Bathsheba (22 page)

W
HEN
I
DID
NOT
HAVE
TO
WORK
IN
THE
FIELD
or help Ornah make cheese, I enjoyed following the road to David’s palace. As a prophet, I had been given leave to sit in the great hall and watch as the king and his counselors governed Israel. David was now in his mid-fifties—an old man, according to many. Though he could be as fierce as ever, at a glance anyone could tell that he no longer possessed the wild courage of his younger days. Yet those of us who made a habit of studying David noticed a definite improvement in his disposition immediately after Absalom’s return to Jerusalem. While the king refused to visit his son or permit Absalom to come to the palace, David seemed content to know that Absalom and his family were once again living within the walls of Jerusalem.

Absalom brought more than his family and his flocks when he returned; he also brought the sad news that his sister Tamar had died in Geshur. The report spread throughout the city like a contagion,
and those who told the story whispered that the girl had taken her own life. Soon all who lived in Jerusalem mourned for the king’s lovely daughter and praised Absalom for caring for his sister.

On the day of Absalom’s return, public opinion considered him the king’s wayward son. A week later he had become an avenging hero. Six months after that, he was quietly cheered as Israel’s future king.

In his mid-twenties, Absalom was a prime example of youth and virility. Everyone in the city fawned on his wife, three sons, and two young daughters, whom he’d named Maacah, after his mother, and Tamar, after his sister. According to all reports, the young Tamar’s beauty would one day equal or surpass her namesake’s.

Certainly no man in Israel was more celebrated for attractiveness than Absalom. I heard young women praise him as I walked the streets, declaring they could find “no defect on him, from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head.” The crown of his head was adorned by unusually long and thick hair. Seeking an explanation for such a wonder of nature, several learned men claimed the king’s son had been blessed with the hair of Adam, the first man of creation, making it a supernatural gift.

Absalom cut his hair only once a year, and the only reason he cut it then, he claimed, was because its weight slowed him down. After the annual haircut, the barber swept up trimmings that weighed over five pounds. At Absalom’s second annual haircut, the barber charged an admission fee for those who wished to watch.

As Absalom’s popularity grew after his return to Jerusalem, I wondered if Adonai had permitted David’s son to come home because Amnon’s murder might be considered justifiable. After all, the king’s firstborn had committed a serious sin against Tamar, and Tamar had subsequently gone to her grave in sorrow. The people of Jerusalem adopted this theory and held it firmly, but I was not a judge, and Adonai had never spoken to me about Absalom.

One day as I walked the path to the barley fields where each Jerusalem household maintained a plot, I spied a young family. Three boys were running through a newly planted acre while two little girls remained close to their mother. The father, a well-built, sturdy fellow, was calling directions to his servants, and he turned when he heard my footsteps on the rocky path.

I gasped, recognizing Absalom. If he hadn’t been recently shorn, I would have known him by his shining mane, but the striking face left no room for doubt. Holding my gaze, the young man finished his directions to his servants, then walked toward me.

“Wait, please.” His voice rang with authority. “I would have a word with you.”

I leaned heavily on my staff as I watched him approach with the sure grace of a forest creature. Adonai had blessed me with good health and an adequate body, but I would never command attention the way Absalom did. Some of HaShem’s creations—Absalom, Tamar, Bathsheba, and even David—had been blessed in a way I never would be, and I had never coveted that quality until that moment.

“You are the prophet, are you not?” Absalom smiled when I nodded. “Good. Perhaps you would be good enough to perform a service for me.” The shining dots of perspiration beading on his forehead only served to highlight his hair. “I have twice sent messages to Joab, and he has refused to acknowledge them. I would like to speak to him, but if I went to his house, I don’t think I’d be welcome.” Absalom tilted his head and grinned, every tooth in perfect alignment with the others. “I can’t search for him at the palace, so would you be good enough to tell him to come see me? He is a kinsman, after all.”

