Bathsheba, Reluctant Beauty

by Angela Hunt

  Someone behind me gasped as the guard nearest David raised his spear. All the king had to do was nod in my direction, and I would be murdered as surely as Uriah had been.

  I waited, a chill in the pit of my stomach, until David lifted his hand and glanced at the guard, wordlessly commanding him to lower his weapon. Emboldened by this positive sign, I walked forward, climbed the steps, and came within inches of the king’s ear. “Through the power of the Spirit,” I whispered, staring at the guard stationed behind the king, “I watched you spy on her.”

  “I wanted her,” David said.

  “Every man wants her,” I answered, barely able to bridle the resentment in my voice. “But they do not take her.”

  I backed away, leaving him with his head propped on his hand, his eyes closed.

  I returned to my original position and waited to see what effect my words would have on the king. After a moment, amid a silence that was the holding of a hundred breaths, David shuddered. “I . . . have sinned against Adonai.”

  The hush in the room deepened as the king’s words echoed over the assembled court. I could almost hear the snap of breaking hearts and the crack of shattering illusions.

  David had committed his sin in private, but within hours all Jerusalem would know about it. From this moment on, the king who had been much loved and much celebrated would be viewed with wariness. With this murderous act, David had proven himself to be like any other man—and worse than many. But with his confession, he had demonstrated that he remained a man who loved and revered HaShem.

  I drew a deep breath and softened my voice. “Adonai also has taken away your sin, so you will not die. However, because by this act you have so greatly blasphemed the Lord, the child born to you by Bathsheba . . . must perish.”

  I bowed my head as the awareness of God’s heavy judgment descended on the crowd. I felt the heaviness too, but in a different context: David deserved judgment in his sin, but Bathsheba, the ewe lamb, had not transgressed against Adonai or her husband.

  Yet she, too, would suffer.

  My throat ached with unhappiness as I turned in a circle of stunned silence and left the palace.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bathsheba

  I WAS NOT PRESENT when my childhood acquaintance confronted the king, but I felt the effects of the prophet’s pronouncement almost immediately. I caught servants whispering to each other in my presence, and when I looked up, they fell silent. From my doorway I spotted several concubines buzzing while they stared toward my chamber, though no one would tell me what had set their tongues to wagging.

  Later that afternoon, while the baby napped, I strolled into the harem courtyard and approached Michal, Saul’s daughter and David’s first wife. My handmaid had told me that Michal lived for her children, five strapping boys who had been born to her sister, Merab. When Merab died giving birth to a sixth son, who perished as well, her grieving husband, Adriel, brought her five surviving sons to Michal, knowing they would lack for nothing if reared in David’s household.

  Michal was several years older than me and appeared about as friendly as a porcupine, but since she did not seem close to any of the other wives, I thought she might be willing to engage in conversation.

  I found her by the fountain with a harp in her lap. Though she had to sense my presence, she did not look up right away. Finally she lifted her head and took in the paunch at my soft belly with one raking glance. “So you are Bathsheba,” she said, turning her attention back to her harp. “The woman so irresistible that David was willing to earn a curse from Adonai in order to take her.”

  My heart began to pound in an unsteady rhythm. “Did you say curse?”

  “Have you not heard?” A twisted smile crept to her lips. “Half the kingdom is whispering the news. David the king, who has more wives than he could possibly handle, stole the wife of Uriah the Hittite and murdered the inconvenient husband. For his sin, Adonai has cursed him with violence and”—she looked again at my swollen belly—“other unfortunate events.”

  I sank onto the empty bench next to her. “So everyone knows?”

  “Everyone knows, everyone is horrified, everyone grieves for the poor, cursed king.” She pressed her hand on the vibrating harp strings and eyed me with a sharp look. “I will always be mystified by David’s ability to triumph over dire circumstances. He can walk through a river of cattle dung and smell of blossoms on the opposite shore. He will pay for his sin, of course—Adonai’s prophet has declared it. You will pay, too. But a month from now the people will have forgotten about David’s sin and feel nothing but compassion for him. The common people will always love him, because he behaves more like a shepherd than a king.”

  Her words evoked the memory of David dancing in the streets as priests carried the Ark to the Tabernacle. Soon after the event, my father had confided a corollary to the story. Michal, who observed the king from a palace window, had upbraided him for behaving like an exhibitionist in front of twittering servants and slave girls. Infuriated, the king retorted that Adonai chose him over her father, so if he wanted to make himself even more contemptible, the slave girls would honor him for doing so.

  At the time I heard the story, I wondered if Michal and the king would ever mend their relationship, but one look in her glittering eyes informed me they had not.

  “Everyone loves David, but David does not love everyone.” Michal lowered her harp and propped her chin on her hand. “Tell me, do you love David? All the other wives seem to.”

  I caught my breath. Lately my emotions had veered crazily from grief to fear, from loneliness to joy over the baby’s birth, but I had spent so much time mourning that I could scarcely remember the happiness of love. “In truth—” I struggled for the right words—“I do not know him.”

