His eyes shone and he made his voice ring valiant; he was as hot for action as a stallion seeing the war-chariot. Not King David, but David-giant-slayer, David-hero. David the young beloved was what he would have men see. And I looked, and what I saw was a man looking to the past, not to the future. A man who was growing old.
When he was young he had humbled King Saul, calling like a dove of the rocks from the high places, taunting my father, flaunting youth and power before the mad king. So, now, would he treat his rebellious son Absalom. So thought David.
But who, this time, would learn the harsh lesson? The young warrior, or the aging king?
Yes, who would learn, and who teach? That question rang endless inside my head as Bathsheba and I walked away from King David’s chamber. David—or Absalom? Young David, some men called him … .
“I do not understand.” Bathsheba’s voice echoed plaintive in the tiled hallway.
“What is there to understand? David is—”
“I know King David is the greatest warrior in all the land, and the wisest man.” Bathsheba did not let me finish; when she was nervous or worried she chattered on like a sparrow, hardly hearing her own words. “If he says we must leave Jerusalem, then I know it is the only way. I am sorry, Michal—I know you must think I am a fool to fear where the king does not. Only—”
“No, I do not think you a fool,” I said, and took her hand. She clung to my fingers as if she were a child.
“Who is mightier than the king? Did he not defeat the Philistines, and—and the Ammonites, and—”
“And King Saul.” My words dropped clear into the air between us.
“Oh, Michal—I did not mean—”
“No,” I said. “Of course you did not. But it is true. Truth is truth whether I like it or do not.” But David had never learned that, or would not admit it if he had.
“And now he will defeat Absalom. Of course he will. But still I do not see why we must all leave Jerusalem—well, of course I do not, for I am only a woman, but—” She stopped, and looked at me hopefully. Bathsheba thought me wise.
I thought of all I might say to her—that David sought his lost youth upon this battlefield, that David had won his great victories by guile and by treachery, that David would not know truth if Yahweh himself came in all his glory and laid it plain at David’s feet. But if I said all this, what then? Such words would only hurt and frighten her.
So I only squeezed her hand, and said nothing of all that. “Oh, there is a reason we must leave Jerusalem,” I said. “But it is a man’s reason, and I do not think you would understand. Leave the reasons to the king, and turn your mind to what we must do before nightfall.”
I should have spoken plainly with her then. But dearly as I loved Bathsheba, I thought of her as a little sister, younger and less wise than Solomon; I did her less than justice. And to spare her a moment’s pain, I too twisted truth to my own ends, just as David did.
For a few paces we did not speak. Then Bathsheba said, “I have never gone to war before. What shall we pack?”
A foolish woman’s question, some would call that. I knew better; what we chose to take with us now might be all we would ever have. “Nor have I. You must help me choose wisely, Bathsheba.”
And let us hope that David has.
And so all the king’s household was packed in haste and in panic, and bundled out of Jerusalem like a maidservant in disgrace. Bathsheba and I did better than many, for we thought a little before we made our choices. And so Bathsheba and Solomon and I had good plain clothing and sandals that could be long walked in. And we gathered together bread and dried fruits and waterskins to keep close by us.
And I did another thing. I took some of our necklaces and bracelets and hid them within two loaves of bread. Then I knotted the loaves into one of my veils.
I was not David, to know Yahweh’s mind. But I did know Absalom’s. If Absalom became king Indeed—well, that would be as Yahweh willed. But Solomon’s future was my care and my will.
And I did not trust Absalom’s devotion to his brothers.
But if King David thought to soar like the falcon and strike like the viper as he had in his shining youth, he soon found out his mistake. David the Hero had moved with a band of warriors; David the King moved with wives, and concubines, and their children and their servants and their baggage, and their pack-animals, and their heavy wooden litters. David the King moved neither swift nor silent; I had not heard so much noise even at sheep-shearing time in Gallim.
