Frustrated by his father, he appeals to his mother, who is equally loath to leave, although, for her, the sticking point is her cooking pots.
‘There are cooking pots in Moab, Mother,’ David says in exasperation.
‘I fed him every day for fifteen years and this is how he repays me!’
Eventually they’re persuaded to go, without the cooking pots but with so many mats, cloths, lamps and utensils that we have to take two extra donkeys. Shimea agrees to accompany his parents, together with his wife, Serach, and sons, Jonadab and Gamaliel. Once again night becomes day as we travel after dark, to avoid both the heat and any spies who might report our progress to Saul. At dawn we set up camp in a sheltered gully. Since water is too precious to boil, Serach and I prepare a meal of bread, cheese, dried chickpeas and fig cakes, after which we spread out our mats and mantles and try to sleep. With too little flesh to protect her from the gravel, Nizebeth squirms, muttering a stream of prayers and lamentations. Serach and I comfort her as best we can before lying down ourselves. No sooner have I shut my eyes than David moves across to sit beside me. He takes me in his arms and, while I long to show everyone watching (and everyone is), how much he desires me, I am conscious that it's not just the water for cooking that's restricted.
‘I smell like my donkey,’ I whisper.
‘My favourite perfume,’ he says, nuzzling my neck.
His chest may be as solid as the ground but it's far more inviting, and I wake a few hours later refreshed and ready for the evening's ride. We make our way into the wilderness, where, with no further risk of detection but an ever-present one of losing our footing on the loose stones and crumbling paths, the steep scarps and narrow ridges, we brave the broiling sun and travel by day. The following afternoon we reach the caves of Ein Gedi, where David spared Saul. After the constraints of the past three days, we drink our fill at the spring before washing both ourselves and our clothes in the pools. Bathed and refreshed, the men pick mallow, from which Serach and I make a soup. After the meal, David and Shimea climb an adjacent crag to determine the best course through the hostile terrain. They return with a path mapped out and, for the first time since quitting Carmel, David and I spend a night alone, among the scrapes, whoops, splutters (and, for him, bittersweet memories) of a cave. The next morning I leave him to sleep and, with no one in sight but the two watchmen, walk to the edge of the ridge and admire the pale sunlight shimmering on the blue-black sea. To my surprise, Nizebeth, who has hitherto kept her distance, approaches me.
‘I only met the princess once, at their wedding,’ she says abruptly. ‘She was too young and trusting for David. You’re far better suited.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, taken aback.
‘He's not an easy man. No one knows that better than me. He was born with a full head of hair. Flame-coloured. I used to say that he burnt his way out of my womb. He was so much smaller than the others. They teased him mercilessly. His father was no help. He believed in letting the boys fight among themselves to prepare them for manhood. So it was left to me to keep the peace. David was fearless, seizing every opportunity to provoke his brothers – even the eldest. Then I’d have to protect him when they retaliated: two, three, four against one. Which only made them hit him even harder when my back was turned. The more he needed my protection, the more he resented it. He blamed me for their lack of respect. Respect? He was six years old! So he pushed me away. As if he couldn’t be both my boy and his own man. The others did the same but, as always, he went further, spending days – sometimes weeks – alone in the hills, no doubt to show that his sheep were better company than us. Now he's twenty-six and I scarcely recognise him. This rebellion against the king: nothing good can come of it. It's only – ’
She breaks off quickly and I turn to see David behind us.
‘Talking about me?’ he asks, with a dangerous smile.
‘Men are so vain,’ I say lightly.
‘The word is shrewd. So what's she been telling you?’ he asks Nizebeth.
‘It might be the other way round,’ I say.
‘In which case it will be nothing but good.’ He gives Nizebeth a quick kiss. ‘Have you forgiven me for taking you away from your cooking pots?’
‘I always forgive you, David; I’m your mother. But don’t expect other women to do the same.’
‘I’m too old for platitudes,’ he says gruffly. ‘Now if you can tear yourselves away from your chitchat, it's time to leave.’
