‘We’? Whom does he call ‘we’? A bright guy he is not, because man, why include yourself in the group that set my city aflame, and grabbed what belongs to me? A lesser man than me would cast this simpleton away to be tortured, or else to be ridiculed by my troops. But first things first.
I ask him, “Can you lead me down to the raiding party?”
Bright or not, this slave has the balls to tell me, “Swear to me before God that you’ll not kill me or hand me over to my master, and I’ll take you down to them.”
I could have told him that he is in no position to bargain with me, but there is no time for idle talk. So I promise to let him live. In turn, he points the way to the Amalekite raiders. We charge ahead, and find them holding a feast and celebrating, which is the perfect time for us to fall upon them.
No wonder we win, and recover all that they have taken. Being such a courageous hero, savior, and husband, I expect a show of gratitude from my dear wives, or at least a shower of kisses—only to realize my mistake.
My wife, Ahinoam of Jezreel, greets me with, “What took you so long?”
And Abigail utters her little sigh, as if to concur. “Late for dinner, as usual. I thought you’d never come!”
And I say, “Don’t bother. I just lost my appetite.”
This, believe me, is quite an unusual thing for me. Normally, such a decisive victory makes me absolutely ravenous, ready to feast on food and women. Perhaps the odor, that unmistaken Amalekite body odor messes me up. To my dismay I can sniff it on Abigail’s skin.
I make a note to myself—for the sake of history—to announce in public that none of my wives has been touched, that they are as pure as the day I left them, which for Abigail is not saying much. Purity was far from her mind on that first day she met me, and I suspect it is far from her mind even now. She has a few fresh bruises around her neck and breasts.
Could she not fight off the raiders, and keep herself for me alone? Where is her love, her devotion? For a long time I cannot bring myself to come near her. Even so I cannot explain being moody. For the life of me I cannot understand myself, so how can I blame my wives for this feeling I have, the feeling of being completely alone, completely misunderstood?
No wonder I am far from feeling hungry. All I need is to be alone. Thoughts consume me as I leave the camp, and go back to the Besor stream to wash my sword from the stains of blood, and drown myself in something I cannot even grasp.
Perhaps you can call it sorrow.
It has been a while since I faced my reflection, and now I see it twice, which makes me doubt myself even more. The metallic surface of the blade casts back who I am: a hardened fighter with a ruthless look in his eyes. And the ripple in the water casts back something uncertain: who I used to be, who I could have become. A poet.
It has been such a long time since I put pen to papyrus. Alas, the music of words has stopped playing in my mind. Nothing can be heard inside, nothing but noise: the shrieks of victims as they stumble before me, the crush of skulls as they are being trampled under the hoofs of my horse, and the clang of my sword as I bring it down upon them.
These days, the muse shies away from me. Perhaps—just like that slave, earlier today—she sees the blood on my hands, the cruelty in my heart.
I find myself at loss to align myself with me, to bring my two reflections in line with one another.
That evening I go back to the site of my victory, to take stock of the plunder, I mean, all the flocks and herds that belonged to the Amalekites. Then I issue a proclamation, based on the principle of fairness, that the spoils will be divided equally between those of us who did the fighting, and those who fell behind.
To my fighters, this may seem like a debatable decision. I do not mind it, really, because there is nothing better than controversy to increase my fame.
Quite a few of them are in an uproar—but as I expected, this proclamation wins me the affection of all the rest, of those who would rather have others do the fighting and the getting wounded and the dying out there, on the battlefield.
My popularity is on the rise, because I calculate how to appeal to the majority of them. I understand what motivates them. Greed is such a universal thing, especially when combined with laziness.
*
Having stricken down the Amalekites I return to the city we have been calling home, even though it is not. I can find no more excuses for staying here instead of going north to the mountain of Gilboa, where the battle must be raging right now between Saul’s army and the Philistines. I know I should be there.
Even my wife, Ahinoam of Jezreel, whose childhood home leans against the foot of that mountain, lets me know she is worried. She keeps casting these impatient looks at me, which I try to shrug off.
“At least,” she blurts out, “send for my mom and dad, my sisters and brothers… Let them come here, to safety—or else they’ll fall in the hands of Achish, and we both know all too well his manner with slaves. By no means can it be described as gentle. You listening to me? Bring them here, will you?”
And a moment later she can’t help following that up with, “At least, send a messenger or something, so I get to know what’s happening up there. I must hear the news.”
And a moment after that, “David, why d’you weasel your way out of what needs to be done? If you won’t go there to help them, I will!”
Two days go by. They seem like an eternity with all that nagging. Then, on the morning of the third day, a young man is brought before me. His clothes are torn, dust covers his head, and he clasps a leather pouch, which he allows no one else to touch.
The look in his eyes is strange. It is the look of bewilderment. He raises his face to me and at once, falls to the ground, which is when something clinks from down there, inside his pouch.
I relax into the back of my seat, and ask, “Where have you come from?”
He says, “I’ve escaped from the battle, from Mount Gilboa.”
“What happened?” I demand. “Tell me.”
