The Secret Book of Kings: A Novel

by Yochi Brandes

  What the maids were saying momentarily alleviated my distress. I was glad people were finally talking about Merab’s beauty, too, not just mine. But when I pictured those long skilled fingers taking her hand from Father the following week, the poisonous fire began to lick at my throat once again.

  “What a beautiful bride,” said the people of the palace.

  “What a regal bride,” said the people of Judah.

  “What a lucky bride,” said the young women of Israel, as they held final rehearsals for their breathtaking dance performance.

  Only Mother, who still remembered how her own eyes sparkled on the eve of her wedding, could see that something was wrong. “Look at our daughter,” she said to Father with concern. “It’s as if she is going to a funeral.”

  But Father calmed her, telling her it was all in her head. “That’s just how brides are,” he chuckled. “Have you forgotten what you were like before our wedding?”

  And Jonathan, our eldest brother, kept badgering me, day and night: “Why shouldn’t both of you marry the men you love? Merab loves Adriel, and you love David. Don’t deny it. You don’t love Paltiel anymore. I know you too well, Sister. Switch places with Merab. Don’t sentence yourselves to two unhappy marriages. It’s up to you alone. Switch places with her!”

  It wasn’t Jonathan’s efforts at persuasion that made me change my mind, but rather the humiliating realization—which penetrated slowly, through nights mad with longing—that I could live without his love, but I couldn’t live without him.

  Then, three days before the wedding, I shared my feelings with Merab. I kept nothing from her. I even described the jealousy that ate away at me in all of its ugliness.

  She shut her eyes and said nothing.

  “Say something,” I begged her.

  “What’s there to say? You’re mistaken.”

  “Mistaken in what way?”

  “Do you really think that David loves me? Look in his eyes. Can’t you see it?”

  “I see incomparable eyes like I’ve never seen on anyone else before.”

  “The eyes of a person who doesn’t know what love is. David doesn’t love me, Michal. You’re attributing feelings to him from your own naïve heart. David has never loved, doesn’t love, and never will. He wants me only because I’m a princess, and he prefers me over you because I’m the older sister. Samuel the Prophet can make as many fiery speeches as he wants against primogeniture, but David knows the truth. Being a firstborn does count, especially in the royal family. I’m just a ladder for him to climb on his path to royalty. You see, Sister? That’s what David needs—a ladder, not a love.”

  * * *

  Now, I tell myself when Merab finishes talking. Now, before it’s too late. And right away, without pausing even for a moment, I call for Jonathan and tell him to summon David to meet me at the old well at the edge of the fig grove. And I give him one more instruction, whispering it into his ear so that Merab will not hear it and try to stop it.

  Jonathan is delighted with my decision but tries to persuade me to tell Father the truth and not go behind his back. I remind him that it would take at least a week for Father’s rage to subside, and by that time Merab would have been given to David already. He knows that I’m right, but he is paralyzed by fear. I promise him that once Father calms down he’ll appreciate what we’ve done and will be glad to have a crown prince who is bold enough to choose his own path. It’ll be just like after the battle of Mikmash—at first he was enraged over what he called a reckless invasion of the enemy camp, but once he calmed down, he openly admitted that it had been the reason for our victory.

  What I’ve said gives my brother the courage to act, and he heads out to summon David to the well, and Adriel and Merab to the apple tree. And when the surprised David gets to me, I stand before him with my back erect, and I look him in the eye. “Merab hates you,” I tell him.

  He fixes his serene eyes upon me. They show no surprise. There is silence all around us, except for the sound of crickets chirping that rises from the well.

  “David,” my lips whisper. “I love you. Have me instead of her. I know you don’t love me, and I am willing to be your Leah.”

  “It’s not up to me,” says David. “Your father chose to give me Merab. One cannot overrule the king.”

  “One can,” I say. “Jonathan is doing so as we speak.”

  His pretty eyes narrow. “Jonathan would never contravene the king’s decision.”

