Bathsheba (15 page)

Bathsheba stood torn. She wanted to hear the king’s speech, but for all of the wrong reasons. If she saw him in his royal garb and listened to the timbre of his voice, she would find more excuses to admire him, feeding an attraction she did not want.

“You go. Uriah will enjoy it better if he gets to tell me everything firsthand.” He would, wouldn’t he? Or would he be too tired to tell her anything, and then she would be forced to ask Chava for details she could hear for herself right now? Indecision kept her rooted to the cobbled stones.

“Come on. How often do you get to hear the king speak?” Chava stepped forward and tugged her hand. “We’ll leave before the crowd disperses. You’ll still be home before Uriah gets there.”

Would Uriah appreciate that she had come to greet him and heard the king’s speech, or would he prefer she stay home and work? He enjoyed a celebration. Surely he would want her to enjoy one too.

A cheer went up from the distant crowd, jolting her attention.

“We’re missing it! Are you coming or not?” Chava held Bathsheba’s gaze, frustration clearly pinching her brows.

“All right.” She lifted her skirts, wishing she could tuck them into her belt like men did, and ran after Chava’s plump, puffing form before she could change her mind, hoping she didn’t regret her decision.

“The defeat of the Syrians is complete.” The king’s voice carried with authority from the palace steps to where Bathsheba and Chava leaned over the parapet of her grandfather’s Jerusalem rooftop, straining for a better view. “They will not attempt to lift a finger to help the Ammonites again.”

Cheers erupted at his proclamation, and relief filled Bathsheba’s heart. One less enemy to pursue.

“When the latter rains of spring come to an end, we will attack Rabbah and finish what we started with the Ammonites. We will not claim their land, only put them in submission to us, in keeping with the law. Adonai has given our enemies into our hands and restored the land He promised to our father Abraham. Blessed be His name!”

“Blessed be His name!” came the shout from the people gathered there, Bathsheba’s own voice among them.

David raised his hands high over his head, quieting the crowd, and looked heavenward. “We have heard with our ears, O God; our fathers have told us what You did in their days, in days long ago. With Your hand You drove out the nations and planted our fathers; You crushed the peoples and made our fathers flourish. It was not by their sword that they won the land, nor did their arm bring them victory; it was Your right hand, Your arm, and the light of Your face, for You loved them. You are my King and my God, who decrees victories for Jacob.”

Musicians took up their lutes and lyres, and the king’s voice rose above the din, the melody of his song touching a deep chord within Bathsheba.

She fingered the tambourine at her side but did not lift it, afraid to break the spell of David’s song. Swift yearning tugged her. How long had it been since she had strummed the strings of her lyre? In the many months when her father was off fighting David’s battles, tutors had filled her head with knowledge of reading, writing, and figuring sums, a privilege her father was quick to remind her few women were offered or could afford. But her favorite lessons had always been when Rei taught her to play songs on his six-stringed lyre and would listen with rapt attention when she sang along with them, creating words of her own.

Her father never seemed to appreciate that side of her, and in order to discourage Rei’s attention, he had not allowed their lessons to continue when he was home. And since Uriah had never shown much aptitude for such things or went about humming wordless tunes, she kept her desires hidden. Would he be pleased if she performed songs for him as the king did for the people? Why had she never asked him?

The music floated around her, stirring her longings. But what good was the ability to write without the freedom to purchase the quills and leather hides or the more expensive parchments? And what words would she pen if she could? Her songs would not be written in a book of remembrance for all to see.

The people below took to swaying to the rhythm. Some of the women joined hands and twirled, while others shook cymbals and tambourines until the streets fairly shook with the sound. She glanced at Chava swaying and twirling, her eyes closed, caught up with the king’s words.

“Through You we push back our enemies; through Your name we trample our foes. I do not trust in my bow, my sword does not bring me victory; but You give us victory over our enemies, You put our adversaries to shame. In God we make our boast all day long, and we will praise Your name forever. Selah.”

When the words finished, the king tipped his head back, laughing. Joy flew like a winged bird through the crowd, and Bathsheba’s heart followed suit, lifting and soaring. She stepped back from the parapet and grabbed Chava’s hands, twirling with her while the musical strains heightened and the beat of the drum moved faster and faster. When the last chord fell silent, Bathsheba fell back against the edge for support, her breath still keeping time with the absent drum.

“In honor of Adonai, in keeping with all He has done for us, bring the spoils to dedicate here to the Lord.” The king’s voice carried clearly to her, and Bathsheba turned to watch.

The Thirty parted the crowd while soldiers came up from different directions bearing armloads of gold, silver, bronze, precious stones, and more that was too hard for Bathsheba to distinguish. An open area below the palace steps soon filled with the spoils taken from the Syrians. When the last man had entered the grounds and deposited his allotted baggage, a lone ram’s horn gave a long trumpet blast.

“Several years ago, I had it in my heart to build a temple to Adonai, but the Lord did not allow my request. He said to me through the prophet Nathan that a son born to me would one day build a temple to His name, but I would not live to see it built.”

Bathsheba’s heart quickened at the king’s words, and sadness filled her that he would not live to see his dream come true.

“But the Lord did not restrict me from gathering materials or making plans that will be necessary for this grand structure, so I have made it my priority to do so. These riches that you see before you today are henceforth dedicated to the Lord for use in the temple my son will one day build. Zadok, please come.”

The priest emerged from under the roof of the portico dressed in his priestly robes. Bathsheba listened as he prayed, asking Adonai’s blessing on the riches and the future work of their hands. Something stirred deep within her as she opened her eyes to peer down on the scene. What would it be like to take part in helping to prepare for the temple, to be part of such a grand project? But what could a mere woman do?

“Adonai’s blessings on you. May His mercy and peace be upon Israel.”

Bathsheba watched the king turn, step away from the crowd, and enter the palace.

“Are you ready to go? My son will want to eat soon.”

Chava’s question brought her gaze back into focus. Guards moved in and motioned for the people to return to their homes. Uriah was probably one of the men seeing that the place was cleared before he returned to her. She’d had no reason to worry that she wouldn’t be there ahead of him.

“I’m ready.” She released a slow breath, letting her dreams fall where they may.

“Aren’t you glad we stayed to watch?” Chava caught her arm and led the way, hurrying down the steps.

“I’m glad,” she said. She bid Chava farewell and hummed the king’s song all the way home.

13

Bathsheba smoothed a hand over the lyre and strummed a soft chord. The day’s work of weaving behind her, she held the instrument Rei had fashioned for her closer to her chest, her fingers first strumming then plucking the strings. That Uriah had allowed the introduction of such music into their home pleased her. She longed to do more, to record her words and musical notations on parchment, to include him in making music with her, but he had shown little interest.

A sigh worked its way through her, and she looked up at the sound of heated voices in the courtyard. Her hands stilled as she recognized her father’s low grumble. She reached for the leather casing and quickly slipped the lyre inside, tucked it beside the couch, and grabbed the spindle and distaff from a low basket. She stood, working the wool in the spindle as she walked to the door, knowing her father would frown his displeasure if her hands were idle.

“It is foolishness, the way I see it.” Uriah opened the door and moved inside, her father one step behind.

Bathsheba smiled at his glance, then nodded at Tirzah as the maid entered the room and quickly hurried off to do Bathsheba’s silent bidding. She accepted her father’s kiss. “Good evening to you, Abba.”