by Angela Hunt
And then the shofar blew. Mahanaim opened its gates as the armies of David marched toward the forest of Ephraim.
As the army battled, Elisheba and I did our best to help the women of Mahanaim handle the care and feeding of so many refugees. While David’s other wives lounged beneath makeshift sun shades, we hauled water, served food, and distributed blankets for the coming night. I had just given a blanket to Abigail when I heard a familiar voice call my name. “Bathsheba!”
I whirled around and saw Amaris hobbling toward me and clinging to a man’s arm. From the look in his eye and the careful way he helped her, I surmised he was her husband.
I left Abigail and flew into my sister’s arms, then called for Elisheba. “Come see who’s here!”
Despite the dire circumstances, we shared a joyful reunion. “We left Bethlehem as soon as we heard what Absalom was planning,” Amaris’s husband, Efrayim, said. “My mother is with the children—”
“Children?” Elisheba’s face split into a wide grin.
“Twin girls,” Amaris said. “As alike as two sparrows in a nest. They are of toddling age now.”
I turned back to my sister’s patient husband. “You were on the road to Jerusalem?”
“When we heard the king had already left the palace,” Efrayim said. “We support the king, of course, and decided to follow, hoping we would be able to serve our king in some way.”
“Efrayim wanted to march out with the army,” Amaris said, color rising in her cheeks, “but I reminded him that I would be lost without him.”
“You can still serve,” Elisheba pointed out. “There is much work to be done. The king’s younger children need to be watched, or you can sit and catch up with your sister while she prepares food. You can even help.”
I smiled at the thought of sitting with Amaris. As long as our hands remained busy, our work-minded Elisheba would not mind.
“Come,” I told Amaris and Efrayim. “My boys are in a tent over there. Let’s keep our hands occupied while the men battle. We can talk while we wait.”
“And pray,” Amaris said.
“And pray,” I agreed.
I am not a soldier. A woman’s weapons are words and smiles and the careful arrangement of the folds in a garment, so I do not know how to fight with swords or pikes or spears.
After two or three hours of sitting in my children’s tent, the king sent for me. I left Amaris and Efrayim and walked to his tent, prepared to give him silent support for as long as he needed me.
I do not know what happened out in the forest that day, but I can tell you what David endured in the hours of waiting. Inside the royal tent, the king paced. He looked at the delicious foods our hosts had prepared for him, but he could not eat. Occasionally he stared at me with a bewildered expression, and I knew he was thinking of my grandfather and wondering how Ahithophel could give Absalom good, solid advice while thoroughly betraying his king.
Though most of David’s children had accompanied us into exile, only two of the king’s sons waited with us: Solomon, who remained close to me, and twenty-eight-year-old Adonijah, Haggith’s quiet son. Shammua and Shobab waited with Amaris, Elisheba, and Efrayim, and I’d asked Nathan to watch over Abigail.
Both Solomon and Adonijah wanted to accompany the army into the fray, but David had refused to allow either of them to fight. Now they sat silently and watched their fretful father, and from my perspective it was hard to tell whether David agonized more over his broken kingdom or his traitorous child.
The crisis must have stirred the king’s memories, for occasionally he would interrupt our quiet vigil with a story. He told us about slaying the giant Goliath when he was merely a lad in Saul’s camp. He chuckled when he told us about how he had pretended to be insane, scratching and drooling down his beard, when he had to face King Achish of Gath, a fierce Philistine.
He grew serious when he related the story of how he and his men had come home and discovered the Amalekites had raided their town and carried off the women and children. “We stood and wept until we could weep no more,” he said. “My men were so unhappy about losing their families that they began to talk about stoning me. But I found strength in Adonai. I asked Abiathar to bring me the ephod, and then I asked the Lord if I should chase after the raiders. The Lord said I should. He said I would recover everything that had been taken from me.”
David fell silent, and I knew he was wondering if Adonai would make that same promise today. But Solomon, who did not know his father’s moods as well as I did, wanted to know the end of the story. “What happened, sir?”
Brought back to the present, David looked at Solomon. “I went after them—with six hundred men. When we reached a brook, two hundred were too exhausted to cross the waters, so I continued on with four hundred. During our pursuit we found a starving Egyptian slave left to die in a field and learned that he had belonged to one of the raiders. With his help we found the Amalakites and spent the next night and day slaughtering them.
“We rescued every soul who had been taken from us, including Ahinoam and Abigail, two of my wives. We received our flocks, our herds, and more plunder besides. And we used the plunder to send gifts to the elders of Judah. Let that be a lesson to you: never forget to honor your friends.”
“If we have any,” Adonijah said with a weak laugh, but I did not care for his joke.
Ignoring Adonijah’s comment, David reached out and placed his hand on Solomon’s head. “Do not fear, son. Adonai is with us.”
“Is there anything,” Solomon asked, “you regret, Father?”