Choked by dust and plagued by flies, we make a tortuous descent through the ravine. Jonadab, whose sharp eyes David envies, raises his hand and points to a lion poised on a nearby ridge. Serach and Gamaliel scream and Nizebeth stutters a prayer but, to my amazement, I’m more excited than frightened. I’m so sure that, were it to attack, David would repeat his boyhood feat and strangle it barehanded, that I’m almost disappointed when, with a toss of its mane, it pads away. We ride on until, alerted once more by Jonadab, we shield our gaze from the shimmering sun and follow his hand to a remote peak. Our delight at seeing the towering ramparts of Mizpah is tempered by the realisation of how far we have still to travel. Three days later, after a wary trek through treacherous marshlands and a vertiginous ascent that makes even Nizebeth grateful that the struggling donkeys weren’t further encumbered, we arrive at the city gate. Apprised by his sentinels, the Moabite king is waiting to greet us. Following a lengthy exchange of compliments, he instructs his servants to take us to chambers where we can wash and rest before returning downstairs to eat. The meal is lavish and flavourful, the rich array of meats especially pleasing after our meagre diet. Moreover, the queen affirms that they have been cooked according to our laws, much to David's relief given Nizebeth's assertion that she would rather offend our hosts than risk pollution. Despite the warmth of the welcome and the excellence of the fare, conversation falters since, although theirs is not a tongue severed from ours by Babel, their foreign inflections are hard to follow.
In a speech clogged with courtesies, the king professes himself honoured that David should see fit to entrust his parents to his charge and pledges to defend them to the death. Not only is he bound by blood since the queen and Jesse are distant cousins, but he exempts the Judahites from his execration of the Benjaminite Saul. Far from harbouring an equal hatred of all our twelve tribes, the Moabites reserve their particular loathing for the Benjaminites. Long before Saul vanquished them on the battlefield, the Benjaminite judge, Ehud, bringing the annual tribute to their king, tricked him into granting him a private audience in this very chamber. He strapped a dagger to his thigh and drew it unnoticed, stabbing the king to death. After escaping, he rallied the Israelites to attack the demoralized enemy, killing another ten thousand men on the banks of the Jordan. The king's face hardens as he recounts the slaughter and I fear that he is about to repent of his pledge. Then, with a smile, he declares that he knows that Saul is as faithless as Ehud, slandering David and seeking his life.
Assured of both the king's friendship and his parents’ safety, David is eager to depart. He bids his family a perfunctory farewell and I am puzzled that, having known them for barely two weeks, I feel or, at least, express more regret at leaving them than one who has known them all his life. I can’t tell whether he is afraid of betraying his emotions or of having none to betray. ‘Look after him,’ Nizebeth whispers, as she clasps me to her thin bosom. ‘Sometimes the strongest men need the most care.’
The return to Maon is long and wearing but eased by familiar paths and lighter loads. We reach the camp, where Joab and his brother Abishai greet us with bad news. No sooner had we left for Bethlehem than rumours spread that David had made peace with Saul. Joab strove to rebut them, first by argument, and then by executing two of the instigators, but the damage was done and several men deserted. Morale, already low, sank still further with reports of Saul's advance on Carmel. As predicted, the Calebites surrendered to the king, who slew the dozen guards that David had placed there (a loss Joab shrugs off as if they
were beads on a counting stone). Saul then marched on the camp, and, with no time to regroup, Joab was left to defend it against a force ten times larger, better equipped and more disciplined than his own. Just as he was bracing himself for an assault, the enemy sounded the retreat. He suspected a trap but later learnt that Saul had withdrawn to tackle the more urgent threat from the Arameans, who’d seized on his absence to invade Manasseh.
David's immediate response is to seek revenge on the Calebites. Scarcely has he paraded through the camp, putting an end to talk of defection, than he calls for twenty warriors – men for whom carnage is its own reward – to accompany him in a raid on Nabal's house. I refrain from pointing out that the house is now his or pleading on behalf of my former kinsmen, preferring to save my entreaties for the servants, who were compelled to obey their masters. He promises to spare them for my sake and to welcome any who are willing to join us. Watching anxiously for his return, I am overjoyed to find that Ahinoam is among those who have accepted his offer. She spots me and runs forward to prostrate herself, swallowing her shock at the callouses as she kisses my feet. I lead her to my tent where she recounts how David's men stormed the house and killed Nabal's entire clan.
