And as soon as I turned to go there, he let another man have Merav. Perhaps Saul figured that I slew the Philistine purely by mistake. Given a second chance at fighting, I was as good as dead.
Now that I have managed to return, the king throws his younger daughter—the flat chested one—into my arms, as a consolation prize. And to prove I am worthy of her, he names a price.
“Bring me a hundred Philistine foreskins,” he says, as if they can be harvested with no trouble, which is clearly untrue, because those pricks are not likely to take such a proposition lightly. This unwanted engagement is going to lead us into a horrific war, with dead on both sides.
And for what? For proving my manhood? For pleasing an undesired bride?
Even if, by the grace of God, I manage to come back alive, and with her price in hand, will the king keep his promise to me this time? Considering the recent twist and turns, what do you think? Will he give Michal to me—or will he tell me, with a strange glint of joy playing in his eyes, that he let another man have her, while I was fighting for him on the front line?
Tell me this is just his madness. Tell me it is not for spite!
*
“Spite? No way,” says Joav. “The king loves you.”
He is my new recruit, a sharp, quick witted soldier who has arrived here only a week ago. What’s more, he is family: Joav is my nephew, the son of my elder sister Zeruriah. Already I have started to delegate some tasks to him, because for me, fighting is a dirty business. As a poet in times of war, I must rely on others, if they are willing to be ruthless for me. Unlike me, Joav takes joy in it.
We are at the top of a nameless hill overlooking Gath, a coastal Philistine stronghold. Ahead of us, the branches of an old, gnarled olive tree frame the view.
There in the flatland, in the center of the walled city, enemy troops are doing their military exercises. Archers are stretching their bowstrings, letting arrows fly out. Foot soldiers are marching to and fro with great fanfare. Up here the noise sounds like a tinkle—but it must be deafening down there. Perhaps it helps them brace themselves for the our next attack.
They avoid going out to the site of their defeat, which happened a few days ago, some distance outside the city gate. Caught off balance, they must be astonished at the sudden thinning of their lines.
Joav is my age, and clever beyond his years. I find it easy to confide in him, consider his advice, and at times accept it. From him I learned that if we attack them from the east, it is best to do it at dawn, so they are blinded by the rays of the rising sun, and cannot see us until it is too late.
“Ha? You listening? The king loves you,” he repeats.
I shake my head, “No! He hates me.”
“Who cares.”
“I do.”
Among the troops, Joav has made a name for himself. He is known to have a large collection of knives, which he buys from the living or loots from the dead, as the case may be.
I make a note to myself never to stand too close to him, because in a flash he can pull a knife out of nowhere, I mean, out of a hidden pocket in his sleeve, or a carved hole in the heel of his boot, or its soul.
“With some distance,” I say, casting a look at him, “we can be the best of friends.”
“No,” he says, and starts flinging two of his knives up into the air, juggling them with admirable precision, which may explain why the rest of the troops steer clear of him.
“No? Why No?”
Joav takes a moment to find the right words. Then, letting his knives fall left and right of me, he bows his head before me. “I will kill for you. I will die for you. There is a distance between us: you’re my captain. Friends we can’t be.”
He bows down all the way, extracts his knives from the dry soil, brushes away any dust, and goes back to tossing them in the air.
Still seething with disappointment over losing Merav, I go on to moan, “The king hates me, and so does Michal! For her, any price is too much, but what her father demands of me is simply ridiculous.”
“Let me guess,” Joav narrows his eyes.”Are you to hunt a lion and tear it apart with your bare hands?”
“No—”
“Drag a leviathan to shore and cut open its belly?”
“No—”
“Slay a dragon?”
“I wish!”
“What, then?” he asks. By the sly smile hiding under his mustache I suspect he already knows the answer.
“You playing with me?” I say. “I am to come up with a hundred Philistine foreskins.”
“Ha! Is that what a princess goes for these days?”
I answer by asking, “Can you believe it?”
Out of nowhere he pulls up a third knife, and without missing a beat throws it up. “Question is, how hard can it be to get what he wants?”
I shrug. “At the time I still entertained the hope of reaching out to the enemy, obtaining what I need by diplomatic means.”
“Ha!” He catches the other two knives behind his back. “That doesn’t sound like fun to me, not at all.”
“I tried, really, I tried to talk sense to those infidels.”
“Let me guess: you told them all about the joys of converting to our faith.”
“How did you know?”
“Then you overstated the medical benefits of circumcision, and understated the pain.”
“I did.”
“No takers, ha?”
“None. Naturally I had no choice but to resort to military means.”
“By which you mean, slaughter.”
“Yes.”
Joav aims a knife at a target carved in the bark of the olive tree.
“I hope,” he shoots, “that the princess would love you for it.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but this I know: her father is entitled to drive a stiff bargain, especially when he’s dealing with a commoner like you.”
I must admit, “Stiff it is.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“How many foreskins d’you have so far?”
“Hmmm... Haven’t counted them lately,” I scratch my head. “Did you?”
