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

by Uvi Poznansky

  “Listen,” he says. “Can you hear? Someone’s coming.”

  “It’s about time,” say I.

  The sun is behind me, still above the horizon. I rely on its reddish glare to examine the expression on the face of my spy, and to prevent him from examining mine.

  “So,” I say, “any news from Gibeah?”

  “I saw Saul there,” says the spy.

  “In his court?”

  “No, he came out for fresh air, and was seated under the tamarisk tree on the hill, just the way you’re seated here.”

  No wonder he says that, because he can sense that just like Saul, I have become quite aloof, quite remote lately.

  Loneliness comes with leadership, along with the need to handle the crowds. I miss my time alone with my thoughts. There is no music in my heart anymore, because I need silence around me to let it play.

  I ask him, “Was Saul alone?”

  “All his officials were standing at his side.”

  “Well? What did he say?”

  “He said to them, ‘Listen, men of Benjamin! Will the son of Jesse give all of you fields and vineyards? Will he make all of you commanders of thousands and commanders of hundreds? Is that why you have all conspired against me?”

  I raise an eyebrow. Of course, the spy cannot notice this, because the sun is in his eyes. So I try to make my astonishment clearer to him, I say, “Let me make sure I understand. Are you claiming that Saul accuses his officials—the people of his own tribe—of conspiring with me?”

  “Just so!” he confirms.

  “Why won’t the king say my name?”

  “Forgive me for saying this: he hates the sound of it.”

  “Is he ignoring me?”

  “He wishes he could do that.”

  “But then, how would anyone around him know which one of the sons of Jesse he has in mind?”

  “Somehow, no one raised the question.”

  “They’re Benjamites,” I point out the obvious.

  “Yes, they’re his people,” says the spy. “And if that’s not enough, they’re trained by fear to agree with their master. They try to put him at ease, no matter if they get what he means, or not.”

  “If I ever become like him, do me a favor: just kill me.”

  And the spy says, “Yes,” again, which on the spot makes me suspect that just like them, he is trained by fear to agree with his master. It’s me he wants to put at ease. I am not going to become like the king. Alas, I already am.

  “Go on,” I say. “What happened then?”

  “So the king went on and on, complaining how no one ever tells him when his son makes a covenant with you, and how none of then is concerned about him, or tells him that his son has incited his servant, by which he means you, to lie in wait for him.”

  “I’m not his servant anymore,” I grumble. “I may be a nobody—but as such, I am free.”

  “Forgive me,” mumbles the spy. “He called you a servant—not I.”

  “No worry. I’m not going to resent you on account of his words.”

  “Even if they’re coming from my mouth?”

  “Even so! Now stop squirming like that, because it’ll make me question everything you say.”

  “Yes, David.”

  “And stop blinking your eyes and screwing them, and in heaven’s name don’t stop, go on already with your story.”

  So the spy goes on. “Everyone stood silent around the king, except one: Doeg the Edomite, the king’s shepherd, and he said, ‘I saw the son of Jesse come to the priest, to Ahimelek, at Nob.’”

  “I knew it,” say I, with a heavy grunt. “I knew he saw me there. I expected that he would run to directly to Saul, and tell him about my visit at Nob. Oh Lord, I should’ve killed him right there, on the spot. Instead, I ignored him. I looked the other way.”

  “But sir,” he hesitates to ask, “can you be so cruel, so ruthless as to kill Doeg simply because you suspect he’ll betray you, even before he does?”

  It is a fair question, an annoying one, which makes me state, with a pointedly stern voice, “He who comes to kill you, rise up and kill him first.”

  And the spy nods his head, “Yes,” a third time, and with some difficulty he explains my position to himself, “these are times of war. To stay alive, you must learn to be cruel.”

  To which I add, “By giving Doeg the benefit of the doubt I have brought the wrath of the king upon the priest, Ahimelek. That was a costly mistake.”

  “Yes,” says the spy, a fourth time.

