Then he dispatches a messenger to the king, and leads his soldiers down the stairs and out of the gate of the tower—but before I allow myself to breathe freely I hear them starting to come back up.
Perhaps he has already received his instructions, which you can tell by the decisive stomping of his boots.
Despite all odds, this sound awakens the fight in me. I rush out of my hiding place to lock the door. I even drag her mirror and lean it against the entrance, to barricade it.
Meanwhile Michal takes off her robe and tears it along the middle into two halves, which she ties together into a long strip of fabric. She ties a few additional knots to strengthen it, and fastens the end to some hook right there, below the windowsill.
“Hurry,” she whispers.
I wiggle through the narrow opening, feet already dangling out there.
“Here.” She hands me the other end. “Hold on to it.”
Seeing that my life is in her hands, and that this may be our last moment together, “Michal,” I say, “will you kiss me?”
Her eyes sparkle.
“No, David,” she says. “Not now.”
“If not now, when?”
“When you come back.”
“And then, will you let me make love to you?”
“No, not even then.”
“When, then?”
She subdues a smile, and says, “When you deserve it.”
The princess lets me down through the window, lowering me one knot after another. The bed of roses is far beneath my feet, and it looks unreal and a bit eery from here, because of the strange shadows cast every which way by torches passing through the garden, and by sudden flashes of lightning. I am hanging on for dear life, swaying in the wind between heaven and hell.
Meanwhile, from the chamber above me, a knock is heard.
The princess unties the ribbons left and right of the window to let the floral curtains fall shut. There is barely a slit between them, so I can no longer see her.
“What now?” she. asks, brazenly. To them she may sound as brave as ever—but I can hear the way her voice starts to falter.
“Move away from the door,” says the officer. “I have my orders.”
“Your orders?” she demands. “And what are they this time?”
And he reports, “The king said, David is sick? If so, I will take care of him.”
With a tone of relief, “Bless the Lord,” she mutters.
“I don’t think you understand,” says the officer. “The king said, Bring David up to me in the bed, that I may slay him.”
She lets out an unexpected wail, and with that I hear a big burst. The door must have been broken, and I know it because a shard from her mirror shoots out through the slit between the curtains.
My hold on the robe is weakening by the second. I try to clutch at the knot overhead, to climb back and help her—but no, it is too late. I hear many more boots. Soldiers must be filing in already. By now they must be surrounding her.
“She is indecent,” says the officer. “Put some clothes on her.”
“Look,” says one of his soldiers. “Her sheets are soiled.”
“And there, there’s David!” says another. “Oh boy, he looks like the devil himself, smiling there in her bed.”
“Behold,” says the third. “It’s an icon, with a pillow of goat’s hair for its support.”
In a blink they will figure where I am. So I let go of the knot, close my eyes and fly through the air like a bat out of hell, with a single thought in my mind: I can never come back here.
I am empty handed.
And another thing: when I was a child, my mother would sit close to my sister Zeruriah and tell her fairytales, lovely old fairytales about a prince risking his life, climbing all the way up the tower to rescue a maiden in distress—but not once did I hear about her saving him, nor did I hear about him coming down to run away from her.
This is no fairytale. I am no prince.
Who knows how fast it will take Saul to strip me of my title, the Husband of a Princess, thus reducing me to someone far lower than low. A nobody. Who knows how fast it will take him to brand me a traitor. Alas, all is lost.
I land with a shriek, which is swallowed at once by the clap of thunder.
And I go, and flee, and escape.
Why Should I Kill You?
Chapter 17
The first time I spent in the wilderness, fans flocked to my side and filled my cave with gifts, flowers and food. But this time I find myself alone, utterly alone. My fame as the slayer of the Philistine has long subsided, and a notorious reputation, this time as a traitor, has started to spread. It is bleeding out quickly, and as a fugitive there is little I can do to stop it—but pray. Lord my God, I take refuge in you, save and deliver me from all who pursue me…
Most people stay away from my path. As for the few who do not, they treat me like a dog, a nasty dog that bites the hand that feeds him. All this takes a painful bite out of me.
Yet nothing hurts more than what I happen to hear about my wife, which is this: when the king asked her, “Why have you deceived me so, and sent away my enemy, David, so now he’s escaped,” Michal answered, “He said to me, Let me go... Why should I kill you?”
No, this story cannot be true, I keep telling myself. It can be nothing, nothing but a rumor. The princess is known for her pride. She would not have betrayed me if her life depended on it, unless... Unless, out of dismay for her new role—that of the wife of a traitor—she has somehow managed to dissolve the marriage, and now, with the king’s blessing, she may be spinning a new web, planning a future in which I have no part.
No, I say to myself. This can never happen. She is infatuated with me, me and no one else.
But then, sure enough, within a day or two of my escape, a royal wedding is announced between her and some new suitor, a young nobleman by the name of Palti son of Laish. You may ask, Can she do this? Really? A married woman getting engaged? If so, this opens up a new realm of possibilities for all of us, which explains the excessive joy throughout the land.
