Bathsheba (25 page)

Scents of garlic and cumin and the soft sounds of a lyre drifted to Uriah as he entered the king’s dining hall. With Israel at war, he was surprised at the number of men eating at the king’s table. But on a second look, he realized the king’s sons occupied one table and his older counselors another. King Saul’s grandson Mephibosheth and his son sat with some other nobles, men whose hands had not trained for war. The room was not as filled as it would have been for a normal feast.

A servant appeared at his side as he stepped over the threshold. “This way,” he said, moving ahead of Uriah, obviously expecting him to follow. The man wove past the tables and around some jugglers and led Uriah to the front of the room to the king’s table. King David was already seated as though he were awaiting his arrival.

Uriah took his intended seat at the king’s side, curiosity and pride mingling within him. If only Eliam—or better yet, his own father—could have witnessed this event. When Uriah returned and took his time describing this surprising night, Eliam would pester him with questions. Even among the Thirty, few men ever had the privilege of sitting at a banquet this close to the king.

“My lord, may you live forever,” Uriah said, suddenly uncomfortable with the king’s silent perusal. Was the man still displeased with him for keeping his vow of celibacy during war? But at the king’s easy smile, he relinquished the thought.

“Uriah, my friend. Thank you for joining me. I trust you are well rested from your journey from Rabbah?” David leaned into his gilded chair as a servant walked about filling wine goblets.

“Yes, thank you, my lord. The trip was not arduous, and I am ready to return to my men.” Uriah nodded to the servant, and as the king picked up his cup, he did the same, drinking as the king did, not wishing to err on the side of poor manners.

They ate a few moments in silence, Uriah attuned to the king’s mood, wondering what to say to continue the conversation. He followed the king’s lead and ripped a piece of bread from the flat loaf on his plate and dipped it into the bowl of lentils. Bread and salt between them signified friendship, though Uriah still struggled to understand why the king sought his now. Why single him out? Though in honesty, he knew the privilege puffed his chest, lifted his pride, more than it should.

“Do you like music, Uriah?” The king’s question refocused his attention, and he silently berated himself for not watching the king more closely.

“Yes, my lord. It has its uses. I do not admit to carrying a tune, but I appreciate the songs of worship at the tabernacle and during the feasts. The Israelites—your God derives pleasure from such a thing?” While he believed in Israel’s God, he could never quite understand the various characteristics of Adonai Elohim. He appreciated order and the numerous laws laid out for men to follow, and sacrifice and the need to seek forgiveness, but he could not wrap his mind around worship that involved music and prayer and emotion.

The king glanced somewhere beyond Uriah, but Uriah did not follow his gaze. “Adonai derives pleasure from many things. He gave song to the birds, but they sing the same refrain. Only men have the ability to create something new.” The king sipped from his cup again, and Uriah did the same. “Have you ever created something new, Uriah?”

Uriah set the cup beside his plate and a servant filled it again. He was not used to drinking so much wine with a meal, but he had no intention of offending the king when he was so blessed to spend time with him. He shook his head slowly. “I am not so inclined, my lord. My wife is the one with such interest, not I.” He smiled and lifted his golden cup again to his lips, resting them against the smooth, cool surface, the wine tingling and warming him. “This is very good,” he said after a small sip. He took a ripe fig from a platter.

“The grapes are from the best vineyards in Israel. There is plenty more, so drink up and enjoy.” The king smiled, motioning to Uriah’s cup. He held his own loosely in one hand, as though the goblet had become as familiar as his scepter. “You say your wife is interested in music. How so?”

Uriah studied the swirling liquid in his cup, his thoughts growing thick like wool. “She plays the lyre sometimes. Not usually when I’m around, though I don’t forbid it. Her father never approved of the instrument, but I know it makes her happy, so I let her use it when her work is done.” He looked at the king and tried to read his expression, but his reaction lay hidden, his gaze shadowed.

“It is good to show interest in her music,” David said after a lengthy silence. “Abigail used to coax me to play for her, though she did not play an instrument herself. Her interest encouraged me, made me strive to put more tunes and words to parchment.” The king studied the contents of his cup, and Uriah watched him as he listened to the muted sounds of male conversations and laughter around them.

“Abigail was a good wife to you.” Uriah sensed the king’s sudden melancholy and wondered again why Adonai had taken the wife the king appeared to love the most. Had the king done something to offend Adonai? Had Abigail broken one of Moses’ many laws?

“Yes, she was.” The king took a long drink of the wine, and Uriah did the same, though he was already struggling to keep his focus. He’d been drunk on a few occasions and managed well enough. If it pleased the king to drink until neither of them could walk straight, so be it.

“I was not as good a husband to her as she was devoted to me.” The king leaned closer. “A woman needs a man to be there for her, to love her. When he is gone all of the time or she has to share him with others, she suffers.” His gaze penetrated, his meaning suddenly clear.

