The Anointed

by Michael Arditti

  ‘Let all here bear witness that I shall avenge my dead son. I have today sent a squad of guards to Baal Hazor to bring Absalom back to the city.’

  His declaration meets with a murmur of approval, if only at his taking action after dithering over punishing Amnon. The one note of dissent comes from Ahitophel who, rather than waiting for a private audience, entreats him to show mercy to Absalom.

  ‘Am I not due to punish my son's murderer?’ David asks, furious at the public challenge.

  ‘Are you not due to punish your daughter's ravisher?’ Ahitophel asks. ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, according to the Law.’

  ‘But Tamar still has her eyes and her teeth, whereas Amnon is grinning in the grave.’

  I would be more inclined to protest if I didn’t suspect that, for all his love for his sister, Absalom felt his own dishonour more keenly than her pain. Wondering what penalty David will exact, I fear that if it is too harsh it will provoke resentment – even rebellion – across the kingdom. Absalom is the best-loved of his sons, having won the place in peoples’ hearts with his charm and beauty that David had with his sling and sword. My fears prove to be unfounded, since the guards return from Baal Hazor without Absalom, who has fled to Geshur with his wife and daughter, leaving only his sister behind. Although he rants and curses, I sense that David is relieved.

  Absalom remains in Geshur for three years. Maacah begs David to forgive him and summon him home. When he refuses, she begs to be allowed to visit him and, at the same time, say farewell to her aged father. But the man who set such store by Michal's gory bride-price will never sanction Maacah's return to the father who sealed their alliance with her maiden blood. I fear that in denying her request, he punishes himself most of all. ‘YouVe lost one son,’ I say, ‘why deprive yourself of another?’ He insists that he has a ‘quiverful of sons’ to support him, but when he mistakes Ithream for Ibhar and pretends that it was a joke, his weakness is exposed. In desperation, I approach Bathsheba, trusting that her sway by night will exceed mine by day. She promises to assist in any way possible but, even as she speaks, I know that she will do nothing. My mind harks back to that ‘Solomon my king!’ How many of his elder brothers would have to die for her son to ascend the throne? Or does she plan to deny their birthright and subvert the succession?

  To my surprise, Absalom's most persuasive advocate is Joab. I doubt that he has any great affection for a man whose easy charm is everything that he lacks in himself and mistrusts in others, but he sees the effect that his absence is having on David, to whom his loyalty is absolute, even if it is now that of subject and soldier rather than kinsman and friend. Like Nathan before him, he addresses David through a story although, unlike Nathan's, the story is not his own but that of a woman from Tekoa. I have no way of knowing whether her plight is genuine and happens to serve Joab's purposes or if she is playing a part that he has devised, but she is – or claims to be – a widow whose sole surviving son fears for his life after killing his brother in a quarrel. Moved by her plea, David pardons him, only to discover that, by analogy, he has pardoned Absalom. I am amazed that he is so easily duped since the parallel is even more pronounced than it was in the case of Nathan's stolen sheep and, as he berates Joab for his duplicity, I wonder whether he's colluding with him in order to bring Absalom home without losing face. Thirty years by his side may have made me unduly suspicious, but I can’t help asking why, if he is as angry with Joab as he professes, he fails to punish him, just as he did for murdering Abner.

  David permits Absalom to return but refuses to receive him, declaring that he doesn’t trust himself not to forgive him at first sight. ‘Then do it,’ I say. ‘Banish him or reinstate him but, whatever else, avoid half-measures. They’ll simply make him bitter and you wretched.’ It is, however, increasingly hard to tell him anything that he doesn’t wish to hear. Whereas he once asked for advice, he now asks only for approval and I am forced to sneak my doubts into a stream of flattery like herbs into a sick child's soup. Absalom writes him letter after letter, expressing remorse and pleading to be restored to favour. David keeps them by his side to read over again, particularly proud of those that are smudged with tears – as though he has never sliced an onion! After two years of rebuffs, Absalom solicits help from Joab, but, either because David's mood has improved since his son's return or because he's tired of being an intermediary, he ignores him. In fury, Absalom sends his men to burn Joab's barley crop. I expect Joab, the most short-tempered man I’ve ever known, to wreak instant revenge. But, in a response that makes me question my own judgement, he offers to speak to David on Absalom's behalf.