  I turn to my men, and I am just about to tell them to gather around, and lets advance toward the city of Nob, because we may still find a way to rescue the old priest. But before I can utter the first word, another arrow comes flying by, which makes time slow down again, so I have a chance observe that it is aimed not at the branch of the tree, but at a dark figure climbing up the hill towards me.

  A yelp of agony is heard.

  The spy is quick to hide behind me. “Hark!” he cries. “Who’s there?”

  And I rise to my feet. “Stop!” I command. “Who are you?”

  The man throws himself at my feet, trembling.

  “I,” he says, in a cracked, hoarse voice, “am Abiathar.”

  “Are you for us—or for our enemies?”

  In place of an answer, he takes a deep breath, then another. “I,” he whispers, “am the son of the priest Ahimelek. Of my entire family I’m the only one left, the only one to survive—”

  He is in shock. I wrap my arms around him, and I don’t need him to tell me what has happened. In a choked voice he tries, he goes on to tell me how Saul has come, how he has killed the priests of the Lord that day, eighty-five men who wore the priestly cloth. Saul has also put to the sword the entire city of Nob, with all its priests, all its men and women, its children and infants, and its cattle, donkeys and sheep. It saddens me to learn that his fear of me has driven him to turn on his own people.

  The king has never been that cruel with the enemy. Contrary to popular belief, it is not power that corrupts. It is weakness.

  I beat myself across the chest, knowing it has been my fault. To protect the family of the priest I should have been crueler than cruel.

  Abiathar looks up at me. His face is ashen.

  “That day,” I admit to him, “when Doeg the Edomite was there I knew he would tell Saul. I’m responsible for the death of your whole family. Forgive me. Stay with me. Don’t be afraid. The man who wants to kill you is trying to kill me, too.”

  Later that night, in my tent, he tosses and turns, trying to fall asleep—but nightmarish visions of what he has witnessed that day keep his eyes open. I cover him with blankets, and new words come to mind. To comfort him I hum, “The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer.”

  And with a thin voice, he echoes, “The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer.”

  Then, till the light of day, I go on chanting, “My God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.”

  *

  What is the use of having thirty mighty fighters, if not to give them a worthy mission? So when I hear cries of distress coming from Keilah, one of our cities under siege, I send my men there. They fight off the Philistines, inflict heavy losses upon them, and carry off their livestock. Here is a moment of shining victory! The people of Keilah are deeply grateful to us—at least for a little while.

  The only way to appreciate glory is by the darkness that follows it. Alas, the city we liberated is about to become a trap. In no time, its people have grown cold to the idea of us staying here. In their opinion, saving them is one thing—having to feed us is another.

  According to my spy, when Saul hears where we are, he says, “God has delivered David into my hands, for he has imprisoned himself by entering a town with gates and bars.”

  I hesitate, because God only knows whom He delivers. Just to be on the safe side I flee from Saul—but not before giving a little speech, as I d
o before every battle, to encourage my men to follow me. The long and the short of it is, “Quick! Let’s run! If not now, when? And if I am not for myself, who will be for me?”

  To my surprise, Joav claps his hands. “Wow! I’m going to steal these from you,” he says.

  Which makes me wonder, “Steal what?”

  “These words. They don’t belong to you, that’s how good they are! I understand next to nothing about your poetry. Too many lines in those psalms you write, too many lines! I must admit they’re quite beyond me—even though, for some reason, everyone here seems to admire them. But this little speech, ha! Now that’s something I can use. If not now, when?”

  “No! You can’t steal my words, they’re mine! I mean, they’re original—”

  “Original? Forget that! They belong to all, as soon as they leave your lips. Trust me: before long, someone else will take credit for them. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing you can do about that.”

  “Trust you?” I say. “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?”

  Along our escape route I have to contend not only with the king—but also with treacherous people like the people of Ziph, which is a city in the Judean mountains, south-east of the city of Hebron. According to rumors, they have gone to Saul and told him, in a manner of asking a question, “Isn’t David hiding there, on the hill of Hakilah?”

