Rise to Power (The David Chronicles) (Volume 1)

by Uvi Poznansky

  “Holy crap,” he mutters. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “No, you don’t,” counters Saul. “I wish I were dead.”

  His stallion perks up its ears: a sharp slap, clap, flap of wings comes from deep down, rising like a threat, hovering over their heads, fluttering alarmingly in the chilly air. No one needs to say a word, to explain what these birds of prey might be doing down there.

  Even without looking, everybody knows they are scavenging through the carcasses of the fallen. They are tearing the tissues, bite after bite, gutting the mangled skeletons, which cannot be made whole, except—in time—by the soothing effect of lies and eulogies.

  Such, I think, is the role of a king: to mask truth with fiction, to offer a grand reason—be it honor or sacrifice—for this carnage. He must play it convincingly on the national stage, so his subjects may find some inspiration to survive, to cling to life, such as it is... His words must give them hope. They must, somehow, blot from their memory this ugly moment, the moment of fear, doubt, horror.

  I hope the king has it in him.

  If not, he must be replaced by someone else, someone who has the ambition to lead, no matter if royal blood flows in his veins, or not. Someone who possesses a superior skill with words. In short, someone like me.

  The survival of this nation is at stake. In the aftermath of war, lies and eulogies may be more important than bravery ever was.

  Back in the court I have grown used to the king thrusting his spear at me. Here—perhaps for lack of an immediate enemy—he plays nervously with his weapon, aiming it with morbid fascination this way and that: first at the other side of the valley, then at himself.

  “It would take no more than a second,” says Saul.

  Abner casts a look at him. “To do what?”

  “To fall on my sword,” utters the king, through clenched teeth. “A second is all it takes, and then... No more agony, and no more of these horrific shrieks. I must—”

  This is the first time I see him at such foolery, which makes me wonder if he enjoys the effect it has upon others. He must like being a spectacle. Perhaps, like me, he is a performer at heart.

  “Enough already,” says his general, dryly. “Stop that.”

  “Yes,” echoes Jonathan, in a soft, pleading tone. “Enough... What’s the point, father—”

  “Enough yourself,” cuts Saul, and with that he backs away, quite abruptly, from his son. “Is this not the time to gauge, in all seriousness, which action would bring me—would bring all of us—to a decisive end?”

  “No,” says Abner. “It’s not. Not now.”

  And he takes hold of the point of the king’s spear, forcing it down, all the way down.

  “When the time comes, you’ll know,” he says. “There’s going to be no question about it.”

  “Hell, you must be right,” laughs the king, now attempting to shake off his foul mood. “Now it’s time to make plans.”

  To which the general claps his hands, “Here, here! Lets get ready for battle.”

  Then, with the edge of his sword, Abner draws a map on the wet soil, marking each one of the enemy positions, each one of their lines, those of defense as well as those of attack. Clearly, he is doing his best to match their type of troops with ours.

  “Oh crap,” he blurts out, staring at the ground, at jumble of crisscrossed lines.

  “Let’s start out,” says the king, “by expecting the worst.”

  “No shit! Their foot soldiers outnumber ours by far, and so does their cavalry. I am preparing for worse than worst.”

  “So? Are we ready for them?”

  “I’ve made all the calculations. Fate will do the rest.”

  “Today we shall see,” says Saul, darkly, “what stuff our men are made of.”

  In turn, the general coughs up a kind of a laugh, which is echoed, down below, by the screech of a vulture.

  “Out of desperation,” he swallows, “some of them may put up a fierce fight, fiercer than any battle they have managed to survive so far. Others... Who knows? They may shit in their pants.”

  In return, the king heaves a sigh, to which Abner adds, “It’s too bad. Death, you see, has a tendency to encourage a depressing view of war.”

  Jonathan listens to them, his stallion prancing nervously all around. I can see how impatient he is.

  At last, taking a step to stay part of the conversation, “Look! Out there,” he cries, taking his staff out of his mouth and pointing it across the valley, where the aggregate glint of arrows seems to have started moving ahead in our direction.

  The king lays his spear across his lap and then, for a long while, lets silence hang in that space, between him and his son.

  “I’m ready for them,” says Jonathan, eagerly. “Can’t wait!”

  “A fool, is what you are,” says his father.

  “I know you want me to stay behind.”

  “I do.”

  “Perhaps I will,” says Jonathan. “Then again, perhaps I won’t. You think they’re going to attack? You think it’ll happen today?”

  Saul leans forward and brushes his fingers lovingly through the long mane of his stallion.

  “No,” he says at last. “Not yet. These Philistines, they think we’re not desperate enough. What a laugh!”

  “In that case,” says the general, “we must further confuse these bastards.”

  “God willing, confuse them we shall!” says Jonathan, eagerly.

  Ignoring him, the king shuffles uncomfortably in the saddle, and by extension, his stallion scrapes its feet against the ground.

  “Lets pray,” says Jonathan, “that every Philistine’s sword would be against his fellow.”

  “This is no time for prayer,” mutters the king. “We must act, and fast. We must give them a show, a good show of confidence.”

  “How?”

  “We shall send someone out. Someone willing to try, to cross swords with their best soldier.”

