Bathsheba (12 page)

The heat of the lamps and the heavy scent of incense suddenly seemed more obsessive than sweet. She must go home, despite what the king wanted. She would be safe behind Uriah’s thick walls with Anittas to watch over her.

She turned to her aunt. “Aunt Talia, I’m not feeling so well. I will ask a servant to take me home. Please, tell Chava to stay and enjoy the rest of the feast.” She rose slowly on shaky limbs, forcing herself not to look toward the king’s table again.

“Let me come with you, child.” Her aunt half rose, but Bathsheba stayed her with a touch on her arm.

“No, please. I’m fine. I just need some air and to rest. It’s been a long day.” She sent a silent prayer heavenward that her aunt would accept her explanation. She was not up to scrutiny or to answering questions.

“You are too young to be so worn out.” Aunt Talia met her gaze, her concern evident in the soft blue hues. “But if you’re sure . . .”

“I’m sure.” She smiled, though she knew it was far from convincing.

“I will check on you tomorrow.”

“There is no need. Please, don’t trouble yourself.”

Her aunt looked at her hard, then slowly nodded. “Send word then to let me know you are well.”

“I will.” Bathsheba scooted away from the cushioned couch and turned to address a servant.

One of the king’s guards approached, interrupting her. “The king’s counselor Ahithophel requests his family approach the king’s table to be introduced to the king.” His countenance was friendly but brooked no argument.

Chava returned at that moment. “We’re going to meet the king?” She grabbed Bathsheba’s arm and tugged. “Come quickly. We should not keep the king waiting.”

Bathsheba caught the hint of a smile on the guard’s face, but she could not summon one of her own, her heart sinking. She truly did not feel well, but to refuse such a summons . . . She glanced at her aunt, who had clearly heard, concern and excitement equally evident in the look she gave Bathsheba.

Defeat settled over her. She should never have come. And now it was too late.

10

Uriah’s feet ached, his head throbbed from the heat, and his muscles strained from walking for three days with barely a moment’s rest. He wanted nothing more than to wash the grime from his body and rest beside his wife, to feel her soft skin, to smell the pomegranate fragrance in her hair.
Bathsheba.
It had been too long, and once his regiment had Jerusalem in their sights, he could not get the image of his wife from his mind.

He glanced up, the sky growing darker with each step now through Jerusalem’s streets. The new moon hung low, the tip of its fingernail pointing west, like a sentinel guiding and guarding their way, like the gods his people had worshiped. He checked the thought, chastising himself for even imagining such a thing. The moon could not protect him. The God of the Hebrews watched over the people of Israel and the foreigners who followed His ways.

The gleaming lights of the palace approached. Up ahead, General Joab marched with his brother Abishai, leading the Thirty straight to the barracks for a quick change of clothes, then to the banquet hall where the king kept the New Moon feast. Uriah glanced down at his soiled tunic, glad he would soon be rid of it, but wished not for the first time this night that he could just go home. But duty called before rest or pleasure, and he was not about to shirk what was required of him. Bathsheba would not expect him so soon and would be feasting at her grandfather’s or her aunt’s home, no doubt.

At the barracks, he took full advantage of the cistern of water, rubbing dried blood from his arms, then hurried to his pallet and retrieved a clean military tunic from beneath the thin mat. Replacing his cloak and straightening the clasp with the lion’s head pendant that marked him as one of the king’s Thirty, he strode to the meeting place on the palace portico. Music filtered to him through the closed cedar doors, mingling with the scents of incense and the hiss of bronze lamps lighting every corner of the palace grounds.

“Are we all here?” Joab’s voice with its low, steely rumble moved over the small group, silencing conversations. Uriah scanned the men, doing a mental head count.

“We’re all accounted for,” Eliam said. Uriah nodded his agreement.

“Good. The feast is already past, but the servants will accommodate us in the anteroom after we make our appearances and give a report to the king. Follow me.” Joab made a swift turnabout and nodded to the guards to open the palace doors.

Uriah darted quick glances at the cedar-lined walls and marble pillars, then kept his gaze focused as they approached the banquet hall. The doors opened for Joab, and Jehoshaphat the recorder signaled the trumpeter and announced Joab’s presence to the king. At the end of the hall, the king’s table, covered in pure white linen with purple and green etchings and a golden lion’s head at the center, drew Uriah’s attention. He could never enter the king’s palace without feeling a certain sense of awe at the splendor and majesty emanating from King David. None of the previous kings Uriah had seen or served under had ever known such a high regard among his courtiers or his people. Somehow King David had managed to make all of Israel love him.

Of course, no king was without enemies, but Uriah sensed that David’s were much fewer now than they had ever been. Especially after such a victory! And come next spring, they would return and finish off the people of Rabbah. The Ammonites would rue the day they had offended Israel.

As they approached the king’s table, Joab bowed low before David. Uriah followed Joab’s lead and touched his forehead to the cool tile floor. They rose as one at David’s command.

“Joab, my scouts told me you were spotted coming home, but I did not expect you so soon. Tell me, how did the battle go?”

The music grew soft, the quiet strains of a single harp filling the background as voices in the room stilled. Uriah glanced at the king, who leaned against his couch, hands clasped beneath his bearded chin, his attention focused on Joab.

