“It fell to me to see his body wrapped and put on a bier, and I organized his men to bring him back here. Then I went and got my own mule and followed on behind.”
I had seen this, too. His grave young face a calm center in the turmoil. I saw him take charge, cool in the panic, a boy commanding the attention of grown men, stepping through the blood to do what was necessary for his brother. Not one person questioned his authority. He stood there, gesturing for this and that person to fetch water and washing cloths, winding sheets and a stretcher. When the body was tended and wrapped, he called for bearers. He walked behind them, somber and dignified. Others took their cue from him, set aside their panic and formed up behind him in an orderly procession. I saw all this, and as he moved across the field other visions crowded my sight: I saw him as a man, a tall king, leading ever grander processions, the sun glinting off the circlet of gold on his brow, igniting the bright crimson, the deep purple, in the rich brocades of his robes.
After that vision, while I was still heavy and in pain, I dragged myself off the couch, and had Muwat help me bathe and dress in my court robe, and get me on a donkey like an old man who couldn’t walk the distance to the city gate. David was at audience when I entered the hall. He hadn’t heard anything yet from Baal-hazor. I took my place, and did my best to return his smile of greeting. It had been a week or more since I’d last attended him there, and he seemed touchingly pleased to see me. Yoav was in the midst of a lengthy report on border matters. I let my eye travel around the room. The crowd seemed quite depleted without the princes and their retinues. Then I noticed Yonadav at the edge of the crowd, and wondered at it. He was Amnon’s constant attendant. They were inseparable. Why had he not been at Baal-hazor?
I had my answer when the first dusty refugee from the feast came bursting into the hall, borne on a hectic tide of panicked rumor. Amid cries and shouts and rending of garments, the dire words passed from mouth to mouth: All the princes dead. Avshalom had sprung a trap and massacred every last one of his brothers.
As the words reached David, his face collapsed, then his body followed. He seemed to slide from the great throne to the stone floor, a ragged keening issuing from the mouth that had for so many years uttered only sounds of sweetness or sonorous power. I pushed my way through to him. The crowd around him parted for me. I knelt beside him, taking his head into my lap. I wanted to tell him it wasn’t true, but my mouth was still sealed and no words would come. From the corner of my eye I saw that Yonadav also was fighting his way forward through the chaos. The soldiers, unsure of his intent, blocked his path, holding him back from the king. I raised a hand to Yoav, signaling to let him through. Yoav grabbed him by the neck of his tunic and propelled him to the king’s side.
He knelt down next to me and bent over so that he was almost shouting in David’s ear. “My king! Don’t believe that they have slain all the young men, all your sons. Amnon alone is dead.” David’s eyes, dark wet pools, scanned Yonadav’s face, confused, hungry to believe in this lesser evil, unable to do so. His hand shot out and grabbed my arm, like a claw. “Is it true, what he says?” he rasped. I couldn’t form any words, but I tried to reassure him with every gesture of my body. I felt him go flaccid in my arms. Time slowed, an agony of waiting. And then the watchers on the walls sent word: Adoniyah was approaching, Yitraam following a short distance behind.
“See?” said Yonadav. “The king’s sons come, as your servant said, so it is.”
Yoav glared at him, and then grabbed him up, pulling him onto his toes so that they stood eye to eye. “How do you know this, you snake? What else do you know?”
There was a stir by the door then, and Yoav turned, without relaxing his grip on Yonadav. Adoniyah had reached the hall, and David struggled to his feet, his wet face slack with relief, his arms outstretched to receive his son. The crowd shuffled as Adoniyah pushed through to his father, clinging to him, weeping.
I slipped away then. I did not need to wait for the other sons to straggle home and be welcomed by their father, or to see Shlomo deliver to David the butchered corpse of Amnon. I knew that David’s relief and joy for the spared sons would turn to grief and mourning for the murdered one. And after that, loneliness and a corrosive longing for the one escaped into exile.
