Bathsheba, Reluctant Beauty

by Angela Hunt

  The servant nodded. “They’d never admit it, but all the other wives are working to make sure it’s their son who inherits the throne. Michal is no problem because she hasn’t got a son, unless you count the five nephews she’s raising for her dead sister. But that Ahinoam—her son is Amnon, the firstborn, and she gives herself airs because she fancies herself mother of the crown prince. Yet she’s nothing compared to Maacah, Absalom’s mother. Since she was a princess before she came to Israel, she thinks her boy should be king. And frankly”—the woman lowered her voice—“sometimes I think the king agrees with her. He’d never admit it, but he dotes on Absalom more than the others; anyone can see it. I guess sometimes you can’t help having a favorite, and Absalom is the most gorgeous child in the palace.”

  She stopped and lifted a brow, waiting for my reaction, so I thanked her for her honesty. My hand moved to the bump beneath my tunic. Windows in my mind blew open, reminding me that I carried a child too, perhaps a son. The prophecy was real enough, and its certainty guaranteed. Had Adonai allowed Samuel to look into the future and see that this baby would be the king of Israel?

  The more I considered the possibility, the more it made sense. Ahinoam might have given birth to the king’s first son and Maacah might have borne his favorite, but the king owed me. To atone for Uriah’s murder, David ought to name my son his heir. The prophecy guaranteed that he would.

  The idea brought a small smile to my lips. Though I abhorred the memory of how this child was conceived, I knew that Adonai often worked His will through tragic situations. Didn’t Abraham have to endure the trauma of placing Isaac on the altar of sacrifice? Didn’t Joseph have to withstand slavery and imprisonment before HaShem brought him out and placed him on a throne?

  I had borne a horrific assault and I’d been treated like chattel. My beloved husband had been murdered. But HaShem had given me a promise . . . and I carried the son who would influence Israel forever.

  I dared not speak of my new understanding, but in my prayers I begged Adonai to protect my unborn child.

  Servants were not my only visitors to the palace. The royal midwife checked on me often and assured me that she would deliver a healthy baby. After she left, I stroked my rounded belly and knew I’d been wrong to resent the child. How could I resent a child God meant to be our next king?

  By my reckoning, I was a month away from delivering when a messenger informed me that I had guests. Leaving my little room for the first time in days, I went to the harem courtyard and found Elisheba and Amaris waiting.

  Amaris’s eyes went wide when she saw me. With the artlessness of a young girl, she gaped at my belly. “You are getting so big! Are you going to have a girl?”

  I smiled. “I am carrying a son.”

  I hugged each of them, then bade them sit on the bench near the fountain. As usual, Amaris lost all custody of her eyes and stared at everyone who walked by, probably eager to spot one of the princes. Yet Elisheba held my hand and studied me intently. “How are you, child?”

  I gave her the brightest smile I could manage. “I am well fed, and the midwife says the baby is fine.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” Elisheba leaned closer. “How is your heart? The last time we visited, you were still grieving over Uriah and sick with worry about how you would live with the king’s women.”

  I stared into the fountain’s rippling water and sought words that would neither alarm her nor be untruthful. “The king has not been unkind to me,” I finally said. “Neither have the other wives. I have lots of time for sewing, so my life here is not unpleasant.”

  Elisheba turned my hand and studied my soft pink palm. “You’ve not been grinding grain or hauling water, anyone can see that.”

  “No,” I admitted. “The king’s servants make life easy.”

  “But not everything is easy.” Elisheba’s dark eyes probed mine. “Our neighbors have been full of talk about you. Most of them believe the king took you as his wife out of generosity, and word of the child has also become common knowledge. Some of your father’s friends know about Samuel’s prophecy, so they expect your son to be our next king.”

  “Adonai chooses kings,” I reminded her, though I had quietly come to the same conclusion.

  Elisheba dipped her chin in a firm nod. “Samuel was Adonai’s prophet. And if he speaks God’s words, a true prophet cannot lie.”

  We continued to share stories. Elisheba told me about the latest happenings on our street, about the bird that had nested in the garden, and the neighborhood girl who had recently been betrothed to a shepherd from the tribe of Benjamin.