And as for weeping and wailing and moaning—well, I had never heard the like. You would not guess, to hear them now, that any of David’s wives had once been farmers’ and merchants’ daughters. The only one who did not complain from morning until night was Maachah, who had been the King of Geshur’s daughter, and who was Absalom’s mother. Either pride or grief, or both, kept her silent.
I was too busy to look back and weep for the loss of Jerusalem. In truth, I did not think of the city at all. And so when we came to the top of the hill and I turned, I was unprepared.
The last time I had seen its walls from the free hillside, Jerusalem had shone golden in morning light. Then I had been a farmer’s wife, brought unwilling to be a queen. Since that day I had not once passed beyond the inner wall of the upper city.
Now Jerusalem lay sullen under slanting afternoon sun. Perhaps I would never again pass through the brass-bound gates into the city that had been my home and my prison for so many years.
“Mother? Mother-the-queen? Why are you staring? Do you see soldiers?” Afire with excitement, Solomon tugged at my girdle. Well, he was only a boy; this was all a wild game to him, one he never before had played.
I touched his soft hair. “No, I see no soldiers. And if Yahweh smiles upon us, we will see none.”
“None save my father’s, you mean.”
“As my little owl says, none save King David’s.” I looked from Solomon back to the city behind us. For myself, I cared nothing if I never set eyes upon Jerusalem’s walls again. It is not the walls that are important, but what they enclose safe within; I would be happy in any house I shared with Solomon and Bathsheba.
But Bathsheba and I were only two women who were no longer young; Solomon was our life. And Solomon was a true prince. He belonged under a palace roof—
For the next king of Israel will not be chosen out of a flock of sheep upon a hillside. The thought slid into my mind from nowhere; from long ago. Do you wish to serve the future or the past?
I am blind, I thought. Solomon is the future. Oh, yes. Solomon. My son. The son Yahweh gave to me. To me, not to David … .
I had curved my hand about Solomon’s head, stroking his hair; my fingers caught in a tangle. He was all wide eager eyes and tousled hair, his tunic embroidered with dust and stains. Say nothing. Not to Solomon, not to Bathsheba. He is only a boy.
But boys grew into men; I knew that, even if David did not. Solomon would be a man, one day—
“Michal! Michal, you should be in a litter—you will tire yourself—” Bathsheba leaned out of her own litter, pushing aside the painted leather curtains. “Solomon, come here at once!”
Solomon looked up at me hopefully, deaf to Bathsheba’s call. “May I run alongside the soldiers? All the other boys are.”
My glittering dreams fled; later I might summon them back again. Now I looked, not at a future king, but at a small boy who did not wish to be denied a treat.
“No,” I said. “You must go to your mother, Solomon, and do as she bids you.”
Solomon set his jaw. “Men don’t ride in litters.”
I knelt beside Solomon and put my arms around him. “Perhaps they do not, my heart—but men are kind to women. Your mother is nervous and afraid. You are not, so you must stay with her and protect her. Now go to her; she will feel safe with you there to hold her hand.”
Solomon smiled at me then, and ran over to clamber into the litter with Bathsheba. She beckoned to me again and I shook my head.
“No,” I called. “Yes, of course they have brought the queen’s litter! I would rather walk—and so should you. We have grown fat and lazy in the king’s house!”
Before I followed them I looked back, once, at Jerusalem. I hoped now for some sign that we would return. The next king … .
In the dying light the palace walls flamed red as blood.
CHAPTER 24
“And the king, and all the people that were with him, came weary … .”
—II Samuel 16:14
We crossed the Jordan by night, in haste. All the next day we traveled, until even my bones were weary. I walked as much as I could, but I was palace-soft. When my heels blistered, I too must ride donkey-back, or retreat to the queens gilded litter.
At last we stopped, and the tents were set up and fires lit.
I kept Bathsheba and Solomon with me, and had no patience with those who called Solomon too old to share a woman’s tent. I would have him nowhere but under my eye. He slept at the foot of our bed; I could hear him breathing, slow and safe. I was glad Solomon could sleep, though I could not. For all my weary bones, my mind could find no rest.
