The Book of God: The Bible as a Novel

by Wangerin Jr. , Walter

  WHEN HE WAS twenty-two years old, Amnon—the son of David by his wife Ahinoam—fell violently in love with Tamar. It was a forbidden love, and he grew sick with it: for she was also a child of David, by his wife, Maacah, who was also the mother of Absalom. Tamar was Amnon’s half-sister.

  She was just entering womanhood, a virgin of slant eyes, deep red hair, and dark complexion. Her face was older than her soul. She had no idea what passions she aroused in men.

  In Amnon. So tormented was he by his inability to have this woman that he took to his bed and soon the entire royal household began to worry about him.

  David himself came to his oldest son and said, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Amnon said, “Yes. Yes, let my sister Tamar come and make some cakes while I watch, that I might eat them from her hand.”

  The king granted his request. He sent Tamar to Amnon, saying, “Prepare food for your brother.”

  She did. Tamar came to Amnon’s house and there took dough and kneaded it and made the cakes in his sight. She baked them and carried them to him that he might, exactly as he had requested, eat them from her own hand.

  But he refused to eat.

  He said to his personal aide, “Send the servants away, and you—wait out in the courtyard.”

  When they were alone, he said to his sister, “Bring the food into my chamber.”

  Tamar obeyed. She brought the cakes into Amnon’s private room. She took one and knelt and reached it carefully toward his mouth.

  Suddenly Amnon grabbed her wrist. He was panting, bathed in a sick sweat, his eyes moist with pleading. “Lie with me!” he said.

  Tamar uttered a frightened cry. “No! You are my brother! No!” she said. “Where could I go in my shame? No—”

  But Amnon, growling, did not release her. He tore her robe open and threw her backward on his bedding and raped her. As soon as he finished, he jumped away from her.

  She was crying. Her face was blotched white and red. She still lay on his bed, bleeding into the blankets. She had drawn her knees up and seemed to contract into herself like a larva curling around the point of a knife. Amnon said, “Get out of here!”

  She shook her head and kept crying. He began to pace in the small room.

  “Get up! Get off my bed!” he said.

  She tightened into a hard ball. Her red hair now seemed obscene, sticking to her face. Amnon said, “Stop your whining. What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know when you’re not wanted? Go on—get out of my rooms.”

  “No,” she sobbed. “I will stay with you.” Then the hatred with which Amon hated her was greater than any love that he had felt for her before.

  “If you don’t go,” he roared, “I will throw you out!”

  She said, “My brother, this wrong in sending me away is greater than the other which you did to me.”

  Amnon, seething with fury, called his aide in from the courtyard. “Pick this whore up, and carry her from my house!” Gingerly the young aide carried Tamar from the room while Amnon shouted, “Bolt the door behind her!” Tamar had come to Amnon wearing a long robe with sleeves, the dress of the daughters of kings who are yet virgins. Now she did not change the garment, despite its long rip and its soiling. Instead, she tore it almost to rags and covered her hair with ashes and went to the house of her brother, Absalom.

  “What? Tamar, what happened?” Absalom asked. She fell into his arms, and he held her tightly until she could control her sobbing. Then she whispered into his ear, “Amnon, Amnon—”

  Absalom grew very still. “Hold your peace, my sister,” he said. “Stay here. Live here with me, and wait. Wait.”

  So she lived with Absalom as a desolate woman. And they waited. They heard that David knew of the crime. They heard, too, that their father the king was very angry with Amnon. But a whole year passed in which he did nothing to punish Amnon or else to right this wrong.

  Absalom said bitterly, “Like father, like son. Maybe one sinner can’t bring himself to condemn another sinner. Wait, Tamar. Be patient, and perhaps I will find a way to take matters into my own hands.”

  Another year passed.

  Then, at the time of sheepshearing, Absalom announced that he would celebrate the season by giving an elaborate feast at Baal-hazor. He invited all of his brothers, the sons of the king, to come and eat with him. They did, in a high good humor.