  “And she was only thirteen,” Amaris added, smiling a gap-toothed smile. “Almost as young as me.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry.” I wagged a finger at my overeager little sister. “I was seventeen before Father arranged my betrothal. I have a feeling Grandfather may want you to wait, too.”

  A frown crept into the space between Amaris’s brows. “Will my marriage be arranged by Grandfather or the king? The king is my brother-in-law, isn’t he? And with Father dead . . .”

  I blinked, startled by her question. She was correct in her assumption, but I couldn’t imagine David taking an interest in my sister’s marriage. He hadn’t yet done anything to arrange marriages for his own children.

  “I don’t know.” I gave her a smile. “But I know you shouldn’t worry. These things tend to take care of themselves at the right time.”

  Elisheba patted my hand, then leaned forward to kiss my cheek. “I know you are trying to paint a pretty picture, child, but I see loneliness in your eyes. Know that I am praying for you to have an easy birth and a healthy child. But most of all, I will be praying that you will find love. If ever a woman deserved it, Bathsheba, you do.”

  She stood and gestured to the guard who had escorted them into the harem, and then she and Amaris hugged me and said good-bye.

  The first birth pangs came just before dawn. I bore them quietly, not wanting to draw attention, but by the third hour of the day I was pacing the width and breadth of my room as sweat ran down my face and my chest.

  The midwife came as soon as she heard the news. “The king knows,” she announced when she entered my room. “Now take off that shawl and walk with me to kill the pain. Hold my hand if it will make you feel better.”

  I wanted Elisheba, but I didn’t want her around if something went wrong. Despite Samuel’s prophecy, I knew how often women and their children died during childbirth. Despite my faith in the prophecy, I wondered if the nameless bulge at my belly would be the end of me, freeing me to join Uriah, my mother, my father, and a host of ancestors whose names I didn’t even know.

  I cried out and bit my fist during the worst pains, and paced in my chamber when they eased. I felt as though my body would burst. My loins burned, my back ached, and all the while the midwife told me to keep walking. How could a woman walk when her legs felt like water?

  I walked—or stumbled—throughout most of the afternoon. A pair of servants brought fans to move the air in my small space, and during the worst pains the midwife wiped my forehead with a damp cloth. A serving girl brought a plate at midday, but the midwife shooed her away, saying that I shouldn’t eat until after the child had come.

  By sunset I had become convinced I would die with the child inside me. Because as a tob woman I had enticed the king, HaShem intended to punish me.

  With no strength left, I collapsed on my bed, my tunic saturated with sweat, my hair drenched, and my life ebbing away. Like the bleating of a goat, the midwife’s voice blended into the sounds of the palace. Then, without warning, a ripping pain tore at my flesh.

  “Get up!” the woman commanded, taking my hands and pulling me off the bed. “Lift your tunic and squat! Now! To the floor with you!”

  My legs barely supported me as I lowered myself, pressed my hands to the floor, and leaned forward. I gritted my teeth and pushed . . . as a child slid into the world on a bloody tide.

 
Dazed, I turned in time to see the midwife wrap a linen square around the child, then use a corner of the cloth to wipe the mucus from its nose and eyes.

  “A boy,” she said, smiling at the infant. “The king has another beautiful baby boy.”

  I sank to the floor as the room spun around me. Was it possible we had both survived?

  Another servant stood by to catch the afterbirth, but I was beyond caring about what happened to me. But we were both alive—me and the son I’d been given. Perhaps Adonai did hear the prayers of a tob woman.

  The servant helped me onto my bed as the midwife washed the baby, rubbed salt over his skin, and wrapped him. When she had finished, she placed the swaddled child in my arms. He lifted pink eyelids and caught my gaze for a second, then rooted around for my breast.

  I found myself smiling through tears.

  “I will tell the king,” the midwife said, washing her hands in a basin. “Have the servants comb your hair, lady, and prepare you for your husband. I daresay he will soon be on his way.”

  I wanted to correct her, for the king had never darkened my door, but thought it best to remain silent. This baby might always remind the king of unpleasant circumstances, so I would understand if he never wanted to see the child.

