Love’s Sacred Song (5 page)

“Arielah seems to have met with some ill fate this evening,” Kemmuel said with a sneer. “How fortunate that she has an ima and abba to fawn over her like servants.” Then, as though disgusted by their presence, he began marching toward the house while Igal and Reu shifted nervously at the courtyard gate.

“Kemmuel!” Jehoshaphat’s shout split the silence, but rather than turn to face Abba, Kemmuel merely stopped, forcing Jehoshaphat to address his back. “Your disrespect will not go unpunished forever, my son. The sins you’ve committed against your sister will return to you one day.”

Kemmuel whirled around. “And who will punish me, Abba? You? Do you have the strength to fight me? What can you do to me, you weak and foolish old man?”

A collective gasp rose from the courtyard. Kemmuel’s brazen disrespect—especially shown in the presence of a guest—was unthinkable. Arielah glanced at the royal messenger; his cheeks and neck were crimson. Even Igal looked horrified.

Arielah saw Abba’s inner battle through the windows of his soul. Something shifted in his eyes, and she knew Abba’s response would be different this time. He had given his firstborn countless opportunities to repent. Kemmuel, the boy, had squandered them all. Now Kemmuel, the man, would answer to Abba’s firm—but merciful—hand.

“Kemmuel, you are no longer welcome in my home,” Jehoshaphat said. “You may sleep in my barns or my sheepfolds, but from this day forward, you will be to me as a hired hand until you repent of your rebellion. I love you, my son, but I cannot allow you to destroy yourself and this family.”

Kemmuel looked dumbstruck.

Jehoshaphat turned to his younger son and said softly, “Igal, you have always followed your brother’s evil ways. Choose now the way you will go.”

Arielah could feel her heart pounding.
Lord, please give Igal the strength to break free from Kemmuel’s influence.

Igal’s face was ashen. Turning toward Jehosheba, Arielah witnessed the silent exchange between a loving ima and her lost son. Jehosheba stood beside Arielah but held out her hand to Igal. The second son smiled faintly, but when his eyes met his sister’s, his deadly glare was accusing.
This is all your fault
, he seemed to say.

Igal looked to Kemmuel then, his older brother’s expression as hard as the bricks in Egypt.

“Yes, Igal, choose which way you will go,” Kemmuel taunted.

Igal squeezed his eyes shut. A decision of this magnitude seemed to cause the slow-witted brother physical pain.

“Now! Choose now!” Kemmuel screamed, bullying his brother as usual. Like a confused lamb, Igal looked from Ima to Abba and then to his older brother who had always held an invisible strap around his neck. It was only a moment—just a brief hesitation. Then he walked into the house with Kemmuel to gather his things and move to the barns.

Ima buried her face on Arielah’s shoulder. “How could our sons treat their abba like this? Don’t they realize they could be stoned for such rebellion?” Arielah moved Ima to the farthest corner of the courtyard. She didn’t want to be near the house when her brothers returned.

Jehoshaphat extended his hand to his guest, guiding him to join the women. “Reu, I’m sorry you had to witness the shame that stains my family.”

Reu’s sincerity was evident as he placed his hand on the judge’s shoulder. “My lord, I will not pretend to know the difficult relationships between abbas and sons since my own abba died when I was a young boy. But I have never seen a man love as you love your sons.”

Arielah’s heart warmed at the kindness of this stranger. His words seemed like a balm to her abba’s wounded spirit.

“The law says you could have Kemmuel and Igal stoned for the way they cursed you tonight. In fact, I don’t know any other Israelite who would allow repentance after being treated this way.” Then, nodding at Jehosheba and Arielah, he said, “I believe the house of Jehoshaphat is not a house stained with shame but one made of mercy.”

A loud
crack!
sounded as Kemmuel tried to slam the cedar door closed, but its corner caught on the dirt floor and splintered. Arielah’s brothers rushed by, their belongings in sacks slung over their shoulders. Neither offered a word of farewell, nor did they look back.

The little band in the courtyard watched in silence until the two silhouettes faded in the moonlight. Arielah felt the cool spring breeze and suddenly remembered her torn robe. Thankful that Ima Jehosheba stood beside her and blocked Reu’s view of her injuries, Arielah would allow Abba and his guest to enter the house first, while Ima brought a new robe and headpiece outside.

Jehoshaphat offered a sad smile to their royal guest. “Reu, you have been more than patient. Now let me show you the hospitality of Shunem. My honorable wife is a fine cook, and my daughter plays beautifully on her shepherd’s flute.” Abba wrapped his arm around the messenger’s shoulders and guided him to the house, casting a backward glance at his wife and daughter. “Jehosheba and Arielah will be along in a little while.”