I knew, also, that the people who spoke of Natan’s curse believed that they had seen it enacted. He had lost his infant son. Tamar, his only daughter, had been raped and beaten. Now his eldest was dead. The king had been paid back for his sin with regard to Uriah, had he not? Accordingly, after a period of mourning for Amnon (during which, to be honest, no one but David and Ahinoam truly mourned), a relieved and even festive mood took hold of the city. Most of the court and many of the common people were glad to be rid of the erratic, dangerous young prince. Only I knew the true weight left in the balance. A fourfold retribution, so David had decreed. And that judgment had not yet been fulfilled.
XXII
Maacah sent for me as soon as the official mourning period for Amnon had passed. I had never been to her house, but I knew it for the fine dwelling beside the palace, in the street where only David’s highest courtiers were permitted to live. It had a splendid terrace, with a view second only to the king’s, across the Wadi Kidron to the ranks of purple hills receding into an azure sky. When a servant showed me out onto this terrace, I was so struck by the view that I did not at first notice Yoav, seated in a shady corner, his ropy legs stretched out in front of him. I startled when he addressed me, and he laughed. “Didn’t expect to see me, Prophet?” he said. “So you don’t know everything, after all.”
“I never said I did, as you well know,” I replied, but I kept my tone light and returned his smile. “Perhaps you would like to enlighten me on a few things.”
“You mean, what are we both doing here? It’s a good question. I—”
At that moment Maacah swept onto the terrace. She wasn’t dressed in black anymore, but wore a shimmering gown of lavender, with the lightest of white veils draped loosely over her hair. Yoav had risen to his feet as she arrived, but she signaled for him to sit and waved me to a chair beside her own.
“So you knew about this.” Her voice was flat, affectless. “You knew my son would kill him.”
“Yes,” I said. “I knew.” I paused a beat. “Did you?”
“Of course I did not know!” Her long fingers gripped the arms of her chair. “You think I would have sanctioned this, knowing it would lead to his exile? That worthless scum, Amnon. I would spit on his corpse. He has stolen the thrones out from beneath both my children now.” She got up abruptly, and paced the terrace. She did not walk like a royal lady, but strode, like a man. The silk of her robe squeaked in complaint. “And I—I am deprived of my children, and of the king my husband’s favor. He won’t even see me. I suppose he blames me, as you do. Thinks me complicit. Fools. I did not come here, leave my home and my gods, to raise an outlaw son and a dishonored daughter. Well, if he blames me, I blame him. He should not have left this in Avshalom’s hands. He had two years to watch my son’s twisted heart hardening. How could he have been so blind as to think Avshalom could forgive, could reconcile? And now even the king my father is placed at risk. He took Avshalom in—he could hardly refuse sanctuary to his flesh and blood. But he wants no rift with David. He—”
“There won’t be one.” Yoav’s gruff voice cut across her. “David is glad Avshalom is safe. He has sent to your father to say so.”
She turned, relief and surprise on her face. “He has? How do you know this?”
“My brother Avishai took the message. The king would not entrust it to a common messenger. Though he must be seen to follow the law in this matter, it pains him. You know better than anyone how much he loves that young man your son. You only have to look at him. He’s sick with missing him. He’s not eating. Natan, I think you should see him. See if you can talk some sense into him. Or at least bring him some comfort.”
> Comfort, I thought. What comfort could I offer? What comfort had I ever offered him? The visions of promised greatness had led him only to bloody deeds and a self-regard that made him think he was above the law. And since then, what? Dire threats. Curses. Silence. I could not speak to him in the voice of the Name, but perhaps Yoav was right. Perhaps I could offer him, at least, the comfort and counsel of a friend.
“I will go,” I said.
