The Secret Book of Kings: A Novel

by Yochi Brandes

  My shoulders trembled. I hung my head and was silent.

  “Remember this lesson, Jeroboam,” Ahijah said, raising his voice. “One who takes mercy upon the cruel will end up being cruel to the merciful. Do not repeat your great-grandfather’s mistakes.”

  He began walking toward the house, and I dragged myself behind him without a word. When we walked inside, everyone looked over at us expectantly. Nobody spoke.

  “You will make a good king,” Ahijah said, fixing his pure eyes on me. “The best king the nation of Israel will ever have. Even better than your great-grandfather.”

  * * *

  A noise woke me up in the middle of the night, only moments after I had finally fallen asleep. I sat up with my back against the wall and looked all around in confusion. The pain in my heart was so palpable that for a moment I thought someone was stabbing me in between the ribs. It took several minutes before I recalled the tragedy that had turned my life upside down, and I felt myself falling into a dark abyss. I wanted to tell Elisheba that there was no way I could stand before my people today and ask for their allegiance, but she jumped out of bed before I could even open my mouth and ran outside. Through the door, I could hear an excited hubbub outside, but I couldn’t summon the strength to get up onto my feet to see for myself whether they were the sounds of joy or of sorrow. I flopped back down on the bed, pulled the blanket up over my ears, and tried to sink into oblivion.

  Hadad’s loud voice interrupted my apparent reverie. “There hasn’t been anything like this since Mount Sinai!” he bellowed in my ear.

  I sat back up and looked at him without comprehension. His strong arms crushed me excitedly, as if we hadn’t seen each other in many years.

  “Mount Gerizim is filled to capacity, and the crowds continue to arrive in droves. All the tribes are coming. Yes, you heard me, even the tribes of Leah. The people of Israel are coming to your coronation ceremony in huge numbers—men and women, old and young. It’s going to be the second exodus from Egypt. If the flow doesn’t stop, the crowd will fill the space all the way to Mount Ebal. And then what will we do? How can we ensure that everyone sees the stage?”

  I thought to myself that, until two days ago, this news would have made me happy, but now it left me practically indifferent.

  Hadad read my thoughts. “Be happy!” he begged. “Your people want you to rejoice with them. You mustn’t let them down.”

  “I can’t,” I whispered.

  Hadad’s eyes flooded with tears. “Years ago, Ithiel told you he was willing to sacrifice his life for you. Do you want his sacrifice to have been in vain?”

  “I’ll do what I’m required to do, but you can’t force me to be happy.”

  He cast down his eyes in disappointment.

  I felt searing pangs of guilt and tried to change the subject. “Have you prepared enough water?”

  “The people are willing to die of thirst for you.”

  “This is not the time for jokes, Hadad.”

  “You act as if you don’t trust me.”

  “I never said that.”

  “I took charge of organizing the ceremony, so please have faith in me that everything is going as it should.”

  “You said yourself that no one expected so many people to come.”

  “I ordered more water containers. There may not be enough to wash the dust of the road off our feet, but no one will go thirsty.”

  “And what about bread?”

  “There was no bread during the exodus from Egypt, either.”

  “But there were unleavened cakes.”

  “So, this time we have figs and raisins. That’s all I could get. The people of Ephraim are emptying their winter fruit stores for the pilgrims.”

  I regretted my aggressive tone but didn’t know how to ask for his forgiveness. “There’s no way I can free Edom,” I said, working hard to put an amused smile on my face. “That’s all I need, for you to go run your kingdom with Genubath and leave me alone to fend for myself.”

  He laughed. I wanted to laugh with him, but my tears returned abruptly. Thinking about the person who’d promised to remain at my side and help me run the affairs of the kingdom made my loss more tangible than it had ever been. What was it that I’d said to Miriam? Aside from my family, there are two people I love more than anyone else in the world. Now I only had one left.

  I got up from the bed and hugged him. “I’m sorry, Hadad,” I whispered. “I don’t know what came over me. The grief turned me into someone else.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I love you in any shape or form.”

