Bathsheba (36 page)

He looked down at the messenger still on his knees, then met Benaiah’s suffering gaze, his dazed expression matching the feeling smothering the very breath in David’s lungs. Had his sin come to this? Would the consequences of his actions never end? But the thoughts only skimmed the surface of his mind, bounding away like a skittish gazelle only too happy to flee the hunter’s snare.

Let me die along with them.

His knees weakened where he stood, and he moved away from the messenger and sank to the ground, the cold tiles hard beneath his limbs.

Remove Your scourge from me. I am overcome by the blow of Your hand. You rebuke and discipline men for their sin. You consume their wealth like a moth—each man is but a breath.

Hot tears scalded his throat as the face of each son passed through his thoughts. Amnon, the first show of his strength. Chileab, Abigail’s maimed son. Adonijah, Shephatiah, Ithream . . . His younger sons of the concubines would have remained behind, but the thought did not comfort.

Look away from me, that I may rejoice again before I depart and am no more.

Had he misjudged Absalom so greatly? He had wondered, even questioned Absalom’s motives in asking for Amnon to join his celebration, but to kill all of his brothers . . . what did he hope to gain?

Hurried footsteps crossed the tiles, and soft murmurs filled in and around the court’s weeping.

“My lord king, hear the word of your nephew Jonadab, son of your brother Shammah.” Benaiah bent to touch David’s shoulder and offered a hand to raise him up. “Perhaps the grief is not quite so great.”

David accepted Benaiah’s help and stood on shaky legs. “What do you know?” he asked Jonadab. The words came out parched, like his throat.

“My lord, do not think that they have killed all of the princes. Only Amnon is dead. This has been Absalom’s intention ever since the day Amnon forced his sister Tamar. My lord the king should not be concerned about the report that all the king’s sons are dead. Only Amnon is dead.” Jonadab stood with hands at his sides, his gaze earnest and open, though David knew from long experience of Jonadab’s wily ways. The man was nothing like his father Shammah, whom David once trusted with his life.

“Why should I believe you that only Amnon is dead?”

“When the princes soon return, the evidence will bear me out.” Jonadab fell to his knees and dipped his head. “I am your servant, my lord.”

David looked down at his nephew for a long moment, then forced his legs to carry him across the chamber to the double doors, where common men awaited an audience with him. Guards hurried to surround him and escort him, clearing a path to the porch. He took a seat on one of the stone benches beneath the portico, the one within sight of the guard tower. Moments ticked by like mating crickets, irritating and repetitious. At last the watchman moved from his station and hurried down the stairs of the guard tower over to the king.

“I see men in the direction of Horonaim, on the side of the hill.”

David nodded. “Keep watching.” The direction was correct, the location close at hand.

Jonadab approached from the pillar where he’d been standing. Benaiah lowered his sword, blocking him from stepping too near. “See, the king’s sons approach. It has happened just as your servant said.”

David met Jonadab’s gaze, acknowledging him with a brief glance, then looked beyond him. The sound of hoofbeats filled the air outside the palace gates, and as the gates swung open, the princes sitting astride white mules barged into the wide courtyard. Their voices rose in loud, guttural wails, piercing the stark quiet.

David jumped up and rushed forward. When his sons saw him, they hopped off their mules almost as one man to move toward their father. David grabbed and embraced each one, weeping, kissing their cheeks, pulling them close, drinking in the scent of them. Jonadab was right. Only Amnon was missing among those who had gone with Absalom. Amnon, who had been killed to avenge the loss of Tamar’s purity.

In his private rooms an hour later, David listened to his sons recount the tale, his heart broken and humbled, grateful that Yahweh had spared the rest of them. He looked past them to the windows aligning his courtyard, hearing the whispers in the trees, the soft sounds of life stirring all around him. Absalom had fled the country, returning to the foreign land of his mother, Maacah, fearing repercussion. The young man was right to do so. It freed David from having to pass judgment on him for such an act. But it also banished him forever from David’s court.

Absalom and Amnon were gone, and David grieved the loss of them both.

32

Bathsheba bent over Shammua as she changed his wet undergarments, keeping one eye on Shobab playing with wood blocks in a corner of the children’s room. Her seven-year-old, Nathan, sat at a table nearby, stylus in hand, carefully forming the Hebrew letters on pieces of dried clay. Tutoring time had long since passed, and Tirzah would soon put the children to bed, but Nathan was a studious learner, determined to take after his namesake, the prophet who had both condemned his father’s sin and brought hope to them again with Solomon’s birth.

Bathsheba smiled at his bent head, his gaze fixed on the scraps of broken clay while battle noises came from the corner where Shobab beat one block into another. She shook her head and sighed. Shobab had listened to her father’s war stories far too often and took great pleasure in reenacting them.

She tucked the last fold along Shammua’s middle and placed a clean tunic over his head, tickling his feet. He cooed and laughed as she gently tossed him upward and then lifted him to her shoulder.

“There you go, little man.” She kissed the baby’s dimpled cheek and carried him into the sitting room where David stood at a table spread with parchments, ten-year-old Solomon studying them at his side. It was a scene she’d come upon often of late. She settled herself among the cushions of a nearby couch and positioned Shammua to nurse at her breast, draping a soft blanket over them as a covering. She met David’s gaze across the room, reading the pleasure in his eyes.

