Bathsheba, p.18
Bathsheba, page 18
“Thank you, David.” His name on her tongue sounded like a song.
The babe whimpered, making his presence known. David chuckled. “It seems you are needed elsewhere.” The aroma in the room quickly changed from sweet to acrid, a reminder of the ever-changing scents of an infant. He looked down on his new wife and son and smiled. “I must head to court. I will come again later.”
He touched the top of the child’s head, then turned and walked back the way he had come, feeling better than he had in a long time. Surely the pain of grief was past. Humming a tune, he entered his chambers, dressed in his royal robes, and headed to court.
David dismissed the last case before the midday meal and rose from his gilded throne. He’d quickly grown weary of listening to the complaints of others and was anxious to peek in on Bathsheba and his son once more. He walked to the side table, where his counselors sat, to invite Ahithophel to join him, to bless the child on his knee, but a commotion at the door to the audience chamber drew his attention back to court. He turned and took a few steps toward his throne again.
The prophet Nathan strode with purpose, back straight, eyes dark and clear as he came to stand in the place of the accuser, to the right side of the throne. David’s stomach did a wild flip at the sight of the Nazarite disciple of Samuel, the man who had brought the word of Adonai to him on more than one occasion.
Why had he come? Deep wariness swept through him as he met Nathan’s solemn gaze, those dark eyes probing, assessing, seeing things David did not wish to reveal. Did he know?
A shudder, uncontrolled and unwanted, rushed through him at the thought, and he almost staggered as Nathan closed the distance and bowed before him. The action, so familiar, suddenly felt uncomfortable.
“Nathan, my friend, how do you fare this fine day?” He spoke lightly, though his thoughts were heavy and sluggish.
“My lord king, there is a matter on which I would seek your judgment.”
David gave a slight nod, willing himself not to give vent to the relief such words evoked. He moved to the steps and sat back on his throne, facing Nathan. “I will hear it.”
Nathan dipped his head. “Thank you, my lord.” He paused, leaning heavily on his staff as though he needed the stick to give him strength, despite his vigor.
“There were two men in a certain town, one rich and the other poor.”
The room grew still, every ear attuned to the tale. David’s heart returned to a normal rhythm, and he relaxed against the chair.
“The rich man had a very large number of sheep and cattle, but the poor man had nothing except one little ewe lamb he had bought. He raised it, and it grew up with him and his children. It shared his food, drank from his cup, and even slept in his arms. It was like a daughter to him.”
His interest piqued, David leaned slightly forward, images of his own small flock, his favorite lambs, flicking through his thoughts.
“Now a traveler came to the rich man, but the rich man refrained from taking one of his own sheep or cattle to prepare a meal for the traveler who had come to him.” Nathan paused, and David’s chest tightened, dreading the next words, his anger already flaring in anticipation.
“Instead, he took the ewe lamb that belonged to the poor man and prepared it for the one who had come to him.” Nathan’s look never wavered, his final words piercing, heightening David’s sense of justice.
“Murderer!” David leaned forward, pointing his scepter toward the place where the condemned usually stood. How dare the rich man do such a thing! Never mind that the victim was an animal, not a man. Rage exploded from a place deep within him where all of the bitterness and frustration of the past months dwelt. “As surely as Adonai lives,” he said, looking squarely at Nathan, “the man who did this deserves to die! He must pay for that lamb four times over, because he did such a thing and had no pity.”
Nathan stood silent as murmurs of agreement with the king’s judgment filled the hall. His gaze seemed rooted to the tiles beneath his dusty feet as the sounds died away. David’s anger melted to dread, his breath heavy, anxious. Why did the prophet not speak?
Nathan’s chest lifted in an audible sigh, and he looked up once more, his eyes fixed solely on David, bold, unflinching, penetrating to the pit of David’s soul.
He lifted a finger and pointed to David. “You are the man!”
His voice rang in the room, the words a dagger to David’s heart. Bile rose in his gut, churning, nauseating him.
“This is what Adonai, El Yisrael, says.”
David sank deeper into the chair.
“ ‘I anointed you king over Israel, and I delivered you from the hand of Saul. I gave your master’s house to you, and your master’s wives into your arms. I gave you the house of Israel and Judah. And if all this had been too little, I would have given you even more.’ ”
Oh, Adonai, what have I done?
“ ‘Why did you despise the word of Adonai by doing what is evil in His eyes? You struck down Uriah the Hittite with the sword and took his wife to be your own. You killed him with the sword of the Ammonites. Now, therefore, the sword will never depart from your house, because you despised Me and took the wife of Uriah the Hittite to be your own.’ ”
Every word was a stinging arrow sinking deep, rending David’s heart open and laying it bare.
Adonai, forgive me!
“This is what Adonai says: ‘Out of your own household I am going to bring calamity upon you. Before your very eyes I will take your wives and give them to one who is close to you, and he will lie with your wives in broad daylight. You did it in secret, but I will do this thing in broad daylight before all Israel.’ ”
Strength drained from him, but David forced himself up on wobbly knees. He stumbled forward, down the steps from his throne—a throne he was no longer worthy to sit upon—and moved to the place of judgment where he, as the rich man, knew he deserved to stand. He removed the crown from his head and undid the gilded belt at his waist, letting the richly ornamented royal robe fall to the tiles. Bending low, he untied the jeweled sandals—another evidence of his wealth, of the blessing God had given that he had so easily despised—and slipped them from his feet.