Celebrations break out in every town and village, people dance in the streets with great exuberance. Even I laugh to myself, noting ruefully that Love is not what it is cracked up to be. Perhaps it never was.
Not only do I talk to myself, but out of loneliness I answer back, too. I say, Forget Happily Ever After. Old legends are nothing but deceit. In reality, it is the political needs of the state, it is money and power that dictate royal family unions—not some emotion, a fickle, faithless emotion that is known to be fleeting.
Bitterness is eating at me. I stagger into the darkest nook, deep down in my underground hiding place, and curl myself there, unable to stop seething at my misfortune, and most of all, at her.
“Michal, perhaps I don’t deserve a fine, highly schooled princess such as you. All the same, thank you,” I hurl at her, forgetting for a moment that she is absent. “Thank you for the education, dear. I won’t forget it.”
For a long while, maybe days, I stare at the ceiling of the cave, where a slow, mind numbing drizzle is heard, and where calcium salts, deposited by the drip of water, have been forming over innumerable centuries into what looks to me, at first, like icicles.
Then something stirs in me, an awakening. All of a sudden I note the miracle of their stony, frozen trickle, and it takes my breath away. Nothing in the king’s palace compares to this beauty. Here is the process of creation, eternity flowing in a drop.
If not for the hunger I could stay here, in this cave under the stalactites, till the end of time. I imagine that long before that, my bones would be unearthed here, and brought before the king.
“Here,” the officer would say, “are the remains of a traitor.”
And without bothering to look at my skull Saul would say, “Who cares. Cast it away somewhere, anywhere. The hell with him.”
And my wife? What about her?
I imagine she would wrap her arms around her figure
, which would no longer look as boyish as it used to be, because by now her husband must have performed his so-called duty, so a new baby would soon be born, to the joy and merriment of the entire Kish clan.
“Is that all that is left of David? He used to be a hero, didn’t he?” the officer would say, “and a poet, and a musician, too?”
And Palti son of Laish would say, “Who?”
And Michal would shrug, and look away from my remains, “Oh, nobody.”
Then with a stiff upper lip she would smile her thin, vague smile as if to say, Men! Not one of them really deserves me, except one: here, inside, is my baby, and here is a little crown for him. Long live the king!
The thought of what they would say about me after I am gone brings me to my feet. Legends are one thing—but legacy is another. I must regain control over the story of my life. Otherwise, I will be a worm and not a man, scorned by everyone, despised by the people. All who see me will mock me. They will hurl insults, shaking their heads. Deliver me, my God! Strike all my enemies on the jaw, break the teeth of the wicked.
I must head for the opening of this cave, must find the light, must get out of here now.
Am I lost?
In the faint, blue glimmer that does not betray the time of day, the stalactites hang like swords over my head.
*
There is one thing I figure I must do: gain the support of a powerful ally, someone whom even the king fears, because he is known throughout the land as a man of God. Old Samuel is a king-maker, the one who anointed Saul all these years ago, and then turned around to weaken him by setting me up as a rival for the throne—even though I was too young to understand the odds—so that he, the prophet, may maintain power.
His presence beside me could bring me luck. If he chooses to make a public show of support, then some of our tribes may come over to my side, even in my new state as a fugitive.
So I come to Samuel, and tell him all that Saul has done to me, and he says, and I quote, “Tough luck.”
And I beg, “Won’t you help me?”
And he shakes his head, a slight shake that is hard to distinguish from the tremor of age, so to clarify things he says, flat out, “No.”
And before I can think of a comeback to that, which is not a trivial task, because No is such a strong, final word, he adds, “I must go.”
I guess he knows all too well that as much as the king respects him, and as much as he fears God, he may be inspired by some rather unorthodox ideas, such as throwing good old Samuel into a dungeon, or even, heaven forbid, assassinating him—completely by accident, of course—for no better reason than talking to me.
So Samuel turns away from me and hobbles as fast as his frail old legs can carry him, which for any normal person would be considered a snail’s pace.
He goes and dwells in Naioth, a remote little town populated by prophets of all kinds, located in the county of Ramah. Left to my own devices I am forced into making the best of a bad situation. For lack of a better idea I start spreading some rumors, because if the royal court can do it, so can I.
What kind of rumors? Simple, seemingly innocent ones, such as, “Behold, David is at Naioth in Ramah,” which has a long-winded effect. It lets people believe that I dwell in the same place as the old prophet, which means I have somehow gained his support, even though some say that he has refused me at first, which means I must be a cocky, arrogant bastard, which means I am gaining their support as well, because in their eyes, even a scoundrel is better than a mad ruler, especially one chosen from the lowly tribe of Benjamin, and one by one they start flocking to my side, which in turn worries the king.
It worries him to such a degree that he makes an error in judgement.
He sends his messengers to the wrong place to take me, which of course they cannot do, because I am not here, I am not there, nor am I at any other place indicated by rumors.
