“In the middle of one of the rehearsals, as I was drumming energetically along with the other musicians, I suddenly felt myself levitating above my body. I don’t remember anything else, but the people who were there told me I tore off my clothes and fell naked onto the stage. It lasted a few minutes, and when I woke up and heard what had happened, I realized that I’d had my first revelation. It was very important to me to know exactly what I had said, but everyone around me had been so startled that they could only reconstruct a single sentence, which I had repeated several times: ‘Shelomoam will make the nation of Israel grow.’ The scribes liked the line and decided to include it in the chorus of the first song.
“When I returned to Shiloh after the performance and told my grandfather about the revelation I’d experienced in the middle of the rehearsal and about the strange statement I’d made about you, the blood ran out of his face, and he revealed to me that you were the great-grandson of King Saul. At first I was afraid that he’d lost his mind, for everyone knows that David son of Jesse destroyed Saul’s descendants. But when I heard his story, I became convinced that he knew what he was talking about.
“Saul son of Kish and my grandfather met as young men in the prophet Samuel’s company of prophets. Saul had already experienced several revelations, and everyone expected a bright future for him as a prophet. Samuel, however, told him that he would be the first king of Israel and demanded that he leave the company. The humble Saul ignored Samuel’s prophecy and returned to plow the fields of his father, Kish. But when Nahash the Ammonite threatened to enslave the people of Jabesh Gilead and put out their eyes, Saul could no longer deny the duty that Samuel had given him and the spirit of God that came upon him, so he cut up the oxen into twelve pieces before the astonished eyes of the elders and recruited all the tribes to the great battle on the other side of the Jordan River. The rest of the story is familiar. After the glorious victory that the unknown young man from Benjamin delivered to the nation of Israel, Samuel pulled him out from among the supplies and anointed him the first King of Israel. Only he didn’t tell anyone that this tall, handsome king had once been his student. Sometimes, however, when Saul wasn’t being careful, he would suddenly experience a revelation, and his stunned ministers and advisors would ask in astonishment: ‘Is Saul also among the prophets?’ A rumor also spread that he’d once had a revelation in the midst of a mass meeting, and the question ‘Is Saul also among the prophets?’ became a famous saying that expressed the adoration of the nation for him.
“After the calamity at Mount Gilboa, my grandfather offered Merab, your grandmother’s older sister, that he or another one of the members of the company of prophets could anoint Ishvi, but Merab decided it was best to have someone famous like Abner do it, rather than an unknown minor prophet. That was the end of my grandfather’s relationship with Saul’s family. Years later, he lamented the death of Saul’s descendants along with the rest of Israel and was certain that the dynasty had been annihilated, but then an old prophet, who had been with him in the company of prophets of Samuel, revealed to him that the daughter of Sheba son of Bikri had borne a son to Nebat son of Michal, and that the child, the last remnant of the House of Saul, was living in an isolated house in Zeredah. Ever since you returned to Ephraim as tax commissioner, he has been following you from afar, and he is very glad to see that you’ve inherited your great-grandfather’s exceptional leadership abilities. I don’t need to tell you how excited he was when I told him that my first revelation was about you.
“Now do you understand why I’ve come to see you? You’re the one who will save us from those who torture and oppress us. Thanks to you, the people of Israel will be fruitful and multiply and grow exceedingly numerous. And I will be your prophet, just as Samuel was your great-grandfather’s prophet. I will give you the word of God and spread the word that you are our God’s anointed one. I will anoint your forehead with anointing oil and declare your reign in the sight of all the people. You will be our next king—not only the king of Ephraim, but the entire nation of Israel.”
Sweat poured down my forehead, and my hands were shaking. “I will not be king,” I said.
“But it’s the will of God,” said Ahijah the Shilonite.
“I have my own will. God has given us the freedom to choose our own path.”
