Bathsheba, page 15
“Haven’t you just come from a distance? Why didn’t you go home?” The king’s tone was as stern as his father’s had been, his anger fleshed out in the stiff way he sat on his throne and gripped the scepter.
Uriah met the king’s disapproving gaze, his thoughts shooting through him like arrows hitting their mark. Why should the king care what he did in his off-duty time? And how could he suggest such a thing when the rest of Israel lived in tents set for battle? Unless the king had some ulterior motive for this inquisition. But as he held the man’s gaze, he could not fathom what that motive would be.
“The ark and Israel and Judah are staying in tents, and my master Joab and my lord’s men are camped in the open fields. How could I go to my house to eat and drink and lie with my wife? As surely as you live, I will not do such a thing!” Uriah straightened his posture as he spoke, lifting his chin to show the king his devotion. Perhaps his words would have some effect, might cause the king to reconsider how foolish his suggestions were. If the king had come with them to battle, he would see for himself how important it was for the men to keep themselves in check and for the captains to set a good example. Surely the king knew this and had practiced it for years. Had he stayed home so long he had somehow forgotten?
The king’s rigid posture did not lessen, but his eyes flickered with something Uriah could not define. Uncertainty, perhaps? Uriah dared to hope his words might persuade the king to act, as he should.
“Stay here one more day, and tomorrow I will send you back.”
Uriah bowed, dipping forward to touch his head to his knee. He straightened again. “As you wish, my lord.”
At David’s dismissal, Uriah backed from the room, unable to shake the unease he felt. He should be on his way back to Rabbah. There was nothing to do in the city while he waited, and he would not go home. There was only one thing he could do, what he had devoted his life to doing. Guard the king.
Bathsheba picked at the meal Tirzah had set before her, the fear in her heart swiftly replacing the hunger in her middle. Uriah’s expected visit had put the household on edge, and now the tension, the whispers, and the looks cast her way over his all-too-obvious absence stole her appetite and her hope. Why did he not come?
Tirzah closed the doors to the cooking room and joined her at the table, sitting beside her on the bench. “Word has it Uriah is still in Jerusalem,” she whispered close to Bathsheba’s ear. “Anittas returned from the king’s house after he spoke with Uriah. Apparently the king spoke with the master this morning and instructed him to remain in Jerusalem another day. The master had planned to leave for Rabbah this morning, but the king is keeping him here until tomorrow. Perhaps he will come home today before he leaves.” She touched Bathsheba’s arm, her look comforting. “You must not lose hope.”
Bathsheba closed her eyes as she slowly shook her head and looked down. “He will not come home.”
Tirzah touched a plate of ripe dates. “It’s still possible. Come, you must eat something.”
“If Anittas spoke to him, all is lost.”
Bathsheba looked up to see Tirzah’s emphatic shake of her head. “Anittas only spoke with him to settle some questions about the estate. He said nothing of you.”
Bathsheba quirked a brow and leaned away, assessing her servant. “How do you know this? You could not possibly have followed him or gotten close enough to hear their conversations.”
Tirzah crossed her arms over her chest. “I asked Anittas to tell me straight when he returned. He would not lie.”
Bathsheba looked toward the window at the morning light streaming in through the lattices. “Everyone lies if it is to his or her advantage.” She pushed away from the bench and walked to the window. Servants worked in the open courtyard, the one adjacent to their neighbor’s, grinding grain and sifting wheat for the evening meal. Such normal daily tasks. She placed a hand to her middle, where the child lay helpless, defenseless. Would he or she live to see such tasks? Or would the child die within her battered body, beneath a pile of stones?
A shiver shook her, and she gripped both arms, holding herself tight against the onslaught of fear and truth and emotion. The sound of Tirzah clearing away her uneaten meal reached her consciousness, reminding her that while she lived, there was work to be done. Uriah had one more day in Jerusalem. She must prepare his favorite meal, just in case.
22
David canceled court earlier than usual and retreated to his roof, Benaiah standing watch nearby. Servants brought him bread and wine, but he left both untouched in his pavilion and began to pace from parapet to parapet. Now what? Uriah was clearly dedicated to the very rules he, David, had initiated when he had commanded his first battle. He’d modified the guidelines over the years, but essentially they stayed in place because they worked. Men fought better when they were kept from women. Their focus was single-minded, and while he could not keep a man’s thoughts from straying, the practice of celibacy during wartime was a good one.
Was it any wonder that one of his best captains would confront him on such a thing? He tipped his mouth, chagrined. He was dealing with the best, and they both knew it. But did Uriah also know the secret David and Uriah’s wife were so desperate to keep from him? Were his reasons to stay away from her rooted in something more than devotion?
He paused at the edge of the western parapet and ran a hand over his beard as the late afternoon shadows brought the sun ever closer to the earth’s ridge. Uriah had expected to be sent back to the battle after giving his report and probably didn’t expect the king to question his personal actions or motives. David’s keeping him here one more day likely raised the man’s suspicions. But if David had let him return so quickly without seeing Bathsheba . . .
What should he do?