‘Machia too?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Zillah?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Shirah?’ I hardly dare breathe the name. Ahinoam nods. I try to determine what I would feel could I feel anything but shock. Do I retain a shred of affection for the woman who once gave me a future, or have the years hardened my heart like hers? I am distracted by Ahinoam's sobs.
‘The children too,’ she stammers.
‘Dead?’ I ask. She nods again. ‘All of them?’ She wails and I press her to my breast, both to comfort her and steady myself as my body contorts with pain. They were the closest I came to having children of my own. When they were babies and too young to understand what was said, let alone to repeat it, I cradled them in my arms and chucked them under the chin and called myself Mother. What sort of mother fails to plead for her children's lives? But I never dreamt that David would punish those who were innocent of everything but their parentage. I feel a germ of hatred for him in my heart and tear it out before it sprouts. He is the servant of the Lord and I am that servant's servant. This is the Lord who struck down the firstborn sons in Egypt: the Lord who commanded Moses to kill the Midianite women and children and Joshua the Canaanites. This is not a Lord who perceives guilt through a man's – much less a woman's – eyes. And I blink away the tears from mine.
Having dealt with the Calebites, I expect David to announce our departure for Philistia but, instead, he lingers in Maon. Aimless and restive, the men quarrel among themselves and murmur against their leaders. Some have brought their wives – or so I choose to think of them – and some their children, sparking resentment in those who are single. With David's blessing, I set out to make improvements to the camp. I begin by taking charge of the provisions – both foraged and plundered – checking that they are safely stored and fairly distributed. I secure a stretch of river where the women are able to cleanse themselves according to the Law and away from the men. For everyday washing, I dispense soap made from olive oil and plant ash. Even so, my skin is sore and scurfy and David's kisses are tinged with remorse. Although I can do nothing with the men's tents, which reek like goat pens, I make certain that our own is kept fresh. I persuade Joab to bring back a bed from a ransacked homestead and install it as a surprise for David. But, far from thanking me, he complains that the men will think him womanish. ‘Not at all,’ I say, chastened, ‘they’ll regard it as fit for their future king.’
Although I alone have knowledge of Samuel's prophecy, the men trust in David's protection as implicitly as in the amulets they strap to their arms when they pray. Then one winter morning a disaster strikes, which threatens that trust. Joab is leading a raiding party through the wilderness when half a hillside, loosened by torrential rain, sweeps down and swallows fourteen of his men. With the rubble too heavy to move, they leave the dead to rest in the unhallowed tomb, their bones like veins in the rock. A pall hangs over the camp and Joab insists that nothing but David's playing will lift it. David protests, declaring that he hasn’t picked up his lyre since leaving Gibeah, but Joab laughs off his excuses. While respecting David's reluctance, I echo Joab's demand: the music that drove the evil spirit from the king must surely restore harmony to the camp.
I marvel that he took his lyre with him when he fled, but he explains that it was Jonathan who, knowing that it was as precious to him as his sword, brought it to him in secret. The men are eager to appraise his artistry, which is almost as fabled as his valour. As they troop beneath the drizzle into a clearing, I feel a tinge of apprehension at seeing so many men in one place, and not just any men but thieves, bandits, rebels against their clans and their king. But they fall silent the moment that David begins to play. He sings songs about the heroes of old that I feel sure I’ve heard before, which can only have been in my childhood: a memory of a time before memory. He sings songs about his victories over the Philistines and such is the purity of his voice and the delicacy of his touch that they don’t sound boastful. He sings a plaintive song addressed to the Lord, asking why he has forsaken him. This moves me most of all, but the men start to fidget and, when he embarks on a second in a similar vein, Joab interrupts, pointing to the rain, which has been teeming down, unheeded. His sombre expression makes clear, however, that it's the despair, not the downpour, which worries him.