Reu patted his ample middle. “I thought I remembered you promising food before we began our journey back to Jerusalem.”

As the two men made their way into the house, Arielah whispered through tears, “Ima, why must Kemmuel and Igal continue to hurt themselves and others, when all we want to do is love them? How can we make them understand?”

Jehosheba cupped Arielah’s cheek and wiped away her tears. “We are all given stones with which we build our lives, Arielah. Love is the cornerstone upon which your abba has chosen to build this family. When Kemmuel refused to make it
his
cornerstone, his life became unsteady, unstable—and his character unsound with it.” She gently kissed Arielah’s forehead. “Kemmuel must choose his cornerstone, my little lion of God. We cannot build his life for him.”

Ima brushed her arm and then disappeared into the house, leaving Arielah to meditate on her words. Indeed, her parents’ love had been the bedrock of her life, that unshakable, sacred cornerstone upon which Arielah had grown in safety and confidence. Her brothers had been offered the same love but had rejected it. Why? How could anyone resist it?

She suddenly remembered Solomon. He had just lost his abba. Was King David
his
unshakable cornerstone?

Jehosheba reappeared with a fresh robe and head covering. Arielah exchanged her tattered garments and donned her clean woolen robe, wondering,
On what cornerstone will Solomon build his life? His nation?

•
 Genesis 49:1, 8 
•

[As Jacob lay dying, he] called for his sons and said: . . . “Judah, your brothers will praise you; . . . your father’s sons will bow down to you.”

P
rofessional mourners began wailing the moment King David’s eyes closed in death. But in the depths of the palace dungeon, screams melted into the incoherent mumblings of the tortured. It was here in this dark kingdom that Ahishar, the palace high steward, reigned supreme. After Prince Adonijah’s failed attempt to steal the throne, Ahishar was the highest-ranking palace official still undetected in the covert Sons of Judah. Fear was Ahishar’s greatest weapon, and he wielded it expertly in his underground kingdom.

Holding a clean white cloth over his nose and mouth, he examined his most recent betrayer. “How long, Mahlon, have you been a scribe in my service?”

The man reeked of blood and excrement, but the sweet smell of his fear seeped through Ahishar’s cloth. “Twenty . . . years, my . . . lord.” The scribe slumped between two guards, his face and lips swollen after long hours of torture.

“And in those twenty years, how many times have you spoken to Elisheba the cook about matters of politics in Israel?”

“Lord Ahishar,” Mahlon said, “truly, I . . . I spoke to Elisheba . . . of palace matters . . . very few times . . . hardly ever.”

At Ahishar’s nod, one of the guards seized Mahlon’s hair and jerked his head back. “Tell me, my friend. Recount the exact words you found necessary to gush to the palace cook.”

“Please, my lord, I offered no details. I just said you wished Judah to rule the northern tribes of Israel.” He paused as though considering whether to tell all.

Ahishar smiled.
Smart fellow. Consider carefully.
“I can bring Elisheba down and ask her if you’d prefer.”

Mahlon’s eyes were wild. “No! I told her the Sons of Judah planned to . . . conquer the Israelites in the north . . . to make Judah a nation . . . royal and powerful.” His begging and hysteria deteriorated until Ahishar’s once refined scribe became a babbling idiot.

But the high steward felt no compassion. How ridiculous that a highly respected scribe would risk his position, his reputation—even his life—to impress the palace cook. Compassion? No. He felt disgust. This flawlessly dutiful scribe threw away a lucrative career for a few moments of boasting.

Stroking his patchy beard, Ahishar considered his own carelessness. He should never have conducted the business of the Sons of Judah in the presence of someone like Mahlon. A scribe who mingled with servants was unworthy to enter the secret society’s membership of select palace officials and influential Judean leaders. It was a tight circle of trust, and too much talk could forfeit generations of planning. King Solomon must never discover their existence. He, like King David, was under the impression that Israel should remain a nation of equality among the tribes. If only Adonijah’s coup had succeeded. As leader of the Sons of Judah, he would have immediately declared war on the northern tribes.

A slow smile crept across Ahishar’s face.
Now that Adonijah is gone and I command the Sons of Judah, who would dare challenge me for Judah’s new throne?
Perhaps it was to his benefit that Adonijah had failed.

