Bathsheba (35 page)

“If she needs anything, send word.” He nodded in Tamar’s direction, then walked swiftly toward the door leading to the hall and out of Maacah’s stifling apartment.

31

David took the steps up two stories, passed between two Cherethite guards, and entered his rooftop pavilion, where his wife Bathsheba and son Solomon awaited his coming. The summer heat was nearly upon them, and the tent flaps that were lifted to expose the sides afforded more comfort than the rooms below.

She was seated among the cushions, Solomon playing with blocks on the floor at her feet. She smiled, attempting to rise as he entered, but he stayed her with his hand.

“Don’t get up, beloved.” He moved to sit beside her as servants lifted palm fronds to move the still air away from them, while another handed them goblets of spiced wine. “How are you feeling?”

She took his hand and squeezed, a comforting gesture she often made, one he had grown to expect. “I am well.” She shifted slightly, lifting the bulk of the child within. “He is active today. A healthy, strong boy.”

He laughed and placed a hand on her extended middle. He was rewarded with soft blips of movement. “His kicks are strong. Surely you should lie down and rest.”

She gave him a look that sent his heart beating faster. “I am resting here. There is no better place than at your side.”

He squeezed her hand in response, suddenly not sure he trusted his voice. When had love become so familiar? He was used to casual closeness, even consistent caring, first with Michal, then Abigail. Surely he had loved them. But this feeling he had in Bathsheba’s presence did not leave when he walked away. She crept into his thoughts, making him long for her, to sneak away to spend a moment with her even when he couldn’t, when more pressing things demanded his attention.

“I love you, Bathsheba.” He spoke so softly he wasn’t sure she had heard him. Solomon pulled himself up off the soft rug and crawled onto David’s lap.

Bathsheba leaned in to kiss David’s cheek. “I know,” she whispered, her eyes alight with affection. “And I you.”

He turned to her and smiled, a look of acceptance, of deep understanding, passing between them. Stomping footsteps drew their attention.

“Father.” A commotion showed a guard blocking a man’s way. “Let me pass. I would speak a word with my father.”

“The king wishes not to be disturbed. You can place your request with him another time.”

“I will speak with him now!”

David leaned close to Bathsheba’s ear. “Absalom.”

She nodded, dipping her head toward the tent’s opening. “Will you not see what he wants?”

He could tell by the sudden tensing of her jaw that she did not wish Absalom’s presence near her son, and David did not blame her. Since Tamar’s ruin, David trusted few of his own sons, and had doubled the guards around Bathsheba’s quarters.
The sword will never depart from your house.
The prophecy haunted him at night, and he begged Adonai continually to keep the sword from Bathsheba and her children.

“I will return.” He kissed Solomon’s soft curls, then placed him on the floor again. Slowly rising, he brushed the wrinkles from his robe and walked to the tent’s opening and addressed the guards. “It’s all right. I will speak with him.”

He stepped forward and walked with Absalom to the perimeter of the roof. “How does it fare with you, my son?”

“I have sheepshearers at Baal Hazor.” Absalom paused, turning to David with his back against the parapet. “I would like you to come, Father. Will you and your officials please join me?”

David looked beyond Absalom to the Mount of Olives in the distance. He could not leave Bathsheba so close to her time, and the trip would be impossible for her right now, though Absalom need not know his thinking.

“No, my son.” He met Absalom’s gaze, then turned to walk the perimeter of the roof again. “We should not all go with you lest we be a burden to you.”

“You would not be a burden at all, Father.” Absalom doubled his steps to keep up with David’s long strides. “My servants are fully prepared to provide for your retinue. You will find me a capable host if you will let me show you.”

David stopped to watch the goings-on of the city below him. “I am sure you are a capable host, my son. But the distance is far and will be too much for the children.” He glanced at Absalom, catching the slight clenching of his jaw, the twitch of a muscle in his cheek. But his son’s eyes were impassive, revealing nothing.

“The children could stay behind. Leave them with their nurses.” Absalom’s tone grew insistent, though his gaze remained dispassionate.

David placed a hand on Absalom’s shoulder. “I appreciate your desire to include us, but it is impossible this time. May Adonai’s blessing rest upon you and your men.” David leaned in and kissed Absalom on each cheek. He smiled and patted Absalom’s shoulder, then turned to walk back toward the pavilion.

Absalom drew next to him. “Father, wait.” He reached out a hand but did not touch David.

