“Solomon!” It was no good; he was away. To scold Bathsheba for sweet-hearted folly was to scold a dove for cooing. I did not waste my breath, but only sighed.
Bathsheba took my hand in hers. “Oh, yes—but at least he is happy—although how he can be, I do not know!”
“Because he is a boy,” I said. “Boys have no thought for anything but the moment—and it is not Solomon who must pack our beds or cook our food or raise our tents.
“Or clean our clothing!” Bathsheba added. “Do you know, Michal, when I think of how our ancestors wandered in the wilderness for forty years—well, I do not know how they bore it! I would have stopped at the first village that would take me in!”
That made me laugh, and agree. And then I went back to my own tent, to rest before we again moved on. The sun beat hard upon the tent-roof; I lay half-asleep in the dim heat, and wondered how long this wandering would be my life.
Did David think to retrace each step he had taken long ago when he had danced away before King Saul? Perhaps, but why? The lure had failed; Absalom would not leave Jerusalem to attack King David.
And if Absalom would not challenge David upon the battlefield—and I would not, were I Absalom—well, once again there were two kings in the land. Which would men follow now?
So I asked, and found no answer in the shadows that fled across the walls of my tent as clouds above hid the high sun’s face. Then there was a nearer, darker shadow; my maid Narkis set the curtain aside and slid into the tent.
“There are men who would speak with you, O Queen. What shall I say to them?”
“How do I know that, until I know their names?” I was drowsy with heat, and so did not move.
“It is Joab,” Narkis told me. “And Abishai, and Ittai also.”
I turned my head and stared at Narkis. Joab, and Abishai, and Ittai—David’s finest war-captains, the men who commanded David’s host of fighting men. “What do they want of me?”
“How do I know that?” Narkis asked, and her voice was sharp.
No one spoke so to me; was I not the queen, after all? Anger sprang up hot and quick, so that I nearly answered as sharply. But when I looked at her I was ashamed, and kept my temper to myself. Narkis was as weary as I, her hair just as full of dust. And no one ran to do her bidding, or to bring her the first jug of water from a stream.
“You do not, of course.” I lay there a moment, and thought of Joab. Joab, David’s sword-blade … .
“Shall I tell them the queen sleeps?”
“No,” I said. “Tell them I will see Joab. Bid him enter.”
Narkis bowed, with the flicker of her eyelids that meant she disapproved. But I did not care. I must know what it was that Joab wished to say to me now. And I did not want it said before witnesses, nor yet where anyone who passed by might listen.
When I rose to await Joab I swayed and brightness flared before my eyes. I fought dizziness; I had risen too quickly to my feet. That was all it was. I told myself so as Joab entered my tent and I faced him at last.
Never before had I seen Joab alone; I held my chin high, all the proud queen, and waited for him to speak first. I would give nothing away.
But Joab only bowed, and thanked me for granting him leave to speak. His words were quick, impatient; Joab spoke in angry haste. “For I will tell you plain, we are all at wit’s end; David will listen to none of us. But he will heed you.”
Ah, it was only David, again. “If the king will not heed his own men, will he heed a woman?”
“Yes, if that woman is you. And if that woman tells him what he already wishes to hear. Now will you listen to us or not?” Joab never oiled words.
“I do not need to hear the others. Joab’s word is enough. Will you sit?”
“No need. All I ask is that you tell David he must stop this folly.”
“Which folly? There are so many now.” To speak truth for once, even to Joab—ah, that was delight.
“This war-camp—war-camp, he calls it, with women and children screeching and running underfoot!” Joab looked as if he would spit upon the floor; he looked at my striped carpets spread upon the dirt, and did not.
“Do you think we like it any better than you? Tell me what you would have me say, Joab, and I swear I shall tell it to the king, each word—yes, even if I must bind him fast with my own hair to make him listen when I speak!”
Joab grinned. “You’re a match for him, Queen Michal; he should give his other wives to Absalom!”
“Poor Absalom!”
