He will have me thrown out to the street before I have a chance to open my mouth, because of my crazy act last time we met. I can still recall his voice, pointing me out to his advisors. “Am I so short of madmen that you have to bring this fellow here to carry on like this in front of me? Must this man come into my house?”
Despite his attitude toward me there is no other choice but to arrange some kind of a meeting. Perhaps I can offer my services to him, military aid and such, because in my homeland I am already considered a traitor. So why not take advantage of it, and live up to the name?
I muscle my way through the Philistine crowd, and arrive at the court, and whom do I see at the gate if not that large, formidable woman, whom I met on my last visit here. Back then I had no time to ask for her name. She is Delilah to me.
In clunky Aramaic she blurts out, “Boo! Philistines upon you!”
“Shhh… Don’t scare me,” I try to hush her. “Can you do me a favor, come before your king, Achish, and hand him a little note for me?”
She considers the offer. “You cute, yes—but to me, you nobody! I no do favor for strangers!”
I don’t take rejection too well. It makes me desperate. Being at the end of my wits I am forced to lead off with a flamboyant dash, at the end of which I am down on one knee.
“Come now,” I beg. “Don’t play hard to get.”
“Who, me?”
“Who else?”
To prove me wrong, she blows me a little kiss, which she follows with, “Hug me now?”
“I’ll do better than that.” I caress the big palm of her hand, and kiss each one of her chubby fingers in turn, and close them upon my little papyrus note, addressed to Achish. Then I raise my eyes plaintively to her as if to ask, Well? Will you do it for me? Bring this to him?
She shrugs me off. “Kissing not enough for me.”
I figure I have to pay her a bigger compliment, something she can brag about now, and cherish in the years to come. So I look left and right and say, quickly, “Don’t tell my wives I said this: truly, it’s you I love.”
“You kidding? How you say, you love me, when your heart not with me?”
“If I give you my heart,” I say, “my vigor will be gone.”
“Vigor?” she demands. Perhaps the word is unfamiliar to her.
“Vigor,” I confirm. “A stranger is one thing, and an impotent one is quite another, right?”
“Ah!” She smiles. “Vigor!”
With that she turns away, swaying her thick hips into the royal court. I must have underestimated her charms. They must be quite alluring for some men, because within minutes the gate is flung open, and I am called to come in.
As I enter, a short but stocky figure stands up from the throne, my note in his hand. Achish points at me. A heavy bronze bracelet engraved with foreign letters is adorning his arm. A bit unsure about the customary gestures in his land, I stumble into bowing before him.
“You again,” he moans.
And I mumble, “Oh… I know what you mean.”
“You do, do you?”
“From now on I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise! No more dribbling into my beard and rolling my eyeballs around in their sockets.”
“Ah, but that was so much fun,” Achish says. “No one who is truly a lunatic can manage to put on such a complicated act. Granted, it was a bit over the top. All the same I took great pleasure in it, even if I didn’t admit to it at the time. It must be hard to dribble and roll your eyes at the same time. Believe me, I tried!”
“Then,” I draw out the words, ever so cautiously, “we can stay?”
To which he answers by asking, “How many men with you?”
To which I say, “Six hundred, all well trained.”
“And women, too?”
“But of course!”
In a snap, Achish comes to a decision.
“It’s settled, then,” he opens his arms and I find myself pressed inside of them.
“Welcome,” he bellows. “Welcome to Gath!”
*
My men settle in Gath. After a while we find it too close for comfort. How can we relax, when Philistine eyes are watching every move we make? As a wanted criminal I appreciate the opportunity to live in safety—but in no way can I do it at the cost of privacy. My secrets must be guarded, because in the future, they may bleed out into the pages of history.
Well practiced in belittling myself before authority, I say to Achish, “If I have found favor in your eyes, let a place be assigned to me in one of the country towns, that I may live there. Why should your servant live in the royal city with you?”
And to my surprise, he agrees on the spot. His generosity to me is great, either because he adores me—or else he appreciates what I do in his service. Either way, he gives me Ziklag, which is a city in the Negev region.
In the past, its fate was uncertain, because it belonged at one time to the tribe of Simeon, and at another time to the tribe of Judah. It has been changing hands like that for as long as our tribes settled in Canaan—until now, when it has fallen under Philistine control.
Now I have to take care of business, which means I do what needs to be done for Achish, namely: attacking his enemies.
To him, that means attacking my own people.
So if he asks, “Where did you go raiding today?” I would say, “Against the Negev of Judah” or “Against the Negev of Jerahmeel” or “Against the Negev of the Kenites.” But in truth I lead my men into raiding other minorities in these parts, such as the Geshurites, the Girzites and the Amalekites. I hope he does not mind.
At any rate he never objects to what I do, especially since I lie to him about it. Whenever I conquer an area I make sure to clean it up. No historian will dare tell you what exactly that might mean, because if they did, I would have to clean up after them as well, and they know all too well not to tempt me to such action. As long as they see proof of my heavy arm, they will go on gagging their own mouth.