“Michal? Are you asleep?”
“No—but you should be, Bathsheba. Tomorrow we march again.”
“I cannot sleep. I am so sore—and the camp is so noisy--”
“And you are so troubled. Well, and so am I.” We spoke soft as sighs; Solomon must not be wakened.
“You, Michal? You seem always so strong and sure. So—so calm, as if you know always what to do.”
“No more sure than you. I am older, and have seen more. That is all.” That was not all, of course. But there were some things I could never tell gentle Bathsheba. “But I too am sore weary and afraid. Now promise you will not tell the maidservants—I have worked too many years teaching them to tremble at my glance.”
Bathsheba’s hand sought mine, and clung. “I will never tell, I swear it.”
“That is a great burden eased.” I squeezed her fingers, willing her to rest. But she could rest no more than I, and for the same reason.
“You say we march again tomorrow—but where are we going? And what will happen if—” Bathsheba stopped. She was a good wife; she did not wish to sound disloyal.
I spoke the words for her. “If King David does not defeat Absalom?”
“Oh, Michal—I try not to think of it, and I know it will never happen, for the king is the greatest warrior in the land, but—”
“Hush, you will wake our boy. Do not worry. I will never let harm come to you or to Solomon. Trust me for that.” No, no matter what I had to do to keep them safe, the sister and son of my heart. “This folly will soon be over, and we will go home. Now you must sleep, for tomorrow will be no easier.”
“I will sleep when you do.”
And so I put my arms around her, and we lay there and watched shadows dance dark upon the tent walls, forced there by the watch-fires. The night was not silent. Footsteps went past; leather creaked and metal clinked; men called out to one another. Beyond those noises were coughings and stampings from the donkeys and camels, low complaining moans from the cattle, wailing bleats from the sheep.
And under and through all other sounds the night wind sang against the tent ropes, as restless as my thoughts.
We lay, and listened, and at last, unwilling, slept.
King David thought Absalom would be tempted and follow him, hoping to take all while David and his men were heavy-laden with women and children and treasure. An enticing, easy target for a rash young warrior-prince—Absalom would pursue, and strike—and find that King David’s foreign mercenaries had not deserted a failing king, but waited only to close a deadly iron ring about Absalom’s men.
But Absalom was no bull-headed Saul, to grasp after morning mist. Absalom struck straight and true for the walled city of Jerusalem. With that fortress safe under his hand, he could afford to wait.
And so Absalom took King David’s city. It was easy enough. King David had fled; the city was undefended as a virgin alone in her house.
I was there in the king’s tent when David heard the news, brought by a weary messenger who trembled so hard he could scarcely speak the words.
“Jerusalem is taken. Prince Absalom sits there upon your throne, O King.”
David looked upon the messenger’s bowed head; David stroked his beard, and then he laughed, and clapped his hands together. “Does he, now? I wish him joy of it—foolish boy!”
And David raised the man up, and embraced him, and sent him away with the king’s thanks ringing in his ears. The man looked only puzzled, as well he might. He had brought tidings of disaster, and had the ill news flung aside as a fine jest.
I looked past David to Joab, who had come in behind the messenger. Joab, at least, did not laugh.
“Now you see what comes of giving that boy even so much as one handful of dust. He is slick as an oiled weasel.” Joab spoke as plain as if I were not also in the king’s tent. “And you stand there and laugh! Do you want men calling you as mad as King Saul?”
David looked at me, and smiled. “Do not mind what Joab says, my queen. He does not mean to cause you pain.” David set his hand upon my shoulder; it lay heavy there, as if I were a staff to hold him upright.
“I do not mind what Joab says, and truth does not cause me pain,” I said. I did not look again at Joab. “And he is right, David. Why will you listen to no one? Now Absalom holds Jerusalem—and who holds that city holds all.” Had not David himself told me that many times?
