The Secret Chord: A Novel (27 page)

Uriah stood to greet the king, smiling. He was a handsome man, tall and swarthy, with very fine white teeth and thick dark hair worn in Hittite braids. “The men of Yudah and the men of Israel are camped in the open on the hard ground. My general Yoav has no comfort this night. How, then, can I go home and eat and drink and sleep with my wife?”

David had no choice but to compliment him on his fortitude. They shared a few pleasantries, then David said, “Take at least another day here, resting. Then I will send you back to your brothers in the field.”

The next night, David invited Uriah to a feast in his honor. He sat him on his own couch and plied him relentlessly with unwatered wine. I could see that Uriah was reluctant, at first, to drink so much, but he could scarcely refuse the king’s many toasts. Soon enough, the quantity of drink played fool with his restraint, and he downed cup after cup until it was plain that he was inebriated. At a very late hour, he stumbled out, once again attended by Muwat. Once again, however, even drunk, he refused to walk down to his house, and passed out on a mat in the barracks.

In the morning, when he came to the audience hall to take his leave of the king, David showed no trace of his displeasure. He charged Uriah with orders for Yoav, and as he pressed the rolled, sealed hide into Uriah’s hand, he covered it with his own, and embraced him. Then he raised his voice to the assembly: “For there is no man in my army in whom I have more trust. Truly, Uriah is the very model of a soldier—a man of duty, discipline, courage and loyalty. Go with my blessing, and bring us the victory!”

What is he going to do now, I asked myself as I fretted and paced, waiting for him to call for me, to ask for advice, to work out a new plan. I dreaded the call, because I had nothing to offer him. It would be a matter of weeks—a month, two at the most—and the pregnancy would be patent. Uriah would know the child was not his, and what then?

When David did call for me, others were present. I would wait impatiently through the discussion of minor suits and civic projects, expecting David to ask me to stay when the others were dismissed. But he gave no indication that he wanted me, even though I lingered behind until it became conspicuous and, no sign having been given, I had to withdraw.

A week passed in this way. On the eighth day, I was sitting fretfully through morning audience when Yoav’s messenger arrived to deliver the latest news from the front lines. The king called him forward as soon as he saw him, and commanded him to speak.

“My lord, the men of Rabbah sallied out against us into the open; we drove them back to the very gate of their city. But the archers on the wall were in range by then. Six officers fell.”

David struck the arms of his chair and jumped to his feet. “Six? What was Yoav thinking, to send them within range of the archers on the wall?”

“My lord, the sally threatened our positions. He had to drive them back.” The messenger paused a beat, and looked down at the floor. “Your general Yoav said to be sure to report that your brave servant Uriah the Hittite is among the fallen.”

David fell back on his great chair and covered his face with his hand. I had seen it done better. I thought then, as I stood there, of all the times I had witnessed him mourn over deaths of great benefit to him. The butchery of Shaul. The murders of Avner and Ish Boshet. The impaled sons of Merav. I had witnessed him rend his clothes even for deaths, like my father’s, that he had done with his own hand. I had seen him tear his garment so many times it was a sudden wonder to me that he had an intact tunic to lay upon his back.

I recalled Uriah as I’d last seen him, here in this hall. I recalled a rolled, sealed hide. Uriah’s hand, reaching to take it from the hand of the king. As the pain pierced my brow, I saw that same hide, unrolled on the rough-hewn log that served as a table in Yoav’s tent at Rabbah. I saw Yoav’s face in the candlelight, frowning as he strove to make out the writing. The hand was crude, not the work of a trained scribe. As Yoav grasped the meaning, his face registered shock, and then disgust. He crumpled the hide under his fist and swept it to the ground.

Place Uriah in the front line where the fighting is most fierce, then have the men fall back and leave him undefended
.

Words that the king could not entrust even to his loyal scribe, Seraiah. Not battle orders. A death warrant, written by the king himself, delivered by the hand of the convicted. And Yoav, alive on the king’s sufferance since the murder of Avner, had no choice but to give the order. I see Uriah’s face as it registers what is being asked of him. A questioning look crosses his creased brow. He repeats the order, to make sure Yoav is clear about what he has asked. Yoav, on edge, masks his self-disgust in a show of anger, and barks his commands tersely. Uriah bows his head, salutes, and exits the tent. An hour later, he is at the walls, his shield arm raised against the hail of arrows raining down upon him.

