by Angela Hunt
A moment later, a red-faced, perspiring servant rushed into the room, pushed the merchant aside, and fell on the carpet before David. “My lord and king,” the man said, not lifting his head, “forgive the bearer of this news, but Absalom has killed all the king’s sons, and not one of them remains.”
The throne room swelled with silence as every person present tried to make sense of the messenger’s words. A loud wail then shattered the silence, which ended only after the king stood, ripped his robe, and fell facedown on the floor.
Horrified, I looked from the king to the messenger and back again, unable to believe what I’d heard. More wailing and shrieks of grief echoed through the throne room, piercing my heart. Only then did I realize that “all the king’s sons” meant my son, too.
My first thought was that Michal had been blessed. Her five sons were not David’s, so they had not attended the deadly feast. I thought then of Solomon lying on the ground with a knife in his chest, and a suffocating sensation tightened my throat.
Unable to speak, I looked for Grandfather and spotted him slumped in his chair, horror plainly visible in his wide eyes and waxy skin. My hands were damp and trembling, though my mind had sharpened like the blade of a knife. Where was Adonai? HaShem had promised David an eternal dynasty, yet in one afternoon all his sons—and my precious Solomon—had been wiped out. How could this be? Did Adonai speak truth or was Nathan a false prophet? Was Samuel a false prophet, too? Did—could—anyone really speak for Adonai?
Had I been wrong about Samuel’s prophecy yet again?
Another messenger ran into the throne room. My pounding heart stuttered when I recognized Jonadab, David’s nephew, a young man I had never trusted. He went immediately to the prostrate king and, falling on his knees, shouted in David’s face, “No! Do not believe that all the king’s sons have been killed! It was only Amnon! Absalom has been plotting this ever since Amnon raped his sister, Tamar. No, my lord the king, your sons are not all dead! Only Amnon is dead.”
Tension filled the air as David lifted his head and stared at his nephew. I clutched the neckline of my garment, ready to rend it in sorrow. Did I dare hope Jonadab was telling the truth? Did any of us?
Then we heard a distant cry from the lookout, and a guard hurried into the chamber. “It is true!” he said, gesturing out the door as if we could all see from the lookout’s perspective. “A great crowd is coming around the side of the mountain from the road behind it.”
“My lord,” begged Jonadab, still on his knees, “there they are now! Rise, look and see that the king’s sons are coming, just as I said.”
I dropped into my chair, and only when the tension ran out of my body did I realize that every muscle had been stretched as tight as a bowstring. Solomon was safe, and in a few moments he and his manservant would come running in to assure me that he had not been harmed. Solomon was alive, and the king’s other sons, too.
A smile of pure relief curved my lips, and when I looked across the room I saw that though Grandfather had tilted in his chair like a listing ship, he appeared to be at peace.
My smile vanished when I glanced at David. He knelt on the floor, one arm draped over his head, the other pounding his chest as grief tore at him.
Amnon, his beloved firstborn, was dead.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bathsheba
I lie in the dust;
revive me by your word.
I told you my plans, and you answered.
Now teach me your decrees.
Help me understand the meaning of your commandments,
and I will meditate on your wonderful deeds.
I weep with sorrow;
encourage me by your word.
Psalm of David
DAVID HAD LOST ANOTHER SON, but his reaction to this death was far different from his reaction to the loss of our baby. This death had come swiftly and unexpectedly, so the king had no opportunity to fast and beg Adonai to save his son’s life. Amnon was gone, and by giving Absalom permission to invite his brother to the feast, David had practically placed a sword in his other son’s hand.
Just as he had placed Tamar in Amnon’s house.
Knowing that my husband felt himself morally unqualified to rebuke his oldest son, at times I wondered if he had allowed Absalom to enact the justice he could not bring himself to impose on his unrepentant firstborn. David was not foolish, nor could he have believed that Absalom had forgotten the crime inflicted upon his sister.