“No man needs more than one wife, if she’s the right one,” Joab said. Fine talk; Joab had no wife at all save his sword.
“Perhaps,” I said. “Now tell me.”
What Joab spoke was only common sense; the army could not move swiftly burdened with all the king’s household. The women, the children, the beasts, the baggage—all must be locked safe away so the army was free to fight.
“And David too must stay safe away from battle—oh, he will not like it, but it is folly to risk him. And to speak plain, Queen Michal, in this I do not care what David likes.”
“Should the king not lead his men?” To stay behind, with the women—ah, David would not like that. It would sting the hero’s pride.
“The king should lead his men to victory,” Joab said, and his eyes were flat, like a viper’s.
“Do you think he would not?”
“You’re a clever woman. Tell me.”
“King David thinks too little of Prince Absalom. And too much of himself. He schooled Absalom, after all.”
“And David is getting old,” Joab said. “Prancing about the hills like a partridge—” Again he looked about my tent-floor; again he gave it up. “So tell him, Queen Michal.”
“Yes, I will tell him. Now I ask you to tell me a thing, and truly. Will Absalom defeat us?”
“Not if I lead the host against him. That I swear to.” Joab grinned like a wolf “David’s always been too damn soft with that boy.”
It was not easy to catch the king; David seemed never to rest quiet for more than a few moments. I was fortunate, for chance brought David past my tent at the very moment I was scolding Solomon—again.
“—and I have told you before, Solomon, that you must stay away from the cattle-pens! Do you think the oxen will not kick you because you are a prince? Well, they will, and you will deserve it—but your mother and I are the ones who must tend you, and—”
Solomon stood with his head down, kicking the pebbles in the dirt. He looked as sullen as any boy being brought to task for willfulness—save that Solomon was clever enough to hold his tongue and not make silly excuses when he knew I was angry.
In truth, I suppose I was not truly angry with him—well, I knew what boys were, after all! But the long days and longer nights while we marched and waited and marched again had honed tempers and tongues.
“Now what can my little peacemaker have done to deserve a shrew’s welcome, Michal?” It was David, dressed in a short warrior’s tunic, playing at being the simple fighting man. Now he smiled at Solomon and ruffled the boy’s hair.
It was David who had dragged us all into this life of dirt and danger, and for no good reason save his own pride. Yes, my anger was for David. But I must not let David know that. And so I spoke as any cross woman might.
“What has he done? He has disobeyed his mother and me and runs about the camp like a wild beast! That is what he has done, O King.”
“A wild beast!” King David was in a mood to be amused. He swung Solomon up and held him high. “Have you disobeyed your mother, boy?”
“Oh, no, Father. She said I mustn’t let the cattle kick me, and I won’t.”
“No, Solomon, that is not—”
“There, you see, Michal? Leave the boy alone—he’ll come to no harm, and camp life will toughen him.” David set Solomon down, all fatherly indulgence. Well, it cost David nothing, after all. David did not have to care for Solomon and for his clothes. “Now run along, boy—you can lear
n much in camp, if you’re willing to work and listen. I did, once, and look at me now.”
Solomon did not stay to look, but bowed and ran off as King David had bidden him. David would have gone striding on, then, but I put my hand upon his arm. “Wait, David—I would speak with you, if you will grant me so great a boon.”
Those few words were carefully chosen; I knew they would remind David of the great boon I had once asked when I had begged for Bathsheba’s life. David would always listen to me when I invoked that memory.
And so David smiled, and bade me speak, as I had known that he would. And I said the words Joab and Abishai and Ittai, the war-captains of David’s host, had begged of me. I said them well, for they were words I truly meant.
“See, O King, how this life turns your children wild and your women shrewish—well, who can stay sweet-oiled and pleasant in a warrior’s camp?”
“You are always fair and pleasant to my eyes, my queen. And as for the children—why, they are soft and eager to be hardened. They are a warrior’s sons, after all.”
