by Mesu Andrews
Pretending she was the daughter of a woman with a basket, she walked past the guards at the fortress gate and entered a different world on the unwalled northern side of the city. David’s luxurious Phoenician-style palace hummed with activity. It didn’t squawk or shout or screech. The palace built as a gift by King Hiram’s carpenters and stonemasons purred with elegance. Arielah watched Abba Jehoshaphat ascend the stone stairway and disappear into the grand cedar doors. Quickly giving up the hope of sneaking past palace guards, she skipped back to the inn. Ima Jehosheba had finished unpacking and asked, “Where are your brothers?”
Arielah shrugged her shoulders and quickly joined in Ima’s meal preparation, hoping to let the matter drop. Kemmuel and Igal returned at sunset, as did Abba, and Arielah’s spying expedition was almost a secret success—almost.
“I think I know why King David built his palace on the other side of the fortress of Zion,” she said, munching absently on her last crust of bread. The room fell utterly silent, and she realized she’d revealed her afternoon mischief.
Jehosheba balled her fists on her hips. “And just when did you see the king’s palace?”
Arielah swallowed the last bite of bread past the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry, Ima. I wanted to see where Abba was going.”
Jehoshaphat raised an eyebrow. The gesture seemed to Arielah like both a reprimand and a request to hear more.
Glancing from one parent to the other, she decided to address Abba’s curiosity rather than Ima’s wrath. “North Jerusalem is much quieter than the southern City of David. A shepherd king needs peace to sleep soundly at night.”
Abba combed his fingers through his beard as he often did when deep in thought. His frown gave way to a slight grin. “You are perceptive, my lamb. The king said to me this afternoon, ‘I’m quite safe on the north side of the fortress since any enemy would have to conquer our ten northern tribes before arriving on my doorstep. I’d have plenty of time to move my household into the fortress before they reached Jerusalem.’”
The memory jolted Arielah like a splash of cold water, and she became suddenly aware of the cries of revolt resounding from beside Shunem’s well.
“What if it’s my daughter next time?” one of the elders at Shunem’s well shouted.
“We should be sharpening our plowshares.”
“Judah must pay for their arrogance, and David’s family repent of their pride.”
The sun had taken its leave behind the foothills of Mount Gilboa, and torchlight cast eerie shadows across the distorted faces of angry men. How could King David have guessed that his most dangerous enemy might be Israel’s northern ten tribes?
A shiver crept up Arielah’s spine, raising the hairs on her arms to attention. Why do I feel as though I’m being watched? She glanced behind and around her, then set aside the thought, straining to hear what another elder was saying. It seemed the crowd was beginning to quiet, a sure sign that Abba would soon speak. Jehoshaphat always listened well and spoke last.
2
• 1 KINGS 2:10–11 •
Then David rested with his fathers. . . . He had reigned forty years over Israel.
Israel’s great warrior king lay shivering on a straw mattress, reduced to a mass of withered flesh by the inescapable weapon of time. Levites circled David’s bed, waving censers full of incense and beseeching the God of their abbas for mercy on behalf of their beloved king. But the aromatic censers couldn’t disguise the smell of death in the opulent royal chamber.
“Can’t we do something else to warm him?” Solomon asked the palace physician as Abba David convulsed with yet another chill.
The old man bowed his head. “I’m sorry, my king. We’ve done all we can.”
Servants scurried about, jostling the glowing embers in the bronze braziers, trying to look busy. Solomon recognized the hopelessness on their faces. He knew no more could be done. The trade routes he was working to establish with Egypt and Tyre would soon avail them of the mysterious herbs from the Far East, but they would arrive too late to help Abba David.
Medicinal scents of balsam and myrrh mingled with stale sweat to create an aura Solomon would not soon forget. He’d stayed in Abba’s chamber through the night, bound by cords of love after the physician’s prediction of David’s imminent passing. In dawn’s early glow, Solomon stared glassy-eyed into the round braziers filled with burning grapevines. The fragrant warming pots surrounding Abba’s bed fought the relentless chill that plagued the old king. But what of the chill in the young king? The icy dread that skittered up his spine and the sweat dripping down his back? Solomon’s linen robes hung in a mass of sweaty rags, testifying to his enduring vigil at David’s bedside. Tears joined the beads of perspiration on his cheeks. I don’t want to lose my abba, Lord, but I can’t bear to see him linger like this.
