“After I fled the palace, Jonathan still believed that the rift between your father and me could be mended. He persuaded him to meet me in a cave in En Gedi and made him promise not to harm me. The meeting was kept completely secret. Even those who had accompanied him thought he’d gone into the cave because even kings have to answer the call of nature. I tried to convince him that I had no intention of robbing Jonathan of the throne, but he forbade me from returning to the palace. Then, before we parted ways, he told me that he knew I would be the next king of Israel and that he wanted me to swear to him not to kill off his descendants. I repeated the vow to him exactly as he had phrased it, and that was the last time I ever saw him. Jonathan tried to arrange other meetings from time to time, but we both knew it was pointless.”
David’s story managed to arouse within my frozen heart a warmth that I didn’t think I could ever feel for him again. “I believe you,” I whispered. “Have your slaves bring the seven sons of Saul here. I know you won’t harm them.”
* * *
Armoni and Mephiel were the first to climb out of the chariot, and they bent down to hug their mother. The last time I’d seen them, they had been boys of fifteen, and now, at age twenty, they towered at least a head taller than everyone around them. Elhanan and Joel had also become tall, powerful men, and even Asahel and Benjamin, who hadn’t yet finished growing, were impressive. Only Micah remained short. His legs, which had barely grown since he was five years old, dangled over the edge of the three-wheeled wheelbarrow like two thin sticks.
“That’s the last wheelbarrow Father built for Micah,” I told little Nebat, who was staring at his new large family with a gleam in his eyes. “Remember I told you about the wheelbarrows Father built him every year?”
Before I had a chance to show the boys to their rooms, the servants summoned us to appear before the king. We walked to the throne room, and I was glad to see that Micah was able to propel the wheelbarrow by himself. His strong arms turned the wheels effortlessly, and he steered it using the muscles of his shoulders and upper back.
I stood before David and introduced the seven boys in order of age. They all bowed and thanked him for his grace. For a moment, I recalled a distant image of a young musician who was invited to dinner at the palace being introduced to the royal family, but I managed to push it away. My life experience had taught me to subdue memories rather than allow them to drag me into pain that I could not bear.
I saw that David was also surprised by the height of the boys, some of whom he’d known as small children, but he did not share his feelings, instead giving each of them a restrained smile. His face softened only when I introduced Micah.
“Forgive me, I cannot bow to you, Your Majesty,” said Micah.
Rather than replying, David got up from his throne, came down from the platform, and leaned over him.
Micah stared at him in surprise. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for bringing us to your palace to eat at your table.”
The king reached out a hand to the twelve-year-old boy’s soft face and ran it over his cheeks and hair.
“Your father was a good friend of mine,” said David, “the best friend I ever had.”
Nineteen
Two servants and one cook were the only people who ever set foot in our home, which became known as the “House of Saul” and was located in its own wing of the palace. We lived in utter solitude, never taking part in the lively social life that surrounded us. When I ran into David’s wives, which happened only rarely, I would exchange a few words of greeting with them, glance at their children, and hurry back to my family. Abigail was the only one of the wives who made me curious. During our brief conversations, I got the impression that she was a strong and interesting woman. The other wives seemed like a boring herd of women with no personality, and I could barely tell them apart. Every so often a new girl would join the band, looking lost and scared for a few weeks, but in a matter of months she would be carrying her pregnant belly with pride and holding her head up high, and she would be staring down the next girl with a mixture of contempt and loathing. The princes were quite dull as well. At first, when I could still tell them apart, I noted to myself that Amnon, Ahinoam’s son, the eldest, seemed pathetic, while it was actually Absalom, the third son, the grandson of the King of Geshur, who looked like a king. But after the birth of Shephatiah, the sixth son, I lost interest and told Rizpah with great satisfaction that none of them, not even Absalom, had inherited even a smidgeon of their father’s exalted charm.
Our isolation, which was so well suited to two tired women who’d had enough of life and only wanted rest, was agony for the eight effervescent boys blossoming into young men. They especially missed the sweet encounters with girls their own age that had been such a part of their previous lives. They understood that the two of us, as the wives of the king, were required to remain inside the palace, and since they were noble and kind, it had never occurred to them to leave us alone in Jerusalem and return home without us, but they asked, at the very least, to come and go as they pleased, to wander the streets and markets, to meet friends in Gallim, and to dance with the girls out in the fields and vineyards on holidays and festivals.
But David firmly refused. “I am responsible for their safety,” he declared, describing for me at great length the many terrible dangers to Saul’s descendants that lurked outside the palace gates. At first I accepted his view, but as the days went by, I was increasingly tortured by feelings of guilt. I wasn’t certain that I had done the right thing by bringing the boys here. The palace was the safest place for them, but is danger not preferable to life in prison?
Many months went by before David found time for an audience with me.
“You are responsible for the boys’ safety only inside the palace,” I told him. “I release you of any responsibility for their safety outside.”
“You cannot release me from my vow. I swore to protect them.”
“You swore not to exterminate them.”
