Bathsheba, p.10
Bathsheba, page 10
Bathsheba watched the king turn, step away from the crowd, and enter the palace.
“Are you ready to go? My son will want to eat soon.”
Chava’s question brought her gaze back into focus. Guards moved in and motioned for the people to return to their homes. Uriah was probably one of the men seeing that the place was cleared before he returned to her. She’d had no reason to worry that she wouldn’t be there ahead of him.
“I’m ready.” She released a slow breath, letting her dreams fall where they may.
“Aren’t you glad we stayed to watch?” Chava caught her arm and led the way, hurrying down the steps.
“I’m glad,” she said. She bid Chava farewell and hummed the king’s song all the way home.
It happened in the spring of the year, at the time when kings go out to battle, that David sent Joab and his servants with him, and all Israel; and they destroyed the people of Ammon and besieged Rabbah. But David remained at Jerusalem.
2 Samuel 11:1 NKJV
Then David sent messengers, and took [Bathsheba]; and she came to him, and he lay with her, for she was cleansed from her impurity; and she returned to her house. And the woman conceived; so she sent and told David, and said, “I am with child.”
2 Samuel 11:4–5 NKJV
But the thing that David had done displeased the Lord.
2 Samuel 11:27 NKJV
13
Bathsheba smoothed a hand over the lyre and strummed a soft chord. The day’s work of weaving behind her, she held the instrument Rei had fashioned for her closer to her chest, her fingers first strumming then plucking the strings. That Uriah had allowed the introduction of such music into their home pleased her. She longed to do more, to record her words and musical notations on parchment, to include him in making music with her, but he had shown little interest.
A sigh worked its way through her, and she looked up at the sound of heated voices in the courtyard. Her hands stilled as she recognized her father’s low grumble. She reached for the leather casing and quickly slipped the lyre inside, tucked it beside the couch, and grabbed the spindle and distaff from a low basket. She stood, working the wool in the spindle as she walked to the door, knowing her father would frown his displeasure if her hands were idle.
“It is foolishness, the way I see it.” Uriah opened the door and moved inside, her father one step behind.
Bathsheba smiled at his glance, then nodded at Tirzah as the maid entered the room and quickly hurried off to do Bathsheba’s silent bidding. She accepted her father’s kiss. “Good evening to you, Abba.”
“And to you, my daughter.” Eliam took a seat on the edge of the couch, hands resting on his knees. He focused on Uriah. “I agree. The king’s marriages are more often than the Canaanites’ calls to war. I suppose the treaties are what matter. These new wives will ensure peace with the northern tribes. But to take them now when war is upon us . . . it does not set well with the men.”
Bathsheba moved to sit in a low chair in the corner, her fingers nimbly moving, fighting the sick feeling she always got when Uriah prepared to leave for battle. How was it that spring had come so quickly? Five months was not nearly long enough.
“To stay home from this battle for a wife, or in this case more than one, is an excuse, if you ask me.” Bathsheba heard the sour note in Uriah’s tone. His words were barbed arrows, wounding her. He would never consider shirking his duty for her, so why should he approve of the king’s decision? But what had happened to the respect he’d always carried for the king? It was the king’s own edicts that sent Uriah to war in the first place—the very same directives that kept him so often away from home, away from her. Twinges of envy pricked her conscience. Did the king stay home for love?
She caught Tirzah’s eye as she entered the sitting room carrying a tray of cheeses and bread, sauces and dates, while another female servant followed behind carrying clay cups and a skin of wine.
“The king has always had a weakness for women, so his actions should not surprise us.” Her father glanced at her, offering a benevolent smile. “Which is why I never let him see my daughter.” Eliam took the wine cup from the servant and helped himself to the food Tirzah placed before him. “What woman would want to share control of her home?” He met Bathsheba’s gaze again. “A woman should be a good manager of her husband’s affairs, and complete the work of her hands.”