His gaze lifted heavenward, but the familiar longing for Adonai had drifted from him at some point in his recent past, and his own heavy weight of guilt would not allow him to seek His face. The realization saddened him. He should never have called for Bathsheba, should never have given in to his male urges. Should he confess what he had done to Uriah and fall on the man’s mercy?
He whipped around, angry with his train of thought, and strode to the opposite wall as his mind processed what such a confession could mean. At best, Uriah would forgive them both and accept the child as his own. But such an act would require great mercy. Mercy David didn’t deserve, and from the way Uriah had challenged him this morning, something Uriah would not be able to give.
At worst, Uriah would demand justice, which would mean death by stoning for David and Bathsheba and the child growing within her. The kingdom he had worked so hard to gain would fall to Amnon, a son not ready or worthy of the position, or perhaps Absalom, who was too young and arrogant to command a nation. The people might even turn against David’s house altogether, and then God’s promise to always have a man from his house on the throne of Israel would be lost.
But if he kept silent, Bathsheba would suffer alone. She could not hide her pregnancy forever, and when Uriah returned to battle, everyone in Jerusalem would know the child was not his. Uriah’s declaration and public insistence that he would not go home had sealed the truth.
David’s heart pumped faster as he walked—almost raced—his pacing growing frantic until at last his legs carried him to his pavilion, where he sank onto the cushions, spent. He reached for the ever-present flask the servant had left and poured some of the dark liquid into his waiting chalice. He needed advice, wisdom on what to do, but there was no one to ask. He could not confess such a thing, and that was the truth of it. Uriah could not know, for both his and Bathsheba’s sakes. He could not risk seeing her stoned on his account. An image of her perfect face, her sculpted body, bloodied and torn, made his eyes sting. No. He could not let her die.
Summoning Benaiah, he dispatched a message. “Bring Uriah to eat at my table this night.” Perhaps in the eating and drinking, an idea would come to him. He stared into the rich purple liquid and drank. If the man drank enough, he might stagger to his house instead of the barracks. A discreet servant placed here or there could ensure the fact. And as long as Uriah spent the night in his own home, it would not matter what he did there. He would be too drunk to remember, and Bathsheba would be safe.
A slow smile touched David’s lips as he finished the last dregs of his cup.
Scents of garlic and cumin and the soft sounds of a lyre drifted to Uriah as he entered the king’s dining hall. With Israel at war, he was surprised at the number of men eating at the king’s table. But on a second look, he realized the king’s sons occupied one table and his older counselors another. King Saul’s grandson Mephibosheth and his son sat with some other nobles, men whose hands had not trained for war. The room was not as filled as it would have been for a normal feast.
A servant appeared at his side as he stepped over the threshold. “This way,” he said, moving ahead of Uriah, obviously expecting him to follow. The man wove past the tables and around some jugglers and led Uriah to the front of the room to the king’s table. King David was already seated as though he were awaiting his arrival.
Uriah took his intended seat at the king’s side, curiosity and pride mingling within him. If only Eliam—or better yet, his own father—could have witnessed this event. When Uriah returned and took his time describing this surprising night, Eliam would pester him with questions. Even among the Thirty, few men ever had the privilege of sitting at a banquet this close to the king.
“My lord, may you live forever,” Uriah said, suddenly uncomfortable with the king’s silent perusal. Was the man still displeased with him for keeping his vow of celibacy during war? But at the king’s easy smile, he relinquished the thought.
“Uriah, my friend. Thank you for joining me. I trust you are well rested from your journey from Rabbah?” David leaned into his gilded chair as a servant walked about filling wine goblets.
“Yes, thank you, my lord. The trip was not arduous, and I am ready to return to my men.” Uriah nodded to the servant, and as the king picked up his cup, he did the same, drinking as the king did, not wishing to err on the side of poor manners.
They ate a few moments in silence, Uriah attuned to the king’s mood, wondering what to say to continue the conversation. He followed the king’s lead and ripped a piece of bread from the flat loaf on his plate and dipped it into the bowl of lentils. Bread and salt between them signified friendship, though Uriah still struggled to understand why the king sought his now. Why single him out? Though in honesty, he knew the privilege puffed his chest, lifted his pride, more than it should.
“Do you like music, Uriah?” The king’s question refocused his attention, and he silently berated himself for not watching the king more closely.
“Yes, my lord. It has its uses. I do not admit to carrying a tune, but I appreciate the songs of worship at the tabernacle and during the feasts. The Israelites—your God derives pleasure from such a thing?” While he believed in Israel’s God, he could never quite understand the various characteristics of Adonai Elohim. He appreciated order and the numerous laws laid out for men to follow, and sacrifice and the need to seek forgiveness, but he could not wrap his mind around worship that involved music and prayer and emotion.
The king glanced somewhere beyond Uriah, but Uriah did not follow his gaze. “Adonai derives pleasure from many things. He gave song to the birds, but they sing the same refrain. Only men have the ability to create something new.” The king sipped from his cup again, and Uriah did the same. “Have you ever created something new, Uriah?”