I hesitated, torn between good intentions. Ordinarily I wouldn’t hesitate to do a favor for another man, especially one of the king’s sons. Yet by refusing Absalom’s requests, Joab had made his wishes
clear. If I were to do this favor, I’d be inserting myself into a situation that had nothing to do with my calling from Adonai.

I bowed as a sign of respect, then returned the prince’s grin, though mine was nowhere near as charming. “I am sorry, but I cannot do what you ask. If the captain wishes to speak to you, he will seek you out.”

A flash of irritation flitted across that handsome face, then Absalom heaved a sigh and gave me another shining smile. “Well said, prophet. I see you are as wise as you are circumspect.” He took a step backward, lifted a hand in farewell, turned and went back to his family.

Two days later, I heard that Absalom had commanded his servants to set Joab’s barley field afire. If that didn’t result in a conversation with the king’s commander, nothing would.

Lying beside Ornah in our small house, I dreamed.

In spirit I floated into King David’s room, where a harp lay on a table beside his bed. A wind blew over the strings, and the rippling tones woke the king, who stirred, sat up, and got out of bed to begin composing a new psalm. Bemused, I smiled at the busy king. Then the scene shifted. I was standing in a shadowy forest, the area dominated by a gigantic terebinth tree. The massive limbs spread toward the north, east, and west, its canopy effectively blocking the sunlight. The musical wind played here as well, moving the leaves until they applauded in praise to HaShem. Only then did I notice an object hanging from a low branch.

I moved closer. The object, which turned and twisted in the wind, was a man, and for a moment I didn’t recognize him. Then I realized I was staring at Absalom, the king’s son. His thick hair had become tangled within the tree, and Absalom had pulled a dagger from his belt and was attempting to cut himself free.

I stared as surprise siphoned the blood from my head. The sight of Israel’s best-known prince dangling by his hair was so unexpected, so absurd, that I nearly laughed aloud. Though I saw no sign of a mule, somehow the prince had lost his royal seat.

As I watched Absalom struggle, a great ripping sound shook the forest, and the ground split beneath the prince’s feet. He looked down into a breach filled with steaming red mud and hissing black stones that moved and melted in the fissure.

Without being told, I knew I was looking into the abyss of Gehinnom. From the expression of stark terror on his face, Absalom had recognized the place, too. He dropped his dagger, no longer willing to fall free of the tree, and then his panic-stricken eyes met mine. They widened and filled with wordless appeal, but I could do nothing to save him.

And then I woke.

I
SHOULD
HAVE
EXPECTED
IT
TO
HAPPEN
—
knowing David as I did, and knowing of his obsession with his most handsome son, I should have been prepared.

But I had relaxed during the years Absalom lived as an exile from the king’s court, and the palace walls had sheltered me from the outside world. Because Elisheba lived with me, she was no longer a source of gossip about daily life in Jerusalem.

So when the king asked all his wives and children to attend court one spring morning, I dressed with care, thinking we were about to celebrate a treaty, a birthday, or some gift the king wished to bestow on one of his soldiers. Shlomo, tall and thin at sixteen, met his brothers and me in the palace courtyard, and together we walked through the central doorway to the throne room. We bowed before David, then made our way to the area where members of the royal family sat in attendance on the king.

When we had all assembled, David nodded, lifted his hand, and gestured to Joab. At this signal, the army commander, looking unusually grim, threw open the double doors and announced his guests in a loud voice: “Presenting Absalom, son of the king, his wife, and his children.”

Something cold trickled down my spine at the sight of the young man who had murdered the king’s firstborn. Absalom seemed to have grown bigger in the five years he’d been away from the palace, wider somehow, and more robust. He strode majestically forward until he reached his father’s throne. He bowed, pressing his forehead to the floor, until David rose, walked forward, and touched his shoulder. Absalom stood, his eyes glowing with anticipation. I saw his hands move as if he would embrace his father, but David did not open his arms to his son. Instead, the unsmiling king caught Absalom’s left hand, kissed it, and turned, offering his back to the son who had returned.

