I hurry to Nathan's chamber, where Solomon sits alone, studying a scroll, on which I vent my fury, sweeping it from his hands, to my immediate regret. He looks at me quizzically and picks it off the floor, blowing away a speck of dust with a casualness calculated to exasperate me.
‘While you sit here reading... reading,’ I repeat, as if it were a crime, Adonijah is making his bid for the crown. He has invited all your brothers – your half-brothers, that is – to a feast. But not you and Nathan and Shobab and Shammua. Why do you suppose that is? Because he knows that we’ll oppose him.’
‘Because he knows that you’ll oppose him, Mother. I’m quite sure that neither Shobab nor Shammua has given it a thought.’
And you? Don’t you care that everything I’ve hoped for – everything I’ve worked for – all these years will be lost?’
‘Which is what?’
‘You. You! Don’t pretend you don’t know! You were born to be king, and not just because you’re your father's son – they’re all your father's sons – but because you’re mine. And what do you do?’
‘I put myself in your hands, Mother.’
I stare at him. ‘That's very wise.’
Leaving word for Nathan to join me the moment he returns, I walk to the king's chamber. I consider taking Solomon but fear that his reserve would antagonise his father and, besides, I can make a better case for him when he isn’t there. Despite the urgency, I must keep calm and avoid provoking the king; in the past I reported so many of his sons’ misdemeanours that he accused me of sowing discord. I enter the chamber to find him propped up in bed, his mouth gaping like a stranded fish. Abishag sits beside him, so close to the edge that she is in danger of falling off. I wonder if the two guards at the door, who can be little older than Abishag herself, have been chosen because, like her, they don’t unsettle the king or because their youth makes any secrets that they might disclose easier to discredit.
I move to the bed and try to ignore Abishag's trembling. Determined to secure the king's endorsement of Solomon, even if I have to fabricate it myself, I wonder whether her dread of me would trump her loyalty to her kinsman should I call on her to corroborate my account. I bow, more for her sake than the king's, to demonstrate my respect for authority, even if it is no longer embodied in the torpid figure who turns to me with eyes that scarcely register my presence.
‘My lord,’ I say, hoping that he will be more responsive to my voice. ‘While you lie here, your crown is being wrested from you.’ He raises a listless hand to quiet me. ‘Don’t you care that your kingdom will be torn apart?’ As I wait for him to reply, I catch sight of Abishag trying to creep out of bed and plant myself in front of her. ‘Don’t you care that I and my sons will be at the mercy of Haggith, who hates me?’
‘Wine,’ he says, gasping. Abishag reaches for a cup, which I snatch from her.
‘Have you forgotten your promise to make Solomon your heir?’ Frustrated by his silence, I slap his face. He starts; Abishag screams; the guards rush in. ‘No cause for alarm,’ I tell them. ‘The king rolled on to the girl's arm. He's heavy.’ She sits tight-lipped and, after a cursory glance at the chamber, the guards return to their posts. Pushing Abishag off the bed, I take her place and hand the cup to the king. ‘Here, my lord, drink!’ A steady gulp appears to revive him.
‘Is that you, Bathsheba?’
‘Always, my lord.’ His chest heaves in silent sobs. I lay his head on my breast and stroke his matted hair. ‘I thank you, my lord.’
‘For what?’
‘What you said just now – what you said all those years ago – that you choose Solomon to sit on your throne.’
‘I did?’ He searches my face as if to find the words inscribed on it.
‘In your wisdom, my lord. And Abishag can vouch for it.’ I turn to her, sprawled on the floor, and flash her my most dangerous smile, like a scorpion in a basket of figs. ‘You repeated what you swore at the altar that Solomon should be king after you.’
‘I did?’ He looks at me dazed and I feel a sliver of shame. To play on his bewilderment is a kind of violation, which makes us equal.
‘Don’t you remember, my lord?’ I ask, in a voice raw with pain.
‘Maybe... yes... I think so.’
‘There, I was sure you would. That's why you’re the wisest and most revered of kings.’
