“How could you think . . .” Her voice was low and furious. “‘Invited’?” Her full lips compressed into an ungenerous line. “For someone who sees so much, you are so blind! I went up onto that roof seeking privacy. Except for my one maid, Uriah’s house servants were all of them male. Most were ex-soldiers, young men in his service who had been injured in some way. He took them in and gave them work. You think it was easy, to be in that house and feel their eyes on me, and my husband far away? I needed to do my ritual purification, and I could not clear my thoughts for the prayers when I feared that at any moment I might be spied upon. The roof, the dark—it was the only privacy I had. Or so I thought . . .”
She stared at me, defiantly. And then she dropped her gaze. “Don’t think I haven’t flayed myself for my mistake. Every day, every single day, I ask myself why I went up there. Do you have any idea what he was like, that night? He used me like some—receptacle. The bruises on my breasts took a month to fade. I was afraid Uriah would come home on leave and see the marks.”
I thought back to that spring, as David’s troops mustered without him for the first time, and I had been called to the side of an angry king who had put even Yoav in fear. I recalled my own fear, as I waited for my audience with him that morning. And we were men who had known David, and loved him, almost all our lives. I looked at Batsheva and suddenly I felt as I had throughout that long night after I’d returned from Beit Lehem, when I sat up waiting for some stillborn vision. I knew now why I felt so ill that night. All through that vigil, he had been raping her. And I had let myself call it a seduction. As I looked at her now, I was shamed by my own thoughts. In a way, I, too, had violated her.
“When he bundled me out—tossing me a jewel, as if I were a whore requiring payment—it was over for him, but not for me. I lived every day in fear, knowing my life hung by a spider’s thread, waiting for word of my dishonor to reach Uriah—Uriah, a man for whom honor was everything.” She lifted her chin. Her eyes fixed on some distant point. “Have you ever seen a woman stoned to death, Natan? I have. My father made me watch when I was a girl, so I would know what became of faithless wives. And when my monthly signs didn’t come, I thought about that woman, the sound of her moans, her mashed flesh, her shattered bone. . . . At the end of it, she had no face . . .” She drew a hand across her eyes, as if to wipe out the image. When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. “And now, I’m guilty for this, too; that all I thought about in those weeks was myself. It was Uriah I should have feared for. I know that now. But how could I think that David would kill him? Who does that, to a loyal and innocent man? And then my son—my baby, my blameless little boy . . .” Her shoulders heaved in another sob. “He suffered, Natan. The fever burned him alive. And I have to stay with the man who caused all this. Sleep in his bed. Try to pretend that he’s not a monster . . .”
“The king is not a monster. He has failings, as all men do. He did wrong. He has acknowledged it before the people. He repents it. How many kings have the humility to do that? He prays for forgiveness every day. He strives, every day, to be a better man. You must see—”
“I can’t see! And neither can you, Natan. You, because you choose to look away from the truth. You let your love for him blind you. But I can’t see anything except what he has taken from me. My child. My husband. My own body. Everything, except my life. Because he can. He can do whatever he wants. You are the only one he fears.”
“No. Not me. He fears the Name.”
“And you speak for the Name. I am hanging on to this scrap of breath that is my life, Natan. Hanging on to give it to my child.” Beads of sweat pearled her brow. She was very pale.
“I’ll get you some water,” I said, and went out to the garden. I leaned my forehead against the rough wall of the spring house until the stone grazed my skin. I stood there a long time, castigating myself. I had thought this matter of Uriah was done and over. Now here it was again, with yet another, deeper layer to its evil. A trickle of blood ran down my face. I licked my lips and tasted iron. I stepped back from the wall and fingered the graze. Batsheva’s maidservant was standing nearby, staring at me. She reached out and took the pitcher from my hand and bent to fill it.