“When you do so,” said Maacah, “will you speak to him for me? Will you tell him the truth, that I neither knew of nor endorsed this thing. He listens to you. To both of you. That is why I asked you to come here. I’m not young anymore. I have nothing here in this city, without my children, without my husband’s regard. I want his good opinion, and I want my children. If anyone has sway with him, it is you two.” She looked down at her hands and dropped her voice. “I was not raised to beg. But I’m begging you.”
“Will you do it?” Yoav asked, as soon as we were in the street.
“Oh, yes. I will put her case to him, but I won’t counsel him regarding it.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I did, I would have to say that I think it better if Avshalom remains in Geshur.”
“What? You mean you don’t want him to be king?”
“What I want is not at issue. But since you ask, I believe he would make a very poor king.”
“Well, I think you’re wrong there. I think he’s decisive and strategic. Look at how he took this revenge. Two years, he waited. That shows a lack of impulsiveness. Then there’s the excellent planning, the flawless execution. Ruthless, yes. But sometimes a king needs to be ruthless in order to do what’s right for his people. Tamar was his to protect; his own honor was befouled. He acted like a man. It was necessary.”
How many times had I heard David justify killing with those same three words? The echo made me shiver. Yoav went on: “He’s less of a brute than Amnon was, and much more intelligent. In any case, we need him. He’s the right age, and he has the right mix of experience so that in a few more years . . . and we might only have a few, the way the king is.” He gave me a considering glance. “It’s Shlomo, isn’t it? You want to put your own little acolyte on the throne.” He snorted. “So pure you are, but in the end you’re after power, just like the rest of us.”
I waved a hand. It didn’t matter what motives he ascribed to me, and in any case, I could not explain it to him. “The succession is not for me to determine. In any case, the line of candidates is still very long, even without the two eldest, before we arrive at Shlomo. He’s still a boy, after all. He’s only twelve.”
“Well, so long as you see that. And I don’t stand against Shlomo, you shouldn’t think I do. He’s a bright one, there’s no doubt of that. I’ve known grown men—experienced fighters—with less strategic sense than that boy has. But he is, as you say, a boy still. If you are thinking to be a kingmaker in that direction, you’d better see to David. The way he’s been lately, he might not last till that whelp grows claws and teeth long enough to fight his way past his littermates.”
We were nearing the palace gate, and I needed to turn the subject before we were overheard discussing such delicate matters. So I raised an issue that had been puzzling me. “Where is your cousin, Shammah’s son Yonadav? I thought it odd that he knew so much about the killing. I gathered you also thought so.”
“That ass-licking little shit.” Yoav hawked up a gob of spittle and deposited it on the roadside. “This whole affair rests on his scrawny shoulders. It was Yonadav who pandered Tamar to Amnon like a trussed fowl. And then, when Avshalom did his little act with the olive branch, Yonadav saw how David liked it, and he thought Avshalom might be on the rise. So he switched sides. That’s another thing about Avshalom—he’ll take help where it’s offered. Doesn’t hold grudges. Can be a useful quality in a king. So Avshalom used Yonadav, that turncoat, to lure Amnon. Yonadav was party to the assassination, I’m certain of it. I had him roughed up a bit, but he’s tougher than he looks. Even Avishai couldn’t get him to confess to it.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s in Beit Lehem, at Shammah’s house. I told him I don’t want to see him in the city anymore.”
“What did Shammah say to that?”
Yoav laughed. “Quite a bit. All of it in cusswords, that foul-mouthed old graybeard. But I told him it was Beit Lehem for Yonadav, or the road to Geshur along with the other murderers, and that I couldn’t guarantee his safety on that road.” He smiled. I could tell he’d enjoyed putting Shammah in his place. But then his face turned grave. “Seriously, Natan, apart from all this business, I’m worried. The king’s not well and now the succession’s uncertain. While Avshalom’s in exile, Adoniyah is next in line, but I don’t think he’s up to it. Not sure he ever will be. He’s less wild than the older two, but I’ve seen no real substance there. If there’s any kind of threat to the king while all this is unresolved . . . well, I don’t like it. I’m going to Hevron myself, to make sure none of Shaul’s old faction is getting any notions. I hope you can do something for the king. I think you might be the only one who can.”
