Bathsheba, p.9
Bathsheba, page 9
Now three days had come and gone, with no chance to restore their relationship. Was he right? She rebelled against the thought. He could ask for time off, could take a leave from traipsing after Joab at every hint of a skirmish. Other men stayed home sometimes. The law allowed for it in certain circumstances.
Bitterness coated the tears at the back of her throat, but she swallowed them down as voices close at hand made her turn.
“There you are. I didn’t expect you to already be here. I went to your house first.” Her cousin Chava took the last step and paused, a hand to her middle where the child had grown large within her.
“Ah, my dear girl, you walk like your old grandfather.” Ahithophel’s head poked up behind Chava as the two walked across the roof to where Bathsheba had placed herself to best see the passing troops.
“One more month. This baby better not be late or I won’t be able to waddle up steps anymore.” Chava huffed as she sidled up to Bathsheba, and leaned close to accept Bathsheba’s kiss.
Bathsheba smiled, hoping Chava wouldn’t notice the pained look in her eyes, then hurried over to kiss her grandfather, forcing her thoughts away from her fight with her husband and his disappointment with her. Chava would either agree with Uriah just to be ornery because the child made her irritable these days, or she would encourage Bathsheba’s feelings of rebellion. Neither would restore her sense of peace nor improve her mood, so she sealed the thoughts up tight within her.
She looked back to the road winding like a wide thread among the buildings to the Eastern Gate. “There are so many men, Sabba. I cannot find Uriah or Father.”
Her grandfather placed a hand on the shoulder of each woman and led them to the eastern edge of the parapet. Horses pawed the ground near the palace gate, drawing their attention.
“That man draped in black, riding the black steed, is the army general, Joab. I’m sure Uriah has spoken of him?” Her grandfather pointed to a man riding along the lines of soldiers, shouting something too far away to clearly hear.
She nodded but held her tongue. She had seen Joab at the feast of the New Moon when he had given a brief report to King David. His expression and posture had been respectful, but his gruff manner and what little she knew of him made her shudder. Though sometimes, when he put too many demands on her husband, she had a mind to tell him a thing or two. If she wasn’t a woman and if she had it within her power . . .
“Your husband and father were among the group that went on ahead of the rest. They are already to the city gate by now.”
She should have expected such news, but somehow had hoped to see Uriah one more time, even from a distance. She tucked her arms around her body, holding herself against the stiff breeze. His kiss at dawn had done nothing to restore the joy she had felt since his return from the last war with Ammon and Syria two short months ago. Instead, his pride, or perhaps his devotion to the law, had kept him focused on his task. Apparently he had forgotten all about his stinging words, but she could not—especially when he had spent the next few days in strategy meetings, with little time for her, not returning home at night until well past dark. She had lost him to battle before he had ever kissed her farewell and marched out to join his troop at dawn.
Now as the sun fully crested the horizon, bitter tears threatened again, and she could no longer hold them in check. She blinked quickly and gazed below, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, hoping and praying her grandfather or Chava would not see. She did not want their sympathy.
“Look, Bathsheba, there’s the king. Do you see him?” Chava’s excitement matched the way she had acted at the feast. Would the woman never get over her captivation with the man? He wasn’t that amazing.
But just the same she turned in the direction Chava pointed. Her gaze lingered as she spotted the king’s black horse, plain, not jewel-bedecked as in a parade, his garments that of any ordinary soldier, except for the thick ring of gold on the hand holding the reins. His signet ring.
“Why does the king not dress as a king?” He was a striking man even dressed as a warrior. Maybe more so.
“The king does not wish to be an easy target for our enemies. If he wears the crown, they will spot him. Our king is cunning, Bathsheba. He knows how to defeat a foe.” Her grandfather stepped closer, placing a hand on her arm. “You must not fret for your husband’s safety. The king knows how to lead his men. I’m only glad he joined them this time.” He bent to kiss her cheek, then backed away. “You girls enjoy the view. I’m going inside.”