Guilt so deep he could not dig it out, shame so profound he could not express it, heated his blood, his face, weakening him. He sank to the tiles and spread his hands out, palms open in front of him.
“I have sinned against Adonai.” He bowed his head, great sobs working through him, and he was powerless to stop them. Images of Uriah’s trusting face floated before him, and Bathsheba’s innocent grief. Oh, Adonai, if it is possible, forgive Your servant’s guilt. He could no longer bear the weight of it. He knew that now. Adonai’s hand had been on him from the first moment of his sin, wooing him through sleepless nights and a guilty conscience, and he had not listened.
What have I done? Please spare Bathsheba the fate Your law demands. He deserved to die. He would bear her punishment. He deserved nothing less.
He heard Nathan’s footsteps and sensed the man kneeling at his side, felt a hand on his head. “Adonai has taken away your sin. You are not going to die.” His voice held compassion, and he drew David up again, to his knees.
David averted his gaze, ashamed to look on the prophet, a man who had once been his friend as Samuel had been. His heart rent again at the thought of Samuel and how deeply his sin would have disappointed the man. He could not look at his sons or his counselors or the servants who had so faithfully obeyed his every word. He studied the tiles instead.
“David.” Nathan’s tone changed, forcing David’s gaze upward. He braced himself for a blow. “Adonai has taken away your sin. You are not going to die. But because by doing this you have made the enemies of Adonai show utter contempt, the son born to you will die.”
Oh, God . . . please, no! He closed his eyes, reeling with the pronouncement. Was it mercy that he lived at his son’s expense? Adonai, Adonai, take me instead!
The room, silent in the presence of Nathan’s proclamation, slowly grew to a low hum with the buzz of many voices. The secret he had worked so hard to keep, Adonai had laid bare in an instant. How could he have ever thought to keep anything from El Roi, the God Who Sees? And when had he become so proud, so arrogant, as to think he was incapable of falling from Adonai’s favor? He could not recall the last time he had read the law or penned a song of worship. Not since Abigail’s death. He had been walking in his own misery and self-serving pity ever since.
Nathan touched a hand to his shoulder, and David looked into the prophet’s kind gaze, feeling chastened, and yet somehow . . . loved. The prophet’s grief and regret were palpable, but there was no undoing what had been done.
He accepted Nathan’s hand and stood, surprised when Nathan bent forward and kissed both cheeks, as if he would restore him then and there. Nathan bent to retrieve David’s crown and placed it once more on his head.
Tears blurred David’s vision as Nathan turned to leave. David watched him go, then moved to the side door, head bowed, and walked slowly out of the room.
27
Bathsheba stirred from a light doze at the sound of her son’s soft whimper. She rose from the bed and lifted his perfect bundled body from the basket on the floor at her side. His face looked flushed in the filtered light coming through the latticed window, but his cries were not lusty enough to bring on the reddening of his skin. She placed a hand on his forehead, jerked it away, then felt his face and neck, unwrapping his swaddled body until every part of his heated skin was exposed.
Fear seized her, turning her insides cold. How was it possible that he was so feverish? He was healthy when she’d laid him down to nap. She’d only closed her eyes for a brief moment. Had she somehow neglected him? Swaddled him too tight?
Panicked, she darted quick glances about the room. “Tirzah!” She bent over the child, his pitiful chest rising and falling, his breaths coming swift, his cries weak. “Tirzah!”
“I’m here, mistress. What’s wrong?” The woman dropped a bundle of fresh linens on a chest beside the bed. “These were dry, I thought we might need them soon—oh, dear one, is he ill?”
“Send for the king. No, wait. Get some tepid water. We will dip the cloths in it and cover his body with them.”
“Yes, my lady.” Tirzah ran from the room, returning moments later carrying a large clay jug of water and more cloths tucked under her arm. “The physician has been called,” she said. She poured water into a bowl, dunked the cloth and wrung it out, and placed it over the baby’s feverish head.
Bathsheba dipped a second cloth into the water and placed it on the baby’s chest. But the child barely moved, and Bathsheba pulled him to her again, trying to get him to open his eyes, to persuade him to eat. Her milk came in a stream, and she coaxed his mouth open to accept the warm liquid, but only a few drops made it down his throat, the rest soaking her tunic.
Tears ran unbidden over her cheeks as servants rushed in and around her. Tirzah knelt at her side.
“What’s wrong with him, Tirzah?” She was crying unashamedly now. “He was well.” What had she done wrong?
The question brought her up short, stealing her breath, renewing the guilt she had carried throughout the months of her pregnancy. She looked at her maid, reading sorrow and a knowingness in the older woman’s concerned gaze.
“You might as well hear the truth, as you will know the extent of it soon enough.” Tirzah’s sturdy hands stroked the child’s gaunt cheek.
Bathsheba swallowed hard, choking back more tears. “What truth? Tell me!” Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t keep the rising panic from her voice.
