He must have sounded quite convincing, if you lent him your ear. But did people listen? No! They were utterly deaf to him, and to his arguments, which is what happens when a lecture is too long.
“We want a king over us,” they insisted. “Then, and only then, will we be like all the other nations, with a king to lead us and to go out before us and fight our battles.”
I promise myself that power will not corrupt me, the way Samuel seemed to have suggested. The only thing that can corrupt me—if I fail to discipline myself—is weakness.
On a different note, I delight in thinking that according to him, I am allowed to take as many women as I want, at whim. One reason I like it is because by now I have grown tired of both my wives.
*
Besides learning history I tend to other matters, such as promoting a select group of my fighters— thirty seven of them—and giving them high honors. I let them live close to my tower, here in the center of the compound.
Among them is Uriah the Hittite. His people are a minority in the Land of Canaan, living here since before the time of Abraham. He is utterly devoted to me, perhaps because he has heard that my great grandmother, Ruth the Moabitess, was a foreigner among our people.
Uriah can read and write. He spends hours writing letters, long-winded love letters to his girlfriend, whom I am yet to see. Seeing his literary skills I toy with the idea of giving him a new assignment. Soldiers are a dime a dozen. I have too many of them. A historian is what I need. At least, Joav says so.
But wait, wait a minute! Do I really need one?
After all, I have started to enjoy my obscurity. Living in Hebron, which is a small, provincial town, is quite relaxing. It allows me certain indiscretions that can easily go unnoticed, and more importantly, unreported—unless, of course, I hire a historian. Once I do that, I must behave…
To hire—or not to hire? While straddling this decision I catch sight of a figure, a curvaceous figure of a woman. Her shadow falls one evening across that roof, down there below my window, and in a blink of an eye it is gone.
From my tower I watch that roof day after day. One sunset after another I wait for her, in vain. Was she a figment of my imagination? Is that not a trace of her foot, down below?
I am the king! I own this town. Hell, I own all the women in it. Whoever she is, I own her!
A Peek at Bathsheba
Chapter 27
So far I doubt she has caught the sound of my footfalls. I edge closer, advancing stealthily along the shadow, a seemingly endless shadow cast across the flat surface of her roof by my tower. Never once do I stop to remind myself that such behavior is unbecoming of a king.
And who can blame me? In her presence I am reduced to a boy.
I must find a way to impress her. Which is why I brought my crown along, even though it sits somewhat uncomfortably on my head. It is a bit too large for me, and too heavy, too.
On my way I leap across a staircase, leading down from the roof. On a railing, here in front of me, hangs a large Egyptian towel, as if to mark a barrier. I tell myself, This isn’t right. I should stop, stop right here and whatever happens I should cover my eyes, avoid taking a peep at her... Shall I turn back?
And immediately I answer by asking, What? Stopping midway is nothing short of a sin...You’ll never forgive yourself... To which I say, stop talking to yourself already! Are you out of your mind?
Behind the towel I can see a puff of steam rising. Bathsheba must have poured boiling water into her tub only a minute ago. One kettle, set down by the claw-foot of the thing, has been emptied, the other—still full, waiting for its turn. Now, out of the swirl of vapors, her shoulders start to take shape. They seem whiter, more translucent than porcelain, which is a strange thing for me to say, because until this minute I have rarely uttered this word, porcelain. Never found any use for it.
It baffled not only me—but my advisors as well. Most of them are no older than me, and just as ignorant in all things of beauty, all things other than planning for a battle. Try as the may, they could barely satisfy my curiosity. None of them could tell me how porcelain might be used as a lining over cast iron. Weapons they understand—pots, not so much.
This tub with its shiny, rolled edge must have been imported from oversees, from someplace far and foreign where people have the luxury to spend time figuring out such fine designs.
First mental note to myself: find out where it has been manufactured. Send spies. Conquer. Second one: stop talking to myself, this is truly disturbing.
God, what an engineering feat it must have taken to lift this thing up this high, and land it here, on top of her roof! Planning a siege to an entire city might be easier... Heaven knows how Bathsheba could have afforded it.
And the nape of back... It smells so delicious. I am drawn to touch it, and have to force myself to pull my hand back.
In your eyes I may be young—but even so, I am far from being inexperienced. Many girls swoon at my sight. They adore me because in their eyes I am nothing short of a war hero. They read about my incredible bravery in one roll after another in the papyrus news, which is issued by my scribes. No one can doubt these stories—embellished as they may be—when they are jotted down black on white.
What’s more, the girls think me sensitive, perhaps because of my poetry, my music, and on special occasions, my public speeches. Fame is a useful thing to have. They come to me, to my office up there, and some of them stay there longer than overnight. Trust me, they are utterly impressed with the size of my tower.
The girls swear by the name of love that they will stay forever and a day, which is too much of a good thing. Inevitably, it makes me wince. My dear wives—Ahinoam of Jezreel and Abigail of Carmel—send the girls away and lock the doors. They do it not only because they sense my discomfort—but because they are becoming a bit jealous themselves.
But now, Bathsheba… She is different. My God, she is a woman! Which is why she seems untouchable to me, and not only because she is married.