  David finally relents and agrees to welcome Absalom, ordering the entire household to witness their reunion. We assemble in the great chamber. David sits on his throne, surrounded by his younger sons and chief advisers; a unit of guards lining the walls in a show of strength that only emphasises Absalom's confidence in coming alone. He runs towards David like a prisoner into sunlight and kisses his feet. As David leans forward to lift him up, the contrast between father and son is stark: David, golden-crowned, heavy and hunched, with tears streaming down his face; Absalom, golden-haired, slender and straight, his eyes dry. After pressing him to his breast, David releases him and pronounces a formal pardon, to which Absalom replies with a profession of penitence, gratitude and lifelong loyalty. As we make our way down to the courtyard for the feast, I keep close watch on Ahinoam, fearful of how she will react to seeing her son's murderer, but she shows no sign of recognising him. In the years since Amnon's death, she has withdrawn into herself, rarely speaking and greeting every remark with the same vacant smile.

  Absalom swiftly regains his place in David's affections and, if his younger brothers are disgruntled, they know better than to show it. Enchanted by his first grandsons, the three boys born to Danatiya in Geshur, David treats their father more indulgently than ever, even rebuking Bathsheba when she protests at his riding in a horse-drawn chariot while he himself makes do with a mule. He laughs it off as the ostentation of youth, when it's evident to anyone with half an eye that it's the presumption of a king-in-waiting.

  While David hides in the palace, increasingly unwilling to venture into his city, let alone to the far reaches of his kingdom, Absalom woos the people. After thirty years on the throne, David is showing that distaste for the routine of government he condemned in Saul. Even immured in the harem, we hear the clamour at the gates when the guards turn away petitioners. According to Haggith, whose reports from Adonijah are a useful corrective to those that Bathsheba and I receive from David, Absalom seeks out the spurned petitioners, inquiring about the nature of their grievances, sympathising with their frustration and insisting that if he were king, the case would be very different. I sense a growing threat of insurrection and put my fears to Ahitophel but, far from sharing them, he extols Absalom, describing him as the mainstay of David's old age. Bracing myself, I speak to Joab, who is equally dismissive, insisting that the issue is one for father and son to resolve between themselves. I finally pluck up courage to address David, whose response is both contemptuous and cruel. Are you trying to outdo Michal? Your own son is dead so you begrudge the love that I have for mine. I expected better.’

  So I keep silent when David grants Absalom licence to visit the sanctuary in Hebron to give thanks for their reconciliation. It would be equally effective – and far easier – to do so in the tabernacle, but he claims to have vowed to perform the sacrifice in his birthplace. Judging by the hubbub in the streets, he appears to be taking half the city with him. Chief among them is Ahitophel, whose presence reassures David since he is not only his longest-serving and most trusted adviser but Bathsheba's grandfather and therefore has a dual interest in preserving his crown. Yet in all these years, he has never shown particular concern for Bathsheba or her sons. It's as though, having brokered her marriage, he resents her independence and the influence she exerts on David.

  Three days after Absalom's departure, Hi
empsal assembles the women in the courtyard and, his voice quavering, orders us to get ready to vacate the palace. A chorus of ‘Where's and ‘Why's is underscored by the wailing of Shobab and Shammua, Bathsheba's two infant sons, instinctively sharing the alarm. I ask if the Moabites or Edomites, profiting from David's preoccupation, have regrouped and invaded, but Hiempsal insists that he knows nothing. Determined to find out for myself, I bundle up my jewels, to which I attach an importance I would once have scorned, and venture into the main courtyard, where a captain informs me that messengers have arrived from Hebron with news that Absalom has declared himself king. Disaffected men are flocking to him from across the land and he is preparing to march on David's city.

  My outrage at Absalom's treachery gives way first to anger at David's sanctioning his visit and then pity at his deception. Eager to lend him my support, I hurry past the distracted guards, reaching the great chamber just as Joab is leaving. Ushering me away, he tells me that David is in council and not to be disturbed.

  ‘Why are we fleeing rather than staying to fight?’ I ask.

