I grew to adore that intense little face, the way his brow would crinkle before he asked a question. And such questions, from the mouth of a child. “All streams flow into the sea,” he said. “Yet the sea is never full. How is that?” Or, “The sun rises and the sun sets, and glides back to where it rises. How does it make that journey?” These were the questions of a curious intelligence and I did my best to answer them, drawing on scrolls from Mitzrayim and the teachings of astronomers from Ur. But sometimes his face would crease and the question would be one so profound that one could hardly credit that it issued from the mind of a small boy. “Men are born and they die, but the earth remains forever. Why, then, do we set such store on our short lives? Can they matter so much as we think they do?” In such cases, I blundered on as best I could, praying for inspiration, terrified that a weak answer or, worse, a platitude would shake his trust and draw him away from me. But that did not happen. To my joy, he seemed to look forward to our time together as much as I did.
The egg he had rescued hatched—as I knew it would, since I had seen the eaglet in the vision. It was a ball of dandelion fluff with a vociferous call and a tremendous appetite. Shlomo was immensely tender and patient with it, shredding the flesh of river fish, feeding it strand by strand, laughing when he couldn’t keep pace with the hatchling’s noisy demands. The bird’s growth was so rapid it seemed to change appearance every day.
“You know the eagle is called king of the sky,” I said. “Why do you think that’s so?” We talked about the eagle’s keen eyes, and how a king also must be visionary, looking beyond the surface of things; how its speed and strength surpassed other birds, just as a king must hope to surpass his subjects. We talked about its ability to find prey, and how a king also must be a provider for his people.
And then, unexpectedly: “An eagle is ruthless and takes whatever he wants,” he said. “Kings do that, too.” He ran a finger gently over the eaglet’s downy head. It closed its eyes and stretched its neck with pleasure. “My brother Amnon told me that my father took my mother that way.”
I regarded him gravely. His small brow was drawn tight and his face had a haunted look.
“Your brother should know better than to speak of such things,” I said.
“Oh, he’ll say anything. And not just to me. It gives him joy, to upset people. He’s always goading Adoniyah, and he hates Avshalom. The only one he’s nice to is Tamar—well, everyone’s nice to her, she’s kind. But Avshalom—he’s Tamar’s full brother, you know, they have the same mother, Maacah. Anyway, Avshalom hates Amnon to be with Tamar. He told her serving women that Amnon’s not allowed to see her in private anymore. There was a big fight about it.”
I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath. I felt the blood draining from my face.
“Are you all right? Should I tell Hophra to bring you something? Should I get Muwat?”
“No,” I said, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing. Just a headache. It will pass.”
It was natural, of course, for Shlomo to speak of his brothers. I told myself that I would have to harden myself to it. Still, the words went through me like spears and I had to struggle to keep my composure and focus on our lesson.
Shlomo, of course, wasn’t the only source of gossip about the older princes. In the city, it was hard to escape whispers of their outrages—which were numerous—and their enmities, which were life threatening. They had grown like wild thorns, tearing at everything they touched.
David, who so often saw so clearly, who weighed men to a fine grain, was utterly blind to the failings of the men he begat. I had been by his side often enough through the boys’ youth when word came to him that one or other of the princes had abused his slave, insulted an elder or mistreated his mount. David would laugh and shrug it off, and mock the complainant, inferring that he lacked the canniness or the authority to deal with childish pranks. Then it would be seen, in subtle ways, that the king’s affection for such a person had waned. He would be seated at the rear of the hall at feasts, or perhaps no invitation to the feast would be forthcoming. Courtiers who cared for their position noted this. Soon enough, the boys’ outrages went unremarked and unpunished. By the time they were nearing manhood, what had been mischief had become malevolence.
If the seed was unpromising, and the proper husbandry missing, then the ground also was to blame for their ungirt growth. These older boys were the children of the red years, suckled into first awareness as David was consolidating his power. In those days, cruelty was a constant.
