Bathsheba (4 page)

On the walk back down the mountain, a sense of conviction had gripped my heart, assuring me that I had given the king
my
words, not Adonai’s. When the king asked my opinion, I had taken quiet pride in my logic and inherent pragmatism. I had given him a solid, practical answer.

But Adonai had not approved, and since the king had asked for a
prophet’s
opinion, I should not have spoken until I heard from the Lord.

Samuel had taught me to pay attention to small things, to nudges and whispers and prickles that crept across the back of my neck. Adonai had spoken to him when he was a child, on the dark night the Lord whispered that He was about to reveal something that would tingle the ears of every listener. HaShem was about to execute judgment against the high priest and his family for the many evils they had committed.

In the days that followed, Adonai fulfilled His promise, bringing
about the deaths of Eli and his irreverent sons. Samuel grew up to take Eli’s place, and though my teacher died when I was only thirteen, no one had yet risen to take Samuel’s place. Occasionally I wondered if I might pick up the torch my mentor had dropped, but Israel had many prophets, and Adonai used us as He saw fit. The prophet Gad had been David’s personal seer since the days of King Saul, and only lately had the king sent for me . . . apparently at Gad’s request.

Why had Gad sent for me? Had the Spirit of Adonai directed him, or had He some other reason for wanting to involve me in the king’s affairs? Perhaps it had been a test. If so, I had failed miserably.

I closed my eyes, regretting that I would have to ask the king’s forgiveness for doling out my wisdom instead of the Lord’s. I waited in my doorway, knowing I must soon climb the hills of Jerusalem again, this time alone and with a confession on my lips.

I don’t know how long I sat—long enough for the moon to climb and cast its silver radiance over the summit of David’s city—but my eyelids were beginning to droop when the night noises ceased and the hairs on my arms stood at attention. I straightened as a current tingled my limbs, and then, like blood out of a vein, a thick silence slid toward me, enveloped and filled me until all I could hear was the voice of Adonai.

When He had finished speaking, I bowed my head in submission and sat motionless until the silence ebbed and the night noises returned.

“So be it,” I whispered. Then I stood, closed the door, and went to bed.

The next morning I rose early, dressed with care, and climbed the hill to Jerusalem with a great deal more apprehension than the
day before. If I could get an audience with the king, I would speak, yet this time I might snuff the light of joy from his eyes.

After entering the palace courtyard, I walked to the wooden building and gave my name to a guard at the door. After a few moments of tedious waiting, the guard returned to usher me into the king’s presence. David was not in his throne room or the more casual space I’d visited earlier, but in what appeared to be his bedchamber. An ornate bed dominated a distant corner, while the king stood beside a large table spread with parchments.

He appeared far more relaxed than he’d been at our first meeting. He wore a brilliant blue tunic embroidered with stars, and his hair and beard had been freshly oiled. At one end of the table, a pair of men, one old and one young, studied parchments and occasionally scratched at them with the burnt end of a stick.

I knelt on the floor and bowed, and this time the king met me with a welcoming smile.

“Nathan the prophet.” He stepped out to greet me. “Have you a suggestion for Adonai’s house? As you can see, I have summoned the best architects in Israel.”

“I have—” I swallowed hard—“something to tell you. Today I must confess that I have seriously wronged you and sinned against Adonai. I have come to confess my sin and to ask your forgiveness.”

“What is this about?” David’s eyes narrowed, but he leaned against the table and folded his arms, ready to listen.

I lowered my face to the floor. “A prophet of Adonai must not offer his own opinion when asked for guidance; he should speak for Adonai alone. Yesterday I gave you an answer from my own mind, my own logic. Adonai had not given me a message for you, so I was wrong to speak from my own wisdom, small that it is.”

David tilted his head. “And today?”

“Today I bring you a message from the Most High God and Master of the Universe. He spoke to me last night and bade me
give you His words.” I stood and drew a deep breath. “Adonai says: ‘You want to build me a house? I do not need a house, but I will build a house for you.’”

I broadened my stance, feeling the heavy import of the message I’d been sent to deliver.