When she was done I let her pour the cool water into my cupped hands. I washed the blood from my forehead. Then I took the pitcher from her and went back inside. Batsheva was lying on the couch, her face pressed into the pillow. I filled a goblet and set it down on the low table beside her. Her breath was ragged. I sat in the chair by the window and waited. Presently, she pushed herself upright and reached for the water.
“Did you love him? Uriah.”
She paused, considering, her head tilted on her long, slender neck. “I wasn’t thinking about love. No one talked of that. I wasn’t raised to expect it. I was a child when my father promised me, and I was sent to Uriah’s bed soon after I bled the first time. He was a good match. That’s what my father said, and I was raised not to question what my father said. I was proud, to be known as the wife of Uriah. He never mistreated me. I mourn his death. Is that love?”
It was my turn to shrug. “How would I know?”
“How would you?”
We sat in silence. Outside, the sun dipped, throwing long shadows across the glossy flagstones. I gazed at the white veins tracing through the pink stone, and all I could see was flesh and gristle; flayed skin and torn sinew.
“You haven’t told me why you came here. Why you took this risk.”
“I came to ask . . . to see if you would . . . Natan, I need to know what you see. For this child I’m carrying.” She placed her long fingers protectively over her belly. The light caught the sapphire that gleamed on her hand. “You said the other one was payment of the blood debt. But what about this one? Will it live?”
I stood up and opened my hands. “It doesn’t work like that. I cannot . . .” And then I saw her face—lovely, even now, blotched and red-eyed with weeping. How could I leave her in this pain? In recompense for my misjudgments, I owed her hope, at least.
“I can say that, since I saw so clearly the other death, yet I see nothing for this—”
And then he was there, a beautiful dark-haired little boy, standing by the window, turning to me, his face full of laughter. I had seen him before, the first time I entered this house. Then I had known him for David’s son. Now I understood that he was the child of Batsheva, the shapling growing within her.
He had a young eaglet on his wrist, and as he spoke, it walked up his arm and rubbed its head against his face. He turned away, and when he looked back again he was older, a smiling young man, a gold circlet on his brow. There were maps on the table, and he bent over them, pointing at something, then he raised his eyes in a question. The vision dissolved, and I could see through him, to the window beyond. The same tall, arched window, its big wooden shutters thrown open to the view. But the view itself was utterly changed. Where groves should be, houses stood. The city spilled down into the valley and lapped at the very foot of this hill. Far away, on Har Moriah, the sun glinted on the golden capitals of a great white temple . . .
It was my turn to sway. I staggered to the couch and sat down heavily, reaching blindly for the goblet. It was empty. She took it from my shaking hands and filled it, then held it to my lips so that I could drink. I reached a shaking hand tentatively toward her belly. I closed my eyes, and felt the power surge through me.
“He will be king, Batsheva.”
She gasped and brought her fist to her mouth. “But how? How can that be? All those brothers . . . Amnon, almost a man already, and Avshalom, Adoniyah . . . and then all the younger ones . . .” I saw her tally them in her mind.
“I know.” I could not reveal what else I knew: the desert visions of fratricide, treason, betrayal. “I can’t say how this will be, but take comfort. This boy you carry will live and thrive. I have seen him, crowned.”
She got up, pacing.
“But how—I don’t—it will have to be different, between me and the king. If my son is to sit on the throne, I will need to—”
Her mind was racing. I had meant to bring her comfort, and all I had done was set her into turmoil.
“Batsheva,” I said. I moved toward her and set my hands on her shoulders, forcing her to stand still. Her darting eyes scanned my face. “Let this unfold as it must. Be content to know your son will live. Leave the rest where it belongs. No need to run toward it. It will come to us, soon enough.”
XVI
That day, I ceased to serve a king and began, instead, to serve a kingdom. Since my time in the desert, I understood that David’s fate was out of my hands. He would have to live through the punishments he had earned, and nothing I could say or do for him could remove that burden. But neither was I Shmuel, withdrawing my love and guidance. As the Name still loved David, so did I, and I would be there at his side, to offer what solace I could, to make sure he made wise decisions despite the self-inflicted pain he had to suffer, and so to make sure the kingdom was protected and kept whole until Batsheva’s son became king.