The mound of blankets atop the king moved. The great King David groaned. His suffering continued. So it had continued day after day. Solomon looked away, unable to bear the scene. The strongest man I know, now lying at death’s door, unable to cross the threshold.
Tilting his head up like a child, Solomon was comforted by Benaiah’s presence. As captain of the king’s guard, Benaiah now protected Solomon as he had shielded David all these years. Solomon smiled at the big man, their eyes communicating more than words.
The captain stood nearly five cubits tall, almost eye to eye with a camel. His wide neck and broad shoulders made his military exploits even more fantastic. But his victories couldn’t express his full character. Brave? Yes. Loyal? To a fault. Yet the tears brimming on his long lashes comforted Solomon more than a thousand fallen enemies. Benaiah was more than a soldier. He was a friend, and his heart was breaking too. Even the great Benaiah couldn’t protect King David from age’s cruel grip.
Seated on the other side of David’s bed was Bathsheba, Solomon’s ima and the most powerful—and persecuted—of the king’s wives. Long ago, David had taken her to his bed and arranged her first husband’s death. Nathan the prophet faithfully delivered God’s message of judgment. David had listened, as he often did, and God forgave, as He always did.
Now the faithful prophet Nathan stood watching in a distant corner, his face a mask of unreadable papyrus. He lived in perpetual listening with a spirit only the voice of God could reach. Solomon smiled as he studied the old prophet. The man of God moved his lips but made no sound. What did one pray when he already knew the will of Jehovah?
Zadok the priest stood directly to Nathan’s left, quietly chanting, entreating the Lord for His mercy. Prophet and priest interceding for king. I must remember to speak with Zadok about the burial procession and the order of the princes. The princes . . . Solomon winced. Only a few days ago, his brother Adonijah had tried unsuccessfully to usurp Solomon’s reign. Thanks to Ima Bathsheba and the brave efforts of the three loyal men in this room—Zadok, Nathan, and Benaiah—Solomon had secured his abba’s blessing and reestablished his right to the throne. Since then, these allies had not left Solomon’s side.
Abba David had been Israel’s great warrior king for forty years, but most of his final battles were fought in his own palace. How Solomon wished he could have shielded his abba from the pain of their family’s sordid upheaval. Brother raping sister. Brother killing brother. Brother stealing abba’s throne—well, almost stealing it. Subduing the Philistines, Ammonites, and other nations must have seemed mundane compared to the conflicts among David’s own children.
Solomon stroked his abba’s forehead. Israel’s beloved shepherd king made all his sons advisors after they celebrated their twelfth Passover, and in the ten Passovers since Solomon had observed the way of kings, he’d learned one thing. Israel’s fiercest enemies didn’t fight with javelin, spear, or sword. They fought with sharp minds and poisoned tongues. If he hoped to build Israel from nation to kingdom, he must reason first and fight last.
Solomon’s gaze fell again on his abba’s sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks. The shell of a man before him was a stranger.
All his life Solomon had heard of King David’s rise from the shepherd’s field to the battlefield with a rock and a sling and faith big enough to slay a giant. Abba united twelve unruly tribes and governed them as one nation.
Solomon rested his elbows on the straw mattress and let his head drop into his hands. Digging his fingers into his raven hair as though he would pull out fistfuls, he whispered, “Oh, Abba, how can I rule this unruly nation without you to guide me?”
“Your abba believes you have great wisdom, my lord.” A muffled female voice rose from beneath the blankets.
Solomon snapped to attention. He hadn’t intended his words to be heard.
Abba David smiled weakly. “She s-speaks t-t-truth, my s-son.” His teeth chattered as he spoke.
