Love’s Sacred Song

by Mesu Andrews

  Bending to help her stand, Solomon lifted his voice. “Ahishar, bring Abba David’s throne from my chamber for the queen mother.” An excited flutter rolled over the crowd, and the high steward issued orders to four hulking servants.

  “Solomon, what are you doing?” Bathsheba’s cheeks pinked. “I don’t want to sit beside—”

  He silenced her with a smile and a single finger to her lips. “Please, Ima. You will sit beside me today as I fulfill Abba’s last wishes.” Understanding dawned on her face, and she reached up to brush his cheek. The affectionate act heightened the crowd’s hum. Such a public display would provide market gossip for weeks.

  They waited in amiable silence until the servants arrived with the throne and Bathsheba took her place of honor at Solomon’s right hand. Glancing up at Benaiah, Solomon saw his reassuring nod and knew the time had come to deal with Joab and Shimei. Lord, give me wisdom, he prayed.

  Drawing a breath for his first judgment, Solomon nearly choked when Bathsheba leaned over and whispered, “My son, I have one small request before you begin your proceedings. Do not refuse me.”

  Heart pounding, Solomon offered a sideways glance. She was full of surprises today. “Make it, Ima. I will not refuse you.”

  Offering no preamble or conditions, she spoke clearly for the audience to hear. “Let Abishag the Shulammite be given in marriage to your brother Adonijah.”

  Solomon felt as if he’d taken a blow. His face stung as if he’d walked through a swarm of bees. “What?” he roared. “Why would you request Abishag for Adonijah, Ima?”

  The warm rumble of the crowd died to cold silence.

  “You might as well give my older brother the throne! Have you joined Abiathar the priest and Joab the general in their efforts to give him the kingdom?” He stood, towering over her, panting with rage as if he’d run a long race.

  Bathsheba stared at him in silence, her face white with fear. He’d never spoken to Ima with such fury. He’d never spoken to anyone with such fury.

  Turning to the stunned crowd, he trembled with unspent anger. “May God deal with me severely if Adonijah doesn’t pay with his life for making this request. Benaiah!” he shouted over the crowd, and his captain descended the platform and bowed before him. “Adonijah must die today for his treachery. He has deceived the queen mother and threatened my throne.”

  “Yes, my lord. It will be as you say.”

  His captain turned, but Solomon halted him. “We are not finished here, Benaiah.” Exchanging a knowing glance with Solomon, the captain signaled his elite guards to join him at the king’s feet. The captain knew of Joab and Shimei, but there was another Solomon must deal with now.

  “You, Abiathar!” The king turned his ire on the traitorous priest seated among his advisors just a few cubits from the throne. “It was you and Joab who conspired with Adonijah to steal my throne when Abba lay dying. I suspect you have a hand in this new treachery—”

  “No, my lord! No!” The old priest stood, his eyes as round as horses’ hooves. “I’m not. I mean we did, but no more—”

  “Silence!” Solomon shouted. “You are no longer an advisor to the king or a priest before the sovereign Lord. Go back to your fields in Anathoth. You deserve to die, but because you shared in my abba’s hardships, I will spare your life.” The old man’s shoulders slumped, but he knew better than to speak. One of Benaiah’s guards stepped forward, seized his brittle arm, and escorted him from the throne hall.

  Every eye followed the old priest’s progress, but Solomon remembered Benaiah’s charge from the night before. They are your people now, my lord. They will remember the things of which you remind them.

  “Elihoreph!” Solomon shouted. His chief secretary nearly jumped from his cushioned couch. “Record in the annals of the king, ‘Concerning Joab, son of Zeruiah and commander of Israel’s hosts, he will die today for his sins against Abner son of Ner and Amasa son of Jether, whom he killed in peacetime.” He paused slightly, giving the secretary time to scribble.

  “Concerning Shimei, son of Gera, the Benjamite from Bahurim who called down curses on King David when our family fled to Mahanaim from my brother Absalom—though my abba showed him mercy, Shimei’s guilt remains. He must build a house in Jerusalem and live there, never leaving the city. On the day he crosses the Kidron Valley, Shimei will surely die. His blood will be on his own head.” An approving rumble rolled over the audience, and Solomon waited for silence while Elihoreph wrote furiously, recording the detailed decree. “And finally, it is my desire to show kindness to the sons of Barzillai of Gilead and welcome them to eat at my table because they provided for our family when Absalom sought to steal Abba’s throne.”