  Here, then, gathered the glory of David’s kingdom, the next generation, eighteen men and lads all talking and laughing. They ate succulent food. They drank remarkable wines. And when the evening came and their hearts were merry, the servants of Absalom walked quickly through the banquet hall, holding knives beneath their robes. They surrounded Amnon, and just as that man felt an alien presence around him, Absalom cried a command, and his servants stabbed his oldest brother to death.

  The rest of the king’s sons rose up, horrified. They ran out of the hall, leaped to their mules, and rode hard to Jerusalem in order to separate themselves from the bloody scene and to prove their innocence.

  Shephathiah and Ithream did not stop in Jerusalem. These two continued on into the hill country of Judah, where they settled at a distance from royalty and intrigue. They chose, rather, to follow the sheep as their grandfather had, and their father, before royalty had consumed him.

  Absalom fled in the opposite direction, to Geshur, the kingdom northeast of Israel where his mother’s father ruled as king. Immediately, King David issued a decree that the murderer of his son must remain in Geshur as an exile, forbidden to come home again. It was an appropriate punishment.

  But David’s heart yearned for his beautiful boy. Who else displayed such grace and bearing as Absalom? In which other son did David find his own deepest notions of royalty reflected? Amnon could never be recovered. And Absalom was as good as dead.

  King David, the ruler of many nations, paced his rooftop gardens, sad and distracted. He built a booth on the roof of the palace, so that he might stay there even in the rains and in the noonday sun.

  JOAB CARED NOTHING for appearances—except when they betrayed hidden truths. And in these latter months he could not help observing changes in the king’s demeanor. David’s red hair was shot with white. His quick eyes had lost their golden flecks; they were merely brown and tired. His body was growing sickly white and hollow. He wasn’t eating well. He spent his time alone on the palace roof.

  This was Joab’s interpretation of internal truth: the king was pining for Absalom. It was an indulgence Joab did not share. He never pined. Nor did he have feelings for Absalom. In fact, he thought the fellow a bit affected—cutting his hair but once a year, then weighing the cut as though this were a ceremony of some significance. On the other hand, as long as the king languished in loneliness, the kingdom itself was compromised.

  For purely pragmatic reasons, then, Joab devised a way to draw David out. He fetched from the town of Tekoa a wise woman. He dressed her in the clothes of one who is mourning, and he sent her to the king with a carefully constructed speech.

  The woman said, “Help, O king!”

  He said, “What is your trouble?”

  She said, “Alas, I am a widow. I had two sons to carry his name—but they quarreled with one another, and one of my sons struck the other and killed him. Now the whole family is demanding that I hand over to them my last son, to destroy him. But he is the heir. They would quench my coal and leave my husband neither name nor remnant on the earth.”

  Quickly King David rendered a decision, “Go to your house,” he said. “I will give orders to protect your son.”

  The woman pressed her case, “Pray, let the king invoke the Lord,” she begged, “that the avenger of blood slay no more and my son be not destroyed.”

  David said, “As the Lord lives, not one hair of your son shall fall to the ground.”

  Immediately, then, the woman stood up straight and true. “Doesn’t the king realize that he convicts himself in this decision?” she said.

  David d
rew back, frowning.

  The woman said, “My lord the king is like the angel of God, able to discern good and evil. You likewise had two sons. One killed the other, and you banished the living one. But what has been the result? Not only is a father deprived, but a whole kingdom is deprived of its heritage. Sir, Absalom is heir to your throne! Bring him home again. We all must die. We are like water spilt on the ground, which cannot be gathered up again. Amnon cannot come back. But Absalom can—”

  King David gazed narrowly at the woman. “Is the hand of Joab in this?” he said.

  She answered, “The king has wisdom like an angel of God. Yes, Joab bade me say these words exactly as I’ve said them.”

  David nodded and nodded, the flash of something like anger and something like glee in his eye. “The man needs no helmet. He has a skull of bronze.”

