J: The Woman Who Wrote the Bible

by Mary Burns

  I thought of those brothers then, my uncles—all of them dead now, except Oman, who was just two years older than David. Both of them were looking every day more and more like old men, tired at the end of the afternoon, doting on the children and given to telling stories of their youth. Two cups of wine, now, were enough to overturn them completely and send them off snoring in their chairs.

  The young men were becoming restless—something was going to happen soon.

  * * *

  That night, I consulted with Bathsheba. We sat as we had become accustomed to doing, at the old wooden table in my room, scarred and stained with years of writing, drawing, and composing as well as eating and drinking. She was the only one, other than Alaya, who knew about my writing, but I trusted her as I had trusted my own mother. It was winter—Solomon’s birthday had been on the solstice, when the hours of night are at their longest and darkness blankets the stars.

  “We must get David to declare his heir soon,” I was saying. “Surely you see Adonijah’s barely concealed anger and the restlessness of his companions.”

  “Yes,” Bathsheba nodded, sipping at her wine. “I have heard, this very day, that Adonijah has invited Joab and Abiathar, and as many of the younger men who will stand for him, to his house tomorrow for a great feast. And there, he will declare himself the successor of David.”

  “Joab … and Abiathar.” I pondered this. No surprise there.

  “Then it must be declared publicly tomorrow, before all the people, that Solomon is to be King,” I said firmly. “David himself must say it.”

  Bathsheba was silent and thoughtful.

  “What if he were simply to be made King tomorrow?” she said. I looked at her in surprise.

  “You mean, not wait until David is dead?”

  “Yes,” she said. “We should not wait.” She chose her words carefully. “The King has been . . . not quite himself of late, and I think if we wait much longer, he may lose his ability to declare his choice.”

  This troubled me exceedingly, and yet I could not contradict her. I too had seen the signs of senility in my father’s behavior: his choice of strange food and drink, his wanderings about the house late at night, entering people’s rooms unannounced, the uncouth comments and gestures that would occasionally burst forth.

  “What shall we do?” she said.

  “I’ve been thinking it over,” I said. “And I have a plan. You must help me.”

  She nodded. “I will do anything for you,” she said, “and for my son.”

  “I know, ” I said, smiling at her. “Here’s what I think.” And I laid out a simple scheme that had some risk to it, but it would have to work, or all would be lost.

  Chapter 36

  “As David’s life drew to its close he laid this charge on his

  son Solomon, ‘I am going the way of all the earth. Be

  strong and show yourself a man.’” 1 Kings 2:1-2

  “My lord King, do you remember what you told me when our son was born?”

  Bathsheba stood in front of David as he lay resting on a couch near the window in his room. Though nearly forty, she was still a beautiful woman, her figure slim and reed-like. She had never had another child after Solomon, though she and David had remained lovers for many years. For some time now, however, the aging King had chosen to sleep alone, if sleep it could be called. Wakeful nights, when his past triumphs as well as his sins would parade before him like so many players in a performance, kept him from much rest; afternoons were given over to dozing on the couch.

  He wakened from a nap even now, as he heard his wife’s voice, not sharp or demanding, but a sound he loved and always attended to. He did not notice that I had slipped into the room behind Bathsheba and was standing concealed by a curtain near the window.

  “Yes, my dear; what is it?”

  “When Solomon was born, do you not remember what you promised me?”

  David’s face looked troubled for a moment, then cleared.

  “Of course I remember. I told you he would be King after me, as the Lord Himself told my daughter.”

  Bathsheba was relieved. It was one of his better days, then. She pressed her lips to his forehead, then his cheek.

  “I believe, dearest, that the time is coming when you may need to announce to your people that Solomon will be King.”

  David scowled at this. “What, before I’m dead and gone? Is the son to take place of the father before his very eyes? I’m still King, for all that I’m old!”

  “I believe that your son, Adonijah, is at this very moment declaring to his followers that he will be King, and that he will not wait for you to die.”

  Someone knocked at the door; the servant opened it and the captain of the guard, a man named Ethan who was loyal to the King, came in. Kneeling down before David, his head bowed, he spoke in a low but firm voice. I prayed that his words would rouse my father to action. We had rehearsed them intensely the night before.

  “My Lord, I have just received word that Adonijah, your son, has declared himself to be King of Israel before a large crowd assembled at his house. In attendance are your captain, Joab, and Abiathar, your priest, and many of the young men in the army. He declares he will march to the palace and sit on your throne, before the end of the day.” Ethan hesitated for a moment, glancing at David quickly, then added, “I am come to ask if this is with my Lord’s permission and authority, and if we are now to bow to Adonijah as our King.”

  David rose from his bed, his eyes flashing.

  “The Lord God of Israel Himself has declared that Solomon shall be King after David,” he cried in a loud voice. He strode about the room, suddenly filled with energy and strength, as if he were thirty years younger. The captain rose from his knee to hear his King’s orders.

  “Take the officers of my household with you; mount my son Solomon on my horse, the King’s horse, and escort him to Gihon. There, the chief priest Melchior—not Abiathar!—shall anoint him King over Israel.” I held my breath in sheer excitement, trying not to move. David continued.