The war of words has begun.
And so I must not only erase the traces behind me, but also listen to what people say, and read what they write in the public squares, the lines as well as the spaces between them. I must separate the true stories from the false ones, and figure out the real source behind them, and who may benefit from the intended effect of this chatter, all of which is not as easy as you might think.
The most recent rumor I hear is this: Saul sent more messengers to take me: and when they saw the prophets, who were dancing about before Samuel and mumbling and speaking in tongues, the spirit of God was upon the messengers, and they were swept by ecstasy, which rendered them useless for any practical purposes.
So Saul decided to take charge of the chase himself, which may have seemed like a good idea at first. He came to Ramah and stopped by a great well called Sechu, and asked, “Where are Samuel and David?”
And one said, “I’m not sure.”
And another said, “I hear they might be at Naioth.”
So Saul went there, and saw the prophets and the messengers hopping and flailing their arms around each other and clapping their hands together and praying fervently, which is when the spirit of God was upon him, and he went on and stripped off his clothes, and danced about in great throws of ecstasy, and mumbled and spoke in tongues like the rest of them before Samuel, after which he was utterly spent, so he lay down naked all that day and all that night.
I wonder about this story and others like it. Granted, Saul does have his mood swings. Even so, never once during all the years I served in his court did I see him lose control to such an incredible degree.
So I figure, either he is truly deteriorating, or else some other player—perhaps the man of God himself—is spreading some rumors of his own to cast doubt upon the king’s sanity, so that now, everyone is asking, “Is Saul also among the prophets?”
*
The young men joining my camp these days are quite different from my early admirers. You can expect no flowers, no gifts, and no smiles from them. A few have worked as shepherds, so they are familiar with the life of a nomad. None comes from a farm, because farmers need stability, they need a connection with their little piece of land, and I can offer them nothing but a life on the run. Most are petty criminals.
Molding this band into a disciplined unit is going to present a challenge for me. What I need is a first in command, a right-hand man who will execute my commands with care and precision. Someone dedicated—yet fearlessly ruthless. With such a man by my side I can whip the rest of them into order.
At first, inspired by the connection between Saul and his first cousin Abner, I considered Eliab for this job, even though I knew that being my elder brother, he would have some difficulty to obey my orders. But it never came close to that. Having fought a few battles, he refuses to make a career out of it. At the same time, he refuses to defect from the king’s army.
Another challenge I must consider is putting weapons in the hands of my bandits, which at this point is out of the question—not only because they are a hot-headed, ill-tempered bunch, but because weapons are hard to come by. So I am looking forward to my first meeting with an arms dealer who, they tell me, has a shady reputation.
He raises the flap of my tent, and takes a step forward. I take a step back, because to my surprise he is none other than my nephew, Joav. Knowing him I realize I must maintain a distance.
“You!” I say. “I thought you would be on the frontline, fighting.”
“The frontline?” he repeats, with a sharp tone of incredulity. “It’s collapsing, David! The only soldiers to be found out there are the dead ones.”
“And where’s the king? Is he trying to set up defenses?”
“Ha! He’s not, which is all your fault!”
“How so?”
“Saul’s too busy chasing you to pay attention to much else,” says Joav. “As a result, we’ve been suffering one loss after another at the hands of the Philistines. It’s no fun being a soldier nowadays.”
“So you left the army?”
“I did,” he says,
winking, “with a large booty.”
With that, Joav claps his hands, and two of his men come in, carrying a huge thing, which takes up the entire width of the tent. It is a metallic treasure box. He unlocks it, and opens the lid. The light under its shadow reveals knives, swords, spears, arrows, batons, shields, and helmets, all organized by size in neat compartments.
Knowing I have no money to afford all this I say, “How much?”
“This time it’s a gift,” he offers, as if he could read my mind.
“Really?”
He picks up a knife and starts stroking the metal decoration above the blade.
“Next time,” he says, cuttingly, “you’ll pay double.”
“I may not be alive for a next time.”
The sharp edges of his mustache rise slowly to a smile. “I’ll take my chances.”
I abhor his love for knives, but I do like his pointed answers. From fighting side by side with him I know one thing: Joav is quick to understand where I am headed, and what I need done in order to get there. Most times, he understands it even before I myself know it, which is a valuable skill—but also scary at times.
“Our chances of survival would be far greater,” I say, in a roundabout manner, “if I could find the right right-hand man.”
And he agrees, “They would be.”
“Would you take the job?”
“Are you asking me?”
“I am.”
“Then, I would.”
“This is a different life than what you’re used to,” I am careful to point out. “Don’t expect any medals for joining a fugitive.”
“It would be my honor to serve you.”
“Now this calls for a celebration!”
I pick up two of the helmets and fill them to the brim with red grape wine. I raise one in the air, he—the other.
“To life!”
“To everything you wish out of life, David—to fame! To Power! To Glory!”
Rise to Power (The David Chronicles) (Volume 1) Page 13