“Many things,” David said, his gaze moving to me. “Too many to count. But chief among them is the day I stopped to ask for help at Nob, where Ahimelech the priest lived. The priest did not know that Saul fancied I wanted to kill him, and I didn’t tell the priest that Saul wanted to kill me. The priest gave me holy bread to eat because I was starving, and the sword of Goliath the giant because I had no weapon. I left and spared no thought for the priests at Nob until Abiathar, one of Ahimelech’s sons, caught up to me. He told me that Saul had followed me to Nob, learned that Ahimelech had given me aid, and ordered his men to kill all the priests of Adonai. When they refused, Doeg the Edomite killed eighty-five priests of the Lord. Then he killed their families—men and women, children and babies, even the cattle, donkeys, sheep, and goats. Only Abiathar managed to escape.”
David turned toward the tent opening, and in that hard light I saw the face of an old man.
“I would urge you never to risk innocent people’s lives,” David said, looking back at Shlomo. “But more than that, I would urge you to be a man of peace.”
The sound of a shout broke the tension, and a moment later a runner stumbled into our presence. “My lord, I bring you—” he placed his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath—“news of the battle.”
David seemed not to notice that the man hadn’t bothered to kneel. “How fares our army?”
A broad smile crossed the man’s flushed face. “The forest favors your men, my lord. Absalom’s force is too large, and his men have not been trained to fight among trees and rocks. Your army is more nimble. Your men scamper over stones while Absalom’s force struggles to make headway in the woods. The forest and wild beasts are claiming more of his men than the sword.”
David crossed his arms. “And Absalom?”
The runner shook his head. “No word of him, my lord.”
David pressed his lips together, then stepped forward and clapped the man on the shoulder. “Thank you. Now get some water and take a moment to rest. Then go back and be sure to bring word if you hear news of my son.”
The runner nodded his appreciation, bowed, and hurried away.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Nathan
I AM A PROPHET, NOT A WARRIOR, so I did not leave with David’s army. I am no diplomat, either, so instead of lingering near the king’s tent, I found a shady spot beneath a tree outside the city walls. Here I’d be able to
pray in silence and I wouldn’t bother the citizens of Mahanaim, who were busy preparing food and drink for the refugees from Jerusalem.
I stretched out beneath my tree and studied the faces of Mahanaim’s women, older men, and children. None of them seemed to resent the burden of caring for the king and his household, and many actually smiled as if they were thrilled to be so close to the king they had admired from afar. I found it ironic that they should be so pleased, because Mahanaim had been the city from which Saul’s son Ishbosheth reigned ever so briefly after his father’s death. The passing years must have eradicated the residents’ loyalty to Saul, for they now worked diligently for David.
A hush fell over the city as the afternoon sun climbed high in the sky. My eyelids grew heavy. I folded my hands, ready to avail myself of some much-needed sleep, when a familiar darkness settled behind my eyes, one that had nothing to do with exhaustion or slumber.
A thrill of anticipation chilled my spine. The city of Mahanaim and the king’s tent vanished from my sight, replaced by a shadowed, woody realm. Tall trees canopied the area, while lush undergrowth carpeted the floor and covered the rocks that had tumbled from a mountain generations before. A dead tree, rotting and terraced with fungus, lay on the forest floor, its massive girth impeding the progress of the soldiers who cursed and struggled to make their way through the woods.
Then I saw Absalom astride his mule, sword in one hand, reins in the other. He shouted at his men and slashed at tangled vines that hung like spider webs, but the forest swallowed up his words. His mule balked at the dead tree even as soldiers clambered over it, so Absalom kicked the animal and urged it to go around the fallen log. Separated from his men, Absalom rode parallel to his faltering front line, abruptly driving the mule into the forest. Half blind with panic, the animal spied an opening and ran like a hen dodging the ax, dragging his rider into a tangle formed by the low-hanging branches of a giant terebinth tree. The mule ran on, leaping over stones and shrubs, while Absalom dangled helplessly, his prized, much-admired hair caught in the tree limbs.
With a shiver of vivid recollection, I stared at a scene I had viewed before. I had dreamed of this, and in my dream I had seen hell open before Absalom’s feet.
I took a wincing breath, stunned beyond words by the new vision playing on the backs of my eyelids. Absalom twisted and jerked and roared in frustration as the branches kept him suspended between heaven and earth. He pulled his dagger from his belt and began to cut his hair.
His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper when the nearby shrubbery rustled and one of Joab’s men stepped out. The soldier stared up at the captive prince, his face blank with shock, and then he disappeared. Absalom roared in frustration, doubtless aware that the man had gone for help. But by the time the bushes rattled their leaves again, he hung quiet and still.
Surrounded by ten armor bearers, Joab stepped out of the devouring woods and stared up at Absalom, his kinsman, his prince, and the man who would forever be a threat to David and the kingdom of Israel. The commander held three sticks in his hand, one for each company of David’s small army, and with little effort he reached up and thrust the sticks into the heart of the man who had burned Joab’s barley fields, betrayed his king, and brought turmoil to Israel. As the prince gasped his last breaths, the armor bearers pulled him down, closed in, and finished the kill.
Joab pulled a ram’s horn from his belt and blew it, signaling every man on the field.
The battle was finished, the victory won.
