The Secret Chord (20 page)

It was the first time I saw the pearly moon rise over these walls, where the rough-hewn siege ladders leaned all askew in the aftermath of the battle, some rungs splintered under the rush of the ascent. David stood on the ramparts, bathed in starlight. He was leaning on the walls, his arms outstretched on either side of him, the blood and dirt of the fighting crusted on his skin. The night wind lifted his sweat-dampened hair. His face was smeared with grime and flecked with blood, but it was radiant. He turned to me, smiling. “Here, it begins,” he said.

I thought of him a few years earlier, prone in the ashes of Ziklag with his outlaw band about to mutiny. If that was the lowest pit of his existence, then this moment, on the ramparts of the city he had made his own, might mark the summit. I stood there, and breathed in the night air, and tried to take in every detail.

From below us in the town came the sounds of soldiers carousing, their wine-drenched voices rising in tuneless victory songs. While there was weeping and keening from the houses of the fallen, there were no screams, no shrill cries of pain and fear. David had ordered restraint, and his army was obeying him. There would be no rapes this night, no wanton killings. He had already renamed the town. It was Ir David now—the City of David. It was our home, the heart of our nation, the seat of his kingship. He intended to bind up the wounds of the defeated, not lay them open. All who surrendered had been allowed to go to their homes, Knaanite and Hittite alike. He had spared even the life of Araunah, allowing him to retire from the city,
unarmed and under guard, and go to his farmhouse on the mountain above the town.

I wish I could write that this night marked an end to the bloodshed. It did not. As soon as word of our victory reached the Plishtim cities on the coastal plain, they mobilized their several armies and marched on us, thinking to attack before David's power in the new capital could be consolidated. I had a vision—debilitating, painful—exhorting him to go out and meet them on the plain. So that is what we did, fighting and routing their armies piecemeal before they could join forces and come at us as one. Even after that, they remained a thorn in our side, refusing to quit the harassment of our settlements in the Shefala. But over the years, we pushed them back, and farther back, until all that was left of once mighty Philistia was a handful of shrunken towns that could barely support the fighters to guard their walls. By the end of it, many of their best men came to us, begging David to hire them into his service. We have a unit of their mercenaries who fight for us now.

There were other victories. I have no wish to relive each of those battles, when we marched out of Ir David to subdue Moav, or Edom, or the Ammonites. But even though I wish to forget those years, I cannot. In dreams, the images come to me. Muwat says I sometimes cry out, in nightmares from which I cannot wake. Other times, I do wake, my heart racing and the sweat standing cold on my brow. On those nights, the dark is full of the cries of the dying and my only relief comes with the rising sun.

Whatever it takes. What was necessary.
Ten violent years, and then, at last, our vassal states stretched from the border of Mitzrayim to the edge of the Two Rivers. Finally, we were notorious enough to give our enemies pause. They looked at the heavy cost of warring against us, and came suing for peace. The plunder from the defeated—their gold shields, their horses—enriched us. Treaty seekers offered gifts of gold, of alabaster—fine vessels such as we had not seen. There were cups of chased metal and swords inlaid with ivories. We were no longer a
collection of impoverished herders and farmers, but a people whose trade thrived and whose friendship was bid for and highly prized.

David drew to him everyone who could help in this making and mending. He did not care about tribe of origin, or even if one was Ivrim. Our high priest, Aviathar, the only survivor of Shaul's massacre at Nov, was given to understand that he would share ritual duties with the Yebusite Zadok, and that devotions and sacrifices would retain any elements of their style of worship that did not conflict with our own. Yoav was allowed to fulfill his ambition, to be general of the army of Israel, but David brought up one of Avner's promising young lieutenants, Benaiah, to command the growing corps of foreign recruits and mercenaries. David was impressed, in particular, with the men who came to us from across the sea, from an ancient island kingdom where youths trained for war by vaulting bulls. This was a dangerous sport, requiring great athleticism, speed and courage. It was from among these strong and graceful young foreigners that David selected his handpicked bodyguard. This proved wise, as it showed no favoritism to the men of Yudah or of Benyamin.