“And are your daughters to take up sword and spear as well? No, do not turn from me, David—I speak only for the good of us all. We slow your army, lord. The soldiers fear for our safety, when they should be bold. Find a place for us, that we may rest, and make you welcome when you return victorious.”
David looked hard at me. “I have heard these same words—or their brothers—from my war-chief and my captains.”
I smiled and spread my hands wide. “Who can hide anything from the king? He sees even the pebble at the bottom of the well. Yes, I had these words from Joab, and from Ittai and Abishai too. Since you would not heed them, they asked me to speak. And my lord the king knows that I would speak no words of Joab’s if they were not my own as well.”
I folded my hands before me, and waited. David had heard. Now he would do as he wished. I hoped it would be as his captains wished—and as I wished. I had had my fill and more of war-camp life. I tasted dust in my food, and in my dreams. I could not remember when last I had bathed. All our perfumes were gone.
“Well, well,” David said at last. “Perhaps I have been too stiff-necked—there, never let men say King David cannot admit a fault. Behind thick walls you would be safer, and then the army could move freely and fast.” His eyes gleamed; I thought once more of an aging stallion being led to the war-chariot.
“As the king says. And should not David be in the forefront of the army—with the men?” And I smiled inwardly, for I knew what Joab and the others would say to that!
CHAPTER 25
“O Absalom, my son, my son!”
—II Samuel 19:33
And so reason prevailed at last. We traveled one more weary road, north to a city loyal to David. The king’s household stayed there, safe within the walls of Mahanaim.
And there, to his great anger, the king remained as well. For when David would ride out in his fine chariot at the head of the host a cry of protest arose from the people, who would not see King David risk his own throat to enemy blades. And Joab, who had started the outcry, stood beside David’s chariot and told him bluntly that the king was too precious to chance in battle.
“Nay, not that you are too old—did any say so? But does a man set a jewel in the road for robbers? If you fall, we all fall. I have led your men against your enemies without you before. This is no different.”
For David it was. This enemy was his own son—David wished to be the one to teach the lesson. And I do not think he trusted Joab to know the king’s mind in this. David knew Joab well, after all.
“They would not let me go,” David said loudly, as we stood upon Mahanaim’s walls and watched the army march. “You see how I am loved! But Joab is right, he knows his job—I taught him, didn’t I? And I bade him treat Absalom soft, and bring the boy safe to me.”
Did David think Absalom would draw back and treat him soft? I thought of that, and of Joab, and then I smiled. Yes, David, Joab knows his job. You taught Joab well, O King. It was you who gave him his taste for murder.
Mahanaim had been a king’s city once. My brother Ishbaal had ruled there, in the days when he had been king over Israel. There had been two kings in the land then, too; Israel’s king, and Judah’s. That had been a dozen years ago.
Those days rose up, clear again in my mind, as I watched the army stride away from Mahanaim. Days when King Ishbaal sat in Mahanaim, and Abner ruled for him—and King David sat in Hebron, and ruled for himself. Always for himself. Days in which I sat placid in Phaltiel’s house, and spun my thread and wove my cloth, and thought the village of Gallim all the world I should ever see.
I would have thought Mahanaim a great city, had I seen it then. Now I weighed it against Jerusalem; balanced against that, Mahanaim was little more than Gallim had been. A market town, that was all—and a crowded one, now that King David had come and demanded houses for his wives, and his daughters, and his servants.
A merchant had given up his house to the king’s wives; the merchant was a wealthy man, and his dwelling was a large, good house. Of course it was still too small for a dozen women and their servants and young children; they must huddle together in it like sheep in a crowded fold. But that was not the merchant’s fault, and he had done his best to make us welcome there. Walls had been newly lime-washed. The courtyard had been swept and all the rooms cleared for us. Above us, on the housetop, vines curled over a high-arched arbor. It would be pleasant to sit there in cool breeze and shade.
“How kind,” Bathsheba said. “How kind of him to give up his own home for us. We must thank him and his family, Michal.”