  ‘Can’t you see that I’m busy?’ he replies. ‘Besides, this isn’t flight but a tactical withdrawal to give us time to marshal our forces. David is more concerned about the city – this palace, the tabernacle and everything that he's built – than he is about himself. When we attacked the Jebusites, the walls seemed unassailable. Then we found a way through the water shaft. Absalom knows the story well enough. What's to stop him doing the same?’

  ‘Why don’t you block it off?’

  ‘Then what would you have to drink? Take it from me, this business won’t last long. At the first reversal, Absalom's followers will desert him. You’ll be back in your bed before the grape harvest.’

  Joab heads to the gatehouse and I return to the harem, which is in turmoil. With the women reluctant to relinquish their treasures, the servants are adding packs and boxes to already overburdened donkeys and carts. David has ordered all his wives to accompany him, but Michal refuses. To my amazement, he doesn’t coerce her. It's as if he calculates that her presence on the journey would do more damage than the challenge to his authority. He is taking all the Jebusite concubines but leaving the foreigners, charging them to keep watch over the palace and prevent looting, an impossible task for any women, let alone those who can barely speak the language. Although Hiempsal maintains that there are insufficient donkeys to transport them, I am convinced that David's real reason for abandoning them is the fear that the sight of too large a harem, especially its more exotic members, would inflame the populace. What in a young man was admired as a sign of virility would in an old man be condemned as unbridled lust.

  For the children, this is an adventure. Adonijah, Shephatiah and Ithream, who are old enough to fight, march boldly among the guards. Eager for their first taste of battle, they seem unperturbed that it's against their brother and fellow countrymen. Their younger brothers and sisters ride in the carts, except for Solomon, whom Bathsheba insists on keeping by her side. She claims that his presence makes her feel safe, but one glance at the callow youth with his scraggy chest, spindly arms and sloping shoulders suggests that it is the other way round. While David may have embellished his stories of grappling with the lions and bears that attacked his flock, I have no doubt that if any enemy, man or beast, threatened her eldest son, Bathsheba would tear it apart with her bare hands.

  After a long delay, David appears, followed by Ibhar proudly bearing his shield, and we make our sluggish way out of the city, down the hillside and across the valley. As we begin the ascent of the Mount of Olives, we spy a second procession in our wake, led by four Levites carrying the Ark. My assumption that David, anxious to save the sacred throne from falling into Absalom's hands, has ordered them to join us, is confounded when, breathless and sweating, Abiathar, the high priest, and Zadok, his assistant, arrive.

  ‘We have come to bring you the Lord's protection, my lord,’ Abiathar says.

  ‘I thank you for your concern,’ David replies, ‘but you must return the Ark to the city. We have given it a home. That matters more than whether the guardian of that home is David or Absalom.’

  ‘Surely you wish to have the Lord with you?’ Zadok asks.

  ‘If the Lord is with me, he will restore me to my city. If not, I shall live in the wilderness once again.’ He raises his voice to address the entire company. ‘This isn’t a fight between the Lord and the uncircumcised but a quarrel between father and son. Besides,’ he adds to the priests, ‘you must be my eyes and ears in the city, sending me word of all that occurs.’

  ‘We are yours to command, my lord,’ Abiathar says, before instructing the Levites to return. I tremble as they make their perilous descent but, despite the heavy load, steep slope and uneven ground, the bearers don’t miss a step. At one point they risk colliding with Hushai, whose erratic advance stems as much from his own frailty as his donkey's obstinacy, although he veers aside just in time. The Ark continues on its way and the aged adviser heads towards us. He has dressed in sackcloth and ashes, a token of distress that smacks of despair. For a man of his years, the ride must be painful enough without the added chafing of the robe, and David, with a mixture of solicitude and shrewdness, sends him home, insisting that he will be more use to him if he stays in the city to counter Ahitophel and mislead Absalom. No sooner has Hushai turned back than Ziba, Meribaal's steward, arrives, leading two donkeys laden with bread, fruit and wineskins.

  ‘What's this?’ David asks. ‘I forgot about your master yet he thinks to send us these rich supplies.’

  ‘Not so, my lord,’ Ziba replies. ‘I’m here without his knowledge. I told him of your lordship's departure and he laughed. I asked if he wanted to follow you but he refused. He prefers to stay in the city and wait for the rebels to restore him to his grandfather's throne.’