Chava watched him leave, then faced Bathsheba. “You look like you haven’t slept. Are you worried?” She gripped the parapet with one hand.
Bathsheba touched her cousin’s arm. “Of course I worry. I hate war.”
“You shouldn’t have married a warrior then. You could have had Rei.”
“My father would never have let me marry Rei, and you know it.”
“Then you should have married one of the king’s sons, as Sabba wanted you to.”
“The king’s sons are spoiled and proud and too young for me. And you forget my father had the final say.” She glanced back at the king’s fading form, a wistful feeling filling her heart. Irritation followed the reaction. The king was as much a warrior as her husband. Had she no control over her emotions?
“Are you saying you wish you had not obeyed your father’s wishes, that you had married someone other than Uriah?” Chava faced her, and her words cut through the fog of her own thoughts. Is that what she’d been thinking since he’d upset her three days before?
“Of course not. I only hate that he’s gone so much. I’m a widow, only not a widow.” Suddenly she wished she could go back, could undo the things she had said and the tone she had used and hold him close to her once more. He needed her to be strong for him, and she had failed miserably.
“Things will improve when he returns. You just need to learn to accept Uriah for who he is, to stop trying to make him something he isn’t. When we finally have peace in the land, he will be home so much you will get sick of him.” Chava lifted her hand in a dramatic wave and rolled her eyes. “Just look at me.”
Bathsheba laughed, but the joy did not reach her heart. She would have to wait until Uriah returned to make things up to him, and she had no idea how long that would take. “Come, let’s go inside out of the wind.”
“Yes, let’s.”
She followed Chava’s lead, but as she did so, she took one last glance at the men now marching in time to the beat of a war drum. She watched the fading images of Joab, the king, and the few on horseback tilt proud heads forward and lead the charge.
Please, Adonai, give them quick success.
The sooner they won the war, the sooner Uriah would come home to her and she could make everything right again.
12
Bathsheba’s heart kept the rhythm of the tambourine she shook in her hand. Her feet swirled in time with the beat as she joined her cousin Chava near the imposing structure of the Eastern Gate. That she’d managed to convince Tirzah and Anittas to trust her alone with Chava was nothing short of amazing. Had they sensed her need for time away from them, to be the first to watch for her husband’s return?
The sound of horses’ hooves and marching men nearly overpowered the songs of the women as they danced in the streets, waiting for the watcher at the gate to herald the entrance of the men into the city. Joy circled her as her colorful skirts ringed the lower half of her body. Though the two and a half months had seemed like a lifetime, Uriah was at last coming home and the Syrians had been defeated. War might at last give way to peace.
The trumpet sounded, the hoofbeats grew louder. Women scurried to the sides of the road to make way as the gates burst open. Shouts and cheers went up from the women, Bathsheba’s own voice rising to greet their men. She craned her neck, hoping for a glimpse of her husband, but the crowd was too thick, the dust kicking up until its particles coated the air. When he did enter the city, he would never know her among so many women, all dressed in robes of varying shapes and colors, many veiled, with only their eyes revealing their joy.
“We should work our way back to the house or to Grandfather’s roof,” Chava said at her side. She had left her month-and-a-half-old son in the care of Aunt Talia to join Bathsheba here.
“They’ve barely finished passing under the gate.” Another trumpet blast interrupted Bathsheba’s words. “Look, there’s the king.”
A black horse led the way, the king sitting astride it straight and proud, wearing a king’s robe and crown. Bathsheba’s heart did a little flip at the sight, and the tambourine grew still in her hands.
Chava let out a dramatic sigh and placed a hand over her chest. “My heart, be still within me. Is he not the most handsome man you have ever seen?”
Bathsheba darted a look at her cousin, feeling warmth creep into her cheeks, but grateful to know her married cousin seemed to feel as she did. Her thoughts of attraction to the king were not traitorous. She was simply appreciating the king’s handsome appearance. What woman didn’t?