The empty air between David and Absalom vibrated, the silence filling with disappointment so bitter I could almost taste it. Absalom swallowed hard as his father again took his throne. The prince stepped to the side and introduced his family. “My wife,” he said, smiling at the crowd, “and my children.”

I stared at David, baffled. For three years he had pined for Absalom, and then the young man had returned. But even though Absalom lived in Jerusalem, David had not once confronted or counseled his son, yet Absalom still managed to find a way back into the palace. Clearly, however, David was not eager to welcome him. Resigned? Perhaps. Happy? Not at all.

If this had been staged as an act of public reconciliation, only those who had not witnessed it would believe that any sort of reconciliation had taken place.

Absalom turned toward us, the king’s family. He caught my eye and dipped his head in acknowledgment, though his gaze lingered
on Solomon. I wanted to throw myself in front of my son and shout that Absalom should never look at, never even
think
about Shlomo, but that sort of behavior would not please my lord the king. So what could I do? David had allowed his scheming older son to return to court, and I could do nothing but accept Absalom’s presence. I would be expected to smile at him, honor him, and perhaps even obey him.

In that instant, I realized I did not have the power to protect any of my sons.

I closed my eyes and wished I could shout out a message for the world to hear.
My Solomon will be the next king!
But David had not mentioned making the news public, and I understood why. At sixteen, Solomon was still a youth, and anything could happen to him—a hunting accident, a slip of a sword, a poisoned dish. Even in the guarded halls of the palace, plots and schemes developed, any one of which might prove dangerous for my son.

By remaining silent, however, David allowed his other children to dream of power. With Amnon gone, Absalom would be the presumptive crown prince, and over the next few years he could forge alliances that might prove fatal even to his father. Absalom was old enough to be king, and Adonijah, Shephatiah, and Ithream also waited in the shadows.

Blood pounded in my ears as Grandfather stepped forward and invited Absalom and his family to a banquet. I closed my eyes, fervently hoping that Solomon and I would not be expected to attend. Or, if we were, that we would be seated far across the room, away from the attractive man I could neither admire nor trust.

S
TANDING
WITH
OTHER
OBSERVERS
in the king’s throne room, my mouth twisted with the acceptance of a terrible knowledge: history was repeating itself before my eyes. A son who yearned for acceptance and approval from his father had found none.

I lowered my head out of respect as Absalom and his family walked away from David. Absalom would probably smile falsely for the rest of the day, making much of his return to the king’s court and the bosom of his family. But in truth, the king had greeted enemies with far more cordiality, and other members of the royal family—especially Bathsheba—had looked at Absalom with fear in their eyes.

I slipped away from the crowd and left the throne room, wandering toward a quiet seat in a stone alcove. Soldiers and visitors occasionally walked through the hallway, but for the most part silence reigned here, allowing me to be alone with my thoughts. If
Adonai wished to speak to me in this place, I would be ready and quick to hear His voice.

Sitting in the alcove, I was filled with remembering. When David fled from Saul, he came to see Samuel, my teacher. While staying with us, he wrote one of his
tehillim
and read it to the prophet:

For your sake I suffer insults,

shame covers my face.

I am estranged from my brothers,

an alien to my mother’s children,

because zeal for your house is eating me up,

and on me are falling the insults

of those insulting you.

He had written much more, but those lines remained with me because I’d been startled by David’s confession that he felt no connection to his seven brothers. When I asked Samuel about it, my teacher quietly explained that since David felt cut off from his own family, he began to consider Saul his father and Jonathan his brother. He might have considered the king’s daughters, Merab and Michal, his sisters until the king offered one of them in marriage. In the end, David married Michal because Saul wanted him to. David would have done anything to please the king he so admired.

In the same way, Saul loved David . . . until he began to fear him. Then that fierce love turned to fierce hate, and Saul’s hate nearly destroyed the young shepherd.

“The lad has a sensitive soul,” Samuel had finished. “And that is why he is here now. He has been hurt, and his soul needs time to heal. When a cry for love is met by hate or indifference, the one who begged for love will become hard as a seed of bitterness grows. We will pray with David and encourage him to seek Adonai so his heart will remain tender.”