His pointed look made Bathsheba wonder. Had he heard the music of the lyre as he entered the courtyard? She lowered her gaze, avoiding eye contact. Life was not made only for work. Even the law allowed for days of resting and feasting.
“The king’s weakness is not what worries me so much as does his decision to let Joab lead the troops to capture Rabbah. This is the king’s battle. Someone should change his mind about this war. Is Ahithophel unable to get through to him? Perhaps if we spoke to Joab.” Uriah took his cup and sipped. He ripped off a piece of flat bread and dipped it in cucumber sauce.
“Joab likes leading the army, making the decisions without the king overriding his every move.” Her father dipped his bread into the creamy dill and stuffed the piece into his mouth.
“But Rabbah is the last stronghold, and King Hanun humiliated David’s own son! What kind of a father ignores such a slight? What king doesn’t lead his troops to war in the spring?” Uriah’s body grew rigid, and Bathsheba looked at him, wondering why he cared so much. So what if the king didn’t go to war with his troops?
“Rabbah is also a fortress, and the city will not fall easily. David is no fool. He knows this and is sending Joab to wear them down. He’ll come in time to deal the final death blow, to see the capture of the city, and to place the king’s crown on his own head.” Eliam swallowed the last of the wine and set the cup on the table. “If we are leaving soon, I must go. Unlike the king, I have work to do to prepare for war.”
Uriah stood with him, and Bathsheba scrambled to her feet. “You’re going so soon, Father? But you only just arrived.” She should be used to him rushing off as he did. He had spent a lifetime running after King David to war.
He moved to kiss each of her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Daughter, but your husband and I leave in the morning for Rabbah, and I think he might like some time with you alone before we go.” He smiled at her and patted Uriah on the back.
“Tomorrow? Why did you not tell me sooner?” Her emotion rose in swift, hot anger.
Uriah’s hand on her shoulder made her turn. “Joab commissioned the Thirty to go on ahead of the troops to scout out the area before the rest of them leave in three days. He made the decision this morning.” He glanced at her father, then wrapped his arm around her waist. “Do not fret, dear one. You knew that once we hit the month of Iyyar, war was imminent. It happens this way every year.”
“Not every year.” She swallowed the bitter taste of gall.
“Every year since our marriage and many years before that.” His tone held a tinge of sternness, and she knew to argue would do her no good.
“We will be back before you can possibly miss us.” Her father turned then and moved toward the door. He glanced back at Uriah. “I will come by at dawn.”
Uriah gave a nod of acknowledgment and pulled her close. “Your father is right,” he said as they watched Eliam leave the courtyard and move into the street. “This war should not take long—it’s only one city.”
Then why did the king wait to go, letting his men do most of the work of besieging the city for him? But she didn’t voice the question, knowing that to challenge Uriah would only lead to frustration for both of them. There was nothing she could do to convince him not to go, and there was nothing he could say to convince her that his going was the right or best thing to do.
She rested her head against his chest, feeling his strength, hearing the steady cadence of his heart, desperate to memorize this moment, the feeling of her safely in his arms. Surely he would come back to her. But no war ended quickly. They all took months at a time, and even if the soldiers could get away from the battle, they would not return home until they could come as a group, with the war finally over. It was the way of things. The way it had always been.
This time would be no different.
The month of Tammuz brought a wave of summer heat, and with it a growing sense of restlessness. Two months had passed since Uriah had marched through the Eastern Gate and headed to Rabbah. Word had reached her grandfather that the Ammonites had fled inside their city, where they remained, holding out against Joab’s forces. It promised to be a long siege.
Bathsheba walked with Tirzah through the marketplace to the Gihon Spring to draw water. The early morning breeze ruffled the scarf draped over her face, and she pressed a hand to her head, feeling the beads of sweat soak into the fabric.
“Perhaps another visit to your aunt’s home would help,” Tirzah said, shifting an empty jar from her head to her shoulder. “You know you always feel better after an afternoon with her.”