The vision faded. Through the thinning images I saw that David still sat as if stricken, his face covered. There were sighs and expressions of regret running in murmurs around the hall. Uriah was a well-liked man, an admired officer.

David rubbed his hands over his face and stood up. He walked toward the messenger, who flinched. One does not want to bring bad news to a king. But David laid his hands on the messenger’s shoulders and held him in his gaze. “Take Yoav this message: Do not be distressed by this matter. The sword always takes its toll. Press your attack on the city and destroy it.” He looked around the hall and raised his voice. “So will these fine soldiers be avenged!”

Everyone in the hall gave a great cry then, and chants of victory filled their mouths. I did not join them. My mouth tasted of vomit.

Whatever it takes. What was necessary.
But this—the killing of Uriah, and the good men who fell beside him—these deaths had not been necessary to gain a kingdom or to secure it. These deaths had not been necessary to anything other than David’s own ungirt appetite. It was simple abuse of power.

I turned on my heel and left the audience hall. I did not stop at the cedar doors, or even at the courtyard gate. The guards there must have read my face, for they scrambled to open the way before me. I walked through the town, returning no greetings or salutes, and strode out through the Dung Gate, past the threshing floor, where women were at work tossing the ripe grain. The chaff blew into my eyes, stung my cheeks. I staggered on, unseeing, into the olive groves. When the trees concealed me, I raised my face to the burning sky. What had I done with my life, to give it into the service of this evil?

I had seen myself as a man in the hand of the Name—serving the king chosen to lead his people in this Land. But what kind of god could will this baseness, this treachery? What kind of nation could rise under such a leader? If David was a man after this god’s own heart, as my inner voice had told me often and again, what kind of black-hearted deity held me in his grip?

I grasped a hank of my hair and pulled it out by the bloody roots. Then I bent and gathered a handful of the dry yellow soil and smeared it on my throbbing scalp. I looked up and located the hot white sun, then turned south and west, toward the Valley of Salt. I walked until my legs turned to jelly, then I flung myself down under the flimsy protection of a thorn bush, and waited to die.

I wept until there was no water in my body left to spare for tears. I stopped sweating. At first, thirst was an itch, then it became an ache. My mouth became sticky, then dry, like dead leaves. My skin shriveled and aged before my eyes. There was a burning pain in my calves. Visions came: thick, swift, relentless. There was no rest from them, nowhere to turn away. At night, they spun and swirled out of the star-encrusted sky. By day, they were shadows on the sheer faces of cliffs, murmurs in the hot breath of the wind.

I dreamed that a passing herdsman dribbled water onto my parched lips, and in the dark I awoke to find a full waterskin lying by my hand. I had strength enough to set my lips to the mouth of it and drink. I walked on then. Walked till my sandals broke and the knife-sharp rocks bit my soles. My burned skin shed itself in silver sheets, my flesh sagged on the frame of my bones. I drank from muddy seeps; I ate insects and worms. Some days, I walked in a press of muttering, shrieking ghosts. The butchered Moavites writhed once again on the ground, the shrieking horses stumbled. The Plishtim soldier whose neck I had crushed rose up and stood before me, holding his head upon his shoulders with his two bloody hands. On those days I was sure I was in the grip of madness. But then the crowds would depart from me, turning their backs, spinning away in a hundred different directions. Then came the others, who were not ghosts but people who yet walked quick upon the earth. I saw them not as they were but as they would be. They did not see me—indeed, at times they walked right through me, engaged in acts or conversations of which I was not part. I understood that I was being shown the future: shards of what would come to be. Often, I cried out for the pain of it. But other times, I was comforted, because I saw, for an instant, the pattern of the whole.

And then, one night, I woke from a restless sleep to find the world alight with the cold radiance of the full moon. I had been in the desert a full month. I was a hollowed-out gourd, as light as air. It was over. I had been shown all that I needed to see. I knew what I needed to do. The painful future stretched out before me. David would have the throne, the crown, the line of descendants that the Name had promised him. But for the rest of his life, he would be scalded by the consequences of his choices. My task would be twofold: to stand up to him, and to stand by him. To awaken his conscience, and to salve the pain this would cause him. To help him to endure through the hard days and years that lay ahead of him.

