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

by Uvi Poznansky

  I figure he knew his fate, even before setting out to battle. Judging by different accounts, he seemed to be headed—quite intentionally—into defeat, which is quite evident when you study his battle plan.

  In his place, I would have let the Philistines enter the valley, and once they did I would launch a surprise attack upon them from all flanks, and especially from their back. Not so Saul: he engaged them upfront. In retrospect, it seems like a death wish.

  This I know: on the eve of the battle, he went to the old witch of Ein-Dor, seeking some advice, some word of reassurance. He begged her to summon the spirit of the prophet Samuel, who used to be his spiritual advisor until they fell out. She chanted her usual nonsense, “Double, double, toil and trouble.” Then, out of the poisonous steam puffing out of her caldron, a ghastly face arose, to the sound of a rattling of bones.

  I am certain that the witch of Ein-Dor has a stash of bones in her back pocket. She could not have fooled me, if her life depended on it. As for Saul, perhaps he was ready to be fooled. He should have let Samuel rot peacefully in his grave, because there, opening in midair, was a wrinkled, toothless mouth, and the words that came out of the cold froth rolling upon it were utterly horrific.

  “Why do you consult me,” came the rasp, in a voice that sounded like the dead man, “now that the Lord has departed from you, and become your enemy? He has torn the kingdom out of your hands and given it to another. Because you did not obey Him, because you did not carry out His wrath against the Amalekites… Tomorrow you and your sons will be with me!”

  I imagine despair burning out of Saul’s eye, as he rode his stallion at a furious speed, back to Mount Gilboa. Yes, he knew his fate, and the only thing he could do about it was to usher it in. That, and no other, was the reason he reached the summit, and fell on his sword.

  Most eulogies are cheerful. They spare no effort to lie about the dear departed. Mine, I admit, is no exception.

  Saul and Jonathan—

  in life they were loved and admired,

  and in death they were not parted.

  They were swifter than eagles,

  they were stronger than lions.

  I whisper these words as I write them. But I think about them the way I would be performing them, with a full, resonant voice. By God, I am going to own that stage! I am going to suck the air out of the entire theatre, and get a grip on the audience!

  I figure, some recognition must be given to them, especially to the women who may be fainting left and right around the stage. Let them drool over me! Let them delight themselves by tearing out their hair, and squealing in sheer grief!

  From high above I would give them a little nod, because having mentioned the daughters of the Philistines, I must now do justice by my admirers, too.

  Daughters of Israel,

  weep for Saul,

  who clothed you in scarlet and finery,

  who adorned your garments with ornaments of gold.

  Lastly I must say a few words about Jonathan, not only because he was the heir to the crown and I wish to be seen as his equal—but because his absence makes me sad. I miss him.

  From time to time I regret the inequality in our friendship. Never once did I tell him I loved him, even though he confessed his love for me every time we met. For having suspected his motives, I feel remorse. I wish he could be here to hear me do it now,

  How the mighty have fallen in battle!

  Jonathan lies slain on your heights.

  I grieve for you, Jonathan my brother;

  you were very dear to me.

  Your love for me was wonderful,

  more wonderful than that of women.

  I can come up with so much more to say, but I hold myself back, because this I know: brevity is the secret of a great speech. Brevity, and a little bit of repetition, just to fix the music of my words in the minds of my listeners, and to let it pound in their hearts.

  How the mighty have fallen!

  The weapons of war have perished!

  No more sound of hammers and saws. The stage is ready for me. Now it is time for me to mount it.

  A Tribal Coronation

  Chapter 26

  In spite of my delightful, highly acclaimed eulogy for Saul, which is on everybody’s lips nowadays, I am no closer to my target. Without owning the royal title I cannot bring myself to touch the crown. So by now, it has lost its luster. Gathering dust in the corner of my tent, it leans there against the head of Goliath, which has just come back from a long trip, from the delta of the Nile.

  There, his scalp underwent a complex process of mummification, performed with surgical precision, by the most knowledgeable of Egyptian experts who pass the craft, in sworn secrecy, from one generation to the next. I had to pay a hefty price to preserve the thing, nearly half my share of the plunder for an entire year. Why? Because history demands it. I mean, history must have a clear, physical proof, a record of my unparalleled courage in the face of the Philistine.

  And not only history demands it, but my career, too. After all, who better to lead the charge against a cruel, formidable enemy, than a wanted criminal with his gang of hardened felons?

  Since the return of Goliath’s head I have been toying with the idea of commissioning a life-size portrait of myself as a hero, holding it. Considering the mood in the country, striking such a pose may look self serving. Alas, this is no time to splurge. For now I must act modest.

  And yet, when no one is looking, I study myself in my shield from the left, from the right and back, and imagine a battle scene behind me, in the background of that yet unpainted piece of art.

  For me, the hardest thing in the world is idle time. It drives me nuts! I am falling into the habit of biting my nails, and staring at Goliath. His eyeballs seems to bulge with dismay over the drooping skin. Other times, a smile seems to play on his shriveled lips. He is a constant companion, more so than both my wives. His expression depends on the time of day, the slant of sunlight, and my own mood.

