The Historical David: The Real Life of an Invented Hero (27 page)

The battle is described very briefly in the Bible. David split his men into three divisions: one under Joab; one under Abishai, Joab’s brother; and one under Ittai the Philistine. David himself remained away from the field of battle for his safety (as Absalom, in his pride, did not). Absalom and his forces, the army assembled from the various Israelite tribes as per Hushai’s advice, engaged David’s men. Much of David’s military success, starting back in his days as an officer under Saul, was predicated on the advantages he gained from the terrain, and this battle was no different. The two sides met in the forest of Mahanaim. It is difficult enough for a regular trained military company to maintain order and position when fighting in the woods. Absalom’s army—a patchwork of men convened from the various Israelite tribes, virtually none of whom had any battle experience or practice fighting alongside one another—was undone by the landscape. David’s men, by contrast, were well trained, had fought together for years, and had experience particularly in the hills and forests of both Judah and the Transjordan. The biblical authors put it aptly: “the forest consumed more troops that day than the sword” (2 Sam. 18:8).

There is something symbolic about David’s victory in Mahanaim. Absalom’s rebellion was grounded in a popular appeal, a promise to return Israel to its old ways before David. Yet when it came to military matters, this battle proved that the old ways, of each tribe contributing men to fight together against a common cause, were no match for the royal militia of the centralized monarchy. If Absalom’s revolt pitted populism against elitism, it was the elite who came out on top.

As for Absalom, the biblical description of his death is highly literary. We are told that his hair got caught in a branch, and when his mule rode out from under him he was left hanging in midair. It was while Absalom was in this very unroyal position that Joab supposedly came upon him and stabbed him in the chest, after which ten of Joab’s men hacked him to death, threw his corpse into a pit, and covered the pit with stones. The last part of the story—Absalom’s death and ignominious burial—seems plausible enough. But the dangling in midair by his hair is the biblical authors’ way of communicating Absalom’s comeuppance: his beauty, which, it is implied, had something to do with his popularity and perhaps desire for the throne, was the very thing that ended up causing his death. This is a morality lesson, not a history lesson. Exactly how Absalom died is unknowable, but it is as likely as not that Joab personally made sure that Absalom perished.

David’s reaction to hearing the news of Absalom’s death is among the most famous parts of the biblical story: “My son Absalom! O my son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you! O Absalom, my son, my son!” (2 Sam. 19:1). No reader, especially one with children, can help but be moved by David’s cries. This is perhaps the emotional high-water mark of the entire Bible, among the most authentic representations of grief in all ancient literature. And in its emotional authenticity, it rings true. After all, David really did want Absalom to succeed him, he was truly shocked by Absalom’s revolt, and thus he very well may have been devastated by the news of Absalom’s death.

Yet David surely knew that one of them, either he or his son, would die as a result of this battle. David understood why Absalom was pursuing him—he knew Absalom could not allow him to live. But by the very same logic, if David were ever to reclaim his throne, Absalom had to be eliminated. It is therefore curious that the biblical authors maintain otherwise—that David explicitly requested that Absalom not be killed. More telling is the way that they describe this request. David told Joab, Abishai, and Ittai, his three generals, to “deal gently for my sake with the boy, with Absalom” (2 Sam. 18:5). Crucially, “all the people heard when the king gave the order about Absalom to all the officers” (18:5). We have seen this type of statement before. It is similar to what the biblical authors say about the death of Abner: “all the people and all Israel knew that it had not been the king’s will to kill Abner son of Ner” (2 Sam. 3:37). When the biblical authors say that everyone in the narrative knows something, what they are really communicating is that we, the audience, should accept it as absolute truth. And, as often happens when the Bible wants to persuade the reader, the point is hammered home. The first man to encounter Absalom hanging by his hair refuses to kill him because of David’s words; the two messengers who bring news of the battle to David are each greeted with the question, “Is my boy Absalom safe?”; David continues crying as the troops return from the combat, “and the victory that day was turned into mourning for all the troops” (2 Sam. 19:3). David is represented as caring virtually nothing for the result of the battle—the battle that would determine his fate, whether he would die or return to the throne—but only about the preservation of Absalom’s life.