  Solomon watched as Elihoreph feverishly worked the stylus over his clay tablet, waiting for the customary nod to signal he had finished the record. When the secretary finally met his gaze, the king announced, “We will reconvene after the midday meal, at which time I will officially inaugurate our nation’s grieving period for our beloved King David.”

  He watched Benaiah lead his Pelethite and Cherethite guards up the center aisle, their size and weaponry a sobering punctuation to Solomon’s judgment. Two men were about to die at his command, and he would undoubtedly determine the fate of nations from this platform in years to come. The thought was staggering, humbling. Lord Jehovah, give me wisdom. In his contemplation, he heard one woman’s weeping, not because she was loudest but because her heart was crushed.

  Ima Bathsheba.

  Solomon returned to his throne and reminded himself of his most recent revelation. His ima was a woman. Hurting. Vulnerable. “Why?” he whispered. “Why would you ask that I give Abishag to Adonijah?”

  She sniffed, keeping her voice low. “It’s hard to believe this was a conspiracy. He seemed so sincere when he came to me last night and said he loved the girl.” She looked into Solomon’s eyes, pleading. “You must know that if I thought he presented any real danger, I would never have asked.”

  “I know, Ima,” he said and started to wipe her tears. But the renewed buzz of the crowd stilled his hand. Conscious of their private moment in this public place, he said to Ahishar, “I will escort the queen mother to her chamber. You may return King David’s throne to my private meeting room.”

  Bathsheba stood, and Solomon joined her. She whispered while they descended the steps, “I trust your judgment of Adonijah’s motives, my son, but I hope your anger at his request for Abishag had nothing to do with the place she holds in your heart.” Halting on the bottom step, she pierced him with her gaze. “You have enough on your mind without stirring up trouble in your abba’s harem.”

  Before Solomon could respond, she released his arm and bowed again, effectively ending their discussion and halting his accompaniment. The queen mother disappeared through the courtyard archway and beyond its central fountain, leaving Solomon at the foot of his throne, pondering. Being the king in Israel would be much simpler were it not for all the women. A wry smile pulled at the corner of his lips. But the color they bring to my world is worth every stripe in the pattern of life.

  9

  • 1 KINGS 9:16 •

  Pharaoh king of Egypt had attacked and captured Gezer. He had set it on fire. He killed its Canaanite inhabitants and then gave it as a wedding gift to his daughter, Solomon’s wife.

  Solomon thanked his council members and listened to the last of the professional mourners echo down the halls of the palace. His cedar doors clicked shut, and he turned to find Benaiah ending the biggest yawn he’d ever seen. A long, pink scar stretched from the left corner of his mouth to the center of his brow.

  The gesture proved contagious, and Solomon stretched, releasing a simultaneous groan.

  “Well, we avoided war on my first day as king,” he said with a coy grin. “Abba David would be proud.”

  Benaiah’s stoic expression caught the king’s attention. “Yes, young Solomon. King David would have been proud of his son today.”

  Immediately t
ears welled in Solomon’s eyes. “Thank you, my friend. And I am proud of our nation.” Both men shared a nod and scanned the room, hearing quiet sniffs and kind affirmations from his chamber stewards and guards. Abba had been the first king of Israel honored by a national burial, and the outpouring of support had been nothing short of miraculous. Israelites from Dan to Beersheba had traveled through the night to arrive in Jerusalem to pay tribute. Even some of the leaders reported to have attended the clandestine Shulammite meeting had arrived in time, thanks to the burial delay because of Adonijah’s and Joab’s executions. The threat of the northern tribes was real, but in spite of the unrest, Israelites loved their king. No war cries had erupted, only the wailing of mourners.