Amnon was thirteen, and serving as Yoav’s armor bearer, when we measured out the Moavites and slew them by the span. I remember his face—still then the soft-cheeked face of a boy, not yet firmed into maturity. In that stinking field, rancid with fear-sweat and excrement, amid the screams of the dying and the pleas of the condemned, he was laughing. Laughing at a Moavite, prodding him with his foot as he lay on the ground, curled up like a snail, trying to shrink his body so as to evade the deadly quota. “That one!” he called out. “Don’t miss him—he’s within the measure.”
Yoav, who was doing the killing with pale face and compressed lips, glared at him. Like all honorable warriors, killing in hot battle was one thing, butchering unarmed prisoners quite another. I could see that he was about to reprove the boy. But the rebuke died on his lips. Even he, the boy’s kinsman and his general, had learned that Amnon was above chastisement.
It did not help that they were good-looking children, all of them products of beautiful mothers. Amnon had the dark, sloe-eyed sensuousness of Ahinoam transformed, in male form, into a solid build, with sleepy, thick-lashed eyes and a full-lipped mouth. Avshalom, on the other hand, had his mother’s flawless, regal beauty, but instead of her pale coloring he had his father’s vivid radiance. He was tall and slender, with a thick fall of glossy red-gold hair, of which he was rather vain. Adoniyah, son of Hagit, Avital’s boy Shefatiah and Eglah’s son Yitraam looked the most like brothers, sharing a dark-haired, olive-skinned attractiveness. The Hevron princes, as these youths born in that city were collectively known, attended morning audience from the time they turned thirteen. David hoped that they would acquire some understanding of statecraft. They were an impressive sight, ranged behind their father’s throne. To those who did not know their nature, it seemed that David was fortunate to have such fine-looking offspring.
It became clear soon enough that all the older boys had inherited their father’s sexual appetite, and were precocious, but Amnon was insatiable. Whores and slaves, boys, girls—he had them all, his urges indiscriminate. It was unsafe for a serving girl to pass him in the hallway. He would throw her, face against the wall, and take her in a moment’s spasm, or he would indulge in days-long orgies organized by his reprobate cousin Yonadav. David’s only answer to any of this was to give the older boys their own households, where they could pursue dissolute behavior out of his direct line of sight.
I was exceedingly glad when they moved out of the palace and I did not have to risk encountering them at every turn. Shlomo seemed pleased, too. He became noticeably less tense and excitable in his manner, more willing to make use of the abundance of scrolls in the king’s library on the days when the weather was unfavorable. But on fine days, Shlomo preferred to be outside. Most mornings, we would meet at my house, and then walk, his eagle, fledged, swooping away to hunt, and then returning to perch nearby and feast on her prey. Shlomo loved the natural world and was fiercely curious as to the ways of even the smallest insect. He would run on ahead of me up the slopes and screes, then turn and pause on a flat piece of rock, spinning around with his arms out, embracing the world. “My eye never has enough of seeing nor my ears enough of hearing,” he exclaimed one day, and I drew him close and hugged him, caught up in this small boy’s lust for life, his joy in the world and everything in it. Nothing that lived was beneath his notice. We made a great study of ants, for example, and I found that atop his fascination for the h
abits of the tiny creatures, he had an appetite for moral instruction and philosophical reasoning.
I was sitting perched on a rock while he, prone in the dirt, watched an ants’ nest, fascinated by the size of the burdens the tiny creatures carried, their tenacity to surmount any obstacle. After an hour or so, he turned his bright face to me. “They don’t have any overseers, or generals giving orders, and yet they do their work. Do you suppose it might be possible for a nation to be like that, everyone working willingly for the common good?”
“Most successful nations have been built on the backs of slaves and forced labor,” I said, considering. I took nothing he said lightly, because he seemed so hungry for answers.