I closed my eyes and again saw Absalom’s handsome face as he looked at the king, his eyes alight with hope, his fingers fluttering in anticipation of embracing his father in reconciliation and forgiveness. He had been silently, earnestly seeking love and approval, and David had not granted it. David had given ceremonial kisses on both cheeks to former enemies, yet to his son he could only bestow a chilly kiss on the hand.

I groaned. Oh, Absalom. After being his father’s favored child for so many years, this sort of public humiliation would do nothing to keep his heart soft and tender toward the king. After waiting two years for the king to do something about Amnon’s sin, Absalom had boldly avenged his sister, and what had been the result? Exile. Disinterest. And now, public humiliation.

No, Absalom’s heart would not be softened by David’s welcome today. And seeds of bitterness thrived in the hard ground of anger and resentment.

One day it occurred to me that David treated his son Absalom in the same way he’d treated Michal, the daughter of Saul. He had sought his wife when she lived with another man, but after she dared rebuke him, he’d kept her at arm’s length. In the same way, David had pined for Absalom and allowed him to return to Jerusalem, but then he forbade the young man to appear at court.

So just as Michal had invested her life in raising her nephews, Absalom began to invest his life in the people of Israel.

After he’d been officially welcomed at court by his father the king, the citizens of Jerusalem were no longer shy about praising and admiring the supposed heir. In return, Absalom indulged in princely perks no son of Israel had ever claimed. He expected free food at the market, the lending of servants to tend his fields, and
volunteers to care for his animals. No longer content to travel by mule like others in the royal family, he bought a chariot and horses and hired fifty men to run in front of his conveyance to announce his approach.

Unlike some wealthy men, Absalom was not a sluggard. He rose early to ride out in his chariot and station himself beneath a shaded tent near the approach to the city gate.

Since I lived in the last house at the outskirts of Jerusalem, he often set his tent across the road from my home. Each morning I rose at sunrise only to find that Absalom had risen in the dark. As I sat beneath the shade of my fig tree, Absalom greeted every traveler on the road, hailing them with a smile and friendly questions: “What city are you from? What business have you in Jerusalem?”

If someone from a neighboring tribe was bringing a case to the king for judgment, Absalom would run his fingers through his thick hair in a thoughtful gesture, then lean forward to say, “Look, your cause is good and just, but the king hasn’t deputized anyone to hear your case. If I were made judge in the land, anyone with a suit or other cause could come to me. I would see to it that justice was meted out fairly.”

When anyone, visitor or neighbor, approached and prepared to prostrate himself before Absalom, the prince would put out his hands, hold the person upright, and kiss his cheeks as if they were close kinsmen and not prince and servant.

Whenever I witnessed the prince’s effusive greetings, I couldn’t help remembering what I’d observed on the morning Absalom returned to court. Since he did not receive a warm welcome from the king, he seemed determined to offer it to anyone who crossed his path.

After four years of this behavior, Absalom had thoroughly stolen the hearts of those who lived in Jerusalem and those from neighboring tribes who had met him on visits to the capital city.
Because he acted with fierce intention and bold rashness, many of the king’s counselors dared to call the king’s attention to Absalom’s overweening ambition.

David’s only response was to offer a polite smile. “And why shouldn’t Absalom win the people’s hearts?” he would ask. “He is a prince of Israel. Let him be, and do not disturb him.”

I didn’t know what to make of David’s answer. I believed he loved his son, but why didn’t he show it? Did he not know how, or did he worry that any display of support for Absalom would appear to be support for a murderer?

I didn’t know what Ahithophel and the counselors said to the king about his son or if they said anything at all. But I did know this: though many of the king’s officials felt uneasy with Absalom’s intentions, nothing they said could sway the king’s opinion that Absalom should be allowed to do as he pleased.

One day I was working in my family’s field when I looked up to see a familiar form in the distance. The prophet Gad, the king’s personal seer, was approaching on the road, and within a few moments I realized he had come to see me. I dropped my hoe, washed my hands, and greeted my guest with water and a seat in the shade.