As the wars dwindled to skirmishes and our strength grew, David was able to spend less time with military commanders and more with the engineers and overseers who were fanning out through the land, digging cisterns, making roads, fortifying, connecting and generally making a nation out of our scattered people.

It was a time when any man could seek and find justice. I think that David's own experiences as an outlaw, a falsely accused man, had made him resolve to deal justly with his subjects now that he had the power to do so. In those years, he never tired of hearing suits, and would listen for hours to all sides of a grievance, taking pleasure in teasing out the threads of a dispute and weighing all the evidence laid before him. Any who felt dissatisfied by the decisions of the elders at their own town gates could appeal their matters to David himself, and know they would be fairly heard.

He composed some of his best music at this time, training choirs
to praise the Name in musical rites that drew great crowds to worship. He would join with the choirs at such times, his soaring voice carrying the melody, enriching the harmony, his face lifted up to the heavens and lit by the ecstasy of his ever-renewing bond with the divine. As word spread, musicians and singers—men and women both—flocked to his service. You could not walk the lanes without hearing delightful sounds issuing from nearly every casement: lutenists and flute players, singers and drummers. The life of the city moved to the rhythms and melodies of an ever-changing musical score.

There was, as well, the percussion of the building trades. The hectoring scrape of massive ashlars across the ramps. The tolling of iron hammers ringing on reluctant stone. The roar of forges, burning all night to make good the day's wounded tools.

King Hiram of Tyre sent David cedarwood—the fragrant, prized timber of the northern forests—and craftsmen skilled in stone dressing to build for him this fine house. David chose the site, high on the spur, even though at the time it stood outside the wall of the city. This was a bold move that showed his confidence and his vision. Ir David, he declared, was to be double the size of Yebus. He would fill in the gully and push the city west, to the very top of Har Moriah. And there, he said, he would build a shrine for our ark, and bring it home at last to the city at the very heart of the Land. As soon as the first stage of his palace was complete, he gave the order that this be done.

When word came that the ark was within a day's march, we did not sleep, but went to the Gihon spring to purify ourselves. We dressed afterward in fine linen garments that David had ordered for the purpose. These were simple tunics that resembled priestly robes, yet were made more plainly, with no dyes, borders or adornment. David would wear no purple cloth, no symbols of his kingship, when he went to greet the ark. In its presence, we were all of us servants.

We waited at the city gates as the ark approached. It was
sohorhim,
the hour of light, when the outriders came into view, cresting the Mount of Olives. The olive trees had turned their leaves so that the
bright undersides shimmered. David gave a great sigh of longing, almost a groan. And then, in a wincing flash of brightness, the sunlight caught the gilded wingtips of the cherubim atop the ark itself. The people cheered. David gave the sign, and the choirs he had assembled burst into song. Cymbals, systrums, flutes, lyres, drums—every musician the city possessed—and there were hundreds—had been called to raise a joyful noise to the heavens. Soon, the procession was in the valley, the curtain that shielded the ark rippling in the warm wind. We could hear the voices of the singing men and women, chanting the words David had composed for the occasion:

Give praise, proclaim his Name,

Proclaim his marvels to the nations,

Sing to him, sing praise to him . . .

David, standing just in front of me, could not keep still. He held his arms out from his sides, his fingers stretching down to the earth, quivering as if some great energy were passing up and through them. He was breathing fast and deep. Suddenly, he raised his chin, and gave a cry—like a paean, but higher, sweeter—rich notes that filled every heart with gladness. Then he was loping down the hill, as wild as a boy, as ardent as a lover, sprinting toward the ark. When he reached it, he cast himself down in full prostration, his arms stretched out as if in the widest embrace. It was a lover's moment, between him and the Name, the great One who had blessed him, kept him and brought him to this moment. I knew how he prayed: I had felt its ardency. Now all his people felt it. I could hear the sighs and the cries all around me, as the power of it moved and stirred the crowd. When David rose to his feet, he did so as if lifted by strong and tender arms. Then he began to dance.

Such a dance I had never seen, and will not see again. Writhing, stamping, leaping, his face lit with ecstasy, leading the way before the ark in its procession toward the city gates. The crowds surged to fall in behind him, the cheers and the swell of music deafening. We all of
us were caught in the power of his dance, filling the streets with a swarm of prancing, joyful bodies.