  “That’s my trouble. People love me too much.”

  Hadad raised his eyebrows. “Trouble?”

  Until then, I’d never dared to talk about my agonizing doubts with anyone, not even Elisheba. I didn’t want to upset the people dearest to me, the ones who followed me devotedly and believed that I would make a good king. But grief had weakened my once-great self-control and caused me to reveal my most secret misgivings to Hadad.

  “Yes, Hadad, it’s serious trouble. There’s something about me that makes people love me and try to please me. When I was young, this power that I had amazed me, but as I got older that amazement turned into guilt, shame, and fear. I’m held in much greater esteem than I truly deserve, and I’m afraid that eventually my people will discover the fraud and be angry that I pretended to be someone I’m not. I have so many shortcomings that I don’t know where to begin. You’re familiar with my fits of rage, but trust me, that’s only a small part of the black tar that bubbles inside me. So what if I’m the great-grandson of King Saul? That doesn’t make me fit to be king. Even my success as Ephraim’s tax commissioner doesn’t guarantee anything. Serving as a tax commissioner and being a king are two completely different roles. Lately, I’ve been feeling that inside this big body there is nothing but a frightened and insecure baby, and all I want to do is scream out to people, ‘Please, don’t let your eyes deceive you—choose a more suitable king for yourselves!’ But it’s too late. Crowds of people are already thronging to my coronation ceremony.”

  Hadad said nothing for quite a while. Then he went over to the window, pulled open the curtain, and looked up. The first light of dawn had painted the sky gray. “It’s cloudy today,” he said. “I hope the first rainfall doesn’t surprise us. The audience will disappear on us in the middle of the ceremony.”

  The sour taste of disappointment rose up in my throat. Here I was, revealing my deepest secrets to him, sharing things with him that I hadn’t even told my wife, and all he’s interested in is the first rainfall that may or may not come today. I sat on the edge of the bed and hung my head. He came over and sat down beside me. I stiffened my back in preparation for the coming slap, but instead I felt a caress.

  “When Ahijah prophesied that you would be the best king Israel will ever have, I thought that he was saying nothing new.” His loud, pounding voice was suddenly soft and slow. “I was wrong. Only now do I truly understand his prophecy. I can only hope that my Genubath will feel the same way you do before his coronation. I can only hope.”

  Eighteen

  The blue silk dress, which had been made to my precise specifications, was the only thing that could dull the stabbing pain in my heart a bit. My eyes couldn’t get their fill of looking at it.

  “We have to go,” Hadad urged me on, “especially if you still want to stop by the lepers’ cave.”

  “Want to? I won’t go to Mount Gerizim unless we do.”

  “Your threats have no effect on us. No one takes them seriously anymore. People say you’re the second Moses? You’re much worse. Moses didn’t want to be the leader, that much is true, but after God reproached him, he accepted the position and stopped making trouble.”

  I wrapped the dress in a linen cloth and went out to the chariot that was waiting just outside the thicket. I had insisted on a simple chariot with a single team of horses, no more. I didn’t even allow them to attach golden bells to it. The disappoin
ted Hadad had argued passionately that people had made great efforts to travel to the coronation from far away in order to see the splendor of royalty up close. They had simple wooden chariots near home. He said it was bad enough that I’d stated in advance that I wasn’t willing to move into a palace, and I didn’t need to upset them further with some ugly wagon.

  In the end, I agreed to compromise on olive branches and pomegranates, which were piled up on the roof and wrapped around the windows, giving the chariot a festive appearance. I also tried to resist the large number of horsemen assigned to escort us, but Hadad stated firmly that the subject was not up for debate since it was an issue that affected my security and that of my family. Nadab and Abijah took after me, and they squeezed into their seats modestly, but Miriam demonstrated her joy at the large crowds that had lined the roads waiting for us by sticking half her body out the window before we could stop her. “They like my new hairstyle,” she remarked proudly. “I wish you’d let me wear jewelry. People want to see their princess with a crown on her head.”

  “You aren’t a princess yet.” Bilhah laughed.