Mahlon’s piteous moan drew the high steward’s attention, and the scribe resumed his pleading. “As you know, my lord, I too am of the tribe of Judah. I applauded your loyal support of the tribe of Judah to Elisheba. So please, master, have mercy on me, your brother Judean.”

“Enough!” Ahishar screeched, taking three quick steps to close the gap. With their noses almost touching, Ahishar whispered, “Say one more word and I will cut out your tongue.”

Mahlon hesitated only a moment. “Yes, my lord.”

A slow, satisfied chuckle began at the base of Ahishar’s throat. “I did warn you, my friend.” He watched with delight as the realization dawned on his prisoner’s face.

“No! Please, master, I didn’t mean to say another word!” Mahlon fought the guards valiantly but, of course, to no avail.

“Hold his jaws apart!” Ahishar shouted over the scuffle. “A mute scribe can still write beautiful letters on a clay tablet.”

Exhausted, Solomon concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, walking deliberately from the astronomers’ tower near the Valley Gate toward the palace. Benaiah walked with him, and the pounding of the big man’s sandals shook the ground, a familiar cadence that had accompanied him since Abba’s death this morning.

After leaving David’s bedside, Solomon had thrown himself into pressing matters of state. Time was precious since all work would cease when he announced the thirty-day grieving period tomorrow. Solomon’s final task of the day took him to the celestial experts in the watchtower to discuss his proposed calendar changes. Hoping to reach a decision tonight, since the changes would affect the beginning of Passover, he lifted his eyes to the cloudy sky. “How can I track the path of the moon and stars, Benaiah, when the night is as dark as the tents of Kedar?”

The captain followed the king’s gaze upward. “It seems even the moon and stars are shrouded to mourn King David’s death.”

Trudging uphill through the fortress gate, they entered the unwalled portion of the new city. Clouds cleared, and the moon shone on Mount Moriah, the plot of land north of the palace that would become God’s temple site.

“How will Israel remember my abba, Benaiah?” Solomon asked, studying the vacant hill. “Will they remember this as Araunah’s threshing floor, where Abba went after his disobedient census caused seventy thousand Israelite deaths before he offered sacrifices to God? Or will they remember that this was Mount Moriah, where Abraham was willing to sacrifice Isaac but God provided a miracle instead?” Benaiah remained silent, eyes forward. Solomon wasn’t looking for an answer, and the big man seemed to realize it. “Will Israel remember David the warrior, his provision of wealth and foreign laborers to build God’s temple? Will they recall my abba’s friendship with Hiram, king of Tyre, that provided the necessary cedar logs and shipping lanes to transport them?”

More silence passed. Finally, Benaiah ventured a gentle answer. “Perhaps you will ask Israel these things tomorrow at the royal tombs. They are your people now, my lord. They will remember the things of which you remind them.”

My people now.
Solomon’s mind continued to spin. As they ascended the palace steps, sounds of professional mourners wafted on the night breeze. The soft moans would last through the night, reminding the city of a legend lost.

With a slight chuckle, Solomon asked, “And what will Israel remember of me, my friend? Calendar changes?”

The big man smiled in return. “With your inquisitive mind, young Solomon, I believe Israel will never forget you. Only Jehovah knows the extent of your reign.”

Glancing above them, Solomon noted extra guards near the palace parapets and the eastern wall bordering the Kidron Valley. For the first time, he realized Benaiah had seemed especially on edge today, more than grief silencing him. He’d been on alert. “Judging by the extra guards,” Solomon said, shifting their topic once more, “I sense you’re expecting some sort of increased threat.”

His captain raked his large hand over his weary face and then turned with a respectful grin. “You are indeed inquisitive, my lord.”

Solomon nodded, bidding his friend to continue.

“We have received word that some of the foreign ambassadors have inquired about the storehouses of wealth your abba gathered to build the temple. King David wisely distributed the riches into three separate citadels at Megiddo, Hazor, and of course here, in the fortress of Zion. When we dispatched word of your abba’s death to the surrounding tribes and nations, we added guards in and around the palace. Additional men have been assigned to King David’s—I’m sorry. I mean, they’ve been assigned to
your
private chambers since your chamber wall shares the northern wall of the fortress.”

It all sounded so matter-of-fact, so routine when Benaiah said it. But when Abba’s heart stopped beating, Solomon’s whole world had shifted. Nothing felt routine. Now he alone ruled Israel. He must keep his nation and his family safe.

Suddenly overwhelmed with the need to see his only son, he choked out the command. “Benaiah, send one of the guards to summon my wife Naamah. Have her bring Prince Rehoboam.” Struggling to keep his composure, he said, “I need to hold my future so I can let go of my past.”