  “What’s your mood today?” Joav asks me, the way you ask a spoiled child.

  I roll my eyes. “Impatient.”

  “Why? Everything seems to be going your way lately.”

  “I itch for something, for anything to happen now, in the wake of Saul’s death.”

  “Here’s one thing you can do. Get a historian.”

  “A what?”

  “You heard me. Get one of your own.”

  “What for?”

  “Let him figure out how many sons Saul has sired, and which ones may still be alive, still in the line of succession. They’re the stumbling blocks on your path to power.”

  “You mean, I must take care of them.”

  “You can’t afford not to.”

  “But Joav, that’ll take years!”

  “What choice d’you have? Until then, none of us—not even me—would dare to suggest that you make a move, and announce yourself king. Not that you don’t deserve the honor, your majesty…”

  “Deserve it I do,” I insist, and go on to wonder out loud, “Samuel the prophet anointed me way back, when I was a child. Why is the nation so slow, so reluctant to let me wear the crown?”

  “In fact,” says he, “there is no such thing as the nation. Each one of the tribes builds its own defenses, and each war lord points fingers at the other, and not only fingers—but daggers too…”

  “What a shame that is,” I bite my nails. “The divisions between them are so deep that they fail to see how close they are to complete annihilation.”

  “Meanwhile,” he says, “the Philistines stand aside, and they’re in no hurry to shed our blood, because they can see that we are doing their work for them.”

  *

  For no better reason than boredom I decide I must do something, anything. But what can I do, exactly? Only God knows! So before a large audience I inquire of Him, “Shall I go up to one of the towns of Judah?”

  I stand there listening intently, then turn to my men to share the news. “
The Lord says, ‘Go up.’”

  In reply, my hoodlums start clapping their hands, and throwing their hats in the air, and hooting.

  I hush them, and with great reverence I bow before God, and inquire, “Where shall I go?”

  They hold their breath for a long time, which is a good thing for suspense, after which I tell them, “Guess what? Just as I’ve expected! He says, ‘To Hebron.’”

  My thugs echo, “To Hebron!”

  This town is a safe place for us, because it belongs to my tribe, the tribe of Judah, which prides itself on having a separate identity from the rest of the tribes. Being a military stronghold, it marks the internal divisions in our nation. Its name, Hebron, which in Hebrew means unity and friendship, is nothing but a laugh. Or maybe it is a dream, a vision for the future, for the end of days.

  Going back in history, the place was wrested from the local Canaanites by Joshua, the illustrious commander who led the military invasion of the land after our exodus from Egypt. War justifies everything, especially bloodshed. He is said to have wiped out the entire populace of the city, destroying everything that drew breath, as the Lord of Israel had commanded.

  Compared to him I am a lightweight.

  And going back even farther in history, it was there that Abraham, our legendary forefather, purchased the Cave of the Patriarchs from the Hittites. His bones are deemed sacred, and by extension, so is this place. It constitutes a seminal attachment to the land.

  Before leaving Ziklag I go to my Philistine master, Achish, who in spite of his commanders is still enamored with me. He has no idea that I have come to bid him farewell, and for some reason I neglect to mention it.

  Instead I ask him, “Shall I go up to one of the towns of Judah?”

  Achish says, “Sure, why not! Go up.”

  So I ask, “Where shall I go?”

  And just as I have expected, he says, “To Hebron.”

  I bow, as humbly as ever, repeating after him, “To Hebron!” Then, wearing my obedient expression, I rush out the door.

  I will always remember him the way he has just smiled upon me: twiddling his fingers, already counting the coins, grabbing the jewelry and the huge quantities of plunder, which he expects me to lay at his feet.

  *

  Having obtained these dual directives—one from Achish and the other from a higher source—I pack my things and go to Hebron with my two wives, Ahinoam of Jezreel and Abigail. My men come along, each with his family. Boy, are we ready for a change! Change would be a good slogan for us, and for the entire country.

  We clear the locals out of several buildings in the center of town, which we turn into our compound. I make a point of going around town brimming with confidence.

  Hell, I own it!

  Impressed by this, and knowing I am one of them, the elders of Judah come to greet me in Hebron. I wait for them in the compound, up in the tower, which is now mine. No wonder they are out of breath by the time they manage to clamber up the stairs. No one says a word. With heavy panting they anoint me king over the tribe of Judah.

  It is a minor honor, to be sure, akin to becoming a mini-royal. I make an effort not to think about the fact that the big prize—ruling over the entire nation—is still as illusive as ever.

  Still, this is a long awaited victory. To celebrate it I have prepared a rough draft for a speech, and recited it in advance, “He said to me, You are my son… Today I have become your father. Ask me, and I will make the nations your inheritance, the ends of the earth your possession. You will break them with a rod of iron. You will dash them to pieces like pottery.”

  Yes, I try my best to cherish the moment—but find myself disappointed by it. Problem is, a moment is too short. It goes by far too fast. I mean, what is a coronation ceremony with no drumroll, no trumpets, no fanfare? How about dancing, and music, and wine? And where are the crowds, the cheering, the joy? Alas, this place is provincial. It is too small on me. Really, this victory is nothing to write home about.