“The Israelites, they fled from the battleground. Many of them fell and died. And Saul—”
“Yes?” I rise from my seat.
“He’s dead. So are his three sons, Jonathan—”
My jaw is about to drop open. Luckily I have the presence of mind to grit my teeth. This surge of excitement is an unpredictable thing, a thing too wild to control, but I do my best. I start pacing—carefully calculating the length of each one of my steps—all around him.
At last I confront him. “How d’you know? How can you be sure that Saul and his three sons are dead?”
“I happened to be there, up at the peak,” he reports, “and there I saw his armor-bearer, who must have killed himself just minutes before, and I saw the king, leaning on his spear.”
“Leaning how, exactly?”
“Against the sharp end. Blood started spurting out of the wound, and he pressed himself into the spear even harder—but not hard enough. All the while, he was looking over his shoulder, because he could see the enemy drawing near, surrounding him, closing in… He could hear the wheels turning under the chariots, rocking hard against the ground, and the drivers shouting to each other, in hot pursuit after him.”
“And the archers?” I ask, recalling how fearful he was of them.
“They were already standing there, opposite him, pulling the strings of their bows, taking aim. And then, then arrows started flying at him, and one of them even grazed his skin—”
“So,” I say, measuring out every syllable, “You’ve seen him alive. That I believe. Now I don’t need to repeat my question, do I? How d’you know he’s dead?”
The young man mumbles, “Then, then the king turned around and saw me, and he called out to me, and I said, ‘What can I do you for?’ And before he would answer, he asked, ‘Who are you?’ and I said, ’An Amalekite.’”
“So far so good,” I say, trying to be patient with him. “Lets move the story along, shall we? Get past the introductions already.�
��
“Then,” says the young man, “then the king said to me, ‘Stand here by me and, and kill me. I’m in the throes of death—but I’m still alive.’”
“What?” I cry.
Something about my tone must have startled him, because the young man proceeds a bit more cautiously now. “I stood beside the king, and then, then I killed him.”
He must have noticed a sudden flash in my eyes, because he is quick to add, “I killed him, that I did, because I knew that after he’d fallen he couldn’t survive.”
“So in your mind, you relieved him of his agony.”
“Yes, exactly! I did him a favor, a big favor!”
Seeing the look on my face, the young man senses my anxiety, figures this is the time to give me a little souvenir. So out of his pouch, he pulls out something golden, something that is glittering ever so brilliantly.
He raises it to my eyes. “See, I took the crown that was on his head and the band on his arm and here, I’ve brought them with me.” He bows down before me. “For you, my lord.”
At hearing this I fight my urge to grab the thing out of his hold. Reaching for it at a moment like this would leave a bad impression on my men. I can just imagine what rumors will start spreading around the land, accusing me of being overly ambitions and hard of heart. So I force myself to step away from him, and from his gifts.
But I promise myself that sooner or later I am going to get my hands on that crown. Let me not rush into things. What I must have is more than mere jewelry—rather, it is what it stands for: the undisputed control of the entire kingdom.
With a note of disgust, “Take this man from me, take him away,” I tell my men.
“Don’t you want it?” he asks, with a tone of disappointment mixed with the beginnings of fear.
“Good grief, not now,” I say, under my breath.
With that I take hold of my clothes and tear them apart, and for good measure I let out a roar, so that everyone can see that the life of a royal man is nothing to sneeze at. It is sacred.
My men follow suit. They mourn and weep and fast till evening for Saul and his three sons Jonathan, Abinadab and Malchishua, and for the army of the Lord and for the nation of Israel, because they have fallen by the sword.
Saul is dead. Why, then, is he haunting me? Why am I whispering to him, over the great divide between us, “Flee like a bird to your mountain, for look, the wicked bend their bows. They set their arrows against the strings, to shoot from the shadows, at the upright in heart.”
*
Later that evening, still wearing my torn clothes, I tell my men to bring the young man back to me.
My wife, Ahinoam of Jezreel, slips quietly into the room and stands there behind them. I cannot see her face between their shoulders. No doubt she is expecting to hear news of her family, to learn if her old childhood home is still safe, still leaning there in one piece against the foot of mount Gilboa.
Escorted by my fighters, the young man comes forward with a quick step and with a smirk on his face, perhaps hoping to get a reward for offering me that which everybody knows I want.
I turn upon him and ask, in a calm voice, “Now where did you say you’re from?”
To which he replies, “I’m the son of a foreigner, an Amalekite.”
And as he fumbles to pull the crown out of his pouch, to try and appease me, I bellow, “Why weren’t you afraid to do what you did, to lift your hand to destroy the Lord’s anointed?”
At the sound of my voice, his knees give way under him. He seems too flabbergasted to come up with an answer.
Then, to my men I say, “Go, strike him down!”
They seem to be surprised. Perhaps they are wondering about me. Why would I turn against a messenger, when he brings me such news, good news about the fate of my longtime enemy, Saul?
The young man looks up at them, and a sigh of relief escapes from his throat. My men think I was only kidding, and so does he.
To teach them a lesson I strike him down with my own sword. The crown falls out of his outstretched hand, and splashes across the blood that starts seeping, puddling around his head. Then, with an annoying screech, the thing rolls down across the floor, farther and farther away from me.
