by Jeff Chapman
“I heard a story the other day. I suspect the plaintiffs will come before you within a fortnight. A wealthy farmer pastures his flock of thirty ewes beside the fields of a poor farmer who owns but one. The poor man’s ewe is marvelous, with long strands of wool and a shiny coat. The rich farmer covets her and when the poor farmer takes his grain to market, the rich farmer grabs the prized ewe from the poor man’s barn.”
“The rich man’s entire herd should be given to the poor man,” said David.
Nathanael nodded.
“An abomination. And if the rich man orders the poor man murdered on his way home to guarantee the ruse?”
“Why are you telling me this story?”
“Don’t you know?”
David admired the way that Nathanael paused to acknowledge the silence that gripped the hall, even as his fingernails dug into his chair. David knew Nathanael’s next words and yet the pause allowed him to hope.
“You are the rich man. You’ve disgraced yourself,” said Nathanael. “Turned an honest wife into a harlot. Prayed for snow to cover your thieving trail. Conspired to slay your servant. It is beyond belief that one with so much can go to such extremes to take so little.”
David stared at Nathanael’s feet. The man wore no boots. He heard Nathanael’s explanation long ago.
The Lord has not given me boots, therefore I do not need them.
“Did God tell you all this?”
“It pained Him to reveal so much wickedness; you are still a favored servant.”
David covered his face in his hands and bowed his head, waiting.
“What more?”
“Nothing.”
David dropped his hands from his face. Sunlight shot through the the six high narrow windows and fell on Nathanael’s cheek.
The old man did not blink.
“Many will suffer,” said David, “because of my rashness.”
“If you do not tend the fire in your own house, other houses burn.”
King David massaged his temples, another headache coming on like a storm brewing over the sea, where the clouds gather and billow and darken. There is nothing to do but watch and wait.
“Is there no penance?”
“No.”
“And what of Uriah’s ghost?”
“The ghost appeared near the gate and asked to speak with Absalom. He doesn’t know what it wants.”
“Is this ghost a harbinger of my sorrows?”
“Perhaps. The Lord does not explain His methods.”
~~~
David awoke to a wet cloth pressed to his forehead. His angel hovered above him. Bathsheba. So beautiful. Her braided hair hung over her shoulder. If only she were a dream that would burn up like fog in the morning sun, something to be consumed at night with no consequence through the day. Bathsheba was the most potent of wines. A sip brought eternal craving and indulgence an eternal hangover.
She giggled when her almond eyes met his. She caused more jealousy among his wives than any other and why should she not? He could not give her up, nor did he wish to. He touched her cheek and she held his hand in place.
“I see you are feeling better,” she said.
“An angel’s touch may heal even the most grievous wounds.” His fingertips trailed down her neck, across her breasts to the source of his troubles.
Bathsheba pressed his hand to her belly. “Do you feel him moving? It is a son. I can feel it. He kicks with the authority of a king.”
“I doubt you not. It will be a son.” David smiled at her, but his fingers trembled as they sometimes did on the eve of battle, when the killer angels gathered, and premonitions harassed him. Sorrows will harass you. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He raised himself and kissed her lips.
“Has Nathanael said anything about our child’s future?”
“No,” said David, too quickly. “And you mustn’t ask him. The old man doesn’t like to be pestered, especially by pretty girls.”
Bathsheba laughed as she nuzzled David’s chest.
“There is something you need to know. A rumor is spreading that Absalom spoke to Uriah’s ghost.”
“Is it true? Surely just a bit of gossip.”
“Nathanael believes him.”
“But why would he appear to Absalom?”
“A drunken man’s delusions.”
They kissed again.
Outside the curtained doorway, a woman cleared her throat.
“What?” shouted David.
Maachah parted the curtain and entered followed by Michal the Barren.
“Bathsheba is needed. Michal will attend you now,” said Maachah.
“Needed?” said David. “She’s pregnant. She should be resting.”