To do so, I understood that I would have to secure a place at the young prince’s side. This would be delicate, as I had always gone out of my way to avoid any dealings with David’s children. At first, it had been the normal disregard of a young man toward any infant not his own. I thought of children as women’s business—nothing to do with me. Later, as the princes grew and the older ones began to attend on David at audiences and feasts, I noticed only that they were handsome and spoiled. Daniel, the second born, the son of Avigail, was the only one who carried out his minor duties—cup bearer, page—with any seriousness or dignity. But when Daniel died, it left the eldest, Amnon, as the unchallenged and feckless leader of a wild and headstrong band, fractious with one another and contemptuous toward everyone else.
Even in the ordinary course of things, David’s heirs would have been fawned upon and flattered to a dangerous degree, with only their father in a position to set limits. But because David had received no love from his own father, he was determined to lavish it upon his sons. He poured it out with a wastrel’s abandon, unwilling to exact any price or place any conditions. And as he did not restrain them, neither did the world. So I viewed them, I suppose, as spoiled nuisances. Then I went to the desert, and saw what they would become. After, I could not look them in the face, and made every excuse I could think of to evade their company. Now, suddenly, I would have to reverse myself.
I expected that at some point David would confide in me regarding Batsheva’s condition, and I had carefully prepared what I proposed to say. But a month passed, then two, and nothing was said. David continued his public atonement in the matter of Uriah, and I suppose he felt uneasy raising with me anything connected with that business. I saw that I would have to change that, and make it clear that I now accepted his marriage and its issue. When I saw Batsheva, it was from a distance, walking with her women in the courtyard, or listening to music in the hall, and I could not tell if her condition was evident or not. But I had to think that her pregnancy must be patent by that time to David who, according to Muwat’s informants, continued to lie with her almost every night.
Finally, I decided that if he would not speak, I would. I was in his private quarters with Yoav and some others of his inner circle. Earlier, there had been music and wine and much boisterous talk. This had waned now that the hour had grown late. Yoav had fallen asleep in his chair. I saw that David stifled a yawn. He made to rise, intending, I suppose, to dismiss us and retire. Before he could do so, I laid a hand on his arm. He gave another yawn and gazed at me sleepily.
“What now? It’s late, and you have that goat track to navigate in the dark. Can’t it wait till morning?”
I lowered my voice so that only he could hear me. “Why do you say nothing of the child Batsheva carries?”
He squirmed in his chair, suddenly quite awake.
“How do you know?” he said sharply.
I turned a hand and gave a slight shrug. “How not?”
“But you have said you don’t see personal matters . . .”
Yoav stirred. I gestured to David to lower his voice. I dropped my own to a whisper. “I don’t see personal matters that are without consequence. This . . . has consequence.”
“How so?” He looked alarmed. “You said the boy who died was payment of the blood debt. How is this one . . .”
I raised my hand. “Not in that way. I see nothing ill for this child.”
“Then what?”
I had the words all prepared, well rehearsed.
“Your sons. Yoav has had the training of the eldest—Amnon, Avshalom and Adoniyah—as his armor bearers; Aviathar has the younger boys, Yitraam and Shefatiah, as his acolytes. But Yoav and Aviathar have sons of their own. I have no sons. It’s hard, to reach such an age as I am and have no one. No son to teach, no one to guide. You do not need another general, another priest. But whichever of your older sons becomes king, he will need someone like me, who can stand by him and speak truth. If I have served you, if I have been of value, this boy . . .”
He raised a hand and interrupted me. “You are saying that this child Batsheva carries will be a prophet? You have seen this?”