  “You should get some rest, my friend,” Solomon said, taking his place on the low grieving stool in his bedchamber. “I’ll return this morning’s compliment: you look awful.” Benaiah finally grinned, and Solomon added one more goad. “But at least you get to wear your battle armor and sandals. I’m stuck in this torn sackcloth robe and slippers for thirty days.” He looked longingly at his empty washbasin, hardly able to imagine the passing of a full moon’s cycle without washing, working, or enjoying the pleasure of a woman.

  Benaiah tugged at the tunic beneath his leather breastplate. “I’ll have you know your guards wear sackcloth beneath their armor, my lord.” The mountainous man itched and wriggled like a fidgety child. “We will feel the discomfort of grief while remaining faithful to our king.” Bowing, he said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to remove this armor and try to get some much-anticipated rest.”

  Solomon watched him walk away, but stopped him with one last thought. “Benaiah?”

  His friend turned with a furrowed brow and cocked his head.

  “Thank you for helping me carry out Abba’s last wishes. You even searched out that weasel Shimei and brought him to the throne hall for sentencing. I feel like you’ve given me a fresh start, a new beginning.”

  Benaiah shrugged, offering an impish grin. “Would you like to wager a wineskin on how long it will be before Shimei leaves Jerusalem and brings down judgment on himself?”

  “I’ll wager you will be waiting for him when he does!” Solomon chuckled but sobered as he carefully fashioned his next words. “Thank you hardly seems appropriate when speaking of executing my traitorous brother and cousin, but I’m deeply grateful for your faithfulness to execute Adonijah and Joab. It couldn’t have been easy to enter the Lord’s tent and strike down that coward Joab while he held on to the horns of the altar.”

  Benaiah nodded, seeming to accept the appreciation given. An uneasy silence settled between them. Hoping to assuage whatever doubts his friend might be feeling, Solomon added, “Joab was calculating and cold, my friend. He was a manipulator, and he knew your abba was a priest. He never dreamed you’d obey my command to kill him at the altar.”

  Benaiah lifted his left eyebrow, stretching the imposing battle scar extending up from his jawbone. “Joab seriously miscalculated my loyalty to my king.” His words were unadorned, matter-of-fact, and they put to rest any concern Solomon had that his new commander second-guessed today’s events.

  Solomon watched his friend’s scar throb and realized he hardly noticed it—except at times like these. He often forgot Benaiah was first and foremost a warrior. “Do you ever doubt, Benaiah? Isn’t there something I might ask of you that you wouldn’t do?”

  His commander returned, covering the distance between them in two steps. Towering above Solomon, he said, “I will disobey you only if it will save your life, my king.”

  They stood in silence, Solomon contemplating the weight of such a statement, until a knock on the king’s door interrupted the moment. Benaiah stepped away, and Solomon shouted, “Come!”

  A disheveled Egyptian courier stood before them, escorted by one of Benaiah’s Pelethite guards. The courier was panting, dust-covered, but worse—he looked haunted, as if he himself couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “My lord, Pharaoh’s ambassador and caravan will arrive in Jerusalem before dawn . . .” He spoke perfect Hebrew, but he hesitated, seemingly uncertain as to whom he should direct his news. He glanced first at the king and then at the servants and soldiers.

  “Why is the Egyptian ambassador coming now?” Solomon asked, exasperated. It had been an extraordinarily long day—a long week and year. Trying to calm himself, he continued more patiently. “Our plan was to finalize our agreement with Egypt’s ambassador after the next new moon.”

  “The Egyptian caravan carries your new bride, Pharaoh’s daughter, and—”

  “What?” Solomon’s heart skipped a beat. His harem wasn’t ready for the Egyptian princess. His nation, his palace was grieving. She wouldn’t understand their customs, and Ahishar surely hadn’t had time to implement the Daughters of Jerusalem.

  “And they bring loads of plunder from their victory over the Canaanite city of Gezer.”

  “What?” Benaiah and Solomon shouted at once.

  “Pharaoh Siamun planned to offer Gezer as a wedding gift to his daughter, but Pharaoh was killed in the battle.” Solomon stumbled back, reaching for his stool as he grasped the enormity of the courier’s report. “The Egyptian ambassador now speaks for Egypt’s new king, Pharaoh Psusennes, to ensure the success of Egypt’s trade agreement with Israel.”