“Perhaps.” She had considered the thought more than once during the past weeks but had discarded the reasons to visit as quickly as they came. Chava spent more time with Aunt Talia now that she carried a third child, and Rei’s wife Jarah had an infant son to care for. The sight of so many little ones should bring her joy, but it only increased her sadness.
Bathsheba readjusted the jug on her own shoulder, knowing her excuses were unfounded. Aunt Talia would welcome her visit, and once Bathsheba got past the initial sting of her barrenness, she would enjoy the children. So why did she continue to make excuses?
“We could work on some of the tunics for the poor children.” Tirzah’s attempt to engage her in conversation grated like iron on clay, like Uriah’s sword sharpened against stone. She shivered, remembering the awful sound.
“We can talk about it later.” She ignored Tirzah’s lifted brow, averting her gaze to the line of women standing at the tower of Gihon. When their turn came to draw water, Tirzah took her jar and dipped it into the spring, waiting until the water bubbled at the top to fill the jar to the brim, then did the same with Bathsheba’s jug.
When she finished, Bathsheba led them back along the market street, past the merchants, to their house near the king’s palace. “Do you think he will leave for the war soon?” She stopped at the outer court of the palace, peering through the gates to the gleaming marble steps. The king’s home shone like a jewel at the heart of the city, though with the men at war, activity coming from within had dwindled.
“Palace gossip doesn’t say one way or the other. I’ve heard tell the king has grown bored with the new wives he took at the start of spring. They say he is moody and restless, and most of the servants prefer to stay out of his way. Some of his wives are grumpier than he is. If you ask me,” Tirzah said, directing a hand toward the gates, “the king would be better off to join his men at war. Nothing good can come of a king’s restlessness.”
“Why is the answer to every problem a man has an invitation to go to war? Perhaps the better solution is to bring the men home and be done with this business.” Bathsheba turned abruptly, splashing some of the precious water from her jug onto the hot stones beneath her feet. Irritated, she tightened her grip on the jar and moved slowly toward home, unable to stop the deep sense of longing, of missing Uriah, and thoroughly sick of the quiet city. The time had come for her purification again, and Uriah would not be here to comfort her when she had finished.
“The men need to come home.” She felt her throat thicken with the admission as they entered her courtyard, knowing full well such a thing was still several months away. If only her grandfather could convince the king to bring Uriah home. But she knew even if he came, he would not abandon his loyalty to his men. He would not enjoy his wife while the men under his command were in the fields far from their own homes.
“I know you miss him.” Tirzah set her jug in the hole in the courtyard’s stone, then set Bathsheba’s beside hers. “Perhaps he will be home sooner than you think.”
“Doubtful.” Bathsheba moved into the house toward the kitchens, Tirzah following. There was food to prepare and servants to feed and mending to do. She couldn’t sit around pining after her husband, despite her desperate loneliness.
“When do you want your bath prepared?” Tirzah asked some time later as they set the dough to bake in the oven and chopped dill and garlic for the cucumber dipping sauce. Tirzah knew Bathsheba’s cycle and Uriah’s strict instructions to follow the laws for every woman in the household. Once Bathsheba finished her purification, other female servants would follow, preserving water.
“After the evening meal. I will bathe in the inner courtyard as always.” It wouldn’t be the same without Uriah’s playful banter or his welcoming arms once she was through, but she would observe the ritual just the same. Then she would retire to the room she should be sharing with him and pretend he was still with her. Perhaps by wishing it so, she would fill the void of missing him.
14
David stared at the ceiling, hands behind his head, his gaze skimming the same lines, the same jagged ruts, in the cedar beams above his bed. He yawned, his body weary yet not tired, his mind rehearsing the multiple list of grievances he’d heard that very morning. He’d passed judgment almost without forethought. The cases were different yet the same—the faces changing with the years but the pleas coming from an unbroken column of humanity begging for justice.