My shadow leaped out before me, as huge as a giant. With a vast effort, I put one foot before the other, and began the long walk home.

XIII

“Y
ou look like a stream of camel piss! I can see right through you!” He put his hard, muscled arms around my shoulders to embrace me, and I winced. He drew back. He held me at arm’s length and looked me up and down. “I’m afraid you’ll snap in half! What have you done to yourself? They told me you were called into the desert by one of your visions. I’m glad you’ve been called back—while there’s still something left of you!” He took me by the arm, solicitous, as if I were an invalid. “Natan will take some food and drink in my quarters. Bring wine and roast goat—no, wait. Not goat. Too rich, after such a long fast. You need to go slowly, build up your strength. Bring bread and laban, zait and zatar—and some of those good red grapes from Ammon.”

All the way to his quarters, the words spilled from his lips. He was alight, joyful. Even his steps seemed to bounce, as if he were dancing through his life. “So much has happened while you were gone. You know Yoav called me to Rabbah? Yes! They wanted me—the army did—to finish off the Ammonites and take the royal city. Yoav had done all the hard work of course. He captured the water supply, so it was only a matter of time . . . but the thing is, Natan, the army—my army—they wanted me back. They wanted me to lead them to victory. They wanted it to be won in my name. I wish you’d been there when we took the crown off the head of their idol and placed it on my head. I’ll tell you—I wasn’t prepared for it.” He gave a great, joyful bark of laughter. “It weighed a talent! Pure gold, and the gemstones . . . I’ll have them bring it so you can look, later . . .

“We’ve filled the grain stores and the treasury. Can’t count how many mule trains crossed the Yarden. We had to build floating platforms. Everyone who fought is rich now. And the families of the fallen, too. Slaves . . . we’ve got the workforce now for every kind of project. Not just the people of Rabbah—all the Ammonite towns fell, once word got out. I spared their lives, even though they’d resisted. Did you hear about that? It was well done—helped get the others to surrender. You’ve never seen people so happy to be enslaved. They were expecting us to burn them alive and throw their infants on the sword. Well, why wouldn’t they? They’d heard about the Moavites. But that was necessary. This time, I saw we could do differently. We’ve set them to brick making, and the skilled ones are doing ironmongery for us—axes, threshing boards. We will see some changes now. We’ll double the size of this city as I dreamed we would, but in half the time. We’ll make it a wonder. I have ideas, Natan. I’ve missed you! There’s so much I want your advice on. . . . Look, look at this . . .” He drew me by the hand and pulled me across the room and into an alcove. A low table had been set up there, and upon it was a model for a building such as I had never seen . . . a great work such as they say our ancestors fashioned for the pharaohs. The model was unfinished. It had been made with pieces that could be picked up and moved around, so as to try different effects. David did this as he spoke, taking fluted columns and setting them down in pairs, or in triplets, all the time talking, talking . . .

“I thought, how is it that I live in this fine palace while the ark of the Name rests in a tent? We must house it in a temple, don’t you see, Natan . . . the finest materials . . . the most majestic walls . . .” He whirled around the table, rearranging the elements. He was so lost in the joy of creation that he did not notice I was still, silent.

Only when the food came in did he snap out of his grandiose planning. We sat before the trays, and he pressed me to eat, but only took a few grapes for himself. He had one in his hand, turning it between thumb and forefinger.

“And, you know, I have a new wife. The widow of my officer Uriah.” He shot me a swift glance. I kept my face a mask. “Her name—I don’t think you knew it, before. It’s Batsheva. She’s . . .” A flush had crept up from his neck—his fair skin had always been swift to the blush. Now it was on fire. “I’ve never had anyone like her, Natan. Ahinoam—I honor her, of course. How not, since she’s the mother of my firstborn. And you know I’ll always love Avigail. How I miss her! You loved her, too, I know that . . . the two of you, my wisest advisers . . . Maacah is beautiful, but this one . . . Maacah was a state marriage, and with Avigail I always felt like a boy. Batsheva makes me feel like a man.” I bit my tongue, trying to hold back a gust of revulsion. Did he really think I needed to hear this? I looked down, struggling to maintain a neutral expression. I must not have succeeded, for he put his hand on my arm. “Look. I know it wasn’t well done. And you were right to be against it. But it
is
done. In any case, the child that gave us so much worry. It will be born midwinter.”