  “Amen, Amen to that!” chants the son, with a pious tone that makes his father wince. “Nothing can hinder the Lord from saving us by many or by few.”

  “We shall send someone who’s not just brave,” stresses Saul, right over his words. “Not just given to dreams, or to high ambitions. How shall I put it to you? Someone willing, above all, to obey me.”

  “I see,” says the son, now lowering his eyes.

  “Not you, Jonathan.”

  With these words, the king looks away from him. Some sound coming from my direction must have caught his ear. He scans the rocky landscape, and then—just for a second—I think I feel, through the gaps in the soggy turf that hides me, the weight of his gaze. Has he spotted me? No, I tell myself, how could he?

  “You I must spare, son,” says Saul, a bit softer this time.

  At that, something must have come over Jonathan, a sudden rage that darkens his eyes.

  “What have I ever done to you?” he groans. “You keep pushing me away... If I’ve committed a crime, punish me, father! Kill me if you must—or else, forgive...”

  Even from this distance, in the uncertain light of dawn, I can tell that his face is wet. It is awash with tears.

  In a flash he kicks his horse, kicks it with an unrestrained, cruel force, spurring the poor animal to come up on its hind legs, whimpering in pain. It leaps as high as it can, perhaps to shake off its rider. Then, forced to accept his control, it charges into the distance, galloping furiously. A sound of hoofs rattles the entire valley. Then, gradually, it starts weakening, till at last it dies away.

  After a while Abner breaks the silence. “He’s your flesh and blood. He takes after you, more than you know it, and in more ways than one... And even if at this moment he’s pissed at you, Saul, you must remind yourself: he’s going to carry on your legacy. He’s the heir to the throne.”

  “A rebel, is what he is.”

  “That much is true. With my own ears I heard him tell others, ‘My father has troubled the land.’”

 
; “What a devil! What a fine prince,” sneers the king. “He’s all too eager to reach for my crown. Not so fast... Not while I’m still alive. I am the king! And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s the stink of a traitor.”

  “Even if he’s your son, Saul?”

  “Too impatient, is what he is. Power is something everybody around me wants to grab. I can sense it. Jonathan wants it, perhaps even you, Abner. They want it now, right this minute, not knowing, not even guessing the perils of trying to hold on to it.”

  “It must be hard, living in constant suspicion, especially when it’s aimed at those closest to you. Trust me, I’m at your service. If you’re pissed at your son—”

  “I would sacrifice him, on a whim!”

  The general looks at him as if to say, Goddam it, why don’t you, then?

  To which the king shrugs, “I can’t. Jonathan is alive for no other reason than popular support. In a coin toss, gambling over the two of us, my men would prefer him to me.”

  The general scratches his head to find an answer. Meanwhile, the king presses on, “No matter how daringly he disobeys me, how openly he challenges my orders, they wouldn’t let one hair of his head fall to the ground.”

  “He’s the future.”

  “Which is why he must be spared.”

  “This is war, Saul. He’s a fine soldier. Let him join us.”

  “No,” says the king, shaking his head with careful deliberation, “Jonathan is of no use to me, here.”

  The general spits out, “Come on, now! Even a pile of turd has its uses!”

  “How little you know me,” utters the king. "You and I agree on every single issue that’s ever faced us—except for those instances where you’re still learning."

  “Oh crap! I’m done learning. I know you well enough, Saul.”

  “Do you? How lonely, miserably lonely we are, each one of us, hanging up here, at the pinnacle of power.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “I love him.”

  And after a short pause, Saul goes on to say, “I must choose someone else. Someone whose ambition drives him, straight ahead and without hesitation, to be completely foolish. Not my son.”

  And once again, this time with a hard, clear intention, he looks here, in my direction, and bounces in the saddle. My throat tightens. There can be no mistake: he knows. Somehow, he has sensed my presence.

  “Come out,” he bellows. “Come out here, David.”

  A Last Request

  Chapter 6

  Right now there is no wind, not even a morning breeze. The air is heavy upon us, and it reeks of defeat.

  “At your service,” I bow to the ground before the king. “Shall I play before you?”

  And he goes, “No, you devil! I’d rather listen to the yawling of cats in the middle of the night.”

  Then, startled by some noise, Saul takes his right foot out of the stirrup, swings it over the stallion’s rump, and springs down. For just a second, he bends his knees before me.

  Then he stands up again.

  “Tell me, boy,” he casts a worried look at the other side of the valley. “Can your music drown it out?”

  And I say, “Drown what?”

  “The drums of war,” he flashes a strange smile at me. “Listen... Can you hear?”

  I shake my head. No.

  Without warning, Saul flings the lyre right out of my hands. It flies over the ledge, and who knows how far down it has landed, and in what shape.

  “This,” he growls, “is no time for playing.”

  “This,” say I, “is the time for a great trumpet to be blown.”

  The king squints at the sun, and when that fails him he raises his hand, shielding his eyes from the blinding glimmer. Then he takes hold of my shoulders, which at once makes me feel small. I cannot stand it, being under his thumb.

  He turns me around and tells me, “Behold, boy. Here, before you, is the valley of Elah.”