He was a good king. He had worked hard to judge righteously, to be fair and prudent and swift to punish the guilty. And except for the war with Ammon, the land had never known such peace.
He rose, his movements languid, the heat of the day still clinging to the inner rooms of the palace, despite the servants waving palm fronds and the cool water drawn hourly from the Gihon to refresh his thirst. The nap had revived him, but he could not shake the restlessness, the sense that he should do something—anything—to relieve his melancholy mood.
A servant entered at the snap of his fingers. “Bring me fresh wine and draw a cool bath.” He moved through his bedchamber to his adjoining gardens and fingered the long, pointed leaves of the almond tree, then breathed in the scents of sage and pine. His cultivated flowers had lost their blooms in summer’s heat, much as he had lost his joy. He should sort through his parchments and pen a new song, but no words played a tune in his head, and the desire to create fell away.
“Your bath is ready, my lord.” The servant approached and handed him his golden chalice. He sipped the smooth red wine and waved the servant off. “I have changed my mind. Perhaps later.”
“As you wish, my lord.” The servant disappeared, leaving David alone. The breeze no longer carried the hot breath of midday, lifting the strands of hair from his forehead. He should have gone with the men to the battle, should leave even now to join them. Joab’s disrespect and his bitter tone were preferable to this sense of aloneness. His excuse of having taken a new wife held no purpose or joy for him now. The newest group of women offered to him by the northern tribes was uninteresting and boring. And if he thought on it long enough, as he seemed consigned to do of late, most women were singularly uninteresting and boring, so why had he thought these new wives would be any different? No one matched Abigail, and no one ever would.
Irritated, he walked back to his bedchamber, but he was weary of rest. Carrying the chalice in one hand, he passed Benaiah with a nod. The guard fell in behind him, and servants bowed low and skirted out of his path as he strode down cedar-lined halls, his jeweled sandals landing on gleaming patterned tiles. He turned toward the location of the women’s courtyard, slowing his gait. Bickering voices floated to him past the closed door, and the cries of small children made him pause. Soft music trilled in the background but could not override the bitter sounds of quarreling.
He whirled about, in no mood to face his wives, and took the halls in the opposite direction to the roof. “Stay here.” He glanced at Benaiah, then moved up the steps, his palm skimming the rail as he ascended.
The evening breeze lifted the hairs on his arms, bringing a sense of welcome relief. He sipped again from the golden cup, the wine warming him, slowly silencing the restlessness that dogged his every step. He strolled the length of the roof, avoiding the parapet that overlooked the court of women. Even from this distance, he would not be able to escape their arguments if he stood too close to their roof. Often, when Abigail used to sit under the shade of the palm tree and stitch beautiful patterns in cloth, he would look down on her and she would catch him watching. A twinge of lingering grief accompanied the memory, and he closed his eyes, forcing it away. He could not bring her back, and the memories did him no good except to sour his mood.
He moved to the far end of the roof, away from the women’s court, and edged his way to the parapet. The strumming of a lyre coming from a neighbor’s house below caught his attention. He rested a hand on the rail, his gaze searching for the source of the sound. At last he spied a woman seated on a bench in the inner courtyard of her home, her head bent over a small lyre. The music, soft and haunting, made his throat thicken, and emotion filled his chest. He heaved a sigh, his knees going weak. He gripped the parapet to steady himself. Her back was to him, and he had to stand just right to see into her courtyard, whose high walls would normally keep it hidden from his view.
The music continued, its power unnerving. Who was this woman who could strum the strings with such passion, such feeling? The tune’s melancholy flair matched the exact cadence of his heart. Why had he never heard her before? But the question was easily answered, as he rarely strode along this side of the roof at this time of night. Perhaps she kept the music to herself most of the time.
He stood spellbound until the chalice grew heavy in his hand, and he thought to leave her to herself, feeling like an intruder upon something private and sacred. But a moment later, she set the lyre in a leather sack and handed it to a servant, then turned and waited as another servant stripped her of her robe and tunic.