After a time, I could not keep up. My lungs were starved for breath, my chest burned, my feet were raw and bruised from the abrading stones. Yet David leaped ahead, whirling in the air. The light linen of his tunic flew aside, revealing the long line of hard muscle that ran from hip to thigh. He had recently turned forty, but his limbs remained lean and strong, traced over with the fine white puckers of scar tissue from old wounds. He did not care that he exposed himself. He was far away, lost in the dance. There was no regard for kingly dignity, for manly self-mastery. This was naked joy, uncontained, abandoned. He had let go of self. He was a bright flare, a blur of stamping, springing, whirling animal energy. I realized then that what I witnessed was pure worship—beautiful—and I let go of my own inhibitions and danced on, catching the gladness that flew from him like sparks.

He had ordered a pavilion built atop Har Moriah. Cloths of the finest weave billowed from gleaming copper stanchions. He danced the ark into the pavilion, and then bowed out before the high priest, who made his lonely way to the recesses of the inner curtained enclave where he alone, purified in stringent ritual, might enter. There was incense and the fragrance of cedarwood from the sacrificial fires, and the sharp, delicious scent of the burned offerings. David turned, such a smile of pure delight upon his face, so that a well of feeling brimmed up in me—and I think in all of us who stood close to him. Any reservations or misgivings about the acts that had brought us to this day seemed to melt like the fat on the altar of sacrifice, to rise up like vapor and blow away.

He clapped me on the shoulder—his hand was hot, heavy—and we turned toward the palace. He had arranged distributions of honey cakes and fine loaves to all the people, and as he passed through the crowd they reached out to kiss his hand or the hem of his tunic. There was so much laughter, and yet my cheeks were wet with tears. A
smiling servant held the door for us, and David turned and waved to the cheering crowd before we stepped into the cool interior. I was hot and spent, yet he flared with energy, and though his chest rose and fell, gulping great breaths, and though he was misted all over with a fine sweat, the scent of him was as sweet and fresh as mown hay. His face shone and his flesh gleamed. I did not want the moment to end, so I walked with him, the laughter still on our lips. When we reached the foot of the staircase that led to his apartments, we saw Mikhal on the landing above, seated in the window recess. Here, I thought, glad-hearted. Here is the moment of reconciliation. She's waiting for him, ready at last.

“Did you see?” His voice—his beautiful voice—rang high and light. He bounded up the stairs toward her, his arms open for an embrace. She stood, but instead of stepping toward him, she drew back, her face pinched in a frown of revulsion. He, lost in his own joy, did not mark it. He reached out and grasped her. She pushed him off with a violent shove. He was unprepared for it, and lost his footing. He would have fallen on the steps had I not been behind him to extend a steadying hand.

She spoke then, her voice low and intimate. “Didn't the king of Israel do himself honor today?” She tossed her head, her eyes narrowed. “Exposing himself before the slave girls of his subjects like a whore.”

David's head snapped back as if she had slapped him. The light in his face turned ashen, his joyful expression erased.

“It was before the Name,” he said plaintively. Then he gathered himself and raised his voice.

“It was before the Name, who chose me”—he thumped his chest—“
me,
instead of your father and all your family. Who appointed
me
ruler over his people Israel!” He took a step toward her, menacing. Even though I felt myself shrinking under his gathering rage, I reached out and laid a warning hand on him. I thought at that moment he might strike her dead.

He shook me off. “I
will
dance before the Name, and ‘dishonor' myself even more, and be low in my own esteem.” He brought his face close to hers, and dropped his voice to an insinuating whisper. “But among the slave girls you speak of, I will be honored!”

He pushed her aside. He walked on, holding himself stiffly, his demeanor now unmistakably regal. She stood on the landing, staring after him. A slight tremor shivered through her body. Our eyes met. Hers were blank, empty. For years, she had nursed that serpent of anger, coiled tight inside her, eating everything else away. Now, at last, she had unleashed it. It was gone, and had left no spark behind. I turned and followed the king. As I closed the door to his private apartment he did not even turn. “I never want to look at her face again. See to it.”