The Anointed

by Michael Arditti

  The night air is sharp and, while Ahinoam, cushioned by her own flesh, snores gently beside me, my old bones grate on the stony ground. From the far side of the ravine, above the snores and the chatter and the indeterminate groans and murmurs of man and beast and even the earth itself, comes a gentle strumming. Both moved and intrigued, I slip between the sleeping bodies to find David sitting by a waning fire, playing his lyre. Abishai, keeping watch beside him, nods to let me pass. I stand expectantly, knowing that David senses my presence, although it's a moment before he looks up.

  ‘I thought it was you.’

  ‘I heard you playing.’

  ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘It's my whole life.’

  At a stroke he is no longer the careworn king, portly, jowly, his once-flaming hair a dying ember, but the young warrior falteringly confessing that he writes poems. Then he was too shy to sing them to me, even in private. But in later years they have been sung by the priests and Levites in the tabernacle and in sanctuaries across the land: poems of joy and thanksgiving, when the Lord has showered him with blessings, and of pain and perplexity, when he has withdrawn his favour. He has made himself the voice of his people, king by dint of his words as much as his sword. But the poem he sings now is as desolate as the night itself, shot through with anguish as he chastises himself for the wickedness that has led the Lord to turn against him and his beloved son to rebel. I long to take him in my arms and comfort him as I did in Carmel, Gath and Hebron, but I find myself held back as if by an iron chain. It is not the years or the crown or the presence of younger, more beautiful women that constrains me but rather his impregnable sense of guilt.

  I listen as he plays, repeating the same desperate phrases, until, unable to bear any more, I make my way back to the women. I don’t think that I sleep, although in the wilderness the line between dream and reverie is blurred. We break camp before dawn, trekking through the arid, dusty hills; then in the late afternoon, we reach the Jordan. The water is low and Abital's donkey and baggage are the only casualties of the crossing, the drowning beast diverting the children. We reach the town of Succoth where the elders offer their homes to the king, his wives and generals, while the soldiers bed down outside the walls. Our stay is short, since the next morning we leave for Mahanaim, where we are to set up headquarters. It's a wise move since, by occupying what was once Ishbaal's capital, David reminds people not only of his past victories but that he is king of all Israel. And it's heartening that after the indifference shown to him in Judah, not only are the Gadites friendly but Joab's muster bears fruit. Eavesdropping on the new recruits, I find that Goliath has grown by two cubits and David's legend increased accordingly. For all my unease, I would never disabuse them since, in the battle against Absalom's youth and promise, that legend is the strongest weapon we possess.

  Joab urges David to return to Judah and attack Absalom before he secures his position. David, as anxious to avoid fighting his son as endangering his city, holds back. Any hope that Absalom will acknowledge his perfidy and renounce the crown is dashed by Abiathar's son, Jonathan, who, as agreed, brings word from the palace. Hearing of his arrival, I hurry into David's chamber, which still reeks of the pelts that were stored there. Although he greets me warmly, it is clear that my presence disconcerts the young man.

  ‘Forgive me, my lady, but what I have to report isn’t fit for a woman's ears.’

  ‘These ears have heard... these eyes have seen things unfit for anyone, man or woman,’ I say.

  ‘Lady Abigail has as strong a stomach as any soldier,’ David interjects, to my consternation.

  ‘Whatever you say, my lord,’ Jonathan replies. ‘The night that he entered the palace, Absalom ordered a tent to be pitched on the roof. He had the concubines that my lord left there brought to him and he lay with them, one by one. I was among the crowd in the street below, watching the shadows play on the walls of the tent.’

  ‘And the Princess Michal?’ I ask, as David sits aghast.

  ‘I couldn’t see their faces,’ Jonathan replies slowly.

  ‘But he lay with all the women?’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘I wanted to bring her with me. You were there; you heard,’ David says to me. ‘She can’t blame me for that.’