Half listening to Joab’s recounting of the battle between Israel and both the Syrians and the Ammonites, Uriah let his gaze wander to the men seated at the king’s table, wondering what such a privilege would be like. He spotted Bathsheba’s grandfather, Ahithophel, and was reminded once again of the connection Bathsheba’s father and grandfather had with the king, a connection he had made only since his marriage to Eliam’s daughter, when he also found acceptance into David’s mighty Thirty.

Ahithophel looked up from his wine cup and appeared to notice him. He dipped his head in Uriah’s direction. Uriah returned the gesture, then glanced to the left of the table where a line of men and women stood, apparently waiting to make the king’s acquaintance. He’d seen the king extend the practice during the few military feasts he’d attended, but never participated in such a thing.

His gaze followed the line, stopping short near the end. Was that Bathsheba? The woman wore a thin veil across her face, but he would know his wife anywhere. How was it possible? What was she doing at the king’s table at the feast of the New Moon?

His mind churned, imagining and discarding a handful of thoughts, when he saw another woman grip her arm and whisper something in her ear. He strained to see across the crowded, shadowed room. Her cousin. Further inspection revealed Bathsheba’s aunt and a few male relatives. This must be Ahithophel’s doing. Uriah relaxed at the thought and drew in a slow breath. To see her here intensified his longing for her.

“Thank you, Joab. I’ll expect a full report tomorrow, but it appears we can expect no more trouble from our enemies until next spring.” The king leaned forward, resting his palms on the table, then gestured to his right. “A table awaits you. Come, men, join in the feast, then return to your homes and rest. A rest well deserved.” He smiled, then turned his attention to those waiting to meet him.

Uriah felt Eliam’s hand on his arm, but the feast could wait. He nodded toward the women, then slipped from beside Eliam and made his way to the back of the room and came up near the end of the line. He maneuvered his way closer until he stood directly behind Bathsheba. He placed a gentle hand on her arm and bent close to her ear.

“Bathsheba.” He whispered her name as it had played in his mind the entire walk back to Jerusalem.

She whirled about, a soft gasp escaping her lips. Had she not paid attention to Joab or noticed his arrival? “Uriah!” Her face paled beneath the soft blue veil, the flickering lamplight making her look almost ill. “I . . .” She placed a hand to her chest as though reminding herself to breathe. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“That’s not exactly the reception I had hoped for.” He smiled down at her, longing to pull her close and kiss her until her cheeks grew rosy again. But not here. He reached for her hand instead and squeezed her cold fingers. “Are you not happy to see me?” he whispered. He felt his stomach tighten, surprised at how much he wanted to hear a positive answer.

“Yes! Oh yes!” Her hushed voice and quick glance behind her at the moving line drew his attention away from her, and he noticed how close they were to the king’s table. “I missed you so much!” She gripped his hand, and he drew closer to her, warmed at her obvious need of him, as her aunt and cousins bowed low before the king. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He released her hand and touched the small of her back. “As am I,” he said as they passed in front of Ahithophel.

“My lord king, may I present to you my granddaughter Bathsheba and her husband, Uriah the Hittite, returned this night from the war with Ammon. I see he is anxious to see his bride.” Ahithophel gave a bow, his arm stretched toward them both, but his smile seemed directed only at his granddaughter. Was that irritation hidden in the glint of his eyes?

“Uriah, welcome home. Thank you for your faithful service in the battle.” The king’s voice held genuine warmth, lifting Uriah’s spirits.

Uriah bowed, dipped one knee to the ground, then stood. “Thank you, my lord. It is an honor to serve you.”

The king nodded, meeting Uriah’s gaze. He glanced at Bathsheba. “A pleasure to finally meet Ahithophel’s family.” He smiled but quickly turned his attention to the people waiting behind Bathsheba.

Uriah took that as his dismissal. He ushered Bathsheba past the king’s table and followed the line around to the back of the hall where her aunt and cousins stood waiting.

“Oh, wasn’t it wonderful to finally meet the king?” Bathsheba’s cousin Chava had a grip on her husband’s arm, her bright eyes clearly struck with awe. “He asked us questions and even promised Matthias to send some business his way.” She turned to Matthias and planted a bold kiss on his cheek. The older man colored, his embarrassment evident, but gave his wife a good-humored smile.

“I think it’s time we took you home, dearest.” Matthias patted Chava’s hand and tucked it beneath his arm.

Chava waved at Bathsheba as Matthias turned her toward the steps. “Wait.” Chava planted her feet and faced Bathsheba. “What did he say to you? I want to hear everything.” She glanced at Uriah as though only now noticing his presence. “We’re glad you’re safely home.”

“As am I,” he said, placing a hand on Bathsheba’s shoulder. “I’m sure you can talk more with my wife another day. The king barely spoke to us, so there is nothing to tell.” He liked Chava most of the time, and a woman in her position would have little chance of feasting with the king, so her excitement made sense. But why the king spoke more to Chava and Matthias than to Uriah, a faithful warrior who had earned the rank and right to enter the king’s presence, he couldn’t begin to understand. The king seemed almost unwilling to look at Bathsheba, as though he had no desire at all to meet Ahithophel’s granddaughter.