David laughed again, and squeezed my shoulder. His fingers pressed upon one of the pins that fastened my gown; the point bit sharp into my skin. I do not think David noticed that, or that I drew away from his hand.
“Absalom thinks himself more than his father now, and his entry into Jerusalem a great victory. But he must take the king, to take all—and that he will never do.” David’s face was alight, as if he were a young man again, new-come to King Saul’s house; he saw only his own glory. “Ah, my son is clever—but he is only a boy still, and not yet wise. Do not stand there with sour races—oh, come, Michal, did you ever know me to have only one string to my bow? Only one stone to my sling?”
“You can’t use a sling against Jerusalem,” Joab told him.
“No, not a sling, nor yet a bow—but a snare. Come close, and listen, and I will tell you what no other yet knows.” David set his hands upon our arms and drew us near to him. “Now hear me well—”
He spoke low and soft, and suddenly I was a girl again. A girl in a dark tower room, listening to that voice spin a glittering web of words, a trap for fools.
Ah, yes, King David had left Jerusalem, with the way broad and the gates open. And King David had left ten concubines there to welcome Absalom. A king’s women were always claimed by a new king.
But the royal women were only bait in the trap. For David also left a man called Hushai.
“I know Absalom,” David said. “But he does not know me. I tell you again I am cunning as the fox in the vineyard.” And David smiled a fox’s smile, all sly wicked pleasure.
Clever once, I thought, and clever still. Too clever?
I looked at Joab again. His face was set like stone.
Hushai had been long with David, and knew the king’s mind better than the king. So Hushai told Absalom. Hushai was tired of serving an old king who did not reward him as he deserved. Hushai wished to serve the new, who would treat him better.
Any man of sense would have sent Hushai’s head as gift to David. But Absalom was as vain as his father, without his father’s cunning. Absalom believed Hushai.
He took David’s city; he took David’s women. He thought he had taken David’s place.
He was wrong. As David had said, there was a trick left to the old fox yet.
But at first it seemed as if David were in truth the aging fool Absalom plainly thought him. Absalom laired safe within Jerusalem’s walls, and toyed with David’s abandoned concubines, and
sent men to spy after David.
David led those spies a hard chase; once before David had fled through these hills for his life, and he still knew each track and turn and hollow. David left his pursuers a tangled thread to unravel, if they would follow him. So I was told by David. I knew only that for a time we set up our camp anew each sunset. Always moving, aimless as sand shifting across desert, or so it seemed to me.
It was not an easy way to live; a warrior’s camp is no place for women and children. The priests and the laws say so; women and warriors agree.
Children do not. Even Solomon, who was a good obedient boy, grew wild as spring ended and summer began, and still we lived in camps and caves. Bathsheba and I tried always to have him under our eyes, but still he spent much time with the soldiers, and with the grooms and herders.
Bathsheba begged and scolded; I told him plain that he must not. “They have their own work to do, Solomon. That is trouble enough, even without a prince underfoot.”
“And why should you wish to talk with them?” Bathsheba demanded. “They are only rough men, after all.”
“Yes, I know, Mother, but I want to hear what men say.” The line of Solomon’s jaw was square and stubborn. “They do not talk as women do, you know,” he added kindly, as one instructing the young.
I bit my lip so that I would not laugh. “That is all very fine, Solomon, but—”
But then Bathsheba spoiled my firmness by flinging her arms about Solomon and clutching him to her plump bosom. “Of course they do not, my clever darling, but you must not run about underfoot. You will not, will you?” But she was smiling at him, and so of course he paid her little heed.
“I promise I will not make you worry, Mother,” Solomon said earnestly, and kissed her upon the cheek as if sealing a solemn vow. He did not look at me; he knew I was not so easy cozened. Then he wriggled out of Bathsheba’s soft arms and dashed off before I could lay my hands upon even the hem of his tunic.
Queenmaker: A Novel of King David's Queen Page 28