  Michal lifted a brow, then pressed her lips together. “He sleeps with you but does not speak to you? He is even more brutish than I realized.”

  “He has never been brutish,” I hastened to add. “When . . . the child was conceived, he promised he would not hurt me. And he does not sleep with me. Not anymore.”

  “Ah, the singular vanity of men. They take you for their pleasure, thrust and stab, and then walk away without realizing they’ve left fatal wounds on your heart.” She sat silent for a long moment, her eyes focused on the fountain’s flowing water. At last she turned to me. “I know you have been wronged—and no one else will tell you, especially not the king—but this morning the prophet not only predicted violence for the house of David, but some are saying the king’s action will result in four deaths.”

  Her words tumbled and twisted in my thoughts. “Why would anyone say such a horrible thing?”

  Michal managed a tremulous smile. “Because after the prophet told his story, David declared that the guilty party should repay the debt fourfold, and the king’s word is law. The reparation for one murdered husband equals four deaths from David’s household . . . including your son, I am sorry to say.”

  A confusing rush of panic and dread whirled inside me, but Michal’s eyes were open and honest, her countenance free from malice.

  She reached for my damp hand and held it tight. “I know,” she whispered, leaning closer. “I know how it feels to suffer for a man’s foolishness. My father could have established a dynasty, but he disobeyed Adonai and forfeited his future. David could have given me children, but when I rebuked him for behaving like a fool, he shut me out. Now David can’t stand to look at me. But better to remain barren, I think, than to have a son and watch him die because his father sinned against HaShem.”

  My lips parted in horror. Through all the sadness and pain, I had dared to trust the prophecy, to believe that my child would be a special blessing from God and a gift to Israel. But if my baby died . . . had all my pain and grief been for nothing?

  My hand fell to my empty belly.

  “The king loves children, as do I.” Michal’s gaze moved to some interior field of vision I couldn’t see. “Though he ignores
the sons I am raising, he adores his boys and dotes on his daughter. I have never been able to bring him much joy, but the other wives have succeeded remarkably well.”

  My thoughts continued to jostle and shove, pushing aside opinions I’d formed long ago. I used to believe that HaShem never repented of His decisions, but now . . . “Isn’t it possible,” I sputtered, “perhaps . . . couldn’t Adonai change His mind about my baby? Could the prophet return and tell us that HaShem has reconsidered? If the king confesses and repents, perhaps—”

  “David has confessed,” Michal said. “He confessed his wrongdoing before the entire court. The prophet said Adonai has taken away David’s sin, yet forgiveness comes at a price. Without the shedding of blood . . .” She shrugged, then gave my hand a final squeeze.

  As I sat in stunned silence, Michal lifted her harp and ran her nails across the strings. “I remember another time the prophet Nathan paid David a visit. He said many things that day, but I particularly remember him saying that if David strayed from the ways of the Lord, Adonai would punish him with a rod and blows.” She cut me a quick glance. “Welcome to the king’s house, where we all bear David’s bruises.”

  Strumming her harp, she began to hum a melancholy tune. Tears flowed over my cheeks as I listened. Finally I stood and went back to my room, where the baby had begun to cry.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Nathan

  THE MAN ON THE DUSTY PATH was no mere messenger; the cut and ornamentation of his garment signaled an officer of some distinction. As he drew closer to the spot where I sat under my fig tree, I recognized the sharp features of the king’s chief counselor.

  “Greetings, Nathan.” Ahithophel stopped on the path and granted me a dignified nod. “I trust you are well?”

  I tilted my head to study him. The king’s counselor had never stopped at my house, even though he passed it whenever he journeyed to his farm in Giloh. What could possibly have motivated this visit?

  I stood to show respect. “I am well. Are you?”

  Ahithophel pointed toward an empty stool under my fig tree. “May I?”

  “Far be it from me to deny any man a bit of shade on a hot day.”

  Ahithophel sank to the stool, then exhaled and wiped a trail of perspiration from his forehead. “I am sorry to trouble you,” he said, pulling a scroll from the leather bag hanging from his shoulder, “but I wanted you to read this and tell me if Adonai might be swayed by these sincere words from a repentant heart.”

  I frowned, not understanding, but after unwrapping the scroll I recognized David’s handwriting. I had seen his writing before, on parchments for the priests. The king had an exceptional talent for poetry and music.

  I sat on my bench. “I cannot speak for Adonai unless He speaks to me first.”

  “Understood.”

  “And I have already proclaimed the Lord’s judgment on David’s household.”

  “Indeed. I was in the throne room when you spoke to the king. But the king and his wife love their new baby, and I would have you read this and tell me if Adonai might be willing to honor a truly contrite heart.”

  I skimmed the text. “The king wrote these words himself?”

  “With his own hand.” Ahithophel crossed his arms. “I will wait while you read.”

  I lifted the scroll.

  God, in your grace, have mercy on me;

  in your great compassion, blot out my crimes.

  Wash me completely from my guilt,

  and cleanse me from my sin.

  For I know my crimes,

  my sin confronts me all the time.