“Embroidery is hardly laborious,” said Maachah, “and we must all work to complete the new tapestries celebrating your victories.”
David fell back on the pillows, waved his hand at Bathsheba, dismissing her. She left with a bewitching smile, mixing innocence and lust.
Michal sat on the edge of David’s bed. David looked away. She whispered in his ear. “Should I tell the gossips why I am barren?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I’ve heard that Uriah’s ghost is walking the bailey. How many have seen him now?”
“Three I believe, but I suspect it's only rumors.”
“Indeed. You are lucky only dead husbands come back to make trouble.”
“You are referring to that sniveling weakling.”
“He treated me as a wife, and never had I need to save his life.”
“He did nothing. And he was never your husband.”
~~~
Absalom waited outside the great longhouse watching the autumn sun fall behind the forest. The fingers of his left hand curled around a leather collar that restrained the hound who sat on his haunches. As David’s retainers entered the longhouse, they dipped their heads to Absalom in respect; kept a wary eye on the dog. Each man wore a necklace of gold and silver to honor their service. Joab the general was among them.
“Joab,” said Absalom. “A word.”
Joab nodded, his sunken eyes appraised and rejected Absalom’s authority. “As you wish,” he said as if in jest. Absalom motioned for Joab to follow. Despite his age, he stood tall. Even limping, he moved with the confidence of a much younger man. The two men and dog sauntered to the rear of the longhouse. Laughter and boasting echoed through the wattle.
“What happened to Uriah?”
“He died fighting before the gate of a Frisian fort. You could have asked this of anyone. That is no secret.”
“Why was he engaged where the battle was most heated?”
“A brave warrior hears the battle and runs to it, as a snake pursues a mouse.”
“I’ve heard you ordered him to lead the assault.”
“He was brave. Warriors of his kind pursue the enemy,” Joab said. “They don’t hide behind a beast.”
“You walk a treacherous line, Joab. You won’t always be a favorite.”
Absalom glared at the older man. Joab didn’t blink or look away. Nor did he say more.
Absalom watched the old warrior limp away. Scars layered his arms and legs, one atop another like branches stacked for a fire. Someday, he thought. Someday that man will call me master.
~~~
Amnon watched her from the king’s table, watched Tamar pouring mead into cups of wood or gourds—whatever would hold drink. She followed her mother Maachah, who offered wine to the retainers and their women. A silver circlet bound Tamar’s auburn hair, which cascaded over her shoulders and past her waist. A girdle of leather and gold rings cinched her apron-skirt tight across her hips and breasts.
The men stole glances at her as she passed. Amnon knew he was not righteous, to lust after a half-sister, but he did lust. When she came near, he covered her hand with his. Her green eyes met his and then averted. He knew she was blushing, even as shadows whelmed her face.
As the e
ldest son, Amnon sat next to the King on the crowded bench. Amnon favored his left hand and frequently jostled David for space. Bathsheba, the pregnant new wife, the usurper, sat on the other side of David. They shared a joke and sipped their wine.
Tamar crowded next to Maachah at the end of the table. His half-sister didn’t look at him. The way in which she didn’t glance at him confirmed her feelings.
“Amnon,” shouted David. “Have you seen Absalom?”
“Outside. With his damnable beast. Hunting ghosts I suspect.”
David paused as if to ask more, but then Bathsheba said something funny and the pair laughed. They barely noticed the three musicians that gathered at the hearth, carrying a lyre, pan-pipes and a tambourine as wide as a man’s chest. Three times the bard struck the rawhide stretched across the tambourine’s frame. The thumps and jangle chased talk and laughter to the darkest recesses of the longhouse.
“The lay of our people,” the bard announced with a practiced, sweeping flourish. “We humbly offer to our Lord on high and our king on earth.”
The minstrels bowed and waited for David’s assent.
“Sing,” said David. “Sing to the Lord and His people, for it pleases Him.”