I withdraw to our tent, leaving David to drink with his men. I fall asleep and wake at dawn, expecting to find him lying beside me, elated by wine and adulation, but, instead, he is slumped on the ground as though too befuddled to clamber into bed. Savouring a moment when I share him with no one else (not even himself), I lean forward to discover that, unless he has grown an extra set of limbs in the night, he is not alone. I muffle a scream as I glimpse Ahinoam sprawled beneath him. She starts and pulls a mantle around herself, as if her nakedness alone constituted her shame. David, usually so alert, stretches and slips a languid arm over her breasts. I wonder if he is genuinely asleep or giving me time to recover. How I wish that I were Shirah, ready to beat my maidservant for the slightest fault! But then she's no longer my maidservant... So what is she? My rival? My successor? I sink down and Ahinoam moves to comfort me as she used to do for some cruelty of Nabal's, only to shrink back in the knowledge that the cruelty is David's. Why did he bring her here? Surely he could have found another tent? Joab would have relished keeping his secret, especially from me. Unless he doesn’t want to keep it secret, least of all from me.
He springs up, naked, still betraying the excitement of the night, and stoops over the bed to kiss me.
‘Good morning,’ he says. I nod, mistrusting speech. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Too well,’ I say, wondering if, by staying awake, I might have stopped them. ‘And you, my Lord?’ I ask, forced into a new formality.
‘Like a bear. I dreamt that I was lying with a beautiful young girl.’ He turns towards Ahinoam, his eyes opening wide. ‘A miracle!’
His feint is so obvious that I can’t help laughing and my laughter frees him. He kisses me with a passion that makes me forget not only Ahinoam but the world. When I look up, I see that she is staring at us, terrified. I long to reassure her but that must wait until we are alone, without the man who both unites and divides us.
‘It was you who told me she was beautiful,’ he says.
‘That's true. I also told you that your nephew Gamaliel was beautiful,’ I reply, my courage returning.
‘I warned you I would have many women,’ he says, ‘and I will. But you are the first.’ He pauses as though recalling Michal. ‘The first to teach me how to love a woman. And I shall always put you first.’ I gaze at Ahinoam, her trim waist peeking through the mantle, and wonder how long that will last.
David smiles as though he can soothe my pain as easily as rubbing oil on an injured
sheep. Throwing on his tunic, he hurries out, leaving Ahinoam and me as wary of one another as strangers. She falls to her knees, begging my forgiveness for sharing where she should have served. Even if I didn’t love her, I wouldn’t blame her. When giants and generals bend to his will, what chance has one young woman? Over the following days, I surprise myself by drawing closer to her. She feels more like the sisters I once had than my maidservant. I beg David, for all our sakes, to clarify her position: is she to be his wife or simply his concubine? But he refuses to say, as if it would threaten our fragile accord. Ahinoam and I do all that we can to avoid friction, as sensitive to each other's feelings as to David's needs. Except on those days when one or other of us is proscribed from intimacy, there is no rule as to which nights he spends with her and which with me; he makes his choice at the end of the evening meal. The one time I rebelled was when he summoned us together. I explained that I was willing to share him, but not at the same time. Ahinoam was more acquiescent, although she assured me later that it was from deference rather than desire. So, with a feeble pretence at joking, he withdrew his request. I can’t deny that I feel pain when I see or, worse, hear them together, yet his pleasure remains my pleasure even if he takes it without me. When he summons me after spending one, two or, sometimes, three nights with her, I sense a new tenderness in him as if he knows how much I’ve missed him and wants to make amends.
The winter storms soak the ground, protecting us from enemy attack but further delaying our journey to Philistia. Then, with the first spring shoots, come reports that Saul has mustered a force of twenty thousand men to march against us. One of Jonathan's servants, braving much on his own account as well as his master's, brings us warning. David is avid for news of his friend, the adopted brother whom he loves more dearly than any of his clan.
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