Uriah set the cup beside his plate and a servant filled it again. He was not used to drinking so much wine with a meal, but he had no intention of offending the king when he was so blessed to spend time with him. He shook his head slowly. “I am not so inclined, my lord. My wife is the one with such interest, not I.” He smiled and lifted his golden cup again to his lips, resting them against the smooth, cool surface, the wine tingling and warming him. “This is very good,” he said after a small sip. He took a ripe fig from a platter.
“The grapes are from the best vineyards in Israel. There is plenty more, so drink up and enjoy.” The king smiled, motioning to Uriah’s cup. He held his own loosely in one hand, as though the goblet had become as familiar as his scepter. “You say your wife is interested in music. How so?”
Uriah studied the swirling liquid in his cup, his thoughts growing thick like wool. “She plays the lyre sometimes. Not usually when I’m around, though I don’t forbid it. Her father never approved of the instrument, but I know it makes her happy, so I let her use it when her work is done.” He looked at the king and tried to read his expression, but his reaction lay hidden, his gaze shadowed.
“It is good to show interest in her music,” David said after a lengthy silence. “Abigail used to coax me to play for her, though she did not play an instrument herself. Her interest encouraged me, made me strive to put more tunes and words to parchment.” The king studied the contents of his cup, and Uriah watched him as he listened to the muted sounds of male conversations and laughter around them.
“Abigail was a good wife to you.” Uriah sensed the king’s sudden melancholy and wondered again why Adonai had taken the wife the king appeared to love the most. Had the king done something to offend Adonai? Had Abigail broken one of Moses’ many laws?
“Yes, she was.” The king took a long drink of the wine, and Uriah did the same, though he was already struggling to keep his focus. He’d been drunk on a few occasions and managed well enough. If it pleased the king to drink until neither of them could walk straight, so be it.
“I was not as good a husband to her as she was devoted to me.” The king leaned closer. “A woman needs a man to be there for her, to love her. When he is gone all of the time or she has to share him with others, she suffers.” His gaze penetrated, his meaning suddenly clear.
The king was speaking as much to Uriah as he was to himself, suggesting that Bathsheba suffered because he was gone to war. But the war was one the king had commanded, calling Uriah to battle. Was he supposed to just quit before the end? He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the wine was making his head light.
“A wife of a king or of a warrior knows the expectations and risks of such a life. Your wives know they will share you, and my wife knows she will miss me. It is the nature of life.” Uriah set the goblet down and pushed it away, but David motioned toward it, coaxing him to pick it up again.
“Knowing and needing are two different things.” David leaned into his chair, holding the golden cup aloft. “But you are right, Uriah. Our women know their place, so why should we change? What does it matter to us? We must please ourselves most of all.” He tipped his head back and tossed the liquid into his mouth.
Warmth crept up Uriah’s neck, and he knew the wine had little to do with it. The king’s barbed words were meant to prick his sense of guilt, to make him want to please himself or his wife above the rules and customs of wartime. Something the king himself would not have done if he had gone to war with them.
Irritation rose within him at the inference, and he sloshed the wine in his cup before taking a breath and downing the remains. He set the goblet down a little harder than he intended. Words failed him, and a headache began along his temple. He gently rubbed the spot with two fingers.
“Have I offended you, Uriah?” The king’s comment registered, raising his ire.
“As you say, my lord. If you think I am gone from my wife too much, perhaps you should join your men at war and not sit home while the rest of us fight your battles. Then the next time we go to war, I will be sure to refuse.” Uriah closed his eyes, knowing he had said too much. And to the king! He should have never allowed himself to drink wine in the king’s presence. His loose tongue would surely cost him the position he had achieved, or more.
“You are right again, Uriah.” The king’s tone was quiet, barely heard above the din of the room. “I should have gone to war with my men. But you are also wrong. If I had gone to war and had the chance to come home again, I would not spend the night with a useless monarch. I would go home to my wife and enjoy her charms.” His smile dimmed as he spoke, his eyes probing. Uriah sensed the meaning despite the fog of drink, and felt his pride and honor slipping with each passing moment.
“Perhaps I should go, my lord.” He knew he should wait to be dismissed, so he did not rise from his seat, but he pressed a hand to his head and blinked, trying to stop seeing double. “I’m afraid the wine has put words in my mouth, and I am not holding my own too well. Please pardon your servant and excuse me.” He waited, watching. At the king’s nod, he stood.
“Go home, Uriah. Get some sleep.” The king turned away from him then as though their meeting held little consequence to him.
Uriah bowed low, and the room tipped as he rose. “Thank you, my lord. Forgive me, my lord.” He staggered from the king’s table to the outside of the hall. Servants met him and clutched his arms, guiding him through the palace halls to the outer courtyard toward the gate.
As they stepped beneath the watchful eyes of the guards at the gate, the servants guided Uriah toward his street. They intended to take him home, and he wanted nothing more. But as the wine settled with his movement, his head cleared a little and he stopped, taking in his surroundings. This was exactly what the king had told him to do—to go home and rest. But he had vowed never to do such a thing while Joab and his men lived in tents. He could not break his vow! If he did not keep his word, who would trust him? If he lost his integrity for one night of pleasure—to please himself or his wife—what good would that bring him in the long run?