  But since Adonai heeded the prayers of a shamed tob woman, I could—and would—love this baby boy, this promised prince.

  The first day of my son’s life was very nearly perfect. By the time the king heard that my son had arrived, the servants had combed my hair, washed my face, and dressed me in a fresh tunic. They eased me into a chair with the baby nestled in my arms, so I must have looked fairly presentable when the king arrived.

  I didn’t know what to say when he came through the door, so I simply sat there, tongue-tied and exhausted. The king hesitated at my threshold only a moment. Once he glimpsed the child, he strode forward and fell to his knees at my side. With only a smiling glance at me, he thrust a finger toward the baby’s curled hand. The boy, intent on my breast, nonetheless wrapped his tiny digits around the king’s finger, eliciting a broad smile from the man next to me.

  Something in my heart softened at that simple sign of joy. The king’s delight was as real as any emotion I had ever seen on a man’s face, and in that moment I realized I need no longer fear him. He was a man like any other, and as prone to sin when not focused on pleasing Adonai. But this baby delighted the king, and when David lifted his gaze to meet mine, in his eyes I saw a wordless appeal for forgiveness.

  I looked away, unable to forgive or forget . . . yet.

  We sat together until sunset, marveling at the beauty and perfection of our child. We talked about possible names, though the decision wouldn’t be final until the baby’s circumcision on the eighth day, and we argued gently about whether he had my nose or his father’s. I watched as the king gingerly lifted the child in his rough hands, and I marveled that a man who had fathered so many children could still be exhilarated by the miracle of birth.

  As my son dozed on his father’s bare knees and my eyelids drooped with exhaustion, the servants entered to light the lamps. The king—David—stood and apologized for being selfish and keeping me from my rest. He gently placed the baby in the nurse’s arms, touched my cheek, and left my room.

  But while the door stood open, I glimpsed him in the hallway, where he stopped to say something to Abigail, one of the older wives. She lit up with an answering smile, then threw her arms around him. He drew her into an embrace, and then the door closed and blocked the sight.

  Odd, that the thought of David with another woman had the power to rouse a spark of jealousy within me. But exhaustion doused it as I crawled into bed and curled up on my side.

  I was not in love with David, so why should I care if he loved Abigail? I should be grateful that he had other wives to satisfy his needs. I had a prince and the prophet’s promise, and I needed nothing else.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Nathan

  OVER THE COURSE OF SEVERAL MONTHS, I watched several significant events unfold. I stood outside Uriah’s house and heard the ululations of mourning for the Hittite warrior. His wife, his wife’s nurse, his sister-in-law, his wife’s grandfather, and his neighbors keened mightily for the murdered soldier. I did not know how sincerely Bathsheba grieved for her husband—did she mourn him out of true sorrow or out of some secret guilt?—but her eyes remained red and swollen throughout the seven days of mourning.

  At the end of that week, I watched as David’s emissaries came to the house to escort Uriah’s wife to the palace. Hidden in a sheltered alcove, I saw Bathsheba embrace the older woman and her young sister before surrendering to the guards and walking up the hill to her new home. Word spread like a wildfire: David the king had taken Bathsheba, widow of Uriah the Hittite, to be his wife. Some people said he married her to honor Uriah’s sacrifice and provide for the warrior’s widow. Others said he only wanted to honor his counselor Ahithophel, the woman’s grandfather. Widows subsisted on charity unless they had sons or brothers to support them, and Bathsheba had neither. But as one of the king’s wives, neither she nor the two women she left behind would have to worry about being fed, clothed, and sheltered. David, the people assured themselves, was a most generous king.

  Seven months later, two days after the birth of Bathsheba’s child, Adonai woke me with a command. The time for confrontation had come.

  I dressed in a clean tunic, picked up my staff, and walked the road to the palace, my steps heavy with trepidation. On many occasions I had made the journey with no greater intention than observing the king’s court, but this time Adonai had given me a message and a mission. This time I would speak HaShem’s words, and the result would depend upon the receptivity of David’s heart.

