Bathsheba (38 page)

“I know that Absalom has been making every effort to turn the hearts of the men of Israel to love him, stealing their allegiance. Whether that allegiance will be pulled away from the king, I don’t know. I think your grandfather sides with Absalom.”

Bathsheba drew in a sharp breath. “Sabba! Father, how could he—” She let the words die a quick death. She knew exactly how and why her grandfather could do such a thing. “He has never forgiven me.”

Eliam’s arm came around her in an affectionate gesture, one she was not used to and didn’t expect. Tears filled her eyes so unexpectedly she could not speak. He squeezed her shoulders awkwardly at first, then pulled her close. She rested her head against his shoulder.

“There could be trouble ahead,” he said softly against her ear. “You must be prepared to protect your sons at all cost. Solomon may not pose a threat to Absalom, but that doesn’t mean Absalom will see it that way. You must warn the king.”

Shouts in the distance and the hurried feet of many servants stole Bathsheba’s reply. She felt the loss of her father’s warmth as he released his hold and hurried across the gardens to the door. He looked back and held up a hand. “Don’t leave your rooms.”

She nodded, fear seizing her as she fled through the door from the gardens to her apartment. Tirzah fairly ran to her side, rubbing both hands up and down her arms as she finished chewing a date, the remnants of the skins clinging to her teeth.

“What is it?” Bathsheba moved toward the children’s chamber where Shobab and Shammua napped. Nathan and Solomon were in another room in the palace with Jehiel, the man in charge of their instruction. “What is happening?”

“I can’t tell, my lady. The servants are rushing about. There is talk of an invasion.”

Bathsheba stopped midstride and clutched Tirzah’s arm. “What kind of invasion?” What foreign power would dare rise up against David? Joab, the mighty men, the army—not a man in Israel would allow an enemy to get so close to the king’s capital.

“Some say Absalom is coming with clubs and swords.”

Bathsheba held Tirzah’s gaze, not as a master to a servant but as a trusted friend. “We must protect the children.”

Tirzah ran her tongue over her teeth and nodded, hurrying to the children’s chambers, and Bathsheba followed. She longed for David, for his touch of reassurance that all would be well. She would rush even now to his side to discover the truth of what was happening, but her father’s words stayed her feet. She stopped, looking at Tirzah again.

“Let them sleep until my father returns. There is no sense getting them up if this is just rumor and nothing comes of it.” She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion tugging at her. Shammua still woke in the night to nurse now and then, and she had indulged him, knowing how swiftly such days would pass and he would wean.

She walked away from Tirzah to the guarded door leading into the palace halls. Her thoughts slowed with debate. Should she demand information from the guard or wait for her father to return? She whirled about when she reached the solid cedar door, her leaden steps carrying her back toward Tirzah, her fear mounting.

She missed a step, stumbled over the rug, and righted herself again. She glanced around, but Tirzah had moved into the children’s chamber, her thick frame visible through the open door. Bathsheba sank onto one of the couches as the door burst open behind her. She jumped up and ran to greet her father, who stood with three guards and a bevy of servants at his back, his expression anxious and somber.

“Gather the children and come at once. We are leaving Jerusalem!” Her father’s breath came hard as though he had scaled a mountain to reach her.

Servants rushed past him into the room, snatching essential items and stuffing them into linen sacks and stiff baskets. Tirzah’s voice rose above the din, urging Shobab to awaken. She emerged from the room, dragging Shobab and carrying a limp Shammua in her arms.

Bathsheba took Shammua from Tirzah, patting his back and hoping he stayed asleep amidst the confusion. “Why, Abba?” she whispered. “Tell me what has happened.” Her heart thumped like a galloping mule beneath her tunic, and she prayed Shammua would not feel her fear. The last thing she needed was a screaming infant.

“It is as I feared. Absalom has stolen the hearts of the men of Israel, and he is headed here. The king has commanded we leave the city lest Absalom put it to the sword.” He gently tugged her wrist. “Come.”

She pulled from his grasp. “My sandals. I cannot go into the wilderness barefoot.”

He snapped his fingers, catching a servant’s attention. “Help the king’s wife into her sandals.”

She sat on the bench by the door as the servant hurriedly slipped the leather straps over her feet and tied them across her arches.

“We must go,” her father said as she stood. “The king is asking for you.”

The admission surprised her. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I’m telling you now.”

She swallowed her frustration, grateful for his protection. Of course David would need her now. No one understood as well as she did what he would be feeling, the blame he would cast on his own back for Absalom’s choices.

She handed Shammua back to Tirzah, who had a sleepy Shobab by the hand, followed by a servant carrying satchels of clothing.

“Up, Sabba?” Shobab reached his hands toward Eliam.

Eliam bent down and picked up his grandson, placing him on his shoulders. “Hold on, little man.”

The boy giggled as they hurried through the palace halls. “What of Solomon and Nathan?” Bathsheba asked, keeping pace with her father’s strides. “We cannot leave them!”