The king was speaking as much to Uriah as he was to himself, suggesting that Bathsheba suffered because he was gone to war. But the war was one the king had commanded, calling Uriah to battle. Was he supposed to just quit before the end? He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the wine was making his head light.

“A wife of a king or of a warrior knows the expectations and risks of such a life. Your wives know they will share you, and my wife knows she will miss me. It is the nature of life.” Uriah set the goblet down and pushed it away, but David motioned toward it, coaxing him to pick it up again.

“Knowing and needing are two different things.” David leaned into his chair, holding the golden cup aloft. “But you are right, Uriah. Our women know their place, so why should we change? What does it matter to us? We must please ourselves most of all.” He tipped his head back and tossed the liquid into his mouth.

Warmth crept up Uriah’s neck, and he knew the wine had little to do with it. The king’s barbed words were meant to prick his sense of guilt, to make him want to please himself or his wife above the rules and customs of wartime. Something the king himself would not have done if he had gone to war with them.

Irritation rose within him at the inference, and he sloshed the wine in his cup before taking a breath and downing the remains. He set the goblet down a little harder than he intended. Words failed him, and a headache began along his temple. He gently rubbed the spot with two fingers.

“Have I offended you, Uriah?” The king’s comment registered, raising his ire.

“As you say, my lord. If you think I am gone from my wife too much, perhaps you should join your men at war and not sit home while the rest of us fight your battles. Then the next time we go to war, I will be sure to refuse.” Uriah closed his eyes, knowing he had said too much. And to the king! He should have never allowed himself to drink wine in the king’s presence. His loose tongue would surely cost him the position he had achieved, or more.

“You are right again, Uriah.” The king’s tone was quiet, barely heard above the din of the room. “I should have gone to war with my men. But you are also wrong. If I had gone to war and had the chance to come home again, I would not spend the night with a useless monarch. I would go home to my wife and enjoy her charms.” His smile dimmed as he spoke, his eyes probing. Uriah sensed the meaning despite the fog of drink, and felt his pride and honor slipping with each passing moment.

“Perhaps I should go, my lord.” He knew he should wait to be dismissed, so he did not rise from his seat, but he pressed a hand to his head and blinked, trying to stop seeing double. “I’m afraid the wine has put words in my mouth, and I am not holding my own too well. Please pardon your servant and excuse me.” He waited, watching. At the king’s nod, he stood.

“Go home, Uriah. Get some sleep.” The king turned away from him then as though their meeting held little consequence to him.

Uriah bowed low, and the room tipped as he rose. “Thank you, my lord. Forgive me, my lord.” He staggered from the king’s table to the outside of the hall. Servants met him and clutched his arms, guiding him through the palace halls to the outer courtyard toward the gate.

As they stepped beneath the watchful eyes of the guards at the gate, the servants guided Uriah toward his street. They intended to take him home, and he wanted nothing more. But as the wine settled with his movement, his head cleared a little and he stopped, taking in his surroundings. This was exactly what the king had told him to do—to go home and rest. But he had vowed never to do such a thing while Joab and his men lived in tents. He could not break his vow! If he did not keep his word, who would trust him? If he lost his integrity for one night of pleasure—to please himself or his wife—what good would that bring him in the long run?

“I can’t do this. I won’t do this.”

The servants’ gentle pressure on his arm coaxed him to continue home, but he shook off the men’s hands and turned around, back the way he had come. He stumbled and straightened, ignoring the imploring looks and pleas of the king’s servants, and made his way back to the guardhouse at the door of the palace.

23

David stood and excused himself from the meal the moment Uriah left the room. Surely the man would go home this time. He had managed to get the message across well enough, if Uriah was an astute observer. The thought troubled him. If Uriah was conscious of what was going on around him, the man should have already discovered the reasons behind David’s efforts, or at the very least suspected something. Had he? Had Uriah simply gone along with David’s offer of friendship to cover up what he already knew? Would he stay away from his wife on purpose?

Aggravated, David stomped over tiles of inlaid stone, skimming past his halls of cedar, barely aware of his opulent surroundings. His mind played again every word that had passed between them, every gesture, look, and nuance. He reached his bedchamber, moving past Benaiah’s guards. Two servants followed him inside, one lighting the lamps to dispel the moonlight, the other helping him change into more comfortable clothes. When they finished their duties, David dismissed them and walked to the window.

The view from his chambers looked out over his private gardens on one side and faced Jerusalem’s Eastern Gate on the other. The height of the palace allowed him a view from every angle, but the activity in his outer courts did not interest him, and his gardens reminded him too vividly of Bathsheba. His stomach tightened at the thought of her. Had Uriah reached home yet? Would she tell him the truth or keep their shared secret? He had never asked it of her, only assumed she would keep silent.

With a woman, one should never assume.

He rubbed the back of his neck and drew in a slow breath. He just wanted this whole thing to end. To go back to that moment before he had succumbed to his own foolish impulses and change the outcome. If he had never called for her . . .

He stopped himself. He could not change the past. He could only change what would happen now.