“They are under my protection. If even a hair falls from their heads, I won’t be able to face your father’s memory.”
“But you allow your sons and daughters to go outside.”
“Only on rare occasions, and only under heavy guard.”
“Our boys will also leave only occasionally and only accompanied by guards. They are asking to go to Gallim for the upcoming Festival of Harvest so they can dance with the girls in the fields. Micah will join them. The Festival of Harvest is enjoyable even for those who cannot dance.”
David fidgeted uncomfortably and ordered his slaves and advisors out. “I don’t want to upset you,” he said, “but you must know the reason for my absolute refusal.”
His tone frightened me. I realized there was a threat involved.
“The descendants of Saul face graver dangers than my own sons. Your father’s enemies have been popping up everywhere, not only in Judah, waiting for a chance to take revenge on his descendants.”
“Who would want to take revenge against the descendants of Saul?” I asked in shock.
“Refugees from Nob, the city of priests your father destroyed.”
Waves of fury flooded over me. “The army of Edom, led by Doeg, destroyed Nob!” I cried. “Everybody knows that.”
“There are other stories.”
“My father wouldn’t even destroy his enemies. His critics railed against him for letting the Amalekites live. Who would believe that he destroyed a city in Israel?”
“It’s what people have been saying about him,” he said, sounding puzzled, as if he were astonished by the stories as much as anyone.
“You are the one who has destroyed a city in Israel, not my father.”
“Me?!”
“When you fled the palace, you wanted to prove to Achish, King of Gath, that you had cut off all ties to your nation and your tribe so he would trust you and grant you refuge in his land, so you destroyed the towns of the southern desert of Judah on his behalf.”
“Do you believe that
?”
“It’s what people have been saying about you.” I said it in the same tone of voice that he had used.
“I destroyed the Amalekites that your father let live, and since I’d left no remnant of them, I was able to use the opportunity to tell Achish that the dead were members of my own tribe. But the people of Israel know the truth.”
“They know the truth about my father as well. The false tales his enemies are spreading about him will be scattered by the winds. They will never stand the test of time.”
“Those eight boys may not leave the palace,” David said, ending the discussion.
When I recounted the details of the argument and its sad outcome to Rizpah, she turned white with fury. I had never seen her so angry before. “David plays innocent, but the ones spreading the monstrous tales about your father are his own scribes. They just haven’t made up their minds yet whether to portray Saul as a weak and cowardly king or as a cruel and bloodthirsty one. On the one hand, they say that he failed to destroy his enemies and that he didn’t die a hero’s death on the battlefield but rather fell on his own sword like a coward. And on the other hand, they spread rumors that he was constantly throwing his spear at anyone he didn’t like, including, of course, his innocent musician, David son of Jesse. The first time I heard that one I thought it was laughable, for everyone knows that King Saul was the greatest warrior in Israel. If he’d thrown his spear at his musician even once, David son of Jesse would have been skewered to the wall, and all the calamities that have befallen us would have been prevented. But Merab was right. The nation does have a short memory. Repeat a story enough times, and, better yet, write it down in the book of chronicles, and it becomes reality. So, now David is trying to convince you that refugees from Nob wish to take revenge on our sons!? He himself has countless bitter enemies who would love nothing more than to hang his children from the pillories. Because, unlike King Saul, who only fought those who attacked us and never killed women or children, David conquers peaceful nations and orders his army commander not to leave alive even a single dog pissing on the wall. He tortures his enemies with saws and iron picks and draws lots to decide who will live and who will die. After he conquered Moab, he ordered all its people to lie down on the ground, and he measured them off with a cord. Every two lengths he put to death, and he spared the third so he would have slaves to pay him tribute. And that’s nothing compared to what he did to the people of Aram-Damascus. David’s sons are the ones in real danger of blood vengeance, not ours.”
I knew where she had gotten all her detailed information about David’s vicious conquests. Micah liked to ride his wheelbarrow all around the palace and eavesdrop on the conversations of servants and members of the royal family. He heard everything and forgot nothing. I had no interest in this gossip—I wanted to hear nothing of David’s deeds, good or bad—but Rizpah and the boys were captivated by it, and they encouraged Micah to continue to carry out his spy missions.
“Then what could the real reason for David’s decision possibly be?” I asked.
“He is afraid of our boys,” Rizpah said confidently.
“Why would David be afraid of gentle boys who are only allowed to study languages, read books, play music, ride horses, and listen to the latest gossip their crippled brother brings them?”
“David knows that if the people of Israel got to know Saul’s descendants up close and compared them to his own sons, the future of his dynasty would be in danger.” She glanced at me hesitantly and cast down her eyes. “And I can think of another reason for him to keep our boys locked up. He doesn’t want them to marry and give birth to sons and daughters. He cannot destroy us by the sword, but no one would be able to lay the blame on him if we just naturally disappeared.”
Her words filled me with dread. “What is your basis for saying this?”
“No one in the world plans his moves in advance as cleverly as David does.”
That’s what Rizpah thought, but eight years later she would come to realize that there were two people who planned their moves in advance even more cleverly than David.