  I raise the crown to my head, and at the critical second—just as it starts weighing down on me—someone gives me a note: a messenger has arrived.

  He scrambles up the stairs, and bows before the elders. They cry out, “Long live the king!”

  He turns to me. “Your majesty—“

  Afraid that what he has to say may overshadow my moment of happiness—such as it it—I raise my hand with a well rehearsed, perfectly regal gesture, attempting to silence him.

  “But, but—”

  “No! Not now!” I shake my head, and at once I find myself having to adjust my posture, to keep the crown balanced. “Whatever the news, can’t it wait?”

  “This,” he wheezes, “is important. I mean, really.”

  Just to act magnanimous I make the mistake of letting him say what he has come here to say, which is this, “When the Philistines came to strip the dead, they found Saul and his three sons fallen on Mount Gilboa—”

  “Nothing new there,” I mutter.

  He draws a deep breath, which allows him to drone on, “They cut off his head… Oh, the shame! Oh, what a cursed day! They stripped off his armor… Then, they sent messengers all over, throughout the land of the Philistines, to proclaim the news in the temple of their idols and among their people.”

  “They cut off his head? Really? How barbaric!” I exclaim, even though I have done exactly the same thing to my old friend Goliath.

  Again, the messenger gasps for air.

  “And,” he says, “they put his armor in the temple of Ashtoreth, and fastened his body… They fastened it to the wall of Beth Shan.”

  I shudder. “Did they.”

  What a horrific sight that must be, his carcass fastened to a wall, where every passerby would be spitting upon it. I pity Saul. In the end, his death has been as devastating to watch as his life.

  Despite my dismay, or maybe because of it, I am in no hurry to rush out to Beth Shan, to save his remains from public humiliation. Nothing signifies the fall of the House of Kish—and indeed, the state of the nation—more precisely than his headless body.

  The longer it hangs there—the stronger the case for making me king of all twelve tribes.

  And so, time goes by.

  Being a has-been gang leader I commit myself now to uphold law and order. To everyone’s amazement I find matters of governing more urgent, more pressing than going on a precarious mission to Beth Shan to rescue a corpse. I never talk about Saul, except when I am alone with Goliath. Only then do I whisper, “Let him rot!”

  Meanwhile, the people of Jabesh Gilead hear what the Philistines have done to Saul, which moves them to do what I have managed so far to avoid.

  Their valiant men march through the night to Beth Shan. Under cover of darkness, they take down the bodies of Saul and his sons from the wall surrounding the city. Then they go back to their place, where they burn the bodies, and bury the bones under a tamarisk tree. Ashes to Ashes.

  In my mind, this is a fitting place for a jealous soul, because of the salt dripping from the leaves, which forms a ring of bitterness in the soil around the trunk, which prevents any other vegetation from taking root close to it.

  Soon, spring will come, and pink flowers will appear on spikes that remind me of his spear. I hope he rests in peace there, under his tamarisk tree.

  What the men of Jabesh Gilead have done is a direct affront to me, a criticism of what I have neglected to accomplish. To save face I must exercise both patience and diplomacy. So I send messengers to them, with a sweetest of words.

  “The Lord bless you,” I tell them, “for showing this kindness to Saul your master by burying him. May the Lord now show you kindness and faithfulness, and I too will show you the same favor because you have done this. Now then, be strong and brave, for Saul your master is dead, and the people of Judah have anointed me king over them.”

  *

  I dream about uniting our twelve tribes under my rule. Alas, it is going to be a long wait, perhaps years or even deca
des.

  This notion is slow to sink in—but once it does, I decide to occupy myself with rehearsing my role. Learning how to rule a nation is more challenging than I have ever expected. Saul was never given time to learn, nor could he fashion himself after a previous model, because he was our first king, and because he was thrust into the role too quickly. I am lucky to have been given this gift, the gift of time.

  I use it to study matters of law. Less than a generation ago, our people asked Samuel the prophet to anoint someone, anyone, as a king. The prophet was loath to do it, knowing that he might lose his own power. A king is no good, he told them, and when they refused to listen, he composed an excruciatingly long lecture, listing various reasons for why he refuses to listen to them.

  Now I ponder every word in that lecture, because it constitutes what I am allowed do, which is basically this: anything I feel like doing:

  “This,” he said, “is what the king who’ll reign over you will claim as his rights: He’ll take your sons and make them serve with his chariots and horses, and they’ll run in front of his chariots. Some he’ll assign to be commanders of thousands and commanders of fifties, and others to plow his ground and reap his harvest, and still others to make weapons of war and equipment for his chariots. He’ll take your daughters to be perfumers and cooks and bakers.”

  “Never thought I could do that,” I say to myself. “Good ideas, all of them.”

  On he went with his spiel. “He’ll take the best of your fields and vineyards and olive groves and give them to his attendants. He’ll take a tenth of your grain and of your vintage and give it to his officials and attendants. Your male and female servants and the best of your cattle and donkeys he’ll take for his own use. He’ll take a tenth of your flocks, and you yourselves will become his slaves. When that day comes, you’ll cry out for relief from the king you have chosen, but the Lord will not answer you in that day.”