The young king reached out to pull the blankets nearer his abba’s face, but a delicate hand met his, and warmth like fire raced from his fingertips to his cheeks.
“Here, let me do it, my lord.” The girl, Abishag, spoke again, her melodic voice dancing amid the priest’s whispered prayers. She tucked the blankets tightly around herself and the royal charge lying beneath her. Silky black hair lay in sweaty clumps against her face.
Solomon studied the outline of her soft curves—the long, slender woman that draped Abba like a blanket. He marveled at the depth of intimacy shared between a dying king and a poor northern maiden. They lived a pure and transparent love. Love without the consummation of body, it was a deeper consummation of the heart that spoke without words.
Solomon glanced at his ima. Even Bathsheba’s undying love couldn’t match the inner connectedness between Abba and the Shulammite. Abishag’s relationship with the king had been cultivated over endless hours—undisturbed, heartwarming, meaningful hours—in which words were useless and physical intimacy unnecessary.
Leaning closer, Solomon kissed David’s cheek and whispered, “Rest now, Abba. I’m sorry I disturbed you. Save your strength.”
Solomon watched as Abishag stroked Abba’s hair, and he wondered again, Would it be so wrong to take Abishag as my concubine after Abba dies? She’s not a concubine or wife in the physical sense, after all.
With a voice full of death’s rattle, David croaked through trembling lips, “Be strong! Show yourself a man.”
Solomon glanced sheepishly at Abishag, feeling his neck and cheeks flame at his abba’s rebuking tone. “Yes, Abba. You’ve instilled in me the courage of a strong man.” Though God had told Abba personally that Solomon would rule Israel with peace on every side, the warrior king seemed hard-pressed to believe a strong ruler could manage without a sword in his hand.
“No!” the old king rasped through chattering teeth. “Listen. You must remember the Lord’s commands, my son—use your strength to walk in His ways and keep His laws and requirements, as written in the law of Moses.”
Again, Solomon’s eyes found Abishag’s. A single tear made its way across the bridge of her nose as she lay on Abba David’s chest.
Solomon’s heart softened. Let Abba speak a hundred instructions—each word was a treasure in these final moments. “Yes, Abba. I will be strong. I will follow God’s laws.”
“You know that General Joab killed two innocent men in times of peace. Deal with him according to your wisdom, my son, but don’t let his gray head go down to the grave in peace.” He shivered violently, and Abishag curled herself tightly around him. Abba David closed his eyes, determination lining his brow as he choked out more words. “Show kindness to the s-sons of Barzillai, who stood by m-me when I fled from your b-brother Absalom’s treachery.”
Solomon nodded but remained quiet.
David paused too and then laid a shaky hand atop the blanket on Abishag’s back. “Do you remember when your brother Absalom tried to steal my kingdom?”
Solomon frowned. “I remember our whole family left Jerusalem and fled to Mahanaim for safety.”
David gently patted Abishag, waiting until Solomon’s attention rested on her. “And do you remember the sins your brother Absalom committed against the ten concubines I left to care for my palace when the rest of our family fled?”
Solomon felt the blood drain from his cheeks. He stared mutely at Abishag, then David. “Abba, I would never defile your wives or concubines as Absalom did. I have made provision for all your women to be cared for in a new wing on the north side of the palace.”
No response. Only silence. Solomon saw fear flicker in Abishag’s eyes. The girl had been misled by royal promises before—promised a king’s bed, refused a bride’s rights.
Determination welled up inside Solomon. “Though I will inherit all your wives and concubines, Abba, I assure you that it will be in name only. I am simply following the advice of our advisors to adopt the custom of neighboring countries.”
David nodded, seemingly appeased, and Abishag drew the blanket over his arm once more, surrounding him in their warm cocoon. Solomon sighed heavily and prepared to leave, his mind wandering to the calendar changes necessary according to the astronomical charts he’d been studying.
A cold, weak hand reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Solomon!”
His heart nearly leapt from his chest. “Abba, what?”