  So David reversed his earlier decree. He allowed Joab to bring Absalom back to Jerusalem. But he folded his arms and added: “Let him dwell apart in his own house. He is still banished from the king’s presence!”

  David was on the rooftop when Absalom entered Jerusalem through the western gate. From above, the father saw his beautiful boy, the flowing black hair and the bearing more martial and magnificent than any other son of his. He also saw Absalom glance up and then raise a hand in greeting—but he, the king, only looked and did not return the salute.

  For two years David watched Absalom from a distance. For two years he felt it necessary to continue the difficult discipline. He hardened his expression whenever the young man rode by. But he watched, fascinated by Absalom’s boldness. The son looked directly at his father, steadfastly into his eyes, unashamed, looking and looking as if searching for something. How long could David maintain the juridical pose? Sometimes to be king was almost more than he could bear.

  And then one day Joab entered the king’s chambers with a growl of irritation and a strong smell of smoke. His clothing was streaked with sweat and ash. A grass fire. “My lord,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned you can do what you please with that son of yours. His word bears no force with me; I have no complicity in this. Nevertheless, he has persuaded me to bring you a message.”

  “Absalom,” David said.

  “Absalom, son of Maacah. Yes.”

  “Please,” said David softly, “what message?”

  “Lord Absalom says, ‘Why have I come from Geshur? It would be better for me to be there still. Let me come into the presence of the king, and if there is guilt in me, let him kill me.’”

  “That’s what he said? He thinks I might kill him?”

  Joab shrugged. “I don’t pretend to interpret.”

  “Were his spirits crushed? Kill him! What else did he say?”

  “I didn’t wait to hear more.” Joab turned to leave. He paused at the door of David’s chambers and said, “My lord, the boy kept sending for me as if I were some sort of servant. I ignored him—until this morning when someone set my barley field afire, and I ran to put it out, and there he was, holding the torches, and that’s what he said. No, his spirits were not crushed.”

  Joab went out in disgust.

  David scarcely noticed. “That I might kill him!” he murmured. “He thinks the king’s discipline could ever go so far as to kill him?”

  So David broke his hard pose. He called Absalom to himself, and when the handsome man strode through the main door of his house, David ran to him and embraced him and kissed him. “Absalom!” he wept. “Oh, my son, how I have missed you!”

  IN THOSE DAYS Absalom got himself a chariot and horses and fifty men to run before him wherever he went, a personal bodyguard. He began to rise early in the morning and to stand all day in the city gate. When anyone came to Jerusalem seeking the king’s judgment over some matter, Absalom would call to the man and say, “What city are you from? Which tribe? How are your children?”

  After questions like these and close conversation with the supplicant, Absalom would earnestly declare: “See, your claims are good and right, but the king is busy and there’s no one to hear you.” He would shake his head in deep sympathy. “Oh, that I were judge in the land!” he would sigh. “Then everyone with a suit could come to me and I would give him justice!”

  Often, now, people bowed down before Absalom. Wherever he went in Israel—and especially in Judah—people offered him a formal obeisance. But he always raised them up and took them by the shoulders and kissed them. So he left the people filled with wonder for the handsome prince in his rich chariot.

  And then, in the fourth year after his return to David’s graces, Absalom began to confer secretly with various leaders in Israel. He met his cousin Amasa outside Jerusalem at night. Amasa was a warrior with much combat experience. Moreover, he was a nephew of Joab; he had learned leadership from the commander-in-chief himself.

  At the end of their meeting, the cousins embraced and separated. Amasa traveled north and began to move among all the tribes of Israel, talking to the local leaders of the militia.

  Absalom rode south into the hill country of Judah. He went to the town of Giloh, about five miles from Hebron, to the house of Ahithophel, an old man, grave and white-headed, a man of national reverence.

  Ahithophel had long been King David’s wisest counselor. His word was received by everyone in Israel as if it were an oracle of God. Until eight years ago he had lived near the king in Jerusalem; but then he retired to his home in Giloh and served David only upon the king’s particular request.