“‘Are you the one to build a house for me to live in?’” I continued. “‘I have never lived in a house, from the day I brought the Israelites out of Egypt until this very day. I have always moved from one place to another with a tent and a Tabernacle as my dwelling. Yet no matter where I have gone with the Israelites, I have never once complained to Israel’s tribal leaders, the shepherds of my people Israel. I have never asked them, Why haven’t you built me a beautiful cedar house?’”

I glanced at the king, but David had not stirred. He had, however, lowered his head so that I could not read his eyes.

“‘Now go and say to my servant David,’” I continued, “‘This is what the Lord of Heaven’s Armies has declared: I took you from tending sheep in the pasture and selected you to be the leader of my people Israel. I have been with you wherever you have gone, and I have destroyed all your enemies before your eyes. Now I will make your name as famous as anyone who has ever lived on the earth! And I will provide a homeland for my people Israel, planting them in a secure place where they will never be disturbed. Evil nations won’t oppress them as they’ve done in the past, starting from the time I appointed judges to rule my people Israel. And I will give you rest from all your enemies.’

“‘Moreover, Adonai declares that he will make a house for you—a dynasty of kings! For when you die and are buried with your ancestors, I will raise up one of your descendants, your own offspring, and I will make his kingdom strong. He is the one who will build a house—a Temple—for my name. And I will secure his royal throne forever. I will be his father, and he will be my son. If he
sins, I will correct and discipline him with the rod and blows, like any father would do. But my favor will not be taken from him as I took it from Saul, whom I removed from your sight. Your house and your kingdom will continue for all time, and your throne will be secure forever.’”

I stopped, out of words and breath, and looked to see what effect my message had wrought in the king. David stood motionless for a long moment, then he straightened and walked toward the doorway as if he had completely forgotten about me and his architects.

Along with a pair of bodyguards, I trailed after him, following him through the palace, out the northern exit, and over the sandy path that led to the Tabernacle. He hesitated for a moment at the outer curtain before going inside. He sat before the altar of burnt offering.

I sat in the dust behind him, content to be a spectator and a mouthpiece should Adonai desire one.

David sat without moving for a while. Then he tipped his head back and let out a joyous, agonized, surprising wail. When he finally found words, the king cried to Adonai in an awe-filled voice, “Who am I, Adonai Elohim, and what is my family that has caused you to bring me this far?”

His voice cracked, and his shoulders trembled as he lifted his face toward the Holy of Holies. Overcome by the feeling that I was eavesdropping on a personal conversation between a man and the Most High God, I lowered my gaze, content to listen.

“Yet in your view, Adonai Elohim,” David continued, “even this was too small a thing; so you have even said that your servant’s dynasty will continue on into the distant future. This is indeed a teaching for a man, Adonai Elohim. What more can I say to you? For you know me intimately, Sovereign Lord.”

I struggled to resist an urge to lift my head and watch the king address his Lord, for the expression on a man’s countenance spoke
volumes about the desires of his heart. But I did not need to know. HaShem knew David better than I did, and His opinion mattered more than mine.

Samuel, my teacher, once told us about how he initially balked when the Spirit of God told him to anoint the youngest and scrawniest of Jesse’s sons to succeed Saul as king. When Samuel hesitated, Adonai answered, “The Lord doesn’t see the way humans see. Humans look at the outward appearance, but I study the heart.”

That scrawny shepherd had grown into a man, who now knelt before God with outstretched hands and an open heart. “Because of your promise and according to your will, you have done all these great things and have made them known to your servant,” David cried. “How great you are, O Sovereign Lord! There is no one like you. We have never even
heard
of another God like you! What other nation on earth is like your people Israel? What other nation, O God, have you redeemed from slavery to be your own people? You made a great name for yourself when you redeemed your people from Egypt. You performed awesome miracles and drove out the nations and gods that stood in their way. You made Israel your very own people forever, and you, O Lord, became their God. So now, Adonai, God, establish forever the word you have spoken to your servant and his house. Do what you have promised.”