  “Sound the trumpet and shout ‘Long live King Solomon!’ Tell all the people along the road that I, David, have appointed him King over Israel and Judah, and his reign is sealed with the oil of anointing. Then escort him home again and he shall come and sit on my throne and reign in my place. Do this now.”

  The captain swiftly departed to fulfill the King’s wishes. Bathsheba stood as in a trance, watching her husband striding about the room. Suddenly he walked over to her; taking her in his arms, he kissed her hard and long. They withdrew to the King’s inner chamber, and I slipped out the door as quietly as I had come in. I couldn’t help but smile just a little at the King’s sudden virility—but we had won!

  Then I checked myself—it remained to be seen if this day would end peacefully, with Solomon sitting on the throne, or in ferocious bloodshed. I prayed again that it would be the former, though I sighed at the seeming inevitability of living always in a time of war.

  * * *

  Bathsheba came running to my room about two hours later with fresh reports from the town about what was happening.

  “Adonijah, they say, was just finishing up his banquet when the noise of the trumpets was heard. Joab ups and runs to the window, and sees the procession coming from Gihon back into the city, with Solomon sitting astride the king’s own horse! Then Jonathan, the son of Abiathar, comes running up the hill to them, and tells them all that has occurred, that David himself has declared Solomon to be King, and that Solomon will sit on the throne this very day.”

  She paused to catch her breath, and I waited for the rest.

  “All the guests and young men panicked and ran away, not wanting to be associated with Adonijah, clearly. Joab and Abiathar are even now kneeling before Solomon, pledging their loyalty and fearing, I believe, for their lives.”

  “What of Adonijah?”

  Bathsheba laughed, a merry sound, though slightly hysterical. We were all a little tense.


  “He ran to the altar of the Ark, and caught hold of the horns, and refuses to let go until Solomon swears he will not kill him!”

  “Fine, kingly material that one,” I said, sniffing. “I wonder what Solomon will do with him.”

  “Oh, he’s already spoken on that matter,” Bathsheba said eagerly. She sat on a chair near my table, and assumed a kingly posture, imitating Solomon, I presumed, as she tried to bring her lovely voice down to the deep baritone of a man’s.

  “If he proves himself a man of worth, not a hair of his head shall fall to the ground; but if he is found to be troublesome, he shall die.”

  I nodded thoughtfully, approving this first judgment. “Very wise,” I said. “Very balanced—and leaving lots of room for interpretation!”

  We laughed together for a while, rejoicing in the glorious outcome of the day.

  * * *

  Solomon began his reign with mercy and good will, and the very land itself seemed to rejoice in the certainty of a stable kingship, blessed by God and David himself. It was a new day dawning for Israel.

  But the day I had long feared, the saddest day to me, came at last, not long after Solomon ascended the throne.

  David lay on his bed, a whisper, a shadow, a dried leaf of a man.

  I was sitting at his side that morning, and it was just the two of us, when Solomon came to the door. I got up to leave, but he motioned for me to stay and pulled up a chair to sit next to me. For a long time, there was silence in the room. David’s eyes were closed, but we could see the soft rise and fall of his chest.

  “My son,” he said, and Solomon leaned forward to hear him better, laying his hand on the King’s.

  “I am here, my king,” he said.

  “I am going the way of all dust,” said David, speaking softly, but without difficulty. “If you take care to walk faithfully in the sight of the Lord our God, with all your heart and all your soul, He will bless you and all your descendants forever. That was His promise to me, and I pass it on to you.”

  “Yes, my King,” Solomon said. He was perfectly calm, though solemn. I marveled at his control, especially as I felt so little of it myself.

  “Joab,” my father said. My ears pricked up at this name. What could he possibly have to say about him?

  “Joab has ever broken my peace by bloody acts of war; he has stained the belt around my waist and the sandals on my feet with this blood. You are a wise man, my son, and will do as you will do, but do not let his gray hairs go down to the grave in peace.”

  “Yes, my King,” Solomon said again.

  “Abiathar, and Adonijah.” David’s voice was becoming more faint every moment. “They too, should not be allowed to go to their graves with gray hair on their heads. They will never be loyal to you, despite what they may promise. Look to it.”

  “I will, my King,” said Solomon. He leaned over and kissed David’s forehead, and then I did the same. My father reached for both our hands, and we held his tightly in our own.

  “My daughter,” he said, looking at me with love. “Take care of this King, and always tell him the truth, just as you have done with me.”

  And with that, he gave up the ghost and was gone.

  The Temple

  Chapter 37

  “Yahweh gave Solomon immense wisdom and

  understanding, and a heart as vast as the sand

  on the seashore.” 1 Kings 5:9

  In the four hundred and eighty-second year after the Israelites had come out of Egypt, in the fourth year of Solomon’s reign, in the second month of that year, the month of Ziv, Solomon began to build the House of the Lord in Jerusalem.

  It was to be the first temple in all Israel, built of hewn stone and cedars from Lebanon. Up until this time, sacrifices to the Lord all took place in the hill-shrines, the most famous of which was Gibeon, where David conducted sacrifices, and Solomon after him, until the Temple was finished. At Gibeon, the Lord spoke to Solomon for the first time. The night he returned, he came to my room.