  ‘He imagines that Absalom is attacking me – breaking the sacred bonds of kinship – for his benefit?’ David asks incredulously.

  ‘Or else that the two of you will destroy each other like wild beasts and he will step into the breach.’

  The notion strikes me as implausible. On the few occasions I have spoken to Meribaal, his one desire has been to live in peace – preferably, in obscurity – not to ascend a throne that he can only reach on his knees. But David, disposed to see treachery everywhere, believes it and grants Ziba the title to his master's lands, which I suspect that he has been plundering for years.

  The last stragglers having arrived, we wind our way down the mountain towards the east. We must present a sorry spectacle to the many onlookers who leave their homes and fields to watch us pass. Even so, their reticence unnerves me. Time was when David could not venture out of doors without eliciting a chorus of cheers. Now the deafening silence is broken only by the odd shout, no doubt prompted as much by fear of the heavily armed guards as by reverence for the king. Joab, hot-headed as ever, proposes to order the guards to teach the ‘disrespectful curs’ a lesson, but David overrules him, refusing to compel his subjects’ loyalty. Even when we enter Bahurim and an old man loudly curses him for supplanting the house of Saul, David refuses Abishai's demand to silence him with his sword. ‘How can I punish a stranger who reviles me and wishes me dead when my own son does the same?’ he asks, in a response worthy of his crown. But when he turns aside, he is ashen.

  Bathsheba echoes Joab's sentiments. Her constant need to proclaim her devotion to David is precisely what makes me mistrust it. After all, if I can’t forget her violation, how much harder must it be for her? Nevertheless, I am careful not to challenge her and nod politely when, quivering with fury, she draws her donkey alongside mine. ‘How dare these people insult him? Don’t they realise how much they owe him? When have they or their forefathers ever enjoyed so long a peace? Fifteen years! Fifteen years, when they’ve been able to till their fields and tend their flocks: fifteen years when they’ve been able to see their daughters married and their sons come home at night, not marching off to war.�
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  ‘When did their forefathers ever pay such heavy tithes?’ I ask. She makes to reply but I forestall her. ‘I’m not saying that I agree with them. Far from it. But I understand them. They sweat and toil to swell the king's coffers.’

  ‘And his toil? He labours for them night and day.’ I stifle a laugh at the thought of his night-time labour, with which she is more familiar than I. ‘If they want peace and protection, they have to pay for it.’

  ‘But do they want the city that they’ve never seen? Rightly or wrongly, it's said that he cares more for his buildings than his subjects. You remember the Ephraimite who came from Shechem – only two days’ journey away? He was so disappointed that the palace wasn’t made of gold. How everyone laughed! But if such beliefs are widespread, peoples’ resentment is understandable. What's more, they now find him travelling with thirty mysteriously veiled women, some wearing lavish jewels.’ I gaze in reproof at her jacinth ear-hoops, gold nose-ring and emerald bracelets.

  ‘Would you rather we sneaked through the land like thieves? The splendour of his women is the splendour of the king and the splendour of the king is the splendour of his people.’

  I yield to no one in my love and respect for David.’ Even as I speak, I feel a flicker of doubt; although my love is as strong as ever, my respect has been shaken. ‘But he has taken his people for granted.’

  ‘What do they know of Absalom? How many victories has he won? How many laws has he framed? And, yes, how many cities has he built? What can he give them that David can’t?’

  ‘Youth? Hope? Or maybe just novelty? David has been king for more than thirty years. People with so little else in their lives need change to give them meaning.’

  With a toss of her head, she draws back her donkey and calls Solomon. We ride on through increasingly barren terrain, finally reaching a sheltered ravine, where we pitch camp for the night. We share a simple meal of bread, cheese and olives, along with the dates brought by the newly enriched Ziba. As I crouch down behind a line of boulders, which provide a measure of privacy from the men, I’m amused to hear women young enough to be my granddaughters grumble about the dirt and discomfort. To my relief, Maacah, who would otherwise be the first to protest at privations no Geshurite princess should have to endure, is silent. Mindful that it's her son from whom we are fleeing, she moves a short distance from the rest of us, spreads out her mantle, lies down and squirms.