All of a sudden she stirs. Has the water cooled down?
“Go away,” she says, with her back to me.
It seems that shame is not in her nature. She moves the big sponge around her neck, into one armpit, then another, knowing full well I cannot take my eyes off her. I cannot help but notice the bubbles of soap sliding slowly down, all the way down, then around her slippery curves. She may be the one in the tub—but contrary to my expectations, I am the one trapped.
“Go back to your place, sir, to that skyscraper thing of yours.” She points carelessly in the direction of the window at the top of my tower.
What she should be saying is your majesty or my lord rather than sir, but at this turn of events I hardly wish to correct her.
So she goes on to say, “And sir—”
“Yes?” I say, eagerly.
“No need to hide behind that curtain, up there,” says Bathsheba. “What, you think I haven’t noticed? You think I care?”
“I know you don’t,” I say, gloomily.
Feeling uninvited should not come as a surprise to me—but somehow it does. Hell, what was I thinking? That she will accept me with open arms, like every other girl I know?
I kneel down by her side, which forces me to adjust the crown, because it is now tilting on my head.
In profile, her lashes hang over her cheek, and the shadow flutters. Bathsheba brings her hand to her lips and ever so gently, blows off a bubble. It comes off the palm of her hand, then swirls around in the evening breeze, becoming more iridescent until its glassy membrane thins out, and then—pop! Nothing is left but thin air.
“Leave me be,” she says, stretching her arms lazily, as if to prepare for a yawn. “You may watch me from up there all day long, if that’s the kind of thing you like.”
“You sure put on a good show. I never imagined a woman could pose so many different ways in a small tub.”
“Well, if you must know, it’s quite a ritual. Takes a lot to purify the min
d.”
“And the body, too.”
“Yes,” says Bathsheba. “A lot of hard work.”
“Apparently so,” say I. “A lot of time, too.”
“Oh, go away already!” She waves a hand at me, still without as much as a glance in my direction. To make matters worse, she turns away. “I can feel your eyes in my back. Just, stop it. Stop watching me.”
“I am grateful to you,” I say, “for every moment of it.”
To which she utters a sigh, barely containing her boredom.
Then, on a whim, she plunges underwater nearly all the way, so all that remains above the foamy surface is the little embroidered towel wrapped around her head.
After several evenings of watching her from afar I still have no idea if her hair is curled or straight, red or brown. I have painted her in my mind several different ways already, each time more beautiful than the other. By now it matters little to me. She is so sexy, she might as well be bald.
When she comes back up, “What,” she says. “You still here?”
“What’s the point of going up there,” I say, hearing a slight tone of complaint in my voice. I hope she does not think me childish. That would be devastating.
With a hint of a smile, she asks, “What does that mean, What’s the point?”
So I say, “You would seem too small from above.”
“Really,” says Bathsheba. “I thought I spotted you standing by your window, with your sword aimed at me.”
To which I explain, “I could not see a thing through the glass. It became cloudy, or something. At this time of day, even though it is only the beginning of summer, it’s much too steamy in the office.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ve had it with men.”
I can find nothing to say, and perhaps there is no need to. She can tell, can’t she, how desperately I ache for her.
“My life is scandal-free at the moment,” she says. “It feels nice for a change.”
Which brings me back up to my feet, because thinking about her reputation, the reputation of a soldier’s wife, makes me hot all over.
I have no idea who her husband might be. More precisely, I do not want to figure it out. All I know is this: when he is away serving the country, serving me, this woman must have found her own way to compensate. Loneliness is a steady companion, one that ugly women can rely upon. Not so for her.
And she must see—even through my royal garb—how hard I am becoming. She is in hot water—but I am the one boiling over.
“Give me that towel,” she tells me, as if I were her servant.
And I say, “What—”
And she says, “The towel. Yes, that one. Quick, give it to me.”
And with that, she rises up from the frothy surface.
I wipe my eyes. How shall I begin to describe her? In the patches between the soapsuds, her skin seems to glow. The rays of the setting sun are playing all over her creamy flesh: first one nipple, then the other.
The rays are touching here, caressing there, hugging her waist, poking her in her belly button, where she is chubbier than I have expected, and where the shadow falls a tad deeper. Then, reaching down between her legs, the rays are sucked away into fuzziness, into the dark.
And when at last I reach over and hand her the towel, she is in no hurry to wrap herself. “Turn around,” she says, now in a voice that is softer, somewhat more seductive.
I obey her. I even close my eyes, the better to listen for her footfall. I can tell—even without looking—that she must have climbed out of the tub. Then a sharp sound of water can be heard, pouring out in a stream. For some reason, she must have emptied the second kettle into the tub, which must now be overflowing.
Then in one easy step Bathsheba closes in on me and lays a hand on my shoulder. At that second I still entertain the hope—far-fetched as it may be—that she may come even closer, press her wet breast against my back and then—then, who knows?
Here, on my ear, I can feel the tickle of her curl, which must have slinked out of the towel wrapping her head. And I can smell the scent of shampoo as she leans closer to whisper, “Get in.”