  Upon hearing this, he has come down to the Desert of Ziph, with his three thousand troops, to search for me. Now the king is setting his camp beside the road, on the hill of Hakilah. It is a strategic point overlooking the landscape. To avoid being noticed, my spy must wait until nightfall to creep up there and take a look.

  At last, the sun is setting. He climbs up the hill and within minutes, I lose sight of him.

  The wait is long. I tremble as the chill intensifies. Saul has ample provisions of food, water, and warm clothing—but here in the wilderness, my men are cold and hungry. I am eager to sneak into their camp and wreak havoc on them, in revenge for all the hardship, all the misery we have been suffering lately.

  Upon his return, the spy reports, “Good news! the king and his first in command, Abner son of Ner, are tired.”

  “They are?” I ask. “How can you tell?”

  “Saul starts yawning, and a second later, so does Abner. Any minute now, they’ll be fast asleep.”

  “Where is Saul lying?”

  “Up there, in the center of the camp, with his army around him.”

  I glance at the serrated edge of the rocks, which rise against the blueish black heavens, and doubt enters my heart. Ghostly shapes loom before me out of the yawning hole of darkness. I imagine them to be a swarm of scaly lizards, slumbering fitfully around the king’s camp. In a snap, they may pounce upon the intruders, upon us.

  The feeling is so daunting that it brings me to my knees.

  “Hear my prayer, oh God,” I whisper. “Listen to me, listen to my words. Strangers are attacking me. Ruthless men seek my life.”

  I sense the eyes of my fighters upon me. Have they heard me? If so, what is the impact of my words?

  One by one they fall to their knees and press their hands together, which tells me one thing: there is a great power in prayer. I should use it more often. It works for me. It works better than any other skill I have used as an entertainer.

  At the risk of having Saul detect where we are, I raise my voice, not only because my heart is hammering in me, it is bursting open—but also because my men must hear this, loud and clear. They must believe in our cause.

  So with great fervor I come to a blast, “Let evil recoil on those who slander me.”

  And my fighters echo me, word for word. “Let evil recoil on those who slander me.”

  Then I stand up, and call two of them to my side: Ahimelek the Hittite and young Abishai.

  I ask them, “Who’ll go down into the camp with me to Saul?”

  “I’ll go with you,” says Abishai.

  He is Joav’s brother, one of my three nephews, sons of my sister, Zeruiah, who has a reputation in Bethlehem as a strong, formidable woman. All the other men I know are known by their father’s name. Not so here: Abishai is his mother’s son.

  And so, guided by nothing more than faint starlight, the two of us climb up the rocks to the enemy, to find Saul. Let evil recoil on those who slander me.

  The Sanctity of the Crown

  Chapter 21

  Sharp-edged rocks reach up to the summit, where they flatten, unexpectedly, into a smooth surface. With Abishai at my heels I climb up till my nose is at the level of the ground. Here, smoke permeates the dirt. When a gust of wind whips across the plain, the smell rises, captured by dust, into the air. Ahead of me, the only shapes that break the horizon are pointy peaks of tents.

  A branch must have broken behind me, because—snap!—I hear Abishai losing his footing. He is still clinging on, grasping my foot, digging in with his fingernails. I bite my lips, and despite the pain I pull myself up to take a peak at the camp. No, no one has risen from his sack. No one but me has detected that noise.

  I pull him up by the hand, and together we crawl to the edge of the camp. Here are the guards. We watch them for a while, till we hear their snores, which to us is a delightful symphony of sounds. They must have dozed off just in time for our arrival.

  We rise to our feet and step over them.

  Then we make our way, ever so stealthily, around the ropes, which are anchored to the ground by pegs. The tents draped over them are arranged in a wide circle around a dying campfire. A warm glow, shimmering here and there from the embers, draws us in. And there— in the middle, next to the pile of ash—is Saul, lying asleep. The long, slender silhouette swaying over his head is his spear, which is stuck in the ground near him.