I blinked, and in a sudden burst of clarity I realized that David must have wondered if his reign would end like Saul’s. Would he be king for only a short time, then be cast away because of some failure? Even I had been surprised when Adonai gave me this message for David, for what man had ever been worthy of an eternal heritage? Saul had been a good king until he disobeyed, but he was human, with a man’s weaknesses and failures. From what I had heard, David was every bit as human and in some ways even more erratic than his predecessor.

But I could not plumb the king’s heart, and I was not Adonai. My task was not to judge but to speak the truth of God.

“May your name be magnified forever.” David’s voice dissolved into a thready whisper. “So it will be said, ‘
Adonai-Tzva’ot
is God over Isra’el, and the dynasty of your servant David will be set up in your presence.’ O Lord of Heaven’s Armies, God of Israel, I have been bold enough to pray this prayer because you have revealed all this to your servant, saying, ‘I will build a house for you—a dynasty of kings!’ For you are God, O Sovereign Lord. Your words are truth, and you have promised these good things to your servant. And now, may it please you to bless the house of your servant, so it may continue forever before you. For you, Adonai Elohim, have said it. May your servant’s family be blessed forever by your blessing.”

We sat there—the king, his bodyguards, and I—covered in dust from the rising wind, awestruck by the presence of HaShem and the king who worshiped him with wholehearted enthusiasm. The wind lifted the curtains around the Tabernacle, sending dust skimming over the ground, but David did not seem to notice. He sat a long time in silence, his eyes focused on something beyond my field of vision, until one of the priests walked over and laid his hand on the king’s shoulder.

David stood slowly, clinging to the priest’s arm for balance. As he turned, I saw his face. Above his beard, his cheeks were coated in desert sand and streaked with the runnels of tears.

I
HAD
BEEN
MARRIED
A
FULL
MONTH
before Elisheba and Amaris came to visit. Uriah went to fetch them from Father’s house, and when he returned Amaris was riding on his back, waving joyfully as he shouldered his way through the crowded street. After ducking through the doorway and depositing my little sister on a cushion by the fire pit, he gave me a shy smile and departed, leaving the three of us to talk of womanly things.

“My sweet sister!” I bent to give Amaris a hug and then hugged Elisheba, as well. “How are you? I miss the voices of other women in the house.”

Elisheba rolled her eyes, then gave me a sly wink. “How are you enjoying married life? Uriah seems like a happy man.”

“I hope he is.” I picked up a bowl of water to wash their feet, but Elisheba waved the bowl away. “Don’t worry yourself, we won’t stay long. We don’t want to get in the way of newlyweds.”

“You could never be in our way.” I sank onto a cushion between my guests and grinned at my sister. “Are you managing to stay out of trouble?”

Amaris’s mouth curved in a smile. “I’m never in trouble. Father says I’m a little angel.”

“If only that were true.” Elisheba gave Amaris a playful pinch. “I can never understand how such a small girl makes such big messes. This morning she spilled the water jug right after I’d returned from the well. Then she lost my sewing needle and let the cook fire go out.”

“You found the needle, though.” Amaris’s nose crinkled in an impish expression. “When you sat on it.”

“For that I should be grateful?”

“Never mind.” Amaris shifted her attention to me. “I have a question for my sister.”

The gleam in her eye made me wary. “A question?”

“Are you going to have a baby?”

“No—yes—well, I hope so.” As my cheeks burned, I turned from my sister to Elisheba, my fount of womanly wisdom. “Honestly, I want to fill this house with babies. But I don’t think it’s possible for me to know if I’m having a baby just yet.”

“You’ll know.” Elisheba lifted a brow. “First, you’ll feel tired for no reason at all. Then you’ll begin to smell things you never smelled before, and the sight of food will make you sick. And if those things haven’t convinced you, your breasts will become tender and your monthly
niddah
will cease.”

Amaris tugged on Elisheba’s sleeve, her eyes brimming with questions. “Have
you
had a baby?”

“Once. Long ago.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died.”

Elisheba spoke calmly, with no outward trace of sorrow, but pain squeezed my heart at the thought of her unspoken grief. Elisheba had
lost a husband, and then a child, shortly after his birth. How could any woman survive such pain? I could not even imagine such anguish.