I was going to lie and say yes, I had seen it. I could not tell him the truth. To do so would raise alarm about the fates of his older sons—matters of which I could not speak. To serve him, I now had to mislead him. I had practiced how I would deceive him by describing a false vision. I intended to use a part of what I had seen—the city, grown great, spreading out across the seven hills, the shining temple columns, rising stone by stone on Har Moriah. But I thought to people the vision with a king, standing in shadow, his face unseen, his back toward me, listening raptly to his younger brother, whose boyish face was aflame with divine power . . .
But those lies died on my lips. “No,” I said, “I have not seen it.” I felt a great upwelling of emotion. I had not, until that moment, felt the lack of a son. But now, having fabricated it, I did feel it—a great void, a sense of loss. Nothing I could have feigned would have moved David more. He stood, raised me from my chair and embraced me. “If the child is a boy, then he will be in your charge. I appoint you, Natan, to be his teacher.”
XVII
You could say he found his own way to me. That is how it would have seemed, to any who did not know better. A psalmist might fashion it otherwise. Such a one would say he was carried to me on the wings of an eagle.
There had been a great storm in the night, lashing rains and high winds such as we rarely see in these hills. In the morning, the winds had died, but the rain continued to fall steadily, filling the dry wadis till they brimmed, spilling between the rocks in swift freshets. It was a day to be spent indoors, by the fire with the shutters closed. Not a day to expect guests.
Muwat, who was cleaning my armor—which was, happily, tarnished from disuse—flinched in surprise at the heavy rapping on the outer gate. He flung a shawl over his head and went out.
The boy did not wait to be announced, but burst in, wet through, his attendant—a tall, thin Mitzrayimite—hunched sodden and miserable behind him. He did not offer an introduction or a greeting, but simply held out his two cupped hands and parted his thumbs to show me the egg cradled carefully in his palms.
“I found this. Just at the bottom of that cliff-footed ridge, over there to the east, where the elah trees grow.” His wet face was flushed, the blue eyes—deep blue like his mother’s—sparkling with excitement and urgency. “My mother says you know almost everything—she told me you are to be my teacher when I’m old enough. I’m five now—I’ll be six in the month of vine pruning, and my mother says I’m to come to you then. But I told Hophra we had to come today, because I want to know what to do with this. I would have climbed up and put it back in the nest, but Hophra wouldn’t let me. He said the rock
is too slippery in the rain. I think it must be an eagle’s egg. It was a very big nest—you could just make out the edge of it.”
“It is an eagle’s nest,” I said, struggling to retain my composure. I had awaited this day for a long time. Now my head was light with joy and excitement. I took a deep breath, trying to sound calm. “There is a pair that returns to that ridge every year. Come here, where it’s warm, get dry and we’ll decide what to do about this egg.”
He stood patiently while Hophra toweled off his rain-slicked hair. He politely accepted a bowl of warmed broth, then we sat by the fire and I read to him from a scroll that gave an account of the ways of eagles. “Since we can’t be sure when this egg was laid, we don’t know when it will hatch,” I said. “Also, it may have been addled in the fall. But since we can’t return it to the nest, the best thing you can do is build something like a nest—soft and warm. Then wait. If it does hatch, and you feed it, it will attach itself to you. It will be yours, if you want it.”
“I do!” he said, his face lit with pleasure. But then he frowned. “I can’t take it home. My older brothers, they’re not very nice to animals. Especially if they see that it’s something I care about. They’ll smash it on the stones, just for sport.”
“Then leave it here. You can come every day, if you like, and see how it does.”
“I would like that, very much, if they’ll let me.”
“I’m sure they will let you. But I will speak to them, if you think it will help.”
• • •
And so it began. Without ceremony, without even an introduction, he became part of my life. Indeed, he became its whole purpose. Every day, I looked forward to the sound of his small, enthusiastic fist knocking on the outer door. I had to discipline myself not to wait for him, staring out the window, watching the path like some lovesick swain. She had named him Shlomo, from the word for peace, shalom, but also from the word that in some uses means “replacement,” because he was the child she hoped would bring consolation after bereavement.
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