  ‘She can’t blame you for anything,’ I reply. But even as I speak, the memory of his lying with her mother springs into my head. ‘I tried to be gentle,’ he said to me, ‘but her body was clenched.’ Now Absalom has done to his wife what he did to Saul's.

  ‘I should have brought her by force. I should have brought them all. I should have heeded Nathan's prophecy, but it was too painful. Besides, sooner or later it had to be fulfilled. He never specified which of my kinsmen would rob me or which of my women he would take. It might have been Ahinoam or Abital or Bathsheba or even you. At least apart from Michal, they were women sent to me in tribute or won in war.’

  ‘They are still people.’ I am sickened by Absalom to whom the women were tokens, by David to whom they were trophies, but, equally, by myself to whom they were an embarrassment. In common with the other wives, I made no attempt to befriend them. Except for exchanging courtesies, they kept to themselves, speaking their own languages, which suited those of us who liked to pretend that we had chosen our fate.

  Joab revels in the news, trusting that the conclusive evidence of his son's intentions will finally spur David to act. But he refuses to be rushed, preferring to wait for Absalom to make the first move, a tactic that is vindicated two days later when Abiathar's second emissary, Zadok's son Ahimaaz, brings word that his army is on the march. Just as David had hoped, Absalom ignored Ahitophel's advice to launch an immediate attack and swallowed Hushai's lie that, by waiting to mount a full-scale offensive, he would demonstrate his superior strategy The rebuff drove Ahitophel to despair. He quit the palace for his house in Ephraim where, according to his steward, he examined the accounts and inspected the storeroom, arranged for the repair of a broken fence and gave instructions for his evening meal. Then, with no indication that anything was amiss, he went up to his chamber and hanged himself.

  I am shocked. Despite his treachery, I retained my respect for the old man, who was a wise counsellor first to Saul and then to David. However hard he tried, he never displayed the same esteem for David after his violation of Bathsheba, but he continued to serve him – or, rather, the crown – until he thought that he had found a worthy successor. But, on discovering that the son was as headstrong as the father, he took the only course left to him. Even traitors can die with honour.

  Claiming that he has to consult his generals, David charges me with breaking the news to Bathsheba, who is more distressed than I expected. Having lost no opportunity to denounce her grandfather since his defection to Absalom, she breaks down on hearing of his death.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she says, struggling to compose herself. ‘Please don’t mention this to the king.’

  ‘He was your grandfather!’

  ‘Yes. He disapproved of me all my life. He betrayed the king, so he deserved to die. And yet I can think of nothing but how he went about it. No fuss, no mess. Methodical to the last. Even journeying to Ephraim.’

  ‘Was it his favourite place?’

  ‘Not at all. He disliked the quiet. He was always happiest in the palace, at the heart of great affairs. He’d built himself a tomb outside the city. It's where we buried Uriah. He must have feared that when Absalom was defeated, his body would be disinterred and defiled. Who’ll take the trouble to travel to Ephraim?’

  I seek out Solomon who, studying a scroll, shows little concern for his mother's grief, until I allege that his father has asked him to console her. Meanwhile, David prepares to encounter Absalom. So many men have rallied to his cause that he divides the army into three: a third under Joab; a third under Abishai; and a third under Ittai, a Philistine who was once Achish's representative in Hebron but has since aligned himself with us. David declares his resolve to take overall comm
and himself, provoking a noisy confrontation with Joab, which, in the cramped confines of the house, I can’t help overhearing.

  ‘That's madness!’ Joab says, adding a belated ‘My lord’, as if in response to David's glower. ‘You’re in no fit state. You’re too slow. You’d be a liability.’

  ‘I’m three years younger than you!’

  ‘But I haven’t spent half my life sitting on my backside, listening to petitions, feasting with emissaries.’

  ‘More to the point, the enemy's chief objective will be to capture you,’ Abishai, more politic than his brother, interjects. ‘We’d have to set aside so many men to protect you that we’d leave ourselves vulnerable elsewhere.’