  “Merab will marry Adriel,” I whisper. Then louder: “And I will marry you.”

  A wisp of tension, nearly invisible, passes like a dark cloud over his serene expression and etches a tiny wrinkle of worry between his wine-colored eyebrows. “I’ll marry both of you,” he declares, “just like our patriarch, Jacob.”

  The bitterness of my laughter deepens the furrow in his brow. “At this moment,” I tell him, “at this very moment, Adriel is paying the bride price to Jonathan—a real bride price, not the foreskins of Philistines.”

  “Jonathan would never violate the king’s command!” he cries.

  “At this moment,” I repeat, “at this very moment, Adriel the Meholathite is taking the hand of his beloved from her brother and leading her to the apple tree. She is clinging to him and letting him drink of her love.”

  “The king will kill him.” Beads of sweat well up above his upper lip. “He’ll kill them both.”

  “Father won’t kill his son-in-law.” My confident smile makes his eyelids tremble. “And he certainly won’t kill his son. He’ll get mad. Father is good at getting mad. But his rage will soon subside, and he will accept Adriel. The glow of his daughter’s face will cool his anger, and then he’ll summon you, ask for your forgiveness, and offer you his younger daughter as compensation. That’s what Father will do. I know him.”

  His thick lashes flutter nervously, as if trying to keep out the bitter news. I step closer, standing right in front of him and taking in his breath. “Take me, David; you have no other princess. I do not demand your love, only that I be your one and only wife. Promise me that you will never take another.”

  A long moment passes. “I promise,” he says at last.

  I close my eyes. Darkness envelops me. I feel nothing. “I always thought I was Rachel,” the words escape me involuntarily. “Now I know that I’m Leah.”

  With a quick shake of his head he tosses his red curls off his forehead. His skilled fingers stroke my bare arms, climb to my face, caress my cheeks, and slide down my neck.

  “You aren’t Leah, Michal,” he whispers. “You are Rachel. You will always be my Rachel.”

  Eight

  The roars of rage that emerged from the throne room terrified the palace servants. Yet only two days later, everyone breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the smile that lit up the king’s face when, upon leaving his rooms, he saw the joy in both his daughters’ eyes and realized that Jonathan had done the right thing. While it ought to be unthinkable for a son to violate his father’s command and help his sisters choose their own husbands, isn’t that precisely the quality an heir to the throne requires? Isn’t it far better that he be bold and independent than weak and complacent?

  When, on my wedding day, I walked into Father’s chamber wearing my sister’s dress in order to receive his blessing, he let out an appreciative gasp and kissed the fair hair that flowed down my shoulders under a pearl tiara. He gave me the same blessing that was given to Rebecca before she left Haran: “May you increase to thousands upon thousands; may your offspring possess the cities of their haters.”

  “We have no more haters, Father.” I tried to conceal the lump in my throat. “The Philistines have been vanquished, and they will not dare to attack us in the foreseeable future.”

  “Haters and enemies are not the same,” Abner interposed himself into this private moment between father and daughter. “Enemies come from the outside, while haters rise up out of your own people.”

  “We have no haters, either,” I s
aid, laughing. “The nation of Israel loves Father and will be grateful to him and to his descendants forever.”

  And I truly had no hater on my wedding day. Even Paltiel son of Laish demonstrated astonishing magnanimity and came to the palace to tell me that he did not hold a grudge against me.

  Not a muscle moved in his chiseled face, but his velvety eyes revealed the agony raging inside him. I looked into those eyes, which could melt my heart not so long ago, and I yearned for that other pair of eyes, the ones that would soon be looking at me with their special light, and for those long skilled fingers that would take my hand from Father.

  “I’m sorry.” I looked at the ground.

  “I know you did it for your sister.”

  I was about to correct him, but then I saw that it would be better to sacrifice honesty for the sake of compassion.

  “Thank you, Paltiel.” I said his name softly, almost the way I used to. “I thought you’d hate me.”

