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

by Uvi Poznansky

Having said that, he waits for me to taste it. After I do, Joav takes a long gulp, and wipes his chin.

  “Tell me, then,” he inquires. “What is it exactly that you need done?”

  “What I need,” say I, “is to prove my innocence. I’ve done nothing wrong—but does that matter at all? Does anyone care? Saul’s putting his dogs on my scent.”

  Joav raises an eyebrow. “Like me, he must have read your mind.”

  “Even so,” I say, “no one should be persecuted for the thoughts in his mind. I haven’t hurt him, nor have I raised my hand to grasp his crown. I’ve done no crime—yet here I am, banished.”

  “This is injustice,” he accepts. “But between us, innocent you’re not. So let me ask you again: what is it you need done?”

  And I say, “Let him attack me. The longer this goes on, the worse he fares in the eyes of the people. My virtue will be proved not by fighting back—but by patience, by our skill to outmaneuver him.”

  He sits back, a glint of admiration playing in his steel-grey eyes.

  So I press on, “Our cause, at this stage of the game, is to be constantly on the move. We’re not going to stay in the same place two days in a row. Tonight, we’re camping here. Tomorrow, who knows? We may be digging bunkers under the king’s palace, and spying on him from there—”

  He is quick to finish my thought. “The next day,” he says, “we may disappear into the Canaanite villages, or the Philistine towns.”

  “Just so.”

  A lizard slinks out of the treasure box, and with a sudden flick of the hand Joav catches it. “Ha!” he smirks. “We’ll be changing our garb and our habits at a moments notice, the way this lizard changes its skin.”

  “Survival!” I say.

  “Survival,” he says simply. “I’ll see to it.”

  A faint sound of tambourines is heard. He lifts the flap of the tent and peers into the distance. Jolly shouts rock the faraway village square. The people out there must be more drunk than we are.

  “I suppose,” he draws out the words, “that congratulations are in order?”

  “You heard,” I say, bitterly. “My wife’s getting married.”

  He twists the red-tipped end of his mustache.

  “Mazel Tov,” he says at last.

  I throw my hands in the air. “Women!”

  And he shrugs. “I told you, didn’t I? They’re all the same.”

  I pour out more wine.

  He takes a swig of it. “Rumor is, you threatened to kill her.”

  “I did no such thing, Joav.”

  He flips his knife. “Maybe you should have.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, she belongs to you.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “All the more reason. She can’t be had by anyone else.”

  “She is Saul’s daughter. She does as she pleases.”

  “Our next king must be wise,” he hands me the knife. “He must think long and hard about the fate of each member of the Kish clan, because any one of them, and any one of their descendants for generations to come, can return one day to claim the throne.”

  “I can’t bring myself to kill her.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t love her that much.”

  “Love has nothing to do with it. This is pure calculation.”

  “I get it.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do.”

  I take hold of the handle, and examine my reflection in the blade. Then I throw it back to him. “What you mean is, it’s one thing to rise to power, and quite another to maintain my grip on it. I’m beginning to see it.”

  “From now on, you must see it all the way through. What she carries in her womb is a danger to you. Take a stab at it.”

  “Joav, I owe her my life.”

  “Then, one way or another, make sure she is childless.”

  At hearing this, I come up with what I think are words of wisdom, “Whoever is pregnant with evil, conceives trouble and gives birth to disillusionment.”

  “Ha? What d’you mean, disillusionment?”

  I try to express my thoughts a different way. “Whoever digs a hole and scoops it out, falls into the pit they’ve made.”

  “I have no idea what you just said,” he sighs. “Just take care of what needs taking care of, is all. Childless she must remain.”

  Son of a Perverse and Rebellious Woman

  Chapter 18

  For the most part I have been enjoying my new life, because it keeps me on my toes. It offers a change of pace, fresh air, and a constant opportunity to get into troubles and to extricate myself, somehow, out of most of them. Life in the shadow of death is so much more exciting than a merely comfortable existence!