The rebellion was over.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Bathsheba
AT THE SOUND OF THE SHOFAR, David straightened and stared out the doorway of his tent. “It’s finished,” he whispered, so faintly I could barely hear him.
Solomon and Adonijah stood, but waited for their father to lead the way to the city gate. Bloodied warriors began to trickle in, exhausted and covered with sweat, yet all but the most severely wounded were smiling as they reported the flight of the enemy.
I closed my eyes and silently thanked Adonai for His grace and mercy. If Absalom had reached our camp, he would have killed David and all of David’s children. And he would have killed me, because I would have forced him to go through me to reach my sons.
My thoughts shifted from my sons to my husband, who stood alert and hopeful between the inner and outer gates of Mahanaim. He watched the returning troops with bright eyes, but his gaze barely skimmed the soldiers, his eyes searching for one man with long, thick hair.
Fear tightened my stomach as the king began to question warriors, pulling them away from their comrades to ask if they had seen young Absalom. David, David . . . why did he have such great love for the son who least deserved it?
A watchman on the walkway above the gate let out a shout. “A runner! A man is running toward the city.”
David turned and caught my eye. “If he is alone, he has news.”
The watchman cried again, “Here comes another runner! And the first runs like Ahimaaz, the son of Zadok.”
“Ah.” David smiled at me, the light of hope shining from his eyes. “He is a good man and comes with a good report.”
A moment later the priest’s son bowed before David and lowered his face to the ground.
“Up, son,” David urged. “Tell me everything.”
“Everything is all right,” Ahimaaz said, rising to his knees. “Praise the Lord your God, who has handed over the rebels who dared stand against my lord the king.”
“What about young Absalom?” The king searched Ahimaaz’s face. “Is he all right?”
The messenger flinched almost imperceptibly, but the slight movement caught my eye. The young man cleared his throat, then met the king’s earnest gaze. “When Joab told me to come, many men were milling about in the area. I didn’t know what was happening.”
David squeezed his arm. “Wait. Another runner comes.”
Ahimaaz moved aside, blending into the growing crowd around the king. When the young man’s gaze crossed mine, he looked away—and that was when I knew Absalom’s fate.
The second runner, an Ethiopian mercenary, approached and fell to his knees before David. “Rise, man,” David said. “Stand and deliver your news.”
“I have good news for my lord the king,” the man said, scrambling to his feet. “Today the Lord has rescued you from all those who rebelled against you.”
“And what about young Absalom?” David’s eyes gleamed. “Is he all right?”
A bright smile split the Ethiopian’s dark face. “May all of your enemies, my lord the king, both now and in the future, share the fate of that young man!”
Time stopped in that moment. The Ethiopian’s words echoed in the stillness. Somewhere a baby cried, a dog barked, and swords slapped against leather armor. David staggered at the man’s words, toppling sideways toward Adonijah, and I reached out, too late, to comfort the king. Bewildered by his father’s unusual display of weakness, Adonijah stepped backward, forcing David to land on the packed earth of the gateway. Other men helped him to his feet, someone murmured soothing words, and I finally reached his side. I slipped my arm around his waist, and someone put David’s arm around my shoulder. Together we moved toward the narrow stairway that led to a small room over the fortified gate.
Once we were inside the watchman’s room, David sank to the stone floor and wept as I had never heard him weep before. Not even on the sorrowful walk to the Mount of Olives had he wept with such passion. I held him, allowing him to bury his face in my lap as I draped my arm around his trembling shoulders. From what David said, I gathered that he wept not only for the loss of his son’s life but also for his indifferent treatment of the young man.
“Oh, my son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you! Oh, Absalom, my son, my son . . .”
I caressed his face, felt his tears burn my fingers like hot wax as a memory ruffled through my mind. My grandfather might have sided with the wrong man in this war, but at least
he had understood the problems between David and his sons. “The child who grows up unnoticed by his father will perform outlandish feats,” he had told me, and Absalom had been such a child, as had David. “And the man who grows up outside his father’s attention will not know how to be a father to his own children.”
I smoothed stray hairs from David’s damp forehead and gently whispered his name. He had been more king than father to his sons, but still, he loved them. Even though he never knew how to show it.
I heard a timid rap at the door. David tightened his grip on me, so I answered. “Who is it?”
The door creaked, and in the narrow opening I saw Nathan the prophet. He glanced at the king, then turned to me. “My lady,” he said, bowing slightly, “we have received news that concerns you.”
My pulse quickened. “Solomon?”
“No, your grandfather. After Absalom spurned his advice yesterday, Ahithophel saddled his donkey, went home to Giloh, and set his affairs in order. They found him this morning, hanging from a tree.”
I blinked. Suicide? Grandfather was not a quitter, but having betrayed one king and finding his advice ignored by another, he probably thought he had no further reason to live.
Either that or he put the noose around his neck with quiet satisfaction, content that he had finally avenged Uriah’s murder.
Tears streamed over my cheeks, but I wasn’t really crying—they were the result of an overflow of feeling, too many emotions compressed in too short a time.
“Thank you for telling me,” I whispered.
In the prophet’s eyes I saw understanding, compassion, and something that looked a little like love.
Chapter Fifty
Nathan