Bathsheba smiled at the image they made, father and son caught up in building and planning for the future. Such times had been scarce, such peace so tentative in the past seven years since Absalom had murdered Amnon, fled to his grandfather’s homeland, and returned to favor in David’s court. She shivered, wishing the last thought untrue, but the people, including the king, loved Absalom, and in time Joab had convinced David to bring the young prince home.

She stroked Shammua’s soft cheek as his nursing slowed, his eyes heavy with sleep. Adonai had given David success in every battle, but it was the war of wills, of revenge and desire within his own home, that worried her. Absalom was a man not to be trusted, and every thought of him made her wary, afraid. What would he do to her if he came to power, if something happened to David before Solomon was old enough to take the reins of leadership? The shiver deepened, jarring her. Shammua’s hold slackened as sleep overtook him, and she used her finger to gently break his grasp.

She looked up again, catching David’s profile in the early evening light. The moon was nearly full and the sky clear, illuminating the view beyond the window and bathing his face in shadow. But even the darkness could not hide the distant look or the deep lines across his brow and the slight clenching of his jaw that sometimes marred his handsome features. Too much pain had filled his life, too many failures he could not make right.

“This is the inner sanctuary that will house the ark of the testimony hidden behind the curtain. The table for the showbread will go here, the lampstand here, and the golden altar of incense here in front of the curtain.” David pointed to something on the parchment, then straightened and placed a hand on Solomon’s shoulder. “Every detail must be exact. You will have at your disposal the best craftsmen in Israel, and you must use their skills, demand the best from them.” David turned slightly and guided Solomon to the wide window that faced the Mount of Olives to the east. “You must not stray from anything the Lord has shown me. The building is for Him, though no building can contain Him.”

“Then why do we build a temple for Him if He is bigger than the temple can hold?” Solomon’s brown curls hung to his shoulders, and his dark, inquisitive eyes searched his father’s face with quiet resolve.

Bathsheba stood, handing Shammua to Tirzah, and moved to join her husband and son near the window. David’s arm came around her, his smile loving, possessive, for her alone. A breath passed, and he looked once more at Solomon, rubbing a hand over his son’s dark curls.

“Adonai does not need a building to live in like the gods of other nations,” David said, pointing skyward. “Heaven is His home and the earth is His footstool.” He moved his hand back toward the table with the parchments spread over it. “He allows us to build His temple for our sakes, that we might have a place to come before Him, to learn of Him. Everything He has told me to do has a purpose in the law, patterned after what God gave to Moses on the mount. Adonai is perfect, as are all His ways. This is why you must follow the details to the exact descriptions.”

“When I am king,” Solomon said, looking at David, arms crossed over his chest, “I will do exactly as you say, Father.”

David released his hold on Bathsheba and placed both hands on Solomon’s shoulders, his gaze deeply serious. “I must remind you again, my son, you must tell no one of your coming kingdom. When we speak of the temple, we must keep it our family’s secret. It is not safe to speak of such things to the others. Not yet.” He released his hold and stepped back a pace.

Solomon nodded, his young face wide-eyed and somehow weary with too much knowledge. “I understand, Father. My brothers are in line for the throne ahead of me. They would not take kindly to knowing you intend to give the crown to me.”

Bathsheba stepped between father and son, her thoughts troubled, wondering at the wisdom of telling Solomon so much so soon. “There will be plenty of time to discuss these things another day.” She gave Solomon a look.

“Yes, Mother. Goodnight, Father.”

David acknowledged Solomon with a nod, and Bathsheba kissed his cheek before he turned and left to join his brothers in their shared chambers. Soon he would have rooms of his own, but for now he still seemed to enjoy the company of the young ones.

Bathsheba watched him go, then turned to David, whose gaze once more took in the evening lights and shadows dotting Jerusalem’s streets and sky. She slipped a hand in his and squeezed. “You seem troubled tonight.”

Silence followed her remark, and she wished she could lift the tension from his shoulders, the worry lines from his brow. Such burdens a king carried! And she felt powerless to ease their load.

“I wonder at my own foolishness sometimes.” He stared into the distance as his thumb moved over her palm. “I’m closer to Adonai than I have ever been. Often He speaks to me, gives me visions of things I don’t understand. I awaken and record them, and ask Him for insight, but I’m never told more than what is initially revealed. They are prophecies as sure as any Nathan or Gad or Samuel gave, not for now, but for some future day.”

“That is good, is it not? You are wise to be close to Adonai.” She stepped closer, leaning her shoulder against his chest. He seemed to welcome her nearness.

“It’s the temple that worries me. Sometimes it consumes me—the details are so vast!” He turned, holding her at arm’s length. “I long to see it, but the most I can do is to write the instructions and have the artisans draw them up for me, so I might at least have an image of what’s to come. I have shown them to my counselors, to the priests, to Nathan—all of them tell me the plans are in line with the law. So I am confident my visions are from Adonai’s hand and not my own making.”