“Not always. Moses didn’t want to redeem Israel, but God forced it upon him. Your great-grandfather didn’t want to be king, but—”
“Samuel forced it upon him,” I finished his sentence. “Do you know what my life would have been like had Saul son of Kish not given in, had he stayed back to herd his oxen and plow his fields? I’ll tell you: I would have been raised by my father, Nebat, and my mother, Zeruiah, in a small house in Benjamin. Grandmother Michal would have come by to play with me every day, and Grandfather Paltiel would have taught me to ride a horse and would have built me a swing in the yard. And Grandfather Sheba would have visited from Ephraim from time to time, telling me all about his ancestor Joshua son of Nun. And I would have had many aunts and uncles, and cousins, and nephews, and we would all be…”
I wasn’t able to continue.
“I know,” whispered Ahijah the Shilonite. “Your family paid the highest price a royal family has ever paid, but—”
“No!” I said. “There will be no ‘but’ for me.”
Eleven
Grandmother died two months after the birth of Abijah. I didn’t place him in her lap; I didn’t give her a farewell kiss; I didn’t hold her hands as she took her final breaths; I didn’t close her eyes when she’d returned her soul to God; and I didn’t bury her body in the ground. My grandmother died alone, far away from her only grandchild and from her two little great-grandchildren. Only Hadad was by her side when she died.
Grandmother’s death pained me greatly. Even Elisheba, who had gotten to meet her only once, wept over her for many days. Her profound sorrow gave rise to disturbing wisps of envy in me over the mysterious bond that had formed between them, and in which I hadn’t been included. I asked her at least to tell me now what they had discussed in private, but I was met with a fortified wall.
“In due time,” she said.
“When will the time come already?” I asked angrily.
A stubborn silence was the only response I got. I felt as though my grandmother was casting a shadow between my wife and me, and the odd sensation grew even stronger five years later, when our little daughter was born. I wanted to name her Michal, but Elisheba vehemently refused and demanded that we call her Jochebed, Miriam, or Zipporah, as we’d agreed when we got married.
“Don’t you want to perpetuate my grandmother’s name?”
“It was her will.”
“You discussed our children’s names in that conversation?” I asked in astonishment.
She was silent. “Choose any name you please,” she said at last.
I named her Miriam.
* * *
Before this happened, just after Grandmother’s death, Hadad had returned to Egypt, and three years later the military overthrew Pharaoh Siamun and installed Pharaoh Shishak, leader of the Libyan mercenaries, in his place. Hadad sent me letters through his messengers and reported that everything was going according to plan. The Egyptian army would invade Israel and receive minor—but crucial—help from Rezon son of Eliada, who had been appointed army commander of Aram-Damascus. The coordinated invasion from the north and the south would leave the army of Israel with no possibility of victory, and Edom and Aram Zobah would finally be released from the yoke of occupation and gain their independence.
I was careful not to upset Elisheba and pretended everything was fine. Slowly but surely, however, my nervousness was beginning to show. I felt pain in my chest and a burning sensation in my stomach. One day I couldn’t get out of bed. My limbs were paralyzed, and there was a huge lump blocking my throat. Elisheba begged me to tell her what was bothering me, saying all the things women say when they want their husbands to open up to them. A
fter several attempts, I was finally able to speak and replied with pent-up anger that a wife who won’t share with her husband his grandmother’s will should not expect him to share his secret misgivings with her. My reply made her almond eyes fill with tears, and I regretted it immediately. I asked her to forgive me for speaking such nonsense, the words of a desperate and confused man who could not find any peace.
“Is this about your grandmother’s death?”
“It’s about Hadad.”
“Do you miss him?”
“I’m afraid of him. He’s persuaded Shishak to go to war against Israel in order to liberate Edom and Aram Zobah. I love him and want his son Genubath to take the throne, but I love my own people more.”
“Is it impossible to liberate Edom and Aram without a war?”
“Only if Solomon agrees to give them up.”
“And what is the chance that will happen?”