Nathan's entrance cuts short my flummery. I inform him that the king has bestowed the succession on Solomon. I look expectantly at Abishag, who gives a tentative nod. Nathan reports that Adonijah and his supporters have ridden out to Ein Rogel, the sacred rock of the Jebusites, where Abiathar has sacrificed oxen, sheep and calves in a blatant attempt to sanctify Adonijah's claim, away from the scrutiny of the tabernacle. He exhorts the king to summon a council and publish his son's treason. Looking at him, slumped on the pillows, I fear that he won’t be able to stand, but Nathan calls the guards, who lift him up, with only a passing grimace at his loincloth. I fetch a maidservant who wipes his face and chest, while he swipes at her as at an insistent fly.
Wide-eyed, Abishag tugs at my robe.
‘What is it?’
‘What about me?’
‘What about you?’ I ask, impatiently. ‘You’re a fire by his bedside, which has died out. Shall we throw away the ashes?’ She whimpers; I relent. ‘You’re to say nothing to anyone, do you understand?’ She nods repeatedly. ‘Very well then, go to the harem and wait. Wait. That's what we do in the harem: we wait.’ Nathan looks at me in reproof and I fear that I have spoken out of turn. Abishag leaves, and Nathan and the servant start to dress the king, who protests as if the linen were sackcloth. As he once again assumes the mantle of royalty, I seek out Solomon and his brothers and prepare them for the council.
In spite of the haste and the defection of several of the elders to Adonijah, the great chamber is packed by the time we arrive. I spot Hushai, his hair and beard as wispy as a spider's web, and Zadok, dressed in a pure white robe and headdress, his feet unshod as if he has come straight from officiating in the tabernacle. Most welcome of all is Benaiah, the captain of the king's guard, in full armour as though poised to attack the rebels. Joab may command peoples’ memories but Benaiah commands the only standing force in the city. Was it arrogance or recklessness that led Adonijah to dispense with his support? I glance at Solomon, who studies everything with his usual detachment. When I ran to his chamber and gave him the news, he thanked me as if I were fetching him for a meal. Is it any wonder that people find him inscrutable when his own mother struggles to know what goes on inside his head?
David enters, supported by the two guards, who half-drag half-lift him as though he were Meribaal. Seized by an intense if unfounded fear that he’ll collapse before he reaches the throne, I hold my breath until he sinks on to the seat. Nathan, whose sense of urgency matches mine, enjoins him to speak.
‘I call on all present to bear witness that I confer the succession on my son, Solomon,’ he declares. The effort of speaking any sentence, let alone that one, exhausts him. He kicks out his foot and, although I am not sure whether it's a summons or a spasm, I thrust Solomon forward to pay him homage, which he does impassively, neither acknowledging the honour nor recoiling from the foot.
‘Praise to King David! Praise to King Solomon!’ Nathan exclaims, a cry that is picked up throughout the chamber. Rather than the expected relief, I am filled with apprehension, which won’t be assuaged until Solomon is crowned.
‘Where's Bathsheba?’ the king asks.
‘Here, my lord,’ I reply, kneeling before him. He looks over my head as if unable to locate my voice. I stand and take his hand.
‘Didn’t I promise you that Solomon would be king?’ he says. ‘So he shall be this very day.’
‘May the king live for ever!’ I reply, and for a moment I mean him.
‘Where is the priest? Abiathar...?’ he asks, looking around.
‘No, Zadok, my lord,’ Nathan says.
‘Zadok, come forward.’
/>
‘I’m here, my lord.’
‘You and Samuel – ’
‘Nathan, my lord,’ the prophet interposes.
‘That's what I said. You and Nathan – Nathan – are to conduct Solomon to the sacred spring, anoint him and proclaim him king over all Israel. Then bring him back here so that my sons and my counsellors and my whole household may swear allegiance.’
The gathering disperses. Zadok goes to the tabernacle to collect the horn of sacred oil and Benaiah to the gatehouse to muster the guards. Nathan dispatches a servant to fetch the king's mule. I accompany Nathan, Shobab and Shammua to the city gate before deciding to turn back. The ceremony is the fulfilment of my every dream, but now that it's taking place, I have no wish to be there. I don’t know why. Perhaps, having imagined it for so long, I am afraid of being disappointed? Or else I am worried that witnessing it will leave me with nothing left to dream? So I send for Naamah, who arrives, cradling Rehoboam, blissfully unaware of the great events occurring around him. We walk up the ramparts and watch Solomon ride out of the city. Even I wouldn’t claim that he is the most handsome of the king's sons but, robed in white, mounted on the milk-white mule and gilded by the midday son, he dazzles the eye. He is followed by the priests and Levites and, by my count, at least fifty armed guards. As word of the ceremony spreads, the people, first in dribs and drabs and then in droves, join the procession to Gihon.