  But after a few weeks of this, the charm starts to wear off. Alas, I find myself missing the little pleasures that can be had back there, in the palace. The idea of spoiling myself with rich food, expensive wine, and a full night’s sleep, uninterrupted by fear, now seems utterly reasonable. So I say to myself, let me try to go back. What is the worst that can happen?

  So in spite of his objections, I leave Joav in command of my bandits, and send word to Jonathan, the king’s son, inviting him to meet me. Within an hour I hear his stallion galloping into the field behind the backdoor entrance to the royal court. Now he comes closer into view. Slowing down, he scans the entire width of the terrain with a worried, sad look. Then he sinks deep into his saddle, and pulls back on the reins to stop.

  I come out of my newly dug bunker, and his face lights up. Before he has time to dismount I take hold of the reins, and with great agitation I ask him, “What have I done? What’s my crime? How have I wronged your father, that he’s trying to kill me?”

  He raises his right hand to his heart. “Trust me, you aren’t going to die!”

  I glance up at him as if to say, Trust? The blood of your father runs in your veins, doesn’t it?

  So he tries to reason with my fears.

  “Since the day you left us,” he says, “my father never once mentioned to me that he wants to kill you. Look, he doesn’t do anything, great or small, without letting me know. Why would he hide this from me?”

  But I counter, “Your father knows very well that I’ve found favor in your eyes, and he says to himself, ‘Jonathan must not know this or he’ll be hurt.’”

  The prince seems to doubt what I have just said, so I put it in terms he can easily understand. I raise my own hand to my heart, just the way he has done, and on top of this I put on the most pious expression on my face, just like his. Then I swear, “As surely as the Lord lives and as you live, there is only a step between me and death.”

  There is great urgency in my voice, which moves him to say, “Whatever you want me to do, I’ll it do for you.”

  He looks so much like Michal, which confuses me. It makes me forget for a moment what I planned to discuss with him, only to blurt out, “Tell me, how’s my wife?”

  He must have guessed I would ask him about her. Knowing that her wedding to Palti son of Laish is fast approaching, Jonathan shuffles nervously up there, in his saddle, as if to straddle the question. Even so, he has no answer for me.

  At last I wave my hand. “Never mind, forget I asked.”

  “So sorry.”

  “My heart is at peace,” I lie to him. “Tell her that, for me.”

  “I will.”

  Then I refocus my thoughts, and start laying out my plan regarding his father.

  “Look,” I say, “tomorrow is the feast of the New Moon. Now, by the rules of the court about husbands of princesses—a title which I believe is still mine, until she makes me lose it—I’m supposed to dine with the king. Instead, let me go and hide here, in the field, until the evening of the day after tomorrow.”

  He hesitates to ask, “But why, I mean, why skip the feast? All of us, even my sister, will be so glad if you do come—”

  “That remains to be seen,” I glance up at him. “If your father misses me at al
l, then tell him, ‘David earnestly asked my permission to hurry to Bethlehem, his hometown, because an annual sacrifice is being made there for his whole clan.’ If he says, ‘Very well,’ then your servant is safe.”

  “Trust me, safe you are—”

  “But if he loses his temper,” I say, pressing on, “then you can be sure that he is determined to harm me. As for you, please show kindness to your servant, for you have brought me into a covenant with you before the Lord.”

  “You’re my friend, the only one I have,” Jonathan says, as he dismounts his horse. Both of them are peering into my eyes. “Please, don’t ever call yourself my servant—”

  Over his words I cry, “If I am guilty, then kill me yourself! Why hand me over to your father?”

  “Never!” he says, with a tone of hurt. “If I had the least inkling that my father was determined to harm you, wouldn’t I tell you?”

  Having been on the run I know one thing: I can trust no one, not even him. So I ignore his question and instead I turn the conversation, asking him to help me refine my plan.

  I inquire, “Who’ll tell me if your father answers you harshly?”