David turned back. He told himself to appreciate this moment, as time alone with any of his children was far too infrequent.

“If you will not go with us, let Amnon come.” The impassive look had left Absalom’s gaze, replaced by one of urgent longing.

Prickles of concern dotted David’s skin. “Why should he go with you?” Amnon was better off far away from Absalom.

“He should come as your representative, my lord. If you will not join me, then please show me your true blessing by allowing your sons to accompany me. Must I celebrate the abundance of Adonai’s favor with only my servants at hand? Let my brothers join the feast and share in the bounty of the Lord your God.” Absalom clasped his hands and held them out in a gesture of goodwill. Heavy locks of his dark hair hung below his shoulders, and his handsome features reminded David of the little boy who often pleaded with him to get his way. David had rarely denied the child and now found himself weakening, unable to deny the man who had replaced the boy.

“You have not exactly been on good terms with your brother. How can I know that there are no ill feelings between you?” David studied Absalom, searching his gaze for some hint of animosity, of ulterior motive behind the request. He had not protected Tamar from Amnon, and he could not fail again to protect Amnon from those who would seek his harm. But after two years, surely the danger of revenge had past.

“If I had wanted to harm my brother, would I not already have done so? Please, my lord, do not deny your servant his request.” His open, earnest gaze held no apparent guile, and David felt a twinge of guilt that he had fairly accused his son of plotting repercussions.

“They may go with you,” he said at last, touching Absalom’s arm once more.

Absalom fell to his knees and kissed the roof’s floor at David’s feet. “Thank you, my lord. May the king find favor in the eyes of Adonai.”

The Hall of Parchments, one of David’s favorite rooms in the palace, held the familiar scents of leather, ink, clay, and papyrus. It was easy to lose himself here, to let his worship of Adonai spill over from the feathered quill in his hand to the flattened parchment beneath his fingertips. The dimensions of the temple his son would one day build to Yahweh grew in depth and detail as the Spirit of Adonai came over him, filling his mind with descriptions and measurements. A thrill rushed through him as he anticipated what this new day would bring.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, and sat at a table. His calloused fingers brushed the words and symbols he’d written the day before. Sinking into his seat, he spread his hands, palms open on the table, his gaze lifted heavenward, his eyes closed.

Adonai Elohai, Adonai Echad. O Lord my God, You are One. Grant Your servant ears to hear Your word and a willing spirit to sustain me.

He fingered the quill, ready to pen the words to a new song that had formed in his mind during the night.

For the director of music. A psalm of David. A song.

Praise awaits You, O God, in Zion;

to You our vows will be fulfilled.

O You who hear prayer,

to You all men will come.

When we were overwhelmed by sins,

You forgave our transgressions . . .

An urgent knock on the door stopped his hand. A guard opened it and a messenger hurried in, falling prostrate near the table at his side.

“My lord king, a messenger has arrived from Absalom!” The man’s breath came in spurts as though he’d run a distance.

David dropped the pen and stood, his mind whirling, processing. “Tell me what happened.” He moved toward the door as the man scrambled to his feet.

“I do not know, my lord. But I fear . . . it is urgent.”

David glanced at the man, read the fear in his eyes, and quickened his pace to the audience hall. The guard knew more than he let on, but David quashed his irritation, pausing only long enough for the flag bearers and trumpet players to announce his arrival. He slowed his pace, fighting an impending sense of dread, then ascended the steps and took his seat on his throne.

A new messenger approached and fell on his face at David’s feet. His cry came from a strangled throat, matching the torn, dust-coated robe he wore. “Absalom has struck down all of the king’s sons, not one of them is left!”

Shock rushed through David, paralyzing him. All of his sons?

He stared at the man, gave his head a slight shake. “Not one of my sons is left?”

What of Chileab? Had he gone with Absalom? He so often kept himself apart from court. And Solomon and the babe still within Bathsheba’s womb were here with him . . .

“All of them?” He choked on the question, his tongue too thick.

“That is the report I received, my lord. Absalom has killed all of the princes.”

David’s heart kept its slow, steady beat, though he could not imagine why it bothered to do such a thing. His blood drained, growing sluggish. He forced his legs to hold his body erect and managed to walk down the three steps to the chamber’s tiled floor. He looked out over the audience hall, saw the stricken looks on the faces of his comrades. Reaching for the neck of his robe, feeling the weight of his hands on the fabric, he yanked downward in one swift motion. Repeated ripping and tearing sounds moved about the room, garments ruined by grief.