  Absalom believed he knew why Ahithophel had left. He sat facing the man a long time before he spoke. The silence was meant to convey a personal respect as well as the weight of the matter which he brought for discussion.

  Finally Absalom said, “Sir, I intend a vengeance on your behalf.”

  Ahithophel’s eyebrows rose up. “On my behalf?” he said. “What vengeance do I seek?”

  Absalom said, “Of David, my father. For his sin against your granddaughter Bathsheba.”

  Absalom paused. The old man gave the slightest squint of true remembering. Yes. Absalom’s instinct had been accurate.

  He drove forward, therefore, with conviction: “Not to mince words, David raped her. Worse, I suspect he ordered the death of Uriah.” Ahithophel said nothing. But his pale eyes were clearly struggling with emotion.

  Absalom said, “I am planning to take my rightful place upon the throne. This will require the overthrow of my father. He will go down, sir, for many sins, not least of which is his persisting offense against the woman of your house, Bathsheba. Ahithophel, say nothing to me now. Only consider whether you may be willing to serve with me as my highest, most trusted counselor.”

  The eyebrows had lowered. Absalom could not read the old man’s mind.

  So he brought his suit to its conclusion. “In several weeks I will be in Hebron, where the king once lived, where even now people remember and regret the loss of their prestige. To Hebron shall come the armies of Israel under the command of Amasa, my cousin. Sir: as soon as you hear the trumpet and the cry Absalom is king at Hebron, then, perhaps, you may choose to help me reestablish justice in the land.”

  NOW, DAVID RECEIVED a respectful message from his son Absalom. The prince craved a meeting with his king.

  David laughed aloud at the formality of the thing.

  “Tell him to come!” said David. “Tell him we will eat a meal together!”

  So David had a calf slaughtered and prepared in the richest manner. He asked that the most excellent wine be brought to his rooftop, and that a table be set in the booth built among his gardens. In a good humor David intended to outdo the formality of his son. He dressed in purple. He perfumed his hair—hair silver-white but as soft as ever, falling in loose curls, though nothing like the grand black cataracts of Absalom’s hair. On impulse he placed a royal ringlet around his brow.

  Then he and his oldest son sat down to eat.

  Absalom, handsome in the king’s bower, said, “My lord, I beg leave to go—”

  �
�Wait!” cried David. “Whatever you ask, I will give you. But let’s wait with beggings and givings a while. My son,” he said, sunshine flooding his heart, “how are you?”

  “Well,” Absalom blinked at the intensity of the question. “I am well.”

  “Ah, then the Lord has been good to both of us. I am well, too,” said David. “Yes, yes—all is well,” he said. And it was. There had been rest from war for many years now. The rains had been regular and abundant. The king had returned to his old joy in music, singing songs he had not sung before, songs filled with praise and not complaint.

  Absalom was looking narrowly at his father.

  He said, “You know no trouble in the kingdom then?”

  “No,” said David. He thought a moment. “Well: Rothem died,” he said. “My ancient domestic. My dear broom-woman who was old when I was young, who swept the streets outside my house in Hebron. Faithful Rothem has died. I am sorry for that.”

  Absalom frowned. “A broom-woman. For a broom-woman the king is moved to notice trouble in the kingdom.”

  “Yes,” said David. “Why? Are you aware of something I should know?”

  Absalom applied his attention to the food a while. The sun had slanted downward. Evening approached.

  David said, “There is no house for the Ark of God. That is a wrong which I couldn’t right, but it must finally be righted. Absalom, the Lord—” David felt heat in his cheeks, but the word was begun and he couldn’t contain it: “—the Lord told me my offspring would build a house for his name. When he is king my son will right that wrong.” Such a sweet commotion danced in David’s breast! It was as if he were speaking love to a young woman.

  Absalom said, “Where would a house of the Lord be built?”