  David emits a mollified grunt. Although he later rails against Joab's insolence, I detect his relief at not having to face his son in the field.

  He assembles the army at the city gate and makes them swear to capture Absalom alive. It is plain from Joab's expression as he takes the vow that he has no intention of keeping it. For the first time in years I find myself among a crowd of women waving off the departing troops. When the last man marches away, David orders a guard to bring a stool, on which he sits in the shadow of the gates. I approach, eager to comfort, support or merely distract him during his vigil, but he prefers to wait alone, dismissing me along with the guard. I return to the house, where time passes so slowly that it feels like the day when the sun stood still so that Joshua could destroy the Amorites. Now, however, there is no foreign enemy to defeat; it's Israelite against Israelite, father against son, and brother against brother, since Adonijah, Shephatiah, Ithream and Ibhar are ranged against Absalom.

  Dusk finally falls, swiftly followed by word that the watchman has spied a messenger heading towards us. In company with Bathsheba, Solomon and Bithiah, I run down to the gates just as Ahimaaz arrives from the battlefield. Scarcely pausing for breath, he prostrates himself at David's feet.

  ‘Praise to the Lord our God, who has delivered us from the hands of our enemies.’

  While the bystanders echo his words, David darts forward and asks haltingly: And my sons, are they safe?’

  ‘Quite safe, my lord. All four have fought valiantly.’

  ‘Four? There are five. What of Absalom?’

  ‘I can’t say, my lord. I only know that the princes Ithream, Ibhar, Adonijah and Shephatiah have shown themselves worthy of their father. Your enemies are routed, praise be to the Lord.’

  From his furtive expression, I sense that he could say more but that he is reluctant to break bad news to the king. He has scarcely finished speaking when a second messenger arrives, who, less aware of David's conflicted loyalties, greets him with a tally of enemy losses.

  ‘And Absalom?’ David asks, cutting him short.

  ‘Dead, my lord. And may all the king's enemies lie beside him!’

  ‘No, no, no!’ David shrieks, leaping forward and grabbing him by the throat. Ahimaaz and two guards look on in horror but shrink from laying hands on their king.

  ‘Stop! You’ll kill him!’ Solomon shouts, startling me as much as David, since I have never before heard him address his father unprompted. His warning brings David back to his senses; he releases the man, who falls to the ground, his eyes red with blood, clutching his neck and fighting for breath.

  ‘You lie!’ David says.

  ‘No, my lord, it's true,’ Ahimaaz interjects. ‘Joab told me to say nothing.’

  ‘Why?’ David asks harshly. ‘Did he kill him himself in the field?’

  ‘Not in the field, my lord, in the forest. When he saw that the day was lost, Absalom fled. He was caught in a thicket, his neck between two branches.’

  ‘Why didn’t the men cut him down? What about their vow to bring him back alive?’

  ‘Come indoors, my lord,’ Bathsheba says. ‘You should rest. You can question him later.’

  ‘No, now!’ he says angrily, as if by curtailing the account, she is killing Absalom twice over.

  ‘Joab shot him himself,’ Ahimaaz says. ‘With three arrows: the first to his belly; the second to his neck; the third between his eyes.’

  ‘Joab!’ David spits, as though his nephew's treachery surpassed his son's.

  ‘But he still wasn’t dead,’ the second messenger rasps with relish. ‘He squealed and squirmed until ten of Joab's men stabbed him, chopping him to pieces like a wild roe.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ David howls and runs back to the house. We women follow, only to find that he has bolted his chamber door. We stand outside, begging to be allowed in, as he sobs and sputters, the great poet struck dumb by anguish deeper even than that he felt for Jonathan. Then I stood with Ahinoam, listening as he composed his lament for his friend; now all I hear are the same words repeated over again: ‘Oh my son Absalom! Oh Absalom my son, my son!’

  The army returns to a silent city. In deference to David, the women refrain from victory songs and dances, shutting themselves in their houses, to which the men slink back like deserters. Seething with rage, Joab strides up to David's chamber, pushes past us and pounds the door with his bloody fist.