“Yes. Yes, we will do that—perhaps tomorrow, when I am not so tired—and so dusty!” I smiled, for at last we had come to a place where we might once more know comfort. “Perhaps there is a full cistern, and a basin—”
“A bath.” Bathsheba sighed the words; dreaming of water as of a lover.
“Yes,” I said, and my voice held the same longing. “Yes, a bath. For us, and for Solomon too, if we can catch him!”
Bathsheba laughed, then, and I put my arm about her. “Come, let us find rooms for ourselves in this fine, fine house.”
“This is not what I am used to,” I overheard Abigail say. “Is this a way to house the king’s wives? Why, we are all pushed in here together like—”
Abigail’s voice rasped in my ears; I stepped forward and spoke to them all. “No, this is not what we are used to.” My voice rang out clear, smooth and chill. I do not know why I troubled myself over the matter, save that it was Abigail who had spoken. But once I began, I realized that if this were not stopped now, David’s women would do nothing but quarrel and squabble until those of us with sense were driven mad.
“We are used to eating dust and washing with our tears; we are used to following the king’s army until our sandals are worn from our feet and our skin burned from our faces.” I looked at them all—Abigail, Haggith, Eglah, and all the rest. “That is what you are used to, Abigail, and what I am used to. And since you prefer that to this, go and tell King David so, and see how you are housed then!”
I looked past Abigail then, to the others crowded there. Some were haughty, some puzzled. All were sore weary, wishing only to pause somewhere, and rest. “As for me, I am not so proud, but then, I am only the queen,” I said. “I will take this place, and gladly. Any of you who wish to dwell in peace in the queen’s house may rest welcome here. The rest of you may do as you please.”
Of course the queen’s house I had claimed was not quiet; I did not hope for that. But there were no quarrels where I could hear them, and that was all I asked. And I did not spend all my days trapped under that roof. Mahanaim was not Jerusalem and the war had made new manners; here I owned freedom such as Queen Michal could never have in King David’s great city.
Many years had passed since I had walked with other women to the village well, had joined in their talk. Idle chatter, men call such talk—well, and so it is, if it is idle to tal
k of birth, and death, and food and clothing and marriage.
Mahanaim’s women were shy of me at first, and silent. They stared at me round-eyed, and turned their faces away to whisper to each other, but they would not speak freely before me. Then, as I walked every day to the well, and to the market, and smiled and laughed with Bathsheba, and praised their children, the women began to smile back, and then to greet me. And then they began to speak to me, when they learned that I would listen.
What women say at the well today, all the world will say tomorrow. I listened.
“I have heard that Prince Absalom swore to slay all his brothers that he might be king. Is it true?”
“They say Prince Absalom has lain with the king’s concubines—they say the king left his women in Jerusalem as a sign Prince Absalom was king indeed. Is it true, O Queen?”
“Is it true the king promised Prince Absalom half the kingdom if he would lay down his sword?”
“Who is heir, now that Prince Amnon lies dead?”
The foolish questions of women.
A quiet life, waiting in Mahanaim. And then one day I saw a woman at the well.
A woman at the well, like any other. But she moved with a smooth rise of hip, a lazy sway of veil over her back, rippling like waves over sand … . She dipped her jug and drew it up again, water dripping from the spout, flashing crystal in the sun. Someone spoke to her; a jest, it seemed, for the woman flung back her head, and laughed.
I knew her then. It was Zhurleen.
Zhurleen, once my truest friend, though I had not known that until too late. Zhurleen, who had been sold into a shameful life, through my folly. Zhurleen—neither memory nor ghost, but a living woman who must hate me … .
I thought Zhurleen did not see me. She settled her jug upon her hip and began to walk away.
I moved, then, and hurried after her. “Wait!”
She stopped, and set her water-jug down at her feet. Then she waited until I was close to her, and smiled. “The queen is kind, to trouble herself with a humble Moabite woman. How may I serve the queen?”
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