Regardless of David’s reasons, I realized that another prophecy was being fulfilled before my eyes: Nathan prophesied that the sword would not leave David’s house, and it had not. When would it strike again? Whatever happened, I could not let it strike Solomon.
I walked through the palace hallways and felt death bearing down on us with a slow and stately tread. Our baby boy was dead, Amnon was dead, and Absalom and his family had fled to Geshur, where they would be protected by their maternal grandfather. The chorus of youthful voices that always enlivened the king’s banquets had been greatly diminished.
The king spent more and more time in his chamber writing, playing the harp, and struggling to put words to the emotions and troubling thoughts that assaulted him. He did not speak openly about his feelings, but his poetry and music revealed them as plainly as if he’d given us a knife and let us open his heart for examination.
In the hours when I read his poetry and listened to his music, I saw a side of David I had not seen before. So many of us thought of HaShem as exalted and holy, which He certainly was. But David cried out to God as a man who had an actual friendship with the Lord Most High. As a man opens his heart to an intimate friend, he agonized before Adonai, confessed his feelings, shared his heartbreak, admitted his failures. Then he turned to the Lord for comfort and correction even as he praised the God of heaven and earth for His glory and majesty.
My father had been devout, but he had never spoken to Adonai that way. I had watched dozens of priests go about their duties in the Tabernacle, and I had never seen any of them approach the Lord as anything like a friend. Among all the men I knew, only David loved Adonai in such a down-to-earth way.
During those dark days, I rarely saw my husband, for he spent many of his evenings alone. When he did send for me, instead of asking about Solomon or inquiring after my thoughts, he tended to vent his grief over Amnon and Absalom.
Though I understood his grief for his sons, I could not forget that Solomon was his heir by promise and prophecy. The king had not lost Shlomo, but he spent little time with him. Now that the older princes lived outside the palace, I had hoped that David would call for Solomon and begin to appreciate what an intelligent and virtuous boy he was. But the king preferred to spend his time in his chamber, writing or staring out at the site he had selected for Adonai’s Temple.
Remembering Elisheba’s advice about storing up good memories for bad days, when summoned to the king’s chamber I did everything within my power to cheer him. I talked about Amnon, glossing over his glaring failures, in the hope that David would celebrate the young man’s charms and put his memory to rest. When that approach failed, I reminded David that Amnon had been the cause of much strife among his brothers, and that he had purposefully intimidated the younger ones.
I attempted to distract David with music and dancing; he turned away as though the merry tunes rubbed salt into a wound. I dared to speak of Absalom and praise his attractiveness, and the mention of that son brought tears to the king’s eyes. After a while I surrendered the care of my husband to his other wives and concubines.
I hated to admit it, but I slept better with Amnon gone. If David had died and Amnon tried to seize the throne, I suspected that his first act would have been the execution of his half brothers. I had never cared for the spoiled boy, and my distrust had increased as the king’s firstborn developed into a young man. While he honored HaShem with sacrifices and pretty words when called upon, I never saw any evidence of genuine reverence in his heart. He had spent hours by his f
ather’s side in worship, and yet I never saw any trace of humility on his face. How could a child of David remain cold to the things of the Lord?
Yet David had always taken great pleasure in his firstborn, and to hear him talk one would think Amnon gilded every morning and sprinkled the nighttime with stars.
When I could no longer bear my frustration over David’s inattention to Solomon, I spoke to Grandfather about my feelings. He listened, nodded gravely, and tugged on his beard as I vented my exasperation. Since I knew Grandfather held no great love for my husband, I was surprised when he answered my emotional outburst with a story.
“When Adonai sent Samuel to Bethlehem to anoint one of the sons of Jesse as the next king,” he began, “Jesse assembled his seven sons to stand before the prophet. Each one passed before him, and each time Adonai told Samuel that the lad before him was not the one He had chosen. Then Samuel said to Jesse, ‘Are these all your sons?’ And Jesse said, ‘There is another, the youngest, who watches the sheep and goats out in the field.’”
I had heard the story before and frowned as Grandfather looked at me as if waiting for a reply. “The eighth son was David,” I said, shrugging. “So Samuel anointed him.”