  Ahishar burst through the chamber doors that had been left partially open when the courier entered. “I just heard the news. How long before the ambassador and princess arrive?”

  Solomon spoke as if in a dream. “Pharaoh Siamun is dead, Ahishar. The man with whom we made this treaty attacked an innocent Canaanite city in order to give its wealth to his daughter as a wedding gift and provide its strategic thoroughfare for our trade routes.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. Shifting his attention back to the Egyptian courier, he asked, “And what did your pharaoh imagine I would do with all the Canaanites living in Gezer after he took the city?” Solomon knew it was silly to ask a mere courier such a question, but the whole situation was so outrageous he asked anyway.

  “My lord, he . . . well, he . . .” The young man glanced nervously at each waiting expression, seemingly hesitant to answer. Finally, he said, “Pharaoh destroyed the city with fire and then killed all the Canaanites living there. He offers a perfect shell with which the king of Israel may build a mighty fortress of your liking.”

  All breath left Solomon’s chest. The courier’s answer had been practiced, perfected, to flaunt Egypt’s power and foster Solomon’s greed. It accomplished neither. “My steward will see that you are housed in the servants’ quarters,” he said, watching Ahishar enlist a chamber servant’s aide. “You will be reunited with your caravan when they arrive at dawn.” The young man bowed and stepped backward out of the king’s meeting area, and soldiers closed the double doors behind them.

  Ahishar immediately drew a breath, no doubt to recount a list of tasks to complete before the caravan’s arrival, but Solomon silenced him with an upraised hand. “I realize some very important guests are on their way.”

  Ahishar nodded, seemingly relieved that the king hadn’t missed that detail.

  “However, I also realize something far more important than our guests.”

  The steward’s nodding stopped, his eyes shifting nervously to Benaiah, the mountain of calm standing at Solomon’s right hand.

  “I had no idea Pharaoh would have such wild disregard for human life. Killing an entire city for a wedding gift.” Shaking his head, Solomon continued. “I feel like a child with much to learn about ruling a nation, and I’m afraid I’ll be eaten alive by predators like Pharaoh Siamun and his successor, Pharaoh Psusennes, if I don’t learn to hear from Jehovah as Abba David did.”

  For the first time ever, perhaps, Ahishar appeared totally befuddled. “But, my lord, you don’t even play the harp.”

  The steward’s absurd comment prompted a thought. How did Abba David receive such favor with Jehovah, and why—when he sinned like any oth
er man—did God condescend to speak to David so clearly?

  “A man need not play a harp to hear from Jehovah, my lord.” Benaiah’s deep voice soothed the recesses of Solomon’s soul. “What do you propose?”

  “I think a visit to Gibeon is in order,” he said to Benaiah, more a question than an answer.

  “But we’ve just started mourning,” Ahishar quickly pointed out.

  A full-fledged smile creased Benaiah’s face. “I’m the son of a priest, and I’ve never heard a law forbidding worship during the grieving period.”

  A flutter of fear worked through Solomon’s belly. “Benaiah, tell me why Abba David seldom visited Gibeon. It seemed to me he was almost frightened of the Tent of Meeting housed at that most holy high place. Why did he worship only at the ark here in Jerusalem?”

  “Your abba did fear the Lord.” Benaiah allowed a comfortable silence. “But he didn’t fear God at Gibeon alone. He was afraid many times during his reign as Israel’s king. When the Lord struck down Uzzah for steadying the ark on the oxcart—David feared Him. When the Lord punished King David and your ima by taking their firstborn son—David feared Him. And when your abba saw the angel of the Lord sheathe his sword and end the plague at the threshing floor in Jerusalem—King David feared ever inquiring of the Lord in His presence at the tabernacle of Gibeon.” Benaiah’s eyes were kind but piercing. “But the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, young Solomon. Go to Gibeon. Seek God’s presence. Be afraid. For it is in your fear that you will establish your own relationship with Jehovah. You don’t need to rule like King David to be a great king.”

  Solomon’s heart raced. Benaiah’s words felt like spring water splashed on hot coals. Sizzling. Refreshing. Exhilarating. “Yes, my friend. Israel and I will go to Gibeon.”