  Abner, his first in command, is lying some distance away, and the rest of their soldiers are lying around both of them, some in their sacks right here, on the ground, and others over there, inside their tents.

  On my way to reach the king I hop over Abner, which makes him stir, suddenly, in his sleep. I freeze, holding my breath. A minute later, he turns over and relaxes, slowly, into his dreams.

  Meanwhile Abishai takes a leap over two sleeping soldiers, and now he is already in position, leaning over Saul’s head to pull his spear out of the ground. Then he raises his hand triumphantly, shaking the thing in the air, ready for a strike.

  I read his lips as he whispers, “Today God has delivered your enemy into your hands.”

  The sight of that weapon, which Saul has hurled at me so many times when I worked for him, arouses rage in me. In a blink, I am overwhelmed by pent-up anger. Blood shoots into my eyes, blinding me. I run forward at a furious pace, no longer afraid that someone may wake up to our presence.

  I gesture to Abishai. “Wait for me.”

  For a moment, the only thought in my head is to yank the spear out of his hold, and fling it high up in the air, and do what needs to be done to Saul with my own hands.

  Abishai draws closer to me and breathes in my ear, “Now let me pin him to the ground with one thrust of the spear. I won’t need to strike him twice.”

  I bend over the sleeping man to cast one last look at him, which does the unexpected: it brings me to my senses. Never before have I seen him at such close range, and what I see is a revelation. It could not be more astonishing to me, if the king had no clothes.

  The crown is nowhere to be seen. His wild strands of hair are dusted with ash, and so is his face, which makes him look grimy. His magnificent beard, which is usually groomed with great care, oiled and dressed using tongs and curling irons to create elaborate ringlets, is unkempt. He must have neglected, for quite some time, to have it dyed reddish brown with Henna. Now, it looks nearly white.

  The king is an old man.

  Something stirs in my heart, which I would not wish to call pity. In the past I used to guess at the reason for his envy. I imagined that looking at me, Saul would see the image of his youth. But now, as I set
my foot victoriously over him, the roles are strangely reversed. I shudder to see the image of my old age.

  He utters a cry in his sleep.

  At first I am uncertain I heard right. Then I know: it is my name that trembles on on his lips.

  Abishai tries to spur me on. “There’s no time. Shall I kill him—or shall you?”

  I reach for the spear. He reaches to hand it over.

  This, I know, is the moment of decision. Breathing through it I figure something completely new to me.

  What I see here, ready to be trampled underfoot, is far more significant than merely the image of my old age. It is the prospect of being vulnerable to attacks, future attacks from others. To protect myself from them I must do the unimagined: spare the life of my enemy.

  Look, I tell myself, here is what I can become: a monarch, stripped of his power. A wrinkled head rolling on the ground, without the protection of that which has crowned him. If I obey my whim, if I kill Saul now and announce myself king in his place, how can I hope to be obeyed, when the sanctity of the crown is violated? How can I hold on to power, when I am the one to have defused its magic?

  And so, with a commanding voice I tell Abishai, “Stop! Don’t destroy him!”

  “What?”

  “Who can lay a hand on the Lord’s anointed and be guiltless?”

  “But, but then, what was the purpose of risking our lives, if not to kill Saul?”

  “The purpose,” I whisper, mostly to myself, “was for me to realize my future, and the future of my house, The House of David in the years and generations to come.”

  Abishai strains to hear me. He has not lowered his hand yet.

  So I tell him, “As for Saul, the Lord himself will strike him, or his time will come and he’ll die, or he’ll go into battle and perish. But heaven forbid that I should lay a hand on His anointed.”

  Still, Abishai is confused, ready to step back and at the same time, ready to pounce upon the king.

  “Now take the spear,” I prod him. “And get the water jug, see there, near his head? Quick, let’s go.”