“The same as the chance that he will give up his lavish construction projects in Jerusalem and release the forced laborers to their homes. He’s given Hiram, King of Zur, twenty Israelite cities in the Galilee region in exchange for one hundred and twenty talents of gold, but he will never give up foreign soil conquered by his father.”
“Not even in exchange for gold?”
“Hiram, King of Zur, is his friend. He calls him ‘my brother.’ He would never turn over the lands his father conquered to those who aren’t his friends, not for all the treasure in the world.”
Elisheba sighed. She didn’t say so explicitly, but I knew she understood what was driving me mad. Only if a king arose who would agree to free Edom and Aram Zobah could a war with Egypt be prevented.
* * *
I wrote to Hadad in vague terms that I was willing to reconsider the position he had offered me years ago. Afterward, I went to the lepers’ cave and revealed my misgivings to Mother, hoping she would persuade me not to risk my life and the lives of my children. Her bare face remained expressionless, and only at the end, as I got up to give her a farewell kiss, did she whisper in my ear that she loved me and was sure that my good heart would lead me down the right path. I recalled that Grandmother had also said similar things.
My misgivings grew deeper each day. I would return home from work in the evening, kiss Elisheba, play with Miriam, help Nadab and Abijah solve arithmetic exercises and memorize new Egyptian words, and ask myself in terror whether I had the right to burden them with a weight that might turn their lives into a nightmare, like Grandmother’s had been.
One morning I arrived at the house of administration of Zeredah as usual and found an official chariot waiting for me by the gate. Adoram’s messengers politely requested that I accompany them, and before I knew what was happening, I was on my way to Jerusalem. I had many long hours to formulate a plan, and I reassured myself that even if my letter to Hadad had been discovered, it would have been completely indecipherable. When we passed the Palace of Candles, I wanted to jump out of the chariot and run to Grandmother’s grave, but instead I fixed my gaze on Solomon’s palace and told my escorts in a tone full of wonder that the new garden, whose construction had just recently been completed, was even more magnificent than its predecessors and that I’d never seen such colorful birds before.
Adoram apologized for the unexpected journey he had suddenly imposed on me with no advance notice and informed me that Solomon’s construction advisors had finished planning the new project that would be built in Jerusalem, which was the reason I was needed so urgently. I felt the muscles of my face relax with relief and asked what the project would be—the Temple, the king’s palace, the Millo, and the City of David had all been completed, so what else was left to build? Adoram pursed his lips and whistled, though it wasn’t clear whether he meant it admiringly or contemptuously. He spoke with accentuated deliberateness as he said that anyone with eyes could see that the walls of the king’s city could not remain breached, especially not now, when there was a new ruler in Egypt, and the new Pharaoh was hinting at war.
“We are building up the walls of Jerusalem,” Adoram declared cheerfully. “You must recruit five thousand new forced laborers within a week. This time we cannot give you any reduction in the tax rate on crops, but I’m absolutely certain that the people of your tribe will be glad to take part in this formidable challenge and will volunteer in large numbers.”
“Of course,” I whispered. “They’ll be delighted.”
He narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. “Do I detect mockery in your voice?”
“God forbid. The people of Ephraim are always happy to contribute to their countrymen. But in order to contribute, they need to be alive, and in order to live, they need to eat. I don’t know how we’ll feed our children after five thousand working pairs of hands are taken from us in the course of a day.”
Nothing I said made any difference. If I were strong as I once had been, I might have been able to get at least some relief in the tax burden, but of late I’d become weak and despairing.
The chariot took me back to Ephraim. As we were leaving Jerusalem we suddenly stopped, and I heard the coachman arguing angrily with someone. I pulled the curtain aside and saw a young man standing on the seat of a wagon and blocking our way. His new cloak stood out against the background of the tattered wagon and drew my gaze.
“He says you ordered him to wait for you on the road!” the coachman called to me.