  “I love you, Michal,” he choked. “No one in the world can take that away from me.”

  The voices of the crowd that had gathered in Gibeah from all across the land filtered in through the palace windows, asking in amazement: Merab was given to Adriel?

  And a moment later, in shock: Michal loves David?

  And then, with anxiety: Is this now the custom here? Our own daughters might follow suit and choose their own mates, and then how could we get rid of our disgrace?

  And finally, with acceptance: The king approves of Michal’s love. At least our hero is marrying the prettier of the two princesses.

  Only the commotion caused by the uninvited guest from Judah threatened to put a damper on my joy. He arrived at the palace gates mere hours before the wedding ceremony and demanded to see the bride right away. The guards tried to explain that members of the royal family did not make it their practice to meet with just anyone, and certainly not on this day, but he grabbed hold of the stones of the gate and screamed at the top of his lungs that Merab could not possibly fathom whom she was about to marry.

  “Merab was given to Adriel the Meholathite three days ago in a modest family ceremony,” the guards corrected him patiently. “The one who’s about to get married with all the pomp and circumstance is Michal, the younger princess.”

  “She is whoever she is,” he cried, “but I have to warn her before it’s too late!”

  One of the maids overheard this exchange and rushed to give me the worrisome news of the madman standing at the palace gate and defaming my beloved. I did what I could to calm her down, assuring her that the guards knew how to handle these sorts of cases, but she persisted, telling me that he was an especially compelling speaker and that people were gathering around and listening attentively to what he had to say. I was angry at the guards for failing to fulfill their duties and decided to go myself to make sure they sent away the man who would dare make a scene on the happiest day of my life. But, on second thought, I realized that being banished by the royal bride for all to see might turn this madman into a hero and only make people listen to him even more intently.

  “Tell the guards to let him in, and bring him to the palace garden,” I instructed the bewildered maid.

  I sat on my favorite bench, in the shadow of the pomegranate tree and the olive tree, and considered the situation. In just about an hour, the crowd will be gathering at the foot of the stage, enthralled, as the marriage ceremony unfolds. Nothing will be able to distract them then. As such, I have to convince this madman that I am interested in what he has to say so that he will tell his story at length until the ceremony begins.

  The maid returned moments later with a powerful-looking young man. I had to admit that the look in his eyes was not at all mad.

  “Who are you?”

  He bowed quickly. “Elhanan son of Jair, of Bethlehem.”

  “What do you want?”

  He surveyed my dress in wonder, then he looked into my eyes and said nothing. His handsome face expressed sadness. “The things I am about to tell you will make you miserable,” he said at last. “But silence is even worse.”

  “Speak!”

  * * *

  What astounded me most of all was how carried away I got by his story. At first he jumped around from one thing to another, moving back and forth between past and present, between love and hate, between laughter and rage, but eventually he started to put his ideas in order. “It’s all true,” he repeated. “You must believe me. You must not marry this man.”

  With warmth and enthusiasm, he described his father, Jair, a weaver from Bethlehem, who had passed away many years earlier, leaving four young orphans behind. If it hadn’t been for the generosity of their neighbor, Jesse, they would have starved to death, along with their widowed mother, or been sold as slaves. At around the same time, Jesse lost his wife and was left on his own with ten orphans, two girls and eight boys. Zeruiah, his eldest daughter, herself already a mother of three, took over the upbringing of her siblings and cared for them with great devotion. She took special care of little David, who had been only three when his mother died. Jesse and Zeruiah decided to invite Elhanan, the youngest of Jair’s sons, to live with them so that David wouldn’t feel so lonely. The two boys were raised as brothers and were practically soul mates. When they got older, they watched over Jesse’s many herds of sheep together.

  I was pleased to hear about my beloved as a small child and as part of a family, and even more pleased to learn of the kindness of my father-in-law, Jesse, but I also knew the story was about to move in another direction and turn into malicious slander.