  Instead of thinking through the details, Jonathan starts to stammer, with great agony, “I swear by the Lord, the God of Israel, that I’ll surely sound out my father by this time, the day after tomorrow! If the king is favorably disposed toward you, will I not send you word and let you know?”

  I shrug, as if to say, I believe you, but what if he is not favorably disposed? What then? Will you tell me that, too? I mean, can I trust you?

  So Jonathan takes an oath of honor. He says, “If my father intends to harm you, may the Lord deal with Jonathan, be it ever so severely, if I don’t let you know and send you away in peace. May the Lord be with you as he has been with my father.”

  Having said that, he does the most incredible thing I could ever imagine. He falls to his knees before me.

  “Show me unfailing kindness like the Lord’s kindness,” he pleads. To my amazement, the voice trembles in his throat. “Show it to me as long as I live, so that I may not be killed, and don’t ever cut off your kindness from my family—not even when the Lord has cut off every one of David’s enemies from the face of the earth.”

  I look down at him, at his handsome, princely figure that has collapsed in the middle of the grassland, here at my feet. I find myself utterly speechless. Not only does he believe—with a conviction that is far greater than mine—that I will replace his father, but he also fears what my power will require of me, what I will do to him, and to his family.

  And listening acutely to my silence, Jonathan implores, “Make a covenant with me, peace be between my family and the House of David, forever.”

  He stretches to kiss my hand, and grovels to me. “May the Lord call David’s enemies to account. I am not one of them.”

  I figure that by some leap of intuition, he has arrived at the same view suggested to me by my first in command, Joav. I remember his words. They are etched, quite sharply, in my mind. “Our next king must be wise. He must think long and hard about the fate of each member of the Kish clan, because any one of them, and any one of their descendants for generations to come, can return one day to claim the throne.”

  Jonathan brings my hand, ever so gently, to his chest, so I can sense the hammering of his heart. “Take an oath,” he begs. “Tell me that you love me, because I love you, David, as I love myself.”

  I hold back from telling him that, and instead I place both my hands upon his shoulders, and tell him, “Don’t worry, Jonathan. You have my promise.”

  He wipes his eyes.

  Then he moves on to describe our plan, polishing it up with it new details.

  “Tomorrow,” he says, “is the New Moon feast. You’ll be missed, because your seat will be empty. The day after tomorrow, toward evening, go to the place where you hid when this trouble began, and wait by the stone. I’ll shoot three arrows to the side of it, as though I were shooting at a target. Then I’ll send a boy and say, ‘Go, find the arrows.’ If I say to him, ‘Look, the arrows are on this side of you. Bring them here,’ then come, because, as surely as the Lord lives, you’re safe, and there’s no danger. But if I say to the boy, ‘Look, the arrows are beyond you,’ then you must go, because the Lord has sent you away.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you,” I say in parting.

  Jonathan mounts his horse, turns it around and starts riding away, not before bending down over the mane, to whisper in my ear, “About the matter you and I discussed—remember, the Lord is witness between you and me forever.”

  *

  I stay close to the palace for the next two nights, despite the danger of being sniffed out by the dogs. Lights are flickering up there in the windows, and in my heart—great hope. I figure that if I am allowed to come back, I can find a way take back my wife. I still remember how her eyes sparkled after we kissed. Perhaps she, too, longs for that moment.

  It is not that I like her—far from it—but I hate losing her to another man.

  At sunrise I hide behind a rock, the biggest one strewn among others at the edge of the field. Then I wait. At long last I see two distant figures out there, at the opposite edge. They are casting shadows longer than themselves in the early morning sun. There is Jonathan, riding his stallion through the weeds with his head hung low between his shoulders.

  From here I cannot read his face.

  A servant boy follows close behind him, on foot. His job is to carry a large belt quiver made of leather, and to select arrows out of it for his master. When they arrive to the center of the field Jonathan dismounts, and I hear his voice, “Run and find the arrows I shoot.”