From the line between his brows, I knew something troubled the man, so I sat and waited for him to speak. After a few moments of apparent soul-searching, he did. “David has taken a census,” he said. “Months ago the king sent Joab’s men throughout the tribes to count the number of people in the land.”

I blinked. I had heard nothing from Adonai about a census, but the Lord did not tell me everything. “Well,” I said, “the offering will be good for the priests. The Tabernacle may need repairs—”

“They are not collecting an offering,” Gad interrupted, his face grim. “They are only counting men twenty and older.”

I smoothed my beard, troubled by this news. HaShem told Moses that whenever a census of the people was taken, each man was to pay a small piece of silver as a ransom for himself so that no plague would strike the people as they were counted. The payment was intended to purify the populace and confirm their commitment to the care of the Tabernacle. If David’s men weren’t collecting an offering, why were they counting heads?

Gad must have read the question in my eyes. “It would appear this census is being taken to satisfy the king’s curiosity. Perhaps he has been tempted to take pride in the strength of his army or the number of his people.”

“We are at peace,” I pointed out. “David doesn’t need to know the strength of his army.” I paused to search my thoughts. “As a rich man foolishly places his trust in the number of silver coins he has, perhaps the king has placed his trust in the number of his soldiers.”

“I don’t know what David is thinking,” Gad said. “And Adonai has not told me. But even Joab tried to persuade the king to forget the idea, but David insisted. The commander’s men have been traveling through Israel for nearly nine months and will soon return with an answer for the king.”

“And after that?”

Gad’s dark brows slanted in a frown. “Then we shall see what Adonai says.”

Days passed before I heard from Gad again. When I met him at the palace, he told me that Joab’s men had returned and reported their findings: Israel had eight hundred thousand men capable of swinging a sword, and Judah five hundred thousand.

After hearing the report, David realized the extent of his sin almost immediately. “I have offended greatly in what I have done,”
he told Joab. Then he addressed Adonai, saying, “And now, Lord, pardon the guilt of your servant, for I have been foolish.”

Gad went to David early the next morning with a question from HaShem. “‘For your sin in taking the census, will you choose three years of famine throughout your territory, three months of fleeing from your enemies, or three days of severe plague throughout your land?’ Think this over and decide what answer I should give Adonai.”

“I am in great distress,” David told his seer. “Please let us fall into the hand of the Lord, for His mercies are great, but do not let me fall into human hands.”

So for three days a plague smote the people of Israel. From Dan in the north to Beersheba in the south, seventy thousand men died, along with women and children. As the angel of death prepared to destroy Jerusalem, Adonai relented and told the angel to stop.

At that moment David looked up and saw the death angel hovering over a threshing floor that belonged to Araunah the Jebusite.

Gad told David to go to the threshing floor and build an altar there. The king went as the seer had instructed, then purchased the threshing floor and oxen for a sacrifice of burnt offerings and peace offerings. After David prayed, Adonai answered by sending fire from heaven to burn the offering on the altar. David was filled with the
Ruach HaKodesh
and declared, “This will be the location for the Temple of the Lord God and the place of the altar for Israel’s burnt offerings.”

Gad looked at me when he finished his story. “Were any sick in your house?”

I shook my head. “None. Though I heard about many who died in other villages.”

“I do not always understand the ways of Adonai,” Gad said, “but He makes His plans in the heavens while we make ours on earth. We may not understand His ways, but we must trust that they are right.”

The census and its grievous consequences affected David’s own family, though the king did not realize it right away. The next day, while he sketched out plans to build Adonai’s Temple on the former threshing floor, Absalom and his wife dressed in sackcloth and led a procession of mourners to the King’s Valley, where the king’s son buried four of his five children and piled rocks on the grave, inviting other mourners to do the same. When the pile of stones reached higher than a man’s head, Absalom addressed those who had come with him. “I have built this monument,” he said, placing his hand on his chest, “because I have no son to carry on my name. Only my daughter, Maacah, still lives.”