David’s mourning continues so long, according to the Bible, that Joab has to intervene and put an end to it. He castigates David for seeming to care more about Absalom than about all of the soldiers who fought so bravely for him and for his kingship. He threatens David, suggesting that if the king refuses to present himself to the troops, they will abandon him. And so David—reluctantly, the Bible implies—stops mourning and stands before his men as victor. This episode is the conclusion of the apology regarding Absalom’s death. It claims that David was so distraught over his son’s demise that he would have been willing to relinquish even the kingship just to grieve. This is moving stuff—but it hardly sounds like the David we have come to know.

Joab’s significant involvement in the story should be a clue for us as to what may have been happening. At almost every point where Joab appears, the biblical authors position him as the counter to David’s desires. It was not David who wanted Abner dead—it was Joab. And it was not David who killed Abner—it was Joab. It was not David who wanted Absalom to return from exile—it was Joab. And it was not David who brought him back—it was Joab. So too here. It was not David who wanted Absalom dead—it was Joab. And it was not David who recognized the great victory he had won over Absalom—it was Joab. Joab is a central element in the pro-David apology. Historical events that incriminated David were deflected onto Joab. As the biblical authors have David himself say: “those men, the sons of Zeruiah”—Joab’s mother—“are too savage for me!” (2 Sam. 3:39). In effect, the authors are saying that David was constitutionally incapable of doing the things it appears that he did; it must have been his cruel general. And yet the authors could do nothing about the fact that Joab not only went unpunished, but remained David’s right-hand man throughout his reign.

What this tells us is that in the case of Absalom, despite the high emotion of the episode, the truth is that David ordered Absalom’s death. Indeed, he had no other choice. He may well have been saddened by it, and he may well have mourned in his way. But he was responsible.

An intriguing question is why the biblical authors felt the need to persuade us that the opposite was true. After all, it would make perfect sense for David to defend himself, even to the death. There seems to be little here to apologize for. The best guess is that, at the time the biblical authors were writing their David story, substantial pro-Absalom feelings remained among Israel’s populace, the audience for the narrative. The thrust of the apology is that David would have allowed Absalom to live if he could, and, we may assume, to take the throne either in David’s place or after him. The biblical authors are proclaiming that the loss of Absalom as Israel’s desired king is not to be blamed on David, their actual king. Such a claim would make no sense generations later, when the memory of Absalom, the momentary monarch, had faded in Israel. The Absalom apology thus serves as another indication that the David story should be dated to a time very close to David’s own.

Absalom’s coup, though a failure, dealt a severe blow to David, as regarded both his power and his image. David had clawed his way to the top, using every possible advantage he could find, destroying lives and traditions without regard or remorse. He controlled the nation as no one had before him. And yet it all came undone, the mighty king forced into the wilderness and then out of the country altogether, in need of foreign assistance to defend himself against his own former subjects. David would return to his throne in Jerusalem, but his reign would never quite be the same.

The Aftermath

T
HE CHANGE IN
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AVID’S
power is evident from the immediate aftermath of Absalom’s death. The rebel son was dead, and the throne empty—it was David’s for the (re)taking. But David remained in Mahanaim. The man who had brought all of Israel to its knees was incapable of returning, for the people who had reluctantly accepted his rule in the past had been empowered by the momentary success of Absalom’s revolt. And yet, at least according to the biblical text, the Israelites—the inhabitants of the north—were uncertain of what to do next. David was in exile, Absalom was dead, and the original royal family of Saul had been wiped out—someone had to sit on the throne, someone had to protect them. For if any of Israel’s enemies realized that no one was in charge, the nation would be open to easy conquest. Their tribal armies, defeated at Mahanaim, had returned to their homes and were in no position to be raised again any time soon.
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David, for all his faults, had successfully protected Israel from the Philistines and the Ammonites, the longtime antagonists of the northern tribes. It seemed that there was little choice. For the north, the fall of Absalom meant a return to David.