I reached for her hand and patted it. Amaris was too young to understand the depths of a woman’s emotions, but I was beginning to explore those cavernous places. Loving Uriah had opened my heart and expanded my capacity to love. Since being married, I found myself loving so profoundly, intensely, and lavishly that I couldn’t imagine the equivalent quantities of loss.

Elisheba tapped Amaris’s knee. “Enough talk of babies. We came here to see your sister, not to talk about private things.”

I would have gladly heard more on the subject of reproduction. My education in such matters had come only from Elisheba and whispered conversations among the women at the well. Married women tended to lower their voices when virgins wandered into their vicinity, and Elisheba’s instructions had been more about my wedding day than procreation.

“Are you faring well, then?” Elisheba’s eyes searched my face. “Is Uriah a
gentle
man?”

My face reheated, but I couldn’t stop my grin from broadening. “He is most gentle and kind. In our first days together, he was . . . quite considerate and tender with me. Sometimes, in the early morning before anyone else has ventured out, we stay in bed and talk. We laugh together. About all kinds of things.”

Elisheba’s eyes sank into soft nets of wrinkles as she smiled. “You are among the most blessed of women, Bathsheba. I thought Uriah would be a good husband, and apparently your grandfather was right to advance his cause. Your father misses you, but he is terribly proud of his new son-in-law. He has nothing but good to say about Uriah.”

“I love being married.” The words came out in a rush, but I’d been dying to say them. And who better to hear this news than the two women I loved most?

“I am happy for you. And I will always be proud of you, child.”

Amaris eyed the plate of figs and goat cheese I had set near the fire, but the plate lay beyond her reach. Seeing her predicament, I picked it up and let her take some figs, then offered the dish to Elisheba.

“My only regret,” I said, lowering the dish, “is that this first year of marriage will pass all too quickly. Soon Uriah will have to rejoin the army, and then he’ll be away fighting for the king. Who knows when I’ll be able to see him. I asked Uriah if wives ever traveled with the army, and he said any army with women along would be an ineffective force, as any man who slept with his wife would be ceremonially unclean and unfit for battle the next day.”

“Then enjoy this year while you can.” Elisheba’s eyes twinkled above the fig she held near her lips. “Your husband sounds like a young man in love. Truly, it does my heart good to hear you say these things. Some say husbands and wives fall in love over time, but I am happy to hear that you have found love at the beginning of your lives together. Adonai has richly blessed you.”

I hugged my knees in an overflow of happiness, unable to believe that the union of a man and woman could result in such delight and joy. There I sat, talking with women I loved in a home of my own, a dwelling that would one day shelter sons of the man I adored, miniature olive-skinned Uriahs, sturdy little boys who would march around the fire pit with pretend spears and bows and slingshots.

“I can help you with those long days alone.” The thin line of Elisheba’s mouth clamped tight for a moment, and then she looked at me, a smile lifting the wrinkles on her cheeks. “The secret of contentment in hard times is to collect a bountiful store of memories and set them aside like treasure. Life is made of seasons, child, and they will not always be as sweet as the one you are enjoying now. When pleasant days are hard to find, pull out your memories and live in them until happiness returns.”

“Then this”—I draped one arm over Elisheba’s shoulders and the other over my little sister’s—“is one of my most precious memories.
I will never forget this day, the sight of you eating figs from my new plate, the scent of sweet fruit, and the sound of your voices.”

And to prove it, I leaned toward each of them, pressing a kiss first onto a lined cheek, then onto a rounded, youthful one. Life was beautiful, and in that moment I was as happy as I had ever been.

Days stretched before me like a golden cord, one morning as bright as the next. I loved my husband more with each passing sunrise, for every day I discovered another of his unique characteristics.

I learned that Uriah was a wonderful teacher. Though the Law forbade him from going to war during the first year of our marriage, he still spent many hours at the palace, training with his weapons and mingling with the king’s royal guard. I had never understood the difference between one man in armor and another, but Uriah taught me a lot about Israel’s military.