“But on the battlefield I have seen men sacrifice themselves for one another. A leader who inspires people can get them to give more than they know they have. But there are few such leaders. But why only on the battlefield?” he interjected. “All wars end, and then that which was broken must be remade. It’s a waste, I think. All our best men strive to be captains and generals, because their leaders reward those skills. But perhaps there are other skills, other men, who can think of ways not to fight. Perthaps a real leader would find those men, and train them, just like an army trains . . .” He trailed off, thoughtful. I sat there, breathless, forcing myself to credit that such thoughts could issue from the mind of a mere boy. But then I gathered myself, and led him to what followed: a consideration of the leaders in our own history.
It was natural, from there, to turn to the leaders in our own history. Of Moshe, the reluctant insurgent, and Yehoshua, the brilliant warrior. Of the judges who ruled with wisdom and forbearance in the years when our people were suspicious of kings. Shlomo, with his ability to piece together shards of this discussion and that one, advanced the supposition that our reluctance to be ruled by a king had come about because of our long suffering under the pharaohs, and had waned as memories of enslavement faded. It was a wise insight, and it led on naturally to a study of Ramses, the great builder, ruthless enough to order the slaying of the children of his Ivrim slaves. Shlomo plunged wholeheartedly into the grief of our ancestors, imagining their powerlessness as their baby boys were seized and murdered. But then he surprised me by switching his perspective, struggling to see the matter through Pharaoh’s eyes. “If you are king, you must act against what threatens your people. Ramses feared the Ivrim would grow numerous and rebel. Of course, that was because he mistreated them. It’s obvious what he should have done. Mitzrayim is a rich country. He could have afforded to treat them fairly. If men work hard, they should be rewarded, even if they are slaves. Then they have less cause to rebel. That’s what I meant, before, about finding ways not to have war and break everything to pieces. Imagine how rich Mitzrayim would be now if we’d never left, if Ramses had made us part of his nation. If I were king, I’d . . .” He trailed off, lifting his chin and staring ahead. “But I won’t be king, of course.”
Then he turned to me and the words came out in a rush. “I don’t think Amnon will be a good king. He hates the ordinary people. He doesn’t care about them at all. He’s half asleep at the public audiences and he barely ever bothers to go to Father’s councils. But Avshalom is always there, when he’s allowed to be. I think my father wishes Avshalom were the eldest. Amnon scares you into doing what he wants. Avshalom’s smarter. He makes you think he likes you, even if he doesn’t, not really . . .” He stopped abruptly. He must have noticed the pained expression on my face, and misconstrued it. “Of course, I wouldn’t say these things to anyone else. Just to you. I can say anything to you, can’t I? Like I do with my mother.”
I needed to tread carefully. “Has she spoken to you, of who will be king after . . . after . . .” I found I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
“Just one time. She said that not every king passes his throne to the eldest son.”
“That’s true,” I said. “We don’t have a long tradition of kingship, as some other nations do. If your father lives long enough, the time will come when he will decide who will succeed him, and it will need to be someone the people will accept. But that decision could be years off. He’s still a vigorous man.”
He tilted his head and looked at me, his eyes widening. I didn’t have to spell it out. Even as a child, he could catch an inference. I could see him turning the thought over in his mind.
“It’s early to speak of this. Put it out of your mind, for now,” I said. “For now, you are doing the best thing, soaking up learning and wisdom. If you like, I will speak to the king about letting you go to the minor councils. You never know, he may allow it, young as you are. For now, it’s time to practice your reading.” I tapped a finger on the papyrus I’d brought from the palace library. “Although it isn’t the power it was in Ramses’ time, Mitzrayim is still an important nation for us. Your father was wise to make peace there. Whoever is king after him will need to keep that peace. Did you know the Mitzrayimites call their writing ‘god signs’? They understand that words have power . . .” We turned our attention to deciphering the glyphs, and he, delighted and puzzled, threw himself fully into this new challenge.
XVIII
“Did you hear that Amnon is ill? My father is worried. He even went to his house, and he hardly ever goes there.” Shlomo, pushing his stylus into the wax tablet, hadn’t looked up as he tossed out the information.