“Ha! I sure did, your majesty.”
This is the first time anyone has called me that. I examine his face, trying to see if he is joking. His eyes betray nothing but a serious look.
“Come again?” I say, as if my hearing has failed me.
Joav pretends not to understand what I want to hear. Instead he goes to the olive tree, and pulls his knife out of the center of the target.
“I counted them for you, last night,” he says, over his shoulder. Then, with the pointed edge, he draws a number in the dust.
“Two hundred!” I cry in surprise. “Really? But... But that’s way too much—”
“What, you afraid to overdo things?” he asks, suddenly with a harsh tone. “Don’t be! I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”
“People will say I’m an over-achiever.”
“They’ll admire you for it, which in turn, will frighten Saul.”
“How do I explain this carnage to him?”
“Simple. Tell the king, ‘God was with me.’ He’ll let you marry his precious little daughter if—and only if—you strike some terror in his heart.”
“You sure?”
“Double his price, and Michal is yours.”
“Fine! Stop the slaughter, then! Call back the troops!”
“As you wish,” he bows to me. “With this victory, we both get what we want.”
“Yes,” I agree. “You get control—”
“And you, glory,” he goes on, completing my sentence.
For a moment, our eyes meet.
Then he adds, “Just remember: if not for me, this war would have gone on, unchecked. I figure, you owe me.”
I give him a nod, which he ignores. Joav is too smart to take silence for an answer.
“Let me hear you say it,” he demands.
�
�I owe you,” I say, “I do.”
“Ha! Kiss the bride,” he winks. “Tell her she owes me, too.”
I sigh. “All this effort for the wrong princess. What a waste.”
“One princess or the other—wouldn’t make any difference to me.”
“Michal is nothing like her sister.”
“Too tall, I take it?”
“Like father like daughter.”
“No boobs, ha?”
“None to speak of.”
“But is she pretty?”
“It takes hours,” I complain. “Hours to put her together, to make her proper and presentable. Her maids heat iron rods in the fireplace to set her air flat, then they part it and pull it tightly into a bun—but despite their best efforts, some wisps fall out of it every so often, and slink down the nape of her neck, which must drive her crazy.”
Joav raises an eyebrow, so I see the steel-gray glint in his eye. “One thing I know about girls,” he offers the wisdom of a soldier. “In bed, they’re all the same.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Trust me,” he winks. “Under the garments, no matter how fancy they are, it’s all flesh.”
“No,” I say. “I refuse to believe it.”
He twiddles the ends of his mustache between his fingers, and chuckles, “So? Michal’s not good enough for you?”
I roll my eyes, “More like, I’m not good enough for her.”
“Ha!”
“She would make my life miserable every single day from now on, repeating how I don’t deserve her and how I never will. I know, I know: being who she is, a princess is entitled to complain. Alas, I’ll never hear the end of it—”
“At this point,” he says, cutting in, “it’s not like you have a choice. You’re looking for success? Take a stab at it.”
“It’s not just about her.”
“What, then?”
I hesitate to admit, “For an ambitious man, nothing is more punishing than a king changing your future on you, at whim. Each time he does that, I’m forced to redraw my plans, my path to power.”
He tucks away his knives.
“Trust me: you must marry her,” he says, “because glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever.”
Michal
Chapter 13
Tonight, the night of my wedding, I find myself faced with the greatest surprise of my life. It makes me ashamed for what I have said about my bride, because in her chamber she prepared the loveliest, most thoughtful offering for me.
I am speechless, standing here before this beauty. With trembling hands I brush along the sweeping curve of the neck, which soars over my head. I stroke it gently, feeling my way down to the knee. Taking the bend I glide along the slope of the body, which is hollow, because this is where sound resonates, where it is projected inward and outward when a string is plucked.
It is a large, floor standing harp. Its frame is constructed of some fine, solid timber, with fine grain, the likes of which I have never seen before. The column supporting the neck is delicately carved with decorations.
I am awe struck. Such grace! Such a magical instrument!
Inspired, I think, by the archer’s bow, it transforms the shriek of arrows, the clash of armies, the cries of war... It softens them, turns them into notes, into harmony.
I pluck a pair of silk strings, and music—oh, heavenly music!—fills the chamber. More startling than anything I could produce on my old lyre, this sound is divine. It creates a new universe in my mind, suffused with glory... For a brief moment, all that has been happening lately in my life fades away, melding into the background, into darkness.
And in that brief moment I wonder... Where am I? Where are my enemies? I listen for the screams of the victims as I wield my sword over their heads. I take note of the hush, the deathly silence sprawling behind me as I charge forward, stepping over the corpses to do God’s work.
I am overcome. I am in tears.
“You like?” asks Michal.
I nod my head, Yes.
She stands in the midst of her maids, waiting for them to remove the jeweled coronet from her hair, which is arranged in a towering bun, fancier than any hair style I have ever seen on her before. How would she lie down in bed with it? How would she manage to fall asleep? I may understand the sacrifice women make for their looks, but not for this tightly knit bun.