The bard began slow and lugubrious. He sang of the great migration, the wandering through the black forest. He sang of the godly flame that burned without smoke, leaping from tree to tree, burning without consuming, crackling and roaring.
Amnon turned to Tamar, who watched the musicians with dull eyes and lips that neither smiled nor frowned. He leaned close to his father’s ear. “Father, I’m not feeling well.”
“What pains you? Your head?”
“And my stomach.”
“Take some wine.”
“I will. And send Tamar to me. Her singing will soothe my ills.”
“Of course,” said David.
Amnon walked behind the king’s table and behind the tables. Tamar didn’t acknowledge his passing, but that didn’t concern him. She would not ignore her father’s command.
~~~
Absalom walked around the palisade’s perimeter, diligent and wary and desperate for the ghost. He needed guidance and the ghost had told him things bright and preternatural. The hound ran beside him, and when Absalom stopped to search the shadowy spirals along the wall, the dog sat on his haunches—its snout pointing at the gibbous moon. Clamor and music spilled from the great longhouse. The bard would sing the “Lay of the Long Journey” and possibly another.
No mists swirled. Nothing groaned. Crickets chirped without pause. Absalom plodded on through dirt and grass. The hound loped alongside him.
If the ghost spoke truth and the living rumors were not idle, blood of treachery stained his father’s hands. Such a man could not rule with trust and honor.
From the opposite side of the bailey, a sobbing wail brought Absalom and his hound to a stop. A lament sliced through the night, The dog stiffened. A woman’s wails defied mending. Another ghost, he thought, another spirit to beguile.
Absalom saw her as she ran around the edge of a longhouse, and hesitated. The brooches were missing and her tattered shift slipped from her chest. A single brooch held at her right shoulder.
“Tamar,” shouted Absalom. The girdle that had bound her waist was gone. Bruises striped her naked arm and shoulder. Tamar threw herself into Absalom’s embrace, sobbing his name. He wrapped his bear-skin cape around her shoulders and held her until her sobs subsided.
“Who did this?”
New sobs drowned her speech.
“Tamar,” he said.
“Amnon. He feigned sickness. Asked for wine. Father sent me.”
From father to son, he thought, spreading its poison through the branches. Greed and lust. The ghost’s words thumped his head, like an army beating their shields with swords.
“It was a trap,” he said.
Tamar shook her head.
“Amnon is nothing to you. Come.” He led her to his house, tugging her arm, as he walked. He bid her to rest while he secured his sword belt and hefted a bearded ax.
“I’ll leave the hound outside.”
“Don’t kill him,” she said.
“I’m not going to Amnon.”
~~~
Absalom carried his ax into the hall with the blade raised above his head. He strode between the tables and benches and loyal followers. He looked to neither side. The light from the hearth’s flames danced in the rafters. The firelight glistened off the polished steel blade. Heads were lolling on the tables beside toppled cups; few remarked him. The bard was singing the lay of Goliath. He stood in Absalom’s path, turned to him in mid-phrase; still singing as his voice trailed behind his senses. Absalom plowed past him, knocking him aside. The dropped tambourine jangled discordantly.
King David, drunk with mead and Bathsheba, slammed his fist into the table. “Absalom!”
A hush spread over the hall, a blanket of bewildered shock. Only the snapping fire and retainers lost to drunken snoring refused silence. No one moved.
Absalom covered the distance in three quick strides, mounted the dais, and buried his ax in the oaken table. Bathsheba screamed.
“Tamar,” he said and then stopped to breathe, like a messenger who has run for miles. The weight of the words fell out in gasps and sobs. “Tamar has been raped.”
“No,” cried Maachah. “No. Tamar. Where? Where is she?”
Absalom eyed David.
“Who has done this,” said David. “Let him hang from a tree until the crows have picked his bones.”
The sycophants banged their cups in support. Michal knelt beside Maachah, folding her in a comforting embrace.
“Amnon,” said Absalom. “Your son bears the guilt.”