  ‘Stop this wickedness and come out now! You make me ashamed to be your general... ashamed to be your kinsman. Thousands of men have fought for you today and hundreds have fallen. Is this how you honour them: by locking yourself away and mourning the wretch who would have stolen your crown? You should be out there with them, greeting them and hailing their victory. And I tell you one thing: if you don’t pull yourself together, not a man among them will be left by your side in the morning – and I will be the first to go!’

  He waits with confidence for David to emerge, as if they were still boys and older, larger and more devious, he had him cornered. Sure enough, a few moments later David appears. I am unable to gauge his expression since he's staring at his feet, but the acrimony in his voice is unmistakable.

  ‘You’re right, of course: sons are easier to replace than generals. Gather the men at the gates and I’ll address them. They shall have feasting and celebrations tomorrow and rich rewards when we return to the city.’

  We remain in Mahanaim three more days before crossing back over the Jordan. To compound his grief, David is unable to recover Absalom's body, which Joab has buried in a forest pit, concealed beneath brushwood and stones. I too have cause to mourn, for Ahinoam, the servant and sister who has shared so many of my joys and sorrows since David's men first knocked at Nabal's gate, died the day after the battle, too crazed to appreciate the bittersweet victory, made so much sweeter for her by the death of the man who murdered her son.

  SIX

  Michal

  I almost wanted him back. At least when he was in the palace, no matter how thick the walls between us, I had known where to direct my hatred but, once he crossed the Jordan, he might have been anywhere: in the mountains of Gilead or the plain of Madaba or the forests of Bashan. It had been six days since Absalom led his army in search of him, time enough for them to have met in the field, but there had been no word. No messengers had arrived for Nathan or Hushai; no wounded soldiers had limped home to their wives or corpses been delivered to their widows. For all I knew he was dead: slain by his son, as my father had been by order of his son-in-law. Had the Lord finally heeded my prayer?

  Were it not for the uncertainty, I might have been content. I was less constrained than at any time since Abner abducted me. The harem was barely secured. Hiempsal, looking to prove his manhood, had been killed attempting to repel the invaders. Absalom had replaced him with Jonadab, the one man whom, like his father, he could trust to respect his rights. During the years that I was confined to my chamber, I saw more of him than of anybody else, which would have driven me to despair had I not elected to live among my dead: husband; father; sons and brothers. Sharing my ordeal, they sustained me in ways that Jonadab with his hollow deference would never understand. I had been wary of him ever since his boyhood visit to Gibeah, but it was not until Absalom's requisition of the harem that I had the true measure of the
man. He was the one who led us up to the roof and, while the flickering torchlight obscured the other onlookers’ faces, his displayed the same mixture of excitement and revulsion that I’d seen in Penuel and Malkiel when they disembowelled a hare.

  Despite that glimpse of his night-time face, his daytime face remained guarded. But of late he had struggled to conceal his apprehension. When Absalom set off, his golden hair streaming behind him like his horse's mane, Jonadab insisted that he would soon return victorious. But as time passed, he was obliged to admit the possibility that the Lord had favoured the father over the son. Eager for allies, he permitted me to walk outside the palace. I wore my veil (not for modesty, which was lost after my reputed coupling with my husband's son), but for protection. No matter who won the battle, I was David's wife and a target for both the Jebusites, who deplored his transformation of their city, and the Judahites, who resented his increasing repression. But the handful of people out in the streets hurried past, their heads lowered, as anxious as Jonadab to know which king they would be hailing on his return. So, after two desultory excursions, I kept to the eerily empty palace. My only companions were the concubines but, even had I been able to speak to them, I would have had nothing to say. They huddled in the courtyard for hours on end, lamenting their violation as if they were their own virgin daughters. How had they suffered? Their sole purpose was to serve a king's pleasure. What did it matter whether that king were Absalom or David?