In confusion I whisper back, “Get in—what?”
“The tub,” she breathes in my ear. “What else?”
Which leaves me speechless.
She goes on to say, “I filled it to the rim for you. And the water is still warm—why let it go to waste?”
And with that, she lets go of me and runs barefoot across the surface of the roof, hanging the large Egyptian towel over her shoulders so it flares behind her as she goes. A minute later she disappears down the shadow of the staircase.
I have no idea if she has been playing with me. Perhaps she is simply frugal. Water should not go to waste in a desert country like ours. But this I know for sure: the last thing I need is a hot bath. A cold shower is more like it.
On my way to leave this place I pass by the tub. My nostrils flare in an anguished attempt to take in a last whiff of her scent. Finding myself in an unfamiliar mood I come to a stop, and lean over the rolled porcelain edge. Soapsuds swim sluggishly to and fro. I wish they would cover the entire surface. I don’t want to spot my face down there.
I am afraid that the water may mirror to me that which I don’t wish to find. Youth is nothing but a burden. What is my life if not a bubble, shimmering for an instant and then—pop! It is gone...
Lord, I whisper, do not rebuke me in your anger, or discipline me in your wrath…
Underneath me is a darkening sky, cast back from the surface. Clouds are rippling around the crowned outline of my head. Upside down, am I still a king? Perhaps I am: a king afraid of reflection. Afraid of the magic it holds. Afraid of its distortions—and even more, of its truth. Here is my fate, written on water, encrypted in reverse.
And it is then, when I meet my eyes, that suddenly I catch a glimpse of who I am. I am a mortal, and my future will be quick to dissolve. My face is already wrinkling, rippling across the surface.
This moment never happened, because luckily there is no one here to record it, so no one to splatter it over a scroll of papyrus, and make a sensational, scandalous story out of it.
No one will ever know about my little indiscretion, but the two of us. From now on I must guard myself from her, because she knows me, knows my weakness.
Still, I wonder: will Bathsheba come back for me, later? I wonder if she will find anything left behind, any remains of my existence here. Perhaps, the shadow of my crown? I wonder if she will touch her hand to it and think of me, when I have taken my leap—
Epilogue
And her breasts... I have forgotten how juicy and yet how firm they can be on a young body.
Behind us on the wall, centered among the rest of my daggers, knifes and swords, hangs an immensely large blade—but in this blackness I can only imagine it. It is a frightful sight to take in, a sight that can bring some women to their knees. The girl cannot spot it right now, but come morning, she too will be touched.
Moonlight glitters off a fold here, a crease there in the shadowy curtains that hang over our heads. It runs down through the folds, then leaps to her feet, slips over the slope of her hip into the valley, I mean, the valley of her waistline. It is hugging her softly as if to try, ever so stealthily, to figure out how slender she might be. Then a silvery ray clambers up her shoulder and from there onto the pile of pillows, which is where it halts, it dims out, perhaps to rub out the features of her face. This is just as well.
Who wants to look at her. I do not wish to see myself there, reflected in her eyes. I refuse to learn how much I have shrunk.
Outside, the stars are traveling in measured, imperceptible degrees across the night sky. It is nearly time for them to give up their ghost. I close my eyes, the better to imagine them. And at once I can hear the groans, the tortured groans of my enemies dying at dawn on some faraway battlefield...
Oh Lord! There is nothing sweeter, nothing makes the blood run faster than victory! Oh let me c
ome, let me be reborn, young and carefree and strong once more! Sword in hand, there I would rise again! Again I would ride my horse across a bloodied, conquered ground...
She holds her breath. I wonder, Can she guess my thoughts?
In the window facing east, you can now detect a faint impression: a horizon. It has turned a touch rosy. The girl dares not turn away from me—not even to gaze at it, to let it bring back a vision of her father’s place.
In my youth I have seen those tittering cabins, up on the slopes of the Judea Mountains. I hoped to find shelter in one of them, usually in vain. No one would hide a rebel, no one would aid a fugitive... So I can imagine that cabin, that feeling of security within its shaky walls. I can even understand how—until earlier this evening—she has called it home.
That place is now obscured not only by the blur, and not only by distance—but also by the tears glazing her eyes. She is only fourteen years old—yet Joav, my right-hand man, assures me that she knows her duty.
Sometimes I shudder to think how he gains his confidence about such things. On our early adventures I have seen him plunder the countryside and carry away the spoils of war—not before raping women and children. I am not as high-minded as you might want me to be, but trust me: when it comes to sex, my inclination has always been toward a gentler seduction.
Yet I cannot say I failed to understand him, or his cruelty. In the past, I denied myself nothing my eyes desired. I refused my heart no pleasure. And so I could see how intense his need could be and what it could drive him to do. This awoke in me the darkest, most wickedly delectable thoughts, which I have never committed to papyrus—until now.
Even without seeing her face, I know her eyes are wide open. It is taking her hours to fall asleep—I can sense how tensely she draws air—because this is our first night, and she knows her duty.
“The blanket,” I say, “look out—”
Rise to Power (The David Chronicles) (Volume 1) Page 21