The spring is obscured by the rockface but, from the blast of the ram's horn and the distinct if dissonant cries of ‘Long live King Solomon’, I am able to picture the proceedings. Then an insolent jibe of ‘Which one is Solomon?’ rises from the street below, shattering my concentration. I bridle, before reminding myself that anyone still in ignorance will learn the answer soon enough. I turn to Naamah, whose eyes are moist, and reach for Rehoboam, whom she grudgingly yields up. ‘Listen to that, little one,’ I say, lifting him high in the air, ‘one day it's your name they’ll be cheering.’ He squalls and grasps at his mother's sleeve.
The procession snakes back through the valley and Naamah and I hasten to the palace, eager to be the first to pay homage to Solomon on his return. As he rides through the gates, we fall to our knees, where he leaves us while he dismounts. I know that he is the king, with more pressing concerns than greeting his mother, but it still smarts. He heads straight to the great chamber, while Nathan remains to report the confusion in Adonijah's camp.
‘The princes have rushed back from Ein Rogel to the city, which is rife with rumours that Solomon plans to kill them all.’
‘Nonsense!’ I say, horrified.
‘Rumours,’ Nathan replies, ‘not edicts.’
Later in the afternoon, the rumours are discounted when we gather in the great chamber to acclaim the newly crowned king. He summons Naamah and me to take our places to the left and right of his throne. As I approach, he kisses me; that is I feel his breath on my cheek.
‘So you need me by your side,’ I say.
‘I need to keep you close, Mother,’ he replies, with the ghost of a smile.
His brothers, their mothers, Joab, Abiathar, and the elders who threw in their lot with Adonijah, crowd into the chamber. My hope that he will begin his reign with an act of clemency is realised when he promises not to punish them for past misdeeds but, rather, to honour all those who honour him.
They line up to do him obeisance. Shammua giggles as he sees his older brothers kiss toes that he used to tickle, but I silence him with a frown. The princes are succeeded by the royal wives, led by Abigail, whose age and frailty should exempt her from kneeling, but Solomon extends his foot, which, with an effort almost as painful for us to watch as for her to make, she brushes with her lips. She struggles to rise and Ibhar and Nepheg step forward to help her, while Solomon stares straight ahead. She is followed first by Maacah and then by Haggith, whom Solomon addresses.
‘Where is your son, my lady?’
‘In the tabernacle, my lord. He seeks sanctuary until he has word that your lordship pardons him.’
‘Tell him to quit the Lord's house and return to his own. Provided that he's contrite and pledges loyalty, I shan’t hurt him.’ With a low bow, Haggith backs out of the chamber. ‘Now I too must go to the tabernacle to make a thanksgiving offering. This evening, I invite you all to a feast... that is, all who are not sated from eating with Adonijah.’
As he leaves, I am struck by how painlessly his accession has been accomplished. Unlike his father, Solomon has been crowned without spilling a single drop of blood. The sole transgression has been mine. Not that I am the only mother to have dissembled on her son's behalf. If Rebecca could deceive Isaac to secure Jacob's inheritance, surely I can deceive David to secure Solomon's throne? Just as her deceit was justified when Jacob engendered the twelve tribes, so shall mine be when Solomon proves to be a wise and virtuous king.
Two hours later, Solomon returns and, despite his distaste for such revelry, hosts the feast. I preside in the harem, with Abigail to my left and Naamah to my right. The meal is lavish, but nobody pays much attention to the food. Abigail declares that she has no appetite and when I look at her, pinched and cloudy-eyed, pale and toothless, I wonder if her final act of devotion will be to accompany the old king to the tomb. The other women study me with varying degrees of apprehension. Bathsheba, whom they once disdained, is now mistress of their fates. Are they recalling all the slights and sneers, the lewd laughter when the king summoned me and the resentful glances when I returned festooned with jewels, and wondering how I will be revenged? They needn’t worry. Like my son, I intend to be gracious. In token of which I summon a maidservant.