“Yes, cousin, the king is indeed handsome.” Saying so somehow took the secrecy from her own attraction, relieving her of the nagging guilt. She could love Uriah and be attracted to the king. No one would fault her for such a thing, so why was she so hard on herself?
The snort of the king’s horse caught her attention. She turned at his approach, entranced. Her breath stole after him as he slowly passed in front of them.
The Thirty marched on foot directly behind the king. She sought Uriah in the crowd, determined to keep her thoughts where they should be. Her attraction to the king was nothing—every woman in Israel loved him.
Oh, Adonai, help me to please Uriah. Uncertainty settled inside of her. Would he be happy to see her again?
She spotted him in the last line across the road from her. “There’s Father and Uriah.” She stood on tiptoe, pointing, her heart racing as they marched quickly past on their way to the palace. “Let’s go.” She clutched Chava’s arm and shouldered her way through the crowd, taking a side street and hurrying to her house. “I want to get home before Uriah does.”
“We’re not going to follow the crowd to the palace? You don’t want to hear the king’s speech? Why do I take you anywhere?”
Chava rambled on, but Bathsheba ignored her chatter. When they were within a stone’s throw of her home, panting and out of breath, Bathsheba slowed.
“I want to hear the king,” Chava said, hands on her knees, leaning forward to draw for breath. “My son will need tending soon, and if we climb up to Grandfather’s roof, we’ll be able to hear some of his words.”
“Matthias will be in the crowd. He will tell you.”
“I want to hear him for myself. Why do you rush us away now?” Her teasing had given way to irritation, her expression scrutinizing, and Bathsheba hoped her cousin did not have the power to read into her soul.
“I want to please Uriah. Can you fault me for that?”
Chava placed a hand on her arm, her gaze softening. “If peace has truly come, Uriah will be home for a long time.” Her smile turned to a half smirk. “You can please him then.” Chava straightened and continued walking, then paused. “You coming?”
Bathsheba stood torn. She wanted to hear the king’s speech, but for all of the wrong reasons. If she saw him in his royal garb and listened to the timbre of his voice, she would find more excuses to admire him, feeding an attraction she did not want.
“You go. Uriah will enjoy it better if he gets to tell me everything firsthand.” He would, wouldn’t he? Or would he be too tired to tell her anything, and then she would be forced to ask Chava for details she could hear for herself right now? Indecision kept her rooted to the cobbled stones.
“Come on. How often do you get to hear the king speak?” Chava stepped forward and tugged her hand. “We’ll leave before the crowd disperses. You’ll still be home before Uriah gets there.”
Would Uriah appreciate that she had come to greet him and heard the king’s speech, or would he prefer she stay home and work? He enjoyed a celebration. Surely he would want her to enjoy one too.
A cheer went up from the distant crowd, jolting her attention.
“We’re missing it! Are you coming or not?” Chava held Bathsheba’s gaze, frustration clearly pinching her brows.
“All right.” She lifted her skirts, wishing she could tuck them into her belt like men did, and ran after Chava’s plump, puffing form before she could change her mind, hoping she didn’t regret her decision.
“The defeat of the Syrians is complete.” The king’s voice carried with authority from the palace steps to where Bathsheba and Chava leaned over the parapet of her grandfather’s Jerusalem rooftop, straining for a better view. “They will not attempt to lift a finger to help the Ammonites again.”
Cheers erupted at his proclamation, and relief filled Bathsheba’s heart. One less enemy to pursue.
“When the latter rains of spring come to an end, we will attack Rabbah and finish what we started with the Ammonites. We will not claim their land, only put them in submission to us, in keeping with the law. Adonai has given our enemies into our hands and restored the land He promised to our father Abraham. Blessed be His name!”
“Blessed be His name!” came the shout from the people gathered there, Bathsheba’s own voice among them.