Grandfather shook his head. “Bathsheba, do you not see? David was easily overlooked, a child whose name barely entered his father’s thoughts. Jesse didn’t summon him to stand before the prophet, and he certainly didn’t esteem him highly, if at all. The child who lives unseen by his father will perform outlandish feats, anything to be noticed. And the man who matures outside his father’s attention will not know how to be a father to his own children.”
Understanding crashed into my consciousness. David wasn’t a good father because he never had a good father. A wave of pity for my husband threatened to engulf me, but I held it at bay. While David might not have had a worthy example to follow, he still needed to teach his sons.
A mother could only do so much.
A servant told me that Elisheba waited to see me. I sent the servant to escort her to my apartment, where I embraced my old friend. “I saw Solomon riding his mule in the courtyard,” she said, smiling. “He has grown so tall!”
“He has a house of his own now,” I said. “I miss him, but I am pleased with him, and so is the king.”
“I wish I had been able to come sooner.” Elisheba held my forearms as her chin trembled. “But everything happened so quickly.” She halted, her eyes filling. “Please do not be angry, but your sister, Amaris, has married.”
Somehow I remained upright, though I couldn’t seem to stop blinking. “Married?”
“She met a shepherd from Bethlehem,” Elisheba went on, her words running together. “He was taken with her and presented me with a betrothal contract. I didn’t know what to do, so I sent him to your grandfather at Giloh.” A tear rolled down Elisheba’s lined cheek. “I am so sorry, child. I knew you would want to come to the wedding, but Amaris didn’t want to wait, and your grandfather couldn’t believe that someone wanted to marry her. So he gave his permission, the groom came for the bride, and they left yesterday for Bethlehem. Forgive me for not letting you know before today.”
I sank to a bench and felt my heart contract. Amaris was my only sibling. I had loved her deeply, and I’d always imagined she’d remain in my house with Elisheba. Now she was gone to Bethlehem to be a shepherd’s wife. I pressed my hand to the spot where my chest ached. Is this what David felt when they told him Absalom had fled?
I bowed my head. “She is happy?”
“She is overjoyed. Her new husband has two children from his late wife, so Amaris will have her hands full.”
“Do you think she will manage? She’s always had your help.”
“She will manage very well. Amaris has always been able to cope with whatever came her way.”
“I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“Don’t fret, child. She and her husband will be coming to Jerusalem for the festivals. You’ll see her then.”
I pressed my lips together and quietly adjusted my perspective. For so many years Amaris had been the baby of the family, the helpless one, but now she was twenty-eight and quite capable of being a wife and mother. Which meant that Elisheba was fifty-five and living alone—
My thoughts came to an abrupt halt. “I’m so glad you came.” I gripped her worn hands. “You have seen both of us girls safely married, and now you must come live with me. You shouldn’t live alone. I need you—I still have Shammua, Shobab, and Nathan to care for.”
Elisheba’s forehead crinkled. “How are the dear boys?”
“As fine as young boys can be. They miss Shlomo, of course. He keeps to himself these days, as Absalom remains away and his older brothers stay busy with their own affairs.”
“And his father?”
The question grated against my nerves, reminding me of the unhappy reality I kept trying to forget. “The king is . . . often preoccupied.” I forced a smile. “He does not hunt or go out as much as he used to. He is no longer a young man, and lately . . . well, he tends to dwell on memories, and not all of them are pleasant.”
Elisheba smiled, then waved my offer away. “Thank you, child, but I can’t live in the palace. I am a common woman.”
“So am I.” I caught her hand again and pressed it to my cheek. “Elisheba, I need you. My boys need you. We will sell the house, and you will be welcome to spend the rest of your life with me.”
A smile gathered up the wrinkles of Elisheba’s weathered cheeks, and her eyes filled with tears again as she nodded.
After she departed, I sent a servant to help her pack her possessions. I would move her into my suite, where she could indulge herself in the pretense of looking after me and the boys, but I would assign servants to look after her. After a lifetime of faithful service to my family, she deserved a time of rest.