‘Take the leftover food to the women confined in the gatehouse and make sure that they all – especially Princess Michal – know that it comes from Bathsheba,’ I tell her. Meanwhile, I trust that Solomon has thought to send some of the choicest dishes to his father, even if he can do little more than smell them.
With Solomon ruling in his own right, receiving envoys, resolving disputes and drawing up plans for the temple, it is easy to forget that the old king remains alive. Solomon has doubled the guard at his chamber door, replaced all his former servants and forbidden him any visitors but me. Defying their derision, I inform the other wives that he is too weak to receive them. Abishag remains his constant companion, squashed in his bed as though she were trapped beneath an overturned cart.
She no longer returns to the harem, but one night, to my amazement, she bursts into my chamber, her hair as tousled, eyes as wild and robe as besmirched as if she had fled from a captured city. I’m about to reproach her for abandoning the king, when she blurts out: ‘He's dead.’ My mind goes blank and my body numb. For a moment – how long a moment I’m not sure – I stare into the void of a world without David. I slowly regain my thoughts, my senses and my bearings.
‘What did he say?’ I ask. ‘I need to know his last words.’
‘He didn’t speak; he couldn’t... not since early morning. And then it wasn’t anything I could understand, just a name.’
‘Which?’ I ask. Was it Michal or Abigail? Did first loves triumph at the end? Might it even have been Bathsheba? Or was it one of his sons? Absalom? Amnon? I daren’t hope that it was Solomon.
‘Did he have a son called Jonathan?’
‘No, why? The only Jonathan I know of was King Saul's son.’ She looks perplexed. ‘Princess Michal's brother.’
‘He kept muttering: “Jonathan, Jonathan”.’
‘No, you were distressed; you must have misheard.’ My relief that he hasn’t shown a deathbed preference for one of his other wives, let alone their sons, gives way to resentment that his final thought should have been of a friend. ‘What he said was: “Solomon, Solomon”.’
‘But I’m sure – ’ As she starts to contradict me, I remind myself that she's only twelve.
‘Think carefully, my dear. Think of your future, and I’m sure you’ll remember that his mind was fixed on Solomon, giving him his blessing and predicting tha
t his reign would be even more glorious than his own.’
‘Yes, yes, I remember,’ she stammers. ‘“Even more glorious”.’
A few hours later, his dying words are on everyone's lips.
We bury him the next morning. The day is dull, neither bathed in the glow of the Lord's love for his servant nor battered by storms of grief at his loss. With the rest of the women, I put on sackcloth, smearing my face and arms with ashes, and process through the valley to the tomb. Solomon leads the way, accompanied by the royal princes; Joab, eyes darting back and forth, follows with Abishai and Ittai; the elders of nine of the tribes come next, those of Dan and Asher having failed to arrive in time. I lead the women, with Maacah and Abital on either side. Away from the harem, I am struck by how they’ve aged (Abigail, the oldest of us all, is too weak to leave her bed). We assemble at the tomb where the Levites sing lamentations, many of which were written by the king himself. Abiathar, looking almost as uneasy as Joab, and Zadok pour libations.
While Solomon, Nathan and the priests escort the king's body into the tomb, I study the mourners, spotting Abishag among the concubines. Even the ash on her cheeks cannot taint her beauty. I speculate on her fate. To my immense relief, Solomon has renounced his claim to his father's harem, since the prospect of his lying with Maacah or Haggith or any of my rivals revolts me. On the other hand, no one who has lived in such intimacy with the king as Abishag can be allowed to return to her clan. With Matred grown clumsy and neglectful, I might take her as my maidservant. But, turning back, I find her exchanging glances with Adonijah, which are manifestly not those of condolence.
It was I who persuaded Solomon that it would be a noble gesture, appreciated by all his brothers, to invite Adonijah to their father's obsequies. I assumed, however, that he would show more tact than to attend the feast. Not only does he come, but he makes straight for me.
The Anointed Page 31