David raised his hands high over his head, quieting the crowd, and looked heavenward. “We have heard with our ears, O God; our fathers have told us what You did in their days, in days long ago. With Your hand You drove out the nations and planted our fathers; You crushed the peoples and made our fathers flourish. It was not by their sword that they won the land, nor did their arm bring them victory; it was Your right hand, Your arm, and the light of Your face, for You loved them. You are my King and my God, who decrees victories for Jacob.”
Musicians took up their lutes and lyres, and the king’s voice rose above the din, the melody of his song touching a deep chord within Bathsheba.
She fingered the tambourine at her side but did not lift it, afraid to break the spell of David’s song. Swift yearning tugged her. How long had it been since she had strummed the strings of her lyre? In the many months when her father was off fighting David’s battles, tutors had filled her head with knowledge of reading, writing, and figuring sums, a privilege her father was quick to remind her few women were offered or could afford. But her favorite lessons had always been when Rei taught her to play songs on his six-stringed lyre and would listen with rapt attention when she sang along with them, creating words of her own.
Her father never seemed to appreciate that side of her, and in order to discourage Rei’s attention, he had not allowed their lessons to continue when he was home. And since Uriah had never shown much aptitude for such things or went about humming wordless tunes, she kept her desires hidden. Would he be pleased if she performed songs for him as the king did for the people? Why had she never asked him?
The music floated around her, stirring her longings. But what good was the ability to write without the freedom to purchase the quills and leather hides or the more expensive parchments? And what words would she pen if she could? Her songs would not be written in a book of remembrance for all to see.
The people below took to swaying to the rhythm. Some of the women joined hands and twirled, while others shook cymbals and tambourines until the streets fairly shook with the sound. She glanced at Chava swaying and twirling, her eyes closed, caught up with the king’s words.
“Through You we push back our enemies; through Your name we trample our foes. I do not trust in my bow, my sword does not bring me victory; but You give us victory over our enemies, You put our adversaries to shame. In God we make our boast all day long, and we will praise Your name forever. Selah.”
When the words finished, the king tipped his head back, laughing. Joy flew like a winged bird through the crowd, and Bathsheba’s heart followed suit, lifting and soaring. She stepped back from the parapet and grabbed Chava’s hands, twirling with her while the musical strains heightened and the beat of the drum moved faster and faster. When the last chord fell silent, Bathsheba fell back against the edge for support, her breath still keeping time with the absent drum.
“In honor of Adonai, in keeping with all He has done for us, bring the spoils to dedicate here to the Lord.” The king’s voice carried clearly to her, and Bathsheba turned to watch.
The Thirty parted the crowd while soldiers came up from different directions bearing armloads of gold, silver, bronze, precious stones, and more that was too hard for Bathsheba to distinguish. An open area below the palace steps soon filled with the spoils taken from the Syrians. When the last man had entered the grounds and deposited his allotted baggage, a lone ram’s horn gave a long trumpet blast.
“Several years ago, I had it in my heart to build a temple to Adonai, but the Lord did not allow my request. He said to me through the prophet Nathan that a son born to me would one day build a temple to His name, but I would not live to see it built.”
Bathsheba’s heart quickened at the king’s words, and sadness filled her that he would not live to see his dream come true.
“But the Lord did not restrict me from gathering materials or making plans that will be necessary for this grand structure, so I have made it my priority to do so. These riches that you see before you today are henceforth dedicated to the Lord for use in the temple my son will one day build. Zadok, please come.”
The priest emerged from under the roof of the portico dressed in his priestly robes. Bathsheba listened as he prayed, asking Adonai’s blessing on the riches and the future work of their hands. Something stirred deep within her as she opened her eyes to peer down on the scene. What would it be like to take part in helping to prepare for the temple, to be part of such a grand project? But what could a mere woman do?
“Adonai’s blessings on you. May His mercy and peace be upon Israel.”