At last it reaches my wife. She kicks at it.
Meanwhile I set my foot firmly upon his body, and fill my lungs with air. Then I roar like a lion, so that everyone can hear me, near and far, “Your blood be on your own head! Your own mouth testified against you when you said, ‘I killed the Lord’s anointed.’”
And as he utters his last breath I lean over, and spit on his body.
In the back of the room, my wife, Ahinoam of Jezreel, collapses to the floor. She bangs, bangs, bangs her head against the crown, till at last, grief overtakes her.
The Grand Lament
Chapter 25
History can spring out of this moment in opposite directions. It can make or break me.
Despite having idled behind the scenes during a critical battle I must come out now, and claim center stage. The show is not over yet, bring back the audience! I promise, there is more entertainment to be had! With a few choice words I can unite the survivors, and bring them together. I can take their grief and use it to excite them into action. Out of our defeated tribes, I can forge a nation. I can revive its soul.
How, you may ask, will all this be achieved? What new twist can be added to the play? Lend me your ears and I will tell you: a eulogy must be given, a grand, impressive lament that is a farewell to an era that has come to its end, and a welcome to an era yet to arrive, under a new and exciting leadership.
The House of Kish has crumbled to the ground, to be replaced by the House of David. From the ashes of despair, scattered all across the theatre of war, here it rises, here it comes: hope!
Who better to write this lament, and who better to perform it than me?
Wait a minute! Giving a eulogy? As soon as the idea has left my lips I listen to it—only to treat it with trepidation. I mean, how can I compose such a demanding piece, when for over a year I have written absolutely nothing? Not a psalm, not a line, not even a single word! What can I do? I am empty. The muse has been silenced in me. She is sullen, turning her eyes away from the stains on my fingers. By their color she knows they are not made of ink.
Alas, I have neglected to seal my inkwell properly, and the fluid has dried. Without it I cannot put pen to papyrus. The words would not flow. This is my excuse, and I am sticking to it.
Still, I force myself to focus. I sharpen the tip of my quill—but not before ordering my men to build a high stage.
They want to know, “How much wood should we use?”
“As much as needed,” I tell them. “And don’t spare any effort. Make it the highest structure around, higher than anything you’ve ever seen before! Cut down an entire forrest if you must.”
Now, the happy noise of hammers and saws plays out in the background. Meanwhile, here I sit, staring blankly at this sheet of papyrus. I try to imagine the scene, up there at the top of Mount Gilboa, and in a blink I think I see something, some vague outline through the fog.
In my mind I move closer and touch it, even brush my hands across the quivering skin. It is still warm. I bend over the wounded animal. In her last throes of death, she turns a long neck to look at me, ever so plaintively. My heart goes out to save her.
A gazelle lies slain on your heights, Israel.
How the mighty have fallen!
As fast as it has appeared, the image vanishes into a cloud. For a while I hang my head, lost and dejected. I am empty again, and nothing but noise come to fill the void.
Noise. I perk my ears to listen. What can it be but the hustle-bustle of a familiar city, where a large, formidable Philistine woman gathers a large crowd around her, to watch her dancing victoriously in the streets.
Tell it not in Gath,
proclaim it not in the streets of Ashkelon,
lest the daughters of the Philistines be glad,
>
lest the daughters of the uncircumcised rejoice.
I close my eyes to the scene of celebration and at once it fades away, along with the hated sound, the sound of clap, clap, clapping all around Delilah. I am back in the mist, as my mind is racing back to the scene of defeat.
To my amazement I find myself ensconced, somehow, in God’s eye. Hovering over the ridge of Mount Golboa I see the view, the entire view of the valley of Jezreel sprawling underfoot.
Here and there, fires are blazing. The soil—which is so fertile, and yields so much wheat in times of peace—is smoldering down there, far below me. I wish I could avert my eyes from this scene of destruction. With great vehemence I curse it, for now and for ever.
Mountains of Gilboa,
may you have neither dew nor rain,
may no showers fall on your terraced fields.
For there the shield of the mighty was despised,
the shield of Saul—no longer rubbed with oil.
Coming down I find a landing close to that thing, that shield left there to rust on the battlefield. There is no glint out of that metallic surface. The inscription The House of Kish is barely visible on it anymore, as weeds are twisting all over it.
For some reason I feel obliged to bring the polish back to it, and make it shine. Why? Because if I wish to be remembered I must sing my tribute to the king. I must become his successor, his heir, his son. Let everyone forget that he tried, time and again, to debase me, to make me a traitor, or even worse—a nobody.
From the blood of the slain,
from the flesh of the mighty,
the bow of Jonathan did not turn back,
the sword of Saul did not return unsatisfied.
In the end, all that bravery, for which I praise him profusely in my eulogy, turned upon itself. I imagine Saul waiting for his savior, waiting for death to release him from a life of torture, waiting in vain, waiting until it was too late to wait anymore. No wonder he felt compelled to take matters into his own hands.
Rise to Power (The David Chronicles) (Volume 1) Page 19