  “Janaia, will you listen to something I want to tell you?” He had the oddest way of asking for permission to speak to me.

  “Of course, my dear; I am always ready to listen to you,” I said, my heart melting as always.

  It was nearly midnight, but I didn’t sleep much anymore, and he knew this. I offered him a cup of wine, but he politely declined. He sat down at the table across from me.

  “The Lord has spoken to me,” he said, and his shining eyes flashed a myriad of colors, all at once, like a rainbow, then settled into a dark blue. “It was in a dream or maybe a trance, as I knelt before the altar at Gibeon. No one else was near. A voice said to me, ‘What shall I give you? Tell me.’ And I answered Him, ‘You showed great and constant love to your servant David, and now You have given me, Your unworthy servant, his throne to sit upon. Here I am in the midst of this people of yours, too many to be numbered or counted, and I am but a child, unskilled in leadership. Therefore, I beseech You, give Your servant a heart with skill to listen, so that he may govern justly and distinguish good from evil.’”

  Solomon paused for a moment. I could not speak for the wonder and joy in my heart.

  “Then He said, ‘Because you did not ask for riches, or a long life, or power, or vengeance, but rather for wisdom and discernment in judgment, I gladly grant your request. I give you a heart so wise and so understanding that none before you or after you will be like you. And I will also give you all those things you did not ask for—wealth and honor and long life.”

  We sat together in silence for a long while.

  “My dear, dear boy,” I said at last. “How rightly you were named, Beloved of God.”

  “I wanted you to know this,” he said, rising from the chair. “No one else needs to know.”

  “But the truth of it,” I said, smiling up at him, “will become obvious to everyone before long.”

  * * *

  The first public instance of Solomon’s wisdom soon became the stuff of legend.

  He held regular assemblies, as David used to do in the early days at Hebron, and people of all nations soon knew they could come to him with their grievances, and he would settle their disputes or act on their behalf. I used to sit a little behind his throne, an inconspicuous old woman, and watch the crowd as I did for my father, so we could discuss it later.

  There came into the hall that day two women, said to be prostitutes, who had a case to set before the king. At his feet they laid two baskets, one with a child in it, sleeping peacefully, the other holding the shrunken form of a dead child.

  The first woman spoke up. “My lord, this woman and I share a house together, and we gave birth to our children within a few days of each other. One night, when there was no one else in the house with us, she overlaid her child in her sleep, and when she woke up it was smothered and dead. So she got up, took my baby from my side while I, your servant, O great King, was asleep, and she took my child to her bed, leaving her dead child in my bosom. When I awoke, I saw that the baby was dead, but on looking more closely, I could see it was not my child.”

  The second woman broke in at that point. “She is lying!” she cried. “She describes what she did, not what I did! The living child is mine!”

  So they went on arguing before the King, who closely watched the faces of each woman and listened to what they said. In the background, the courtiers were dismayed that such low women would even be allowed in the King’s presence and murmured that they should both be thrown out on their ears. I could see that Solomon heard this contemptuous muttering and was not pleased.

  He stood up abruptly and called for his sword. The two women, the whole court, fell silent. His sword was brought to him, and he flashed it through the air a few times, testing its weight and heft. Then he stepped toward the basket with the living child in it.

  “I will cut this child in two and give half to one woman and half to the other.”

  A gasp of astonishment raced around the room. Even I was surprised.


  Immediately the woman who had spoken second cried out, “Oh! My Lord, let her have the baby! Whatever you do, do not kill it!”

  But the woman who had spoken first shrugged her shoulders and said, “Go ahead, cut it in two; let neither one of us have it.”

  The King lowered his sword and, picking up the baby, gave it to the woman who wanted it to live.

  “Here is the real mother,” he said. “She would rather give it up than see it killed.”

  Everyone was in awe at this wise judgment, and I felt equally pleased at the dramatic way he had staged it; it satisfied my sense of the noble gesture and the grand act that becomes the stuff of legend and story.

  * * *

  Later that night, in my room, we discussed this judgment, and I told him my opinion. He seemed pleased at my understanding of how he saw his kingship. I complimented him on knowing so well the feelings of a mother toward her child.

  “Ah,” he said, “it is a wise mother who knows her own child.” He toyed with the cup in his hand for a moment and then set it down.

  He looked at me, and his eyes shifted color.

  “And it is a wise son who knows his own mother,” he said, taking both my hands in his. He pressed his lips to my hands, and bent his forehead against them.

  Chapter 38

  “Wisdom is bright, and does not grow dim. By those who

  love her she is readily seen, and found by those who look

  for her.” Wisdom 6:12

  Now, seven years later, the Temple is finished. It is grander than anything anyone has ever seen in Israel. There are terraces and arcades and a spiral staircase. Not a single hammer or axe or any iron tool whatever was used to build it. Only blocks of undressed stone direct from the quarries were used as the foundation, and great cedar logs floated down from Lebanon were set in place with the bark still on them. One must pass through five separate rooms on three levels before arriving at the innermost sanctuary, where the Ark of the Crossing Over resides.