I looked up at his face and saw that it was Ahijah the Shilonite. I recognized him instantly. I would sometimes run into him in Shiloh, and we would exchange a few neutral words about nothing much.
“Go back to Jerusalem!” I told the coachman and got onto Ahijah’s old wagon.
He directed the horses in silence, never turning to face me. When we crossed out of the land of Benjamin, he stopped the wagon and ordered me off. The light in his eyes and the radiance of his face gave him the look of a holy man, and I couldn’t refuse him. I followed him along side roads until we arrived at a large empty field.
“Do you know the story that David’s scribes made up about your great-grandfather and the prophet Samuel?” asked Ahijah.
“They made up lots of stories about them.”
“The one about the tearing of the coat.”
“That’s one of the most loathsome stories I’ve ever heard. I don’t want to think about it.”
“Tell it to me!”
In any other situation, I would never even have considered telling that story, but my great willpower was now entirely at the mercy of Ahijah. “The prophet Samuel informed King Saul that God had rejected him and his kingship, then he turned his back on him and started to walk away. King Saul ran after him, grabbed the hem of his robe, and tore it, and the prophet Samuel said to him, God has torn the Kingdom of Israel from you today and has given it to one of your neighbors—to one better than you.”
Ahijah pulled a knife from his belt and handed it to me. I looked at it, confused, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do next.
“Tear my cloak!”
“It’s a new cloak,” I mumbled. “It would be a shame to tear it.”
“Tear it!” Ahijah repeated his order. “We are about to correct the story that David’s scribes made up about your great-grandfather.”
I wanted to ask him how stories could be corrected, but instead my hands grabbed the knife of their own volition and reached for Ahijah’s cloak. Oddly—I don’t understand how—I knew that if I tore it, my power to choose would be taken from me, and I would never again be a free man. I had fought against Ahijah’s order with all my might. I knew I mustn’t surrender.
Ahijah stared at me intently. I could see that he understood my struggle. “So be it,” he said, taking the knife from my hand.
The great tension inside me eased at once. He cut off a large piece of fabric from his new cloak and commanded me to spread out my hands. This time I didn’t put up a fight. I felt I was doing it of my own free will.
Ahijah cut off a small scrap of the piece of fabr
ic he was holding, placed it in my hand, and called out, “Joseph!”
Then he added another scrap and called out, “Benjamin.”
Then, scrap after scrap:
“Dan.
“Naphtali.
“Reuben.
“Simeon.
“Issachar.
“Zebulun.
“Gad.
“Asher.”
* * *
I cupped the ten scraps of the cloak in my two hands, and suddenly something strange happened to me, something hard to explain: I felt love for them. My love was so strong that I held the scraps to my heart and ran my lips over them. Had anyone ever told me I would fall in love with scraps of fabric, I’d have been certain that person was mad.
Ahijah threw the scrap that remained in his hand to the ground and looked away from it. I wanted to pick it up and brush off the mud that had stuck to it and hold it to my heart along with the ten other scraps, but he stopped me.
“This is what the God of Israel says,” Ahijah thundered. “See, I am going to tear the kingdom out of Solomon’s hand and give you ten tribes.”
I looked longingly at the scrap that lay on the ground, feeling unwilling to give it up. “Give it to me,” I begged.
“That scrap is the tribe of Judah.”
“The Judeans are our brothers.”
“They rebelled against Saul and divided the nation.”
“I want to add them to the ten other tribes.”
“No,” said Ahijah. “The Judeans will not be part of the Kingdom of Israel.”
* * *
When I arrived home, Elisheba ran into my arms, buried her head in my chest, and told me in a strangled voice that she’d nearly gone mad worrying about me. She asked me to tell her how Jerusalem had been and whether, God forbid, my letter to Hadad had been discovered. When she realized I wasn’t answering her questions, she looked up at me with concern. “You look so different,” she whispered.
The Secret Book of Kings Page 38