Judah was another matter. This had been the heartland of Absalom’s rebellion—he had been a Judahite, born and crowned in Hebron, the original capital of Judah under David.
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The northern and southern tribes were not so deeply intertwined that the decision of one was necessarily that of the other. While the north had effectively acquiesced to David’s return to power, David still had to deal with the south. Until the situation in Judah was settled, he would not be able to return to Jerusalem as king.

David had taken control of Judah through diplomacy once; he could do it again. He sent word to his priests, Zadok and Abiathar, who had ostensibly maintained their neutrality throughout the Absalom rebellion by staying with the ark in Jerusalem and who were therefore credible in the eyes of the people. David told them to speak to the elders of Judah, appealing to David’s old Judahite origins and requesting that Judah unite to return David to the throne. At the same time, Zadok and Abiathar were known to be two of David’s oldest compatriots. To add an extra level of force to his request, David turned to someone who was known not to have any affection for him and whose credibility was therefore unimpeachable: Amasa, Absalom’s general.

Amasa is introduced in the Bible for the first time as Absalom’s personally appointed army commander. But his lineage is also provided, and it turns out that he is Joab’s cousin—and therefore David’s nephew. In retrospect, this makes sense. Absalom’s coup was from within—as a member of the royal family, he wouldn’t have had access to anyone outside David’s administration. This is why his main advisor, Ahitophel, was David’s former counselor. And it seems more than likely that his general, Amasa, had also been a high-ranking officer in David’s military.
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After all, David’s commanders were, like Saul’s, family members. But whatever role Amasa may have played in David’s army, he had sacrificed it when he threw his allegiance behind Absalom. It was thus significant that David approached Amasa for support in his return to the throne. And it also required that David give him something in return. So David told Zadok and Abiathar to send a message to Amasa: “Are you not my own flesh and blood? May God do thus and more to me if you do not become my army commander permanently in place of Joab” (2 Sam. 19:14). Although the appeal to kinship ties may have struck Amasa as somewhat disingenuous—David had just had the second of his sons killed—the appeal to Amasa’s ego in the offer of Joab’s position was no doubt hard to refuse.

Zadok and Abiathar are never said to have fulfilled their mission to the elders of Judah. But Amasa did his job. It no doubt made a major impression to have Absalom’s general supporting David. Not only did it indicate that the Absalom establishment had shifted its support to David—which surely helped with the popular perception of David’s power—but it also meant, more practically, that Israel’s anti-David army was no more. Just as Abner’s defection had signaled the end of Ishbaal’s ability to fight David, Amasa’s defection did the same for Absalom’s supporters. Like the army in the north, the army of Judah had dispersed after the defeat at Mahanaim, and now its commander, himself from Judah, had announced his allegiance to David. Judah was hardly in a position to refuse Amasa’s overtures on David’s behalf. The message from Judah was sent to David: “Come back with all your followers” (2 Sam. 19:15). David had won again.

The royal procession back across the Jordan was both a grand symbolic moment and an opportunity for some individuals to make personal gestures of support—or self-abasement—before the returning king. The first of these was Shimei, the northerner who had hurled stones and insults at David during the flight from Jerusalem. His appearance before David confirms for us that the north had agreed to have David back as king. Shimei therefore had reason to ask for David’s forgiveness, now that the man he had tarred as a murderer was returning to power. David, however, swore not to kill Shimei, much to Abishai’s astonishment (again). David’s rare show of leniency is readily explained—not as the Bible does, as a display of grace, but rather in simple political terms. David’s rule in the north was hanging by a thread, the result not of his great power, but of the Israelites’ need for someone, anyone, to protect them. The murder of an Israelite—even before David had made his way to Jerusalem—likely would have incited a fresh wave of resentment. David was in no position to make more enemies now. He had to let Shimei live.