Twenty
Bathsheba was the first to arrive at the palace, and Ahithophel followed her. They seemed equally dangerous at the beginning. Only after the rebellion was over, when Ahithophel had strangled himself to death while Bathsheba returned to the palace in full force, did we come to understand that the granddaughter surpassed her grandfather.
Bathsheba entered the palace with the usual feminine ploys, and while we found them interesting, we didn’t perceive them as anything out of the ordinary, and we had no idea that they were about to shake up our lives and change the balance of power in the king’s court.
“David’s new wife is no girl,” Rizpah said, trying to draw me into the discussion of Micah’s latest gossip. He was already twenty years old at that time, but his handicap made it possible for him to go on eavesdropping around the palace uninterrupted; he took advantage of the fact that people tend to regard the disabled as mindless creatures and allow themselves to talk about anything they want in their presence, as if they were nothing but air. His great intelligence and terrific memory helped him find out everything. Nothing remained hidden from him. The isolation that had been forced upon us made us all the more dependent upon his discoveries, and his spying methods became increasingly sophisticated.
I reminded Rizpah that I had no interest in hearing the stories of David’s new wives or of his old ones, and I remained indifferent as I continued embroidering the coat of many colors I was making for my son, Nebat.
“This isn’t just routine gossip.” Rizpah laughed. “This woman has done to David exactly what I did to your father.”
Needless to say, I couldn’t remain indifferent to a teasing comment like that. I put down my embroidery and looked at her intently.
“Eliam, the father of Bathsheba, and Uriah the Hittite, her husband, are two of David’s heroes, and they live just opposite the palace. When they were called up to fight in the ongoing war against Ammon, she began walking around naked on the roof of her house at the precise time that the king liked to step out to the palace roof for some fresh Jerusalem air following his afternoon nap. Her persistence paid off, and eventually she received the coveted invitation for a onetime visit to the royal bedroom. But Bathsheba had come to the palace to stay, and less than a month later, the king was told that she was carrying his son.”
“You think she planned the pregnancy?”
“That’s how I snared your father, and that’s how Tamar, the matriarch of David’s line, snared Judah. Since the dawn of time, it’s been the way women have snared husbands they had a hard time getting by conventional means.”
“But your mother’s prostitute friends made sure you encountered Father when you were in your fertile time, while Bathsheba was trying to seduce David over a long period. She couldn’t have known when he would invite her to his bed.”
“You’re right, but don’t forget that Micah is no expert on women’s matters. Perhaps Bathsheba only walked around the roof naked on her fertile days.”
“And what did David do when he found out she was pregnant?”
“He brought Uriah home from the battlefield right away.”
“That’s not the move I would have expected.”
“Uriah hadn’t been home for three months, ever since the war broke out. David wanted him to sleep with Bathsheba so that when he found out she was pregnant he would believe the child was his.”
“But you told me that David eventually married her.”
“Because Uriah wouldn’t sleep with Bathsheba when he came home. Or so she says.”
“So what did David do?”
Rizpah looked at me intently. “You know the answer.”
“He killed Uriah?”
“David never kills with his own hands. He sends people to do the unpleasant task for him, while he tears his clothes in grief and composes heartbreaking lamentations in memory of the dead.”
We wer
e sure that the death of Uriah the Hittite would be the end of the story of David and Bathsheba, that the ambitious woman who had fulfilled her dream of marrying the king would give birth to her prince and live happily ever after in the palace. But before long we came to see that the story was more tangled than we’d thought. When Micah first told us, we couldn’t believe our ears.
“Bathsheba isn’t pregnant?” we asked in astonishment. “Are you sure?”
“The king’s wives hate her, but they also revere her as the only person in the world who has ever outwitted David.”
Past experience had taught us that Micah was never wrong, but a few weeks later he appeared with an embarrassed look on his face and reported that Bathsheba indeed was pregnant.
“Are you sure?” we asked in chorus.
“Her belly precedes her.”
And then, just as we had all become convinced once again that it really was just another case of the old story of a woman becoming pregnant in order to bag a desirable husband, Micah brought us new information that turned everything upside down and left us baffled.
“Bathsheba has been tying a feather pillow to her belly,” he told us excitedly. “One of the maids saw it peeking out from under her dress.”
We couldn’t conceive of an explanation for such odd behavior that made any sense. Only after the death, as it were, of the unborn child did Micah manage to put together the fragments of information he’d collected and form one clear picture to explain it all: Unlike the previous times that David’s rivals suddenly found themselves dead, the death of Uriah the Hittite had aroused an outcry in the kingdom. The people of Israel refused to believe the stories being spread by the king’s scribes, which claimed that Uriah had been killed in the normal course of things in the war against Ammon. “Joab son of Zeruiah killed him on the battlefield,” they told one another angrily, “so that the king and Bathsheba could marry unchecked.”
Bathsheba realized that she had become the most hated woman in the kingdom and hurriedly introduced the king to a venerable old man visiting the palace from the neighboring town of Giloh.
The Secret Book of Kings Page 27