  “Sure thing,” says the boy.

  Jonathan glances at the rock and sets his feet apart so they form a straight line pointing towards the target, which is to say, towards me. By instinct I take a sidestep, to avoid being hit—but no, he is not ready to shoot, not yet.

  He holds the bow with his left hand, and with great focus pulls the bowstring back with his right hand. Ever so slowly, his muscles draw the arrow to the anchor point in the center of the bow. He places his fingers just below the arrow, which draws it closer to his eye. In one fluid motion he raises the bow and then, in a snap, draws it. For a second I think I spot him looking straight through me, as if I was air.

  He seems to be wasting time. For a while he paces idly to and fro, and practices his archery skills by letting a few small arrows fly in this and that direction. Then he chooses the longest arrow out of the boy’s quiver.

  This time Jonathan takes his time to aim. He relaxes the fingers to get a clean release—but all of a sudden he flinches, which seems to deflect the string, which alters the course of the arrow. It flies higher, and with a louder shriek than the others, and lands well past me.

  When the boy comes to the place where the arrow has fallen, Jonathan calls out after him, “Look there! Isn’t the arrow beyond you?”

  To which the boy replies, “Where, where? I can’t see it.”

  And Jonathan shouts, “Hurry! Go quickly! Don’t stop!”

  The boy may think these words are meant for him—but I know better. In the most profound sense, they are meant for no one else but me. At hearing them I realize that alas, my hopes of return to the palace have been dashed. I am doomed to stay on the outside. In this place, and throughout the land, the earth will soon start burning under my feet. I must run away.

  There is no path to power. I will never be king. I am nobody. I am air.

  The boy picks up the arrow and returns it to his master.

  And Jonathan tells him, “Go, carry it back to the palace.”

  After the boy has gone and his footsteps can no longer be heard, I get up from behind the stone and bow down before Jonathan three times, with my face to the ground.

  Then we kiss each other and together, we weep. Overcome by a surge of emotion I do most of the weeping, and I do it loudly, in uncontrollable, sporadic bouts.<
br />
  So Jonathan says, in his softest voice, “David, it tears my heart to see you this way. Please, don’t cry.”

  And I bawl, “What happened? Tell me, what the hell happened last night? Did it go according to plan?”

  And Jonathan says, “At first it went just as I expected. You were missed at the New Moon feast, and my father turned to me after a long silence, and asked, ‘Why hasn’t the son of Jesse come to the meal, either yesterday or today?’”

  “Is that what he called me? Your father hates me enough to forget my name every now and again.”

  “His memory is fine. It’s just his way to belittle you.”

  “Everyone must’ve been laughing at me, with him.”

  “They did. But I said, ‘David asked me for permission to go to Bethlehem, because his family would be observing a sacrifice there, and his brother ordered him to be there. That’s why he hasn’t come to the king’s table.”

  Jonathan stops his story, perhaps because what is about to come next is unbearable to him. After a pause I prod him, “So? Did your father accept what you said?”

  “On the contrary,” Jonathan admits, in a strained voice. “He grew angry and flared up at me, and he cried, ‘You son of a perverse and rebellious woman—’”

  “Really? Is that what he called you?”

  “Even worse... My father said, ‘Don’t I know that you’ve sided with the son of Jesse to your own shame, and to the shame of the mother who bore you? As long as the son of Jesse lives on this earth, neither you nor your kingdom will be established. Now send someone to bring him to me, for he must die!’”

  Jonathan wipes his face, because by now it is awash with tears, and with growing effort he goes on to say, “I asked my father, ‘Why should David be put to death? What has he done?’ Which was when he hurled his spear at me to kill me.”

  “How could he do that, Jonathan?” I shake my head in dismay. “You’re his son!”

  And Jonathan shakes his head too. For a long while he bites his lip, because he knows that if he tries to speak, his voice will fail him.

  At last he manages to say, “It was then I knew, beyond any doubt, that my father intends to kill you.”