Israel not only had soldiers, we had
divisions
of soldiers. Israel had a national army and the king had the
salisim
, a group of warriors devoted to him alone. The
salisim
were composed of David’s famed mighty men and an army of six hundred foreigners who had been allied with him since his days of running from King Saul.

“Why doesn’t the king dismiss these foreigners?” I asked, perplexed. “He has finally united the tribes of Israel, so surely there is no need for him to employ outsiders.”

Uriah laughed and tapped the tip of my nose. “My sweet, have you forgotten that I am one of those foreigners?”

I stammered in confusion. “Well . . .”

“Who would dismiss men whose loyalty has been proven in battle? And don’t forget, the mortar holding your twelve tribes together has not fully set. The king needs trustworthy men, and the
salisim
have fought alongside him for years. They would die for the king,
but others in Israel’s army”—Uriah shrugged—“who can say where their loyalties lie? Some men fight for Judah, some for Saul, some for David. They are held together now only by the power of Adonai.”

The first of David’s elite men, Uriah explained, was Jashobeam, the Hacmonite, leader of
the Three
—the three mightiest warriors among the close-knit team David considered his personal force. The other two members of the Three were Eleazar, son of Dodai, and Shammah, son of Agee. Both were famous throughout Israel for their feats of might and courage.

After the Three came
the Thirty
, the renowned group that included my husband and my father. Abishai, son of Zeruiah, led the Thirty along with Benaiah, son of Jehoiada. Benaiah also commanded the king’s bodyguards.

Outside the
salisim
, Joab, the king’s nephew, commanded Israel’s field army. He had been instrumental in conducting the surprise raid against the Jebusites that resulted in David’s claiming Jerusalem. The Jebusites had considered their city unassailable until Joab led a band of warriors through a horizontal tunnel from the Gihon Spring and then up a vertical water shaft. Stunned by the resourceful and clever invaders, the city quickly surrendered to David.

Uriah’s lessons in history and military divisions sometimes left me bewildered, but I could have listened to him talk for hours. He did not speak of fighting or battlefield activities, nor did he describe the gruesome injuries and deaths suffered in the course of combat. He talked instead about his friends, men who were so devoted to David that they would risk their lives and travel behind enemy lines just to fetch water from one of his favorite wells.

In those days I did not understand the realities of war, though I had always liked my father’s soldier friends well enough. My father cut an imposing figure when dressed in his armor, yet he had often crawled about our house on his hands and knees, pretending to be a horse so Amaris could ride on his back. And Uriah, who
intimidated most men even when not wearing armor, was among the gentlest of creatures when not focused on duty. Because I was acquainted with good-natured warriors, I had come to think of war as an exercise in swordplay, big men clashing and wrestling, then patting each other on the back before the journey home.

Uriah might have thought it odd that a soldier’s daughter knew so little about the nature of combat, but Father and Elisheba had always sheltered us from life’s brutalities.

My husband’s military service offered me an unexpected feminine pleasure. After each trip to the palace, he brought home stories I would never have heard otherwise. He shared palace gossip, telling me about the king’s wives—Michal, Ahinoam, Abigail, Maacah, Haggith, Abital, Eglah, and others Uriah could not name—and the king’s concubines, most of whom remained tucked away in the special compound constructed for the royal harem.

“Are the king’s wives very beautiful?” I asked, alarmed that my husband’s remarks about other women could ignite a spark of jealousy in me.

Uriah shrugged. “Some men say so. But they do not have Bathsheba waiting at home. If I were inclined to compare the king’s wives with you, the royal women would be found wanting.”

I giggled as my husband’s lips touched a sensitive spot at the side of my neck. “I know our king is not like other kings, but are his women like other women? Do they cook and sew and clean?”

Uriah ran a rough finger down my forehead and the length of my nose, then gently traced my lips. “I don’t know what they do all day,” he said, his voice growing hoarse. “And I don’t care. My thoughts are occupied with one woman who is more beautiful than most, and more precious than any.”

I gazed deep into his eyes and saw currents moving there. “Of whom do you speak, husband?”

“Of my coy little wife.” The corner of his mouth quirked in a smile just before he kissed me.