“The prophet Nathan came to see the king.” Deep lines formed along Tirzah’s brow. “He knew all about the king’s . . . what the king had done. Adonai had told him, and Nathan said that because the king had killed Uriah the Hittite with the sword of the Ammonites and taken Uriah’s wife to be his own, he had done evil in the Lord’s eyes, and the child born to you would die.” Tirzah released a rushed breath as though the words were fire to be put out.
Bathsheba felt her insides melt. She dragged in air, every breath a struggle. “No . . .” The word barely escaped past the sobs crushing her throat. “He can’t do this! He wouldn’t . . .” The whispered words felt like shards against her tongue. Of course He could. She and her son should have died months ago beneath a heap of stones.
She pulled her son’s small body to her breast, patting his back, wanting to promise him all would be well. But he barely noticed her touch and made no indication that he was even aware of his surroundings.
Bathsheba shifted him to her lap, and Tirzah placed another cool, damp cloth over his forehead and a second over the rest of his feverish skin. Although Bathsheba stroked the fine hairs on his head, he did not move or look at her.
Please don’t take my baby! But she knew God was not listening.
She closed her eyes, picturing Uriah’s smiling, handsome face. If David had not sent her husband to war . . . if David had not watched her bathing and called for her . . . if David had confessed his sin to her husband . . . everything could have been different. Even if Uriah had demanded justice, at least she would have died with her child.
Please, Adonai, have mercy. But she knew there was no mercy. There had never been any mercy. David had shown the least mercy of all. Why should God be any different?
Unexpected, fierce anger rose within her, and she tasted bitter tears. Months of guilt and secrecy and sleepless nights and anguish, and now she would lose the one person she loved most in the world? She choked and coughed, ragged breaths turning to sobs, her anger turning to blame.
She could have said no to the king, could have walked away. He would not have forced her. She knew it in the deepest places in her heart.
So Nathan’s judgment, God’s judgment, was on her as well. David had many other sons. He didn’t need this one like she did. He had many other wives he could turn to when this horror had passed. He didn’t need her either. She was the one who would suffer the most for this.
She wished she could die and take her son’s place.
The scent of almond blossoms wafted through the open windows, and David moved through his chambers to his gardens. His knees nearly buckled as he reached the spot where he had seduced Bathsheba, the hand of guilt like a blow upon his back. He forced himself to keep walking until he reached Bathsheba’s adjacent gardens and let himself inside her adjoining rooms.
But the sobs he heard coming from her bedchamber chilled his blood. So soon? They’d had no time to get to know their son, to choose a name, to bless him on his father’s knee. He moved on leaden feet and came to stand in the arch of the door. Bathsheba’s maid stood over his wife, patting her shoulder, while Bathsheba sat on the edge of the bed, rocking their son back and forth, silent sobs shaking her.
He moved into the room, his heart constricting with her pain. He knelt at her side, placed a hand on his son. Heat from the child’s skin burned to the touch despite the many wet cloths they had placed on him. He met Tirzah’s gaze. “Have you sent for the physician?”
“Yes, my lord.” The woman nodded. “He has come, but there is nothing more we can do.”
David winced at the finality in her tone, the reproach in her gaze. He looked at his wife. “I’m so sorry, beloved.” He placed a hand on her knee, but she flinched, pulling away from him.
“Get away from me!” Her words were brittle, broken, her eyes glowing as though she were the one with the fever. “I should never have let you touch me! They told me what the prophet said.” She clutched the child closer to her, a great gulping cry surging from her. “He can’t die! He’s my only son! He cannot pay for what I have done, for what you did to me. I won’t let him.” She was screaming now, whether at him or at God, he couldn’t tell. But the sharpness of her pain ripped his heart in two.
He looked into her crazed eyes, then backed away, gazing down on the cloth-covered body of his son, so healthy this morning but so sick now, too sick to even wail or whimper.
“Get away from me!” she screamed again, sobbing, and he did not have the strength to fight against her. In another lifetime he would have pulled her close and crushed her sobs against his chest, stroked her back, and whispered comfort into her ear. But he could offer her no comfort now. His voice, impotent against her screams, was silent as he turned and walked from the room. He ducked beneath the arch, half expecting her to throw something at him, but all he heard was the shifting of the mat with the steady rocking of her body, and the hiccuping sobs coming from her ragged throat.
He pushed past Bathsheba’s aunt and cousin as they rushed into the room, and fled into the gardens, past the divider that separated his from hers. He fell onto the smooth stones of the small court where he had wooed her, where his sin had ruined her.
Hot tears bubbled from within him, convulsing him as he found a place beside the path where he could lay in the dirt from which he was made. He longed for death. Take me instead. His prayers felt unnatural, no longer the sweet communion he’d once had with Adonai.
He was a child again, deserving of the rod upon his back, a punishment his oldest brother was only too happy to give for his foolishness. The loss of the lamb was costly, and his father too old to teach him the lesson Eliab willingly gave in his place. What he wouldn’t give to feel the sting of that lash in full measure, in place of this loss—for once the child died, he would surely lose Bathsheba as well.