  So I study the terrain. Alas, our side of the valley is steep, and the path—slippery.

  It twists around this ridge and that, tunnels under boulders big and small, falls deeper and deeper into the abyss, till at last it drops completely from sight. The king must know: if he sends our soldiers down that path, they may find themselves in the end with their backs to the wall. There would be no escape, should the battle turn against them.

  By contrast, the opposite side of the terrain has a more gradual slope. Right now it is swarming with enemy soldiers advancing slowly, steadily, one massive wave after another, descending as one into the depth of the valley.

  His chin hangs over my shoulder, jaw tightly clenched. Together, the king and I are standing here, looking at the arena of war, at what is sure to become our defeat.

  “So,” I muster the courage, at last, to breathe in his ear, “you need me.”

  In turn he breathes, “I do.”

  “You need someone whose ambition drives him, straight ahead and without hesitation, to be completely foolish.”

  “You listen well, the devil that you are!” He chuckles for a moment, then turns serious again. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I am. But now, before I go, there is one request, one last thing I must ask you.”

  “Anything,” he offers, and this time there is a new tone in his voice. It is full of pity.

  I close my eyes, and at once I conjure up a lovely, bubbly girl, hair and bust pointing upward. Of course, I am not the first soldier to dream about the princess. Imagining her beauty, her open arms, her embrace must have helped many of them stomach the idea of going to battle.

  I take a moment to think about the fallen, down there at the bottom of this valley. Her name must have been the last thing quivering on their lips. Merav.

  So I take a deep breath, and before I have a chance to regret it, the words roll off my tongue. Both of us listen to them in utter disbelief.

  “What I want,” says my voice, “is your daughter.”

  “What?” he doubles over, cackling in surprise.

  Somehow I gather the courage to say, “Yes! You heard me.”

  He pushes me away, full force, which makes me flail a bit to regain my balance. There I am, nearly tipping over the lip of the ledge.

  He goes, “She has royal blood in her veins, and you... Who the hell are you?”

  For a moment I contemplate mentioning what everyone knows: Saul was anointed while looking for his father’s three asses. Coming from a lowly farm, he has no royal blood in his veins, and neither do any of his offspring.

  Instead I say, “But... But have you seen the way she looks at me?”

  “Who? Michal?”

  I cast a look at him which is just as surprised as his look at me. I have to control myself, which is utterly impossible.

  “Michal?” I blurt out. “Of course not!”

  And he says, “Why the hell not?”

  And I say, “Who on earth would want a flat-chested, grumpy Jewish princess like her? No, no way! The one I want is Merav!”

  “Goddamn it, who cares,” he dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “I have high plans for both of them. Quite soon, in fact. Michal shall marry a prince, and so will Merav. Nothing personal, you see. This is purely about politics.”

  “But—”

  “Stay away from my daughter.”

  “But I—”

  “You’re a nobody.”

  “So? What’s the difference to you? Most likely, I’ll not live to see my reward.” Now I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye, as theatrically as I can. “Your majesty, I’m as good as dead... Do I ask for much? Forget medals, forget colored ribbons! Let me have her!”

  Saul looks down.

  So in the name of compromise I suggest, “Merav can marry a prince when I’m no longer here, which will be soon enough, I suppose, the way things are going.”

  He says nothing, not a word to refute what I have just said.

  So I press on, “Give me my reward! Let me die happy.”


  He keeps his lips tightly pursed.

  “Damn it,” he glances at me with trepidation. “You devil, I know you… Will you come back to haunt me if I refuse you?”

  “I sure will.”

  “I hate you, you know.”

  I say, “I do.”

  And he says, “Oh hell.”

  “Give her to me,” I demand of him. “Give me the hand of your daughter in marriage.”

  Down the Path

  Chapter 7

  By his silence I figure we have struck a deal, the king and I: his daughter is mine! No doubt, he cares little about letting her know about our engagement, let alone asking her what she thinks of it. I wish he would, because to me, Merav is a riddle. I mean, she is a woman.

  What if, like me, she craves power? What if she hopes to marry someone else, some powerful prince from a faraway land, who can whisk her away from this God forsaken land, and set her on a high pedestal, and tell his people to sing her praises in their stilted, foreign accent, and bow to her from morning to night, and shower her with diamonds, pearls, and rubies? It may seem so exotic to her, and more promising than marrying a poor musician, a court jester such as me.

  I can just imagine how Saul might break the news to her. The scene would start exactly like the last time I saw her, with a sound of chuckles from the back of the court. Prancing across the stone floor, Merav would look every bit as lovely as she did back then—but to amuse myself, I make her cleavage more revealing, and her bust riper than ever.

  “Young lady,” the king might blurt out, “you’re not wearing that to your wedding.”

  “Wedding? What wedding?” she would stop to ask, surprise ringing in her voice.

  “Didn’t I tell you? The boy... Damn it, I always forget his name... He asked for your hand in marriage.”

  “David?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “And? What did you say?”

  “I thought it’s about time you get engaged—”

  “Daddy,” she would smile, ever so charmingly, because that is her way of disarming him. “Now, tell me the truth, what did you say?”