“Jehiel will bring them with all of the king’s younger sons. You can keep them with you once we are outside of the city. The king will not leave without his sons.” He moved quicker, holding tight to Shobab’s legs, dodging guards and frantic servants who seemed unable to decide whether they were coming or going. “Come,” he said again, his voice more urgent this time.

They arrived at last at the portico where her father said David waited. She found him surrounded by armed guards, and crying women and children filled the courtyard. Soldiers had the perimeter along the gated palace grounds secured while servants swiftly tossed clothing and jewels and food in baskets and sacks onto a handful of donkeys. The scene was one of ordered chaos, and Bathsheba stood still, on the outside looking in, seeing no way to get close to the king.

“We suggested he stay and defend Jerusalem,” her father said, bending low to her ear. “He has the army at his command, and Joab tried to convince him to stay. Absalom is no match for us and Jerusalem is well-fortified.”

Bathsheba caught David’s profile, saw the strained pull of his mouth, the slightly bent head. While he still wore the crown of Israel, his posture held the look of defeat. He had no strength to fight a battle with his son and win. And after years of making Jerusalem his city, the City of David, beautifying and building up the gates and ramparts from the stone-filled terraces of the Millo inward, he would not want to see it destroyed or see the people in it harmed. The city was at the center of his heart, his very pulse. He would not risk its ruin for his pleasure, not even for the sake of his own safety.

But what of his wives, sons, and daughters? What of Solomon? Were they safer in the wilderness than behind Jerusalem’s stout walls?

Anger shot through her, surprising her that she could clench her hands at her sides—wanting to lash out, to scream with the silly women rushing about weeping and bemoaning the king’s decree—yet still stand and look on her beloved, understanding him, loving him.

He turned then and caught her eye, and his look of relief drained the anger from her. He moved toward her, the guards parting to let him pass. He grasped her hand, his fingers cold to the touch. He leaned close and brushed a soft kiss on her lips, then pulled her against his chest, saying nothing. Such a public display of affection unsettled her, going against normal protocol. But these were not normal times.

Benaiah, Joab, and Abishai approached. Joab spoke for the group. “We are ready to march, my lord.”

David released his grip and moved away from Bathsheba, giving quiet orders to those closest to him, his brief show of affection to her gone. The loss took the last of her strength with it, and she wavered, wondering if her legs would hold her. But she knew he would return when the timing was right, when demands on him lessened. She must be strong for him, whether she agreed with him or not.

She glanced beyond her to the cluster of women, some with young children following the king toward the palace gates, weeping as they went. She caught Maacah’s eye, felt the bitter hatred in her scathing glare.

Bathsheba looked away, pulling her cloak closer to her neck. She moved through the crowd, searching for Solomon and Nathan. When she found them, she wrapped her arms around theirs and trudged after David through the palace gates, weeping with the others along the dusty streets of Jerusalem. She glanced back at the shining palace, glimpsing the ten concubines standing on the porch left to take care of the palace.

She turned away from the sight and stumbled onward, upheld by her two oldest sons, and wondered if they would ever come home again.

34

The sun’s relentless rays licked the tears from Bathsheba’s damp cheeks as they crossed the Kidron Valley and began the upward trek to the summit of the Mount of Olives. The king had waited for all of the people to cross the brook Kidron, including his foreign mercenary army of Cherethites and Pelethites in David’s personal guard, and the recent Gittites, men from the Philistine city of Gath, who had come to David for refuge.

The sound of weeping floated around her, and she could not keep her own tears at bay when she saw the look of abject sorrow lining David’s handsome face. He had removed his sandals at the base of the mount and now placed a cloth over his crowned head—a mark of brokenness and humility. The action pierced her, reviving a sense of guilt she thought long past.

Her own head covering already hid her hair and neck from anyone who might gape at her, but at her husband’s example, she lifted the scarf higher and then removed her sandals, feeling the weight of their sin crush down upon her once more. Where was the forgiveness Adonai had granted with Solomon’s birth? Had he withdrawn His favor from David and granted it to Absalom? How could it be? Adonai had promised the kingdom to her son, not the son of the foreigner Maacah! Nathan had predicted the truth, and David had assured her it was true, hadn’t he?

The thoughts unsettled her as a new sense of unworthiness swept through her. She did not deserve the good God had granted. She was the least of David’s wives, the wife of betrayal, of adultery, the wife the nation silently scorned. If Adonai had allowed her to die for her sin, perhaps David would not be facing this new threat to his kingdom. If she had never tempted him . . .

She glanced up, wincing at every misstep as the stones and twigs aligning the mountain path dug into her bare feet. Her tears fell anew, for David as much as for herself. He needed her . . . Did he need her? The slow climb to the summit stole the last measure of her energy, and her thoughts jumbled in her head. She leaned into Solomon, grateful for his young strength.

“Tonight
when we stop to rest, you must speak to my father,” Solomon said so
ftly, his arm tucked into hers, gently tugging her higher. “I will make sure he comes to you.”

She glanced down at him, his dark eyes too wise for his young face. He already sensed the power women held over the king. But what could she do? David needed time alone with Adonai to pour out his pain in music and prose. And time with his advisors to plan a strategy to thwart Absalom’s efforts.