A long, frizzy wisp of hair flies out of it, which she quickly tucks back. The maids plait it into place again. Again, she is proper.
My bride glances at me. “Want to play?”
I shake my head, No.
In a blink, blush rises up her chin, her ears. To hide it from me, she turns her head away. Hanging from her earlobe is a large, ornamented chandelier earring, which the maids are struggling to remove.
Then she passes quickly by me, with a tinkling of her gold anklet marking each footfall. She stops by a small window at the far end of the chamber. It overlooks the distant vineyards, the palace gardens, and the path leading, with twists and turns, into the throne room.
“I meant,” she says from there, “want to play music?”
“No, not tonight,” I say.
Michal signals to her maids and at once they scurry out of the chamber, closing the doors behind them with the softest of thuds. Which is when she comes back, rushing furiously past me, and sits down at her mirror. At first I think she is about to burst into tears, but no. All she does is dab the corner of her eye.
What have I done? What does she want? Is she angry with me?
“So?” she mutters, in an irate tone.
“So?” I echo.
In return she throws back, “You know what an effort it was, getting this thing, this harp, in here?”
“I’m sure it was monumental—”
“You know how much thought it took, months ahead of time, to import just the right kind of timber from the forests north of Lebanon, and to find the best, most renowned harp maker money can buy?”
Really? I say to myself. Has she been planning this wedding months in advance, while I was about to marry her sister? If so, Michal went about it in the face of great odds, working her way behind the scenes, and she managed to convince her father not only to let her have me—but to think it was his idea in the first place.
She had to observe his up and down moods, and take advantage of them whenever she could. She had to swallow her pride, and bear her jealousy in silence. My bride will never admit it—but now, this I know: she is in love with me!
Out loud I say, “I’m humbled, Michal. I can’t thank you enough. Your gift—what can I say?—it’s simply stunning.”
“So?” she says, eyes burning red. “Where’s mine?”
At that I am taken aback.
“Your gift?” I say in surprise. “Didn’t you hear? I brought your father twice as many Philistine foreskins as I was required for—”
“For me?” she blurts out. “Philistine foreskins? D’you think they’re going to do me any good?”
“You don’t understand,” I come again. “They’re a proof of what a man I am—”
“Yeah, right!”
“A proof of my virility, my capacity for success,” I go on, bragging.
To which she says, “Try to swagger less, and show some humility in my presence.”
And I burst out with, “Humility? Everyone knows, God was with me—”
“Really?” she snaps. “Which one of them?”
And with a jingle of bracelets she lifts her hand, and points at her bed, over which the entire wall is dedicated to a large assortment of graven images, big and small.
“Look,” she says, in a teacherly tone. “Here is Dagon, the half-man half-fish Philistine deity. And there, this is Baal, the Canaanite deity, associated with the bull, whose name means husband. He is the god of strength and fertility.”
“Amen,” say I. “I’m all for that.”
She ignores me and goes on to say, “On the right side, Ra, the supreme Egyptian
deity, with its falcon head bearing the solar disc. And on the left side, see there? Arm raised, ax in hand? This deity is one you might fear: Anat.”
I am overwhelmed, and a bit annoyed by the long lecture, which I hesitate to interrupt.
She harps on about the bronze figurine. “Anat is a virgin. Also, a violent war goddess who appears in battles, wading knee-deep in blood, striking off heads, binding them to her torso, driving out the old men and townsfolk with her arrows, her heart filled with joy.”
I shake my head in amazement and cannot hold back from saying, “I don’t get it. What does a Jewish princess want with these—”
“Ah!” she raises her voice over me. “See, that’s the difference between us. I have an education. You don’t.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I,” she boasts, “have studied the people around us, who are our neighbors. I speak their languages. I read their scrolls. I am open to learn their culture, their history, their beliefs. Our people believe in one God, and exclude all others, but these infidels—as I am sure you call them—offer their prayers to a multitude of deities, and they will, quite readily, include ours in the mix. So this here, this entire display,” her bracelets clink again as she waves her hand, “is in respect of the richness of religions, among which we live.”
“Does the king know about this?”
“No,” her voice falters. “Don’t tell daddy.”
Then, regaining her composure, she says, “As a princess I’m prepared to welcome foreign diplomats when they come calling. I’m prepared to visit them. I’m ready for world travel. Are you?”
“I will be,” say I. “I’m the Husband of a Princess.”
“First thing you must learn: choosing the right gift.”
What was I thinking, coming to her chamber, on our first night together, empty handed? A bit embarrassed I go over to where she is sitting, and bend over her thin shoulder. I have no idea what to say, and what to do with my hands. Neither does she.
I catch sight of us in the glass, which is new to me, because unlike water, it does not seem to distort things all that much. Imported from faraway workshops, located somewhere on the shores of Phoenicia, the mirror offers a glimpse at the way we are. In it, her face is half sunk in darkness. Mine is lit.
Rise to Power (The David Chronicles) (Volume 1) Page 10