If you really want to find out, do it at your own peril. You can visit these places, where maps have to be redrawn because the landscape is charred beyond recognition. Not a single structure is left standing, and towns are nowhere to be seen—not even ghost towns. Here, the cries of my victims have died out, and no one is left to remember them. They never happened.
I do not leave a man or woman alive—but then, in the name of prudence, I take their sheep and cattle, donkeys and camels, and clothes, some of which I hand over to Achish. I must keep my master satisfied, so he trusts me more than his own advisers.
I take no one alive, man or woman, to be brought to Gath, not because I have any particular objections to slave labor—but because they have seen too much and have little to lose, so unlike the trusty historians, they may tell the truth about me.
These days the Philistines prepare for a crucial fight against Israel.
Achish says to me, “You must understand that you and your men will accompany me in the army.”
And I say, as I must, “Then, you’ll see for yourself what your servant can do.”
To which he smiles. “Very well! I’ll make you my bodyguard for life.”
The Philistines gather all their forces at Aphek, which is a city that used to belong to the tribe of Issachar. This is an infamous site, a cursed one, for one reason: a generation ago, the Philistines defeated us here, in two back to back battles. They killed four thousand in the first battle, and in a second one—thirty thousand. They also got their hands on the biggest trophy of all: the holy ark of God.
Back then Samuel the prophet was a young child, working for the famous leader of our fledgling nation, judge Eli. Both of his sons died that day on the battlefield. Then came the news that the ark was taken, which stopped his tears from flowing, because it broke his old heart. Eli fell over backward from his seat by the side of the gate, and his neck was broken, and he died.
Now Saul’s army camps by a spring in Jezreel. I wonder if this memory whispers in his mind to
o, when he looks across the valley at Aphek. I wonder if—like me—he has a premonition of what is to come. History has a way of repeating itself, especially when you awaken it by stepping upon the soil of a cursed site.
I wonder if Saul will find a moment to smile upon his three sons, who have come here to join him. I wonder if he will take a moment to embrace them, before they go out together to face Achish.
The Philistine commanders are marching with their units of hundreds and thousands. Already, they have a triumphant air about them. At the front, they carry a magnificent bronze icon of their god Dagon, which seems a bit strange, like a fish out of water, because its fish tail is flicking side to side as it advances inland, farther and farther away from the coast.
Meanwhile, I am trudging with my men at the rear of the procession, trying to hide from attention, which is impossible because we must match our step with their king, Achish.
All night I have been wrecking my brain in vain, trying to think of excuses to get out of this parade, I mean, get out of it without bringing suspicions upon me and upon my men. I need shame like a need a hole in the head. The last thing I want is to be remembered in history as the one helping the Philistines to beat the army of Israel.
But here I am, forcing myself to hold my head high, while my men hang theirs down.
Meanwhile, the commanders of the Philistines narrow their eyes when they catch sight of us. One of them goes over to Achish and pulls him aside, to ask, “What about these Hebrews?”
Achish replies, “What, them? Can’t you see? Is this not David, who was an officer of Saul king of Israel?”
“He’s a traitor to his own people,” says the commander. “Once a traitor, always a traitor.”
Achish has been expecting his commanders to challenge him over me. “Nothing better than a traitor,” he argues, “to break the morale of the other side. He’s already been with me for over a year, and from the day he left Saul until now, I’ve found no fault in him.”
But the commander grows red in the face. “How can you trust him? Send the man back, let him return to the place you assigned him.”
“Why?” asks Achish, even though he already knows the answer.
And the other shakes his head. “He mustn’t go with us into battle, or he’ll turn against us at the crucial hour, during the fighting. How better could he regain his master’s favor than by taking the heads of our own men?”
“Nothing to worry about,” Achish waves a hand, in the manner of dismissal. “Look around you! Count how many of us, and how few of them.”
But the other goes on to ask, “Isn’t this the David they used to sing about in their dances: “‘Saul has slain his thousands, and David his tens of thousands’?”
Achish can find nothing to say to that. These words may seem insignificant to you—but to him, they hold great power. He must be tired of having to defend me over that tune. So he calls me to his side, and tells me, “As surely as the Lord lives, you have been reliable, and I would be pleased to have you serve with me in the army.”
Pretending not to know where he is going with this, I say, “First, have you become Jewish all of a sudden? If you wish to swear, do it in Dagon’s name, for heaven’s sake! And second, no disrespect intended, master: you’re making me nervous. Why heap so much praise on me? You trying to soften some blow? As surely as Dagon lives, what is it?”
And Achish goes, “From the day you came to me until today, I’ve found no fault in you—but then, my commanders… You know them. They’re jealous. They disapprove of you.”
“Who, me? What can I do—”
“Turn back and go. Go in peace. Do nothing to displease them.”
“But why, what have I done?” I ask, with my most convincing imitation of innocence. “What have you found against your servant from the day I came to you until now? Why can’t I go and fight against the enemies of my lord the king?”
Achish takes the bait. “I know that you have been as pleasing in my eyes as an angel of God.”
