howls.
‘But Ahitophel has just been here,’ I say.
‘And I have just come from the king. When Absalom's men struck Amnon, I bustled all the princes away. One of the servants, seeing them missing, thought that they had been taken out and killed. He rode straight back to the city, wanting to be the first to inform the king. He's paid a heavy price for his haste.’
‘Dead?’ I ask. Jonadab shrugs.
‘Solomon is alive?’ Bathsheba asks slowly.
‘Yes, my lady,’ he replies, resisting any impulse for revenge. ‘Alive and well, like the rest of them. I rode at full pelt. They can’t be far behind.’
Indeed, they are so close that he has scarcely finished speaking when Adonijah and Shephatiah enter. Haggith rushes to embrace her son, but Abital is rooted to the spot. Shephatiah moves towards her, but she holds him at arm's length, running her fingers over his face and chest.
‘Has Jonadab told you what happened?’ he asks.
‘You’re all safe?’ she replies.
‘Except Amnon,’ he says reproachfully.
‘The Lord be praised,’ Bithiah says. ‘I mean...’ Everyone knows what she means.
‘Tell us what happened,’ Haggith says, as Adonijah finally escapes her grasp.
‘The journey took four hours,’ he replies. ‘We reached Baal Hazor at noon, where we were greeted by Absalom and his men.’
‘No,’ I interject. ‘That's for later. Tell us what happened to Amnon.’
‘We were feasting,’ Shephatiah says, intent on a hearing. ‘Just the men, Danatiya and Tamar: the baby Tamar. Our sister was nowhere to be seen. There was so much food: pigeon stew; goat stew; fish freshly caught from the Jordan; duck; a goose.’
‘Amnon's favourite,’ Ahinoam says. I rub her hand.
‘He enjoyed it,’ Shephatiah says tenderly. ‘He was seated on Absalom's right. The servants made sure that his cup and dish were always full.’
‘That was kind,’ Ahinoam says dully.
‘But they killed him Adonijah says, fired with youthful indignation.
‘Hush!’ Haggith says. ‘What happened next?’
‘The servants brought in the fruit. They put a dish of peaches in front of Amnon and then two of them took out knives and held them to his throat.’ Ahinoam whimpers. ‘That's when Absalom gave the signal.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Shephatiah interjects. ‘No one saw.’
‘He must have done,’ Adonijah says. ‘Tamar came down the stairs into the courtyard. Our sister Tamar, not the baby. At first I didn’t recognise her – ’
‘No one did,’ Shephatiah says. ‘It was a shock.’
‘She was completely bald. As bald as your eunuch,’ Adonijah says, pointing to Hiempsal, who, devoid of purpose, stands silently against the wall. Maacah sobs and Nechama twists a hank of hair around her thumb. ‘She walked towards Amnon slowly, solemnly, a knife in her hand like a priest preparing for a sacrifice. He didn’t move a muscle but stared at her defiantly.’
‘You didn’t have a clear view,’ Shephatiah says. ‘He was more resigned than defiant. Smiling as if he were waiting for her to plunge in the knife herself.’
‘She should have done. She should have stabbed you all,’ Michal says.
Both boys start at the unfamiliar voice and one so deep that, anywhere else, it might pass for a man's.
‘She stabbed no one,’ Adonijah says, flustered. ‘She stopped just short of the table, which was when Absalom gave the signal – ’ Shephatiah makes as if to interrupt again. ‘When we assume that Absalom gave the signal, and they slit his throat.’
‘His head fell into the fruit,’ Shephatiah says.
‘“You are avenged,” Absalom said to Tamar. “You are cleansed. You are at peace.” But she didn’t seem to hear or, at any rate, she didn’t respond. She didn’t laugh or look happy – ’
‘But she didn’t scream or look sad. She stood – ’
‘She stood silently for a moment and then walked out of the courtyard and back up the stairs. No one spoke – not a sound – until Solomon started whooping and clapping. He actually clapped.’
The women shift their accusatory glances from Maacah to Bathsheba, who rises to her son's defence. ‘He's not yet four. Death to him is a goat slaughtered in the tabernacle. I’ve told him that it makes the Lord happy.’
‘This was his brother,’ Haggith says sharply.
‘He's not yet four,’ Bathsheba repeats. ‘Blood is what is offered to the Lord.’
‘We were dazed,’ Adonijah says. ‘Some of the younger ones began to panic.’ Shephetiah's harrumph indicates that some of the older ones did too. ‘Absalom swore that he meant no harm to anyone else. We were his brothers and he loved us. He ordered the servants to take Amnon's body away. You were there – ’ He points at Jonadab, whose silence compounds my misgivings. ‘You urged us to carry on eating.’
‘You did what?’ I stare at him in disbelief.
‘I didn’t know what Absalom might do next. I thought the safest thing was to act as if nothing had happened,’ he replies, contradicting his previous remark.
‘But it had,’ Adonijah says. ‘Our brother was dead. So I told Absalom that we had to leave if we were to return to the palace by nightfall.’
‘Adonijah managed it all,’ Shephatiah says admiringly. ‘He ordered the servants to saddle the mules. He even thanked Absalom for his hospitality.’
‘He was half-crazed; he must have been to suppose that I was sincere.’
‘We rode straight back, but somewhere outside Geba, Ibhar fell ill. He had a sort of fit.’
‘What? Is he hurt?’ Bithiah asks. ‘I m
ust go to him. Where is he?’
‘Where are they all?’ Eglah asks.
‘He's fine. They’re all fine. They’re on their way. We took Ibhar into the town. He recovered at once, but we thought he should rest before riding back. We left Ithream in charge and came on ahead.’
‘I must have come a different way,’ Jonadab says, as if to explain his rapid arrival. ‘I’ve made the journey so often.’
‘We wanted to bring the news to Father,’ Shephatiah says.
‘And to you,’ Adonijah says to his mother, who covers his face with kisses, which for once he doesn’t brush off.
The account concluded, I lead Ahinoam to her chamber. The women watch in silence as we pass, but the moment I close the door, they erupt in shouts of joy and thanksgiving, not vicious and vengeful like Michal's, but in their own way equally callous. Bathsheba's cry of ‘Solomon my king!’ continues to gnaw at my mind. Did I fail to catch the pause in what was ‘Solomon! My king!’, a plaint for both her murdered son and his bereaved father? Or was my initial suspicion correct and she was mourning not just the death of her own hopes but of the land's?
Absalom relinquishes Amnon's body to David, who buries it with every honour. Lamentations rend the air, as we process across the eastern valley to the tomb that David has lately built for himself. We return to the palace where he feasts the mourners, sitting on a stool lower than the least of them, ashes matted in his hair and beard and smeared on his face. Burnishing his son in his memory, he declares that not only has he lost one who was dearer to him than life itself but the people have lost their next king: it was Amnon who would have built the Lord his temple and secured his everlasting favour on the land. His words sadden me, not because he ignores Amnon's faults (his hands were also stained with innocent blood), but because he only named him as his heir once he was safely dead. Now that he has raised the issue of the succession, it will be a running sore. Adonijah and Shephatiah, flanking their father, are too artless to hide their excitement. Might one of them claim the crown or will the king pardon and endorse their elder brother? As if reading their minds, David repudiates Absalom.
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