  Against you, you only, have I sinned

  and done what is evil from your perspective;

  so that you are right in accusing me

  and justified in passing sentence.

  True, I was born guilty,

  was a sinner from the moment my mother conceived me.

  Still, you want truth in the inner person;

  so make me know wisdom in my inmost heart.

  Create in me a clean heart, God;

  renew in me a resolute spirit.

  Don’t thrust me away from your presence,

  don’t take your Ruach Kodesh away from me.

  Restore my joy in your salvation,

  and let a willing spirit uphold me.

  Then I will teach the wicked your ways,

  and sinners will return to you.

  Rescue me from the guilt of shedding blood,

  HaShem, God of my salvation!

  Then my tongue will sing

  about your righteousness—

  Adonai, open my lips;

  then my mouth will praise you.

  For you don’t want sacrifices, or I would give them;

  you don’t take pleasure in burnt offerings.

  My sacrifice to God is a broken spirit;

  God, you won’t spurn a broken, chastened heart.

  How blessed are those whose offense is forgiven,

  those whose sin is covered!

  How blessed those to whom Adonai imputes no guilt,

  in whose spirit is no deceit!

  The writing continued, but I lowered the scroll and turned to my companion. “The king wrote all of this?”

  Ahithophel nodded. “He has been in mourning since your visit. That evening his baby became ill, and the king retired to his chamber when he heard the news. He spent the night on the floor in prayer. We encouraged him to rise the next morning, but he would not be persuaded. He remains in his bedchamber, eating nothing and drinking only water, but he writes. I’m sure he’s written other things, but these are the writings he gave me to share with you . . . in the hope that Adonai would change His mind and save the child.”

  I drew a deep breath and turned the scroll, closing it. “It would seem our king has been thoroughly chastened. You must be happy to know he has repented of his sin. He had grown complacent in his relationship with Adonai, but I don’t think he will take the Lord’s favor for granted again.”

  Ahithophel’s frown deepened as he took the scroll from me. “But he caused Uriah’s death, and the Law demands that anyone who murders must die. For HaShem made men in His own image—”

  I lifted my hand, cutting him off. “Adonai has also said that David will not die, but will feel the consequences of his actions. It is not for us to second-guess what HaShem will do.”

  “It is not enough.” Ahithophel leaned forward and looked at me, dark fury glowing in his eyes. “If a star should fall from the sky tonight and destroy all the king’s wives and children, it would not be punishment enough to atone for what he has done. He killed a loyal servant and ruined a virtuous woman.”

  I recoiled, startled to discover such a depth of anger in the older man. In the king’s court Ahithophel was a model of rectitude, with steady nerves, a humble attitude, and an implacable disposition. I had never seen this aspect of his nature . . . nor, I suspected, had the king.

  “Adonai judges the heart,” I said quietly. “And the words written in that scroll seem to indicate that David’s repentance is sincere. You should accept the will of Adonai and support our king, for HaShem has promised him an eternal dynasty.”

  A thunderous scowl darkened the counselor’s brow, and he looked away. His anger resonated in the space around us, and only after several moments of silence did he manage to calm himself enough to speak again.

  “Now you understand my dilemma,” he said, staring into the distance. “The prophet Samuel gave our family a prophecy: Bathsheba’s child will be a great man who will do great things for Israel. This infant boy ought to be our king, not that murderous son of Jesse. With a wise counselor to guide him until he reaches the age of maturity, this baby boy could be the greatest king the world has ever known.”

  I stared wordlessly at the king’s counselor, my heart pounding as a memory washed through me, pebbling my skin like the touch of the Ruach Kodesh. I remembered my master’s voice and a baby girl, but had not considered the prophecy
in years. Yet here it was, rising as a threat to David and the throne of Israel.

  Ahithophel did not understand. But he would.

  I closed my eyes, waiting for some word from Adonai, and finally it came: Send him away.

  I lifted my head. “Adonai wants you to return to your home. He has already spoken in this matter, and His word will be fulfilled.”

  Ahithophel looked at me, astonishment on his face, then snorted softly and stood. “Thank you for your opinion.”

  He dropped the scroll into his leather bag and walked away without once looking back.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bathsheba

  ON THE THIRD DAY OF OUR SON’S LIFE, only a few hours after Nathan’s visit to David’s throne room, the king and I sat together in my room. Without warning, the baby at my breast stopped nursing, vomited, and turned blue. In a cold panic I screamed for the midwife while David sent for his physician. As we waited, I patted the baby’s back, trying to force the sickness out of him. David prostrated himself on the floor, then stretched out his arms and prayed aloud, begging Adonai to have mercy on our son.

  The king’s attendants urged David to return to his own chamber, but the midwife remained with me, holding a nearly silent vigil over my pale son, who struggled for every breath.

  Over the following days, my baby’s skin grew bluer and blotchier while the whites of his eyes turned yellow. I remained by his side, letting him clasp my finger or holding him close to my breast in the hope I could bring some comfort to such a small and vulnerable soul. More than once I caught him watching me, silent and helpless, with his increasingly yellowed eyes.