With a nod and a directive glance, Benaiah obeyed, issuing the command to a guard as they entered the palace. Winding through the grand halls, Solomon continued his silent contemplations amid the eerie echoes of mourners’ wails. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” he whispered. Benaiah’s meaty hand rested around his shoulder, the gentle giant his constant support.

Solomon’s sackcloth slippers made no sound on the mosaic tiles leading to his chambers. Two Mighty Men stood guard at the double cedar doors between twin lion statues. The lion had long been the symbol of Judah’s tribe, and the Mighty Men had long been David’s mercenary bodyguards, many of whom were Cherethite and Pelethite warriors. The doors of Abba David’s chamber—now Solomon’s—opened at the clang of the guards’ crossed spears. The king walked beneath the canopied weapons of his fiercest defenders.

Naamah stood before him, breathless, hurried. Though Solomon had walked leisurely between the palace entrance and his chamber, his summons had obviously been issued with urgency.

His wife’s exquisite dark eyes flashed like a flame against polished obsidian. “Why have I been called, and why would you command your son to be awakened to see you at this hour?”

Rehoboam lay on his nursemaid’s shoulder, sound asleep, and Solomon felt torn between anger and regret. Naamah never offered him a kind word anymore, but she was right this time. He should have considered the late hour. Taking a step toward his Ammonite wife, he noted a shadow of fear in her eyes and then her quick recovery. She was every measure a king’s daughter, but he occasionally caught glimpses of the atrocities she must have witnessed of her abba’s defeat at General Joab’s hand. The Ammonites had been a vassal nation since Solomon was born; in fact, it was while Joab was winning that battle that Abba David seduced Ima Bathsheba. Naamah had been saved with other Ammonite noblemen’s daughters, and though she was several years Solomon’s senior, her sad eyes had captured his heart. But tonight those eyes cast daggers.

Reaching out his hand, he said, “Please, Naamah. It’s been a long day. I didn’t want to be alone tonight.” He waited for her response. Nothing.

Rehoboam nuzzled into his nursemaid’s shoulder, releasing the contented sigh of one too young to know true sorrow. Solomon reached for the boy, but Naamah grabbed him out of the maid’s arms. “Stop, he’s sleeping,” she whispered, her anger smoldering. “Why must you wake a peaceful boy from his dreams?”

Rehoboam stirred and began to whimper. “Mi-ma?”

“See what you’ve done?” she spat while smoothing the toddler’s curly dark hair. Naamah took a wool-stuffed doll from the maid’s hand, the likeness of a man with the head of an ox. Rehoboam cuddled the toy god Molech and contentedly sucked his thumb, nestling to sleep in his ima’s arms.

All blood drained from Solomon’s face. “Give the child to his nurse. Now!”

Naamah jumped, startling Rehoboam awake, and the boy began to wail.

“Benaiah, escort Naamah’s maid back to the nursery, and return to us when you have news that our son is sleeping peacefully.”

Tears welled in his wife’s eyes as she transferred her son to the maid’s arms and watched Benaiah lead them from the room. With the precision learned from a lifetime among nobility, Naamah turned gracefully to meet Solomon’s gaze. “I did not expect to be called to the king’s chamber this evening.” She removed her head covering and began untying her belt with shaking hands. “I have not been properly oiled and lotioned.”

Solomon covered the distance between them in two steps, stilling her hands in his grasp. “Naamah, we must talk about that pagan god you have given Rehoboam. You cannot teach my son to embrace any god but El Shaddai.” He spoke quietly, tenderly, trying to control his already frayed emotions.

She tilted her head up slowly, and Solomon saw her eyes drowning in pain. “Your father’s soldiers killed my father and brothers. Israel has made slaves of my people and taken possession of all Ammonite cities.” Blinking, she released the river of tears down her cheeks. “If I don’t teach my son of his mother’s people, how can he know that the blood of two great nations flows through his veins?” She laid her head on Solomon’s chest, and instinctively he enfolded her in a protective embrace. He could feel her trembling from head to toe with her final plea. “Please don’t take away the last remnant of my Ammonite heritage. I am only one of five foreign wives in your harem, and the Israelite wives and concubines spurn us. All we have are the traditions of our homelands to keep us sane, Solomon. Please . . . please.” The floodgate of tears burst, and her shoulders shook uncontrollably. Gone was the dignity of her nobility. Gone was her arrogance. He held a broken treasure, and his heart broke with her.