And before I have time to ask if the angel he imagines is adorned with a fishtail, he lets out a sigh. “The Philistine commanders insist, ‘He must not go up with us into battle.’”
“Must you obey them? Who’s in charge?”
“I am,” he states. “Even so I don’t need a riot on my hands right now. Tomorrow’s a big battle. I have a lot of planning to do. Now be a good boy, David. Get up early, along with your servants who have come with you, and leave in the morning as soon as it’s light.”
Contrary to his belief, what he asks of me happens to be exactly what I want. I and my men should be out of here. This is not a battle we can win, because no matter the outcome, sooner or later we would be blamed for killing our own.
With a sigh of relief, we get up early in the morning to go back to the land of the Philistines, and the Philistines advance to Jezreel.
The King is Dead
Chapter 24
We have been relieved of our military duty to the Philistines. Still I sense some lingering distress in my men. They know as well as I do that it is not enough to turn away from Achish. This is no time to be passive, because our future is at grave risk. My brethren may die. Our nation may perish. The scroll upon which our history is being written may catch fire. What we should be doing at this crucial time is clear.
We should join Saul.
Failing that, we should come up with a good, solid excuse to explain why we could not be bothered to offer him a helping hand.
And as we arrive at Ziklag, the city we have been calling home for the last year, the perfect distraction happens to present itself, which has to do with—what else?—women! The Amalekites raided the city while we were absent, burnt it to the ground as payback for our recent attacks on their towns, and to top things off they captured our wives. We are stunned. The scroll of history has little meaning when there are no chicks around.
Without their better halves to make them the men they are, none of my mighty fighters cares to think about going back to help Saul. They wander aimlessly across the charred land, and seem to be at complete loss as to a plan of action.
Granted, their wives are no spring chickens. They cannot be called damsels. Still, they are in distress. At this point something needs to be done to rescue them, because my men are becoming angry with me, as if I had something to do with this debacle. There is even some talk of stoning me.
I never take threats lightly, so I ask my first in command, Joav, “Shall we give chase, to save them?”
“The wives?” He shrugs. “No! I say, good riddance!”
I would have agreed with him—if not for the rest of my men, who glare at Joav with pronounced menace, mixed in with bitterness. These emotions are too hard to endure, which in a blink makes them burst into tears, like babes who have lost their mothers.
They sob so loudly and for such a long stretch of time that they cannot go on sobbing anymore, and instead they start sniveling, which surprises me, because in my opinion married life is not what it is cracked up to be. Since divorce proceedings are such a mess—I mean, legally speaking—I tell myself that perhaps we should let the Amalekites have our women, at least until they wizen up enough to beg us to take them back.
But I avoid saying that out loud. Instead I sigh, for everyone to hear, for everyone to join me in my sorrow, “Why, Lord, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?”
By now, the men are utterly exhausted, which gives me the perfect opportunity to show them who is the master. I start off with a big production, which is sure to impress them: I take the priestly cloth, the ephod, from Abiathar, the son of the priest of Nob, and I use it as a magic device to seek divination from God.
Raising my eyes to heaven and clasping my hands piously together I inquire of Him, “Shall I pursue the Amalekites? Shall I overtake them?”
And He answers, or at least they think he does, “Pursue, for you shall surely overtake them, and you shall without fail recover all.”
Sometimes I wonder who came up with the bright idea of separation between religion and state. God knows he must be an idiot. Up to now, my men have regarded me as their military commander and political leader. Now I rise up higher in their eyes. Despite the fact that I do not walk with God, they think I can talk with Him.
A rumor starts spreading about my conversations with the Lord. It makes me a sacred character, in addition to being an irresistible scoundrel to all our tribes, and a royal pain in the neck for Saul. Taken together, this is a great charm to have.
Six hundred men follow me in pursuit of the Amalekites—but a third of them become too exhausted, because of all that weeping, which is far too excessive for my taste. They can go no farther than the Besor stream.
The rest of us press on.
Along the way we find an abandoned, starving slave, and I figure he knows a thing or two about the whereabouts of the attackers.
So I ask him, “Who d’you belong to? Where d’you come from?”
He lifts his eyes to me and his face turns pale when he recognizes who I am. With a tremble in his voice he says, “I’m an Egyptian, the slave of an Amalekite.”
Fear is contagious. I suppose he got it from his master, who has come to dread my military expeditions. He must have caught wind of the rumors, the persistent rumors that in the wake of such attacks I would leave no survivors.
“C’mon! Don’t stop there!” I prod the slave, while ordering my men to give him a little something to eat, to revive his spirit.
His teeth start to clank. “My master… He, he abandoned me when I became ill three days ago.”
I demand, “Why, did you slow him down? What was the rush? Was he racing somewhere, on some important mission?”
Three questions prove to be too much for him. He scratches his head. “We raided the Negev of the Kerethites, a territory belonging to Judah and the Negev of Caleb. And,” he says, “we burned Ziklag.”
Rise to Power (The David Chronicles) (Volume 1) Page 18