  She patted me on the back with her small hand. “Father, today they are going to put a golden crown on your head?”

  “Yes, my daughter.”

  “And when you’re king, will you let me wear a golden crown, too?”

  “We’ll see.”

  When we reached the cave, I took the wrapped-up dress with me and instructed Ahijah and Hadad to come with me. Nadab tried to persuade me to let him join in the visit to see Grandmother, too, but after Elisheba whispered something in his ear he grew quiet and looked at me with excitement.

  * * *

  Here is the cave I first saw thirty-three years ago. It hasn’t changed at all—the same wide threshold, the same spacious hall, the same incense torches, the same colorful rugs on the floor and walls, the same long corridor leading to the small cell.

  I draw the curtain and look at her. She is sitting in the torchlight and raises her covered face to look up at me. Her two eyes blaze at me from behind the mask. I approach her and place the linen-wrapped package in her lap. She opens it with her gloved fingers, and her body stiffens at the sight of the soft silk.

  “What is this, Jeroboam?”

  “This is the dress you will wear at my coronation ceremony. Grandmother told me that blue was your favorite color, and hers as well.” I can hear Hadad clearing his throat behind me, but my voice remains strong and steady.

  “Put it on, Mother!”

  Silence prevails. The three of us stand frozen in place, watching her. She shakes her head. “The cave is my home. There are crooked things that cannot be straightened. When will you learn to accept that, Jeroboam?”

  “If I were willing to accept that, I wouldn’t be a king today.”

  She removes the mask from her head. A tiny, sad smile sprouts at the corners of her mouth. “You’ll be a king to your subjects, but to me you’ll always be the little baby I was forced to abandon on the day he was born.”

  I examine the wrinkles of her resolute face with astonishment and know I’ll never encounter such supreme courage ever again—there is no way, not even on the battlefield.

  “I want you to be by my side today, Mother.”

  “It isn’t possible.”

  “You’ve never been by my side at any stage of my life—not when my baby teeth came in, not when I took my first steps, not when I fell out of the trees in the thicket, not when I left my childhood home, not when I returned to it, not when I got married, and not even when my children were born. But now, Mother, now I need you more than I have ever needed you. Put on that dress and come be by my side at the coronation ceremony.”

  “My heart accompanied you every step of the way throughout your life, and it will continue to accompany you until I take my final breath.”

  “I want all of you.”

  “I…” She tries to say something, but she stops.

  Not one of us dares to move or to speak.

  “I…” She leaves the sentence hanging in midair, hesitates, and finally finishes it with a sigh, “I can’t, Jeroboam.”

  “It’s been over forty years,” I say dully. “The people who wanted me dead are no longer alive.”

  “But others have taken their place.”

  “Those who have taken their place will pursue me anyway. They see me as an enemy because of what I am, not because of my ancestors.”

  “If they find out that you are Saul’s great-grandson they’ll pursue you with many times the determination, and not just you, but all of your descendants, forever.”

  I kneel down and bury my face in her lap, feeling her hands in my hair and on the back of my neck, then I get up, turn my back on her, and head toward the door.

  “Go to Mount Gerizim,” I tell Ahijah and Hadad as I leave. “Stand on the stage, and tell the people of Israel that they have no king.”

  They look at me wide-eyed but then follow me out wordlessly. When we are already outside the cell, I suddenly hear a choked voice calling from inside.

  “Jeroboam!”

  Then louder, “Come back to me, my child!”

  I pull aside the curtain again and stand in the doorway. She slowly raises her head up to face me. “I’ll come with you, Jeroboam, but on one condition.”

  The powerful shaking of my legs threatens my balance. I grab on to some stones in the wall and wait for her to continue.

  “On the condition that you never reveal your identity. No one can know that you are the great-grandson of Saul.”

  I feel as if I’m being stoned. “No!” I whisper, then yell: “My mask is coming off today as well!”

  “We must both go on wearing our masks,” she says.

  “I want everyone to know who my ancestors were.”