David’s cloudy eyes glistened. “Remember that you have with you Shimei son of Gera, who called down bitter curses on me the day we fled Absalom’s rebellion and went to Mahanaim. I swore before the Lord that I would not put him to death by the sword, but you are a man of wisdom, Solomon. You will know what to do.”
Solomon let his full weight fall onto the wooden stool beside David’s bed. “Abba, you say I have wisdom to know what to do with General Joab, and that I’ll know how to deal with Shimei. But what makes you think I have this wisdom? Until a few days ago, you were still officially king of Israel, and I was one of the advisor princes. City elders were deciding disputes among the people, and you still passed down national rulings through your royal officials. What makes you think I will suddenly have the wisdom to secure this kingdom under my reign?” The final words came out in more of a whine than Solomon intended, but truth be told, he’d wanted to ask Abba that question for weeks.
King David smiled through chattering teeth. Abishag’s large, doe eyes blinked from one king to the other, seemingly waiting for someone to rule on something.
“Well?” Solomon said, chuckling. “Are you going to let me in on whatever you find so amusing?”
“Have I ever told you your real name, Solomon?”
A slight gasp escaped Bathsheba’s lips, and Solomon’s world tilted a little. “My real name?” He couldn’t stem his tears when he saw Ima Bathsheba reach for David’s quaking hand. Abba and Ima had always known a deeper love than had David with his other wives.
“Your ima and I named you Solomon, which means peace, and that name was confirmed when Yahweh spoke to me and said you would build His temple and reign in peace over Israel. But on the night you were born, Nathan the prophet delivered a message from the Lord, giving you a special name.”
“Ima? What is he saying?” Solomon asked, but Ima Bathsheba’s gaze was fixed on her husband.
Adoration, memories, perhaps some regret—all were etched into the fine lines of Ima’s beautiful face. “After our first son died, your abba comforted me,” she said, “and you were born a year later. We named you Solomon in hopes that your life would be characterized by peace rather than the turmoil that surrounded our union—”
“My lord,” the prophet Nathan interrupted, “Jehovah sent word to your parents through me that you were to be called Jedidiah, loved of the Lord.”
“What? Jedidiah?” The word sounded strange in his ears. “I don’t understand. Why am I hearing this name for the first time?”
Nathan looked first at David and then at Bathsheba. “Because though your parents have known since your birth that you are beloved of the Lord, such knowledge among the princes would have placed your life in grave danger.”
A sob escaped Solomon’s lips before he could muffle it.
“Last year,” David said, “when we held the temple preparation assembly, I announced four things in the hearing of all Israel. You are God’s choice as Israel’s king and will be the builder of His temple. Your reign will be characterized by peace, and most astounding of all—Yahweh will be your Abba.” A single tear slid down King David’s cheek. “You are Jedidiah, my son, and with His love will come the wisdom to rule His people.”
A fierce cough shook the old king’s body, and Solomon reached for a steaming cloth. David pushed it away, fighting for words. “Remember those in Israel who must be dealt with before our nation can live in peace—before you can live in peace.” Tears blurred Solomon’s vision as Abba David continued his charge. “Shalom-on. Establish your throne . . . and then . . . seek peace, for yourself and for Israel.” The old king shivered uncontrollably, and Abishag’s slender form curled tightly around him. “Live your name, my son, Shalom-on.” He struggled to say more, but his words were choked off by a weak cough and a gasp for life’s breath.
Nathan and Zadok emerged from the corner, their prayers silenced by Jehovah’s whisper to the prophet’s spirit. Bathsheba’s quiet sobs turned to wails as she saw their approach. She too must have sensed the inevitable coming quickly.
Solomon leaned in to kiss his abba’s cheek, his face now almost touching Abishag’s forehead. He could feel her breath on his beard. She rolled aside, snuggling into the curve of David’s arm, leaving her lingering scent of cinnamon and saffron.
The three remained motionless, suspended in time. Each was afraid to move lest they lose the moment to eternity, each knowing death would be the victor in the warrior king’s final battle.
Gathering his last breath, David whispered, “Peace, Solomon. Seek peace, Jedidiah.”