Anger drained from David’s face. The chorus of cups ceased. Maachah wailed unabated. Michal hid her smirk.
“You bring us bad tidings, Absalom. We must have proof. Who told you? Who are the witnesses?”
“I have Tamar’s word. Her bruises and torn clothing speak for themselves. No one else. Do you think Amnon would violate his sister in the courtyard?”
“Joab.” David’s gaze never strayed from Absalom. “Fetch Amnon to the tower. You’ll find him in his house.”
The old warrior motioned two soldiers to join him and marched away.
“Maachah and Michal,” said David. “Go see to Tamar. Where is the girl?”
“She’s resting in my house. I’ll have to call off the hound. He’s watching the door.”
“Then do so,” said David. “And bring her to the tower.”
~~~
King David sat in the oaken throne of the eternal fire, from where he dispensed judgments. Because the Lord favored his reign, he assumed his verdicts just and pleasing, but about this business his thoughts stumbled as a sailor lost in a rising tide on the verge of collapse, ready to suck all below.
The first blush of a red dawn lit the narrow eastern windows. A weak shaft of light crept among the shadows of the ceiling joists.
Amnon stood before the King. Maachah and Absalom flanked Tamar, who wore a black veil and Absalom’s cloak. Amnon stared at his father. Tamar bent her head toward the floor. Joab lurked at the edge of the shadows.
“What say you?” said David to Amnon. “Does Tamar lie?”
“She was not as I expected to find her,” said Amnon, as if a buyer at a market
Tamar whimpered. Absalom held his sister to his chest.
“You have shielded your intentions from us, Amnon. Did you violate her?”
“A broken gate cannot be violated.”
“Nor can it be shown when it was broken,” said David.
Amnon said nothing.
“Where is Nathanael?” said Absalom.
“I am king and father,” snapped David. “I don’t need a prophet to pass judgment on my own children.” Infinite mercy is the domain of the infinitely good. Those were Nathanael’s words.
“The Lord loves all his children,” said David. “Disci
plines and forgiveness.... His greatness derives from mercy, not wrath.” His family stared at him. David paused to gather his thoughts, for the road was uncharted and overgrown with thorns.
“I have suffered the sting of His anger,” said David, “and savored the sweetness of His grace. No one knows the depths of His patience. Amnon, if she will have you, you shall marry Tamar and you shall praise her honor to all who will listen.”
“No,” shouted Absalom.
“I have judged and he will abide. A wise judge seeks healing and punishment, for the past and future.”
“If the King won’t defend his daughter, I will.”
“It is done, Absalom,” said Tamar.
“And if the holmgang speaks in my favor?” Absalom asked.
“Absalom, you confound me.” David stood, his face crimson. “The matter is settled. The king’s word is final.”
“It is my challenge,” said Absalom. “My right and duty.”
David pressed his throbbing head between his palms. Cords of blood law tied his hands. “The judgment,” he said, “will honor the outcome.”
“We’ll spread the hide tomorrow,” said Absalom. Absalom ushered his sister and mother out the door.
“Joab,” said David. “Take Amnon to his house and keep him there until the holmgang.”
“Am I a prisoner?”
“I should have you executed. If not....” David held his tongue. “Leave me.”
“If not what, father? Tell me what stayed your hand.”
“The Lord’s mercy stayed my hand. Leave me, I said.”
Joab led David’s son away. The King held his aching head as the dawn greeted the walls with rouge.
~~~
Joab stood inside the door of Amnon’s house.
“Absalom will kill you.”
“Let him try.”
“You are not afraid?”
“Is there purpose in your warning or idle rambling?”
Joab stared hard at Amnon as he scratched his beard. “Absalom has become a nuisance. A house can’t tolerate wayward timber.”
“Many speak ill of my father, the King.”
“Absalom may do more than talk.”
“And he doesn’t like you very much, does he?”
“I serve David’s interests.”
“You want me to kill him. But I’ll have to kill him anyway to save my own life. This is your doing, isn’t it?”