  “Your ancestors prefer to remain anonymous, as long as it allows your children and grandchildren to live without a malevolent sword constantly looming over their heads.”

  “The moment I agreed to be king, I consigned my descendants to live under the shadow of that threat. The least I can do for them is to allow them and their descendants to take pride in their roots. In a short time from now, I will stand on the stage and declare before the entire nation that I am the son of Nebat, the grandson of Michal, and the great-grandson of King Saul.”

  Before she can open her mouth, Ahijah the Shilonite steps forward and stands at her side. “Your deeds and the stories that will be told about you will attest to your origins more than any explicit declaration. Future generations will know who your ancestors were.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Behind me, Hadad huffs impatiently. “You need to spell it out for him,” he tells Ahijah. “Give him a clear, simple example.”

  “For example,” Ahijah says, thinking out loud, “for example, the story about the tearing of my new cloak in the field. Future generations will see right away that I was correcting the wicked story that the scribes of Judah made up about Samuel and Saul.”

  “So?”

  “You really don’t understand?” Ahijah says in surprise. “Who am I in that story?”

  “You’re the heir of Samuel,” Hadad answers for me. “A prophet, an Ephraimite, a Shilonite, and wearing a torn garment. Just like him.”

  Ahijah looks at me. “And who are you in the story?”

  “You’re the heir of Saul,” Hadad explains patiently. “What’s not to understand?”

  “Don’t include the story of the tearing of the robe in our book of chronicles,” Mother interjects. “It’s too obvious.”

  Hadad waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. These stories will be written in code. Only the best and the brightest will be able to decipher them.”

  Her brow furrows in concern, but after a moment, she gets up on her feet and spreads out the dress, holding it up in front of her face. “I hope I still remember how to wear such soft fabric.”

  We wait for her behind the curtain, and before she finishes getti
ng dressed I yell out from the other side, “But under no circumstances will I yield on Father’s name!”

  “We mustn’t—” she starts to say.

  “No, Mother,” I cut her off. “I’ve been waiting forty years for that name.”

  Nineteen

  My mother climbs into the saddle and sits up straight, chin raised. The few rays of sunlight that are able to penetrate the clouds caress her bare face, deepening the many wrinkles that the years have etched into it. The soft silk dress she is wearing hugs her narrow waist and casts blue reflections onto her gray hair. She squints in the light, but her hands grip the reins with confidence, as if it hasn’t been over forty years since she’d last ridden in the open air.

  My family watches her wide-eyed through the windows of the chariot. Bilhah and Elisheba burst into tears, while Miriam claps gaily. “What a lovely dress you have, Grandmother! It’s so much nicer than that black robe you wear in the cave.”

  “Why isn’t she riding with us in the chariot?” wonders Abijah.

  “She wants to feel the sunlight on her face,” Nadab answers in a loud voice, trying to hide the lump in his throat.

  I climb onto another horse, which one of the horsemen has vacated, and ride beside her down the mountainside to the outskirts of Zeredah. Hadad and Ahijah are riding their horses at the head of the procession; my family rides in the chariot at the rear; and the horsemen still surround us from all directions. As we cross Zeredah, my stomach clenches uneasily. The crowds that had just recently filled the streets have gone to Mount Gerizim, and not a soul is left in the town.

  * * *

  Before we enter Shechem, we suddenly hear the sounds of a massive number of people, the likes of which we’ve never heard before, and as if from within a dream, huge crowds of people appear in front of us, shouting incomprehensibly, waving flags, blowing rams’ horns, singing, making music, and drumming. They are everywhere—in the streets, in the squares, in the yards of the houses, and on the rooftops. Children are riding on their fathers’ shoulders, mothers hold their infants in the air, and one old man is jumping in front of our horsemen with a young boy and pointing at me with his trembling hands. “Look, my grandson, take a good look at this handsome man. That’s our king.” Someone else leaps in front of me with a little girl in his arms. “This is the festival of our redemption. You will remember it for the rest of your life, and you’ll recount it to your children, your grandchildren, and your great-grandchildren, generation after generation, forever.”