And I needed a friend.
The earth itself seemed to mourn in those days. The seasonal rains did not refresh the ground that year, and everyone casually remarked that we’d had a dry season. When the rains did not fall the next year, the king’s advisors said the situation was certain to improve. During the third year, when the seasonal rains did not fall and the crops did not grow, the king’s seer reminded David that Adonai had promised to send rain at the proper time only if the people followed the Lord’s commands and walked in His ways.
From my conversations with David, I knew he feared that he had done something to displease the Lord. So as the people of Israel struggled and starved, he went to the Tabernacle to ask Adonai the reason for the famine.
The high priest, wearing the ephod with the Urim and Thummim, went into the holy place and prayed. Within a few moments, the engraved stones on the breastplate flashed, spelling out the Lord’s answer. “Famine has come upon the land,” Zadok the priest told the king, “because Saul put the people of Gibeon to death.”
Swamped by a wave of relief that he wasn’t the guilty party, David carried Adonai’s answer to his counsel room and consulted his advisors. One of the counselors reacquainted David with the history of Israel’s relationship with the people of Gibeon. When Israel began to conquer the Promised Land, the people of Gibeon heard about the destruction of Jericho and Ai. Fearing for their safety, a group of men from Gibeon pretended to come from a great distance and went to meet with the leaders of Israel. Joshua, speaking for the Israelites, met with the wily Gibeonites and entered into a treaty with them, promising that they would not be destroyed as the Israelites entered the Promised Land. In return, the Gibeonites would live safely within the territory and serve the Israelites as woodcutters and water carriers.
Years later, however, in his zeal to conquer the territory for the children of Israel, Saul set out to exterminate the Gibeonites and very nearly succeeded.
“Everything you have heard is true,” Grandfather told David. “The reason for the famine lies with Saul and his thirst for blood. The murder of the Gibeonites has polluted the land.”
David s
ent mules and a messenger to Gibeon, inviting the tribal leaders to Jerusalem. When the delegates entered the throne room, my weary husband asked what he could do to make things right.
I was seated in the great hall when the representatives from Gibeon stood before the king. David regarded them with a look of defeat, opened his hands, and confessed the nation’s guilt. “How can I make atonement so you will be able to bless Israel?”
The Gibeonites conferred among themselves, then their leader stepped forward. “Our dispute with Saul is a blood dispute that cannot be resolved with silver or gold. But as foreigners in your land, we don’t have the right to put anyone to death.”
David frowned. “Then what can I do for you?”
The leader tightened his grip on his staff. “The man who ruined us, who schemed against us so that we would cease to exist anywhere in Israel’s territory—have seven of his male descendants handed over to us. We will put them to death before Adonai in Gibeon, on the mountain of the Lord.”
I expected a horrified whisper to ripple through the great hall, but the Gibeonite’s reply was met with an almost tangible silence. The atmosphere in the royal court had changed since Amnon’s death—no trace of bravado or certainty remained. Those attitudes had been replaced by resignation and sorrow.
David nodded, his countenance sober. “It shall be done.” He gestured to my grandfather, who rose from his seat and came forward to confer with the king. They whispered for a moment, then Grandfather stepped back. David looked at me, and in his eyes I saw regret and determination. He had made up his mind . . . to do what?
“On account of the oath Jonathan and I swore before Adonai,” David said, his voice heavy with sorrow, “I will spare Mephibosheth, Jonathan’s son. But I will give you Armoni and Mephibosheth, sons of Rizpah, Saul’s concubine. I will also give you the five sons of Saul’s daughter Merab.”
My breath caught in my lungs. Merab’s sons were now Michal’s. She was not in the throne room at that moment, so she would not understand what was happening when guards showed up to take her sons away. And even though I had heard the entire story, I struggled to understand why those young men had to die. Michal lived for those boys, and she had reared them as her own sons ever since their father brought them to the palace. If someone came to take my boys away . . .