  I found the king’s throne room filled with the usual mix of travelers, dignitaries, supplicants, and counselors. A festive air permeated the gathering, for the king was accepting gifts and congratulations on the birth of his newborn son. I shouldered my way through the center of the assembly, then stopped before the king and brought my staff down, hard, on the stone floor. David looked up from the parchment he’d been reading, and his eyes widened when he recognized me. “Prophet?” His gaze flicked at me, then he smiled at young Absalom, who sat on a cushion at the king’s feet. “Have you come to congratulate us on the most recent son born into our household?”

  I slammed my staff down again. In the past, David had sent messengers to fetch Bathsheba, to recall Uriah, and to escort his new wife to the palace. Now God had sent a messenger to David, and I would not be taken lightly. “Adonai has commanded me to speak to you.”

  Confusion flitted in the king’s dark eyes. He set his parchment aside and gripped an armrest of his throne. “I am listening.”

  Praying that I had chosen the right approach to the hard rebuke I had to deliver, I drew a deep breath and tightened my hold on my staff. “In a certain city there lived two men, one rich, the other poor.”

  At this innocuous beginning, as I spoke of ordinary men in ordinary circumstances, David relaxed and slouched into a more comfortable position. He crossed one leg over the other and watched me, his eyes alight with speculation. As king, he was obligated to settle disputes and administer justice, so he probably thought I had disrupted the festivities in order to present a case for judgment.

  “The rich man had vast flocks and herds,” I continued, sensing the invisible circle that had formed around me, a holy space no man would dare crowd. “But the poor man had nothing except for one little ewe lamb, which he had bought and reared. It had grown up with him and his family; it ate from his plate, drank from his cup, lay in his lap—it was like a daughter to him.”

  “I had a lamb like that once,” the king interrupted, smiling at his son Amnon, who leaned against the back of his father’s chair. “When I kept the lambs for my father, one became quite attached to me.”

  I shot the king a reproachful look. If he had only taken Bathsheba into his harem, my story would have
ended with the rich man placing the ewe lamb in his own flock. But David had done far more, and Adonai was about to reveal his sin to the world.

  I drew a breath and continued: “One day a traveler visited the rich man, and instead of choosing an animal from his own flock to cook for his visitor, he stole the poor man’s lamb, slaughtered it, and boiled it for his guest.”

  Gripping my staff, I waited for the story to take hold. A lamb was only a lamb, but the context of the tale should prick David’s repressed conscience.

  I did not have to wait long. Almost immediately our shepherd king’s face flushed with fury. David sat upright and uncrossed his legs. “As Adonai lives, doomed is the man who has done this! And because he had no pity, he shall pay the poor man four times as much as he stole.”

  Four times? I sighed in regret, knowing that David had just pronounced his own sentence.

  Every eye in the room swiveled toward me. The onlookers probably expected me to bow and thank the king for his righteous verdict, but I had not entered the king’s chamber to invoke a judgment against other men. David had rightly responded with rage, but he had missed the truth in my tale.

  My gaze locked on David’s. “You are the man.”

  Adonai’s words filled the hush, and every man present, even the king’s young sons, remained motionless as my voice reverberated in the room. “Here is what Adonai, the God of Israel, says,” I said, not taking my eyes from the king’s. “‘I anointed you king over Israel. I rescued you from the power of Saul. I gave you your master’s house and your master’s wives to embrace. I have given you the house of Israel and the house of Judah. And if that had been too little, I would have added to you a lot more.’”

  David stared, his face as pale as a death mask.

  “So why,” I continued, “have you shown such contempt for the word of Adonai and done what He sees as evil? You murdered Uriah the Hittite with the sword and took his wife as your own; you put him to death with the sword of the Ammonites. Now, therefore, the sword will never leave your house because you have shown contempt for Adonai and taken the wife of Uriah the Hittite as your own wife. Here is what Adonai says: ‘I will generate evil against you out of your own household. I will take your wives before your very eyes and give them to your neighbor; he will go to bed with your wives, and everyone will know about it. For you did this secretly, but I will do this before all Israel in broad daylight.’”