I was standing behind him, watching to see that he formed his letters correctly. As he spoke, the clay goblet I’d been holding slipped from my hand and shattered on the flagstones.
Shlomo turned and looked at me, puzzled. “It’s probably just a flux. A lot of people get them this time of year . . .”
“Yes, of course,” I said, trying to suppress the sickness rising in my throat. Muwat heard the goblet fall and came in with a broom, ready to sweep up the shards. He checked in the doorway. He had been with me long enough to know the signs. I made a small reassuring motion with my hand. I did not wish him to speak of it in front of Shlomo. I knew what was coming.
With difficulty, I managed to choke out a few words. “That’s enough for today. You’ve worked well. Let’s take it up again tomorrow.”
“But I haven’t finished . . .”
Muwat set down his broom and moved to the table, taking the stylus from Shlomo’s hand and gathering up the tablet and the scrolls. “The master needs to rest now.”
Shlomo looked as if he were about to protest his eviction, but then he saw my face, gray and beaded with sweat. “I’m sorry, I see you’re unwell. I hope you don’t have what Amnon has. It’s not about him, is it? That upset you? I didn’t think you’d care. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll be fine. My sister Tamar is going to his house today, to make some of her sweetcakes. They’re very good, you know. She always makes them for us as special treats when we’re sick. Amnon said it’s all he feels like eating . . .”
• • •
As soon as Shlomo was out the door, Muwat helped me to the couch. He closed the shutters and fetched cold cloths for my burning forehead and a bowl for the contents of my stomach.
The stabbing pain and nausea came, as they must. But with them, unfamiliar, was the swelling of my tongue, the closing of my throat. This was the first of the visions I was not to speak aloud. I could not warn. All I could do was bear mute witness, whether I would or no.
I lay supine, sucking for breath, as the afternoon waned and dusk gathered. I was on the couch in my own house, but I could see Amnon, naked on his bed, his dark-lashed eyes half closed in sleepy sensuality, his hand rhythmically stroking the column of his blue-veined cock. Amnon, accustomed to having his every carnal urge satisfied, no matter how base or bizarre. In Amnon’s world, where everything was available, the unattainable had a wild allure. For months, he had been obsessed with the one young female body in the kingdom that was denied to him.
It had been impossible for him to get near her. In the palace, she was shut up in t
he women’s quarters with her mother, Maacah, who guarded her like a bitch with a whelp. At feasts and ceremonies, or even at intimate family gatherings, Avshalom watched over her every move. Tamar, just turned sixteen, was David’s only daughter. It was understood that she would be used, and very soon, in some important piece of statecraft. That she would be a queen was unquestioned; the interesting question was which of our allies David would honor with the match.
The vision shifted. I saw David, in the women’s garden, admiring a piece of Tamar’s needlework as a ruby-throated bird thrummed and flitted between them. He handed the piece back to Tamar, who smiled shyly up at him. She was a beautiful girl, pale like her mother, with rose-gold hair and skin so fine it was almost translucent. She flushed, pleased by her father’s attention. She was happy to be singled out, asked to bring comfort to her important half-brother. For a girl so closely kept, it was an occasion anytime she was permitted to leave the women’s quarters. She was excited to be allowed to go out into the city. I saw her with her maidservant, choosing a gown. The one she picked was silk, dyed in bright verticals of color, with the high neckline and long sleeves that preserve a virgin’s modesty.
I smelled wood smoke, and the delicious aroma of baking. The vision shifted again: Tamar at Amnon’s house, her delicate hands kneading viscous date honey into a supple, pine-nut-studded dough. The cakes sizzled as she slipped them onto the hot metal pan. Amnon groaned. He is, he says, too ill to sit up any longer in the reception hall. He must retire to his bedchamber. He needs quiet. He must have some peace. His young sister’s gentle presence is all his ravaged nerves can bear.
The Secret Chord Page 24