  Elhanan admiringly described the musical talent of the young son of Jesse, who built wonderful instruments out of reeds, goat skins, antlers, and even hollow stones, and who was able to make them produce captivating melodies that he composed himself. The proud father was delighted with his young son’s extraordinary talent, not to mention his handsome features, but his seven brothers and the three sons of his sister Zeruiah would admonish him for his childish wasting of time. They would scornfully proclaim that Jesse’s family had ten strong men who would soon be warriors in the king’s army and one little boy who squandered away his life on frivolous musical games.

  The seven sons of Jesse and the three sons of Zeruiah truly did make the journey to the land of Benjamin to enlist in the army, while David continued to frolic in the fields of Bethlehem. But, contrary to what his brothers believed, David was also planning on becoming a warrior, and to get himself ready, he carved swords out of flint for himself and for Elhanan, and they would engage in mock battles with each other. When they turned seventeen, the two ambitious boys abandoned the sheep and set out for Gibeah intending to join the king’s army. Abner son of Ner held out little hope for the two shepherds but agreed to let them undergo the usual examinations. Eventually, he decided to accept only the powerful Elhanan and sent the other shepherd home. The disappointed David tried to convince Abner that, though his arms didn’t ripple with muscles and he wasn’t especially tall, he was a quick-witted warrior; that he had once pummeled to death a bear that had threatened his father’s herd; and that he had even chased down a lion that had stolen one of his sheep, managing to free the poor animal from the lion’s maw. But Abner replied that lions and bears didn’t have iron weapons and suggested that the eager boy return home to Bethlehem and go on chasing wild animals away from his father’s herds. But David was not one to give up so easily. He pounded on the palace doors, seeking to join the king’s troupe of musicians. His skilled fingers worked their magic, quickly making him the king’s personal player. But this was not enough for him. He continued to dream of a great future as a mighty hero. When he met Elhanan from time to time outside the camp, he would always tell his friend that he, the youngest of Jesse’s sons, would yet become a senior officer in the king’s army, and that he would show those ten strongmen which son was truly the most worthy.

  Elhanan had assumed these visions of grandeur would find their outlet in music, but then the w
ar broke out in the Valley of Elah and proved how wrong he was. During the long period of waiting before the fighting began, when he was encamped on the battlefield with the other soldiers, he was surprised one night to find David at his bedside. At first, he’d assumed that the king had summoned his favorite musician in an attempt to get some relief from the stress he was under, but David explained in hushed tones that Prince Abinadab had given him special leave so he could tend to his father’s herd since all the other shepherds had joined the army. While wandering the fields of Bethlehem, he had heard rumors of the prize that was to be given to whoever killed Goliath, and he immediately abandoned the herd and rushed to the camp to persuade his friend to join him. Elhanan was reluctant to leave his post and reminded David of the punishment for desertion, especially in wartime. But David declared confidently that the hero who killed Goliath would receive no punishment. Elhanan was forced to admit that David’s argument made sense, as long as his desertion actually did lead to the desired result, something that was not at all certain, for even if the God of their ancestors was at their side and put Goliath in their path, it was doubtful that they would be able to cut off his head. Rumor had it that his plated armor weighed no less than five thousand copper coins and that only an iron sword could cut through it. They had neither an iron sword, nor anything else made of iron for that matter. The Philistines guarded the secret of iron well, and not a blacksmith could be found in the whole land of Israel.

  David listened patiently to these reasonable objections and then answered each one in turn. He explained to his worried friend that Goliath would have to pass through Judah on his way from Gath to the Valley of Elah, and that only experienced shepherds like them, who knew every nook and cranny, could track him down. They would wait patiently for him to fall asleep, then tiptoe over, silent as tigers, and cut off his head with the iron weaver’s beam that was used years ago by the late Jair. Those kinds of beams had once been common, but now that the Philistines no longer sold iron to Israel, they had become rare.