XXIII
Can a man grow old like the turning of leaf, blazing bright one day, dried and dull the next? So it seemed with David. He received me in his private room, where we had met so often before. In all my recollections of such meetings, he was a blur of fervent energy, the keen center of every conversation, the source of generous gesture, insight, wit. Now he reclined on the low couch, a sheepskin cloak pulled over him even though the day was fine and still. There was a silver charger on the table by his couch. Grapes, apricots, figs. Bread, soft cheese, olives. None of it had been touched. His fast had sapped his vitality. His eyes, large in his shrunken face, always so expressive, now expressed nothing but pain. His face—his beautiful face—was sunken and scored with lines, the hollows beneath his cheekbones scooped out as if a sculptor had driven his thumbs too deeply into the clay.
“You can’t go on like this,” I said.
His face flickered into the shadow of a smile. “Is that my prophet speaking to me again, at long last?”
I shook my head. “That voice has been silenced, for now. But you don’t need a prophet to tell you to eat. I’m speaking as your subject, who cares for you. As, I hope, your friend. You can’t starve yourself.”
He gave a whispery laugh. “It’s remarkable, how very many things there are that a king may not do.”
“You are a man, also. Subject to a man’s needs. You should eat something.”
“I should eat something. I should do many things I have not done, and I should not have done many of the things that I have done. My heart, Natan, is as hollow as a gourd. If I am a man, as you say, then I deserve to be ranked with the lowest of men. Is not one of a man’s most basic duties to raise his children, keep them safe, bring them to an honorable manhood? What good, to forge a kingdom, to win wars, to build this city, and then to fail at this most basic task—a task the most wretched herdsman in his hut can manage to do. And what have I raised? What kind of a man must I be judged, who has brought forth rapists and murderers? What kind of man begets such sons?”
“You have many sons. Not just these two. You mourn Amnon. No one blames you for that. A man may mourn his fallen son. Even though death was the penalty for his act against his sister, had he been punished by your justice rather than by his brother’s hand, still you would have a right to mourn him. As for Avshalom, he is safe in his exile, under the protection of his grandfather. You should comfort yourself with that.”
“Should I? Should I so? How, when all I can think of is my longing for him, for my son Avshalom. Two years I had him by me in the hall of audience, and all that concerned me was that he hated his older brother. Now I know that he hated me also, because I didn’t act. . . . And now I have lost him . . .” His sunken eyes brimmed then, and he turned away from me. After a mome
nt he raised a hand and gestured for me to leave.
Sunlight poured through the high windows and spilled across the floor. I pretended I had not seen his signal and walked to the tall doors that opened to his private terrace. I stepped out into the bright, still day. The stone of the balustrade was warm to the touch. I looked up, and saw what I had hoped to see . . . the she-eagle, hovering on some elusive current of air that my skin could not feel. I dropped my eyes and searched among the palms and olives in the lower garden. There he was, poised in concentration. He was wearing white, gleaming in the strong sunlight.
I went back inside and approached David’s couch. I laid a hand on his shoulder and felt bone. “Come outside with me,” I said. “I want to show you something.” At first, he made no sign that he had heard, but then—why, I don’t know—he gave a deep sigh and swung his legs to the floor. He took the arm I held out to him, and we walked together onto the terrace. I pointed up at the bird, and down to the garden. Just then Shlomo became aware of us and turned his head. His face broke into a smile just like his mother’s. He raised his hand in a salute, and David returned it. Then Shlomo gave a series of shrill whistles. The eagle drew into a stoop, but instead of returning to Shlomo’s wrist, she wheeled and came to us, landing on the balustrade before us in a brute beating of massive wings. She turned her indifferent eyes, bright gold, on David, and he returned her stare, transfixed.